by Mac Flynn
"How. . .how long did that take?" I was worried about myself.
"A few months, but I didn't have anybody to teach me. You'll be different," he promised me.
I wrapped my arms around myself and shuddered. "But what if I'm not? What if I try to kill people, too?"
"That's a given," he nonchalantly replied.
I glared at him. "Thanks for the comforting words."
"You're going to try to kill people, but you won't because I'm going to be there to stop you," he insisted.
"And if you're not around when that happens?"
He lecherously grinned. "You think after last night that you can keep me away?"
"Yeah, um, about that. We really did it, didn't we?"
"Yep."
"And you're not at all ashamed of it, are you?"
"Nope."
"And you'll do me again at the first chance, won't you?"
"How's tonight sound?"
"I'm sure I'm unavailable."
"I doubt it, but this talk isn't getting us dressed and out of here to food," he pointed out. That was an idea we could both get behind, and in a few minutes we were dressed. There was one problem with his suggestion of food.
"You got any money on. . .you?" I was midway through asking that question when he rummaged through the box and pulled out a roll of bills. I wondered what other magic tricks he could perform with that box, but that could wait until after food.
"Just a few odd bills," he teased. He returned the box to its hiding spot and brushed off the loose hay on his clothes. I, too, was covered, even though I'd tried to be careful, and he watched my brushing with interest. "Care for some help?" he offered.
"I have a feeling if you helped me we'd be back to where we were when we woke up," I quipped.
He sighed and shrugged. "Just thought I'd try."
"Uh-huh, nice try but let's get going." I tugged him outside and we headed down a dirt road for a few miles before we hit the highway.
The diner was one of those old-fashioned joints from the fifties, complete with red cushioned bar stools and an eggshell blue sign outside. There was only two cars outside, and since those were both farm trucks we weren't worried about them being from the city. Greg led me inside and to a pair of the stools at the far end. A bell above the door jingled and an old man stepped out from the kitchen with a cleaning rag in one hand and a cup in the other. He smiled at us, and his eyes lit up when he noticed Greg.
"My God, but you're still around!" he softly exclaimed. "I thought you'd left here a long time ago."
Greg smiled and warmly shook the man's hand. "I guess I'm fond of the area, and especially your cooking, Wilson," he replied.
Wilson nodded his head at the compliment. "Ain't nobody can cook like me anymore. All those new-fangled squirts cook with too much lard or not enough of it. What'll ya have?"
"Remember the usual?" Greg asked him.
"Yep, can't rightly forget that much bacon. Is this your misses?" He nodded at me.
Greg shook his head. "Not yet, but could you make that order double? We're kind of hungry."
Wilson's eyes widened and his hands froze. "How hungry?" he wondered.
Greg laughed, and leaned over to pat the man on the shoulder. "Not that hungry, but we haven't eaten for a while."
Wilson's shoulders relaxed and he smiled again. "Sure thing. Gimme a few minutes and you'll be up to your eyeballs in bacon."
He was nearly right. The tall-sided plates he brought us were filled with thick sausages, strips of bacon, and a single pancake. I looked quizzically at the pancake, and Wilson caught my eye with a chuckle. "Can't be smothering your plate without a pancake to help soak it up."
"Smother my plate. . .?" I repeated. That didn't make any sense until I glanced over and watched Greg drowned the whole thing in thick maple syrup. There were no survivors. That also explained the tall sides. "I think I'll just take a little butter on mine." We ate our way through our plates, and I was shocked when I managed to tear down the stack of meat. The other patrons filed out and Wilson came up to us with his hands ever-washing a cup or glass.
"I didn't want to say this in front of the regulars, but somebody was asking about you two, or people that looked a lot like you," he informed us.
Greg paused in his wolfing and raised an eyebrow. "Really? What'd they look like?"
"It was a small guy with beady eyes and a handkerchief over his head." I paled at the description. It sounded a lot like Servino. Greg slipped his hand beneath the counter to hold my hand.
"Was it green?" he asked him.
The old man rubbed his chin. "Now that you mention it, I guess it was. You know him?"
"Maybe. When he left which way did he go?"
Wilson nodded down the road where we were headed. "That way, but he crept along so slow you can probably catch up to him walking."
"How long ago did he leave?"
"Only about ten minutes before you got here. Didn't even stay for food."
Greg chuckled. "Well, that's his loss." Greg finished his plate and tossed down a large roll of money, but Wilson smiled and shook his head.
"You know my prices aren't that high."
"Yeah, but you can't beat a good friend," Greg countered.
Wilson shrugged and slipped the money beneath the counter. "I guess I was looking at buying a new truck."
Greg laughed. "You still got that old beat up one?"
"Yep. Runs real good still."
"Mind if I borrow it?"
"I ain't getting it back, am I?"
"Probably not."
"Then I might be needing another one of those rolls of bills to cover the towing."
"You drive a hard bargain for that old clunker," Greg replied, but he tossed another roll on the counter.
"It's like family," Wilson protested. I had a new, and wary, respect for a man who'd sell family.
"Like the crazy old uncle nobody talks about," Greg joked.
"Exactly."
"Well, thanks for the grub and a pleasure seeing you again," Greg replied. They shook hands and Wilson gave a nod.
"Nice to be meeting ya after so long, and I hope you and the future misses don't get yourself into too much trouble on the road ahead," Wilson returned.
"Not any more than usual."
"That's what I was afraid of."
Greg led me outside and glanced down the road. "We should be able to catch Servino if we hurry."
"Do you have a plan for when we do catch him?"
"Yep."
"Mind letting me in on it?"
"Follow me to the truck and I'll tell you when we get on the road."
Chapter 16
Greg led me around the old diner to a rickety old vehicle with a rusted frame and seats that exuded an air of dirty decadence, with an emphasis on the dirt part. The cab was full of rusted tools, trash, and things I couldn't identify but probably would've fit in a Modern Art gallery. Greg gestured to the tetanus-mobile. "What do you think of it?" he asked me.
"I think the only place this thing is headed for the scrap heap. How much did you give him for it?"
"Too much, but he wouldn't have taken any less for a member of the family."
"I'm glad I'm not a member of his family."
"So am I, you might have inherited his looks. As to the truck, she'll get us-"
"She?" I spoke up.
"Isn't that how you usually refer to a car?"
"That would be an insult to feminine kind. Call it by a name."
"What about Rusty?"
"Suits it down to its rusted tailgate."
"But as I was saying, Rusty will get us where we need to go, and she-it might even get us back." Greg shoved me into the passenger seat and he hopped into the driver's hole. The seat had been sat in so many times there was a noticeable depression in front of the steering wheel. Greg turned on the truck, ground the gears, and we leapt forward before stalling. I looked at him with a mix of horror and doubt, and he sheepishly grinned. "Looks like Rusty
isn't the only one rusty. I haven't used a stick in a while," he explained to me.
"I can see that," I quipped.
We tried moving forward again, and this time with more success. The truck shuddered past the diner, and I swear I could hear Wilson laughing his ass off from the kitchen windows. We chugged onto the road with all the speed of an arthritic roadrunner and left a trail of smoke that resembled a coal plant smokestack. "Keep your eyes open for any slow-moving cars," Greg advised me.
"You mean other than us?" I asked him.
"I meant Servino. If he's stopping at every farmhouse he won't have gotten far."
"So how'd he miss us?" I wondered.
"Too far. The barn isn't easy to spot from the road, even for someone looking for runaways," he pointed out. "That's why I picked that spot to hide all my stuff." We crept along the road with both eyes peeled like grapes, and in twenty minutes we were rewarded the fruits of our labor when Greg stiffened and sat up. He pointed ahead of us at a dot on the horizon. "There he is."
I squinted, but the dot remained a dot. "You sure that isn't a bug on the windshield?"
"Positive. Nobody around here would have that flashy a car."
"I don't see anything but a speck," I protested.
"Give yourself time and you'll acquire new eyes," he encouraged me.
"If we live that long." We shuddered along the road and in five more minutes I saw what Greg meant. Across a thick field of dry weeds was a red corvette outside one of the old farmhouses, and on the porch stood a farmer with his gun pointed at the slimy guy I'd met in the alley. I was surprised when Greg pulled the car over to the side of the road and shut off the engine. "What are you doing?" I asked him even as he opened his door.
"They just came outside and the farmer's been gesturing to his property. I think he's given Servino permission to search the place, and I'm going to give him what he's been looking for," Greg told me.
"What if he's armed?" I countered.
Greg removed his shirt and flashed his almost-flawless skin. "I don't think I'll have to worry about a gun," he reminded me.
"Famous last words," I warned him.
"Just stay by the truck and I'll bring him here," he replied. He tossed the shirt into the truck, followed by the rest of his clothes except for his boxers. Then he hunkered down against the truck, and I scooted over to see what he was doing. My eyes widened when I saw his muscles stretch and expand, and fur sprouted from his smooth back. His arms lengthened and his hands changed into claws. A long snout full of sharp teeth stretched out from his face, and his eyes turned that brilliant golden color. He turned to me, gave me a wink, and trotted off on all fours into the tall brush.
The brush extended up to a row of trees, and fifteen yards beyond that was the farmhouse and all the outbuildings which included a barn, tool shed and other structures that were in such bad shape that I was being kind in calling them structures. Servino walked around the side of the house and toward the barn. I watched Greg's shadow slink along the ground and up to the row of trees where he waited for Servino to walk past him. The little man was suspiciously calm for being out monster hunting, and I wondered why he was doing it alone.
The unpleasant answers to my questions came when Servino came within ten yards of Greg's hiding spot, and without warning Greg jumped out at him. Servino whipped around with a gun in his hand and fired a single shot. Greg let out a howl of pain that rattled my instincts. He'd never made such a sound before, not when he was full of bullets and running across those rooftops. Something was wrong.
My suspicions were confirmed when Greg didn't get up from where he fell. Servino went up to him and gave him a harsh kick, and still Greg didn't get up. I rushed out of the cab and across the field through the large path Greg had made. I kept low and fast, and managed to keep out of sight until I was ten yards from the edge of the grass. Servino's eyes roamed over the brush searching for me, but he had other troubles. The farmer came out onto his porch with his gun. "You got that wild dog?" the farmer yelled.
"Yes, it's dead," Servino shouted back. My heart stopped and my body trembled.
"You need any help with it?" the farmer wondered. He didn't wait for a reply, but stepped off the porch and around the house.
Servino growled and hurried over to the house forty yards away. "No, it's fine. Just get back inside while I take care of it."
"That's a mighty big dog," the farmer mused before Servino wrapped an arm around the older man's shoulders and turned him away.
"Yes, very big and still dangerous. Just get inside and I'll take care of it."
"You wanting me to call the cops on it? Could be more of them," the farmer asked him.
"No, let's just get you inside and safe, and I'll take care of it," Servino insisted. He led the farmer into the house, and I dashed over to Greg.
Greg was still in his werewolf form and he lay very still. I pressed my hands against his back and was relieved when I felt him take a ragged breath. Gently I turned him over onto his back and saw a bullet wound just above his heart. The skin sizzled and I smelled burnt flesh. Greg's eyes fluttered open and he groaned. "Silver," he rasped. I gasped. He'd been shot by a silver bullet. That's why Servino had been so confident in searching alone. "Truck," Greg added.
"Can you get up?" I asked him. He shook his head. "But I can't carry you."
"You have to," he persisted.
I heard a noise from the house, glanced over to see the shadows of the pair on the porch, and looked back to Greg. His weary golden eyes pleaded with me to try, so I hefted one of his furry arms over my shoulders and pulled. He must have weighed a ton, but somehow I dragged his body along the ground and into the brush. "You have to go on a diet," I gasped.
He grunted through his ground teeth. I dragged him along as quickly as I could which was surprisingly fast given my pudgy frame and his hefty body. I was still picking up the pace in the middle of the road when I heard a roar of anger behind us. Servino had found our escape, and I pulled Greg faster through the brush. He left a streak of blood behind us, and I heard a frantic rustling behind us that told me Servino was hot on our trail.
We reached the truck, and I shoved Greg into the passenger seat and took the driver's hole. There was only one problem. I had no idea how to drive a stick, but I did my best and ground the gears in perfect imitation of Greg's driving. We drove off just in time as Servino broke through the brush and aimed his gun at the truck. He fired off a few shots, but I burned rubber and took off down the road. Servino hightailed it to his car, but we were far down the road before he even got there.
I glanced over to Greg and watched him slowly, painfully transform back into his human form. The bullet rattled to the dusty floor, but the wound in his chest was still horrible. Greg weakly grabbed his shirt and placed it against the hole. "Can you heal that?" I asked him. He nodded.
"Yes, but it'll take some time."
"Should I drive us back to the barn?"
Greg weakly shook his head. "No, they'll search the area now that they know we're here. Better drive on to my next hiding spot."
"Where's that?"
"An abandoned farmhouse fifty miles from here. Just follow my directions and we'll get there."
Through his directions we soon turned off and away from the danger of Servino. We drove through what I can only describe as the boonies. Few houses, lots of dirt roads, and a creeping dread of banjos. The going was slow and by the time we reached the decrepit building once called a house it was sunset. Greg had slept most of the way, but he roused when I jerked the car to a stop at the front porch, or what remained of it.
"This it?" I asked him.
Greg looked over the building and nodded. "Yes. It looks even worse than when I was last here."
"When were you last here?"
"About thirty years ago."
I solemnly nodded my head. "Yeah, that much time would do that to a building."
Greg shifted in his seat and winced. "Help me out. My wound's hea
ling, but I'm weak." I hopped out to his side of the truck and helped him out. We shuffled up the stairs and through the door, literally. There was a rotted hole in the center that we pushed through and stepped into a dusty old entrance hall. "To the right. The living room," Greg instructed me. I dragged him in there, found some chairs beside a large wood fireplace, and plopped him down in one of the seats.
"You just stay here and I'll get the rest of your clothes," I told him. I ran my errand and ran back, where I got him into his pants before the sun completely set. The house lay in darkness, and I scooted the other chair close beside Greg. He chuckled, and I scowled at him. "What's so funny?"
"I haven't been scared of the dark for so very long that it's a little funny when I see someone scared," Greg replied.
"I've had a lot of bad luck with the dark lately," I pointed out.
"Yes, but not anymore. You've got a good set of eyes now, and shouldn't have any trouble going upstairs to find my box in the closet."
I glanced at the dark hallway and cringed. "Um, got a light?" I asked him.
He smiled and shook his head. "I'm afraid not, but there are matches in the box. We can start a fire and eat the food in the cans. You should be hungry." My stomach growled and I scrunched up to muffle the sound. Greg chuckled. "Wilson's food lasted a while, but even his bacon majesty can only last so long."
I sighed and reluctantly stood. "Fine, I'll go up there, but if I'm not back in ten minutes send a search party."
"I'll try to stumble up the stairs," he promised me with a smirk.
"My hero. . ." I grumbled.
"Just use your new sight and you should be fine," he insisted.
"Right, new eyes. Just let me roll out these ones and pop the new ones in."
Greg chuckled. "I can see the rolling, but not the new ones."
"I'll work on those while my shins make the acquaintance of every pointy part of this giant splinter."
Chapter 17
I left him to the comfort of his chair and chest agony, and made my way to the hall. The rickety, dark stairs lay before me in all their terrifying glory, and I glanced back into the living room. "Any chance there's a trick to turning on these new eyes?" I asked him.
