by Jeff Strand
Ivan followed him. The two men stood about five feet apart.
George rushed forward, throwing a sideways punch at Ivan's nose, hoping to make it splatter. Ivan pulled back out of the way, and George cursed as he hit nothing but air.
Ivan punched him in the stomach, so hard that George dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. The pain was so incredible that he was honestly surprised Ivan's hand hadn't burst right through his stomach and come out his back.
He knew he needed to get back up, quickly, but his guts felt like they'd been completely squashed. Even if he was a wolfman, how could such a skinny guy hit so goddamn hard?
"Done already?" Ivan asked. "This was barely worth me wasting time with the frog story."
George forced himself to at least get up off his knees, though he remained doubled over with his arms crossed over his stomach. He pulled his arms away, raised his fists, and stood up straight.
Ivan punched him in the face. His head shot back with almost neck-snapping force, and he stumbled backwards against the dining room table. He fell to the floor.
C'mon, Lou, where the hell's the cavalry? At this point, he'd almost welcome a visit by the cops. Better to spend twenty years in the clink than to let Ivan beat him to death.
"I'm going to give you one more chance to get up and fight like a...you know, it doesn't even have to be like a man, just not like a crippled old lady. Can you do that for me, George? Because if you can't, I'm going to change into a wolf and start eating you."
George reached up and grabbed the back of one of the chairs. He used it to steady himself as he pulled himself up.
"I don't even like the taste of human flesh that much," said Ivan. "I'm into a lot of demented things, but cannibalism isn't one of them. And I do consider it cannibalism, even if I'm in my wolf state."
"Weren't you just talking about licking up blood?" George asked, bracing himself against the table and trying hard not to throw up.
"That's different."
"How?"
"It's drinking instead of eating. If there's no meat involved, it's not cannibalism. Everybody knows that. Not that I'm morally opposed to cannibalism. It's just not for me."
George needed to focus his rage. He had a hell of a lot of rage available to focus. Just imagine the sense of euphoria you'll feel when that bastard's head explodes into a billion sloppy chunks. Work with the pain and fury. Harness it. Make it your bitch.
He quickly picked up the chair and smashed it into the side of Ivan's head, like a pro wrestler. Neither the chair nor Ivan's head broke apart, but Ivan let out a loud grunt and stumbled away, clearly stunned, which was satisfying enough.
Not wanting to lose his momentum, George rushed him and swung the chair a second time. Ivan dodged, but George got him on the reverse swing, bashing the wood into his chest and cracking one of the chair legs.
Ivan's right arm transformed. George took another swing. This time, Ivan grabbed a hold of the chair and yanked it out of his grasp, then threw it against the wall, where it broke into several pieces and clattered to the floor.
"Didn't take long to violate the no-weapons agreement, huh?" Though Ivan's tone was sarcastic, his eyes flashed with anger. The hit with the chair had obviously hurt. Ivan the Werewolf wasn't invulnerable after all.
He had, of course, just taken a brutal chair hit to the head without his skull fracturing, so George was still in plenty of danger.
"I thought you weren't going to change," he said.
"You cheated first."
And George was going to cheat again. He bolted back for the kitchen. A few close-range gunshots to the face would certainly test the wolfman's resilience.
He leapt over Diane's corpse, slipped on the blood, and fell on his ass.
He scrambled to get back on his feet, but his hand flew out from underneath him as he tried to push himself up on the blood-covered floor. If he were lucky, Ivan would pass out from laughter at George's predicament, giving him a chance to escape.
Ivan's sense of humor was apparently on hold for the moment. He grabbed the back of George's shirt with his clawed werewolf hand and dragged him back through the blood and over the corpse. She still had the butcher knife in her face. George yanked it out as he slid over her.
He twisted himself around and jabbed the knife at Ivan. Missed.
Another jab and the blade went an inch into Ivan's upper leg. He winced, and then backhanded George across the face with his wolf hand. The handle of the knife popped out of George's grasp as he struck the tile yet again. It fell to the floor. Ivan kicked it out of the way, so hard that it slid all the way across the kitchen and onto the carpet of the dining room.
George chose his target, bent his knee, and then slammed his foot into Ivan's groin with as much force as he could summon.
It was a spectacular direct hit. Ivan howled and clutched at his balls.
His head transformed, but it wasn't the rapid transformation from before. Fur sprouted in random patches on his face, and his skull became misshapen. His cry of pain revealed wolf-sized teeth in a human-sized mouth. His nose changed into a snout and then back into a nose, and three of the fingers on his left hand grew talons; unfortunately, they were not positioned in such a way as to further damage his scrotum.
A line of fur raced across his arm and then disappeared.
The leg George had stabbed changed into a wolfman leg, throwing him off-balance.
Despite his size and constant urging from the coach, George had never played football. He wasn't into team sports. But he sure as hell knew how to do a tackle, and he took advantage of Ivan's distraction to charge him, ramming into his gut and knocking the still-shifting werewolf to the floor.
Ivan's head changed to full wolfman and he bit at George's arm. George pulled away just in time, threw a punch that connected solidly with Ivan's jaw, then got off him and went for the sink.
Ivan grabbed his ankle just as George snatched the gun.
George fired a shot. Even at almost point-blank range, George's aim was slightly off, and the bullet tore across the side of the werewolf's head, ripping a trail of red through his fur.
Ivan released his ankle.
George fired again, hitting him in the forehead. A gout of blood burst from the wound. He emptied the rest of the clip into the werewolf's chest, wanting to shout something clever but settling for a primal scream.
Ivan, bleeding profusely, fell back against the counter. Aside from a two-inch patch around his right eye, he was now a full wolfman.
His werewolf eye glowed red with fury.
George almost threw the empty gun at him, but didn't. Ivan was still very much alive, and George might need the weapon later.
Ivan ran his palms down his face and chest in one fluid motion, wiping off some of the blood. He said something that looked like it was meant to be a sadistic, menacing comment, but came out only as a growl.
Not wanting to lose his advantage, George hurried over and threw a punch at the werewolf, hoping to hit him directly in one of the bullet holes. He didn't quite succeed, but it was a solid blow to the chest. One that had no visible impact.
He punched again. Still nothing, except a bolt of pain in his hand that made him think he might have broken a finger or two.
Ivan drew his hand back, bloody claws glistening. With him in full werewolf mode and pissed off beyond belief, George had no doubt that a full-force swipe could knock his head off, or at least remove most of his face. He ducked underneath Ivan's arm and sprinted through the dining room.
There had to be another weapon in the house. Perhaps not a fire poker or machete, but maybe a broom that he could snap in half or a fire extinguisher.
He ran through the living room into the hallway. The doors on each side were closed, so he ran into the open doorway at the end.
A bedroom. Obviously Diane's. A television on the dresser was set to the same channel as the one in the living room, and a folded-out ironing board stood next to the bed. A blouse was draped over
it. An iron, the red light on, rested on the board.
So, what, she'd been about to do some ironing, then went into the kitchen for a snack?
It didn't matter. He grabbed the iron and tugged on the cord to pull it free of the power outlet.
Something moved on the other side of the bed.
A little kid popped his head up, his face stained with tears. He looked about five.
Oh, shit!
Which one was it? Robin? Gabriel? George couldn't remember which one was younger.
George frantically waved for the kid to duck back down.
"Okay, sweetheart, I'll get you a juice box, just promise Mommy you won't touch the iron, all right?"
George moved out of the bedroom, almost pulling the door shut behind him but realizing that it would look suspicious. Ivan stood at the other end of the hallway, still full werewolf. His bullet wounds seemed to be smaller than before--George couldn't actually see them shrinking, but there was unquestionably some sort of rapid healing going on.
Instead of waiting for the werewolf to come after him, George charged forward. He'd replace the smell of air freshener with the scent of burnt dog.
The way he'd envisioned the attack, George would press the hot iron firmly against Ivan's chest, relishing the sizzling sound. But two steps in, he could tell that he wasn't going to get that opportunity, so he adjusted the angle of the iron, holding it so that the pointed end was in front. He swung the iron as he ran, aiming it in an arc toward Ivan's ear, hoping to impale the creature.
Ivan blocked the swing, smashing his clenched, clawed fist into George's forearm. George lost his grip on the iron. It fell, landing with the hot side on George's leg, but bouncing off before it could do more than startle him.
George took a powerful blow to the chin--not quite a decapitation blow or a face-removing one, but certainly enough to rattle his jaw--and careened back against the bedroom door, which swung all the way open.
Ivan looked past him and snarled.
There wasn't any sense looking back. It didn't matter if he'd seen the little boy or not, because either way, George wasn't going to let the werewolf through the doorway.
He was starting to feel pretty lightheaded, though, and his wrist was soaking through the bandage.
He shook off the dizzy spell. No time for that shit.
George just had to get past the werewolf and lead him away from the bedroom. Ivan was interested in killing him and not a five-year-old boy, right?
Unfortunately, it was a narrow hallway and they both took up a lot of space. Getting past him was going to be almost impossible.
He could rush back into the bedroom and close the door, but he figured the door would only last a few moments of being pummeled by Ivan, if that. More likely it would explode in a shower of splinters and they'd have nowhere to go.
Screw it. He'd try another tackle.
George lowered his head and ran at Ivan, building up as much speed as he could in those few steps. Ivan shoved him aside, slamming George against the wall and dislodging two framed photographs.
Jaws wide open, Ivan lunged at George's face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ferocious
Lou Flynn sat in the driver's seat of the van, trying not to fidget in front of Michele. He wasn't quite sure where their relationship stood at the moment, and he guessed there was a pretty good chance that it might revert back to a "kidnapper and captive" deal, so he wanted to make sure she didn't notice any signs of weakness. He had an almost uncontrollable desire to chew his fingernails, but withstood the urge and just scratched his left knee, pretending that it itched a lot.
He stared at the front door of the home, waiting for George to emerge, victoriously leading the werewolf in handcuffs, or holding its severed head. Better the handcuffs than the severed head, since despite the current danger of having an actual werewolf trying to slaughter them, exterminating their cargo would most likely lead to a whole mess of problems that they weren't ready to handle.
He hated when George said things like "If I'm not back in a few minutes, get out of here." What that really meant was "If I'm not back in a few minutes, sigh with frustration, utter a couple of your favorite expletives, and then embrace your heroic side." George knew that Lou wasn't going to simply drive off and leave him, despite the overwhelming temptation to do so.
"Does he do this a lot?" Michele asked.
"Foolishly chase werewolves?"
"You know what I mean."
Lou shook his head. "Nah. Things usually go pretty smooth."
That was true. It wasn't as if their lives were a series of disasters. Even excluding the supernatural element, the path this job had taken was unlike anything they'd ever experienced. They'd exchanged some gunfire with gangsters, just barely dodged the cops a few times, and once, when he'd been carving a scarlet "A" on a cheating husband's arm, the man had somehow gotten a hold of his switchblade. A quick punch to the nose corrected the situation, but it had been a pretty scary moment.
Overall, most jobs, even the most distasteful ones, went reasonably well.
Lou had decided that he might give this lifestyle another five years, keep building up his nest egg, and then retire. Enjoy life. Travel to places that he wanted to go. Find a girlfriend, and then propose to her. Let his beard grow down to his navel.
If he had to die before that, so be it, but he didn't want to die chasing a werewolf. Werewolves should be left alone. He and George should've told Ricky to suck it and made him find somebody else.
"C'mon, George," he said under his breath, still watching the front door. "We shouldn't be here."
"Should you go in there after him?" Michele asked.
"I'll give him a couple more minutes."
"I can wait here. I'll honk if somebody's coming."
"What you mean is, you'll drive away as soon as I get out."
"No, I won't."
"Of course you will. I would."
"You saved my life."
"Right. Which means you probably have a newfound appreciation for not being dead. And I hate to say this, but your ten percent has pretty much been flushed down the can."
"I figured that."
"Do you think there's some kind of reasonable explanation for this? I mean, it's hard to stay a skeptic when a man changes into a wolf-thing right in front of you, but do you think there's some way he could've faked it? Penn and Teller, they could probably pull that off, don't you think?"
"Not unless they've turned to sorcery instead of illusion."
"Crap."
"Yeah."
Lou shifted in his seat. "I'm surprised the cops haven't shown up yet. That damn wolf was running down the street in broad daylight. What about those people on the porch?"
"They're probably throwing out all of their weed."
"Could be."
"Or maybe the police don't rush out to respond to werewolf reports."
"Well, the people who called in wouldn't have to say it was a werewolf. They could just say it was a big dog."
"But if they did use the word 'werewolf,' that could explain why the police haven't given this a top priority."
Lou nodded. "Yeah, you're right. Also the people who live around here might have day jobs."
There was a crash from inside the house. Lou sat up straight.
Did that noise relate to damage inflicted by George, or to him?
"Crap," he said.
Michele said nothing. She looked as if she might be back to considering making a run for it. If she did, Lou probably wouldn't try to stop her, though he had no plans to tell her this.
He sighed.
More crashes.
He had to go in there. No matter how dumb or bordering on suicidal it was, he had to go in there to try to help his partner.
"He's gonna get me killed," Lou muttered, unfastening his seat belt. "Or maimed. It's official: you're seeing me alive for the very last time because of him. Son of a bitch. Excuse my language."
"No problem."
Lou looked over at Michele, took the keys out of the ignition, and pocketed them.
"So you're leaving me with no way to escape if the wolf comes back out?" she asked.
"I'm leaving you with no way to ditch us, correct."
A gunshot rang out from inside the house. Lou hurriedly opened the door and got out of the van. More gunshots went off as he ran toward the front door. Oh, how this sucked. This sucked so thoroughly. It was hard to even quantify the level of suck involved here.
He pressed the button on the handle of his switchblade, snapping out the blade, and then opened the front door and stepped into the living room, hoping to see George stomping up and down on a pile of werewolf mush. Instead, the living room was empty.
A commotion in the hallway.
He ran over there and saw Ivan, fully transformed, looming over George. Ivan's back was to Lou. Lou's first instinct was to freeze, but he forced himself to ignore the terror and rush at the creature. He slashed diagonally across Ivan's back, left shoulder to the right side of his waist, cutting deep.
The werewolf howled in pain.
Wow. The switchblade seemed to work better than bullets.
Ivan spun around and Lou slashed him again, cutting in the opposite direction. Ivan howled once more, clawing at the long red gash, and then violently shoved Lou out of the way. Lou smashed into a dent in the wall that he thought may have already been made by George, but kept his footing as the werewolf rushed past him, through the living room, and out the front door.
"You hurt him!" George shouted. "You actually hurt the bastard!"
"Are you okay?" Lou quickly reached out his arm. George grabbed it and pulled himself up.
"Yeah, I'm fine! What's important is that he's not! Let's go!"
"Where?"
"After him!" George hurried into the living room, and then into the kitchen.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm getting the guns!"
