Wolf Hunt

by Jeff Strand

"I can fantasize, at least. God, I hate Ivan."

  George still wasn't one hundred percent certain that they should be driving to the rendezvous point. The idea that one of the professionals would say "Lost the werewolf, huh? Time for you to die," and put a bullet in each of their brains seemed like a legitimate concern. But ultimately, much like the rhetorical question of pigeons crapping on your car versus alligators eating your limbs, it came down to the certainty of a life spent hiding from vengeful criminals versus the potential of being executed for incompetence. If the reinforcements successfully recaptured Ivan, it would be much better to be hanging out with them at the time than to get the news from Ricky.

  And, to be safe, they'd make sure the reinforcements knew that George and Lou hadn't shared all of their werewolf wisdom.

  "I think it's this next one," said Lou, pointing with a bloody finger.

  Like Ricky had said, the address was just a small parking lot. As soon as they turned in, a white van with "Ray's Air Conditioning" on the side pulled out of one of the spaces and drove forward. A man in a tan jumpsuit got out of the passenger side and beckoned to them. George looked at Lou, shrugged, and then pulled into the newly vacated space.

  George shut off the engine. "Well, if we get shot, I just want you to know that it's been a pleasure working with you."

  "If we get shot, I won't be able to say the same."

  They got out of the car. The man, who looked about fifty and sported a brown handlebar mustache, whistled in amazement. "The wolf did that to you?"

  "Most of it, yeah," said George. "Some of mine came from dogs."

  "You should've been more cautious."

  "Yeah, we figured that out once we started bleeding all over the place. I'm George, and this is Lou."

  "I've got a question for you, George."

  "Sure."

  "Do you think it's better use of our time to get in the van and get moving, or to stand out here introducing ourselves?"

  What a dick. "Fair enough. Let's go."

  The man slid open the side door, revealing a woman in a similar tan jumpsuit. She was in her thirties, had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and would have been extremely attractive if she didn't have such a sour expression. She held a crossbow on her lap.

  George nodded at her politely and they got in the van. The man slid the door closed behind them, almost slamming it shut on Lou's foot.

  There were two rows of seats. Out of consideration for Lou's more extensive injuries, George climbed into the back seat. Lou sat down next to the woman, eyeing her crossbow nervously. There was no room in this van for the cage even if Ivan hadn't stole it; Ricky could just suck it.

  The driver, who looked like a college kid, turned around and gave them a salute that seemed more than a little condescending. Just stay polite, George told himself. You need these people. It'll all be okay.

  The handlebar mustache guy got into the front passenger seat. "Let's go."

  "Yes, sir."

  The van sped out of the parking lot fast enough to make George momentarily lose his balance. He fastened the seatbelt.

  "Now is the appropriate time for introductions," said the handlebar mustache guy. "I'm Prescott."

  "Angie," said the woman.

  "Sam."

  "Nice to meet you," said George. "Is it okay that we're getting blood all over your van?"

  Prescott shrugged. "It's had worse."

  "So you're the mighty werewolf hunters?"

  "We hunt what needs to be hunted."

  "But have you specifically hunted a werewolf before?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I have no idea. That's why I asked."

  Prescott gave him a look of pure contempt, as if George were the stupidest human being ever to reside on the planet. "Of course we haven't."

  George snickered. "Ah. I get it. You don't quite believe in what you're hunting yet. That's where we were not too long ago. You'll learn."

  "I'm sure we will. Why don't you start the education process by answering some questions?"

  "What do you want to know?"

  "What are its capabilities?"

  "Well, first of all, he's a human being who can instantly change into a wolf-creature. That's a pretty big capability."

  "Please don't editorialize. Just the facts."

  Dick. "Fact: my partner and I shot him several times, close range, in the frickin' head, and it didn't kill him."

  "Did it injure him?"

  "Not a lot."

  "But it did injure him?"

  "He bled and reacted with pain, yes."

  "What kind of bullets did you use?"

  "Regular old lead bullets. I don't suppose you guys have silver ones, do you?"

  "No. They're not something you can get quickly, even with our connections. Not a lot of call for silver bullets in the real world. We'd have to make them ourselves. We've got somebody on that, but it won't happen today."

  "Well, that sucks."

  "Are there any other weaknesses we should know about?"

  "Possibly."

  Angie, who had been glaring at him the entire time, tightened her grip on the crossbow. "I'd hate to think that you were trying to withhold information to make yourselves indispensable." Her voice sounded like she'd been a chain smoker her entire life. No, worse than that, it sounded like she extinguished cigarettes on the back of her throat.

  "Would I do something like that?"

  "For your sake, I hope not."

  "Relax," said Prescott. "We wouldn't take you out even if we wanted to."

  "Good to know."

  "After all, we may need bait."

  Serving as bait didn't sound like much fun, but George would take it over an execution any day. Prescott looked as if he really wanted to watch George cringe at that idea, so George made sure to maintain a casual front. "Sounds fine. Happy to help."

  "What are his other weaknesses?"

  "Pretty much just silver, as far as we can see. And he's an arrogant son of a bitch. Now can I ask you a question?"

  "Shoot."

  "How exactly are you going to catch him? Because all I can think of is to follow a trail of corpses."

  "We're quite a bit more sophisticated than that." Prescott pulled what George had thought was a GPS from its mounting on the dashboard. "Ivan Spinner had a chip implanted into his arm while he was in custody. We know exactly where he is."

  "Holy crap! Really?"

  "Really."

  "That's fantastic! That's the best news I've heard all day. I mean, sure, pretty much all of the news I've heard today has sucked shit, but still, that's great news! Did you hear that, Lou?"

  "Where is he?" Lou asked.

  "You're on a need-to-know basis."

  "Why?"

  "Because I don't like you very much and don't feel like sharing."

  "Can we at least have some weapons?" George asked.

  "Bait doesn't need weapons."

  "So are you catching him or killing him?"

  "As of right now, the plan is still to capture him. If that changes, you'll know by the dead werewolf at your feet."

  "Will he be tortured after we get him?"

  "That's not for us to decide."

  "If I get a vote, I hope he is. One last question: if you guys are so fantastic, why didn't they have you do this job in the first place? Why hire us?"

  "Because we're expensive as hell."

  "Are you worth it?"

  "We'll find out, won't we?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Trackers

  "He hasn't moved for the past few minutes," said Prescott. "He's probably resting, licking his wounds."

  Or he's dead, thought George. Now that they had the professionals on their side, the thought of Ivan's death wasn't as appealing. Much better to get him tranquilized, back in custody, and over to Dewey where he belonged.

  "He heals quick," said George.

  "Did he expel the bullets?"

  George shook his head. "Nah, not tha
t I saw. As far as I know, he still has a bunch of bullets rattling around in his skull and ribcage. How do you think he gets them out?"

  "Hopefully through an extremely painful process of manual extraction. But his body may just reject them and squeeze them out like a splinter."

  George had an amusing mental image of bullets popping out of Ivan's head like zits. Then he had an even more amusing image of Ivan's entire head popping like a zit. Actually, any mental image that involved harm coming to the werewolf provided George with at least a small level of entertainment.

  "How's it going?" he asked Lou.

  Lou held up another one of the bloody antiseptic wipes for George's inspection. He'd made a pile of about a dozen of them now. Lou was clearly doing his best not to wince and show weakness while he disinfected his wounds, but his jaw was clenched tight and it was definitely not a pleasant process.

  "You'll need to get bandaged up quickly," Angie told him. "Looks like we're almost there." She didn't offer to help.

  Lou ripped open the front of the left leg of his pants. He unwrapped a large bandage and pressed it against a six-inch-long cut that ran lengthwise above his knee.

  "So what's the big elaborate plan?" George asked as Sam took an exit off the highway that promised gas, food, and camping.

  "It's not elaborate," said Prescott. "We will park a safe distance from where he's resting, and either you or your partner will walk out there and make your presence known. The way your partner looks right now, I think it should be you."

  "Agreed," George said.

  "When the target shows himself, we'll get the net on him. Problem solved."

  "How exactly does that work?" George asked. "Are you setting the net up beforehand?"

  "No, George," said Prescott, once again making no effort to conceal his disgust. "We have a net gun. An expensive one. Believe it or not, it's much more effective than tossing a blanket over an animal's head."

  "How'd you know about that?"

  "You're famous."

  "Just so you know, the blanket did have a few silver rings sewn into it."

  "And you thought something like that would slow him down?"

  "It might have. We were dealing with a supernatural creature. For all we knew, those rings could've sucked out his energy or something."

  "Did it work?"

  "Maybe. A little. Or it might have been all the times we shot him, hit him, and kicked him that slowed him down. Either way, it didn't hurt to try."

  "I suppose it didn't."

  "Do you disagree?"

  "I can't honestly say that I would have tried it myself. There's a fine line between innovation and just being silly."

  "There's also a fine line between being honest and being an asshole."

  Prescott actually smiled in a non-asshole manner at that. "You're right. I apologize."

  "And I accept your apology. Are you guys good shots with the net gun?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Will he be able to get free?"

  "Not easily. And by the time he does, we'll have pumped a few darts into him. You'll be safe." Prescott looked at Sam. "One mile away."

  Sam turned onto a dirt road that reminded George of the one where Ivan had escaped. At least the first time.

  "You're going to walk straight," Prescott told George. "Angie and I will be on either side of you. If he runs away, we'll give chase, but try to keep him from running away."

  "If he runs, you won't be able to catch him."

  "We'll catch him. We can always track him with the chip. He's not going to escape."

  "Where is the chip?"

  "Need-to-know basis. This is far enough, Sam."

  Sam stopped the van. Angie got out of her seat and slid open the side door. George patted Lou on the shoulder as he followed Angie out of the vehicle. He, Angie, and Prescott went to the back of the van.

  "I'd feel a lot better about this if you gave me something to defend myself," said George.

  Angie opened the rear doors, revealing an impressive stockpile of weapons. "We'd give you a tranquilizer gun," she said, "but they're too big for you to hide, and we don't want him to know that we've got one. Best we can do is this." She took a small pistol down from a shelf and handed it to him. "If what you've said is true, it won't stop him, but it might give you a couple of extra seconds to live."

  George tucked the pistol into the holster under his bloodstained shirt. "I'll take it."

  "And I'll go you one better," said Prescott, giving George a tiny plastic baggie. "That's a cyanide capsule. If you find yourself about to suffer a fate worse than death, swallow that."

  "I think I'll pass."

  "Trust me, we've got ours." He touched his earpiece. "Sam, how's our connection? Good."

  Angie quickly strapped the crossbow to her back. Prescott handed her a long rifle, then took one for himself. George tossed the baggie back into the van.

  "Just walk along the path," Prescott told George. "Stay calm. Don't do anything suspicious. If you can get him out into the open, that'll be extremely helpful. Don't let him know we're here--we will decide the appropriate moment to strike."

  "All right," said George. "I'm trusting you guys to have good aim."

  "We're almost perfect."

  George extended his hand to Prescott. "Best of luck. If we all survive this, I'm buying the beer. As much as you can drink."

  "I'll take you up on that."

  George walked past the van, giving Lou a thumbs-up sign that Lou returned, though neither of them seemed sincere.

  He walked down the path, moving at a brisk pace. Prescott and Angie disappeared into the trees next to him. George at least had to appreciate that he wasn't joining them in wandering through a swamp, though Sam was getting a pretty sweet deal if he was that well-paid just for hanging out in the van.

  He focused on taking deep breaths to keep himself calm. He wasn't quite on the verge of freaking out, but he couldn't imagine that Prescott and Angie had his personal safety as a top priority, or even any kind of priority. If Ivan suddenly charged him, he expected that they'd be perfectly happy to fire the net, entangle both of them, and let the werewolf shred him. George very much doubted that there'd be any kind of penalty for letting the hired thugs perish.

  Still, he had to cooperate. They weren't going to go out of their way to protect him, but it also didn't seem as if they were going to go out of their way to kill him, so his best bet for long-term happiness was to be their bait, try to keep himself alive, and hope that the plan to recapture Ivan was a great big rousing success.

  And then, assuming they could ever get hired again, George and Lou would vow never to take any kind of job that involved cages or man-beasts. That's how he'd start every conversation with Ricky: "Does this job involve a cage or a man-beast? Because if it does, tell them to shove it." And they'd never come back to Florida. Fuck Florida and its sweltering heat and ugly alligators and evil serial killer werewolves. Fuck it right in the face.

  He kept walking. There was no sign of Angie and Prescott. They were good at staying hidden, he had to give them that, unless they'd lagged behind for a cigarette or a quickie or something.

  Maybe Ivan would be lying on the ground, barely alive, huge ring-shaped burns in his flesh from being underneath the blanket. Oh, George would love that. It would almost be worth all of this happening, just for that moment of victory.

  Ivan grins, sliding the blade across Diane's neck, as blood spills down the front of her shirt...

  George tried to force the memory out of his mind. He couldn't let himself get distracted.

  He could hear the little boy wailing "Mommy!"

  For all George knew, the cops had never actually been to the house. The little boy could still be in the kitchen, sobbing while he held his mother's blood-soaked body. Or the boy could be staring off into space, never to really see anything again.

  Stop it.

  George hadn't been just talking bullshit with Lou. He really did plan to make things right. He
wasn't naïve enough to think that he'd become some kind of saint, strolling from town to town doing good deeds, but he'd find a way to make up for this. Though he'd never be able to completely clear his conscience, maybe he'd at least be able to soothe it a bit, silence the voice inside that was screaming at him and telling him he was a monster.

  But, again, it was not something to worry about now. For now, he needed to worry about that goddamn werewolf.

  George thought he heard the crack of a branch to his right. Apparently Prescott wasn't a total ninja.

  His stomach really hurt. He just wanted this over with.

  If you die, that's a pretty crappy legacy you're leaving behind. Lots of people's lives are worse because you were born. Even if you died this morning, before you met Ivan, there'd be no good reason for anybody to mourn, except maybe Lou since he'd have the hassle of finding a new partner. If an angel seeking his wings went It's a Wonderful Life on you and showed you a world where you'd never been born, it would probably be a festival of smiles and balloons and merry children.

  His stomach really, really hurt. Throwing up might actually make him feel better, but he didn't want Prescott or Angie to see it.

  He wiped some sweat from his forehead. He looked at his hand, which seemed to have more blood than perspiration on it.

  Focus on the positive, he told himself. When this is over, you and Lou will check yourself into a luxury hotel--separate rooms--and spend the next seven days soaking in a hot tub. You'll catch up on all of those books you've never quite found time to read. Drink fine wine and eat grapes. Watch porn.

  He came around a slight corner and, about a hundred feet ahead, he could see Bateman's van.

  Son of a bitch. Ivan really was here.

  George forced himself not to run. Stay calm. Don't get too excited.

  The back doors of the van hung open, and George could see the cage inside. Somebody was in there. Had Ivan actually gotten back into the cage? Why the hell would he--?

  No. It was Michele, huddled into the back corner.

  Shit.

  This had to be a trap. But how could Ivan have known they were coming? He couldn't, unless the reinforcements were actually working for the werewolf, and that idea was really dumb.

  The situation was making George uncomfortable and paranoid, but he had to stick with the plan. The absolute last thing he needed was for Ivan to rush off and find another well-populated area for a killing spree. George's official role was "werewolf bait," and he was going to play it out.