by Jeff Strand
He walked over to the van. Michele was seated, head down, arms wrapped tightly around her legs, her whole body quivering as she silently wept.
"Michele...?"
She looked up. Her eyes were red and puffy and her whole face was blotchy from crying.
"I'm here to get you out of there," said George. "Where's Ivan?"
"I don't know."
"Which way did he go?"
"I didn't see."
"Michele, I need you to focus. Everything's going to be all right. I promise, I'm not going to let him hurt you."
"You can't promise anything," Michele said. She sniffled, then held up her right hand, revealing a curved row of deep puncture wounds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Wolf's Bite
"It'll be okay," George assured her. "That's an ugly bite but it's not too bad. Lou got clawed up a lot worse and he's still kicking around."
"Don't pretend to be dense. You know what this means."
"No, he doesn't play by the werewolf rules. This doesn't mean anything."
"He said it did."
"Well, Ivan's a liar. He just said that to scare you. Don't listen to anything he says. I swear to you that you'll be fine."
Michele shook her head sadly. "No. I can feel it."
"You're just stressed out. It could be anything."
"I've been stressed all day. This is something horrible. As soon as his teeth went into me I knew what he'd done."
George hurriedly glanced around the area for any sign of Ivan. There was none. "Okay, okay, for the sake of argument let's say that he did make you into a werewolf. Is that really such a bad thing? He seems pretty happy."
"He can control it."
"Maybe they all can. Maybe that's why we never hear about werewolves--they all have total control over their powers, so only the lunatic idiots like Ivan let out the secret."
"You shouldn't be here." She began to sob uncontrollably.
"Just calm down. I know you don't believe me, but it's all going to be fine. I need to know, did Ivan set a trap?"
"Me, maybe."
"Why did he leave you? Was I supposed to find you?"
Michele shook her head. "He looked nervous all of a sudden and just left."
"Good, good. So he's either running or watching us."
Ivan spoke. "What the hell do you want, George?"
George spun around. He couldn't see Ivan's face, but he was at the edge of the trees, mostly obscured by some tall bushes.
"I want the girl back."
"Bullshit. You wouldn't put yourself at risk for her. Why are you here?"
"I just want her back. That's the truth."
"You weren't even around when I nabbed her."
"It was on the news."
"Then where did I catch her?"
Crap. "A gas station."
"Wrong. How did you find me?"
"There were several reports of the van coming this way. You should be more careful."
"Uh-huh. Then why aren't the cops here?"
"How should I know? Maybe they've got the area surrounded. Do you really think I work with the police?"
"George, I've had a good time ruining your life today, but I'm tired. I know you're tired, too."
"Exhausted."
"Why don't we just go our separate ways and work this out some other time, huh?"
"See, I'd love to, and if you give me the girl, I will."
"What's stopping you from taking her? I'm all the way over here."
"Not a goddamn thing."
Ivan stepped to the side, revealing his smiling face, which was now missing a tooth. His wounds were no longer bleeding, though his entire face was so caked with blood that he was almost unrecognizable. "I should warn you, though, that she's damaged goods in a big way. My recommendation is that you just discard her."
"Why would you do that to her?" George asked. When the hell was Prescott or Angie going to put a tranquilizer dart into that prick?
"I guess there are a lot of possibilities," said Ivan. "Maybe she's the first inductee into my werewolf army. Or, this should have you quaking in your booties; maybe she's the thousandth one. Maybe my whole purpose is to enslave humanity, and you just got caught in the middle. You could be humanity's last chance, George. Hell of a bad deal for the human race."
"I don't buy that one. What's the next possibility?"
"Oh, gosh, I don't know. Let me think. Maybe I've been looking to get it on in my werewolf form, but I can't find any chicks who are into the whole bestiality scene, so I decided that my only option was to make a she-wolf who can handle me."
"That sounds more reasonable."
"But, no, that can't be it, because it's way more fun when the coin is bigger than the slot, if you know what I mean. You probably do. Despite our differences, you seem like you might be pretty well-endowed."
"So how does this end, Ivan? I know you don't want to just stand around and gab all day."
"You're right. I've actually been pretty bored with this conversation for the past thirty seconds or so but I didn't want to say anything. The plan was actually to just hide out for a moment, wait to see who was coming, and then give them the ol' Cotton Mouse Tavern treatment. I had no idea it would be you. Where's Lou?"
"He's in police custody."
"Aw, man, that's too bad. You must be pretty bummed. Well, my original plan was to murder whoever came down the path, and I can't think of any good reason to change that, so I think it's all over for you, Mr. George."
Ivan stepped onto the path.
George took out the pistol and pointed it at him. Ivan stopped walking and stared at him for a moment.
"And...?"
"This is loaded with silver bullets."
"Really? And where exactly does one acquire silver bullets these days?"
"It was a shop for Goth kids. A novelty item."
"You are a good liar," said Ivan. "You don't blink, you don't break eye contact, you don't put your hand over your mouth--I'm impressed. The only problem with your lie is that you're standing there talking instead of shooting me with the legendary silver bullet."
Ivan stepped completely out of the bushes. His hands transformed into claws as he strode toward George.
A dart struck him in the side of the neck.
Ivan looked confused for a moment, then positively furious. He plucked the dart out of his neck, tossed it to the ground, then transformed into a full wolfman and leapt back into the bushes.
George resisted the urge to raise his clenched fist into the air and let out a victory shout. They got him!
Still no sign of either Prescott or Angie, but George heard the rustling as Ivan ran off. Hopefully the tranquilizer wouldn't take too long to take him down.
He stood there, listening carefully.
"What happened?" Michele asked.
"The cavalry's here," George said. "He'll be snoozing any second now."
"What'll they do with me?"
"Nothing. I mean, they won't hurt you. I won't let them. We'll get you help."
"You'll deliver me just like you were going to deliver Ivan."
"No. That's not part of any bargain." He thought he heard something, and gestured for Michele to stop talking. "Shhhh."
He stood as still as possible. The only sound was Michele's rapid panicked breathing.
And then a scream.
Not from Ivan.
Prescott's scream was a mixture of agony and terror. George couldn't hear any attempt at bravery--this was the sound of a man who knew that screaming would be the last thing he ever did.
The scream did not cut off. It did not fade.
What the hell was George supposed to do? He couldn't just go running off after them. He'd get himself killed, too. Ivan had been hit with the dart, so maybe he'd succumb to the drug's influence before he could finish off Prescott. If not, thanks to the noise, Angie had to know exactly where they were.
George thought about running back to the other van, but if
Ivan came back for him, he didn't want to be on the unprotected path. Instead, he slammed the back doors of the van shut, then hurried around to the front and climbed into the driver's seat.
He really wished the windshield wasn't missing. And there definitely wasn't time to hotwire this one.
The screams continued.
"Damn you," he whispered.
Finally the scream began to fade. Not quickly. It was obvious that Prescott never got to use his cyanide capsule. George wondered if Lou and Sam could hear it, too.
After what felt like several minutes but couldn't possibly have been that long (could it?), the screaming stopped.
"I think the cavalry is dead," said Michele.
"I saw the dart go in his neck." What if the tranquilizer didn't work on supernatural monsters? Or did a werewolf just require a second dose? Or had Prescott stopped screaming because Ivan fell asleep on top of him?
Rustling in the bushes.
"I think he's coming back," George said.
A dark shape, like a basketball, flew into the air from amidst the trees. George realized that it was Prescott's severed head about two seconds before it splattered against the hood of the van. It rolled off and fell to the ground.
Damn it. That wasn't the action of a sufficiently tranquilized werewolf.
Something else flew into the air. Half of an arm. It sailed right through the broken windshield and landed on the seat next to George. He recoiled in horror.
A leg followed. This one came up a few feet short and landed on the dirt path in front of the van.
The second leg struck the front hood, only a couple of inches from where the head landed. It remained there.
"Stop it, you son of a bitch!" George shouted. Oh, nice one, dumb-ass. As if Ivan would cease his grotesque attack based on George's request.
The rest of the first arm missed the van. The second arm, thrown in its entirety, hit the roof. Michele screamed.
Where in the world was Angie? Ivan was out there throwing body parts at them. How could she not find him?
The next wave was a volley of internal organs, flung quickly, one after the other. And, finally, Prescott's bloody and shredded jumpsuit.
George just stared at the carnage in a state of disbelief. Even having seen Ivan's malicious thrill-killing ways up close, it was still hard to imagine that he'd tear somebody into pieces and pelt a frickin' van with them!
He wondered what happened to the ribcage and spinal column.
Ivan stepped onto the path, still fully transformed as a wolfman. He wasn't holding Prescott's ribcage--that was presumably a mystery never to be solved.
Ivan rushed at the van.
Something swished through the air toward him.
The net struck Ivan, knocking him to the ground. He immediately began to roll around in panic and fury, getting himself more tangled.
Angie ran onto the path on the opposite side from which Ivan had emerged.
I never stopped being bait...
Though he was more inclined to stick with the phony perceived safety of the van, George threw open the door and got out to help her. Angie pointed the rifle at Ivan's thrashing body from about ten feet away and fired a tranquilizer dart into him.
He didn't stop moving.
Angie pulled her crossbow off her back and notched a bolt. It appeared to be a makeshift silver bolt--a silver tip duct-taped to a regular one.
"Shoot him!" George said.
"I don't want to kill him!"
"Look what he did to your partner! Shoot him!"
Angie kept the crossbow pointed at Ivan, yet didn't fire. George understood that it would be her ass on the fire if she killed the werewolf, but Prescott was in chunks all over the ground!
His claws slashed through the net, cutting through the webbing like scissors. George's stomach plummeted.
Ivan sat up, the net no longer covering the top half of his body. He snarled.
Angie fired the silver bolt at him. It went through his upper arm, bursting all the way through and popping halfway out the other side.
Ivan's werewolf howl changed to a human scream as his face began to transform back.
George had attacked Ivan and been knocked aside so many times that day that he didn't see the reason to give it yet another try. He settled for offering unnecessary advice: "Shoot him again!"
Angie snapped another bolt into the crossbow.
Ivan leapt completely free of the netting before she could fire. The tranquilizer dart dropped out where it had been lodged in his chest.
Angie still got off the shot before he reached her, but it sailed harmlessly over Ivan's right shoulder and struck a tree. Ivan knocked her to the ground.
George went for the bolt.
Angie didn't scream, and as George ran for the silver he thought she might be dead already. But when he yanked the bolt out of the tree and turned back around, he saw that she was very much alive. Ivan, his face still shifting between wolf and man as he stood, clutched the back of her jumpsuit with his good hand and dragged her toward the van.
Ivan slammed her into the front grille of the van, headfirst, with enough force to visibly crack her skull. He smashed her a second time with just as much impact before George reached him.
George thrust the silver-tipped bolt at him and missed. Ivan swung Angie's corpse in front of him as a shield, and George's second thrust plunged into her chest. For an instant he thought he was going to lose his weapon, but he pulled it out just before Ivan tossed her body aside.
Ivan took a swing at him, his claws slicing across the tip of George's nose. The werewolf had a longer reach than George, so his own swing with the bolt missed completely.
Sizzling, foamy blood ran down Ivan's injured arm.
Get him in the heart, George thought. One good jab to the heart and he's finished.
He didn't want to let go of his weapon, but there was no way he could get past Ivan's claws. So he flung the bolt as hard as he possibly could, praying that he'd get lucky.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Swapping Roles
He did not get lucky.
Ivan knocked the bolt away. "Now, Sam!" George shouted, looking over Ivan's shoulder.
Taking advantage of Ivan's momentary distraction, George ran for the van. Wow. He couldn't believe that lame-ass trick worked.
It would've been nicer if it were some planned-out moment where Sam really was standing there with a crossbow, ready to put a silver-tipped bolt deep into Ivan's heart, but for now George would happily accept the extra two seconds of life he'd been given.
He scrambled into the driver's seat with the werewolf right behind him. He scooted onto the passenger side, opened the door, and got back out of the vehicle. It was even more difficult for Ivan to maneuver in here than for the oversized thug, so George got out with just enough time to slam the door in Ivan's face. Hopefully he'd flattened his goddamn snout.
What now?
Where was Sam? The team had to have a backup plan prepared in case Prescott and Angie got murdered, right?
George ran around to the rear of the van. Actually, that cage looked nice and safe right about now. If it had been unlocked, he might have been inclined to jump in there with Michele.
There was just enough room for him to get in the back of the van. Since there was no way he could outrun the werewolf, his best bet was to keep hitting him with doors until Sam and Lou figured out that he needed some frickin' assistance. He got in, pressed himself against the cage, and pulled the doors shut.
Ivan was at the doors in a few seconds. George heard his claws very slowly scrape against the outside steel--even now, the prick was still trying to be spooky. George took the pistol with its mostly useless lead bullets out of the holster.
Ivan pulled the doors open. He'd changed his hands back to human for the task.
George squeezed the trigger over and over, pumping several bullets into Ivan's chest. Every few extra seconds helped, and if Sam had somehow missed hearing Presc
ott's screams, he had to hear gunshots, right?
Ivan looked down at the bleeding holes in his chest, his expression incredulous even with his face in werewolf form. It changed back to human. "Bullets. Don't. Work."
George shot him in the face.
Ivan ran his tongue over the new hole in his upper lip. "Did you fucking hear me?" he asked, his words kind of slurred.
"You want one in the eye?" George asked. He'd actually been aiming for Ivan's eye with the lip shot, but didn't tell him that.
Ivan grabbed George's left arm, not sinking his claws in. He gave it a sharp yank and George cried out in pain. The gun fell out of his hand as George's arm, his shoulder now dislocated, flopped uselessly next to him. Ivan grabbed George's ankle and dragged him out of the van. He hit the ground with a painful jolt, fortunately not crushing his twisted arm underneath him.
Ivan picked up the pistol and pointed it at George's face. "So who else is out there? Is Sam real?"
"Nah."
"Liar." Ivan looked around uncomfortably. "I don't hear him. I hear pretty well when I'm paying attention. He must've run away when he heard me tear your buddy apart limb from limb."
"Must have."
"You know that with a couple more tugs I could rip your arm right off. You saw me do it back at the bar."
"I know."
"Why do you keep messing with me, George? You got away. Why not just leave well enough alone?" Ivan wasn't nearly as articulate anymore, but George could still understand him.
"I wasn't going to let you kill anybody else." God, his arm hurt. He'd dislocated his shoulder once in high school, and twenty-seven years later still remembered how bad it felt.
"Really? So, thanks to your plan to--fuck!" He wiped some blood from his lip and then continued. "Thanks to your plan to stop me from killing anybody else, I killed two more people. That's a very poor plan, George."
"So am I next?"
"Maybe. Wouldn't that just suck to get shot by a werewolf? I mean, how unglamorous is that?"
