by Jeff Strand
"Pretty unglamorous."
"What I should do is rip your arms and legs off and leave you as a human torso. But you'd probably just die of blood loss, and that's no fun. I guess you're coming with me."
Ivan tried to reach into his pocket, but his free arm didn't seem to be working quite right. He cursed. "Screw it, I don't need this." He threw the pistol off into the swamp, then snapped off the end of the bolt. He pulled each half out of his arm and threw them aside, then got the set of keys out of his pocket and tossed them at George. They bounced off George's chest and onto the dirt. "Unlock the cage."
George shook his head. "No."
"Five...four...three..."
"Okay, okay." George picked up the keys and stood up. He couldn't even feel the fingers on his left hand anymore.
"Do it quickly. You have ten seconds to get in that cage before I kill you."
Ivan sounded completely serious. Despite his earlier thoughts, George really didn't want to get into that cage with Michele, and not just because Ivan's future plans for George probably involved something even worse than what had happened to Prescott.
Still, he'd rather risk a much worse death later than let Ivan kill him now, so he unlocked the cage door.
This would be a good time for a surprise bolt to pop through his chest...
No surprise bolt popped through Ivan's chest. George climbed into the back of the van--an awkward process with only one good arm--and then crawled into the cage.
He slammed the door shut and scooted to the back, next to Michele.
"What the hell are you doing?" Ivan asked. "Give me the keys."
"You want them? Bend the bars."
Ivan let out an incredulous laugh. "Oh, that's hilarious. Do you honestly think you're safe in there?"
"Well, safer."
"So you're going to make me count again? Do you really want to make me even madder than I already am?"
"Why not? Will that make you kill me even more slowly?"
"Oh, you little shit. Good one. You're really going to make me run over and get the gun, huh?"
"Yeah, I think I am."
"All right. Point for you."
Ivan ran off to where he'd thrown the pistol. George took a very brief moment to bask in the joy of pissing him off, and then prodded Michele. "Hey, you okay?"
"Leave me alone," she said, speaking so quietly that he could barely hear her.
"C'mon, sit up. We need to work together." He pulled her to a sitting position.
She looked awful. Her skin was pale except for dark circles under her eyes, she was sweating profusely, and her breathing was a soft rasp.
"I just...I just want to die..."
"No, you don't. There's help on the way. If we can keep Ivan from doing anything to us until they get here, we'll be fine."
"I'm sick, George. I'm just...I'm sick."
"No, you're fine. Just stay with me. I need you."
She closed her eyes.
"No, no! Michele, stay awake. Think about how good it's going to feel when we kill that son of a bitch. Imagine his face crunching underneath your feet."
"I don't wanna."
George's cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket. Lou.
He answered, watching for Ivan to return. "Lou, get over here! Now!"
"We're--"
George hung up and pocketed the phone as he saw the bushes rustle. Not good for Ivan to know he was in contact with anybody. He wanted the werewolf to take his time as much as possible.
"Come on, Michele," he whispered. "I really need you."
To be honest, George wasn't completely sure what he needed her for, but two people trying to distract a werewolf while they waited for help to arrive was better than one person working alone, right?
Michele responded by throwing up. Though she didn't turn her head, the majority of the spew missed George's pants. Michele let a large chunk roll down her chin, not seeming to care.
Ivan ran back to the van, holding the pistol. He pointed it at George. "Three...two...one..."
George tossed the keys out of the cage. Ivan caught them.
"Thanks." He grimaced. "Ooooh, your girlfriend isn't looking so good. I hope she doesn't change into something that might hurt you."
Ivan slammed the van doors shut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Last of the Useless Saviors
"Holy shit," Sam whispered as Prescott screamed in the distance. "Holy shit."
Lou leaned forward in his seat. "Shouldn't we go help him?"
"Are you kidding me? Do you hear that?"
"Yeah, I hear it! That's why I asked!"
Sam violently shook his head. "No way, dude. I've seen Prescott get branded before, I mean with an actual red-hot cattle brand, and not make a sound. This is bad."
"Are you an idiot? I know it's bad! My partner is out there and so are yours, so let's go help them!"
"Listen to that!" Sam tapped the window as Prescott's screams continued. "I'm just the driver, dude."
"You're going to let a lady die and not do anything to help her?"
"Like I care that Angie is a lady! Hey, if you want to go out there, be my guest. But I'm telling you that if this guy took down Prescott, he's not somebody I want to be around!"
"This is not new information! He's been killing people left and right! Look at me--do you think I accidentally fell down a flight of stairs or something?"
"I'm just the driver."
"I'm not saying you have to even get out of the van, but let's drive closer, see if there's something we can do to help."
"No way. They make the big bucks. If they can't handle it, I'm sure not going out there for what I get paid."
"You goddamn coward."
"Coward?" With admittedly impressive speed, Sam took out a gun and pointed it at Lou. "What do you think now? Is this gun cowardly?"
"Well, yeah, it kind of is."
"I don't have to take any lip from you. Do you know what your status is on this mission? 'Highly expendable.' We're here to recapture the cargo that you lost, and none of us, not Prescott, not Angie, not the bosses, and definitely not me, care what happens to you."
"Well, that's not something I wanted to hear, what with my fragile self-esteem and all. Nice job taking me out of my bubble of comfort. Even if you don't care about your partners, shouldn't you at least be concerned that the werewolf sounds like he's getting away?"
"Angie will take care of him."
"How do you know that?"
"Because she's good, that's how! We're not bumbling incompetent thugs like you. We actually have a plan of action. We worked this whole thing out a little better than to just run in there and start shooting."
"I think--"
"Enough! You can shut up, get out, or take a bullet to the head. I don't care which one you pick."
Lou glared at him. Sam returned to peering out the window, looking scared as hell.
The screams finally faded.
"Shit." Sam reached for the keys in the ignition, hesitated, then lowered his hands again. "Shit, shit, shit."
"He's finally stopped screaming," Lou noted. "That must mean that everything's just fine now."
"Are you trying to get shot?"
"I'm trying to get you to take some action!"
"One more word, dude. One more word and I'll shoot you right where you sit."
"No, you won't, because for all you know everybody else is dead and you need more bait. Today I faced off a werewolf in frickin' hand-to-hand combat--twice--so I apologize if having a little kid point a cap gun at me doesn't make me shiver and shake."
Sam's walkie-talkie crackled. He pressed a button on the side. "Angie?"
"He got Prescott. I mean...I mean he really got him."
"Aw, shit."
"I don't know exactly what it is we're hunting--I guess I have to go with 'werewolf' even though I don't believe it. But he's messing with George. Throwing body parts at him."
"Jesus Christ. That's horrible."
"Perfect!"
"Contact Bateman. Let him know that Prescott is down. Wait for my signal, and then drive over here as fast as you can."
"Yes, ma'am." Sam set down the walkie-talkie, then took out his cell phone.
"Mind if I call George to see how he's doing?" Lou asked.
"Yeah, I mind! As far as Ivan knows, he's killed the only reinforcement that's out there. Use your brain."
Sam punched in a number on his cell phone. "Mr. Bateman? Status report. Prescott is down. Yes, sir. Deceased, sir. I'm not certain. She used the term 'body parts.' Yes, sir. Lou is right here, so I can confirm his status. I believe George is still alive, too. Yes, sir, I will. Thank you, sir." Sam hung up.
"What'd he say?" Lou asked.
"Nothing of any importance to you. He did not say to speed over there and start firing like a maniac, just so you're aware."
"I figured."
"You can wipe that judgmental expression right off your face, dude. I've already told you that you're more than welcome to jog over there and help your friend. Won't bother me one bit."
Lou liked to think that if he weren't so badly injured, that he would run over there, guns blazing. He certainly couldn't do it in his current condition. Of course, early on, when his only physical ailment was some extra belly fat, he'd sat in the van with Michele and patiently waited for George to retrieve Ivan from inside the doomed mother's home. Quite honestly, he was probably giving this poor kid a bunch of crap for something that Lou himself might not do.
No. George hadn't been screaming at all when he was in the house, and certainly not in tones that indicated he was meeting a ghastly demise. This was much different. And if the little brat would drive Lou close enough to the action, there was no question that he'd get out of the van and do what he could to help.
Absolutely.
"How good is Angie with that net?" Lou asked.
"Flawless."
"Does she get a lot of opportunities to use it?"
"Yeah, she spends every Wednesday out on the street netting pedestrians. Don't ask stupid questions. Trust me, she's good. And she's good with the tranquilizer darts. If he comes out in the open, the werewolf will be caught."
"What kind of darts is she using?"
"Like that would mean anything to you. She's using a Pneu-dart rifle with Zoletil. It'll take down a lion, so it'll sure as hell take down a wolf."
"What about a werewolf?"
"Same difference."
"No. You haven't seen this bastard change. It's not like a...you know, I don't even have a point of reference. He can change instantly. Any part of his body he wants. It's like frickin' CGI effects in a movie."
"Maybe Hollywood has taken it to the next level. The 3-D craze got out of hand and he jumped out of some computer animator's computer."
"What I'm trying to say is that I think there's something more going on than just some guy who can change his body like a chameleon...no, not even a chameleon, that just changes its color...what animal am I thinking of...?"
"A butterfly?"
"No...yeah, we'll go with that. He's like a butterfly that can change back and forth from maggot to butterfly in seconds. Less than seconds. You can't do that shit in nature."
"We heard all of this on the drive over. What's your point?"
"My point is, don't assume that just because it can take down a bear, that your dart can take down a werewolf."
"He'll be in a net."
"He has sharp claws."
"So do lions."
"A lion doesn't have the rational thought to cut through a net."
"Gloomy, aren't you?"
"When it's appropriate."
"Well, you're not exactly helping plead your case that we should go after him, are you?"
"What I'm trying to say is that your partner, the one that isn't dead already, doesn't necessarily have things under control. And since we have a nice big van full of weapons, we should be over there helping out."
"I think we should be right here, staying alive. Fortunately for me, I've got the gun."
Lou took out his cell phone. "I'm going to check on George."
"Whatever. You know what, I don't even care anymore."
George picked up on the first ring. "Lou, get over here! Now!"
"We're on our way," Lou assured him. The line went dead. "George? You still there?"
"He hang up on you?" asked Sam.
"They need help," Lou said. "Let's go."
"Uh-uh. What did he say?"
"He said to get over here! What else does he need to say?"
"Your partner isn't the one giving the orders."
"Fine." Lou slid open the side door.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm going to help him."
"No. You're staying here. I may still need you."
"You said I could leave!"
"Yeah, because I didn't think you'd actually try to go out there." Sam kept his gun pointed at Lou, but adjusted the aim a bit, as if trying to center the target between Lou's eyes. "Close the door."
"Just let me go."
"Close the door."
"You already said I was very expendable. What difference does it make?"
"If you die, it's going to be as bait, not as a wannabe hero."
Having a gun pointed at him was always a scary thing, despite his earlier attempt to convince Sam otherwise, but realistically, Lou knew that if Sam was unwilling to risk the ire of his boss by letting him run out and get killed by Ivan, he probably wasn't going to just shoot him in the head. That would be more difficult to explain.
Lou jumped out of the van. After a moment of hesitation, Sam fired.
Damn. He wasn't quite as reluctant to use the gun as Lou had expected.
Lou's leg buckled beneath him as he stepped onto the ground but he maintained his footing and did a fast limp to the back of the van. He winced as he did so--if he'd actually had any stitches in, they definitely would have torn at that. Hopefully Sam would waste a few precious seconds trying to work up the courage to get out of the van and come after him.
He threw open the back doors and grabbed the first thing he saw. He pulled the pin out of the grenade and tossed it over the van. He'd used a couple of fragmentation grenades before, but strictly for recreational purposes out in the New Mexico desert and never in a moment of extreme urgency. He couldn't remember how much time he had between pulling the pin and the explosion--not that it mattered, since it wasn't as if he could leisurely stand there waiting for the optimum moment to throw.
He slammed his hands over his ears and ran.
The grenade went off. Over the explosion, Lou heard Sam's cry.
The questionable wisdom of throwing a grenade near a van containing a wide variety of explosives was not lost on Lou, but what else was he supposed to do?
Sam lay on the ground, half of his face black and charred. Though his limbs all remained intact, the bone was visible in several places on his body. The sight was grisly and sickening enough that Lou didn't immediately notice that Sam still held the gun.
The bullet grazed Lou's left thigh. He clutched at the wound and dropped to his knees.
Sam shouted something incoherent that might have been "I'll get you" and fired another shot. Thank God he'd been so badly injured--the shot missed by almost nothing, and Lou was confident that it would have been an easy kill shot otherwise.
He forced himself to get back up. At least three of his bandages turned red all at once. He quickly stepped over to the right back corner of the van, which put him out of Sam's sight unless Sam dragged himself across the ground a couple of feet. That seemed unlikely.
Lou hastily looked over his weapon selection. He didn't want to kill Sam if he didn't have to, but he couldn't have the guy shooting at the van as
he drove off. There had to be another tranquilizer rifle.
There were a couple of normal-looking rifles, and a few handguns, but nothing that seemed to be a tranquilizer.
There were several more grenades. A box labeled "Dynamite." Another crossbow.
Sam fired another shot. It didn't come anywhere close, and he couldn't possibly see Lou, so he was just firing wildly. Lou didn't blame him for losing his mind.
Screw it. There was no time to make a careful selection of weaponry or mentally debate the moral elements of the situation. He had to take Sam out of the equation, get in the van, and drive off to help George.
He picked up one of the handguns, then limped the long way around the van, focusing on not passing out. He peeked around the corner, saw that Sam was still looking toward the rear, and shot him in the head.
Lou immediately dropped the gun, leaned against the van, and let out a violent dry heave.
Fuck.
He'd seen a lot of awful things today, but that didn't change the fact that he'd never murdered a human being. Even a cowardly little shit like Sam.
Focus.
Since he'd been forced to take a life, it was very important that he not waste it. If he used this opportunity to save George's life, things would balance out, sort of. If he let George die because he was too busy wallowing in his guilt, well, that was a pretty lousy reason to guarantee himself eternal damnation.
The grenade had really done a number on the side of the van, but the tires looked okay. He offered a silent apology to the dead kid, got in the driver's seat, and started up the engine.
He couldn't wait to see how well Ivan did against this arsenal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Caged Madness
"Do you know what I'm going to do to you, George?" Ivan inquired.
"Something antisocial?" George asked, trying not to give away that he was in incredible pain and was scared out of his mind. Being Ivan's prisoner like this was bad enough, but Michele was most assuredly not doing well. Her skin color had gone from pale to looking almost jaundiced, and he thought her eyes had become a much darker shade of brown. She reminded him of a druggie having a massive overdose, except that instead of heroin coursing through her veins, she had werewolf spit.
