Wolf Hunt

by Jeff Strand

  "No, they were...they were pretty much just lying there, burning."

  "Right. Stop coming up with macabre shit like that."

  "Sorry."

  George looked over at the tracking device. "He's still running. We put a nice scare into him. Let's appreciate that instead of dwelling on horrific stuff."

  "When we catch up to him, I'm using all of the remaining dynamite."

  "That's the spirit!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Distress

  Ivan ran through the swamp, so enraged that he thought his head might explode like the dynamite.

  He didn't mind losing Michele. She was only intended to be a temporary plaything, and he probably shouldn't have bitten her in the first place. No big deal. It was like having a child--a responsibility he didn't want.

  Losing George hurt worse. He'd really been looking forward to making the thug weep. Ivan had probably exercised bad judgment in staying around as long as he did. As soon as he saw that they had grenades, he should have gotten out of there. He was a fast healer, but not immortal, and even if there was no jagged silver involved he wouldn't survive having his head blown off.

  Still, that wasn't the reason for his misery.

  They were tracking him. George had been holding some kind of device that could follow his movements. It had to be a chip or something, like what people used for their beloved pets. That's how those fuckers with the net and crossbow found him.

  Ivan was almost in tears.

  He'd stopped for about a minute to check his ears, even though he would've noticed a chip in there long before now. The way he healed up, they could have stuck it in him at Bateman's place while he was unconscious and he never would have known.

  Where was it?

  This was awful. This was the worst possible thing. Sure, he was a werewolf, but he still had to sleep. What was he going to do, find some kind of impenetrable bunker to hide out in? Even if the chip only had a limited range, that didn't do him any good unless he was able to jump on a plane. He couldn't help but feel that he was going to have difficulty using air travel for the foreseeable future.

  Damn them!

  He could turn back, try to kill George and Lou, and steal their tracker, but that couldn't be the only device. Ivan wasn't good with technology and didn't know how these things worked, but they probably even had a fucking website where they could track him.

  He stopped running. He had to think. He couldn't just let them hunt him down. Better to get blown up than to be Dewey's little experiment, but he wanted to avoid both of those possibilities.

  Where would they stick the chip?

  If he were tagging a werewolf, where would he put it?

  He changed back into his human form and searched his arms for scars. All of this blood wasn't helping. A tiny incision wouldn't leave any trace, but if they got overzealous, there might be a mark.

  He had lots of marks, but they were all from today, as far as he could tell. He feverishly rubbed his arms, trying to get off as much of the dried blood as he could.

  He could feel himself losing it. This wasn't good.

  If they beat him, it wasn't going to be because of some chip. No way.

  He stripped off what little remained of his pants and stood there, naked, searching his body for any scars he couldn't identify. There had to be one. Just a faint trace.

  Still too much blood.

  Fine. This was the Florida Everglades. There was water all over the place. He ran for less than a minute before he found a pool of water. It looked stagnant and thousands of mosquitoes seemed to be swarming around it, but it would do.

  He lay on his back in the water, splashing around, washing off the blood. He didn't care about the bugs. Let them take his blood. They could have as much as they wanted.

  Losing it...

  Ivan sat up. He inspected his stomach, his legs, his feet. Nothing.

  It wasn't fair.

  Where would they put it? Where the hell would they put it?

  For all he knew, there was a big crooked scar across his back. He twisted himself around, trying to glimpse his reflection in the water, but the water wasn't still enough and he couldn't see anything.

  Chill the hell out. You're going from "losing it" to "batshit crazy."

  So they had a chip in him. So what? He'd massacred a whole bunch of people in the Cotton Mouse Tavern who'd known exactly where he was, and it sure didn't save their lives. George and Lou had been following him, and they hadn't fared very well. Neither had the reinforcements.

  Following Ivan Spinner with a tracing device meant that you got your arms, legs, and head torn off and thrown into the air like confetti. That's what your precious chip did for you.

  If Bateman showed up, Ivan would rip his heart out.

  If Dewey showed up, Ivan would make him measure his own intestines by the yard.

  If George and Lou found him, Ivan would hold them in this foul water and laugh while the mosquitoes drained them.

  Watch the skeeters drink until they burst. Pop, pop, pop.

  Where would they put it? It had to be something relatively easy--it's not like they would saw open his cranium and glue it to his brain. They'd want to keep it someplace simple, like his arm.

  His arm. That had to be it.

  Which arm?

  He was right-handed, so they'd probably go for his left. That would be the best way to keep it undetected.

  Where on the left arm?

  They'd go for a fleshy part. Somewhere he'd be less likely to feel it. So...the bottom of his upper arm. Absolutely. That's exactly where a sneaky bastard like Bateman would hide the chip.

  Ivan transformed his right index finger into a claw. The problem with Bateman's oh-so-brilliant plan was that he didn't think Ivan would cut open his own flesh to dig out the chip. How wrong he was.

  Ivan held up his arm, bent it at the elbow, and poked the talon through his skin. He was spilling new blood to replace what he'd washed away. Let the mosquitoes drink their fill.

  He dragged the talon across his arm, cutting deep into his flesh.

  He didn't scream. He wanted to, but he didn't. He'd felt much worse pain than this, and here he was in total control. He could stop whenever he wanted.

  Ivan cut all the way to his elbow, then withdrew the talon. There was no chip on the end.

  He took a deep breath to steel himself, and then slipped his middle finger into the gash, running along its length, searching for the chip. This hurt far worse than the initial cut. Worse than the bullets he'd taken today. Even worse than the process of having bullets extracted, which was something he'd been through several times before, and something else he'd have to endure in the near future. Drugs didn't work on him anymore, so he was forced to remain totally conscious and alert as the non-licensed physician dug out the slugs with a scalpel and tweezers.

  Now he screamed.

  What difference did it make? Until he got rid of the chip, it didn't do any good for him to remain quiet.

  No chip.

  He dug around in the wound some more.

  "You can't beat me," he whispered. "Not a chance."

  He'd have to try the other arm.

  He slapped at the mosquitoes.

  Other arm. Same spot. That's where they'd hide the chip.

  He transformed his left index finger, then slit his other arm, wishing that he could just shut off all sensation. Scrape his arms down to the bone.

  He probably wouldn't heal from that.

  He wasn't entirely sure where the limits of his healing power ended. He'd certainly tested that over the years, but never to the point of skeletonizing a limb to find a hidden tracking chip.

  He worked his finger through the wound, blinking back tears.

  What was that?

  He'd definitely felt something odd.

  He poked around in there, arm twitching, the pain more intense than anything he'd ever experienced in a lifetime of pain. He could do this. He was strong.

 
I think the word is "insane."

  Was he touching bone?

  He couldn't take it anymore. He pulled his finger out, then kneeled back down in the water and washed off his hands.

  What was he going to do?

  Maybe the chip wasn't in his arms. Maybe they'd implanted it in his heart. Or maybe it was microscopic, and it was right there on the tip of his nose but he couldn't see it.

  Pull it together...

  What a horrible way to end this conflict. Sitting here in a bug-filled pool practicing self-mutilation. Oh, George and Lou would get a great big laugh at that. They'd point and take pictures. Look at the formerly amazing werewolf, reduced to a filthy animal hurting himself.

  He picked up his pants--well, the pants formerly belonging to the guy who he'd killed--and slipped them back on. He needed to do that. The pain brought clarity.

  He'd get the chip out before too long. He knew a "doctor" in Atlanta who could X-ray him, find exactly where it was, and cut it out. No problem.

  No reason to panic. And no shame in panicking. Everybody did it.

  They could follow him, but they couldn't catch him.

  Not a chance.

  Ivan transformed back into a wolfman, let out a howl, and then resumed racing across the swamp.

  * * *

  When he emerged onto a two-lane paved road, he kept running.

  A couple of minutes later, he saw a car.

  There was no time for jokes. No time to mentally torment his prey before he ripped them apart. No time for fun. He needed that car, and he needed it now.

  He leapt onto the front hood, opening his jaws as wide as he could. The woman shrieked and drove off the road.

  He opened the door, dragged her out of the vehicle, and snapped her neck.

  He checked her pockets for money, found none, and tossed her body off to the side. Somebody would find it quickly, unless an alligator dragged it away for an evening meal, but that didn't matter. Ivan would be long gone.

  He got in the car and sped off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Hot Pursuit

  "Are you absolutely positive you're not going to bleed to death?" George asked.

  "Look, I promise that if I get ready to bleed to death, I'll give you a five minute warning, okay? How are your legs?"

  "They hurt."

  "Sorry."

  "It's okay. I apologize for yelling at you after you blew open the cage with dynamite. You have to understand why I'd be stressed out at that particular moment."

  "I do."

  George's phone rang again. "I'd better get that or he's never going to stop calling." He pressed the "talk" button and placed the phone to his ear. "Yeah, Ricky?"

  "Where have you been? What's going on?"

  "Rescue team's dead. Werewolf's still loose."

  "We know. We're tracing him."

  "So are we."

  "I hear Bateman and Dewey are both trying to put together a new team. I mean, like, every dogcatcher from here to New Orleans. From a friend to a friend, George, I'm suggesting that you get out of the country as soon as you possibly can and don't look back."

  "Sorry, Ricky. We're killing the werewolf."

  "Don't do that! Just stay out of this now."

  "Not going to happen. There'll be bits of fur for a six-mile stretch of I-75."

  "Then we never had this conversation."

  "Fair enough. And you're not my friend. I pissed in your coffee cup twice a week."

  "You did what?"

  "Okay, that's not true. I never did that. Take care of yourself, Ricky." George hung up the phone. "He's a rotten little prick," he said to Lou, "but he deserves to enjoy his cup of coffee in the morning. How far ahead is Ivan?"

  "Looks like about two miles."

  "Good." Ivan seemed to be sticking to the speed limit. George was doing about ten miles faster and cruising along at eighty miles per hour. Neither of them could afford to get pulled over by the cops, but George was apparently more willing to take the risk.

  The plan, which was straightforward and inelegant, was to catch up to whatever car Ivan was driving, and fling a stick of dynamite at him. Watching that bastard go up in an explosion would be better than every Fourth of July celebration George had witnessed in his entire life combined.

  If he had a hostage in the car with him, they'd use guns instead of explosives. Either way, unless he was in a bus filled with nuns, orphans, and kittens, that werewolf was only a few minutes away from death.

  They'd discussed the idea of just following behind him, out of sight, until Ivan was forced to stop somewhere to get gas. The problem with that plan was that their van was already getting low on fuel, and they had to assume that he'd outlast them in that regard. They couldn't afford to lose ten minutes to get off and refuel. Twenty if there was another frickin' dog attack.

  "Are you sure we shouldn't be more subtle?" Lou asked. "There are a lot of cars around."

  "If we get the opportunity to be subtle, we'll take it. Otherwise, dynamite out the window."

  "All right. I can't say I won't enjoy it."

  George pressed harder on the accelerator, bringing their speed up to eighty-five. Plenty of other cars were going that fast. As far as he knew, the cops weren't looking for a white van that said "Ray's Air Conditioning" on the side, so they'd be okay until they started flinging explosives.

  "He's a mile ahead."

  "Cool. Maybe if we're lucky, there'll be a semi we can hide behind or something."

  George pressed down on the accelerator a bit more, letting their speed creep up to eighty-seven.

  "Slow down," Lou said, glancing at the speedometer. "You're getting too impatient."

  "I want him gone."

  "So do I. Slow down."

  George relented and dropped their speed back down to eighty-five.

  "Do you think he knows we're coming?" Lou asked.

  "I hope so. I don't like the idea of an ambush, but I do like the idea of him being scared out of his mind."

  "Well, let's not get overconfident. I don't think we're going to be able to narrow this down to a single car unless the traffic really clears up, and he knows what we're driving."

  "Believe me, after the way things have gone, the last thing I am is overconfident."

  Lou rolled down his window. Several sticks of dynamite and a few grenades rested in his lap. Yesterday, that was a sight that would have made George extremely uncomfortable. Now it made him happy.

  "Shit," he said, as red-and-blue flashing lights became visible in the rear-view mirror. "Cop."

  "I'm not throwing a grenade at him."

  George slowed down to seventy and moved into the far right lane, desperately hoping that the cop was pulling over somebody else.

  The police car drove ahead of the van and came up behind a brown truck. The truck slowed down and moved into the right lane. The cop followed him. As the truck pulled off to the side, George breathed a sigh of relief.

  Lou picked up a stick of dynamite. "This would've been difficult to explain."

  "No kidding."

  They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. "Okay, start watching for him."

  There were no big trucks or other vans to hide behind. Since Ivan would've had no way of knowing where they were, they just had to hope that he wasn't keeping a close watch on every single vehicle on the road.

  "Up there," said Lou, pointing at a small blue Volkswagen. "Does that look like the back of his head?"

  George leaned forward and squinted. "I...I think so. No, wait, the hair is wrong. It's not him."

  George and Lou both surveyed the cars ahead of them. "He's got to be in one of these. Maybe in the--there! That's him!" Lou pointed to another small car in the left-hand lane that was a darker shade of blue than the first.

  Yep. Definitely him. "He's on the wrong side."

  "There aren't any windows in the back. You're gonna have to throw them."

  "Aw, shit."

  "Get at least a car-length ahead of
him so that when you throw it, it hits the front of his car."

  George nodded. The van began to shake, clearly not having been designed to go this fast.

  They passed Ivan's car. Ivan looked over at George and scowled. George would've expected a grin. Things were looking up.

  "Don't let him see what you're doing," said George, as Lou pulled the trigger to start the lighter. There were no cars behind Ivan. No innocent victims.

  Keeping the stick of dynamite below window-level, Lou lit the fuse. George's heart felt like it leapt into his throat, which managed to be simultaneously a good feeling and a bad one. Lou passed him the burning stick and grabbed the steering wheel.

  George flung the stick of dynamite out the window.

  It struck Ivan's windshield dead center.

  Then bounced off.

  The dynamite sailed harmlessly over Ivan's car then exploded against the pavement behind him. Tires squealed as a convertible swerved into the other lane.

  "Grenade!"

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, Lou pulled the pin out of a grenade and handed it to George. He immediately tossed it out the window.

  It struck the front hood of Ivan's car, bounced up onto the roof, off the rear, and then exploded in mid-air.

  "Damn it!" George shouted.

  Ivan swerved, moving directly behind the van.

  George tilted the side-view mirror. "I can't see him! Try to throw something out the back!"

  "The shelf with all the weapons is in the way!"

  "I know that! Knock it over!"

  "It's bolted in place!"

  "Fuck!"

  George slammed on the brakes. That little car would fare much worse in a collision than the van.

  Ivan swerved to the right, coming up on Lou's side.

  A sign announced that the next exit was half a mile away.

  "Blast the bastard!" George shouted.

  Lou flicked on the lighter again, but hesitated. There was a minivan up ahead in the right lane, blocking Ivan's potential escape. "Try to match his speed," Lou said. "He won't be able to pass us."