Wolf Hunt

by Jeff Strand

  The traffic had cleared out behind them. Apparently the other motorists wished to give some space between themselves and the explosive-hurling psychos in the white van.

  * * *

  Ivan couldn't believe this. He'd taken plenty of risks in his quest for sadistic pleasure, but he'd never expected George and Lou to reach this level of fanaticism.

  He was almost impressed.

  * * *

  Lou lit the next stick of dynamite. He held onto it, watching the flame devour the fuse.

  "Throw it!"

  "Not yet!"

  With alarmingly little left of the fuse, Lou flung the stick of dynamite out the window. It twirled end-over-end toward Ivan's driver's side window, leaving a trail of smoke.

  It struck the window exactly where Lou wanted it to hit. Right next to Ivan's goddamn face.

  Then it bounced off, hit the road, and rolled away.

  Lou leaned out the window and watched it.

  Nothing.

  "It was a dud! Son of a bitch!"

  "Does he look like he's going to take the exit?" George asked.

  "I can't tell!"

  "We're coming right up on it! Make a call!"

  "I think he is! Get behind him!"

  George braked. At the last instant, Ivan swerved into the exit lane, going so fast that George thought he might careen right off the curve. George followed him.

  "Slow down!" Lou shouted.

  George braked some more as they drove onto the highway exit. Ivan's car shot up ahead of them, but that was better than having the van fly right off the road.

  "A dud," Lou muttered. "I can't believe it. He's one lucky bastard."

  "Oh, no. He most certainly is not. It's just going to be worse for him when we finally catch him."

  Having made it around the curve, George accelerated to catch up with Ivan. They couldn't let him out of their sight, in case he decided to bring innocent people into this again. Nobody else was going to die.

  "I'm just going to ram him," said George. "Knock him right off the road."

  Before Lou could protest, George floored the accelerator again. The van rocketed forward as they pulled onto the four-lane street. There was a traffic light just ahead, showing amber.

  "Cop!" Lou said.

  George instinctively braked. Ivan sped through the light just before it turned red.

  "Don't run it!" Lou warned. "If we have to waste time with a cop he'll get away completely."

  They waited at the light, hoping this particular police officer was not looking for a white van matching their description.

  It was a long, agonizing red light.

  "I can't believe we're doing this," said George.

  "We've got the tracer. We can still find him."

  George impatiently drummed his fingers on the dashboard.

  "Calm down," said Lou. "We're still good."

  "I'm not letting him get away."

  "I know. That's not new information."

  "I just need to say it."

  "That's fine. Talk it out."

  The light turned green. George drove through it, careful not to exceed the speed limit. But how were they supposed to catch Ivan if they had to obey traffic laws?

  "He's not that far ahead," said Lou. "Keep going straight."

  "How are we supposed to throw dynamite around a place like this?" George asked. "On the highway during a high-speed chase, we can sort of get away with it, but we can't do it here. We'll get nabbed for sure."

  "He won't want to get out of his car, either. He's not going to stop around here."

  "I hope you're right."

  "I am," Lou said. Then he frowned. "Oh, shit, no, I'm not. He's over there. He's going into that bowling alley."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Unleashing the Beast

  George was not, in concept, a fan of bowling. It was pretty much just the same thing over and over, and the best you could hope for in terms of variety was that somebody in the other lane might slip and fall on their ass. Still, he actually found the "sport" kind of fun, and bowling might have been on his future list of ways to detox from the whole miserable Ivan experience.

  He had a feeling that bowling was going to be forever tainted for him.

  Ivan ran through the front doors of the bowling alley. He was in human form, but though he'd gotten rid of most of the blood, it was a human form covered with cuts and holes, not to mention the fact that he only wore shredded jeans. He clearly wasn't going inside in an attempt to blend with Uncle Frank's bowling league.

  "What should we take?" Lou asked.

  George wasn't certain. They couldn't just run in there and start lobbing dynamite. "Okay, give me two of the grenades," George said. "I'm going in there after him, but you take the van and drive behind the building. My job will be to chase him out one of the back entrances. When you see him, let him have it."

  "Sounds good."

  "Make sure it's him before you start throwing dynamite."

  "I can handle that."

  "If he kills me, avenge me." George pulled the van right up in front of the bowling alley. There were no screaming people rushing out of the exit yet, so things still had the potential not to completely lose control. George took two of the grenades from Lou, slipped one into each pocket, then got out of the van and ran inside the building.

  He glanced around. Surprisingly decent music played over some speakers. He could die to Guns n' Roses if he had to. Only about five of the twenty or so lanes looked like they were being used. Obviously it wasn't League Night. Some guy dropped to his knees and raised his hands, apparently cursing the heavens as he got a gutter ball.

  Where was Ivan?

  The main desk where you paid for your game and got your shoes was to the right, so Ivan probably would've gone in the other direction. George turned to the left and walked, bracing himself for a werewolf attack at any moment.

  There he was. In the game room. Seated in a stool in front of Ms. Pac-Man. Facing George and not the video game.

  Ivan held up his hands to show that they were empty. His voice sounded tired, resigned. "Why are you still following me, George?"

  "We've already been over this. You're a killer."

  "And I'm going to continue to be a killer as long as you follow me. How many people do you think are in this bowling alley?"

  "It doesn't matter. What you did before--it's never going to happen again."

  "Look, George, we both have the potential to be reasonable men. This is stupid. You don't want me to kill any more innocent people, and I don't want you following me trying to blow up my car. Remember when you wanted to cut a deal? I'm ready to cut a deal."

  George shook his head. "We're not giving you any money."

  "I don't want money. I want peace. Just a few hours of peace." He smirked at George. "Oh, by the way, are those grenades in your pocket or your testicles for safekeeping?"

  "They're grenades."

  "So why don't you throw one at me?"

  "I'm here to talk, just like you," said George. That wasn't even remotely the truth, but if he was going to successfully use the grenades, he'd have to catch Ivan unaware. The last thing George needed was to throw a grenade and have it batted right back in his face.

  Or he could shove one down Ivan's throat and pull the pin. That idea worked, too.

  "We're two sides of the same coin, you and me," said Ivan.

  "No, we're not."

  "Yeah, you're right. Forget I said it. Just trying to connect. However, I really do think we can talk this one out, because you've got something I want, and I've got something you want. Those are the two elements in a successful deal, my friend."

  "So what is it you want?" George asked. "For me to just let you go? That's not going to happen."

  "I'm not asking for a permanent treaty. I just want you to tell me where the tracking chip is, and then I'll leave. Nobody else dies today."

  "It's in your leg."

  "Wrong. See, I can tell when you're lyi
ng to me. That's how close we've grown. They didn't tell you where it was, huh?"

  "Nope. Sorry."

  "Figures. So my next request is to watch you smash the tracking device. Take all of your frustration out on it. Pretend it's me. I know Bateman and Dewey can still follow me, but all I want now is to get you off my tail."

  "You don't have a tail."

  "Yeah, I know. I'm thankful for that."

  George cleared his throat. "Well, Ivan, despite my appearance, I am indeed a businessman. You're right, we both want something from each other. My question is, how can I trust you? You can watch us stomp on the tracer, but if we're supposed to let you go, how do I know you won't turn the corner and start killing people?"

  "Well, that's a tricky one. The answer is that I don't want to kill anybody else tonight." Ivan held up his arms, revealing a mostly healed but still hideous gash on each of them. "I'm tired. I've got all of those bullets in me that have to be taken out. I've murdered a lot of people today, more than you even saw, and it's like an Olympic athlete setting a world record--they don't want to jump right back in the pool and try for another one."

  "I'm not sure that metaphor is correct, but continue."

  "All I want to do is hide out and rest for a while. My promise to you is that I won't kill anybody else. I'm not even planning to stay in the country."

  "Neither are we."

  "Well, shit, let's just make sure we're fleeing to different countries and everything will be fine."

  "Sorry."

  "Then how about we settle this over a game of Ms. Pac-Man? You get high score, I'll surrender myself to you. I get high score, you leave me alone. Fair?"

  "Now I feel like you're stalling."

  "You know, George, I've tried to be friendly during this little discussion. Make a deal, go our separate ways, and end this in a reasonably pleasant manner. But I don't get the impression that you want to work with me."

  "I wonder why?"

  "Because you're a fucking idiot. If they can find me wherever I go, then I have nothing to lose. Do you think I want them to hunt me down in a cheap motel and take me out while I sleep? Fuck that. If you're not going to cut a deal, then I'm just going to go out in a big-ass blaze of glory and kill every fucking person in this place."

  "All right," said George. "We'll destroy the tracer."

  "Thank you. Call Lou."

  "You don't want to see it in person?"

  "I'm sure he's got video capability on his phone. Tell him to video himself stomping the tracer to pieces and then send it to you."

  A little kid, maybe seven or eight years old, walked into the game room.

  "The arcade is closed," Ivan informed him.

  "No, it isn't."

  "Are you really going to argue this with me? It's closed. Get out of here."

  The little kid gave Ivan the finger and left.

  "You know," said Ivan, "there was a time when kids would respect their elders. They don't even respect their parents anymore. If I'd flipped off an adult when I was that age, my middle finger would be in a cast."

  "Mine, too."

  "It's really sad where society has fallen. I mean, I'm not going to sit here and try to convince you that I'm helping society in any way, but compare the impact of me killing a few people to the overall damage done by the fact that our nation's youth no longer has any shred of respect for their elders. If you could trade my killings for a generation that doesn't give adults the finger in arcades, wouldn't that be a good deal?"

  "What the fuck are you even talking about? That's like your whole vagina-with-teeth speech." Either the werewolf was having a mental breakdown, or he was trying to distract George from some sneaky plan that he was working out. George needed to cut this conversation short.

  He took out his cell phone and punched in Lou's number.

  Ivan seemed to visibly relax.

  That was good. Real good.

  George knew that Ivan could not be trusted. The second Lou trashed that tracing device, Ivan would change into his wolf-self and go on another slaughter spree, laughing the entire time. "Oooops, sorry, George! I thought you knew not to trust a homicidal lycanthrope maniac! Better luck next time!"

  Let him go, even without destroying the tracer, and Ivan could rack up another twenty, thirty, fifty corpses before they found him again.

  He just needed a moment to catch the werewolf off-guard.

  This looked like a good one.

  George did not have the advantage of being able to transform into a literal wolfman, but he'd stored up a shitload of anger today. There was absolutely no reason to try to control it anymore.

  "Lou? I'm going to need you to destroy the tracer and video it. Don't argue with me! Goddamn it, Lou, just do it! Send me the video the second you're done."

  He hung up.

  "How about a quick game while we wait?" George asked, stepping over to the video game. "I didn't think you could find Ms. Pac-Man anymore. That's pretty cool. I suppose you were a fan of that werewolf game."

  "Which one?"

  "That one from the 80's. With the werewolf."

  "Never heard of it."

  "It's that one where--" George grabbed Ivan and threw him to the floor. As Ivan transformed, George dropped onto him, knees landing on his stomach, and pulled the grenade out of his pocket.

  He slammed the grenade against Ivan's mouth, breaking off another fang. Ivan snarled and twisted his wolf-head to the left and right, struggling against the attack, but George summoned every ounce of his rage and jammed the grenade in there.

  George took a claw to the arm. He didn't let that distract him from his purpose. Ivan was much stronger, but George only needed to hold him down for a few more seconds...

  The grenade was in there deep enough for the son of a bitch to choke on it, but Ivan's head was thrashing so violently that George couldn't get at the pin.

  He grabbed for it, not even caring if he lost a couple of fingers in the process. Ivan's tongue slid over his hand as George's index finger curled over the grenade pin.

  He yanked it out.

  And at that moment, Ivan's rage surpassed George's own. He pushed himself up, sending George tumbling to the floor, then spat the grenade at him.

  It landed on George's chest.

  He scooped it up and tossed it. He was suddenly more concerned with getting the explosive off of his chest than taking out the werewolf, so his throw went wild. The grenade bounced against the console of a classic Centipede machine and exploded, shattering the screen and sending debris flying.

  Ivan flexed his claws.

  George quickly dug the other grenade out of his pocket.

  Ivan ran out of the arcade.

  George got up. His legs, burnt from the dynamite, now felt like they were actively on fire, but he pushed through it. He'd have plenty of time to wallow in agony later.

  He ran out of the arcade after him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Final Fight

  The explosion had already started a flood of terrified people fleeing for the exit, and the werewolf running out of the arcade added to the screams. George was right behind him.

  Though he didn't want to waste his last grenade, if Ivan went for kills rather than escape, this might be George's last chance to use it before Ivan started slicing his way through a bunch of innocent people. If he could at least keep Ivan from going out the main entrance, the werewolf might try to run out the back, in which case Lou could take care of him.

  A heavyset woman nearly knocked George over in her stampede to get out of there. Ivan was not going for the entrance--he was going for a crowd of people at the snack bar.

  George had only a few seconds before a grenade would cause collateral damage. He pulled out the pin and lobbed the grenade at Ivan's back.

  It came up short, but not too short. The grenade went off as it hit the floor, spraying Ivan with incendiary material. He stumbled, lurched forward, and fell.

  George rushed at him.

&
nbsp; The werewolf was back up before he got there, but Ivan changed direction, jumping down a few stairs to the actual bowling lanes. Every step felt like his legs were being pressed against a hot grill, but George continued to follow him.

  George jumped down the five stairs. With the impact, he literally believed that his legs were going to collapse underneath him like an accordion, but they mercifully remained intact.

  Ivan ran onto the lane.

  Then he slipped.

  He didn't fall, but the slip was all George needed. He scooped up a bowling ball and did an overhead throw, hurling it at Ivan's back.

  Unlike the grenade, this throw did not come up short. The ten or twelve pound ball struck Ivan in the center of the back, knocking him down onto the shiny wooden lane.

  George jammed his fingers into the holes of another bowling ball and ran onto the lane with the werewolf.

  If he ever got to retell this story, George would enhance this portion, laughing gently as he told his grandchildren about how he rolled the ball down the center of the lane, bashing the werewolf in the face. And then I shouted "strike!" he'd tell them.

  Instead, he adjusted his grip so that he held the bowling ball with both hands, and brought it down upon Ivan's head.

  Though Ivan's skull didn't crack open, the force of the blow definitely left a dent.

  George bashed him again. Then once more.

  The ball popped out of George's hands and rolled into the gutter.

  Ivan scrambled forward. George wrapped his arms around the werewolf's leg, forcing him to drag George along with him. George tried to rip off chunks of fur as they moved down the bowling lane.

  He was losing his grip on Ivan. He couldn't let that happen. What if the werewolf ran back the way they'd come, rushing out the main entrance and hacking up new victims left and right?

  Ivan got one of his legs free, and kicked George in the face. It definitely drew blood. George didn't care.

  Several pins fell. Was some idiot really still bowling?

  No, it was Lou, coming to the rescue.

  Lou kicked away the remaining pins and crawled through the back entrance to the lane. Later--again, if he survived--George would thank him profusely for deviating from the plan. If Lou had been in here and George had heard explosions, he probably would've come in to make sure everything was okay, too.