Wolf Hunt (Book 2)

by Jeff Strand

  "There's got to be a lighter somewhere. Let's go get one. C'mon, let's burn him! We'll syphon some gas from the car! We'll light him up real good!"

  "Shane!"

  "Blisters everywhere!"

  "For God's sake, Shane! This is why you hardly get to see your daughter!"

  Shane's gleeful expression vanished. He looked at Robyn with pure hatred in his eyes as he walked through the snow toward her.

  "Oh, Jesus, Shane, I'm sorry...I wasn't..."

  He walked right up to her, their faces inches apart. "If you ever say anything like that again, I'll beat you into a coma."

  "I know, I know, I wasn't thinking."

  "Think next time."

  "I'm sorry. That was an awful thing to say. I'm just stressed out right now."

  Shane raised his fist. Robyn recoiled.

  He held his fist there for a long, excruciating moment, then lowered it. "You're lucky that I don't want to have to explain the bruise."

  "I'm sorry," said Robyn. "It'll never happen again. I wasn't thinking."

  Shane gestured to the carnage. "You ruined it. I could've been relaxed for the rest of the trip, but you fucked it up for me. Completely fucked it up. Nice going. Great job."

  "He's still alive."

  "The moment's over. He can just bleed out for all I care."

  "But—!"

  "Don't try to repair this." He turned to Crabs. "Let's throw some snow on him. We'll clean this up on the way home."

  "Shane—!"

  "Stop talking," Shane told Robyn. "Just stop talking before I go out of my fucking mind. Get me a towel and some new clothes from the trunk."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Eugene

  George didn't fight or protest as two of Mr. Dewey's men placed a black cloth sack over his head and yanked him to his feet. He couldn't walk very well with his feet cuffed together, so he let the men drag him across cement for about thirty seconds.

  One of the men let go of him just long enough to open a door, then they dragged George through the doorway and threw him to the floor. The men left, locking him inside the room.

  George was pretty goddamn angry right now, but a temper tantrum wouldn't do him any good since he didn't have the convenience of being able to transform into a werewolf and snap the restraints, so he just lay there quietly.

  Somebody sniffled.

  "Hello?" George asked. "Eugene?"

  "What do you want?" The voice sounded human enough, although raspy, like he had severe asthma.

  "I don't want anything," said George. "It's not like I came in here of my own free will."

  Some chains rattled. More sniffling.

  "You okay?" George asked.

  "Why would I be okay?"

  "Can you see me, or do you have a bag over your head, too?"

  "I can see you."

  "Can you move around? Can you get this bag off me?"

  "I don't want you to see me."

  "All right. Fair enough. Is there a chair or something, or should I just stay on the floor?"

  "There aren't any chairs."

  "Floor it is."

  The chains rattled again. George wondered if Eugene could reach him even if he wanted to. Probably not.

  At least I know I'm not stuck in here with a homicidal monster, George thought. Reith and Dewey wouldn't let me die without watching the fun.

  Then it occurred to George that Mr. Dewey and Mr. Reith could easily be watching the fun through a video feed, and he stopped being soothed.

  "I'm George," he said.

  "I have a cousin named George."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  "You like him?"

  "Does it matter?" Eugene sniffled. "You're not him. It's just a name."

  "So, Eugene, I'm told that you're my future. Is this something that will upset me?"

  Eugene let out a pained half-laugh, half-cry. "I'd say so."

  "Well, my imagination is pretty vivid, so if you could help narrow it down, I'd appreciate it."

  "George, do you believe in werewolves?"

  "Yes, I do. I really, really do."

  Eugene let out another half-laugh, half-cry, though this one was heavier on the cry. "Everyone around me is delusional."

  "I take it you're not a believer?"

  "No. I don't believe in werewolves, vampires, mummies, fairies, dragons, the tooth fairy, or any of those other things that sane people outgrow by the time they start first grade," said Eugene, his voice cracking.

  "In my own defense, I only believe in werewolves, not the other things. Well, mummies, too. Those exist, but I only mean wrapped-up dead Egyptians, not the shambling, living kind."

  "Unbelievable. My eight-year-old was smarter than you."

  "Was?"

  "Yeah, was. My son is dead, okay? Want to hear about my daughter? She's dead, too. She got to die with pieces of her brother's brain stuck to her dress. She bought that dress with her own money. She really wanted this light blue dress, but we'd already bought her back-to-school clothes, and we told her that we'd match whatever money she saved toward the dress. When the ice cream man came around, her brother bought a great big ice cream sandwich, but not her, no, she wanted that dress. My wife—she's dead, too, in case you were wondering—tried to convince me to get it for her early, but, no, this was the chance to teach our daughter a valuable lesson. She saves up for a dress as a kid, she becomes a better adult, right? She saw it through. Bought the dress. Wore it once. Now she's dead. My son's dead. My wife's dead. Bang, bang, bang. All dead."

  "Jesus. I'm sorry."

  Eugene gasped for breath as if he were choking, then managed to say, "Thank you. I appreciate that."

  "How long has it been?"

  "I don't know. There are no windows in here. No regular meals. They put me to sleep a lot. Weeks. I don't know. I've only been here a day or two. Before that I was somewhere else. I don't know."

  "I'd really like to see who I'm talking to."

  "I bet you would."

  "If I can see where I am, it'll be a huge help in figuring out how to get out of here."

  "We're not escaping, George. This is where we die. Here or on the surgery table."

  "How about this? You take this sack off my head, and I promise I won't look at you. I just want to see the rest of the room. Get my bearings."

  Sniffle. "Okay."

  The chains, which may have only been one long chain, rattled as Eugene walked over to where George lay.

  "Close your eyes."

  "They're closed."

  Eugene yanked the sack off of George's head and returned to where he'd been standing. George sat up, turned his head away from Eugene, and opened his eyes.

  Bare cement walls. Steel door. Fluorescent light bulb on a ceiling too high to reach. Dried streaks of blood on the floor that looked like they'd been cleaned up but not well enough. The whole room was about the size of his bathroom at home, and his bathroom was not luxuriously sized.

  "Thanks," he said.

  "Was it Dewey who killed your family?"

  "I don't know who Dewey is. I don't know who anybody here is. They never say their names. I never ask. Don't care to know them on a personal level."

  "Was it a middle-aged guy or a really old guy?"

  "They wore facemasks. They sounded young. They knocked on the front door while we were eating dinner, forced us all into the living room at gunpoint, down on our knees, then just went down the line. Brian, gone. Jenny, gone. Rhonda, gone. All gone. Just me." Eugene wailed and made a sound that might have been him tearing at his hair. "Just me."

  "And they brought you here?"

  "They handed me a body bag and told me that I had to clean up the mess first. Then they said they were just kidding. Ha ha. Funniest joke ever. I'm still laughing. Still laughing."

  "You don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."

  "I'm already talking about it. Why stop now? They put a bag over my head, maybe the same one they put on you, took me out
to their van, and threw me in a cage. A cage! Who the hell gets thrown in a cage? Told me I could take a pill or get an injection. I took the pill. Woke up on a table. I've been on that table ten, eleven, twelve times, each time it just gets worse."

  "Okay, Eugene, let me ask you a question. Have you ever heard of Vito 'Beak Man' Trunson?"

  "No."

  "You wouldn't have. He's not well known. Morbidly obese guy—sloppy fat, not the kind where you have an eating disorder, but the kind where you just don't give a shit. Body odor so horrific that you can almost see it. But those don't matter. Even if he were thin and fit and smelled like spearmint, he would be the ugliest human being you have ever laid eyes on. I'm not exaggerating. He is one ugly, ugly gentleman. Truly repellant. Ironically, his nose is the most attractive part of his face. I've been forced to have long conversations with him, conversations where I am physically ill just from the sight of him. What I'm saying, Eugene, is that I've seen Vito 'Beak Man' Trunson, so your appearance is not going to faze me."

  "You're wrong."

  "I'm going to have to turn around at some point. It's not fair to restrict me to looking at half of the room."

  "Not yet."

  "All right. So why did you ask me if I believe in werewolves?"

  "Because whoever is keeping me prisoner does."

  "Does he think you're one?"

  "No."

  "Then why is it relevant?"

  "He's trying to turn me into one."

  George took a moment to process that tidbit of information. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You heard me."

  "Say it again to verify."

  "He's trying to turn me into a werewolf."

  "That's messed up."

  "Yes. It is."

  "So we have our common ground." George really, really, really wanted to turn around now, but he didn't want to lose Eugene's trust. "Any special reason why he selected you?"

  "No idea."

  "Nothing?"

  "Not a clue."

  "No wolf research in your family history? Weird uncles? Anything? Think hard."

  "George, you seem like an okay guy, but do you really believe that this conversation with you would be the first time I've tried to figure out why I was picked?"

  "Point taken. I apologize."

  "There may be something. I'm sure there is. But I've been locked in this room for a hell of a long time without much to do except think about my dead family and why I'm here, and I can't come up with a thing."

  He let out a sudden sharp cry that made George flinch, and then there was a thunk sound that could have been bone against concrete.

  "Eugene...?"

  Thunk.

  "I'd like you to stop whatever you're doing."

  "I don't want to stop. I want to die."

  "You've been here all this time without going suicidal," George said. "It'll hurt my feelings if being around me is what pushes you over the brink."

  The thumping stopped.

  "I'm turning around now," said George.

  "I can't stop you."

  George turned around.

  "Not so bad," he said, forcing his face to remain casual and not give away the fact that "not so bad" was one of the least sincere things he'd said in a lifetime filled with saying insincere things.

  "Is that so?"

  "Yeah. I thought it would be way worse."

  "You're looking pale, George."

  "I'm fine."

  "Do you want to sit down?"

  George shook his head, even though he did.

  Eugene was emaciated to the point where you could clearly see which ribs were broken. No regular meals? They were practically starving him to death!

  He was naked except for a pair of boxer shorts, which may have fit properly at one time but were now barely staying in place.

  But George's first clear thought was, Oh my God. They're frankensteining him into a werewolf.

  Because that's what it looked like: human parts combined with wolf parts. But whereas Frankenstein's monster, though slipshod, was the work of somebody who was at least trying to make something halfway decent, Eugene was either the work of children or the mentally ill.

  He had large patches of thick hair on his body, in three different colors: black, auburn, and gray. Each patch appeared to have been attached in a different manner: sewn, stapled, or even burned on around the edges. One of them on his upper leg had clearly just been glued, because a thick trail of dried glue ran all the way down his leg. Where there weren't patches of hair, there was red, raw skin. Cuts. Gashes. Burns. A three-inch circle on his chest had been made with what George wished he didn't know from personal experience was acid.

  Parts of him seemed to have been replaced with those of an actual wolf. His left hand, for example, was a wolf paw, attached to the stump with thick white stitches. His right hand was human except that his fingernails were talons. The talons had not been simply stuck to his existing nails; the talon of his ring finger dangled, revealing the scabby skin underneath.

  A pentagram had been carved on his palm.

  One ear was a wolf ear. It flopped uselessly.

  His nose was a snout. Off-center.

  His mouth seemed fine. So did his eyes.

  The word "WOLF" was carved onto his forehead. Also on his chest, his right arm, and both legs.

  Large wolfish teeth were stuck all over his chin and shoulders.

  Eugene had a lot to cry over. Hell, George almost wanted to cry himself.

  "I don't get...I mean, I don't understand this."

  "I'm glad," said Eugene. "I'd be worried about you if you understood it."

  "Are they trying to make you into a werewolf? Is that it? But that doesn't make sense. It's like they, I don't know, it's like the Mr. Potato Head version of a werewolf."

  Eugene turned to face the wall.

  "Hey, buddy, no reason to get shy now," said George. "Let's try to get used to each other."

  "I'm showing you my back."

  The word "WOLF" was carved on there six or seven times. More teeth. A couple of incompetently inked wolf tattoos. A long dried-out tongue was sewn to his lower back, where a tramp-stamp would go.

  Honestly, George couldn't say for sure that, in Eugene's place, he wouldn't have bashed out his brains against the concrete wall long ago.

  What was the point of doing this?

  Mr. Dewey wanted to catch a werewolf and force it to bite him. That made sense, in sort of a fucked up way.

  Making his own werewolf was even more fucked up, but still, at least you could follow the weaving path of logic.

  This? Eugene wasn't an attempt to create a werewolf that hadn't worked out. This wasn't somebody trying and failing to make a lycanthrope. This was a psychologically unsound kid playing with his toys.

  So here was the path of logic: Mr. Dewey buys Ivan the Werewolf, thinking that turning into a werewolf himself could be a miracle cure for brain cancer. Loses him in transit. Doesn't have any other werewolf options available at the moment. Becomes werewolf obsessed. Goes from being just regular criminally insane to whack-nut batshit crazy. Takes it out on Eugene.

  "Let me tell you something," said George, "I have never in my life met anybody who needs revenge more than you. Work with me, and we're going to get out of this place, and we're going to destroy the people who killed your family and did this to you. I promise."

  "You can't promise that."

  "Yeah, I can. They've got an innocent girl here, fourteen years old, and I'm getting her and my partner out of this place. Help me out and I'm taking you with me."

  "Because you feel sorry for me or because you're opportunistic?"

  "Both. Mostly the latter, but that's irrelevant. We can do this."

  Eugene wiped a tear from his eye. "And if not...I'm your future, right?"

  "No offense, but screw that. We're getting out of here."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Pressure to Change

  Ally blinked against the bright light
as the man in the snowsuit pulled the hood off her head. He was no longer wearing his facemask, so she could see that he was a few years older than her, about the age of a college student but probably not actually in college. It was perfectly warm inside, so he didn't need to wear his snowsuit. Ally assumed that he just wanted people to see the bullet hole in the chest.

  She was seated in a room that was about the size of one of her classrooms at school. It had cement floors, walls, and ceiling, and there wasn't much in there except for a few shelves containing boxes and what looked like various construction tools. She was bound to a metal chair with thick leather straps—three across her chest, one over each wrist, and one over each ankle. Even if she transformed she didn't think she could snap these.

  Lou was seated next to her, in the same kind of chair with the same leather straps. He was still unconscious, his head lolling off to the side as he slept.

  There were two chairs across from them. In one sat the old man with the cane. In the other was the man who'd introduced himself as Mr. Dewey.

  Neither of them smiled.

  The college-aged guy (Ally supposed you'd call him a "henchman") picked up a hypodermic needle from one of the shelves. Ally immediately tensed up, but then he injected Lou with the needle instead. The henchman stepped out of the way, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned against the wall.

  Lou's eyes popped open. He looked around, completely disoriented, as he struggled against the straps.

  The two older men let him thrash around for a few moments, then Mr. Dewey spoke. "That's enough."

  "Where's George?"

  "He's still alive."

  "Let me see him."

  "Or what? You'll struggle helplessly some more? Can't you two be in different rooms for fifteen seconds without mooning over each other?"

  "I'm serious, if you hurt him I'll—"

  "You'll do something bad to me. I get it. He's with Eugene."

  "Who's Eugene?"

  "Eugene is my stress relief. Now shut up or I'll cut off your other hand."

  The look that Lou gave Mr. Dewey was so filled with pure hatred that Ally actually recoiled, even though Lou was sort-of on her side. Mr. Dewey didn't appear concerned in any way. And despite the anger in his eyes, Lou did indeed remain silent.