The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘For Chrissake!’ Gary croaked. He’d obviously just realised what had happened. ‘Jesus . . .’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ He rattled his chain. The big red lump on his forehead was already turning purple. ‘I don’t believe it. I don’t bloody believe it . . .’

  ‘You’d better believe it!’ Sergio spluttered. Framed in the doorway, pointing a black automatic, he frightened the life out of me. (God knows how Gary must have felt.)

  ‘Turn over! Onto your stomach!’ I told Gary, hoping that he would have the sense to obey. I wanted Sergio to think that ordering Gary around would be a lot more fun than shooting him.

  But Gary didn’t seem to hear.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he quavered. Staring down the barrel of Sergio’s gun, he began to shake uncontrollably, as white as salt beneath his dark stubble. ‘Please . . . please don’t . . .’

  It was awful. Really awful. He thought that he was going to die.

  ‘Not so funny now, is it?’ Sergio barked, slowly advancing. ‘Not such a big joke now, eh?’

  ‘Sergio! Hey!’ Goddammit, I thought, because he wasn’t listening to me. ‘Be cool, all right? Sergio!’

  ‘Let’s see you eat dirt on your knees!’

  ‘Sergio!’

  Click-click. He pulled the trigger. Twice. But nothing happened.

  I nearly fainted.

  ‘The safety’s on, thickhead,’ Danny drawled. He had appeared behind Sergio and was standing on the threshold, cradling his shotgun. ‘Here. Give it to me.’

  In a dazed sort of fashion, Sergio passed him the pistol. I felt like vomiting. Gary was making the most dreadful noises; he had his head down and his hands up.

  Danny slipped the pistol into his pocket.

  ‘I didn’t tell you to shoot the bastard, did I?’ he growled. ‘Can’t yiz understand plain English?’ Upon receiving no answer from Sergio, he rounded on Gary. ‘Shut the hell up, or I’ll shoot you meself!’ he snapped. Then he clicked his tongue at Psycho, who had slipped into the room like a cold breeze.

  Obediently, the dog padded over to where Gary was cowering.

  ‘Okay – see this dog? This dog is werewolf-trained,’ Danny continued. He was still talking to Gary. ‘If you move, he’ll rip your throat out. If you say one word, he’ll rip your throat out. Got that?’

  Gary nodded.

  ‘Good.’ With a sniff, Danny turned back to Sergio. ‘Now go and see if you can find any more padlocks.’

  Sergio’s jaw dropped. ‘Huh?’ he said.

  ‘Padlocks,’ Danny repeated testily. ‘Don’tcha know what a padlock is?’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘I wanna lock both them gates. But I can’t do it because I cut through the padlock on the gate next door.’ As Sergio hesitated, Danny assured him, ‘I’ve checked upstairs. The coast is clear. Now get up there and find me another padlock.’

  To my surprise, Sergio did as he was told. He trudged from the room looking sullen but resigned, while Danny headed for the alternative exit.

  They seemed to have forgotten my existence.

  ‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘Hang on! Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m gunna fetch poor Tyson,’ Danny retorted. It took me a few seconds to work out that Tyson was the fourth dog – the one we’d left at the pool.

  ‘But what about me?’ I asked weakly. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Stay right there,’ he said. ‘Just gimme the keys and I’ll be back in a tick.’

  Watching him march away down the tunnel, I had to swallow a sob. My head was in a whirl. I wanted to run after Danny and keep on running until I’d left the tanks and the house and everyone in them far behind. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. I couldn’t believe that I was standing guard over a shackled prisoner, like some kind of Nazi.

  In the silence, Psycho’s throaty growl was clearly audible. So was the gurgle of Gary’s ragged breathing. I knew that I should be watching him like a hawk, but I cringed at the prospect of catching his eye – just in case he made me feel even worse about being an armed guard. So I kept my own eyes fixed firmly on the darkness at the end of the tunnel, praying that Danny would return soon.

  I was worried about what Lincoln might be doing in the tank next door. I was worried about what Sergio might be doing upstairs. What if he found another gun while he was searching for a padlock? What if he came charging down here with a crossbow or a cattle prod or some other exotic weapon? How would I deal with that?

  Then suddenly, from the top of the staircase, his high-pitched voice reached my ears. And he didn’t sound angry at all.

  He sounded terrified.

  ‘Toby! Quick! Come here!’ he shouted. ‘It’s a car! I can hear it! Someone’s coming!’

  There was a kitchen at the top of the stairs. I don’t know why I found that surprising, but I did. Even more surprising, however, was the pale morning light creeping through the windows, which were hung with the ugliest curtains I’d ever seen.

  According to the clock on the wall, it was nearly half-past six.

  ‘Listen!’ Sergio was clutching the boltcutters. ‘Can you hear that?’

  I listened. Through the ticking of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator, I could just make out the low-pitched drone of an engine.

  ‘Where’s it coming from?’ I said.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  When I crossed the floor, my feet peeled off the sticky lino – which was old and cracked and covered in grime (to match the cupboards). Spiderwebs fluttered from the ceiling. Dead flies littered every surface. The wallpaper was in shreds.

  But someone had been using the kitchen; that much was obvious. Dirty dishes were strewn across the table and piled up around the sink. A plastic tidy bin was overflowing with beer cans. An electric fan whirred away in a corner.

  Twitching aside one pineapple-print curtain, I peered out at the desolate scene beyond. It was worse than I’d expected. Red dirt and blue-grey scrub stretched out to the horizon, relieved here and there by small, spindly trees that cast very long shadows. There was a lot of rubbish scattered close to the house, including rolls of chicken wire, rusty petrol drums, and weathered bones. (God, I thought, swallowing hard. Let’s hope those bones aren’t human.) On the other side of a dilapidated fence stood Lincoln’s empty grey sedan, which was covered in dust and squashed insects. It didn’t look so sleek anymore.

  ‘They’re closing in!’ Sergio squeaked. He was right; the purring noise was growing louder. But I still couldn’t see the car that was approaching us.

  ‘Can you spot it?’ I asked, because Sergio was at the other window. He shook his head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s out the front,’ I decided, rushing through the nearest exit into a long, dingy passage. This passage led straight to the front door, past several rooms furnished with old mattresses and soiled sheets. I caught a glimpse of pill bottles, underpants, and a discarded shoulder holster, but no phones. There were no phones anywhere. There weren’t even any phone jacks.

  There was no glass in the front door, either. It was a solid slab of wood. To get a view of the driveway, I had to peer between the slats of a dusty, broken blind that hung in the living room.

  I could feel Sergio’s hot breath on my cheek.

  ‘There!’ he exclaimed, pointing over my shoulder. ‘There it is!’

  ‘Back off.’ I could see the dust cloud hanging behind a distant vehicle. Both the vehicle and the cloud were moving along an unsealed road that passed the house. ‘Is that a van?’ I said. ‘It looks like a van.’

  ‘It is a van,’ Sergio agreed. As the van slowed, he caught his breath. ‘It’s coming here!’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘Stop shouting in my ear, will you?’

  The blue van had turned off the road. Passing between two white-washed gateposts, it clunked over a cattle grid and crawled up the long driveway towards us.

  ‘Shoot him
when he gets out,’ Sergio pleaded. I knew just how he felt. But I wasn’t at all confident about discharging the rifle. I couldn’t even be sure if the safety catch was off.

  So I said, ‘Calm down.’

  ‘He might have a gun, Toby!’

  ‘Shut up!’

  To my surprise, the van stopped in front of the house instead of parking round the side, next to Lincoln’s sedan. I couldn’t have been more than fifteen metres away from the driver as he cut his engine. But he was just a murky shadow behind tinted glass.

  ‘You can do it from here!’ Sergio whispered, nudging me. Just then the driver’s door popped open.

  Sergio grabbed my gun.

  ‘Stop it!’ I hissed.

  ‘Do it now! Through the window!’

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘He’s right there, look!’

  I looked. And I gasped.

  ‘That’s Reuben,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know that guy.’ My shoulders slumped. My knees sagged. It felt as if something inside my chest had unravelled. ‘He’s a werewolf. He’s the one that phoned Danny.’

  ‘Hey, Danny!’ Reuben called, surveying the house through wraparound sunglasses. He stood with his hands on his hips, chewing gum and frowning. Instead of his usual overalls, he was dressed in jeans and a grey singlet.

  He didn’t seem to be armed.

  ‘How does he know it’s safe?’ I muttered. ‘Who told him?’

  Sergio didn’t reply. He was too busy watching Reuben.

  ‘Danny?’ Reuben shouted. ‘Are you there?’ When no one answered, he reached back into the truck and pulled out a big, heavy crowbar, before slamming the driver’s door shut.

  Then he crunched across the gravel in our direction.

  ‘Wha-what’s he doing?’ Sergio stammered.

  ‘He’s coming inside.’ It was time to make our presence known. There was no point skulking behind the venetian blind any longer.

  As Reuben climbed the steps, I flung open the front door.

  ‘Oh. Hi.’ He stopped in his tracks.

  ‘How did you know?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How did you know the coast was clear? Who told you it was safe to come in?’

  ‘Danny called. About ten minutes ago,’ he said, his gaze sliding past me. ‘This must be Sergio,’ he added, removing his sunglasses. ‘Hi, Sergio. I’m Reuben.’

  I cut in before Sergio had a chance to respond.

  ‘Whaddaya mean, Danny called you? How did Danny call you, when he doesn’t even have a mobile phone?’

  Reuben raised his eyebrows. ‘Danny’s got a satellite phone. Ordinary mobiles don’t work out here,’ he explained, before turning to gesture at his van. ‘I’ve got one too.’

  Speechless with shock, I stared at him. I couldn’t believe my ears. Reuben, however, was more interested in Sergio than he was in me. Fixing Sergio with a sombre look, he said, ‘How long were you down in the tanks?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Sergio mumbled. ‘A long time.’

  ‘Danny’s got a phone?’ I interjected. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘It’s the twentieth now. The twentieth of January,’ Reuben told Sergio, ignoring me. Sergio’s eyes immediately glazed over as he began to run some calculations.

  ‘The bastard!’ Boy, was I mad! If Danny had been there, I would have decked him. ‘He wouldn’t call my mother! He lied to me!’

  ‘I’ve been down there ten months,’ Sergio finally revealed. He was talking to Reuben. ‘Ten months and seven days.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Reuben nodded slowly. ‘I was down there for five years,’ he went on, ‘so I know how you feel.’

  He grabbed my arm when I tried to brush past him. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To get your phone.’ I couldn’t shake him off, no matter how fiercely I tugged and twisted. He was a very strong guy. ‘I need to call my mum.’

  ‘Wait,’ he said.

  ‘But—’

  ‘In a minute. When we’ve worked things out.’ Before I could protest, he jerked the rifle away from me. ‘Where’s Danny?’

  ‘He went to get his dog,’ Sergio replied.

  ‘Is that his truck, over there?’ asked Reuben, squinting off to his left. Turning, I saw that Danny’s motionless truck was now clearly visible in the distance.

  So was the figure striding towards it.

  ‘That’s Danny,’ I said. He was carrying the shotgun, and a black dog was bounding along behind him. ‘Is he leaving?’

  ‘Hell, no. He must be bringing the ute back here,’ Reuben deduced, then scowled. ‘So who’s on guard duty?’

  ‘The dogs,’ Sergio and I both chorused.

  ‘The dogs?’

  ‘And we chained those guys to the floor,’ I added. ‘Both of ’em.’

  ‘There are two?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘But there might be another one,’ Sergio piped up. ‘I saw another one a few days ago, only he’s not here now.’

  ‘Right.’ Reuben shouldered the rifle. When he took a deep breath, bracing himself, I realised that he didn’t want to enter the house. Perhaps it held too many bad memories. ‘So they’re down in the tanks?’ he asked.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I nodded. As he marched through the front door and down the hallway, I suddenly remembered the question that had been bugging me since I’d first woken up. ‘Hang on. Wait,’ I said, scampering after him. ‘How did you find out I was here? Who told you?’

  ‘No one told me,’ he rejoined. ‘But I know the guys who own this place. The McKinnons. And someone told them.’ Hesitating on the kitchen threshold, Reuben pocketed his sunglasses. Then he proceeded towards the stairs. ‘The McKinnons used to get tips about werewolf activity from a dogger. I told you about him, back at Sanford’s place. Well, last night this dogger called up outta the blue. Said he’d been talking to some other dogger in Broken Hill, who musta been talking to your third guy. The Third Man. The one who’s not here.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Apparently, the Third Man was babysitting Sergio while his mates were in Sydney, tracking you down. And the babysitter boasted about it in a pub somewhere. Told his dogger friend that there was gunna be some kinda fight pretty soon. Dumb jerk.’ Reuben stared down into the basement. Then he discarded his crowbar and unslung his rifle. ‘So Dogger Number One heard about all this from Dogger Number Two,’ he went on in a distracted tone, ‘and called the McKinnons just to make sure they knew what was happening on their property. Which they didn’t, of course. Christ, I can’t stand the smell around here. Makes me sick.’

  ‘So the owners told you? About the men in this house?’ I demanded.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re all on the same side now – us and the McKinnons.’ Before I could interrogate him further, Reuben went on to say, ‘When I found out there was someone in the tanks, I figured it had to be you. I knew you were missing, see, because your mother decided to sic the cops on Father Ramon.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Bloody right she did. And she gave them my name, too. It was lucky we all had alibis.’

  ‘But . . .’ I was amazed. ‘You mean she thought you’d kidnapped me?’

  ‘Sure,’ Reuben confirmed. ‘It makes sense. Me and Father Ramon had been sniffing around, so she told the police all about us. I had to pretend I was a total flake – weird but harmless. I had to talk about crystals and poltergeists, so they’d figure I was the kinda nut who always goes around telling people they’re shapeshifters or water diviners, or whatever.’ With a sigh, Reuben wrenched his gaze from the yawning hole in front of him so he could look at me. ‘Thank God you’ve been in trouble lately. I reckon those cops think you ran away, because of that dingo-pen business.’

  ‘And Mum? What does she think?’

  Reuben shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I haven’t talked to her. I’ve been too busy organising a rescue squad – it’s a good job Danny lives so close to Cob
ar.’ Suddenly he addressed Sergio. ‘Danny says one of ’em’s a Yank, is that right?’

  ‘Lincoln,’ Sergio agreed. ‘The older one.’

  ‘Figures.’ Reuben gave a nod. Then he clattered downstairs, tucking the rifle under his arm. ‘Let’s see what Lincoln’s got to say about Forrest bloody Darwell . . .’

  I didn’t try to follow him. I didn’t even wait to see what Sergio would do. Instead I charged straight back into the hallway and out the front door, knowing that Reuben had left his phone somewhere in the cabin of his van.

  I had decided that, come hell or high water, I was going to call my mum.

  When I reached the van, I discovered that it was locked. But the driver’s-side window was open about ten centimetres – and I figured that I was skinny enough to wriggle my arm through the hole, once I’d found something to stand on. So I searched the junk-strewn yard until I uncovered a rusty petrol drum, which I placed beside the door that I was trying to open.

  Meanwhile, Danny’s truck was bouncing towards me over the tussocks and salt-pans. It was a kind of race, I guess. By the time I’d groped my way down to the inside lock, Danny had parked nearby. And I’d only just gained entry to the van when a black dog sprang from the open door of his truck, barking and snapping, its lips curled back in a ferocious snarl.

  ‘What the . . .?’ I froze. The dog kept barking, but didn’t bite. It just sat at my feet, threatening to bite.

  I hardly dared move my lips. ‘What’s going on?’ I croaked.

  Danny jumped down from his truck.

  ‘I dunno,’ he retorted, pulling the shotgun out after him. There was a sardonic glint in his eye. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I’m getting something for Reuben,’ was all I could think of to say.

  Danny didn’t buy this story, though. ‘Whyn’t he give you the keys?’

  ‘He forgot.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘He did!’ I insisted. When I saw Danny sneer, however, I lost it. ‘You lied to me!’ I bleated. ‘You do have a mobile phone!’

  ‘The hell I do.’ He was grinning. ‘I’ve got a satellite phone. It’s a whole different gadget.’