The Werewolf Chasers (Book 3): Wolf Hunt 3

by Strand, Jeff

  "Are you just playing games?" Wayman asked. "You think this is a big joke? You on their side now?"

  Ivan changed into his wolf head again, but he changed back before Doc saw it.

  Doc frantically looked back and forth between Lou and Ivan while Wayman walked over to him.

  "We're supposed to have each other's backs," Wayman said. "When you act ridiculous like this, it makes me feel like you might not have my back. Now, I don't know what your deal is right now, but you'd better get over it, okay?"

  Ivan silently snarled at him while Lou bit at the air.

  Doc cried out.

  Wayman spun around, furious. Seeing that Lou was unmoving and Ivan was human, he turned back to Doc and raised his fist. Then he lowered it.

  "I don't wanna fight," he said. "But you've gotta stop acting retarded."

  Doc grabbed Wayman by the throat.

  When Wayman tried to defend himself with the rifle, Doc knocked it out of his hand.

  Wayman tried to speak, but couldn't.

  Doc let go for a second, then grabbed Wayman by the back of the neck. He dragged Wayman over to the wall, then bashed his head against it, over and over. The red splotch got bigger with each hit.

  He kept going.

  And going.

  He didn't stop until there wasn't enough left to hold on to.

  He let Wayman's body slip to the floor.

  "Okay," said George. "You, uh, did the right thing. I'm, uh, proud of you."

  Doc stared at Wayman's corpse for about ten full seconds, during which time George debated whether or not to rush for the rifle. He decided against it. Doc was a lot closer.

  Doc looked away from the dead body. Then he let out a wail that was a mixture of fury and heartbreak, and charged at George.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Brawl in the Cabin of Stench

  As a big guy himself, George was not typically intimidated by the sight of an extremely large gentleman running toward him. But Doc was at a whole new level, and George knew that the impact would be brutal.

  And so, with no feelings of shame whatsoever, he ran.

  It wasn't a very big cabin and there wasn't much room for him to flee. He could've run out the front door to safety, but then Doc might decide he needed to execute the werewolf and shoot the zombie in the head. Instead, George ran to the other side of the couch and picked up the nearest object he could hurl, which turned out to be a poorly stuffed armadillo that was mounted on a piece of plywood.

  He threw it at Doc. Doc smacked it out of the air, then looked at his hand as if that had really hurt.

  George reached for the other nearest attempt at taxidermy: a bird missing most of its feathers. When he grabbed it, the only half-dead bird let out a squawk that came within one bladder tremor of making George wet his pants. He dropped the poor thing on the floor and then almost accidentally stepped on it in his effort to get away from it.

  Doc laughed. A very low laugh where he actually pronounced the word "ha" three times. And then the humor disappeared from his face as he looked back down at his hurt hand, which was still dripping with Wayman's blood. He charged at George again.

  George grabbed the closest non-bird thing that he could find. It turned out to be a couch cushion. At the moment that he picked it up he was very much aware of how stupid it was to be fighting off anybody with a couch cushion, much less a behemoth like Doc, but it was too late to override his initial dumb-ass instinct.

  He smacked the cushion into Doc's face.

  Doc did not scream in agony from the devastating force of this blow.

  However, when George released his grip on the cushion, it stuck to Doc's face.

  George did not have time to stand there and think of the appalling implications of what just happened. But if Doc spent just a few extra seconds being grossed out, or at least surprised, George might be able to make it to the rifle.

  Doc shook his head back and forth, like a dog would if it were trying to remove something stuck to its face.

  George ran for the rifle, nearly tripping over Lou's legs.

  Then he tripped over something else. Possibly a dead furless squirrel. He struck the floor hard, landing inches from a rusty nail that protruded from a floorboard. The nail had a small scrap of white fabric stuck to it, most likely from a sock, meaning that somebody had stepped on that nail and still not bothered to remove it. George had been unimpressed by a lot of housekeeping during his career as a thug-for-hire, but this was insane.

  He was distracted by the nail and didn't immediately notice the dead cat head—just the head—that was on the floor next to him. George liked cats but he didn't have time to feel sad right now. He scrambled back to his feet just as Doc pulled the cushion off his face and flung it onto the floor.

  George ran for the rifle.

  Doc ran for George.

  George was not a particularly fast runner, even when he didn't have a blast of adrenaline helping him out, and he was astonished by how quickly Doc was able to move. Doc should be moving in slow motion, shaking the cabin with every step. Instead, though George reached the rifle first, it was close enough that he didn't have the opportunity to point the rifle at Doc and blow his head off.

  Doc grabbed George by the back of the neck. Since George had a very clear memory of what happened to Wayman in this scenario—not to mention a clear view of the gory mess—this was not good.

  Then Doc used his other hand, the injured one, to grab George by the back of his pants. He hoisted George into the air and flung him across the room. George struck the wall, dislodging a couple of shelves. Dead animals rained down upon him.

  But he still had the rifle.

  He sat up and pointed it at Doc, who was hurrying toward him, took as careful aim as he could with something deceased and furry still on top of his head, and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  The safety wasn't on. The rifle had to be out of ammunition. Why would Wayman have one goddamn shot in his rifle when Doc was bringing three captives to the cabin? This was bullshit!

  At least he could still use it as a bludgeoning weapon.

  He swung it at Doc. But George was still sitting on the floor, so it wasn't a very good swing, and it was aimed at Doc's legs instead of his head.

  Doc knelt down—again with surprising speed—and blocked the rifle. He used the same hand that already hurt. He yanked the rifle out of George's grip and tossed it away.

  George didn't much want to be thrown across the room again, but as Doc reached down for him, George wasn't sure there wasn't anything he could do about it.

  Doc picked him up. George was not a guy who ever got picked up, much less thrown across a room, and had a sudden inappropriate thought where he wondered if he could monetize a video of this event. The thought vanished as he found himself flying through the air. He smashed against the opposite wall, but there was no shelf above him to dislodge this time.

  He glanced up at Ivan, who was now covered in perspiration. George couldn't remember ever having seen anybody look quite as miserable as Ivan did right now. The pain had to be beyond excruciating. George wondered why he didn't change to wolf legs, but there wasn't time to ask about that right now.

  He stood back up. Though he was going to have some serious bruises if he lived through this fight, at least there were no broken bones yet.

  "Why are we fighting?" he asked. "We should be friends!"

  Doc did not seem to agree. He charged at George again.

  George stood his ground.

  He regretted that approach as soon as Doc bashed into him. The momentum carried them both into the kitchen area. The counter by the sink was piled high with dirty paper plates, and that was the least nauseating thing George noticed as they careened across the floor. When they finally smashed into the counter, George was no longer certain that his bones were all intact.

  Doc punched him in the face.

  It hurt very badly.

  Doc punched him again.


  This one didn't actually hurt as much, though it still felt like he'd been smashed in the face with a block of cement.

  George punched him in the stomach, which had no bothersome impact upon Doc that George could identify.

  George tried again to suggest that maybe they could be, if not friends, at least friendly acquaintances, but Doc punched him again before he could complete the second syllable. He was rather proud of himself for still being conscious.

  Doc grabbed him by the back of the neck and the pants again, as if to throw him once more, but instead he carried George out of the kitchen area.

  "Hey!" Lou shouted, presumably to get Doc's attention. "Over here!"

  Doc ignored him. Ivan didn't shout anything.

  Doc kicked open a door and carried George into the bathroom. George had quite naturally assumed that he'd already encountered the worst of the sights and smells in this cabin, and his entire universe seemed to collapse around him as he discovered that this was not remotely the case. The horror surrounding him was almost beyond his ability to comprehend, like the ancient evil in an H.P. Lovecraft story.

  He threw up twice as Doc dragged him toward the toilet—oh, God, the toilet, that toilet of a thousand nightmares!—and struggled as violently as he could, to no avail. He had believed that not getting his head smashed into goo meant he was better off than Wayman, but how wrong he'd been.

  George screamed for mercy.

  It was not granted.

  He closed his eyes and held his breath and knew now that he had died when the van went off the road and now he was in Hell.

  The dunking was more horrible than he could ever have imagined, invoking all five of his senses.

  He prayed for the sweet release of death.

  Doc did not submerge him long enough to bring about that demise. George felt himself being pulled, though he couldn't tell in which direction he was moving. When Doc punched him in the face, George couldn't feel it as much because of all the extra matter on his skin.

  He was starting to see strange colors beneath his closed eyes, as if hallucinating.

  He knew that he needed to be strong, for Lou's sake, but he didn't feel strong right now, no, no, no, he'd never felt less strong in his life, not even as a child, why had Jesus Christ forsaken him right now, was it because of all the atheism, how could a kind and caring God allow a bathroom like this to exist?

  George felt disconnected from his body, though not quite disconnected enough for it not to hurt when his face smashed against something that may or may not have been a mirror.

  He tried to focus. He didn't really want to die, and if he wasn't present in the moment, no matter how vile this moment was, he'd meet the same splattery fate as Wayman.

  He put his hands out. He was touching a sink. So Doc had smashed his face into the mirror of the medicine cabinet. He'd heard it shatter.

  George swiped his hand across the bottom of the sink. Cut himself on a large shard of mirror. Grabbed the shard. Spun around, slashing blindly with it.

  Doc let out a gurgling sound.

  George wiped his eyes. That wasn't sufficient. He wiped them again, blinked a few times, and tried to gaze ahead. When his vision stopped blurring, he saw Doc with his hands to his neck, blood trickling between his fingers.

  Well, damn. George got lucky.

  Doc dropped to the bathroom floor, presumably acquiring a half-dozen diseases just by making contact with it.

  A top priority for George was to set Lou and Ivan free, but he was still barely functional right now, so he pulled open the shower curtain. There was absolutely no question that this would be the nastiest shower he'd ever encountered, but any water, even foul brown water, would help.

  He got in the shower and turned the faucet handle. The blast of cold water didn't bother him. He rinsed his face off, and then his hair. Though the walls of the shower were covered with mildew and mold so thick it could sustain its own ecosystem, the water seemed to be clear.

  The water was gathering around his shoes, because something was clogging the drain, but at least George was no longer having a full-on panic attack. He wasn't going to stay in there long, just enough to rinse away the worst of it.

  When he moved his head out of the spray and opened his eyes, he saw Doc standing right outside the shower.

  Doc grabbed him and yanked him out. His neck was covered with blood and presumably he'd bleed out before too much longer, but that didn't help George right now. Doc smashed him into the wall. It was a less violent instance of being smashed into the wall than before, though still quite painful.

  George kneed him in the groin. Doc didn't react. George kneed him again, adjusting his aim a bit. There had to be a groin in there somewhere. This time Doc reacted. It wasn't a dramatic reaction, but this obviously hurt, so George did it again. Doc's grip loosened and George pulled away.

  He went straight to the sink and snatched another shard of mirror.

  Doc grabbed George by the neck and squeezed.

  George stabbed him in the chest with the mirror shard, over and over, stabbing as quickly as he could.

  Doc continued to squeeze.

  George continued to stab.

  He wasn't getting much depth, but he hoped he could make up for it in quantity.

  The shard broke off in Doc's chest, leaving George with a much smaller piece. He kept up the stabbing, putting all of his strength into it.

  Doc's grip on his neck began to loosen.

  How many times had George stabbed this guy? Forty? Fifty? He kept it up.

  Finally Doc released his grip on George altogether. He toppled over, landing halfway in the shower, sending up a splash of mucky water. George knew he should drop something heavy on Doc's head, but there was absolutely nothing in this bathroom that he wanted to touch, so he hurried into the main room of the cabin.

  "I won," George told Ivan and Lou.

  "You've got to get me down from here," said Ivan. "Please. This is killing me."

  "Why don't you change into wolf legs?"

  "I can't."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I can't! I think my legs are too messed up! It might be because I've been standing on goddamn broken bones! Fuck!"

  "Do you have the key?"

  "Why the hell would I have the key?"

  "I don't have it," George said.

  "I know you don't have it! Find it!"

  Normally George would respond poorly to Ivan trying to order him around. However, he had to admit that "Do you have the key?" was a dumb question and "I don't have it" was a dumb statement. He still wasn't thinking straight.

  He glanced around the cabin. It was going to be extremely difficult to find any keys in this hellish mess.

  "Check the dead guy's pockets," said Lou.

  "That's where I was going to start," said George, even though that wasn't true. He stumbled over to Wayman's body. He crouched down beside it, then stood back up. "Wait, shit, give me another minute, okay?"

  George looked around for something really heavy. He went into the kitchen area, unplugged the microwave, and carried it into the bathroom.

  Doc was stirring a bit. George dropped the microwave on his head.

  He returned to where Wayman lay and rolled him over. After a very quick search, George managed to grin. He'd not only found a set of keys, but he found them in the first pants pocket he checked. Maybe this was the point where everything turned around for them and the rest of their journey became stress-free.

  George didn't unlock the shackles with the first key he selected, but the second one worked. Ivan fell to the floor with a scream of pain so intense that his head transformed and the scream turned into a werewolf howl. When his head changed back, tears were streaming down his face.

  It was hard not to feel sorry for him. But he was a murderous psychotic piece of shit and George was somehow able to manage it.

  None of the keys worked on Lou's handcuff.

  "There has to be a saw around here somewhere,"
said George.

  "Please don't cut off my last remaining hand."

  "I was going to cut through the handcuff chain."

  "I know," said Lou. "I was kidding."

  "Sorry. I don't recognize humor right now."

  Ivan was obviously in no shape to help, so George searched the cabin himself. He didn't find a saw, but he found a paperclip that had been used to reattach a stuffed squirrel's tail to its body. He unbent the paperclip and picked the lock in less than a minute.

  "Thank you," said Lou, standing up.

  "What now?" asked George. "I don't want to make any decisions for a while."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Travel Companions

  Wesley looked deeply troubled.

  He was driving the small car, going about seventy miles per hour (the speed limit) on the highway. Traffic was light. Ally sat in the front passenger seat, while Eugene sat in the back, holding a paperback novel that he had yet to actually open.

  George and Lou still weren't answering their phone. J.P. had gotten angrier with each of the three calls he made before sending Ally, Eugene, and Wesley on their way. Now the phone he'd given them was mounted on the dashboard, with the GPS leading them to a destination in Arkansas that hadn't changed in the fifteen minutes they'd been on the road.

  It wasn't a good sign. It was bad enough that George and Lou weren't answering their phone, but why weren't they moving?

  Ally knew that most likely they were dead. She didn't want to accept it, and wouldn't accept it until she knew for sure. But what were they doing if not lying dead somewhere? Having a picnic?

  Eugene avoided her eyes every time she glanced back at him, or looked in the rearview mirror. Though he always looked a little sad, now he looked even sadder.

  She wasn't sure why Wesley looked so upset, though. As far as she knew, he had no special attachment to George.

  "What's wrong?" she asked him.

  He seemed genuinely startled by the question. "What?"

  "I asked what's wrong."

  "Nothing's wrong."

  "You don't look like nothing's wrong."

  Wesley shook his head, though Ally wasn't sure what this was supposed to communicate.