The Werewolf Chasers (Book 3): Wolf Hunt 3 Page 7

  "How long will you be gone?" Ally asked.

  "Day and a half there, day and a half back. Then we'll decide if you want to keep training here or work something else out."

  Hugs were exchanged. Then George and Lou picked up their suitcases and went to the garage where their small blue van was waiting.

  "Ivan's already loaded inside," said J.P. "Tranquilizer gun and plenty of darts are in the glove compartment. Regular guns are under the seat. The phone is to receive calls from me, which I expect you to answer, or to make calls to me, if you think there's something I need to know. If you use the phone for anything else, we'll know immediately. You've got more than enough cash to get you through the trip. Any questions?"

  "Do you have office hours?" George asked. "I wouldn't want to call too early or too late."

  "You know, we don't have to be enemies when this is over," said J.P.

  "Tell that to Lou's nipple."

  "I'm just saying that maybe you'll understand why I handled things this way. Or maybe you won't. Lots of time and resources were expended to make sure Y2K wouldn't be a problem, and when it wasn't a problem, people said, 'Well, that was a waste of time and resources.' So when there's no werewolf war, you may decide that you wasted your time."

  "I'd forgotten about Y2K," said George. "I thought I was going to have to fend off cannibal hordes."

  "Anyway, have a pleasant drive, and I hope we can become friends again."

  They got into the van. Lou could drive with one hand, but that would be a liability if they ended up participating in a high-speed chase, which was entirely possible. So George was going to handle all of the driving.

  He glanced back at Ivan, who sat in a cage with thick metal bars. It was a little smaller than the last cage they'd used to transport him, and he had to duck down to keep his head from bumping the top. Ivan was going to have a very sore neck by the time this trip was done.

  Ivan gave him a wide smile, revealing his missing tooth. George gave him the finger.

  George started the engine as J.P. opened the garage door. Then they drove out of the garage and away from the compound that had been a pretty decent home for the last few weeks.

  * * *

  "Are we there yet?" Ivan asked, a few minutes later.

  George and Lou ignored him.

  "Can we stop at a rest area? I have to go potty."

  "Starting this already, huh?" asked George.

  "I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

  "Do you feel bad about the people you murdered yesterday?"

  "Not particularly."

  "So do you think I'll feel bad if we take you out of there and beat the shit out of you?"

  "You're seriously threatening to open the cage? That would be great, George. Open it up and beat the shit out of me. I won't resist. So how are you feeling, Lou? We've got a shared experience. Do you remember being dead?"

  "No."

  "Me either. I keep trying to remember, but I can't tell if I'm summoning actual memories or if my brain is just making stuff up. I do very clearly remember the cross burning through my body. I can't even describe how bad that hurt. I didn't think it was possible for that kind of agony to exist. Imagine that somebody took a blowtorch, and they shoved it down your throat—deep down there—and turned it on. So you're choking, you can't breathe, and the most intense pain you've ever felt is working its way down your chest. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemies. And you're my worst enemies."

  "You understand that we have full approval to tranquilize you, right?" asked George. "We wouldn't be breaking any rules."

  "Lou, do you feel like you're rotting inside? Because I feel like I'm rotting inside, like my guts have this layer of mildew over them, like they're very gradually starting to liquefy. I hope it's just me. There can't not be side effects, right? You don't come back to life being totally normal. I think that parts are going to stop working, and then they're going to come out of us. From our mouth if we're lucky, but I don't think we're very lucky guys, Lou. It's going to be horrific. How long do you think we have? I'll probably go first, since I died sooner. If my insides start to spew out of my nostrils, do you think you'll wait for it to happen to you, or do you think you'll grab one of those guns from underneath your seats and blow your brains out?"

  Lou opened the glove compartment.

  "Gonna shut me up instead of coping with the harsh reality, huh?" Ivan asked. "I don't blame you."

  "You don't mind if I shoot him, do you?" Lou asked George, as he took out the tranquilizer gun.

  "Good Lord, no."

  Lou turned around in his seat. Ivan obliged and held up his arm, tapping his index finger in the perfect spot. Lou pulled the trigger, and the dart got Ivan right where he'd indicated.

  "Good shot!" said Ivan.

  "Thank you."

  A few moments later, Ivan was unconscious. Lou put the gun away and closed the glove compartment.

  "I like having this option," said George. "This may actually be a pleasant trip."

  * * *

  George and Lou were not in the mood for deep discussions about the meaning of life. Instead, they turned on the satellite radio, which had a ridiculous number of stations from which to choose, and sang along to classic rock.

  The orders were to stick to the speed limit at all times, and obey all traffic laws. Normally George took the standard "a few miles above the limit can't hurt" approach, but this time he did as J.P. instructed. He didn't want Lou to get melted over him driving too quickly toward a destination that he wasn't looking forward to reaching anyway.

  George and Lou had terrible singing voices. They didn't care.

  The first couple of hours passed without incident.

  They did check on Ivan every once in a while to make sure he didn't choke on his own tongue, but the werewolf continued his peaceful slumber. This was not the perfect Ivan Spinner—that would be a dead one—but this one was certainly an improvement.

  The van's windows were tinted and even with the driver's side window down, a drive-thru employee would not be able to see the cage from their vantage point. That said, to play it safe, George parked and went into the restaurant, while Lou waited in the van.

  The cheeseburgers and fries were absolutely delicious. George had grown to appreciate his own cooking, but damn, a fast food burger was good stuff.

  "I feel like I haven't had a burger in weeks," said Lou.

  "You haven't."

  "I know. But I'm not sure why it feels that way. To me, the stuff up in Minnesota just happened a couple of days ago. And I was dead when it got resolved, so I still kind of feel like those other werewolves are still out there killing people. But when I sink my teeth into this burger, it's like I haven't had one in forever. It's so good. So, so good. I wish I'd got more than one."

  "Well, Lou, there are a very large number of burger places on the way from Georgia to New Mexico. If you're still craving another delicious burger when you finish that one, we'll just stop at the next place and get you another one. That's where we are in our lives now."

  "Paradise," said Lou.

  They ended up not stopping at the next fast food place, because Lou decided that he didn't want to begin his second chance at life with unrestrained gluttony. So they went back to singing.

  As they approached the third hour of their journey, Ivan began to stir. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and yawned.

  "Are you going to make me shoot you again?" asked Lou.

  "I'd like to think not."

  "We're having a lovely time. The first sign that you're going to ruin it, and you get the dart again."

  "Sadistic."

  "I'm not sadistic. I'm protective of joy."

  "It smells like you had hamburgers."

  "Cheeseburgers," said George. "They were quite scrumptious."

  "I don't suppose you got one for me?"

  "Nope. I was going to order one for you, then I remembered all of those people you murdered just for fun, and I decided that you didn't dese
rve a burger."

  "Just going to let me starve to death, huh?" asked Ivan.

  "Unfortunately, we're required to feed you. You get a peanut butter sandwich, a bottle of water, and a shiny red apple. Give him his lunch, Lou."

  Lou picked up the brown lunch sack. As he turned around, Ivan obligingly slid to the rear of his cage, out of reach even if he transformed to his large werewolf arms. Lou shoved the sack through the bars. Ivan waited until Lou was out of reach before he retrieved his lunch.

  "Thanks," said Ivan. He reached into the bag and pulled out his sandwich.

  About a minute later, Lou shot Ivan with a tranquilizer dart.

  "What the hell?" Ivan asked, before he flopped over.

  "Why'd you do that?" George asked.

  "I couldn't stand the way he was chewing his peanut butter."

  "We should probably save the darts for more serious infractions."

  "Yeah, you're right," Lou admitted. "It's not appropriate to shoot him for noisy chewing. I guess I just like the idea that we can make him shut up."

  "I like that too," said George. "Make sure he's breathing. We don't want him lying there with a big glob of peanut butter in his mouth."

  Lou turned around and watched him for a moment. "It's cool. He's snoring."

  "Great," said George. He turned up the music and the two thugs went back to singing.

  * * *

  "I never imagined this would be so pleasant," said Lou. "You and me on the open road, good food, good music, a nice sunny day after freezing our asses off, yet not miserably hot like when we were in Florida...this is practically a vacation."

  "I agree," said George.

  "Am I worried that my skin might start sliding off my skeleton? Sure. Who wouldn't be? But other than that, I'm thoroughly enjoying this trip. This is nice. We needed this."

  "We're almost out of Alabama," said George. "Can you believe it? No problems driving through Georgia and no problems driving through Alabama. That's two whole states."

  "Maybe all it took was my death for things to turn around for us," said Lou.

  "Maybe you're right. Maybe I should die and get brought back to life, too. We might find a treasure chest filled with gold and jewels."

  "You're my best friend, George. Thanks for not having me cremated."

  "Anytime."

  They resumed singing, thinking that perhaps this time, everything would go according to plan.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Things Do Not Go According To Plan

  "You know, he's sleeping pretty soundly," said George. Ivan had received a third dart, but this time they'd given him multiple warnings to stop talking about the scent of rotting flesh. "We could both go in and I'm sure everything would be fine."

  They both laughed. No way were they leaving Ivan unattended, even locked unconscious in a cage in the back of a van.

  They were just outside of Jackson, Mississippi. Five-and-a-half hours of driving had gone smoothly. Their instructions, which they agreed with, were to stop at small, disreputable looking gas stations that were unlikely to have security cameras. It was extremely doubtful that they'd be recognized, but why take the risk?

  "Do you want to pee first or second?" George asked.

  "I'd love to pee first."

  "Be my guest."

  Lou got out of the van, yawned, and stretched. He was glad that he needed to take stretch breaks during a long road trip. Made him feel alive.

  The restroom facilities were sub-par but not haunting. Lou picked up a bag of potato chips and some jerky that may or may not have been beef and went up to the register.

  The elderly cashier rung him up. A young guy in a baseball cap, skinny with a bad complexion, stood next to the front counter, an open beer in his hand. "How'd you lose your hand?" he asked.

  "Fishing accident."

  "Hell of a fish."

  "Yep." Lou paid for his chips and jerky and headed for the exit. The young guy followed. Lou hoped that he just happened to be leaving at the same time, but he continued to follow Lou toward the van, even though no other vehicles were parked at the gas pumps.

  "Hey," said the guy.

  Lou glanced back at him. "May I help you?"

  "I didn't think that was funny."

  "What?"

  "The fishing thing."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I know how your kind is. You come in here thinking you're so damn smart. Ha ha ha, let's make fun of the hillbillies. Let's tell 'em a fish ate my hand. Those dumb sons of bitches will believe it. Well, I didn't think it was very funny. I was asking a simple question."

  "I apologize," said Lou. "I should have explained it better. My hand was crushed between the boat and the dock and it had to be amputated. Fishing accident."

  "Damn," said the guy.

  "Yeah."

  "It hurt?"

  "It sure did."

  "Were you drunk?"

  "Not drunk enough to dull the pain."

  "Can I look at the stump? Can you see the bone?"

  "You're welcome to look at the stump but you can't see the bone anymore." Lou held up his arm. The guy took a close look and whistled appreciatively.

  "You still fish?"

  "Nope."

  "You can't let a thing like this push you away from the hobby."

  "You didn't hear the crunch. It was bad. Every time I see a fish I think about that crunching sound."

  The guy's eyes narrowed. "You making fun of me again?"

  "I wasn't making fun of you the first time. Anyway, it was nice talking to you, and I need to get back on the road."

  "All right. But don't let this hold you back. I knew somebody who was a full cripple and it didn't stop him from fishing. He inspired the shit out of a bunch of locals. You think about that."

  "I will, thank you," said Lou.

  George got out of the van. "Is there a problem?"

  "Nope, no problem at all," said Lou. "Just having a friendly conversation."

  "Okay, good."

  "Why would you think there was a problem?" the guy asked. "You think I look like somebody who causes problems?"

  The guy was coming too close to the van. The windows were heavily tinted but they weren't opaque if you got right up next to them.

  "I was talking to my friend," said George. "He's a dick. He causes problems."

  "Seems nice enough to me."

  "You saw his good side. That doesn't happen very often." George looked over at Lou. "Get in the van. We're running late."

  "Hey, did he tell you about how he lost his hand?"

  "He didn't need to. I was there."

  "Oh, yeah? You heard the crunch?"

  "I certainly did."

  "How'd it happen?"

  "He didn't already tell you?"

  "Oh, he did, he did, but I want to hear your version."

  Even if this guy had spent the entire day knocking back cans of cheap beer, Lou thought it was weird that he would antagonize them, considering that Lou alone could snap him in half over his knee. Maybe the guy had a gun. Lou hoped he'd pull it out, so he could quickly disarm him and they could be on their way.

  Then Lou noticed three other guys walking toward the van. None of them would give George or Lou any trouble on an individual basis, but two against four was a bit more complicated.

  "My friend exaggerates a lot," said George. "Whatever version he told you is more interesting than what I'd tell you. Anyway, it was lovely speaking with you, I wish you all the best in your future endeavors, and it's time for us to get back on the road."

  "What's going on here?" asked one of the three new men.

  "He lost his hand in a fishing accident. Squished it between the boat and the dock."

  "That so?"

  Lou nodded. "Yep."

  "Were you drunk?"

  "Moderately."

  "You should be more careful. Boat safety is no laughing matter."

  "I know. Didn't laugh even once when my hand was being crushed."

 
Lou wondered if George had grabbed one of the guns from beneath the seat before he got out of the van. He most likely had. Waving the gun around would probably make these gentlemen disperse, but they might also hop into their own vehicles with their own guns and follow them. They appeared to be desperately searching for a break from the monotony of their day-to-day existence.

  The men were all now way too close to the van. This was turning into a standard issue George and Lou shitshow.

  "Get away from the van," George told them. "It doesn't belong to us. One scratch and it's my ass."

  "It's got scratches all over," said one of the other new men.

  "Look, are you guys trying to start something?" Lou asked. "We have places to be, and it would be helpful to know if you're specifically trying to start something here."

  "I just wanted to see the stump," said the first man.

  "I showed you the stump."

  "Never said you didn't."

  "Was it gnarly enough for you?"

  "Yeah."

  The men were not backing away from the van. George sighed with intense frustration that Lou had seen many times, then reached under his shirt and took out a revolver. "Get the hell away from the van. All of you. Go back inside."

  "Whoa, calm down," said the man who'd noted that the van had scratches all over. "That's a pretty extreme reaction, don't you think?"

  "I don't know, you tell me," said George. "I asked you to step back and you didn't. Now I'm going to ask you again."

  Three of the men stepped back.

  The fourth, who hadn't spoken yet, and who'd either shaved his left eyebrow or lost it in an accident, frantically pointed to the window. "They've got some poor bastard in a cage!"

  Lou cursed under his breath. He'd never truly believed that the happy times would last, but he'd hoped they could at least stop at a small town gas station without everything turning to crap.

  The other men, who were apparently drunk or stoned enough that their curiosity about the cage outweighed their concern about getting shot, all converged upon the van to look through the window.

  Poor George looked utterly baffled and helpless. Shooting all four of these men wasn't their style. "You understand that I'm pointing a gun at you, right?" he asked.