Instantly, I wanted to slap him.
The slaughter wouldn't end.
The monsters wouldn’t disappear.
He’d be better served teaching his children how to fire a shotgun before they go to kindergarten.
A mutt in the flesh evokes deep primal responses even in seasoned warriors. It's natural, but agents have to suppress the instinct. We aren't allowed the fight or flight option. We shoot until something—us or them—was dead. The world asks us to stare into the maw of the beast and forget our mortality. No wonder we're all nutcases. Successful agents have a malfunction in their self-preservation hardware. Quite simply, we're all screwed up.
As unnatural as the things we hunt.
When people see mutts, either they freeze and die or they run and die. A mutt's size and density make them slower than a grizzly, but that's quick enough considering how fast the average plump American can run. When the monster is as big as a horse, fanged and clawed, the chases are short.
Daisy from dispatch popped into my earpiece.
“We have a suspicious loiter call. A potential, last name Newmark, is lurking near the meat counter in a supermarket. Sending video,” she said. We ran to the jeep, flipped on my Kojak light, and stomped on the gas. Keats angled his phone to show me the footage.
Newmark stared longingly through the glass at fresh red cuts of beef and pink pork, a trail of drool sliding down the case. He wiped his face. His starving frame hunched with pain. He tried to run, turned, and smacked into an old woman. She sprawled, cried out in an I-broke-my-hip, injured-meat way.
The sound made me wince.
I stomped on the gas and focused on driving.
The mutt bayed and the sound roared through Keats' phone. Human screams followed. Not enough time. Gunshots. “Keats?”
“Looks like PD happened on the scene.”
I careened around a corner, cut through two parking lots, and rounded the market.
People ran like a pack of startled sheep.
The monster looked like he had chickenpox on his chest and side. He'd been shot a few times with mundane rounds, but not nearly enough. He chased, hopping with indecision, like a fat rabbit. Trying to decide between running for the hills and munching on someone. Nearby, a bawling child whose mother was too fat and winded to pick him up dragged him along like a sack of potato chips. The perfect snack.
I laid on the horn to distract Newmark from his prey. He reared his head.
“Hello, baby.” I stomped on the pedal and accelerated to ramming speed.
“Oh boy.” Keats grabbed the door. “Thank God for airbags.”
“Had them removed.”
“Oh shit,” the choir boy said.
A grin consumed my face.
The mutt moved to get out of the way but then stopped. He dropped his head. Charged. I played chicken with a mutt as big as my jeep. Keats fired through the windshield. Missed, mostly. One bullet grazed a shoulder and didn't slow the mutt at all. I sucked in a breath and exhaled.
IMPACT.
Crunch of metal and bone. Rear tires left the ground. Steering column whacked my chest. Pieces flung off the vehicle like a party piñata. Tail end dropped back to the ground. Seat belt cinched my chest. My howl and the mutt's yell were simultaneous. Agony jarred my ribs and flared through my spine.
The jeep slid backward as the mutt collapsed against it.
Keats lost his pistol in the floorboards and pulled a reserve. He leaped from the vehicle and fired at the mutt whose gigantic body rested on my bumper. I drew my weapon and rounded the other side. Firing. The mutt surged but fell over, unable to gain his feet. The impact had broken his forelegs. His eyes rolled to me. Bleeding, broken, and on his way out. Ribs shuddered, wheezed. We put him down.
Blood contaminant splattered the windshield. The bumper folded neatly in half. Busted radiator, engine block tossed.
“Aren't you glad I drove?” I joked. Hard to breathe.
“Not really.” Keats touched his goddamn nose.
The mutt drifted back to a human form with mangled arms and a bullet-torn face. Pieces of him stuck in the jeep's grill.
We surveyed the damage in the lot and the store: ten bodies. Two were uniformed policemen, weapons drawn, slides indicating empty. The low grade Ag rounds hadn't done much good. Equipping cops with quality silver bullets stretched the state budget. Besides, the Federal Bureau of Human Safety was ordained by God to execute lykos. Police were required to stand down, an order that was difficult for anyone wanting to serve and protect.
The mutt had brought down victims without taking the time to eat. Here and there, he had gone for the pudenda. Not pretty. Most of the victims were dead. Four, hamstrung, cried and writhed on the ground.
The nearest injured man wore a Devoted cross with a fat ruby on it; he was Confirmed. Meaning, his kind wasn't in my jurisdiction. Meaning, as an organ donor for vampires, he pledged his flesh to the presiding vamp family. He'd never make it to the hospital. Vampires could eat him as they pleased, and it would be no business of mine.
Eaten by a mutt, eaten by a vamp—I failed to see how one was preferable to the other.
“Classic rampage,” I said. “Hungry wolves have a tendency to kill far more than they can eat. This mutt did the same. Newmark didn't get more than a mouthful out of these folks. All this, and he died hungry.”
Keats wrinkled his face at me.
More police arrived. Clergy appeared, which was fairly common at newsworthy scenes. A New Catholic priest, about Newmark's age, wagged his hands and blessed the corpses. Forensics allowed him to walk around, probably trampling on evidence. Ambulance chasers made my eyes hurt and temper flare.
I returned to my mangled jeep. Poor baby. With a final appreciation of her green paint and our history, I sighed and dug my pile of ancient compact discs and spare Ag rounds from the glove compartment. When no one was looking, I pulled an untagged Glock from under the seat, shuffled it into my waistband, and slid a jacket atop. The broken jeep had nothing left to offer.
“May flights of angels wing you to your rest.”
“We'll get you a rental,” a cop said.
“No thanks. I'll find my own wheels.”
Rental cars were tightly wired with privacy-violating gizmos. I needed a clean ride.
The priest approached me, waving his hands and spouting Latin. Well, I assumed it was Latin. Could have been voodoo for all I knew. He swaggered right into my personal space and touched my shoulder like he was my dad or something. Waved his pretentious arm and preached at me. I shoved him. He fell on his ass. Onlookers gasped. Indignant but silent, he retreated.
Keats wrinkled his face and touched his nose.
We hitched a ride with PD and filed preliminary reports. Med lab checked us for damage resulting from my brilliant collision. Most of the bruises belonged to me, and medics told us to take the rest of the day.
Keats offered to drive next time and dropped me at home.
I retrieved the emergency cash I had hidden under the sink and hailed a cab westward to the outskirts of town. I hunched in the backseat, feeling like regurgitated pigeon crap. When the taxi arrived, I grumbled and groaned into Brutus' place.
The saloon, Brethren's Balm, was decorated with overstuffed and ludicrous taxidermy: an elk's head with enormous plastic sunglasses and a clown nose, a school of trout in fishnet stockings, boars in tutus, a black bear in pink pumps and a sombrero. Real beer on tap, not piss water. Except for a few paunchy guys with overgrown facial hair playing billiards in the corner, the establishment was empty.
The bartender had an epic gray mullet and gold teeth. He grinned at the sight of me and threw his arms up like he scored a touchdown.
“Goddess!”
The nickname referred to the motorcycle in the corner of my garage: an Apache Warrior Goddess, limited edition, worth more than my house. I fell in love with her at first sight. Brutus loved me because I loved the bike. Unfortunately, I didn't find many opportunities to ride, and h
er dust cover gathered layers of grime.
“Hey, buddy.” I gingerly plopped my sore ass onto a stool.
Everything hurt. Brutus slapped three aspirin on a napkin, slid them toward me, and winked salaciously. The big teddy bear worshiped women. Loved every bit of every one of them, especially his wife.
“Ready to retire?” He poured water in a shot glass and plunked it beside the pills.
“Heck no.”
He leaned conspiratorially on the bar. “If I could make a suggestion, half of these fellas make their coin in private investigation. Missing persons, stolen item recovery, find Grammy’s will, that sort of thing. You could make a penny and never take it from Big Fed again.”
“But would I get to shoot anyone? There's the rub.”
“Perhaps contract work or bounty hunting?”
“Would I have to style my hair like yours? I don't think a mullet could flatter me the same way.”
“Not everyone can make this ‘do work.” He gave up and smiled again. “I saw you on television shoving a priest.”
“Crap.”
“Made me laugh. You know, Wednesday is still ladies' night, and let's face it, you were the only lady who ever came around more than once. Don't suppose you'd stop in every now and then to let me know you're still alive. Don't let the AA thing get in the way. I brew a mean cup of coffee.”
“God, that sounds wonderful.”
He poured a thick tumbler of coffee. My eyes caught on his gnarly hands. His body was a mess of aging, overlapping tattoos, odd little scars, and an ever-widening bulk. He may be at a fifty-fifty muscle to fat ratio. Religiously ate a full dozen donuts every morning. Missing a few teeth from too many bar fights.
Like Vincent, he had meat tags on his knuckles, but I never inquired about the history.
“Whatcha limping for, Goddess?”
“Ah, had a little run-in. Wrecked my jeep.”
He chuckled. “I see where this is going.”
“Where else can I find a high-performance, untapped ride? Help me out.”
“You want a car.”
“If I must. A truck, if you've got it.”
“That's a pretty woman for you. Comes around when she needs something and bats her eyes to get what she wants.”
“I resent that. I haven't even started batting my eyes yet.”
“Wanna try?” He winked.
“Naw, I'm a little rusty in the flirtation department. What if I offer cash?”
“Better. Come out back, I've got just the thing.”
Taking the coffee, I followed him into the garage, which was cleaner than the bar.
Brutus ran a towing and mechanic business on the side to supplement the bar's measly profit. He specialized in overhauling abandoned or wrecked vehicles, plus I suspected a chop-shop on the side. Several projects occupied the space, everything from engine rebuilds to body modification. He lumbered on, leading me past a trio of gorgeous motorcycles. I sipped coffee to keep from drooling over the bikes. The coffee was as thick as oil and seared on the way down.
“A yuppie bastard snorts nearly a kilo of blow and flips out while a hooker’s performing a genital kiss at a hundred and sixty kilometers an hour. He busts up her face a bit. Nothing serious, just enough to warrant a nose job, which she can now afford because she sued the pants off his married-lawyer ass. Long story short, he gives me the truck for practically nothing because there's blood and cocaine ground into it. Cocaine! How retro is that? I swapped him out for a Nissan with carburetor issues. Took me a while to clean up the vehicle, but she's a real doozy. Brand new shiny thing.”
“Why would I want a truck with drug and hooker cooties on it?”
“The truck didn't do anything wrong. Scarcely damaged. No reason someone can’t love it.”
“Brutus, you'll make your wife jealous with that kind of talk.”
“A man can love many things, sweetie. I was tempted to keep the truck for myself, but now I like the idea of you with her.”
“Enough build-up, can I see her or what?”
“Here she is.”
He grinned and yanked a drop cloth away from a long, sleek figure.
Extended cab, metallic silver body, a prominent nose hiding a muscle of an engine, dual exhaust, forty inch grappler tires, and a massive grill. The perfect power-beauty blend. My jaw had trouble remembering where the rest of my skull was located.
“Woah-ho-ho...” I mooed.
“She's diesel with minimal computer components.”
“I'll take her.”
“I fortified her considerably, built her up to compensate for the weight, so she's efficient despite the armor plating. What can I say? I get bored on Wednesday night when no ladies come around. Hint, hint. Back to my pet project: she's got no remote override—”
“Dude. I'll take it.”
“—and zero watch-dog gadgets. Even better, Big Fed can't turn her on and off, and she reads loud on radar but rides blind, meaning she scans like there's active lo-jack GPS combo, but there's nothing to be tripped. The dome light doesn't come on when the door opens, so it is like a stealth mode.”
“Don't sell past the sale, sir,” I said. “How much?”
“We'll work it out. I'll give you the family discount since you're practically a daughter.”
“Brutus?”
“Yeah?”
“Anyone ever tell you that you're like a fairy godmother?”
“Sweetie, I appreciate the sentiment. However, if you say that again, I'll have to punch you in the face.”
I laughed.
My life immediately became tolerable again.
I happily floored my new truck home, fondled buttons, tested the handling, and parked in the garage. True to Brutus's promise, I couldn't see a trace of coke, blood, or hooker in the vehicle, and it ran like butter in the Arizona sun. I wouldn’t pay as much as I expected, either. Hurray for me. Sore all over, I limped out of the truck and admired her. I'd have to outfit it with my typical survival gear and unregistered weapons.
Sarakas arrived with a sack of groceries and saw me standing in the garage with a shit-eating grin on my face.
“Sweet truck!” he said.
“Yeeeeaaaah.”
“Glad to see you're all smiles. Are we going in or do you want to stand here ogling your vehicle? I'm making pasta marinara.”
“Uh-uh. Pasta? No pizza? Are we carb-loading?” I let us into the house.
“I'm in a mood.” He tossed his jacket over the counter and onto a dining room chair.
“Oh crap. A pasta mood? That's bad. What happened? Did someone die?”
“No. How many times do I have to tell you? Cheesy pasta is for a bad mood, and tomato-based sauces with pasta are for a good mood.”
“Silly of me to forget. What are we celebrating?”
He pulled out pots and a pan for garlic bread and flipped on the stove. He wasn't a great cook, but he was fast and sufficient. Besides, I wasn't too picky.
“Vincent has been promoted,” he said. “The bureau is rewarding him with his own team. There's more. This will make you smile; he's getting a load of rookies.”
“Poor Vincent. Couldn't have happened to a grumpier bastard.”
“Can you imagine the headache he'll live with during the next few months? Actually, we should feel pity for the recruits. Mullen was drafted to assist with the training.”
I laughed, picturing grim Vincent with a truckload of snot-nosed newbies, aided by the company sociopath, Mullen. Then I sobered as a cloud of doom stifled my joy.
“If our team lead has been promoted, who will take his slot?”
“Don't look so miserable. Vincent will be replaced with an intelligent, capable, good-spirited young person with excellent taste and a brilliant sense of humor.”
“I don't know a single soul who fits that description,” I said, despite the clear picture he painted. Sarakas gave me a look, and I smiled. “Congrats, man. Finally the recognition goes to someone who deserves it. What a reli
ef they chose you.” And not me.
“With a healthy raise as well.”
“Thus the happy pasta.” I gestured at the ingredients he pulled from the shopping bag. “Team leader? I bet you already have a desk plaque with your name in gilded letters. Maybe a graven image?”
“The bureau hasn't announced it yet.”
“If you want, in celebration of your new success, I could cook.”
“No! No, thanks, but scorched pasta and burnt garlic bread don't inspire happiness.”
“Good. I'm too tired to cook anyway.”
I flicked on the television for the fight. The newsfeed interrupted the pregame show with a clip from the Newmark incident wherein the young priest did his blessing bullshit. Censorship spliced this footage to remove the part where I'd shoved him. Instead, it looked like I was blessed by the Catholic Church. Great. With a huff, I went to watch Sarakas cook.
His tank top showed more than I was accustomed to seeing thanks to his overwhelming sense of modesty. His single mother raised him to believe that it was indecent to reveal his body to women. He also knew what a salad fork looked like and rarely cursed in a lady’s presence.
Old-fashioned stuff.
Andreas was a wicked athlete, a great shot, a proficient hunter, and a refined hunk of all that is man. Plus, he owned a stellar collection of kung fu movies.
He was the only of his seven brothers to join the bureau instead of the military. Why did crappy, absentee fathers motivate their sons to join gangs and the armed forces? A generation of men replaced fathers with institutions of absolutism and violence in one form or another. America's Lost Boys.
The water boiled, the sauce heated. He added a can of mixed peppers and tomatoes and popped the frozen garlic bread into the oven.
“One more thing.” He produced a brown bag and presented it with great flourish. “Ta-da! Sparkling grape juice.”
I rolled my eyes. “What am I, twelve?”
“Based on that acrobatic eye response, yes. But you're also one month sober.”
“Is that all? Feels like forever.”
“Well, I'm proud. Aren't you?”
“Absolutely,” I lied. “You're right. Today is a day for celebration. Now let's go watch some guy get his face smashed in.”
Scratch Lines Page 6