Last Call

by Lloyd Behm II

“We don’t do things that way,” Jed said.

  “The hell you don’t,” Fred replied. “I’ve read your reports. The werewolves tried to shift in sixty pounds of harness and tank before getting rid of it. Funny part was watching one try to bite off his flippers halfway through transformation. They were idiots. We shot them. Case closed.”

  “Why did you do this?” I asked one of the three survivors.

  “We were promised wealth and power upon the return of our Lord,” he said. “This was what was required of us.”

  Fred gut-punched him, knocking him to the ground.

  “He isn’t dead,” one of the two remaining survivors said. “His corpse was of no use to our Lord or the Lord of Chaos. He is needed to remake the world.”

  “Knowing Jesse, things aren’t going to work out the way your Lord thinks they will,” I said as members of Stewart’s team moved in and handcuffed the three in wetsuits.

  “Vultures are here,” Dalma spat, pointing at a white helicopter that had started to circle what was left of Quarry Lake.

  “Aw, they missed all the fun,” Hovis drawled, pointing at a second news vulture.

  There was a low rumble from the north.

  “It’s not supposed to rain today…” Stephanie said as a pair of aircraft swept low over us in a thundering pass.

  “Fuck, Strike Eagles loaded for bear,” Wilson said as Jed cupped his hand over an ear.

  “Diindiisi, flip your radio to the company channel,” Jed said as the aircraft faded in the distance.

  I flipped channels.

  “… repeating…There is now a ten-mile exclusion zone centered on Quarry Lake. All unauthorized aircraft will exit the area immediately…The use of deadly force has been authorized…repeating…”

  I turned the volume down as our helicopters, which had been circling the site, trying to block the news vultures, turned as one and flew west.

  Terry, Jed’s second in command, came over, still talking on the radio.

  “Jed, Diindiisi, Group has established a command post at Great Hills Golf Course. The birds are going to land there,” she said. “They’re bringing in ground transport for us as well—if the Feebies don’t clamp down on that.”

  “Fun and games with the Feds,” Jed said as a Tahoe with federal plates rolled up. “I hate mandatory fun and games with the Feds.”

  Jesse would have described the ensuing confusion as a ‘cluster fuck.’ To me it was something from an early movie I’d watched, the Bangville Police. It took a minute for the federal officers to sort themselves out.

  “Great, Feebie office pukes,” Terry said under her breath.

  “Didn’t you used to be a Feebie?” Jed asked as a tall, lean officer in an expensive silk suit approached us.

  “Bite your tongue,” Terry replied. “I was Secret Service, not one of the Blues Brothers here.”

  “If you’re done insulting us,” Silk Suit said in a lyrical voice, “I’m Special Agent in Charge Dar’flw with the…”

  I’ve hung around Jesse far too long, because I started laughing. None of the others spoke Elf.

  Dar’flw sighed.

  “What’s so funny?” Hovis asked.

  “He’s…he’s”—gasp—“Special Agent Child of the Flowers,” I said, trying to catch my breath.

  “Greetings, Special Agent Flower Child,” Jed said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

  “That’s Dar’flw,” one of the nameless human agents in a very cheap suit said.

  “Fuck you, Feebie,” Capdepon growled, shifting so the M240 hanging from his shoulder ‘accidently’ covered the Federal Agents.

  “You know, this behavior is why your team is constantly in trouble, Jed,” Dar’flw said.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Jed replied. “Your scene?”

  “Yes. And you can leave us whatever prisoners you took,” the elf said.

  “Only prisoners are corpses,” Fred rumbled. “They’re down in the slime at the bottom of the quarry.”

  No one else spoke for a moment.

  “Your radio traffic indicated something different, dwarf,” Dar’flw said with a sneer.

  “Yeah, well, we figured the enemy might be listening in to our transmissions, so we gave them something to worry about, dari.”

  I’m not up to date on my Dwarfish, but that insult is old. Probably older than humans. It combines a question of the legality of the parental line of the elf with a declaration that the elf in question is also wearing feces on its head. Dwarfish is a good language for expressing complicated concepts in one or two words.

  One of the other agents was apparently up on his Dwarfish as well—he reached under his cheap jacket and started to draw his pistol. He stopped suddenly, first dropping his hands to his waist, then slowly raising them above his head.

  “Now personally, I’ve got no issue with lettin’ y’all shoot each other to doll rags,” a voice drawled from behind the agent, “but it’d mean paperwork, and I hate paperwork.”

  Fred stood there, grinning theatrically, his hands resting lightly on his belt.

  “All you Feds”—spit—“except Moon Flower, go stand by your truck,” the voice said.

  “That’s Dar’flw,” Dar’flw said weakly. You could tell, however, he knew the game was up.

  “Well, shit, looks like the governor decided to start a war with the feds,” Jed said, pointing skyward.

  A second pair of aircraft had joined the first. These were smaller, single-engine planes, with a Texas flag and the letters SA on the tail. They also lacked the heavy munitions load of the first set. In the distance, a third pair of aircraft circled.

  The Feds finished moving. The dwarf in a pearl-gray Stetson who’d been standing behind the Fed with the itchy trigger finger holstered a well-cared-for pistol.

  “Ranger Hammer, it’s a surprise to see you here,” Fred said, bowing low.

  “Horseshit, mine brother. Herself got that message you sent, and she got in touch with the governor. I’d have been here sooner, but we had to do some negotiating with the Feds, and Moon Flower here was quicker on the phone than I was.”

  The larger planes made one pass, waggling their wings, before heading north. The two pair of smaller aircraft took up station, circling the site.

  “So, are the Rangers taking over?” Dar’flw asked.

  “Yes, and no,” Hammer replied. “The site officially belongs to the State of Texas. The law enforcement agencies of the State welcome any help offered by their Federal brothers and sisters, even if they are elves. Hell, Fred here’ll even give you access to the prisoners he captured.”

  “I knew there were prisoners,” one of the agents by the government vehicle said

  “I wasn’t going to give up an intel source to you idiots,” Fred replied. “Y’all’d probably let them walk because using magic to kidnap someone isn’t technically illegal.”

  “We’d have interrogated them as allowed by law!” the agent insisted.

  “You’ll get a chance, now,” I said. “Ranger Hammer, I would like to turn the scene over to you. My husband was just kidnapped, and I’d like a chance to ask his kidnappers a few questions.”

  “By all means, ma’am,” Hammer said, tipping his hat.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 3 – Jesse

  Eventually, I went to sleep. Just like when I’d been in the Corps, there were a few changes when I woke up.

  “Billy!”

  “Yes?” he replied, coming to the door of my room.

  “What the fuck, over?” I asked, pointing to the clothes I’d laid out before going to sleep in an old pair of silky shorts. I carried the silkies for just such an emergency.

  “Oh. Yeah, forgot to mention that,” he said before turning and leaving the room.

  “That’s a helpful answer.” I pulled on a pair of dark green cotton trousers and a white T-Shirt before stepping into a pair of brown combat boots. I left the spats hanging with the frog-skin pattern jacket and the heavy-as-shit-looking, could-have-actually-
been-worn-by-Chesty-Puller flak jacket. As an after-thought, I rummaged through my ruck—that, oddly enough, was still the same Sand Piper bag I’d come into Limbo wearing—and pulled out a clerical shirt and collar and put them on before walking to the kitchen.

  Billy was sitting at the table, eating cereal. There was a big green box of Kellogg’s Sugar Frosted Flakes complete with Tony the Tiger on the table, along with another bowl and a glass jar of milk.

  “You forgot to mention something?” I asked, dropping into a chair across the table from him.

  “Yeah. There’s a…field. A magical field, I guess, that affects things brought here,” he replied, shoveling another spoonful of milk, sugar, and corn flakes into his mouth.

  “Affects things…hang on,” I said, walking back to my bedroom. I returned with my pistol belt—now a 1945-dated cotton web belt with a leather holster and an M3 Grease Gun.

  “I’ve never used one of these,” I said, setting the vintage firearm on the table.

  “From what the other spirit guides who have worked with living humans told me last night, it should still function like your other gun did. Your mind sees it as from my era, but your body will read it as from your own.”

  “That sounds like, well, it sounds like mystical bullshit to me,” I said.

  “Be glad you got me and not Angus the Black. It’d be a crossbow, not a grease gun. What’s the simplest thing you could do without actually firing it?”

  “Hmm, I could field strip it—I cleaned it last night before I went to sleep.”

  “Give it a try.”

  With a shrug, I did.

  “Huh. That’s a first,” I said, looking at the component groups I had spread across the table.

  “Told you,” Billy said. “I’d suggest putting it back together and eating something—we’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

  “How so?” I started assembling the submachine gun.

  “I thought we could work on figuring out why you’re here,” he said, pouring another bowl of cereal. I watched, fascinated, as the level in the quart of milk never went down. He just shrugged when he saw the direction of my gaze. “Surely you’re familiar with divine magic.”

  “You could say that,” I replied. “I thought about why I’m here last night. I think it has to do with saving the world from a resurgent evil.”

  Even as I said it, I realized how pompous that sounded.

  “Which has what to do with you being in Limbo, specifically?” Billy asked around a mouthful of cereal.

  I reached for the box and poured a bowlful. Adding milk, I said, “I was warned a couple of weeks ago that many dark things were going to happen, and I was at the center. I think the bit at Quarry Lake was an attempt to snatch me for nefarious purposes, and someone or something intervened in the spell—or the spellcasters screwed up—and here I am.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense.” He rose and rinsed the bowl in the sink.

  “Which part?” I asked, spooning up some cereal. “Damn, this is what, mostly sugar?”

  “Well, they are called Sugar Frosted Flakes,” Billy replied. “The spellcasters making a mistake is the bit that makes sense.”

  “Why? God works in mysterious ways, after all.”

  “I’ve been in Limbo for sixty-six years,” Billy said. “I’ve seen some pretty mysterious things. But for God or gods to have taken an interest in saving you, things would have to be beyond mysterious, indeed.”

  You know, I had to give him that one.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 4 – Diindiisi

  Naturally, it was against the rules for me to interrogate the prisoners. The higher-ups wouldn’t let anyone from our team or the dwarfs even talk to them. Instead, we were encouraged to talk to the alienists about our feelings, then go home and get some rest. No one, not even Singh, was having any of that.

  “We’re going out for a beer. Do you want to come along?” Dalma said, pausing while putting on street clothes.

  “Thank you, but I’m not interested in drinking tonight,” I replied. “If someone could drop me off at my quarters, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Diindiisi, you want to have a beer?” Stephanie asked, stepping around a row of lockers.

  “I was just telling Dalma that I’m not interested, Stephanie,” I said.

  “Trust us,” Dalma replied, making a series of hand gestures pointing to the walls and her ears, mainly, “you want to come have a beer. Fred’s bringing along the dwarfs. Seeing them drink lite beer should be a scream.”

  “I don’t understand this sudden need for beer, but, since it seems to be important to you, I’ll come along,” I said, zipping my go bag shut.

  “See you at the motor pool in ten minutes,” Stephanie said, dashing out the door with her bag.

  Dalma chuckled.

  “What is so funny?” I asked.

  “Mighty Mite there is almost as big as her bag, Diindiisi,” Dalma replied.

  “Aye,” Alfie said, coming into the hall from the men’s dressing room. “She’d make a fine dwarf.”

  “You’re not changing sides on me are you, love?” Ozzie asked, following him into the hall. Ozzie was carrying a pair of huge leather packs that the dwarfs preferred to Cordura nylon. He tossed one lightly to Alfie.

  “No, love. Just a comment. Most of the folks we’ve been working with would make good dwarfs, even if a few of them are a bit…tall,” Alfie replied, casually slinging the bag over one shoulder before turning to me. “Where are we going for dinner?”

  “It wasn’t my idea, so I don’t have a clue,” I replied, dropping my go bag on a bench in the hall.

  “Place in south Austin,” Fred said, stepping into the hall. “Hiebert and Johnson have the directions. A word of warning, it can be a bit…rough.”

  “Dwarf bar?” Padgett asked.

  “Worse,” Fred replied. “Therianthropes.”

  “Fred, you do realize what we do for a living?” I asked.

  “Yes’m. We were invited,” he said, handing me a printout of an e-mail. “I verified it using a different e-mail address for the pack leader. Besides, Lou Garrett’s coming along.”

  “You think Lou being along will make a difference?” Padgett asked.

  “Lou’s the oldest werewolf in Texas. He’ll be driving the females off with a stick,” Fred said. “Like vampires, the older a werewolf is, the more power he has. Also, since his creator has bared his belly to Lou, Lou’s the leader of his lineage.”

  “How would the other werewolves know any of that?” Padgett asked, picking up my go bag.

  “They can smell it on me,” Lou said, stepping into the hall.

  Jesse had shown me some movies to explain Lou’s look. From the fedora to the comfortable brogans, it screamed ‘film noir.’ Lou walked over and embraced me.

  “How you doin’, Diindiisi?”

  “I’m fine. I actually feel sorry for the…what’s the phrase Jesse would use? ‘Dumb sons of bitches,’ I think he’d call them—who took him, you know?”

  “Yeah, I’d imagine things aren’t quite working out the way they thought they would when they grabbed Jesse,” Lou said, tilting his fedora back on his head. “Anyway, I understand y’all have been invited to the Howlin’ Coyote?”

  “Oh, you’re fucking kidding me,” Padgett said. “A werewolf bar named The Howlin’ Coyote?”

  Lou shrugged. “Not any worse than a gay bar called Oilcan Harry’s.”

  Padgett mulled that over for a minute. “True.”

  I looked around—everyone was in the hall, waiting on me to say something. “Let’s get out of here before Michelangelo decides to put us all back to work.”

  “Be kinda hard to plan if we actually have to work,” Padgett said, leading the way to the cars.

  “That has to be your car, Lou,” Dalma said as we stepped into the parking lot.

  “How’d you guess?” Lou asked, walking over to it. “It’s a 1927 Studebaker Dictator. I bought it when I got home from World War II.” />
  The car was immaculate—a four-door sedan with cream-colored bodywork and dark brown accents.

  “It’s not all original,” Lou said, swinging open the passenger door and gesturing me aboard. Fred, Ozzie, Alfie, and Andre slid into the back seat as Lou started the motor under the long hood. “I replaced the original motor in the 1960s with something that had a little more get up and go.”

  The motor thundered to life and then settled down into a throaty purr.

  “I also replaced the drive train and transmission,” he said, driving out the gate and heading for 183.

  It took about twenty minutes to get downtown—unlike most nights, Sunday night cross-town traffic into downtown is comparatively light. I-35 is still horrible until you get past the University of Texas, even on a Sunday, however. Hitting the lights on the two Tahoes, one in front of the Studebaker and one behind, probably made travelling to the bar much quicker, honestly. Whatever Lou had done to the car, it had no issues keeping up with the overbuilt Tahoes, even if we did get some looks cruising through traffic.

  The bar was on Pine Street—there was a parking space clear in front of the door, and Lou parked the big sedan right in front. The doorman, who looked a bit like a bison in human form, pushed the crowd back and opened my door. I stepped down, followed by the dwarfs.

  The doorman stuck his head into the car. “Mr. Garret, sir, if you want to leave the car here, the owner said it’d be fine. Soon as y’all go in, she’ll send a couple of the boys out to watch it, sir.”

  “What about my entourage?” Lou asked.

  “They can park on the ground floor across the street, sir.”

  “It’s good to be the king,” Fred said as we watched the two Tahoes pull into the parking structure.

  “It does have its benefits,” Lou admitted. “There’s also a few drawbacks. Hopefully we won’t run across any of them.”

  Three figures were standing by the car. One of them stepped out and held up traffic so the rest of our party could cross Pine, and then we went into the bar.

  A thin, rat-faced woman met us at the door.