The cafe flooded with white light. A siren shrieked. Panzer spun to face the lights. Headlights. The front wall exploded as the ambulance rammed through it. Hank scrambled out of the way. Tables and chairs tumbled. The ceiling fan snapped loose and smashed against the wall. The ambulance hit Panzer head-on, plowed through the dining area, and slammed into the kitchen counter, pinning the werewolf. Hank crawled under a table and covered his head as ceiling tiles came toppling down. A fog of plaster and dust choked everything. But for the rattling engine of the ambulance, everything was silent.
Hank opened his eyes and looked out from under the table. The cafe was demolished. Only three walls stood, and those were split down the middle, ready to collapse. Shades of red and white scintillated and washed across the destruction. The siren didn't blare, but the emergency lights flashed. Pinned between the grill of the ambulance and the kitchen counter was Panzer, twitching. The ambulance door opened. Whitey was slumped over the wheel. He was drenched in blood, clutching at a gaping wound in his chest, but grinning at Hank. "Hey, Doc."
Hank stood and shoved debris out of the way to get to the old man. "Whitey. . . "
Pulling the old man's hand away from his chest, he saw the damage. The man was shredded. A chunk of his sternum was missing. Fingers were gone. An arm was ruined. The right side of his face was mauled. Hank couldn't believe he was still alive, much less conscious. "Don't move, Whitey. Just stay there."
Hank looked around for anything he could use to staunch the bleeding. The tablecloths were plastic. His own shirt was filthy. He started to move around the buckling kitchen counter. "I'm going to get some towels out of the back."
Whitey shook his head and shifted in his seat. "Aw, don't bother, Doc. Don't worry about it." He dragged himself out of the driver's seat, leaving a pool of blood where he sat. The old man climbed towards the back of the ambulance. He looked back at Hank and smiled. "I'm just going to lay down for a while and think about how much this day has sucked."
Hank watched him disappear into the dark insides of the ambulance. He felt hot tears gather. "Damn it, Whitey," he whispered.
The red lights still glared, turning the cafe into a flickering hell. He felt the dust cake to the sweat and blood on his face, his arms. His leg throbbed anew and he wasn't sure if it would ever work right again. Various cuts turned his body into a quilt of slashes and bruises. He thought of turning off the lights in the ambulance and then laughed. He had no idea how. All these years as a doctor and he'd avoided as much as he could. He should probably bandage himself up, but didn't know where to start. The engine rattled and then died. A spurt of steam escaped the hood, the soul leaving the body. And for the first time that day, Hank felt a silence. It had been quiet before, but it was a heavy quiet, the half second before two cars obliterated each other at an intersection. It was the kind of silence where wolves waited. But this? This was real quiet. This was almost serene, even among the smashed building and the ruined bodies that now lay buried in the rubble. Hank felt the adrenaline drain out of him and grew dizzy with it.
A sharp pain burst in his side. Hank tried to scream, but it snagged in his throat. From beneath the ambulance, where it crumpled into the kitchen counter, Panzer's gnarled claws dug into his gut. He grasped at the thing’s fingers. They burrowed deeper. Behind the grill, part of the werewolf's smashed face grinned at him. Only her twisted arm was free. She tore and pulled at his side. Hank wrenched away, trying to run. He broke free, feeling hot blood spill down his side and into his pants. Cold air seeped into his wound.
He fell at the threshold of the cafe, where the front wall used to be. The pain was maddening, confusing. He wasn't sure what was happening and for a flash of a moment, he waited for the change to start. Looking back, Panzer flailed to get out from under the weight of the ambulance. Clutched in her free hand was a bloody mass of purplish meat. It looked like tubes. Hank laid there on his back and tried to process just what he was looking at. Panzer held the meat, jerking on it like a leash. Hank followed it with his eyes and horror blossomed. His intestines unspooled from the ragged hole in his side. Through his shredded polo were ribbons of yellow fat and torn muscle. He grasped at it and tried to keep Panzer from pulling more out. The hairy hand at the other end tugged, attempting to reel him in. Hank wanted to scream. His mind raced in jagged spirals that flew apart as soon as he formed an idea. Everything he tried or wanted to do was overridden by one thought - hold your guts in.
The room went watery and cool. Beneath the caked blood and coagulating dust, he could feel his skin dampen. He needed a shower. A shower and a glass of whiskey. That would be good. It was hard to breath. Maybe it was asthma? As a kid, he'd never had it, but it wasn't unheard of to develop it later in life and it was really hard to breathe right now. He needed to lay down, but he was already laying down. Why was everything so dirty in here? Carol needed to just get out of the cafe business if she was going to let it go to seed. Karen? Was that her name? He'd been coming in there to eat their greasy food for a while now and he still couldn't remember her name. She knew his. Everyone knew his. God, what an asshole.
Hank shook his head. Shock. You're going into shock.
Nothing to be done for that, though. What were the steps? Elevate your feet? A blanket? Hank giggled as he saw his feet raise up into the air. He dropped them back down again and tried to make himself take deep breaths.
Jesus. Why is it so cold?
***
Bullet steered the motorcycle towards the flashing lights. It had been a while since she'd been on the back of one and this one in particular was a monster. It was on its side, resting in the grass in front of the hospital with the rest of the debris. She and Varney heard the boom of the ambulance smashing into the American Cafe. It was only blocks away, but Varney could barely walk. Even as he sat on the back of the bike, she could feel the meat on his arms filling in. The skin grew warmer - not warm, but warmer - and the muscles thickened. He said nothing, as they sped. Bullet could feel his shame, the shame at showing weakness, at clinging to her back like a child. Once he'd realized she watched him feed, he turned his back to her, trying to hide it and devour the blood more delicately, more discretely. Instead, he looked feral, as if he'd found a carcass and was unwilling to share the spoils with her. But now he owed her. He'd either honor that unspoken contract or kill her for making him beholden to her. Right now she didn't care which.
The American was in shambles. The roof split down the middle and it looked like the ambulance itself was the only thing that kept the structure from completely collapsing. Bullet stopped the bike and they both climbed off. She noted that a bit of Varney's grace had returned as he stood. His feet made no sound as they touched the gravel in the parking lot. His face was hidden again, but instead of by shadows, it was long, greasy hair. Seeing him like this chilled her. He looked somehow even less human than when shrouded in darkness. His eyes gleamed again, oily. His features, while proud and chiseled like some Eastern European god, were withered, clinging to the sharp bones. He caught her looking as they approached the cafe. She pointedly looked away.
"The Doctor has had an accident," Varney said.
"What?" But then she saw it.
Hank lay in a pool of blood and plaster, clutching at his own entrails. Bullet went into first responder mode. She buried the part of her that wanted to gasp and cry and rushed barefoot into the ruins of the cafe. Hank was awake, staring at the ceiling, staring through it. She grabbed his hand and tried to assess the wounds. His guts were strewn about. At the end was Panzer, pinned under the ambulance. The giant wolf still clutched at his intestines, but weakly now. Her breath wheezed in and out. Now and again she would struggle against the ambulance, but she couldn't move. The front of the ambulance kept her in place and kept pressure on all of the injuries, keeping her crushed chest from reforming.
"Varney . . . " She choked out.
Varney walked freely now, swatting a table aside with one hand as he did. He strode over to Panzer and
curled his fingers beneath the thing's jaw. The head ripped loose with a crunch and a pulpy tearing. Panzer dropped the intestines and her hands fumbled around the stump, trying to find her own head, but finding only ruined tissue and a warm fountain. Varney gazed down at her. His eyes blazed. He cast the head over the counter and back into the kitchen.
Hank was trembling. He was cold and clammy. He squeezed her hand. Bullet looked down into his dilated eyes. The smile he gave was weak and distant. Bullet laid his hand over the open wound in his side and started to stand. "Press. Okay? Press."
There would be supplies in the ambulance. Some, anyway. The thought that she couldn't save him was the undercurrent that trickled beneath the rush of adrenaline and determination. The motorcycle. She might be able to get him stabilized and then they could make it to Colina Vista if -
He wouldn't let go of her hand. She looked back down at him and they both knew. He held her gaze, making her acknowledge it. And all of her adrenaline, all of the robotic precision she wielded, drained out with tears down her cheeks. "Hey," he said. "Hey. Hey."
She brushed her cheeks clear. It wasn't professional. This was her boss. He couldn't see her like this. Neither could Varney. She turned her head away from the vampire, who watched, but kept a polite distance. "Hank, just let me do this. We don't have - "
"No. No. No." He smiled again and it drew the tears from Bullet with a crippling ferocity.
With his other hand, he released his hold on his stomach. The insides began to spill. Bullet reached instinctively, as if to catch a tipped over glass. Hank pushed her hand aside and pointed to his waist. "My pocket," he said.
"What?"
He pointed again. Gingerly, she shifted him to reach into his back pocket. Hank groaned at being moved, but Bullet saw it. She pulled it from his pocket.
A hypodermic needle.
"You have more? The cure?"
His voice came out in whispers now, as thin as cigarette smoke. "No. Cure's all gone. Morphine."
She took it, popped the cap, and rolled up his sleeve. The math immediately came to her, her brain grappling with the numbers as they slipped around in her panic. "Okay. Okay. You're 170 pounds or so, right? So - "
He squeezed her arm. "No. Just . . . all of it."
"All of it? But - "
He looked her in the eyes again and nodded.
From behind her, Varney said, "Quickly, Ms. Boulet. He'll change in moments."
Bullet turned on him. A blaze of anger curled around her spine. "You shut up!"
Varney was taken aback. He raised an imperious eyebrow, but stepped back into the shadows.
Bullet looked back down at Hank. "Hank, I . . . "
"Hurry up, Bullet. It hurts, damn it."
She laughed and felt the delirium of sobbing shake loose inside of her. She choked it back. She found a spot on his arm, injected, and pushed down the plunger. When it was empty, she felt that hope had gone with it. "You just carry around lethal doses of morphine, Doc?" she asked, forcing a smile.
"I've been saving it for a rainy day. And it's raining."
She held his hand. He squeezed back, so soft it was almost imperceptible.
"Hey," he said. His voice was drifting away now. Bullet leaned in to hear him. "I've always wanted to ask you. Do you want . . .
Bullet smiled and put her free hand on his chest. "What?"
His chest was still. His face was frozen in a half-smile, as if he were just about to be sly with his last words. Bullet's chest hitched with a sob. She let go of his hand and closed his eyes. She swallowed hard and pushed the pain down. Biting her lip and thinking and planning pushed it out completely. Bullet took control. She stood, wiped her face, and set her jaw. Varney appraised her. His demeanor was different now, more deferential. "I need to find . . . a place to sleep . . . before dawn. This town is not safe."
Bullet nodded. There were two ways out of Tribes. Pilgrim road, at either end of town, became Highway 50. "There's just one road. North to Colina Vista, Warner, and the Fort. South to Mexico. Or we go off road, west into the Huachuca Mountains. There are some caves and - "
The CB inside the ambulance squelched and Bullet instinctively ducked. There was a crackle and then a screaming voice. "Please help! Somebody help me! I'm in Whitey's wrecker. It sees me! It's coming! Oh God, please. It's - "
A scream. Breaking glass.
Bullet ran. Broken glass lacerated her bare feet. She ignored it. In one swift motion, she lifted the bike upright, mounted, and kick-started it. Varney followed and climbed on behind her. "We're rescuing the boy, now?"
His voice was tinged with annoyance. Bullet ignored him. The engine growled. She backed the bike up, released the clutch, and twisted the throttle. The front wheel lifted for a second as the back sprayed gravel. They raced towards the still-burning remains of the hospital. Dozens of eyes stared back at them, gleaming in the headlight. They milled about in the front lawn. Many were now hairless, twisted things, still healing. In unison, the ones standing began to growl. Seeing prey gave them purpose. Some gave chase. Bullet sped past them, trying to make her way around the fire to the back of the hospital. She guided the bike into a plume of smoke that curled along the ground. There was no way to see where she was going, but they couldn't see her, either. She fought the urge to fall off the bike in a coughing fit. Shapes flitted through the black smoke. Glimpses of furry haunches. Misshapen claws. Hungry, blackened faces. They were close and closing in. They couldn't see or smell her, but the bike's throaty chugging gave them away. Bullet pumped the brakes and stayed low on the bike.
They emerged on the east side of the parking lot. Other wolves scrambled to their feet. Their ears pricked up as they heard the call of their kindred. Some yipped in response and began to run towards the front of the hospital. A few skittered to a stop and snarled at Bullet and Varney.
"There!" Varney said.
Across the lot was Whitey's old wrecker. The hood was littered with bits of scrap from the explosion, but it looked mostly unscathed. As good as his old tank of a tow truck could look, anyway. Then Bullet saw him. Gideon. The light gray of his coat gleamed in the moonlight as he perched on the hood. With powerful arms, he forced his way through the windshield of the wrecker. He tore at the glass, howling and laughing. His claws dripped with blood that glistened his fur all the way up to the elbows.
Bullet gunned the engine. She felt Varney squeeze her waist. The bike lurched forward with such force she nearly lost her grip. Between them and the wrecker was a pile of debris. The sheet metal carport over the ER driveway had collapsed. Bullet aimed right for it and pulled harder on the throttle. The engine roared to match the howling of the Goats that gathered. The front wheel popped up. They hit the sheet metal. Bullet let go. The bike ripped loose from her hands and rocketed up the impromptu ramp. It took flight.
As Bullet started to hurtle into the wreckage, flying free of the bike, she felt herself grow lighter. Her fall slowed. Varney had her. He touched down lightly, barely making a sound, and sat her on her feet.
The bike, all six-hundred pounds of steel, soared. Gideon turned and the gore-smeared grin faltered as he saw the missile. The undercarriage caught the wolf full in the chest. Gideon yelped like a kicked dog and was knocked off of the wrecker. Bike and wolf tumbled off down the slope behind and into the darkness of the cactus field. The other werewolves saw Gideon fall. They scattered, trying to get out of the way of these two who had taken down their pack leader. But they didn't leave. They watched. Bullet was keenly aware of all of them.
Varney smiled at her. It was a genuine smile with eyes that shined and almost looked human. "Well done, Ms. Boulet."
She ignored him and ran to the wrecker. It was quiet. The white web of the shattered windshield was smeared with blood. Bullet threw the door open and immediately covered her mouth with her hand.
Rudy. Torn and strewn about the cab. His lungs and heart pulsed, ribcage spread open for all to see. His face was mauled. Half wolf, half boy. Hands twitc
hed as claws sprouted and he dropped the walkie-talkie he still held into the floorboard. He was nothing but a tangled smear, but the transformation had him. The spattered puddles of blood and meat shifted and squirmed as he tried to put himself back together. Hair sprouted in open wounds. The tissue of broken, lupine legs reached out to connect with a ruined human torso. And Bullet was frozen.
Varney shoved past her. He grabbed what was left of Rudy's throat and dragged him out of the truck. "Bastards," he said, and hurled the body off into the darkness. At seeing the kid's body cast aside like rotten meat, Bullet found that her focus and breath went with it. She grabbed at her sanity, trying to sink her teeth into it, as it coldly slipped away. Her insides filled up with ice water and everything felt quiet. She sank into a dark pool.
The vampire looked back to see the wolves gathering and pushed Bullet into the truck. "Get in. Drive!"
Bullet fell behind the wheel and felt the still warm blood soak through her pants. There were still pieces of Rudy on the dash, in the floorboard. Chunks of skin stuck to the windshield. She grabbed that thought and tucked it away, putting it in a dark package in a dark hole in her mind.
Focus, Jan.
Grab this fucking situation by the throat and MOVE.
Her fingers were numb. She fumbled with the keys. The engine whined with the turn of the key, but it started. The wolves collected in the parking lot. Four. Then seven. Then ten. They formed a line across the lot, facing off against Bullet and Varney.
They did this. They did all of this. For fun. You can be killed. You can be eaten. But you will not be their sport, Jan. Now do something.
Rage, pure and white, coursed through her veins. Bullet ground her teeth and felt every muscle tense.
Varney climbed into the passenger side. "What are you waiting for? Go!"
"Where?"
"Anywhere but here!"
Bullet gripped the wheel and floored it. The engine boomed. Tires squealed on the asphalt. She barreled straight for the pack. The wolves flew in every direction. Some leaped aside. Others stood dumbly as the truck blasted over them. Two of them jumped into the air and pounced down onto the hood. One reached through the gaping hole in the glass. She felt the quick, hot breeze of its claws swiping near her cheek. Bullet whipped the wheel to the left. A pile of smoking bricks ran up under the truck and the wrecker slipped up on two wheels before crashing back down again. In the side mirror, a werewolf hanged onto the winch support. The rocking of the truck shook it loose. It tumbled, red in the taillights.
The Black Goat Motorcycle Club Page 19