by Jeff Strand
"Make you a deal. Buy me a burger and I won't blow us all to smithereens. That's a fair deal, right? A combo #1 and your scorched head doesn't land three towns away."
George turned back around in his seat. He had to admit that Ivan's endless chatter was preferable to the sobbing and begging and screaming that he and Lou sometimes had to endure, and probably better than the whining that Ivan had subjected them to at the beginning of the drive, yet it was still pretty grating. And they had another three hours to go. He wished they had a tranquilizer dart.
They pulled off at the next exit. They could've gone up to Interstate 75 and then quickly found an easy-on, easy-off place to get gas, but whenever possible George and Lou preferred to fill up at mom-and-pop gas stations. Less chance of security cameras. And they liked to support small businesses.
"Welcome to Hachiholata," said Lou, as they stopped at a red light.
The town, if you could even call it a town, was quite a bit smaller than George had expected--just a two-lane road lined by a few non-chain businesses. He didn't even see a McDonalds, and traffic was almost non-existent.
"Looks like a peaceful place," Lou noted. "I could retire here."
"What? You hate Florida!"
"I mean I could retire in a place like this that wasn't in Florida."
"Well, we've got a long way to go before retirement. And when I do, it's sure as hell not going to be--wow, look at that dog."
George pointed out his side window. A dog--a collie, one of those Lassie dogs--was about a block away, running toward the van, barking furiously. A yellow leash dragged on the ground behind it, though George didn't see any sign of the owner.
"He looks mad," Lou noted.
The light was still red. The dog continued racing toward them, moving at an alarming pace, with the van clearly its target. "Make sure you don't run him over when you go," George said. "Jeez, he's really not slowing down..."
The dog slammed into the side of the van. George's heart gave a jolt and he let out a cry of surprise.
"What the hell?" Lou asked, sounding even more startled than George felt. "How do you hit a dog when you're not even moving?"
The dog slammed into the side of the van again, still barking. George quickly adjusted the side-view mirror, and saw the dog throw its entire body into the van, face-first, over and over, leaving behind smears of blood. The van rocked a little with each blow.
"Fucker's rabid!" George shouted. "Get us out of here!"
The light had already turned green, so Lou gunned the engine and they sped through the intersection. George spun around and saw the dog, broken and pitiful, limping after them.
"Holy shit!" said Lou. "Have you ever seen a dog do that before?"
"Never." As a rule, George didn't have sympathy for anything that attacked him, but he felt terrible for the poor beast. "Should we go back and put it out of its misery?"
Lou looked incredulous. "You mean run it over all the way?"
"No, I mean shoot it or something."
"Yeah, let's whip out some guns and shoot a rabid dog when we've got Ivan in the back. That won't attract any attention. Real smart, George."
"You don't have to be sarcastic."
"I'm not sarcastic. I'm freaked out!"
George looked back at their prisoner. Ivan sat silently in his cage, his expression unreadable, almost serene. George considered telling him to shut up anyway, but didn't.
"What do we do now?" Lou asked.
"Same thing we were going to do before. Get some gas and deliver the werewolf to Tampa. Let's not lose our heads over a Cujo."
"You're right, you're right."
"I hope its owner is able to fix it up."
Lou looked as if he wanted to make another sarcastic comment, then just shook his head. "There's a gas station up there."
They pulled into the gas station, Hachiholata Gas & Gulp, which had four pumps and a small convenience store. Their rule for the past nine years was that whoever drove, the other guy had to pump the gas, so George got out of the van. There were several dents in the side of the vehicle along with the blood. George wondered if Bateman would be pissed. He didn't seem to care enough about his Porsche to keep it in pristine shape, so he probably wouldn't get all upset over a few dents on a dumpy old van.
George swiped his untraceable credit card and began to pump the gas.
He picked up the gas station's squeegee and dipped it into the cleaning fluid, which was gray and murky and probably hadn't been changed in weeks. He wiped off the blood with the squeegee, rinsing twice before he was done, and finished off the task with a paper towel.
That was totally surreal. Maybe the dog knew they had a werewolf in captivity and was trying to pull off a rescue mission. A little shared-species courtesy.
Nah. Only a rabid dog would bash itself bloody like that. He hoped its owner found it in time to get it to the vet, although he didn't think the dog had much of a chance even if it wasn't diseased. At times like these, George wished he weren't a criminal, so he could safely put a dog out of its misery without having to explain why he had an unregistered firearm.
Another car pulled into the gas station, a small blue one that George and Lou probably couldn't have fit inside without ripping out the front seat. The driver, a hot young brunette in shorts and a tight t-shirt, got out of the car, gave George a friendly, not quite flirtatious smile, and began to pump her own gas.
George opened up the passenger-side door. "Do you want a Snickers?" he asked Lou.
"Nah."
"I'll take one," said Ivan.
George ignored him and closed the door. Maybe it was more of a Three Musketeers moment. He needed something light and fluffy.
There was a sudden growling to his left. George looked over at the source and saw a dog, this one a scary-ass-looking Doberman, come around the side of the van.
More growling behind him. George turned around, and the second dog charged at him. A fucking rat terrier?
The Doberman launched into a ferocious barking fit, spittle flying from its jaws, and charged as well.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dogfight
With a Doberman attacking him from the front and a rat terrier attacking from the rear, George decided in a split-second that if he wished to avoid being savagely mauled, he should probably focus on the Doberman. He quickly yanked the fuel pump out of the van and doused the dog in the face. It let out a loud yip and violently shook its body, shaking off gasoline as if it had just jumped out of an unwanted bath.
George kicked the snarling rat terrier out of the way.
Even more barking. Another frickin' Doberman was running toward him. And behind it, some large brown-and-white dog of a breed that George couldn't identify. What the hell was going on?
He kicked the rat terrier again. It latched onto his leg, biting but not breaking through the fabric of his pants. He didn't want to douse a dog with gasoline unless absolutely necessary, so he swung his leg as hard as he could, hurling the dog into the air. It landed on its side, yipped, got back up, and rushed at him again, so he sprayed it.
There wasn't time to get back inside the van before the other two dogs reached him, so he held the fuel pump like a pistol. He had a real one in a holster under his shirt, and this was one of those moments where he wasn't particularly concerned about the locals knowing he had a gun, but shooting around spilled gasoline was never a good idea, even if the resulting explosion would most likely take care of his psycho dog problem.
He heard Lou's door open. "Stay in there!" George shouted.
He sprayed the second Doberman, getting the unfortunate canine right in the eyes. Its wail of pain hurt George's ears and his conscience, but the dog didn't veer from its prey. It leapt into the air, striking George in the chest and knocking him down onto the cement.
He threw his arm over his eyes to protect them, blinking away tears as the gasoline fumes hit him hard. The dog's head jerked around as if it were having an epileptic fit, but it got a good solid
bite on George's chest. He punched the dog in the face with his left fist, then bashed it on the side of the head with the fuel pump.
Had it broken the skin? Did he now have rabies? Did they still treat that with several painful shots in the stomach?
The woman screamed, though George couldn't see what happened to her.
He could see, however, that Lou was standing a few feet away, holding his own pistol.
George tried to wave him away, but the Doberman's jaws clamped onto his wrist. "Don't shoot! Gas!"
Lou, thank God, behaved intelligently and did not shoot. He grabbed the dog by its leather collar and strained to drag it off of George. The Doberman let go of George's wrist but its nails raked across his chest as his partner slowly pulled the thrashing animal away. Then Lou slammed it against the van. Once, twice, three times, four times, five times, and then the Doberman stopped struggling.
George had to kick the rat terrier again.
The brunette's car door was open and she was halfway inside, but the brown-and-white dog was inside with her, tearing at her flesh as she shrieked in terror.
George quickly got up, forcing himself not to look at his wrist. Another small dog, some kind of mutt, came at him. George's tendencies toward being pro-animal-rights were not as passionate now as they'd been sixty seconds ago, and he blasted the little bastard with enough gas that it ran off-course and smacked into the van's back tire instead of him.
The woman flailed and kicked at the dog, but she couldn't get it out of her car. George's moral code allowed for breaking an old man's fingers, and for driving an accused werewolf across the state in a cage, and for use of gasoline as a blinding agent against dogs when necessary, but it did not allow for watching an innocent woman get savaged by an out-of-control animal.
"You get in the car," said Lou, waving him back as he hurried toward the woman. "I've got this."
"What the hell is going on?" a square-faced, middle-aged man demanded, voice filled with panic. He'd come out of the convenience store and held a rifle.
"Get back inside!" George shouted.
But the man's moral code, much like George's, apparently did not include a clause about hiding in a store when somebody was being attacked. He took a few steps toward the woman's car, then stopped and took aim at a new dog that was running toward them, having come from behind the store. Another Doberman. Who the hell owned all of these Dobermans?
He fired. A perfect head shot. The Doberman tumbled forward.
Lou reached the blue car. He grabbed the dog by its long tail with both hands and gave a sharp tug. The dog twisted around, bashing its head against the steering wheel and honking the horn, then scrambled out of the car, lunging at Lou's throat.
Lou slammed his hands together, boxing the dog's ears. It yelped but didn't stop fighting. As Lou quickly backed away, the dog snapped at his legs.
Yet another goddamn dog--was there a dog factory in the area or something?--came running toward the gas station, followed by two more. All big ones. One of them was dragging a leash.
The gas station attendant fired the rifle. Either his first shot had been total luck, or he was getting too scared to shoot straight, because this one didn't even come close. He fired again. Another complete miss.
George's fuel hose wasn't long enough to reach the dog that was attacking his partner, which didn't matter because Lou stood between the dog and a possible gasoline stream. George dropped the pump and rushed forward, kicking the dog in the side, hard enough to produce a crunch.
The brown-and-white dog stumbled away, then launched itself against the car, bashing itself against the metal over and over.
George looked at the woman. Her shoulder was a mess. The gas station attendant fired again, this time hitting one of the oncoming Dobermans in the ear. That didn't stop the animal. The top half of its ear dangled in a bloody flap, and the attendant adjusted his grip on the rifle, holding it like a club.
"Behind you!" the woman shouted at George.
George didn't even have time to turn around before the dog knocked him to the ground. He couldn't see the creature, could just hear its growling and feel its hot breath on his neck. He elbowed it in the face, which probably hurt his elbow worse than its face. Some froth got into his eyes.
George frantically tried to blink it out, as Lou grabbed the dog under its front arms and pulled it away. The dog snarled and twisted around and bit at Lou's nose, while Lou struggled to get the thrashing animal away from George.
"Help!" the attendant shouted.
George pushed himself up again. The attendant lay on the ground, kicking at the dogs that had brought him down. He swung with his rifle, but one of the dogs sunk its teeth deep into his forearm, creating a spray of red, and he lost his grip on the weapon.
"Pull your legs in the car," George told the woman, putting his hand on the door. She seemed to be in shock and didn't respond. Instead of acknowledging his command, she was staring off behind--
George looked to see what she was staring at. A pit bull. Running right at him. Fast.
Again, there wasn't enough time to get the van door open, or even to grab the fuel pump. George, less concerned with dignity than survival, quickly climbed up onto the hood of the van, just as the pit bull's teeth snapped at his ankle. George had a lot of good physical attributes, but few would call him nimble, and the process of scrambling up onto the hood of the van was a sloppy one.
While the pit bull was distracted with George, Lou managed to run around to the other side of the van. George heard a squeal of pain as Lou apparently kicked a miniature dog, and then Lou successfully got into the driver's side of the van and slammed the door shut behind him.
The pit bull jumped for George's tender and succulent (he assumed) flesh. It didn't get his ankle, but it did get his pants leg. George grabbed for the first thing he saw--a windshield wiper--to steady himself as the dog tried to pull him off the van.
He pounded on the windshield. "Start the car! Start the frickin' car!"
As George tried to shake the pit bull off his leg, he helplessly watched the gas station attendant's desperate fight for life. One dog was at his legs, the other was at his shoulder, as if they were working together to rip him in half. The attendant still had a lot of struggle left in him, but the dogs were winning.
Awful way to go.
Lou started the engine. As he backed up the van, George's already precarious grip slipped away, and he tumbled off the front of the vehicle, crushing a tiny dog beneath him as he landed on his ass. The pit bull went for his face.
He punched it away, but the blow barely seemed to phase the animal. George extended his thumbs and thrust at its eyes. He missed by a few inches--and missed getting his thumbs bit off by even less. He elbowed the dog just like he'd elbowed the other one. It had the same lack of effect.
"Hold it steady!" said Lou from above.
George looked up. Lou had rolled down the passenger-side window and was pointing his gun at the dog.
"Don’t--!"
Lou squeezed the trigger, firing a bullet into the dog's forechest. The dog flopped off of George and lay on the cement, flailing and whimpering.
"Don't shoot!" George shouted. "There's gas everywhere!"
"It was killing you!"
"It wasn't killing me, it was attacking me! Don't fire bullets when there's gasoline spilled on the ground!"
"The gas station guy did!"
"He wasn't near the actual gas!"
"I saved your life!"
"Put the gun away!"
George got up yet again, though this time it was quite a bit more difficult.
"Move!" Lou said.
Before George could move, Lou fired another bullet, shooting a medium-sized black dog that had been racing at George.
"I said stop shooting!"
"Then get the hell out of danger!"
George turned to check on the woman. She hadn't shut her car door. In fact, she was no longer in the vehicle. She was running toward th
e gas station attendant, which seemed like the exact opposite direction in which a young woman who'd already been mauled by a dog should be running.
The attendant wasn't struggling as much, but he was still alive. The woman had something in her hand.
Lou reached through the open window and smacked George on the arm. "Get in the goddamn car!"
That was an excellent recommendation. Lou scooted back into the driver's seat as George opened the passenger door, got inside, and slammed the door.
As the woman rushed over to the attendant, the dog that was ripping apart his legs let go of its bloody prey and turned on its new victim. She blasted it with a dose of what was looked like pepper spray, and the dog howled and ran off in the other direction.
Before she could get the other dog, it tore a huge strip of flesh out of the attendant's throat. George winced and slapped his hand over his mouth. Even if he wanted to be a hero, that poor bastard would be dead within seconds.
The woman sprayed the dog. It yelped, but the pain wasn't enough to keep it from tearing out a second piece of the attendant's throat.
Lou sped forward. The van bounced as he ran over one of the dead dogs. "Get the lady!" George said.
Lou drove up next to her, George opened his door, and she jumped inside the van, squeezing onto George's lap. He pulled the door closed most of the way, then threw it open again, bashing yet another Doberman in the face. Then he closed the door and, tires squealing, they sped out of the gas station and back onto the road.
The woman began to sob. "You'll be okay," George assured her. "We'll get you to the emergency room. They'll fix you up."
"Did you see what they did to that man? He...he...I don't think we can help him."
"That was the weirdest thing I've ever seen," said Lou. "They couldn't all go rabid at once like that, could they? I mean, do you think they escaped from a medical center or something?"
"No idea. Not a clue. Jesus." George hurt in several places and wanted to check out the extent of his injuries, but he couldn't do it with the woman in his lap. He did glance at his wrist, which had a couple of puncture wounds, but the blood was seeping instead of spraying so he figured he'd be okay.