by Jeff Strand
"You could let me go," Michele said, helpfully.
Though they had a perfectly good cage to lock her in, the broken windshield meant that she could scream for help and attract attention. They could gag her, in theory, and you couldn't really see the cage from outside the vehicle, but the broken windshield would also make the van very enticing to thieves if they left it unattended.
They could just let her go, except that if they did succeed in recapturing Ivan, they'd wish that Michele wasn't free and blabbing to the police. It was a big loose end they didn't need. But what else could they do? Bring her to the meeting with Ivan and get her killed?
"I didn't run before," she said.
"Actually, you did."
The phone rang. Fifteen minutes on the dot. "Yeah?" George answered.
"Where are you?"
"We're in Naples. Just passed a Seven-Eleven."
"Well, that's helpful. Put the Cotton Mouse Tavern into your magic machine."
George entered the name in the GPS. "Nine minutes away."
"Then be there in seven. Find us a cozy booth."
At 2:47, exactly when the GPS said he'd get there, George pulled into the parking lot of the Cotton Mouse Tavern, a bar with about three billion neon beer signs on the outside, along with an ugly-ass rat-thing on the roof. There were about eleven or twelve other cars in the lot, none of them fine automobiles.
George parked, shut off the engine, and turned to Michele. "This is our chance to negotiate with this psycho. If he thinks we called the cops, he may start killing people. So I'm not going to lock you up, but I'm going to trust that you'll make the right decision and not cause any trouble that will get anybody killed."
"You're letting me go?" Michele asked.
"Yeah. It's either that or drag you in there with us. You want to tag along?"
"Not really."
"You know, it would've been nice to be consulted on this," said Lou. "I'm just saying."
"Where were we going to talk about it?"
"We could've talked about it right in front of her. What was she gonna do?"
"Are you saying that we shouldn't let her go?"
"No, I've been in favor of letting her go from the beginning. I'd just like to be part of these decisions. We're partners. You're not my boss."
"Then I apologize. But for the past nine years our relationship has generally involved me making the decisions and you cheerfully going along with them. Forgive me for not realizing that suddenly you want to--"
"I get to go, right?" Michele asked.
"Yes," said George.
"Yes," Lou added.
"Thank you. I'm not going to get anybody killed, I promise."
George and Lou got out of the van. Lou carried the briefcase, while George carried the folded-up blanket. Michele followed them, then stood there, looking uncertain.
"I guess it's inappropriate to, I don't know, shake your hand or anything like that."
"It would be weird," said George.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. I hope you guys catch the werewolf. I'm rooting for you."
"Thanks."
Michele stood there for another moment, then walked away from the van. George watched her go, wondering if he'd just made a huge mistake.
"Did we just mess up?" Lou asked.
"I don't know. What else were we going to do with her? Hobble her?"
"I kind of liked her. Not just because she was hot."
"Well, damn, you should have asked her out on a date. That might keep her from rushing right to the cops."
"Think I'd have a chance?"
"Not in hell."
"Yeah. Oh well. So in addition to letting her go, are we really going to walk in there and talk to the werewolf?"
"Yep."
"This is a decision we're making on purpose, as opposed to, say, getting in that van and driving for the border?"
"Which border?"
"Whatever one is closest. Canada or Mexico. I don't care."
"You don't have to come with me."
"Yeah, I know. But if I didn't, you'd get all killed and stuff, and then I'd have to deal with funeral arrangements, and your financial affairs are probably completely screwed up."
"They're actually very solid. I've even got a living will. It says that if I can't go to the bathroom on my own, pull the plug. That's my minimum standard for quality of life. So if Ivan doesn't kill me but he turns me into a paraplegic, that's what you need to know."
"Got it. Hey, George?"
"Yeah?"
"We're just standing here talking so we don't have to go in there and face this guy, aren't we?"
"That's why I'm standing here, at least."
"We should get it over with."
"Yeah."
They walked into the bar. A jukebox played a country/western song that immediately became George's least favorite song of all time. All of the stools at the bar were taken, though a couple of the booths in the back were unoccupied. An extremely intoxicated sixty-year-old slow-danced (even though it was a fast song) with a twenty-one year-old who had one hand in each of his back pockets. The place smelled like smoke, booze, and desperation.
It wasn't even three o'clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday. Didn't these people have lives? Granted, George's line of work didn't stick to a strict nine-to-five schedule, so who was he to judge?
There was no sign of Ivan.
"Now what?" Lou asked.
"I guess we have a seat."
They weaved through the crowd to the booth furthest in the back and sat down on the same bench, giving the werewolf a place to sit across from them. George brushed some ashes and a wet straw wrapper off the table, put a finger in his left ear to block out the hellish noise, then called Ivan.
"Are you there?" Ivan asked.
"Yeah. Where the hell are you?"
"Making sure you're not setting a trap."
"We're not that clever."
"I see that. I'll be there in a minute."
Ivan hung up. George tucked the phone back into his pocket. A waitress who was neither the appropriate age nor the appropriate body shape for her tight t-shirt walked over to their booth. "What can I get you?"
"Coke," said George.
"Diet," said Lou.
The waitress gave them a look of mild disgust, as if they'd announced their intention to simultaneously urinate on the floor, then rolled her eyes and walked away.
"If you end up dying today, you'll wish you at least had a regular Coke," said George.
"If I live, I'm getting back in shape."
"Fair enough."
Right after their drinks arrived, Ivan walked into the bar. He looked confident. Fearless. Arrogant. Like a complete prick.
He walked through the bar and sat down at their booth, then gestured to their drinks. "Didn't you order me anything?"
"No," said George. "Order your own drink."
"Did you bring the money?"
"Yeah."
"Let me see it."
Lou took the briefcase off his lap and set it on the table. He kept it close, as if worried that Ivan might make a sudden grab for it.
Ivan nodded. "Open it."
Lou popped open the lid. He held the briefcase open just long enough to give Ivan a glimpse of the cash inside, then closed it back up.
"Thank you," said Ivan. "Now burn it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Take out a lighter and set the money on fire. Right now."
"We really aren't in the mood for any more of your games," George said, leaning across the table in what he hoped was a threatening manner. "Now are you here for the cash, or are you here to waste our time?"
"Well, I'm definitely not here to waste your time, George. And we all know that this could never be as simple as you bribing me to go away, because I've already proven that I'm not a man of my word. Remember when I kept insisting that I wasn't a werewolf? Good times."
"So what's it going to take for us to make a deal?"
; "Oh, there won't be a deal. Just a massacre." Ivan looked around the bar. "How many people do you think are in here? Twenty-five? Thirty?"
"About that."
"How many do you think I can kill? I think I can get eight before this place completely clears out. What's your guess? Higher or lower?"
"We're not playing around, Ivan."
"You're not? Then why are you here? You actually think you're going to stop me?"
"We might."
"Okay, I'll make you another deal. Both of you take your drinks and slowly pour them on your heads, and I'll surrender."
"I'm not kidding," said George. "We're done with the games."
"We've barely even started the games. What have we done so far that qualifies as a game? You chased me around that neighborhood, but that wasn't really a game, that was just a chase. Doesn't count. There weren't any games played at poor Diane's house--personally, I consider that cold-blooded murder. If you thought it was a fun game, well, you're just not a very nice person. Are you two playing games without me?"
George gently kicked Lou under the table. They did not have an elaborate plan to trap Ivan. They'd tried to come up with one, but all of their ideas seemed like plans that could go terribly wrong. So they'd settled for the following scheme: if they decided that they had no other choice, George would give Lou the signal by gently kicking him under the table, at which point they would pull out their guns and pump several rounds into Ivan's face. Hopefully that would surprise and weaken him enough for them to throw the blanket with the silver rings over his head and drag him out to the cage. If he got a chance, Lou would also try to stab him.
It was far from subtle, and it wasn't something they really wanted to do in front of a tavern full of witnesses, but they didn't have much of a choice at this point.
They pulled out their guns.
Moving faster than George would have ever expected possible in his human form, Ivan slid below the table. He was an arrogant prick, but apparently not such an arrogant prick that he hadn't anticipated that he might be in physical danger. As he disappeared from sight, George and Lou shoved their guns underneath the table and squeezed the triggers. They were blind shots but almost point-blank ones.
The table went flying into the air, sailing across the bar and crashing into the dancing couple, knocking them to the ground with what looked like a spatter of blood, though George caught this only in his peripheral vision and couldn't be sure.
He and Lou opened fire on the fully transformed wolfman, pumping bullets into his face and chest. The "shoot and shoot and shoot" portion of their plan was working nicely.
Blood sprayed and Ivan recoiled with each shot, throwing up his clawed hands to defend himself. One shot got him directly under the left eye. Another broke off most of a talon. At least three got him in the heart.
In the background--the faint, distant background--George heard people screaming. Lots of commotion.
Lou's gun ran out of ammunition a couple of seconds before George's did. They both kept pulling the trigger for a few clicks after bullets stopped firing, staring at the blood-soaked monster that stood before them.
Ivan let out a howl of animalistic fury.
No way were they going to get the blanket on him. George didn't even make a move for it. Better not to let Ivan know they had it.
Lou, who'd taken out the silver cross so quickly that George didn't even see him do it, put their emergency backup plan into action: he lunged forward with the weapon, thrusting it toward Ivan's heart.
Ivan swiped at Lou's hand, striking it with such force that George thought he might have snapped Lou's wrist. The cross flew across the bar, striking the wall and falling to the floor. Lou was lucky that the same thing didn't happen to his hand.
Though Lou cried out in pain, it didn't slow him down. He punched Ivan in the chest, hitting him hard enough to create a shower of crimson from Ivan's blood-soaked fur.
George threw his own punch, aiming for Ivan's neck but hitting him in the shoulder. The bastard was solid as hell, and George felt as if his knuckles burst inside his skin. Both George and Lou could throw mean punches, but though their blows clearly hurt Ivan, they didn't knock him down.
God, he wished they'd had silver bullets. What kind of irresponsible scumbag would send you on a trip with a werewolf and not provide silver bullets?
Ivan balled his hand into a fist and punched Lou in the face, sending the big guy crashing into the bench, against the wall, and onto the floor. At least Ivan hadn't tried to kill him--had he used his claws, Lou's face would be splattered across the bar next to the silver cross.
The werewolf slammed its hands against George's arms, pinning them to his sides. He tried to knee Ivan in the groin but though his knee connected with its target it was just a glancing blow that seemed to have no effect. Ivan squeezed George's arms, just until it hurt, and then he...well, he didn't quite throw George, but George definitely didn't hurtle across the room of his own volition.
He struck a table, knocking it over and sending a couple of beers flying. He grabbed for a chair to stop his fall, but it toppled along with him and he crashed to the floor, a leg of the chair bashing into his kidney, hard.
The pain was unbelievable. He'd be pissing blood for sure.
He blinked away the wave of dizziness, and took a half-second to survey his surroundings. People were screaming and running for the exit in a mad panic, with at least two of them on the floor being trampled.
The twenty-one year-old knelt on the floor, wailing and cradling her older dance partner in her lap. Blood gushed from a laceration in his forehead and his neck was bent at a hideous angle.
A man behind the bar cocked a shotgun.
Lou, dazed and confused, was trying to get back up.
George wanted to get up as well, but he needed just a few seconds for the worst of the agony to fade before he'd be of any use to anybody. Just a few. Not long.
The man behind the bar pointed the shotgun at Ivan, but Ivan was at the counter before he could shoot. Ivan knocked the barrel of the gun upward just as the man squeezed the trigger, firing into the ceiling, creating a cloud of plaster, and eliciting a scream of pain from above.
Holy shit. Had he actually shot somebody upstairs?
Ivan wrenched the shotgun out of the man's hands and shoved the barrel in his face. The man held up his hands in surrender. "Don't shoot!"
The werewolf seemed to consider that. Ivan moved the shotgun barrel away from the man's face, fumbled a bit with his claws on the trigger, then fired into one of the man's upraised hands, blowing it completely off. The man's shriek was silenced a moment later as Ivan tossed the gun aside and swiped off his entire lower jaw.
Before the impact of that could even sink in, Ivan pulled the man forward by the front of his shirt, opened his mouth wide, and then bit down on what remained of the man's face. Ivan spit the bloody chunk onto the counter, let the man's corpse fall, and then turned toward George.
Ivan held up his index finger and wiggled the talon.
The message was clear: That's one...
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Massacre at the Cotton Mouse Tavern
George and Lou both got up. Despite the agony, George was able to find his voice, if not his wit. "I'll fuckin' kill you!"
Ivan beckoned. Bring it on.
But instead of waiting for George, Ivan ran over to the formerly dancing couple, pouncing on them with his claws and fangs bared. The girl died first, unless the old man was already dead when the werewolf got there, which was entirely possible. Ivan didn't try to be inventive--he just ripped their bodies apart in a matter of seconds, tearing off flesh with such speed and intensity that George couldn't be certain which piece came from which victim.
Lou patted his pocket, then frantically looked around on the floor, presumably for his switchblade. Had he lost it in the fall? Lou quickly gave up the search and went for the cross.
About half of the patrons had made it out of the bar already, bu
t there was a bottleneck at the doorway. Panicked drunk people shoving each other was not conducive to an efficient exit.
An overweight bearded man pushed a skinny girl out of the way, his hand cupping one of her small breasts in the process. She bashed a beer bottle against the side of his head, spraying glass and Bud Light everywhere. The bearded man fell, taking the two people in front of him down with him.
Another man, clean-shaven, his eyes wide with terror, had apparently retained his sense of chivalry and pulled a blonde woman out of the way before she could get trampled.
It didn't surprise George that Ivan went after the nice guy.
Ivan leapt off the two mangled dancer corpses, knocked another man out of the way, and grabbed the nice guy's arm. As the guy cried out and tried to pull away, Ivan gave it a brutal yank. It wasn't enough to rip off the limb, but it was clearly enough to pop his arm out of its socket.
With the second yank, the skin split. The arm remained attached. A third yank, and the arm came most of the way off. Ivan quickly finished the job with his teeth.
Lou crawled around on the floor, searching unsuccessfully for the cross.
George slammed his foot down on the wooden chair, breaking off the leg that had bashed his kidney and creating a makeshift wooden stake. Even if it didn't kill Ivan, they might be able to injure him enough to finally subdue the creature.
Ivan shoved the one-armed nice guy toward George. The guy, spurting blood and almost completely drained of color, dropped to the floor before he could get in George's way. George leapt over him, tried to fake a swing to the left, but took a werewolf fist to the face and stumbled backwards, almost but not quite losing his footing.
Ivan snarled and tossed the severed arm aside. There was so much gore in his fur that it was hard to say for certain, but his gunshot wounds no longer seemed to be bleeding.
Most of the bar patrons had finally made their way out of the place. Aside from the bearded guy and the two people on the floor with him, only a man and woman who looked to be in their early twenties remained at the doorway. They were presumably a romantic couple, since they were dressed in matching cutesy light green shirts.
One of the people who'd been trampled had apparently made it outside to safety. The other, a middle-aged lady with pigtails, lay dead on the floor, her body broken and bloody.