Cure for Wereduck

by Dave Atkinson

  “I dunno. Maybe,” said John. “He’s the least of our troubles. He won’t know about this until he sees the charges on his credit card bill next month. The chances of him finding us right now on a train speeding across Canada are about zero.”

  Kate sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

  John’s confidence made her feel a bit better, but she couldn’t shake all her worries. This entire plan relied on a whole lot of things going right. If she’d learned anything in the last few months, it was that things rarely work out the way you expect them to.

  Dirk drummed on the steering wheel of his truck in time with the country song blaring from his radio. He’d been idling for nearly half an hour at the border crossing between the United States and Canada, just south of Montreal. There was just one car left in line in front of him. In just a few minutes, he’d be cleared through Canadian customs and on his way to the train station to ambush an unsuspecting werewolf and wereduck.

  Dirk stopped mid–drum solo to prepare for the customs inspection. He leaned over and opened his glovebox. An avalanche of papers slid to the floor.

  “Shoot,” he hissed.

  Dirk looked up and saw the driver of the car in front of him was handing paperwork to the border guard. He had just a minute or so before it was his turn.

  Dirk pushed papers back and forth on the ground. The corner of a small blue booklet caught his eye.

  “Bingo!” He picked up his passport and leaned back in his seat.

  In front of him, the driver had stepped out of his vehicle and was being led by the border guard to the trunk of his car. The driver unlocked it and pulled out a grocery bag. The guard reached in and withdrew an orange.

  Shoot, thought Dirk. Am I not allowed to bring in fruit?

  He glanced around the inspection booth and saw a large sign reminding travellers to declare all produce in their vehicles.

  He looked to the seat beside him. Three bunches of bananas sat piled in a heap, each in varying shades of ripeness. The bunch on the bottom was nearly black.

  “Shoot!” he said out loud.

  He looked at the floor of the passenger seat. Under the pile of papers from the glovebox, the floor was carpeted with banana peels.

  The driver ahead of him handed the bag of oranges to the border guard, who tucked them inside the door of his customs booth. There didn’t seem to be a problem—But you never can tell with authority figures in mirrored sunglasses, thought Dirk. The driver stepped back into his vehicle. The brake lights on his car flared red; Dirk realized it was almost his turn.

  “Shoot,” he said again. “Shoot, shoot, shoot.”

  He yanked a green shopping bag from between the seats and began to stuff it with bananas and peels. He needed to get rid of the evidence or he might be denied entry, or something much worse—everyone knew Canadian border guards belonged to a secret and ancient society bent on control of the global banking system through a sophisticated campaign of computer cracking, kidnapping, and confiscating small amounts of fruit from international travellers. Dirk leaned over to scrape slimy peels from the floor of the truck.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Dirk jolted upright to find the border guard tapping on his window. Dirk flashed him a nervous smile and rolled down the glass.

  “Care to pull your truck forward, sir?” said the guard. He had a generous moustache. His mirrored sunglasses glinted in the sun.

  “Oh, uh,” said Dirk, his face flushing red. “Yes. Sure. Of course. Sorry. Yes.”

  He put his truck in gear and pulled it up to the booth.

  “Now,” said the border guard flatly, “what was so distracting that you had to hold up the entire line of cars behind you?”

  “Oh, uh,” said Dirk, casting about, “I guess I was, uh—”

  “What’s in the bag, sir?” demanded the guard, eyeing the item sitting beside Dirk on the seat.

  “Just some, heh, y’know….”

  Dirk handed the bag of rotten peels and bananas through the window. Black juice dribbled from the bottom. The border guard winced at the smell.

  “Bananas?” he said, holding the bag at arm’s length. A puddle of juice began to gather at his feet.

  “Bananas,” repeated Dirk. He grinned weakly. He thought of the rumours he’d heard of the unsuspecting, fruit-carrying travellers who passed through the border and were never seen or heard from again.

  “Well, shoot,” said the border guard. He flung the bag into a nearby garbage bin. A slow smile spread across his face. “So many people freak out at the last minute because they’ve got a bit of fruit in the car. Don’t worry about that.”

  Dirk sighed. “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “Though, that is disgusting,” said the guard, motioning toward the garbage bin. His smile faded.

  “I know,” said Dirk.

  “Like, really disgusting.”

  Dirk paused. “I’m sorry.”

  “Seriously,” said the guard, reaching for a bottle of hand sanitizer. “That’s the grossest thing I’ve seen come through here in a long time.”

  “I’m, uh—”

  “But I can’t deny you entry for being a disgusting human being,” said the guard, rubbing sanitizer into his palms. He levelled his mirrored sunglasses at Dirk. “So, I’m going to need to see your passport.”

  Dirk handed it over.

  “Dirk Bragg,” slowly read the guard. “That sounds familiar.” He looked back and forth between the passport photograph and Dirk. “You famous or something?”

  “Not really.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “Journalist? I swear I’ve seen your face before.”

  The guard swivelled to shout at the border guard working in the next lane.

  “Hey, Bert! Bert! You ever hear of someone named Dirk Bragg? Was he on TV or something?”

  The second guard looked up from his conversation with another driver. “Dirk Bragg? He’s the werewolf guy! From America This Morning!”

  “Holy heck!” said the guard, turning back to Dirk. “You’re the werewolf guy from the TV!”

  “Oh. Uh—” stammered Dirk, smiling nervously.

  “Man, that was hilarious,” said the border guard. “You sure did pull a fast one on that old TV guy.” He turned back to his co-worker. “Remember that song he sang, Bert? What was that again?”

  Bert looked up. “My wheels belong to the road!” he began.

  “But my heart belongs to yoooooou!” sang the two border guards together before breaking into laughter.

  “So what are you up to now?” asked the guard, his cheeks red with laughter. “Another werewolf hunt?”

  Dirk slumped in his seat and looked forward. “Something like that.”

  “Well, then,” said the guard, handing back his passport. “I wish you luck.”

  “I’m free to go?”

  “You are,” said the guard. He leaned forward and winked. “Don’t get bit by any werewolves now. HA HA HA HA HA!”

  “Ha. I’ll try.” Dirk let out a long breath and put his truck into gear.

  “Hold up, hold up,” said the guard, stopping Dirk before he could pull away. He yanked off his sunglasses. His eyes narrowed. “I need just one more thing.”

  Dirk gulped. “What’s that?”

  The guard pulled his phone from his pocket.

  “Mind if I take a selfie with you?”

  Tall light standards whizzed past Bobby’s window—the kind that usually illuminate a major highway. He couldn’t see what direction they were driving. He had no idea how far they’d driven. All he could tell was that for the first time in many hours, the car was slowing down.

  “Where are we?” Bobby dared ask.

  “Highway rest station,” said Marcus. “I’m running out o
f gas. Time to find another ride.”

  “But once the sun goes down, won’t you become a—”

  “Quiet,” interrupted Marcus. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Bobby felt the car manoeuvre off the highway. He could see the occasional treetop through the window. The car pulled to a stop. Marcus put the car in park and swivelled in his seat to look at Bobby.

  “I’m going to be gone for two minutes, but I will be within earshot of the car the whole time. If you yell, I will hear you. Got me?”

  Bobby nodded.

  The driver’s door slammed shut, leaving Bobby alone in the car. He thought of sending another text message to his parents. He fiddled with the phone behind his back, finding and pressing the power button. Nothing happened. The battery was dead.

  Before he could mourn the loss of his last connection with home, the door beside him opened. Marcus leaned in and started ripping the duct tape off Bobby’s wrists and ankles.

  “Now,” he said, yanking away the last bit of tape, “I’ve found us another ride. Before you even think about running away, consider: I’m bigger. I’m faster. I’m stronger. Understand?”

  Bobby nodded. His arms and legs were so sore from being bound, he didn’t know whether he could walk, let alone run.

  “I understand.”

  “Good,” said Marcus. His features relaxed. “This doesn’t have to be difficult. I know it may be hard for you to understand, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Bobby sat up and swung a tentative foot to the ground. A cramp gripped his thigh. He gasped.

  “You okay?” said Marcus.

  Bobby nodded. Marcus held out his hand. Bobby stared at it a moment before reaching out to grab hold. Marcus pulled him gently from the car.

  “Stretch your legs a bit,” he advised. “You’ll be pretty stiff, I imagine.”

  Bobby attempted to take a step and nearly fell over. Pain stabbed the back of both his knees. His legs had been stuck in the same position for so long, they were almost too stiff to move.

  “Ouch,” said Marcus, wincing at the boy’s pain. “Try stretching one at a time.”

  Bobby held onto the side of the car for support as he lunged forward to stretch first his left knee, then his right. He rubbed the back of his thigh to work out the knots.

  “All right, we don’t have much time,” said Marcus, slinging a small pack over his shoulder. “Come on.”

  He led the boy across the parking lot to a row of idling semi-trucks. He stopped beside the cab of a red truck attached to a dirty white semi-trailer. A scruffy man with a brown ball cap nodded at them as they approached.

  “Boundary Creek by dawn, right?” said Marcus in reply to the silent greeting.

  “I’ve gotta be in Halifax by mid-morning, so that’s on the way,” said the man. “I don’t see why you want to ride in the back, though. Plenty of room up front.”

  “Call it a bit of adventure for my son and me,” said Marcus.

  The driver nodded at Bobby. “Couple of modern-day hobos, is that it, boy? Kind of like riding the rails.”

  Bobby didn’t know what to say. He looked down. Marcus nudged him.

  “Yeah,” said Bobby quietly. “Like riding the rails.”

  The driver shrugged. “Suit yourself then.”

  He climbed down from the cab and led them around to the back of the trailer. He lifted the latch on the door and pulled it open. “Hop in,” he said.

  The cargo bay contained showroom furniture. Box springs and mattresses filled the front of the truck. Tables and chairs were piled in the middle with a couple of soft-looking couches stacked right behind them. The driver grinned. “You’ll be comfortable enough,” he said. “Be glad I’m not hauling a load of pigs like last week.”

  Marcus climbed into the back of the truck and pulled Bobby up by the hand.

  “Just don’t make a mess of the couches,” joked the driver as he reached for the door handle. “No dog hair on the upholstery, all right?”

  Marcus coughed. “Ha. Well. I can’t promise anything.”

  The driver pulled the door shut, leaving Marcus and Bobby alone in the dark.

  Laura sat on her couch in front of the television. She was flicking back and forth between a baseball game and a British crime drama. Her team was losing by a half-dozen runs in the fifth inning. The crime drama, well, she’d figured out who the murderer was in the first ten minutes of the show. She was about to switch off the TV when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” she said, clicking the remote and tossing it aside.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Laura,” replied a woman’s voice.

  “This is Laura.”

  “Hi. You don’t know me,” said the woman. “My name is Beatrice. I have some information you need to know.”

  Laura laughed nervously. “What is this about?”

  “Your son. John.”

  A long silence fell on the line.

  “My son is dead,” said Laura finally. Her voice was angry. “Don’t call this number again.”

  She was about to hang up when Bea interrupted.

  “Laura, he’s alive,” she blurted. “And so is Marcus. Laura, I know Marcus is a werewolf.”

  Laura choked on tears. “How could you know—”

  “I’m sorry. I know this is hard,” soothed Bea. “I believe you that Marcus is a werewolf because….” She paused a moment. “Because I’m a werewolf too.”

  “This is some kind of sick joke.”

  “It’s no joke,” said Bea. “John is alive and he’s on his way to see you right now.”

  “He’s on his way here?”

  “Yes, right now. He wants to meet you. But, Laura….” Halfway across the country, Bea closed her eyes before continuing. “Marcus is following him. We think he’s going to try to reach you before John can.”

  Laura sat on the couch. Her hand reached for her mouth. “No,” she breathed. “He can’t.”

  “I know this is a lot to take in, but I’m afraid Marcus is capable of almost anything, because he is very angry. And because….” Bea paused again. “Because tonight is the full moon.”

  Laura stood up and walked to the window. The sun hung low in the late-afternoon sky.

  “Laura, I’m worried about you. And I’m worried about John. He’s a werewolf, too. He’s travelling with my niece, who is a…it’s really complicated. I’m worried about all of you. Do you have someplace you can go?” asked Bea. “You have a bit of time. I don’t think Marcus will be able to make it there until early morning.”

  Laura crossed the room to the bookshelf. She reached up to grab something from the top shelf.

  “Laura, are you still there?”

  “Oh, I’m here,” said Laura calmly. She smoothed her hand over the lid of the cigar box. “No, I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere,” she said. “I’ll wait for Marcus right here.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” cautioned Bea.

  “I do,” said Laura sharply. “What did you say your name was, again?”

  “It’s Beatrice. People call me Bea.”

  “Well, Bea,” said Laura with a bitter laugh, “let me tell you a story.”

  “Stand back,” came Marcus’s voice in the inky darkness of the truck’s trailer. “Stand against the door. I’m going to pull a couple of these couches down for us.”

  There was a noise of sliding, wood against wood, then a crash. Marcus swore quietly before dragging the furniture into position with a grunt.

  “There.”

  Bobby felt his way through the dark to the seat of a brand new couch. The cushions were still wrapped in plastic. “Thanks,” he said, settling in.

  “Don’t mention it. It’s going to be a long ride.”

  “Why are you being nice to me?”

  Marcus thought a mome
nt. “Because I don’t hate you, Bobby. I’m not a monster.”

  The engine of the truck roared to life. The sudden motion jostled Marcus and Bobby as the rig drove out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

  “Then what am I doing here?” said Bobby.

  “I couldn’t exactly leave you at your house after you’d seen me,” said Marcus. “As soon as Mummy and Daddy got home, you’d tell them exactly where I’d gone and what I was doing. It’s just easier this way.”

  “What happens when we get where we’re going?”

  “To you? Nothing. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “What about John and Kate?”

  “What about them?”

  Bobby could tell this question had angered him.

  “What are you going to do to them?”

  “That depends on them,” said Marcus. “First, we need to get to that woman’s house before they do. I don’t know what happens after that.”

  The two sat in dark silence for a moment.

  “What’s wrong with John seeing his mom?” asked Bobby. “What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that woman is a lunatic. She’s dangerous,” said Marcus.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s the reason we’ve been on the run for fifteen years,” said Marcus. Even in the dark, Bobby knew Marcus’s face was twisted with rage.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you?” said Marcus. “Well, then. Let me tell you a story.”

  “Everything was wonderful,” said Laura on the phone to Bea. “My friends thought I had it all. I had a great job. I had met and married this guy—this handsome and mysterious guy. And we had this beautiful baby boy. I can still see the light in Marcus’s eyes when he first held John. You never saw a man so in love with his son.”

  “It was just like the movies,” said Marcus in the darkness of the truck’s trailer. “When I first met John’s mum, it was just like that—instant connection. I loved her so much, and she seemed to love everything about me. Only she didn’t know everything about me.

  “Every month at the full moon, I found some reason to be gone. A business trip, a sick cousin, or whatever. And things just kept going. We got married. Bought a house. Had a baby. But she still didn’t know the truth. She didn’t know what I really was.”