CHAPTER 8
Traffic was backed up for miles on the 15. They were at a dead stop for over forty-five minutes. Floodlights lit the long stretch of highway, and enterprising vendors set up road stands, selling T-shirts, water, and fruit. The evening heat was going to be brutal. The radio announcer noted the time was 8:00 p.m., and the freeway to Monsterland was packed tighter than anything they’d seen before. They were surrounded by a variety of license plates. Josh jumped in and out of the car, calling out different states excitedly. Twice Wyatt grumbled for him to get back in the car. All the windows were open, and Wyatt had shut the air conditioning off some time ago. The old clunker looked dangerously close to overheating. Police cars raced back and forth on the artificial grass on either side of the roadway. Overhead, a trio of black helicopters made a wide circle in the velvet sky and then started descending.
“Elvis is in the building,” Melvin intoned.
“I don’t think even Vincent Conrad has the capability of raising someone who’s been dead that long,” Howard said sarcastically. “It’s McAdams and the senators. This is so disorganized. I told you coming tonight would be a mistake.”
Wyatt looked at Howard in the mirror. He was acting strangely. First, he said he couldn’t go, with some lame excuse, and then he tried to talk them all out of going. He was jittery and nervous. Well, Wyatt thought, to be honest, he was always jittery and nervous, but he appeared more so tonight.
News crews and their vans lined the median, the large satellites relaying and comparing all the different Monsterland openings. Reporters stood outside, their faces lit by floodlights, mics in hands and stories being told.
Melvin interrupted his thoughts. “He can’t raise the dead. Werewolves aren’t dead. Vampires technically are undead.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Josh asked.
“Here we go again,” Wyatt said wearily, resting his head in his hand. He was getting tired of the argument.
“One doesn’t die when they become a vampire; they just live for a longer time or until they get a wooden stake through the heart. They have to be killed by specific means, making people think they are more special than they are.”
“As if sucking on blood isn’t enough to make someone think you’re special,” Howard retorted. “Anyway, blood-borne diseases can’t get them either.”
“Okay, but zombies are dead,” Josh said impatiently.
“Go ahead, explain the facts of life to your brother,” Howard told Wyatt.
“They’re not dead either, just infected with the plague. They are catatonic and have this need to consume flesh, but really any meat will do.”
“They’re zombies,” Josh said with a nod.
“Not in the truest sense. They die when you shoot them. Eventually the illness gets them. That’s been the whole problem. They can’t live with society because they’re out of control. Their brains have been fried by the disease.”
“They look like zombies, they smell like zombies—”
“How do you know what they smell like, Josh?” Howard demanded. “When was the last time you rubbed shoulders with one?”
“Happens. I read about them.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Is Carter inside yet?” Melvin asked, interrupting the boys in the backseat.
“He left before three this afternoon,” Wyatt responded. He opened his window, sticking his arm out. He jerked his hand when it came in contact with the burning chrome. “Man, it’s hotter than hell out there.”
“Asshole,” he heard Josh mutter. He glanced at his brother, wondering if Josh was referring to him or Howard Drucker or even Carter. Josh was generally out of charity with everybody.
“Have you heard from him yet?” Howard inquired.
Wyatt shook his head. “Nope.” He looked at the sea of cars, wondering where Jade was in the traffic and if he was going to be able to spend any time with her. He sighed gustily.
Howard stuck his head out of the car. “That had to be the president.” He sat back down with a sigh. “You sure you don’t want to turn around?”
“Are you crazy?” Melvin shoved his hand into a package of Doritos. His upper lip and chin were the same color as his hair.
Melvin sat in the front, and Howard shared the back with the younger boy. A cooler filled with drinks sat between them. They had eaten the sandwiches and were halfway through the snacks.
Wyatt looked at Howard in the rearview mirror. His skin was pasty. He had been quiet since he joined them at five. He tossed his half-eaten candy bar into the trash bag.
“What’s the matter with you?” Wyatt asked him quietly.
Melvin fished out the candy bar. “You better finish all that. It says right here.” Melvin pointed to his brochure, a lump of Doritos landing on his T-shirt. “You can’t take any food into the park.” His wolf-head necklace was covered with orange dust. Only the green glass eyes gleamed.
“Greedy bastards,” Howard complained. “They control the food concessions so they can charge a fortune for lousy turkey legs and crappy gray burgers. I think it sucks.” He pointed to Melvin’s pendant. “We chucked those years ago, Mel. Why are you still wearing that?”
Melvin grabbed the snarling wolf’s head with his hand. “I love this thing. It’s part of my identity. Part of my mojo.”
“You don’t even know what that means,” Howard replied. “You look like a jerk with it.”
“You suck!” Melvin retorted. “You afraid of the monsters, Howard Drucker?”
“No, he’s afraid of Keisha,” Josh laughed.
“Shut up,” he spat. “I’m not afraid of anything,” Howard responded hotly, his face bright red. Their shirts stuck to them. They had worn long pants as advised on the news. They were uncomfortable as well as testy. “Can’t you put the air back on?” Howard whined.
“Don’t think so,” Wyatt commented.
“I wish I wore shorts.”
“They are trying to keep your limbs safe from the zombies. Carter said they only allow food in hermetically sealed pavilions where it can’t be smelled.”
“The werewolves’ superior sense of smell is no match for a man-made building,” Melvin said, his mouth now stuffed with a Little Debbie cake.
“Oh, here we go again—vampires can outsmell a werewolf anytime,” Howard replied.
Wyatt let the conversation wash over him, his eyes darting every so often, searching for Nolan’s green Nissan. He wondered if Jade were sweltering in the heat in the tiny compact. Probably not. Nolan wouldn’t have to worry about conserving gas. His dad would buy it for him.
“That was mine.” Josh reached forward trying to grab the glazed bun from his hand. Melvin shoved the rest into his mouth.
“Cut it out.” Wyatt leaned over and punched his brother. “Look, I’ll turn this sucker around and take you home—”
“No!” Melvin and Josh cried out in unison.
“Peace, bro.” Josh made a v with his fingers.
“How eighties of you,” Howard said, pushing his glasses up. His face was glazed with sweat. “It’s hotter than hell in here.”
Melvin returned the peace sign and then flipped Josh the bird.
Josh’s retaliation was cut off as the car before them moved a few feet. Wyatt turned the ignition, lurching forward. The line started moving. They heard cheers from other cars around them. Melvin gave the thumbs-up signal to the car next to him. The road split into four lanes with two uniformed people waving flags, directing them to pull forward. A uniformed officer stepped into Wyatt’s view, waving for them to stop. He was wearing the black jumpsuit of Monsterland; his red badge had the logo with his name in the center. Wyatt could feel the excitement level in the car amp up. Josh sat on the edge of the seat, and Wyatt looked at him in the mirror. “Put your seatbelt back on.”
“What?” He replied. “We’re stopped.”
Wyatt picked up his phone, threatening to call their mother. Josh ungraciously threw himself backward to put on his belt.
The officer peered into the back of the car, his flashlight illuminating the dark interior. Wyatt watched him with interest.
“We’ve set up a dumping station at the main gate. No food or beverages allowed,” he informed them, looking into the car.
“I’m highly allergic and need specific food,” Howard lied, testing the officer.
“Sorry, son. We have a designated number where special meals can be ordered.” He pushed up the visor of his hat. “You needed to call in advance, though. Too late for that. I know someone who’d want to buy your ticket.”
“I’ll suffer,” Howard said dramatically.
The car inched forward, and the view was blocked by the row of tour buses in front of them.
The vehicle before them turned left, and the boys sat in shocked awe as the vista opened up. A huge concrete wall obliterated the horizon, giant iron gates separating them from the theme park.
“Entrance at 012 hundred,” Melvin said in a clipped robotic voice.
“The gate!” Josh crowed, jumping like a wild man in his seat. His seatbelt was off again.
The gate loomed before them. The first thing he noticed was the Monsterland logo, a large M in the center of vampire teeth. Wyatt looked up, spying iron letters barely visible in an arc overhead, the letters shaped with black metal. Wyatt stared up at the entrance, his mouth dry. He had wanted so badly to go, all these months, plotting and planning a way to be able to attend, yet the sign pulled at a distant memory. The giant lettering cast an awesome shadow. The iron gate was surrounded by twenty-foot-high finely sloped concrete walls that made the place look like Hoover Dam.
“Cut. It. Out, Josh, or I’m calling Mom. You’re not allergic to anything, Howard, and, Melvin, there’s no such thing as 012 hundred.”
“It’s the coordinates.”
“You’re an idiot,” Wyatt said with a laugh. Melvin was nothing if not entertaining.
“If you take me home, you’re going to miss Jade.” Josh pointed to the Nissan pulling up in the next lane. Nolan had the window open and was arguing with the Monsterland police.
Wyatt craned his neck to see if he could get a glimpse of Jade. His heart started to beat faster; a telltale flush rose to paint his face when he spied her delicate profile. He leaned forward to get a better glimpse of her.
“Forget it, she doesn’t see you,” Howard observed. “They’re like the gestapo,” he added sourly.
“The who?” Josh asked.
“The Nazi’s special police.”
“Who’s like the gestapo?”
“The Monsterland security. Did you hear that guy?”
“What’s up with you, Howard Drucker? I thought you wanted to go.” Wyatt turned, looking at his friend’s pinched face.
“Yeah, that was before, this is now.”
Melvin hooked his arm around the headrest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Howard shrugged indifferently.
“Come on,” Melvin said impatiently.
“In theory it sounded like a great idea. You know, seeing vampires, zombies, and werewolves in their natural habitat.”
“So?”
“The point is, this,” he gestured to the massive gates now in eyesight. “It seems unnatural. It feels—”
“What? Wrong? What else are they going to do with them? Kill them like in an old Boris Karloff movie? This is so right,” Melvin said hotly. “They were dying in those detention camps.”
“Containment camps,” Howard corrected.
“Whatever.” Melvin went on. “The hillbillies practically wiped out the werewolf colony once it was discovered. Vampires lived in fear, almost harried out of existence. Here they are protected. If they did that to the rhinos, maybe they wouldn’t have become extinct.”
“It’s sterile, not real!” Howard was leaning over the front seat.
“What happened to you? You were so excited about it,” Wyatt asked.
“This was all over YouTube this morning.” He typed something on his phone and then showed them the screen. It looked like a dilapidated portion of any American city. The image was filmed in a choppy fashion, bouncing around, going in and out of focus. The Werewolf River Run sign was in the viewfinder. Uniformed men, some with lab coats, entered the ride area. The camera panned out to view an artificial river with alligators rhythmically rising and falling in the choppy water. There was a rustle and then shouts. A howl turned into a wail, and all four boys watched, their collective breaths held.
“Was that filmed inside?”
“Inside one of them?”
“Shut up and listen. They’re speaking English, so I guess it was right here.”
“Who did it?”
Howard shrugged. “Candid Camera. How am I supposed to know? They didn’t give any credits.”
They clustered their heads together, fighting for space to see. Howard shoved the phone into Wyatt’s hands so he could hold it up for them all.
The camera picked up a scuffle and then a muffled curse. A huge dark animal tore from the brush, a gang of men following in hot pursuit. Its body was longer than a wolf; its hair a mix of black with gray highlights. It looked nine feet long. It growled, jumping high, and then, landing on all fours, it crouched low, growling ominously. Its muscled shoulders bunched with raw power. Its mouth opened to reveal dripping yellow fangs that glistened in the light. Narrowing its silvered eyes, it circled the area, and the men backed away warily. The paws were the size of dinner platters, and its wide chest heaved as it panted. Conrad was the tallest man in the group. He wore a white lab coat.
“A werewolf,” Melvin whispered in wonder.
“Watch,” Howard said impatiently.
The beast was overwhelmed by a Taser shot at him. It cried out in agony. Four goons jumped on its back. It was pummeled mercilessly with bats. In the background, the screams of a dozen beasts could be heard, but a row of men brandishing rifles held them in check. The animal was beaten, and, when it lay senseless on the floor, it was given one last kick.
The guard stood, wiping his hands. “Is it still breathing?” he asked, breathless from his exertion.
The doctor bent over to examine the creature. “Barely.”
“Is that Conrad?”
“Shut up and watch!”
“Good. Feed it to the zombies. They like their meat alive.” Conrad stood, wiping his hands on a proffered towel.
“Whoa, that’s sick,” Wyatt whispered.
“I heard the whales took a worse beating at the aquarium,” Melvin quipped.
“That couldn’t have been Conrad—he wouldn’t do that,” Wyatt said with disbelief. He sat back, his stomach feeling unsettled, as if his world suddenly tilted on its axis. Conrad was a man of honor, and that video had to be a mistake, he reasoned.
“Who are you?” Howard demanded. “That was murder, and, the last time I looked, murder was against the law.” He fiddled with the white pocket protector, sliding out a pencil to look at its point.
“You are such a nerd,” Melvin said, watching him.
Howard slid the pencil back hastily, making his nervous fingers relax in his lap.
“It’s not murder if they aren’t human,” Melvin continued as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Who decides who is human?” Howard shouted back.
The sign loomed above them. The car inched forward as if it were hooked on a tram ride. The back door was opened, efficient hands pulled out the cooler and bottled drinks. They were ordered out of the car. Two white uniformed men appeared on either side with huge vacuum hoses.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Wyatt asked uneasily. He noticed Nolan, Theo, Jade, and Keisha were also outside their vehicle. Jade’s worried eyes found Wyatt’s. Jade bit her bottom lip. Keisha waved her entrance ticket.
Wyatt pulled out his phone and started a text to Jade and then caught sight of Nolan and shoved his phone back in his pocket. What was he doing? She had a boyfriend, he reminded himself.
“We’re supposed to be special guests,” Keisha yelled at the lead guard.
“Yeah, join the crowd. Everybody has those today. You’re all special.”
They were allowed back into the cars, and told to follow the signage to the garages that rose out of the desert like a modernistic mountain.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Josh suggested.
“I don’t know about this place,” Howard replied.
“You’re always the skeptic,” Melvin said.
“So explain the video.”
The ride to the garage was utterly silent. Wyatt glanced back in his rearview mirror and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, remembering why the sign unnerved him. It bore a striking resemblance to a picture he had seen in his history book. The words were in German and read Arbeit Macht Frei—Work Makes You Free. It was the entrance to the Auschwitz death camp.
CHAPTER 9
Werewolves
Billy’s sharp eyes scanned the soldered joints holding the glass-covered dome together. He was in human form, as were the rest of his pack. The loincloths that had been given out earlier lay in a discarded heap where they had taken turns urinating on them, so they’d be unwearable.
This place was nothing better than a zoo. The collar on his neck chafed his skin. He was rubbed raw by it; the green LED light was always on the edge of his peripheral vision, a constant reminder of his captivity.
Vincent Conrad made a mockery of science. He had no intention of finding a cure or studying the inhabitants, of that Billy was sure. The man was evil; his pitiless, obsidian eyes studied Billy as though he were nothing more than an insect under a microscope. They couldn’t communicate with the other inmates. If only they could reach out to them, they could band together to get out of here. For all he knew, the vamps were happy with their confinement. Maybe they cut a better deal. Forget about the zombies, they were little better than a meal for his kind.
If only the vamps responded to his calls. He had tried, but they were cliquish, thought they were better than anyone else. Vamps cared nothing except for their own pleasure. They had passed for years living within society, on the fringe—they still managed to carve out a place for themselves, until Vincent saw fit to incorporate them into his obscene operation. They were invited in, not drugged and dragged in like he handled the werewolves. They lived peacefully for years in the swamps, until Vincent stumbled upon them and decided to put them in his freak show.
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