Fever

by Lara Whitmore

  “Fine,” Logan grumbled. “But only because I love the sound of your voice. Over and out.” He tossed the microphone onto the radio.

  It was quiet when he stepped out of the car, almost eerily so. He glanced around with feigned nonchalance as he strolled to the trunk. Where the hell was everyone? The area was remote, not abandoned.

  He retrieved his rifle with more haste than necessary, remembering a nasty ambush in northern Idaho preceded by such silence. Never let it be said that he made the same mistake twice.

  It wasn’t essential to hide the weapon, as they were at the tail end of bear hunting season. There was even a forged permit tucked away in his pocket, although Logan doubted any ranger would believe he was the hunting type. He wasn’t exactly decked out in camouflage.

  With an amused shake of his head, he shut the trunk and began a long trek through the woods.

  Twigs and small branches snapped under his boots. His breath grew visible as the treetops thickened and the temperature dropped. Nevertheless, the pine-scented air was a welcome respite from his stuffy motel room.

  Signs of a werewolf became more apparent as he hiked beyond what might constitute an afternoon nature walk. He silenced his footsteps as he observed a broken twig here, a patch of fur there. Whoever this beast was, he couldn’t have been bitten more than two months ago. He was lazy as all hell.

  A low growl interrupted Logan’s train of thought.

  It was his only warning before something slammed into his side. Then he was on the ground, futility gasping for breath. The weight on his chest shifted, increasing the pressure on his ribs. Rocks ground against his spine. The rifle was wrenched from his fingers and the weight disappeared. A shot echoed through the trees.

  He turned his head.

  Damn it. There was the werewolf. Logan saw it between the denim-clad legs of a man who stood before him protectively. Claws raked through the earth as the werewolf leapt aside to take shelter behind some trees. Black fur shone under a ray of sunlight when it circled around, growling furiously.

  Golden eyes were trained on Logan where he lay sprawled in the dirt. They flickered up to the man before him, seemingly in irritation. He obviously guarded what the werewolf truly wanted. And judging by the way it bared razor sharp teeth, it was done waiting for him to move.

  The man took aim at the werewolf again.

  Unlike last night, the beast wasn’t running away. It was charging.

  The rifle jammed. There was an hollow click when the man pulled the trigger. He only had time to clear the chamber before the werewolf pounced.

  Logan dove out of the way to avoid being crushed as they slammed into the ground. He turned to see the werewolf snapping furiously at the man’s face, its teeth clamping down on the long barrel of the rifle.

  Before he could whip out his knife, the man rolled to pin the werewolf. In a blur of motion, he yanked the rifle from between the beast’s teeth, put the barrel to its chest, and pulled the trigger. The recoil and the buck of the werewolf knocked him off balance. He fell to the side, panting heavily.

  “What the hell was that?” Logan finally got out, rising to his feet.

  The man swallowed, glancing at his kill. “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter Three

  “Do you realize what you just did?” Logan couldn’t be certain if the man knew anything about werewolves. The first time he’d revealed their existence to someone, he’d ended up at the wrong end of his own rifle.

  “I didn’t hit my head that hard. Looks to me like I just saved you from a werewolf.” A smile graced the man’s features as he slowly rose to his feet and handed over the weapon. “I’m a prowler. Like you, apparently.” He held out his hand. “Vincent Thompson.”

  Logan stared at the offered hand for a moment, wary of accepting it. But another glance at the werewolf settled it. Vincent had saved his life.

  He shook it, his grip firm. “Logan Bennett.”

  “Always intrigued to meet someone from the Society. Sorry to rob you of the kill. They didn’t inform me that we already had a man up here.”

  “No worries. I just radioed in this morning.”

  “What brought you here?”

  Logan shrugged, sizing him up. “I was in the area.” His eyebrows knitted when he noticed a patch of blood low on Vincent’s shirt. “You hurt?”

  Vincent glanced down before pressing a hand to the wound. “I guess so, yeah. It’s not bad.” He nudged the werewolf with his boot. “I’ve been tracking him for a while. This isn’t the first encounter we’ve had.”

  Logan pursed his lips. Vincent’s bitter tone warranted further inquiry, but now wasn’t the time. “I have a first aid kit back in my car. Used to carry it around, but it would always snag on something. More hazardous than helpful, you know?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Logan didn’t bother to hide his disbelief. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was much less than fine, on more than one level. “Uh-huh. Let me at least buy you a beer for saving my ass. You look like you’ve been out here for days.”

  Vincent hesitated. “It’ll be dark in the next hour or so. We should bury the body before we head back to town.”

  “With what? No shovels. We’re far enough from the road that it won’t be found for a long while. Even better, wildlife will discover the carcass and pick it clean. Let’s get out of here.”

  Something was bothering him, and it wasn’t the lingering soreness in his side from when Vincent had tackled him.

  As he led the way back to town, Logan tried to pinpoint what it was. He replayed the events of the previous night in his mind. Chasing the beast. Shooting at it. Missing, but wounding it nevertheless. His instincts told him that something was glaringly off, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

  The temperature began to drop to the same arctic chill he’d experienced last night. Thank goodness he’d soon be kicking it in some bar instead of prowling again.

  There was something pure about prowling in the dead of night, something deliciously primitive. But all the same, he’d take electric heaters and cable TV over freezing temperatures any day. Throw in a beer or two, and it was no contest.

  The farther they hiked, the harsher Vincent’s breathing became. It was the only reason Logan didn’t pass the time by grilling him for information – where he came from, how long he’d been a prowler, and what he knew about the surrounding area. The Society kept them pretty well informed, but the smallest detail could keep them alive one day. It would be foolish to pass up an opportunity to trade intel.

  He increased their pace as darkness fell. This far north, it could happen in the blink of an eye. Though he’d seen no sign of bears or ordinary wolves, they shouldn’t let down their guard. Being prowlers didn’t automatically put them at the top of the food chain. Others from the Society had arrogantly assumed so, with tragic results.

  Vincent shuffled along behind him, footsteps less and less steady. Logan didn’t need to glance back to know that he was beginning to weave. The bleeding was obviously worse than he’d thought. He decided to check the wounds when they returned to town, whether Vincent wanted them checked or not.

  No one who saved his life was allowed to bleed to death. Not in the same night, anyway.

  They were nearing the treeline when Vincent grunted in pain. Not the grunt someone might make after stubbing their toe, but the grunt of someone clenching their jaw to muffle a yell.

  “Hey, you okay?” Logan was by his side in two strides. It was a stupid question. He looked ready to topple over.

  Logan grasped his upper arm to prevent him from hitting his head twice in one day.

  “N-no–” The word was laced with pain as Vincent wrenched his arm away and stumbled backwards.

  “Okay, no touching. I get it.” He tried to access the situation. “But there’s no use denying you’re hurt. We’re almost to the car. I can help you get there.”

  “Please, no,” Vincent managed to say. He hunched over, head
bent forward. “Ah–” His entire body appeared to tense and then shake from the cold.

  “Look,” Logan tried again, patience wearing thin. “It’s freezing out here, nearly pitch dark, and we’re less than five minutes from the town hospital. They can fix you up.”

  In the next instant, he found himself slammed against a tree. Bark dug into left shoulder, while the steel of his rifle dug into the other. He tasted copper and distantly realized he’d bit his tongue.

  Vincent’s breath was hot on his face, hands clenched around the lapels of his jacket.

  “I said I’m fine,” he growled, pinning Logan while also leaning on him for support.

  This wasn’t going the way he’d planned.

  “Okay,” he grinded out when he got his breath back, despite the pressure on his chest. “Now might be a good time for me to admit that I misjudged your condition. Just relax. You–”

  A pained groan left Vincent. His eyes rolled back into his head and his knees buckled.

  “Yeah, you’re fantastic,” Logan strained, catching him under the shoulders and easing him to the ground. He was dead weight, head lolling on his shoulders. Definitely out cold. But breathing, slow and steady.

  Logan glanced around. No signs of wildlife. Yet. His car was right through those trees, and if Vincent was seriously injured from, well, wrestling with a werewolf… he could drag him to the car and drive to the hospital just down the road.

  “Sorry about this,” Logan muttered, ripping open his shirt to access how badly he was bleeding. Buttons flew everywhere. Underneath was a white t-shirt, soaked through on one side. Blood was already dripping onto the forest floor.

  He gripped the shirt collar and tore the shirt down the center. Gingerly peeling away the half-dried fabric, Logan grimaced.

  It was bad.

  Torn stitches lined a lengthy gash over his abs. Had they been many miles from town with the car, Logan might have tried to restitch it himself. With a hospital just down the road, however, there was no reason to risk infection. The bleeding could be controlled until they reached the emergency room.

  Feeling something warm against his knee, he glanced down to see blood also seeping through Vincent’s jeans behind his left thigh. The denim wasn’t torn, which meant another wound had reopened.

  “What kind of prowler are you?” he murmured, striping off his jacket. The abdominal wound needed pressure on it. He worked one of the sleeves under Vincent’s back to knot it at his hip. “Only rookies or self-sacrificing morons prowl while injured. Which are you, huh?”

  He stood and got his hands under Vincent’s shoulders. At first, he attempted to cradle his head between both forearms, but two sharps pulls later, it became a matter of moving at all. If he hadn’t been concerned about further ripping the stitches, he would’ve hoisted Vincent across his shoulders.

  “Give me a break,” he panted. “This isn’t as easy as it looks. Wake up and help me out here.”

  He’d need to do something about the drag marks in the morning. To any passerby, it might look as if someone was dragged into the woods. The slight blood trail wasn’t helping any.

  “Hang on, guy,” he coaxed. They emerged at the treeline. “Almost there.”

  Vincent’s head hung limply over the ground. He didn’t stir.

  When they finally reached the car’s passenger door, Logan lowered him to the gravel. Something in his lower back popped with the movement and he bolted upright, cursing.

  “Just rest there for a minute,” he wheezed. “No, really. Don’t move. I got this.”

  The muscles in his arms twitched with exhaustion. For once, he welcomed the icy breeze on his face. He clocked plenty of time at the gym, but cardio was more his specialty. If a werewolf got close enough for hand-to-hand combat, no amount of muscle strength would save him.

  Or so he’d thought before Vincent went all Hulk on that werewolf back there. It was a certifiably insane move that would require an explanation once he was talking again.

  After retrieving the car keys from the jacket around Vincent’s waist, Logan walked to the trunk and stowed his rifle. It wouldn’t be the brightest move to pull up to the ER with a rifle in the front seat, and a bleeding man in the back. As he shut the trunk, something caught his eye.

  Shattered glass glistened in the moonlight. Someone had busted the driver door window.

  “Son of a–” His boots crunched over glass as he moved in to take a closer look. There was hardly anything left in the frame. Shards covered the front seat. But why would someone bust his window without stealing the car? Unless they saw something they wanted…

  His radio was missing.

  Perfect.

  It had the frequencies he used neatly labeled on the front. They were partially in code, but any wise apple with enough skill could tinker with them, listen in, and learn about the existence of werewolves. It might be some punk kid who chalked it up to an elaborate role-playing nerd fest. Or it might be someone much more dangerous.

  Think about it later, he berated himself. Help Vincent.

  Any warning call to Eddie would need to wait until he returned to the motel.

  Wrestling Vincent into the backseat was no easy task. Logan cracked his head against the car roof, grunted, lost his balance, groaned, and was feeling quite uncomfortable by the time Vincent lay sprawled across the vinyl. He debated whether or not to secure a seatbelt around him, but decided against it. Not a single car had passed since they’d emerged from the forest. They would be all right.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat, willing his jeans to protect him from the glass.

  Relief flooded him when he popped open the glove compartment. At least the thief had left the cigarettes behind. Although they wrecked havoc on his conditioning, he desperately needed one after wrestling Vincent into the car.

  “That’s not something we’re ever going to talk about,” he informed the rearview mirror, flicking his lighter.

  Wisps of smoke began to fill the car as he pulled onto the road. He broke every speed limit on the way to the hospital. That wasn’t saying much in a town without a single stoplight, but the roads were empty. He wasn’t forced to slow once.

  “I should work sleepy towns more often,” he muttered. “Less campers, less hikers, less innocent civilians.”

  A groan from the backseat made him pause.

  “You with me, Vincent?” He threw a glance over his shoulder. Vincent’s face was cast in shadow, but he was moving to sit up. “Hey, just stay awake, you hear me? Lay back down. We’re almost at the hospital. You’re going to be fine.”

  The words had opposite their desired effect. Instead of relaxing, Vincent tried even harder to push himself up. His skin audibly peeled away from the upholstery.

  “I mean it, man,” Logan warned. “I will pull this car over if you don’t stay down. I live by one rule. If you simmer down, I’ll tell you what it is.”

  He doubted the bargain was what made Vincent slump down, but he played along anyway.

  “Okay, then.” After taking a long drag off his cigarette and relishing the burn, he continued, “So my one rule is this: no one who saves my life dies on my watch. Not in the same night. Anything you’ve done in the past, whatever kind of person you are, we’ll deal with that come morning. In the mean time, you need to white-knuckle it, because we’re here.” He pulled into the hospital parking lot. “And you don’t get to die. Understand?”

  He didn’t receive an answer, but pained breaths were enough to let him know that Vincent heard him. Through a haze of resentment perhaps, but he heard him.

  Logan honked the horn as he pulled up to the emergency room doors. It was a shabby, run-down hospital and only two stories. But for a town this small, they were lucky to have one. Desolation required self-sufficiency, after all. The nearest city hospital was two hours away.

  “Come on,” he said impatiently, stepping out of the car. A nurse ambled through the doors, pushing a squeaky wheelchair that leaned to one side. It had seen
better days. Heck, they both had seen better days. Her no-nonsense demeanor was nevertheless refreshing as she approached.

  “Can I help you?” Judging by her accent, she hailed from the south.

  “Not me. Him.” Logan nodded to the backseat. “I found him in the woods about an hour ago. He must have been camping or hiking. I’m not sure.”

  The nurse peered into the backseat with a frown. The furrowed wrinkles on her brow disappeared as recognition flickered in her eyes. She cracked a wry smile. “Vincent, is that you? Hard to recognize you under all that blood, boy. What kind of mess did you get yourself into?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she strolled to a console just outside the hospital doors. She pushed a button and spoke into the speaker. “This is Nurse Biel in receiving. Requesting Dr. Allen immediately. We will need a gurney. Code two.”

  When Logan looked into the backseat, Vincent was curled up on his side. An arm was thrown over his face. His injuries appeared even worse under the fluorescent lights of the receiving bay. Blood trickled from his abdomen in rivulets, pooling onto the seat. The muscles of his jaw contracted with pain.

  Nurse Biel returned to the car. She opened the back door and casually leaned on it. With a hand planted on her hip, she studied Vincent. “You filled out nice, real nice. Doc is on his way. Don’t you worry.”

  Turning her attention to Logan, she asked, “You just passing through?” The question was followed by a flirtatious wink.

  Her eyes lingered on his chest like she was eying a rare steak. It wasn’t the most comforting feeling after his brush with the local wildlife. Werewolf encounter aside, she was old enough to be his mother.

  “Yes ma’am. Just passing through.” He stole another glance at Vincent. “Can you give him anything for the pain?”

  “Like I said–” She jerked her head in the direction of the doors. “Dr. Allen will be here any minute. And don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel matronly.”

  Logan felt like he was chatting it up at the gas station. Where were the white coats, the orderlies, the damn sense of urgency? There didn’t appear to be any people beyond the hospital windows.