Wolf Hunt (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Lycanthrope Chatter

"Holy crap, look at all of those things." Lou
pointed out the window at where eight or nine alligators were
sunning themselves along the edge of the water. The wretched
creatures were all along Tamiami Trail--Lou had stopped counting
about an hour ago when he reached one hundred, much to George's
relief--but that was the most they'd seen at once. The fact that
they were on the other side of a fence didn't provide much
comfort.

"That's why I'd never live in Florida," said
George.

"The gators?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think anybody ever gets eaten by
them. Maybe in extreme cases, if somebody's dumb enough to go
messing with them, but aside from that I think gator attacks are
pretty rare."

"Still, I wouldn't want to live around
them."

"We've got rats in New York."

"Rats don't bite people's legs off."

"If you lived in Florida, I
can almost guarantee you'd never get your leg bit off by an
alligator, whereas in New York City, I can almost guarantee
you
will
get your
car crapped on by a pigeon. Which is worse?"

"I'd rather take the one-hundred-percent
chance on pigeon crap than the one-percent chance on an alligator
bite."

"I think it's way less than one-percent."

"Any percent is unacceptable."

"It's probably not even one in a million. So
what's that...one percent would be one in a hundred, so you'd times
it by, uh...ten thousand?" Lou frowned as if mentally checking his
math. "One ten-thousandth of a percent chance of getting a leg bit
off by an alligator. That's pretty slim."

"They also have hurricanes."

"Again, low odds."

"And it's too damn hot." George had
grown up in Cleveland, and moved to New York City in his late
twenties. As far as he was concerned, the entire bottom half of the
United States could just fall off into the ocean.

"I completely agree about the heat. That's
what should keep you away from Florida--the climate, not the
alligators and hurricanes."

"Are you two entertaining yourselves?" asked
Ivan.

George turned around and glared at him.
"Yeah, it's called a conversation. Do you have a problem with
it?"

"No, no, by all means, continue your insipid
conversation."

"We're driving across this miserable state on
a road that has nothing to look at but alligators. Why shouldn't we
talk about alligators? If we drive past an anti-abortion billboard,
we'll be sure to have a spirited philosophical debate for your
entertainment, but for now it's alligators and pigeon crap. Are you
going to be okay with that?"

"Sure. Go right ahead."

George grinned. "You didn't think I'd know
what 'insipid' meant, did you?"

"Nope. Surprised the hell out of me."

"Well I do. Fuck you, werewolf."

Ivan settled back against
the bars of his cage. "You know, if I
was
a werewolf, this cage wouldn't
hold me. I'd be picking my teeth with your ribs in about thirty
seconds."

"Is that so?"

"Yep."

"Then I'd deserve it, because I would've let
my guard down and failed to take the necessary precautions. If you
do that, you deserve to have your ribs used as toothpicks. But Lou
and I, we don't let our guard down like that. Would you like an
example?"

"By all means."

"Right now, I want nothing more than to smack
that smirk right the hell off your face. Not torture you, not beat
you bloody--just smack you really, really hard. If we pulled off to
the side of the road, I am ninety-nine point nine-nine percent sure
that I could get in this smack with no danger to myself, and then
we could proceed on our merry little way. But even though it would
give me intense pleasure to do this, I'm not going to. Instead,
we're going to continue to drive your werewolf ass to Tampa, just
like we're supposed to."

"Then I salute you," said Ivan, saluting him.
"A lesser man would have succumbed, but not the mighty George."

"You've become kind of sarcastic all of a
sudden."

"Hey, if I can't appeal to your common sense
or your sense of decency, I might as well be a dick for the rest of
the ride. How are we doing on gas?"

"No need to worry yourself about the gas
situation. We've got everything under control."

"I'd hate to be stranded out here. I know how
concerned you are about the alligators."

George glanced at the GPS. "We're going to
get gas in a few minutes at someplace called Hachiholata. Nice
Indian name."

"Native American," said Lou. "Indians are
from India."

"I thought 'native' was offensive?"

"No, 'native' is offensive to people in the
jungle with spears, like if you say 'the natives are restless.'
Native American is fine. Did you know that the word 'midget' is
offensive?"

"To Native Americans?"

"Very funny. To a little
person, the word 'midget' is as offensive as the n-word to a black
person. Can you believe that? You hear midget, midget, midget all
the time, and it's like saying n-word, n-word, n-word. If a
politician said the n-word, his career would be over, but he could
probably say 'midget'--hell, he could probably tell a midget
joke
--and he'd be
fine."

"Can other midgets say midget?"

"I don't know. But I don't say it. It's not
their fault they were born like that."

"So anyway," George said to Ivan, "we're
stopping for gas in a few minutes. Does that make you feel
better?"

"It does indeed. Can we get a burger while
we're there?"

"No."

"Come on, I'm starving."

"No."

"You can just toss it through the bars."

"No."

"What am I going to do, throw a deadly bun at
you?"

"You can't have a burger. Drop it."

"It's pretty sad that a couple of big strong
guys like you are scared of a man in a cage."

"We're not scared of you."

"Yeah, you are. You're scared that if you
toss me a hamburger and fries I'll somehow use them to my
advantage. That, my friend, is fear. You have to be pretty damn
afraid of somebody for them to intimidate you with a sack of fast
food."

"What about those overcooked
fries? Those tiny sharp hard ones at the bottom of the bag? You
palm one of those, we let our guard down--
smack
! French fry in the
eyeball."

Ivan stared at him for a long moment. "You
know, I can't tell if you're kidding or not."

"I'm kidding, but you still don't get any
food."

"See? Fear. Knee-shaking, bone-chilling fear.
It's okay, we all have our phobias--it's not your fault that yours
is a helpless man in a cage. I'm going to take it as a
compliment."

"Is this supposed to be the part where my
masculinity is so threatened that I give you a burger just to prove
I'm not scared?"

"I wasn't thinking about your masculinity,
necessarily, but that was the general idea, yeah."

"I'll make you a deal, werewolf. If you can
go ten full minutes without talking, we'll buy you a value
meal."

"Seriously?"

"Well, I
was
serious, but you just
talked."

"Prick."

"Now I'm going to buy the biggest, juiciest
burger they've got, with mayo and ketchup and onions and bacon and
maybe even bleu cheese, and I'm going to eat it right in front of
you. Do you prefer fries or onion rings?"

"Onion rings."

"I'm going to get those, too. Big greasy
ones, with just the right amount of breading. Some places use way
too much breading, so it's like you're eating fried dough, but I'll
make sure that these onion rings are perfect." George felt kind of
guilty after he said that. He normally didn't behave like this, but
something about Ivan just annoyed the living hell out of him.

Ivan smiled. "You both realize that
you're going to die today, right?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. We're all having a grand old
time right now, busting each other's chops, kidding around like
best buddies, but what you two don't realize is that you're in
hell. You're burning in hell right now and you can't even feel the
flames. If you walked right up to the devil and tugged on his
horns, your soul could not be more damned than it is right
now."

"I don't think that's how damnation
works," said George. "I think God has to do it or you have to make
some kind of deal for vast wealth or something." He nudged Lou.
"Did you make any deals with the devil recently that I should be
made aware of?"

"If I had, we sure wouldn't be spending our
day driving this loudmouth across Florida."

George looked back at Ivan. "Sorry. Your
intimidation tactic didn't work."

"A pity."

"Intimidation is a big part of how I make my
living, so let me give you some pointers. First of all--and this is
a big one, Ivan, so write it down--when you're trying to intimidate
your opponent, the most important thing to remember is to not be
locked in a cage in his van. If you fail to follow that rule, your
chances at a successful intimidation attempt drop to just about
nil. Did you write it down?"

"Unfortunately, I don't have a writing
utensil."

"Well, then just try to remember it. Your
'hell' speech works much better when you're not in a cage, that's
all I'm saying."

"You're a confident man, George. I admire
that. I enjoy licking up blood that comes from a confident
man."

"That's gross."

Ivan nodded. "Yes, it is. Also irrelevant,
since what I'm really going to do is set off this explosive device
that's strapped to my left leg."

George felt a sudden flash of panic. He
couldn't help it. Then he immediately relaxed--the little creep was
just messing with him. "Oh, really?"

"Yes."

"Bateman captured you and caged you up
without realizing that you had a bomb on your leg?"

"You've had me in the car for two hours
without realizing it."

George looked at Ivan's leg.
There didn't
seem
to be a bulge, but...

"I call bullshit."

"Or maybe Bateman knows about it. Maybe we
just haven't reached the designated detonation point yet."

"Or perhaps you're conversing out of your
ass."

"Aren't you going to order me to pull up my
pant leg?"

"Nope."

"Not going to pull a gun on me?"

"I might pull a gun on you if you don't shut
up, but I'm not going to do it to make you pull up your pant
leg."

The female voice of the GPS announced that
they had one mile left until their exit.

"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?"