Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

CHAPTER TWO

Wolf in a Cage

They stopped for an early lunch of drive-thru chicken sandwiches and fries, then followed the GPS directions to a small warehouse in downtown Miami. A kid in sunglasses who looked about nineteen stood outside waiting for them. He raised the sliding metal door and waved their car through.

The warehouse was mostly empty, except for a van, two cars, and about a dozen wooden crates stacked against the far wall. George parked next to a red Porsche that was dirty and a bit dinged up--a criminal act, as far as George was concerned--and then he and Lou got out as a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting business suit approached, flanked on each side by a goon in black.

“Are you Bateman?” George asked.

“I am.” Bateman smiled, revealing yellow teeth that marred an otherwise handsome face. “You two come highly recommended. Which one is George and which one is Lou?”

“I’m Lou,” said Lou, tapping his chest.

“And you’re George?” Bateman asked.

“Yes, sir.” Nice process of elimination.

“I’ve got a task for you gentlemen,” said Bateman. “It’s a simple transport job and shouldn’t cause any problems, but I need good men like yourselves on it. Extremely valuable cargo is involved.”

“We know how to protect cargo,” George assured him.

“That’s what I hear.” Bateman gestured to a black van that was parked about twenty feet away. “Follow me.”

“It’s too damn hot to be in a black van,” Lou whispered to George as the five of them walked over to the vehicle.

George couldn’t see anything through the tinted windows, but one of the thugs opened up the rear doors, revealing a metal cage with thick bars that filled most of the back of the van. A man sat inside, leaning against the cage wall, looking scared and miserable.

Lou sucked in a deep breath.

George hated assignments that involved this kind of crap, but kept his expression devoid of emotion. It was important to always behave in a professional manner around the guy who signed the checks...or at least authorized the non-traceable cash payments.

Bateman gestured to the man. “Do you know what that is?”

George shrugged. “Somebody who fucked with the wrong guy?”

“That is a lycanthrope. A werewolf.”

“I see.”

“By the light of the full moon, that weak-looking, frail man will transform into a vicious beast. The legends are true, gentlemen. Werewolves live among us. Their numbers are small, and few believe in their existence, but we’ve been given an unprecedented opportunity to study one.” Bateman shrugged. “Or, if you don’t believe me, then you’re just driving some poor caged-up bastard from Miami to Tampa. Either way, you get paid.”

George glanced at the other two goons, hoping to get some clue as to whether this was all a big gag or not, but their faces were unreadable.

“I’m not in the habit of questioning my employers,” George said. “But...a werewolf? Really? Isn’t that just movie stuff?”

“I don’t blame you for being skeptical. I’d worry about your sanity if you weren’t. Rest assured that you’re being trusted with an astounding discovery, and I’m confident that you’ll deliver him to my associate safely.”

“What if he sprouts fur and fangs while we’re on the road?”

“That won’t be an issue. The full moon is two weeks away.”

“Ah, okay,” said George, not sure why he was embarrassed. “I don’t really keep track of the lunar cycles.”

“The rules are simple. Even though he’s not a transformation risk, do not, under any circumstances, let him out of the cage. Do not, under any circumstances, let anything happen to him. Keep your hands away from the cage. That means do not offer him any food, do not offer him anything to drink, do not offer him any reading material to pass the time during the ride, and do not reach in there to slap him if he won’t stop talking. I don’t think I have to tell you that getting stopped by the police would create an awkward situation, so don’t break any traffic laws. Any questions?”

“Is anybody after him?”

“To the best of our knowledge, no. But I’m sure that you’ll proceed with all due diligence.”

“Of course.” George looked over at Lou. “You have anything?”

Lou thought for a moment. “What if he’s gotta use the restroom?”

“Then the cage will get messy.”

George grimaced. “Really? Isn’t this a five-hour drive?”

“I think you can handle an unpleasant odor for a few hours. We’ll give you a can of Lysol.” Bateman raised his voice and turned his attention to the man in the cage. “However, if he wishes to be treated with more kindness upon his arrival, he may want to consider keeping his bodily functions under control.”

The man glared at him but said nothing.

“What’s his name?” George asked.

“Ivan.”

“All right. I guess we’re taking Ivan the Werewolf for a ride.”

* * *

They quickly worked out the remaining details, moved their suitcases to the van (behind the seats but still out of Ivan’s reach), left the too-small car in the warehouse, and drove the van out onto the downtown street. It was Lou’s turn to drive, so George slid the briefcase of recovered cash under his seat, then turned around and looked into the back of the van.

Ivan appeared to be in his early thirties. He was thin, with a pasty complexion and long, straight hair--to be honest, he gave off more of a vampire vibe than a werewolf one. He wore a blue dress shirt that was probably expensive but looked like it had been worn for several unpleasant days.

Driving around with a guy in a cage was a contemptible thing, but business was business. George and Lou had the luxury of turning down the worst of their job offers--they didn’t do anything that involved kids, and never committed murder--but transporting a man in a cage across the state was depravity within their moral boundaries.

“This is messed up,” Lou noted.

George turned back around in his seat. “You won’t hear me argue.”

“I mean, who believes in that werewolf nonsense? ‘By the light of the full moon...’ What a load of crap. What are we in, the 1600’s?”

“Is that when people believed in werewolves?”

“I dunno. Maybe I’m thinking of witches. But, c’mon, look at the world we live in.” Lou tapped the GPS that rested on the dashboard. “This thing has street-by-street directions for anyplace in the world we wanna go. In a world where humans can accomplish this kind of technology, what kind of person still believes in the supernatural?”

George grinned. “Maybe that GPS is supernatural. Maybe only the devil knows all of those streets. Or it could be ghost-powered.”

“I’m trying to make a serious point here. Why would you want to derail that?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But I don’t think Bateman believes in that werewolf stuff for one second.”

“You think it’s a cover?”

“Yeah. Either our friend back there has got a stomach full of heroin and they’re playing a practical joke, or they’re trying to distract us from something else that’s going on. There’s definitely something screwy here, so we need to be careful.”

Lou nodded. “I agree.”

“You could just ask me,” said Ivan. It was the first time he’d spoken.

George turned around in his seat to face their prisoner. “What?”

“You could just ask me if I’m a werewolf. That would be the polite and reasonable thing to do, instead of speculating amongst yourselves.”

“Fair enough. Are you a werewolf?”

“No, I’m not a fucking werewolf! What the hell? Are you two really that stupid? You’re seriously going to drive me to Tampa so that some pretend-scientist can slice me up?”

“Hey, I don’t care what you are. They could say you were the Easter Bunny and it wouldn’t change anything. This is just a transport job.”

“Oh, sure. Transport job. He told you that I’m a werewolf, George. You know, those magical people who transform into scary wolves during the full moon, and can only be killed by silver bullets, and gobble up little children. Those people who are, you know, non-existent! Doesn’t it bother you to be working for that kind of insanity?”

“I don’t think you heard me. You’re just cargo.”

“Well, that’s lovely. Nice humanistic attitude you’ve got there. Do much slave trading in your spare time?”

“Hey, if you want to be allowed to talk, you’d better watch the lip.”

“You can’t stop me from talking. I’m valuable merchandise.”

“Look, Ivan the Werewolf, I’m about as nice of a guy as you’re liable to encounter in this kind of situation, but don’t get the mistaken impression that I will let myself be disrespected. There’s only one way that this drive will end, and that’s with you being delivered to our destination. No other outcome is possible. However, there are several different moods that can hang over our afternoon until then, and I want you to think long and hard about whether you want to have a pleasant drive or an unpleasant one.”

Ivan pouted for a few moments. “You’re taking me to a guy named Mr. Dewey, right?”

“Dewey’s his last name? I thought it was his first. But yeah, that’s who we’re going to see.”

“You know what he wants, don’t you?”

“No idea. A pet?”

“You think that’s funny? You think the idea of turning me into some madman’s pet is just a joke? Do you even have a soul?”

“You’re right, that was inappropriate,” George admitted, legitimately feeling as if he’d stepped over the line. “Believe me, I sympathize with your plight. It sucks.”

“He doesn’t want a pet. Do you know what he wants?”

“What?”

“He wants me to bite him.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Can you imagine that? The sick, twisted lunatic wants me to turn him into a werewolf. I mean, to believe in werewolves in the first place you’ve got to have a gigantic screw loose, but to want to become one...?”

“That is peculiar,” George agreed.

“What do you think is going to happen to me when I bite Mr. Dewey and it doesn’t do anything? Do you think he’s going to say ‘Oh, goodness gracious, my mistake!’ and let me go, or do you think he’s going to kill me? My death is going to be on your conscience. Can you handle that?”

“I’m not that familiar with the werewolf legend, but you’d have to change into a wolf first, right? He wouldn’t just make you give him a nibble on the hand as a human.”

Ivan sighed with frustration. “Fine, so when I don’t change into a wolf, then he’ll kill me. Are you okay with that? No problems working for somebody so severely wrong in the head? I don’t know about you, but if I heard about somebody whose brain is so diseased that he’s kidnapping innocent human beings in hopes of getting a werewolf bite, I’d stay as far away from him as possible.”

“I guess you’re smarter than we are, then.”

“I guess so. I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Hold it.”

“I can’t.”

“Think about the desert.”

“Do you have one of those things on your palm?” Lou asked.

“What things?”

“The star thing.”

“A pentagram?”

“Yeah.”

Ivan held up his palm, which Lou checked out in the rear-view mirror. “No. And would you like to know why I don’t have a pentagram on my palm?”

“Because you’re not a werewolf?”

“Exactly! Because I’m not a werewolf! I manage a temp agency! This is bullshit!”

“Again,” said George, “the only way this is going to end is with you being delivered as promised. Pleasant or unpleasant. The choice is yours. Most people go with pleasant.”

“They’re calling me a werewolf, but you’re the ones who are inhuman!” Ivan said. “You’re the monsters, not me!”

“That’s deep,” Lou noted.

“If you do this, it’ll haunt you for the rest of your life. You will always be somebody who took an innocent guy to his death for being a werewolf. That doesn’t go away. No matter how long you live, you’ll never not be that person. Thirty years from now, when I’m long since tortured and dead, you’ll still be the guys who were told that a man in a cage was a werewolf--a werewolf--and delivered him into the hands of a deranged maniac who believed in that kind of nonsense. Do you really want all those years of sleepless nights?”

“Thirty years from now, one or both of us will probably be dead, too,” said George. “Our work is pretty dangerous. I’m actually surprised Lou is still around. He really doesn’t take care of his body.”

“Not only will you be the men who drove an innocent person to his death, but you’ll be the men who casually dismissed him when he tried to explain the insanity of the situation. Even if I were a werewolf, you’d be the villains here.”

“Okay, you’ve talked enough,” said George. “Shut up for a while.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are my desperate pleas for my life annoying you? I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience. I certainly hope that my shrieks of pain when they’re dissecting me don’t cause an unpleasant sensation in your eardrums--I don’t know if my mutilated body could live with itself!”

George turned on the stereo, cranking up some classic Metallica to drown him out.