Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Trackers

“He hasn’t moved for the past few minutes,” said Prescott. “He’s probably resting, licking his wounds.”

Or he’s dead, thought George. Now that they had the professionals on their side, the thought of Ivan’s death wasn’t as appealing. Much better to get him tranquilized, back in custody, and over to Dewey where he belonged.

“He heals quick,” said George.

“Did he expel the bullets?”

George shook his head. “Nah, not that I saw. As far as I know, he still has a bunch of bullets rattling around in his skull and ribcage. How do you think he gets them out?”

“Hopefully through an extremely painful process of manual extraction. But his body may just reject them and squeeze them out like a splinter.”

George had an amusing mental image of bullets popping out of Ivan’s head like zits. Then he had an even more amusing image of Ivan’s entire head popping like a zit. Actually, any mental image that involved harm coming to the werewolf provided George with at least a small level of entertainment.

“How’s it going?” he asked Lou.

Lou held up another one of the bloody antiseptic wipes for George’s inspection. He’d made a pile of about a dozen of them now. Lou was clearly doing his best not to wince and show weakness while he disinfected his wounds, but his jaw was clenched tight and it was definitely not a pleasant process.

“You’ll need to get bandaged up quickly,” Angie told him. “Looks like we’re almost there.” She didn’t offer to help.

Lou ripped open the front of the left leg of his pants. He unwrapped a large bandage and pressed it against a six-inch-long cut that ran lengthwise above his knee.

“So what’s the big elaborate plan?” George asked as Sam took an exit off the highway that promised gas, food, and camping.

“It’s not elaborate,” said Prescott. “We will park a safe distance from where he’s resting, and either you or your partner will walk out there and make your presence known. The way your partner looks right now, I think it should be you.”

“Agreed,” George said.

“When the target shows himself, we’ll get the net on him. Problem solved.”

“How exactly does that work?” George asked. “Are you setting the net up beforehand?”

“No, George,” said Prescott, once again making no effort to conceal his disgust. “We have a net gun. An expensive one. Believe it or not, it’s much more effective than tossing a blanket over an animal’s head.”

“How’d you know about that?”

“You’re famous.”

“Just so you know, the blanket did have a few silver rings sewn into it.”

“And you thought something like that would slow him down?”

“It might have. We were dealing with a supernatural creature. For all we knew, those rings could’ve sucked out his energy or something.”

“Did it work?”

“Maybe. A little. Or it might have been all the times we shot him, hit him, and kicked him that slowed him down. Either way, it didn’t hurt to try.”

“I suppose it didn’t.”

“Do you disagree?”

“I can’t honestly say that I would have tried it myself. There’s a fine line between innovation and just being silly.”

“There’s also a fine line between being honest and being an asshole.”

Prescott actually smiled in a non-asshole manner at that. “You’re right. I apologize.”

“And I accept your apology. Are you guys good shots with the net gun?”

“Absolutely.”

“Will he be able to get free?”

“Not easily. And by the time he does, we’ll have pumped a few darts into him. You’ll be safe.” Prescott looked at Sam. “One mile away.”

Sam turned onto a dirt road that reminded George of the one where Ivan had escaped. At least the first time.

“You’re going to walk straight,” Prescott told George. “Angie and I will be on either side of you. If he runs away, we’ll give chase, but try to keep him from running away.”

“If he runs, you won’t be able to catch him.”

“We’ll catch him. We can always track him with the chip. He’s not going to escape.”

“Where is the chip?”

“Need-to-know basis. This is far enough, Sam.”

Sam stopped the van. Angie got out of her seat and slid open the side door. George patted Lou on the shoulder as he followed Angie out of the vehicle. He, Angie, and Prescott went to the back of the van.

“I’d feel a lot better about this if you gave me something to defend myself,” said George.

Angie opened the rear doors, revealing an impressive stockpile of weapons. “We’d give you a tranquilizer gun,” she said, “but they’re too big for you to hide, and we don’t want him to know that we’ve got one. Best we can do is this.” She took a small pistol down from a shelf and handed it to him. “If what you’ve said is true, it won’t stop him, but it might give you a couple of extra seconds to live.”

George tucked the pistol into the holster under his bloodstained shirt. “I’ll take it.”

“And I’ll go you one better,” said Prescott, giving George a tiny plastic baggie. “That’s a cyanide capsule. If you find yourself about to suffer a fate worse than death, swallow that.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Trust me, we’ve got ours.” He touched his earpiece. “Sam, how’s our connection? Good.”

Angie quickly strapped the crossbow to her back. Prescott handed her a long rifle, then took one for himself. George tossed the baggie back into the van.

“Just walk along the path,” Prescott told George. “Stay calm. Don’t do anything suspicious. If you can get him out into the open, that’ll be extremely helpful. Don’t let him know we’re here--we will decide the appropriate moment to strike.”

“All right,” said George. “I’m trusting you guys to have good aim.”

“We’re almost perfect.”

George extended his hand to Prescott. “Best of luck. If we all survive this, I’m buying the beer. As much as you can drink.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

George walked past the van, giving Lou a thumbs-up sign that Lou returned, though neither of them seemed sincere.

He walked down the path, moving at a brisk pace. Prescott and Angie disappeared into the trees next to him. George at least had to appreciate that he wasn’t joining them in wandering through a swamp, though Sam was getting a pretty sweet deal if he was that well-paid just for hanging out in the van.

He focused on taking deep breaths to keep himself calm. He wasn’t quite on the verge of freaking out, but he couldn’t imagine that Prescott and Angie had his personal safety as a top priority, or even any kind of priority. If Ivan suddenly charged him, he expected that they’d be perfectly happy to fire the net, entangle both of them, and let the werewolf shred him. George very much doubted that there’d be any kind of penalty for letting the hired thugs perish.

Still, he had to cooperate. They weren’t going to go out of their way to protect him, but it also didn’t seem as if they were going to go out of their way to kill him, so his best bet for long-term happiness was to be their bait, try to keep himself alive, and hope that the plan to recapture Ivan was a great big rousing success.

And then, assuming they could ever get hired again, George and Lou would vow never to take any kind of job that involved cages or man-beasts. That’s how he’d start every conversation with Ricky: “Does this job involve a cage or a man-beast? Because if it does, tell them to shove it.” And they’d never come back to Florida. Fuck Florida and its sweltering heat and ugly alligators and evil serial killer werewolves. Fuck it right in the face.

He kept walking. There was no sign of Angie and Prescott. They were good at staying hidden, he had to give them that, unless they’d lagged behind for a cigarette or a quickie or something.

Maybe Ivan would be lying on the ground, barely alive, huge ring-shaped burns in his flesh from being underneath the blanket. Oh, George would love that. It would almost be worth all of this happening, just for that moment of victory.

Ivan grins, sliding the blade across Diane’s neck, as blood spills down the front of her shirt...

George tried to force the memory out of his mind. He couldn’t let himself get distracted.

He could hear the little boy wailing “Mommy!”

For all George knew, the cops had never actually been to the house. The little boy could still be in the kitchen, sobbing while he held his mother’s blood-soaked body. Or the boy could be staring off into space, never to really see anything again.

Stop it.

George hadn’t been just talking bullshit with Lou. He really did plan to make things right. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that he’d become some kind of saint, strolling from town to town doing good deeds, but he’d find a way to make up for this. Though he’d never be able to completely clear his conscience, maybe he’d at least be able to soothe it a bit, silence the voice inside that was screaming at him and telling him he was a monster.

But, again, it was not something to worry about now. For now, he needed to worry about that goddamn werewolf.

George thought he heard the crack of a branch to his right. Apparently Prescott wasn’t a total ninja.

His stomach really hurt. He just wanted this over with.

If you die, that’s a pretty crappy legacy you’re leaving behind. Lots of people’s lives are worse because you were born. Even if you died this morning, before you met Ivan, there’d be no good reason for anybody to mourn, except maybe Lou since he’d have the hassle of finding a new partner. If an angel seeking his wings went It’s a Wonderful Life on you and showed you a world where you’d never been born, it would probably be a festival of smiles and balloons and merry children.

His stomach really, really hurt. Throwing up might actually make him feel better, but he didn’t want Prescott or Angie to see it.

He wiped some sweat from his forehead. He looked at his hand, which seemed to have more blood than perspiration on it.

Focus on the positive, he told himself. When this is over, you and Lou will check yourself into a luxury hotel--separate rooms--and spend the next seven days soaking in a hot tub. You’ll catch up on all of those books you’ve never quite found time to read. Drink fine wine and eat grapes. Watch porn.

He came around a slight corner and, about a hundred feet ahead, he could see Bateman’s van.

Son of a bitch. Ivan really was here.

George forced himself not to run. Stay calm. Don’t get too excited.

The back doors of the van hung open, and George could see the cage inside. Somebody was in there. Had Ivan actually gotten back into the cage? Why the hell would he--?

No. It was Michele, huddled into the back corner.

Shit.

This had to be a trap. But how could Ivan have known they were coming? He couldn’t, unless the reinforcements were actually working for the werewolf, and that idea was really dumb.

The situation was making George uncomfortable and paranoid, but he had to stick with the plan. The absolute last thing he needed was for Ivan to rush off and find another well-populated area for a killing spree. George’s official role was “werewolf bait,” and he was going to play it out.

He walked over to the van. Michele was seated, head down, arms wrapped tightly around her legs, her whole body quivering as she silently wept.

“Michele...?”

She looked up. Her eyes were red and puffy and her whole face was blotchy from crying.

“I’m here to get you out of there,” said George. “Where’s Ivan?”

“I don’t know.”

“Which way did he go?”

“I didn’t see.”

“Michele, I need you to focus. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise, I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

“You can’t promise anything,” Michele said. She sniffled, then held up her right hand, revealing a curved row of deep puncture wounds.