Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Distress

Ivan ran through the swamp, so enraged that he thought his head might explode like the dynamite.

He didn’t mind losing Michele. She was only intended to be a temporary plaything, and he probably shouldn’t have bitten her in the first place. No big deal. It was like having a child--a responsibility he didn’t want.

Losing George hurt worse. He’d really been looking forward to making the thug weep. Ivan had probably exercised bad judgment in staying around as long as he did. As soon as he saw that they had grenades, he should have gotten out of there. He was a fast healer, but not immortal, and even if there was no jagged silver involved he wouldn’t survive having his head blown off.

Still, that wasn’t the reason for his misery.

They were tracking him. George had been holding some kind of device that could follow his movements. It had to be a chip or something, like what people used for their beloved pets. That’s how those fuckers with the net and crossbow found him.

Ivan was almost in tears.

He’d stopped for about a minute to check his ears, even though he would’ve noticed a chip in there long before now. The way he healed up, they could have stuck it in him at Bateman’s place while he was unconscious and he never would have known.

Where was it?

This was awful. This was the worst possible thing. Sure, he was a werewolf, but he still had to sleep. What was he going to do, find some kind of impenetrable bunker to hide out in? Even if the chip only had a limited range, that didn’t do him any good unless he was able to jump on a plane. He couldn’t help but feel that he was going to have difficulty using air travel for the foreseeable future.

Damn them!

He could turn back, try to kill George and Lou, and steal their tracker, but that couldn’t be the only device. Ivan wasn’t good with technology and didn’t know how these things worked, but they probably even had a fucking website where they could track him.

He stopped running. He had to think. He couldn’t just let them hunt him down. Better to get blown up than to be Dewey’s little experiment, but he wanted to avoid both of those possibilities.

Where would they stick the chip?

If he were tagging a werewolf, where would he put it?

He changed back into his human form and searched his arms for scars. All of this blood wasn’t helping. A tiny incision wouldn’t leave any trace, but if they got overzealous, there might be a mark.

He had lots of marks, but they were all from today, as far as he could tell. He feverishly rubbed his arms, trying to get off as much of the dried blood as he could.

He could feel himself losing it. This wasn’t good.

If they beat him, it wasn’t going to be because of some chip. No way.

He stripped off what little remained of his pants and stood there, naked, searching his body for any scars he couldn’t identify. There had to be one. Just a faint trace.

Still too much blood.

Fine. This was the Florida Everglades. There was water all over the place. He ran for less than a minute before he found a pool of water. It looked stagnant and thousands of mosquitoes seemed to be swarming around it, but it would do.

He lay on his back in the water, splashing around, washing off the blood. He didn’t care about the bugs. Let them take his blood. They could have as much as they wanted.

Losing it...

Ivan sat up. He inspected his stomach, his legs, his feet. Nothing.

It wasn’t fair.

Where would they put it? Where the hell would they put it?

For all he knew, there was a big crooked scar across his back. He twisted himself around, trying to glimpse his reflection in the water, but the water wasn’t still enough and he couldn’t see anything.

Chill the hell out. You’re going from “losing it” to “batshit crazy.”

So they had a chip in him. So what? He’d massacred a whole bunch of people in the Cotton Mouse Tavern who’d known exactly where he was, and it sure didn’t save their lives. George and Lou had been following him, and they hadn’t fared very well. Neither had the reinforcements.

Following Ivan Spinner with a tracing device meant that you got your arms, legs, and head torn off and thrown into the air like confetti. That’s what your precious chip did for you.

If Bateman showed up, Ivan would rip his heart out.

If Dewey showed up, Ivan would make him measure his own intestines by the yard.

If George and Lou found him, Ivan would hold them in this foul water and laugh while the mosquitoes drained them.

Watch the skeeters drink until they burst. Pop, pop, pop.

Where would they put it? It had to be something relatively easy--it’s not like they would saw open his cranium and glue it to his brain. They’d want to keep it someplace simple, like his arm.

His arm. That had to be it.

Which arm?

He was right-handed, so they’d probably go for his left. That would be the best way to keep it undetected.

Where on the left arm?

They’d go for a fleshy part. Somewhere he’d be less likely to feel it. So...the bottom of his upper arm. Absolutely. That’s exactly where a sneaky bastard like Bateman would hide the chip.

Ivan transformed his right index finger into a claw. The problem with Bateman’s oh-so-brilliant plan was that he didn’t think Ivan would cut open his own flesh to dig out the chip. How wrong he was.

Ivan held up his arm, bent it at the elbow, and poked the talon through his skin. He was spilling new blood to replace what he’d washed away. Let the mosquitoes drink their fill.

He dragged the talon across his arm, cutting deep into his flesh.

He didn’t scream. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He’d felt much worse pain than this, and here he was in total control. He could stop whenever he wanted.

Ivan cut all the way to his elbow, then withdrew the talon. There was no chip on the end.

He took a deep breath to steel himself, and then slipped his middle finger into the gash, running along its length, searching for the chip. This hurt far worse than the initial cut. Worse than the bullets he’d taken today. Even worse than the process of having bullets extracted, which was something he’d been through several times before, and something else he’d have to endure in the near future. Drugs didn’t work on him anymore, so he was forced to remain totally conscious and alert as the non-licensed physician dug out the slugs with a scalpel and tweezers.

Now he screamed.

What difference did it make? Until he got rid of the chip, it didn’t do any good for him to remain quiet.

No chip.

He dug around in the wound some more.

“You can’t beat me,” he whispered. “Not a chance.”

He’d have to try the other arm.

He slapped at the mosquitoes.

Other arm. Same spot. That’s where they’d hide the chip.

He transformed his left index finger, then slit his other arm, wishing that he could just shut off all sensation. Scrape his arms down to the bone.

He probably wouldn’t heal from that.

He wasn’t entirely sure where the limits of his healing power ended. He’d certainly tested that over the years, but never to the point of skeletonizing a limb to find a hidden tracking chip.

He worked his finger through the wound, blinking back tears.

What was that?

He’d definitely felt something odd.

He poked around in there, arm twitching, the pain more intense than anything he’d ever experienced in a lifetime of pain. He could do this. He was strong.

I think the word is “insane.”

Was he touching bone?

He couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled his finger out, then kneeled back down in the water and washed off his hands.

What was he going to do?

Maybe the chip wasn’t in his arms. Maybe they’d implanted it in his heart. Or maybe it was microscopic, and it was right there on the tip of his nose but he couldn’t see it.

Pull it together...

What a horrible way to end this conflict. Sitting here in a bug-filled pool practicing self-mutilation. Oh, George and Lou would get a great big laugh at that. They’d point and take pictures. Look at the formerly amazing werewolf, reduced to a filthy animal hurting himself.

He picked up his pants--well, the pants formerly belonging to the guy who he’d killed--and slipped them back on. He needed to do that. The pain brought clarity.

He’d get the chip out before too long. He knew a “doctor” in Atlanta who could X-ray him, find exactly where it was, and cut it out. No problem.

No reason to panic. And no shame in panicking. Everybody did it.

They could follow him, but they couldn’t catch him.

Not a chance.

Ivan transformed back into a wolfman, let out a howl, and then resumed racing across the swamp.

* * *

When he emerged onto a two-lane paved road, he kept running.

A couple of minutes later, he saw a car.

There was no time for jokes. No time to mentally torment his prey before he ripped them apart. No time for fun. He needed that car, and he needed it now.

He leapt onto the front hood, opening his jaws as wide as he could. The woman shrieked and drove off the road.

He opened the door, dragged her out of the vehicle, and snapped her neck.

He checked her pockets for money, found none, and tossed her body off to the side. Somebody would find it quickly, unless an alligator dragged it away for an evening meal, but that didn’t matter. Ivan would be long gone.

He got in the car and sped off.