Aces and Eights
Part 4: Wolf
On the way to the bus station I
watched for someone following me, but none of the other drivers seemed to have
anything sneaky in mind. When I arrived, I parked the car, and headed for the
bus station's large front doors.
The station was not as busy as I had
expected. A small group of young soldiers occupied a bench in one corner, and
there was a figure lying huddled on another bench, clutching a wine bottle
wrapped in the customary paper bag.
I headed along the wall, looking for
Luke's locker number. When I reached it, I dug the key out of my jeans and
inserted it in the lock. As I turned the key, I was startled by what felt like a
mild electrical shock.
When the locker door swung open, I
looked in, then backed away blinking and rubbing my eyes. It had appeared, for
an instant, that the locker contained a raised snake, but the shadowy image
vanished almost immediately. Within the locker, a light mist uncoiled itself and
began dissipating. Confused, I disregarded it and reached inside for the bag
that was there. It was about half a meter long and lighter than I had expected.
About right for rolled up canvases, I thought. Bag in hand, I turned to leave.
Just then, three people entered the
station, two men and a woman. They were dressed normally for the season--wearing
jeans and light jackets--but there seemed to be purpose in the way they walked.
The trio stalked its way toward me. Suddenly nervous, I turned and headed for
the other end of the station, walking fast. I wanted to get outside, make my way
around to the car, and get the hell home. I passed through the doors and broke
into a run.
Immediately, I noticed a lone figure
moving toward me from across the street. I rounded the corner of the building,
hoping to make it to the car before anyone could reached me, but the man behind
me was coming up quick. He seemed very fast.
I made it to the next corner,
slowing down to round it, then sprinted for the car. I could hear the breathing
of the man behind me. As I drew closer to the car, I could see that there was
another man leaning against it. He smiled and stood up straight. In the same
second, the station doors opened to my left, and the three from inside emerged.
"Damn," I said, more from fear than anger, though there was anger in
it as well. Then, deus ex machina: a cab pulled to a stop on the section of road
to my immediate right.
I dashed for the open taxi door,
shoving the man who had apparently flagged it aside with a quick,
"Sorry," before diving in. I slammed the door and yelled,
"Drive," emphasizing my words with the pistol. The driver floored it
just as my assailants reached the cab. I slapped the lock down and pointed the
pistol threateningly toward the nearest window. One of my pursuers--the woman, I
think--smashed the window in spite of the gun. The expression on her face seemed
a cross between determination and glee as her clenched fist plunged through the
glass. Then, much to my relief, we were leaving them behind.
Looking back, I could see them
standing in the road, pack-like and shadowed by the streetlights above and
behind them. Turning back to the cabby, I gave him my address. I ran the fingers
of my left hand through my hair, shaking away bits of broken glass. I started to
wind down, to calm myself.
A shot broke out the rear windshield
and whined away into the night. The taxi swerved and I could hear the driver
cursing into his radio mike. Shaking away more glass, I turned to see my own car
following us. I pointed the pistol out the hole that had previously been the
rear windshield and squeezed the trigger.
Great, I thought. This was just what
I needed. On top of everything else that had happened, my car was now involved
in a chase and I was shooting at it. Suddenly, I wanted to laugh. Luke owed me
one hell of an explanation.
They fired another shot and it
followed the first. I fired back again, aiming for the driver. The windshield of
my car imploded, but I had missed the driver. They fired three more times in
rapid succession, and I heard one of the bullets slam home. I looked down,
expecting blood, but there wasn't any.
It was then that the taxi swerved
and jumped up onto the curb. I heard the cabby moan; he had taken the bullet
intended for me. I dove over the seat and took the wheel, steering the limping
cab into an alley. A wall of sparks flew around us as one side of the taxi
scraped the brick wall. I reached over, pulled the emergency brake and was
thrown onto the floor.
I struggled to get up and out of the
cab, first picking up the fallen pistol. Within my sleeve, blood ran freely down
my forearm. I glanced at the cab driver, but he was unconscious. From behind, I
heard another shot, and I saw that my pursuers were making their way into the
mouth of the alley. Also at that moment, I heard the sound of wailing sirens
coming from somewhere.
I left the taxi running. It did a
good job of blocking the alley, so the people chasing me were forced to leave my
car and pursue on foot. I ran to the end of the alley, turned right out onto the
open street (praying for another taxi, but not really daring to expect one). A
dog barked at me as I ran down the sidewalk and across the parking lot of a
convenience store. A couple of people turned to watch me as I sprinted along and
I realized that I still had the pistol in my hand. I tucked it inside the jacket
and tried hard to look like a jogger.
There was a park ahead. I made my
way toward it, vaulting a small chain link fence. Once I dropped Luke's precious
bag, and had to stop and pick it up before continuing. My temples were pounding,
and it was getting harder to breathe; I knew that I could not keep running at
full speed for long. Slowing a little, I passed an illuminated fountain. Then I
was running on grass and there were trees ahead. I had made it to the park, at
least.
When I had passed a number of trees,
I ducked behind one and looked back in the direction from which I had come. I
saw no signs of pursuit, so I decided to take a breather. Wishing that I had
worn running shoes rather than hiking boots, I sat on the grass and panted.
After a couple of minutes I felt a little better. I stood and stretched against
the trunk of the tree, an oak. Looking around it once more, I saw nothing, then
headed for the other side of the park. I planned on finding the nearest phone
and calling another taxi. I did not want to have to walk home unless I had to,
as I was still several miles away from my apartment.
Voices came from somewhere to my
left.
A couple out on a romantic stroll? A
homeless drifter? My gunmen? I decided not to take any chances. Ducking down
again, I positioned myself behind another tree. My plan of hiding until they
passed was suddenly disrupted, however, when someone from behind me called out,
"I've found him!" I started to bolt, but saw that others were emerging
from the trees before me. Then came more from my right. They fanned out, ringing
me in.
I shoved my hand into my jacket
pocket, and wrapped it around the gun. I resolved to try talking my way out
first. "If you want this bag so bad," I said, "take it. It's not
worth my life."
"Your life is valueless,"
said one of them, speaking with the same odd accent I had heard on the phone
earlier. "We will slaughter you, and take what we want."
I turned to face the one who had
spoken. I drew out the pistol and aimed it in his direction. "I don't think
so."
He laughed and the others joined in.
Damn, I thought, either these guys were great at bluffing, or I was in very
serious trouble.
The man who had spoken stretched his
arms out at length and I heard his shirt ripping. He snarled, as his face
suddenly darkened and twisted. I looked around, bewildered. The others were
experiencing the same bizarre occurrence. In seconds, my adversaries grew
taller, more muscular. Their nails grew long and sharp, their teeth became
fangs. They got furry.
I remembered the silver bullets and
selected a target. I wanted to make a hole in the circle so that I could escape.
My mind was tumbling through a nightmare carnival of impossibility. Werewolves
don't exist, I told myself, shooting at the one closest to me.
The bullets caught him in the chest
and slammed him backward over a park bench. He writhed in agony and the wound
foamed as if someone had mixed baking powder and vinegar there. The others, no
longer human, looked on with shocked silence. All had ceased snarling.
I jumped up onto the park bench,
leather bag in one hand, gun in the other, and hopped to the other side. I spun
and faced them. "That's right," I said frantically, "silver
bullets." Saying those words felt something like addressing a movie screen.
"Now back off and let me leave." The one I had shot stopped thrashing
and began to transform back into a human shape.
One of them growled, emitting a low
grinding sound. He leapt at me and I fired again, twice. This one, too, fell and
flopped and foamed. Then there were three. "I warned you," I said. A
chorus of sirens was audible now. They looked at me for a moment, then, acting
in unison, turned and disappeared into the trees.
Near madness, I fled.
I left the park and made my way
through a few more alleys and side streets before slowing down. When I stopped
long enough to survey the scene at my back, I could see that the police had
arrived and were blocking off the park. The lights from their cars flashed blue
and red in the night, throwing eerie shadow and silhouette patterns into the
branches of the surrounding trees.
I tried adding up the number of
times I had fired the gun. Six, maybe seven, I thought. If the clip held
fifteen--as I thought it did--I still had eight or nine shots left. Enough, if
the fang gang should show up again.
After a few more blocks I slowed
down from a quick jog to a walk. I must have pulled a muscle somewhere in the
park because my thigh suddenly started to ache painfully.
It was a cloudy night, so I could
not see the stars. The moon was not visible, either, but I knew that it was not
supposed to be full yet. That struck me as odd, but then, what the hell did I
really know about werewolves, anyway. A short while earlier, I had thought them
fictional.
I passed through a small business
section, and knew that I was about a quarter of the way home. A row of pay
phones stood within the glow of a streetlight. I stopped at one, then moved down
because the receiver had been torn away. The next cubicle was missing its book.
The third booth was complete with phone and book, so I looked up the number of a
taxi service, dug out a silvery quarter, and called. I gave my name to the lady
who answered, then looked up at the corner for the name of the street. She said
that my cab would be by in ten to fifteen, so I thanked her, hung up and waited.
I would have called Luke then, but I did not have another quarter.
I got nervous just standing there. I
felt like moving, like seeking shelter. I settled for moving out of the light
and leaning against the cool stone wall of a many-windowed building. I put my
hand into my pocket several times to verify that the pistol had not deserted me.
Luke's bag sat against the wall at my feet. Minutes later, the taxi pulled up to
the curb. I took one last look around and climbed inside, hoping that this ride
would be more successful than my last. The driver took my address, pulled away,
and started talking about his son's pitching arm. It seemed to be a routine
speech. I half listened to him talk, rubbing my eyes and massaging my sore
thigh.
"Here y'are," said the
cabby a while latter. "Seven-fifty, please."
"Thanks," I said, handing
him a ten. "Keep the rest." Maybe I felt guilty about the other cab
driver.
"Sure. Good night."
I grabbed the bag and stepped out.
Walking briskly, I headed for my apartment. I was almost there, moving through a
dark section, when I was struck solidly from the rear, and knocked to the
ground. There was no doubt as to who it was who had attacked me--he was
growling. I dropped the bag and yelled.
My arms were pinned, so I could not
reach the pistol. I tried to roll over, but the werewolf was too strong. I
thrashed and kicked, stricken by blind panic. I was grabbed from behind and
lifted up. Strong arms, covered in thick red-brown fur, looped around my chest.
An animal smell washed over me.
I kicked outward at the one who had
tackled me. He stepped back, laughing. The third one joined us, the woman. She
performed a rough search of my clothing, turned up the pistol, and took it. She
looked deeply into my eyes, and her gaze--animal, yet intelligent--was
penetrating.
"You will regret what you have
done," she said. "My name is Kyla, Shadow man, and I promise that,
under my hand, you will feel great pain." She reached up with one clawed
hand and gripped my face. "Those whom you slew were dear to me."
I was sickened by her touch, as well
as by her arrogance. I struggled anew, again thrashing wildly. In the process,
one of my hands came free--possibly due to the slippery coating of blood. I
lashed out, striking the left side of her long muzzle. Kyla responded with
sudden fury, snapping her jaws forward and down. I felt pain as her teeth tore
into my shoulder, and my blood flowed freely, spilling across my face and neck.
I slumped.
Kyla observed me for a moment, a
angry light in her eyes. Then she picked up the bag and began leading the others
toward my apartment. I was carried along. I had grown dizzy, probably from the
blood loss, and must have lost consciousness momentarily. When I regained my
senses, I was being hauled upstairs. When we reached my back door, four storeys
above the ground, the one holding me moved to the rear of the balcony. The other
two moved up to the door. One of them knocked softly--politely, almost.
We waited.
The one holding me suddenly
tightened his grip, forcing the breath out of my lungs. Simultaneously, I heard
a scraping sound from behind us. The others heard it too, because the two
standing by the door spun around.
The creature holding me shrieked and
convulsed, nearly crushing my chest. He dropped me. I hit and rolled over in
time to see the werewolf who had been holding me go toppling over the rail.
Luke, who must have been hidden on the roof or the next balcony over, had
apparently stabbed the big beast with the long silver dagger he was holding.
The other two shape changers rushed
in then, leaping over me. The larger of the two slammed into Luke and began
wrestling him toward the edge. To my surprise, Luke did not go over, but managed
to hold his ground. Still fighting, they fell into a heap on the balcony floor.
Suddenly, I saw that the female
werewolf, Kyla, had moved to the side, near the stair, and was aiming the
pistol, trying to get a shot in at Luke. From behind, I pushed her as hard as I
could. Standing at an odd angle already, she could not maintain her position.
She went down the stairs with a snarl, and the pistol went over the edge and out
of sight.
When I looked back over at Luke, he
was getting up off the floor, blood stained dagger in hand. His opponent did not
rise. "Get the bag," he said quickly.
Looking down, I could see that Kyla
had risen immediately, and was climbing back up the stairs. Though she seemed to
be limping, I was afraid of what she might do when she reached the top. Her
appearance was not pleasant.
"The bag!" demanded Luke a
second time.
I looked around. His bag was lying
in the corner, against one of my ferns. I grabbed it and turned. Luke was waving
his hand in the air before him. Before I could ask him what the hell he was
doing, though, Kyla started to smolder. Halfway up already, she looked down at
her fur, shrieked and leaped from the stair. She hit the concrete with a smack
and rolled into the pool.
"Quick," Luke said,
"give me the bag. She'll be back again." I handed him the bag, and he
began searching through it.
Looking over the edge, I could see
that the wolf-woman was climbing out of the water. The one Luke had thrown off
the balcony was now staggering toward the stairway, too. They were just moving
upward when Luke reached out and took hold of my arm. "Come on," he
said, "We're leaving." The air around me shimmered prismatically, and,
a few seconds later, we were standing in a candle-lit stone
Luke and I collapsed together. I heard someone shout, and a bell began ringing. Then I passed out.