Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman (7 page)

On, you Green and
Gold, to glory, Win this game the same old story,

Fight, you Packers,
Fight, and bring the bacon home to OLD GREEN BAY!”

He
cut a diagonal path through the course toward the old cabin. About halfway in,
Dallas watched an arrow fly past his shoulder and heard it thunk heavily as it
struck the nearest plywood monster.

“You
missed,” he observed, looking with curiosity at the blunted tip of the arrow on
the ground. It wouldn’t puncture skin if it hit, but it would hurt like the
dickens and leave a nasty bruise.

“I
never miss,” a voice Dallas recognized shot back. “If I’d meant to hit you,
I’da hit you.”

“Uh
huh. Whatever, Randall. Seems like the only time you can even come close to
getting a piece of me is when you’re a sneaky little shit about it,” Dallas
said with a mean grin.

The
breeze stirred, and he lifted his head. A sniff confirmed what his ears
suspected. His assailant was hiding out in a plywood structure twenty or so
yards away. It was about the size and shape of a box truck, complete with
painted wheels on the side. Turning toward Randall’s hiding place, he moved
confidently forward.

A
glint of sunlight revealed the head of another arrow through a thin slit
between two boards a split second before the arrow was loosed. Rather than
dodging, Dallas calmly plucked it out of the air when the tip was mere inches
from his chest.

Damn. I really am a badass,
he thought with a self-assured
shrug and proceeded to use the arrow’s plastic fletching to scratch an itch on
his back.

“If
you’re supposed to be a terrorist, this country’s got nothing to worry about,”
he said.

A
popping sound only slightly preceded the sensation of a fist-sized mass hitting
him with the force of a freight train just above the kidney. The impact knocked
him forward, and he grunted in pained surprise. Apparently, Randall wasn’t the
only one there. Turning as he stumbled, Dallas spied a blue bean bag on the
ground right as another pop split the air.

This
time, he was ready. Years of high school contact sports, a job doing physical
labor, and a much higher than average bar-brawl to bar-outing ratio had honed
Dallas’s reflexes and made him the tough son of a bitch he prided himself on
being. Turning his unintentional stumble into an intentional somersault, he
tucked his shoulder and rolled off at an angle. The sound of a second beanbag
whistling past was accompanied by a gruff, “Shit!” from somewhere behind him.
Coming fluidly to his feet, he switched gears and charged the box truck
structure where Randall was hiding. Last time Dallas checked, arrows tended to
do a little more damage than bean bags.

Apparently,
Randall wasn’t expecting a head-on assault because he gave a high pitched yelp
and fired off a hasty shot from his bow. The arrow sailed wide as Dallas
rounded the right side of the structure, flinging a hand out to catch the
two-by-four frame’s edge. As he suspected, the back was open, just like the
back of a delivery truck would be. When he swung around, his momentum carried
him straight at his assailant.

Randall
wasn’t a slug, but he didn’t have time to both drop his bow and raise his arms
to defend himself. Dallas’s fist connected with the side of his face at the
same moment the bow hit the ground with a twang.

“Ahhh!”
Randall screamed in pain. “You broke my damn face again!”

Dallas
didn’t let up. He fired a few quick body shots into Randall’s torso and
followed with a sharp jab right between his eyes. The blow stunned Randall long
enough for Dallas to slide his pocket knife free and wrap Randall up from
behind, blade pressed firmly against his jugular.

“Whoa!
Don’t! Don’t kill me! It’s a test! It’s just a test!” Randall screamed. His
words devolved into gasping gibberish as Dallas torqued his shoulder and
pressed the knife’s tip until it broke skin, releasing a trickle of very bright
blood down Randall’s neck.

“Well,
looky here!” he said in a clear, calm voice. Despite all the excitement,
Dallas’s heart rate was steady, and his breath came slow and easy. He felt
completely relaxed, which he realized in a detached way might be considered odd
given the circumstances.

With
a shrug for life’s perplexities, he continued. “When I got up today, I thought
maybe I’d get some pussy. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind though.”

Randall
hissed through clenched teeth and momentarily tensed but relaxed when he felt
Dallas’s iron grip on his wrist tighten.

“Easy
boy. I think it’s high time you introduced your friends and started to explain
things.” Dallas coaxed Randall into a sideways shuffle. When they reached the
open side of the enclosure, he shoved Randall’s head out.

After
taking a deep breath through his nose, Dallas hollered out. “I know there’s a
punk with a bean bag gun and a lady who I really hope looks as good as she
smells. C’mon out so we can get acquainted proper-like.”

 
Silence hung for a few moments. Birds
eventually resumed their incessant chattering, and a light breeze ruffled the
leaves of trees circling the clearing. Otherwise, the only sounds were Dallas’s
calm and Randall’s not-so-calm breathing until he heard a slow clapping.

“Well
done! Excellent! Glad to see I was right,” the voice said. “This vamp killer is
every bit as tough as I’d hoped. Glad this little town has something to offer.
Aletia, let’s put down our toys and meet our new recruit.”

“Qué
demonios, Colton! I didn’t get to use mine,” a sultry and softly accented voice
complained, words clearly coming from a pouting mouth.

“Tia,
darling. Not on our company.”

“You
got to use your toy on our mala compañía.”

“Manners,
Aletia! Manners,” the man named Colton chastised. “And I would’ve gotten my ass
kicked six ways to Sunday right after our new friend finished up with Randall,
isn’t that right, Dallas? Now come out of there and say hello. No more arrows
or bean bags, I promise.”

Dallas
gave Randall a shove and walked him out into the open. With a magnanimous
smile, he removed the knife from Randall’s neck and released the wrist he’d
been holding behind the man’s back. The knife’s handle was making his palm
itch, so he quickly folded it back up and returned it to his pocket.

“That
sounds mighty fine,” he agreed graciously. “I’m Dallas Emory Vinter, owner and
proprietor of That Blows HVAC and Goddamn Hero of Trappersville, but you knew
all that, I suppose.” Placing a boot firmly on Randall’s backside, he kicked
and sent his former captive face first into the grass.

Turning
his attention to the man that had greeted him with a beanbag to the kidney,
Dallas continued.

“I
imagine you’re some type of commanding officer or whatnot, and you probably
think I should be saluting. Well, I got news for you, buddy. One, I ain’t
enlisted in your little F.B.I, C.I.A., N.S.A.B.C.-whatever club you got goin’
on here, and two, I don’t salute little punks that ambush me, unless you call
what happened to Randall’s face a salute. So I guess you’d better get a beer to
wash down your disappointment but do it later. Right now, I expect you to start
talking. You recruited me, right? Damn right, you did! So.”

Dallas
cracked the knuckles on first one meaty fist and then the other before crossing
his arms across his chest. Staring straight at the man who still seemed to
think he was in charge, he asked, “Who the hell are you, what the hell is all
this, and when do I start hunting terrorists?”

Chapter 11

“A
long time ago,” the man named Colton started, “humans weren’t exactly top of
the food chain, so to speak.”

The
air of potential violence had subsided a bit. Randall had settled onto a broad
stump, alternately massaging the new, darkening bruise on his jaw and dabbing
at the still bleeding cut on his neck. Despite having gotten the best of him
again, Dallas knew Randall wasn’t one to be trifled with. Never mind the sad
goatee, unfortunate widow’s peak and dorky moped. Wiry muscles wrapped his lean
frame, and his eyes had the particular glint of one that fought dirty as a
rule. Occasionally, he glanced up at Dallas with an expression that was less
than congenial.

Well, can’t blame the guy,
Dallas thought without rancor.
I did bust his face a couple of times.

The
woman Aletia stood idly beside Randall, a mild look of disdain on her
movie-star gorgeous face. One hand rested on a hip so perfectly curved
scientists could’ve used it to calibrate their instruments. The other arm hung
languidly at her side, an odd-looking corded thing dangling from her hand. Two
strands of braided leather hung down almost to the ground. The end of each
braid had a small metal sphere attached. From their scuffed appearance, and the
weathered look of the leather braids, the strange whip appeared to be
well-used, but Dallas couldn’t quite discern its function. He didn’t spend much
time thinking about it though. He much preferred to look at the dark,
unblemished skin of her beautiful face framed in long strands of black hair.
Eyeliner so deep in color it was just a shade away from the skin beneath was
liberally applied, and emerald green eyes glinted dangerously beneath
impossibly long lashes. The lips that at the moment were frowning in judgment
of Randall gave the impression that, if they did smile, it was a smile that
would guarantee you the best night of your life followed by a trip to the
emergency room.

Dallas
sat transfixed, trying to figure out where she was from. Mexico? South America?
Spain? Growing up in rural Wisconsin didn’t give him much experience in such
matters, but he realized he didn’t much care where she came from. It was enough
that she was here. Finally tearing his eyes away from the exotic Aletia, he looked
at Colton. It was a little disconcerting since Dallas felt like he could’ve
been looking in the mirror. Colton was about his age, closer to thirty-five
than thirty, and about his height, probably coming in around six-foot-one
before pulling on the cowboy boots that could’ve come straight from Dallas’s
mud room. He had the same quarterback physique with wide shoulders, long arms,
and the hands of a guy used to actual, honest-to-god, break-a-sweat work. His
shoulder-length hair was a coarse, dark brown with hints of silver at the
temples, giving his otherwise rough appearance a sophisticated edge. Here was a
man that would never run home and cry to momma. Colton had the self-contained,
hard-baked look of a man who solved his own problems.

Standing
there in worn jeans and a faded flannel with his thumbs looped in a wide
leather belt fastened with a damn impressive brass buckle, Dallas figured they
could’ve easily been cousins, maybe even brothers, and felt an immediate
kinship to the man. That said, he was still annoyed that Colton was taking the
long way around to answering his questions.

“Science
would have you believe a thing or two about the evolution of our species and
our relationship with the beasts of the earth,” Colton continued, aware of but
unconcerned by Dallas’s scrutiny. “And those scientists would be right about
most things. I’m not going tell you science is a lie, because it isn’t.
History, that’s the one who’s a bald-face liar.”

Colton
rolled his shoulders and settled into his story, low voice rolling with a
practiced cadence.

“You
see, history was written mainly by churches and tyrants, and far too often, the
latter held too much sway over the former. If you look far enough back in
history, you’ll learn that some churches knew the truth of things, but the
tyrants didn’t want all of those things being widely known. They didn’t want
the oppressed population getting spooked and unruly, if you follow. So when it
came to writing the history books, most of what you get is a carefully redacted
version of events.”

Dallas
held up his hand to interrupt.

“This
sounds like the start of a nice story, but I think you’d better cut to the
chase. I don’t listen to history lectures until my third, no, my fourth beer.”

Aletia
gave Colton a look and started to twirl the two-corded whip in a lazy circle.
Colton chuckled softly before saying, “Easy, now. He’s right. We should
probably clear up the basics before this good fellow loses his patience and
takes it out on Randall’s face again.

“Told
you he’s tough,” Randall groused. “Not that I couldn’t take you,” he continued,
pointing pointedly at Dallas. “You’re just lucky Colton didn’t want you hurt.”

“Is
that a fact?” Dallas asked innocently. “Well, that’s awfully sporting of you,
Colton. You’re a right gentleman. Now, if you don’t mind, answers, pronto, or
I’m blowing this Popsicle stand. I swear, you government types take forever to
do anything.”

Colton
shook his head. “Not government Dallas, and we’re not hunting terrorists. I’m
not really sure where you got that idea from. I believe Randall was quite clear
when he said we’re a part of something much more important. I mentioned that
history has left us an incomplete version of what’s gone before. More
specifically, history would have you believe that there were humans, and there
were animals, and that’s all that there ever was.”

“And
fish. Bugs. Birds,” Dallas interjected. “Wait, are birds animals? I guess not.
So yeah, birds.”

“Okay.
Yes, animals and fish and bugs and birds,” Colton agreed with a frown. “Now, if
you don’t mind?”

Dallas
raised his hands. “Just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

Moving
forward until he was standing barely a foot from Dallas, Colton’s grey eyes
went hard as forged steel.

“I’ll
tell you what page we’re on. We are on the human page. We are also the ones
that know about those pages that history has conveniently left out. The pages
that have been reduced to fairy tales, and bad movies, and T.V. shows staring
too-pretty people. We’re the ones that protect the human race from
unmentionable things, the ones that keep you safe at night and solidly grounded
in your quaint idea of the real world.”

Spreading
his arms to encompass the group around him, Colton said, “We, Dallas, are the
Society.”

The
birds stopped their twittering, and the breeze no longer blew. A heavy silence
descended, and even the morning sunlight seemed to dim as Randall, Aletia, and
Colton all sat hushed, looking at Dallas expectantly.

“Okey
dokey. Society. Check. Glad it’s a word. I get kind of annoyed by all the
letters them government types use. But don’t you think ‘society’ is kind of,
oh, I dunno, mamby pamby sounding?”

Aletia
resumed her twirling, the sphere-tipped whip underscoring the moment with a
quiet, malcontent whir. Even Colton’s unshakeable confidence seemed to shake
just a smidge.

“It’s
what we’re called,” he stated flatly. “It’s what we’ve always been called. When
we travelled with the Germanic tribes before Germany was called Germany, we
were die Gesellschaft. In ancient Rome, we were the societatis. In every
culture from every time, we’ve been the Society. It is not ‘mamby pamby.’ It is
the name of a very old, very important brotherhood,”

“And
sisterhood,” Aletia corrected, the hollow whisper of her twirling whip twining
with her words.

“Figure
of speech, Tia. Figure of speech,” Colton placated. “And please stop twirling
that thing. It’s like nails on a chalkboard after a while.”

Returning
his attention to Dallas, he continued. “I hope I’m making an impression here,
Dallas. We aren’t asking you to join a kickball league. You’re being invited to
join an ancient order of protectors with lines tracing back to the first time a
Cro-Magnon used an antelope’s thigh bone to club a manticore. You’ve been
chosen to be a part of something truly important, something only someone of
your unique experience and abilities could ever hope to be a part of.”

Dallas
rubbed his jaw. “Uh huh. We’ll skip past the obvious question of, ‘what the
hell is a manticore?’” Pulling on his best haggling face, he matched Colton’s
unwavering gaze with his own. “What’s it cost?”

Colton
shot Randall a look.

“What?
I didn’t say nothing! Lucky guess, I guess,” Randall shot back defensively.

“I
knew it!” Dallas crowed. “Ancient order of special whatever, blah blah blah.
Forget you guys. I ain’t paying to hang out with a bunch of weirdos in the
woods. I already do that for free. Crap on a cracker, have you met Stanley?”

 
Colton held his hands up. “Normally, yes, we
ask for a reasonable donation from new members. Hunting monsters isn’t cheap,
and we can’t exactly hold down nine-to-five jobs. New members typically give
what they can. In return, we teach you, train you, and equip you to do battle
with those very real monsters that most folks don’t want to believe exist.”

Dallas
smiled his easy smile. “Lemme check the fine print here.” Holding up a hand, he
squinted at his palm and traced imaginary lines with a finger.

“Yup.
Thought so. There’s an exception for the Hero of Trappersville. Looks like he
doesn’t have to pay for shit and even gives ass-whoopings for free. And
ass-whooping can be interpreted in a few interesting ways,” he added, winking
at Aletia.

“Seriously?”
Aletia sneered. “Colton, I think we’ve misjudged here.”

“Nonsense,”
he replied. “Forget the donation for now. The real question is this.”

Standing
to his full height, Colton extended a hand.

“We
need you to hunt monsters. Are you with us?”

Dallas
took a long look at the gathered group. Randall, despite his annoying voice and
tendency to whine, probably wasn’t all bad. Colton, he was solid as an oak. And
Aletia…

“What
the hell, right? I’m in. But seriously, you gotta change the name.”