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He told them his plan for a preserve. Most came willingly, acting out of self-interest or self-preservation. Those who refused were taken by force, subdued with the ease of an etymologist bottling a moth in a killing jar. Grosevoir transported them to his preserve and set them free.

Life in the menagerie was not always tranquil. Most of its inhabitants were loners or pack animals, and did not take kindly to sharing dominion. Boundaries were erected and quickly trespassed upon. Inter-species rivalries were common, the ensuing battles bloody. Inter-species breeding also flourished, enemies making strange but inviting bedfellows. This gave rise to some startling, and startlingly hideous, hybrids. Most of these did not live very long, which was a blessing.

It hadn’t taken long for the preserve inhabitants to slaughter the local wildlife; maintaining ecological diversity was not a pressing issue with such creatures. They’d also murdered anyone hapless enough to reside within the preserve’s boundaries. Every so often they were gifted with a trapper or wayward hunting party, but such occasions were few and sporadic.

Disharmony gripped the preserve. Infighting broke out among the inmates, threatening to scuttle Grosevoir’s experiment before it had truly commenced. To quell the disunion, Grosevoir promised to supply a steady diet of “meat.”

At first he’d chosen bums, welfare cases, and others down on their luck from the surrounding shanty towns, plying them with alcohol or the promise of a few dollars. Most of them came willingly, perhaps even happily, delighted to have their regretful lives wrapped up in such novel fashion. This had sufficed for a time, until the inhabitants started complaining about “inferior quality,” “anemic blood,” and a “gamey taste.” The most common complaint was that the victims lacked vigor;
it’s like they
want
to die
, one vampire grumbled.

Grosevoir’s searches intensified. He sought out bar-room toughs, washed-up athletes, and men whose rampant insanity made for amusing sport. Again, the upswing in quality satisfied for a time before the inevitable complaints swelled: the victims were too few, too disorganized, too easy to pick off. Boredom settled over the preserve. Infighting picked up.

Fine
, Grosevoir said to himself, petulantly.
They want dangerous thrills, then that’s what they shall have
. The very next day he placed an advert in the Toronto Star:

HUNTERS NEEDED! SILVER FOX RANCH OVERRUN WITH GRIZZLIES. OWNER HAS LOST 300 FOXES. NEEDED: EXPERIENCED HUNTERS TO TRACK AND KILL MARAUDING BEARS. $2000 PER HEAD. TRANSPORT PROVIDED. BRING OWN WEAPON(S).

The men responding to the ad were the type Grosevoir had anticipated: lumberjack-vested and duck-booted, hairy and grizzled, not a full set of teeth among them. Those who had wives, families, people who would miss them were dismissed as unfit. Grosevoir settled on ten single men, adequate physical specimens with backwoods experience.

They’d performed rather well. The last of them survived for five days, until, starving and delirious, he’d stumbled into a cave of exultant goblins. The men even managed to kill a few werewolves (contrary to superstitious belief, almost all “monsters” can be killed by conventional means; bullets—enough of them in the proper locations—are lethal).

Grosevoir’s efforts were met with an approval almost tidal in scope.
Yes, yes,
came the cries.
More of the same!
He set about gathering ever more innovative and challenging stimuli.

On a trip to Iraq—Grosevoir spent a lot of time in Iraq, Iran, Libya, Somalia, and other war-ravaged nations—he’d convinced a terrorist cell to journey to northern Canada under the pretense of locating a cache of nuclear warheads Uncle Sam had stashed there. They made exhilarating sport, with their guerilla tactics and ability to hide underground for days at a time, although their flesh possessed a pungent and unsavory flavor.

On another occasion, he’d been fortuitously on-hand at a prison-break in Magadan, USSR, spiriting away twenty of Mother Russia’s most ruthless criminals. The men were unarmed and dressed in only prison coveralls, so he’d provided weapons and warm clothes. Lambs to the slaughter, yes, but well-armed lambs. He took a different tack with these men.

“This place is full of monsters,” he informed the men in their native tongue. “If you can make it around the lake, I will transport you to a non-extradition location where you can live the rest of your life free from prosecution.”

“Monsters,” a prisoner scoffed. “You are as crazy as you are ugly, little man.”

While the prisoners laughed, Orlock, an old and cunning vampire, swooped down from the trees, his form that of a giant bat. He plucked the offending prisoner off the ground with the ease of an owl plucking a field mouse and carried him, screaming, over the treetops.

Nobody laughed much after that.

That group had done exceedingly well. Not only did they kill three werewolves, a handful of zombies, and a careless vampire, two men actually made it around the lake alive. True to his word, Grosevoir transported them to a non-extradition location: an ice floe one-hundred miles off the coast of Barrow, Alaska. They froze to death in a matter of hours.

Since that time many more men had been brought to the barren and dangerous terrain surrounding Great Bear Lake. Very few ran the gauntlet alive. Those who did were rewarded with further suffering and, ultimately, death. The creature masquerading as a man is the great deceiver, spinning lies with the effortless grace of a spider spinning its thread.

Now it has trapped its greatest prize yet; men it knows, men it has fought, men with whom it has a score to settle.

— | — | —

Northwest Territories

December 9th, 1987. 2:02 a.m.

A rough-edged wind blew through the clearing, carrying the threat of snow. The men shivered. Grosevoir did not. He said, “I extend to you the same offer I’ve extended to those who’ve walked this path before you: complete the circuit around Great Bear Lake. Run from the creatures you encounter, or stand and fight. Any survivors receive full payment, plus the evenly-divided share of any who’ve died. In other words, if only one man survives, that man will walk away five million dollars richer.”

Grosevoir delved into his pocket. When his hand reappeared, his palm glittered with shiny cylinders, which he scattered over the ground like bread-crusts to pigeons. “Silver bullets. Not necessary to kill lycanthropes, but rather effective. Five rounds, five different calibers, one for each of you.” He reached into his other pocket and produced a vial of clear liquid, smiling in the manner of one granting a passel of fools an undeserved favor. “Holy water. Useful against most any supernatural minions. Use judiciously.”

“Why are you doing this?” Oddy asked. “If this is a preserve, why are you giving us the means to kill your precious specimens? Like setting hunters loose in a zoo to shoot at caged animals.”

Grosevoir chuckled. “It’s not like that at all. These creatures are not caged, and they are a thousand leagues removed from harmless. These,” gesturing to the silver bullets and holy water, “are an attempt, however feeble, to level the playing field. And remember: the chief aim of any preserve is rehabilitation. These creatures have grown weak, their survival instincts atrophied. When it comes time for their release, they must be strong, and cunning, and able to rule as they once did. Only the strongest
deserve
to survive. So think of your role as that of thresher, separating the wheat from the chaff.”

“I don’t buy your deal,” Tripwire said. “Suppose we do make it out alive—you’re just going to drop us where you found us with a bagful of cash? What’s to stop us going to the cops, the fuckin’ US military, telling them about the little rehab center you’re running up here?”

“Get your head out of your ass,” Zippo snapped. “Think you’re going to waltz into the fuckin’ Pentagon, ranting about vampires and werewolves and walking corpses? They’ll have the men with butterfly nets on your ass before you can whistle Dixie.”

“That’s true,” Grosevoir said. “Besides, anyone fortunate enough to survive has been happy to return to their boring little homes, their boring little lives, scarred but richer for their trauma.”

“So you’re on the level?” Zippo said. “Whoever comes out of this shitstorm kicking gets a one-way ticket back to civilization and the cash?”

Oddy could almost see the gears meshing inside Zippo’s head, the hitman’s mind playing more angles than a bagful of protractors. How did he see this going down? Did it end with Zippo boarding a heli solo, five million dollars wealthier?
Everything changes,
Oddy thought.
Allegiances shift, loyalties crumble. Only dead things stay the same.

“Yes,” Grosevoir replied with all the sincerity of an adder. “That’s the deal.”

Edwards was moaning almost constantly by now. White foam frothed the sides of his mouth. He spat up tatters of red, spongy tissue.
It’s his lungs
, Tripwire realized.
Jesus
. Soon Edwards’s eye would open. That eye would be red with burst blood vessels, and would reflect nothing but cold hunger.

“There’s no hope for him,” Grosevoir said matter-of-factly. “He’s been bitten. Of course, he’d make a fine addition to the preserve, but his continued existence may pose a threat to you.”

“What are we going to do with him?” Tripwire said.

“What
can
we do?” Crosshairs.

“Grease the poor fuck.” Zippo.

“I suggest you get moving. The clock is ticking.” Grosevoir.

“Who’s going to handle it?” Oddy.

Before anyone could say another word, Answer unsheathed his K-Bar and stabbed Edwards in the neck. The soldier’s remaining eyelid flew open like a window shade. One dead, red-threaded eye. Answer pulled the knife out. Brownish blood the consistency of motor oil pushed sluggishly from the wound.

“Jesus,” Tripwire whispered.

Edwards bit at Answer’s fingers. Answer jammed his knee down on Edwards’s throat, forcing his mouth closed. He stabbed the knife into Edwards’s forehead. It didn’t go through. Answer found a large, flat rock and pounded on the hilt. The K-Bar slid into skull bone, through gray matter, out the other side into the snow.

Edwards gurgled. Edwards squirmed. Eventually Edwards died. Answer yanked the knife out and wiped it on his pants leg. He stood up. It was 2:33 a.m.

Oddy said, “Let’s get humping.”

««—»»

Grosevoir remained perched on his rock, a cancerous black raven. “Carpe diem,” he said, waving a stub-fingered hand at them.

Oddy was gripped by an overwhelming urge to take a potshot at the little gnome. The only thing stopping him was the knowledge any such act would be useless, and a waste of precious ammunition to boot.

“Here.” He handed out the silver bullets, then held up the tiny bottle of holy water and said, “Any of you jokers take up the priesthood during the past twenty years? We could melt some snow, get you to bless it.”

“I’m fully ordained,” Zippo said.

Crosshairs, gullible: “Really?”

Zippo, smirking: “Oh, sure. In the church of
a-jackass-says-what.
”

Crosshairs, hook-line-and-sinker: “What?”

“I pegged you as more of a Hare Krishna myself, Zip,” Tripwire said. “I can see you dressed in an orange dashiki at JFK International, handing out pansies.”

Crosshairs, doggedly: “What church are you ordained in?”

“Are you deaf?” Zippo said. “
A-jackass-says-what
.”

“What?” Crosshairs cupped his hand around his ear. “Speak slower.”