Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set (97 page)

George nodded. He felt absolutely terrible, but if he were in her situation, he’d feel the exact same way. “Lou, are you sure there aren’t any silver-tipped arrows left?”

“I didn’t tear the whole van apart, but I didn’t see any. George, I don’t want to be cold-hearted or anything, but we really need to get out of here.”

“Use the dynamite,” Michele said.

“What?”

“It’ll hurt less than silver, I think.”

Lou took another stick of dynamite out of the box. “Are you sure this is what you want? Maybe we can get you help.”

“There’s no help for me. I’m sorry, George. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

George almost looked like his eyes were tearing up. “I’m sorry, too. I thought I was helping you by rescuing you from those dogs. Bad call, huh?”

“Yeah.” Suddenly Michele cried out in pain. The hairs on her arm began to sway as they did before the first transformation. “Oh, God...”

Lou lit the fuse and dropped the stick of dynamite into the cage.

Michele picked it up and hugged it to her chest.

The thugs walked away from the cage.

The explosion sounded even louder than the first one.

They looked back. There was nothing left of Michele but some burnt pieces, scattered around the area.

“Shit,” said George.

“At least she didn’t suffer.”

“What do you mean? She suffered a lot.”

“Not from the dynamite, though.”

“Well, that’s lovely. If you count only that last second when she got blown to bits, she died a peaceful death. Wonderful. I guess coming into our lives was the best thing that ever happened to that young girl.”

“I just won’t say anything else.” Lou took another stick of dynamite out of the box while watching carefully for any sign of Ivan.

“Hey, Ivan!” George shouted. “Did you see that? Sorry you didn’t get to make yourself a girlfriend! She was a good choice!” George walked over to the white van and opened the passenger side door.

“Is he still around?” Lou asked. It seemed unlikely that Ivan would stay in the area having witnessed what happened to the other werewolf, but anything was possible with that cocky bastard.

George picked up the tracking device. “Yeah. He’s still close.” George pointed at the swamp in the same direction where Lou had thrown the grenade. “Do it.”

Lou lit the fuse and tossed the dynamite.

The explosion sent up a cloud of smoke and burning leaves. Lou felt too sick over what they’d done to Michele to enjoy the sensation of hurling explosives.

“Did we get him?”

“No,” said George. “Crap. He’s on the move.”

“Should we go after him?”

George stared at the tracking device for a moment. “No, he’s running. I don’t blame him. We won’t be able to catch him on foot. Let’s get in the van. When he comes out of the swamp, we’ll be ready.”

They got in the van, with George driving. Lou figured that this was around the time when several police cars would come into view, red and blue lights flashing, with a few dozen officers pointing rifles at them, but the path remained empty.

“Once again, we could just let him go,” said Lou.

“Are you kidding me? With a van full of great stuff? That furry son of a bitch is
dead
.”

Lou sighed. “All right.”

“You’re with me, right?”

Lou thought about that for a moment. “You know what? I actually think I am. I will be really, really relieved when he’s dead.”

“Me too.”

“So...Mexico or Canada when we flee from our former lives?”

“People are polite in Canada.”

“But it’s cold there.”

“I don’t speak much Spanish.”

“But again, it’s cold.”

“So what?” George asked. “You’ve spent the entire day complaining that it’s too hot.”

“And it is. I don’t like Florida heat or Canadian cold.”

“Which is worse?”

“I’m not sure. Florida heat, I guess.”

“Well, Mexico heat is worse than Florida heat, so I guess that settles it. Time to relearn how to say ‘about.’“

“About,” said Lou, pronouncing it
a-boot.
“I can’t believe Michele is dead.”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

“What if her pieces are still alive?”

“
What?
”

“I’m just saying.”

“You jackass. Why the hell would you say something like that? I mean, even if you thought it, why would you say it? Her pieces are not still alive, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I’m just freaked out by it all.”

“So am I, but that doesn’t mean I’m sharing ‘living hell’ scenarios. She’s dead. If we blow Ivan into a billion pieces, he’ll be dead, too. Did you see any of those pieces moving?”

“No, they were...they were pretty much just lying there, burning.”

“Right. Stop coming up with macabre shit like that.”

“Sorry.”

George looked over at the tracking device. “He’s still running. We put a nice scare into him. Let’s appreciate that instead of dwelling on horrific stuff.”

“When we catch up to him, I’m using all of the remaining dynamite.”

“That’s the spirit!”

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.