Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman (9 page)

Rolling
her eyes, Aletia stood and gathered up a collection of weapons. With Colton and
Randall’s help, she placed them around the course. Returning to Dallas, she
finally managed to get him to look her in the eye.

“Up
here, boy. That’s right. Now watch. I’ll run the course to show you how it’s
done, then it’s your turn.”

She
turned to face the course, closed her eyes, and started counting. Reaching
thirty, she launched forward, flowing like liquid mercury. Every move was
infused with a panther’s grace. Colton and Randall did their best to catch her
off guard, but their paintballs all seemed aimed at the spot she had been a
split-second before and splattered ineffectually against the various obstacles
and monsters. Watching her was the most arousing thing Dallas had seen in
recent memory, and he was damn close to pitching a tent right there in the
clearing.

Ice baths, road construction,
taxes.
Dallas kept
his face carefully blank while running his mind through a mantra of turn-off’s.

Papercuts. Pat Sajak.

Clearing
the last obstacle, Aletia’s run slowed to a trot, then a walk, then a confident
saunter that ended back where he was standing.

“Like
that,” she said casually while Colton and Randall clapped and whistled.

“Yeah,
um. Looks like you’ve done this a few times,” he managed, walking awkwardly up
to the start of the course. “So now what? I just close my eyes, count, and then
go for it?”

“Exactamente,”
she answered. “The boys will go easy on you this time. Focus on getting the
right attacks in on the right monsters.”

Dallas
nodded, closed his eyes, and started to count.

“Twenty-eight,
twenty-nine, thirty.”

Opening
his eyes, he was shocked to see Randall standing about ten feet in front of
him, paintball gun already pointed at his chest. His surprise was rudely
followed by three rapid pops coinciding with three sharp jabs to his chest.

“You
little bastard!” Dallas roared, wrapping his arms across his burning chest.

Randall
merely shrugged. “Now you know how it feels to get shot with a paintball.
Didn’t want you tensing up during the run-through. Fear of getting hit is
always worse than getting hit,” he explained in a patronizing tone. “Now count
again. I promise I won’t take any cheap shots.”

Shaking
off the stinging in his chest, Dallas glared at Randall, closed his eyes, and
counted.

“Twenty-six,
twenty-seven…”

Dallas
heard the click of the trigger. Eyes still closed, he crouched and rocked to
the right. A whistling split the air where his head had just been, but he was
already moving to the first obstacle. Opening his eyes, he made it to the low
wall, ducked into its offered protection, and picked up the first weapon.

“Oh,
come on!” he complained, holding the ping-pong paddle. Rustling through his
recent memories, he knew it was supposed to represent some type of religious
talisman, but he had no idea what to do with it. After a short, annoyed sigh,
he cocked his head and listened. The birds had gone silent again, hiding from
the commotion. He could hear the rustling leaves but nothing else. Breathing
deep to slow his racing heart, he listened harder and was rewarded with a myriad
of tiny sounds. The slight scuff of a shoe shifting on dirt, the flapping of
the tarp draped over the demon dog. Inhaling through his nose, the sounds
intermingled with a million smells. Pollen swirling in the breeze, a small
puddle of oil beneath the pickup, sawdust and wood glue, Aletia’s sweet
perfume, and Randall’s sour breath. It was all there, each obstacle, each
person, each bug, and blade of grass. All there, and he didn’t even need to
look to see it.

Dallas’s
mind went refreshingly blank. Gone were his attempts to remember all of the
monsters, all of the weapons, all of the rules of the game. He simply thought
of nothing and opened himself up to the hunt. Ping-pong paddle in hand, he
attacked.

He
had no clue what the first plywood monster was supposed to be and didn’t much
care. A quick
thwap
to what he
assumed was its head with the paddle was followed by a well-placed kick to its
center, knocking it over and back a good five feet. A paintball gun popped,
adding a strange percussion to the music of the clearing. Twisting, he moved
with an apparent languidness that belied his true speed as paintballs sailed
past.

After
high-stepping through a series of tires and belly-crawling under a few strands
of barbed wire, he reached the next obstacle. It was designed to resemble a
picket fence separating him from three ornery-looking zombies. A hockey stick
rested innocently within reach. Grabbing it, Dallas jabbed two of the zombies
between the eyes with its blunt end before reversing it and swinging the blade
at the third’s neck. Caught up in the moment, he didn’t realize his own
strength and was mildly surprised by the explosion of splinters as the plywood
cracked and the hockey stick shattered. Tossing it to the side, he loped off to
the left and headed for a stack of hay bales.

Leaping,
he cleared the bales, rolled, and came fluidly to his feet, growling with
pleasure as he ran toward the Cyclops. Randall hastily jumped out from behind
the plywood, giving Dallas a brief sensation of déjà vu before he had to shift
left and right to avoid Randall’s barrage of paintballs. Nearing the Cyclops,
he snatched up the wooden spoon, scooped out the bean bag eye, spun in a quick
circle, and launched the bag from the spoon straight at the retreating Randall.
The bag hit with such force that Randall cursed, stumbled, and went down in a
heap.

“Tag!
You’re dead!” Dallas whooped, running past the grumbling man.

Next
up were the onryo, a manticore, the demon dog, and others he either couldn’t
recall or couldn’t be bothered to recall. Either way, each monster was
vanquished according to Dallas, and with each kill, Dallas felt himself swell
with purpose.
This
is how it was
supposed to be.
He
was a goddamn
hero, and
he
would keep the town
safe, his friends safe, Lois
safe, no
matter what it took.

With
another athletic jump, twist, and roll, he easily avoided a fresh hail of
paintballs. Colton had finally decided to reveal himself and was doing his best
to wing Dallas and slow down his mad assault on the remaining monsters.

“Goddamn
it, sit still for a sec,” he heard Colton grumble under his breath.

Dallas
wasn’t worried about Colton. The click of a trigger and quick blast of
compressed air gave him plenty of time to shift and avoid the paint-filled
projectiles. He didn’t even have to think about it, which was good because all
of his attention was on the monster up ahead.

The
Hollywood vampire loomed large in his vision, glowing eyes, white fangs,
jet-black hair, and matching cape. Dallas saw it and his imagination exploded,
a rapid-fire panorama of visions retelling a story he’d told himself a thousand
times before. Poor Herb, walking up to his house after working at Ronnie’s or
maybe bowling. A dark shape in his peripheral vision, then some blood-drinking
fiend biting deep into his neck. He imagined Herb begging the demon to stop,
pleading for his life, and then dying right there in his front yard or maybe in
his crummy kitchen. Then that demon, that fiend, that monster, doing whatever
it was vampires do to make more vampires, and Herb rising up, no longer Herb
but something
else,
something
sinister, something dangerous. It all started with that beady-eyed vamp, that
one right in front of him, the one he’d finally caught up to. Now, at long
last, he could avenge his friend’s death.

Dallas
hit the plywood vampire cut-out like a flannel-clad wrecking ball. One fist
lashed out and shattered the widow-peaked head, sending glaring eyes and
snarling fangs in opposite directions. The next fist punched straight through
the cut-out’s chest, wrapped up a fistful of billowing cape, and pulled it back
through the fist-sized hole. Grabbing both shoulders, Dallas rammed a knee up
and was rewarded with a satisfying crack as the plywood busted into two ragged
chunks. Raising the torso up over his head, Dallas slammed it down to the
ground and started to stomp. At some point, he noticed the wooden stake.
Grabbing it, he dropped to his knees and slammed the stake down on the
vampire’s chest. Over and over again, he stabbed the painted wood while plywood
splintered and the pointed stake in his hand blunted down to a rough stub.

“Dallas!
Stop it! Hey, stop!”

Die, die, die, die, die!
he raged, a maelstrom of hate and
retribution driving each blow.

Something
grabbed his wrist. Snarling, he sent Colton sailing ass over teakettle. Another
figure stepped into his view. Dallas barely had time to register long legs,
curved hips, and an arm rapidly twirling something before strong cords tipped
with metal balls wrapped around him and pinned his arms to the sides of his
chest. Something heavy hit him in the small of his back, knocking him forward.
Landing awkwardly, he heard his shoulder pop and felt a lancing pain spider
across his back. Like gas on a fire, the pain fueled his burning rage before it
was doused by a bucketful of water being dumped on his head.

“Yerblaaaughhhh!”
he sputtered, water streaming down his face.

“Are
you done?” Colton yelled back. “What the hell was that? It’s a practice course,
not a
Full Metal Jacket
psycho field
trip.”

“I
got to use my toy on the company after all,” Aletia commented with a grin.

Stunned
and confused, Dallas lay in a pile, arms pinned and shoulder throbbing, and
tried to slow his ragged breathing.

What did just happen?
he wondered.
I was just running the course. Just doing what I was supposed to do,
wasn’t I?

“Well,
what good is practice if you don’t take it seriously?” he asked, more than a
little indignant. “Dammit, I think I dislocated my shoulder. Could someone get
these damn ropes off of me? Hurts like a bitch at this angle.”

Colton
eyed him skeptically while Randall spit in the grass and shook his head.

“I
gotta make a new vampire now,” Randall complained. “That was a good one, too.
Took me like three hours to paint it. Untie him or not, I don’t care, but he
owes me a new plywood vamp.”

Colton
walked over, rubbing his own shoulder from the impact of his fall. “Well,
passion isn’t a bad thing, I guess. I’m just not used to recruits being so
enthusiastic. You’re stronger than you look too. Also good, as long as you
remember whose team you’re on.” Fiddling with the ropes, he freed Dallas from
the constraints and handed the corded whip back to Aletia.

“What’s
that thing called, anyway?” Dallas asked her. “I figured you had a little S and
M streak, but had no idea it could do that.”

“Bolas.
Es realmente grandioso, no?” she replied, giving them a quick twirl for effect.
“Been around since forever. Inca used them, South America cowboys, Spaniards,
you name it.” Squatting down beside him, she held up one of the metal weights
attached to a braided leather cord.

“These
can be swapped out depending on what you’re hunting. Limestone weights
inscribed with the right Egyptian hieroglyphs can bind a mummy. Silver does a
nice job of subduing werewolves. Wood weights have their uses, too. You just
better make sure you’ve picked the right wood. Rowan, ash, oak, whatever. Right
wood, no hay problemas. Wrong wood, es un problema.”

“Nice
to see you’ve got such a keen eye for good wood,” Dallas quipped, his former
humor returning. “Now, before the next lesson, I need a little help here.”
Standing awkwardly, he waved with his good hand while trying not to move his
left arm.

“Randall,
I’m sorry I smashed up your vampire. I guess it struck a nerve and old Dallas,
he struck right back. Important thing is comeuppance. How’d you like to get
even-Steven?”

Randall
squinted suspiciously, eyes shifting from Dallas to Colton and back. “Boss?”

Colton
merely shrugged. “I think I know where he’s going with this, and yes, you have
my permission to hurt him. What do you need, Dallas? Would a sturdy doorframe
work for you?”

Dallas
sighed in anticipation of the impending pain. “Yeah. I guess that’ll do fine.
Let’s get it over with, so I can run your little course again.”

“Better
idea,” suggested Aletia. “Let’s get it over with, so we can have a drink.”

Dallas
looked at the small circle of his new companions and smiled back. Despite the
silly name, he figured he was going to like this Society just fine.

Chapter 13

Setting a dislocated shoulder sure
gives a man a powerful thirst
,
Dallas observed while working on his third beer.

After
reaching the decrepit cabin on the edge of the clearing, Dallas had braced his
shoulder against the door frame and given Randall specific instructions. Pull
back on his arm and body check him into the stud at the same time. Dallas would
never know if Randall just wasn’t any good at that sort of thing, or if he
intentionally took three attempts before Dallas’s shoulder gave a satisfying
pop
and snapped back into the socket. He
did know that each attempt induced enough pain to stun a rhino, and that
Randall had giggled while Dallas screamed and writhed. Third time really did
pay all though. Once his shoulder was put right, the wave of relief gave him
gooseflesh all the way down his body followed by a definite need to drink.

Despite
its sorry state, which included a half-collapsed roof and windows grinning
broken chunks of glass like a geezer’s leftover teeth, the cabin was
surprisingly cozy. A circle of camping chairs, a few coolers, and some lanterns
occupied the space beneath what was left of the roof. A small propane stove sat
off to the side surrounded by a small collection of pots and pans still
containing the remnants of an earlier meal. Colton had opened one of the
coolers and, to Dallas’s great delight, displayed a healthy number of ice cold
beers. Accepting one gratefully, he’d collapsed into a chair and set himself to
drinking.

“Hot
damn! What a day,” he whooped. “I haven’t had that much fun since I don’t know
when.”

Aletia
took the chair next to him. Clinking her beer can against his, she drained half
the can before saying, “The obstacle course is a small part of the training we
do for new recruits, but important, none the less. Monsters tend to be faster
and stronger than humans. We need to make sure we can keep up.”

“‘Cept
for zombies.” Randall cracked his own beer and took a seat. “Zombies are slow.
Even a Twinkie-chomping lardo can usually get away if they need to.”

“Maybe
for a bit,” Aletia said. “But remember, zombies don’t get tired. They’ll keep
coming. If your trasero isn’t used to running farther than from the Barca
Lounger to the fridge and back, you’ll get tired, and then you’re dead.”

“Sure,
sure,” Randall agreed. “Obviously, if you’re a fat ass and don’t got a weapon,
but who’d ever be without a weapon? Seriously, just bottleneck ‘em in a
doorway, get a long, pointy something-or-other, and take ‘em out one by one.
Even fatty boombah-latties can do that.”

“Ignore
Randall,” Aletia advised, returning her attention to Dallas. “He refuses to
lose an argument, no matter how stupid. Point is, we put new recruits through
this training to gauge what kind of shape you’re in and how much training you
need.” She leaned in with a smile that was more than just friendly. “Seems like
you could go all night and hardly break a sweat.”

Dallas
felt his face flush, which was weird. He didn’t usually have enough
self-awareness to worry about getting embarrassed. Wiping his suddenly sweaty palms
on his pant legs, he gave what he hoped was a charming smile and not a goofy
grin.

“Oh
yeah, damn right I can! I’m like the night train.” Tipping his head back, he
started to sing.

“The
thought of you is driving me insane, come on baby, let’s go listen to the night
train!”

“That’s
good,” Colton’s voice spoiled the moment like a chaperone at a middle school
dance. “Because we’ll be doing the course in the dark tomorrow night.”

Chagrined,
Dallas returned his attention to his current beer. “So Aletia here was saying
that’s just part of the training. What else do I need to do?”

Colton
looked thoughtful for a moment before asking, “How would you kill a zombie?”

“Head
shot or fire,” Dallas replied quickly.

“Vampire?”
Colton asked.

“Stake
to the heart or fire.”

“Werewolf?”

“Silver.
Could be a bullet, could be a blade, and um… Maybe fire?”

“Chupacabra.”

Dallas
paused and scratched his head. There was one on the course. What was it they
used again?

“Cyclops?”

Dallas
brightened. “Oh! The wooden spoon!”

“Not
just any wooden spoon. It has to be carved from the oldest branch of a Kermes
oak from the island of Crete,” Colton reminded him.

“Oh.
Right. Old oak Crete spoon. Got it.”

“Onryo?”

“A
twig!” Dallas said authoritatively, followed a moment later by a less convinced,
“Um, with cherries?”

“Sprig
of cherry blossom blessed by a Shinto priest,” Colton corrected, “but it can’t
be any old cherry blossom nor any old monk with plastic prayer beads and a
postcard from Buddha. What I’m getting at here is that hunting monsters is a
complex business. There’s a boatload of book learning in your future.”

Dallas
grinned. “Nah. I’ll let Stanley do that.” Finishing his beer, he looked at his
watch. “Speaking of, time flies when you’re kicking ass. I gotta head back, or
Stanley’s gonna think I was the one abducted by one of his aliens.”

“Stanley?”
Aletia asked, eyebrow raised.

“Aliens?”
Randall asked, deadpan.

“Uh,
yeah. Stan’s a buddy of mine. Thinks he got abducted by aliens back in high
school.”

“Did
he?” Colton asked seriously, brow furrowed.

Dallas
started to laugh and then realized that maybe it wasn’t such a crazy notion
after all. His definition of normal had stretched a bit recently.

“Well,
I guess that’s a question I can’t right answer. He swears it’s God’s own truth,
and who am I to rain on a buddy’s alien parade?”

With
a shrug that conveyed Dallas wasn’t prepared to waste any more brain cells on
the issue, he continued.

“Stanley’s
a weird guy, but he’s a good one to have around when you need to lose at
bowling or win at
Jeopardy
, and he
just loves book learning. I’ll bring him round at some point, but right now, I
should get out of here. I’m starving, and a couple of cold ones ain’t gonna do
the trick.”

“You
need a ride back?” Aletia asked, looking up from under dark lashes.

Dallas
considered all the connotations of the invitation. His libido started to hoot
and holler, but it had been an eventful day, and he had a lot to process.

“Nah,”
he managed after a brief internal struggle. “A little walk through the woods
will do me good. See y’all tomorrow.”

And
with that, Dallas rose and strode from the cabin, heading back into the trees.
He wasn’t concerned about getting lost in the dark. A neon trail still blazed
whenever he snuffed the air. Following his scent from the previous day, he made
his way back toward Cecil’s, mind awhirl with more thoughts than he was
accustomed to thinking at one time.