Aces and Eights
Page 5
Harvey Smith
A couple out on a romantic stroll? Some homeless drunks? 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 graveyard 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 to face 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 turned in union 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, looking 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 somehow 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 twenty. "Keep the rest." Maybe I felt guilty about the other cab driver.
"Sure...thanks. 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.
Aces and Eights Page 6