Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Swapping Roles

He did not get lucky.

Ivan knocked the bolt away. “Now, Sam!” George shouted, looking over Ivan’s shoulder.

Taking advantage of Ivan’s momentary distraction, George ran for the van. Wow. He couldn’t believe that lame-ass trick worked.

It would’ve been nicer if it were some planned-out moment where Sam really was standing there with a crossbow, ready to put a silver-tipped bolt deep into Ivan’s heart, but for now George would happily accept the extra two seconds of life he’d been given.

He scrambled into the driver’s seat with the werewolf right behind him. He scooted onto the passenger side, opened the door, and got back out of the vehicle. It was even more difficult for Ivan to maneuver in here than for the oversized thug, so George got out with just enough time to slam the door in Ivan’s face. Hopefully he’d flattened his goddamn snout.

What now?

Where was Sam? The team had to have a backup plan prepared in case Prescott and Angie got murdered, right?

George ran around to the rear of the van. Actually, that cage looked nice and safe right about now. If it had been unlocked, he might have been inclined to jump in there with Michele.

There was just enough room for him to get in the back of the van. Since there was no way he could outrun the werewolf, his best bet was to keep hitting him with doors until Sam and Lou figured out that he needed some frickin’ assistance. He got in, pressed himself against the cage, and pulled the doors shut.

Ivan was at the doors in a few seconds. George heard his claws very slowly scrape against the outside steel--even now, the prick was still trying to be spooky. George took the pistol with its mostly useless lead bullets out of the holster.

Ivan pulled the doors open. He’d changed his hands back to human for the task.

George squeezed the trigger over and over, pumping several bullets into Ivan’s chest. Every few extra seconds helped, and if Sam had somehow missed hearing Prescott’s screams, he had to hear gunshots, right?

Ivan looked down at the bleeding holes in his chest, his expression incredulous even with his face in werewolf form. It changed back to human. “Bullets. Don’t. Work.”

George shot him in the face.

Ivan ran his tongue over the new hole in his upper lip. “Did you fucking hear me?” he asked, his words kind of slurred.

“You want one in the eye?” George asked. He’d actually been aiming for Ivan’s eye with the lip shot, but didn’t tell him that.

Ivan grabbed George’s left arm, not sinking his claws in. He gave it a sharp yank and George cried out in pain. The gun fell out of his hand as George’s arm, his shoulder now dislocated, flopped uselessly next to him. Ivan grabbed George’s ankle and dragged him out of the van. He hit the ground with a painful jolt, fortunately not crushing his twisted arm underneath him.

Ivan picked up the pistol and pointed it at George’s face. “So who else is out there? Is Sam real?”

“Nah.”

“Liar.” Ivan looked around uncomfortably. “I don’t hear him. I hear pretty well when I’m paying attention. He must’ve run away when he heard me tear your buddy apart limb from limb.”

“Must have.”

“You know that with a couple more tugs I could rip your arm right off. You saw me do it back at the bar.”

“I know.”

“Why do you keep messing with me, George? You got away. Why not just leave well enough alone?” Ivan wasn’t nearly as articulate anymore, but George could still understand him.

“I wasn’t going to let you kill anybody else.” God, his arm hurt. He’d dislocated his shoulder once in high school, and twenty-seven years later still remembered how bad it felt.

“Really? So, thanks to your plan to--fuck!” He wiped some blood from his lip and then continued. “Thanks to your plan to stop me from killing anybody else, I killed two more people. That’s a very poor plan, George.”

“So am I next?”

“Maybe. Wouldn’t that just suck to get shot by a werewolf? I mean, how unglamorous is that?”

“Pretty unglamorous.”

“What I should do is rip your arms and legs off and leave you as a human torso. But you’d probably just die of blood loss, and that’s no fun. I guess you’re coming with me.”

Ivan tried to reach into his pocket, but his free arm didn’t seem to be working quite right. He cursed. “Screw it, I don’t need this.” He threw the pistol off into the swamp, then snapped off the end of the bolt. He pulled each half out of his arm and threw them aside, then got the set of keys out of his pocket and tossed them at George. They bounced off George’s chest and onto the dirt. “Unlock the cage.”

George shook his head. “No.”

“Five...four...three...”

“Okay, okay.” George picked up the keys and stood up. He couldn’t even feel the fingers on his left hand anymore.

“Do it quickly. You have ten seconds to get in that cage before I kill you.”

Ivan sounded completely serious. Despite his earlier thoughts, George really didn’t want to get into that cage with Michele, and not just because Ivan’s future plans for George probably involved something even worse than what had happened to Prescott.

Still, he’d rather risk a much worse death later than let Ivan kill him now, so he unlocked the cage door.

This would be a good time for a surprise bolt to pop through his chest...

No surprise bolt popped through Ivan’s chest. George climbed into the back of the van--an awkward process with only one good arm--and then crawled into the cage.

He slammed the door shut and scooted to the back, next to Michele.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ivan asked. “Give me the keys.”

“You want them? Bend the bars.”

Ivan let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, that’s hilarious. Do you honestly think you’re safe in there?”

“Well, safer.”

“So you’re going to make me count again? Do you really want to make me even madder than I already am?”

“Why not? Will that make you kill me even more slowly?”

“Oh, you little shit. Good one. You’re really going to make me run over and get the gun, huh?”

“Yeah, I think I am.”

“All right. Point for you.”

Ivan ran off to where he’d thrown the pistol. George took a very brief moment to bask in the joy of pissing him off, and then prodded Michele. “Hey, you okay?”

“Leave me alone,” she said, speaking so quietly that he could barely hear her.

“C’mon, sit up. We need to work together.” He pulled her to a sitting position.

She looked awful. Her skin was pale except for dark circles under her eyes, she was sweating profusely, and her breathing was a soft rasp.

“I just...I just want to die...”

“No, you don’t. There’s help on the way. If we can keep Ivan from doing anything to us until they get here, we’ll be fine.”

“I’m sick, George. I’m just...I’m sick.”

“No, you’re fine. Just stay with me. I need you.”

She closed her eyes.

“No, no! Michele, stay awake. Think about how good it’s going to feel when we kill that son of a bitch. Imagine his face crunching underneath your feet.”

“I don’t wanna.”

George’s cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket. Lou.

He answered, watching for Ivan to return. “Lou, get over here! Now!”

“We’re--”

George hung up and pocketed the phone as he saw the bushes rustle. Not good for Ivan to know he was in contact with anybody. He wanted the werewolf to take his time as much as possible.

“Come on, Michele,” he whispered. “I really need you.”

To be honest, George wasn’t completely sure what he needed her for, but two people trying to distract a werewolf while they waited for help to arrive was better than one person working alone, right?

Michele responded by throwing up. Though she didn’t turn her head, the majority of the spew missed George’s pants. Michele let a large chunk roll down her chin, not seeming to care.

Ivan ran back to the van, holding the pistol. He pointed it at George. “Three...two...one...”

George tossed the keys out of the cage. Ivan caught them.

“Thanks.” He grimaced. “Ooooh, your girlfriend isn’t looking so good. I hope she doesn’t change into something that might hurt you.”

Ivan slammed the van doors shut.