26
The gates to the Warren were iron monstrosities. They loomed into the dusk, soaring twice as tall as I stood. No curlicues, no decoration at all except for a wrought-iron rabbit welded onto each of them. Instead, they were made of thick iron bars the size of my wrists and banded together with straps of iron about twelve inches wide. They looked formidable, designed to keep things out. They swung open with a whisper on well-oiled hinges as Boothe buzzed us through.
I rumbled the Comet slowly across their threshold, nodding to the two men standing beside them with hard, pink eyes. They nodded back just slightly in unison and turned as one back to watching behind us on the other side of the gates. All around were wide fields of uncut hay grass that led all the way up to the high stone walls surrounding the neighborhood. One thin ribbon of asphalt led up to the gates.
The Warren was outside the city, outside suburbia, damn near to the country. It was as isolated as it gets in this part of the state. Which is good for the “fireworks” we would probably have tonight. We should be able to do this without interference from the police.
Following Boothe’s directive from earlier, we rolled through the neighborhood. It was full of similar houses, small cluster homes with tiny yards and tinier driveways. They all had a sameness to them. This was exactly the kind of neighborhood I hate. Cookie-cutter houses in a cookie-cutter neighborhood. Give me an honest yard and a house that doesn’t look like my neighbors’. And for the record, you can take your Homeowners’ Association, turn it sideways, and shove it up your ass. Thank you very much.
This particular neighborhood didn’t look too bad, though. Yes, the houses all looked the same and the lawns were tiny, but it didn’t have the emotionless feel you get when a neighborhood is new and the HOA is on a power trip. In every yard there was a toy or some evidence of a child’s presence lying about. A yellow truck here, a red ball there, and the sidewalks were murals of pastel chalk done in early childhood abstracts.
This was a neighborhood of families. Children probably ran safe in the streets, playing without a care in the world. It looked like a paradise for kids there. We had already passed four playgrounds.
There were no children to be seen.
Not one. Just a few adults on every street walking around, talking on porches, doing yard work. Anything to mask the fact that they were on watch. On guard.
I could feel the tension in the air as we drove by. Every set of eyes watched us pass.
Reaching the back of the neighborhood, we found the community center, a big square brick of a building. The windows were small with large steel shutters. I noticed they were hinged and not just for decoration.
George and Boothe stood talking on the steps leading up to the door. The Were-gorilla’s tree trunk legs hung out of basketball shorts. They were pale, slightly bowed, and covered in black wiry hair. His right knee was misshapen, a knot of scar tissue that made his leg twist in. It was the reason he leaned on his cane. Getting shot in the knee with a silver bullet will do that.
Boothe was dressed in black military BDU’s. Two plastic semiautomatic pistols hung unobtrusively under his armpits, their matte-black finish blending with his clothes. I assumed they were both Springfield .40 calibers like he had earlier. Both of them stopped talking and looked over as I turned off the car.
My car door swung open just as silently as the gates had. I pushed the seat forward so Sophia and Kat could get out, then walked around the car to the trunk. A twist of my key popped it open. The hot air inside whooshed out with a slight charnel smell from where the Lord of the Forest had laid until Boothe had taken care of the body. The trunk had been washed out, but the smell lingered. Inside lay a collapsed wheelchair, the katana, a box with a biohazard symbol stenciled on it, and a bandolier of grenades.
The grenades may seem like overkill, but after the fight at the motel, all bets were off. I was going to blow some assholes up if need be. I slung the katana over my head, settling it between my shoulder blades, then picked up the bandolier in one hand and the wheelchair in the other.
Kat took the chair from me and unfolded it with a shake and a jerk of her arms. I watched Larson haul himself out of the car and into the seat, adjusting his legs and strapping in. The wheelchair was light. Made of titanium and carbon fiber, it was also tough as hell. Two thin, knobby tires designed for multiple terrains hugged the seat. I saw straps and pockets on the tubes it was composed of, custom-fitted for guns and knives, which Kat was filling as I watched, her hands moving quickly and surely. When she finished, he was loaded for lycanthrope, but if you weren’t looking closely, you would miss the weaponry strapped to the chair.
I reached in and flipped open the box. Inside were three sets of dark blue coveralls. I picked them up and handed them to Tiff and Kat. The coveralls were light as feathers, the material slick under my fingers. They took them and started stepping in and zipping up. The coveralls were made of a material called Tyvek. It’s actually woven paper and standard issue for making biohazard suits. Slick and almost waterproof, it was also lightweight so the wearer didn’t collapse of heat exhaustion. I handed Larson a long-sleeved jacket and blanket made of the same material.
The biohazard suits were necessary because we were fighting lycanthropes. Everybody who was just human had to wear one. Lycanthropy is a communicable disease. In fighting, you get blood and body fluids on yourself. You can’t help it, it’s just what happens. The suits weren’t a perfect solution, but you do what you can. Lycanthropy is hard to catch and it isn’t the worst thing to catch depending on how the strain you get reacts with your DNA.
If you survive your first shift, that is.
Lycanthropes who are born don’t have a problem. Their shift works into the process of puberty, so their bodies are adapting to changes and growth spurts anyway. Plus, they generally have the help of their family and the gestalt of the animal group they are a member of. People who catch the disease don’t have that. If they are an adult and their body is done growing, then sometimes the change can be violent enough to tear them apart.
I am not speaking figuratively here. I mean Grand Guignol-style, blood-on-the-ceiling tear them apart. The shift is a violent and gory thing for a lot of lycanthropes until their bodies adapt to allow the change.
As a secondary precaution, Larson had dosed everyone with an infusion of monkshood and colloidal silver. It wasn’t a cure for lycanthropy, but the two distillations can sometimes prevent the disease from taking hold in the blood. It could also kill you if dosed wrong. Larson was very careful in his administration of it.
I didn’t need the shot or the suit. Since my Angelic blood transfusion, I am not susceptible to lycanthropy. It’s one of the long list of things I can’t catch since then.
Tiff used a small knife to cut a slit in her suit by her hip. Reaching in, she pulled out the handle to the Colt so she could reach it. She handed the knife over to Kat so she could do the same for her 9mm. She looked at me, held her hands out to her side, and did a slow pirouette.
“How do I look?”
I gave her the once-over. The thin blue suit wasn’t tailored, but it had been designed with a close fit to prevent snagging and tearing. It followed her curves, hiding just enough to be enticing. Studying her, I felt that aching pull from earlier.
I smiled, pushing my southern accent to the thickness of sorghum syrup. “Darlin’, like my dad used to say before he took leave of this shitty old world, you could make a gunny sack look like a ball gown.”
Her blush danced around her own smile. She gave a curtsey, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed me on the cheek. “Why thank you, kind sir.”
Kat rolled her eyes.
Reaching back inside the box, I dug out three pairs of safety glasses and three face masks made of the same material as the coveralls. I handed them all around. Lycanthropy is able to be passed through mucous membranes, so the eyes and mouth needed covering. They hung the masks around their necks, ready to be put on when the fighting started. The goggles hung down by their chest on a tether. I handed out black latex gloves to everyone, a couple of pairs each. They slipped them on. Larson struggled a little even though he probably wore them more than anyone else in the group since he was the doctor for the lycanthrope community.
Tiff reached inside the Comet and grabbed the shotgun. She checked the slide to make sure it was still locked and loaded. Satisfied, she slung it up to her shoulder. I picked up the last set of equipment for Father Mulcahy and closed the trunk.
George and Boothe ambled over to join us as we moved up beside the car. I leaned back against the hood, engine heat leeching through my jeans, warming the muscles of my thighs. The evening breeze blew mist from the fountain, adding a slight chill to it. Tiny droplets of water peppered my arms. The two lycanthropes closed the semicircle around me.
“Nice sword.” Boothe tilted his head. “You know how to use that thing?”
“Enough to get the job done.”
He nodded, accepting it. “How are you feeling? You dropped like a stone after that healing bit you pulled on us.”
I waved his concern away. “I’m fine.”
He looked at me over his aviator sunglasses, pink eyes piercing. “I appreciate the mojo, but if you need to hang back, we can handle this.”
“I’m. Fine.” My knuckles cracked as I squeezed my hands into fists. The noise hung in the air between us.
Boothe slid his glasses back up and nodded sharply. My hands loosened at my side. All right, we could get down to business now.
“So what did I miss? I hear there’s a plan of some kind.”
Boothe gestured at the people milling around in the playground and picnic area beside the building. They were all doing normal things. Family things like cooking on grills, talking, even swinging on the swing set. Two things were off with the scene. One was that there were still no children. Not one. The second was the tension they all had. Every person looked tight. Wary. Their movements were forced, almost mechanical. They moved with the caution of a battered wife. Holding themselves together, trying to be normal while tensed and waiting for the first hint of violence.
“We’ve gathered all the shape-shifters in the area here. Our plan is to have Marcus give a speech about peace and goodwill later on to the group. We sent out word among the Were community that everyone will be here for a ‘peace rally.’” His fingers made air quotes around the words
peace rally.
“The hope is that Leonidas and his gang want to take out Marcus bad enough that they will bite the bait and come here to our home turf.” His fingers moved to the handgun under his arm, fingertips lightly stroking the grip. “Then we can take them out once and for all.”
“You do remember that we got our asses handed to us at the motel?”
“We were outnumbered by them and the wolves. Here they’ll be the ones outnumbered.” Pride glinted in pink eyes. “The rabbits can hold their own.”
My eyes did another pass over the crowd. Now I could see about a third of them were all wearing the same black clothes Boothe had on. The same black clothes all the people we had passed on the way in had on. My eyes found pistols tucked into waistbands, hidden under shirttails in unobtrusive holsters. All of the people in black uniforms had a device hooked on their ear that I assumed was some sort of wireless communication equipment.
I cracked an eye toward Boothe. “Are your people as good as you are?” I had seen him shoot at the motel. He was good man to have at my back.
He smiled. “No, of course not. But they have been trained to work together and handle their firearms.” His voice took on an edge. “These predator assholes think of rabbits as nothing but prey. That we are weak, lacking teeth to bite and claws to rend. Predators think of us as only able to run, something exciting to chase and take.” He shook his head sadly. “I have seen my people suffer some bad shit at the hands of predators just like these jackasses. That’s why when I got old enough I took up martial arts and firearm training. I came back home and taught my herd what I knew so they wouldn’t be helpless anymore.” Fierce pride cracked his mouth into a grin, teeth shining white. “The rabbits can hold their own.”
I nodded. Okay, so this time might be different. Larson had said we didn’t have many predators in the area left to join up with Leonidas and his bunch. The Werewolves had been the biggest group and the most violent. The wolves had formed their pack around a neoNazi skinhead alpha named Krueger, so when Leonidas had come along and dropped Krueger, they had fallen right in line with him. That is why the Werewolves had supported the Brotherhood at the motel.
Even though we’d had to cut and run after the last fight, I knew we had taken a toll. There would be no Werewolves to help this time. If the rabbits knew how to use their guns, then we should be okay. Maybe this harebrained plan would work.
Sorry, I couldn’t resist.
Sophia spoke up softly, “Isn’t using Marcus for bait dangerous to him?”
“Fuck Marcus.” Boothe and I spoke at the same time. I didn’t say it harshly, just firmly. He had a more stringent tone to his words, voice cutting out of his lips. We shared a moment of complete understanding. I didn’t know why he didn’t like Marcus and he didn’t know why I didn’t like Marcus, but we were on the same page about the subject. And that reminded me.