Lou looked incredulous. "You mean run it over
all the way?"
"No, I mean shoot it or something."
"Yeah, let's whip out some guns and shoot a
rabid dog when we've got Ivan in the back. That won't attract any
attention. Real smart, George."
"You don't have to be sarcastic."
"I'm not sarcastic. I'm freaked out!"
George looked back at their prisoner. Ivan
sat silently in his cage, his expression unreadable, almost serene.
George considered telling him to shut up anyway, but didn't.
"What do we do now?" Lou asked.
"Same thing we were going to do before. Get
some gas and deliver the werewolf to Tampa. Let's not lose our
heads over a Cujo."
"You're right, you're right."
"I hope its owner is able to fix it up."
Lou looked as if he wanted to make another
sarcastic comment, then just shook his head. "There's a gas station
up there."
They pulled into the gas station,
Hachiholata Gas & Gulp, which had four pumps and a small
convenience store. Their rule for the past nine years was that
whoever drove, the other guy had to pump the gas, so George got out
of the van. There were several dents in the side of the vehicle
along with the blood. George wondered if Bateman would be pissed.
He didn't seem to care enough about his Porsche to keep it in
pristine shape, so he probably wouldn't get all upset over a few
dents on a dumpy old van.
George swiped his untraceable credit
card and began to pump the gas.
He picked up the gas station's
squeegee and dipped it into the cleaning fluid, which was gray and
murky and probably hadn't been changed in weeks. He wiped off the
blood with the squeegee, rinsing twice before he was done, and
finished off the task with a paper towel.
That was totally surreal. Maybe the dog knew
they had a werewolf in captivity and was trying to pull off a
rescue mission. A little shared-species courtesy.
Nah. Only a rabid dog would bash itself
bloody like that. He hoped its owner found it in time to get it to
the vet, although he didn't think the dog had much of a chance even
if it wasn't diseased. At times like these, George wished he
weren't a criminal, so he could safely put a dog out of its misery
without having to explain why he had an unregistered firearm.
Another car pulled into the gas station, a
small blue one that George and Lou probably couldn't have fit
inside without ripping out the front seat. The driver, a hot young
brunette in shorts and a tight t-shirt, got out of the car, gave
George a friendly, not quite flirtatious smile, and began to pump
her own gas.
George opened up the passenger-side door. "Do
you want a Snickers?" he asked Lou.
"Nah."
"I'll take one," said Ivan.
George ignored him and closed the door. Maybe
it was more of a Three Musketeers moment. He needed something light
and fluffy.
There was a sudden growling to his left.
George looked over at the source and saw a dog, this one a
scary-ass-looking Doberman, come around the side of the van.
More growling behind him.
George turned around, and the second dog charged at him. A
fucking
rat terrier
?
The Doberman launched into a ferocious
barking fit, spittle flying from its jaws, and charged as well.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dogfight
With a Doberman attacking him from the
front and a rat terrier attacking from the rear, George decided in
a split-second that if he wished to avoid being savagely mauled, he
should probably focus on the Doberman. He quickly yanked the fuel
pump out of the van and doused the dog in the face. It let out a
loud yip and violently shook its body, shaking off gasoline as if
it had just jumped out of an unwanted bath.
George kicked the snarling rat terrier
out of the way.
Even more barking. Another frickin' Doberman
was running toward him. And behind it, some large brown-and-white
dog of a breed that George couldn't identify. What the hell was
going on?
He kicked the rat terrier again. It
latched onto his leg, biting but not breaking through the fabric of
his pants. He didn't want to douse a dog with gasoline unless
absolutely necessary, so he swung his leg as hard as he could,
hurling the dog into the air. It landed on its side, yipped, got
back up, and rushed at him again, so he sprayed it.
There wasn't time to get back inside
the van before the other two dogs reached him, so he held the fuel
pump like a pistol. He had a real one in a holster under his shirt,
and this was one of those moments where he wasn't particularly
concerned about the locals knowing he had a gun, but shooting
around spilled gasoline was never a good idea, even if the
resulting explosion would most likely take care of his psycho dog
problem.
He heard Lou's door open. "Stay in there!"
George shouted.
He sprayed the second Doberman, getting the
unfortunate canine right in the eyes. Its wail of pain hurt
George's ears and his conscience, but the dog didn't veer from its
prey. It leapt into the air, striking George in the chest and
knocking him down onto the cement.
He threw his arm over his eyes to protect
them, blinking away tears as the gasoline fumes hit him hard. The
dog's head jerked around as if it were having an epileptic fit, but
it got a good solid bite on George's chest. He punched the dog in
the face with his left fist, then bashed it on the side of the head
with the fuel pump.
Had it broken the skin? Did
he now have rabies?
Did they still treat that with
several painful shots in the stomach?
The woman screamed, though George couldn't
see what happened to her.
He
could
see, however, that Lou was
standing a few feet away, holding his own pistol.
George tried to wave him away, but the
Doberman's jaws clamped onto his wrist. "Don't shoot! Gas!"
Lou, thank God, behaved intelligently and did
not shoot. He grabbed the dog by its leather collar and strained to
drag it off of George. The Doberman let go of George's wrist but
its nails raked across his chest as his partner slowly pulled the
thrashing animal away. Then Lou slammed it against the van. Once,
twice, three times, four times, five times, and then the Doberman
stopped struggling.
George had to kick the rat terrier
again.
The brunette's car door was open and she was
halfway inside, but the brown-and-white dog was inside with her,
tearing at her flesh as she shrieked in terror.
George quickly got up, forcing himself not to
look at his wrist. Another small dog, some kind of mutt, came at
him. George's tendencies toward being pro-animal-rights were not as
passionate now as they'd been sixty seconds ago, and he blasted the
little bastard with enough gas that it ran off-course and smacked
into the van's back tire instead of him.
The woman flailed and kicked at the dog, but
she couldn't get it out of her car. George's moral code allowed for
breaking an old man's fingers, and for driving an accused werewolf
across the state in a cage, and for use of gasoline as a blinding
agent against dogs when necessary, but it did not allow for
watching an innocent woman get savaged by an out-of-control
animal.
"You get in the car," said Lou, waving him
back as he hurried toward the woman. "I've got this."
"What the hell is going on?" a square-faced,
middle-aged man demanded, voice filled with panic. He'd come out of
the convenience store and held a rifle.
"Get back inside!" George shouted.
But the man's moral code, much like
George's, apparently did not include a clause about hiding in a
store when somebody was being attacked. He took a few steps toward
the woman's car, then stopped and took aim at a new dog that was
running toward them, having come from behind the store. Another
Doberman. Who the hell owned all of these Dobermans?
He fired. A perfect head shot. The Doberman
tumbled forward.
Lou reached the blue car. He grabbed the dog
by its long tail with both hands and gave a sharp tug. The dog
twisted around, bashing its head against the steering wheel and
honking the horn, then scrambled out of the car, lunging at Lou's
throat.
Lou slammed his hands together, boxing the
dog's ears. It yelped but didn't stop fighting. As Lou quickly
backed away, the dog snapped at his legs.
Yet another goddamn dog--was there a dog
factory in the area or something?--came running toward the gas
station, followed by two more. All big ones. One of them was
dragging a leash.
The gas station attendant fired the rifle.
Either his first shot had been total luck, or he was getting too
scared to shoot straight, because this one didn't even come close.
He fired again. Another complete miss.
George's fuel hose wasn't
long enough to reach the dog that was attacking his partner, which
didn't matter because Lou stood between the dog and a possible
gasoline stream. George dropped the pump and rushed forward,
kicking the dog in the side, hard enough to produce a
crunch
.
The brown-and-white dog stumbled away, then
launched itself against the car, bashing itself against the metal
over and over.
George looked at the woman. Her shoulder was
a mess. The gas station attendant fired again, this time hitting
one of the oncoming Dobermans in the ear. That didn't stop the
animal. The top half of its ear dangled in a bloody flap, and the
attendant adjusted his grip on the rifle, holding it like a
club.
"Behind you!" the woman shouted at
George.
George didn't even have time to turn around
before the dog knocked him to the ground. He couldn't see the
creature, could just hear its growling and feel its hot breath on
his neck. He elbowed it in the face, which probably hurt his elbow
worse than its face. Some froth got into his eyes.
George frantically tried to blink it out, as
Lou grabbed the dog under its front arms and pulled it away. The
dog snarled and twisted around and bit at Lou's nose, while Lou
struggled to get the thrashing animal away from George.
"Help!" the attendant shouted.
George pushed himself up again. The attendant
lay on the ground, kicking at the dogs that had brought him down.
He swung with his rifle, but one of the dogs sunk its teeth deep
into his forearm, creating a spray of red, and he lost his grip on
the weapon.
"Pull your legs in the car," George told the
woman, putting his hand on the door. She seemed to be in shock and
didn't respond. Instead of acknowledging his command, she was
staring off behind--
George looked to see what she was staring at.
A pit bull. Running right at him. Fast.
Again, there wasn't enough time to get the
van door open, or even to grab the fuel pump. George, less
concerned with dignity than survival, quickly climbed up onto the
hood of the van, just as the pit bull's teeth snapped at his ankle.
George had a lot of good physical attributes, but few would call
him nimble, and the process of scrambling up onto the hood of the
van was a sloppy one.
While the pit bull was distracted with
George, Lou managed to run around to the other side of the van.
George heard a squeal of pain as Lou apparently kicked a miniature
dog, and then Lou successfully got into the driver's side of the
van and slammed the door shut behind him.
The pit bull jumped for George's tender and
succulent (he assumed) flesh. It didn't get his ankle, but it did
get his pants leg. George grabbed for the first thing he saw--a
windshield wiper--to steady himself as the dog tried to pull him
off the van.
He pounded on the windshield. "Start the car!
Start the frickin' car!"
As George tried to shake the pit bull
off his leg, he helplessly watched the gas station attendant's
desperate fight for life. One dog was at his legs, the other was at
his shoulder, as if they were working together to rip him in half.
The attendant still had a lot of struggle left in him, but the dogs
were winning.
Awful way to go.
Lou started the engine. As he backed up the
van, George's already precarious grip slipped away, and he tumbled
off the front of the vehicle, crushing a tiny dog beneath him as he
landed on his ass. The pit bull went for his face.
He punched it away, but the blow barely
seemed to phase the animal. George extended his thumbs and thrust
at its eyes. He missed by a few inches--and missed getting his
thumbs bit off by even less. He elbowed the dog just like he'd
elbowed the other one. It had the same lack of effect.
"Hold it steady!" said Lou from above.
George looked up. Lou had rolled down the
passenger-side window and was pointing his gun at the dog.
"Don’t--!"
Lou squeezed the trigger, firing a bullet
into the dog's forechest. The dog flopped off of George and lay on
the cement, flailing and whimpering.
"Don't shoot!" George shouted. "There's gas
everywhere!"
"It was killing you!"
"It wasn't killing me, it was attacking me!
Don't fire bullets when there's gasoline spilled on the
ground!"
"The gas station guy did!"
"He wasn't near the actual gas!"
"I saved your life!"
"Put the gun away!"
George got up yet again, though this time it
was quite a bit more difficult.
"Move!" Lou said.
Before George could move, Lou fired another
bullet, shooting a medium-sized black dog that had been racing at
George.
"I said stop shooting!"