Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman (5 page)

“I
think it’s time I paid those sneaky-deaky government boys a visit, Stan. No
more popping in on old Dal. I’m gonna drop by their place unannounced and see
how they like it,” he announced, every pore oozing alcohol and resolution.

“But
first, let’s get some lunch. I’m starving.”

Chapter 8

Dallas
couldn’t remember having been so hungry. The beer brat with a side of cheese
curds went down faster than a third string quarterback behind a rookie center.
The fried pickles had barely hit the paper tray before he’d swallowed them all
in three bites, burning his tongue in the process. A second brat fared no
better than the first, despite being loaded with all the fixings Cecil’s had to
offer. It wasn’t until after he’d polished off a bacon cheeseburger with fries
that Dallas felt satiated. After a long, belly stretching belch, he licked salt
and grease from the fingers of one hand while scratching his thigh with the
other.

Throughout
the entire meal, Stanley sat entranced. Finally closing his gaping mouth, he
leaned in with a serious look.

“H-holy
smokes, Dal. You got a tapeworm? My uncle had one. Ate and ate, never gained
weight. Finally ended up in the hospital. When they operated, it was big as a
cucumber.”

“Uh
huh. Good story, Stan. So here’s the plan. I’ll go in on foot, take a peek at
what their set-up is, and circle back here. Meanwhile, you’re gonna hang back
and cover my rear.”

Stanley’s
face fell, reducing him to the kid who wasn’t picked to play kickball.

“B-b-but
Dallas. We tracked these guys together! You and me. We f-figured out their
clues. Whadaya mean I gotta hang back?”

Dallas
rose up, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. “Besides you being worth
less than a wet fart in a fight, what if someone’s been tailing us?”

Leaning
in for full effect, Dallas bridged his fingers on the table and spoke in an
urgent voice.

“Look.
We can’t take any chances. You hang back, and if some little sneak has been
tailing us, you take ‘em out of the equation. You follow?”

Stanley’s
face went from overlooked-for-kickball to flat-out terrified. Leaning back from
Dallas, he started to shake his head back and forth.

“Oh
no. No way. I ain’t getting n-n-nobody outta no equations. I got no gun. I got
no criminal element. Not me. Even if I had a gu-gu… oh crappers…” Stanley
looked ill. “Can’t do it. Can’t be killing no one. No sir.”

Dallas
shook his head, palms out. “Oh for Pete’s… I wasn’t… What the hell do you think
is going on here, Stanley? I meant distract him. You know, stall tactics. So I
don’t gotta worry about no one sneaking up on me from behind.”

Stanley
lit up instantly. “Oh, I gotcha, big D.” Winking conspiratorially, Stanley
started to plan. “I’ll f-fake a break-down. Maybe stab your truck tire with
something, give it a flat. Some sneaky guy happens by, I’ll make him ch-change
the tire.”

Dallas
adopted Stanley’s previous look of terror. “No no no! No one’s stabbing Deloris
nowhere. Christ on a stick, Stan, what’s gotten into you?”

Chagrined,
Stanley offered up a different thought. “Oh, right. Um, new plan. We’ll t-talk
about
Jeopardy
. I’ll bet him five, no
ten dollars that he don’t know the answer to last week’s Final Jeopardy
question. That’ll hold him for at least an hour. Maybe two,” Stanley finished
on an authoritative note. He immediately began trying to recall the previous
week’s question, and Dallas ceased to exist.

Shaking
his head, Dallas strode through the door and out to the parking lot, turning
his thoughts to the journey ahead.

A
quick glance around confirmed that Dallas was alone. The few folks in Cecil’s
were thoroughly engrossed in hiking their cholesterol and stretching their
waistbands. Despite having knocked off enough food to feed the Packers’ entire
defensive line, Dallas felt nimble. A fish sliding back into water, he slipped
into the trees and moved at a gentle lope. At least a quarter mile or so had
passed before he realized a couple of important things. One, he hadn’t made any
noise. Usually, even on his best days, he was bound to crack a twig or startle
a squirrel. Today though, he felt like smoke through the trees. Two, he had no
idea where he was going. He and Stanley had done a pretty good job of approximating
where the “X” was in relation to Cecil’s. Even so, if he was looking for an old
hunting cabin a mile or two into the trees east of Cecil’s, that meant upwards
of four to five square miles he might need to search to find the place.
Disgruntled, he decided to stop running willy-nilly into the woods and think
about a direction.

Squatting
down on his haunches, Dallas’s face screwed up in thought. Why had he run this
direction in the first place? He was pretty sure he’d followed an
east-northeast course from Cecil’s, but it was hard to tell in the dense trees.
A brief touch of wind rustled the surrounding leaves and his nostrils flared.
Cecil’s, directly behind him. Inhaling more deeply, he realized he could also
smell the river, the grass, even the moss on the trees. There was something
else as well. A smell that didn’t belong with the others. Rising up from his
crouch, Dallas cast around, sniffing and chuffing. For a moment it was there,
then gone, then back. Each fickle shift of the wind made the scent dance
mirage-like in and out of existence.

Even
though it was faint, he recognized the smell. Taking a few tentative steps, he
caught it again. Fixing it in his mind, he continued forward, pushing through
the underbrush, stepping over fallen logs, and crouching under low-hanging
branches. As he moved, the scent became incrementally more pronounced. He was
passing by an old, crooked ash tree when his nose pulled him to an abrupt stop.
Leaning in, he smelled a handful of leaves sprouting from a low branch. Beneath
their leafiness, he smelled sweat, deodorant, maybe even cheap aftershave?

“Randall?
It’s Randall. Son of a bitch, that’s gotta be him.”

Dallas
swung around in a slow circle as he searched for traces of the scent. It didn’t
take long to find it on another branch further into the trees. Soon, it was
like a neon trail had been lit up just for Dallas. Every branch and leaf
Randall had brushed against was emblazoned with his scent. Unquestioning,
Dallas followed his nose.

Fixated
on following the smelly trail, he almost forgot his original intent.
Fortunately, a voice coming from just past the next rise brought him to his
senses.

“…
not much. I cast around for a bit, but I don’t think we gotta worry about a
wendigo. And that ‘squatch scat was a least a week old. No fresh tracks, so
it’s probably up in the Michigan U.P., maybe even Canada by now. Damn things
got territories bigger than John Wayne’s balls.”

Dallas
froze, dropped down to his haunches again, and cocked his head to the side. The
voice belonged to Randall, but he was clearly talking with someone else. Sure
enough, a second voice rode in on the fickle breeze, clear one moment, faded
the next.

“That’s
fine. We’ll replenish our…” the second voice said before the wind snatched the
conversation away. A moment later, it returned.

“…the
next few days. Let’s just hope that new… worth it so we can keep heading…,” and
then was gone again.

Gotcha now, you sneaky dogs.
Looking around, Dallas tried to
place the location.

“Crappers.
Gotta mark something.” Dallas rummaged around for a minute before fishing his
ever-present pocket knife out of his jeans. Flipping the blade open, he was
about to start scratching arrows into the bark of a few trees when a thought
occurred to him. If he started marking trees, those guys would know someone had
been through here and followed them to their spot.

Folding
the knife up and returning it to his pocket, he pondered. Pondering, he
realized he’d forgotten to pee before leaving Cecil’s. After a quick glance
around to make sure he was alone, he unzipped and let loose on the side of the
closest tree.

Once
finished, he moved quietly back in the direction he’d come from. After a
half-mile or so, he suddenly had the urge to go again. Worried he might not
make it back to Cecil’s, he pulled over at another tree, unzipped, and let it
go again.

With
a satisfied sigh, he resumed his trek, only to find he still had to go.
Grunting in frustration, he looked quickly around, unzipped, and peed yet again
on a convenient tree. Convinced he was finally empty, he jogged the last half
mile or so and crept carefully into Cecil’s small, dirt lot. Reentering the
restaurant, he found Stanley staring out the window. A glance at his watch told
Dallas he’d been gone about forty-five minutes.

“Boo.”

 
“Holy crap!” Stanley yelped. “D-didn’t see
you.”

“You’re
a damn fine lookout,” Dallas observed, rolling his eyes. “No matter. I found
‘em. They’re hunkered down deep in the woods, just like I thought.” Grabbing
Stanley, he dragged him from the restaurant.

“Where?
Where are th-they hiding?” Stanley asked when they reached Dallas’s truck.

The
question brought Dallas up short, key halfway into the lock on Deloris’s door.
He hadn’t paid much attention to his route through the forest. Come to think of
it, he realized he’d just followed his nose. Didn’t seem like a very reliable
way to get through the woods, but Dallas wasn’t wired for worry.

“Out
there,” he gestured, irritably. “Dammit, Stan, I found ‘em the first time. A
natural tracker like me can find ‘em again.”

Dallas
set a heavy boot on the truck’s chrome running board and posed against the
autumn sky.

“I’m
a goddamn hero, remember? No problemo.”

Chapter 9

The
sun was about to pull its daily disappearing act when Dallas arrived home and sent
Stanley on his way. It had been a long couple of days, and Dallas realized that
he hadn’t taken a shower since… well, it had been awhile. Kicking off his
boots, he headed for the master bathroom, shedding various articles of clothing
along the way.

Dallas
made his way up the stairs and down a short hallway, turned into his bedroom,
and headed for the bathroom. Stepping into the tub-shower, he pulled the
curtain closed and turned on the faucet. Soon, steaming water cut through the
autumn chill, and Dallas felt an uncoiling deep in his chest. Shoulders that
had been imperceptibly hunched relaxed, jaw muscles that tended more toward
clenched gave way to a long yawn. For a moment, the briefest moment, Dallas
closed his eyes, soaked in the shower, and didn’t think.

Opening
his eyes and seeing wispy clouds of steam rolling up from the cascading water,
he couldn’t help but think of how similar it looked to the tendrils of smoke
rising up from Herb’s face, hands and chest as he slowly burned away. With that
thought, a thousand rubber bands throughout his body retracted. Face taking on
a now-familiar tension, he set himself to wondering about other things, any
other thing than that day. Grabbing a bar of soap and working up a lather with
his hands, he mouthed words without really realizing he was speaking.

“That
wasn’t Herb. A damn monster, that’s what it was. A bloodsucking monster.”

Dallas
crossed an arm across his chest and started to scrub the sweat off of his
shoulder and arm. Switching hands, he scrubbed at his other side. Upper body
scrubbed to satisfaction, he moved down to the left thigh, then the right but
stopped suddenly when his hand ran over a small, rough lump.

“The
hell?” Dallas twisted into the flow of water to rinse away the soapy lather.
Looking down at the side of his thigh, he yelped in surprise at the dark lump
firmly attached to his skin.

The
water stopped abruptly as he hit the faucet. He pulled back the curtain,
climbed out of the tub, and headed back to the bedroom. The closet door was
mirrored, allowing Dallas to get a closer look at the unwelcome hitchhiker.
Eight legs and a teardrop shaped body that tapered to a tiny head buried firmly
in his skin. Brown, a little splotchy, with tell-tale markings confirming his
suspicion.

Dallas
pinched the tick and twisted first one direction then the other to no effect.
Grabbing a book of matches off the dresser, he struck a match, blew it out, and
held the still-hot sulfur to the tick’s head. The little bloodsucker wriggled
but still didn’t release. A second match followed and then a third, but the
damn thing didn’t budge.

Dallas
huffed in annoyance. Fixing this problem was going to take a more involved
approach. Abandoning the matchbook, he returned to the bathroom. It took a bit
of rummaging in the medicine cabinet, but eventually he found his nose hair
tweezers. Carefully sliding one tweezer tong under the tick’s body, he pinched
down on the base of the head and slowly pried. Eight tiny legs gripped more
tightly, and the tick stayed solidly in place.

“You’re
a tough little sucker, ain’tcha,” he muttered in grudging admiration. Tweezers
abandoned, he made a naked trek into the attached garage, modesty being
secondary to the immediate task at hand. Returning to the bedroom, he brandished
a pair of needle-nose pliers.

“See
these? Big D’s got your number.”

Once
the pliers were in the same position as the tweezers, he clamped down and
pried, leveraging the handle against his thigh. Muscles accustomed to prying
rusty bolts loose for a living corded up while the pliers handle dug painfully
into his quadriceps.

 
The tick didn’t move.

“Un.
Frickin. Real,” Dallas cursed, flipping the pliers onto the bed. “The least you
should’ve done is popped. Enough mister nice guy. I’m cutting you out.”

His
jeans were near the top of the stairs, along with his belt and one sock.
Fishing into the jean’s front pocket, he pulled out his pocket knife.

The
knife was a gift from his dad for his sixteenth birthday. Maple burl wood
handle, brass rivets, and a silver stamp on its side with his name engraved in
bold, flowing script, it was one of his most cherished possessions. The blade
was only five inches long but Dallas kept it honed to a razor-sharp edge.
Drying his hands on his bath towel and taking a quick nip from a nearby flask
to calm his nerves, he sat on the bed and glared down at the bloodsucker on his
leg.

“This
here’s a knife, ticky tick. Time for surgery.”

He
thwacked the tick with the knife handle, and it fell to the floor. Dallas
blinked, surprised by the sudden twist in the epic struggle. The pest
reoriented itself toward his bare foot and started to crawl purposefully
forward. Grabbling the pliers, Dallas nimbly plucked the tick from the carpet
and made his way to the kitchen. With a final glare at the little bloodsucker,
he dropped it inside a Mason jar and screwed on the lid. If he remembered, he’d
drop it by Stanley’s later.

According
to Stanley, there were at least sixteen known varieties of ticks plaguing the
Wisconsin Northwoods. He collected the ones he found in hopes of discovering a
seventeenth kind. Why someone would want to discover more ticks baffled Dallas,
but everyone needed a hobby. He just hoped that if Stan did turn up a new kind
of tick, it’d be one that didn’t eat humans.

“Dallas
not food,” he admonished, shaking a finger at the scrabbling little pest.
“Stanley is though. If he takes you out to play, I say chow down.”

Tick
secured, Dallas made his way back upstairs to finish his shower. As he passed
the mirrored closet door again, he paused to inspect where the tick had been
feeding. The bite mark had turned an angry red and oozed a thin tendril of
blood.

“Frickin’
wood ticks,” he groused, continuing into the bathroom to finish his shower.
Soon, all thoughts of the tick had washed down the drain along with the blood
from his thigh.