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.