“All right,” said George. “We’ll destroy the tracer.”
“Thank you. Call Lou.”
“You don’t want to see it in person?”
“I’m sure he’s got video capability on his phone. Tell him to video himself stomping the tracer to pieces and then send it to you.”
A little kid, maybe seven or eight years old, walked into the game room.
“The arcade is closed,” Ivan informed him.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Are you really going to argue this with me? It’s closed. Get out of here.”
The little kid gave Ivan the finger and left.
“You know,” said Ivan, “there was a time when kids would respect their elders. They don’t even respect their parents anymore. If I’d flipped off an adult when I was that age, my middle finger would be in a cast.”
“Mine, too.”
“It’s really sad where society has fallen. I mean, I’m not going to sit here and try to convince you that I’m helping society in any way, but compare the impact of me killing a few people to the overall damage done by the fact that our nation’s youth no longer has any shred of respect for their elders. If you could trade my killings for a generation that doesn’t give adults the finger in arcades, wouldn’t that be a good deal?”
“What the fuck are you even talking about? That’s like your whole vagina-with-teeth speech.” Either the werewolf was having a mental breakdown, or he was trying to distract George from some sneaky plan that he was working out. George needed to cut this conversation short.
He took out his cell phone and punched in Lou’s number.
Ivan seemed to visibly relax.
That was good. Real good.
George knew that Ivan could not be trusted. The second Lou trashed that tracing device, Ivan would change into his wolf-self and go on another slaughter spree, laughing the entire time. “Oooops, sorry, George! I thought you knew not to trust a homicidal lycanthrope maniac! Better luck next time!”
Let him go, even without destroying the tracer, and Ivan could rack up another twenty, thirty, fifty corpses before they found him again.
He just needed a moment to catch the werewolf off-guard.
This looked like a good one.
George did not have the advantage of being able to transform into a literal wolfman, but he’d stored up a shitload of anger today. There was absolutely no reason to try to control it anymore.
“Lou? I’m going to need you to destroy the tracer and video it. Don’t argue with me! Goddamn it, Lou, just do it! Send me the video the second you’re done.”
He hung up.
“How about a quick game while we wait?” George asked, stepping over to the video game. “I didn’t think you could find Ms. Pac-Man anymore. That’s pretty cool. I suppose you were a fan of that werewolf game.”
“Which one?”
“That one from the 80’s. With the werewolf.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s that one where--” George grabbed Ivan and threw him to the floor. As Ivan transformed, George dropped onto him, knees landing on his stomach, and pulled the grenade out of his pocket.
He slammed the grenade against Ivan’s mouth, breaking off another fang. Ivan snarled and twisted his wolf-head to the left and right, struggling against the attack, but George summoned every ounce of his rage and jammed the grenade in there.
George took a claw to the arm. He didn’t let that distract him from his purpose. Ivan was much stronger, but George only needed to hold him down for a few more seconds...
The grenade was in there deep enough for the son of a bitch to choke on it, but Ivan’s head was thrashing so violently that George couldn’t get at the pin.
He grabbed for it, not even caring if he lost a couple of fingers in the process. Ivan’s tongue slid over his hand as George’s index finger curled over the grenade pin.
He yanked it out.
And at that moment, Ivan’s rage surpassed George’s own. He pushed himself up, sending George tumbling to the floor, then spat the grenade at him.
It landed on George’s chest.
He scooped it up and tossed it. He was suddenly more concerned with getting the explosive off of his chest than taking out the werewolf, so his throw went wild. The grenade bounced against the console of a classic Centipede machine and exploded, shattering the screen and sending debris flying.
Ivan flexed his claws.
George quickly dug the other grenade out of his pocket.
Ivan ran out of the arcade.
George got up. His legs, burnt from the dynamite, now felt like they were actively on fire, but he pushed through it. He’d have plenty of time to wallow in agony later.
He ran out of the arcade after him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Final Fight
The explosion had already started a flood of terrified people fleeing for the exit, and the werewolf running out of the arcade added to the screams. George was right behind him.
Though he didn’t want to waste his last grenade, if Ivan went for kills rather than escape, this might be George’s last chance to use it before Ivan started slicing his way through a bunch of innocent people. If he could at least keep Ivan from going out the main entrance, the werewolf might try to run out the back, in which case Lou could take care of him.
A heavyset woman nearly knocked George over in her stampede to get out of there. Ivan was not going for the entrance--he was going for a crowd of people at the snack bar.
George had only a few seconds before a grenade would cause collateral damage. He pulled out the pin and lobbed the grenade at Ivan’s back.
It came up short, but not too short. The grenade went off as it hit the floor, spraying Ivan with incendiary material. He stumbled, lurched forward, and fell.
George rushed at him.
The werewolf was back up before he got there, but Ivan changed direction, jumping down a few stairs to the actual bowling lanes. Every step felt like his legs were being pressed against a hot grill, but George continued to follow him.
George jumped down the five stairs. With the impact, he literally believed that his legs were going to collapse underneath him like an accordion, but they mercifully remained intact.
Ivan ran onto the lane.
Then he slipped.
He didn’t fall, but the slip was all George needed. He scooped up a bowling ball and did an overhead throw, hurling it at Ivan’s back.
Unlike the grenade, this throw did not come up short. The ten or twelve pound ball struck Ivan in the center of the back, knocking him down onto the shiny wooden lane.
George jammed his fingers into the holes of another bowling ball and ran onto the lane with the werewolf.
If he ever got to retell this story, George would enhance this portion, laughing gently as he told his grandchildren about how he rolled the ball down the center of the lane, bashing the werewolf in the face. And then I shouted “strike!” he’d tell them.
Instead, he adjusted his grip so that he held the bowling ball with both hands, and brought it down upon Ivan’s head.
Though Ivan’s skull didn’t crack open, the force of the blow definitely left a dent.
George bashed him again. Then once more.
The ball popped out of George’s hands and rolled into the gutter.
Ivan scrambled forward. George wrapped his arms around the werewolf’s leg, forcing him to drag George along with him. George tried to rip off chunks of fur as they moved down the bowling lane.