Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman (6 page)

Chapter 10

Dallas
woke feeling… good. No, great. Gone was the perpetual hangover, and his mouth
didn’t taste like burnt roadkill. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt
this way. Sitting up, he was surprised to find he was fully in his bed. The
sheets weren’t a tangled mess, and both pillows were where they were supposed
to be. Swinging his legs to the carpet, he stood, raising his arms above his
head and stretching his tall frame. Shoulders and spine popped, the sensation
bringing a wide smile to his face. Hungry, he pulled on a convenient pair of
jeans and a clean flannel and made his way downstairs to whip up some
honest-to-goodness breakfast.

Dallas
rummaged through the fridge, pushing cans of beer and a half-empty carton of
milk aside. Nothing fitting the traditional definition of breakfast surfaced,
so he grabbed his keys and headed out to track down some actual food.

He
was halfway to Ronnie’s when he realized he was going to Ronnie’s and only avoided
stomping on the brakes by sheer force of will. He hadn’t been to Ronnie’s Grill
since he’d confronted Herb and challenged him to make some garlic mashed
potatoes. When Dallas had started to suspect Herb wasn’t Herb anymore, he’d
watched
The Lost Boys
and learned a
thing or two. Putting that newfound knowledge to the test had helped Dallas
suss out the truth about his friend.

He
squashed the unwanted recollections down deep, gritted his teeth, and pressed
the accelerator. He wanted breakfast. Ronnie’s made a damn good breakfast, and
the odds of Lois working were probably slim, right?

Rolling
into Ronnie’s Famous Truck-stop, Grill, Bait Shop, and Gift Emporium, Dallas
killed Deloris’s engine and walked inside. Five or six truckers packing in some
grub after a long night on the road were scattered among the various tables and
booths. Ronnie, a retired trucker himself, had classed the place up a bit over
the summer but still catered mainly to the masters of the eighteen wheels.

Mounting
a stool and bellying up to the familiar counter, Dallas breathed deep and was
rewarded with a cornucopia of smells. It was the olfactory equivalent of an
IMAX movie after a lifetime of watching an old black and white T.V. For a
moment, he was dizzy with trying to sort out more smells than there were stars
in the northern sky. When a familiar voice spoke from behind him, it jarred him
back to the present and shattered his euphoria.

“What
are you doing here, Dallas?”

Swiveling
on the fixed counter stool, Dallas turned and saw Lois, anger plain in every
line of her posture. She looked different. Hair that used to be a brilliant
blonde was dull and pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. Gone was the usual
bright red lipstick and blue eyeliner. Instead, her eyes simmered over dark circles.
She looked exhausted and pissed. Speechless, Dallas just stared, his thoughts a
jumble.

“Too
drunk to talk? Then get out. Ronnie doesn’t allow drunks.” Lois crossed her
arms across her chest and lowered her chin, hard eyes staring out from beneath
long lashes.

“Oh,
hi Lois,” Dallas managed. “No, not drunk. Surprising, I guess, but one hundred
percent truth. I didn’t have breakfast stuff, so I thought I’d get some
breakfast stuff.”

“Uh
huh. Breakfast stuff. Well, my shift’s done. Dee should be here soon, and I’m
sure she’d be happy to serve the Hero of Trappersville. Enjoy the wait.”

Lois
turned on her heel and walked past the counter to the swinging door that led
back to the kitchen.

“Lois!
Wait! You don’t have to, I mean. I didn’t realize you were. Aww shit,” Dallas
trailed off, an uncharacteristic blush flushing his cheeks.

Lois
hadn’t had a single kind word for him since the night he’d killed Herb. The
guilt he thought he’d ditched swung back around and blindsided him, followed by
a spark of indignation that burned up to a familiar anger. Stubbornly, Dallas
waited until Dee showed up and took his order. Lois made her way around the
diner but didn’t even spare him a glance. When his food arrived, Dallas
mechanically pushed it into his mouth a surly forkful at a time, grumbling
around each bite.

Finished
but not full, he left too much cash on the counter and made it to the door when
some sixth sense pricked its way through the fog of his thoughts. Turning, he
saw Lois, a stolid mask of reproach fixed on her face as she stared at him from
across the diner. Dallas held her unwavering gaze for as long as he could.
Suddenly self-conscious, he was about to look away when he saw Lois raise her
arm and hold out a doll. It was a boy doll with dark hair, a red flannel, and
little blue jeans.

Dallas’s
brow furrowed in confusion. He had no idea why Lois was showing him a doll and
tried to decide if he should be annoyed. Before he could ask what the deal was,
Lois’s other hand made an odd series of gestures. Her fingers wrapped and
twisted around the doll’s head. Her mouth moved, but she must’ve been speaking
very softly, because Dallas didn’t hear a sound. Actually, the more he thought
about it, the more apparent it became that he couldn’t hear anything except the
rush of a distant ocean, waves rolling and receding. Each wave seemed to pull
at his awareness, dragging his mind far away and leaving gobs of soggy cotton
in its place. The button on his shirt cuff caught his attention. It was a
button. A round button. But why did that matter? With a tremendous amount of
effort, he refocused on Lois and offer a tentative wave goodbye, but she just
turned and walked away.

Sound
returned like a needle dropped on a record. With a huff, Dallas stomped out of
Ronnie’s Grill and climbed into Deloris. As he twisted the key in the ignition,
he pushed thoughts of Lois and Herb forcibly down. No one ever said being a
hero was easy, and Dallas had some C.I.A. douchnozzles to deal with.

The
sun was spilling orange across the morning clouds when he pulled into Cecil’s
lot. More of a lunch and dinner spot, Cecil’s was still a few hours from
opening, and all was dark and quiet. Even so, Dallas decided not to take any
chances. Pulling back onto the highway, he drove a quarter mile or so until
only unbroken woods lined either side of the paved, two-lane road. A gap in the
trees that looked big enough to accommodate Deloris appeared, so he drove off
the road and killed the engine. Walking back to the shoulder, he looked at his
impromptu hiding spot for the giant pickup. Only someone paying attention would
notice the truck. Fortunately, most folks in these parts didn’t pay much
attention, especially when driving.

The
morning air was crisp on his face as he jogged back toward Cecil’s to get his
bearings. Putting the small restaurant to his back, he started walking into the
trees in what he hoped was the same direction he’d traveled the previous day.
Buoyed by his conviction that he’d figure out where he was going soon enough,
he strode confidently through the woods. It wasn’t long though, before he
realized that he didn’t have a clue where he was. Dallas slowed his gait and
looked more closely at the surrounding pines and maples, hoping for a reminder
of the path he’d followed just a day before. Finally coming to a stop, he
ground his teeth in frustration.

“Dammit!
C’mon Dal. You found ‘em once, you can find ‘em again. No big deal, right?”

A
deep breath helped to bring his blood pressure down a point or two. Next, he
exhaled, pushing all the air from his lungs. Closing his mouth, he drew a
second deep breath through his nose. A hundred thousand smells that he’d been
smelling the entire time suddenly registered in his conscious mind, a rush so
intense he dropped to his knees. Letting the air whoosh out through his mouth,
he drew another breath, more slowly this time. It was all there. Each tree,
leaf, and blade of grass. Deer droppings, squirrel poop, and coyote scat. Bugs
and birds and everything in between. And him.

Huh?
he thought, coming back to the
moment. He’d just showered the previous night, and the cool morning meant he
wasn’t in any danger of breaking a sweat. Even so, he could definitely smell
something, and that something was definitely him.

Dallas
lifted each arm and took a mighty whiff of each pit. Sweat, Old Spice, laundry
detergent, no fabric softener. He’d be captain of the Vikings cheerleading
squad before he used fabric softener. The shirt was mostly clean, no spilled
beer or other such things on this one yet. Swiveling his head, he snuffed and
whuffed, pulling the morning air in and out of his nose. He still smelled
him
, but it wasn’t coming from him.
Wholly confused, he started to pace a zigzag back and forth between bushes and
trees. The zigs and zags became a lopsided loop, then a series of crisscrosses
over the circle he’d just wandered. The more he concentrated, the more he could
smell himself, always so close, always just out of reach.

He
expanded the radius of his haphazard search. When he finally keyed in on the
source of his scent, his head dropped down, and his long legs took him straight
to a wide oak. Bending over at the waist, he placed his palms against the bark
and brought his face so close it tickled the skin on the tip of his nose.

“That’s
it! That’s me! I’m in the tree!” he crowed, any thought of stealth lost in his
excitement. Wiggling and pacing back and forth, he sniffed again and again.

“Ha!
Knew I’d find me. Ain’t nobody can hide from old Dallas, especially not
myself!”

The
absurdity of the moment caught up with him. He sniffed more carefully and
realized with a growing sense of surprise that he smelled his own pee.
Expecting himself to be disgusted, he realized that it wasn’t a bad smell, just
a specific smell that stood out from all the others. Dallas stepped back and
looked at the oak. Memories of having to pee on his trek back yesterday
surfacing, he realized he had found one of the unlucky trees he’d repurposed as
a commode. Dallas accepted the realization and gave up on trying to feel
disgusted. His pee didn’t really smell bad. It was just him. Nothing to get all
weird about. Just a smell. His smell.

Standing
straight, he raised his nose to the light breeze rustling the leaves. It took a
moment, but he caught the scent again. Faint but still unmistakably him.

“I’d
make a damn strange tour guide, that’s a sure thing,” he chuckled.

It
didn’t take long to find the second tree he’d peed on the day before. A quick
snuff confirmed it was his. With a satisfied nod, he cast about to catch the
scent again and continued deeper into the woods.

Nearing
the third tree, he pulled up short, a new scent pressing itself hard against
his nostrils. Dallas’s eyes narrowed, and a low growl passed his lips. The
scent of urine was definitely not human. Other smells wended their way forward.
Fur, musk. In a leap of intuition, Dallas recognized it as a wolf. The scent
was fresh. Maybe an hour old, two at most. Eyes narrowing further, Dallas
glowered in annoyance.

“Who
the hell do you think you are? My tree. Mine!”

The
sound of a zipper followed, and Dallas let a fresh stream go, taking care to
completely obliterate the wolf’s scent. Finished, he squared his shoulders and
raised his chin in defiance.

“This
tree’s taken, wolfy!” Dallas declared. Business done, he turned to get his
bearings and recognized the small rise he’d reached the previous day. Unlike
before when voices had reached him on the evening breeze, now there were just
the sounds of the Wisconsin woods. Birds twittered, leaves rustled, squirrels
chattered their domestic disputes. Ready for an end to the suspense, Dallas
walked up the small rise and looked down upon something completely unexpected.

A
clearing waited, maybe a quarter of the size of Lambeau Field and bathed in the
early morning sun. A small, decrepit cabin sat near the tree line, giving off
an air of tired acceptance. Just past the cabin, an old pickup and a familiar
moped sat at odd angles, as if the owners originally thought it’d be fun to
collide demolition derby style but parked instead.

Dallas
registered these details in an off-hand sort of way, but they didn’t give him
pause. It was what occupied the rest of the clearing that made him wonder about
those C.I.A. guys. Tires, plywood cubbies, stacks of hay bales, and lengths of
barbed wire were spaced along what looked to be an obstacle course. Between and
around them, large plywood cut-outs decorated the rest of the course.
Two-by-four frames held them upright, and most were facing the various obstacles.
Squinting slightly into the rising sun, Dallas discerned that the cut-outs were
painted to resemble…

People?
Bears? Tigers? No. Nothing so common. Plus, those all had four limbs, and some
of the cut-outs had decidedly more than four. Turning his head, he spied what
looked like a man with tentacles instead of arms, and another that was quite
clearly a buxom woman with a giraffe head holding a staff.

“C.I.A.
my ass,” he mumbled quietly. “Unless terrorists have gotten mighty strange.”

With
a cavalier shrug, Dallas straightened his flannel, pushed his hair back with
his fingers, and started a brisk walk down to the clearing, singing his
favorite song along the way.

“Packers! Go, you
Packers, go and get ‘em, Go, you fighting fools upset ‘em,

Smash their line with
all your might, A touchdown, Packers, Fight, Fight, Fight, Fight!