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CHAPTER 7

Holding Out for a Hero


I knew I was there when I saw the blue lights.

“Finally,” I muttered. It had only taken about ten minutes but that was five minutes longer than it should have taken. This fricking town was a fricking maze of canals and if you didn’t know where the bridges were…

“Took you long enough,” the Metairie PD officer said as I pulled up next to his car. He’d cracked the window but only when I was right alongside. “Just you?”

“So far. I caught on the scanner we got another one down in Ninth Ward and I doubt that’s the last. Where is it?”

“Right up the road was where it was last seen,” the officer said. “I see so much as a dog I’m taking off.”

“Got it.”

I drove down the street, slowly, until I got to 1512 Houma Boulevard. It was a pleasant ranch-style house, single story. Bars on the windows which wasn’t universal in Metairie but was common. Well-kept yard. Bit of a pull-around in the front. I pulled into the driveway and got out.

“Any werewolves around?” I asked.

There was a crashing from inside the house. That answered that question. One of the front windows smashed and a furry paw extended out. There was a deep, bass snarl.

“Hey, doggy,” I said calmly. I turned on the mini-mag on my Uzi, walked over to the window and looked in. The werewolf took a running start and slammed into the bars, shaking bits of mortar out of the connecting rods. It had blood all over its muzzle.

I set the selector switch on semi, laid the sight on the beast’s forehead and put one silver bullet into its brain.

The loup-garou flopped over on its side and stopped.

Game, set, match.

I walked down to the road and waved my Maglite at the patrol car. It crept forward, cautiously.

“I got it. It was still in the house.”

“You sure?” the cop said.

“Well, I got a loup-garou. Is there another one around?”

“Not that’s been reported round here. Kenner just reported there’s one running around at the airport. Down on the runways and stuff.”

“Joy,” I said. “Call the coroners. And I need to figure out how to get into this house. Without using explosives, that is.”

I rummaged in my trunk for a bit and pulled the Halligan tool and ax out.

“I really will need a hand with this,” I said. “It’s okay. It daid.”

Between the cop and myself we managed to get the door hammered open. It was very seriously attached. At one point I wondered if I was going to have to get out the C4. But we got it open.

The Metairie PD officer immediately bolted back to his car with the statement he wasn’t going in until it was clear.

One dead in the living room. That was the loup-garou. Young male, probably the son. One dead in the hallway. Male. Torn to ribbons. Shotgun by his side, empty. Shells spilled out of a slung shell bag he never managed to access based on the number on the ground.

Bedroom door torn open. Closet door torn open. Two dead in the closet. Females. One shotgun. No shells on the ground, no powder smell, appeared unused.

Notes: 1512 Houma Boulevard. Loup-garou. Three victims. # U-148-239-J Receipt.

Mrs. Robinson would never make that packed lunch again. Because there was no one to make it. And no one to eat it.

* * *

Ever tried to find a werewolf somewhere out on the tarmac at an airport?

“Last we got a report, it was over by Gate C-6.”

The speaker was Security Manager Randolph Everette, fiftyish, heavy-set, nice suit. Definitely a bureaucrat.

I was the first member of MHI to arrive. Mr. Everette did not appreciate the time it had taken me to respond. Louis B. Armstrong International Airport had a contract. We were very close to being in violation of said contract.

My excuse that I had already dealt with one werewolf this night was not well received. He seemed to feel I should have left that one to chow on common citizens rather than allow the Louis B. Armstrong airport to be shut down.

I suppose he sort of had a point.

According to witnesses, the problem had been one of their traffic directors. Which explained why there was a 707 half parked over at Gate C-2. It had, in fact, damned near run over another plane following the directions of a wand waver who all of a sudden fell to the ground and started writhing. The plane had turned to avoid running over him and nearly hit a DC-10. Fortunately, from the MCB’s perspective, the pilots and passengers did not see the wand waver shred his clothes and turn into a werewolf. Some of the passengers on the DC-10 caught a glimpse of something but they weren’t sure what. They’d been concentrating on, you know, the other plane trying to hit them.

The 707 was now stuck on the tarmac, and incoming flights were shut down until the tarmac was cleared. Everyone who could be unloaded, safely, from the planes had been. But they were all waiting on their baggage since the baggage crews weren’t allowed outside until the problem was cleared. And planes were sitting, stacked up, on the taxiways since there were no Follow-Me trucks running and no wand wavers. Not to mention in the air. Planes short on fuel were having to divert to nearby airfields including the airbase across the river. Every entrance had been shut down.

There had been reports from other planes stuck at various points of “some sort of big dog” running around on the tarmac.

“We need to get this under control, fast,” Agent Buchanan said. I still had him mentally pegged as Agent Three. “This isn’t your normal New Orleans hoodoo. We’re talking about a lot of uninitiated observers. Class Four event.”

“I’m going to need to bring Honeybear onto the tarmac,” I said.

“Honeybear?” Everette asked.

“His car,” Buchanan said.

“No way,” Everette said. “We cannot allow a civilian vehicle with an untrained driver onto the tarmac. It’s unsafe.”

“There won’t be an untrained driver,” I said. “If you want this fixed, you’re driving. I have not a clue how to get to Gate C whatever.”

“Uh…” Everette said, his mouth open.

“Sounds like a plan,” Buchanan said.

* * *

In the end it wasn’t Mr. Everette who drove Honeybear but one of the senior airport cops, Lieutenant Roy Gray. He had the look of a professional.

“Been doing this long?” I asked.

“Fifteen years,” Gray said as he pulled Honeybear around the side of one of the terminals. “Ever since I got out of the Corps.”

“Parris or Pendleton?” I asked.

“Please,” he said. “Do I look like a Hollywood Marine?”

“One of the MCB is,” I said. I was keeping an eye out for anything doglike. People were looking out their windows, clearly wondering why a 1976 Cutlass with a flashing purple light was able to drive around the tarmac and they couldn’t.

“Which explains why he is MCB,” Gray said. Apparently he had dealt with MCB before and was read in, which was why he got this job. “Parris, right?”

“Do I look like a Hollywood Marine?” I asked.

“With that haircut, you look like a boot.”

I picked up my spot and rolled down my window. I was hit by a blast of muggy, JP4-scented air. I had a sudden flashback to being on the deck of the carrier the helo landed on taking me out of Beirut. It threw me.

“You okay?” Gray asked.

“Flashback,” I said. I turned on the spot and shone it where I thought I’d seen a dog. No luck.

“Unit Four, report of possible canine, Gate D-12.”

Another reason to bring one of the airport cops is they had local radios.

“That’s on the other side of the other terminal,” Gray grumped. “When were you in?”

“Eighty-one to eighty-four,” I said.

“Three-year tour?” he said. “I thought they’d done away with those.”

“I got medically discharged after Beirut,” I said. “That was the flashback.”

“Ah,” Gray replied. He’d sped up but not as fast as I would have liked.

“There’s a super-charger under this hood, you know,” I said.

“There’s grease and oil and jet fuel like you wouldn’t believe on this tarmac,” Gray said. “I’m not going to either spin out or make a spark and start a fire.”

“The airport is shut down until I find and kill this thing and we’ve got three other calls,” I said. “Please put the hammer down.”

I could see the numbers up on the side of the buildings.

“Unit four. Possible canine, D-8.”

“Sound like it’s moving down one side of D?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Gray said.

We were passing D-12. Based on the numbers, we were going to be approaching D-8 soon. I turned the spot back on but it was pointed the wrong way.

I rolled my window all the way down, climbed out on the door and shined the spot over the car towards the terminal. I caught a flash of brown fur.

It was headed our way.

“Turn right and head for the hills,” I shouted to Gray. “Let’s get it away from the terminal. Hey, doggie! Over here! Nice fresh meat!”

“This is not conducive to me making retirement!” Gray shouted, turning right and gunning it. Sure enough, we fishtailed. “Do you really have to egg it on?”

The werewolf was following us but we were outrunning it.

“Slow down!”

“Slow down, speed up! Make up your mind!”

“Stop here!”

I was nearly thrown clear as he hit the brakes, hard. I’d done some work on them before I left Seattle. Clearly it had paid off. We swerved—there really must have been some serious goop on the tarmac—then straightened out and stopped.

I slid out of the window and walked to the rear of Honeybear. Loup-garou, inbound.

We’d stopped, unfortunately, right under another DC-10. I was in the lights from the windows and I knew people were looking out, wondering why a person in full tactical rig had just dropped out of a Cutlass.

I’d taken a glance up. A few of them were kids. Parents always give kids the window seat.

I waited until the loup-garou was within fifteen yards and gave it a full burst from the Uzi.

It skidded to a halt at my feet. Right in front of God and everybody. About six kids had just watched me shoot a poor little doggie.

I walked over and put two rounds in its head just to make sure.

Lights went away as parents quickly shut the shades and had to comfort their now-traumatized children.

Yes, I am the devil. Don’t get me wrong. I love kids. Fried preferably but boiled works with a little hot sauce.

“Soon as we get the body cleared you’re reopened,” I said, tossing the Uzi through the window of Honeybear.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Gray asked.

Yeah, at the time I thought doing that werewolf right there was funny. Later, once I found out what I caused, I would regret it. But in the heat of the moment, I had made a bad call and someone else would end up paying for it.

“Hey,” I said, opening up the cooler in the back seat, pulling out a Budweiser and popping the top, “you were the one that drove us right under a damned plane.” I took a long pull. Gotta stay hydrated.

MCB was not happy. Mr. Everette was not happy. The airport got reopened. That’s what the contract specified. Besides, I didn’t give them much time to bitch. Before anyone else got out there, I already had another call. Coroner was on scene fast and the body was gone before you knew it.

They wanted me to stay to hear their bitching. Then Buchanan got a call. Loup-garou on Bourbon Street. Right in tourist town.

Yeah, I got to go, then.

LBA Airport. One LG. No vic. #114-8(Fed). Receipt Parish.

* * *

Thursday night and Bourbon Street was filled end-to-end with tourists. Didn’t matter if there was a werewolf running around. They were too drunk to notice.

Right up until it ripped their guts out.

Screaming? Hey, let’s scream along! Woooo! Go Green Bay! Gunfire? Hey, is that fireworks? Let’s go see the fireworks! Woooo! I love New Orleans!

Fucking tourists. If it’s called tourist season, is there a bag limit?

It was all hands. The loup-garou was running wild through the center of tourist central. Some dead, number unknown so far, when I arrived. More injured and anyone bitten would have to be put down by MCB probably. And with tourists, MCB would have to do their full-on “if you talk about this, we’ll kill you” routine.

We didn’t know where it was, so my team was scattered all over the area. I ended up going the wrong way on Conti Street. I didn’t care. I’d hit a hundred and twenty on I-10, purple light flashing and siren going AHOOOGAH! What, you thought I’d installed a pissy little cop siren?

I drove the wrong way on Conti Street dodging honking cars, stopped in the intersection of Bourbon and bailed out. Full rigged. Some douchebag in a Honda nearly ran me down. I seriously considered putting a magazine into his car as an incentive to learn manners.

“This is Iron Hand,” I said on my radio. I might finally be in range of a teammate. “I’m at Conti and Bourbon. Any contact?”

“Hand, Ben,” Ben replied. “Last seen on Dauphine near Conti.”

Well, hell, Dauphine was a block over.

I got back in Honeybear, cars weaving around me, and just backed her up. Technically I was going the right way.

When I got to Conti and Dauphine, I bailed out again. Then, grumbling a little, I jumped up on Honeybear’s hood, then onto the roof for a better look around.

Now, picture this for a moment. You’re some tourist looking for a parking space to stop so you can go enjoy the fruits of New Orleans’ night life. You’re driving down a one-way street, your wife bitching at you that you should have just paid for parking, when you see a maroon 1976 Cutlass Supreme parked at a major intersection. There’s a guy standing on the roof, holding a silenced Uzi submachine gun and dressed in tactical gear, up to and including a Kevlar helmet. Which, by the way, has a nasty set of gouge marks in it from troll claws.

Now, question for the audience. Do you go around? Do you back up to avoid the crazy person?

Do you stop and ask for directions?

“Hey, buddy!”

I looked around. There was a Cadillac stopped by Honeybear. It was blocking traffic even more, which, if there was a loup-garou inbound, was probably a good thing. There was a well-dressed middle-aged couple in the Cadillac. The wife was clearly pissed. The husband, driver, was just as clearly drunk.

“How do I find some parking around here?”

“Same way I did!” I shouted.

The man’s window rolled up and I could vaguely hear the argument. Horns were honking.

There was screaming from up Dauphine.

I leapt off Honeybear and headed for the screams.

Okay, so maybe I’m no better than the tourists.

* * *

Her name was Lindsey Carpenter. She and her friend Christina Hines had dropped out of college after one spring break and moved to New Orleans to enjoy the good life.

They were walking down Dauphine Street when from out of nowhere a huge dog creature rushed her and ripped her guts wide open.

Christina screamed and ran. The dog creature had to give chase.

She made it through the doors of a club. The dog creature followed. There, it attacked several patrons. It was indoors, surrounded by screaming people and confused by the plethora of prey.

It followed one of the prey back out onto the street.

* * *

I ran down Dauphine Street, in the road, dodging cars because it was easier than dodging people, when a man ran straight into a car. Just ran into the road full tilt and was hit by a late-model Impala. The impact tossed him fifteen feet through the air to land with a thud.

The loup-garou jumped onto the hood of the now-stopped Impala, pointed its snout at the sky and howled, long and deep.

I dropped the point-shoot sight onto its side and hit it with three rounds of silver .45. Couple more cracked the guy’s windshield.

The werewolf turned, biting at the pain. The Impala suddenly accelerated, still with the werewolf on its hood. It was also headed right at me.

I dodged out of the way onto the hood of one of the cars parked on the street, rolled across and came back to my feet.

The Impala had to dodge Honeybear. The loup-garou rolled off as it did and, wouldn’t you know it, thumped into the Caddy which was still blocking traffic. The drunk tourist was out on the passenger side trying to convince his wife that the cop or whatever had said it was okay to just park there.

The werewolf impacted on the Caddy’s right-front quarter panel with a thud I could hear from halfway down the street. Then it got up. It was hurt but the rounds hadn’t hit anything supercritical.

The man just stood there, looking at this massive wolf that had just hit his car.

I sort of wanted to let the loup-garou have the idiot but at the same time he was in that predicament in part because of my being a wiseass.

I jumped onto another parked car and lined up the shot. The wounded werewolf was getting ready to take down another victim.

There was the supersonic crack of a rifle. The loup-garou dropped with its brains splattered all over the quarter panel of the Caddy. The right front tire began to deflate.

“Were you just going to sit there?” Shelbye radioed.

“I was thinking about it,” I said, touching my throat mike. “That guy’s an asshole.”

“I’ll cover up the wild animal, or whatever the feds will call it.” Carter radioed. “Hand, check on the wounded.”

I walked back to the bar. There was a young woman lying in a pool of blood outside. She was still alive but she didn’t have much time. Intestines were scattered on the sidewalk.

A friend was beside her, clearly with no clue how to handle a disembowelment. People were gathering around to gawk. Most of them were too wasted to realize this was real.

“Hoodoo Squad,” I said. “Clear the area.”

“The what?” some douchebag said, laughing.

The speaker was a fat man wearing a ’Bama T-shirt and ball cap.

“The guy with the Uzi and a really short temper,” I said, putting the warm barrel of the silencer up under his chin. “Clear the fucking area! Clear out!”

That got through to him and he fled. I bent down on one knee by the victim.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re going to be okay.” I looked at the nearly catatonic friend. “What’s her name?”

“Lindsey,” the brunette said.

Lindsey was pretty or had been. Five ten, one twenty…when all her guts were in place.

“Lindsey, this looks bad but you’re going to be fine,” I said, looking her in the eye. “Paramedics are on the way. You’re going to be great.”

I took out a morphine ampoule and slammed it into the inside of her thigh. I wasn’t sure if it would spread through her body what with the ripped arteries in her stomach.

“That’ll help with the pain. You just stay calm. Rest. It’s okay if you pass out. Just stay calm and close your eyes. You’re going to be just fine.”

Lindsey trusted me. I knew what I was talking about. She was going to be fine. She closed her eyes and let the pain seep away.

A moment later they opened back up and her mouth fell open. Lindsey was gone to the Summer Lands where it was a party every night and no loup-garou came in to ruin it.

“You said she was going to be fine!” the friend screamed.

“She is,” I said, letting go of the flaccid hand. “She’s in heaven. We’re stuck on this shithole. She’s a lot better off than we are.”

MCB arrived on the scene already talking about a “rabid dog.” And because they were so helpful, the people who had been scratched or bitten would get this free easy “rabies test,” only this was the kind of rabies where testing positive got you shot with a silver bullet.

I walked into the bar ignoring the rest of the mess. I walked into the bathroom. Plenty of people hadn’t made it to the toilets to puke. I ignored the smell like I’d ignored the smell of spilled drinks, shit and iron in the bar.

I shoved my way up to one of the sinks. The guy I shoved didn’t seem to like that but took one look at how I was rigged out and my face and didn’t make an issue.

I wear Nomex flight gloves. They keep my hands from slipping on my weapons. They were covered in Lindsey’s blood.

I took them off and rinsed them in the sink, wringing out the blood over and over again until the water ran clear. Then I rinsed my hands and dried them with a paper towel. I wrung out the gloves one more time and put them back on.

I reloaded my Uzi. I wasn’t sure whether I had or not.

I walked back out.

The Caddy was gone.


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