7 Doug & Dave #2
He seems reluctant to offer, and I’m betting it’s because he thinks I’ll snap at him for being presumptuous.
Fair, given I’ve taken offense more than once at his helpful overtures.
I’m not really frightened anymore. Winnie has long been my trusted companion; it isn’t her fault she’s acquired this leechlike addition.
Doug and Dave have won as much of my trust as I’m ever willing to give.
I can’t forget the way they tucked Goat back into Eldi’s bed, how they stroked her cheek like loving parents.
Yet I’m tempted to accept Calvin’s offer.
I rationalize it’s probably a reptilian-brain reaction to seeing him shirtless this morning.
I need to go down to the basement, but I can’t sneak in with Calvin here, so I pack away that primal part of my brain. Down, Reggie.
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “We survived the robo-vacs going rogue with their late-night lawn mowing. What’s the worst this hunk of plastic will do?”
Doug (or Dave—they’re honestly impossible to tell apart) chooses that moment to putter out of my bedroom. The little fucker has been snooping, because he’s dragging along my still-dirty and bloody “I’m mad at the government” shirt along behind him.
I curse as I rush to hide the evidence before Calvin notices the blood.
Dave (or Doug—I need to paint some identifying features on them or something) rolls out and beelines for the fridge, shooting out half a dozen appendages to rummage through its contents, sending a can of beer rolling across the floor and a container of take-out noodles crashing to the ground.
“I swear, you two had better start carrying your weight and clean something. I’m not a goddamn housekeeper—”
But Doug-or-Dave is already scooping the noodles back up and retrieving the fallen beer can with a trailing appendage.
Calvin rolls his eyes. “Right, seems safe. Not like your Winnebago is now packed with super-advanced and unknown technology or potential alien life forms or anything.”
What’s new? I think to myself, clenching my teeth to keep the snarky quip contained.
The drive to Yellowstone is long the next day.
Especially since I didn’t sleep much. I was busy preparing for the werewolves and monitoring the Winnebago’s surveillance system for that Jeep that I’m now sure is tailing us.
I don’t let Eldi within view of the windows; she pouts in the basement, occasionally coming upstairs to mutter angrily and throw a few glares my way before retreating.
I’m in Wyoming when I stop to take a nap at a rest stop.
The Winnebago can drive herself, but it’s risky to sleep at the wheel, or even have Manny take a turn sitting in the driver’s seat, with the highway packed with summer tourists.
When I wake, the Jeep is parked next to us and there’s a new email from my mystery contact.
This time there’re no cryptic riddles, no commentary, only a link to an article.
“Killer asteroid on collision path with Earth? Amateur astronomer thinks so.” It’s from one of those trashy tabloids, but sometimes there’s a gem of truth hidden under all the bullshit.
Crop circles and potential alien tech or life-forms. Maybe something from outer space is actually on the way here.
Listen. Look up. Incoming.
Shush, I tell myself. You’re being paranoid. It’s that spooky little inner voice again. I’ll never have silence, even inside my head.
I don’t have time to read through the article and parse through the chaff for the good bits right now, though.
For a second, I consider taking the reckless path and confronting whoever is in the Jeep.
But I’m a coward at heart, so I don’t do more than stare intently at its tinted windows and wonder which one of them has come to find me.
Then I tear out of the lot, pedal to the floor, like I’m being followed. Because I know I am.
Despite my nap, it’s easy enough to catch up to Calvin at a gas station near the Montana border. Lucky for me, he’s planning on recording and researching this evening, leaving me to my own devices.
“Werewolf stakeout tomorrow night,” he says.
“Care to join?” He’s scrubbing the bugs off Winnie’s windshield, her hazards blinking in appreciation.
We’ve been too busy to stop for Winnie’s regular deep clean; a car wash is usually the highlight of her week.
Sometimes she even updates my bedroom wallpaper for a few hours afterward.
I make a mental note to buy Calvin a candy bar when I go inside to pretend to pay for gas.
“Sure,” I say. “Bet you a beer I’ll catch a werewolf before you find proof it’s a rabid wolf, or a guy dressed up as a prank.”
This time I’m making a bet I’m fully prepared to lose.
My plan to defuse this werewolf problem is a simple and effective two-pronged approach.
I’m taking care of these wolves tonight, shooting them with a vaccine before Calvin has even the chance to glimpse one.
By this time tomorrow, he’ll find the wolf suit I’ll plant, and no one will be any the wiser.
Werewolves aren’t a myth, but they’ve got a slightly more down-to-earth explanation than most people expect.
There is a disease that affects wolves and people that leads to this sort of story cropping up from time to time.
When it manifests in a wolf population, affected wolves temporarily grow in size and walk on two legs.
And it makes them cunning enough to be uncanny.
They like to find, follow, and terrorize people, copying human mannerisms and speech patterns.
It’s easy to imagine how a legend might grow over the centuries when people stumble across these creatures in the wild.
Most werewolves seem content to terrorize from afar, but this viral strain that’s been giving me trouble lately creates an unfortunate variation that enjoys aggressively pursuing—and biting—humans.
Lycanthropy in humans is varied and unpredictable.