Dogfight

By Dick Thomas

When Lucy is kidnapped, her boyfriend Gary and his best friend Paul must navigate a bizarre maze of the supernatural and the paranormal in order to find her again.

Their search takes them from Indiana to an arena in upstate New York where creatures who appear to be half-man/half-beast fight death matches against each other...

...and against normal men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dick Thomas
• Release date: May 16, 2010

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Dogfight

Dick Thomas

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Dick Thomas

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work for this author.

DOGFIGHT

PART I

PREY

Chapter 1

Paul Reagan swung his Mustang into the parking lot of the Pizza Palace, skidding to a stop on the wet pavement behind the store, next to the drivers’ door at the rear of the restaurant.

From the passenger’s seat, Paul collected four big, empty insulated black bags emblazoned with Pizza Palace’s corporate logo and the glow-in-the-dark stitching that implored the drivers, Lights On: See and Be Seen. He wadded the pouches up under one arm and marched up to the keypad that disengaged the security lock.

The dinner rush was just ending on a Friday night. It had been a busier night than usual, with a constant drizzle leaking out of the sky for the past six hours. Now, it was about half-past nine, and Paul’s shift was over. He’d be walking out the door with about a hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket, which made it a satisfactory shift. Of course, the rain always helped the delivery business, as long as you weren’t a pussy and you didn’t mind driving in the rain. Paul didn’t give a fuck about rain. He just hated driving behind the other cowards who felt like you had to slow down twenty miles an hour just because there was a little moisture on the roads. Rain Pussies, he liked to call them.

Scott Smith, the store’s general manager, however, did not appear to be having a satisfactory shift. When Paul burst through the back door, Scott was on the phone, apologizing for all he was worth to some irate customer. Ma’am, I can assure you, this matter will be addressed. I’ve been the general manager here for five years, and nothing like this has ever happened before, and I promise you that at the very least, the driver in question will be written up. A reprimand will go in his file covering this incident.

Paul doubted that. Scott was always telling angry customers that he was going to put written reprimands into the files of rude drivers and order-takers and that the culprits were on the verge of losing their jobs. But Paul had never seen a single one of these mythical write-ups, even though he should have received the lion’s share of them. Generally when Scott got off the phone after such a conversation, he and Paul would laugh their asses off at whatever incident had raised that customer’s ire.

--And he may be terminated over this! Scott finished.

Paul suspected that Scott’s complaining customer was the Mertz bitch. Fine. He decided he’d tell Scott exactly what had happened, realizing that his boss couldn’t fault him for refusing to deliver to a house with unleashed and potentially dangerous dogs. He thought back to the other three deliveries he’d just returned from. Had any unpleasantries transpired between him and the people he’d taken pizzas to? He couldn’t think of anything. One of the four had tipped him well, one had tipped him satisfactorily, and the last one prior to Mrs. Mertz had made Paul stand in the rain and count out every last penny of change from his nearly thirty-dollar order. But Paul had made enough money during his ten-hour shift that getting stiffed occasionally didn’t rankle as badly as it did on those occasional, infuriating days when every other son of a bitch either stiffed him entirely or else let him keep some leftover coins, which amounted to maybe a eighth or a tenth of a decent tip. Paul, though, had been nothing but polite to the last guy who’d stiffed him, until he got into his car and began driving away; at which time Paul soundly and vigorously cursed the man and all his family to an eternity in flaming hell for their miserly ways.

Scott finally hung up the phone, scowling, and Paul knew instantly that this would not be a laughing incident. For Scott. For Paul, however, any incident that could make his boss and friend act this angry was sure to be absolutely hilarious. Trouble in paradise? Paul asked.

Gary! Scott spat contemptuously. He looked Paul in the eye. Do you know what that stupid fat fuck did?

Paul’s eyes narrowed. He liked Gary. He liked Scott, too, of course; but Gary was probably his favorite co-worker. He was a good kid, shy, and a bit of a clown when people took a little bit of effort to get to know him. What? Paul asked, hoping it wasn’t anything to put him in real trouble with Pizza Palace or Scott.

Tight-lipped, Scott walked over to the cash register dedicated to driver’s transactions and angrily stabbed the buttons that brought up Paul’s last four transactions. You owe the store ninety-eight sixteen, he told Paul crossly. And I don’t even know if I can talk about this, I’m so pissed off right now!

Whatever, man, Paul said as casually as he could manage. He got his money together to pay for his deliveries. You’re the one who brought it up. Oh, and I couldn’t deliver Mrs. Mertz’s pizza. Her dog got loose and damn near mauled me. I told her the company doesn’t require me to deliver to homes where they can‘t keep their animals under control.

Great, Scott sighed. I guess I’ll be hearing from her, now, too. You guys are killing me tonight, between not delivering to regular customers and puking on people’s doorsteps.

Paul burst out laughing. You’re kidding!

No, I’m not kidding, goddamn it. Gary barfed all over some lady’s front porch, and she was pissed!

What, he just puked right in front of her, while he’s handing her the food? He gave Scott a hundred dollars and Scott made change. For all his anger over the incident, Scott couldn’t help sniffing out a laugh.

No. What he did was probably worse.

He puked on the food?

No.

He puked on the lady?

No, thank God that didn’t happen! That’d probably be the worst of all potential vomit incidents!

Damn it, Scott, what the hell happened?

The driver door opened again and Gary lumbered in, looking pale and tired. Paul began applauding. Bravo, Gary. Bra. Vo.

What’s so funny? And why are looking at me like that, Scott?

Why do you think I’m looking at you like this, you big dumbass? Scott’s jaw was clenched and a huge vein was throbbing in the middle of his forehead. What the hell happened on that delivery to Sandyside Drive?

Oh.

‘Oh?’ Is that all you can say, you big doofus?

I’m sick, man. I’m not gonna be able to take any more runs tonight. He slung his empty pizza bags onto the rack where they would be stored until the cooks filled them with delivery orders.

Well, no duh, dipshit!

I’m sorry, Scott. I didn’t think she’d notice.

Paul laughed some more.

How in God’s secret name is she not gonna notice a big puddle of vomit on her front porch? Jesus, Gary! She says she’s never ordering from us again, and she’s calling the corporation about this and she’d thinking about calling a lawyer. She says she wants you fired on the spot!

I didn’t know I was gonna puke. If I had, I would’ve called it a night before now. It’s probably your fault, anyway, that I got sick.

My fault? You’ve got to be -- How the hell is it my fault?

You don’t pay enough attention to what the high school kids are doing, he replied, nodding his head over at three teenagers assembling pizzas at a long, refrigerated, stainless steel table. They don’t give a crap about their jobs.

You’re not making any sense, Gary, Scott complained.

When I came in this afternoon, I made myself a pizza with Italian sausage before we started getting busy. But when I started eating it, I noticed it tasted kind of funny. Well, it’s just cheese, sauce, dough, and sausage, so the first thing I check is the sausage. I go over to the make table and got a good whiff of the sausage, and that junk reeked to high heaven! The high schoolers aren’t rotating that stuff; they just keep putting new stuff on top of the old whenever it gets low, and the stuff at the bottom is probably sitting there a week or more at a time. He glared over at the high schoolers who grinned, listening to all of this. Little sons o’ bitches poisoned me!

You said the sausage smelled bad? Scott asked, afraid of an impending public health crisis, the epicenter of which might be his store. Paul worried a little, too. The store might be shut down for a week while an investigation took place, if dozens of their customers suddenly came down with some sort of food poisoning. And if the TV news began running with such a story, it could shut down a store permanently. No one would want to eat there anymore, regardless of how thoroughly the place was cleaned up. So what did you do with the sausage?

Gary made a face. I’m not a retard, Scott. Not like those idiots over there. I threw it in the trash. The high school kids tittered, which pissed Paul off.

Well, good, Gary, Scott said. Good job. But I still don’t understand why you had to throw up on some lady’s doorstep! She said she paid for her pizza and took it inside, and thirty seconds later, she hears you roaring outside her front door like a bear with its goddamn foot caught in a steel trap. So she’s scared, and she peeks out the window, and there you are on her porch, puking your guts out!

Paul shook his head and smiled, amused. Beautiful.

Shut up, Paul, Scott snapped. And then, when you were finally done -- because she’s watching you the whole time, you idiot -- she says you just wiped your mouth on the shoulder of your shirt and walked off like nothing had happened!

Gary rolled his eyes. Well, what was I supposed to do? Knock on her door, tell her, ‘Gee, ma’am. I just puked right here. See? Awful sorry about that. I gotta go home and go to bed, now. See ya.’?

That would’ve been better than just barfing while she watched and then hopping into your car and driving off! I mean, if your stomach was bothering you that much, why didn’t you tell me you were sick and needed the night off?

"It just hit me all of a sudden, man. I was delivering to those last three houses, and my stomach started saying, ‘Whoa, there, Gary! What’s going on here? What exactly are you feeding me?’ And then I was already walking up to that last house, when my stomach said, ‘No, sir! I am not processing any more of this shit! Get this crap out of here!’

And then, as soon as I gave the lady her pizza and she closed the door, it was coming up and there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. I even spewed a little bit out my nose.

All right, all right, that’s enough. I don’t need to hear any more details.

But I didn’t know she saw me. I didn’t figure she’d be going out any more tonight, so I figured she wouldn’t find it until morning and, then she’d think it’d been left there by some dog or some drunk trying to stagger home.

Well, Gary, you figured wrong.

His stomach rumbled loudly and he made an unpleasant face and clutched his big belly with both hands. Dude. I’m really not feeling good. Can we just wrap this up and get me out of here before I puke here in the store?

Yeah, fine, Gary, Scott sighed. Let’s do that.

Hey, Paul. I’m afraid I’m gonna upchuck some more. Can you give me a ride home so I don’t have to puke while I’m driving?

Paul cocked an eyebrow. What the fuck are you talking about, Hoss? You want to puke in my ‘Stang? You gotta be kidding!

Gary tore off a plastic bag emblazoned with the Palace’s company trademark from a factory-processed bundle of one hundred. Fine. Drive me in my car, then bring it back here to pick up yours. I’ll walk back here tomorrow. I ought to be better by then.

Fine. We’ll do that, Paul agreed while Scott cashed Gary out for the night.

#

How long has your clutch been slipping like this? Paul asked as he pulled Gary’s fifteen-year-old Hyundai Accent out into the street. The engine revved wildly, but the vehicle’s acceleration was almost nonexistent. Zero to forty in a minute and a half.

A couple of days. You think it’s my clutch? I thought I just needed a tune-up. Paul glanced over at his friend. He looked and sounded miserable, clutching his little plastic bag like a security blanket against another potential round of dry heaving.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, man, but a tune-up’s about a fifty-dollar prospect. You’re looking at five hundred for a new clutch. Maybe more like a thousand.

Aw, Jeez, Gary moaned. The passing street lamps and the headlights of passing cars shone through the Hyundai’s wet windows, casting little water droplet shadows on Gary’s face, making him look like the gray and dying victim of some exotic pox. How much would it be if you helped me replace the clutch myself?

Paul laughed, and it came out as a cynical bark. Ha! You don’t know shit about cars, so what you’re really asking me is, ‘How about you do it for me, Paul, while I sit and watch?’

Whatever.

It’d still be expensive. You’re talking about a new clutch and pressure plate. Probably resurface the flywheel. Maybe replace it. Most of the cost is gonna be wrapped up in parts, and we can’t buy them as cheaply as a transmission shop can. Plus, I’d have to take a good look at your car, but sometimes you have to take out the whole fucking engine to get to the clutch. I’m not sure I’m a good enough mechanic to do that big of a job for you.

Crap.

Sorry, Hoss. I’ll look at it for you tomorrow, though.

Thanks.

Gary only lived five minutes from the store, in one of the cheaper apartment communities in the area. Paul hit the left turn signal and moved into the street’s center turn lane, preparing to cross traffic and enter the complex. They sat and waited a minute for a sizable gap in the oncoming traffic, since Paul couldn’t simply throw the stickshift into first and then punch the accelerator as he would have in a relatively healthy car. Gary lay his head against the window, looking half-dead, with his eyes closed.

When the hole finally did appear, Paul took it, easing forward towards Gary’s home.

A van with a cracked windshield came roaring directly at them out of the apartment entrance. The van was a black Ford Econoline, and Paul realized first off that the fucking idiot behind the wheel was driving like a madman on a rainy night without headlights. Brilliant. Secondly, Paul realized he’d killed the Hyundai’s engine by braking without pushing in the clutch, and now Gary’s car was sitting dead across two traffic lanes.

What are you doing? Gary cried, his eyes now open wide. You’re gonna get us killed!

Paul turned the ignition, and the engine cranked but wouldn’t fire up. He twisted the key again and the engine came back to life as approaching traffic stacked up and four or five cars began honking their horns in concert.

As Paul shifted back into first and began rolling forward again, he leaned across Gary and saluted the honkers with an extended middle finger. Fuck you, assholes! It ain’t like I wanted to be stuck here like this!

What happened? Gary asked, his head no longer lolling over to one side like he was dying.

Some moron came tearing out of your apartments like a bat out of hell, no headlights, and almost hit us head-on. Probably passed within a couple of feet of our front bumper. Just about killed us. You got any neighbors with a dark color, late model cargo van?

I don’t think so.

Well, if you find out that you do, let me know so I can come back here and have a little talk with them.

Paul parked the car in front of the building where Gary and Lucy lived together and looked over at the younger, bigger man. How’re you feeling, man? Better?

Gary sighed. Yeah. A little. I know it was those stupid high schoolers that poisoned me.

It’s not like they did it on purpose, Paul pointed out. They’re just dumb kids who don’t understand that if they cut corners they can make people sick. Still . . . there ought to be a way for us to teach them a lesson. He grinned. Paul loved teaching people lessons.

You think so? Gary asked, grinning back.

I’ll think about it and get back to you in a day or two on that one.

Sweet.

They both exited Gary’s car. Paul dialed Scott up on his cell phone as he walked Gary towards his building. Are you about done there for the night? Great. Can you come over to Gary’s place and give me a ride back to the store so I can pick my car up? Great. See you in a few? Thanks, man. I appreciate it. He terminated the call as they entered the building’s foyer. There were two apartments downstairs and two upstairs. Someone peeked out of one of the upstairs apartment doors. You’d better call the police, he squeaked and then ducked back into his dark apartment.

Paul noticed a dark, wet-looking stain on the hallway carpet. It appeared to be made up of two or three different shades of fluid. The foyer reeked of shit and piss. Wow, Hoss. This neighborhood’s really been hitting the skids lately.

Gary rapped lightly on his own door’s jamb. He had a key for the deadbolt; but he liked Lucy to keep the door chained, too, when he wasn’t home, and she obliged him. Paul understood. Every little bit of protection helped in a dangerous world, and Lucy was such a petite little thing. Tough and spunky, maybe, but still small.

Gary looked at the stain Paul had mentioned. Damn it, he grumbled. That’s just gross. He nodded towards the door across from his on the first floor. Old man Foster lives there. He’s incontinent, but he doesn’t like to wear those adult diapers. Probably went in his pants trying to get his door open. He knocked on the door and shouted, Luce! Wake up, honey! Open the door!

Paul grinned, despite the smell. He’d never been able to picture Gary with a girl except for maybe a big fat Amazon type. And yet, somehow, he’d hooked up with this cute girl that got hit on by other guys all the time. Hell, if Lucy weren’t Gary’s girl and Paul didn’t already have a girlfriend, he himself might’ve tried to hit on Lucy. But she didn’t seem to have eyes for anyone but big, dopey Gary, and now he was calling her honey, like they were some middle-aged married couple.

Gary pounded on the door again. Luce! He glanced back at Paul. Did you hear what that dude said about calling the police?

Paul nodded. Yeah, and suddenly he felt almost sick about the stain on the carpet and the stench. He reached back and pulled out the Glock he always carried in the small of his back when he delivered pizzas. Why don’t you try your key, Hoss?

Yeah. Gary inserted his key and released the deadbolt. He turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. The chain lock was not engaged. Oh, my God, he whimpered, sounding like someone had just punched his solar plexus. His entire body sagged.

The apartment was a shambles. The sliding glass door had been smashed in. The couch and chairs were disheveled, with cushions scattered all around the room. The television had been knocked off the entertainment center. The floorlamp was lying on the floor on the other side of the room from where it normally stood. The coffee table had been cracked and was lying on its side on the wrong side of the couch. A kitchen chair lay broken in the living room.

Little dark drops of something -- blood? -- had been spattered all over the carpet.

Paul tried to squeeze through the door, past stunned, inert Gary. He held the Glock with both hands. Let me check this out, Hoss.

Gary suddenly jerked to life. Lucy! he shouted, and he ran back to the bedroom. Paul followed on his heels, his gun still pointed downward but ready to fire.

The bedroom was just as big a disaster as the living room; only in addition to the strewn-about furniture, a large man dressed in black body armor lay dead on the floor with a spiked mace half-buried in his head.

Lucy wasn’t there.

Gary ran back to the living room, then outside through the now-windowless sliding glass door. Lucy! he yelled, his voice breaking. He stood in the grass behind his apartment building, looking around frantically. Lucy! Oh, God, Lucy!

He ran off to the left, out of Paul’s sight, rushing around blindly in a panic.

Paul went back out into the hallway, then bounded up the stairs and pounded on the door of the second story neighbor who’d stuck his nose out and told them to call the police. Hey, man! Open up! You gotta tell us what happened here!

Just call the police! a muffled voice hollered from inside.

Come on, man! My buddy’s girlfriend is gone, and there’s a dead guy in the bedroom downstairs! You gotta help us out here!

Call the police! he repeated.

Goddamnit, open this goddamn door, or I’m busting it in! He gave it a good kick, and the wood cracked. I’m fucking serious!

All right, all right, the man cried miserably. Just don’t hurt me!

I don’t want to hurt anybody! I just want to find out what happened to my buddy’s girl!

The deadbolt clicked free and Gary’s upstairs neighbor opened the door attired in a bathrobe and underpants, and instantly shrank back when he saw that Paul was holding a gun. Oh, sweet Jesus! Don’t shoot me in the head! He tripped over his own feet and was scooting backwards into his apartment on his butt, a hand extended towards Paul, imploring him not to kill him.

Paul looked down at his Glock and put the gun back into its holster. I’m not gonna shoot you, man. But somebody trashed my buddy’s apartment, and his girlfriend’s gone, and there’s some big, dead guy in there! I just want to find out what happened!

They shot a kid in the head! Right down there in the hallway! Little teenaged kid! He pointed in the general direction of the stains Paul had spotted.

Tell me what happened, Paul said, forcing himself to sound calmer than he felt. Adrenaline coursed through his body.

I heard someone yelling out in the hall. I thought it was just some couple having a fight. You know…that kind of stuff happens all the time. And that girl downstairs has only been here a few weeks. You know, maybe the old boyfriend was trying to get her back. I didn’t know what was going on! So I was going to tell them to shut the hell up, and when I poked my head out the door, at that exact moment, this dark-haired guy dressed in black shoots the kid! Shoots him right in the head! The man began crying.

What kid?

Just some kid! I don’t know… he sobbed.

What were they yelling about?

I don’t know, I don’t know! You know how it is when people are yelling in the next apartment. A big drop of runny snot was leaking from one nostril. It’s all muffled. You can’t make out much of anything. His eyes opened wide. Fuck you!

Paul’s eyes narrowed. What? he growled.

I heard the girl yell, ‘Fuck you!’ after the guy shot the kid. And then there was all the banging and crashing and screaming downstairs. I just went and hid in the closet in my bedroom and prayed to God they wouldn’t come up to get me. I don’t know what it was all about! It was just crazy!

Didn’t you call the police?

"I tried,