King of the Woods, or Trivial Pursuit

Part 45 - Swarm

Jim Frazer counted five, no, six shots. Eight counting the two from before. His employees took cover behind cubicle walls that would not stop a thumbtack. He did not join them.

They could not hit an elephant at this distance. John Sedgwick's last words. Besides, Huntsman was firing away from the field unit. Eight shots. Ray was skinny, but come on.

Jim walked to Ray's desk and rummaged through his stuff. See how you like it. He plundered a candy bar and left the crappy drawings of beetles. He didn't even like candy, but he ate it anyway. Eat, ate, eight. Probably Huntsman had clipped Ray with the first shot and the other seven were just to be sure. A closed casket case. Huntsman was the kind of guy who would make sure, like in the movies: two in the chest, one in the—

"Head count!" Karen said, right in his ear.

"Please don't do that," he said.

"Our policy on workplace shootings says we have to," she said. "Or did you mean sneak up on you? Maybe I should wear bells."

"Does this count as a workplace shooting?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Just in case?"

Jim pointed to himself—"One."—and to her—"two."

"Three," Karen said, pointing out the window.

Byron lay face down, drooling on the asphalt. He looked almost peaceful.

"Basically," she said, "Steve bailed, Ray is a fugitive, and everyone else is thinking of running for our cars. Do we have to clock out first?"

Jim shook his head.

"Cool. Are you eating because you're worried? I do that sometimes."

He wiped his mouth, staining his hand with chocolate. "I think I hate my job."

--

Huntsman sat on a stump, taping a gauze pad over his injured forearm. His doctor's bag lay open next to him with a bottle of saline on top. Beneath the bottle lay two aerosol canisters. He turned on his radio. "Lodge, this is Huntsman, come in."

"This is Lodge, go ahead," said a male speaker. He sounded young and nervous. Lodge had begun recruiting undergraduates. Desperate times, they said, but hadn't they always been?

"Why wasn't I briefed on the werewolf?" Huntsman said.

"Say again?"

"Were. Wolf. Do you know what a werewolf is? I do. One just tried to bite off my arm." Huntsman finished the bandage and replaced his supplies in the doctor's bag.

The man on the radio laughed. "Who is this? Chad? Bret? You screwing with the new guy?"

"Answer the question." Huntsman walked quickly, but did not run, peering ahead in the forest for signs of Lumley's passage.

"But... werewolves aren't real. Right?" The man's voice lowered—he had turned away from the microphone. "I read what you told me to read. I studied it. But there's nothing in the files about werewolves."

Huntsman sighed. "Lodge, what is your clearance level?"

"Andromalius-7. They said I scored well. What are you— No! Don't!"

A gunshot cut the man off, followed by a few seconds of elevator music. Huntsman tapped his foot to the familiar rhythm.

"This is Lodge. You owe me a new intern," said the faceless, nameless woman who spoke for the organization's leadership.