Chapter Twenty-Five

The Axemen

Holy fuck, Dez thought.

As one, the crowd undulated inward, the mass of people, unmindful of the werewolf, bent on eluding the new, gigantic horror that stood before the chief exit of the bar. Dez thought at first that Chaney was unaware of the new creature, but a downward glance showed him that the werewolf, also, had been roused by the minotaur’s roar.

As werewolf and minotaur regarded one another, the crowd parting before them in a broad swath, Dez couldn’t help scrutinizing the beast that moments before had been Bill Keaton. Like most monsters, Keaton was like, yet unlike the fictional conception to which society was accustomed. Yes, Keaton’s bull-like face possessed horns. Yes, Keaton’s feet had transformed into hooves. And true, the nostrils and cheekbones had shaped themselves into a vaguely bovine form.

But that was where literature ended and perverse nature began. The face was more demonic than bull-like, the eyes not glowing infernally, like the vampire’s phosphorescent orange or the werewolf’s lambent yellow, but rather a cheerless, unhealthy crimson, as though someone had painted the whites with ruby-red fingernail polish.

There was madness in Keaton’s eyes. And rage. Whereas the face of the werewolf revealed nothing but an ungovernable bloodlust, the minotaur’s gaze was appallingly intelligent. It knew Chaney was the one who’d murdered its mistress; it knew this werewolf was its enemy.

Chaney stepped toward Keaton, the distance between them fifty feet. The chains holding Dez’s arms continued to shudder.

Iris was lowering him. Thank God for Iris.

Keaton stood on his great hooves, panting, and yes, actually snorting, but Dez scarcely noticed. Because even though Iris was relieving him of the massive pain, what then? He was still in manacles and leg cuffs; he was still, in essence, screwed.

A flurry of movement to Iris’s right. Though it taxed his aching body to look behind him, Dez was glad he did. He found it difficult to breathe for fear that the new development was a mirage.

Joe Kidd and Michael Summers were hurrying through the crowd.

Both men carried axes.

Though the minotaur hadn’t moved from his position by the front doors, Chaney had halved the distance between them. More, Chaney’s voice reverberated in a trembling growl.

A member of the crowd rushed toward Chaney, a heavyset woman Dez hadn’t noticed before. She raised a hatchet, apparently as a show of allegiance to Keaton. She swung the hatchet at Chaney, but so quickly that Dez barely tracked it. The werewolf’s arm shot out, swiped a backhand at the woman’s face. Her skin ribboned from chin to crown, the hatchet clanked on the floor, her body tumbling at the werewolf’s feet. Her screams were muffled by her hands and the blood, but Chaney didn’t seem to give her a second thought; he kept stalking toward the minotaur as though nothing had happened. For his part, Keaton’s bloody eyes remained fixed on his adversary.

Something touched Dez’s toes, and he sucked in breath, was surprised to see he’d reached the floor. Behind him, Iris continued to crank. The pressure left his arms, his shoulders, but before he could appreciate this development, the chain on his right ankle jumped. He whirled to see who had jerked on it.

Michael Summers and his axe. Before Dez could react, Joe Kidd went to work on the other chain, both men attacking the places where the chains touched the eyehooks. Joe was the more muscular of the two; his hewing was more effective, and by the third stroke, the chain was severed. Michael continued to hack at the chain attached to Dez’s right ankle. Iris continued to slacken the chains.

Dez tested his left leg. Though the cuff and the twenty inches of chain still attached to it weighed him down, it felt incredible to be able to flex the knee, to move without encumbrance.

Another stroke by Michael, and the chain fettering his right ankle let go. He walked in place a little to restore sensation to his legs. The arm chains had loosed to the point that he could lower his wrists to his waist. Almost free.

Commotion from the front of the room drew his attention. The werewolf had drawn to within ten feet of the minotaur, was circling like a junkyard dog, its great mane bristling. For his part, Keaton merely revolved slowly, tracking Chaney’s movements, seemingly in no hurry to adopt a defensive stance.

Everyone near the pair of monsters had paused to watch the showdown. The room wasn’t silent, but the werewolf’s growl, the slow pivot of the minotaur’s giant hooves, were clearly audible.

“On your knees,” a voice at Dez’s ear hissed. He turned as someone seized his shoulder and drove him to the floor. Dez’s knees hit the unyielding wood, and though a dim region inside him – the one where unreasoning pride still dwelt – took offense to being manhandled by Joe Kidd, Dez’s more intelligent nature understood that the man was preparing to chop down at the chains binding Dez’s wrists.

Joe took a step back, raised the axe, and fixed the chain in place with a boot. Dez scooted his wrists away from his body as far as they would go, and buried his face against his shoulder to protect his eyes from any debris that might be kicked up from the axe blows. Joe swung and one chain parted.

“Get him, Bill!” someone shouted.

“Rip his goddamned head off!” another voice joined in.

Dez glanced up in time to see a small portion of the crowd near him watching Joe Kidd’s attempt to free Dez. One patron actually raised an old-fashioned blackjack as though to assault Joe with it.

Crosby.

Before Crosby could swing the blackjack at Joe, Michael Summers intervened, shoved Crosby back into the massed crowd, and pulled out a compact pocketknife, which he pointed at Crosby’s face.

“Keep your ass back,” Michael said.

“What’re you gonna do with that?” someone asked. “Remove a splinter?”

“Hold still,” Joe said, and with the next axe stroke, the last chain parted and Dez found himself free. Sure, he had cuffs and chains attached to all four limbs, and yes, he was clad in nothing but a pair of sweat-soaked boxers, but at least he wasn’t strung up in the air like some twisted piece of modern art.

“Hey, Joe,” someone said.

Dez turned to see who had spoken.

It was Badler, who shoved the muzzle of a .45 in Joe Kidd’s stomach and fired.