9. Scott

CHAPTER 9

SCOTT

I can’t believe I let them get the jump on me. Scott’s head pounded from getting punched hard enough to make his vision swim and black him out.

When he came around, he was hogtied and lying in the back of a panel van that stank of coyote. Every bump in the road jarred his teeth, and the ridged floor of the commercial van didn’t blunt the impact.

The bitter, dirty taste in his mouth told him that coyotes were still nearby. Scott struggled to remember what happened because his head ached almost too hard for him to string thoughts together.

Scott had fought back but there were too many attackers, and after one blow made him see stars, he went down in a heap.

Then he had been in the van, and after a drive, he had been hauled out and dragged inside a building. He remembered feeling a jab and feeling strange before he blacked out again. Somewhat awake, Scott realized he had no idea where he was or how long he’d been out.

He heard voices, so he kept his eyes closed. Looking around could wait.

“What do we do with him?” a man said.

“Nothing. He’s a fed, so we’ll get rid of him when the time is right,” a second man replied. “For now, he’s bait. The spell and drugs should keep him out of it. He might have been stupid enough to work this job on his own, but if he has a team and they come for him, we can nab them too. Tie it all up with a bow.”

Scott’s heart beat faster, and he hoped the coyotes weren’t paying attention or couldn’t pick that up. Even though the shifters were in human form, Scott got a garbage taste in his mouth.

“You think anyone will come after him?” First Guy asked.

“Dunno—but if they do, we’ll be ready for them. And once we get them out of the way, we’ll have a clear path to move the goods from the border all the way to the big markets downstate,” Second Guy replied.

Definitely drugs. We were right about their operation. Maybe they were expecting us all along.

“What about that shifter town? You think they’re gonna cause problems?” First Guy asked.

“If they do, we’ll handle them. What good is having a witch if he doesn’t get to come out and play?” Second Guy replied in a tone that promised trouble. “Weston’s got enough mojo, I think he can handle all the furries in Fox Hollow.”

Shifters aren’t furries, dumbass. Who’s this Weston guy? A witch? Shit—that makes this mess even worse.

“Still don’t know what we need the witch for,” First Guy said. “He gets a cut and for what?”

Scott heard the smack of a slap and guessed the other guy backhanded his companion. “Watch your mouth. You never know who’s listening. And Weston does plenty. He puts spells on us when we cross the border so we’re hard to see, and he does things to make the cops get busy looking somewhere else. He keeps the shifters and the bloodsuckers in line.”

“Yeah, but the weres and the vamps don’t cross the border. We take all the risk, and too many others get a cut of the profit,” First Guy grumbled.

“You want to take that up with the boss? Be my guest. When you disappear, can I have your coat?”

“Go fuck yourself.” The two wandered out of earshot, leaving Scott alone, and the taste in his mouth faded.

Shit. Getting away from a bunch of half-wit coyote runners is one thing. Giving a witch the slip is another.

When Scott looked around, he thought he was hallucinating. He found himself tied to a wooden chair in what could only be described as a Wild West saloon that had seen better days.

An ornate bar beckoned cowboys and dance hall girls to slake their thirst. He could easily picture liquor bottles on the empty shelves behind the bar and a man in a striped shirt with sleeve garters serving beer and whisky to parched cattlemen and fancy women.

Against another wall sat the ruins of an old player piano, missing a front panel and most of its yellowed keys. Broken tables and tangled chairs filled the middle section. Dust and mildew covered everything.

Was this a movie set? Maybe I’m hallucinating.

The room looked like the saloon in every western he had ever watched, ready for the black-clad villain or the hero in a white hat to stride in for their dramatic cue. A stage lined one end, its red velvet curtains hanging in tatters, fallen prey to mold and mice.

Many of the front windows were broken, and the others were too dirty to see through. Saplings and scrub plants had overgrown the front porch, scraping against the remaining glass. A large, circular iron chandelier hung overhead with cracked or missing globes covering the…light bulbs?

Definitely not authentic. Scott’s head hurt, but he still had enough of his wits about him to process the anachronisms.

Now that he knew what to look for, he saw electrical sockets in the walls and speakers tucked discreetly into corners.

Not to mention that there probably weren’t cowboys or cattle drives through the Adirondack mountains back in the day. Guess I found out that the coyotes really are holing up at FrontierWorld. Fuck.

Scott guessed it had been a couple of decades since the last piano player and gambler walked away, and the curtain fell on the final chorus line.

He had a vague memory of stopping at this sort of western-themed attraction as a very young child on a family road trip. Back then, seeing people in cowboy outfits riding horses, facing down bank robbers, and saving the town had been big stuff. He had gotten a sheriff’s badge and a hat, which he had treasured.

Now that Scott thought about it, he hadn’t seen an attraction like that for a very long time, at least on the East Coast. Probably too tame for today’s kids. But I sure thought it was fun back in the day. Then again, working for a secret government agency isn’t everything it was cracked up to be, either. Now I’m living the secret agent gets captured and tied up by the bad guys part of the plot, and it’s not fun at all.

He tested the ropes that bound his chest to the back of the chair, tied wrists together behind him, and secured his ankles to the legs of the chair. The knots held, and the rough hemp dug into his skin. Scott figured from the sun shining outside that he had been gone longer than he first thought. It was dark when they’d caught him in the parking lot.

We postponed our dinner date, so Gage won’t have a reason to look for me since he’s still pissed.

He remembered the voicemails he had been too afraid to listen to and wondered if Gage really had intended to break things off or was open to giving him a chance to come clean and start over.

I’ll never know if I don’t make it out of here.

By the time he missed his check-in with SPAM, it would be another day and anything could happen.

Did it look like I was jumped? If there’s no sign of struggle and no blood—and the door to my room didn’t get kicked in—there’s not much for Gage or the sheriff to go on if they do decide to look for me. They might suspect that the coyotes got me, and there might be security camera footage of me getting my ass handed to me by a bunch of toughs, but after that, I just vanish.

I can’t die here. There’s too much I haven’t said to Gage, too many things we haven’t done. I want to explore this new thing between us and fix it so we have a fresh start. If we’re right, it’s a mate bond, a forever pairing. I want that kind of connection with Gage.

No telling how long it will take for someone to figure out what happened. The coyotes are tough SOBs, but they’re professional enough not to leave a lot of easy evidence. I guess I need to save myself instead of waiting to be rescued.

Scott scanned his surroundings with a critical eye. The bar was in poor condition, but not as bad as it would be if it dated from the 1800s. I was probably right about the defunct theme park. It wasn't made to last if it’s all set dressing. Nothing should be as solid as the real thing. I can use that. Plus it’s all falling down, so as a prison goes, it sucks. I’ve got to get out of here.

Scott tested his chair. It squeaked and gave a little under his weight. He looked around again, making sure no one was watching, and began to twist, rock, and hop the chair until the wood splintered.

Need to avoid getting a splinter in my ass. That would slow me down.

The old wood cracked and sent Scott tumbling onto the floor. He shifted to catch himself on his knees and shoulders. The broken chair loosened the ropes, and Scott wriggled free.

He looked around, hoping his struggle hadn’t made enough noise to attract attention. When no one appeared, Scott took stock.

Dead leaves, cobwebs, and trash littered the saloon. Dented beer cans in one corner suggested trespassers had found the spot for a long-ago party. The building smelled of mildew and disuse, but Scott could glimpse what it might have looked like in its heyday beneath the faded paint and cracked glass.

He stood and stretched, stiff from not moving for several hours. The headache and grogginess made him think his captors hadn’t been kidding about drugging him. He did a quick check and found his protective charms were gone.

Damn. I came looking for the coyotes moving the illegal supernatural drugs. Guess I found them.

Scott patted his pockets, unsurprised to find his wallet, phone, and taser also gone. They looked at my ID, that’s how they knew I’m a fed. At least they didn’t kill me right away. Maybe they’re waiting for orders? That might have saved my life, but someone will be back sooner or later.

Scott prowled the barroom, looking for weapons. His missing items were nowhere in sight. He settled for one of the chair legs. It probably wouldn’t survive more than one hit, but it was the closest thing at hand.

I wonder if the guys who grabbed me will think to turn off tracking. If not, SPAM might be able to find me—if they know to look. If Gage notices, the sheriff could probably request my location, but that won’t happen fast.

I’ve got to get myself out of here.

Scott picked up a couple of pieces of rope and wrapped them around his waist to keep them in case they came in handy later. At one of the tables, he found evidence that his captors had recently been drinking and smoking. A half-used matchbook and partial pack of cigarettes went in his pocket, along with a bottle opener.

He stuck an empty beer bottle in his pocket. Scott didn’t want to make noise by shattering the bottom to make a weapon. The mirror behind the bar had been smashed in one corner, and he added a shard of glass to his loot.

Anything can be a weapon. SPAM training hadn’t gone heavy on hand-to-hand combat. The people in charge relied heavily—too heavily—on their superpowers even though those abilities were, by definition, minor. Now, Scott wished he had paid more attention to tactics in high school wrestling instead of how the tight uniforms fit his teammates’ asses.

Wrestling didn’t teach me much about fighting, but it played a major role in my sexual awakening.

Scott searched his memories for anything useful he had learned from shows, comic books, or movies, since SPAM training had been big on enthusiasm and light on practical tips.

If the amusement park has been left to rot, it must not be close to town or the land would be too valuable. So once I find my way out, I’ll have a hike.

Unlike in more populated places, Scott couldn’t count on finding a gas station or restaurant every few miles. He could hitchhike, but that might lead to a whole different set of dangers.

His head hurt, making him wonder if he had a minor concussion. He had a fizzy lime aftertaste in his mouth, something he had learned to associate with magic. Could mean there’s a witch nearby, or that I got whammied when they knocked me out. Or both.

He still felt hungover, making him more certain he had been drugged.

They didn’t kill me outright. Why? They said I was bait. Maybe they have more confidence in the feds rescuing me than I do. That’s a good thing, but getting me out of the way would have been simpler for them. So what’s the advantage?

Did they know I was a SPAM agent before they kidnapped me, or did they think I was just regular DEA or law enforcement poking around?

Thanks to government turf wars, the creation of the DESA—S for supernatural—lagged behind other organizations like the FBSI. That contributed to the mess Scott had been sent to help clean up—unregulated prescription and recreational drugs sold through illegal channels.

While the bigwigs argued over whether a supernatural DEA would lead to exposure of the paranormal community and experimentation, opportunists took advantage of the gap between supply and demand. The need for drugs optimized for faster metabolisms was real and wasn’t going to go away. Dithering just fed the problem Scott had been brought in to fix.

I’m definitely going to have opinions about what to do differently if I ever get out of this. And if I can get Gage to forgive me, and he wants to take this thing between us further, I’m all for it. Life is too short to miss out on the good stuff . First, I have to survive.

Armed with his makeshift weapons, Scott ventured out the back door of the saloon. He could make out where paths and fences had once wound through the woods, although the paths were nearly lost to overgrowth, and the fences had rotted.

He figured he was on the back side of the attraction’s main street. From this angle, he could see the outline of the fancy signs that camouflaged mundane buildings to fit the theme.

Scott had a death grip on the chair leg as he slipped between the buildings to the front and got his first look at what remained of FrontierWorld.

A short length of asphalt ran between storefronts made to look like the Old West. Although the paint was peeling and faded, he could read the signs Mercantile, Chuck Wagon, and Arcade, giving him an idea of what the street must have looked like in its heyday.

Scott found a sign with a map and stopped to get his bearings. FrontierWorld’s downtown was his current location and led to the main gates. He had no idea how many coyotes were in the pack, or whether they had other places to be, but until they realized he had broken loose, he had a grace period to escape.

Fanning out around the shops were other areas—Haunted Mine, Country Fair, Sweetgrass Village, and Rodeo Farm. Scott figured they would have been fun back in the day, but now all he wanted was to escape and find his way back to Fox Hollow.

Scott made his way toward the main entrance, sticking close to the buildings. The attraction must have been well-built to have survived decades of decay and not have crumbled by now.

When the main entrance sign came into view, Scott’s heart sank. A chain link fence surrounded the defunct attraction, and two armed guards patrolled the gate.

Shit. Scott figured the park had to have a back way in for deliveries and employees. He backtracked, hoping to avoid notice.

The road took him to an area with large barns, overgrown pastures, broken wooden fences, and an arena with grandstands that were collapsing in on themselves. The faded signs promised cowboys with lassos, trick riding, and bull roping. Even in decay, Scott could almost hear the cheers of the spectators and wondered how many theme parks were haunted.

Probably more than I want to know.

A cluster of clapboard houses around a small park looked like an idyllic pioneer village. More signs announced shops for yarn, pottery, toys and fudge and a grandma’s kitchen snack bar. A gazebo in the park looked like the perfect spot for live music or craft demonstrations.

Back in its heyday, the fake small town had probably been charming. Now, the darkened windows and damaged roofs looked post-apocalyptic.

Scott didn’t know when he might run into a patrol or the coyotes might catch his scent. He hurried on, crossing under a red-white-and-blue sign proclaiming the next area to be the county fair.

Once upon a time, the fair probably held a dozen classic rides like a Ferris Wheel, Tilt-a-Whirl, and Scrambler. Only the concrete pads, faded signs, and the rides’ on and off ramps remained. It didn’t take much to imagine the nostalgic music or the smell of popcorn and hot dogs.

If I survive, it would be fun to go to a very not-haunted, not-abandoned theme park with Gage. I bet we’d have a good time.

Thinking of Gage made him sad but determined. They might not make a go of their budding relationship for all kinds of reasons, but Scott was determined to live long enough to give it his best effort.

Horse barns, a dirt race track, and a grandstand loomed ahead as Scott followed the road farther into the old park. He knew that maintenance sheds and gates had to be on the outskirts, out of sight of guests. Maybe the service entrance would also be under guard, but he had to check. If that failed, perhaps he could find a break in the fence.

It’s a big park, and I don’t think the coyote pack is very large. They can’t be everywhere, and I can move pretty fast.

Scott slipped past the rodeo area, still looking for an exit. He passed under an ornate iron archway that had large, gnarled trees on either side. Weathered Victorian-style houses with Mansard roofs and cupolas lined a stretch of road leading to a creepy mansion. He passed a fake cemetery with tombstones and mausoleums. The houses had signs that read Taxidermy, Potions and Poisons, Fortunes Told, and Macabre Merchandise.

A Haunted Mine sign pointed down a sloped road to the attraction. Beyond it, Scott glimpsed a service road and the tops of maintenance buildings, revealing the back exit.

He intended to go around the mine and head for the exit. Then he spotted three armed guards running toward him, pointing.

“Get him!” one of them shouted.

Scott glanced behind him and saw three more of the coyotes closing in. Desperate, he ran for the haunted mine attraction. Like everything else, it was fenced off, but the entrance to the ride itself was cracked and hung ajar.

With the coyotes closing from two directions, Scott knew he wouldn’t make it out of the park without getting caught. Desperate, he jumped at the chain link and flipped himself over like he hadn’t done since high school. He hit the ground running.

His head throbbed, and his vision blurred, but Scott kept going, afraid of what the coyotes would do if they caught him—either in their human or animal form. He broke down the door to the attraction and ventured into the dark interior.

The first room looked like the parlor of a Victorian mansion. Light filtered through the dirty, mullioned windows. Real dust lay thick on the high-backed couch that had been unstuffed where rats and squirrels had torn into it for bedding. Velvet curtains hung in shreds, and a water leak stained the patterned wallpaper.

Grimy candles still stood in an iron candelabra. Scott grabbed the base and ran, moving farther into the attraction. He heard the coyotes behind him and delved deeper.

He turned a corner, expecting to find more of the fake house’s interior, only to discover he was in the queue for the haunted mine ride.

Shit. Too late to turn around now.

Scott plucked the candles from the candelabra and shoved them in his pocket, hoping they would still light. He dropped the heavy candelabra into the water and watched it sink, preferring the lighter and more maneuverable chair leg as a weapon.

He eyed the ride launch area, a pier with a line of shallow boats. Scott figured the vessels were on a track and useless without power. He spotted a narrow service walkway that wound into the shadows next to the wall and ran for it, hoping to be out of sight before the coyotes followed him.

His mouth tasted like stale water. The boat ride’s lagoon was full and since it wasn’t green with algae, he guessed it must have a natural source because any pumps or filters would have been turned off long ago.

Footsteps echoed, closer now.

Desperate, Scott followed the narrow ledge. As soon as it rounded a bend, the light faded. He stuck to the wall, using his hands to guide him and hoped the walkway didn’t end abruptly or he would be swimming.

The deeper he went into the darkness, the more he smelled mold, mildew, and rats. Bad as it was, he hoped it masked his scent from his pursuers. The ledge would be difficult for them in their fur, and if they tried to chase him, they wouldn’t be able to move faster than a shuffle without landing in the water.

Scott ignored the smell and moved as silently as he could manage.

Around the next bend he saw shadowy figures and froze. After a moment, he realized that faint sunlight filtered through holes in the roof, revealing a tableau of mannequins seated around a large dinner table. He crept closer and saw that the scene depicted a horrific feast.

Even though time, temperature, and rodents had taken a toll on the next scene, Scott could make out the details. A group of miners toiled in a mine with pickaxes, but behind them lurked menacing ghosts poised to strike.

Under other circumstances, Scott would have appreciated the macabre ride. Now, he doubted he would ever enjoy a haunted house in quite the same way again.

He swore he heard voices and footsteps echoing behind him and headed deeper into the attraction. The next scene depicted werewolves threatening campers in the woods, and the following set of a haunted campground showed rows of tombstones against a night sky with gauze stretched over wire forms rising from the graves. Time and disuse yellowed their shrouds, but their menace remained clear.

Scott passed several more vignettes depicting miners and settlers meeting a bloody end at the hands of all sorts of paranormal creatures.

A sharp, chemical taste in his mouth alerted Scott that something was off.

He went around a bend and stopped cold. The scene might originally have been a mad scientist’s lab, but the props and set dressing had been removed, and he found himself staring at a real laboratory.

I’ve found where the coyotes are making at least some of their drugs. It’s crazy genius. No one comes here. The ride might still have functioning electricity with a generator and natural gas or they figured out how to make it work. There’s a water source close at hand. And they can use the boats to transport materials in and product out.

Shit. I might not live long enough to report them. I’ve got to do something myself.

Scott could hear his pursuers, and he didn’t want to let them catch up. Enough light entered from the damaged roof that he didn’t need to use a candle, which he hoped helped him hide in the gloomy interior. The ledge skirted the waterway where boats once carried passengers through the attraction.

Scott reached the next scene, a bonfire surrounded by dancing demons with four bound prisoners who were likely to become dinner or sacrifices. He spotted the control box that would allow natural gas to flow to the bonfire for realistic flames.

Footsteps closed in from the other direction now, and in a few minutes Scott would be trapped. He looked around wildly, hoping for inspiration. His hand closed on the pack of matches in his pocket as he considered the bonfire. It had been damaged, and some of the piping was exposed.

Scott jumped into the tableau, trying not to think too hard since his plan only looked good compared to the certainty of being caught. He unwound a length of rope from around his waist and set one end in place next to the burners and broken pipes of the fake bonfire, moved away, and lit the other end like a fuse.

Once he was certain the fire had taken on the rope, Scott found the control knob for the gas burners and opened it up. The smell of natural gas confirmed that the supply hadn’t been completely depleted.

Scott took two strides toward the canal and dove in. He held his breath and sank, plugging his ears with his fingers.

Seconds later, the bonfire scene exploded, and a fireball expanded over the whole area before bringing down the ceiling.

Lungs bursting, Scott saw dancing lights in front of his eyes as he put his arms over his head. He stayed on the bottom beneath the water and hoped he hadn’t colossally miscalculated.

Pieces of ceiling fell into the canal when the fireball cleared, and Scott sheltered next to one of the empty boats to dodge the debris that pelted down.

If I’m going to die, I’d rather die escaping. Those coyotes didn’t intend anything good. I was probably going to end up in a shallow grave out in the woods. I didn’t want it to end like this. I’m sorry that Gage and I didn’t get the time together we wanted, and I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. I think I love him, and I’m pretty sure he was falling for me. He deserved a happy ending. I hope he won’t forget me.

Self-preservation took over. As soon as the ceiling stopped falling, Scott stayed low in the water and used a combination of walking and swimming to navigate the shallow channel. He avoided the steaming chunks that floated on the surface and ignored the thought that nasty bacteria might have mutated in the water.

When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, Scott resurfaced. Smoke filled the tunnel, acrid with the smell of burning drugs and whatever the ride’s sets had been made out of. He coughed and wheezed, hoping he didn’t die from smoke inhalation or overdose on the drug fumes.

Still better than whatever the coyotes had planned for me. Not sure I’m going to make it out. I hope Gage can forgive me. My first—and probably last—case is likely to be a story they tell after I’m gone, at least as a cautionary tale. How many other agents blew up a mad scientist’s lair and a vampire dungeon to finish the job?

After the smoke cleared, Scott dared to take a look around. It appeared that the blast had brought down enough of the ceiling to block the path ahead, so he grimly began trekking back the way he came and hoped that the coyotes who had been chasing him had fled for their lives.

That must have been the case because he didn’t encounter any pursuers. He stopped to wring the water out of his sodden clothing and prayed that his shoes didn’t squelch loudly enough to give him away.

It would be nice if they all just ran away because of the explosion. But I never have that kind of luck.

Scott sidestepped sections of ceiling and chunks of plaster to make his way back to the haunted house entrance. The blast had knocked over furniture, cracked walls, and shattered windows. It smelled like smoke, so he figured the blast had caught something down below on fire. That meant it was a good time to leave and take his chances on the outside.

Still clutching the chair leg, Scott eased his way out of the attraction’s entrance, watching for threats. There was no sign of the smugglers who had pursued him, and he guessed they either fled or were trapped in the rubble.

I’m surprised I didn’t get buried alive. Of course, I’m still stuck in the middle of the forest with the smugglers who didn’t run away and miles from help with no phone. I’m definitely not out of the woods yet.

He shivered as the wind picked up, chilling him in his sodden clothing. If I can’t find shelter and dry clothes, hypothermia might finish what the smugglers started.

Scott dodged into the mercantile and found a rain jacket and waterproof pants on a shelf near the register, still sealed in dusty, yellowed plastic. He pulled them on over his shirt and pants, glad for something to help preserve body heat and deflect the wind, even if it didn’t rid him of his wet clothing.

Only then did he realize his hands shook, a combination of cold and a near-death experience. He took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself.

I’m not out yet, and there’s no telling how many smugglers are still in the park. Plus I’ve got to get from wherever-this-is back to Fox Hollow. And then I’ll apologize to Gage for not answering his texts. I’ve got a pretty good excuse.

Scott looked both ways before he ducked out of the shop and started to look for the perimeter fence. The main gate might be guarded, but he doubted the coyotes secured the fence around the whole area.

If the smugglers had moved into the old park, they hid their presence well. Maybe they just used it to make the drugs and warehouse them.

But that didn’t make sense. The location was too remote and would attract attention if locals spotted people coming and going. His second guess was that there was a building being used as a barracks, and a small group of the coyotes lived and worked at the lab.

If they stayed largely in their coyote form, they could hunt for food, and they wouldn’t need nearly as many supplies as humans.

The water in the boat ride had been fresh, so it had to have a nearby source. If a stream or river ran close to the park, the smugglers might be receiving shipments from Canada on the water and moving the product they produced by boat.

A remote area like this is hard for anyone to keep an eye on all the time. Too much land and not enough forest rangers.

The taste in his mouth shifted to stale cigarettes, a warning. They didn’t all run away or get blown up. I’ve got to get out of here before they catch me.

“Stop right there.” A man stepped out from the side of a building, pointing a rifle at Scott’s heart. “Who sent you?”

Scott figured he was likely to die, and he didn’t owe these creeps a straight answer. “Santa Claus. You’ve been very naughty.”

The man cocked the rifle. “Wrong answer. Try again.”

The sudden taste of chocolate and strawberries filled Scott’s mouth as a huge animal bounded from between the buildings and chomped down hard on the gunman’s wrist. Scott saw a large, solidly built black and brown dog pinning the gunman to the ground with a deep, vicious growl.

Scott dropped flat as the rifle fired a wild shot, and the man screamed in pain.

Gage. That’s got to be Gage. He’s fuckin’ gorgeous.

Wolves howled, a bear roared, and a fox screamed. Something huge bellowed loudly seconds before an angry bull moose burst into view.

It took a moment for Scott to realize that he wasn’t about to die.

This might be the strangest rescue in the world, but I think I might be okay after all.