The anti-Linda smiled brightly. “Gene, how about lunch?”
Twenty-three
Weirdworld
“There it is,” Dalton said, pointing ahead.
“That look like a teeing green to you? Nothing but gravel.”
“Well, there’s the hole, way out yonder.”
Thaxton shaded his eyes. “Where?”
“Out beyond that herd of animals.”
“You mean we have to play through a herd of bison?”
“I don’t think those are bison.”
“Yes, there is something strange about them.”
“They have six legs apiece.”
“Well,” Thaxton said, “they’re an improvement over gryphons and basilisks. Do I have the honor, or do you?”
“You.”
“Look at that bloody fairway. Full of rocks.”
“It’s a challenge.”
“Right you are.” Thaxton chose a driver and teed up.
They played the thirteenth. The herd moved off the fairway for the taller, more succulent grasses of the rough, and the men made their approach shots. They were on the green in three and two-putted for par.
“That was an easy hole,” Dalton said as they followed a path away from the green and up a little hill.
“Yes. I hope they’re not setting us up for something really dicey.”
“We’ve pulled through so far.”
“So far, so good, the man said as he fell thirty-nine of forty stories.”
“I wonder who designed this course,” Dalton mused.
“You think someone actually sat down and thought out this madness?”
“It has its inspirations, and there’s a method to it all, however bizarre. Recurring themes, too.”
“Oh, yes, and I’m just about fed up with the strange beastie motif.”
They had come to the top of the hill. Below lay a shallow valley shrouded in impenetrable fog.
“Well, we’re not going to be playing through that.”
“Looks like there’s no getting around it,” Dalton said. “Next tee’s bound to be somewhere in there.”
“I’m worried about what else may be in there.”
“What’s a little fog to two seasoned hell-golfers?”
Thaxton hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “Right, what could be worse than … I won’t say it. No telling what could be worse.”
They descended into the mist. A blanket of whiteness enveloped them, bringing a moist, muffled silence. They walked down a gentle grade for a good stretch. When the ground leveled off they stopped.
“See anything?” Dalton said.
“Not a bloody thing. Are we still on the course?”
“I think we missed the tee.”
“Then this must be the fairway. Let’s retrace our steps.”
“Wait a minute,” Dalton said. “I’ve lost my bearings. Is that the way we came?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. We’ll have to wait for the fog to lift.”
Thaxton eased down and arranged himself so that he was half reclining, elbows resting on his golf bag.
Dalton squatted on his. “How’s the leg?”
“Coming along. I’m a fast healer.”
A sound like the moan of a dying man came out of the mist.
“Good God, what was that?”
“He must have a bad lie.”
Shrieks like the tortured screams of the damned. Then the flapping of great wings.
“That bloody roc again,” Thaxton said.
“Or something else.”
“Maybe a harpy. Actually I wouldn’t mind. That barbecued harpy doesn’t sound so bad now. I’m feeling a bit peckish.”
“That salamanderburger didn’t fill you up?”
“Like Chinese food,” Thaxton said. “You know, an hour later …”
“I’m rather fond of Chinese. Moo shoo with plum sauce.”
“Not my cup of tea, to coin a phrase.”
“Of course, nothing can beat French cuisine.”
“As a general rule I don’t fancy wog food.”
Dalton looked at him. “Wog?”
“Well, you know, the wogs begin at Calais.”
Dalton glanced around. “Fog’s lifting.”
The mists took a few minutes to clear. Shapes in the distance came into view, craggy peaks against a black sky. Something was howling in the rocks to the right of the fairway where remnants of fog curled. To the left, a bloated yellow moon was rising, casting eerie light and purple shadows. In the sky were faint stars and glowing spectral clouds.
They had been sitting, as it turned out, right in front of the tee. The grass both on the tee and in the fairway looked like green crepe paper.
“Strange,” Thaxton said.
“Yup. That moon’s throwing enough light to play by, though. So …”
Dalton drove deep and straight. Thaxton teed up, swung, and sliced, sending the ball into the rocks. He cursed skillfully and at some length.
They hiked out onto the narrow fairway, Thaxton detouring toward the stony “rough.”
“Take the stroke,” Dalton called. “You’ll never get it out of those boulders.”
“I can try.”
It was dark among the rocks, the weird moon throwing weirder shadows. Thaxton searched and searched, and was about to give the ball up for lost when he heard a bone-chilling howl, very close.
“Good God.”
Suddenly feeling very alone, Thaxton threaded back through the passage between the boulders, retracing his steps, whistling tunelessly.
He rounded a bend and stopped dead. A pair of eyes regarded him from the shadows ahead.
“I know where your ball is,” a soft, epicene voice said.
Thaxton swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “See here. What do you mean by accosting people in dark places?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” A figure detached itself from the shadows. It was a hairy, generally man-shaped thing with yellow eyes, pointed ears, a snout, and canine fangs. Long claws tipped its pawlike fingers. “Thought you might want to know where your ball is.”
“Well … actually, yes, I would like to know. If you don’t mind awfully much telling me.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” the creature purred. “You might be able to do me a favor.”
“Oh? What would that be?”
“Have any blood to spare? I won’t take much, just enough to tide me over.”
Thaxton said, “I beg your pardon?”
“I never get enough. Not many golfers get this far. You won’t even feel it, just the tiniest pinprick on your skin. I wouldn’t go for the neck. No, not that. Your wrist would be fine, just so I can get at a good artery.”
Thaxton looked down his nose. “See here. Are you actually suggesting that I let you drink my blood?”
“As I said, I won’t be greedy. You’ll never miss it. Most folks go around with more than they need, and your body will replenish your supply in no time. So, you see, you’ll be gaining a stroke and not losing very much at all.”
“Good God, man … or whatever you are. Do you actually think I’d do such a disgusting, degenerate thing?”
“It takes all kinds, friend. Who are you to criticize people? We’re born the way we are, and we have to do what we have to do. It’s that simple. You shouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“On the contrary,” Thaxton said indignantly. “I bloody well should be. Somebody’s got to stand up for decent standards of behavior. Why, it’s getting to the point where nothing’s taboo anymore.”
“You have to keep an open mind about these things, friend.”
Thaxton harrumphed. “Bugger an open mind.”
“Whatever makes your day.”
“Well, my day’s been sheerest hell, and it would please me greatly if you’d bloody well get out of my way.If you don’t mind.”
The creature bowed mockingly and stepped aside.
Thaxton strode past, then stopped. He turned and said, “Wait just a moment. You’re a werewolf, aren’t you? Werewolves don’t go around drinking people’s blood.”