by Mark Tufo
CHAPTER 19 - Mike Journal Entry Thirteen
Ten men and women of Talboton marched out to Denarth. I made sure I was not among them. The last thing I wanted was Lana hanging from my arm. I was to find out that the council had initially refused the ‘assistance’ but yielded after Lana wore her father down. I’d known that feeling once. Daughters could be relentless; Nicole, on more than one occasion, had worn me down to a nub to get whatever she had wanted. Then I’d always had the pleasure of dealing with my wife after she’d found out that I had once again caved to the wishes of my diminutive daughter.
The only time I’d ever held firm was when she’d wanted a mixed-sex sleepover for her seventeenth birthday. I’d let her have it now if I could only hold her in my arms for just a moment. I stopped what I was doing. Nope…that was a lie, I still wouldn’t do it.
Wheatonville had been more responsive to the offer of aid. They had firsthand accounts of the slaughtering going on around them being as they were the closest community to the now destroyed and defunct Harbor’s Town, a place in which they had done a fair amount of trading over the years.
Ft. Lufkin, which was really nothing more than some rolling hills and a small barricade, flat out refused any help and became hostile, which worked in our favor as the refused gunmen came to Harbor’s Town and bolstered our beleaguered defenses. Azile had decided this was where we would set up shop. The farthest settlement to the south that anyone knew about, New Georgia also turned down the help, those soldiers unfortunately returned to Talboton.
I watched the moon every night with apprehension; we were in a state of war, and how strange it was to realize we were tied to a schedule. I’ve been in hostile situations and truly never knew when the next bullet, bomb, missile, or diseased mouth was going to strike. I don’t know if this was worse or better. Sure, there were the pros of being able to prepare; but, man, the apprehension…that’s the shit that wears you down. Every time you think of the upcoming fight, a heavy squirt of adrenaline cascades through your body, everything in its wake starts tingling, and then when your body catches up and realizes nothing is happening. You suffer a serious crash. This was the cycle, and I could see it taking its toll on these people who were essentially farmers and merchants. They had yet to fight for what they loved.
That’s not entirely true, fighting for one’s existence is a challenging job. Battling the elements, bugs attacking crops, the hunt for game, these are human endeavors to survive. But they had not yet had to fight a savage enemy that wanted only one thing: the destruction of their foe.
I’d seen battle-hardened Marines break on occasion, and besides me, those were on short supply. War sucks. There’s no glory in having your innards spill onto the ground, no dignity in having your head caved in. No songs of triumph as you’re hewn in half. The residents of Wheatonville would fight because they had to. What was the alternative? I just wish we had a little more than rakes, shovels, sharp pointy sticks, and small hammers. The werewolves were stupid, they only knew one direction, and possessed zero tactical sense, but they were merciless and strong. We’d inflict damage. I, however, had my doubts that Wheatonville would survive the coming onslaught. Tommy and Bailey were in charge of teaching the people some rudimentary fighting skills. Azile had locked herself away doing lord knows what, and me? Well, I was busy fretting heavily.
I repeatedly walked around the small city, looking at the myriad of weak spots and possible points of attack. Without a twenty-foot high stone or steel wall, there was just not going to be any way to stop the invaders. A moat filled with alligators would be welcome. We had mid-sized logs we had chopped down, and sharpened the ends, stuck in the ground at a forty-five degree angle, and then propped up with a stout brace. So now as long as the werewolves ran into them we’d be all set. The best we could hope for was to create a couple of easy access points, ways in which to direct the flow of traffic, so to speak. I don’t know if werewolves adhere to the ways of water, flowing in the easiest route, but we could try.
I had a feeling that they weren’t going to line up all nice and pretty and wait patiently to get inside. The seven-foot high stonewall which seemed fairly daunting to me was most likely nothing more than a speed bump to a loping werewolf.
“What is your concern?” Bailey asked as she came up beside me. I was underneath one of the logs looking up.
“Not sure if these are going to do a damn thing,” I told her.
“These are formidable defenses.” She slapped the side of the tree.
“Yeah, we’ll probably cause a few stubbed toes for sure,” I told her. “Maybe rip off a claw or two…but they’ll hurdle these easy enough.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We let them.”
She looked at me questioningly.
“They have to land somewhere,” I told her. She looked at me a moment longer. The dawn of recognition lit up in her eyes.
“I’ll get a crew on it now,” she replied.
I walked away. I had yet to walk around enough times to create a groove. It was, however, only a matter of time.
It was three days before the full moon when we received word from the Landians. A large contingent of humans had been spotted on the farthest western point of the lands they roamed. The Lycan party would never have been spotted if the three Landian men hadn’t been out on a hunting party. The large mountain lion they had been tracking had been responsible for the loss of seven of their goats, and they had been single-mindedly determined to keep that number at the max. That was, of course, until the chained line of humans began to make their way past. The men, a father and his two sons, had hid behind a grove of trees as the column passed.
