Lycan

by John O'Brien

  “Like already mentioned, we could shoot trackers into them like we did with the vampires,” Denton suggests. “That way, if they get away, we’ll be able to hunt them down. Providing they run in a pack, it’s conceivable that we may only need to nail one of them.”

  “That means we’ll have to be close, and I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Gonzalez replies.

  “I agree, but let’s bring a setup in any case,” I say.

  As the night draws into the wee hours, with bleary eyes and tired minds, we decide to call it. Tomorrow, we’ll fine-tune plans and Lynn will begin to make the necessary arrangements. Handing Lynn a list of our needs, we turn in.

  Chapter Seven

  We drop through several layers of clouds, finally breaking out of the bottom on a long final for the regional airport at Lewiston, Idaho. Leaden clouds, thick with moisture, hover over the surrounding brown terrain, some with dense curtains of gray streaking down from the bottoms. Beams of sunshine pour through breaks in the clouds, slanting to highlight recently drenched ground. Somehow, it seems a fitting scene for what we’re heading into.

  The 130 jostles to the quick screech of rubber as the wheels come into contact with the runway. The nose tilts downward and the reverser props are engaged. We exit and taxi to the fixed-base operation. The rear ramp lowers as the large props spin down. Several of the aircrew depart and return with three four-door Jeeps, parking them near the lowered ramp. Gusty winds whip our clothing as we toss our bags into the back of the vehicles, the remaining gear to be delivered when it’s ready.

  I know we’ll be the center of speculation for a day or so around the airport—doesn’t seem like much happens here. It certainly isn’t every day that a gunship comes calling. The speculation would probably go on longer if Lynn and the Spooky remained, but they and the Blackhawk will operate out of the National Guard base co-located with the Boise airport.

  With our gear stowed, we drive out of the airport and head north, crossing over the bridge spanning the Clearwater River just short of where it connects with the Snake River. Rain showers are spread across the brown hills to the north of the town, their wrinkled slopes devoid of any greenery.

  Turning east, it isn’t long before we’re enveloped between steeply rising, barren hills. The crystal clear waters of the river run alongside the road, long stretches of deep, calm blue alternating with a series of rapids, racing shallows and submerged rocks. Green bushes and trees line the banks, hiding the river at times, the only splash of color across the landscape. We settle in for the fifty-mile drive to Orofino.

  Winding through the gorge, the land slowly climbs as we approach the foothills of the mountain range. Trees begin to appear on the southern slopes in direct contrast with the barren hills to the north. The region we’re heading into is a mix of abutting national forests, each having its own district. The one holding the latest killings is located in Orofino, where the special agent investigating them has agreed to meet us at the ranger station. It’s there that the evidence is contained, and we’re an FBI unit that wants to examine it as part of another ongoing investigation.

  An hour later, we pull into the ranger station.

  “Bill Waters,” the agent says upon meeting.

  We introduce ourselves and present our IDs.

  “Well, you’re welcome to look over what we have, but I tell you, it’s not much. There just wasn’t much left of those boys,” Bill says.

  Bill is right. There are only a few sealed bags that contain shreds of blood-stained clothing, shell casings—.300 magnum, .45mm, 9mm, and 30.06—and the torn remains of their backpacks. Inside a manila envelope is a stack of pictures taken at the scene.

  “The recovered weapons were returned to the families some time ago, along with other personal effects,” Bill states as we go over the meager evidence.

  “That’s fine,” I state. “You say these two were out hunting?”

  “Yeah. They were a couple of brothers. One of the wives called in a missing person report a day after they were supposed to return. We found the remains of one on a logging road and the other down by their camper about a mile away. From the looks of it, the poor sap almost made it. Near as I could tell, he was killed at the very door,” Bill replies.

  “Any idea who or what killed them?”

  “Wolves, at least as best as we can figure. There were plenty of tracks in the area, both at the road and around the camper. A big pack, judging by the number of them.”

  “Do wolves generally attack hunters in that area?”

  Bill pauses, and then looks at me. “That’s a strange area…all of the way over to the Lolo. People go missing in those parts all of the time. Whether they get lost, go over a ledge into a ravine, or injure themselves to such an extent that they’re unable to return, it’s hard to tell. People don’t really understand just how rugged it is out there. But wolf attacks are rare unless the game has been driven away for some reason or another. Now, I can’t attest to everyone whose gone missing being due to wolf attacks, or really anything else for that matter, because the bodies are seldom recovered.”

  I look at the bags of bloodied rags. “Honestly, this looks more like the work of a bear or cougar.”

  “I kind of had the same thought, but those weren’t bear or cougar tracks,” Bill responds. “You’ll see when we get there.”

  * * * * * *

  It’s a long drive into the mountains as we follow Bill’s pickup, each turnoff leading to a narrower road. We take several logging roads, the hard-packed dirt roads with embedded stones rolling underneath our tires making for a rough ride. We have opted for two Jeeps laden with some of our equipment. Bill seemed puzzled as to why we were loading up, probably wondering why there were six FBI agents involved. An investigation should only have one or two, but he hasn’t mentioned anything.

  Deep within the forest, Bill’s brake lights flash as he comes to a stop at a fork in the road. One leads up the side of a hill while the other continues mostly level ahead. His door opens and he hops out.

  I guess this is our stop.

  We exit as well. The tops of the firs crowding the logging roads sway back and forth in the blustery winds, the whooshes rising and falling as each gust powers through. Thick gray clouds scud overhead as if trying to race through the area before being noticed. Our jackets and pant legs flutter as the breezes swirl down to our level. Bill extracts a hunting rifle from within his pickup and makes his way back to us.

  “Now, that road to the left is where we found the first scene. Straight ahead is where they parked their camper on the side of the road and where we found the second one. Near as we could figure out, they were returning from hunting down the upper road…at least that’s what their tracks indicate. They then ran into the pack of wolves, which had apparently followed them. The first one died on the road while the second one ran through the woods straight for the camper, where he was taken down. Must have been scary as hell,” Bill says.

  “Are the bodies still in the morgue?” I ask.

  “Bodies? Whatever report you read must have been mistaken. We didn’t recover any bodies per se. Just scraps of bone, clothing, and the bullet casings you saw,” Bill responds.

  “I see. I guess I missed that. Were any of the wolves’ carcasses recovered?”

  “There wasn’t a one that we found. No blood trails leading away, either.”

  “There were a number of shell casings. Are you saying they missed every shot?” I inquire.

  “It would seem so. My guess is they panicked and fired wildly,” Bill answers.

  For me, that’s just further evidence that we’re not dealing with mere wolves. There were quite a few handgun shell casings recovered. Panicked or not, I don’t see how every single one of them could have missed their intended target.

  “I take it that the bones you found were returned to the families?”

  “They were. Unfortunate wolf attack while hunting and case closed. There was no reason to hold onto them any long
er,” Bill says.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Why are you boys and gals out here for something like this anyway?”

  “To be honest, I wish we weren’t. It’s a goose chase and long story, but the short of it is that one of the assistant director’s sister’s husbands was killed in a similar manner further north a while ago. When she heard of this story, well, she put on a tinfoil hat and here we are. I don’t question orders, I just cash the paychecks,” I reply. “But, if we don’t present something indicating we covered it thoroughly, then those continued paychecks get put at risk.”

  Bill looks at us and starts laughing.

  “That makes sense. I’ve been in too many of those situations. Six of you, though?” Bill says when his laugh powers down into chuckles.

  “What can I say?” I shrug. “It was a pretty big tinfoil hat.”

  “Okay, well you do what you need to do here, then. The teams that were here covered it pretty extensively so there’s probably not much to find,” Bill states. “You may find some remnants of the wolf tracks just inside of the woods on either side of the road.”

  “Well,” I say, turning to the others, “shall we get to it before it starts to rain, adding to our misery?”

  Weapons are pulled from the backs of the Jeeps and slung over our shoulders. Bill looks askance at our M-4s.

  “They’re not as nice as yours, but it’s what they issued us. Apparently, those that be equate the wilderness to a battle zone,” I say.

  “Well, someone may have the right idea. It’s beautiful up here, but a lot of folks take the dangers for granted. I never travel up here without this,” Bill says, nodding toward his rifle.

  I don’t really care what Bill may or may not think. We’re heading on the backside of the full moon cycle and a few days away from the new moon. Somewhere out in the dense woods, Lycans may be prowling, and I’m not about to go among them with just my handgun. Although the carbines we’re carrying won’t do much good either, what with the silver-plated bullets still on order.

  Bill stations himself near his truck, leaning back against the hood, as we walk up the dirt road to higher elevations, pausing short of where the first action took place. The ground underneath the overhanging boughs is a mess of churned up soil that stretches far into the gloomy shadows. Bill was right. The investigators were thorough, and their tracks destroyed any evidence that may have remained.

  “All right, spread out. Let’s see if we can find anything useful here,” I say.

  While the others pretend to be looking for clues, only McCafferty and I are actually searching. The others are setting a loose perimeter to watch and listen for anything approaching.

  We immediately find the partial wolf tracks mentioned and expand the search beyond where the previous investigators and search teams trampled the ground, where McCafferty finally finds tracks that haven’t been annihilated. They’re numerous and large. I have a full-grown, 150-pound Rottie and the tracks are kind of comparable, even though wolf toes tend to splay out more. I know the average male wolf is around 125 pounds with a very few rare ones found to weigh over 140 pounds. But the tracks I’m seeing make rare seem average.

  From the age of the tracks, it seems they were through here at about the same time as the men were reported missing. According to the weather service, this area hasn’t seen rain for a while, although the thick gray clouds overhead say that could change at any time. Now, I’ve tracked some in my life, but the tracks here seem a little odd.

  “Those aren’t wolf tracks,” McCafferty declares.

  “What do you mean?” Gonzalez inquires.

  “Well, it’s not that I’ve tracked a lot of wolves before—none, really. But I’ve tracked many a coyote, and these tracks, while similar, aren’t the same. Look here,” McCafferty says, pointing to one clear print. “This one is the rear paw. See how the pads are more elongated. The front seems normal enough, although not as pinched as a coyote, but these hind ones. Yeah, the main pad is too long, kind of like a hybrid wolf-bear track.”

  “Get a cast of them,” I reply.

  “That’s not all, sir. Now, a bear ambles, and these lay out like wolves. See how the front and rear tracks follow one another? So, we have a bear-like rear pad that moves in a straight line like a wolf. I’d definitely say this is a pack of wolves, but the rear pads say differently. I’d say that they didn’t have any experts in the investigation or they would have noticed. But what I really want to show you is this.”

  McCafferty rises from her squatting position and moves through the trees, climbing higher into the hills. Knowing that we’re probably dealing with something far more dangerous than wolves has me on edge as we walk further into the woods. Shadows move, and each creak of limbs rubbing together in the blustery wind sends my heart racing, especially knowing that the pack was in the area not all that long ago.

  “How far are we going?” I ask.

  “Here,” she says, pointing to the ground.

  Under her pointing finger is a track, I think. It’s fucking huge, but looks very much like those we found closer to the logging road. I place my boot next to it and find it nearly the same size. In my experience, tracks denote mass. Looking down at the monstrous print, I think about something that large on four legs, conjuring up an image of the size necessary to leave such a thing. I look to the left and right, searching for the trail of others and seeing none.

  “Where are the other prints? The trail?”

  “Yeah, size of track, size of loping trail. The next one is ten yards or so further into the trees, give or take,” McCafferty says.

  “Ten fucking yards between strides?! You have to be kidding me,” I say, searching among the surrounding trees in earnest.

  “Well, it was running, so that’s going to add a bit,” McCafferty replies.

  I look at this diminutive woman who looks like she could break in a strong wind. There’s not a hint of fear in her eyes, although I do note that she’s also keeping an eye on the surrounding terrain.

  “You aren’t afraid of anything, are you?” I ask.

  “What a silly thing to ask. Of course I am. I don’t want to meet up with whatever left this thing, that would be fucked up…sir. And I’d rather not feed the nightmares that still come at times.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you just never seem scared. Things that terrify me just seem to slide off of you.”

  “Ah, come on, sir. You have to be kidding me. And here I had been thinking the same thing about you. You’re standing in the same woods I am with the same information and you don’t seem afraid. You know as well as I do that allowing fear to surface inhibits the ability to think and react,” McCafferty says.

  “Fair enough. Fear isn’t something you can meet half way. You either conquer it or succumb.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better, sir. But, you know what really scares me…relationships. Yeah, I’d rather take on ten of whatever this thing is.”

  I chuckle. “You have that right. Relationships are probably the most terrifying thing out there.”

  “Jack, you do know that I’m airborne and can hear you, right?!” Lynn’s voice comes over the radio.

  Unlike the rest of the team, I had apparently forgotten to turn my VOX off. McCafferty snickers, holding back a laugh so hard that I think she might actually explode.

  “I was just, uh, seeing if you were listening. Jack out,” I radio, fingering the implant to PTT.

  “Mmhmm, sure.”

  “Just let it out before you burst a seam,” I tell McCafferty.

  She wipes away a tear. “No, I think I’m good now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  McCafferty nods, clears her throat, smiles, and nods again. “So, sir, I don’t see any boot tracks around here. How could anyone have missed this?”

  “They probably found the bloodied clothes, shell casings, bones, and those tracks, and called it good. Once they came to a conclusion, there wasn’t much else to search for,” I answer.
/>
  “I can see that happening.”

  “Let’s get those casts done, especially this one. And get some pictures of it too. We still have to check out the camper and I want to be out of here before the sun sets. And by that, I mean far away.”

  While the casts are being made and pictures taken, I move up the road to a clearing that opens up a short distance away. Stopping in the middle of it, I gaze at the surrounding woods, attempting to gather an idea of what the two brothers saw and felt. The blustery skies sweep overhead, the trees bending in the wind. Gusts bring the smell of fir, my clothing rustling with the sharp blasts of air. I visualize them heading home from a long day hunting, tired and maybe joking with each other. Did they notice something? If so, what was it?

  Turning back toward the scene, I note how the trees form alongside the road, creating a tunnel of sorts. One moment they were walking peacefully and the next embraced by overwhelming fear. I can imagine just how surreal and horrifying it must have been to face a wolf-like creature that stood shoulder to shoulder with them and outweighed them by four times. The panicked shots as they were surrounded by a large pack while that thing made itself known.

  Looking downhill, I visualize the path the second brother took when he fled headlong toward the camper. Fear takes hold, the kind of fear that makes you take off running. Once you set your feet in motion, there’s no coming back from that. It only gets amplified with each footfall; electrical charges race through the body and panic holds the mind in its grip. Reasoning flees, replaced by deeper knowledge that you’re running on borrowed time—that the end is inevitable.

  The man had been so close to his camper. Had he felt a sudden surge of hope or had the terror taken over his mind? Hope can so often be the seed of disappointment. That sounds morbid in my own head, but it’s also true. And because of that lift, the fall becomes farther and the landing harder. Some forms of hope come from situations where you know deep down that the odds are against you but you cling to that small chance of a positive outcome.