by John O'Brien
Standing in the middle of the clearing, I come to the conclusion that the Lycans must have only shown themselves at the last moment. If there were signs of trouble beforehand, the brothers would have cut downhill to their camper sooner. The reports indicated they had frequented the area, something of a yearly ritual, so they would know where it was in relation to their position. And yes, the report in hand was detailed. I had asked those questions of Bill in the hopes of gleaning a little more information than had been included.
I was hoping to perhaps learn a little something more so we didn’t walk into the same kind of situation, to see if there was something that might have given the Lycans away. It’s pretty obvious that the Lycans had set a trap for the two hunters instead of it being a chase. I stare upward, the woods beyond the tree line dark, wondering if they are even now looking down on me. It’s daylight, but that doesn’t preclude them from moving about. A shiver runs up my spine. It’s time to move on to the camper and get the fuck out of here.
Finished with the upper road and back at the vehicles, we place the casts the rear.
“You say the camper is just up the right fork,” I address Bill.
“Yep. You can’t miss it. It’s still there as no one has come down to haul it off. We’ll give them another week and then move it out of here ourselves,” Bill replies.
“Well, we’re going up to give it a quick glance, and really appreciate your help. I don’t see that you have to stay for that.”
“Are you sure you folks can find your way out?”
“I think we’ll manage.”
“Alrighty, then. I guess I’ll be heading home. If there’s anything else you need, you know where to find me.”
“We could use copies of those pictures taken of the scene when you first arrived,” I say. “I’ll pick them up in the morning.”
“They’ll be waiting for ya. Good luck with the goose chase,” Bill says, extending his hand. “I hope y’all are done with it soon.”
“You and me both,” I say, shaking his hand. “Thanks again.”
Bill strides back to his pickup and tosses his rifle inside. We board and edge around his truck, taking a right at the fork. It isn’t long before I see a flash of white in the bushes ahead. We park short of the place, exiting to the sound of the wind roaring through the trees and the rush of a nearby river. Here, the road cuts into the hillside with a long embankment of sheer gray stone. It isn’t high, but you’d definitely feel it if you had to jump off. As we’re almost directly below the first incident, I wonder if the second brother went tumbling over the ledge during his flight.
The camper rests on blocks of wood. It isn’t grand but is in good shape. A set of wooden steps lies overturned near the closed door. With a quick glance around the campsite, I return to the road to help keep watch, leaving McCafferty and Gonzalez to search the area and take pictures. Again, the site around the camper has been trodden by many boots, leaving little remaining in the way of tracks.
The day is beginning to take on the deeper tone of evening. Visiting the scenes of the tragedy, seeing those giant tracks, and knowing that the new moon hasn’t yet arrived, coupled with the onset of nightfall, make me anxious to be out of here. Coming from the ledge above the road, a flash of movement catches my eye.
My carbine quickly makes its way to my shoulder. Flicking the scope to its 4× setting, I focus on the area where I saw the movement, panning back and forth. I don’t see any heat signature emanating from the ledge. Perhaps it was a bird flitting from branch to branch, moving to the river to pick up a snack of insects before night falls, but my heart thuds from the sudden rush of adrenaline nonetheless.
Letting my carbine slide from my shoulder, I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief when two wolves suddenly materialize atop the ledge. The two are as big as my full-grown male Rottie, taller and more slender chested, but easily weighing as much. My breath catches at the sight, the two wolves poised above the rocky ledge and staring in our direction.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we have company on the bluff overlooking the road. It’s time to wrap things up and move out of here,” I radio. “Lynn, are you in the area?”
“Copy that…five minutes out,” she replies.
“If you wouldn’t terribly mind covering us on our way out, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Will do…be there shortly.”
“They’re 315 degrees from our position, forty yards.”
It feels kind of silly radioing coordinates for a couple of wolves, but who knows what else is lurking in the area. The surrounding trees and bushes suddenly take on a more sinister feel, hiding more than we can see. The others join me on the road, barrels aimed in all directions. With a last staring gaze, the two wolves abruptly turn and vanish from sight.
“Single file, normal positions back to the Jeeps. Watch your intervals.”
Though just up the road, the parked Jeeps have never seemed so far away. We’re not geared for an engagement with Lycans, but we needed to see the site before any evidence was washed away. As if waiting for our departure, the first raindrops begin to fall. At first it’s just a few, but that quickly changes into larger drops that splatter on the hard surface of the logging road. Gusty winds whip the water into our faces and pull at our clothing, the rain quickly turning into a deluge.
With McCafferty leading, we move down the road, the downpour hampering visibility. Water streams down the rock face, the rush of the nearby river adding to the roar. We step quickly, the barrels of our M-4s searching, each team member focusing on their quadrant. Water slogs off our jackets and down our faces, but our attention doesn’t waver. From our position, hugging the edge of the road away from the rock wall, the top where the wolves had stood is slightly blurred by the rain.
“Unidentified movement ahead, thermal signatures past the rock wall in the trees left and right,” McCafferty calls. “Between us and the vehicles.”
Of course.
“How far out, Lynn?”
“Three minutes.”
“That might as well be a year,” I mumble.
“Go VOX. Rear move up on the right, two columns moving forward. Focus on your side. Left side gets the rear car, right side the front, Greg and I driving.”
Two wolves appear on the ledge above me, blurred ever so slightly. They’re both hunched down at the shoulders, and even through the driving rain, I hear their deep growls. Footsteps pound on the hard surface as Greg, Henderson, and Denton move up. I fire at the nearest of the two wolves, hearing a yip of pain as the two turn and vanish.
“They’re behind us as well, leaping off the ledge,” Henderson calls.
Glancing behind, in the midst of the gray downpour, darker gray shapes are vaulting over the rocky ledge.
“Party time is over. Let’s move,” I order. “Keep a path clear to the vehicles.”
Jogging forward, I wish we had grenades on us to create a lane of shrapnel, but that would have looked quite ridiculous for FBI agents to be carrying. However, I’m now struck by the ridiculous nature of appearances versus dying. Stupid. As. Shit.
McCafferty moves to the middle of the road, shoulder to shoulder with Denton. The rest of us take up staggered positions across it to keep clear lanes of fire. Several wolves rush out from the trees on one side. Gunfire is added to the roar of wind, rain, and the river. Wolves yip and scamper from hits, but then stop and return to their crouched growling, holding their ground. The Jeeps parked beyond are near, but seem impossibly far.
“Focus fire on the ones in front, watch the Jeeps,” I radio. “Carve a path and keep moving forward.”
Six carbines open on full auto, rounds striking the wolves with meaty thuds. “Reloading” calls are shouted, the injured wolves being inundated by round after round. Two roll on the ground, driven down by the hail of bullets.
As we move forward, the ledge is replaced by trees. Empty mags hit the ground and ring when they hit stone. Empty casings fly from ejection ports, the clicking of m
ags being slammed and releases sending the bolts home echoes in the air. The smell of gunfire replaces the scent of the woods, the sharp staccato sounds rising above the roar. Our suppressors were removed, again for the sake of appearances, but quiet takedowns were never the nature of this game anyway.
Wolves rise from their injuries and dart into the woods, replaced by others. These are quickly met by the carefully aimed onslaught of rounds.
“Keep them to the sides,” I shout.
“Running out of ammo,” McCafferty calls on the radio.
“Last mag,” Denton states.
An opening has been made, but there are still many wolves crouched in the nearby trees.
“Use it to get to the vehicles. Keep those to the side in place,” I say.
We dash through. In the back of my mind I notice that not a single wolf body is lying on the road. Some are limping or crawling in the gloomy darkness amid the tall trunks, but none have succumbed to our gunfire. I aim toward those in the trees, sending bursts into their midst. Racing around the hood of the second Jeep, I swing open the door and jump inside, slamming the door closed. McCafferty swings into the passenger seat and slams her door to the sound of Gonzalez jumping inside and doing the same.
I fumble with the keys, jamming them into the ignition as a wolf slams into the side of my door. Its giant face is at the glass, snarling, the long white teeth gnashing against the window, sending trails of saliva to drip down the glass.
The engine comes to life as another wolf lands on the hood, the monstrous body leaning low and attempting to get through the windshield, the growling overriding the radio that came to life and is playing. I can’t see anything beyond its great size.
“Everyone in?” I radio, followed by five affirmatives.
Jamming the Jeep into reverse, I step on the accelerator and we rocket to the rear, the wolf slipping down the hood. Looking backward, I navigate the logging road, the rear wiper doing its best to keep the window clear. More wolves slam into the side, threatening each time to send us into the ditches. Each thump sends my heart racing and the wheels sliding on the wet surface, but then grabbing again as I race backwards.
At the fork, I turn the wheel and hit the brakes, skidding backward with the nose coming around. Aligned with the upper road, I again hit the accelerator, still reversing with the Jeep fishtailing up the road. Greg does the same with the other Jeep, fitting neatly in the room I gave him.
“On station,” Lynn calls.
“Do you have a visual?”
“Partial,” she replies.
“I think we’re about through this. Watch our sides and keep the rear clear.”
Greg launches forward, heading up the road. Putting the Jeep in drive, I follow, fully expecting to see a larger than life werewolf land square on the hood. The slams against the side of the vehicle have stopped. In my rearview, the scene behind is partially hidden by the downpour and the gloom brought on by the closing of the day. A large dark shape suddenly appears behind us from out of the woods, landing on the road. I see it for a brief second before losing sight behind a curtain of rain.
“Well, that’ll get your blood pumping,” Gonzalez says.
“I’ll admit, that got a little sporty,” I comment.
“I’m pretty sure I’m about fifteen pounds lighter,” Denton calls from the lead vehicle.
“Yeah, I’m glad I brought a change of clothes,” McCafferty states. “Plus, I could really use a beer right now.”
“I think we can arrange for both when we return. However, we’re not out of this yet, so let’s keep our focus,” I respond.
Large raindrops splatter on the windshield, the wipers swinging back and forth, clearing the vision ahead for brief moments at a time. The Jeep bucks and jostles as we hit potholes, water spraying outward from the deepening puddles.
“I think we may have a problem,” Gonzalez states from the back seat. “Check six.”
Glancing in the rearview, I see there’s a dark shape lunging down the road, indistinct in the sheets of rain. But there is no doubt that it’s gaining on us.
“Greg, I’m gonna need you to push it up. There’s something big closing in.”
My mind wants to add, “That’s what she said,” but at the moment, I’m mesmerized by the dim figure loping after us. A glance at the speedometer shows us doing a tame thirty miles an hour, but that’s really all the road conditions call for.
Greg pulls away, water spraying from his tires as they sink into another puddle. I step on the accelerator, hitting the same pothole, and hear our gear bags in back slam into the carpeted cargo floor after momentarily floating. The speedometer inches up to forty, then fifty. Back wheels skid around the sharper corners of the drenched logging road, catching on the shoulder before we slide off into the trees. The steering wheel bucks in my hands with each pothole, the front wheels going airborne as we pound through small trenches that angle across the road. And still, behind us, the dark gray shape looms; it’s not closing, but we’re not losing it either.
I notice McCafferty tug at the seat belt strap, looping it around her and snapping it into the buckle.
Probably not a bad idea.
“Lynn, a little help please. Do you have a visual on us?”
“Again, it’s marginal. The trees are pretty thick,” she answers.
“Any chance you could drop a few 25mm rounds behind us?”
“We can try. Again, it won’t be easy due to the trees.”
“Do your best.”
“Where do you want it?”
“Thirty, thirty-five meters to our rear.”
“Copy that. Targeting...Standby.”
A few seconds later, “Call it.”
“Cleared hot,” I radio.
“Firing.”
Through breaks in the dense layers of trees, a stream of red tracers appear, streaking down through the low ceiling, barely visible in the rain. Behind us, trees at the edge of the road suddenly splinter from the impacts, a shower of limbs falling. The tops of the trees further away are torn off, starting their slow fall to the forest floor. The road behind us spews showers of dirt, rock, and muddy water. The line of large caliber rounds follows in our wake, nearly obliterating our sight behind.
“It took off into the trees to our right,” Gonzalez calls.
“Lynn, cease fire.”
“Copy that.”
The tracers spitting from the clouds and spray of debris behind us stop. I glance back to see the visibility improving. The dark shape has vanished. Turning back to the front, I’m startled to see Greg’s brake lights flaring and us quickly closing the gap. He turns to the right at a “T” intersection.
“Fuck! Hang on,” I call, hitting the brakes.
The ninety-degree turn comes quickly causing our tires to skid on the slippery road. Twisting the steering wheel, I guide the Jeep into the sharp corner. Although, guide is a misnomer. The Jeep slews, skidding until we’re sideways to the new road, but still angling toward the trees. The wheels barely cling to the surface as the vehicle leans. Righting the steering wheel to the other side, I hit the accelerator. The wheels spin on the loose stones at the shoulder of the road, and then catch, the Jeep fishtailing until it finally straightens out.
“Huh…what do you know?” McCafferty states, her voice calm.
“What?” I respond, thinking she glimpsed the creature chasing us.
“I pretty much figured we were about to become tree ornaments.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” I reply, while actually kind of amazed that we aren’t currently decorating a tree myself.
“Oh shit!” Gonzalez exclaims.
Her statement is immediately followed by something slamming hard into the rear side of the vehicle. The backend is pushed, the Jeep again entering a skid that grows progressively worse. I try to counteract the perilous slide as the rear end attempts to pass the front. The momentum of the rear is too great and the wheels get dangerously light again, barely in contact with the road
.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The Jeep tips, to the point that there’s not much I can do with the steering wheel to make it better. If I turn into the tipping skid, that will only make it worse, and any turn to the right to settle the wheel will result in the same. The vehicle hangs on for a brief moment, as if trying to decide which direction it wants to take. Then, over it goes, slamming down on my side. The windshield cracks and we grind down the road, slowly spinning.
I rap my head against the roll bar, seeing the hard-packed road slide by the side window. Out front, the view is slowly rotating to the squeal of tortured metal and broken glass. The back hatch pops open, sending a cold draft into the mix. Debris that was flying around the cabin is once again aware of gravity and settles against the side. The Jeep slides to a halt, thankfully not rolling. Having spun a one-eighty, we’re now looking through the cracked windshield in the direction we came.
“Everyone okay?” I call.
“Yeah, I think so,” Gonzalez responds.
“Yeah,” McCafferty calls, hanging in her straps next to me.
My head is ringing something fierce, but the adrenaline keeps that in the background.
“Greg, we’re down,” I radio.
McCafferty is unable to free herself using the buckle due to her weight on the straps. Reaching down, she pulls out a knife and begins to saw. I’m still trying to right myself, knowing that we should probably be hurrying. Somewhere out there is that creature that knocked us sideways, and now isn’t the time to be doing a full body scan.
Through the windshield, a monstrous figure leaps onto the road. It’s the size of a grizzly but taller and sleeker looking. Hunched at the shoulders, the gigantic wolf bares its impossibly long teeth, the sound of its growl almost hidden under the roar of the falling rain. The sight of it makes McCafferty saw much more quickly; the straps give way and she falls against me.
“Go, go, go…out the back,” I shout, barely remembering the back hatch falling open.
Gonzalez is first, scrambling over bags lying in a muddled clump against the side of the Jeep. McCafferty seems all legs and arms as she jostles to get between the front seats to follow Gonzalez. I’m not much better as I worm my way toward the rear as quickly as possible. I only have my sidearm and doubt that will do much good against the creature. Out through the hatch, I see the white reverse lights of Greg’s Jeep as he powers backward.
