by John O'Brien
At the other end of the large valley, the river flows through a crack in a line of cliffs, looking like it was formed by a massive axe. It courses between the vertical rock walls, the surface looking like ocean waves as the waterway races over submerged stones. With nothing much to do as we pause for a bite to eat, I lift a pair of binoculars and idly look to where the river marches out of the valley.
The watercourse roars through the canyon with frothing rapids. Running alongside the river is a wide shelf of smoothed stone. Glassing back along the valley, I find that the density of the trees prevents any view of the forest floor with the exception of the previously mentioned sneak peeks of the river.
Setting down the binoculars, I radio the circling 130. “Lynn, do you see the river flowing out of the valley to our east?”
A moment later, she answers “Affirmative.”
“Would you mind taking a run along the canyon? I’m curious how far that shelf of stone next to it runs. And send the live stream down.”
“Will do…standby.”
Packing up the remains of my meal, I rise and stroll over to Henderson, who has heard the conversation and pulled out our handheld downlink monitor.
“Starting our run,” Lynn radios.
I watch the aerial view of the river as it pours through the gorge. For a mile and a half, the tumultuous water rolls through the canyon. The shelf extends the entire way, sometimes wide, in other places just a narrow path. At the other end, it empties into yet another valley much like the one it left. Pulling out the map, I look at our location. We’re deep into the wilderness of the national forest and nearly in the center of the area previously marked as empty of wolf packs.
“Copy, thanks. We’re going to angle down to the canyon through this valley. Have Raven on alert just in case.”
“Will do. Lynn, out.”
While gathering our gear together to resume our search, I’m lost in thought. The density of the valley has me a little worried. I know that we’re in the cycle of the new moon, and everything we’ve experienced so far suggests that our data is correct. Nonetheless, the valley gives me a chill.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…
We roll off the ridge, descending into the valley as we angle toward the river’s exit. I’d like to explore the entirety of the valley, but we’ll be lucky to reach the canyon entrance before the sun sinks below the tall mountainous slopes. Perhaps tomorrow, we’ll return and search further, depending on what we find.
The steep descent grows gentler as we hit the thicker trees, the sun vanishing from view as we enter a deep gloom. Even sound seems dulled, as if oppressed. Of course, that could just be my imagination. After about two hours of traipsing, I call an abrupt halt. The team goes to their knees, covering their assigned sectors.
“Does anyone else smell that?” I whisper over the radio.
I just caught a whiff of something other than evergreen, the faint and quick suggestion of smoke and something else. It could be left behind from hunters or hikers that might have been in the area, although to be this deep in the mountains would require some extra dedication. Whatever it was, it bears checking out. As a note of interest, I’ve not heard a single scurry or birdcall among the trunks and branches high overhead. In the rainforests of the northwest, the true rainforests, I’ve found that to be common—the deep, unnerving silence. However, this isn’t a rainforest.
“I did, faint and gone quickly, but it was there,” McCafferty replies, the others responding in kind.
“Okay, angle us right and take it slow. Intervals and pacing. Let’s not be surprised,” I say.
I inform Lynn to fix Raven with jungle penetrators in case we need a hasty exit. Rising, we alter direction and move out, quietly slipping through the tree trunks in the gloomy shadows. Before much longer, McCafferty halts us in place.
“Buildings ahead, barely visible but it has the look of a village, odd as that may seem.”
Right on the heels of that, Henderson radios, “We’ve picked up a tail. Two on our rear flanks, one right, one left.”
“Armed?” I inquire.
“Hard to say.”
“All right everyone, whoever this is knows we’re here. Form a perimeter and be ready to fight our way out. Lynn, do you have anything thirty meters to our north?”
“Negative. The overhead cover is too thick.”
“Copy. Get Raven on the move and have them set up on the ridge to our south.”
Moving to McCafferty’s position, I see that the cabin-like buildings look old but in decent shape. I’m not sure how this could have been overlooked for so long, but we are in a very remote area. There are still places that haven’t seen the footprint of humankind for a very long time, if ever.
We crouch in place; before long, several men appear, coming from the sides of the buildings. One man leads five others, clad in stained jeans and a plaid shirt. Some of the others are wearing animal skins. All are armed, the leader toting a deer rifle. Two have carbines, one carries a homemade spear, and the last one has a compound bow. The six approach, their weapons loosely held and not immediately threatening.
“Focus on your sectors and be ready for anything,” I radio. “Lynn, we have company approaching. Give us a low pass to let them know we aren’t alone.”
“Will do. Two minutes out.”
“That’s close enough,” I yell when we’re about ten yards apart.
The men halt, spreading out.
“What are you doing here?” the leader returns.
“We’re from the forestry department, looking for two missing hikers,” I reply.
“You don’t look like forestry folks.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” I respond.
“If you be telling the truth, why are you armed like that?”
“This place is remote and you never know what might be out here. Like you and this village for instance. Do you care to explain your presence?”
“Well, you folks aren’t welcome here,” the man states, completely ignoring my question.
“Be that as it may, here we are and we have the legal right. You however, don’t. This is a national forest and not for residential living.”
“Our ancestors were here long before it was that. I suggest you turn around and leave.”
“I don’t think we’ll be doing that. We have another job to do, but now we’re also going to check out this community of yours. This can go one of two ways. You can let that happen or you can try to stop us. The latter won’t end well for you or any others dwelling here. But either way, we’re going in,” I state.
Of course, I can think of a third way. They turn into werewolves and demolish us here and now. I opt to leave that one off the discussion board.
Overhead, the sound dimmed by the thick boughs, I hear the deep drone of 130 engines growing louder. The pitch of it is at a level that makes it difficult to tell where it’s coming from, the noise seeming to come from every direction. The men turn their heads skyward, searching for the source.
Almost without warning, the drone turns into a deep-throated roar as the Spooky flies directly overhead, seeming just a few feet above the treetops. The sound is so encompassing and deep that it feels like the ground is vibrating under my boots, along with every bone. The sound fades, becoming a drone once again before fading into the distance.
“As you can tell, we’re not alone. Shall we proceed?” I ask, nodding toward the buildings in sight.
Without another word, the man turns and begins walking toward the buildings. I hadn’t noticed before, but he has a slight limp.
“What happened to you?” I inquire, referring to his injury.
He turns back over his shoulder. “An accident. It’ll heal.”
I can’t help but wonder if he had the “accident” upon a certain ridge in the dead of night under a nearly full moon. Nor can I help but think we may have discovered a lair. If the Lycans have to spend half of their time as humans, this
little village seems to be the perfect setting. It’s remote, tucked deep into the mountains, and seemingly undetectable by air.
“Keep alert,” I radio.
Of course, that call isn’t necessary—everyone knows what we’re out here for. Working our way by the buildings, we enter the village proper. Cabins are built within the trees; the center of the village is clear with a main dirt avenue running the length. Boarded sidewalks run in front of buildings, built off the ground. There’s even a large well in the center, complete with an encircling stone wall, an overhead cover, and a rope wound around a crankshaft. The cluster of houses looks like something between an old frontier town and a logging camp. In the distance, I can hear the sound of rushing water.
People stare in passing, their expression either guarded or outright hostile. The women are dressed in old-fashioned dresses like something out of the old west. I damn near expect to see them toting parasols. The men are clad like the six who met us at the perimeter, and I wonder exactly where they’ve been getting their jeans and plaid shirts. From their clothing alone, I expect that they have to make forays into some town or another. But, from the lack of vehicles or other mode of transportation, they would have to either walk out or have horses that aren’t in sight. I would venture that they steal them from their victims, but I doubt that from the shreds left behind. If this is indeed where the Lycans reside, I can’t imagine any kind of livestock or horses surviving their transition. However, perhaps they are intelligent enough to stave off their animalistic tendencies in favor of their overall survival.
I notice the lack of odor—unexpected from such a large gathering of people. There’s no smell of wood smoke, latrines, or cooking for that matter. Taking a closer look at the structures, I see that the pipes that might come from woodstoves are extended such that they turn back and pass belowground. I’ve seen setups like this very few times, and only at well-arranged guerilla camps. The pipes leading from stoves and heat sources are run into the ground where small tunnels are built. Smoke runs along these tunnels, eventually emerging some distance away, the heat and odor having been absorbed by the dirt.
There’s something a little off about the appearance of these people. It takes me a moment, but then it comes to me like a light being switched on: Their eyebrows all seem to converge at the bridge of the nose, almost a unibrow, and their ears seems to be set a little lower. It’s subtle, but there nonetheless. I seriously doubt that I’d even notice if not for what I’ve experienced—and I’m expecting these people to be different somehow. Their stride, too, is long and swinging.
Glancing upward, high overhead, I can see where the boughs have been tied, the upper reaches of the trees growing close together. Again, I’ve seen this kind of thing once or twice before, the canopy being grown that way on purpose to conceal what lies beneath.
“Who is in charge here?” I ask.
“Mr. Bartels,” the man grunts.
“And he’s where?”
“Up ahead. That’s where we’re taking you.”
The glares from the people we pass are now consistently hostile. There’s not one who exhibits curiosity or offers a greeting. Now, there is the fact that we’re six well-armed people who have stumbled into their privacy, but I might expect a variety of responses, even concern.
With the weapons the men are carrying, I have no doubt that there are others hiding among the buildings. It’s entirely possible that we’ll have to fight our way out. As we walk, I eye cover and quick exit routes. If something happens, we’ll take to the surrounding forest and call in Raven, now perched only a few minutes away. Of course, I’d rather fight people with guns than face transformed Lycans in their own lair. There is little doubt in my mind that we’ve stumbled into their hideout, but what to do with this information here and now is beyond me. I can’t just start shooting people on a hunch.
After passing a few buildings, we see one man exit to stand on a porch near one of the wooden sidewalks. The six leading us angle toward him and stop. Henderson, Denton, and Greg surreptitiously form a loose perimeter, watching our backs. Gonzalez and McCafferty spread out slightly, covering up and down the village.
“Cletus, we found these people on the outskirts,” our guide states.
Cletus nods and turns his attention toward us.
“What do you people want?” the question abrupt and direct.
“Well, for starters, can you tell me what you folks are doing here?” I reply.
“It’s our home,” Cletus responds.
“That’s all fine and dandy, but you can’t just set up camp like this in a national forest.”
“Our people were here long before it was that.”
“That’s what your man here said. But, repeating the same thing over and over doesn’t make it right or true,” I state. “So, why are you here?”
“We choose to live lives of solitude, apart from the stink of towns and corruption of people,” Cletus answers.
“Well, I can certainly understand that…truly. But, it can’t be here.”
I have no idea why I’m saying this other than to have a discussion and get the fuck out of here peacefully with all my body parts intact. And then there’s the thought that prolonging the conversation might reveal something of their nature. Not that I have any illusions that the man will just come out and say what they are. But I need some kind of positive proof before we can take action. After all, the man and this community may be just what they say they are and want to live their lives away from the turmoil of civilization.
Cletus shrugs. “We’ve moved before and will again if the need arises.”
“I’m curious. Living way out here means you have to be fairly self-sufficient, but your clothing suggests otherwise.”
Again, the shrug. “What of it? We go into towns when the need arises.”
“Tell me something about these ancestors of yours,” I inquire.
“That’s our business,” Cletus replies.
“Fair enough,” I answer with a shrug. “Well, anyway, you being here isn’t our chief concern, although it is illegal. We’re searching for two hikers who went missing, supposedly a few miles south of here. You haven’t seen any lost souls wandering the woods, have you?”
Cletus stares hard at all of us, his eyes tracking to the shouldered weapons. I’m not under any illusion that our story holds any water with him. Hell, anyone searching would have weapons considering where we are, but to be armed like us is overkill. I’m sure Mr. Talksalot is considering his options. He knows we have company overhead and he can’t just make us disappear. He also knows that his and the rest of the village’s time here is over the moment we depart. He can finish this conversation and start relocating the moment we’re out of sight.
And there’s an underlying current. We both know what the other is, especially seeing it wasn’t long ago that we clashed. I’m nearly certain this is their lair we’ve stumbled across, from their appearances alone. We can’t recognize them per se while they’re in human form, but if they retain the memories of their other selves, I’m sure they know us.
“No,” Cletus answers.
“Well, this chat has certainly been a pleasure. We have people to find, so we’ll be off and leave you folks alone for now,” I state, turning to depart.
We’re guided back to the edge of town. From there, we make a wide circle around the village without finding any wolf tracks, large or small. With the sun spreading long rays across the dense forest of the valley, the shadows of the surrounding hills crawling over the treetops, we climb back up the ridge and board the Blackhawk.
* * * * * *
The western skies are a blaze of color as we land back at the base, oranges and reds flaring in a magnificent display. The fiery show holds for a long moment, the colors deepening to reds and then purples before fading. The sun folds beyond the horizon as we land, signaling the end to yet another day, something it’s done for millions of years and will do for many more.
Gathering o
nce more in the Spooky, we huddle in Lynn’s office. This constant back and forth is beginning to wear; the racing out into the wilderness only to return and regroup over and over. This time, however, we have a location and may not have to traipse through the woods—if we can move faster than they can relocate.
“Well, that was weird,” Denton comments.
“You’re not kidding,” Henderson responds.
“Is it just me, or did anyone else notice that there weren’t any old people or children?” Gonzalez asks. “They all appeared to be nearly the same age, or at least the same generation.”
“And their clothing, at least what the women were wearing, was straight out of the old west,” McCafferty mentions.
A pause follows the initial burst of conversation. I’m listening, but mostly replaying the encounter in my mind for the hundredth time. With each passing minute, doubt surfaces about whether these were the Lycans. I mean, just thinking that causes my mind to want to reject the notion. It shouldn’t, having met with Strigoi and realizing that this monster shit is real, but the thought that we discovered a village of Lycans seems too unreal.
“There’s that and their features, the eyebrows, the ears, down to their odd gait. There were other things as well that just didn’t quite fit. There were several walking about with injuries of some sort or another, and those were only the ones we saw. Who knows what else lay behind those doors. And one of the women, the one in the yellow dress, had a gold necklace that seemed like it was more modern. I’m questioning where she could have picked that up,” I say.
