by Terry Yates
Kyler wanted to tell him that there was no one worse off than he was, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Colonel Potts?” It was Mueller with his head in the doorway.
“Coming, Sir,” Potts told the general. “Kyler,” he said coldly, nodding his head.
“Colonel,” he answered as Potts walked into the office.
Kyler nodded his head at the receptionist, a lady soldier who smiled back at him. He’d seen her when he’d first walked in, but hadn’t noticed until now that she bore a striking resemblance to Gen. Mueller. Kyler returned her smile and walked outside.
He stepped out onto the makeshift porch and leaned against a supporting pole that held up the small awning that read “HQ”. He sighed deeply. His head hurt as it always did when he was feeling guilty about something, and right now it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. At moments like this, he always thought back to the island, and Nicholas Klefka, and wondering if he should’ve done it all differently. He had twice chatted with a man who was older than Queen Elizabeth I, William Shakespeare, and every president of the United States. The man was already three hundred years old when America declared its independence. Kyler still had trouble believing it. On sleepless nights, he would lie awake and try to justify his actions. He would go over the pros and cons of his actions, and usually the cons won by a Reagan/Mondale landslide. He really had no pros to speak of. Sure, he didn’t break his word and betray Klefka like he promised, but other than that, nothing. Cons: Potts’ face, Sgt. Cohen, and about a dozen of the ball cap guys. Technically, no one else’s death could be laid at his feet, and the ball cap guys WERE trying to kill him, there was still Potts and Sgt. Cohen. Sgt. Cohen had been a rock during the four days on the island and had died while fighting the werewolf Klefka. He saved Potts by blowing himself up. He HAD been mortally wounded, but still…
He rubbed his arm, which still smarted a bit after Potts had put it behind his back It had been two weeks since Potts had twisted his arm behind him for refusing to give away Klefka’s hiding place, and he still ached from it. He probably had a torn muscle or cartilage, or something. He could live with it. Looking out across the ground, he thought of Zora.
CHAPTER 4
Simon Shoals geared down quickly before rounding the bend in the road. He’d been looking through his rearview mirror, never a wise move when rounding a bend, but the mistake had been made, and he might just have to pay for his lapse of judgment, because there was a black Ford truck right in the middle of the curve. The passenger side was off the road, but the other half of the truck was sticking out into the highway at least four feet, not enough room to go around smoothly, especially in the middle of a curve.
Simon mashed his foot down on the brake, while still continuing to gear down, turning the wheel quickly to the left. All he could hope for was that no one was coming around the corner in the opposite direction. The cab made it around the truck, but he hadn’t been that worried about the cab, it was the trailer that was his main concern. As he rounded the truck, he was smack dab in the middle of the curve and in the oncoming lane. Just as swiftly as he turned left, he turned the wheel just as hard to the right. He could hear and feel every box in the trailer sliding to the left, as well as everything in the cab, sleeping berth included. Simon looked through his passenger mirror and saw the trailer swinging out to the left. The front part of the trailer had cleared the car, but he wasn’t sure how the back end was going to fair. As he kept the steering wheel pulled tightly to the right, he looked up. Luckily, there were no cars in the oncoming lane. Simon didn’t have time to look through the rearview mirror again…he just kept the wheel to the right hoping that the trailer cleared the car. All eighteen wheels seemed to be screeching simultaneously as the rig pulled to the left. As soon as he felt that he’d missed the car, he brought the wheel left again in an attempt to straighten the rig out before the back end of the truck passed up the cab. After that, he just did what felt natural, turning the wheel left and right. He looked one last time in the rearview mirror and thought he saw the trailer about to go off the left side of the road, but at the last moment, it seemed to right itself, and fall in behind the truck again. He’d done it! Simon’s foot was so far down on the brake that he thought it would go through the floor. The tires continued to shriek for another moment before the truck began to come to a stop.
Simon’s heart was beating at ten times its normal speed, but he let out a whoop that could’ve probably been heard for miles. He took off his cap and laid his head down on the top of the steering wheel, his sunglasses coming unhooked from around one ear. He sat there, eyes closed, and breathing heavily. He let out a small giggle. No one would believe that he pulled off this little feat. “No way!” they would say, or “You’re full of shit!”, but he’d done it. He’d pulled off a maneuver that was almost impossible to navigate. He knew that he was a pretty good trucker, but he had no idea until that very moment, just how good he was.
He looked up and adjusted his shades. He looked around and smiled, because he was alive, and at that moment, life was so sweet. The grass looked greener and the trees looked taller.
Simon put on his hazard lights, then got out of the truck. He reached behind his seat and found the two orange cones he kept in case of emergencies. The one time that he’d used his hazard reflector, he’d forgotten it and left it on the side of the road outside of Chattanooga. He placed the cones behind the rig, and walked over to the truck and looked inside. There was no one inside the cab, but he saw blood all over the seat, the dashboard, and even the rearview mirror. It looked as if whomever was driving was losing blood and trying to ditch the truck into a field, but just missed by a few feet.
He walked around the truck and looked out into the field. The grass was high…at least two and a half feet…and covered the entire field, stopping just before a grove of trees. Simon wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t at least look for a survivor.
He began walking through the field, head down, scanning every inch of ground. For the most part, all he saw was old beer bottles, pop cans, and wadded up paper. As he moved through the grass, he could feel something moving up his leg. He swatted the side of his pants and crushed the mosquito, or chigger, or tick, or whatever pests lived out here in the wild. He continued to walk until he made it to the trees. He turned around and looked at the path in the grass that his body had made. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and the sun was going to be overhead soon, and he’d heard that it was going to be a hot one…at least a hundred and two, and a hundred and two in south Texas was like a hundred and twelve anywhere else. He’d give it another couple of sweepthrews, but after that, he had to be going. He was already behind schedule.
He started to walk back toward the road, walking about ten feet away from the path in the weeds that he’d just made. He got about fifty feet, when something from the right caught his eye. It was a shirt, white with a brown pattern stitched through the material. Simon waded through the weeds toward the shirt. As he drew nearer, he could see an arm protruding through a sleeve. It was a body.
He moved quickly through the high weeds until he reached the body. Even though it was facedown, Simon could tell that it was a man. He dropped to one knee and placed his hand on the man’s back to see if the man was breathing. He watched closely as his hand moved up and down…he was alive! Quickly, he reached over the man, placing one hand on his left shoulder and the other just below his left hip, then rolled him over, his head lolling to one side. The whole front of his white shirt was red with blood. There were also scratches on the side of his face. It looked as if he’d been running through trees, brush, and bramble. He placed his hand on the man’s chin and turned his head, which fell limply to the other side.
“Jesus Christ,” Simon said softly. The man’s whole cheek seemed to be torn away from his face. There was a big, gaping hole where it had once been. Simon took off his sunglasses and peered into the wound. Grass covered much of the wound, as did the occasional fly, gnat
, and mosquito. He could see the red jaw muscle pulsating up and down with every breath that the man took. Loose skin hung down on all sides of the hole. The skin looked as if it’d been torn and shredded, not just pulled away from the wound as a deep cut might do. There was skin actually missing. There hadn’t been that much damage to the truck, although the driver’s window was shattered. The best he could remember, the windshield was intact…so how did he get a large hole on the other side of his face? Maybe a wild dog or a hungry lobo had come along and found him, and then decided to have a little snack.
Simon looked around, not sure what to do. He could take him to the hospital, he supposed, but the nearest hospital was at least twenty miles away.
“What to do…what to do…” Simon said softly.
CHAPTER 5
Simon sat by the bed watching the sleeping man. He supposed he was technically still unconscious, though he had heard him let out a moan here and a groan there. He had cleaned and bandaged the wound as best he could, but this man probably needed medical help. He’d undressed him, cleaned his wound, and then sponge bathed him. He wasn’t so much trying to clean him as tend to the other scratches on the man’s face, stomach, back, and legs, which mostly seemed superficial. The only major wound was the man’s cheek, which he cleaned out, removing all of the grass and what pests he could find. He’d used almost a half a bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide on the hole before placing a large, gauze bandage across his cheek. It was a lucky thing that man had been unconscious when he’d done it, otherwise he would’ve been in a world of pain. That would have to do for right now.
He’d looked in the man’s wallet for identification. His name was Scott Cargile and he was from Lampasas, and he was thirty-three years old. He’d found over three hundred dollars in the wallet, so robbery was probably not the motive, unless maybe Scott Cargile had fought back. It appeared that the man did have some fight in him. He was built for it. He was only about five-nine, but he was barrel-chested and stocky…probably a worthy adversary in a fight.
Simon stood up. He reached down and pulled the covers up to the man’s chin. He wished he hadn’t put him in his own bed. He hadn’t bathed him very much, and now his bed was full of grass, dirt, and the man’s sweat. He should probably move him to the spare room. Maybe later. Right now he was just too exhausted from having carried him. Although he was almost six-feet-one, muscular, and youngish…thirty-one…it had taken its toll on him, and now he felt like he could use a rest. He would go nap in the spare room, although he didn’t like sleeping in there. There was just too much clutter.
Simon checked the man’s face one last time, and had turned to walk away, when something grabbed his wrist. Startled, he turned around and involuntarily tried to wrench his wrist away, but it was being held fast. Simon looked down to see that the man’s eyes were open…just barely, but open. His right hand was clamped down on his wrist. Jesus, the man did have some fight in him.
“You’re awake,” Simon said softly, feeling the man’s grip lessen a little, but not much.
Simon tried to gently pull away, but the man held tight, his grip becoming stronger again. Pain was beginning to shoot through Simon’s wrist. This guy had a LOT of fight in him.
“Easy, Buddy,” he told the man. “I’m just another Texan trying to help you out.”
“Wolves…” Scott whispered softly.
“Wolves? Wolves did this?” Simon’s interest was piqued. He’d always found wolves fascinating. He knew that most wolves traveled in packs, but some were lobos, scavenging the countryside alone, living off the land and, he guessed, occasionally running into other lobos, but ultimately living their lives alone.
“Where were these wolves?” Scott asked. “Mexico?”
Scott nodded his head weakly.
“Was it a pack of ‘em?”
Again Scott slowly nodded his head.
“And you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, huh?”
This time Scott shook is head no.
“What do ya’ mean?”
Scott opened his mouth, but couldn’t form the words. Simon gently shook his wrist free from Scott and sat down on the edge of the bed. He reached over and took a glass of water from the nightstand.
“Here,” Simon said, putting the glass to Scott’s lips.
Scott opened his mouth and lifted his head up, trying to reach the water. Simon lowered the glass to his mouth and let him drink. When he’d gotten enough, Scott laid his head back down on the pillow, reached up and felt the bandage against his face.
“It…” he started. “They…”
Simon watched patiently as Scott went silent for a moment, before continuing.
“They…weren’t just wolves,” he rasped.
“What do you mean, they weren’t just wolves?” Simon asked.
Simon didn’t get an answer, because Scott passed out. He stood up and pulled the covers up under his chin. He seemed to be breathing normally, so it must’ve just been shock or dehydration, or maybe even loss of blood that had made him pass out. Simon was disappointed that Scott didn’t get to finish. He wanted to hear about the wolves attacking him…and he said that they weren’t just wolves. What did that mean, he wondered.
“By rights, I should take you to the hospital,” he said softly. “That’s where you belong right now…but I’m not sure you would make it. You’re really sick. Maybe I’ll just take you there tomorrow.”
Simon looked down at Scott. He was really gunking up his bed. He’d better put him in the spare room tonight, and tomorrow he would try and take him to the doctor. That would be the best thing, he thought to himself. But he really did want to hear more about the wolves.
CHAPTER 6
Scott awoke but didn’t open his eyes. He lay in that world between sleep and awake where dreams and reality are woven together. He could feel the pain in his face, but at the same time, thought that he was in his own bed back in Lampasas. Like in dreams, he knew that something wasn’t right in that scenario, but he couldn’t figure out what it was…which one was real, and which one wasn’t.
The dream began to disappear when a fetid odor began to invade his nostrils. It was a pungent, putrid smell that made him want to gag. He opened his eyes. He was still weak, so they were slow in opening. The fog started to disappear as shapes began to form. He squinted his eyes, trying to make them focus, but it was slow in coming. Everything was still blurry. That smell. What in God’s name was that smell?
Several seconds later, a fan came into view, followed quickly by a white ceiling. He was completely awake now. The smell was strong now that he was conscious. He felt bile making its way from his stomach to his throat.
“Hey there,” he heard a voice say.
Scott turned his head slightly. Above him, stood a man several years younger than he. Like Scott, he wore a western shirt and blue jeans. He looked down at him with a big smile, his teeth white. The front two protruded a little, giving him a tiny bit of an overbite, but the ladies probably ignored it, because this was a handsome man. His hair was blond, his eyes were a deep blue, and he had a chest and arms that were more muscular than any teenage kid he knew. This guy had absolutely no trouble picking up girls.
“Remember me?” the man asked, his grin becoming even broader.
Scott closed his eyes and thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure, but thought that maybe he had talked to him earlier. His brain was still too fuzzy and addled.
“I think so,” he answered weakly. “Who are you?”
“The name’s Simon Shoals,” the man said, still beaming. “I found you and your truck on the side of the road just across the border.”
The border? Scott had to think for a moment. What had happened to him? Why was he lying in a strange bed with the left side of his face burning something fierce? He only had to think for a moment before it all began to come back to him.
“Wolves!” he shouted trying to sit up, but couldn’t. He was tied down with rope. “What’s going on? Who are you?�
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“I told you…my name’s Simon Shoals, and I found you on the side of the road. You were in some kind of bad shape.”
“Why am I tied down?”
“I was trying to clean your face and you kept thrashing and punching. I had to do something. You were beatin’ the hell out of me.”
“Sorry…can you untie me now?”
“Sure,” Simon told him, his smile decreasing a little, but not much. “But first, I have to clean your face again, and I don’t want you beating me to death trying to do it.” Scott’s eyes followed Simon as he reached down to retrieve something. After a moment, Simon held up a bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide. “Best stuff in the world for cuts and gashes,” he said. “Now, what’s this about wolves? You said that you were attacked by wolves. Why don’t you tell me about it while I clean your face?”
Scott closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “My friends and I were camping across the border. We went there to fish and hunt black bear…or so we thought. I reckon we were the ones bein’ hunted.”
“What do ya’ mean?” Simon asked, removing the tape from the gauze.
He gently pulled the bandage away from Scott’s cheek. What the shit, he thought.
“What is it?” Scott asked.
Simon didn’t answer, but continued to look down at the wound. Scott was becoming worried, because the man was no longer smiling. He wasn’t frowning, but he did look puzzled.
“What’s wrong?” Scott asked again.
Simon was puzzled, because the wound that he’d cleaned just hours before, was only about a third of the size that it had been. When he’d first cleaned the wound, it had been the size of a softball. His whole cheek had been torn away for God’s sake. The hole in his face had been so big that Simon could see the man’s jaw, but now here it was, the size of a silver dollar. There was red around the edges of the hole. Could it be healing itself? That was impossible. If anything, it should be larger because of infection. He’d wiped out grass, weeds, and bugs of all shapes and sizes. Hell, something probably laid their eggs in his face. His jaw should be the size of a basketball.
