Warrior Wolf Women of the Wasteland

by Carlton Mellick III

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Twelve seconds after completing Warrior Wolf Women of the Wasteland I said to myself, “Did I just write a fucking Furry book?” It wasn’t supposed to be my Furry book. It was supposed to be my werewolf book. But I guess werewolves can be considered furries. They were probably the original furries.

  I never thought I would write a werewolf book. But over the past few years several publishers kept asking me to write something with werewolves in it. I knew that if I was going to do it I would have to do my own werewolf mythology. I never cared for the whole full moon transformation thing. I wanted to do something more interesting. I also knew that I wanted the story to take place in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. I wanted it to be kind of like Road Warrior, but starring a bunch of werewolves instead of Mel Gibson. It ended up more like a Road Warrior Furry book than a Road Warrior with werewolves book, but I think it’s better this way.

  I have to admit that I like how there has been more of a focus on female werewolves in books and movies over the past decade. In the subtext, werewolf stories have always been about sexuality and releasing those animalistic desires that we are taught to repress by our civilized culture. Because of this, it’s just more interesting when the werewolves are women rather than men. Though I guess hermaphrodite werewolves would be even more interesting than female werewolves.

  This book was originally going to be called “Wolves of the Wasteland.” When I told this to Rose, owner of Eraserhead Press, she said, “You can’t call it that. It’s not a Carlton Mellick III book title.” I said, “What’s a Carlton Mellick III book title?” And she said, “You know, like The Haunted Vagina, Baby Jesus Butt Plug, Razor Wire Pubic Hair. Wolves of the Wasteland is cliche.” So I came up with a goofier title, one that seems like it could have come out of the Troma film catalog.

  This is probably my longest book since Satan Burger. It was also one of the funnest writing experiences I’ve ever had. I wrote it in three weeks, in my office in Northwest Portland. By three weeks, I mean that I did nothing but write every waking hour for three weeks straight until I finished it. After a while, I pretty much forgot all about the real world and it felt as though I was living with these wolf girls as I was writing about them. And after I finished the book, I still couldn’t get this world out of my head and started drawing pictures of the characters. I also have the urge to write a sequel or turn it into a series, which is something that never happens to me.

  If I did turn it into a series I think I’d make it kind of like that Logan’s Run television series, where each episode Logan finds a different culture that evolved in a weird way after the apocalypse. But for my series, there would be fuzzy biker chicks instead of that British dude. And they may or may not obtain a gentleman robot companion during their travels. If I don’t go with the robot, I might go with a couple of pink ninjas or a leprechaun with a mohawk.

  In any case, I hope you enjoy this book.

  - Carlton Mellick III, 10/05/09 4:15 am

  The wolves are howling outside of the three-hundred-foot-high steel walls surrounding McDonaldland. The wolves always howl at this time of day, around the time the sun goes down. I sit on my apartment windowsill, drinking some homemade ketchup wine from a styrofoam cup, listening to the wolves, and staring down at my toes wiggling in the frosty air.

  Smoke is billowing out of the factories in the distance. Smoke is always billowing out of everything in this part of the country. Although, I don’t like to call this country a country. It isn’t as much of a country as it is a city, or maybe kingdom would be the most accurate term. The McDonald’s Kingdom.

  After the economic apocalypse, McDonald’s took over. There wasn’t anyone left to stop them. The government had collapsed. The military was disbanded. The rich had become poor and the poor had become violent. Then the Christian extremists got a hold of the missiles and took out every city they felt was the enemy of their god, which happened to be all of them.

  The Blessed McDonald’s Corporation brought order to the chaos. Surviving the economic disaster and the nuclear attacks, they were the most powerful organization left on the planet. They gathered the surviving Americans together and developed a new country the size of Chicago, a peaceful civilization that they could nurture and protect. They called it McDonaldland.

  That was nearly twelve decades ago. Long before I was born. The citizens of McDonaldland don’t live as long as people used to, only about 50 odd years if they’re lucky, so it has been a couple generations since the original McDonaldlandians died off.

  The great wall was built around the city. It wasn’t made of steel, not originally, nor was it three hundred feet high. That upgrade came a little later. The Blessed McDonald’s Corporation said that the wall would keep out the unruly outcasts that lived in the wasteland surrounding their country, but the citizens of McDonaldland soon realized that the walls weren’t designed to keep people out. They were designed to keep people in.

  There isn’t anything alive outside the walls anymore, except for the wolves. There aren’t any people. Not that I would know for sure, because McDonaldlandians haven’t ventured outside the country into the wasteland in a hundred years. But there have been no sounds of civilization. No airplanes flying over head. No voices. No horns honking. Just howling and occasionally scratching on the other side of the barricade, sometimes reverberating through the metal so loudly that I can hear it from several neighborhoods away.

  My name is Daniel Togg. That was also my dad’s name, when he was still alive. I live in the slums of McDonaldland, in the southernmost region of the kingdom. The walls cast such enormous shadows in this area that not a drop of light ever reaches my home no matter what time of day it is. It always seems like night. If it weren’t for the wolves howling, I wouldn’t even know that the sun is setting.

  Although most McDonaldlandians consider this side of town gloomy and depressing, I really don’t mind the darkness. All the buildings in McDonaldland are painted bright yellow and red—the colors of the McDonaldland flag. In the sunny areas of the city, I find these colors incredibly irritating to look at. The streets are yellow, the sidewalks are red, the walls are yellow, the roofs are red, the buses are yellow, the cars are red. Even when not wearing their work uniforms, the people wear red and yellow clothing to show their patriotism. The Blessed McDonald’s Corporation says that these colors are designed to make you happy, but they do not make me happy. They make me very, very stressed. It is like the city is constantly yelling at my eyes. I am perfectly happy living on the dark side of town, where the bright colors are dulled by shadows.

  Outside my window, I try to keep my second pair of arms hidden beneath a rubber yellow blanket, but sometimes they have a mind of their own and straighten themselves out when they are supposed to be bent. If I wiggle my fingers on all four hands at the same time, I’m usually able to get the new arms under control. But not always. Not many people are walking around on the shadowed street below, so I believe I’ll be safe even if one of the extra limbs are revealed for a moment or two.

  I’m lying in a hammock that serves as a makeshift balcony, although it’s only a balcony for one man lying down. I made it out of burger wrappers and napkins. If twisted up properly you can make some pretty strong rope out of just about any paper, even toilet paper, as long as you don’t let the rain get to it.

  I like to make things. That’s my hobby. I’ll make just about anything I can think of, using all the items McDonaldland has to offer. After I relax away today’s stress, I think I’ll make a new batch of ketchup wine. Of all the things I make, I am most skilled as a brewer of beers, wines, and alcohols.

  Being a brewer in McDonal
dland is a terrible crime. It is considered heresy. The citizens of this country are only allowed to consume the items available on the McDonald’s menu. All other food and drink is forbidden. You are not allowed to make your own food and you are certainly not allowed to sell it. Since alcoholic drinks are not on the menu, I have to make it myself, breaking one of McDonaldland’s strictest laws. Even worse, I also sell it to people in my neighborhood, which The Blessed McDonald’s Corporation believes cuts into their coffee and soda profits.

  If they found out they’d probably force me to work a third shift with no pay for a year or two. Or maybe they’d just throw me out of the kingdom, into the wasteland, to be eaten by wolves. But whatever. I don’t care. I’m willing to risk anything in order to make my own things.

  I have yet to risk cooking my own food, but if I could get my hands on some raw ingredients (besides potatoes) I would sure as hell try.

  The wolf howls can still be heard within the tiny kitchen section of my one room 10’ x 10’ apartment. Of course, McDonaldland apartments do not come with kitchens, because of the anti-cooking laws. But they do come with sinks, so I built a tiny kitchen around the sink for brewing purposes. I believe building your own kitchen is also against the law.

  I learned how to brew from my grandfather. He tried to teach everyone how to brew their own beer and make their own things, but everyone else in our family (especially my dad and my older brother) had no intention of ever breaking the law. He also made his own food, because he worked in the warehouse district and had access to all of the raw ingredients he wanted. Because he made his own food, he lived much longer than all McDonaldlandians born in his year.

  I really liked my grandpa, even though he was only around until I was eleven. He brewed beer, made wine, wrote books, and made some nice sculptures of boats and airplanes out of straws. I still have one of his straw airplanes. I’ve seen pictures of airplanes before in history class, and the sculpture was quite accurate, despite the materials from which it was created. Though it couldn’t fly.

  I can only make my alcohol out of the foods available on the McDonald’s menu. The factories and farms that produce the raw ingredients have strict security measures to prevent someone like me from getting a hold of them (unless you had a job like my grandpa’s). Things like wheat, flour, yeast, and barley are all unattainable, so I have to be creative.

  Although I do work in the fry-chopping plant and have access to raw potatoes, I don’t use them. I once stole enough potatoes to make some homemade potato vodka, but it was a pain in the ass and stealing from work is a risky business, so I don’t do that anymore.

  The first and most important ingredient to brewing is the yeast. Since I can’t get yeast from McDonald’s, I have to cultivate wild yeast myself. For this, I take apples from the apple dippers, the fruit and yogurt parfait, and the hot apple pies. I soak a hamburger bun in warm sugar water for an hour, then remove the bun and put in the apples. Then everything goes into an airtight container. Every day I open the container and add some more sugar. Yeast will grow and thrive in this mixture. After several days, I remove the apples and then I have my starter that lasts for years if properly maintained.

  To make alcohol, all you really need is yeast, sugar, and water. The yeast eats the sugar and excretes alcohol. It also produces carbon dioxide which will carbonate beverages. So I go to any of the McDonald’s restaurants—there is one in each neighborhood—and buy any item that is high in sugar. Though some of the best items are free: ketchup, sugar, sweet and sour sauce, and jelly. Other good ingredients: fruit juices, orange drink, strawberry sauce, tomatoes, hotcake syrup, cookies, and fruit from the fruit and yogurt parfait.

  My favorite, because it’s so cheap and easy, is ketchup wine. I just get some tomatoes, ketchup packets, a little syrup, some apple juice, some of the yeast, and a lot of sugar. This mixture goes into a plastic container with warm water and a straw in it to release the carbon dioxide (otherwise it would explode). Once it stops bubbling, after a week or so, it’s ready to drink.

  If put into an airtight container with a little more sugar, the drink carbonates. I call that drink ketchup champagne.

  My grandpa used to brew some really good beers, because he was able to get his hands on all of the raw ingredients he needed. He had to grow his own hops, which must have been the hardest part. I know they grow easily in this region of the world, but I wouldn’t have the guts to grow my own ingredients.

  Everyone in his neighborhood would buy his beer, and everyone on that side of town was really happy for a while. Then he was caught and taken away. Other brewers had only been fined and sentenced to work extra shifts, but they made an example of Grandpa. Nobody ever heard from him ever again.

  After I’m done mixing together the ketchup wine, I get ready for my next shift. It’s shift after shift for me. Every lower class McDonaldlandian works at least two shifts a day. The pay is just too low and the cost of living is just too high. But that’s the way The Blessed McDonald’s Corporation has created it. Since every citizen of this country is employed by The Blessed McDonald’s Corporation (apart from children, it’s the law) and every citizen rents their home from The Blessed McDonald’s Corporation, then McDonald’s only has to lower pay and raise rent in order to get more hours out of their employees. But they only do this to the lower class workers, of course.

  I tie my extra pair of arms around my waist tightly so that they don’t move around, and keep them hidden beneath my work uniform. The worst possible thing that could happen to me would be for someone to discover my new arms. Anybody with deformities is instantly taken away without question, because The Blessed McDonald’s Corporation doesn’t want any of its citizens to think the deformities were caused by the chemicals that are put into the food ... which, of course, they are.

  On my way out of the apartment, I run into the woman who lives across the hall. Like most women who are out in public, she is clothed from head to toe, covering her face and hair. Her outfit is similar to an Arab woman’s burka, only instead of black the clothing is red and yellow. The only thing I can see is her demonic yellow eyes staring at me from behind the clothes.

  “I smell things,” she says to me. That’s what she always says to me.

  I’m not allowed to talk to her, look at her, or get too close to her unless she speaks to me first. Unfortunately, she always speaks to me.

  “I forgot to take the garbage out again,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “If you’re cooking food in there you’ll be exiled,” she says. “They’ll feed you to the wolves.”

  I try to respect her as much as possible, so I do not call her a bitch.

  “I’m not cooking food,” I say.

  Not all women are clothed in this manner or need to be treated in this respectful way—only the women who have mothered children. It is a big part of McDonaldlandian culture.

  “If you cook food I will tell,” she says. “I will tell them to feed you to the wolves.”

  I just nod until she goes back into her apartment and closes the door.

  I decide it would be best to be late for work. Everyone else is always early for work, so there’s got to be at least one person late so that Landon, my boss, has someone to yell at. If Landon didn’t have me to yell at then he probably wouldn’t have much of anything to do.

  Forget the bus, I’ll just walk to work. A long walk would do me some good. The majority of McDonaldlandians are either obese or morbidly obese, because of their high fat diet. Not me. I exercise. I don’t eat so much. Just like my grandpa taught me. We are required to buy at least three meals a day, but I use much of the food I purchase to create my alcoholic drinks.

  As I walk down the darkened red sidewalk, I peek in at the obese families gathering for dinner in their apartments, unwrapping their to-go burgers and dripping secret sauce all over their double chins. It is no wonder most McDonaldlandians don’t make it into their sixties.

  I take the long route to work, on the edge of the farm
lands. This section of the city is off-limits to all except the farmers, but I can look through the fence at the fields of wheat. There are a herd of cows grazing in the field, leaving trails of slime behind them. The lifeless mooing reverberates through the wheat field.

  Cows of the past do not look like the cows we have now. They used to have four legs, a tail, and a head ... almost like an enormous dog. They used to be able to eat, poop, think, moo, and sleep without the need for a computer chip implanted into their brain. Cows these days are more like large mounds of meat with black and white spots. Their mouths are underneath them, so they consume food in the way that slugs consume food, by sliming on top of decaying matter and slurping on it. The computer chip controls their eating. They are not really alive.

  These nu-cows, as they were originally called, also have small speakers implanted into their backs that give off a pre-programmed mooing noise whenever people come near. This is so that people will still think of them as living creatures instead of programmed slabs of meat. There are also nu-chickens on the other side of the farm.

  Although the creation of these nu-cows was a bit disturbing to most people, there was a race of humans called vegans who were mostly happy about the creation of nu-cows because it ended the suffering of old cows.

  Vegans lived a long time ago, before the formation of McDonaldland. They were people who believed that all living things are created equal and should be respected rather than utilized, so they refused to eat meat or harm animals in any way. They also tried to stop other people from eating meat or harming animals. This was a problem because other people did not believe that all living things were created equal, and they believed that man was on top of the food chain so they could do whatever they wanted with lesser species.