Led to the Slaughter

by Duncan McGeary

  I have not said anything about the creatures I saw in the wilderness. No one would believe me, and indeed, at times I’m not certain I believe it myself. California is the paradise that everyone described. The temperature, even in the middle of winter, is mild. The rivers run high with water that will make the valleys fertile. It seems impossible that only a few days away is a land of starvation and horror, a land where creatures out of myth stalk mankind.

  Dear Margret, please wait for me, for I will be there soon. Dear, brave Virginia, watch over your brothers and sister. Salvation is at hand!

  For Virginia’s sake, I will continue to believe what I saw in the shadows, amid the trees. She came to me early on to warn me that something was wrong. Why did I dismiss her concerns, even though I’d seen evidence of the same things? She looked this horrible reality in the face and accepted it for what it was, while we adults ignored or denied the danger. I will not now conveniently dismiss those memories, no matter how difficult it is to believe them. But neither will I bring them up unnecessarily. I don’t want to scare off any of the men who can help us, nor would it benefit us if they began to doubt my sanity.

  William Eddy is leading a vanguard, and the other members of the expedition will follow them shortly. The rains have swollen the rivers, and already we are delayed. There have been reports, terrible reports, of cannibalism amongst those who crossed over the mountains in early January. I pray that those left at Truckee Lake have not had to resort to such measures.

  I cannot think that anyone in my family would do such a thing: surely they would choose death over such an abomination. I cling to the hope that I will find them alive.

  CHAPTER 30

  Diary of Charles Stanton, undated entry

  I am in possession of myself, but for how long, I do not know. I am still clothed, and my clothes are covered in mud and snow but not blood. Though I have been dreaming of running through the woods on four legs, leaping over logs with ease, the snow bracing rather than freezing, the small animals all around me waiting to be caught and eaten, I’m still as hungry as ever.

  I do not think I have transformed.

  I feel as if I am dreaming all of this––my life as a man as well as my life as a wolf––and sometimes I can’t tell what is real and what isn’t.

  I seem to have more strength, to see and smell and hear more acutely than before. The bite mark on my neck has healed already. I have no doubt that in time, I will become one of those Things. I will not allow that to happen. I keep my rifle loaded, and when I feel my humanity slipping away, I will end it.

  Until then, I will watch over the others and try to protect them from the creatures. I see the Things in glimpses, smell them passing by, and hear them in the darkness.

  It is easy enough to keep up with the party, for they have started to consume the hides that bind their snowshoes, and while that may be giving them strength, it is also slowing them down. Jay Fosdick had started to lag behind, and one night, as I slipped unwittingly into sleep, I heard him cry out. I hastened to his side, but by the time I arrived, Fosdick was already being torn apart by the creatures, who lifted their heads to growl at me––not because they thought I would harm them, I believe, but because they thought I’d try to compete for their meat.

  The next morning, Eddy and Mary Graves went off to hunt. I trailed them closely and when they brought down a deer, I stood just out of sight with my rifle at the ready until the pair had packed up what meat they could carry and headed back to the others. I saw several werewolves trailing them, but I warned them away. They trotted off without looking back.

  Before we left Truckee Lake, we managed to gather up enough rations for six days. A month has passed since then. A full moon illuminates the night sky. The storms are fading, but without the cloud cover, it is colder than ever.

  The party stumbled into a Miwok Indian camp by accident. The Indians scattered into the trees, but when they saw the pathetic remnants of humanity fall upon the scraps of food left for the dogs, they returned.

  It was the same Miwok camp that Luis and Salvador had visited on their way to help us. Once, it would have seemed primitive beyond imagining; now it seemed full of life, energy, and beauty.

  William Foster stood at the edge of the clearing, apart from the others. Only days before, he had killed two natives; now natives were rescuing him and his companions. The Miwok most likely will never know what became of their friends, but I could see that all the survivors felt guilty. Foster looked completely forlorn.

  The Indians began to share their meager food, and I walked away, believing the worst was over.

  Diary of Charles Stanton and the Other, undated entry

  I have wandered the hills for I know not how long. I shun the company of both men and beasts, for I belong with neither. I have not yet put the gun to my head, as I planned. Life is too dear to me, it appears, even now. Sometimes I wake from my dream of being a beast and find blood caking my face, and I know that I transformed. Yet I also know, somehow, that I have not attacked humans; I have hunted only other beasts. Does that make me a cannibal of a different kind?

  #

  I found myself slowly making my way back down the mountains, toward Truckee Lake. I suppose I hoped I might still help the Reeds, the Breens, and the others trapped there. I don’t know what I expected to do.

  I have begun to control the transformation. When I feel my blood coursing more quickly through my veins and my eyesight becoming sharper, I know it is about to begin.

  There is no use fighting it. I am hungry, cold, thirsty, tired––and in my human form, helpless. So I allow myself to Turn. I find a place to remove my clothing and hide my human artifacts from view, then I change. For a short time, I remember who I am even as I run through the woods, hunting the animals I smell hibernating beneath the snow. Then I, Charles Stanton, begin to fade, and I become fully that other creature, which has no name but a distinct smell, appearance, and identity of its own. I am the Other, but I am also myself.

  Somehow, in my wildness, I make my way back to the place where I have hidden my clothing. I dress, shivering but alive, fed, and full of energy. I sit with my journal and recount what I have seen and felt.

  I have begun to remember my nightly wanderings. I have begun to remember my human self while animal, and my animal self while human. But the opposite is also true: I am forgetting more of my human self when human, and more of my animal self when animal. I am becoming both things, and neither.

  I came across one of the humans beside Alder Creek. I don’t remember his name––he was one of the drivers for the Breen family, I believe. The poor emaciated soul stood in the trail looking at me, defeated by my very presence. These remnants of humanity, too weak to attempt to escape over the pass, have been preyed upon the whole time I was gone. I feared what I would find at the Reed cabin.

  I almost transformed into human then, to stand naked before him, but I had no explanation to give him for what I have become. I was ashamed, I suppose. I turned and ran. Anyway, I’m not certain he would have been reassured by my transformation.

  I have come back to my little hiding place, a small cave outside the camp, where I sit scribbling in my notebook, trying to remember words, trying to remember how to shape letters.

  The other werewolves avoid me, more afraid of my wolf form than they ever were of my human form. More than once, my presence has stopped an attack. But I can’t be everywhere, and from time to time I come across the remains of unfortunate wretches who have been caught by the pack and torn to pieces.

  One day, as I patrolled the perimeter of the camp, I saw Virginia Reed emerge from one of the cabins. She was alert and looking about. She didn’t appear defeated, already a victim, as so many of the others do. I don’t believe she saw me, but she seemed to sense I was there. She grasped her father’s rifle in both hands and called out, “Who’s there? Jean? Is that you? Bayliss?”

  I stayed hidden until she went back inside. It is as if she has a supernatura
l sense for when werewolves are around. That night, I left a rabbit I had caught at the entrance of the cabin, and ever since, I have left what I could. I have chosen to help the Reeds, because I can’t help everyone and because they showed me the greatest kindness, taking me into their cabin, making me a part of their family.

  The Reeds and the Breens have retained their cohesion as families, but the other small groups have fallen apart. They huddle together, facing out into the night, but they don’t act as if they are aware of each other.

  The Germans don’t even pretend anymore. Keseberg leads the pack, and all the other single men follow him. I know that Jean has been Turned, though I haven’t seen him kill. The others trap and kill any human who strays from the group. Some have wandered away deliberately, tired of living, letting themselves be culled. In several cases, I tried to help them, but the humans simply sat there in the snow, unwilling to move, until I could bear it no longer and left them to their fate.

  Until now, the werewolves have been content to pick off the humans one by one, but as the days grow longer and spring approaches, they have picked up the pace. The humans who are left are the ones who truly want to survive. I sense that we are fast approaching a final battle of some kind.

  Yesterday, I ran far and high up the mountain, and far below, I saw a rescue party approaching. I suspect that the next few nights will see the monsters try to kill as many as they can before it is too late.

  Once again, I have chosen the Reed family to look after. I will be their sentinel tonight, and the next, until relief finally arrives.

  Diary of Charles Stanton and the Other, undated entry

  It is well that I stood guard last night.

  I saw the werewolves gather between the cabins and watched them transform. There are at least a dozen of them now, more than I have any chance of fighting off; still, they targeted the other cabins first.

  As I watched, I sensed something behind me. I turned to see a gray wolf, not as big nor as well fed as the others, approaching me. As my hackles rose and I growled at the intruder, it transformed, and there, standing naked and shivering in the snow, was the young man Bayliss. He seemed to know who I was. Perhaps, as he has been a wolf longer than me, he determined my identity by smell.

  This night, the two of us stand watch together.

  Tomorrow night, I fear, will come the final reckoning.

  Diary of Charles Stanton and the Other, undated entry

  Last night, as I stood guard, Bayliss came up to me, and we stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting.

  We could hear the others approaching; we could smell their hunger and animal excitement, just as they, no doubt, could smell our fear. But our fear didn’t make us any less dangerous.

  There were six werewolves, including the giant red one I recognized as Keseberg. It growled at the others, who halted and sat on their haunches as he moved forward.

  He transformed into his human form, a tall, wiry man with scars all over his body. His face has the aspect of a wolf even when he is a man. “Why do you help them?” he asked. “Do you think they would treat you any differently than the rest of us if they knew?”

  “We still remember what it’s like to be human,” I said.

  “You two are mistakes. Freaks. Don’t you understand? You aren’t human any more. You never will be. If they discover what you are, they will think nothing of hunting you down. That’s why we led them to this place. No one will be allowed to leave unless they join us.”

  Bayliss stood trembling but defiant. He looked about half the size of Keseberg. “You can’t have them,” he said. “You’ll have to kill us first.”

  Keseberg sighed. “Have it your way,” he said. He stayed in human form but growled orders to the others. Two of the biggest wolves approached. Bayliss and I had already begun shifting, but we had barely attained wolf form when they leaped for us.

  I took the lead wolf’s charge, and the other slammed into Bayliss.

  I suppose we had fear and desperation on our side, and it lent us strength. I was faster than the other wolf, who seemed almost lazy in his movements. He circled me but didn’t attack again; then he moved away.

  Bayliss had a similar experience, though he ended up bleeding from a bite to his shoulder.

  Keseberg waved more wolves forward, and again we blustered and nipped at each other but didn’t close for the fight. I realized then that they were working as a pack, wearing us out, and that it was only a matter of time before several of them attacked each of us at once.

  That very scenario had begun to play out when suddenly, one of the three wolves stalking toward me turned on the others, clamping down on the neck of one of his companions. The attack surprised everyone.

  The injured wolf fell to the ground, thrashing, while his attacker continued to savage his neck; then there was a snap, and the wolf on the ground lay still. His killer turned and growled at the others, then backed away until he stood beside me. I recognized his scent: it was Jean.

  I took advantage of the momentary confusion caused by his defection and attacked, and with my new ally’s help, I soon drove off my remaining foe. Bayliss, meanwhile, had two wolves of his own to deal with, though he was managing to fend them off.

  Then Keseberg transformed and joined them.

  I sprang forward as the wolves pinned Bayliss to the ground, one chomping on his back leg, another latched onto his throat. Before I could stop him, Keseberg closed his jaws on the back of Bayliss’s neck; bones cracked, there was a final yelp, and then Bayliss went still.

  The three wolves turned toward Jean and me.

  One of them leaped at Jean, inexplicably flew sideways in midair, crashed to the earth, and lay there, unmoving: only then did I hear the gunshot. I turned to see Virginia Reed standing by the entrance to the cabin. Calmly, she set down the rifle, pulled a pistol from her coat, and aimed it at Keseberg.

  Keseberg didn’t hesitate; he ran.

  The other wolves began to back away, then trotted off after their leader. Virginia held the gun steady until they were out of sight, then turned and looked at us uncertainly. Neither Jean nor I transformed. Though I think Virginia sensed who we were, I also knew that it would trouble her to see us change. We turned and ran into the night, leaving Bayliss behind with Virginia crouched over his naked human form.

  I sit in my little cave while Jean huddles under the few extra blankets I have. We haven’t said a word to each other. What is there to say? We aren’t human anymore, but we still love those we left behind. We will go back the next night, and the next, as long as it takes for rescue to arrive.

  And then? I still have my revolver, with a single bullet. I will not live as a beast. I will not hide. I will end it.

  But not before the others are safe.

  Diary of Charles Stanton

  Jean has returned to Truckee Lake and informed me that he will not let himself Turn again. I admire his resolve, but I don’t think he will have any choice. The Beast is so hard to resist. Yesterday, I came across a young boy on the trail, and I almost killed him. I charged at him but veered away at the last second, his screams ringing in my ears.

  I ran to the summit and looked down. Below, I saw the rescue expedition struggling against the snow. It took all my willpower not to turn back into my human form and go warn them.

  #

  They have come for me. I can hear them in the darkness, drawing closer. There are at least three of them that I can smell. I fear this is my last night.

  I will wrap up this diary as best I can in my woolen clothing, so that it might survive, and lay it at the doorway to Virginia Reed’s cabin as a tribute to her bravery. Perhaps she will learn something that will help her.

  If, when this is all over, someone else should read this diary, they will not believe it.

  But it is a true story.

  Goodbye.

  CHAPTER 31

  Diary of Virginia Reed, undated entry

  I do not know what day this is. I’m not even complet
ely certain about the month.

  It doesn’t matter. Bayliss is dead.

  I have already mourned him once, and now I must mourn him again. I want to cry, but I don’t dare: I don’t have the luxury of grief. I want to lose myself in memories, but for the sake of my family, I must stay in the here and now––though in truth, I have nearly given up.

  Bayliss saved me.

  I have hidden his body from the others. No one in our cabin has resorted to cannibalism, but I fear it is only a matter of time.

  When you see someone’s body, you know beyond doubt that that person is gone forever. What is left is only a shell. Seeing that body as a source of sustenance when you are starving is not as unthinkable as I would have once believed, though the taboo is stronger for family and loved ones.

  I have already decided that I will die rather resort to such measures. I will walk into the woods, find a place to curl up, and let the wild animals take me––but not the werewolves. They will not have me. I will see to that.

  Three wolves protected our cabin last night. One of them was Bayliss. I think I know who the other two were. One moved with an old, stiff dignity that reminded me of Stanton… which made me fear for the group that he left with. Are they all lost? Or has only Stanton fallen?