by Jess Walker
The rest was pretty much history. They were flown out the following day. Their story of survival hit every major news outlet which in turn led to several lucrative endorsement and sponsorship deals. Between the two of them, they had earned enough money to live comfortably.
According to state law, at almost seventeen, Sam was still required to attend school, but if given a choice, he would rather be anywhere else. He loved learning but hated having to do any of it at school. The kids, the cliques, the bullies, the rules, the structure, the waiting in line—all of it created good reasons, in his mind, not to attend. Fortunately, he was granted the option of taking home-study courses which required him to attend in-class sessions at a local high school just once a month. This afforded him time to spend almost every waking minute outside when he was not tied down with schoolwork. The fresh air always invigorated him, fueling his mind, body, and spirit.
Today he stayed inside, not by choice, but because he had procrastinated for far too long in completing his schoolwork. A major project was due on a subject that made his eyes glaze over every time he attempted to read it. Macbeth, written by some dude by the name of Shakespeare. The due date for submission was tomorrow and Mr. Nichols, the teacher with the bushy eyebrows and thick eyeglasses, would be itching for an opportunity to fail him.
Sam felt Silver’s wet nose nudge up against his hand, then heard a low whine.
“What is it boy?” he asked, rubbing the top of his head.
An object in the distance resembling a black dot came into view. The shape of it grew bigger as it neared the cabin until he recognized it as a delivery van. Sam let Silver out the backdoor into the yard, so he wouldn’t give the visitor a heart attack. He still remembered the facial expressions sported by past guests when they first saw the wolf.
Seconds later, he heard a firm knock at the door. Sam opened it and was greeted by a deliveryman holding a box.
“You Sam West?” the man inquired in a thick Russian accent.
Sam nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the man. He noticed the man had dark circles around his eyes and a tattoo of a dragon sprawled down the side of his neck.
“I have a package for you. Sign this, and I’ll be out of your hair,” he muttered, letting out a throaty cough.
Sam signed it, but with hesitation, as something didn’t feel right. A nervous knot formed in his stomach.
He was a keen observer of people and prided himself on his ability to notice things others usually missed. His observational skills had been honed and developed to near perfection during his time in the woods after the crash. Out there, he had to be aware of his surroundings and pick up on the tiniest of details, as his life had depended on it. He had learned a valuable lesson: one should never accept anything at face value.
Sam paused. Whitebush Michigan was known for adhering to strict religious teachings, and that included Sunday as a day of rest. Couriers didn’t operate on the Lord’s day, so why was there a delivery man at his door?
Aside from the heavy accent, his eastern heritage was evident in his fair skin, blue eyes, sandy hair and high cheekbones. The man’s name was Miguel, according to his name tag, but Sam had his doubts. He also noticed the man’s shoes. Not the typical footwear of a delivery man. There wasn’t a mark on them—their black leather shining against the indoor lights.
How come there were no scuff marks on his shoes? Sam pondered. Surely on a day like today they would be muddy, but they weren’t. Sam’s intuition was sending off alarm bells. Something wasn’t right!
He grasped the pen a little harder than was necessary as he signed his name, clenching his left hand into a fist. His face began to blush profusely as a single trickle of sweat rolled down the side of his temple. His heart began to beat quickly, each thump louder and more forceful than the last, a jackhammer pounding out of his chest.
Sam watched as the man’s eyes widened in alarm. In that moment, Sam recognized the subtle signs of awareness. The expression on the man’s face remained unmoving, but his eyes told a different story.
A momentary flash of movement caught Sam’s attention. His gaze was diverted from the man’s eyes to a cylindrical glass object being swung toward him. Sam brought up his arms up in a feeble attempt to block the attack, but his reaction was too slow. He felt a syringe jab into the side of his neck.
The sudden prick felt like a bee sting, but Sam knew there would be more pain to come. The room started to spin as Sam strained to look straight ahead at his attacker; all he could see was a blurry outline of the man standing in the doorway, a black silhouette which remained unmoving and menacing. The needle stuck out from the side of his neck. He felt beads of blood, mixed with his own sweat, dribbled down the nape of his neck. The spinning room became enveloped by a darkness that numbed him from reality. He collapsed to the floor fighting to remain awake, but the contents of the syringe, now coursing through his veins, lulled him into a deep sleep, rendering him unconscious and defenseless on the floor.
The scuffle at the door had alerted Silver. The usually subdued animal became frantic in his attempts to scale the eight-foot high fence. One jump after the next, the wolf tried to clear the barrier. On his final vault, his front paws made contact with the top of the fence. Clinging precariously, the wolf used his hind legs to push off from it. The movement propelled him up and over until all four paws landed firmly on the other side.
Boris stood examining his handiwork. He smiled at how easy the job had been to pull off; he hadn’t even broken a sweat in the process. Compared to his other jobs, this one had been a walk in the park. He was used to carrying out orders that required him to kill someone, not drug them. The assignment had been easy so far, but it was far from over, as he still had to find the digital memory card, no bigger than the size of a dime. The drug would last an hour or less, so he knew that time was critical.
Taking out his mobile, he dialed a number and waited for someone to pick up.
After the first ring, a curt voice answered. “Do you have the package?”
“Negative, target is down, proceeding with the search.”
“Carry on,” the voice replied, “but be quick, I want to be home for dinner.”
“Affirmative,” Boris snorted.
He began his search in the most obvious places: desk drawers, computers, key chains, ledges, and shelves, but came up empty. He took his hunt to the next level, overturning chairs, ripping up mattresses, looking in every conceivable nook and cranny, but saw no sign of it. His greasy, pock-marked face glistened with perspiration as he continued to search. Subduing his target had been the easy part; finding the memory card was proving to be much more difficult.
He looked at the boy, his body sprawled across the floor, and suddenly remembered something. A spot he hadn’t searched and should have searched from the start. He went for the kid’s pockets but was stopped by a loud bang. Before he could turn around, Boris felt the heavy weight of a four-legged beast on his back. As fear registered in him, he felt the unmistakable piercing of fangs through his flesh. The hunter had become the hunted.
The wolf sank his fangs into the intruder’s neck. Spurts of blood sprayed out, covering the wolf and the intruder. Boris threw his arms up to act as a shield as the wolf continued with relentless savagery, attacking repeatedly. The creature was a ball of fury, teeth and claws, using his natural weapons to protect the boy on the ground. Boris scrambled to his feet and limped to the front door as the wolf continued the vicious assault. His shoe had been ripped off, and his blood-soaked foot hung from his leg at a grotesque angle. His Achilles tendon had been severely damaged, and the best he could do was shuffle out the door.
Once clear of the house, Boris realized the wolf was only interested in protecting the boy. When he reached the van, Boris opened the door, and dove in head first, expecting the wolf to follow at any second. He slammed the door shut, started the engine, and stomped on the gas pe
dal with his good leg. The engine sputtered to life. The wheels spun in place before they found traction, shooting the van down the pothole-riddled driveway. Barely conscious, Boris held onto the steering wheel with one hand while his other hand blocked a gaping neck wound.
CHAPTER 2
Ten Miles Down the Road…
The white delivery van sped down the narrow country road, swerving from side to side, coming dangerously close to going into the ditch. Inside the van sat Boris Galchenyak. The Russian strained to keep the vehicle on the road, drifting in and out of consciousness. He clutched his mobile in one hand as he continued to check the signal strength bar. He hadn’t seen any signal reception since he left the cabin, not even a hint of a bar. He couldn’t contact his team to give them an update on the situation, to tell them that he didn’t get the card. They were waiting for his call at a local roadside motel on the outskirts of Whitebush.
He knew that he had a small fraction of time to work with before the boy got help as he had severed all lines of communications into and out of the cabin. The boy could only go by foot and to his knowledge, the nearest house was miles away.
The van swerved recklessly, edging closer and closer to the shoulder of the road until it was churning over the loosely held gravel, going way too fast for a dirt road. It entered the ditch at an angle, continuing its forward momentum at breakneck speed until it hit the bottom where it clipped a telephone pole, knocking it down. The collision served to only slow the van down, not stop it, as it continued to bulldoze blindly through the thick underbrush, plowing through anything in its path until it came to a sudden stop. The impact of the van crashing into a century old maple threw Boris thirty feet from the point of impact, ejecting him from his seat like a pebble from a sling shot. The tree, as tall as a ten-story building and seven feet in diameter, stood defiantly erect, not damaged in the least. The van, however, was demolished.
Boris lay on the ground, coughing up blood. As he stared up at the sky through a thick canopy of tree branches, he wondered what had gone wrong on a day that had looked so promising. Smoke from the burning wreckage billowed into the sky as the ferocity of the flames engulfed the vehicle. His bleeding and battered body lay defeated. His neck was twisted at an awkward angle and both legs were shattered beyond recognition. Even though his body was a mangled mess, he still managed to maintain a firm grasp of his mobile, not letting go, as though it was an extension of his arm. Slowly raising his mobile to eye level and was surprised to see there was a weak signal reception. He pushed the speed dial and waited.
A voice answered. It was Sergei.
“Talk to me.”
With his body numb and his senses dulled, Boris spoke his last words.
He took in his final breath and muttered, “Mission failed, package has not been received. Get the boy, and you’ll get the card.”
The Russian’s eyes glazed over, and his body stiffened. He was dead.
CHAPTER 3
Sam opened his eyes, unsure as to where he was and why he was lying face down on the floor. He felt Silver’s wet nose nudge up against the side of his face followed by a soft growl. His eyes slowly found their focus as the blurry outline of the room came into view. He lay in a small pool of blood, its sticky residue congealed onto the floor. He brought himself to a sitting position. The room looked like a bomb had hit it; everything was turned upside down and strewn across the floor.
As he sat there, trying to absorb what had happened; the sequence of events came flooding back to him. He remembered the cold stare of the man’s eyes, the tattoo of a dragon sprawled down the side of his neck, the ensuing altercation, and the prick of a metal syringe being jabbed into his neck. Seconds later, everything had gone black and along with it, any knowledge of what happened next. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he realized the blood wasn’t his. It formed a jagged line of smeared streaks spanning the length of the floor to the doorway. He followed the trail outside to where it stopped at the edge of the driveway, just before a set of fresh tire tracks in the mud.
The blood had to have come from the assailant, thought Sam. How had the assailant sustained such a wound with so much blood? It wasn’t from his own doing as he hadn’t even managed to get his arms up in time to protect himself. If he didn’t cause it, then who or what had?
The answer came to him when he looked at Silver who was standing right beside him. Dried blood was caked around the wolf’s mouth. Silver had been in the backyard, Sam remembered, and after hearing the commotion at the front door, must have jumped over the fence to intervene.
“You saved my life, boy,” Sam said, tears welling up in his eyes.
He crouched down on one knee and hugged the wolf, burying his face in the animal’s mane. He was overwhelmed with emotion and tears flowed down his face. Sam willed himself to clear his mind and get back to the moment—suck it up and get on with it. He needed to figure out what had just happened.
Questions surfaced in his mind. What did this man want? He must have been searching for something judging by the mess he left behind. What was he looking for?
Sam stood for a while, staring down at his feet and the tire tracks, and then he remembered something. He sank his hands into the deep pockets of his hoody, contemplating all that had passed. Absently, he fingered a silver chain that had pooled in the bottom corner, his fingers tracing the outline of an eagle pendant. He pulled out the necklace and inspected the pendant, looking at the intricate design of the eagle.
Did he want the necklace? he wondered. Was that what he wanted, a cheap-looking silver necklace?
The necklace had arrived the day before in a crumpled white envelope addressed to “occupant” at his address. There wasn’t a note with it nor a return address on the envelope, so Sam assumed it was probably a mistake made by the sender. He had tried reaching Lawrence on his mobile to see if he might know anything about it, but there had been no answer. Lawrence often turned his phone off during these trips as technology was largely discouraged. Was Lawrence still up in Porcupine Mountain National Park? Although he should have been home yesterday, it wasn’t unusual for Sam’s guardian to return a day late.
At face value, it looked like any other trinket one would buy at a box store. He remembered the old saying he had adopted since his time in the woods: Things are not always what they appear to be. Never accept things at face value.
If this isn’t what it appears to be, then what exactly am I not seeing?
Looking closely at the eagle charm, he saw a minor variant in the design. It was something most people would have missed, but not Sam. He noticed a slight change in the contour of the pendant’s shape, barely visible to the naked eye. A tiny protrusion on the eagle’s talons appeared to be a latch of some kind. It was so small he couldn’t maneuver it with his finger. Instead, he used his fingernail, sinking the edge of the latch into his nailbed to flick it up. It opened after the fourth attempt. Inside, there was a memory card no bigger than the diameter of his index fingernail. He walked back inside the house and picked up the phone to dial Sheriff Joe but noticed there wasn’t any dial tone. The phone was dead.
To make matters worse, the internet connection was disabled, and his mobile phone was cracked, the screen black and unresponsive. This man wasn’t any ordinary run-of-the-mill thug. He was a professional. He knew what he was doing as he had successfully cut off all avenues of communication to the outside world. Sam would have to do it the old fashion way and seeing as he didn’t have a pigeon handy to carry a distress message, he would have to go by foot, or more accurately, by motorbike. The bright yellow 250cc four-stroke Yamaha was stowed away in the wooden shed twenty yards away, hidden under a canvas tarp.
His closest neighbors, the Barbers, lived ten miles away along the same road. They would have a phone available, but if they didn’t—it was possible as they were minimalists, the ‘anti-technology types’—he would have to travel the last five m
iles to town to get help.
Before he made tracks, he had to know what was inside the card that was so damn important. Surprised to see his laptop still worked, smashed screen and everything, he inserted the card. After a brief start up lag, the screen came to life. He clicked on file after file. Most showed complex chemical formulas, designs, and blueprints for what looked like a pipeline. Some of the data showed lists of US senators and mayors across different state lines with dollar amounts ranging from five hundred dollars to fifty thousand dollars listed next to each. At the top right-hand corner of each page, a logo of an oil well came into view. Embossed below it in blue and gray lettering were the words “Bluenose Energy”. The nature of their business wasn’t hard to figure out.
Whoever wanted the memory card would be back to retrieve it, and he had a sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t be so nice the second time around. For all he knew, he—or they—could return at any minute. A nervous tension started to build in the pit of Sam’s stomach, wearing down the effects of the drug like a jolt of caffeine. He looked out the window and surveyed the property for anything suspicious. Seeing nothing, he returned his attention to the memory card, removing it from his laptop and reinserting it inside the eagle pendant. He put the necklace around his neck, tucking it underneath his shirt for safekeeping.
Luckily for Sam, he had Silver on his side; so far, the wolf had been quiet, a good sign that the intruder hadn’t yet returned. In the event danger was within earshot of the cabin, the wolf would have let out a low, warning growl.
Silver usually had a propensity to sense danger from miles away before it ever surfaced into a formidable threat. Silver had saved his life and that of Lawrence’s on more than one occasion from bears, cougars, and wolves. And now, from humans.
Sam retrieved his rucksack and stuffed it to the brim with supplies: an extra set of clothes, energy bars, a knife, matches, and compass. With his bag packed, he was about to exit the cabin when a note written on Bluenose Energy letterhead pinned to the bulletin board by the front entrance caught his eye.
