Juneau to Kenai

by Debra Dunbar

  I descended down the mountainside into the mist, feeling the drops of rain bead on my fur. The brush snagged at me as I walked by, trees waving as the wind picked up and the rain increased. Even at this pace I’d be back home late tomorrow. There were still chimera to hunt down, the weekly meeting with the sheriff, and the pack mud-races to finalize. I needed to get Sabrina more involved in leadership—that had become clear. I was young, but if that rift had gone somewhere else, the pack would have needed her to step right into my shoes. And Zeph too. Anything could happen and I didn’t want the pack to fall apart just because I’d met an untimely death.

  I was so lost in thought that I almost missed hearing the noise from deep in the brush. It was a sort of whine-moan. It was the sound of an animal dying. I couldn’t let an animal suffer, so I headed into the briars, following the sound. I was sure the animal could hear me coming, but anything in that much pain wouldn’t take notice. The next cry I heard ended on a growl and the hair went up on my neck as I recognized the sound.

  It was a bear—a grizzly. A shifter grizzly. Could this be the missing bear? If so, then where had he been for the last week? I doubted he’d been lying in the bush injured for that long. Anything that would take seven days to kill a shifter would be something we could heal on our own. If he’d fallen over a cliff, or gotten in a fight, he’d either die right away or he’d heal.

  An injured grizzly shifter wasn’t something I wanted to mess with, but I couldn’t just walk away and leave someone to die alone, so I went forward, making as much noise as possible. Far enough away that he couldn’t reach me, I shifted, rushing the process. Once I was human, I walked closer, separating the thorny briars to see a huge grizzly stretched full length on the ground. He’d trampled everything within a ten square foot area, and clearly had been thrashing around at one point. Right now he was rigid, his teeth bared and his eyes wide.

  “I’m Brent Phillips, Alpha of the Juneau pack. I’m here to help you.”

  At my words the eyes shifted, an outstretched paw flexed showing eight-inch long claws.

  “Where are you hurt? Can I touch you?”

  The grizzly twitched a paw and whined, his tongue licking his nose. I wasn’t sure if that was a yes or no since I’d had minimal contact with grizzly shifters in their animal form, but I figured any mauling he did at this point wouldn’t kill me. I walked slowly over to him, making soothing noises as I ran my hands over his fur. He was a big guy, so it took me a while to find it, but I felt the blood on his leg and traced it up to the wound on his hip. He’d been shot, but obviously it hadn’t been with a normal bullet.

  Getting shot hurt like a mo-fo, but it wasn’t a death sentence. Our bodies expelled the bullet then healed. Didn’t matter whether we were shot in the heart or the hip, we healed. Head was dicey. Depending on what part of the brain was damaged a shot to the head could kill us, but it was a rare occurrence. And contrary to legend, we didn’t have problems with silver. A silver bullet would do no more damage than any other metal.

  But this smelled foul. It had a sickening sweet odor to it—a chemical odor. It reminded me of the odor tranquilizer darts gave off, but this wasn’t the same, and animal tranquilizers didn’t affect us. What in the world was on or in this bullet? And who had shot this man?

  I felt a paw on my arm and looked over to see the grizzly watching me, his claws gently touching my skin.

  “Do you want me to try to get it out?” I was guessing his body hadn’t expelled the bullet if he was still not healing. When had this happened? How much of this chemical had been introduced into his system? And why hadn’t he shifted?

  The bear nodded. Digging in my saddlebags I pulled out a hunting knife and parted the hair around the wound, praying that this bear didn’t lash out at me in pain for what I was about to do. With a deep breath, I cut into his flesh, digging with fingers and knife to find the bullet. It was in deep, and the slimy feel of it against my fingers made me want to wretch. I eased it out, then stood back to wait for the bear to heal.

  Instead he shifted. It was horrible to watch his bones twisting and muscles contorting. This wasn’t normal, and after fifteen minutes, a half-man/half-bear lay on the ground, the wound in his hip still not healing.

  “He shot me,” the shifter told me in between gasps. “Shot me. I ran. I got away before he could finish me off.”

  Had a hunter mistaken this guy for an actual grizzly? But if so, the shifter would be healing from a bullet wound and pissed as all get-out. Plus, I didn’t know of any hunters who’d be hunting for bear with these weird bullets.

  “They killed Charlie last week, I’m sure of it. I came here to look for him and I found them. And they shot me.”

  He was rambling, sweat coating the parts of him that were skin. I smelled the cloying sweet odor of decaying flesh and realized that even with the bullet removed, this shifter wasn’t going to make it.

  “What’s your name? Do you know who shot you?”

  “Ian.” Every muscle in the bear’s body tensed and he let out a growl before continuing. “Two men. Guns. Traps. They killed Charlie, I know it,” he whispered.

  I leaned closer to hear him. “Hunters? They were shooting bear and you were in your grizzly form?”

  Ian shook his head. “I was in human form when they shot me. They’re not shooting bears, they’re shooting shifters.”

  I recoiled in shock. Tourists didn’t know about us, and we lived in harmony with the humans here in Alaska. Who would be so depraved as to hunt us?

  And who would be so stupid? My wolf snarled as blood lust swept through me. We were descended from angels but outside of a handful of special skills, we’d lost the majority of any angelic supernatural advantage. We’d become shifters, and as the generations passed, we found ourselves living a dual existence with an animalistic amorality barely kept at bay.

  Although having met a few angels and a demon or two, I wondered if the amorality wasn’t a trait that had held true through the millennia. We prided ourselves on holding it in check, on letting the human part of ourselves take precedence. But times like this, when I felt an injustice, when the need for revenge poured through me, I became more of an animal. I needed to protect my pack, as well as the other shifters in Alaska. I needed to avenge Ian and Charlie.

  And I needed to protect Kennedy. She was with a shifter, and if whoever had shot Ian was still hunting in the preserve, he might set his sights on Leon. And he might not care if the human woman with the werewolf also died.

  As panicked as I was about Kennedy, I couldn’t leave Ian, so I used some sticks and a tarp from my saddlebag to make a shelter from the rain and sat beside him. Just around nightfall the clouds cleared, the setting sun lighting them salmon-pink. As the sky grew dark, the insects sang. Peepers from a nearby pond chirped. The breeze shifted, bringing the scent of bluebells and fireweed. Night was warm and damp, the air full of the sounds of spring. And right as the morning sun peeped over the top of the mountains, Ian drew his last breath.

  Chapter 7

  Kennedy

  I awoke to a foggy mist that hung over the lake and obscured the mountains. Breakfast was short and we quickly broke camp, unsure how much paddling we’d get done before needing to head back to land. In preparation, I put on my slicker and made sure my pack had the rain shield up. Good thing too, since two hours into the five hour water portion of our day the skies opened up and a deluge of rain poured on us. Even with a brimmed hat, it was hard to see. I just kept Leon in view and powered through it, thinking this was the most miserable thing I’d ever paid good money to do.

  We lunched under a tree that did nothing to keep the rain off us. Even with the slicker I was wet, my fine hair plastered to my neck. Water dripped off the brim of my hat and rolled down my back. Calling it a day, we pulled in the rafts and made camp, forgoing any attempts at making a fire and getting our tents up as quickly as possible.

  I stripped out of my wet clothing and dove naked into my thankfully dry sleeping bag,
dozing to the sound of rain on my tent. When I woke, the sunset was lighting up my tent with a faint pink, and the rain had stopped. Digging some dry clothes out of my pack, I dressed and hauled the wet ones out of the tent to drape across tree limbs. With any luck they’d dry by morning. Or possibly be frozen stiff.

  “Started a fire. Do you mind tending it while I take a little walk?”

  Leon’s hair was a tousled mess, his face creased from where he’d lain on his sleeping bag. My stomach growled and I eyed the fire. I’d taken my prosthetic off and was hobbling around on my collapsible crutches. Leon could take a stroll while I made sure the fire kept going. It would give me time to grab a quick snack and don my leg. When he got back, I’d go out for a bit and stretch my own muscles.

  “Sure. Want me to start dinner?”

  He nodded. “They’re instant, so just heat water. And coffee would be a good idea. I filtered some water over by my tent for you to use.”

  I waved him off with one of my crutches and headed back to set another log on the fire and put a pot of water on to boil. By the time I had my leg on, the coffee was ready and we had hot water for breakfast. Leon was still not back. He’d been gone a long time for a number two. I debated going to find him and dealing with the embarrassment to interrupting a guy doing his morning business. I couldn’t imagine him getting lost, even if he weren’t a werewolf. How far had he gone? Maybe he just liked his privacy? Maybe he needed to walk a few miles to get the old digestion in gear?

  I was just getting ready to sit down for a second cup of coffee when I heard the gunshot. It was closer than I wanted a gunshot to be. Immediately I looked over to Leon’s tent. My first thought was that he’d needed to defend himself against a moose or bear while his pants were down, but I hadn’t remembered him taking the rifle.

  He hadn’t. It was right there propped against his tent. My stomach twisted with dread and I ran, snatching up the rifle on my way. It was loaded. I didn’t have time to grab any additional bullets, so whatever was in the gun would have to do.

  I ran through the brush, briars snagging at my pants as I wove in and out of trees and larger bushes, trying to figure out where the shot came from. It might be nothing, but my gut told me otherwise. A few minutes later I heard another shot and adjusted course, now sure I was heading in the right direction. About twenty yards out, I slowed, carefully watching my footfalls and listening. I heard the sound of heavy boots crashing through the brush, a growl, a triumphant “yeah.” As I came into view I saw two guys in camo giving each other a high-five. On the ground was a man—Leon, and he was in the process of shifting.

  I didn’t hesitate to chamber a round, take aim, and shoot to kill. I know that sounds extreme, but every bit of my army background screamed that these two guys were hostiles, that they’d shot Leon in his human form on purpose, and that they wouldn’t hesitate to take me down either. I’d been a medic, I couldn’t administer medical care unless the scene, which included both me and Leon, was safe.

  The guy dropped like a stone. I chambered another round, but the second guy was on the move, cursing as he hit the ground and frantically tried to aim his own rifle. He shot and it went wide of me by around twenty feet.

  I seethed with anger. These guys probably picked up a gun once or twice a year, and for some psychotic reason felt tough and macho blindsiding someone just walking through the forest. Well one if not both of those guys weren’t getting up again. If I finished stabilizing Leon and the dudes were still alive, I’d render minimal aid. Hippocratic oath and all that, but I wasn’t going to go out of my way to help people who gunned down another in cold blood.

  I shot again and missed, churning up a divot right where the guy’s shoulder had just been. He looked over at his buddy and decided to bolt, cowardly abandoning his friend and fleeing through the forest. As much as I wanted to chase him down, I was a doctor and now that the area was safe, Leon came first.

  I ran to him, chambering another round and keeping the rifle close. Feeling through his blood-soaked fur, I found two entry points—his torso and his neck. The neck wound was an in-and-out and beginning to clot. The torso wound was dire, bubbling blood from where I assumed a wolf’s lung would be.

  “Hang in there. I’ve got you,” I told Leon, yanking my shirt over my head and slapping it over the wound. I applied pressure and mentally calculated the distance back to the camp and my surgical kit.

  Yes, I had a surgical kit. After having to deal with injuries using a basic first-aid kit across the rift, I’d decided it would be wise to carry the tools of my trade with me. I’d bought supplies in Juneau and kept them in a nifty holder. But I couldn’t apply pressure to Leon’s wound and run for my surgical kit in the same time.

  But improvise was my middle name, so I wadded up my shirt and with one hand took off my belt.

  “Just hold still. I’m going to do a very light sort of tourniquet to keep you from bleeding too much. It won’t be so tight that you can’t breathe, okay? Then I’m going to run back to the camp and get my doctor’s kit. Did I tell you I’m a doctor? It’s your lucky day, Leon. If you were going to be shot, it’s good to have a trauma surgeon nearby.”

  By the time I’d finished talking, I’d secured the belt, pulling a pitiful whine from Leon as I rolled him slightly to ease the leather strap around his torso. Tightening it as much as I dared, I gave him a reassuring smile, then ran.

  I’d seen that look in his eyes so many times before that I’d lost count. Every single one of my patients had that same desperate, pleading, frightened expression. They didn’t need to say a word. I knew they were terrified. I knew they didn’t want to die. I knew they were putting every bit of faith in my ability to pull them through this. I was the one who stood between my patients and the grim reaper. I was the one who beat that scythe-bearing jerk back with my bare hands.

  I lost more than I won. All my years as an army medic and as a trauma surgeon, I’d learned that the reaper was a powerful foe. But every life I saved was a victory. Every life I snatched away from the bony hands of death made all those years of school and training worth it. Every one that I saved made up for all those patients I’d lost throughout the years.

  Tearing into the camp, I ransacked my tent and snatched both the surgical kit and a bottle of water. Leon hadn’t moved from where he’d been, but he looked relieved to see me.

  “You’ve got a wound in your neck, but I’m going to deal with the one in your chest first. I can’t see an exit wound, so I need to open you up, get the bullet out of there, and, more importantly, stitch everything up. I don’t usually operate without anesthesia, so I’m hoping that as a werewolf you can take this.”

  This was so unnerving. Throughout history surgeons had been operating with nothing more than a shot of whisky, and sometimes not even that, but I wasn’t used to doing a delicate operation with the patient potentially screaming and thrashing about. I seem to remember that in the Civil War, doctors had assistants to hold the patient still. I didn’t have that luxury, and I didn’t have time on my side, so I quickly shaved the fur around the entry wound, and made a careful cut.

  Nothing sanitized. Nothing to cauterize the wound. I’d been an army medic, but my job back then had been to stabilize the patient for transport to the actual surgeons. My surgery experience hadn’t been in the field, but I had the feeling Leon’s life was on the line. We were in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t like a Black Hawk helicopter was going to come out of nowhere to lower a stretcher. It was me, a handful of surgical tools, and a whole lot of prayer.

  Leon lost consciousness after the first cut, which made my job easier. I’d used all my clamps by the time I found the bullet lodged deep in his left lung, just missing his heart. After I removed it, I carefully stitched everything, wishing for a cauterizing tool, for more gauze, for an additional clamp or two. After I closed him up, I prayed that nothing broke open again and got to work on his neck.

  Why wasn’t any of this stuff healing? I’d seen Brent heal a
torn ligament within hours. He’d told me that werewolves could generally repair even the most serious of injury within a day. I would have expected to see clotting, to see new tissue growth, but there was none of that.

  The bad guy never came back. When I finished with Leon, I went to check on the hunter and wasn’t surprised to find him dead. By this point it was late morning. In a matter of hours my whole vacation had been turned on its head. Déjà vu. I might not be doing any hiking for the next two days, but sometimes life took a left-hand turn.

  Making sure that Leon’s heart rate and breathing were stable, I headed back to the campsite and grabbed a tarp. I was pretty strong, but I was still a five-foot-one-inch tall woman who weight one hundred and eight pounds. It might take me the rest of the day to safely move Leon, but I needed to get him back to the camp where we had a fire and water, and he could rest on a sleeping bag.

  I doubted the other killer would be back. His buddy was dead and I’d witnessed their murder. Plus, he knew I had a rifle and was a good shot. I couldn’t see him coming back to hunt me down for revenge. Cowards like him would just have kept running.

  Leon’s breathing was ragged when I returned to him, and his heart rate was a bit fast. I took his temperature the only way I could—up his butt. It was high, but I wasn’t sure what a normal werewolf temperature should be. Brent had always seemed warm to me, even when the outside air felt close to freezing, so maybe Leon’s was normal. He didn’t seem on the edge of death.

  Carefully easing him onto the tarp, I slowly dragged Leon through the brush, grateful that we were on fairly flat land and the rocks weren’t overly large. It took hours. Even with the cool temps, I was sweating like crazy by the time I made it back to camp, my altitude headache pounding its way through my skull. The fire was down to coals, so I stoked it and put on more wood, then checked Leon once more.

  He hadn’t regained consciousness. This whole thing wasn’t good. Gunshot wound, backwoods surgery. We needed to get out of here, and Leon clearly wasn’t in any condition to travel. I powered up my cell phone, and as expected couldn’t get a signal. Then I ransacked Leon’s tent, hoping that he’d brought a satellite phone. We’d always had them in the military, but lots of civilian outfitters didn’t. They were pricey, and required a costly purchase of minutes that expired. The other hiking groups I’d been with hadn’t bothered, but we’d never had any issue requiring an emergency medical evacuation.