Lycan

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Lycan Page 23

by John O'Brien


  I don’t know why I get this way at times. It’s like looking through a window and seeing a life I can never reach. I’m not even sure I want it, but I can feel the pull nonetheless. It may be that I know I can’t have it and so I see that life through rose-tinted glasses, imagining it to be something different than it really is.

  “You’re doing it again, aren’t you sir?” Gonzalez asks.

  I hadn’t noticed her approach.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I reply, watching the airliner touch down.

  Reversers roar across the airfield, momentarily drowning out the noise of the taxiing 130.

  “The same thing applies as last time we talked about it. That’s not a life that’s meant for the likes of us,” Gonzalez says.

  The airliner turns off the runway and taxis toward an empty gate.

  “Deep down, I understand that, but I feel the pull nonetheless. I don’t know if its peace in my spirit that I’m seeking or the feeling of safety.”

  “I get that sometimes as well, mostly after returning from missions. The lure of a calmer life, but honestly sir, I’m not sure that ‘calm life’ would last a week. I know that if I were on the other side, looking at the life here, I would probably be pining for this one in the same way,” Gonzalez says. “While we seek the peace of the other life, on the other side, I believe we’d be wanting the adventure of this one.”

  “Maybe. I’m not saying I would change anything. I feel fortunate for the experiences I’ve had, although not so much when I’m actually facing them—especially this last one. But when I get these feelings, I feel like some guy standing out in the cold, looking through a window and knowing I won’t be invited in, that I’ll never feel that warmth and security.”

  “If we were there on the other side all comfy and cozy, who would be out here keeping the monsters at bay? Besides, sir, we have our own family here,” Gonzalez responds.

  I pause for a moment. “That we do…that we do.”

  The taxi lights of the 130 wink out, the two engines shutting down as fuel is cut off leaving the whine of the engines and props winding down. I turn toward the Spooky shutting down, listen to the hydraulics of the rear ramp lowering.

  “Well, I guess we should go see what Mom has to say.”

  Gonzalez chuckles. “Mom? You two are dating. Isn’t that a little weird…sir?”

  “When we’re working, she’s mom. When we’re not, she’s not.”

  “Still weird, but it fits.”

  Chapter Nine

  Walking up the back ramp and crowding into Lynn’s “office,” we look through videos of the engagement. From all accounts, it appears that the pack totaled nearly a hundred—much larger than we encountered on the logging road. It also looks like our gunfire was effective as we observe many that charge through the barrage slowly move back into the woods after being injured. The Spooky was effective as well, catching many in the rain of fire during their retreat. Nowhere during the entire fight on top of the bluff is there any sign of the Alpha.

  “I’m finding it difficult to understand how it and the others just showed up without warning. Lynn, did you see anything with the sensors or cameras on the south side?” I ask.

  “Negative. I’ve searched many times over. Nothing was tripped. Somehow, they must have known where the equipment was and maneuvered around our setup, possibly coming all of the way around and moving through the woods near the lake. Or they somehow missed every single one of them by a sheer stroke of luck,” Lynn responds.

  “I doubt it was luck,” Gonzalez states.

  “That would explain why we didn’t see it initially,” Greg says.

  “I’m doubting it was luck as well. If you look at it, the ramifications are staggering. It implies a much higher-level intelligence than we gave them credit for. We went in with the assumption that we were facing high levels of animal intelligence, but nothing like this. If they maneuvered as suggested, we’re not just dealing with cunning but the ability to tactically plan far beyond the capability of a normal wolf pack. That’s aside from them sniffing out the trap to begin with.

  “The implication here is that they, or the Alpha, manipulated the entire action to their advantage. The original attack may have had two purposes. One, to push through our defenses and take us by storm. If they couldn’t do that, it became a ruse to force us toward the Alpha’s position. The ones in the woods as we were descending could have also been a ruse designed to push us further south,” I comment. “That’s aside from the fact that they somehow knew we were there.”

  “Do you think setting up on the ledge was a mistake?” Lynn asks.

  “I think being anywhere in the area was a mistake,” McCafferty replies.

  “I think being up on the ledge actually saved us,” Gonzalez states. “We couldn’t be surrounded and it sure provided for a handy escape.”

  “You know, when you yelled for us to hold on, that you were coming onto the rope all fast and furious like, I thought you said, ‘dolt on the rope coming,’ which, now that I think of it, would have been a true statement as well,” Greg interjects.

  “Next time, I’ll hold off any warning and just let you wonder why you’re suddenly free floating with a rapidly increasing downward trajectory,” I reply. “Now, back to what Gonzalez said, I happen to agree. If we had to be on the ground, I think we chose our spot well, although perhaps not for the reasons that we thought we had,” I add.

  “At least the silver plating was effective. If not for that, even with the Spooky, we’d have been swept clean off that cliff. It was pretty touch and go as it was,” Greg says.

  “That’s true. But I erred by separating us like I did. That created gaps in our lanes of fire. We could have held them at bay longer had we remained together. They’re much faster than we had planned for, and smarter, and they were able to get close because of those gaps. But the silver-plated rounds did seem to do the trick. It took a lot to either kill or turn them away. And I’m not certain, but I believe some were killed without having to behead them or cut out their hearts. If we find ourselves in the same position again, we’ll need to remain in a tighter line,” I say.

  “And, we’ll need more ammo. I don’t know about anyone else, but I was damn near out,” McCafferty mentions.

  “Along with adding 45-round mags,” Denton adds.

  “I’d like to point out that the claymores halted their initial rush,” Henderson comments. “We’ll have to find out just how well when we return. I take it that we’re going back, right? Not only to see how effective our combined fire was, but to track them.”

  “That’s the plan, but not until the new moon,” Lynn answers. “For now, let’s focus on the after-action stuff first. You said that if you had grouped together initially, you could have held the pack off. Does that remain true if the Alpha had been present from the get-go?”

  “I think that’s a different story altogether. You saw how it could move. So no, I doubt we could have held it off,” I respond.

  Lynn nods. “It seems the Alpha is the main problem. So how do we take care of it?”

  “Lure it in and hit it with 105s or drop napalm on it,” McCafferty suggests.

  “We could locate it and drug it, like with an elephant tranq, although maybe their system would dispel it like the Strigoi,” Denton says.

  “Set another trap like the last one, this time without fencing, sensors, or cameras. Ring the entire place to be set alight—the fire will keep them penned in—and then blast the shit out of everything inside,” Greg states.

  “I’m not so sure we should go with the bait route again. They sniffed that one out pretty easily. Now, a tranq has merit. But that will be a tricky shot if the beast is on the move like it was. You saw it with your own eyes. I doubt there’s anyone alive who could make that shot without a whole bag full of luck,” I comment.

  “I’d like to mention my previous suggestion of flamethrowers,” McCafferty says.

  “You know, having been through that enco
unter and seeing what the Lycans are capable of, I’m not totally against that idea. It will slow down anyone carrying it and it won’t last very long, but I can see where it would be effective. Even against the Alpha,” I reply.

  “So, we carry them with us?” Greg inquires.

  “I think so. Or at least, when we’re on the ground for the weeks between the full and new moon,” I answer.

  “I’m pretty sure I know the answer to this one, but it has to be asked. What about silver-plated rounds for the Spooky’s 25mm?” Henderson questions.

  “I’m not sure how they would be more effective than what we currently have,” Lynn replies. “The 25mm rounds pretty much go through anybody they hit, kind of negating the effects of the silver.”

  “Okay. Now the question is, what are we going to do next?” Greg asks.

  “It’s late and we’re tired, at least I am, so I suggest that we discuss our future plans at a later date. But the job isn’t done. When the new moon comes back around, we head back to the plateau to examine it and attempt to locate their tracks. We have until the next full moon to come up with something.”

  * * * * * *

  As the two weeks go by, we discuss another plan, but can only come up with a couple of terrible options. One is to stage another trap, this time taking even more care, although I’m not sure that is possible. The fire trap is discussed, along with presenting ourselves as the bait. However, I feel that our best possibility lies in tracking them to their lair if they have one—or at least some point of origin. After all, they don’t just materialize out of thin air…I hope. Unlike our first attempt at tracking, if they manage to evade us again, we’ll have more time to conduct a wider search.

  Finally, the time arrives for us to head back into the mountainous area near the lake. We had transferred our entire operation to Mountain Home Air Force Base, trading our hotel rooms for ones on base. As we settle onto the plateau, downwash pushes empty shell casings along the stony surface, some rolling over the edge to plink down the rock wall. Cleanup crews will arrive later in the day to do what they do, but we wanted to wait on that to preserve the area.

  Lighter marks mar the rocky surface, carrying the scars of our engagement. Beyond, the dirt of the ground is churned like a newly plowed field. Branches litter the area near the tree line and the trunks themselves are deeply scarred. Many are fractured and splintered, the tops lying on the forest floor. Some have toppled altogether, others lean drunkenly against those still standing.

  As I step off the helicopter, downwash whips my clothing. We begin to scout the area. We only have our usual weapons, having left the snipers, tranq guns, and other equipment back at base. We still haven’t decided on a firm plan of action, waiting to see where our search leads before making a final decision.

  Sifting through the turned-up soil, we begin to find human parts: an arm here, the splintered remains of a leg there, a torso split with deep cuts. Amid the tangle of limbs and other debris stare heads with milky orbs. Apparently, the Lycans resolve back to their human form once they die. The entire area smells faintly of decay and other aromas prevalent around torn up bodies. We locate and mark various blood trails leaving the area for the cleanup crews to obtain samples. We don’t have any on record and we might find something in the workup to help us deal with them.

  I have to admit it feels a bit surreal to see the human bodies, knowing that we fought wolves that night. Throughout the search of the area, no bodies are moved or counted. The follow-on crews will take care of that, though I don’t envy them the task.

  Down in the meadow, the cattle we had fenced in and used as bait are now mutilated lumps of bone and flesh. Rib cages are scattered apart from the remains of other bones, some of the larger ones snapped cleanly in two, the fractured ends splintered. There’s barely any meat remaining, only a few strips still clinging tenaciously to bone.

  The meadow near the lake is pocked with craters filling with puddles, wet dirt flung wide distances. Similar downed and scarred trees mar the northern perimeter. I’ve walked a few modern battlefields, and this one certainly fits the bill. Bodies aside, if anyone happened upon this remote place, they would probably run thinking they had stumbled on an artillery firing range.

  Circling the meadow, McCafferty eventually finds the Alpha’s paw prints leading away and deeper into the forest. The trail isn’t difficult to follow as it is surrounded by the tracks of the others, either traveling in tandem or carving parallel trails nearby. As we follow, deep in the shadowy recesses of the forest, there comes the occasional scrabbling of squirrels up tree trunks and along limbs, the flitter of a bird winging its way through the upper branches or taking refuge in bushes lying close to the ground. But mostly it’s a hushed quiet with only the softly sighing breeze across the tops of the trees, the scent of evergreens hanging in the air. Occasionally, the sun’s rays warm our shoulders as they filter down to the forest floor.

  Warily, we track the Lycans, working back up the ridge and into steeper terrain. From time to time, we spot trails of the others breaking off from the main one. The climb is tough and scaling the rough terrain is slow-going. At times, the trail vanishes as it heads over rocky ground and ledges, the Lycans using the same trick as they did by the river. We have to circle the area, looking for the reemergence of the trail. Once found again, we head onward as the sun wends its way toward the western horizon.

  As the day settles toward evening, we mark our location and find our way to the nearest clearing to be airlifted out, only to resume the next day. For days on end, we traipse through the wilderness, climbing ridges and descending into valleys. At times, the trail abruptly changes direction. Following, we find the remains of deer and elk, their bones scattered with little meat left, the main wolf tracks meeting up with others.

  The trail becomes harder to follow, but we always find some evidence of their passage. Tracking each day’s movement, it appears that the Lycans are meandering, on the hunt for food. Up and down the hills, the going each day slower than the one prior as we spend more time searching.

  Overhead, Lynn scours the countryside in search of the hunting packs, taking the Spooky up at night to locate heat sources. She has no success finding any trace of them and I’m dumbfounded as to why. The forests are thick, but surely the wolves must show some kind of sign at some point. We discuss the issue and the only thing I can figure out is that they may hear the aircraft or get some sixth sense, perhaps even holing up in caves until it passes.

  One day, the trail changes direction as it has done in the past, but there’s no meandering or searching nature as we’ve previously encountered. It seems to make a bee line through the wilderness that leads us to another river. There, the old trail ends at the banks in the exact manner as before. We traipse up and down the waterway unable to find any continuance, even with a wide search of the entire area. Again, for all intents and purposes, they seem to have vanished into thin air.

  As the six of us trudge toward a clearing for pickup, I ponder just how they managed to do it yet again. They could have just stayed in the water far beyond where we searched before exiting. They’re definitely smarter than we gave them credit for. The initial lost trail, being able to detect the trap and pull back, finding us atop the bluff when we took all precautions, setting up their own trap, and then this here. That speaks of something beyond a normal animal intelligence. And then there’s the fact that they are able to sustain tremendous amounts of damage and still function, much like the Strigoi.

  Back at the base, we overlay our route on a map of the area. Focusing on the last trail that bee-lined its way toward the river, I pencil a directional average past the waterway, allowing for an exit far above or below where we lost the trail. Now, given the great efforts they made to cover their trail, I know they could have backtracked or headed off in an entirely different direction. However, when I put in the route up the first river until we lost all sign, the lines converge in a very remote section of the National Forest. It might
prove to be false, but it’s at least something.

  We still have several days before the full moon, so there’s time to conduct a fairly lengthy search. If we can find out the location of their lair, we’ll gain an advantage. McCafferty’s idea of napalming them comes to mind.

  The Lycans have to spend half of their time in human form, someplace where they have shelter. The winters up here are bitterly cold and they’d have to have some way of remaining warm and fed. I can’t help but think that means a community, even though we’ve found nothing along those lines.

  I don’t know for sure, but I imagine that they remain in the woods when they become human. Otherwise, upwards of a hundred vehicles would be pretty easy to spot, and I can’t see them riding horses in unless they’re rich enough to lose two each month per person. I also seriously doubt there’s some kind of Lycan bus service out here. No, they’re out there somewhere full time, living as both wolf and human.

  * * * * * *

  The Blackhawk sets us down near where the estimated lines converge, and we begin our march through the valleys and across ridges in a grid search pattern. Our hope is to come across some sign of their passage and eventually locate their den. This whole search thing we’ve been doing that has now lasted for weeks isn’t at all what I imagined. I figured we’d locate them a whole lot easier and use our specialized firepower to take them down.

  Instead, this has turned into a hunt for guerilla forces, with these being much more intelligent and harder to locate. The mission so far has been long periods of nothing followed by moments of intense action—a far different experience than with the Strigoi. I’ve tracked many such forces in the past and can’t for the life of me figure out how we could have lost the trail. The way these Lycans are using terrain is like nothing I’ve ever seen.

  Around noon, we find ourselves perched at a ridge overlooking a deep valley protected on all sides by similar steeply rising forested slopes. I sit on the stony surface with my back to a boulder warmed by the sun, absentmindedly spooning an MRE. At one end of the long and wide oval-shaped valley, a waterfall pours over a drop, plummeting into the basin. Mist hangs at the bottom where the water pounds the surface of a deep pool, a rainbow forming in the sprays. From the other end of the pool, a river flows tumultuously over stones, vanishing from sight in the thick boughs of the forest covering the valley floor, periodically making a brief appearance.

 

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