Wolfen

by Alianne Donnelly

  He was sweet talking a truck. For a baffled minute, Sinna almost forgot she was feeling sick. Then Aiden swerved onto a sidewalk to get around a row of cars and hit the curb so hard, Sinna pitched forward and slammed her head on the dash.

  “Whoa! You okay?”

  “Ow.”

  “You gotta ride it out,” Aiden said, wriggling in some sort of Zen-surfer hula dance. “Watch the road. Anticipate the road. Move with the road.” He sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Appreciate the sweetness that is not having to walk your cute little ass all the way to Montana.” He gave her a pointed look, adding, “You’re welcome.”

  For all the jokes and silliness, Aiden never once dropped his guard. He watched the streets like a hawk, even with Bryce acting as lookout, and no matter how convoluted their path sometimes felt, Sinna knew he was keeping them on course in a general easterly direction.

  As far as companions went, Sinna couldn’t have found better ones. Though nausea kept Sinna’s mouth shut, Aiden had no such issues. He talked. A lot. He told her stories of his trip here with Bryce, and that the entire world wasn’t dead like San Francisco. There were still plenty of places where life thrived. Nature always found a way. He schooled her on hunting techniques and told her how to fish in a river. In fact, he kept her so well distracted from her misery, when the sun came out, Sinna realized she wasn’t sick anymore. Dead tired, sure, but no longer nauseated.

  They drove for hours without stopping. At first, Sinna watched the scenery change, smiling when dead, dry grass gave way to a lush forest and mountains. But then the effort to keep her eyes open became too great and she drifted off, rocked to sleep in the weirdest vehicle ever created, Aiden’s voice fading into a pleasant drone.

  She woke with a start some time later to find they’d stopped. Still shaking off the haze, Sinna sat up. They’d parked in front of a small convenience store; more of a shack, really. There was nothing else around except that one building and a gas pump torn out of the ground. Aiden and Bryce were piling sticks onto a small campfire by the entrance, heads bent together, talking quietly.

  The gun was heavy in her lap. She wanted nothing to do with it, but walking out into the open without protection was just plain stupid. Sinna clipped the holster to her waistband, feeling like she was packing away a live grenade, and fumbled with the truck door to get out.

  The brothers looked up at her at the same time. Aiden smiled and came over to help open the convoluted mechanism of a door, while Bryce got the duffel out of the back.

  “Hey, look who’s up,” Aiden said. “How’re you feeling, little bit?”

  “Better,” she said. “Where are we?”

  He shrugged. “Who cares? We’re heading in the right direction, that’s all that matters to me. You hungry?”

  Her stomach emitted a growl so loud, she half-thought it would echo.

  Aiden grinned.

  Bryce emptied the contents of the duffel onto the back seat. He must have looted that house like there was no tomorrow. There were clothes, a couple of towels, even a teddy bear. He’d found a bunch of cans and utensils, too, and he’d had the foresight to pack a cooking pot.

  Aiden shook his head. “You’ve got a hoarding problem, bro.” He shouldered his way closer so he could inspect the take, and grumbled something about pack rats and winter.

  Bryce ignored him. He took the pot back to the fire, and used a huge bowie knife to open the cans, mixing chili, beans, and sweet corn into the pot. She watched him manipulate both knife and pot with the same practiced efficiency. No muss, no fuss. Get the job done and move on.

  “Is it safe to be cooking out here?”

  Bryce shrugged.

  Aiden, with his head halfway into the duffel said, “I’m not worried.” He pulled himself out and turned to Bryce. “I can’t believe you packed a skiing hat, but didn’t take that bottle of Jack from the kitchen table.” He was currently wearing said hat, earflap tassels dangling. “You break my heart, B. You break my heart.”

  “I am not replaying last week’s Old Man River with you,” Bryce returned, glaring daggers.

  “Seriously,” Sinna interjected, “I’m not sure it’s smart to put all of those yummy scents in the air.” But the argument held no weight at all, not with the way she stared at the pot and tripped over the words. Her mouth was watering and dinner hadn’t even been warmed up yet. God, it smelled so good. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had anything other than cold canned mush to eat. This was a total feast for the senses, and she had to school herself not to attack that pot like a rabid animal.

  “Nah, we’re good,” Aiden said, offhand. “Nature’s your weather vane. There’s insects and bird songs here; not likely too many converts.”

  Now that he mentioned it, the wild things out here were making an awful lot of noise. If she focused on them, the sounds got so loud, it staggered her. Sinna hadn’t heard anything like it in far too long.

  “Now cougars and bears, on the other hand…”

  Sinna wasn’t listening. Bryce swirled the pot’s contents around as he added water, and the mixture hissed and sizzled, filling the air with a heavenly aroma that made her sway on her feet. It all felt like a dream again. No one in his right mind would cook so much food at one time in reality. Not in her experience, anyway. Food had to be rationed; you never knew when or if you would find more.

  What was taking so long?

  “Hey.” Aiden’s voice at her ear made her start so badly, she squealed. “You wanna go check if there are any bowls in that shack?” He sounded oh-so amused. “Don’t worry, we won’t start without you.”

  The idea of letting the pot out of her sight went against her every instinct. Still, she nodded and forced herself inside the store to loot for anything useful—as she should have done the moment she’d gotten out of the truck. The promise of a hot meal made her work quickly, scanning the shelves and racks with an expert eye.

  The small store didn’t look like it had sustained much damage, but there weren’t many useful materials—maps, dust, a handful of bloated and ruptured prepackaged food items. That was about it. There was some camping gear in a small, tucked-away corner, and Sinna took a drawstring pack, loaded it with a couple of utility knives, some rain ponchos, and collapsible plastic drinking cups. She grabbed some stainless steel eating bowls with utensils already packed in, too. Exactly three—how lucky for them.

  Bryce smiled in approval when she tossed her loot in with everything he’d taken from the house.

  Aiden was less than thrilled. “Dude, come on!”

  Sinna ignored him. Back inside the store, she took the tripod stools and strutted back out to the brothers.

  Aiden stared at her as she put down the bowls and unfolded the stools. He leaned over to Bryce and asked, “What is she doing?”

  Sinna nudged him with her knee and gave him a stool to sit on. “You wanted bowls, I did one better. We are going to eat like civilized human beings.”

  He looked at the stool as if it would bite. “I don’t need a pointy hat.”

  “Aiden, I spent way too long shoveling food into my mouth with my fingers,” she said, brokering no arguments. “I need this. Humor me.”

  “You do realize I am two hundred and seventy pounds of muscle, and one of my ass cheeks will snap that thing in half, right?”

  Bryce rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He took the stool from Sinna and gingerly sat, settling his weight on it by degrees. When the stool didn’t break, he grinned triumphantly.

  “You look ridiculous.”

  Sinna had to admit, the big guy sitting on a teeny-tiny stool did look a little silly, but at least he was off the ground, which was the whole point. “Now you.” She handed Aiden another stool.

  He huffed, he puffed, but in the end, he sat like a human being.

  Proud of her accomplishment, Sinna loaded up the bowls and handed each of the brothers a hearty portion before serving herself.

  Bryce dug right
in. Aiden had to convince himself—out loud—of the merits of this fine dining experience. Sinna let him talk and focused on her own meal instead, closing her eyes and breathing in the aroma, committing every detail of this to memory. The open air, the animals, the crackling fire, even Aiden with his exposition on how cavemen had it easy, eating mammoth meat with their bare hands.

  The first spoonful was so hot, it robbed her of any sense of taste. Sinna didn’t care. As soon as she swallowed, she became ravenous for more, and didn’t come up for air again until her bowl had been licked clean.

  “Nice,” Aiden said. “I like a girl with a healthy appetite.” His own plate was still half full.

  Sinna ducked her head to hide an embarrassed blush. So much for eating like civilized human beings. “I haven’t eaten this well in months,” she said.

  “Hey, I’m not judging. You eat as much as you want, right, B?”

  Without looking up from his own meal, Bryce grunted a reply. His dark hair shadowed the left side of his face and if she hadn’t seen the scars before, from this angle, Sinna never would have known they were even there. His right side was all smooth skin and stubble. He was actually very handsome when he wasn’t glaring death, and he’d already shown he could be very thoughtful. He’d found her clean clothes, for God’s sake, and it looked like he’d packed more of them before they’d left the house.

  It occurred to Sinna that there was a lot more to him than met the eye. Then something else dawned on her. “How did you get your scars?”

  Bryce froze, spoon halfway to his mouth, and the whole forest fell silent. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, but somehow that made him seem even more lethal than before. There was danger in every line of Bryce’s tense body. The spoon in his hand bent under the pressure of his grip.

  Sinna shivered, realizing too late how badly she had misstepped. “I’m sorry—”

  “We don’t talk about that,” Aiden said.

  “I didn’t mean to pry. I just meant… My bullet wound didn’t scar. How come your wounds did?”

  “We scar when a wound takes too long to heal over,” Aiden told her, his usual good humor gone. Every word he spoke was sharp and curt, warning her to drop the subject.

  She should. It was obviously a sore one for both of the brothers.

  But that was just it. They acted so tough, so completely invincible. Nothing could touch them, nothing bothered them.

  Except, apparently, Bryce’s scars.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, and left it at that.

  10: Bryce

  There’s food in my bowl, and it looks so much like mud and blood, my stomach turns. I smell fire, hear Aiden call my name. The old anger boils up; the terrible, mindless violence of a beast that’s slipped its leash. It renders me deaf and blind. I tell myself, Push it back. Breathe. It’s over.

  It doesn’t work.

  “How did you get your scars?” she asked so innocently.

  They’re only words, but they drag up too much of the old and I can’t swim myself to the surface. Fragments of memories snatch me into their midst, and I am gone.

  Time bucks, folds under the pressure of those scars. Not the ones on my face. The ones on my soul. A wormhole opens up beneath my feet, and I fall headlong into it, back in time.

  I am in hell.

  Montana, an unfinished den built aboveground for better assimilation. Converts are well on their way to taking over the United States, moving on Canada and Mexico. The president blew his own brains out last week after spiking his family’s dinner with arsenic when the monsters started prowling around the White House. Emergency services are suspended. Cities are falling, one by one. It’s chaos out there, and anarchy in here.

  There used to be a chain of command in the den. Now, with communications disrupted, it’s every man for himself. The whitecoats have been relegated to the labs. Might makes right, and the mercenaries they hired to protect them are running the show. Aleissi appointed himself commander in chief. He and his cronies are keeping close tabs on the other humans. Even closer on the Wolfen.

  They have us segregated—males on one side of the den, females on the other. We can scent each other, hear what goes on, but we can’t see, can’t talk, can’t touch. Aiden is livid; he roars every time he hears the females scream at night, and punches the wall when he doesn’t—he knows that’s when the curs find some way to keep them quiet. There are bloody fist prints covering that wall. I can’t stand the sight of them.

  Aiden snarls at me. He wants to know how I can just sit there and do nothing. He doesn’t understand. He can’t. He’s not one of Aleissi’s chosen battle dogs.

  Aleissi is a sick bastard. The moment he took his place on top, he started cherrypicking his hoard. He has the best quarters, the heartiest food, the most exotic pets. A Wolfen female is chained to the foot of his bed right now. Her name is Gabby, and she’s only seventeen years old. No one has seen her since she was brought to him, but we can scent her and her blood often enough.

  Gabby is his toy for private time. In public, he has others. Aleissi likes to play scientist, adapting the whitecoats’ tests to be more entertaining. He has Wolfen beaten, cut up, and stabbed, so he can watch them heal, then does it all over again. He has them waterboarded to see how long it takes them to drown. He knows we can’t regrow body parts—he’s tested that a few times, too, to make extra sure—but if he flays us, our skin does mend. He can burn us, and we will recover. He can even gouge out our eyes and somehow, if he leaves just enough behind, we can mend that, too.

  The battle dogs are his pride and joy—Wolfen who have shown exceptional aptitude for combat; those who fight like hell to get at human throats. He likes to pit them against each other, to fight like the animals they think us to be.

  Humans know we won’t kill each other.

  They also know we’ll do whatever the fuck they tell us, if we see them hurting a female. Oh, yes, they learned that lesson in record time. Aiden doesn’t know. Most males don’t, because those of us Aleissi picks for the arena don’t talk about why we come back half-dead and shaking with fury. There’s no point; nothing the others can do, except fret.

  Yesterday, the humans got their hands on a crate of hard liquor. I hear them talking about it. They’re planning something big, a reaping day or some shit. They keep saying things like “blood bath,” and “bitchin’ good time,” and it’s all I can do not to reach through the bars of my cage and try to claw someone bloody. They’re too far. I’d only provoke them into using the cattle prods again, and it wouldn’t be my hide feeling the zap.

  I don’t sleep during the night; too wired to close my eyes. I hear Aiden in the next cell over twitch and moan in his sleep. We’re kept like animals in a pound. They tour us like attractions at a zoo, and if you have something valuable to trade, you can even buy some one-on-one time with one of us. Hate is not an emotion for Wolfen anymore. It’s a state of being.

  We were made to be so much more than humans. That’s why they treat us this way. They know the moment we feel an instant of power, we’ll never be brought to heel again. It terrifies them.

  It should.

  Morning dawns in a magnificent glory of bright light. Our cages are out in the open, exposed to the elements. We freeze in the night, and burn during the day, but in between, when the sun comes up and goes down again, we get a front row seat to a sight like no other. That sun is our salvation.

  Today, it feels like a bad omen.

  The humans rise early. They come around, sloshing bowlfuls of gruel onto the ground in our cells, expecting us to lick it up. I don’t touch it, dreading what’s to come. I can hear them in the arena. A crowd’s gathering, cheering in a rhythmic chant. The scent of liquor and piss fills my nose, and I feel sick.

  Then the armed guards come, banging their batons on the cell bars—an unspoken order to approach the door and turn my back. If I don’t comply, they’ll shoot me full of lead and force the issue. Then I’m at a disadvantage in the fight.
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  I back up toward the cell door. My hands are tied behind me and a wire loops around my neck. If I pull too hard, it tightens and cuts. Pull a little harder, and my head ends up rolling on the ground.

  Once they have me secured, the door opens and I am led out. I pass Aiden’s cell on the way. He’s on his feet, gripping the bars, growling. He might not know what I’m being taken to, but he knows it’s bad, and he can’t do anything about it. Easy, big brother, I want to tell him, but the wire around my neck keeps me quiet. Aiden hates being helpless. I’m kind of getting used to it, which makes me hate myself instead. I can’t remember the last time I bothered fighting the humans on anything. I’m tired of fighting and watching others get punished for my mistakes. It’s so much easier, safer for them, if I comply.

  The stands are overflowing. The den doesn’t have enough humans to fill all of those seats, which means they brought in an audience for this fight. I’m shoved into the arena and my binds are unclipped. The shackles stay, though, and guards lock them to long chains on either side of me. I frown at this.

  The wire is removed from around my neck, and then the guards run for their lives.

  I stand perfectly still.

  When the door opens across from me, I hold my breath, waiting to see which of my pack they’ll pit against me this time.

  Then my opponent struts in, and I gape. It’s none of them. It’s a human. The crowd goes wild, stomping their feet, chanting his name: Mon-ty! Mon-ty! He raises his arms in salute, soaks up the accolades, and amps up the spectators. He comes to within five feet of me and never once bothers to glance my way.

  I tilt my head at this, start forward, and almost get a good hold on his throat, but not fast enough. The chains pull taut, bring me up short.

  Now I have his attention.

  Monty’s surprise is quick to fade. He laughs in my face and backhands me with all his might. It hardly makes an impression on me. I grin savagely, flashing a fang. This is going to be fun.