Pack

by Mike Bockoven

  NO

  Up off the ground and angry at the fall, the Young Wolf was now in the back of the pack, struggling, striving to make up any ground he could. The White Wolf was the slowest and was breathing heavily when the Young Wolf passed him without acknowledgment. The Large Wolf was next, and he received a snarl and a small, unconvincing snap as he passed. The Young Wolf was big, but the Large Wolf could have knocked him off course easily. He did not. Ahead of him was the Thin Wolf and his father. They showed no signs of giving ground if they could help it. The three wolves at the head of the pack ran without changing ground for a short time with the Young Wolf not losing steam, but starting to feel the pull of fatigue on his limbs.

  The desire to stop became stronger and stronger and just as the Young Wolf was surrendering and slowing down, the scent of blood filled his nostrils again, this time accompanied with a faint sound of the deer’s heart as it thumped faster and faster, desperately trying to lose the hunters that were so close on its trail. The sound of the heartbeat locked the Young Wolf’s brain like a vice and he pushed himself harder and harder, making his strides longer and growling with genuine aggression as he passed the Thin Wolf, who made a slight bow with his head and dropped back. The fatigue gave way to the hunt and all the rest of the smells and sounds battling their way into the wolves’ heightened senses gave way to the hoofbeat of their prey.

  The Lead Wolf and the Young Wolf were even now, with the deer just feet away, pumping its legs in fluid motions and gliding over obstacles the forest had placed in its path. The wolves smashed through them, wood splintering, dirt flying off the back of their paws. The deer ran down a slight ravine and kept going, which gave the hunters the opportunity they needed. They both leapt through the air, silhouetted by the sun, low and huge on the horizon, and landed on the deer, the Young Wolf near the head and the Lead Wolf by the haunches.

  The Young Wolf was so frenzied that his teeth were in the deer’s flesh before he realized he’d missed the neck and bitten into the face. He ripped the flesh away causing the deer to make a half scream but its eyes were still very sharp and focused when the young wolf found the neck and began to bite. Behind him, the Lead Wolf had tasted blood, but stopped to watch his son, his back to the pack, tear at the neck and shake with a ferocity the pack had forgotten. He bit and the deer bled and died, its sharp eyes rolling back and its pain ending, long dead by the time the entire pack had gathered around. The scent gave way to physical fluid as blood poured over the young wolf’s face and down his throat, coating it with its viscous saltiness that wild hunters have known for as long as there has been a hunt.

  With the wash of blood, the Young Wolf felt a wash of pleasure and accomplishment unlike any he had ever known. If he could have put the feeling into words, he would have said he never felt more at absolute harmony with his body or his soul or the Earth. He was doing exactly what he was supposed to do and he had the bloody snout and the flooded throat to prove it.

  The howls began, softly at first, then louder as the circle of ancient and giant and experienced and new wolves screamed in their victory. The moon was barely visible through the light that was giving way to a darkening sky and the Lead Wolf joined the howl.

  Smeared in blood, his senses sky high, every beat of his heart pumping royal blood through his mighty veins, the Young Wolf at last raised his head from the carcass and howled the loudest of them all, bellowing to the forest and the state and the world one united message.

  Do not fuck with us.

  They reveled for a moment then, one by one, ran farther into the woods. There was more to do. They dispersed, but each one was in touch with the pack, each knew not to go too far. After they had taken their own paths, the Lead Wolf took a moment to watch his child enjoy the kill. It was a moment he was envious of and when he finally approached the Young Wolf, still face down in gore, and nudged him on the hind quarters, his message was simple.

  Miles to go before we sleep.

  The Young Wolf understood and before long they were off, the sun was gone and the wolves of Cherry, Nebraska, ran through the woods, hunting in the thick trees as darkness covered the land.

  •••

  Depending on the range and atmospheric conditions, the howls could stretch well into Cherry proper. Most of the residents ignored them but no one was more deaf than Chuck Nesbit. He was hard of hearing anyway and, by trade, everything was his business and nothing was.

  But the stranger at the bar, he sure as shit heard it.

  “You got wolves around here, do you?”

  Chuck was making a meal out of cleaning glasses because, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, the dude in front of him was interesting. Not that he would let him know that.

  The man was lithe and coiled, his leather jacket covering a frame that looked like it had a bit of muscle, but not much. He definitely wasn’t from around here and it wasn’t just his lack of denim or other fashion choices. He came at Chuck with an intensity he was not used to and had no idea what to do with.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Chuck said.

  “Oh yeah, you did,” the man continued. He had an Irish brogue but Chuck wasn’t able to identify it primarily out of ignorance.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, you fuckin’ do,” the man said. “That loud howling sound everyone just heard. Coming from outside. From wolves. Aooooooo, that noise. You follow me?”

  Chuck put down his cup, now thoroughly dry, and picked up another one.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “I’ve still got half a pint left, and don’t change the subject. I asked if you had wolves around here.”

  “Wolves, deer, squirrels, all sorts of things,” Chuck said, now actively avoiding the man’s intense eye contact.

  “I’ve never heard a wolf make a howl like that. That sounded like something else to me. Are you following?”

  “I’ve got to go do some dishes.”

  Without breaking the intense eye contact, the man reached over and knocked his beer glass onto the bar, spilling the contents onto the laminated wood.

  “Ah shit, sorry about that,” the man said. “Could you grab a rag for me please? I’d hate to leave smelling of beer, am I right?”

  Suddenly, Chuck didn’t find this guy interesting anymore and wanted nothing more than to get in the back and away from his company. He grabbed a rag and quickly tried to mop up the mess. Without warning and with staggering quickness the man grabbed Chuck’s arm and quickly applied pressure to his fingers. It wasn’t painful particularly, but the promise of pain was there.

  “Brother, listen to me. I know you’re the stoic sort but I need to find some very special people in this town and I know you know who I’m talking about. It’s the same people responsible for those bodies a week or so ago. The ones all ripped all to hell. Now I’m not going to hurt you but what you need to do is write a name on a piece of paper and give it to me. Do that and I’ll never darken your door again.”

  “What happens if I don’t?” Chuck said, suddenly defiant.

  “Then I’m going to stay for a few more drinks and we’ll see where the night takes us.”

  “Can I finish mopping up your mess first?”

  “Please, allow me.”

  The man with the leather jacket and the Irish brogue snatched the rag out of Chuck’s hand and went to work, leaving the barkeep dazed and more than a bit conflicted.

  “Just one name,” the man said. “I’m not here to hurt them, either.”

  “Bullshit,” Chuck said.

  “Your beer, your beer is the real bullshit. Watered down, light as fucking air. How you wash away your troubles without the benefit of a good, stout beer is beyond me.”

  He smiled and Chuck wrote the name “Kenny Rathman” on a napkin and nearly handed it to him.

  “You promise? He’s a pain in the ass but he’s a friend. I don’t mean to send him no trouble.”

  “My good man, trouble has al
ready found him,” the man said. “I’m trying to bail his ass out.”

  •••

  It was around 3:30 in the morning when the men started returning to camp, slowly and teetering from exhaustion, all of them breathing heavy. All except one.

  Dilly had done his best to clean up. When he came to, or “got back on the reservation” as Kenny Kirk had put it, he was grotesque. His body was fine, as far as he could tell, and he wasn’t all that achy from the transformation and every joint and bone seemed to be well back in place, but he was naked and covered with dirt and blood. There were some other substances as well that he didn’t think too hard about, opting, instead, for a quick dip in a shallow, mossy stream that ran near the campsite.

  Dilly was splashing water on his neck, doing his best to not freak out over what had just happened, when he realized his grandfather was in the creek as well.

  “Hell of a thing, huh, kid,” Willie said.

  “Yeah,” Dilly said, head down, knowing what he said was completely inadequate for the occasion.

  “I’ve got about three memories left floating around in this noggin, and one of them is my first scratch,” Willie said. “It was 1970, that or there about. Went down just about like this one. I was wobbly and shaky but I got the job done, believe me.”

  On the edges of the bank, Ron had found his footing and was walking upright, once again a slightly intimidating middle-aged man. Dilly tried hard not to look at his naked body, but caught a glimpse of Ron’s penis which was floppy and surrounded by coarse-looking hair.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Willie prodded. “Hell of a thing that just happened to you. My first scratch, I couldn’t stop talking about it.”

  “I bet you couldn’t,” Dilly said.

  “Ahhh, don’t give me that tone,” Willie said. “I’ll tell you this—I didn’t take down no lily-ass deer. Got me a buck my first time out. Those antlers make a world of difference, boy, believe me.”

  “I believe you, Grandpa.”

  “A deer,” Willie said, shaking his head, his white beard swaying. “Anyone can take down a deer. They’re fast is all. Hell, I’d have been disappointed if you didn’t kill a deer. I’d have been worried about having bringing you out with us.”

  “I’m starting to think the same thing about you.”

  Dave walked out from behind the bushes, chewing on one of his fingernails.

  “You were puffing pretty hard out there.”

  “Bullshit,” Willie said. “I was holding back because of the boy. We all were.”

  Physically, Dilly made no indication he’d heard. His posture changed just slightly enough for a father to recognize it. To degrade, belittle and generally be a giant asshole was Willie’s modus operandi and had been for as long as Dave had been alive. Criticism was the man’s life breath and ninety-nine percent of the time, easily dismissed. Dave had hoped against hope that he would tone it down for his son’s first run but Willie had been Willie. Of course he had.

  “So you’re telling me I didn’t just blow by you after I tripped on that root?”

  Both men turned and looked at Dilly. The boy’s head was still down, but Dave could see a little grin working its way around the corners of his mouth.

  “You blew by me because I let you,” Willie said. “And watch your tone.”

  “I was just worried about you, Grandpa,” Dilly said. “It sounded like your heart was going to explode.”

  This elicited a snort from several trees away, giving away Ron’s position.

  “Quit eavesdropping, you asshole,” Willie yelled.

  Dilly didn’t wait around to keep the argument going, laying down in the filthy stream and coming up rubbing his arms and doing his best to clean off. The cold was like a punch that pulled the breath from his body. Willie, clean enough, apparently, got out of the stream, muttering and saying a few choice words to Dave as they passed, but they didn’t land. Instead, Dave knelt down by the water, deep shadows of the trees covering him.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, that’s just Grandpa,” Dilly said.

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know.”

  The only sound was Dilly still trying to get some of the caked-on blood off his shoulders and chest. The water, full of all sorts of crap, was not up to the job.

  “Willie was kind of a jerk just now, but he has a point. He said he doesn’t remember much, but he remembers what you just did. I remember too. It’s one of those things …”

  Dilly had stopped washing and turned to look at Dave.

  “Every time you go out there, every time we scratch, it’s an amazing thing. It’s primal and … well, you know now, don’t ya. It’s a rush. But it’s never as much a rush as your first time and it’s a high you can never really get back. I guess what I want to tell you is enjoy it. You’re going to get older and things are going to be more set and you will have less and less of these moments that make memories like this.”

  “So … I did OK?”

  Dave’s eyes welled up at the innocence and sweetness of his kid. After undergoing this truly odd and extraordinary ritual that would change his life forever, all he wanted was his father’s approval.

  “Son, yes, yes. You did great. There’s no real wrong way to do it but I’m proud of you. I’m proud of your bravery, how you were scared of the transformation but did it anyway. I’m proud of how you got back up after tripping. I’m especially proud of you giving Willie the business a couple of minutes ago.”

  They both chuckled in the deep moonlight. The rest of the pack had moved on.

  “We should get back, but you did great. And you’ll want to do it again.”

  “That’s what I don’t get,” Dilly said, getting out of the water. They both headed for camp. “You say everyone gets this urge to scratch every so often and that the whole pack has to go out together. What’s it feel like? What should I look out for?”

  “It’s hard to describe, but you’ll know,” Dave said. “It usually starts with the senses. You’ll smell things you couldn’t smell, sounds will really start to bother you. Sometimes it’s tied to whatever your thought is. Your emotions go all haywire. It’s got nothing to do with the moon like in all those movies and more to do with whatever you’re going through at the time. This one time, Ron was going through a rough patch with his first wife and they would fight all the time and he would want to scratch every other night almost. He was really pissed off morning noon and night so we had to put some rules in place and get him some help. The point is he didn’t go out alone. No one goes out alone.”

  Dilly’s face was a mask of concern behind spatters of blood and dirt.

  “It happens less the older you get. Just, be mindful, I guess. Really get to know yourself and how your brain works and you’ll be fine.”

  “Fine?” Dilly said, taking a moment to let the word dangle and dissolve into the air. “Dad, I know you’ve been, like, getting me ready for this since I was seven but I just turned into a wolf and bit off a deer’s face.”

  “You found the neck eventually.”

  “That’s not the point!”

  This time, Dilly’s words did not dangle or dissolve, but pierce. Dave flashed back to watching his son throw temper tantrums as a toddler. His son had been an epic fit thrower, a destroyer of worlds until his face turned red then purple with the pure rage of a child. Then, magically, it stopped over the course of a month and he had been an even-tempered kid ever since. When he exploded, there was a reason.

  “Look …” Dave started.

  “No, Dad. Just …”

  The two men stood, clothed only by the shadows.

  “I understand what this costs.”

  “What do you mean?

  “I mean you’re right about the high. You’re right that I’ve never felt anything like that. You’re right that I want to do this. And you’re right that I’m going to understand myself and you guys in a really profound way.”

  Dilly exhaled har
d, his breath visible as the night turned frosty and bitter.

  “I also know it means I can never go back.”

  “How do you mean? What is it you’re worried about?”

  “Dad, we live in the middle of nowhere. My graduating class is going to be twenty-nine kids. There’s one restaurant within twenty miles of here and it’s OK but it’s the only restaurant for twenty miles. You didn’t grow up online, Dad. I know kids from Ecuador and San Francisco and, hell, from Lincoln and Grand Island and they’re going away to big schools and they’re making big plans. They’re going to visit places and meet people and they’re going to eat in restaurants that serve amazing food and I’m going to be …”

  Dave finished for him.

  “ … figuring this out.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to be figuring out how to be whatever it is we are.”

  Dilly immediately tried to soften the blow.

  “I mean, I love you guys and I don’t think for a second that I’m taking this for granted …”

  The kid had a point. When Dave had learned the rules of the scratch it was presented to him as something like the weather or car maintenance. It was something you had to do and Willie, nurturing father that he was, didn’t answer a lot of his son’s questions, leaving Dave to figure it out for himself. At the end of the day it had been a good thing and taught the young wolf self-reliance, but on the other hand he didn’t realize he would be stuck in Cherry until he was already stuck in Cherry.

  “No, I get it,” Dave said. “And I don’t have an answer for you now because it’s going to take a little while to figure things out. But maybe college isn’t out of the question for you. Maybe trips and hot foreign girls aren’t out of the question.”