Pack

by Mike Bockoven

  Stu had seen the barricade, but from a distance, so he wasn’t sure what sort of chance he had. At normal speed, would have probably been able to figure out the barrels were likely filled with water and that leaving out Main Street was a nonstarter, but as he rocketed forward, his decisions already blunted by fatigue and pain and fear, he crashed headlong into the barrels, splaying the hood straight up and sending Stu into an air bag, knocking him unconscious.

  “That was a swing and a miss,” one of the men said, running up on the car and the unconscious law man.

  “That is one unlucky dude,” a second said.

  “Stander wants him down at the encampment. Can the car drive?”

  “Block looks in tact,” the second man answered. “Car looks fine. Driver, not so much.”

  The men didn’t bother to move Stu from the seat, instead putting the car in neutral and giving it a quick push the two blocks toward Beaver Creek, joking all the way.

  •••

  The seat of the Harley felt exactly like Dave remembered. He had an “uncle” who had once driven up on a loud motorcycle, hopped off and talked to an 11-year-old Dave extensively about the bike, the experience, the culture.

  “Every single person who rides one of these things has a little bit of outlaw in him,” the family friend had told him. “It may be way down deep, but it’s there. Reasonable people, they drive a car. The troublemakers …”

  He gestured at the bike and as soon as Dave could drive, he had started begging, begging for a motorcycle. Willie hadn’t been a big fan, nor had his mother, but in the end he got a job and bought one himself. Then he started racing them and by the time he had a wife and family, he was a regular at the race track 70 miles to the South. He always relished that ride to and from the race, his mind blank, melding with the machine that was moving him down the road like the little troublemaker he was.

  Then, one day, he lost the taste for it. The death of his “biker” self was not gradual. One day, he didn’t feel like riding and he didn’t feel like fighting Josie over the bike anymore. Kenny gladly took it off his hands and he never looked back and seldom missed it. That is, until he got back on.

  “You remember what you’re doing?” Kenny said. “I can do it. I won’t like it but I know I can do it.”

  Dave didn’t say anything, instead spending his time relishing the moment, the feel of the seat beneath his ass and the stance he had to strike to grab both handles. He put the keys in the ignition and looked toward the road.

  “Dilly and Josie?”

  “They ought to be about where we need ‘em,” Kenny said. “You got this?” Fixing a hard stare on the road ahead, Dave didn’t move a muscle. He was in front with five cars piloted by five of the most important people in his life sat, engines off, waiting to follow his lead. Behind him, Carl gave a small “whoop” noise and turned the radio way up in the Suburban so everyone could hear.

  “We don’t usually do this,” the DJ was saying, “but I’ve got a good friend who’s about to do something stupid and he’s made a request. You all oughtta know this one. Be careful, fellas.”

  Jason Newstead’s full, confident bass filled the speakers as Metallica began their Sisyphussian climb that was “Enter Sandman.” No one acknowledged the radio shout out. All eyes were on Dave who was still atop his motorcycle. The bass started driving, Lars started his equally full pedal work and by the time the first, big chord thundered through the speakers of the Suburban courtesy of Kirk Hammett’s 1987 ESP KH-2, Dave had fired up the Harley and revved it as loud as it would go. The engine thundered and was followed by the unmuffled roar of the Mustang, the higher but bad ass squeal of the Vet and the other vehicles, all hitting a crescendo in time with the music.

  As Metallica began their final run before the chorus, Dave hit the gas having never once looked behind him, trusting in his crew, his boys, his pack and his faith was rewarded with squealing tires and screaming engines. He heard Kenny and Ron scream out the open windows of their cars, a war whoop if there ever was one, but Dave betrayed none of the fire in his guts that were burning intense and violent. The Harley would it for him and James Hetfield singing along wouldn’t hurt a goddamn thing.

  They rode toward town, in a straight line toward Beaver Creek.

  •••

  Stander’s watch beeped. It was 3:00.

  “Not very punctual,” Stander said to the man next to him.

  “Go fuck yourself!” Willie yelled from his position a few yards back, toward the forest.

  The men, all dressed in similar blue paramilitary style uniforms, each carrying assault rifles, waited for an order. Or failing that, a cue. Instead, the man in charge stood, silently watching the road, his radio up to his ear in case any news were to come across, leaving his men to ponder his final instruction.

  “If you see anything that resembles a wolf, shoot it until it stops moving.”

  •••

  Part of the plan was to be loud. To that end, the operation was a complete success.

  Dave led the pack down the Highway, not languishing, but not rushing either. Still, at 45 mph or so, the five vehicles sounded like a natural disaster, some swirling, kicking accident of nature come to fuck up your house and kill your livestock. That’s how they sounded. That’s how they felt.

  The sound was so much it drown out the radios, which were cranked in all the cars (except JoAnne’s, who was far too sensible for loud music). Dave didn’t hear Hetfield invite everyone to “exit light.” It didn’t matter if he had. They were coming up on Beaver Creek and everyone needed to focus.

  •••

  “Here they come.”

  Stander was annoyed anyway, but particularly annoyed at Willie. If the old man wasn’t his ace in the hole, his insurance policy and his ultimate victory, he would have shot the old coot cold between the eyes and shut that stupid mouth of his.

  That being said, he had a point.

  “What are they doing, sir?” one of his underlings asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Stander said. “But it doesn’t change anything. Follow your orders.”

  In his brain, Stander was running possibilities as fast as he could. What were they doing? He didn’t know and not knowing was starting to put a pit in his stomach. Even though the temperature was in the low 50s, a bead of sweat formed on the man’s brow and glistened in the sun.

  •••

  Josie heard the cars and their deliberate, deafening approach. The young wolf was with her and he was starting to get antsy.

  “Nnnnow?” he growled, the drool hanging from one side of his mouth in a thick, viscous rope.

  “No,” Josie said. “Wait.”

  The Young Wolf continued to shift and dance, threatening to make noise in what had otherwise been a silent approach.

  “Please,” Josie said, turning to face him. “Follow me.”

  “Yes,” the Young Wolf said. He crouched, a coiled mass of energy waiting, and was as silent as possible.

  “Good boy,” Josie said, mainly to herself.

  The noise from the engines were getting louder and Josie realized she had overestimated her ability to gauge how far away everyone was. Timing was important. Going too early meant bad things. Going to late meant equally bad things. She needed to use her brain, but her animal brain was screaming for blood, screaming for vengeance. Moments started flashing in her mind of their house burning down, the small kitchen in that house where she had cooked Thanksgiving dinner aflame, the entry way where they had set their son after bringing him home from the hospital, split and blackened. She couldn’t take it, whipping around and making contact with the powerful animal behind her.

  “Now.”

  •••

  The first two disappeared quickly, pulled behind the trees. With all eyes on the road and all ears on the radio, no one saw and no one heard, even when the two unfortunate HartmanCorp employees were thrown against a tree trunk and their throats ripped out. The tearing and gurgling were no match
for the roar of classic care engines and a bad ass outlaw motorcycle. Not even close.

  Two more, lined up against the trees, vanished next. This time one person heard and one person saw. Willie’s nose had been twitching but what it told him made no sense – that Dilly was in the woods with someone he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t that piece of shit Irishman, it was sharper and sweeter. It was someone else, so he kept his eyes sharp and tried to track any movement. He didn’t see who pulled the next two guards into the woods, but he saw their bodies snap as if pulled by an invisible string tied to the bumper of a big invisible truck.

  Willie wanted to cheer, wanted to cry out, but thought better of it. Instead, he took a quick survey of what was around him even as his nose caught the first strong whiff of blood that was splattering a few feet into the woods. There were a dozen men, all with their fingers on the triggers of some nasty looking, well-oiled and sleek assault rifles. Most of them were in front of him, watching the road but two more were hanging back, facing the same direction. They were also quickly pulled behind the trees and this time Willie saw the Young Wolf, pulling each grown man into the woods with one hand. They locked eyes for a an instant before the creature vanished back into the thicket.

  “Damn,” Willie said under his breath. “Strong kid.”

  The engines were now roaring as the convoy was in sight, Dave in front astride his Harley. Six men down, about, 10 or so to go, plus that asshole Stander, all facing the road. This had to be part of the plan.

  Pretty quickly, Willie put it together. The Young Wolf was going to snipe as many of the soldiers of fortune as he could, giving his pack a fighting chance.

  The old man couldn’t have been more wrong.

  •••

  “What the hell are they doing, sir?” one of the men asked Stander, who had donned his sunglasses to counteract the harsh glare coming off the road.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Stander said. “You have your orders.”

  “But they’re driving right in to our fire. Doesn’t that concern you?”

  “Not in the least. Now kindly shut up and do your job.”

  The man complied, staring at the horizon and the approaching vehicles, right up until he heard the screams behind him.

  •••

  “Be fast,” Josie growled. “Be clean. Guns first, then blood. Do you understand.”

  “Yes …mm.mmom,” the Young Wolf growled. The rope of saliva was gone and he was already breathing heavy from the exertion of pulling six men into the forest and helping dispatch them.

  “Follow me. Be fast,” Josie said again. She needed that part to get through.

  She stared at the backs of the men with guns at the ready. She could get to them and take out at least two before they knew what happened. Dilly could probably do the same and then it was six on two with the six armed to the teeth. Fear drove her heart rate up in a weak sort of beat that made her legs feel weak.

  Those men, she thought, trying to refocus, broke in to my house. Those men burned my home. Those men shot my father-in-law, which might not be such a bad thing. She grinned, then thought that those men would kill her and her son and everyone she loved if there was money in it. They would destroy her if she stood in the comfort of the woods. They crossed a line and if there was one thing being a wolf meant, it meant being dangerous. Being a wolf had hurt her marriage and hurt her child and brought these men.

  Time for her to bring the hurt for once.

  •••

  Willie smelled the blood before he saw the wolves burst out of the forest. He had learned to identify some emotions by scent, bloodlust being the most obvious. The smell poured from the woods and when he saw The Young Wolf and his daughter-in-law (THAT was the smell!) burst from the woods at a full run, descending upon throng of rent-a-guns with the force of a demon bent on destroying the world.

  The Young Wolf, good to his word, almost split one of the men in half with his right hand, and half punching/half shoving a second man so hard that his neck made a sick, moist crunching sound as cartilage and bone rubbed and snapped in unnatural ways. The men didn’t have time to scream, just bleed and fall and die. Josie was almost as lucky, slashing one man’s chest as he screamed and fell and punching a second so hard that her fist got stuck in the gory mess that used to be his head.

  The scream woke the remaining men (10 down, six or so to go) and Willie got the distinct pleasure of seeing Stander’s eyes get big, his face register panic and his constitution totally fail him as he involuntarily vomited while trying to scream. Willie took a second to register the sound and take immense pleasure from it.

  A third man on the Young Wolf’s side went down quickly after having his arms torn off his body, his screams loud, then quieter as gallons of blood left his body on either side. Dilly was so fast and so strong, faster and stronger than any wolf Willie had ever seen and Willie felt a twinge in his guts as his transformation started. The shooting also started and the Young Wolf held the armless, screaming man in front of him as the five men turned and started shooting in the same direction out of instinct.

  Panic is a hell of a thing, Willie thought, as one of the men shot another in the melee, plugging him square in the back of the head causing blood and brain to splatter on the man in front of him. By this time, Josie had retreated, pulled her hand clear of the bloody head from where it had stuck and charged again taking another man down by biting his neck in a pose that might have been two lovers, if not for the screaming and splatter.

  The bullets were mainly hitting the center mass of the man without arms, but a few of them hit the Young Wolf in the shoulders, causing him to howl in pain. That howl, coupled with the site of his grandson’s wounds was enough to put Willie over the edge and he sprouted and stretched and screamed as the White Wolf pulled free of his bonds and threw the chair he had been on directly at one of the men. The chair hit him square and sent him completely off balance, his gun flying from his hands. The White Wolf began running at the man only to draw the fire of two remaining soldiers.

  The shots whizzed by the White Wolf’s ear and he felt one hit his shoulder and another penetrate, deeply, into the meat of his left leg before he made his final leap. In the air, he was grazed in the side and hit square in the chest but landed on the man in the uniform and sank his teeth deep into his cranium, biting hard and hearing the cracks of skull and squish of brains. Out of the corner of his eye, the White Wolf saw the Young Wolf tearing the last man apart in a bloody decoupage, blood and shit spraying across the dirt and into the road.

  Inspired, the White Wolf tore the soldier’s head from his body and threw it toward the Young Wolf who howled, screaming at the sky. The White Wolf joined him in a powerful, tearing roar high pitched enough to rise above the roaring engines but low enough to rattle the dirt beneath their feet in one, unified, powerful message.

  DO NOT FUCK WITH US!

  •••

  Josie had not taken any hits but had seen Dilly’s arms and noticed the blood. When Willie broke free and drew all their fire, she had batted clean up, making sure everything else went to plan. Her son hurt but was going to be OK. That was the important part.

  Stander had bolted toward the only shelter open to him – Stu’s banged up police cruiser with Stu in the backand she thought she had seen one of the men get in as well. They had switched places so Stander wasn’t driving when Josie jumped on the roof and started dragging her nails along the ceiling. As expected, gun fire came from inside the car, with Josie rolling out of the way and the car taking off, spitting gravel fishtailing a bit.

  Moments later, the convoy blew by and took their positions around the town car.

  “All yours,” Josie said, smiling to herself.

  •••

  “What the fuck just happened!” Stander screamed. The man behind the wheel, a muscular, tattooed sort named Antonio, was in just as much shock. The gunshots toward the ceiling were stilling ringing, loud and long and unbroken in Stander’s ears. Part of h
im was in full panic mode while part of his brain was trying, desperately, to process what it was that had happened. He glanced in the rear view mirror, hoping to not see any carnage or a small convoy of country hicks in loud cars bearing down on him.

  He saw both.

  ”What do you want me to do, sir?” Antonio asked.

  “Drive, DRIVE” Stander screamed through clenched teeth. “How the FUCK did that happen? Are you all fucking stupid!?”

  The cruiser was OK after the earlier crash and the duo were thrown back as Antonio hit the gas, then thrown forward and he slammed the break, missing the back of Carl’s Suburban by centimeters.

  “Go around him!” Stander yelled, and Antonio jerked the wheel until he heard metal grinding. Kenny was in the Mustang and the Mustang had more metal in it than most newly constructed houses. It wasn’t going anywhere and when JoAnn pulled up behind them in the pathfinder, it was obvious they weren’t going backward either. The passenger side of the car hovered along the shoulder, veering close to an off road of nothing but dirt, plants and other material unhospitable to the town car.

  Through the rolled up windows, both men could hear the roar of the engines and something higher pitched with a distinct melodic quality. Antonio narrowed his eyes.

  “Is that a guitar solo?”

  “Who gives a fuck?” Stander yelled, throwing all décor out the window as he started rummaging in the back seat for one of the assault rifles. All he found was the semi-conscious body of Sheriff Stuart Dietz.

  “Why is he still back here?” Stander asked as the Pathfinder plowed into them from behind. JoAnn was starting to have fun.

  “We had no place else to put him, sir,” Antonio said, panic clinging to his voice. “We weren’t supposed to kill him yet.”

  “DAMMIT!” Stander yelled. He was down to one guy, one car and no guns and he had lost the upper hand in about a minute and a half. He swung his eyes from window to window, his brain running through every scenario he could think of, every option and tool at his disposal. He could see no way out and could see nothing but the Suburban, the Pathfinder, the Mustang and the shoulder, whizzing by them as the convoy pushed the cruiser faster and faster.