I’ve got a few hundred miles to go.
* * *
My paws hurt. When my wolf gets tired I take over. Running and running and running. In my waking dreams I see Kayla. Though her lips move, I cannot hear her speak.
I collapse after the second sunset. The paw prints leading to my location in the snow are bloody. In the darkness no dreams come, but I feel a presence in the darkness. Is it the black wolf, come to torment me in my sleep? The exhaustion doesn’t give me any energy to worry.
A prickling scent awakens me in the late morning. It feels as though only moments have passed but night has passed into early dawn. I stretch, shake off the sleep, then crouch low to the ground while I try to discern the scent.
Smoke, from a distant chimney. The sky is a stark blue with no hint of any fire burning nearby.
A family must be warming themselves by their fireplace some ways off, behind the trees. I turn to continue north, when the prickling becomes less about the smoke than another scent behind it. A feeling.
Not a chimney. I inhale. Not a little fireplace fire. Something big is burning. An entire house, a forest? I can’t explain the jittery feeling chattering over nerves. Though my stomach is empty, I close my eyes and let the wolf guide me.
danger help save run protect the pack
I rise up and we run together, my wolf’s fear fueling us. My pack – Kayla, Zeke? I imagine them bound and gagged, at the mercy of the black wolf and his alpha, that unknown enemy. Running running running – beating the ground like a war drum, spurring me on.
And on.
And on.
In the wilderness there are no signs, nothing to say “Wolf Point – 5 miles.” I run and run, the pounding of paws on earth becoming the rhythm of my breathing and my heartbeat. I stop only to eat and to rest long enough for my paws to heal.
The landscape blurs beneath us. I smell a familiar scent – a train – and suddenly I am transported.
Tracks run through Wolf Point. Every night I used to fall asleep with the lonely train whistle filling the night, the smell of rusting iron, the screech of metal brakes…
These would be the same for any railroad.
(the chances that this is the same track)
it is the same
(can’t be sure)
home it leads home
I follow the wolf’s instincts. We run alongside the tracks, in the level land beside the rails. Trains roar past, sending a flurry of icy wind against my matted coat of fur.
More and more familiar smells assault my nose, a combination of the exhaust from pickup trucks, cow manure, the roadside trash, the mushy slop from the school cafeteria, the fried oil of the local bar and grill, hiding under the thick greasy stench of fire.
Now I’m tearing through cow pastures, startling bovines drifting off to sleep in the twilight. I’m racing down familiar roads, cutting across lawns. I follow the fire, but I know where it is. Hoping I’m wrong. The whining sirens reach my ears and the adrenaline pumps in my veins.
Across a road, narrowly avoiding trucks and their blinding headlights. Up that long dirt road that winds up into the hills, away from everyone else, strobes of red and blue pulsating against the sky. The sirens’ wail is deafening; without my hearing I find myself shrinking back into the trees, slowing down, approaching cautiously. The scent of humans is all around, and I can see them, clustered around the smoking wreck that barely resembles a house.
So many times I’ve imagined my return home. Trudging up the driveway, my mother framed in the screen door, sometimes happy, other times angry or sad. But always the house was there, and my mother always waiting for me.
Instead, my house is empty.
-65-
Lurking in the shadows, I watch the ashes of my house crumble into a pile. The firefighters have given up at this point. Maybe they never cared to begin with. Maybe by the time they got up here, it was too late, and all they cared about was preventing a forest fire. No one is here, crying for the loss of their home, no neighbors to explain anything. The firemen and cops stand around, occasionally spraying at embers, talking in small groups.
Darkness descends, creeping in from the trees and stealing over the charred remains of the house. I wait for the fire trucks to lumber off, for the police cars to wander away and attend to more pressing business, leaving behind ribbons of bright yellow caution tape to keep the onlookers at bay. And there are onlookers, backcountry people from further up the mountains, hungry for a taste of someone else’s misery or a possible usable object from the ashes. Once the officials leave I watch these people pick through the remains of my old life. The ashes must still be too hot, for they stay on the edges and drift off.
After so many days and nights of running, I am at a loss. This was my goal, my only destination, and now that it has turned into a dead end, I’m not sure what to do next. The exhaustion settles over me like an iron blanket, and I lie down in the frosty leaves and fall asleep, the scent of smoke as my blanket.
* * *
In the morning I blink awake, shaking off what I first believe is snow on my eyelashes and fur. Then I realize I am covered in ash. Black smudges mar the snowy ground and mark my pelt.
Where to go from here? Somewhere a war is being waged, a war in which I am supposed to be the heroic warrior who saves his beloved and his faithful sidekick. Too bad I can’t even find the battle ground.
The black scorch mark on the earth hasn’t left much of a trail for me to follow. I can’t tell if my mother was here when the fire began, or if she escaped. Surely there would have been a trail leading away if she had, but I can’t find one – the smoke is clogging my nose and making it impossible to scent anything. I nose around the wreckage hoping to find something, some relic of my childhood to carry away
(how would I carry it I’m a wolf now)
There’s nothing. A howl of sadness erupts from deep within me, echoing through the mountains. It trails in my wake long after I’ve left Wolf Point, headed south.
-66-
The heating vent blows directly on my head. It’s a welcome respite from the cold outside and I can only hope the waitress turns a blind eye long enough for the crust of snow and ice to melt from my gloves, and for the shivering to stop. I only had enough change for a cup of coffee, which I try to drink fast enough for the waitress to offer me a warm-up.
The diner, some nameless joint with the neon “R” burnt out on the sign, has the sense of passing through. Not quite a truck stop. The other customers look road-weary, not like townies or regulars – there’s no town near enough for townies. The waitresses are harried, worn down, like they just want to earn enough money to get out of this place. I’m not even sure where this place is. Some town in South Dakota. All the town names blur together.
It’s been a month since I returned home. A month since I abandoned any hope that I might be a hero to somebody. For a while I thought I’d live as a wolf, and spent weeks in some other consciousness, letting the wolf take care of me. It got to be very lonely. Not that I’m less lonely as a human, but I thought it might be nice to be around other people and feel warm. Especially after I had to wander around in the cold night air scavenging clothes out of a big metal donation bin in a strip mall parking lot, and raiding a number of drive-through windows for lost change. It took me almost all night to come up with enough for this cup of coffee.
You can’t imagine how nice it is to be surrounded by the sounds people make, the rambling conversations and the clink of silverware and the frying of food, and the flickering light of the TV bolted up near the ceiling. No sound but there are closed captions and I read the transcript of whatever’s on, even when I try to look away. During the early afternoon there were soap operas the waitresses stopped to watch, then some afterschool cartoons. Now it’s the evening news. A steady stream of babble to keep my mind off of other things.
The smell from the grill back in the kitchen makes my stomach growl, and I know I won’t be able to sit here much longer
.
“Hey, turn that up,” calls a waitress who’s sitting in a booth right behind me on her break. Her voice jolts me out of staring at my coffee.
My waitress, for now behind the counter, finds the remote control and suddenly sound blares into the diner. As soon as I hear the topic of the news story I freeze.
“…received more reports of wild dogs attacking people. Jack and Charlotte Early, an elderly couple from Frazer, were out walking Monday evening when they spotted a large pack of wild dogs.” A tremble enters the hand wrapped around my lukewarm coffee mug – Frazer is the next town over from Wolf Point. The camera focuses on a woman labeled as Charlotte Early. “They looked almost like wolves,” she says before the shot returns to a young woman with straight blond hair sleekly cut above the shoulders of her black trench coat. She is labeled as Justine Willis, Field Reporter. “The couple called the police department, but by the time animal control officers arrived, the dogs had left the area, leaving behind one victim – an unidentified man in his early twenties, who was presumably out running.” Cut to a shot of a hospital. “The man was brought to Trinity Hospital in Wolf Creek in critical condition. At some point during the night, however, the man disappeared from the hospital.”
“Spooky,” said one of the waitresses.
The waitress behind me shushes her as Justine Willis, Field Reporter reappears on the screen.
“This is the fifth victim of a wild dog attack in the past month…” The fifth? I’m sure they’re not including the “wild dogs” that followed me and Lila through Nebraska, either. My mind races to conclusions about what the wild dogs really are and what they’re doing out by Wolf Point.
“…Brian Boysen of the Montana Animal Care Association offered some precautions.” A middle-aged man with thick brown hair squinted at the camera. “First, never approach a wild animal. These animals might look like dogs, but domesticated dogs will not be traveling in packs. Usually wild animals will be scared off by loud noises. If this does not work, and the animals approach you, back away slowly, avoiding eye contact. By all reports, the victims have all been runners who most likely attempted to run away. Running will only trigger the animal to chase you. Above all, remember there is safety in numbers.” Justine continues over a blue screen showing a phone number, “Please contact animal control if you spot these wild dogs.”
The diner buzzes with an interest I can’t figure out. I’m pretty far away from Wolf Point, at least 50 miles. What are these people worried about? I, on the other hand, have reason to worry. The werewolf war is going to come to everyone’s attention if these enemy packs keep attacking humans. Then I remember how Zeke got bit, and I begin to think that maybe the other werewolves are trying to up their numbers by making new wolves.
I have to go. Like, right now, I need to run and find Kayla because I’m sure they still have her. Who knows what they’re doing to her.
I’m getting up to leave when the waitress behind me says, “My neighbors got attacked, and I called the police, and it never even made the news. I bet the news people don’t even know about it.”
“The Baileys, right?”
“No, their last name was Oliver, this younger couple. No kids. They went out for a walk like they do every night, and I heard the dogs barking and all, I saw them out my front window just attack them and that’s when I called the police.”
“Well, I heard some woman with the last name of Bailey got attacked out your way. Laura Bailey. She lived on Wells Road, that little dirt road off yours?”
“When was this?”
“Last night.”
“Shit.”
I sit back down. My ears are on overdrive. More people attacked, more werewolves, a whole army of them. How many of these people survived the attacks? How many of these victims know what they are now?
More voices join the conversation. Everyone seems to know someone who knows someone who got attacked. The numbers pile up in my head. Someone asks why the police haven’t done anything, and suddenly I’m wondering if there aren’t werewolves among the police, if this army of new werewolves isn’t now linked to the police and the military, and what the hell is a lone wolf like me supposed to do about it?
“Are you okay?”
The voice cuts in and I snap back to the reality of the diner and the spilled coffee in front of me. I yank a fistful of napkins from the dispenser and mop up the mess.
“I’m fine,” I tell the waitress.
I throw the soggy napkins into the trash on my way out.
-67-
I should be able to smell them, even in human form. It took me forever to find the road they were talking about, Wells Road, it wasn’t on any map but the guy at the gas station knew where it was, and here I am, out where some lady got attacked by wild dogs just last night, and I’m not smelling anything. It hasn’t snowed since last night, hasn’t snowed for a week, no chance for the elements to wash away the scent. Looks like it’s finally warming up into March. The dirt road is long and I’m tired and on edge and staring at the half-frozen puddles watching for a paw print or scuffle mark or anything to indicate their presence, because I can’t smell a damned thing.
I should be able to smell them. I pass two houses buried deep in the trees and then the dirt road trails off into nothing, and I yell, kick a tree, then sit in the snow to nurse my foot. Where are they? How are they hiding?
My head bumps time against the tree trunk. Why can’t it be easy? Why can’t I find them? Everyone’s gone. Kayla, Zeke, my mom. Maybe they’re dead. And if they weren’t, what could I do to save them?
Bump, bump, bump.
The forest is still, no birds chirping. Water dripping from the trees and soft clumps of snow falling. I think I can sit here forever, my ass growing numb, I can melt into the forest and become it. I close my eyes.
(Daniel)
It’s a whisper. I imagine I can smell Kayla, her lilac-wild scent, her hair falling over her bare shoulder.
(I’m here)
I sit up straight, eyes scanning between the trees. In a few moments I close my eyes and listen hard. Take deep breaths, filtering through everything I smell for that one hint of lilac.
(where are you I can’t find you)
Softly the answer comes, almost too quiet.
(I’m here)
I stand up and begin taking off my clothes. I drop them unceremoniously into the snow. The change trembles in me, or maybe that’s the cold. Before it comes, I kick my stuff behind a tree. Then I’m a wolf.
It’s like putting on a pair of glasses. Suddenly every sound and scent is ten times clearer.
Of course, it’s a bit too late.
The black wolf emerges from only twenty feet away. I stare him, feeling my lips curl back to reveal my fangs, angry that he was hiding so close, angry that he has some way to hide from me, angry that Kayla is around and I’m sure it’s this one, the black wolf, who has taken her and harmed her.
He snarls back at me.
Two more wolves walk out from behind bushes and trees where I was so certain, only seconds ago, that nothing and no one could possibly be there. From behind me my senses snap with the sound of more wolves crunching over the snow, exhaling meaty breaths into the cold air. Three – no, five – make that seven wolves behind me. All walking toward me. Tightening the noose.
I’m surrounded.
I could try to fight them, and my wolf wants that. I could rip them to shreds. Surrounded like I am, I won’t get too far fighting them all at once. This isn’t like the attack outside Zeke’s barn, where only a couple could come at me at once. This isn’t even like when I killed my father and uncles – there were only three of them. Ten against one. I might fight better than most of them, but it will be hard to fight with so many wolves on my back. And I can’t assume I can fight better than most of them. They know something I don’t, this invisibility stuff.
There’s only one other option.
I hesitate, not knowing which way to run. I want to ru
n back the way they came, however they got here, but without a scent to go by, it’s impossible to know.
Well, it’s probably not down the road, the way I came.
I dart at the wolves at my left shoulder. They’ve been waiting for this, and gather their haunches to leap at me, but as soon as they jump I slide, stiff-legged and belly on the ground, beneath them. They thought I was going to fight. Now the chase is on.
Darting through the snow, narrowing avoiding trees, branches whipping my face and making my eyes tear, I can hear them panting, leap, racing after me. Now I know how those rabbits and squirrels felt as I chased them. Blindly running away, unable to stop and think of a way to outsmart the predator behind them. I can’t look for a scent.
trees branch duck jump dodge bush jump faster faster faster
Their scent grows closer, hot and heavy on my heels. The adrenaline of panic has worn off and pain stabs my lungs with each breath, my muscles burning with each step.
And then for a split second I get a whiff of lilacs, and I nearly stop short.
Teeth cutting into my leg forces me to buck off my pursuer and keep running. Behind me, however, I hear noises other than those of pursuit. Short growls followed by sharp whimpers that cut off so fast they leave an echo in the cold air of the forest. I smell more wolves now, though I can’t see them.
I dig into the snow and run as fast as my tiring muscles will allow, and finally I feel the wolves behind me backing off. I’m outrunning them!
Daniel
Her voice, so clear in my head, stops me. I pivot on my front legs, whipping around into a crouch, ready in case that black wolf is behind me, somehow tricking me with Kayla’s voice and scent.
Instead of the enemy pack behind me, racing to catch up, a different set of wolves – three of them - stand panting at intervals along the way I came. Their sides heave, and blood streaks their fur. A couple of wolf carcasses lay cut open, their glistening red innards steaming into the cool air. I’m not sure how I know these are different wolves, and not enemy wolves, but I do. Something about their scent is pack. They smell as familiar as Sunday dinner.
Hitchhikers Page 18