MEN LIKE WOLVES - DAY TWO, PART ONE

Jeremy Wainwright was worried. First that deputy, and then the little Horseman girl had asked him if he'd seen Mike Horseman. That put the thought into Mr. Wainwright's head. People were missing, and nobody in the entire county was more isolated than Mike Horseman.

Michael Horseman lived in an old cabin in the mountains north of Mr. Wainwright's ranch. Mr. Wainwright was one of the very few people who knew exactly where Michael lived. The cabin was located in some rough country and horseback was the best way to get there.

Mr. Horseman and Mr. Wainwright had never been friends. They were the last remnants of a distant and bitter time - a time when men both red and white saw each other as unyielding enemies. Their fathers had despised each other, and their grandfathers had waged merciless war on each other. That precluded the possibility of anything more than some barely admitted tolerable coexistence between Mr. Horseman and Mr. Wainwright. Yet over the years they had both developed a certain grudging respect for each other.

And besides, Mr. Wainwright had been strictly raised on the principles of an ancient code that, among other things, dictated that he should lend aid to his neighbors whenever it was needed.

The next morning, just after dawn, Mr. Wainwright saddled a horse. Then, after some thought, he decided to bring along some food and basic medicines. If Michael wasn't feeling well, he might need supplies.

After considering the matter further, he also decided to pack along his well-worn Bible and a short-handled shovel. After all, he just might need to dig a grave and say a few final words.

The rifle was just an ancient habit. Mr. Wainwright was mostly retired, but he still raised a few cattle. He might have to deal with any creatures he might come across that were a threat to them.

It was embarrassing as all hell, but it took three tries before Mr. Wainwright finally managed to mount his horse. The horse patiently endured his fumbling, although Mr. Wainwright suspected that he was more than a little amused by the struggle.

Eventually, they headed up the mountain.

It was good to be back on a horse again. Mr. Wainwright had been raised on horseback. He was in his early twenties when he finally learned how to drive - and in his thirties when he bought his first pickup truck. But Mr. Wainwright was grimly aware that in the last few years he had allowed his infirmities to take control of his life. He had become more and more sedentary. The parts of his property that he couldn't reach by truck had become strange to him.

Sometime after noon, Mr. Wainwright spotted the angular cliff that was the landmark for where Michael Horseman lived.

As he rode into the clearing where the cabin was located, Mr. Wainwright finally noticed the smell. It was bad enough to cause Mr. Wainwright's horse to shy.

Somewhere nearby, a fair-size creature was dead.

"Dammit," Mr. Wainwright grumbled as he carefully dismounted. His horse, upset by the presence of death, was becoming more and more skittish.

It looked like he was going to need that shovel, Mr. Wainwright thought regretfully.

Hell. At his age, could he even dig a decently deep grave?

Then, still standing next to his horse, Mr. Wainwright saw something that made him freeze.

In front of the cabin, there was a scattered bundle of torn flesh and cloth. A small, dark cloud of flies was buzzing around it. Dried blood was splattered against the cabin's front door and stoop. A broken shotgun, its stock shattered and barrel bent, lay nearby.

Whatever had happened to Michael, it hadn't been a peaceful end.

Acting with unconscious precision, his eyes flickering across his surroundings as he tried to specify a threat, Mr. Wainwright slipped his Winchester out of its boot and worked the lever to chamber a cartridge.

From somewhere nearby, there was a deep, throbbing, rumble of a growl. Mr. Wainwright didn't bother to even try and control his horse as it suddenly bolted. There was no way he could get back on it in time, and he didn't dare let himself become too distracted. He didn't know what he was facing, but it sure as hell wasn't one of the mountain predators that he knew so well.

All of a sudden, the strange rumors Mr. Wainwright had heard over the years about Michael Horseman were beginning to make a lot more sense.

Jeremy Wainwright was a man of strong beliefs. For one thing, he believed that God chose the time and place of your death. In fact, it was chosen before you were even born. He also believed that when someone died, they were judged. And if they were judged to be just and righteous, they entered into a peaceful and golden after-life, rejoining those who had gone before.

Having buried most of his family, Jeremy Wainwright was more than a little tired of life and did not fear death. And although the thought of ending himself had occasionally crossed his mind, he had been taught at a very young age that it was a sin for a man to end his own existence. So instead of suicide, he waited patiently for the end, with an old man's certainty of what was coming.

Mr. Wainwright knew that the end was near, it was just a matter of time.

And now he knew that his time had just run out.

And yet, Mr. Wainwright felt strangely relieved. At least his end wouldn't be in some hospital bed... alone, forgotten, and hooked up to a bunch of soulless machines. This way, he would die like a man. On his feet and with a weapon in his hands.

Really, was that too much to ask?

"C'mon you bastard," Mr. Wainwright hissed, the stock of the rifle pressed against his cheek as he turned in a quick and careful circle, scanning for a target.

When the attack finally came, it was from multiple directions.


Aliza and Daken took a long, wandering, walk through town. They were mostly just saying hello to friends and acquaintances. Eventually, they walked to the edge of town and took a look at the school.

"I never thought I'd miss this place," Daken said with an amused shake of his head. Aliza smiled in response. Daken was actually pretty smart, but school simply wasn't his thing.

The school was mostly closed for summer, but there was a scattering of cars in the parking lot. Some special and make-up classes were being taught.

Aliza and Daken were sitting at one of the picnic tables outside of Donovan's Pit Stop - a garage and convenience store that was located just a few hundred yards down the road from the school. It was a favorite place for youngsters to score a snack. The guy working the counter had greeted Daken with a grin and a slap on the back.

Actually, the store wasn't too far from the place where Daken and Mr. Horseman had almost fought to the death. Daken saw no reason to say anything about that.

"Do you want to go inside?" Aliza asked as she inclined her head towards the school building. "We can say hello to the teachers."

Daken wondered at the fact that he actually found the idea appealing. "Okay," he said as he got to his feet.

He was several steps away when he realized that Aliza wasn't with him.

Looking back, Daken saw that Aliza was still sitting at the table. She seemed frozen in place and was staring at the mountains. And the look on her face was somewhere between frightened and angry and tragic.

"Someone just died," Aliza announced quietly.


The creatures fed on their prey. And when they were done, they shifted back to a near-human form.

The tallest of them looked disgustedly at the remains of their latest meal and then spat onto the ground. "I've had enough of stringy old men," he growled irritably.

The leader smiled at the big one, not bothering to hide his teeth. Killing the elderly hunter had been necessary - a gift from a triumphant present to a more desperate past. The old cowboy had simply been a target of opportunity. But the big one - the leader's tentative rival - was beginning to voice more-and-more contrary positions as he steadily worked up the nerve to make a challenge for control of the pack. A fight was just a matter of time, and the leader was steadily coming to the conclusion that perhaps they should just get on with it.

The other members of the pack shifted about uneasily. They sensed what was coming.

"You didn't taste it?" the eldest female said suddenly.

Everybody - everything - looked at her.

"They were different," the elder female continued. "There was something special in both of them - something most of the always-two-legged don't have."

Then she smiled coldly. Her face and hair was smeared with blood and her canine teeth were still elongated.

"And now we have taken it," she finished. "It is a part of us. We are stronger for it."

The leader and the big one considered her words. Then they both nodded and relaxed. The female had a knack for defusing the tension between them.

The leader looked at the scout. "We're heading down-slope, towards the town. Find the best path."

The scout - young, lean, and quick - nodded and trotted away from the cabin.

The elder female gave the leader a curious look.

"The old hunters usually have a pup or two," the leader explained. The female was the only member of the pack to whom he explained anything. "So there may be other hunters. If so, we'll kill them too. There aren't many of them left. They have to be exterminated - particularly the next generation."

The elder female nodded as she wondered at the emotions that were welling up inside of her. It just seemed incredible. From the day of her birth, she'd heard the long, howling, tales of regret and pain. There were fractured and ancient songs of how the hunters had come out of the icy north and immediately challenged her people for mastery of the warm land.

There were chanted lists of the dead. And once it had been sure that her people were losing. They were only generations away from extinction.

But after so many millennia of war, the long conflict was finally coming to an end. And the wolves-who-walk-like-men were going to win.


They were all crowded around the kitchen table, having lunch. Mr. Watt was at work. Mrs. Watt was over at a neighbors house.

"Nobody's heard from Mr. Wainwright," Brad said to the others. He'd just spent some time on his phone, checking in with the local network of youngsters.

Daken nodded stoically. Laura looked worried. Truth to tell, she liked the old man.

Billy spoke up next. "Mr. Wainwright is a long way from anywhere. And Mr. Horseman lives way up in the mountains. Getting back and forth would take some time. It'll be tomorrow before we hear anything."

Daken nodded again and then looked at Brad. "Your parents are giving us plenty of freedom during the day - as long as we stay in town. But we may need more time to ourselves. We need to start thinking about a way to get out of town."

Brad considered what Daken had said. "If we tell them we're spending the night at Joel Conner's place. Joel will cover for us."

"What about Joel's parents?" Laura added quickly.

"They're out of town for a few days," Brad replied. "Joel has the place to himself."

Laura shook her head. "Your mom will check on that," she declared flatly. "We need another idea."

Brad hesitated. Then he nodded. Laura was right.

They all knew that Laura was usually right.


Brad and Daken had made a lame excuse and were out somewhere. Laura suspected they were checking for poorly-watched vehicles. Uncle Remy had long ago shown Laura and Daken the basics of how to steal a car.

Their mother had not been happy about that and she'd said so - at length - to Uncle Remy. Logan was more ambivalent, making sure to tell his children that car-theft was something only to be done under extreme circumstances.

"Don't get hurt," Billy suddenly said.

Laura broke her pose - she was Billy's model for some sketch-work he was doing - and looked at Billy.

"Don't move," Billy scolded mildly.

"Make up your mind," Laura replied. "You can let me hold my pose or you can talk to me."

Billy considered that for several seconds. Then he sighed and put down his notebook.

They were on the porch of the Watt home. Laura was sitting on the wide wooden rail, with her back to a column. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Her long and slender legs were stretched out on the rail, with her bare feet crossed at the ankles.

Billy thought of his friend as 'pretty'. He wasn't old enough to understand the subtleties behind the word "beautiful". However, deep down inside he understood that some kind of change was coming - both with Laura and himself. And maybe that was why he wanted to preserve something of Laura the way she was.

"Don't get hurt," Billy repeated. He sounded very serious and there was now something in his voice and eyes that was older than his actual years.

"We aren't looking for a fight," Laura reassured him.

After a pause, Billy said, "Okay." Then he picked up his pad and pencil.

Laura went back into position - staring off into the distance. But now she was wondering if what she had just told Billy was actually true. She'd returned to town in order to see old friends and to keep an eye on her brother. She didn't think Daken wanted a fight, but she had to admit that he'd changed ever since the battle with Hydra.

Daken was less demonstrative. More quiet and analytical. He always seemed aware of everyone around him. And there were times when his eyes tracked other people in a way that really wasn't human. He seemed to be analyzing those around him and putting them into categories.

Laura knew that one of the categories was "threat". That was scary.

But there was another category - the even scarier one.

That one was "prey".