WOLFVILLE

1.3: Not Who You Think I Am

Under stars, they moved like they were one of the trees, a geometric shadow cleaved by branches and ribbons of moonlight. They stepped down the trail with no light to guide them, sifting through blue-green shapes in thermal imaging goggles. Two feet in black boots, black jacket, black hood and a rifle strapped to their back; as dark as the night itself. But in spite of the camouflage, they didn't belong here in these trees, in these shadows. They were interloper, fixed to a path made by something else.

The hunter scanned the trees down the trail. No warmth appeared in their vision except for shivering spots of small, underground mammals sheltering in the litter. The forest barely even stirred. They were alone out here, like they always were until the moment they meant not to be; but that moment wouldn't be tonight. They were just looking.

An aperture in the brush marked where they had to go. Stepping with care, they avoided snapping twigs or moving too much of the leaves, gloved hands steady on the aspens. The trill of the forest grew louder the deeper they went, frogs hopping out from underfoot and landing in a rustle, sleeping lungs taking their first waking breaths. The breeze picked up as the forest inhaled them. Like something was just made aware of them. They scanned the ground for signatures of passage, the slightest dip of temperature in some winding pattern; they knew the wolves had been here. They saw it on the trail cam a few days ago. They saw Her, too.

It wasn't tracks they found, but a set of warm colour drops settled among grass. They glimpsed three yellow specks in the ground and curiously went closer, stooping through a dip in the ground. Something crunched beneath the boot. Below, it was a tattered spinal column fastened together by blackened fascia, barely visible out of the night. They touched the bones and the withered feet, dug the skull out of its own remains, but didn't extract it with its spine still attached. They just looked at it down in their hand. This must be what they were hunting. The hunter set down the prey of its prey and stepped out of the dip. They sought the spots again and found them, five spots in the grass.

Five?

Curious tilt of the head. They stepped.

Six spots out of the green thermal view, the newest burning white hot then rapidly cooling to red, orange, dull yellow. A seventh spot, and this time they saw the shape of it before it hit the ground, dripping. But nothing in their vision showed where it came from. Eighth spot, coming toward them.

Then the flicker of a body, suddenly so white in the goggles it blinded them. Not natural. Too close for comfort. Each time the image shuddered, the air shrieked and stilled again, breeding fear that outweighed their purpose here. They stumbled back, collapsing into the dip as crisp heat ate above them. The monstrous wolf took shape with snarling teeth. Or wolf-like monster? It terrified them because they didn't know. Panicked, they scrambled out of the dip and crashed through the forest, and the monster crashed after them.

Hours later, under the pale hum of a single bathroom bulb, he scrubbed his hands. Gushing water splashed off the inside of the sink, clots of red and sweet pink spinning into the drain. He leaned his elbows on the edge and picked the blood out from under his fingernails. He rubbed them, each time expecting to see the nail slide off his nailbed in a slime of blood and metamorphic ichor. It terrified him. Hand on his hip where he'd been bitten, he gave himself another dose of lupokitene just in case. Blood was everywhere. His blood. Its blood, steaming hot... black.

It came out of a nightmare. Something was wrong with the wolves.

His fingers shook over the gouge. He tossed the needle in the garbage and panted. Nothing was changing. Nothing would change... as long as She doesn't know.