The Hunt: A Werewolf Story

Chapter 7: The Road to Doc Harris

Smiley glanced nervously at the horizon, the dying light of the sun casting long shadows over the rugged terrain. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel, a habit he couldn't shake whenever tension ran high. He could feel Clyde's eyes on him, the silent accusation in his gaze.

Dammit, Smiley," Clyde muttered, clutching his bleeding hand. "You think I wanted this?"

"Keep your shirt on, Clyde," Smiley snapped, reaching for the whiskey bottle. "We're almost there. See if you can reach in the glove compartment and hand me a pack of smokes.

In agony, with his good hand Clyde retrieved a pack of Marlboro. Smiley handed the bottle back over, his mind racing. He could see the reflection of his own fear in the cracked rearview mirror, but he pushed it aside. He had to stay focused. They'd get to Doc Harris, patch up Clyde, and then... well, they'd figure it out. They always did.

As the truck bounced along the rough road, Smiley's thoughts drifted back to that fateful night. The screams, the blood, the terrible finality of it all. He shook his head, clearing the memories. Now wasn't the time for regrets. Now was the time for action.

Driving into the darkness of the night, Smiley glanced over at Clyde and wondered aloud, "What I want to know is how that Natasha got past our sentries at the gate."

"I don't know," Clyde responded, wincing. still concerned primarily with his hand. "She must've hiked in. There's only one road in and one way out."

Approaching the camp station of the sentries, Smiley brought the truck to a slow crawl. The sound of a radio playing rock music drifted through the night air. As they neared, the glow of a campfire flickered, casting shadows of figures clad in denim jackets with the emblem of a hammer on the back.

The camp was alive with activity. A few biker girls danced around the fire, their laughter mingling with the music. The scent of smoke, sweat, and cheap beer permeated the air, adding to the gritty, nostalgic atmosphere. Some of the girls, scantily clad and carefree, swayed to the rhythm of the music, their movements fluid and uninhibited.

As the truck rolled to a stop, Clyde fumbled with a piece of torn fabric, struggling to make a makeshift bandage for his wounded hand. He gritted his teeth, wincing as he tried to stem the bleeding.

Smiley rolled down the window and called out, "Hey, Johnny! How's the night shift treating you?"

Johnny, a lanky man with a scruffy beard and a bandana tied around his head, sauntered over, grinning. "Same old, same old, Smiley. Just keeping an eye out for trouble." He glanced at Clyde's bloody hand and whistled. "What happened to you, man?"

"Ran into some... unexpected company," Clyde grumbled, clutching his hand. "How the hell did Natasha get past you guys?"

Johnny exchanged a look with the other sentry, a burly guy named Red, who was taking a swig from a beer bottle. "No one came through here, I swear. Must've hiked in from somewhere off-road. We didn't see a damn thing."

As the conversation continued, one of the biker girls, her hair wild and eyes glittering in the firelight, approached the truck. She leaned against the door, peering inside. "Hey there, Smiley. You boys look like you've had a rough night."

"Something like that," Smiley replied, forcing a smile. "Keep the party going, but stay alert. We've got a situation on our hands."