Training Marcus

Part 1

"Parker! Squall! You guys are assholes!" Vixen's voice reverberated through the trees as she called out to her band mates. She sighed and leaned against a tree, running her thin fingers through her short, unruly mop of neon green hair as she considered her predicament. Other than her band mates, the only person who knew she was out here in the Washington wilderness was her fiance, Jason Whitt, but he was back home in Seattle. Deft fingers dove into her plaid sweater, retrieving her phone and a joint. She sparked it  as her fingers danced across the screen of her smartphone, composing an angry message for the boys.

Should've figured you guys would ditch me at the first opportunity. I hate you both. Should never have agreed to this camping trip.

She shoved the phone back in her pocket without a second glance, puffing on the joint as she trudged toward the campsite. A few minutes later, her phone buzzed.

Message couldn't send. Retry?

"Shit." No signal. Vixen kicked a loose rock, annoyed with her perceived bad luck. 'No issue,' she thought, 'I'll just go to the campsite and deal with the fuckers there.'

She wandered for what felt like hours through the giant trunks of redwood tress jutting from the lower foothills of the Rockies. Without a map or compass, finding her trail back to the campsite was proving more difficult than Vixen had expected, and she was beginning to panic. She had smoked the last of her weed trying to fend off the inevitable anxiety attack threatening to strike at any moment. As the sun began to set, she felt relief wash over her as she stumbled into a clearing.

A small shack stood in the middle of the clearing, probably somebody's hunting shelter. A kerosene lamp hung from the sagging porch roof, its soft warm glow fending off the approaching dusk. Vixen was torn. On the one hand, people could mean help, and she desperately needed some of that right now. On the other hand, it was rumored that people sometimes disappeared without a trace in the foothills here-- one of the primary reasons she and her band mates had chosen to camp here.

Desperation won out over logic, and Vixen approached the shack. Gathering all her remaining courage, she lifted her knuckles and rapped softly on the wooden door. A few tense seconds ticked by like hours until the door swung open, revealing a young man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties.

He was only a few inches taller than her, but still she found herself craning her neck to meet his kaleidoscopic hazel eyes, a deep brown flecked with green and blue, shimmering like stained glass in the sunlight. His square jaw was complimented by wide shoulders and a stocky, muscular frame. A well-trimmed Van Dyke adorned his chin and upper lip, drawing attention to his perfect pout. Sandy brown, shoulder-length locks of wavy hair had been slicked back into a ponytail to reveal perfect sideburns. "Can I help you?" He crooned, his voice thick with a Midwestern lilt and softer than she'd expected.

Vixen, realizing she had been staring, shook her head and lowered her eyes to the man's chest, which was clad in a dark t-shirt. "I, uh, that is, my friends and I were camping and, well, see, I kinda got separated from them..." She let her sentence trail off as he gave her a scrutinizing gaze.

Finally, as if struck by a bolt of lightning, his eyes widened and he snapped his fingers. "I know you! You're that singer, from... oh Hell..." He chewed his lower lip for a moment, deep in thought.

"Epoch," she interjected.

"That's the one! Come on inside, I just put dinner on the stove. I'm sure Miles will enjoy the company."

"Miles?" Vixen jumped as the door latched shut behind her.

"I apologize, I've been so rude. My name is Daryl Fox. Miles is an old friend of mine. He's resting right now. This is his cabin."

"I see..." Ever the paranoid guest, Vixen made a mental note of the room, just in case the well-meaning Daryl had ulterior motives. Forget what his velveteen voice was doing to her limbic system. She didn't trust easily, and for good reason.

The entryway also served as a den of sorts, and was cozier than she had expected based on the dilapidated exterior of the cabin. Dark wood paneling spanned the walls, contrasting the soft beige carpet beneath her feet. Out of respect, she slipped out of her clunky hiking boots. An overstuffed, avacado green couch was the centerpiece of the room, complimented by an oak coffee table which sported a number of oversized books whose subject matter revolved around wolves.

She followed Daryl as he meandered into a dated galley kitchen, humming to himself as he stirred a pot on the stove. The smell that wafted through the kitchen was mouthwatering, savory with a hint of onion, garlic, sage and rosemary. "My grandmother's chicken stew," Daryl explained with a grin. "I'm the only one who knows the recipe. Here, have a taste." He lifted the spoon and blew on it a few times before offering it to Vixen. As the flavors blended together in her mouth, she gave an approving nod.

Daryl beamed, obviously pleased with himself, when a loud clatter from the back of the cabin startled him. His smile quickly turned to a frown. "Oh no..." he whispered.

Vixen furrowed her brow. "What's going on?"

Daryl shook his head. "Shhh! We were too loud! We woke up Miles before he was ready..."

"What?"

"Shut up! And stand behind me."

Vixen threw a threatening glare back at her host. "Don't tell me wh-"

Her sentence was cut short by a strong hand at her throat, staring into a very different pair of eyes than Daryl's. These eyes were pale grey, cold, soulless. "Daryl. Who is your little friend?"