Night of the Wolf
Novelette: A young woman finds herself hunted in a dystopian future
Out of the darkness came a hard slap across the face. She sensed it more than she felt it, and she swam back to consciousness to the sound of a voice yelling at her.
A young man shouted. "Once it begins, nobody will know," he jabbed at her, "that you're you."
He adjusted her cloak at the neckline. The young woman blinked her eyes hard and tried to figure out where she was. It was dark but she could hear voices all around her — people shouting instructions and the sound of frightened others asking frantic questions.
"Are you hearing me?" he asked. "You can't ask anybody for help. OK? You need to find a safe place and stay out of sight until dawn."
The young woman tried to speak but her throat was dry and scratchy and her words came out as an unintelligible croak. A voice chimed rhythmically in the darkness…
Seven… six… five…
“Are you hearing me?” the man yelled.
Three… two… one…
“Just RUN!” he shouted.
There was a loud crash as two huge metal doors flung open above their heads and the young woman was momentarily blinded by brilliant white light. A crowd pressed against her on all sides and she was carried forward with involuntary urgency. Dozens of others surrounded her, and in synchronous motion, they herded up a wide stairway and into the cold night air. Bright floodlights illuminated a wide green plain and she could see her breath. The group, bewildered people of all ages, blinked in the bright light, and she could see they were all dressed in identical fashion… each wore a long brown sack, like a cloak that had been sewn shut at the front, tightly fastened at the neck with a metal cord.
“What is happ…” she started to ask, but a terrifying sound interrupted — a burst of energy that sounded like a tearing bedsheet ripped the night. There was an explosion nearby and a plume of dirt, grass and flame erupted into the air.
“RUN!” a young man yelled, and she recognized his voice… it was the man from the darkness.
At once, the night sky became a deadly menagerie of directed-energy bolts and two runners fell dead on the spot, including her mentor from the darkness below. The group scattered amidst terrified screams and the young woman found her feet carrying her forward once again.
The young woman was fit; healthy and strong. As she ran, she passed one person, then another and another. Energy bolts raced past on all sides — from somewhere on the perimeter of the field across which they fled — and a number of people dropped in front of her, struck by weapon fire and horribly burned.
Someone is hunting us!
Right in front of her an old man was hit, and she changed direction like a pinball off a bumper. She tried to see who was firing at them, but the lights were too bright, and the shooters too distant.
Where am I going?
She was starting to panic.
She looked around. On the horizon she could see a tree line, and she changed direction again. As she did, the young woman stepped on her own cloak and fell on her face in the dirt. An energy bolt sailed over, right where her head had been moments before. If she hadn’t tripped, she would have been dead, horribly burned like the others.
The young woman got back to her feet with difficulty. There were no arm holes in her sack and she could not free her hands. From within, she grabbed her cloak at the knees and lifted her hands chest-high. She felt a pressure between her legs — some kind of integrated restraining belt — and she could lift her cloak no higher, but it was enough. With her cloak gripped firmly in her fists and her bare legs exposed to the night air, she again began to run.
The lit field was a deathtrap but the bright light allowed her to see where she was running; she was steady-footed and accelerating. The sound of tearing bedsheets surrounded her and energy-bolts sailed past. One round passed so close she could feel it’s heat, but she had found her footing and was quickly putting distance between herself and whoever was firing at her.
As she fled, she glanced quickly over her shoulder at a horrific scene — geysers of fire, grass and dirt exploded into the cool night air as the hunted screamed and fell dead on the field. The tree line was only 100 feet away, then 75. Her legs pumped with grace, in long strides, and she didn’t think she had ever run so fast in her life. The grass flew beneath her feet.
An energy bolt sailed weakly toward her but impacted to her rear.
25 feet to the trees.
10 feet.
Without slowing, she crashed into the growth at the edge of the woods, the knotty branches grabbing at her cloak in an attempt to arrest her flight, but she refused to yield. Barefooted and still holding her cloak above the knees, she pushed through the trees and overgrowth until she could no longer see into the killing field.
If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
Her lungs were about to burst and sweat beaded on her head. Finally, deep in the forest, she allowed herself to slow, then stop. The weapons had stopped firing in the distance and it was nearly silent.
A young man fired one last energy bolt from his plasma rifle and the sound ripped the cool night air, but the round fell far short and the last of the hunted escaped into the forest.
“What kind of operation is this?” an older man shouted. He turned his gaze from the killing field to an officer in a gray uniform.
“We paid 70-thousand for this?” the man asked in an angry tone. “They got away so easily.” He waved his hand at the empty field.
“Chris didn’t even get a kill, Vincent.”
Marshal Vincent rose from his seat, pulled at the bottom of his jacket and smoothed his uniform, then raised his hands in a calming gesture.
“I assure you, Lord Nicks, this adventure is far from over,” Vincent said. “Young Chris will get his mark — not to mention his promotion in rank — by the time the night is out.”
The assurances tempered Lord Nicks’ frustration for the moment. He wore a black suit with a gray collar bearing the insignia of the House of Nicks, but the stout fabric remained true as he snatched the plasma rifle from Chris in a rough manner.
“What is the range on these, Vincent?” he demanded. “They’re more like a toy than a weapon.”
Vincent stepped forward and the heels of his boots knocked out an authoritarian sound on the wooden platform they had erected for the event. Again Vincent attempted to placate Lord Nicks.
“The range on the rifles is decided by design, Lord Nicks,” he said. “In the next phase, Chris will have a more personal encounter,” he continued, “and I assure you, it will be worth the wait.”
Chris Nicks bore an excited expression and his father relented.
“You had better hope so,” Lord Nicks finished.
The young woman scanned her surroundings. It was the dead of night but the moon was full and she could see fairly well despite the looming trees and dense forest. The wildlife that fell silent when she crashed into the woods came back to life as she stood silently, her breaths visibly fanning the night air.
A stream trickled in the distance. She knew streams led to rivers and rivers led to towns. She found a small muddy creek that meandered downhill, so she decided to follow it. She was without shoes and the footing was treacherous. She hadn’t gone 10 steps when she slipped on the wet ground and fell. She attempted to put her hands out and catch herself, but her cloak impeded the movement of her arms and her head smashed against a rock. She saw stars and struggled to regain her feet. When she did, she felt a trickle of blood run down her temple and over her cheek, where it dripped from her jaw.
The stream did indeed lead to a river; a roaring waterway that she knew she could not cross even if her arms had been free. The young woman stumbled along, trying to stay on her feet and avoid another knock to the head. She could feel some kind of heavy collar around her neck, concealed beneath her cloak, and the weight made her top heavy; her balance hard to maintain. She fell to her knees on occasion, but soldiered on until she came to a bridge. It was a ramshackle construction of timber and rope but appeared to be safe, so she crossed, and as she did, a town came into view.
“Oh, thank the Lord,” she said out loud and quickened her pace along the dirt road from the bridge to the town below. Amber lights illuminated a number of buildings, and torches flickered in front of others. She could faintly hear voices; laughing and merriment and boisterous celebration came from somewhere in the settlement.
Still unsure who had been shooting at her, or what exactly was happening, she proceeded with caution. With quiet steps she slipped into an alley and approached a building from which light shone through the windows. Voices emanated from inside accompanied by the tinkling of dinnerware, and she was about to peer through a window when the rear door opened.
The young woman reflexively recoiled into the shadows and watched as a portly woman brought trash to a bin in the alley.
“Keep yer britches on,” the portly woman shouted and laughed. “No festival is complete without my brew, and there’s plenty to go around yet!” She dropped the bag of garbage in the dumpster and when she turned around, the young woman stepped forward, out of the shadows.
The young woman opened her mouth to ask for help but she was interrupted by the portly woman’s bloodcurdling scream.
“Silas!” the old woman yelled. “Get your rifle, Silas!” she exclaimed. She dodged the young woman, keeping as much distance between them as possible as she bolted for the door of her restaurant.
“Wait…” the young woman pleaded. “Please help me,” she said, but her cries were drowned out by the old woman’s screaming and a rising ruckus from inside.
A gruff man appeared in the doorway, and when he saw the young woman, he immediately raised his rifle and pointed it in her direction.
The young woman screamed and pirouetted on one heel to run. The now familiar sound of a tearing bedsheet again crackled in the night air as an energy bolt sailed over the young woman’s right shoulder. She recoiled from the heat as she ran from the alley into the street. Other voices could be heard exclaiming and she saw men with weapons appear in windows and doorways. The young woman veered from the street to the woods that lined the roadside as energy bolts rained on her. Again she found herself running for her life in the dense brush, and her bare feet were soon pure agony; torn and bleeding.
Why did that old woman scream? She acted as if I would do her harm.
The young woman did not understand what was happening.
Why is everyone shooting at me?
She could still hear the voices of her pursuers and she ran as fast as her tortured feet would carry her, until their shouting became as faint as the night breeze. When she could no longer run, she walked, and she became aware that she was thirsty. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten recently.
She couldn’t remember when she had eaten last, or anything else for that matter.
What’s the last thing you can remember?
She struggled to recall, but the knock to her head wasn’t helping.
Was it… a party?
Consumed with her thoughts, the young woman barely noticed she had entered a clearing in the forest, and fifty yards ahead, a pond glistened in the moonlight. The surface was still and calm, and the sight of it stoked the young woman’s thirst.
She stumbled forward to the pool’s edge and dropped to her knees. She knew she could not use her hands to cup the water, and she meant to lower her lips to the surface of the cool pond and drink until she could drink no more. When she bent over the edge of the pool, however, she was greeted by a strange and frightening sight.
She leapt back from the pool, then crept forward again.
Instead of her own reflection, the young woman saw the face of a wolf staring back at her.
Wooden doors bearing a large, ornate ‘N’ stood at the entrance to the estate and revelers came and went as guards observed closely, occasionally stopping a guest to question them. If their answers didn’t resonate as truthful, they were subject to a pat-down. The resistance was as strong as it had ever been, but its members were always dressed in plain clothes and they were hard to spot among the friends and dignitaries invited to the Nicks estate.
The manor was a stately white home modernized from its orginal 20th century plantation design, but in a subtle way that obscured it’s high-tech state from all but the most observant visitors — Mrs. Nicks had insisted on it.
“I won’t have this place looking like a fortress!” she had exclaimed when Lord Nicks informed her of the plans for the estate. His request for watch towers was axed and replaced with more subtle guard shacks, carefully landscaped to minimize their appearance. There was only one exception that stood out as overtly modern. Mrs. Nicks relented to the presence of a landing pad for the family’s shuttles — a necessity due to their remote location — but insisted it be placed to the rear of the mansion, where it would not be seen from the road.
“Mother, look at all the people!” Sara Nicks said as their shuttle landed. “I’ve never seen so many.”
Mrs. Nicks observed the scene and surmised her daughter was correct — attendance to the festival had been growing for the last several years, and they had never welcomed so many guests to their estate.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Mrs. Nicks answered with a tight smile.
The craft settled gently on the pad behind the estate and its electromagnetic hum subsided as flight engineers signaled to the ground crew for engine shutoff. The Nicks women deboarded, but Sara’s expression had changed from excitement to resignation.
“I wish my sister was here to see this,” she remarked. “She loved to have company.”
“At some point, she will come to her senses,” Mrs. Nicks said. “Now run along and have some fun.”
The Nicks estate was home to a lavish stable, and it was there that Chris and his father readied themselves for the next stage of the hunt. On any other evening the stable was a serene place, but during the festival, it was abuzz with activity — Colonel Vincent gave instructions to the martial forces as horses whinnied and snorted, and Chris Nicks harbored nervous questions.
“Father, is there going to be enough time?” he asked.
“To complete the hunt?” his father asked. “I’m sure there will,” he said. “You are a fine shot,” he said, clapping his son on the shoulder. “By the time this night is out, you will assuredly have your kill,” he said.
“The resistance…” Chris began, but his father shook his head and put out one finger to silence his son’s question.
“Mount up!” Colonel Vincent shouted, and his forces shoved their booted feet into polished stirrups and thrust themselves into their saddles.
“It is not the time for worries. The hunt is on, son,” Lord Nicks said, and he smiled.
The young woman could not believe what her eyes insisted on showing her — her reflection in the pond was that of a wolf, and not just an ordinary wolf, but some kind of nightmare vision of a wolf, with huge, unnatural fangs and blood red eyes.
No wonder that woman screamed when she saw me.
The young woman wrestled with her cloak; twisted one way, then another. She got to her feet and thrust her hands up, pushing with all her might, but she again felt pressure between her legs as the internal restraining belt prevented her from freeing her hands. She grunted and yipped as the cloak pinched her and pressed at her flesh while she struggled. She pressed the front of her cloak toward her mouth and bit the fabric with her teeth, pulling at it, to no avail. No matter what she did, she could not free herself from the heavy, coarse garment.
“Aaaaah!” she screamed in frustration, falling to her knees at the pond’s edge. In a pen nearby, livestock stirred quietly.
She was exhausted from her flight, and the struggle to free her hands had stolen her last bit of strength. The young woman began to cry, first in soft, whispered sobs that escalated to heaving wails.
Emma had been terrified at first. She heard something coming quickly through the dark forest and ran for cover as her father had taught her. If the martial forces found them, it would be all over for her family and they would be forced to return to “civilized” society. At 12 years old, discovery was her worst fear. She didn’t think monsters actually lived in the woods.
From her hiding spot, she saw the wolf emerge from the forest and began to question if she had been wrong. She couldn’t imagine a more frightening beast, and she fought to constrain her own breaths and not be discovered.
After a few minutes, however, something seemed different. The wolf knelt at the edge of the family’s pond and Emma could see its body heaving in a manner that was decidedly not animal. She could faintly hear what sounded like whines, and to Emma, it seemed like the wolf was… crying, like a human would.
With unconscious sympathy, Emma rose slightly from her hiding place in a subtle motion. The wolf’s eyes locked on her and Emma panicked. Her feet turned to carry her away, but before she could flee, a voice called out.
“Wait!” a young woman’s voice shouted.
Emma could not believe what she had just seen and heard. She trembled. A young woman’s voice had come from the wolf at the edge of the pond.
“Please wait,” the young woman’s voice pleaded again. The wolf’s mouth moved in a snarled expression, but a woman’s voice rang forth. “Please help me.”
A woman’s voice appealed from somewhere inside a wolf’s visage.
“Wh — what are you?” Emma questioned, terrified.
“I am a human,” she replied, and the wolf’s lips moved in pantomime. “Just like you,” she said, “I’m a person.”
Emma stood to her full height and stepped forward, tentatively, ready to flee at the first sign of a ruse.
“I don’t understand,” Emma said. “What happened to you?”
“I don’t know,” the young woman’s voice replied. “I can’t remember who did this to me.”
“What’s your name?” Emma asked the young woman hidden inside a wolf.
The young woman couldn’t remember most of what she’d done, or how she’d come to be in the situation she found herself, but when the girl asked her name, it came to her.
She remembered.
“My name is Draya,” the young woman told the girl.
Emma took another three steps, examined the wolf before her, then closed the rest of the distance between them. She examined Draya’s wolf-like appearance with fascination. It was absolutely realistic.
“Are you in the resistance?” Emma asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember,” Draya said. “Can you help me? I need to free my hands.”
Emma examined the cloak that covered the wolf’s body and wondered what might be hidden beneath the heavy cloth.
“You have hands?” she asked, scared.
“Yes, please,” Draya asked. “Help me free myself and I’ll show you.”
Emma hesitated, then answered.
“Okay,” she said. “Wait here.”
The young girl darted off into the forest and Draya returned to the pond, again examining her reflection.
What is the resistance?
Was she part of it? She had vague memories of another life. She remembered a party that was… interrupted? People running and screaming.
Emma returned with a large, gleaming knife and Draya was startled.
“Will this work?” she asked. She smiled.
Draya chuckled. “Uh, yes. I think that will work,” she answered.
Emma stepped forward with the kife and tried to find a way to grasp the coarse cloth so that she could pierce it without cutting Draya.
“I don’t wanna cut you,” Emma said.
“It’s okay,” Draya said. “You’ve got it. Go ahead.”
Emma pinched the cloth between her thumb and fingers then pulled it away from Draya’s body. With a firm motion she punched the point of the knife into the tented space of fabric and sank it to the hilt.
Emma gasped. She was sure she had just stabbed Draya.
“It’s okay,” Draya said from behind a wolf’s mouth. “That’s great. Slide it down.”
Emma let out a relieved breath and slid the blade lower as the cloth parted like a zipper. Draya’s hand punched through the opening into the cool night air and she flexed her fingers.
Emma let out a surprised yip and dropped the knife to the ground.
“Oh my god,” Draya said. “That feels so good.”
Emma examined the limb before her.
“You do have hands,” she said, surprised.
“Thank you, Emma,” Draya said. She bent and picked up the knife, then began cutting away the cloak, first freeing her other hand, then cutting around the belt at her waist.
“Help me, Emma,” Draya asked. She handed over the knife and the young girl went to work cutting at the chest and back of the cloak. In minutes they had removed the entire cloak, and what remained was both a horror and a revelation.
Draya wore only her restraining belt below the waist, a plain top that covered her private parts, and there was a heavy metal collar that rested on her collarbones, fastened just below her neck. Several small led lights flashed on the collar and it was fastened in a manner that did not reveal a way to remove it, even with tools. It appeared to be permanently attached. Somehow the collar projected a holographic image that encased Draya’s head and made her look like some sort of fiendish werewolf.
Draya grabbed at the collar, twisted and pulled, but it would not budge.
“I’ve heard of this,” Emma said. “There are rumors,” she continued. “It’s a veil.”
“A what?” Draya asked.
“A veil,” Emma repeated. “It’s a holographic disguise.”
Draya listened as the young girl explained.
“When the Civil War came and the bombs fell, the plants died and only the people with wealth and influence thrived,” Emma continued. “Everybody had a choice… indentured servitude, working for the wealthy, just so you could eat whatever scraps you were offered, or you could strike out on your own and try to make it in the poisoned wastelands.”
“This doesn’t look like a wasteland,” Draya said as she examined the surrounding forest.
“It’s not,” Emma said, “and we’d like to keep it that way. That’s what my Dad says all the time. He doesn’t like outsiders.” She lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder.
“We had a chance to join the resistance,” the young girl said, “but the punishment for consorting with the enemy is death, and the worst of the worst get hunted. My father moved us out here, away from the state, to avoid any entanglements.”
“I can understand why,” Draya said.
“We have everything we need here,” Emma responded. “We have animals, food, and the plants still grow.”
“Emma,” Draya said softly, “I’m cold. I’m gonna need some clothes.”
“Oh my gosh,” Emma said. “Of course, how could I be so inconsiderate? Have you eaten?”
Draya shook her head.
“Come with me,” Emma said. “I’ll get you some clothes and something to eat.”
A storage shed of modest construction stood near the livestock pen and Emma led Draya there to wait while she retrieved some clothes from her family’s home. Draya was grateful for some shelter from the night breeze, which was picking up and chilling her nearly naked body. Within minutes, however, Emma had returned from the house with warm clothing.
“It’s some stuff from my mom’s younger days,” Emma said. “It’s not fashionable, but it should keep you warm.”
Draya thanked her and put on the clothes — a pair of reddish-brown trousers, a heavy, long-sleeve work shirt, wool socks, and a pair of black work boots. She still wore the likeness of a wolf, but the clothing brought out the humanity hiding inside. She was recognizably human again.
“Listen, Draya,” Emma said as she handed over a plate with a sandwich and heaping mound of fruit on it. “It’s past my curfew and I need to get back, but you need to stay out of sight. If anyone discovers you’re here…”
The man at the beginning of Draya’s ordeal, who’d paid with his life to guide her, had said she needed to stay out of sight until dawn, and she suspected if she could make it until then, the hunt would be over. When the sun rose, she hoped the veil would deactivate and she would appear human again.
“I’ll be gone right away in the morning,” Draya said. She used a canvas tarp she found in the shed to fashion a bed, then dropped a bag of seed at the head of her makeshift bunk to use as a pillow.
Emma nodded. “I’ll get up early and bring you some hot cocoa and sausages,” she said, and smiled.
“Thank you,” Draya said, and the young girl turned on her heel and darted out the door.
Loud music reverberated off the walls accompanied by the sound of laughing and bottles clinking in a dark room. Draya stood in the hallway, her back pressed to the wall while a young man kissed her. He was Lodewijk, a Danish-immigrant who had come west after the big war, and everyone used a westernized pronunciation when addressing him — Ludwig. His kisses were soft and sensuous, and Draya returned them eagerly. She could not get enough of them.
“Was today not the best day yet?” he asked in a low tone.
“It was, my love,” she said. “We’ll bring the Commonwealth to their knees, eventually.”
She was a beautiful young woman, with long, sandy brown hair that naturally formed wavy curls when it dried. Her brown eyes glistened in the dim light and her cherubic cheeks rose when she smiled.
“This war is just getting started, Miss Nicks,” he said, smiling, but Draya frowned.
“You know I don’t like it when you call me that,” she scolded. “I don’t want to be associated with that life.”
He smirked. “I am sorry,” he said and kissed her again.
A deafening commotion rang from the kitchen at the end of the hallway and people began to scream. Draya’s nightmare slowed and she remembered the events that created her current situation as if shown on a movie screen.
Flashes of plasma fire from the kitchen.
The gray uniforms that came flooding into the hallway.
Attempting to flee with Ludwig; his scarred and burned body lying on the grass as he died in the yard.
The muzzle of a plasma rifle in her face…
Draya jolted awake, sitting upright in her makeshift bed. Her dream reminded her of the deadly serious situation in which she found herself. She was a member of the resistance, and it would not be over at dawn. They would hunt for her until she was found, and when she was caught, she would be taken back to the Commonwealth and executed.
She rose and stepped outside, where the night air helped to calm her nerves. The night was silent except for the crickets and an occasional snort from the livestock. If there was a better place to escape the Commonwealth, Draya couldn’t imagine what it was, because Emma’s family had found a little slice of paradise — they were isolated in the woods, with a water source, livestock, and beautiful trees blooming with lush green leaves overhead.
The breeze had died down and the pond was once again still and reflected like glass. Her appearance was still that of a nightmare, and she eagerly longed for the chance to be herself again. The young renegade, a woman not yet halfway through her twenties, strode to a stump and sat down, to appreciate the night and a moment of calm.
Draya was far away; lost in her own thoughts, and she did not notice when the crickets ceased chirping. Nor did she take note of a faint, almost-imperceptible hum in the distance. From above, a single leaf undulated back and forth as it fell, like a baby’s cradle rocked by its loving mother’s hand. The leaf landed on Draya’s knee and she smiled with genuine wonder, like a child on which a butterfly had chosen to alight. She scooped the leaf into her palm… it had turned a light orange color and Draya thought it was strange since fall was months away.
Another leaf landed on the grass before her, and Draya picked it up. It was the same pale orange. Above, she could see leaves falling from the trees, a few at a time, then in greater volume. They drifted lazily to and fro and Draya regarded them with wonder — it was a beautiful spectacle of nature.
Behind her, there was a loud thud. Draya saw a heifer lying on the ground, breathing heavily. Another cow unexpectedly dropped to the ground as Draya watched, while pale orange leaves rained down around her.
She stood.
What is happening?
She turned her face skyward and it was immediately clear something was not right. The leaves were dropping off the trees at an increasing rate and the stars were more visible than they had been moments before.
All at once, she noticed everything she had missed. The silence of the crickets and the rising hum of electromagnetic patrol craft. The Commonwealth was dropping some kind of poisonous defoliant on the forest.
Another of the family’s livestock dropped dead in the pen and horses snorted in the distance as men’s voices could be heard shouting and calling to one another.
“DRAYA!” Emma’s voice screamed. “RUN!”
Emma bound toward the shed were Draya had bed down for the night, and a big man, presumably her father, was hot on her heels.
“YOU!” he shouted. “They’re after you! This is why they’ve come!” He wore an angry expression and Draya Nicks knew she was in danger.
Chris Nicks and his father arrived on horseback at the clearing with Marshal Vincent, but found it empty except for Emma’s father. His livestock lay dead in their pen and orange leaves littered the ground, a decaying blanket of death.
Dismounting his horse, Chris Nicks had a growing sense of authority and it could be seen in his stride and the way he carried himself.
He directed a squad. “Check the house.”
“The wolf,” Lord Nicks said. “Was it here?” he asked.
“Yes,” Emma’s father said. “You know it was,” he finished, surveying the devastation to the farm he had so lovingly built with his own two hands.
At the water’s edge, Chris Nicks found what remained of the cloak and picked it up.
“Father!” he shouted, and Lord Nicks nodded.
“Which way did it go?” Marshal Vincent demanded.
Emma’s father merely pointed.
“Let’s go,” the younger Nicks shouted, and the men obeyed as if he were a commissioned officer.
“I’ll be back to see you after sunrise,” Marshal Vincent said in a serious tone, and Emma’s father stared at his shoes.
Dogs barked in the distance and a Lieutenant hurried into the clearing on horseback.
“Sir, they’re onto the wolf,” he said.
The Nicks party and Marshal Vincent gave their horses a kick and took off in hot pursuit of a prey they knew better than they understood.
Deep in the forest, Draya was again in flight. She could hear dogs barking nearby and she knew she did not have time to rest. The young woman scrambled down an embankment and across a flat plateau littered with fallen timber on the forest floor, but the dogs sounded closer than before.
“This way!” a man’s voice called from somewhere nearby.
The hunted young woman with the face of a wolf fled without direction — every time she heard a voice, she instinctively changed direction.
Draya heard a search party as they crashed through the forest and she glanced over her shoulder to see where they were, but tripped on an exposed tree root in the process and fell on her face. As she rose, she saw a young man in the shadows, standing next to a tree perhaps thirty feet away. He raised a rifle and pointed it in her direction. The young woman wheeled around and took flight as fast as her feet would carry her but the sound of barking dogs still grew louder.
The young man let loose a volley of shots from his plasma rifle. One round found the limb of a tree and the others whent high and wide. Draya reached the edge of a ravine, dropped onto one hip and began to slide into it as two search dogs appeared, barking furiously.
Without thinking, Draya turned toward the dogs and gave her best vicious bark in return. The search dogs recoiled, momentarily frightened by the image of a fearsome wolf, as Draya slid and tumbled down into the ravine.
“This way!” a hunter shouted, and Draya could feel the party closing in. She came to rest with a thud at the bottom of the ravine and looked for a place to hide.
A large hollow log rested on the bank of a stream and Draya shimmied into it, wriggling like an inch worm until she was hidden.
“Down there,” she heard a voice call, and then more dogs barking.
Chris Nicks and his father arrived at the ridge overlooking the ravine and surveyed what was going on below as a lieutenant called for a dog.
“In the log,” the Lieutenant called, and a dog handler turned loose a hound. “Get in there, boy,” he said.
Lord Nicks turned to his young son. “Let’s head back to the estate,” he said. “You can’t get your shot here. They have it encircled with instructions to drive it back to the square,” he continued. “We can finish it there.”
The Nicks party departed as a dog dove into the log below. Draya screamed and kicked her legs as the dog bit at her feet and tore at her flesh in the claustrophobic confines of the hollow log.
The sky had gone from an inky indigo to purple and red as the sun approached from beyond the horizon. During the festival, the hunt would sometimes end just hours after it had begun, when all the runners had been captured or killed, but this year had been a treat for the revelers. Several of the hunted had survived the night, only to be captured in the pre-dawn hours.
One runner, in a veil that depicted a zombie-like creature, was lashed at the wrists to several pillars on a raised platform in the estate square. Another was bound on a separate platform to the right and wore a veil that showed a reptilian creature’s visage. In the center, there was one unused set of pillars.
Onlookers gathered in bleachers that had been erected for the occasion and a murmur possessed the crowd as the climax of the festival approached. Sara Nicks and her mother waited in the stands among the audience.
“Sunrise in six minutes,” a public address announcer intoned over a system of loudspeakers, and the crowd cheered.
“Do you think they’ll get the last one, mother?” Sara Nicks asked.
“Surely, they will,” her mother replied. “And if they don’t, they will dispose of it in due time… just like all the other resistance trash. They chose their fate.”
Lord Nicks and his son Chris watched from the shooting platform above, awaiting the wolf — the final runner. Marshal Vincent leaned-in and spoke to Lord Nicks in a voice barely above a whisper.
“We shouldn’t cut it too close,” he said. “There are children in the crowd.”
“It should be any moment,” Lord Nicks replied. “The veil will still be active.”
A hunter on the platform raised his plasma rifle and peered through the scope, taking aim at the zombie-like creature in the crosshairs. He squeezed the trigger and an energy bolt tore through the pre-dawn sky and struck the runner in the chest. The zombie-like creature dropped to it’s knees, dead and severely burned, arms outstretched, its weight supported from the wrists.
The crowd let out a roar as the announcer joined again.
“Two runners remaining, and four minutes until sunrise!” he said with an air of excitement.
On the eastern horizon, a sliver of sun crept into view. It was only minutes until the Festival’s end, one way or another. The organizers liked to cluster any final terminations in groups, for the crowd’s enjoyment, and they had been waiting for the wolf to arrive, but the other shooters’ impatience grew. They had minutes to get their kill, and they were strictly forbidden from firing a fatal shot after the sun had risen.
Chris Nicks held his plasma rifle and watched the perimeter of the square for the wolf to appear. A second hunter, tired of waiting, stepped forward, raised his weapon and gazed through his scope. The reptilian creature’s image flickered — the veil was beginning to malfunction as sunrise approached and there were tiny glimpses of… something underneath.
The energy bolt tore across the square and struck the reptilian thing, which erupted in a brief flash of light and flame. Like the zombie-like thing before it, it slumped and hung from the cuffs around its wrists, dead and burned. The crowd roared a second time, louder and more raucous. Mrs. Nicks cheered, but Sara Nicks winced and looked to her mother for comfort, finding none.
“One runner remaining,” the announcer bellowed.
There were less than two minutes remaining and time was short. The crowd’s expectations were rising and the tension was palpable — the square had become loud, and tittered on the edge of chaos.
And then, it happened.
A deafening roar went up as The Wolf appeared at the edge of the square.
“Get ready, son,” Lord Nicks said, and Chris re-clenched his weapon.
“I told you!” Mrs. Nicks said to her daughter, but as quickly as the crowd erupted, they fell silent.
“Mother!” Sara said, pointing.
At the edge of the square, the wolf limped forward, hounded by hunters on horseback and repeatedly bitten by dogs. The wolf could barely walk, and the creature’s clothing lent an image of humanity that nobody had been prepared for… without its formless, shapeless cloak, the mirage of beastly horror was failing.
The wolf’s veil flickered as it limped forward. Inside the veil’s disguise, Draya suffered. A dog leapt and planted it’s two front paws on the wolf and knocked her down. The crowd groaned. Blood dripped from her mouth, and her legs were bleeding where the reddish-brown pants Emma had given her were torn away by repeated dog attacks. With every ounce of effort, she got back to her feet and trudged forward, one slow step at a time.
“Mother!” Sara Nicks said. “Please stop this! Make them stop!”
Mrs. Nicks ignored her daughter’s pleas.
Two riders dismounted, took Draya by the wrists, and led her to the platform. She fell again as she tried to ascend the stairs and the guards roughly dragged her back to her feet, up the stairs, and lashed her to the pillars in the center of the platform. Her veil flickered, more noticeably, and for an instant it was clear to everyone there was a young woman under the wolf’s disguise.
Sara Nicks flashed an expression of recognition, but she was unsure.
“One minute remaining,” the announcer said. A digital timer began to count down above the shooting platform.
“Now’s the time, son,” Lord Nicks said. “Your time.”
Chris Nicks peered through his scope and prepared to fire. The wolf creature in his scope was a pathetic sight and the crowd was again coming to life. The wolf’s veil flickered momentarily and Chris caught the briefest glimpse of a person under the disguise. In truth, the hunters knew what they were doing, but the veil disguises furthered a feeling of detachment and made the deed easier to accomplish.
“Forty five seconds to sunrise,” the announcer said and the crowd bellowed.
His finger on the trigger and eye to the scope, Chris Nicks squeezed and… nothing happened.
He tried again. Nothing.
He looked at his weapon, puzzled. “Father!” he said.
Lord Nicks grabbed the weapon, pointed it and attempted to fire it, without result.
“Vincent!” Lord Nicks shouted.
The wolf’s visage began to fade as the veil approached deactivation. Parents in the crowd convered their children’s eyes and some hustled their children away, where they would not be able to see what was unfolding.
“Thirty seconds to sunrise,” the announcer bellowed and the crowd was at a fever pitch.
Marshal Vincent scrambled across the platform and grabbed another hunter’s weapon.
“Load it!” the hunter yelled. “It needs a reload!”
Vincent ran to the cabinet that held the energy bolt cartridges and fumbled with his key.
“Hurry Vincent, goddamn it!” Lord Nicks screamed.
“Fifteen seconds until sunrise,” the announcer said.
Marshal Vincent found the key and opened the cabinet. He grabbed an energy-bolt cartridge, ejected the spent cartridge from the weapon, and snapped the fresh one into the receiver.
Draya’s veil malfunctioned noticeably and her real appearance was becoming more visible than her wolf disguise. Wails and alarmed utterances could be heard coming from the crowd as the veil flickered and failed.
The announcer began to count down.
Nine… eight… seven…
Vincent tossed the weapon to Chris Nicks and he gripped it, placing the stock against his shoulder.
Six… five… four…
“Do it!” Lord Nicks said. “Take the shot, Chris!”
“Mother!” Sara Nicks screamed. “Mother, it’s Draya!” She screamed toward the firing platform where her father and brother were but the crowd’s roars were deafening.
Mrs. Nicks looked at her youngest daughter.
“She chose her fate.”
Chris Nicks lowered his cheek against the upper stock of the weapon with a look of intensity. He peered through the scope and tried to focus.
Three… two… one…
The young man squeezed the trigger just as the countdown finished and he recognized who was in his scope an instant too late.
…zero
The energy bolt ripped forth from the rifle as the veil deactivated once and for all with an electromagnetic whirr. The sun had risen and the crowd saw the human beneath the disguise. It was then clear to the Nicks family that the young woman under the veil was one of their own family — a daughter and sister.
They had been hunting one of their own.
Sara Nicks covered her face as the round sailed across the square, not wanting to see it happen. Mrs. Nicks looked toward the shooting platform where her husband and son looked on in horror.
A raucous cheer went up from the crowd and the hunt was complete.
From across the street, an 80-foot mural dwarfed the entrance to a passageway at its base. RESIST was painted in huge red letters on the four story brick wall of an abandoned building, with a small, dark doorway at the bottom of the “I.” Six stealthy figures in hoods slinked across the street and disappeared one by one into the passage. It was a dark, narrow corridor and the light of the evening sun cast long shadows on the floor as the interlopers crept quietly along.
In a large room at the end of the hallway, a paramilitary organization made preparations, with a dozen members carrying crates of ammunition, examining charts and cleaning weapons.
The metal door opened unexpectedly and the obviously well-trained force within immediately drew their weapons and pointed them at a hooded figure who came through the door, followed by five others.
The first of the hooded figures put up their hands and moved slowly.
“Take it easy,” a voice said from under the hood — a female voice.
The figure reached up and pulled back her hood to reveal her face, and the figures behind her did the same.
“My name is Sara Nicks,” she said, “and these are my friends.”
None of the six young women looked like they were a day older than 16, but when Sara Nicks spoke, it was clear she was mature beyond her years.
“We want to join the resistance.”
Troy Larson is a writer, digital content creator, and broadcast veteran with hundreds of podcast and broadcast credits to his name. Reach out on Facebook and on Instagram.
Great story, Troy. Felt horrible for Draya. Can't wait to read more from the resistance!