Life With A Werewolf

Voice From The Dead Part 9 - First Battle Jitters

          The worst part of a battle sometimes is waiting for it to reach you. We were on pins and needles, listening to the chaos and carnage outside. There was the sound of splintering wood somewhere on the roof. Then a growl. A snarl. a sharp yip. Then a body rolled and fell to the ground. More chaos. No explosions. No real shouting.
          That's the part that seemed a bit strange at first. I'm used to explosions. Shouting. Hurried orders spoken over radio and shouted over the din of the battle. Instead, there was snarls and growls, a thousand chainsaws all started at once then stopped again over and over. We could only dream of what was going on outside, everyone too nervous to go near a window.
          The front door crashed inward, two werewolves snarling on top of each other, growling, and slashing. Elouise acted before I could. She grabbed the werewolf on top and threw it outside in a blur. The other werewolf got up, snarled at us, and then stepped out on its own volition. "Cecily," Zack asked.
          I shrugged. "Or Sophia."
          "Who cares. Mangy varmint," Elouise snarled, standing at the door. Her tail rocked back and forth, as she gave her own deep guttural growl that would chill the blood of anyone who grew up near gators. A low rumbling, clucking sound.
          The window shattered in the room I slept in. A roar as one climbed through. I raced upstairs, pistol drawn. Rounding the door, I raised my pistol. It was Crash. "You can't stay here," he snarled. "Come!"
          I took a single step. His ear tilted outwards, as if hearing something for the first time. "Wait." Turning his head, he looked, then disappeared. I went back downstairs to join the others.
          "We gotta go," I said.
          "Where," Zack asked. Where in deed? Werewolves were all over the compound. At least half of which wasn't friendly to us. One rougarou wasn't going to be enough to keep us safe.
          "We can't leave," Kris responded.
          "We're gonna," I began. Then I started to smell it. Smoke. I raced upstairs. The heat was enormous and growing.
          "They're gonna burn us out," I shouted, as I ran back downstairs.
          "We can't leave," Kris said again, his eyes going wide. "W-we can't..."
          Sean grabbed him tight for a moment, then stared at him. "I will never let anything happen to you."
          "As touching as that is," I said, "line up behind Elouise."
          She looked at me. "You take point," I said. "I take rear."
          "What if you don't have enough bullets," Zack asked.
          I shrugged. "Then it's like Kris said. I hope we give them the screaming shits."
          Everyone glanced at everyone else one last time. I gave them a single nod with a grim face and a small smile. Trying to look confidant in a Rambo way. But I couldn't help but feel like Weird Al playing Rambo in that skit in his movie. But, false motivation is better than no motivation, as they say. So I looked as tough as I could, nodded to Elouise to tell her we were ready, then moved with everyone as we stepped outside into the fire.
          The Rodriguez wanted a war, and well, they got one. Watching werewolves fight in open combat was a bit like watching bee hives in open combat. The movements was quick, far too quick to discern. They hacked. Slashed. Some ducking. Jumping. A wolf slammed into the wall in front of Elouise, snarled at her, then bounced up and dove into the foray.
          It wasn't like the werewolves were wearing collars with name tags on them. So my plan was to wait for them to attack before I fire. Elouise inched around the corner, where she ran into the wall that was Roam. "Wrong way," he growled. Then pointed a finger. "Go to the main compound."
          I glared at him. He lowered his ears for a moment, but didn't say anything. Just jumped back into the fight. It was then that I started to notice a pattern to the attacks. It wasn't just mindless jumping here and there. They were moving in maneuvers. It was coordinated. They had a plan.
          The Rodriguez pack had studied ancient Greek and Roman warfare. They were using common battle tactics of the time. Classic movements that are sometime still used today. Phalanx walls, but instead of a wall of swordsmen and shields, there was a wall of werewolves. Pincher movements. They were forcing ends together to try and choke off and cut off the enemy advance.
          Rodriguez had the brains. They had the tactics, and in many ways, the strength. What they didn't have was the numbers. For every werewolf the Rodriguez had, it seemed the Nobility had three. The sheer numbers was forcing the pincher movement to fail, the ends collapsing back into the wall.
          We moved as quick as we could. No more creeping. We followed the path back towards the main house, jogging. The battle around us hastening our steps. Ten feet to the front door. Then five. A werewolf attempted to ambush Elouise. She spun faster than I'd ever seen her move, striking the creature with her tail.
          "I'd say that's good for second base," I said.
          "Shit, that's good for a home run," Kris replied.
          "Nah, dude. She's getting up," Sean said.
          I fired a single shot into the werewolf. It jolted, then laid back down. "No, she's not."
          The Nobility wasn't as well maneuvered as the Rodriguez. But they had tactics of their own. After the pincher movement failed, they pressed inward on all sides. Forcing the Rodriguez back. They moved as one, going backwards one step at a time. I raised my pistol. Waiting. Of course I could shoot them. But, who was who?
          I recognized Crash on one side of things. He stepped backwards, gave a lone howl. Then the gunshot rang out. It originated somewhere inside the main house, but I didn't see where it came from. Two werewolves fell dead. The rest scattered. No one bothered to pursue them.
          "Lady and Gentlemen," I said, "I do believe we are officially at war."

***

          We had been seated at the table in the kitchen for over a half hour before Roam came through the door in human form. He was holding a bowl of soup with his hair disheveled as much as his clothing. He didn't look like Indiana Jones anymore. "We should talk," he said as he began serving the others.
          "So, talk." I looked down at the soup, then up at him. "This drugged?"
          A look of shame crossed his face for a moment. I was glad he could feel some shame. "I am sorry," he said. "But you have a penchant for sticking your nose in situations where you are not needed. I couldn't risk you doing that again."
          Crash came through the door. He was still in his werewolf form. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he snarled. "Who's brilliant idea was it to," he looked towards us. Then back at Roam. "Alright, I'm fighting in your damn war now. Send them home."
          Roam smiled, "well, I'd like to, but their presence is still required."
          "He'd tell you, you could probably leave, Crash. But, I have to stay."
          Crash blinked, turning his head sideways in confusion. Roam turned pale for a moment. "You see, there's a delicate balance that we're...."
          We all saw Crash tense up as rage began to build inside him. It was Zack who spoke up first.
          "Crash no," Zack shouted. "It doesn't matter! We're in this now. Going home will just get us killed."
          He looked at Roam, snarled then stomped off. Each footstep sounding as if he was crashing through the floor.          "So, that's how he got the name," I said.
          Roam gave my lame joke a polite smile. "No. I gave him the moniker, but he would literally kill me if I told that story."
          "Alright," Elouise said, "Speak your damn piece."
          "Well," Roam pulled up a chair, holding a small bowl of soup of his own. "You see, wars are fought on two fronts. The Nobility out maneuvered us politically. They backed the correct candidates, had laws passed. We were backed into a corner, despite having pushed them off this continent."
          "So, you picked a fight," I said.
          "Finally, yes," Roam replied.
          I stood and turned towards the window. I wasn't seeing him, or the outside. I was a thousand miles away, looking at faces I had to say goodbye to beneath a hail of bullets. The politicians never seemed to care much about who they drag into their little territorial pissing matches. They only care about looking good in front of the body bags and caskets. Crying on cue as they walk through hospitals filled with broken bodies as they hand out medals to men and women who fought for them without a second thought. About making empty promises to wounded and grieving families sitting in front of flowers and gravestones as the rest of the world watches on.
          Why can't we bring back dueling? We could set a tournament up in the middle of the U.N. for the competing politicians. The two nations that have a disagreement, instead of them doing it with thousands of people, disrupting their lives and causing chaos, death and destruction, they can just do between themselves. Pistols at ten paces. Televise it live on cable news so everybody wins and gets what they want.
          Why do they always have to bring us into their fights? We sit eating food out of plastic bags in metal boxes in extreme heat and cold in fifty pounds or more of gear and armor while they eat prime rib, shrimp, and caviar and sip champagne while they proclaim how much they understand our struggle. Why can't they for once fight for their fucking selves?
          This is a rant that I, for once, kept my mouth shut on. Instead, I turned and looked at Roam. I'm not sure what was in my eye, but it made him do a double take. "You wanted us to fight? Well, I'm always willing." I leaned forward, and glared at him. "But even Uncle Sam was kind enough to ask first. He didn't lie to me to get me to do it. You, on the other hand, have lied to and manipulated us the entire fucking time. So, you're going to ask us. Ask us to fucking fight for you. Stop lying and just ask us."
          He pushed his bowl forward, sighed and said, "okay. I suppose it was wrong of me to try and be sly with someone incapable of trusting anyone."
          I grimaced, but otherwise let his comment slide. He continued.
          "Will you please, for the love of God and everything that is holy, help me save my daughter?" There was a look of real pain on his face as a tear formed in his eye. "Please?"