Wolves Cry

Woodrow Forest is still.



Among the ancient pines, and tangled boughs of rough hewn oaks which reach toward the sky like fallen pariahs, not a sound is uttered, not a hiss of sibilance, not a single, redeeming sound of fen or fowl.



Woodrow Forest is still.



And so is Jack.

Standing motionless, his ears perked for any slight shift in the canopy, he crouches, his camouflaged form kneeling low in the bushes, his hands steady on the stock of his 270 Winchester, his breathing low behind his woolen facemask, his eyes darting relentlessly among the bushes.

There.

He sees it, stalking slowly away, its padded feet touching the ground gently, softly, almost without noise.



Damn, it was good. Better than any of the other’s he’d hunted. Silently, it moved through the bushes, sliding under them and around them, with barely a breath to betray its movement, and as it slipped forward, away from him, Jack raised his face to the sky, and stuck out his tongue, tasting the wind.

Against him. Good.



Moving forward slowly, he stepped around a large bush, its leaves sliding against his overcoat as he crept past, his eyes ever on the target. Now close enough to see it clearly, he sees a flash of gray fur as it slips between two trees, their bulk entwined against each other, like lovers in a deep embrace.



Watching his prey, Jack recalled what the old man had told him when he'd rented his lodge in Littleton, only 12 miles away, how he had warned Jack.



“Now listen.” The old man had said, his eyes bearing on Jack with seriousness near obsession.



“Over yonder, bout a mile that way, is Woodrow Forest. Now, some people reckon its magic, what with all the sightings of some sort of giant grey wolf there. The rumor is, there isn’t a man that’s seen him and lived. It’s best you know that. Many hunters have lately ventured in there, and never been back. One of thems was a sheriff. Respect that forest.”



Creeping forward, now close enough to see the spots on his prey’s back, to hear his breath seeping out in cold gasps, Jack knew he couldn’t let it live. Not this one.

This forest WAS magical. And a monster like this didn’t belong here.

Raising his rifle, he aims at his prey, centering the sights between its shoulder blades, and reaching up with his left hand; he cocks it, thumbing the hammer back.



The wind shifts, bringing its cool breeze across his prey’s back, and stopping suddenly, Jack could swear it smells him.



As sweat beads on his brow, it turns suddenly, eyes wide, like a frightened deer. Pushing the rifle tight against his shoulder, his eyes gaping fearfully above his woolen mask, Jack fires.



The shot takes it in the shoulder, its howl echoing in the forest, shattering the stillness. Then, leaping forward, Jack grabs his rifle by the burning neck of it, and, swinging it like a club, brings it down across the creature’s head, silencing it.



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Stowing the rifle in the back seat of his Ford Accord, Jack pulls of his mask, ruminating on the catch now safely stowed in the trunk of his SUV. A good hunt, worthy indeed, he thinks, studying himself in the mirror. Satisfied, He turns, Clambering behind the wheel of his ford.



It’s a short drive to the cottage, The SUV coasting, bumping only slightly as Jack steers along the paths and hills that lead through the woods, the sun occasionally flashing from between the branches of the forest Elms.



Humming absentmindedly, He pulls into his driveway, grinning widely, as the gravel crackles and spits beneath his tires. Stopping, he turns the wheel to the left, putting the car in reverse as he slowly, and carefully, backs up to the side of the house, halting just before an old, corroded iron panel, set in the ground.



Stepping out, he throws the door open, strolling around to the back of the vehicle, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel.



Popping open the trunk, he gets, for the first time, a good look at his prey. The wound in its shoulder is bleeding badly, blood pouring from it almost constantly, staining the dark gray rug of the trunk a deep maroon. On its cheek a bruise is starting to shine, but he can hear its ragged breaths, its gasping lungs.



Good. It’s worth so much more alive.



Grabbing a hold of it, he heaves it out of the trunk, throwing it over his shoulder, and walking toward the iron door set into the ground, he kicks at it, sending it sliding sideways with a loud grating noise, revealing a dark hole. Stepping down, Jack staggers down a small flight of concrete stairs, off balance with his weighty prey.



Stumbling, he lugs his prey downstairs, into a darkened room, lit only by 4 small red candles, set into each corner. Walking to the center, He drops it down onto the floor, letting its weight slide it off his shoulders.



From a small steel door set in the far left of the room, He can hear loud, incessant scratching, and as he lays down his prey, he glances at it, his eyes lurid.

Walking towards it, he peers inside, whispering:



“Now you be good boys, and wait until I leave, ok?”



Grinning, he turns, and looks at the hunter he just shot and clubbed, laying unconscious on his cellar floor, his eyes stirring beneath his lids as he pours blood all over His wolf-skin Jacket.



Turning, Jack clambered up the stairs, hearing the growls of his wolves as they pushed the door open, the creak of the steel door, and turning, he slid the heavy iron cover of the cellar back over it, grunting.



Beneath it, the Screams begin.



Standing up slowly, Jack Grins.



“Let’s see how you like it.”