Somewhere deep in Deer Run National Park, a werewolf ran.
He was a mottled mess of grey and white, loping through the underbrush in a curious mix of two- and four-legged gaits, depending on his mood and the land beneath him. Long rays of pink and violet filtered down through close-packed treetops, a stained-glass mosaic of dusk cast on the ground. He lifted his nose to the wind and let the scents swirl around him. Nearby, he could smell deer, three of them, not but a half-mile or so away. One of those would make an ample dinner. The clean bite of fresh water, some unnamed infant tributary of the Colorado River, mixed with his own musk and the rich scent of the pine and cedar. Branches quietly clicked against each other, a percussive backdrop to the whistling of wind between the trees, rustling the undergrowth.
The trail of the deer was simple enough to follow for his nose, a gift of his connection to Nature and sharpened by a dozen years of practice. Changes in the wind gave him the best angle to approach, slowing and silently picking his way across fallen needles as he neared an irregular cut in the trees through which a lazy brook wound. Near the bank, a young buck grazed nervously, his scent mostly covered now by the water, his ears in constant motion. Two more stood nearby, watching their surroundings, standing guard over the third.
The werewolf surveyed the scene, judging his prey’s responses. Together, they might pose a threat, but if he could spook them, they might well scatter, leaving him to deal with them one on one. Even against just one deer, an ordinary wolf might be in for a rough fight, but he was far from ordinary. All these ideas passed through his head not in words, but in the innate understanding of one who has spent years honing and relying on his natural instincts. The wolf pressed himself low to the ground, watching, waiting. He counted off a dozen heartbeats in his ears, and the foremost buck seemed to still, lowering his muzzle to a clump of thick grass near the edge of the water.
The wolf’s joints froze for an instant, every muscle tightening in anticipation, and then flexing in unison as he launched himself from his hiding place, letting out a grim, high-pitched howl. The tiny herd bolted into the woods, but the last moved an instant too late to escape the werewolf’s claws digging into his hindquarters. The whitetail gave a bleat of panic and lashed out with a hoof, catching the wolf in the shoulder. One paw slid free, gouging a hunk from the deer’s side. The other, though, remained sunk in its spot, dragging a yelp from the wolf as the buck nearly tore the arm from its socket.
The deer’s eyes, dilated before, went black with fright as the wolf let out a second howl and swung again with his free claws at his prey, now frantic to tear free. It dashed into the woods, tearing free the wolf’s grip and sending his assailant sprawling as he vanished between the trees in the fading light.
The werewolf, though, had struck well on his first attack; the deer was trying to run on one bad leg and the scent of blood made following the buck’s scent a pup’s game. His eyes were of no help, but he didn’t need them to find his prey, and after righting himself onto all fours he gave rapid chase, his paws carrying him across his territory with an ease born of intimate familiarity. He knew every rock, every tree and stream. He’d marked, rolled in and rubbed against everything larger than a pinecone for twenty miles in any direction. To any others of his kind who came through Deer Run, his lingering scent was a warning: this land was Pledged, and they were guests at best, trespassers at worst. To the wolf, it meant that he could run blind from sunup to sundown and never disturb a single fallen needle.
The buck put up a good chase, running madly between trees, struggling to put distance between himself and his hunter, but in the end the wolf’s raw enthusiasm for the hunt won, his jaws closing around the deer’s neck and silencing his cries with a crunch of finality. Hungrily, eagerly, the wolf tore at the deer’s side, tearing loose hunks of muscle with his claws and lapping up the blood with his tongue. When he had consumed more than his fill, his gut swollen, he threw back his gore-crusted muzzle and let loose a triumphant howl that rang through the trees, echoing in his ears.
After the feast, he dragged himself back to the stream, letting the water carrying away the scent of blood, wiping at his slick fur with his paws as best as he could. The current was slow but still held enough power to take care of the worst of it, mopping the excess out of his fur and shaking the rest off. He raised his nose to the wind again to find a better stream in which to bathe, but something sick and acrid set off his nose as he breathed, and a dim and distant warning bell in his mind, setting his paws in motion towards the edge of his Protectorate.
Interstate 70 traversed Colorado like a tourist, clinging to the sides of mountains and sneaking its way through valleys, built to take in as much of the landscape as it could. At one point, just south of where the highway crossed the Colorado river, Deer Run National Park began, encompassing a vast swath of trees and streams. It was here that the werewolf had made his home, Pledging himself to the land and taking on a part of its life and health in exchange for his stewardship, and he cared for the land and its inhabitants and visitors with the zeal of a new mother. To live in harmony with the Nature was the goal of most of his kind, and he had found a place to do it.
The acrid scent ate at his nostrils as he neared the highway. Tanker, he thought, the word rumbling around in his head. For so long he’d been simply been the wolf. Now human thoughts pushed themselves clumsily to the forefront of his mind, dragging him up from a four-footed gait to a two-legged jog. His body still retained the thick coat of grey and white, his tail swaying behind him like a furry metronome in time with his pace. Of his features, only the eyes seemed human, a bright piercing blue where the wolf’s had been mere reflecting pools. Rising to the crest of a hill, he gazed down at the stretch of highway below, a twisting section of interstate that hugged the mountainside and marked the border of his sacred land.
An array of lights that could only be a highway rig of some kind shuddered its way westward along the highway, swaying dangerously as it rounded the curves. The wolf frowned, tail low and still, ears back. He drummed his claws against a rock, strangely agitated, watching the ghostly afterimages swing around the interstate, and drew in another sharp breath. Gasoline, yes, that was the scent, but there was more, something else, darker and even less pleasant. He scanned with his ears, tuning out the one vehicle he knew was there.
Hidden in the almost-twilight of nightfall, another truck approached from the west, this one barreling forward, tires glued to the asphalt. It stank even from this distance, an oversweet rotting smell, and it rolled down the road like a man possessed, snaking its way along. The wolf’s frown deepened, and his ears flattened as the first rig let out a blast on its air horn.
From his vantage point atop the ridge, overlooking the unfolding scene, near the jut of an outcropping, he could see both trucks clearly, but with a sickening shock he realized that neither truck could see the other, except perhaps as a dim halo of lights from the other side of the rocks, and one had what was left of the sun behind him. The gas truck blew its horn again, and the wolf clapped paws over his ears in pain, whimpering.
He stood there, the ringing in his ears as the only fading sound as the bottom fell out of his stomach. Dimly, he heard the grinding of gears as both truck powered down to round the corner, but he could feel more than hear the churning of the engines as they rolled towards each other. As the faster of the two, the steady truck mowed around the curve, blasting out an ear-piercing shriek with its horn that cut into the wolf’s head. The front of the faster rig jerked towards the side of the mountain even as the gas truck was responding, slamming on its brakes with a squeal of indignant, tortured metal and rubber.
Unable to correct, the cab of the rocketing truck plowed into the trailer. For a brief moment, the universe held its breath, and then dawn flared on the side of the mountain as the gas truck erupted. When the first flame leapt hungrily from the side of the truck to the ridge, a bright spark of agony blistered the wolf’s back. As the tankers spun from the impact, the second trailer tipped, ripping down one side. A greyish-green smear spread in its wake that bubbled viscously and filled the air with a slaughterhouse stench when the fire kissed it.
As the fire rose rapidly up the ridge, the wolf stumbled back to his feet, nauseous and aching. Pledged to the land, the pain spread across his back as the fire did, setting his nerves alight and sending him scrabbling back in the direction of the cooling river. The scent of the second tanker’s guts clung to his nostrils, making him gag with every step, a cold chill passing through him, seizing his joints.
Got to tell the others, he thought, the words crowding in his mind. Got to get help. The human part of his brain spun madly in shock. And it had been such a nice day, too.
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