Chapter 19
THE FORGOTTEN
ALPHAS
Two days later we pull up at an abandoned strip mall about twelve miles outside of San Antonio, Texas. Omar seems to think there’s a settlement out here, but as we drive slowly down the cracked and potholed main street, I can’t imagine anyone lives here.
“You sure this is the place?” I ask, staring out the window as I let the car cruise at a snail’s pace.
Weeds grow from the cracks in the sidewalks, the shop windows are blasted out, graffiti is sprawled over the walls, the doors have been boarded over.
On the drive into this ghost town, we coasted through the desert seeing no signs of life. There are no signs of it here either. The single row of shop fronts is surrounded by arid wasteland on all sides. It’s like something out of an apocalyptic zombie movie.
“This should be the place,” Omar says, looking every which way.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s lived here for a while, you think the Axis wolves got here first?”
Omar rolls his window down and sticks his nose in the air.
“I can’t scent any pack wolves. But there is something a little wolfy. Maybe we should park and explore on foot?”
“Wolfy?”
“Yeah. You know. Like furry, I guess.”
I glance at Omar as he shrugs.
We park in one of the spaces, dark lines running through the asphalt like veins, and step out. The hot, dry air is overwhelming for a minute. I wipe my forehead and take a breath.
“Sense anything?” Omar asks, more at home in this type of weather.
I relax my shoulders and send out my blood-wolf feelers, looking for any sign of wolf inhabitants. And surprisingly, I find one.
Scanning the buildings, I zone in on the consciousnesses of two wolves.
“There are people here. Two men. On the roof.”
Omar and I cast our gazes to the roof of the strip mall. The one-story building is tall enough, with a facade that rises above the height of the ceiling.
“Why are they hiding?” Omar asks.
“I don’t know. They don’t seem scared. Maybe they’re the welcome committee.”
“Pretty warm welcome.”
We give each other a look that says Watch your back. Then we wander back the way we came.
“It’s weird,” Omar says, “everyone I asked said there were a whole bunch of wolves living here. Fighters also. Why are there only two of them?”
Curiosity offsets my fear, and I decide to make a bold move.
“Hey!” I yell, turning to face the strip mall, holding up my hands to wave. “Guys? We know you’re up there. We just want to talk.”
“Subtle,” Omar says, smirking.
For a second nothing happens, and then one guy stands up. He’s bald, Black, wearing khaki like he’s in the army or something. In his hands is a rifle.
“Damn it,” I hear another man say, before he stands up as well. This one is white, with a blond flattop hairstyle, dressed all in-black combat gear. He has one of those modern sporting crossbows resting against his shoulder, pointed skyward. “You can’t just give us away like that, Terrance.”
“It’s fine,” Terrance—I guess—says. “They already knew we were here.” He surveys us with a narrow, penetrating gaze. “State your business.”
“We need help,” I say, though I feel Omar tense at my side. Should I not give so much away so quickly? “Can we talk? Like, at the same height?”
The white guy, the one who isn’t Terrance, shakes his head but Terrance, who seems like the guy in charge, thinks for a moment, then nods.
We wait on the street for them to come down, me rolling a jagged pebble under the toe of my shoe.
While we wait Omar steps a little closer. “I think we should watch ourselves.”
“How come?” I say, buoyed by my experiences with the rogues over the last week and a half.
“Did you see their weapons? These guys are militarized.”
“Could just be for protection?”
“Yeah, or something else.”
A creak and the sound of crunching glass distract us. Terrance and his comrade exit through the door of what I think was once a drugstore.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound nonthreatening, then swiftly wondering if that’s the best tactic. Should I try and sound more menacing? I’d probably settle for assertive right now.
“You boys lost?” the white guy asks, trailing a step behind Terrance.
“No, we’re not lost,” Omar says, achieving the perfect balance of tough but approachable. “We’re visiting rogue encampments. Hoping to find rogues who will help us.”
“I’m Terrance,” Terrance says. “And this is Marshall.”
Marshall has one of those thick necks, the kind that’s the same width as his square jaw. His skin is pink from being out in the sun. He gives us a curt nod.
“You’re one of us,” Terrance says, nodding to Omar. I assume he means a rogue. “You on the other hand.” He turns to me. “I could smell the alpha stink on you from a mile away.”
Omar shuffles his feet, unwilling to give the game away in case these rogues aren’t friendly toward pack wolves. But I see no other option than to be honest.
“I’m a member of the Elite Pack.” The commando wannabes share a look.
“We’re facing the threat of invasion from a conglomerate of packs called the Axis Pack, these same wolves are attacking rogues across the country, trying to build their numbers.
We’re looking for rogues who will help us fight back. ”
Marshall scoffs. “You want us to fight with you?” There’s a scowl in his southern drawl.
“Yes,” I say, standing my ground. “But not because the pack deserves it. Because rogues all over the country are being affected as well. If we don’t stand up to these wolves, they will come for all of us.”
They stand stunned and even I’m a little taken aback by my own moxie.
“It’s pretty ballsy of a pack wolf to come out to these parts,” Terrance says.
“He’s not just a pack wolf,” Omar says. “He’s the blood wolf.”
“The what-now?” Marshall says, looking extremely lost.
But Terrance doesn’t share his confusion. “I see,” he says. “Then you’d better come with us.”
They turn to leave but we wait a beat.
“Sorry,” I say. “Follow you where?”
“This ain’t the settlement,” Marshall says. “This is just a front.”
“We’ll take you to our council,” Terrance adds. “You can petition them.”
Omar doesn’t look sure either. But we’ve come all this way, we have to try. I step to follow the self-styled marines.
They march us across the desert, away from the strip mall toward a shimmering horizon line.
Very slowly a shape materializes in the distance, blurry at first, then growing clearer as we approach.
It’s like an RV graveyard. There must be twenty or thirty RVs standing in a clump, with no discernible configuration.
They’re covered in orange desert dust, some are missing tires and held up by bricks, others have silver tarps covering their windows.
“This is your settlement?” I ask, as we grow ever nearer.
“Home sweet home,” Terrance says.
As we wander through the hodgepodge of trailers we encounter more wolves.
One guy peeks out from his window, another is sitting on the step of his trailer, smoking a cigarette and sipping a can of Bud Light.
Farther off, one is chopping wood, and another is underneath a rusty, beat-up old car, don’t ask me what make.
He presses against the bumper to wheel himself out, wiping his forehead with the back of the hand holding a wrench.
“Notice anything?” I whisper to Omar.
“Yeah,” he says quietly back. “Where are the women?”
In the middle of the RVs a large tarp has been erected to create a shaded canopy. Underneath, three guys are sitting on foldout camping chairs.
“Look sharp, boys,” Marshall says as we enter the shade. “We’ve got ourselves some visitors.”
“Aren’t you supposed to deter any lost travelers?” the man sitting to my left says in response. He’s old, his skin overly tanned and drooping, and he’s wearing a muscle tank, though he’s so scrawny it hangs loose. “Ain’t that why you were stationed on watch today?”
“You might want to hear what these boys have to say,” Terrance says on our behalf.
The man sitting directly in front of me is more rhino than human. His muscles are the biggest I’ve ever seen, his hair is long on top and shaved on the sides, making a floppy mohawk, his stomach is as round and firm as a beach ball.
“All right then,” he says, leaning forward, grinning so his gold grill is visible. “I’m listening.”
I glance at all three of them quickly. The guy on the right turns his head slowly, his eyes all bloodshot. Is he high?
Terrance gestures for me to step forward.
“We came looking for you,” I say. “I mean, we’re traveling, looking for rogues to help us.”
The skinny old man on the left lights a cigarette and speaks with half his mouth. “What makes you think we’re interested in helping a pack rat?”
His taunt catches me off guard, but I sense Omar edging a little closer, letting me know he’s got my back.
“With respect,” I say, thinking sucking up to these guys might be the best tactic, “the troubles facing my pack are facing all of wolfkind. The Axis Pack, the wolves trying to destroy our home, are doing the same to rogues across the country, we’ve seen it, we’ve been speaking with rogues for the last couple of weeks—”
“Couple of weeks?” The old man doesn’t seem impressed. “Boy, you know how long I’ve been living out here like a damn coyote?”
I swallow. “No, sir.”
“I’ve been a rogue in this camp for going on thirty years now. And not once have I heard of a pack wolf doing anything for us.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “And . . . and I’m sorry. But you have to listen.”
“I don’t have to listen to nothing,” the old guy says, crossing his arms and staring at the upside-down milk-crate-cum-coffee table in front of him.
“We just want what’s best for all of us,” I say, although I’m feeling so meek that barely any sound comes out.
“There’s more, gentlemen,” Terrance says, arriving at my side. “This pack wolf claims to also be the blood wolf.”
“That true?” the rhino guy in the middle says.
“Yes,” I say.
“It is,” Omar echoes, looking for a chance to back me up.