Chapter 10 - Dylan
The Elk's Lodge sits half a mile beyond town limits—a weathered building of dark wood and clouded windows.
Trucks and SUVs fill its gravel lot, their bumpers adorned with hunting decals and faded political stickers.
No official Guardian emblems visible from the outside. They're not completely stupid.
I park the borrowed pickup—a loaner from a "helpful neighbor" who thought my sedan too impractical for mountain living—and check my reflection in the rearview mirror.
I've cultivated subtle changes to my appearance for tonight: a baseball cap pulled low, flannel shirt with sleeves rolled to expose forearms that suggest physical work despite my cover as a software developer. Small details to suggest I belong.
"Just reconnaissance," Sera had insisted before I left, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "Don't engage, don't challenge, don't—"
"I know how to maintain cover," I'd cut her off, irritated by the concern in her eyes. As if I were some untrained pup on his first mission.
Now, approaching the building alone, I find her words echoing uncomfortably. She wasn't wrong to worry. This gathering radiates danger—not the clean threat of combat, but the murky peril of hatred disguised as community protection.
Two men flank the entrance, checking arrivals with casual scrutiny that doesn't fool me. They're sentries, plain and simple.
"Dylan, right?" The taller one extends a hand. "Mike's buddy. He said you might come."
I shake his hand, noting the calluses. Manual labor, probably construction. "That's right. Hope it's okay, I'm here."
"Any friend of Mike's is welcome." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "First time, though, we gotta ask—you got any bleeding-heart tendencies about wildlife? Any of that save-the-wolves bullshit?"
Direct. Unexpected. I force a laugh. "Hell no. I've got a wife who wants kids someday. Way I see it, dangerous predators and family don't mix."
The calculated answer works. Both men relax fractionally, and the second one—shorter, with a beard that doesn't quite hide acne scars—claps my shoulder. "You'll fit right in. Head on through. Beer's in the back."
Inside, the lodge has been transformed from its usual community space to something more primal.
Hunting trophies line the walls—standard fare at first glance, but I quickly spot the abnormalities.
Wolf heads mounted with unnatural snarls.
A pelt too large for any normal wolf, stretched obscenely across one wall.
Photos tacked to a corkboard, showing men posed with their kills.
Thirty-two men and four women occupy the space, clustered in small groups around folded tables. The Guardian pins are displayed openly here, no longer concealed as they are in town. Some wear full medallions on chains—higher rank, I'm guessing.
I accept a beer from a cooler and drift toward Mike, who waves me over with genuine welcome. His easy acceptance provides the perfect cover to observe.
"Glad you made it," he says, introducing me to his circle. "This here's Dylan, just moved to town. Works with computers but wants to learn the ropes."
Names wash over me—Jim, Taylor, Doug, Bryce—accompanied by firm handshakes and assessing looks.
I catalog faces, building mental profiles of each.
The ex-military stance of Taylor. The pamphlets peeking from Doug's shirt pocket.
The alcohol flush already spreading across Bryce's neck despite the early hour.
"So, what exactly does this group do?" I ask, careful to sound interested rather than suspicious. "Mike mentioned protection patrols, but I'm still not clear on the details."
Jim—a lean man with calloused hands and sun-creased eyes—snorts into his beer. "Official version or real answer?"
"Real answer," I reply, taking a calculated risk. "Wouldn't be here if I wasn't serious."
The men exchange glances, then Jim nods. "Officially, we're a wildlife management association focused on predator control. Keeping the wilderness safe for families."
"And unofficially?"
"We hunt monsters," Taylor says flatly. His eyes hold the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen combat. "Things that shouldn't exist. Things the government pretends are people."
The directness is jarring. No euphemisms. No coded language. Here, behind closed doors, they speak plainly about shifters.
"You mean..." I let my voice trail off, playing the uncertain newcomer.
"Shifters," Bryce supplies, voice slightly slurred. "Fucking abominations. Look like people until they don't."
"That's… there are shifters around these parts?" I manage, forcing disbelief I don't feel into my voice.
"Showed up about fifteen years ago," Mike explains, lowering his voice despite the noisy room. "A whole horde of the fuckers, up north on the river. The law lets them have their way if they keep to themselves. But some of us didn't sign up for that."
"They killed Frank's cousin back in 2019," Doug adds. "Tore him apart while he was camping. Officials called it a regular wolf attack."
The lie lands like a stone. No shifter killed this man's brother. We police our own specifically to prevent such incidents—we would have known, and the perpetrator would have been dealt with swiftly and severely. But these humans have built an entire mythology around false victimhood.
"How do you know it wasn't just a normal wolf?" I ask, the question careful, curious.
"Regular wolves don't drag a man a mile from his campsite," Taylor responds. "Regular wolves don't dismantle a human body. You didn’t see it—trust me. I trust my own damn eyes.”
Before I can formulate a response, Sheriff Donovan calls for attention from a makeshift podium at the front. The room quiets immediately revealing the hierarchy more clearly than any organizational chart could.
"Welcome, brothers and sisters," Donovan begins, his cadence reminiscent of the pulpit rather than law enforcement. "Especially our newcomers. Always good to see fresh faces committed to community safety."
His gaze lingers briefly on me, and I raise my beer in acknowledgment. Playing my part.
"As you know, we've tracked increased activity in Sectors Three and Seven." He gestures to a large map pinned behind him, marked with red X's and shaded zones. "The spring migration pattern is shifting, bringing more of them through our territory."
My pulse quickens. He's describing the seasonal movement of the Northern Ridge pack—allies of Silvercreek who travel through these mountains every spring. If they're walking into a trap...
"Our last major operation yielded one confirmed kill," Donovan continues, triggering a murmur of approval. "Though unfortunately, we lost track of a second target that was wounded."
The injured shifter who triggered our mission. The confirmation makes my hand tighten around my beer bottle.
"Tonight's meeting is to finalize Phase Two," Donovan says. "The establishment of safe zones."
He unveils a second map—this one showing concentric circles around Pinecrest, with red hatching covering nearly half the surrounding forest.
"Areas in red are what we're calling 'human-only zones,'" he announces, tapping the map with thick fingers. "We're gonna clear 'em out. Every last one of 'em."
Jenkins—a balding man with a beer gut straining his flannel shirt—stands up, swaying slightly. "Got a whole bunch of those silver bullets from my cousin in Idaho. Works like a charm. Hit 'em once and they go down screaming."
Several men whoop and raise their beers. One shouts, "Just like we did to that big one last fall!"
"Damn straight," Jenkins continues, face flushed with pride and alcohol. "They bleed out real nice when you get 'em with silver. Can't heal up, and if they don’t bleed out, the poison kills them soon enough."
My stomach turns. My brother’s face flashes behind my eyes over and over, terrified, lip trembling.
"These safe zones will create a buffer around our town," Donovan continues, stabbing at the map with his finger. "Keep our families safe from those freaks. Government says we gotta 'coexist'—bullshit. My granddaddy never had to share his land with no animal-people, and neither should we."
The crowd rumbles agreement, voices overlapping with crude suggestions and complaints about laws passed in recent years that have offered shifters more autonomy, more freedoms to move and live as we please. Laws that, had they been respected, would have saved Ethan’s life.
The crowd murmurs approval, and he signals to someone at the back of the room. "For our newcomers, a demonstration of what we're dealing with."
A projector flickers to life, casting images on the wall that freeze the blood in my veins. Photographs of dead wolves—some clearly shifted, caught in the vulnerable half-form between human and wolf. Bodies displayed like hunting trophies, men kneeling beside them with triumphant grins.
I maintain my expression through sheer force of will, though my wolf claws at my insides, howling for retribution. These aren't just random shifters—I recognize markings specific to regional packs. The white paw of the Mountain Ridge alpha. The silver-tipped ear of a Southern Coalition scout.
Then an image appears that nearly breaks my control—a russet-colored wolf with distinctive black markings across its muzzle.
Ellis. A young shifter from the Clearwater pack who went missing fourteen months ago.
We searched for weeks, finding no trace.
The official assumption was rogue hunters or an accident.
But here he is, sprawled lifelessly across forest loam, three men posing behind him with rifles raised in victory.
"This one gave us quite the chase last year," Donovan narrates with disturbing pride. "Tracked it for three days before Jenkins here got a clear shot. First field test of the silver compound. Worked better than expected."
The casual cruelty, the complete absence of recognition that they murdered a twenty-three-year-old with a family, with dreams, with a place in this world—it leaves me hollow with rage.
I excuse myself to the restroom, needing a moment to regain control. In the grimy bathroom, I brace against the sink, focusing on my reflection. My eyes have begun to shift, gold bleeding into the irises. I close them, drawing deep breaths, forcing my wolf back beneath the surface.
Not here. Not now. Not alone.
When I return, the meeting has shifted to operational details—patrol schedules, equipment needs, communication protocols. I listen with mechanical focus, memorizing facts while walling off emotion.
These men aren't calculating supervillains.
They're ordinary humans twisted by fear and ignorance.
The danger lies in their very ordinariness—hardware store owners, mechanics, factory workers.
Men who consider themselves good citizens, loving fathers, faithful husbands.
Men who would help a stranger change a flat tire, then hunt a shifter through the forest without moral qualm.
Their hatred isn't sophisticated or complex. It's the simple brutality of fearing what's different. Of believing the world should remain as it always was—human, controllable, familiar.
An hour later, I extract myself with a careful excuse about my "wife expecting me home." The concerned husband, responsible despite his enthusiasm for their cause.
"Next patrol is Tuesday," Mike tells me as I leave. "Nothing serious, just a training run. You should join us."
I nod, promising to check my schedule, all the while calculating how to warn the Northern Ridge pack before they enter this killing field.
The drive home passes in a blur of contained fury and strategic planning. By the time I reach our cottage, my knuckles are white on the steering wheel, my jaw aching from clenched teeth.
Inside, the house is dark except for a small lamp left burning in the living room. Sera must have waited up, but eventually succumbed to sleep. I move silently through the cottage, checking locks and windows—a ritual that does nothing to calm the storm inside me.
I should wake her. Should report immediately. The information is time-sensitive, critical to multiple packs' safety.
Instead, I find myself pausing outside her bedroom door, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing. The thought of describing what I've seen—of watching her face crumple with the knowledge of Ellis's fate, of seeing the horror in her eyes at the hatred these humans harbor—stops me cold.
Why should her pain matter more than my efficiency? When did her reactions begin to factor into my decisions?
I retreat to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water I don't drink, staring into darkness that offers no answers.
The images from tonight flash behind my eyes—Ellis's distinctive markings, the triumphant hunters, the maps marked for "cleansing”. My brother’s eyes.
Always his eyes, blown huge with terror and then glassy with nothing at all.
Morning will come soon enough. Time enough then to report, to strategize, to face whatever this mission is becoming.
For now, I sit alone in darkness, guarding Sera's sleep against nightmares that will find her soon enough, perplexed by this unexpected protectiveness that feels dangerously close to something I swore never to risk again.