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The agent lay in the mud where he had been thrown. No pain, only a dull, non-feeling. He couldn't move, but the Old Man would track him down. His back was broken, he knew that. So he'd spend a year in bed? He'd been through worse, and with a new spine . . . "Fuck them. I'll be back."
He chuckled, then he saw the first of the coydogs.
He was frightened, terrified, though his training refused to allow him to admit it. Hours of psyche training lay behind him. This is my rifle, this is my gun. With this rifle I shoot to kill, with this gun, I have some fun. Hours had been spent with shrinks preparing for this one raid. Watches spinning, Do your duty. Killing abominations is not murder. Capturing traitors, working them over, do it. Serve your country. Do it. Doit. Doit-doit-doit . . .
He listened to the noise, the chatter, the screams that came over his against-regulations talkie.
Only the Cap was supposed to have this band. Like an ass, he just had to have one. Fear seeped into his bones. Hollister was right, they were witches. Weird, they were freaks. If he stayed, they'd have him next. No training, no bull-shit debriefing could prepare a man for this. It was worse than the war.
With extreme caution he made his way north, where the captain waited.
He thumbed the talkie, whispered into it and got a hoarse scream.
"Sanborn?" It was Sanborn screaming, the idiot who shot up the fireplace. He was supposed to wait outside for the sarge, but the jerk had run off.
A glowing skull floated in the branches over his head.
"No, you fuckers, no."
Gun on automatic, he shattered the huge skull.
The night was cool, wet, the air heavy with moisture. The normally placid wasps swarmed from their ruined home in fury. They pursued the man and lanced stingers into every part of him.
Eyes ruined, blood laced with venom, he sank to his knees, then to the ground.
On orders from the Woman, he walked alone. Above him dark clouds parted in an uneasy alliance with the earth. Eagle-Woman's moon smiled down.
He smelled the agent long before he saw him and drifted close on silent paws.
The agent saw a blur of motion. Jaws closed around his throat. The man sobbed a whisper, "Sacred Wolf of God, thank You for taking me from this madhouse."
And the agent found himself on a dark, deserted county lane. He was kneeling, hands raised, head tilted, waiting for the massive jaws to crush the life from him. Wolf rose from the muddy earth to wait for the Woman's new instructions. Does he live or does he die?
Lights exploded before him.
A grating sound. He opened his eyes and looked away from the light. He was dead, there was the Hanging Trail before him. He arose to greet God.
Out of a blaze of fire a voice bellowed, "Are you nuts?"
Uncertain now, he said, "I . . . maybe. Did the Wolf send you from Mrs. Wya?"
"Who?"
"Anna Wya. The Sacred Person of the ani:Wy:O:Ming Susquehannocks."
The driver grew suspicious. "I don't know anybody o' that name."
"The Wolf . . . He brought me out of Sandy Valley. He brought me here. I don't know why. Hell," the agent laughed. "I don't even know where, for that matter." He paused to look at the Wolf. It grinned. He started to laugh, deep, gut aching roars.
"Are you drunk?"
"Yeah, but not on booze, my man." He looked at the stars. "Where am I, anyway?"
Wary, the driver said, "Dew Drop's about two miles up the road. Used to be part of the old Corn Planter rez, before Pennsylvania confiscated it to make a deer preserve."
"Corn Planter? Hey, he's gone."
The driver glanced around. The guy might be drunk or drugged, but he didn't seem dangerous. "Who?"
"The Wolf. He was here a minute ago. Right here."
"Look, bud, I didn't see any wolf."
"He was here. Big white one. How could you miss him? You sure I'm still in Pennsylvania?"
The driver inched his way back into the cab of his truck.
The agent stumbled to the passenger side and crawled in.
"Hey, what do you think you're-"
"Please." The agent shook his head. "I'm kind of screwed up right now. Could you tell me if Grammy Hochkis is still alive? Della Hochkis. She would be about eighty now."
Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, the driver of the rig nodded. The agent started crying, and against his better judgement, the driver said, "Yeah. She's living in the Wolf Kananosioni, the Longhouse."
Face growing dreamy, the agent said, "She used to tell me about wolves. She's my Grammy." He laughed. "My mother was her daughter, Julie Chase. I want to hear her stories again before I die." Almost to himself, he added, "And to tell her they weren't just stories. Now I believe."
The Wolf smiled.
Captain Tillerman watched another light on his monitor flicker and die. Six men, and one was the breed Indian, Micah Chase. Six of his very best sacrificed on the altar of politics and favoritism. This was the end of it. He had the power, the pull, even though it would destroy him, to have this one small valley razed.
"Burned to the bedrock."
Tillerman climbed in the jeep and adjusted his watch.
In fifteen minutes Cindy's freaks would be dust in the wind. The official report would be an unfortunate accident, and the journalists who swallowed the party line would swallow this one, too. The others would ignore the 'accident' and Sandy Valley would cease to be remembered.
Bouncing up the Freeland Mountain, he saw a the largest white tail buck of his life. Pure white, it sported an easy twelve-point rack. It stared into the jeep's headlights. He tapped his driver on the shoulder.
"What a shot, Mike. Hang loose for a minute. I'm taking this one home."
The driver jammed on the brakes and loaded a .30.06 for the captain.
The buck snorted, lowering his head. A thin light grew between the tines of the buck's rack.
Hands sweating, he took aim.
A ball of death lashed out in a thunderous crack.
Months later Cindy's people found him in Fairview's asylum, playing with balls and blocks, wearing diapers, and gleefully babbling about white bucks, wolves, and an eagle that shone like the sun.
Streaking towards their target of Sandy Valley, jets swarmed up into a black, starry sky.
The twins went to bed with sore bottoms and a much deeper respect for Aunt Anna. There just isn't much you can do about a lady who can call a wolf to hold you down while she applies the brush.
Lord have mercy, but that just stung, man.
Trixie frowned. Dixie muttered under her breath. The lead jet shrieked over the valley. The girls grinned. Smiling, they linked fingers and the jet went wild, tumbling in a ball of flame. The next two broke away with pilots screaming while smoke shot from their boiling eyes.
Softly singing, "Yes, Jesus Loves me," the twins drifted away into an angelic rest while the angels watched over them.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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