From the smell, there was no outhouse and the occupant… no. The occupantsjust used the weed-filled clearing. There was more than one, though how many he had no idea. He wasn’t even certain what they were.
Brute moved forward on his belly, but a cluster of burrs just in front convinced him otherwise. From the climb, he already had a few burrs stuck in his fur and there was no point in snagging more. They itched and stung.
He wondered if the pretty, redheaded witch lady would pull them out if he rolled over and begged nicely. That was a happy thought.
The wind shifted and he caught the stench of rotting flesh. A lot of rotting flesh, a familiar stench his wolf nose knew instantly. His snout wrinkled at the smell, exposing his fangs, and he had to fight the growl that wanted to vibrate into the weedy clearing.
He looked up and saw buzzards circling. There were more in the trees. Buzzards were scavengers, probably attracted to the rot he smelled. He watched a buzzard land behind a rim of land.
Brute crawled backward, then slowly half-circled the shack, trying to see everything there was to see, while still staying downwind. About a hundred yards from the ramshackle hut, he came upon a boneyard. It was more of a bone-pool, a water-filled pit with partial skeletons, animal skins, and bones inside. Most were deer, though he spotted what might be a goat, and two well-chewed dog skulls. A bear skull lay at an angle, still with black fur attached. A skunk coat was draped artistically over a large rib cage, one that was still intact with bits of flesh dangling from the ribs.
Nothing he could see from this vantage point looked human, so that was good. Water from the kiddie pool had eroded a track in the soil to fill the pit, keeping it full. The edges of the bone-pit were lined with a solid wall of cockleburs.
There were buzzards standing on the ground on the far side of the pit, looking at him, as if trying to decide if he was going to fight them for the dead. Brute blew out a resigned breath. He needed to be closer. Even if the ugly birds pecked him. Even if the cockleburs chewed and knotted into his fur.
Both would hurt, but he needed to see if there were human carcasses inside with the other bones. Ignoring the burrs that pierced the thin skin between his front legs and his belly with every movement, he edged closer to make sure.
Two buzzards spread their wings and flapped at him. They hissed, grunted like pigs, and raced toward him, threatening, and only stopping a yard away, close enough for him to grab them if he’d wanted to eat scavengers for dinner. Idiot birds. No wonder the dinosaurs went extinct.
He stopped on top of the burrs. Nothing in the pit looked human. Brute belly crawled away, taking the burrs with him, thinking.
On the way here, he had smelled no wildlife bigger than squirrels, and seen no deer pellets, no evidence of wild goat, elk, boar, raccoons, or possum. No wild dogs or feral cats. The Dwayyo had cleaned out all the prey wildlife in the area.
That was bad in so many ways. That explained why it had gone down its mountain looking for prey. And why its next meal might be human. It. They. How many? The smell of rot kept him uncertain. And skirling beneath it like the scent-equivalent wail of a bagpipe was the smell of sickness. Rabies and something else.
The wind swirled and the stench of sickness churned high. Something thumped inside the shack. Something was home and moving around. How many? How sick?
Brute crawled back to the trail edge and began trotting to the others, the burrs piercing his skin between his legs and chest. He was thirsty and bleeding from the burrs and the tangled shit hurt. Worse, he had no way to tell the others what he had found. Being a werewolf stuck in wolf form and under orders from an angel had always sucked, and more so in the communication department than any other. Well, except the sex part. He missed that more than anything.
Eli
He feltBrute coming before he saw him. That wartime instinct more than anything else because the wolf was silent. In case the wolf was being followed, he freed his weapon and aimed it up, where the trail—if you could call it a trail—narrowed and disappeared over a downed tree and a small rock fall.
Brute—sans the grindy—appeared at the top of the rock pile and eased his way down, walking with less grace than usual. When he got to Eli, he whined and licked his chops. It was cool at this elevation, but the wolf’s tongue was dry. Eli got out a bottle of water and a paper bowl and poured the wolf water. Brute drank it all and then lay down and rolled over, exposing his belly, which was matted with cockleburs.
“Oh. Poor baby,” Liz said, coming up beside him.
She dropped to her butt without recon just like a civilian out for a stroll. Eli took in the trail, above them, below them, and kept his weapon at ready. Liz pulled a tiny knife out of her pack. At some point she had put on gloves to protect her hands from rocks and roots, and she began to tease away the hair that trapped the burrs. Big burrs, little burrs, stuck in the wolf’s fur, nature’s hitchhikers. Eli figured that meant the trail was going to be difficult up ahead because he hadn’t seen anything like these burrs yet.
Chewy came up behind them and they exchanged a glance before they both sat, drinking water. That one glance had communicated everything. They were currently safe. Liz drank, too, as she worked. Time passed. Chewy shared his jerky.
“There are a lot of these things,” Lizzie said eventually. “What did you do, Brute? Roll around in them?”
Brute raised his head and whoofed softly, staring at her. Intense.
That look nudged something in Eli and his eyes roamed the path ahead.
Softly, her tone altering into something that had Eli’s instincts rising, Liz asked, “Where did you get all this, Brute? Cockleburs prefer waste areas and disturbed soil. They tend to grow around and in poorly nourished soils, like old barns, places where livestock are kept or butchered. We’re way too high for a pasture or cattle.”
Brute nodded and showed his teeth.
“Really,” she said, her tone thoughtful, her fingers slowing. “Your fur is damp here and there too. Cockleburs are especially common around the edges of ponds and places where drainage water has been trapped. Did you find the Dwayyo, Brute?” she asked.
He whoofed again and tried to roll over but Liz shoved him back down. “I’m not finished.”
Eli, already on high alert, was back on his feet, two packs still on the dirt. He pulled a sidearm with his offhand and moved in front of Liz, shotgun in the other hand and armpit. Chewy stood, only a little slower, his weapon out, his eyes taking in everything. Eli tossed his rope and ammo pack over a shoulder, sent Chewy a different look, and jerked his head toward the trail. Chewy gave a slight nod.
Following the trail, Eli scouted ahead. Behind him he could hear Liz talking.
