“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, thoughhe’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.
