Led to the Slaughter Read online

The other wolf… I don’t know how I know this, but I do. It was Jean Baptiste.

  At night, we block the entrance to the cabin with all the impediments we have, though I know it would be a simple matter for these beasts to force their way in. Whichever of them dares poke his muzzle into the entrance will have his head blown off. I have spoken loudly to the others about my willingness to protect my home. I not only have my father’s rifle, I also have two pistols to back it up. So far, the creatures have not dared to try anything.

  At night, I hear them prowling outside. They used to jump onto our roof and scramble about up there, but not long ago, one poked its nose in the hole the smoke escapes through and I shot at it. That was the last time I heard them on the roof. They growl at each other and howl, and sometimes they find meat in the snow. When the first of us died, we put the bodies in a snowbank, thinking to preserve them until rescue arrived, hoping we could one day give them a decent burial. We woke one morning to find a dug-up snowbank and red streaks where the bodies had been dragged away. Bones are strewn about the encampment, but I have decided that they are animal bones and do not look too closely.

  I’m not sure why the creatures don’t attack in the daytime. I know they are mortal and can be killed like any other animal, and I think they hunt by night for the safety of the darkness. It is harder to shoot what you can’t see.

  #

  We have become so weak, I wonder how long we can continue. Patty takes the rifle in the afternoons while I sleep: Mother refuses to do so. It’s as if she is unaware of the danger. I think she has retreated into her own mind, and all she ever thinks of now is her family and how to feed us. I’ve shown Patty how to point the rifle and pull the trigger, but I fear she will freeze when the time comes and I will awaken staring into the eyes of a monster.

  Eliza vanished from our cabin. No one saw her leave. I hope she has rejoined the Donners, but I fear she has given herself to the snows. I saw her giving her share of the food to my brothers, and during her last few days with us, she barely moved from her bed.

  As bad as our situation is, it is much worse in the other cabins. Everyone avoids the Murphy cabin now, for the werewolves are encamped beside it. I’m not certain how many of those poor people are still alive inside the pine log walls.

  I have decided to see how the Donners are doing down at Alder Creek. The last I heard, the cut on George Donner’s shoulder had become infected. I will have to take a long, looping detour around the Murphy cabin, but I am determined to go. It is time to join forces, to band together against the Things that prey upon us.

  #

  It was bright when I set out, the shadows all dispelled by sunlight, and my night fears seemed exaggerated. Then I came upon the first body. It was in pieces, strewn beside the trail, barely recognizable as human. The head was missing, for which I was grateful. I didn’t want to know which of my fellow travelers it had been. I hurried past.

  I found George Donner and his sons inside one of the tents at Alder Creek. It was filled with the foul odor emanating from his shoulder, which was oozing pus and slime. He looked up at me and winced.

  “Ah, Virginia. I’m glad to see you still among the living.”

  “I’ve come to check on you, sir.”

  He shrugged, then groaned. “I’m fine, as long as I don’t move.”

  “Eliza is gone,” I told him. “Did she return here?”

  He shook his head sadly. “She was too gentle a girl for this journey. Not like you, Virginia.”

  The back flap of the tent opened. A werewolf poked its muzzle in and growled.

  “Watch out!” I cried, lifting my rifle and aiming at the beast.

  “Stop!” Donner cried. He snarled something and the werewolf went away. As I stared at him, dumbfounded, he gave me a lopsided grin. “That was my daughter,” he said quietly.

  “You’re one of them!” Even as I exclaimed it, I realized that I’ve known this for some time but haven’t wanted to admit it. Yet I’m not afraid of him, not like I am of Keseberg and the others.

  “I’m sorry, Virginia,” he said. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I’d have preferred you never found out.”

  I realized something else then. “You led here on purpose!”

  “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said. “Oh, I knew there would be deaths, of both humans and livestock, as on all journeys to the far West. We meant to feed off those deaths, that is true, but we weren’t supposed to reveal ourselves. Our Kind survives in the shadows, whispered about but never spoken of too loudly… ”

  He shook his head. “Some of these young pups have different ideas. They think of humans as livestock. They think we should feed openly and dare humans to do anything about it. They’ve forgotten that we were once nearly wiped out in Europe before we set the rules in place: to kill animals rather than humans, and never to make more of Our Kind without approval, other than through natural births.

  “I support the old traditions. I called this Wolfenrout because I could see the rules were failing. Keseberg challenged me. It was a fair fight: I’m not as decrepit as I look. Still, I lost, so I must give way to the young, though I believe they will lead us into disaster. I fear, Virginia, that you are on your own. No one will defend you. My sons are too precious to me to allow them to fight Keseberg. He’s won.”

  “How many of you are there?” I thought that if I could discover who amongst us were werewolves, I could avoid them, and I would know who I was up against, and how many.

  Donner looked at his sons, who were frowning. “Again, I’m sorry, Virginia. You are not one of us. I have sympathy for you, but I won’t choose you over my own kind, no matter how misguided I may think they’ve become.”

  #

  On my way back to the cabin, I saw a boy standing on top of a small hill. I didn’t recognize him, though I must have once known him. Though it wasn’t as cold as it was earlier in the week, it was still freezing, but the child wore only a bloodstained nightshirt. He was holding a severed human arm in one hand.

  I thought he would turn away in shame, or drop the arm and run off.

  Instead, he looked at me blankly, lifted the arm, and gnawed a chunk of flesh away. He stared at me with dull eyes and chewed slowly.

  Perhaps there isn’t as much difference between man and beast as I once thought. Perhaps it isn’t the form that matters, but what is inside it. We have been tested, and most of us have failed.

  The werewolves are feeding on us as if we are livestock. If we cannot defend ourselves––if we refuse to even believe what is happening to us––then perhaps we deserve our fate.

  My mother, I suspect, will never admit the truth. She sees the wolves, but she doesn’t see the humans beneath the wolf skins. In her mind, it is the wilderness that is killing us. Patty is like Mother in this, and Tommy and Jimmy are too young to make sense of it.

  Father would believe. Father would act upon what he saw. But until he comes to rescue us, it is up to me to protect my family for as long as I can.

  When I entered the cabin, I was gratified to see Patty with the rifle in her arms, staring at me wide-eyed. The look of relief that came over her face made me even more determined to protect her and my brothers, who sleep most of the day now instead of being their usual wild selves. Mother was sewing a patch on one of my dresses, as if holes in clothing still mattered to anyone.

  On the way back, I’d found a large, long bone jutting out of the snow. I was certain it was from an animal, probably a horse. I couldn’t imagine it belonging to a human; its shape was wrong for that. I handed it to Mother, who once would have reacted with disgust, but who calmly took the bone and added it to the already-boiling soup.

  It is getting dark. I have set aside my diary, and I am wide awake. I sit facing the cabin’s entrance, waiting for night to fall.

  CHAPTER 32

  Personal notes of Jacob Donner, Secretary of the Wolfenrout, January 1847

  I write in this journal as if the Wolfenrout still
exists, but in truth, there is no Wolfenrout anymore. When Keseberg triumphed, the issue was decided. There are no rules, no organization, only brute force. We may appear to be a pack, but we are all lone wolves.

  My brother was right. I should have known he would be. There is complete chaos among the Wolfen. Anarchy is our master now. The strongest among us take what they want; the weakest fall by the wayside.

  At first, I was glad. I felt free: I could finally hunt whom I wanted, when I wanted. But the humans are aware of us now and on their guard, either barricaded inside the cabins or heavily armed and traveling in groups. The Wolfen are no longer organized enough to confront these men, or to plan attacks on them. We were wrong to believe that once we had the humans trapped, they would be at our mercy, for even a weakened man––or woman, or child––can pull the trigger of a gun. Some of Our Kind have already fallen to these weapons.

  Keseberg has corralled the humans who are at our mercy like so much livestock, but he will only share with his own clan and those who swear allegiance to him and him alone. Most Wolfen are too proud to renounce their family line and heritage. Many of those who traveled here for the Foregathering have dispersed into the wilderness, looking to protect themselves, their own packs, their own clans. Those who waited too long are trapped in these mountains with the rest of us.

  We thought ourselves clever, herding these humans to this isolated spot to prey upon them, but we outsmarted ourselves. We are trapped just as surely as the humans are. The winter is killing us all, human and Wolfen alike. There are no animals to hunt: whatever wildlife inhabited these woods has fled, been eaten, or died in the extreme cold and deepening snows.

  Such things happened in Europe, once upon a time. It was one of the reasons the Wolfen first began to consider cooperation among the clans instead of constant conflict. Because of the growing strength of the humans and the dwindling of the wildlife, we banded together and created the rules that, until recently, concealed our existence and controlled our numbers.

  There is vicious irony in the way we––the way I––disregarded the rules just when we need them most. We are being reminded, in the most brutal of ways, that there were reasons the Wolfenrout was created, reasons the first Foregathering of the Clans was called.

  George was right all along, but I betrayed him, and in doing so, I have doomed my family to starvation or subservience. I tried to join Keseberg and the others, but they would not have me. They refuse to share their food with a traitor. Once the ruling family of Our Kind, we are now in danger of dwindling into oblivion… because of me.

  The humans are beginning to consume each other. This disgusted the Wolfen at first, but I now realize that the Wolfen may not be above such a thing, the eating of one’s own kind.

  I went out this morning, ranging far in search of prey. I once felt strong and free running through the snow; now it clutches at my legs and tries to drag me down. I followed the trail of a jackrabbit, the first signs of life I’ve seen in days. I saw a splash of blood on the white crust of ice, and the tracks of other wolves. I followed those tracks to find three of my own kind fighting over a small rabbit. I didn’t recognize these Wolfen, fighting amongst themselves though they smelled of the same pack. They turned and snarled at me, and I backed away.

  The rules of the Wolfenrout say we are to share food with others of Our Kind; it is unheard of for a pack not to do so. As I ran away, I realized that we can no longer count on any of the old rules––and I understood for the first time what that truly means.

  What I remember most about this encounter is that those strange wolves were nothing but skin and bones. I looked down at myself and realized that I am the same. I returned to my wife and children, and saw them clearly. We are dying. We have been cast out of my brother’s presence, and were not accepted by Keseberg’s clan. It was I who destroyed the Wolfenrout, but it is my family who will pay the price.

  #

  Personal notes of Jacob Donner, Secretary of the Wolfenrout, February 1847

  I was wrong to believe that the matter of our leadership had been settled. Civil war has broken out among the clans. Keseberg is abusing his power, and many of the clans are too proud to submit to him. Though I have offered to act as an intermediary, none of them will accept my services; no one trusts me.

  This conflict is killing us. Any Wolfen caught by the rival faction is killed, and if we dare venture out alone––or even in a small group––to hunt, we are attacked. We can only move about in large numbers, and it is ludicrous for an army to try to catch a rabbit. My family is alone. My wife loathes me and my children refuse to speak to me. I am an outcast in my own tent.

  The humans are being all but ignored. The few that survive are hardly worth the risk of trying to kill. Instead, we hunt each other. Though I have not seen it with my own eyes, I’m afraid that some among us have indeed resorted to cannibalism, just as the humans have.

  The ironies continue to mount. The most aggressive among us have been led to the slaughter. We are caught in our own trap, and thanks to my treachery, those who might have prevented this were never informed of the Foregathering.

  Word of this disaster will reach the others. Lessons will be learned from it, I hope. Sometime in the near future, I predict, a Foregathering of the Clans will meet and the reforms George expected to initiate will be put into place after all. The Wolfen will go into hiding and blend in with the humans. The most aggressive among us will be weeded out. Everything George has hoped for––and more––will come to pass. It must, because if it does not, we will be hunted down and exterminated. Our Kind will disappear.

  Either way, I will not be there to see it. I have not eaten in many days. I am too weak to hunt.

  I will leave this journal at the entrance to George’s tent, and I hope that future Wolfenrouts will take heed of the lesson contained herein: beware your ancient instincts, for they will lead to the extinction of Our Kind.

  CHAPTER 33

  Diary of Virginia Reed, undated entry

  I wouldn’t have believed our hell could grow worse, or that the warmth of the sun would precipitate our misery.

  We had all dreamed of the day when the cold would leave our bones, when the sun would thaw our frozen hopes and bring the promise of spring. But instead of the beneficent warmth of our summer memories, the sun beats down upon us like a furnace. That and the fires inside the cabin have made the indoors unendurably hot; but even that is not what is driving us from our shelters.

  The stench of death pushes us out into the open, the smell of decay, rot, and sickness. There are those among us who can’t move and lie in their own filth. We have carried those we can out into the open and cushioned them as best we can in the softening snow. Samuel Perkins, whom Father hired as a teamster in Independence, was once strong and vital. He now has the appearance of a decrepit old man, moaning as we lift him.

  Despite the warmth, food is no easier to find. The remains of oxen and mules long submerged in the snow are being exposed to the sun, but spoil before we can eat them. The corpses of our fellow travelers––those that haven’t been dragged off––are also being unveiled, as if a graveyard has been turned upside down. Some of the bodies have been butchered; some are untouched. All of them are decomposing with an odor that makes us sick. Indoors or out, it is all the same.

  We tried to cover the exposed bodies with snow, digging with our bare hands for as long as we could stand, then letting the sun warm our hands before we started again.

  The werewolves prowl day and night now. I hear screams from the cabin where the Graves and Murphy families are sheltered and see frenzied movement outside, as if fights are breaking out among the creatures: dark shapes against the white, red streaks on the ground. One evening, I crept as close as I dared and discovered that the werewolves have fully overrun that cabin. There is howling in the distance, down by Alder Creek, but I already knew that the Donners were werewolves.

  My rifle is the only thing keeping them away. I sit with
my back to the wall so they can’t sneak up on me, and I barely sleep. But I need only endure a little longer, for their reign of terror will soon end. The coming of the sun heralds our salvation: our rescuers are drawing ever closer.

  So I tell myself, but salvation seems far away, like a dream from another life.

  #

  On the second afternoon of the thaw, I was sitting in my usual spot outside, my back to the cabin wall, watching my brothers and sister wander around the clearing, when drowsiness crept over me, catching me unaware.

  I heard a cry and leaped to my feet. I had dozed off. I looked around wildly for my family and saw Tommy and Jimmy sitting near me, staring wide-eyed in the direction of the scream. I could hear my mother moving about inside the cabin.

  “Patty!” I shouted, for she was nowhere to be seen. Rifle clutched in hand, I ran toward the commotion, arriving just in time to see three wolves dragging old Samuel into the woods. He was unmoving, his blood spurting onto the snow in wide arcs.

  I took aim, then lowered the rifle. It was too late. I’d only expend a bullet and expose myself to attack for no reason. I heard someone coming up behind me and turned to see that Patty had followed me. Mother hustled Jimmy and Tommy inside, the boys protesting loudly that they wanted to stay, that Virginia would protect them. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t protect them. I couldn’t even protect myself. I was weak, and so tired I could barely stay awake.

  Since then, we’ve all stayed within sight of the cabin. Patty sticks close to me, following me wherever I go, and I have delegated to her the task of watching my back.