Laura's Wolf (Werewolf Marines)

  Laura’s Wolf

  (Werewolf Marines)

  By Lia Silver

  Copyright Lia Silver 2014

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Caged Wolf

  Chapter Two: Escape from LA

  Chapter Three: Candle-lit Dinners and Walks on the Beach

  Chapter Four: Snowed In

  Chapter Five: Cold Beer and Remote Control

  Chapter Six: Roy’s Story: One Tough Wolf

  Chapter Seven: Sleeping Arrangements

  Chapter Eight: Pillow Talk

  Chapter Nine: Laura’s Story: The Choice

  Chapter Ten: Easy, Gentle, Slow

  Chapter Eleven: A Walk in the Woods

  Chapter Twelve: Road Trip

  Chapter Thirteen: The Lair

  Chapter Fourteen: Fifteen Years of Tears

  Chapter Fifteen: Run with the Wolves

  Chapter Sixteen: Guinness

  Chapter Seventeen: Ten Percent

  Chapter Eighteen: Rescue Mission

  Chapter Nineteen: The Wall

  Chapter Twenty: A Thousand Times Under Fire

  Chapter Twenty-One: The Pack

  Chapter Twenty-Two: DJ

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Eighteen Mice

  Afterword: About PTSD

  Chapter One: Roy

  Caged Wolf

  Roy Farrell paced in circles around his cell.

  He tried to tell himself that it was a private hospital room, not a jail cell or a cage. But he wasn’t convinced.

  If it’s locked from the outside, it’s a cell, he thought.

  When he’d first woken up stateside after his helicopter had been shot down in Afghanistan, a doctor had told him that he was in a military hospital for wounded soldiers with “unique issues.”

  Roy hadn’t taken it in at the time—he was too busy trying not to pass out or throw up. The glare of the overhead lights felt like red-hot knives stabbing into his eyes, the hum of the machines filled his head until he couldn’t think straight, the chemical smells nauseated him, and all of it together made his heart speed up like he was in the middle of a firefight.

  Once he’d managed to tell them what was wrong, he’d been moved into a darkened, quiet room and repeatedly asked if he’d injured his head (maybe), or had a history of migraines (no), or had been exposed to chemical weapons (not that he knew of).

  His wounds healed, but his senses remained stuck on overdrive. They gave him all sorts of medications, none of which did anything but make him sick or knock him out. They tried gradual exposure to various stimuli, as the doctors called everything that bothered him, which did nothing but create a depressingly long list of ordinary things that now hurt like hell. They gave him test after test, with results that were always inconclusive. At least, that was what they told him.

  Finally, a woman came in and informed him that she was going to be his therapist. He’d assumed she meant physical therapist, and waited hopefully for her to give him some exercises. Instead, she asked him to imagine a bright light and tell her what emotion that made him feel.

  That was when Roy figured out that “unique issues” was the polite way of saying “broken and crazy.”

  But what military hospital—what psych ward, even?—wouldn’t allow him any contact whatsoever with the outside world? And what hospital of any kind never let the patients so much as see each other?

  Roy finally told the main doctor, Dr. White, that he refused to cooperate with any more tests until they put him in touch with his commanding officer.

  “You’re not ready for that yet,” Dr. White had said.

  When Roy shouldered him aside and started to walk out, the doctor pressed a button on the little black box that all the personnel in this place carried. It never even touched him, but Roy dropped to the floor, unable to do more than twitch like a gaffed fish. Two guards dumped him on the bed, where he lay paralyzed for hours.

  High-tech straitjacket, Roy thought. Some bureaucrat had undoubtedly written up the whole incident, with a note like, “Violent outburst – not safe for release.”

  The room seemed to get smaller every day. Pent-up anger and frustration surged through Roy. He wanted to punch the walls. But they were solid concrete—he’d checked, quietly, when his candles had burned out—and the last thing he needed was a set of broken knuckles.

  He dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups, concentrating on speed and perfect form, trying to drive all other thoughts from his mind.

  Sweat soaked his shirt and dripped from his face, making a tiny pool on the floor. His muscles burned, but he kept up his pace. Pain was information. This pain told him that he wasn’t yet up to his usual strength. He’d stop when it told him that he’d tear a muscle if he kept going.

  He paused when he heard a knock. Before he could ask who was there, the door opened. Roy shielded his eyes against the glare of the corridor until the doctor closed the door again, leaving them in the flickering candle light.

  In the low light, Roy could recognize the man: Dr. White, who had last visited him a week or so ago. It was hard to track time in this place. Roy didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last seen sunlight.

  But he would have known the doctor even if he’d been blindfolded, by the man’s smell of burning rubber. Everyone had their own distinctive scent now, beneath whatever cologne they wore or antiseptic they used to clean their hands. His therapist washed her hair with lavender-scented shampoo, but her scent beneath that was hot and pungent, like fresh-laid asphalt. The guy who brought his meal trays smelled like green apples.

  Roy hadn’t mentioned that aspect of his newly-heightened senses. The human odors weren’t unpleasant, even when he couldn’t bear their real-world equivalents, and he didn’t want to get sucked into yet another tedious round of pointless tests.

  He got up and wiped the sweat from his face, eyeing Dr. White warily. The doctor had the little black box in his right hand, with the business end aimed at Roy. Of course.

  “Hello, Roy,” Dr. White said. “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “How’s your appetite?”

  “Fine.”

  “How have you been sleeping?”

  “Fine.”

  The doctor gave him a skeptical stare, eyebrows raised. “Really.”

  “Fine,” Roy repeated. He was done providing symptoms for them to dissect.

  “I have some news for you. Take a seat.” Dr. White indicated the bed, then sat down on the chair nearby.

  Roy reluctantly sat. The bed creaked under his weight. “What is it?”

  “It’s for the best, really. I hope you’ll be able to adjust your expectations and take a more realistic look at your prospects. After all…”

  Roy clamped down on the temptation to demand that Dr. White spit it out. If he made the doctor think he was going to get violent, he’d probably get shocked again. His only hope was to stay calm and appear cooperative.

  Dr. White finally ran out of platitudes. “You’ve been given a medical discharge.”

  Roy told himself that he’d known this was coming. Of course he’d been discharged. He couldn’t even handle an ordinary hospital ward, and he wasn’t getting any better. He’d be useless on the battlefield.

  It still felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest, leaving an empty hole the size of Montana. He’d never wanted to be anything but a Marine. He’d never been anything but a Marine. If that was taken from him, what did he have left?

  In the back of his mind, he heard a wolf howl in answer. Roy kept his expression blank. If there was one thing he’d learned all the way back in boot camp, it was self-control.

  “How d
o you feel?” asked Dr. White.

  Roy wondered if he was imagining a greedy tone in the doctor’s voice, as if the man was sadistically eager to hear exactly how crushed Roy felt.

  “I’ve been expecting this,” Roy said calmly. “I know that I have a disability. I hope it will get better with time and therapy, but I understand that I have to accept…” What was that depressing phrase the therapist kept using? “…the new me.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Dr. White said.

  Roy didn’t want to be the one to break the ensuing silence. He couldn’t sound too accepting, or the doctor would get suspicious. Or was silence also suspicious?

  He wished this was a problem he could solve by shooting or punching his way out. He’d never been good at mind games. But he had to win one now, or he might never get free of this place.

  “So, what’s next for me?” Roy asked.

  “What would you like to be next?” Dr. White inquired. Now there was a man who was good at mind games.

  Roy tried not to sound overly eager. “I think I’m ready to be an outpatient now. I’d like to get outside.”

  Dr. White shook his head. “You’re nowhere near recovered enough to leave the hospital. Besides, we need to run more tests.”

  “You’ve run tests on me every day for…” Roy had no idea how long he’d been locked up. Months, probably. “For ages. You’ve had me lifting weights and running laps! I’m in good shape. I’ll wear dark glasses. I’ll be fine.”

  “We need to keep you here for your own safety. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you tell us what you really are,” said Dr. White. “Or better yet, show us.”

  Roy kept his facial muscles still, concealing his alarm. But his suspicions were confirmed: they did know his secret. Or knew that it was a possibility, at least. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  “I don’t.” Roy tried to look perplexed, but displaying the wrong emotion was a lot harder than keeping a stone face. He could tell he was doing a lousy job of it.

  Behind whatever strange expression he’d shown the doctor, his mind was racing. If Dr. White already knew—if the entire hospital knew—then they’d never had any intention of letting him go. They’d keep him trapped forever to experiment on, like a lab rat.

  Everything he’d gone through already—the tests, the pretense that he was crazy, the medications—was probably an experiment. Maybe he’d just completed test number 99, “How will the subject react to a strong hint that we know he’s a werewolf?”

  An icy rage seeped into him, burning like frostbite. He didn’t know whether these people were a top-secret government black ops branch or some private organization or organized criminals or even agents from another country. But whoever they were, they were holding him against his will. They were the enemy.

  A captured Marine has a duty to escape.

  Dr. White was nearly Roy’s size, moved like a man who knew how to fight, and had his black box poised and ready. He was expecting Roy to try to hit him or try to run. But maybe he wasn’t expecting Roy to try something a little less direct.

  Roy mentally crossed his fingers that Dr. White really was a doctor. Or that if he wasn’t, he’d at least taken the same first aid course that Roy had, complete with the drill on the signs of a heart attack. Though Roy would normally be much too young for that, there was so much wrong with him already that anything bad ought to seem possible.

  He hunched over, wincing. “Can we talk later?”

  Pain in the chest, left arm, or jaw.

  Chest seemed too obvious. He rubbed his left shoulder, squeezed the muscle of his upper arm, and winced.

  A quick flicker of alarm passed over Dr. White’s face, followed by suspicion. Then his expression smoothed into exaggerated calm. “What are you feeling right now?”

  “Frustrated. Angry.” Then, as if he was reluctantly admitting it, Roy added, “Sad.”

  The doctor looked irritated. “I meant physically.”

  Denial.

  “Nothing. I’m fine.” Roy rubbed his shoulder again, as if he didn’t notice that he was doing it.

  He heard Dr. White’s breathing speed up. If he listened hard, he could even hear the quickening thump of the man’s heartbeat. He’d never told the people here that he could do that, and he was glad of that now.

  Dr. White took a step forward. “This isn’t the time to tough it out. Are you feeling sick?”

  Nausea.

  “I’m not sick. Maybe I ate something that didn’t agree with me.”

  “Are you nauseated?”

  “A little.” Roy deliberately recalled the last time he’d thrown up, in vivid detail, until he started feeling sick for real. He hoped it would show on his face.

  “Only a little?” Dr. White frowned, but Roy was glad. Clearly, something had shown.

  “Uh…” Cold sweat breaking out on his face. Jumping up and bolting to the bathroom. Realizing that he wouldn’t even make it to the toilet, and leaning over the sink. “I’m sorry, I really don’t feel good. I better go to the bathroom.”

  Roy stood up, then swayed as if he was dizzy.

  “Sit down,” said Dr. White.

  Roy lowered his head, watching the doctor’s feet to see if he’d come closer and try to steady Roy before he could fall. To his disappointment, the shiny black shoes didn’t move. Roy sat down on the bed, heavily enough to make the frame shake.

  “Does your left arm hurt?” asked the doctor.

  “Yeah. I think I overdid it with the push-ups. I guess I pulled a muscle.”

  “Let me take your pulse.” Dr. White switched the black box to his left hand and came closer. “Give me your wrist.”

  Roy held out his hand. As Dr. White reached out for it, Roy grabbed the doctor’s right wrist and slammed the side of his hand into the doctor’s left wrist. The black box flew across the room and hit the wall with a loud crack.

  Before the doctor could yell, Roy jerked him forward and punched him in the jaw. Dr. White dropped as if he’d been zapped by his own little black box. Roy caught him and heaved him on to the bed.

  He hastily pulled off the doctor’s shoes, pants, and white coat, then kicked off his own slippers and scrambled out of his hospital-issue thin cotton pants. He yanked on the doctor’s shoes and buttoned his white coat over Roy’s own shirt. The pants were too short and the shoes were painfully tight. But he was lucky that Dr. White was a big guy too, or Roy wouldn’t have been able to get into them at all.

  He put on the stethoscope and took the ID card out of Dr. White’s back pocket, then picked up the black box. It was cracked and probably useless, but at least he could carry it as a prop.

  Try to look confident and doctor-like, he strode out of the room. The bright lights jabbed needles of pain into his eyes and straight through his skull; he was forced to walk with his face lowered and his eyes half-closed. The sickening chemical smell of the air was stronger in the corridor, but beneath it, he could smell a light, fresh scent: outside. He followed it down the corridors, using Dr. White’s ID to get through the locked doors.

  He passed a few hurrying people in scrubs. Roy’s heart hammered, but they didn’t give him a second glance. His headache went from bad to excruciating, threatening to become disabling. But the scent of outside was getting stronger. It smelled like hope.

  He waved Dr. White’s ID through another sensor. It took him three tries, his hands were shaking so badly. Then door slid open, and Roy came face-to-face with a pair of security guards.

  The men were armed with both black boxes and dart guns, like you’d use to tranquilize a wild animal. That went a long way to confirm what they knew or guessed about Roy.

  Forcing himself not to hurry, he started to walk past.

  “Hey!” One guard tried to grab his arm.

  Roy punched him in the stomach, doubling him over, and snatched his dart gun. In one smooth movement, he swung around
and slammed the gun’s butt into the second guard’s shoulder. The man dropped his dart gun with a cry of pain. But before Roy could stop him, he hit a red button on the wall.

  Brilliant lights began to flash. A siren went off. Pain exploded in Roy’s head. His knees banged into the floor, the dart gun falling from his hand.

  Clenching his jaw, Roy forced himself to his feet. He couldn’t get his eyes to open. He staggered, dizzy and blind, barely able to think through the agony. He felt like he was about to pass out. Even if he managed to stay conscious, he couldn’t fight. One way or another, he’d be captured and dragged back to his cell.

  He only had one chance left: to transform into a wolf.

  He’d sworn that he wouldn’t try it here. He didn’t know if it would help. He didn’t even know if it was possible. He’d only become a wolf once before, in Afghanistan.

  A captured Marine has a duty to escape. Whatever they do to me—whatever I’ve become—I’m still a Marine.

  In his mind, a wolf howled.

  He’d done it before. He could do it again. Roy had been avoiding the memory, but now he sought it, trying to recall every detail.

  Tearing pain in my chest. Blood in my mouth. DJ’s fingers digging into my shoulders. His hoarse voice shouting my name. DJ’s face and the sky and the wrecked helicopter in the distance, all fading out. Hot sand under my back.

  And then…

  Hot sun on my fur. Four paws scrabbling in the sand. Scents everywhere, rich and distinct: me and DJ and blood and sand and weeds and metal and oil and…

  Roy reached inside himself, searching for the part of him that was wild and free and would rather die than be caged.

  He found his wolf.

  The overwhelming dizziness eased. The sirens and flashing lights were still agonizing, but his wolf body was that crucial bit stronger, better equipped to cope with pain. He was lower to the ground, in a world without colors, but with scents as bright and clear as neon lights.

  A man was raising a dart gun. Roy instinctively jumped to avoid the dart, his ears swiveling to catch the hiss and thwack as it buried itself in the wall behind him. He leaped at the man and slammed him down. The dart gun skittered across the floor.