A Month with Werewolves by K Matthew

 
     
     
     
     
     
A Month with Werewolves
     
     
    K. Matthew
    Copyright 2012
     
     
    All rights reserved.
     
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    Smashwords Edition
     
     
    No civilian had ever been inside the
Blackfoot Werewolf Reservation before. They called it a
reservation, but it was more like a relaxed concentration camp
where werewolves were separated from the rest of society to live
out their lives peacefully until a cure was found for their
condition.
    I had little interest in the subject until I
was offered a chance to investigate the reservation for a
journalism piece. Since no civilian had ever been allowed inside of
the reservation, my report would gain worldwide recognition. It
would be my big break, skyrocketing a career that I had been
working hard at for the past five years.
    As I pulled up to the reservation, I took a
deep breath. The outside of it looked like a prison, with a
thirteen foot high parameter fence surrounding the one thousand
acres of land. There was a small compound that I had to go through
before I could get to the reservation itself. I would stay there
for my first night, learning how the place was run before they took
me inside to live out the rest of the month with the
werewolves.
    “Identification, please,” a security guard
requested as I drove up to the gate leading into the compound.
    “I'm Taya Raveen, journalist for the National
News Network,” I replied with a smile, handing the guard my work
badge and driver's license.
    His body language emitted nothing but
coldness towards me as he gazed down at my cards with a deadpan
expression before handing them back to me. “If you'll hang a right
at the next turn and follow the road, you'll come to the Visitors
Center. There are signs leading the way. You can park your car out
front, then go sign up for a Visitor's badge at the front
desk.”
    I nodded politely before putting my yellow
Volkswagon Bettle in drive and continuing down the road. If it
weren't for the signs pointing the way, I probably would have
driven right past the Visitors Center. All the buildings in the
compound looked the same, small and tan on the outside. The only
distinguishing characteristic was the Visitors Center sign next to
the door.
    I pulled into the parking lot and made my way
inside to the front desk. Another less than excited security guard
took my identification again before handing me a plain white clip
on badge with the word Visitor printed on it in bold.
    “Take a seat,” he said, gesturing towards a
set of four black leather chairs that faced each other in front of
his desk.
    “Thank you,” I responded courteously before
flopping into one of them and pulling out my camera.
    There wasn't much to see in the Visitors
Center, so my picture-taking was short. Just a few framed photos of
wolves on the walls, gazing down upon me with very human eyes. I
imagined that they were images of the werewolves in their wolf
form. Out of boredom and curiosity, I stood to examine them more
closely. This was a part of the process that I wouldn't be seeing
since I would be pulled from the reservation before the next full
moon.
    A door at the back of the Visitors Center
opened, and a man stepped through it wearing a pair of starched
khakis and a white button-down shirt. He looked young, in his late
twenties, with slicked down blonde hair and a pair of