to work with.”
“Things got rough for him when the shit hit the fan,” Rico said. “We were all right there in Oklahoma when that Full Blood started turning humans into mutts.”
“That was a hell of a night,” Sayers said. “Lost my old unit in a plane crash. The pilot was radioing for help when he turned. I’d arrived a few days ahead of them and got to hear the whole thing over the radio. From the sounds of the screams in the background…I hope my buddies died in the crash instead of being twisted into one of those things.”
“We lost some good people that night too,” Rico said quietly. “One of the Skinners and this friend of mine were close. Real close. She went down fighting, and as far as I know, he never got over it.”
“There is no getting over something like that.”
“That’s what I’m gonna find out. Because if there is anything left of him,” Rico said, “we may just stand a chance of taking ourselves off the endangered list.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cody, WY
F or a city with its roots sunk firmly in the Wild West, Cody seemed to have made it to modern days better than most. It still had its scars. Buildings were damaged, concrete was torn up and its water only flowed thanks to several chugging pumps that were in constant need of repair. Cody, however, seemed comfortable in those circumstances. Its citizens had a grizzled look about them, reminiscent of the first settlers who’d blazed trails in covered wagons and traveled with the great man for whom the city was named.
As in the early days, strangers were noticed fairly quickly when they arrived. One such man rode in on a motorcycle built to withstand grueling trips across hard lands. Like most vehicles anymore, its most heavily modified parts were in the exhaust system. While no engine could run completely silent, quieter ones could slip past some of the werewolf packs without drawing their hungry gaze. This man rode in from Highway 20 and quickly found himself rolling down streets that were built wide enough to accommodate teams of horses back when Buffalo Bill was taking his show on the road. Clad in leathers and denim, he’d wrapped a scarf around his face that was heavy with all the dust that had been kicked up during his ride. After pulling up to a gas station, he set his kickstand, cut his engine and dismounted.
“Got any gas left?” he asked the three men leaning against the front wall of the station.
All three were slender and similarly dressed in clothes that looked to have been looted from a pile of Salvation Army’s leftovers. The one in the middle replied, “Some, but it’ll cost you. What’ve you got to trade?”
“How about some chocolate? I got six bars that are fresh off the shelf.”
That caught the interest of the guy leaning against the wall to the right of the one who’d already spoken. “What kind?”
“Two Hersheys with nuts, a Three Musketeers, and some Snickers.”
The guy looked over to his friend in the middle of the group, who said, “That’ll get you two gallons.”
“I was looking to get at least half a tank.”
“Then you’ll need more to trade,” the middle guy said through a grimy smile that had the confidence of someone who obviously had the upper hand.
The biker unbuckled one of his saddlebags and pulled out a large plastic grocery bag. He fished out some candy, tossed it over and then opened his jacket to pat his jeans pockets while also giving the trio a good look at the pistols holstered beneath his arms. His hand switched to one of the jacket’s interior pockets to find something which brought a smile to his face. “How about silver?” he asked while removing two shining dollar coins.
All three men moved away from the station wall, eyeing the biker with interest beyond that of simple curiosity. “You got silver?”
“Sure do. It’s the pure stuff, too. See for yourself.” With that, the biker flipped the coin through the air. He moved his hand to one of
“Things got rough for him when the shit hit the fan,” Rico said. “We were all right there in Oklahoma when that Full Blood started turning humans into mutts.”
“That was a hell of a night,” Sayers said. “Lost my old unit in a plane crash. The pilot was radioing for help when he turned. I’d arrived a few days ahead of them and got to hear the whole thing over the radio. From the sounds of the screams in the background…I hope my buddies died in the crash instead of being twisted into one of those things.”
“We lost some good people that night too,” Rico said quietly. “One of the Skinners and this friend of mine were close. Real close. She went down fighting, and as far as I know, he never got over it.”
“There is no getting over something like that.”
“That’s what I’m gonna find out. Because if there is anything left of him,” Rico said, “we may just stand a chance of taking ourselves off the endangered list.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cody, WY
F or a city with its roots sunk firmly in the Wild West, Cody seemed to have made it to modern days better than most. It still had its scars. Buildings were damaged, concrete was torn up and its water only flowed thanks to several chugging pumps that were in constant need of repair. Cody, however, seemed comfortable in those circumstances. Its citizens had a grizzled look about them, reminiscent of the first settlers who’d blazed trails in covered wagons and traveled with the great man for whom the city was named.
As in the early days, strangers were noticed fairly quickly when they arrived. One such man rode in on a motorcycle built to withstand grueling trips across hard lands. Like most vehicles anymore, its most heavily modified parts were in the exhaust system. While no engine could run completely silent, quieter ones could slip past some of the werewolf packs without drawing their hungry gaze. This man rode in from Highway 20 and quickly found himself rolling down streets that were built wide enough to accommodate teams of horses back when Buffalo Bill was taking his show on the road. Clad in leathers and denim, he’d wrapped a scarf around his face that was heavy with all the dust that had been kicked up during his ride. After pulling up to a gas station, he set his kickstand, cut his engine and dismounted.
“Got any gas left?” he asked the three men leaning against the front wall of the station.
All three were slender and similarly dressed in clothes that looked to have been looted from a pile of Salvation Army’s leftovers. The one in the middle replied, “Some, but it’ll cost you. What’ve you got to trade?”
“How about some chocolate? I got six bars that are fresh off the shelf.”
That caught the interest of the guy leaning against the wall to the right of the one who’d already spoken. “What kind?”
“Two Hersheys with nuts, a Three Musketeers, and some Snickers.”
The guy looked over to his friend in the middle of the group, who said, “That’ll get you two gallons.”
“I was looking to get at least half a tank.”
“Then you’ll need more to trade,” the middle guy said through a grimy smile that had the confidence of someone who obviously had the upper hand.
The biker unbuckled one of his saddlebags and pulled out a large plastic grocery bag. He fished out some candy, tossed it over and then opened his jacket to pat his jeans pockets while also giving the trio a good look at the pistols holstered beneath his arms. His hand switched to one of the jacket’s interior pockets to find something which brought a smile to his face. “How about silver?” he asked while removing two shining dollar coins.
All three men moved away from the station wall, eyeing the biker with interest beyond that of simple curiosity. “You got silver?”
“Sure do. It’s the pure stuff, too. See for yourself.” With that, the biker flipped the coin through the air. He moved his hand to one of
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