A Month with Werewolves (2 page)

“Why did they die?”

“Well, the first one we left with the mother.
During its first shift, some of the other wolves killed it. The
second one passed away from illness.”

“I see,” I replied thoughtfully.

“That's pretty much it for processing,” John
told me as he led me out the door.

We walked towards a fenced-in courtyard,
which I could only assume was the outdoor recreation area. It had a
small track and some pull up bars. After John confirmed its
purpose, he led me to the cafeteria where I would be having my
meals and then took me to the parameter fence to show me the
security measures that had been implemented.

There was a room filled with television
screens where security personnel monitored the parameter of the
reservation. John explained that, during the full moon, armed
guards were stationed alongside the thirteen foot high fences to
ensure none of the wolves tried to escape. He told me that any wolf
that came within ten feet of the fence was tranquilized. That went
for when the werewolves were in human form too.

When the tour was over, I was allowed to roam
freely around the compound. To my surprise, my badge worked on most
of the doors that were for authorized personnel only. I returned to
the Containment Center to interview Chris Abbot, but it appeared
that they had already removed him for surgery. Oh well, I'd have
plenty of time to talk to him inside of the reservation.

After I was done taking pictures of the
compound and documenting my findings, I went to the cafeteria for
an early dinner. I had been so involved in my work that I had
completely forgotten to take a lunch. It was important that I
didn't miss a thing though.

Apparently, John decided to either take a
late lunch or an early dinner as well. He waved me over to where he
was sitting once I collected my tray of salisbury steak, powdered
mashed potatoes, canned green beans, and some sauce that was so
dark it almost looked like tar.

“This place will never win a Michelin Star,”
John said, noticing my less than enthusiastic expression towards
the food.

“Looks like typical cafeteria food to me.” I
slid onto the bench across from him.

“Wait til you taste it. Typical would be a
blessing.” He grinned at his own joke. “How's your report
going?”

“Well.” I cut into an excessively soft piece
of steak, my once ferocious appetite suddenly waning from closer
observation of the food. “I'm going to interview some of the
personnel here after dinner. One thing I was wondering though,
where do they conduct research for a cure to the lycanthropy
disease and how is that research progressing?”

John gave his mashed potatoes a grave look,
and I couldn't tell if it was because he detested the food, or
because he knew I wasn't going to like what he had to say next.
“Off the record,” he began, “it's hard to come up with a treatment
for a disease when you can't find its source.”

“I thought you said that the disease passed
through a bite.”

“A bite, or sexually transmitted. But there's
nothing any different from their blood than there is with ours. No
extra pieces to the puzzle that would give the source of the
disease away. The only time they change genetic code is when they
shift, but the truth is that most infection happens when they're in
human form. The largest cause for the disease spreading is sexual
contact. Most of the time, it happens before the person is even
aware that they're infected. Kind of like HIV.”

“So are you saying that the government has
given up on trying to find a cure?”

“No.” John shook his head. “But research is
carried out away from the compound. We take blood and tissue
samples here and send them away to be studied. When one of the
werewolves die, their body is sent away as well. For all the years
we've been doing this, we've never even been close to finding a
cure. I don't think it's a top priority of the government. One
thing I do know is that government funding has been drastically cut
on the research side. In the beginning, they had a team of
scientists working to find a cure. Now, they're down to only
two.”

“It sounds like they have given up.” I
thought for a minute, wondering how hopeful for a cure that the
people inside the reservation would be. From outside, it sounded
like they might as well plan to be imprisoned for the rest of their
lives.

“Think what you will.” Johns fork made a loud
clank against the plastic plate as he stabbed a green bean. “You
might want to mention in your report that government funding
appears to be sparse, but don't mention where you got that
information from.”

I nodded, returning to my food and my
thoughts. When we were finished eating, John went back to work, and
I went on to interview some of his co-workers. Everyone seemed
relatively happy, giving glowing descriptions of their job and the
compound. I was certain that they had been coached on what to say.
Most employees were when it came to media coverage.

After I was done with my interviews, I
returned to my room to compile my report. My findings were
favorable. To be honest, I couldn't think of a much better way to
handle the werewolf problem. They seemed to be treated fairly, but
I had to remember that this was only a small piece of the puzzle.
The compound was just a gateway to the reservation. Detainees lived
a strict month of confinement, which I could only imagine was
frightening and miserable. After that, they spent a lifetime on the
other side of the fence, a one thousand-acre prison.

My only real complaint about the processing
of detainees was the vasectomies given to the males. That would
definitely end up in my report, since it was something that hadn't
been discussed anywhere else in the media. If one looked at it from
a realistic standpoint though, it only made sense that they would
go about birth prevention in such a way, considering that there was
no cure in sight. That was the secret hidden message behind giving
the males vasectomies. There was no cure, nor was any progress
being made towards one.

Lack of proper government funding was another
issue I planned on tackling. There needed to be more people
researching the disease. Perhaps it wasn't a widespread epidemic,
but the werewolves were being held captive for fault not of their
own. It wasn't fair for them to have to live this way without any
sign of hope.

I sighed as I stared up at the ceiling of my
small room, wondering what tomorrow would bring. To be honest with
myself, I was a bit nervous about being sent into the reservation.
Would the werewolves resent me for being an outsider? Would they
detest their confinement? Surely, the government wouldn't have
agreed to send me in if it wasn't safe.

Knowing that I wouldn't sleep if left to my
own devices, I took two sleeping pills to knock myself out. My
alarm seemed to go off too soon in the morning, and I arose groggy,
hoping that it would be an easy day. With a whole month inside of
the reservation, I would have plenty of time to interview everyone
without feeling rushed.

There were only a handful of my belongings
that I was allowed to take inside of the reservation with me. My
toothbrush, my hairbrush, my camera, and a notebook and pen.
Everything else would be provided to me once inside.

John escorted me to a small shack outside of
the reservation where I was given a hideous yellow jumpsuit to
wear. I was also issued three additional jumpsuits, seven pairs of
underwear, three bras, eight pairs of plain white socks, and a pair
of slip on sneakers. He said that the clothes that weren't on my
body would be delivered to my room inside of the reservation.

“We limit the provisions that the werewolves
are given for safety reasons,” John explained, forgetting to
mention what those reasons were before continuing. “Male werewolves
are assigned blue jumpsuits. Females are assigned red jumpsuits.
Medical personnel wear purple. Compound staff wear gray. And we've
ordered this yellow one especially for you.” He smiled as if he
thought I would fall in love with my new attire.

That seems a bit prisonesque, I wanted to
say, but I dare not insult their work. Perhaps this would be
something else to go into my report. It felt like not allowing the
werewolves to wear normal clothing would strip them of their sense
of individuality and freedom.

After I was dressed, John led me to the gate
that stood as entryway into the reservation. From the corner of my
eye, I could see two more personnel escorting someone in a blue
jumpsuit towards us. It was Chris Abbot, scowling as he walked up
to meet us.

“Resident alpha Emmett will take you on a
tour of the reservation. Then Devon, resident omega, will be your
guide for the rest of your time inside of the reservation,” John
said, and I wasn't sure if he was talking to both of us or just me.
“Open the gates,” he called to the guard who controlled the
gate.

The gate squeaked on its wheels as it rolled
open, revealing an athletic man in a blue jumpsuit on the other
side. He stood with an inviting smile, and I felt a sense of relief
wash over me at the genuine appearance of it.

Chris's displeased expression didn't waver.
Then again, the situation was quite different for him. While I was
only going to be locked in with the werewolves for a month, this
was a life sentence for him. Once he stepped inside those gates,
he'd never be able to leave. I couldn't even imagine what that must
feel like.

“This is Emmett Kennedy, resident alpha,”
John introduced us. Like a perfect gentleman, Emmett extended his
hand in greeting. “Emmett has been part of the Blackfoot Werewolf
Reservation project since he was eighteen. How old are you now,
Emmett?”

“Thirty seven,” he replied without
hesitation, his perfect teeth gleaming in the sun. It was obvious
that the werewolves did not lack dental care.

“This is Taya Raveen,” John told Emmet,
“journalist for the National News Network. She'll be staying with
you guys for the month. And this is Chris Abbot.” He turned his
attention to Chris. “He's the new addition to your pack. Please
make him feel as welcome as possible in his new home.”

“Will do,” Emmett replied, motioning for us
to follow him.

I noticed that it wasn't until Chris was
inside of the reservation that the guards backed away from him,
allowing the gates to close behind us. This was it; my true journey
into the lives of the werewolves was about to begin.

Emmett was quick to regain our attention,
drawing it away from the ominous gate behind us. “First, I'll show
you guys all the common areas.”

His pace was faster than I would have liked,
but Chris and I did our best to keep up. For the most part, the
buildings looked the same as they had in the compound, tan and
plain on the outside. Plaques near the doors distinguished them
from one another.

“We'll start with the less exciting stuff,”
Emmett said with amusement in his voice. “This building is the
laundry facility.” He opened the door to allow us entry. Instead of
the standard washing machines lining the walls, there was a female
attendant in a red jumpsuit standing at a counter, much like you
would see at the cleaners. “The laundry facility is open seven days
a week from eight in the morning until four thirty in the
afternoon. The facility is closed on holidays. You'll be assigned a
specified day of the week to bring your laundry in. You'll drop it
off that day and pick it up the next. If you miss your specified
day, you'll be forced to wear dirty clothing until the next
week.”

I hardly listened as Emmett introduced us to
the woman, too busy jotting down notes to pay much attention to
her. This would be important for me to remember, not only for my
report but for my own cleanliness.

“Why aren't detainees allowed to wash their
own clothing?” I asked, glancing up just in time to see Emmett's
mouth dip into a scowl.

“I would appreciate if you didn't refer to us
as detainees,” he rebuked me.

“Apologies. I wasn't thinking,” I replied
quickly, understanding the error of my words. Still, this place
looked a lot like a prison, both on the inside and outside. It was
hard not to think of the residents in such a way.

“We actually used to have a full laundromat,”
Emmett continued, though the tension didn't leave his voice. “But
there were issues with some people using too much soap and washing
their clothing too frequently, so the compound officials decided to
start regulating laundry.”

I hummed in reply, too intimidated by Emmett
to ask any further questions until I was certain he had cooled off
from my last one. It was obvious to me why he was the alpha of the
group. Tall and broad, Emmett emitted a sense of power. His dark
features helped him look the part, with shoulder length wavy black
hair, large brown eyes, and a smattering of ebony chest hair
peaking out from the collar of his jumpsuit.

The next building that Emmett took us to was
a small recreation facility. Tables and chairs were set up inside,
with a ping-pong table and an air hockey table the main
attractions. There was also a basket full of various balls in one
of the corners. Volleyballs, basketballs, tennis balls, and those
large round inflatable bouncing balls for children. It looked a bit
underwhelming, but better than nothing. I took note of the
surveillance cameras lining all four corners of the room. The
compound didn't seem to trust the werewolves with anything.

“This is our rec. room,” Emmett told us. “We
hold a ping-pong tournament every Thursday night and an air hockey
tournament on Friday nights. It's a good way to wind down and
socialize. Once a month, the compound throws us a pizza party in
here. They even provide alcohol, a rare treat. Otherwise, alcohol
and tobacco products aren't allowed inside of the reservation. The
Rec Room is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for
our enjoyment,” Emmett informed us before ushering us out of the
door and to our next destination.