Prisoner (Werewolf Marines) (32 page)

If you only check out one
music link, my recommendation is Gloc-9. His songs are melodic and
gorgeous, full of energy and passion. I listened to his
albums
Liham At Lihim
and
MKMN (Mga Kwento Ng Makata)
on repeat
while writing this book, and think of them as its
soundtrack.

“Magda” and “Alalay Ng Hari” are by
Gloc-9.

“Kali Denali” is by Punjabi rapper
Bohemia.

Yoon Do Hyun Band covered the Korean
national anthem, “Aegukga.”

Finnish metal band Apocalyptica covered
Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” on cello.

“Crew” is by Dessa.

“Jesus Walks” is by Kanye West.

Notes on Dyslexia, PTSD, and Combat
Stress

A Note on Dyslexia

I based DJ’s dyslexia on pure alexia, in
which a person can write but not read what they’ve written. That’s
normally caused by brain damage, such as from a stroke or an
injury, rather than being something one is born with. I did this
for plot purposes. Dyslexia is fairly common, and DJ needed a
version rare and intriguing enough to pique Dr. Semple’s
interest.

Dyslexia is a catch-all term for any sort of
neurologically-based difficulty with reading. A person with
dyslexia might read quickly, but see words shimmer or move on the
page. They might read with good comprehension but very slowly. Or
they might struggle to read a single sentence. Because dyslexia can
mean so many things, different people will be helped by different
interventions.

Dyslexia has nothing to do with
intelligence, though if it’s not diagnosed, it can cause people to
be told or to believe that they’re stupid or lazy. People with
dyslexia are often extremely intelligent and creative. A few of the
many famous people with dyslexia are talk show hosts Jay Leno and
Whoopi Goldberg, directors Steven Spielberg and Steve McQueen,
environmental activist Erin Brockovich, and writer Octavia
Butler.

A Note on PTSD and Combat Stress

Laura’s Wolf
contains a detailed afterword on PTSD, which is my specialty
as a therapist. Regarding the depiction of PTSD in this book, for
the purposes of the story the characters view it as less treatable
than it actually is. In fact, it’s very treatable and definitely
does not have to last forever or ruin your life. If you read
Laura’s Wolf
, you’ll see
how Roy copes with it once he gets out of the lab.

What the characters call combat stress is
also known as an acute stress reaction. It also happens to
civilians who’ve undergone trauma. It means that their usual coping
mechanisms have been temporarily overwhelmed. It’s a normal
response to extremely traumatic events, and usually goes away
within hours or days. It doesn’t mean that they’ll get PTSD. The
main difference between PTSD and an acute stress reaction is that
PTSD typically doesn’t go away without treatment. The symptoms may
also be different.

Acute stress reactions look different in
different people. Some people do get very agitated and talk or pace
compulsively, but it’s more likely for them to seem calm but
spaced-out— slowed down rather than revved up. Repeating the same
sentences or describing the same images over and over is common,
though. They may forget what was said to them within seconds of
hearing it. Afterward, they often recall only the most general
outline of what happened.

Regarding Dr. Semple’s theories on PTSD,
it’s true that the US military has done an enormous amount of
research on attempting both to prevent PTSD and to identify which
soldiers might be resistant against it and which might be
susceptible. These efforts have produced limited results. A
previous history of trauma, such as child abuse, makes a person
somewhat more likely to get PTSD from subsequent trauma, such as
combat. Strong social support and good training make people
somewhat less likely to get PTSD. However, these are relatively
minor factors. If you didn’t let anyone with previous trauma serve
in combat, you would still see lots of combat-related PTSD (and
have a much smaller pool of soldiers to draw upon).

The real predictor is not who a person is,
but what sort of trauma they encounter. The more intimate,
deliberate, and long-lasting the trauma, the more likely it is to
give any person PTSD. Rape, child abuse, and combat are all very
likely to cause PTSD, because they are traumas caused by the
deliberate actions of other human beings. Natural disasters and
accidents sometimes cause PTSD, but much more rarely.

Efforts to select only PTSD-resistant
soldiers for combat are probably doomed to failure. It’s not the
vulnerability of individual soldiers that causes PTSD, but the
nature of war. So while Dr. Semple’s theories on DJ’s possible
immunity to PTSD may or may not be true in the context of the
story, take them with a grain of salt in terms of their application
to real life. In the real world, probably no one is immune.

Laura’s Wolf

(Werewolf Marines)

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 do 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.