“What the hell is taking him?!” Cheryl paces back and forth in front of the fireplace, “He should’ve been back hours ago.”
“Chill out, Cher,” Ricky scratches his full, red beard, “you know how Joe is, likes to take his time.”
“Well, he’s sure taking his sweet ass time, isn’t he?” Cheryl puffed and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Why did we bring you on this trip?” Mike enters the living room with hot cocoa and toasted bread. “It’s bad enough Joe’s taking a bit too long to find it,” he continues, “you worrying your head off is not gonna help, so sit down and read a book or something.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
“Then stop acting like a child,” Mike shakes his head, “the hot cocoa’s ready for whoever wants it.”
Ricky gets up and goes to the kitchen and Mike takes Ricky’s seat, Ricky looks back and chuckles lightly, shakes his head, then goes about pouring himself some cocoa. Mike places his plate of bread on the table, puts his feet up, and sips casually from the cup and lets out a sigh of relief. Cheryl is still pacing back and forth, worrying her head off.
“Seriously, Cher,” Mike says after taking a sip of cocoa, “sit down.”
“I can’t,” she says, “not until I know Joe is safe.”
“What are you, his mother?” Mike says, “he can take care of himself.”
“No, he can’t,” Cheryl says, “he’s practically skin and bones with a babyface, he needs at least three layers of clothes to keep warm in the winter and–”
The door opens and Joe comes in covered in snow. He closes the door behind him and shakes himself off like a dog out of water and bends over–hands on knees–and takes long, deep breaths. Ricky comes out of the kitchen and almost spills the cocoa when Cheryl races by and almost bumps into him to get to Joe. She hugs him when he straightens out and Joe hugs her back awkwardly until she starts squeezing the life out of him.
“You’re crushing me,” Joe says flatly, “get off.”
Cheryl releases Joe and cups his face which is cold to the touch, “what took you so long, Joe? I was worried.”
“Let me settle in and I’ll tell you,” Joe sniffs the air, “the cocoa’s ready. Seems like I’m just in time.”
Cheryl releases Joe’s face and goes to get him cocoa while he takes off his coat and boots and settles in. Joe sits in the chair left of the sofa and soaks in the warmth of the fireplace and when his breathing evens out and his body temperature is at ninety-eight-point-six degrees again, turns to Ricky and Mike.
“It’s a fucking blizzard out there, man. Seriously!” Joe sighs, “I must’ve looked all over Minnesota. Saw nothing but a bunch of Timberwolves and snow-covered trees.”
“What else did you expect in the woods in the middle of winter,” Cheryl walks over to Joe and hands him the cocoa, “careful, it’s hot.”
“Thanks, mom, “Joe rolls his eye, “I’ll make sure to take my cough medicine.”
“That’s not funny, Joe. Seriously, I was worried.”
“I can take care of myself,” he says, “need I remind you I live alone?”
Cheryl sighs, “let’s not do this tonight, please. I’m just glad you’re safe is all.”
“Thanks for the cocoa,” Joe sips and leans back then lets out the same sigh of relief Mike did, “anyway, I mapped out the territory while I was out.” He puts down the cocoa and goes over to his coat and takes a large, folded paper out his pocket and hands it to Mike when he makes his way back to his seat then picks up the cocoa and sips then sighs.
Mike puts down the cocoa then opens up the map and looks over it, Cheryl walks behind the sofa and looks over Mike and Ricky’s shoulders while Joe enjoys the silence and warm fireplace, sipping his cocoa like a contented old man.
“Wolfgang’s Cave,” Cheryl says, “how’d you find it?”
“Actually, I knew about that cave for some time,” Joe says, “there was a story about a man trapped in these woods for three months, his name was Wallace Wingham Wolfgang.”
“Some name,” Ricky says.
“Yeah,” Joe agrees and continues, “ole Wally was a wolf biologist who lived in the mid to late sixteenth century. He was always in the woods collecting wolf DNA of any kind, saliva, piss, shit, you know, that kind of thing. Anyway, one day, in a blizzard like this, actually, he went into the woods and didn’t come out. There was a search party for him for all of twenty-four hours. Hadn’t been seen since.”
“So,” Mike says, “what does that have to do with the cave?”
“Simple,” Joe answers, “about three years ago another wolf biologist, Dr. Jacob Sampson, came into these very woods and stumbled upon the cave you see there and claimed to find the remains of ole Wally Wolfgang. He called a couple of his anthropology buddies and they examined the bones and ID’d him, so they called it Wolfgang’s Cave from then on.”
“Sounds like someone’s been doing some homework,” Ricky says, “pop quiz: what happened to the skeleton after they ID’d him?”
“Nothing,” Joe answers, “they only found a forearm bone. The rest of his body is either missing or simply decomposed in the ground somewhere.”
Ricky grins and nods in approval, “alright, phase one is complete. Onto phase two, go to the cave and see what’s up.”
“You guys go,” Joe says, “I’ve had enough of that damn blizzard.”
“Too bad,” Mike says, “you’re going and you’re the navigator. Your mapping sucks and none of us can follow it.”
“Fuck you!” Joe grins then laughs.
“I am curious about one thing, though,” Cheryl says, “what did people say happened to Wolfgang after he went missing?”
Joe cocked his head to the left in thought.
A moment later he answers, “Well, sixteenth-century people weren’t all that logical back then, were they? They probably said something like he’d been bitten by wolves and became one of them.”
“You didn’t look into that?” Cheryl asks in disbelief.
Joe yawns, “Why would I?”
“Because it’d be good to know what happened to him,” she answers questioningly, “so that it won’t happen to us.”
“Don’t tell me you believe in werewolves,” Joe yawns again, “I know you’re a worrier but, goddamn, spare us the superstition.”
“You always do this,” she pushes off the sofa and walks over to the chair to take a seat, “you’re always half-assing everything. Never looking into stuff thoroughly enough so we have the complete picture.”
Joe rolls his eyes then yawns a third time, “look, we still have reception out here. If you want to do more research, be my guest.” Joe gets up and walks around the sofa toward his room, “Besides, I’m going to get some sleep since, apparently, I’m navigating the blind musketeers tomorrow.”
“Fuck you!” Ricky pushes Joe playfully when he walks by.
When Joe goes to his room and closes the door Cheryl asks, “You guys believe that story?”
Mike makes a so-so gesture with his hand and Ricky shrugs.
Cheryl scoffs and shakes her head, “I’m gonna follow his lead and turn in too. Goodnight.”
Cheryl makes her way to her room while Mike and Ricky look at the map and try to understand just what the hell Joe was thinking when he drew this shit. They understood that paths often curved but one would think from Joe’s drawing that his hand must’ve been broken, either that or he failed art class in high school.
“You know what she meant by that?” Ricky asks.
“Nope, and I don’t care,” Mike says.
“You gonna turn in?”
“In a minute,” Mike says.
“Alright,” Ricky gets up and walks to his room and closes the door behind him.
Mike sits and contemplates Joe’s map for another thirty minutes before he decides to turn in as well. He puts out the fire then goes straight to his room, not bothering to clean up, as that’s a task for another day, and closes his door behind him.
Joe wakes up to the smell of eggs, bacon, and waffles. He pulls himself up and throws off the covers, his bare feet hit the floor and he grunts before getting up and walking out his room toward the kitchen. Cheryl, Ricky, Mike already have their clothes on and are sitting at the fireplace where finished plates and cups of cocoa clutter the coffee table. Joe says nothing as he walks past them and makes his breakfast, he sits at the table and eats by himself–his mind empty–then gets up, places his dishes in the sink, and walks to the bathroom without a word. Twenty minutes later, Joe has his clothes on and takes a deep breath when he comes out then stretches.
“You guys ready?” Joe asks.
They look at him with exasperated expressions.
Joe looks at the cluttered coffee table, “Seriously?” he says, “just leave the table cluttered, Joe’ll clean it.”
He rolls his eyes, “You read the map, Mike?”
“Yeah,” Mike answers, “it sucks.”
“When we heading out?”
“As soon as you’re ready, Your Highness,” Ricky says and bows in mockery.
“Fuck. You.” Joe chuckles, “Alright, let’s get this shit over with.”
Everyone gets up and puts their dishes in the kitchen–not bothering to wash them–and come out, get their coats and packs, then head out into the Minnesota blizzard.
“Holy shit, it’s cold!” Cheryl zips up her coat in a hurry.
The snow pours like rain over their heads, visibility is slim to none and the sky is paper white. The trees are covered in clumps of snow, branches reaching capacity as snow falls off the branches and make room for new piles to accumulate. The four go up the hill and keep straight for about one to two thousand feet then make a left, go straight for another thousand feet and make a right, then go straight for about three thousand feet and make a right. They stop and rest in caves along the way but never go too deep into them, for the hibernating animals don’t like to share space with other creatures–especially humans. During one break, Joe looked at his map and calculated their distance from where they were to the cabin and realized they were at Gordon’s Cave, the place wolf biologist Gordon James died when trying to gather DNA samples of Timberwolves. Mike asked if Joe knew where the hell they were and Joe nodded while calculating and asked if the rest were ready to move, they all nodded and got up.
They arrive at Wolfgang’s Cave at four o’clock, from what Joe’s watch says, and the cave is large, dark, and intimidating. The blizzard lightens up enough to see the individual snowflakes as they hit the ground and the sheet stops just short of the cave’s entrance as if the cave has a force-field around it. A breath of smoke emerges from the cave and a hollow sound reverberates through it. The four stand in silence for a long time, not noticing the snow falling lightly on their heads; a soft breeze washes over them and the snow at the cave’s entrance floats away. Joe looks at the map and then the cave then the map and the cave again and confirms it in his mind, he says to the others. . .
“This is it.”
“This would be it, wouldn’t it?” Cheryl says, “Who’s going first?”
“Guess that’s where I come in,” Mike says, “Joe, you’re behind me, Cher, you and Ricky bring up the rear, that cool?”
Cheryl and Ricky nod.
“Alright, let’s do it.”
They enter the cave with flashlights ready.
Although it’s negative three degrees in Minnesota, and that’s plenty cold, the cave feels like negative three hundred. The crew is zipped up to the teeth and yet the chill has their bodies in a death grip. Joe’s hands tremble violently and he has to put the map in his pocket to warm them every few minutes. Ricky’s teeth have been chattering for the past two minutes straight, and no matter how hard he tries to stop it, it seems to make it worse rather than better. Cheryl–the woman of many words and snarky remarks–is literally frozen speechless and although the silence is a blessing to the three men, Mike and Joe have to look back every so often to see if she’s still alive. Speaking of Mike, he’s the only one who doesn’t seem affected.
They come across three tunnels where each entry is darker than the last; Mike shines his flashlight right and finds a full skeleton which is not Wallace Wolfgang, but someone more recent. He goes over and examines the body. Joe shines his flashlight left and flinches then shouts. . .
“Holy shit!”
The others turn and see what Joe flinched at. Another body.
A fresh body.
Ricky pushes past Joe and goes over to it without a care in the world and looks at it with scientific focus. He deduces the frigid environment slowed up the decomposition process which is why they didn’t smell the body from a mile away, Rick also deduces that the guy died a couple days before they came here and that it was shit luck they were late and couldn’t save him had they known. Ricky checks the dead man’s pockets for any form of ID and finds none, he sighs then shrugs and walks back to the group and tells them what he thinks happened when Mike walks over to listen.
“Alright,” Mike says, “the guy on the right’s been dead for years, the only thing keeping the bones strong is the cold, and from what Ricky says, the guy on the left died a few days ago and there’s no way to ID him because he doesn’t have a wallet. Talk about shit luck,”
The others nod in agreement.
“Aside from all that,” he continues, “the next question is–”
“Do we go down that tunnel?” Joe finishes for him and Mike nods.
“What say you, Navigator?” Ricky asks jokingly despite the situation.
“Nothing, this is where I stopped.” Joe answers, “Wasn’t gonna risk getting lost.”
“So that means we get to find out together,” Mike says.
“You guys aren’t serious, are you?” Cheryl asks.
“So, she is alive,” Ricky says, “welcome to the Land Of The Living.”
“Funny,” she looks at him, annoyed, “I say let’s get out of here, this place gives me the creeps.”
“Well, good thing you’re not leading,” Mike says, “‘cause we’re going.” He points to the tunnel ahead.
Ricky shrugs, “alright,”
Joe rolls his eyes, “lead the way, Columbus.”
Cheryl looks at all of them in disbelief then sighs and relents, “Fine, but the moment one of you disappears I’m out of here. Count on it.”
They go down the tunnel.
When they get to the other side they encounter four tunnels.
“What the hell?” Mike says.
The cave seems to have gotten bigger, the space expanding to twice the size of the entrance despite the frigid air. There are no bodies; in fact, there’s nothing, just four tunnels and dust particles in the air and jagged, rocky walls and a low ceiling.
Ricky and Joe come up beside Mike and stare in confused awe. They all shine their flashlights, trying to figure out anyone could even do something like this. Sure, there were civilizations that could do amazing things in the past: Egypt, Mesopotamia, Athens, Rome, and many others but. . .
“Joe,” Mike says, “how long did it take us to get through that tunnel?”
“An hour,”
“How long would you say it took to build that tunnel?”
“A year and some change,” Joe answers, “Why?”
“Crazy theory,” Mike says, “what if Wolfgang built these tunnels?”
“By himself?” Ricky asks, “Impossible.”
“I did say ‘crazy theory’,”
“What would give you that idea?” Cheryl asks from behind as she comes up beside Joe, “he was a wolf biologist, not an architect.”
“I don’t know,” Mike says, “but something tells me this cave didn’t come about naturally. The way it just expanded gives me a bad feeling.”
“Now you wanna get some sense,” Cheryl rolls her eyes.
“I wouldn’t count on that, Cher,” Ricky says, “you know what happens when Mike gets a bad feeling.”
“Oh God,”
“Crazy idea,” Mike says,
“No, we’re not going down separate tunnels.” Cheryl finishes.
“I think we have to,” Mike says,
“Says who?” Cheryl replies, “A three-century-old ghost? Are you serious?”
Joe and Ricky glance at each other with raised brows.
“Mike ignores her, “did you guys feel anything when we were walking through the tunnel?”
“How do you mean?” Joe asks.
“Like,” Mike pauses, “you were in a dream or something–like you weren’t really walking but rather gliding through it.”
Cheryl lets out an exasperated sigh and turns from the crew muttering to herself.
“Now that you mention it,” Ricky contemplates, “I did feel like I was in the zone for some reason, like all sense of time just vanished.”
A low, growling sound permeates throughout the cave and the others heads snap in its direction, flashlights beaming. Nothing, just dust particles and four tunnels surrounded with craggy and jagged walls. They hear the sound again, louder this time, and Cheryl makes her way behind the three men, shining the flashlight over Ricky’s shoulder. The sound goes from growling to a hollow whisper, echoing from all four tunnels.
Ricky hears the second tunnel. . . take the second tunnel. . .
Mike hears, the fourth. . . take. . . the fourth. . .
Joe hears, the first. . . the first tunnel
And Cheryl hears, the third. . .
“It just me or did you guys hear it too?” Joe asks.
“Yeah,” Mike says, “It said ‘take the fourth’, whatever that means.”
“What the hell were you hearing?” Joe says, “It obviously said ‘take the first tunnel’”
“What?” Ricky says, “it said ‘take the second tunnel’, I’m sure of it.”
Cheryl listens to each of them and realizes then says, “it wants us to take separate tunnels.”
They look back at her.
She looks at them with an annoyed expression, “Duh, it’s called ‘common sense’, get some.”
“So, I take the fourth,” Mike says, “Joe takes the first, Ricky takes the second which means Cher takes the third.” He pauses, “In what order? Left to right or right to left?”
“Does it matter?” Cheryl asks then shakes her head, “The better question is why the hell are we even considering this? We need to get the hell out of here while we still can, and we need to–”
The cave shakes violently and knocks Cheryl to the ground, the men stumble but manage to keep their balance; Joe falls to one knee and Mike look like he’s about to attempt a split while Ricky remains an imperceptibly immovable object–his calf muscles flexing to maintain fortitude. The sound of falling rocks in the distance gets Cheryl’s attention and she slumps her head in defeat, knowing before the others that getting out is no longer an option.
Wasn’t like they were going to listen anyway, Cheryl thinks when she stands.
The shaking subsides to a low rumble then stops a moment later, Mike walks over to the tunnel on the far left and stands in front of it. The others look on.
“So, we doing this?” Mike asks.
Joe and Ricky look at Cheryl then look back then look at Cheryl again, seeing the resignation in her eyes and feeling some sort of sympathy for her.
“Maybe we should consider going back,” Joe says.
“We can’t,” Cheryl says and they all look at her, “when the cave shook, rocks fell on the other side of the tunnel we came from so, we’re trapped.”
“So forward it is,” Ricky says and walks to the first tunnel on the right and stands in front of it.
“Well, see ya on the other side, I guess.” Joe walks over to the tunnel on the far right and stands in front of it.
“Yup,” Mike says when he walks to his assigned tunnel and stands in front.
Cheryl hesitates for a moment while the others wait for her. She looks back once more, knowing that if she decided to go back she’d find it shut up on the other side. She looks at the remaining tunnel–the cold and unforgiving darkness beckoning her. She drops her shoulders in resignation and walks to the third tunnel and stands in front with the others.
They all stare into the darkness then walk in.
Joe is the first to emerge on the other side, the first thing he sees is three tunnels in front of him and the realization dawns on him that one of the others won’t make it.
“Oh shit,” he mutters.
There are three flat and large boulders stationed randomly and he walks over to one and sits to await their arrival. The temperature of the cave has dropped ten to twenty degrees and Joe begins to feel it when he’s able to see his breath; when he looks up, he sees the white sky and tiny snowflakes falling and hears footsteps approaching in the snow. He stands on the boulder and listens closely to the rhythm of the steps, he recognizes the rhythm as too fast for anything on two legs and deduces its an animal, most likely a Timberwolf. His hypothesis proves correct when a wolf shows up and looks down, its eyes meeting Joe’s. The wolf has a look of apathy and curiosity and Joe looks at the wolf with abject wonder. It’s white fur blowing in the wind and its calm, unaffected demeanor in the face of such frigid weather. The wolf’s ears shoot up then it runs off to investigate some sound it hears in the distance, leaving Joe to his indeterminable fate.
Joe stares into the white sky a moment longer before the sound of footsteps approaching grabs his attention and his head snaps in its direction. A human-shaped silhouette emerges from the tunnel, in short, hesitant steps. Joe looks at the figure and feels the figure looking at him, they stare for a long time.
“Joe?”
“Cher?”
She sighs, “thank god,” she walks out the tunnel toward him.
She hugs him, he awkwardly hugs her back.
She looks around, “It’s just you here?”
“Pretty much,” he looks at the other tunnel, “looks like one of them’s not gonna make it.”
“What?”
Joe points to the three tunnels in front. Cheryl looks at the four tunnels then the three and then at Joe; she shakes her head slowly, trying to ward off the realization as it inevitably dawns on her that only one of them is going to make it. Joe tightens his awkward hold on her when she tries to run toward one of the other tunnels.
“Let go!” Cheryl says, “we can’t just sit around, we have to help them!”
Joe simply looks at the other tunnels and waits, his hold on Cheryl remains tight.
“Joe, what the hell is wrong with you?!” she says, “We have to save them! They’re in trouble!”
“There’s nothing we can do, Cher.”
“What do you mean there’s nothing we can do?” She tries to pull away but Joe won’t let her.
She steps on Joe’s foot then kicks him in the groin and he lets go, Cheryl runs for one of the tunnels as Joe hits the ground and groans silently in pain and curses under his breath. The sound of footsteps approaching stops Cheryl in her tracks and she watches the same way Joe did when another human-shaped silhouette appears, this one taking more confident steps.
Ricky.
Cheryl runs to him and they hug, Ricky looks over Cheryl’s shoulder and sees Joe on the floor in pain then chuckles when he guesses what happened a moment before. Cheryl releases him and pushes him back. She looks into his eyes as if to ask where’s Mike, subconsciously aware of the slashes on his cheeks and the knife in his bloody hand, and Ricky looks away–hiding the damage. Cheryl’s expression goes from happiness to worry to terror.
“Ricky, what happened?” Cheryl asks, “and where’s Mike?”
Ricky clenches his jaw and Joe gets up and limps over to a nearby wall and plops down on the ground to watch the denial run its course.
“Ricky,” Cheryl asks with a shaky voice, “What happened to Mike?”
Ricky closes his eyes and pushes away from her and turns his back. He shivers then clenches his fist, “he’s dead.”
Cheryl doesn’t feel the tears fall from her face; in fact, she doesn’t feel anything. Her mind goes blank and she’s suspended in time for a moment, trying to grasp this news. She takes a step back and stumbles, the boulder Joe was sitting on catches her and she lands on her bottom. Joe sits with his forearm rested on his knee and his other hand massaging his groin. Ricky breaths laboriously with clenched fists and tense muscles.
“Both of our tunnels intersected and we met halfway,” Ricky starts, “we were surrounded by six tunnels, nine if you counted the one in front and the two we came out of. When we realized there was only one tunnel, and that one of us was not gonna make it, that’s when a low, growling sound filled the room and a pack of wolf emerged from the other tunnels,” Ricky took a deep, harsh breath, “they surrounded us and we put our backs together to avoid surprises, I asked Mike if he had any weapons and he said he always brought his switchblade with him and an extra knife for good measure. He reached slowly into his pocket and pulled it out then gave it to me. We got into a lunging stance and the wolves circled us,”
Ricky’s muscles tense to the point Joe and Cheryl can see them flex through his jacket.
“The standoff lasted about a minute,” Ricky continues, “the wolves circling like they had all the time in the world. Just when the wolves were about to attack I saw a shadow, more like a ghost, really. It was a guy about five-ten, maybe a hundred-forty pounds with a long, grey beard and a hair down to his shoulders with nothing on top. He had steel gray eyes and calm expression, wrinkles littered all over his face making him look tired and worn out. He disappeared in smoke and the wolves attacked, we fought them off as best we could; I managed to kill two and Mike got one but two more were on him in a matter of seconds. I went to save him but one wolf pounced on me–causing me to drop the knife–and started chomping at me, the only thing between his teeth and my throat was my hand around its neck. I reached for the knife and managed to get it and sliced its throat open then threw it off me. By the time I got up and tried to get to Mike the wolves were already walking away and he was dead, mangled and scratched up, body ripped open and devoured from the inside, throat was torn open and blood. . . so much blood. . .”
Cheryl put her hands over her mouth in terror as tears fell from her face, her legs went weak and the world seemed to shatter around her. Cheryl enters a catatonic state and becomes completely still, her mind trying to process but at the same time deny the story Ricky just told. Joe sits in silence and contemplates their next move and, considering Mike’s untimely death, which one of them is next. The silence is deafening, even the temperature seems warm compared to the atmosphere and mood filling the room. Joe looks into the gray sky and sees the wolf again, this time with blood on its snout and fur. His mouth gapes and his eyes widen, Ricky looks over at Joe then turns his head to where Joe is gazing and sees the wolf. Cheryl remains in her catatonic state. The wolf looks at Ricky with a cold, indifferent expression, its snow-white eyes gazing into Ricky’s soul and devouring the essence of his being. The wolf’s ears shoot up again and it leaves to investigate a sound in the distance.
Joe and Ricky look at each other and realize that one of them is next.
After three minutes Joe finally gets up and stretches, focusing on his groin in particular. Ricky turns and faces the two revealing three slashes on his cheek and a cut on his left hand–still holding the knife in a death grip, the blood on it dried and sticky. Cheryl remains in her frozen state when Ricky puts away the knife and walks up to her then sits beside her on the boulder; he puts an arm around her head slumps onto his shoulders and she closes her eyes, two final tears falling from her cheeks as the dam seals itself up.
Joe walks over and he and Ricky lock eyes then look at the tunnels. The darkness within them indifferent to their sorrow and demanding another sacrifice. The raspy whoosh of the wind fills the cave and snowflakes start to fall again, trickling to the ground at first but picking up gradually as the sky becomes paper white.
“If we don’t wanna be buried in snow,” Joe says, “we better get a move on.”
“Yeah,” Ricky says and helps Cheryl up when he stands.
“Want me to do it?” Joe asks.
“Naw,” Ricky chuckles harshly, “your nuts have taken enough of a beating,”
Ricky stands in front of Cheryl, both hands on her shoulders, and cups her face–lifting her chin up. She doesn’t look at Ricky but looks beyond him, at the tunnel he came out of, at all three of them. Ricky sighs and then slaps Cheryl, her right foot comes up reflexively and kicks him in the groin and he goes down as Joe did. Cheryl puts a hand on her face and snaps out of the trance like she’s just emerged from underwater.
“Welcome to earth,” Joe says, watching Ricky writhe in pain, “where bad shit happens and people you care about die.”
So it wasn’t some sick dream, Cheryl thinks when she realizes it’s just the three of them, Mike’s dead. Ricky rolls over on his back and sprawls out on the ground, breathing hard. After three deep breaths he gets up and looks at Cheryl, his eyes asking are you alright? Her eyes answer do I look like I’m okay? Joe walks toward one of the tunnels and stands in front of it, his expression calm and serene despite the circumstances.
“Mike’s dead,” Joe says, “and we can’t go back.” He folds his arms across his chest, “all three of us may make it, maybe none of us will make it. But,” Joe continues, “whoever makes it, don’t bother trying to go back. Save yourself.”
“Then you better hope I don’t make it,” Cheryl says, “because if I do, and I feel like one of you is alive. . .”
“You’re coming back,” Joe finishes, “I don’t know if that makes you a better person or just stupid,” he continues, “even so, wouldn’t trade you guys for the world.” A faint smile touches the corner of his lips, “even Mike.”
Ricky looks at Cheryl and she meets his eyes which say she’s ready and they walk up to the tunnels and stand in front of them, expressions unreadable.
They all gaze into the darkness then walk in.
Cheryl is the first to emerge, she looks to her left and sees only one tunnel then looks ahead and sees two more along with six boulders that surround an underwater cavern which emanates an emerald green light. Cheryl walks to the nearest boulder and sits, as soon as her bottom touches the boulder a bubbling comes from the cavern and she jumps up. The water begins to boil and turns to steam which thickens into smoke and ascends, taking the shape of a human. Cheryl’s mouth is agape with terror and fascination, her heart pounds like a savage prisoner in her chest and her legs become weak and wobbly. She looks for support but there’s none and her legs give out underneath her and she lands on her bottom–hard. She can’t avert her eyes as the smoke then solidifies into a person and stands before her.
Her fear freezes her stiff.
The person before her is a man about five-foot-ten with a full, grey beard and hair down to his shoulders, receded on top, wearing a standard black sixteenth-century suit with a black leather belt holding up his trousers. He looks at Cheryl with steel blue eyes–littered with wrinkles and crow’s feet–that see in her, through her. She meets his gaze and can’t turn away, she recalls Ricky’s description and realizes this is the man he was talking about, the man who sicked the wolves on him and Mike. . .
Wallace Wolfgang.
The water continues boiling and turns to steam then smoke and then solidifies into the shape of wolves that stand alongside him. The wolves gaze into Cheryl–who’s become no more than a fear-carved statue–with gray eyes that have the slightest shade of blue and begin walking toward her. She wants to run, the force of self-preservation and the need to survive surge through her veins, adrenaline begins pumping, urging her to move, to do something but to no avail. The deadly and terrifying grip fear has over her heart renders her immobile as they sniff her boots, legs, coat, face and neck, and lastly her hair. The wolves’ fur against her skin is smooth and silky, almost soothing and their noses against her neck have a leathery feel to them, almost like a jacket.
They stop sniffing and make their way back to Wolfgang and he pets them, stroking their heads ever so tenderly. The wolves sit and close their eyes and it is now Wolfgang that walks over to Cheryl, he extends his hands and gazes at her with penetrating steel blue eyes. No malice, no hatred, no murderous intent.
The fear loosens its grip and leaves her body in the face of Wolfgang’s disarming gaze and she takes his hand, letting him help her up.
The sound of footsteps fills the room and Wolfgang, Cheryl, and the wolves’ attention snap in its direction. The rhythm of the footsteps indicate someone running and the fear that’d just left Cheryl comes back with a vengeance until Wolfgang places a hand on her shoulder and it leaves her again, he points to the tunnel as if telling her to look closer and she does. The silhouette in the distance reveals itself gradually first showing a blue jacket, then black jeans and black snow boots and Cheryl realizes who it is even before the face appears. . .
Joe.
Wolfgang and wolves vanish as quickly as they manifested into thin air when Joe shoots out of the tunnel and trips over a rock, falling to the floor in comical fashion.
Cheryl can’t help but laugh as Joe gets up–fear riddled on his face–and witnesses Cheryl bent over. Joe looks around the cave then looks at the underwater cavern and the two tunnels ahead. Cheryl’s laughter subsides then stops completely as the seriousness of the situation starts to reassert itself in her mind. She takes a final breath, signifying the end of happy hour, and walks over to Joe.
“So Ricky didn’t make it, huh?” She asks.
“Didn’t make it?” Joe laughs derisively, “try ‘got his ass ate to pieces by a pack of Timberwolves!’”
Cheryl is taken aback at first then realizes she has to stay strong and says, “What happened to Ricky, Joe?”
“I just told you!” Joe says, “He got ripped to fucking pieces!”
His voice echoes violently throughout the cave as he ruffles his hair in frustration saying Oh God over and over then switching to fuck! Cheryl’s never seen Joe this unraveled before and has no idea how to respond so she just watches him go through it.
After a good two minutes, Joe cools off and returns to his normal self. Cheryl stands a couple feet from him with a concerned look on her face and her hands cupping her elbows. Joe breathes heavily with wide and rabid eyes when Cheryl walks over and places a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Joe,” Cheryl says with the softest voice, “what happened to Ricky?”
Joe turns his head slowly and the look in his eyes says it all.
Cheryl releases Joe and backs away slowly, shaking her head imperceptibly; his eyes are bloodshot and his pupils have dilated to a point far surpassing fear, his irises becoming hazel rings. Joe’s once smooth, rich, chocolate brown skin is the color of tree bark in the winter as all the life seemed to be drained from it. He produces a thick smoke with each breath and has entered a state similar to Cheryl’s when she found out Mike had died. She looks at him with worry, bewilderment, and fear.
“Joe?” she asks hesitantly.
He says nothing, looking into a plane of existence unbeknownst to her.
She takes a nervous step forward and Joe doesn’t move a molecule, let alone a muscle. She raises her hand to reach for him, his eyes still dilated and his irises hazel rings, and cups his face gently. It’s cold to the touch, deathly cold. She runs her hands along his face and down to his neck–by the jugular–and checks for a pulse. It’s faint but it’s there. A wave of relief washes over her and she takes Joe’s hand and pulls him toward the boulder, walking him like an emotionally defeated child. She sits him on a boulder and takes her place beside him and begin contemplating what to do next, or, at least, how to bring Joe back to reality.
In Joe’s mind, Ricky’s death plays on an endless loop. The look in his steel blue eyes as the life faded and disappeared into the ether is one Joe will never forget. The way the wolves piled on him and ripped and tore his flesh like slabs of meat, the blood that gushed out of him like a water sprout, surely surpassing the four pints all humans supposedly have; the way his intestines and testicles were strung out like a slinky and consumed like pasta, making Joe throw up to the point of fainting, the only thing keeping him conscious being adrenaline and the force of self-preservation. Last, and maybe worst of all, was the way Ricky’s throat had been chomped and ripped out, like a savage taking a large bite out of a steak or a kid biting into ice cream instead of licking it. Joe’s legs developed a will of their own at that point and he was running through the tunnel like that time when a group of kids chased him through the schoolyard when he was nine, planning to take him to the toilet and give him a swirly. The memory was the furthest thing from his mind but that’s how he felt, like a scared and helpless little boy chased through the schoolyard, kids in wolf’s clothing raring to take a nice, juicy chomp out of his ass and feast on his humiliation.
Cheryl punches Joe in the face and he falls off the boulder, his head going into the cavern. She holds her hand in pain then tries to shake it out to no avail. Despite Joe’s babyface, his jaw is like a cinder block, hard and hollow. Joe’s head stays submerged for a minute when his hands come to life and he pushes himself out, shivering and gobbling up air. Joe gets to one knee and takes deep, quick breaths–his shoulders rising and falling in rhythm–then stands up. He looks back and sees Cheryl, her right hand trembling behind her back.
“What happened?” Joe asks.
Your jaw, Cheryl thinks but says, “that’s what I want to ask you.”
Joe looks around and realizes it’s just the two of them when a flashback of what happened with him and Ricky enters his mind. He looks at the tunnel, then Cheryl, then at the tunnel again, his awareness of the situation coming back with a visceral and unforgiving vengeance.
Cheryl walks up to him and half-cups his face with her trembling right hand, “Stay with me, Joe.” His eyes meet hers, “What happened to Ricky?” Sadness consumes him and he averts his eyes, Cheryl grabs his face with her other hand and centers it, forcing him to look at her, “No, you look at me, Joe.” They hold eye contact, “What. Happened. To. Ricky?”
Joe lets out a sigh of resignation and tells her everything.
Cheryl punches Joe in the face with the same hand and almost breaks it; Joe hits the ground and doesn’t bother to hold his jaw, knowing he deserves it. She shakes her hand out and clenches and unclenches it to relieve the pain to no avail; besides, that pain pales in comparison to what Cheryl just heard Joe say to her. She looks at him with a contempt that’d make Satan close hell for a week and take a vacation. Joe stays on the ground with his elbows rested on his knees and his head down in shame and neither of them speak for a long time. It’s a good thing Cheryl doesn’t have super strength because if she did. . . God help Joe.
“You think I wanted this to happen?” Joe asks, at last, his head still down, “You think I wanted Ricky to die like that?”
Cheryl says nothing.
“You think you feel outraged,” Joe says, “imagined how I felt when Ricky proposed it.”
Cheryl looks up and at Joe with a raised eyebrow, anger still her dominant expression.
“Yeah,” Joe says, “we knew one of us was next, so when we got to the intersection we had to make a choice. Both of us were ready to die to save the other, but Ricky had a point in saying he could hold them off longer than I could, that if it were me against the wolves they’d tear through me in three seconds then neither of us would get away.”
Cheryl simply looks at him, listening.
“I wanted to go back and save him. I swear to God, I did.” he continues, “I looked back when I got to the entrance and the life was already draining from his eyes, the wolves tore through him like he was a lost pig. That’s when I realized it made no difference who made the sacrifice. The wolves turned in my direction with Ricky’s blood on their noses and fur, looking at me with cold and unforgiving snow white eyes.
“Then that guy,” Joe swallows, “that guy with the beard and long hair, receded at the top, appeared and looked at me the same way. He pointed to the tunnel then pointed to the wolves, basically saying I only had two options. One was in front of me, and the second was still hungry for more blood, so I ran.”
The atmosphere resembled that of a thick fog, the tension in the air rigid and suffocating to the point Joe starts sweating. Cheryl’s face goes from anger and contempt to expressionless, a sort of calm before a massive storm bent on demolishing an entire city faster than the blink of an eye. She looks upon Joe with the omnipotent gaze of a God passing judgment, debating whether to accept his explanation or drown him in the cavern for his cowardice.
She gets up and walks toward one of the tunnels and stands in front of it. Joe looks up and sees her there, her back turned and arms folded across her chest like a general preparing for the final battle. She doesn’t look back, just stands there and waits with patience that transcends all the anger, grief, and sorrow inside her. This calmness radiates throughout the cave, the underwater cavern is still, the air takes on humidity, and the silence isn’t so deafening anymore. The only one shaken to the core is Joe, he’s seen Cheryl in this state. That calm before shit goes to hell, that calm before she bites someone’s head off, that calm that instills a primal fear in the hearts of those who cause her pain, a silent vow that she’ll get you back if it’s the last thing she does on earth. And that calm scares Joe almost as much as seeing Ricky die. Almost.
Joe gets up and walks toward the second tunnel and stands in front of it. He doesn’t bother to exchange words, it’d be pointless. He takes a deep, nervous breath but Cheryl is cooler than a winter breeze. In fact, she’s ice cold. They stand there for a long time when Cheryl takes the first step and Joe goes in shortly after.
The tunnels are dark, cold, and damp, and the moisture in the air produces a mildew smell. Cheryl walks along in silence–the pain and grief stewing inside her like a witch’s potion–thinking about what Joe told her, running the story through her mind, again and again, trying to put things in perspective but her emotions are too powerful–her anger too visceral.
Joe is weighed down with shame, his legs feel like cinder blocks as he drags them along, thinking about Ricky and how the wolves tore him apart, that look in his eyes as the life drained from them, and the blood. So much blood.
Cheryl’s mind begins to reminisce, going back to a time the four of them had just graduated college with their Masters degrees, Joe a double major in Biology and Mathematics, Mike a double Major in Biology and English, Ricky in Biology and Philosophy, and Cheryl in Biology and Psychology–she thinks about when they all met in Bio 101 and immediately clicked, all having in common a fascination with wolves–Timberwolves, in particular. How they would all go to the library after class and read every book they could find on the ancestry of the animal and absorb all the facts with an insatiable thirst, devouring hundreds of articles by L. David Mech, Luigi Boitani, and other long standing members of the International Wolf Center. She remembers one fact about wolves that always seemed to stick around every time she and the guys went looking for them in the Tundra, a fact that changed her perspective on wolves–even more than the story of The Three Little Pigs. She remembers reading that the Grey Wolf (Timberwolf) has been feared and persecuted more than other animals, that people tried them and burned them at the stake. Cheryl weighs this with what Joe and Ricky said happened when they met at the intersection but for some reason doubts it–even though she feels she can never trust Joe again, she still has enough faith to believe he wouldn’t lie. Wolves aren’t savages; in fact, they’re more human than humans in most cases. They mate for life, have puppies, form close relationships and stick to the pack (the lone wolves rarely howls and avoids contact with packs), and they only attack when they feel threatened–despite what’s in the movies. Cheryl grapples with this and something (a gut feeling, maybe) is telling her that Joe’s story isn’t true, not entirely.
Joe walks along in the deafening silence, the scene playing over and over in his mind. He doesn’t think back to college like Cheryl does nor does he reminisce. He just lets the thoughts in his mind run amok, trying to find the meditative state men are usually able to get to–that state where one can turn off his mind and reset it. The look in Ricky’s eyes continues to haunt him and the blood gushing out his throat pulls him back into a state of terror.
You killed him. . . you killed Ricky. . .
Joe looks around in panic, forgetting its pitch black and there’s nothing to see (the flashlights don’t work in the tunnels).
You killed him. . .
“I had no choice,” Joe replies, “it was either him or me, and he volunteered.”
You killed Ricky. . .
“No,” Joe says, “he sacrificed himself and I helped him, like a true friend.”
You killed him. . .
“I didn’t–”
You killed Ricky. . .
Joe covers his ears but he can still hear it, “No, I didn’t!”
You killed him. . .
Joe sprints down the tunnel and tries to outrun the voice, the cool, damp air washing over him and the mildew smell fading from his senses. Sweat runs down his neck and temples and gets in his eye, Joe wipes with the back of his hand and trips over a rock and falls to the ground, sliding a couple inches. Sussurant voices permeated throughout the tunnel saying the same two phrases; Joe gets up quickly and continues running, nothing but darkness in front of him. His breathing is laborious, the stomp of his boots produces a terrible harmony with the voices in his head–placing him under the illusion something’s after him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention when he feels something behind him. His strides get wider and the adrenaline pumps harder, the force of self-preservation takes full control, the whisper of the voices grows louder and that feeling someone, something is behind him grows stronger. Up ahead, Joe sees a speck of emerald green light and sprints harder toward it, the light gets brighter and brighter and Joe feels the relief that comes when freedom is within your grasp, and dives for the exit, sliding a couple inches.
Joe gets up and looks back at the tunnel for a long time, his breathing still laborious and his adrenaline working overtime. He stares for a little more and begins to calm down and the wide, rabid, fearful look in his eyes subsides. He looks around the room and it’s much the same as the last, three tunnels on either side and two behind him, the only difference being instead of two tunnels only one is ahead. Only one of us can live, Joe thinks. He walks to the stairs that lead to the bottom and sits down, waiting for Cheryl and contemplating how the hell he is going to get out alive.
Cheryl emerged from the tunnel twenty minutes later and sees Joe sitting on the stairs in a contemplative posture, she walks in and sits five feet away from him–giving him a suspicious eye. Joe doesn’t notice her until he looks up and sees her from the corner of his eye then looks at her, their eyes meet. Her calm gaze and silent demeanor still scare the shit out of Joe and he knows that she knows it does. Joe knows that Cheryl went over his story, that Cheryl cross-referenced it with everything she knows about wolves and their habits, that there were a few holes in his story, that he wasn’t telling the truth; well, at least, not the entire truth.
They look at each other for a long time.
Cheryl says, “I thought about your story, Joe. I thought about it a lot.”
Joe says nothing, couldn’t even if he wanted to.
“I even cross-referenced it with everything we know about wolves,”
Of course, you did, Joe thinks but says, “Those weren’t ordinary wolves.”
Cheryl ignores him and continues, “you and I both know they’re highly intelligent and social animals, that they aren’t generally rabid, that they only attack when threatened. . .”
“Yeah,” Joe holds her gaze despite not wanting to.
“So, how was it they attacked you again?” She asks. “If you two didn’t have intentions of harming them?”
“Like I said,” Joe replies, “those weren’t ordinary wolves.”
“What was so different about them?” Now the interrogation begins. “Details.”
“I told you, they came out raring to go. They had this look in their eyes like they didn’t care about anything. It was an icy look, a look you expect from a hardened soldier or criminal. Their eyes were snow white, gray even, which gave them this murderous look. . .”
“Go on,” Cheryl prompted.
Joe sighs, “Look, I get that you think I’m a coward for leaving Ricky, for not trying to save him, but that doesn’t make what happened any less true.” He pauses. “Ricky and Mike are dead, a pack of wolves tore them apart, or did you forget about Mike?”
Cheryl is just about to answer when a low, snarling sound resonates throughout the cave. Their heads snap to where the sound is coming from and one wolf emerges from one of the six tunnels, then another one, then another, and then another. Before they know it, they’re surrounded. Three wolves on either side.
“Now you’ll see what I’m talking about,” Joe makes a run down the stairs toward the tunnel but the wolves block him off.
Cheryl looks on.
Joe tries to run back but three wolves beat him there and block the way. They pay no attention to Cheryl.
“A little help here, Cher?” Joe says, “You just gonna let a pack of wolves eat my ass alive?”
Cheryl doesn’t move, only looks a Joe.
“Seriously, you think this is what I did to Ricky?” Joe asks. “You think I left him to die, just like this, don’t you?!”
The wolves close in on him, growling and snarling. Joe tries to cover his front and back but to no avail. He looks into their icy light blue eyes and sees his death. His indifferent, indiscriminate death.
“Come on, Cher,” Joe says, “help me out a little! Throw a rock! For Christ’s sake, do something!”
“Did Ricky say the same thing when he was in that position?” She asks. “Did he cry for your help the same way you’re crying for mine?”
“What the hell are you talking about?!” Joe says. “Ricky said he was gonna hold off the wolves, that he’d put his life down while I went and got you and me the fuck outta here!”
“You’re lying, Joe,” Cheryl says. “I know what happened.”
Joe forgets about his impending death and looks at her incredulously, “What?”
“I know you pushed Ricky down the stairs and escaped while the wolves tore him apart,” She says, “I know you looked back and watched them do it, and watched the life drain from his eyes as they ripped out his throat.”
“And how the fuck could you possibly know that?” Joe asks.
Cheryl pauses for dramatic effect then answers, “Because you came out completely unscathed.” she adds. “Ricky’s story is true because his right hand was busted when he came out, he tried to save Mike.”
Joe’s expression changes from stark focus to unmistakable recognition. Cheryl had been in a catatonic state when she heard that Mike died, her eyes were far away, on another planet, nothing Joe and Ricky said could get to her. The way she looked, Joe thought, a minor observation such as that should’ve been the furthest thing from her mind; besides, Joe watched her while Ricky recounted what happened and noticed her eyes weren’t even looking at him, they were looking past him, at the tunnel, waiting for Mike to come out and make what Ricky was saying false.
Joe meets her gaze for the first time and sees how she knows what happened, the ghost of Wallace Wolfgang manifests behind her with a hand on her shoulder, his grey hair falling to his shoulders, his grey beard to his chest, and those eyes. Those icy, steel blue eyes. They look at him with an apathy that spells merciless death, a coldness that’d freeze hell over in seconds. It is then the susurrus voices return and resonate throughout the cave.
You killed him. . .
You killed Ricky. . .
The voices say this slowly at first then gradually get faster and faster until they begin to overlap in a terrifying echo. One voice becomes two, then three, then four. Eventually, it’s difficult to even tell what they’re saying, but Joe knows what they’re saying. He knows very well. He tries to cover his ears to no avail, the wolves stop snarling and begin circling him, looking on with cold, snow-white eyes. Joe presses his hands to his ears harder like he’s trying to crush his own skull, but no matter how hard he presses, the voices still echo inside his mind.
You killed him. . .
You killed Ricky. . .
Cheryl watches on as Joe crouches to the ground then to his knees, trying to cover his ears. Eventually, he’s in the fetal position writhing in pain as his conscience tries to fight the voices. He gets up and tries to run toward the tunnel but the wolves block his way, he looks left, then right, then front, then back, then front again. No way out. He looks at Cheryl and sees only the faintest glimpse of sympathy, nothing more. Wolfgang stands behind her to the right, his hand still on her shoulder. She doesn’t seem to notice. The voices grow louder and louder in Joe’s head, the pain in his brain is becoming too much to bear. His heart beats at his chest like a scared prisoner, his breathing becomes heavy and laborious, his head throbs like a bastard, his insides start to heat up like a boiler room; the voices echo in their horrible harmony inside his head to the point he goes into his pockets, fumbling a bit, and takes a knife out–Ricky’s knife. It still has blood on it from when Ricky slit one of the wolf’s throat. Joe wipes the knife off, takes the last deep breath he’ll ever take and puts the knife to his ear and begins cutting with nearly no hesitation. His screams and cries permeate the cave and Cheryl–who usually would’ve been horrified at such a sight–is as calm and serene as a flowing river on a sunny day. She looks on with indifference tinged with the slightest bit of sadness and pity.
Joe rips off his ear and throws it on the floor then goes to work on the other one in an unusual hurry, almost as if he’s using the pain to drown out the voices. When he gets done with that ear and throws it on the floor, he stands up and screams for a full sixty seconds. The blood runs down his temples like a waterfall and the wolves look on with listless, snow-white eyes, still circling him. The screams block out the voices temporarily but they come back with fiery wrath once the pain subsides, echoing in his head to the point of making it burst. Joe presses his hands to his ears again when he falls to his knees for the second time. He slams his head on the ground and does it again and again and again and again until his forehead is caked in blood, to no avail.
Cheryl watches the self-destruction with the countenance of a math professor during finals week, never moving from the steps.
Joe slinks himself up and looks at the dark and jagged ceiling with hot tears streaming down his face, he tries to say something but can’t. His hazel eyes matched the emerald green light of the room, glowing like aurora borealis on a clear night. His last words before leaving this earth are simple but sincere.
“I’m sorry,”
One of the wolves lunges at Joe’s throat and rips it out the same way Ricky’s was. The others pile on him and tear him limb from limb then take their meal into their separate tunnels. The only things left of Joe are his ears, gloves, Ricky’s knife, and blood. So much blood.
Cheryl looks on for a moment longer, Wolfgang’s hand still on her shoulder, and walks down the steps, her eyes never leaving the scene. When she gets to the last tunnel she looks away and stares inside, the darkness becoming a greenish-blue light. Wolfgang disappears and Cheryl walks in, forgetting everything she’s just seen.
The lights lead Cheryl out of the tunnel and into the Minnesota blizzard. There’s an animal-made road in front of her that leads through the tundra, the trees on either side resembling arches. The path has few twists and even fewer turns, the frigid winds bite into her coat and exposed skin, almost cutting into her cheeks. She gets to a crossroad that has four directions–counting the one she just came from. On either side, there’s nothing but a field of dead grass and falling snow with visibility seeming like a fool’s dream. Ahead of her, is a field that leads to the other side of the woods–where the cabin is. From both sides, she sees something approaching in the distance–three figures she recognizes immediately as wolves–like friends or brothers having an interesting conversation about a deep topic. The wolves stop at the end of the path and turn their gazes at Cheryl, they look at each other for a long time. Those cold, listless, indifferent snow-white eyes from before are gone, replaced with icy blue eyes filled with understanding and compassion. Cheryl holds their gaze for a little more then continues straight.
When she gets through the woods and sees the cabin dead ahead, she looks at it as a foreign object. The roof is flooded with snow and the door is piled to the halfway point, she walks toward the tool shed on the side of the cabin then hears footsteps. She turns around and sees the wolves from the crossroads, looking at her with empathetic eyes. Two of the wolves go to the door and start digging it out–finishing in no time. A faint smile appears on her face when she turns from the shed and walks to the door. The wolves walk back to the pack and stand there, she places her hand on the doorknob and hears the wind blow then looks back one last time, the wolves are gone.
She sighs then opens the door and walks into the cabin then cries until nightfall, everything that’s happened flooding her mind with hellish wrath.
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