Wolves and Sheep

I couldn’t have dreamed of such an atrocity.

Clothes in tatters and blood-soaked. No flesh, no face. Mutilated. Unrecognizable. 

It's the last trip before we toss our hats and scatter across the globe, before we exchange our sneakers and Birkenstocks for less comfortable, albeit shinier shoes, before entering the real world. Though most people opt for warmer spring break destinations, which are inarguably enjoyable, the beaches and the entire scene become grossly overcrowded during this time. After some deliberation, we determined that a camping trip would be relaxing and more affordable. Rob suggested we stay in his family’s old cabin in upstate New York. The understated, more intimate setting of a wilderness retreat seemed an ideal location to spend low-key quality time with close friends.

Once inside, a scent reminiscent of my youth brings back instant nostalgia. The smoke from the fireplace takes center stage, clinging to every surface, the old wood and musty furniture permeating the background. I remember spending summer vacations here with Rob’s family before his parents divorced. It’s been uninhabited for nearly a decade, yet it smells like that fireplace could’ve been lit yesterday. I walk out the back door, and instead of stepping onto a sturdy surface, the planks feel spongy underfoot. Some fungi, yellow and ruffled in appearance, cling to the boards in neat little rows. Now aware that the deck is unsound, I cautiously navigate back into the cabin’s primitive kitchen.

While we wait for Nevin and the girls to show up, Rob opens the mini fridge in search of forgotten beverages. Inside, there are no cans or bottles, but to our horrifying surprise, it’s not empty. In a green styrofoam tray lurks rotting mystery meat from days of yore. God only knows how long it’s been since there was any electricity to that refrigerator. Rob gags, his pallor grey as the smell of death fills the air. He slams the door shut, but it’s too late. The pungent stench has filled our lungs and threatens our immunity.

The door handle rattles. Rachel and Hannah come bounding in. Then Hannah runs back out as quickly as it hits her.

“Oh my God,” Rachel exclaims as she covers her nose with the top of her shirt. What is that abomination of a smell? 

“Look in the fridge,” Rob commands. “On second thought, don’t. I know you don’t have the stomach for it, and I’d rather not smell your puke too,” He laughs.

“Dude, vomit would be an improvement at this point,” I rib.

“What’s in there?” Rachel asks, her voice unsettled. 

“Logan’s mom’s panties — a little memento from last night,” Rob heckles, and I chuck a pillow at his face with as much force as I can muster.

“You’re sick, man.” Rachel scoffs.

“You're lucky I wasn't in the kitchen - you know - near the cast iron pans!” I retort.

“Just playing, bruh,” Rob says, stifling a laugh. 

Rachel and I run out the door to check on Hannah. It’s not long before Rob follows, and as the stench comes wafting out with him. I turn and realize he brought the rancid meat with him.

“I don’t want to ask what you’re doing with that.” Rachel laughs, backing away from him. 

“I’m getting it out of the house, is what I’m doing. It’s a biohazard.” He says, chucking it into the field. “Something will come along and take care of it.”

“I can’t argue with that, but you’re gonna have a rough time getting that stink off your hands,” I chortle. “I hope you have some bleach in there.” 

“I only touched the packaging.” He says matter of factly.

“Yeah, I can see that. Why don’t you give them a sniff to be sure,” I suggest, trying not to laugh, because I know he’ll do it. And sure enough, he holds his hands to his face, then lurches forward, dry heaving.

Hannah ends her call and walks over to us.

“Nevin and Ella should be here in about an hour. They’re bringing Greg Valmer. His plans fell through because he and his girlfriend broke up. Nevin took pity on him.” 

“That's fine,” I say. I don’t want to be the asshole, but I’m internally cringing. Greg’s drinking was problematic. Or when he drank, his temper was a problem. Then he started using steroids. He became irritable and aggressive, often bordering on rage. His previous girlfriend, Julia, bore the brunt of his violent outbursts. She stopped showing up for classes, eventually dropping out. His recent girlfriend, Charlie, began coming to class with the same marks Julia had. I’m not at all surprised she broke up with him. I don’t imagine him being excessively vile in a large group. I don’t want to cause undue alarm or keep anyone from having a good time, so I say nothing. If he starts anything, I could take care of him. 

“We should probably unload our stuff before it gets too dark,” I suggest. “Then we can hike down to the lake.”

Unloading our gear and supplies, we begin getting things situated. That way, we won’t be scrambling if it’s getting dark by the time we return. However, I don’t foresee lighting being an issue. Collectively, we end up with three camping lanterns and five flashlights. We also have a plethora of batteries and an old-school radio. 

The others arrive as we finish unpacking. Greg is staggering like a drunkard. I’m concerned about him hiking in this state. Rob scoped it out earlier. He said the brush is overgrown, and there’s no longer a path. It could be treacherous, especially once dusk approaches. The majority of us should be okay with flashlights, but this guy is struggling to walk on the flat walkway. 

“You gonna be okay, man?” I ask.

“Me? I'm fine,” Greg slurs. 

We snake our way around brush and moss-covered trees. A pungent ammonia-like odor surrounds us. It’s reminiscent of cat urine, but for being outdoors, it seems too dominant. A layer of decaying leaves camouflages a myriad of roots, and uneven ground — land mines for the unsteady. A thatch of lush ferns graze my calves as I attempt to climb over them. We’ve yet to reach the lake when the sky begins to darken. Thunder crackles through the heavens, the universe warning us to seek refuge from the impending storm. We arrive not a moment too soon as the wind howls and lightning streaks across the sky, unleashing a heavy downpour. Not a minute later, we are safely indoors, our hair and clothing saturated from the most brief exposure.

The storm continues to surge long after we’ve dried off. Bits of dirt and debris ping against the glass, and the windows rattle.

Hannah places a stack of disposable cups and a bottle of Rum on the kitchen table, then retrieves a case of diet cola. She captures our attention by clanging on a saucepan with a metal serving spoon. We startle, looking up in unison. 

“Truth, dare, or drink!” She spiritedly announces.

We pull up chairs, filling our cups. As the game commences, audacious questions and absurd dares volley back and forth, punctuating the dimly lit space with giddy laughter. 

"What is your most embarrassing memory?" Nevin asks. I tell the story about my childhood fear of farm animals. In seventh grade, I fell asleep at my desk and started whining, “Go away, cows!” I woke to the entire class giggling uncontrollably. For the rest of the year, children mooed at me in the halls. It’s hilarious now, but at the time, it was excruciating. Tears roll down Ella’s cheeks as she laughs. I dare Rachel to break dance while simultaneously singing the first song that comes into her head. The silly game is just what we need to get everyone out of their rainy-day funk and in better spirits.

However, the mood soon takes a turn as Greg’s questions for Rachel grow increasingly inappropriate and the dares more malevolent. Turmoil simmers beneath the surface when he responds to her resistance with laughter and disingenuous remarks.

I see his predatory behavior. If he can’t dare her to do what he wants, he’ll make sure she loses her inhibitions or passes out. Rachel is one of the sweetest people I know. She’s kind to everyone and she strives to put others before herself, even if it’s to her detriment. But she’s an easy mark and often has difficulty saying no. I’ve witnessed it happen, so I give advice and try to look out for her. Not in a chauvinistic save-the-damsel way. I try to give her ample opportunity to defend herself. I want that for her. Even the times I’ve interfered, I will only step in if she’s struggling or has had too much to drink. Guys like Greg have a sick way of sniffing out girls like Rachel. When it’s Greg’s turn against her, she avoids his uncomfortable questions and crass dares, choosing to drink. He dumps a quarter of the rum into her cup, adding a splash of soda to the top. Rachel takes a normal-sized gulp. “C’mon honey,” he laughs darkly, taunting her, “that’s not enough. You can do better.” 

Next thing I know, he’s up out of his seat, physically tipping her cup toward her mouth. I snap. Rachel’s cup whips across the kitchen as I smack it away. The look on her face is startled but grateful. 

“What’s your problem, Greg?” I demand vitriolically. There’s not much verbal confrontation before the situation escalates into violence. Fury ignites within him, his demeanor shifting. His once friendly smile twists into a sinister grin. The tension increases as he revels in the chaos, his laughter echoing throughout the dwelling. With Greg's face mere inches from mine, his spit showers me with every insult he hurls my way. His voice resonates like the thunder outside, but he slurs his words and his voice is muffled by the pandemonium that surrounds us. Rob, Nevin, and I are on him, three to one. It shouldn’t be a fair fight, but his strength is synthetically enhanced. However, he’s sloppy — unsteady on his feet. When Greg taps out, I’m unsure if it’s due to the force he hit his head when he fell or if he’s just that drunk. He’s breathing but unconscious. With decisive action, we exile the aggressor to the back of Rob’s van. Even with assistance, moving his dead weight is arduous. I cover him with a blanket, hoping he sleeps it off.

Making sure to lock the deadbolt, we rejoin the others. 

It takes about an hour before the trepidation begins to dissolve. Coincidentally, it’s at this point that the storm begins to pass, thunder becoming only a distant echo. Once our nerves settle, we become conscious of our hunger. Rifling through the cooler, we decide on sandwiches for dinner. Enjoying a meal with friends is a much-welcome reprieve, but it doesn’t last. Suddenly, a shattering crash disrupts our newfound peace as a rock catapults through the window with terrifying force. A sinking feeling of dread engulfs me, flooding our environment with frantic energy.

After losing consciousness, Greg's slumber was disappointingly brief. We should’ve used that time to devise a strategy in the event of his awakening angrier than before. Now, time is a luxury we can’t afford. If Greg’s wrath escalated to the point of hurling rocks, mere anger pales in comparison to the storm that currently brews within him.

As he attempts to Mount the window, a surge of urgency floods my thoughts. I ponder whether we should barricade it with something. I entertain the notion of going outside to reason with the man. He needs to quell his temper if he wants to rejoin the group. No sooner does that thought enter my mind, I’m stricken with a new terror when I hear guttural growls and snarls, and then Greg seems to vanish into the darkness. 

“Those are wolves,” Rob frantically whispers. 

With a sudden surge of adrenaline, everyone springs into action, scrambling to barricade the shattered window. I grab one end of the table, and Hannah takes the other. We tip it onto its side, flush against the open window but it’s not enough. It won’t stay in that position unless we can find a heavy object to hold it in place. As he sees our predicament, Rob lugs the little refrigerator over, pinning it against the table. It seems to work for now. I silently pray that it has sufficient weight to keep the table secure. 

“Is it normal for wolves to venture so close to this place?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t say it’s normal,” he answers. “It’s not something we ever experienced in the past, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

“Do you think that table is enough to keep them out?” I ask. “Or are they strong enough to knock it down?”

“The window is fairly low. They could potentially knock it over, but it would take significant coordination and effort for them to jump up and through the window. I think if we keep quiet, they’ll eventually move along. Man, I should’ve heeded the warning signs.” He says cryptically.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you noticed that the entire property reeks of wolf piss?” Rob asks.

“I noticed a urine smell,” I say. But I assumed it was stray cats.” 

“It’s similar. But it’s far more potent.” He says. “And there’s something else.”

“What’s that?”

“I should have never thrown that meat outside. I baited those wolves.” I led them right to us.”

“Oh shit. I forgot about that. You didn’t know, Rob. It’s not your fault.” I console him.

“No, you’re wrong. I knew better. It was ignorant and stupid.”

“They may have shown up regardless.” I offer. But before I can say anything else, the sound of feral snarls pierces the night. Then, the sickening sound of tearing flesh. I have a horrifying revelation. A pack of hungry wolves was just outside the window, devouring a human being — a human being whom we locked out. We’re murderers. I could have tried to de-escalate the situation. Instead, I incensed him. I drove him to a fit of rage. That’s why we had to kick him out. But I could have prevented it. I’m the murderer. 

I sat on the floor, holding my knees, rocking back and forth. I plugged my ears, but I could still hear their primal growls echoing through the darkness. 

Rachel comes over and sits down beside me. 

“You okay, Logan?” She asks.

“No, I’m not. Not at all. I’m a murderer. I cast him out and threw him to the wolves.” 

“Should I remind you that he was threatening everyone? That he made me feel horribly uncomfortable? Or that he threw a massive rock through the window and could have killed any of us? Also, you had no idea that any of this would happen. Everyone here was a witness and would testify that. Do you remember that mere minutes ago, you were terrified of him?”

Rachel says this in an attempt to comfort me. The irony is that usually I'm the one consoling her.

“I was never afraid of him for my own sake. I can handle myself in a fight. I was afraid for you and everyone else.” I explain.

“All the more reason you’re not a murderer, Logan. You were protecting us.”

“He was a wolf among sheep. He died a sheep among wolves.” I lament.

I can’t say for certain when the predators left, but all is quiet except for the birds singing. Through the window, the morning sun illuminates our fortress, and I’m confident the danger has passed. I motion to Rob and Nevin, pointing at the door. They accompany me outside. As much as I had tried to embolden myself, I wasn’t prepared. 

In my goriest of nightmares, I couldn’t have dreamed of such an atrocity.

Greg was unrecognizable. Blood saturated his hair and tattered clothes. The skin had been savagely torn from his face. There was almost no flesh on his body. The wolves had disemboweled him. His abdomen was now an empty cavity, save for blood and feces. The stench is horrific, and already, his corpse is crawling with flies and maggots. One by one, all three of us flee, unable to look at him. I fall to knees, emptying the contents of my stomach.

“I need to call the police,” I say, my voice weak. 

“You okay?” Nevin asks.

“No. How about you?” I ask. “You knew him better than I did.” 

“No.” He answers.

“You sure you’re ready to do this?” Rob asks.

“Yeah. I’m ready.”