Alpha

  Alpha: The Complete Collection

  8 Short Stories

  By D.M. Turner

  Copyright 2015 by D.M. Turner

  Cover designed by the author

  Wolf photo by “nialat” of DPC

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or any information retrieval or storage system without the prior written permission of the author.

  BISAC: Fiction/Christian/Fantasy

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Introduction

  Home of Ian Campbell, Pack Alpha

  Campbell Wildlife Preserve

  Outside Flagstaff, Arizona

  Saturday, April 21, 2017

  “IAN? YOU WANTED to see me before we head home?”

  He turned from the window in his office to look at Tanya, his daughter-in-law. “Yes. Thank you for remembering.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Not wrong exactly. Just troubling.” He sighed. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to something, and I’ve come to a decision.”

  “About?” She cocked her head, her blue eyes questioning.

  “We almost lost Donna in February because she didn’t have information she needed. That can’t happen again.”

  “I don’t understand. What does that have to do with me?”

  “As you’ve realized by now, we wolves don’t like to think much about the past, much less talk about it.”

  “I’ve noticed.” She nodded.

  “Because of that, so much of what we know is lost when one of us dies. Everything I’ve been through and learned will die with me, just as has happened with so many I’ve known over the years, like my wife and her parents.” He shook his head. “None of us should have to learn the basics of being a wolf the hard way. We shouldn’t be left floundering with the darkness of the new moon or the reproductive issues that haunt us or so many other things, feeling like we’re losing our minds or to blame when things go wrong that are outside our control. We should never feel like we’d be better off dead.”

  “I agree.”

  “Would you have time to come by each day this coming week, so I can share things with you? I’d like you to write about them, similar to the way you’ve done your own story. Do you think you could do that?”

  “I don’t know. I mean... I want to make sure I do it justice. I’ve been pretty sheltered overall, so I’m not too sure I can really get the emotions down right. Wouldn’t it be better if you wrote it?”

  “I can’t.” He shuddered at the very idea of trying to find the right words. “I’ll help you with it though. I’ll be as open and honest with you as I can.”

  “Will that hurt you?”

  “Yes, but it can’t hurt any worse than the events did at the time they happened.” He frowned. If he kept telling himself that, maybe he’d believe it.

  “If that’s what you want, I’d be honored to do it for you.” Tears filled her eyes. “I hope I can justify your faith in me.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt.” Ian smiled. “Is tomorrow afternoon too soon to get started?”

  Tanya shook her head. “I’ll have Colin watch Duncan so we aren’t interrupted. Do you have a particular time in mind?”

  “How about after lunch?”

  She nodded and smiled. “See you then.”

  When he was alone, Ian returned to staring out the windows overlooking the back of the property. Forest and mountains filled the view. The darkness of long-suppressed memories dimmed sunlight.

  1865: Turning

  The woods west of the Licking River in Kentucky

  Friday, July 7, 1865

  THE NIGHT SURE was quiet. Too quiet. Ian Campbell hunched over his small campfire to cook a couple of squirrels he’d shot and listened to the unfamiliar silence. For almost four years, since he’d joined the war effort, he’d been surrounded day and night by his fellow soldiers. Even when battles fell silent, the drone of men’s voices, the footfalls of sentries, and the restless movements and nickers of horses had been all around him. Often, the cries of the wounded had kept him awake after a battle.

  He’d left Georgetown the morning of the fifth and hadn’t seen another living soul since then. He’d said farewell to most of the friends from his regiment after they’d mustered out in Louisville on the first. After one last night together, without the strain of war hanging over their heads, some had departed Louisville the morning of the second. Ian and a few others had headed east to Frankfurt on foot then separated there. Others had stayed in Louisville, intending to go home via steamboat or train instead of walking. Ian preferred to save the money. Every penny he saved was one more the family could use for more important things.

  Only the chirp of insects and the splashing burble of the river broke the silence of the night, making him long for the company of his regiment again. They’d teased him at times about his love of reading, a pleasure his mother had taught him. They hadn’t expected a six-foot-five, broad-shouldered farm boy to know which end of a book was right-side-up. None of them had mocked him about the long letters he’d written home. Some of them hadn’t known how to read or write. He’d penned quite a few letters for his fellow soldiers, and read many to them from family, friends, and beloveds as well. Tasks he’d done with pleasure. There would be no more of that, and he already missed it.

  Time to step back into normal life. Whatever that may be. His athair had raised him to be a farmer. His màthair had raised a scholar. He’d spent the past four years as a soldier, marching, fighting, watching men he knew die beside him. He’d seen more than enough blood to last him a while, but farming held no appeal.

  Ian tested the first of the two squirrels. He pulled a strip of flesh off its back and popped it into his mouth. Done. He removed it from the fire and set the spit for the second one. As he ate, he contemplated the future. His athair would expect him to pick up where he’d left off, helping around the farm, but he wasn’t the naive, idealistic eighteen-year-old boy who’d joined the Union army in mid-August of 1861. He wasn’t sure he could even fake that kind of innocent ignorance.

  He let his gaze wander to the stars peeking through tree branches stretched overhead. Lord, You got me through the war when many others died. You pulled me through with all my limbs intact when others lost arms and legs. What do You want from me now? Am I to be a farmer like my athair? My heart ain’t in that, Lord, but what else am I to do? Guidance and direction would be most appreciated.

  His parents had assured him often, in the years he was growing up as well as in letters during the war, that God watched over him and had a plan for his life. Given all he’d seen, experienced, and survived, he didn’t doubt the former. The latter he wasn’t too certain of, as of yet.

  Crunch. Pop. Crunch. Crack.

  Ian frowned and glanced over his shoulder into the woods. Something moved around out there. He made sure his knife was secure in his belt where it belonged and reached for his rifle. He lifted and aimed the gun, listening. “Is someone there? Show yourself.”

  Silence.

  Probably a deer or bear. A mountain lion would be quieter and pass without giving away its presence. Smaller animals would make less noise as well. In fact, they’d most likely pass without a sound. Whatever was out there was big enough to make a fair amount of racket.

  “Show yourself, or I start shooting.” A gunshot would frighten off a wild animal. A man might think twice about hiding in the woods if a man started shooting into them blind. Even a blind man can get in a lucky shot fro
m time to time.

  The pop of a twig immediately to his right made him swing around. Not fast enough.

  A large animal launched out of the brush and hit him square in the chest. He hit the ground with a hard thud. The rifle fell from his hand and clattered out of reach. Claws dug into his chest and stomach, even as massive teeth headed for his face. He got an arm between the gaping maw and his head, grimacing as flesh shredded. He pushed hard and rolled, trying to toss the animal off. It clung with grit and determination. With a mighty heave, he finally managed to throw it off. Firelight glistened off of bared, long, white teeth.

  Wolf. Not what he’d expected. He’d seen wolves all of his life. Not once had they bothered with him. Elusive, shy creatures, they generally ran in the other direction about the same time he spotted them. This one showed no sign of fear, which meant it must be sick. That fact sent a chill up his spine. Hydrophobia. Rabies.

  Ian backed toward the river, keeping his gaze on the yellow eyes and snarling white teeth that followed. If it was true that such animals avoided water, maybe he could escape that way. His heel caught on a fallen tree branch. He floundered to keep his feet. If he fell, he was dead. No doubt about it.

  He stepped out of the trees along the shore of the river. Light from the almost full moon flooded over him. The wolf emerged from the darkness of the woods, his coat glowing eerily in the light of the moon.

  Before he could reach the river, the wolf hunkered down, gathered himself, and leapt at Ian’s head.

  Ian twisted and stepped to one side, but not fast enough. Strong teeth closed on his left shoulder, and they both toppled into the river. The shallow water barely closed over Ian, but it was enough. The weight of the animal pushed him down, threatening to drown him despite the lack of depth.

  He thrashed, grappling for the knife in his belt with his right hand and trying to keep his head above water. His fingers closed around the hilt and pulled it free. He swung upward, seeking the animal’s ribs. If he could wound it sufficiently, maybe it would let go.

  The knife struck home.

  The wolf’s grip tightened, and it growled.

  He tugged the knife free and drove it into the animal’s neck. This time he didn’t stop and wait for a response. He plunged the knife into the wolf’s ribs and neck repeatedly.

  After what felt like an eternity, the creature collapsed and went still. Ian pushed the weight off, got to his knees, and slit the beast’s throat for good measure, despite the fact it didn’t appear to be breathing.

  He stumbled and crawled toward the river’s edge and collapsed on dry ground, coughing and sputtering to rid his lungs of the water he’d inhaled. Weakness made his bones liquid. There was no point in bandaging deep, gaping wounds. Even if he managed, by some miracle, to stop the bleeding and not die of infection, the animal’s sickness would take his life. Horribly. He’d heard about hydrophobia and the suffering it caused a man. Far better to bleed to death peaceful-like on the riverbank.

  Ian stared up at the waxing moon and chuckled weakly. “Lord, I have to appreciate the irony of all of this. You got me intact through a war that maimed and killed far better men, and now you’re gonna let me die on the banks of a river in the middle of nowhere after being attacked by a wolf. I guess I don’t have to worry about that future anymore, do I?”

  Exhaustion closed in. He closed his eyes. Just sleep. It’ll be over soon.

  * * *

  Saturday, July 8, 1865

  Bright light and warmth beat down on Ian’s face. He opened his eyes then squinted into the blinding glow. Was he dead? He rolled his head away from the source of the light. His eyes adjusted to reveal a river banked by trees on both sides. The Licking River? He was alive? Had the wolf’s attack been a dream?

  He tried to sit up. A sharp pain darted across his ribcage. He gasped and laid a hand over it. A ridge of flesh under his fingers drew his gaze. Deep gouges, more angry, red scar than bleeding wound, had penetrated the flesh in multiple places along his ribs and stomach, as well as his right arm and left shoulder. He stripped off the remains of his shirt to inspect his body more closely. Claw and teeth marks covered him, exactly where he remembered being clawed and bitten by the wolf. Blood had dried on his skin. The wounds had closed and partially healed as though days had passed.

  He glanced up into the sky. The sun glared back. Late morning. He couldn’t have laid there for days, could he? He should be dead. Shouldn’t he? He looked toward the river. The body of his assailant had washed downstream. Just as well. He’d feel obligated to bury the wolf, and the strength to do so simply wasn’t there.

  Ian forced himself to his feet, gripping a nearby tree trunk for stabilization when he wavered. A rock under one foot made him wince. He glanced down. Apparently, he’d lost one of his shoes in the river. Great. Just great. He’d spent the better part of his childhood running barefoot, but it had been a number of years since he’d done so. Looked like he’d be doing that again. At least, until he could buy new shoes. He snorted. Like he’d need them anymore.

  After a few moments, and a handful of deep breaths, he straightened and made his way to the campfire visible a few yards into the woods. His pack lay where he’d dropped it. The squirrel he’d been eating lay discarded in the dirt, along with his rifle. The squirrel that had been on the fire was beyond burnt, and the campfire had burned down to pale embers. A quick stir confirmed the coals were still warm, so he couldn’t have been unconscious for days.

  He grabbed his pack and returned to the river’s edge. Stripping off the rest of his damaged clothes, he tossed them to one side and walked into the river. The water barely came to his knees, so he knelt to wash off blood and dirt.

  Once clean, he examined his injuries more carefully. Even the scars had begun to smooth out, as though the healing continued still. At the rate they were healing, there’d be no sign of injury by the next day at the latest. How was that possible? He’d never healed so quickly in his life. Ever. Wounds that serious should’ve killed him.

  So, why am I still alive?

  Ian slogged back through the water to the bank and turned with his face raised to the sun, eyes closed, allowing the air to dry him naturally. It don’t make sense, Lord. Is this part of You taking care of me? Did You save me from bleeding to death? Warmth seeped deep into his bones.

  Once dry, he pulled clean clothes out of his pack and dressed. A flash of light on the ground drew his eye. He pushed aside mud and found his knife. Poor way to take care of something so important. Annoyed, he shook his head, washed it off in the river, and tucked it into his belt where it belonged.

  His stomach grumbled. Food had to be the next order of business.

  He returned to camp, stirred the embers of the campfire, and added twigs until flames appeared. Then he carefully set a couple of small logs on, watching for them to catch before he retrieved his rifle. The load checked, he entered the woods. There had to be something more substantial to eat out there than squirrel.

  * * *

  It took all afternoon, but Ian finally located and took down a young buck. He hefted the carcass onto his shoulders and carried it back to camp, surprised for a moment at the lightness of it. He shook his head. It must not be as heavy as it looked.

  Back at camp, he lowered the body to the ground, stoked the fire, and went to work with his knife, skinning and butchering the deer. Its blood pooled on the ground around where he worked. The coppery scent made his stomach grumble louder. He drove a stick through a hunk of meat and spit it over the fire to cook while he finished with the carcass. The growl in his stomach intensified.

  “I’m gettin’ it. I’m gettin’ it. Good grief. A body would hear you gripin’ and think I hadn’t fed you in days. Be patient.” The smell of cooking meat wrapped around him and permeated his lungs. His mouth watered.

  He pulled a piece of meat off the chunk over the fire and popped it into his mouth. Not as done as he generally liked, but it would do. The part nearest the stick was still raw, but
he ate it anyway. Still hungry, he stabbed another hunk of venison and set it over the fire.

  Darkness slowly fell and brought with it an odd, restless feeling. Ian finished eating what he’d cooked and sat back on his heels. His stomach knotted. Maybe he’d eaten too much. Or, more likely, he should’ve cooked that venison more before he ate it. But he’d been so hungry. The knot became pain that spread outward to the rest of his body.

  Pain became agony. Every muscle and bone tore, cracked, and broke. Ian yelled and fell to the ground, barely managing to stay out of the fire. His vision blurred then went black, and sparks flew through the darkness behind his eyelids. Shooting stars drove knife-like, piercing pain through his head over and over, even as agony continued to rack his body.

  Oh, God, please, just let me die!

  Pain relented, giving way to exhaustion. He lay there, panting, unable to move, as the last of the aches settled and disappeared. With caution, Ian opened his eyes and realized he was on his left side, the fire in front of him. He’d heard that hydrophobia caused a man a great deal of agony before death. Was that what had just happened? Why had it stopped? He moved cautiously, but the pain had truly gone. He tried to sit up but wasn’t able to do so.

  Okay, first thing. Just like when you got knocked off your feet in the war. Assess possible damage. Your head’s obviously still attached. Do you have both legs and arms? He’d seen men lose limbs but not notice at first. The strain of fighting blocked pain sometimes. At least, for a short time.

  He tried to raise his arms, to look at his hands. The limbs moved but awkwardly and not in the way he commanded. He lifted his head to look. His breath caught. His hands were gone. In their place were... paws? He blinked and shook his head then looked again. One of them moved closer, almost touching his nose. Just as he bid it.