03.
The Meet
The sky was grey and heavy with the promise of rain, so naturally the wisest thing to do was to climb onto the back of a motorcycle. Having never ridden on one before, Sam found it to be equal parts terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. She wore her oversized jacket, and on her Dad's advice, she put on a pair of jeans, her thickest socks and his spare helmet, which covered both her head and face, same as his. It was still a little loose even after she'd cinched it as tight as it could go.
Taking the seat behind Phil, Sam curled her arms tight around his waist as he flipped a switch on the handlebars and the bike sputtered and roared to life. The rumbling between her legs was pleasant, actually, and once he slowly rolled down the driveway, onto the road and picked up speed, it was a
very
pleasant vibration.
"Can you hear me okay?" he said; the sound of his voice came from a small speaker installed inside the helmet near the pads covering her ears.
"I think so. Can you?"
"Just fine. Good--I haven't actually been able to test my intercoms before."
"Never had a passenger to test it with?" The road up ahead passed over a nearby interstate, but for the most part the two-lane road they were using cut through the trees with only the barest hint of civilization--single-story houses, a couple of run-down trailers and a dirty-looking old church sitting at the back of a torn-up asphalt lot. The scenery was sad, like no one had come down that road in a long time.
"I got the spare helmet in the hopes that
somebody
would use it eventually, but it's not like I had many chances to test it out, no." His voice had a touch of amusement to it, but Sam could hear a hint of bitterness there as well.
They rolled over a pair of train tracks and turned onto a four-lane highway. There were trees and open fields on both sides of the road, as far as she could see in every direction. As they picked up speed, Sam hugged him a little tighter around the waist. "Well, now you do. So when are you going to tell me where we're going?"
"We're going to a Meet."
"A 'Meet.' Who with?"
"Few of the locals."
He said it so casually that Sam almost missed his meaning. "You mean...locals-like-us-locals?"
He nodded. "We find each other through scent, word of mouth, that sort of thing."
"Wish
I'd
had some locals," Sam said, grumbling.
"Maybe that's for the best: you don't have to learn the ropes on your own this way. We're not the only 'half-humans' out there, Sam--knowing other people means having ways to protect the weaker ones, when we can. That's the idea, anyway."
She gave a little smile. "Weaker? Like me?"
Phil hesitated a moment. "'Inexperienced,' then. You never had a pack out in California?"
"I never met
anybody
like me. I told you that."
"Then listen: we haven't had a Meet for about half a year now. If this meeting turns out the way I think it will, some weird things might happen--e
specially
since the full moon is so close. So don't freak out about it."
Sam saw a train rolling down the same train tracks they'd passed earlier. They had the highway all to themselves. "Like an initiation? Maybe sacrifice a goat or something?"
"Or something," he said; she could hear him smile. "Also, we don't have 'alphas' or 'omegas' or anything like that. It really doesn't work that way."
"More Hollywood bullshit, huh," she said, snorting.
"Hey, it ain't
all
bull. Most of the group are just subservient by nature, just like humans--most people are wired that way. You'll just have to decide how to handle that when the time comes."
An old, rusted pickup truck sputtering thick fumes came rattling down the highway and passed them on one side. The driver had his arm out the window, wearing an old ball cap and a work uniform of some kind.
"Is anyone going to start any trouble?"
"Maybe." Phil shrugged. "By and large, everybody gets along with everybody. I'd like it to stay that way." He shook his head. "Anyway, just remember that you're not alone. If someone tries to force you to do anything you don't want to do, I'll be there to back you up. I don't expect anybody will try something stupid."
"Just so long as nobody starts humping my leg or anything."
After a few more minutes of riding, they arrived at a small, rectangular building in the middle of nowhere, framed by a thicket of pine trees near an old dirt road with no street sign. It looked like some kind of diner, except the windows--which, surprisingly, weren't broken--had all been blacked out. The sign by the highway was removed, leaving just a squat, concrete base with bits of rebar poking out.
There were mostly cars in the parking lot: some sedans, a small blue two-door hatchback, a silver minivan with a dented front-end, a bright pink convertible with a pair of those God-awful accessories gave the headlamps eyelashes. There was a tall, four-door matte-black SUV that probably cost more than the old building it was parked next to. The rusted pickup that had passed them was idling nearby, still putting out foul-smelling fumes.
"Nice place," Sam said, once the engine died and she pulled her helmet off.
"Used to be a Huddle House--local breakfast place. Been shut down for years, but Bubba inherited the property and we all threw money in the pot to get it fixed up. We hold our pack meetings near here; rest of the time, Bub keeps it closed up."
"The owner's name is 'Bubba?'" Sam didn't bother keeping disbelief out of her voice.
"It's a varied bunch here, Sam, but try to keep an open mind. Sometimes the safest place is amongst your own kind, and there's not a lot of us to go around."
"I guess you're right. Now what?"
"Right now, let's start those introductions I talked about earlier." Phil unzipped his jacket and then climbed off the bike before leading the way over to the rumbling pickup truck. "Howdy, Wren."
The driver, who'd been staring out into space, preoccupied with his own troubles, gave such a jump in his seat that he slammed both hands hard atop the steering wheel. "Shit!" Wren winced and rubbed the palms of both hands. Sam thought he looked angry, but it melted away when he recognized Philip. "Oh, it's you, Phil. Who's your friend?"
"This is my, ah, kid--Samantha." Phil sounded awkward when he said it.
"The one you mentioned before?" Wren pulled open the door and stepped out; it gave such a squeaking sound that Sam expected it to fall off the hinges.
"The same. She just got into town a couple of days ago. Sam, this is Wren."
As he stepped out, she got a better look at the man--he was tall, taller than Phil even, and she saw how well he filled out his coveralls, which were only zipped up to his breastbone. He had dirty-blonde hair under his old cap, which was so stained with old sweat and dirt Sam couldn't tell what team it had once belonged to. He also wore cowboy boots--
that
she definitely didn't expect.
An oval patch on one breast said
Skip's Auto & Salvage;
on the other was one bearing the name
Warren.
He was rather good looking under the grease stains, Sam thought, and could imagine her taking hold of that zipper in her teeth, dragging it down past his waist as she went to both knees, then opening her mouth
wide
to--
Phil gave a loud, forced cough and nudged Sam with an elbow. She blinked, saw Wren watching her, eyes narrowed slightly, his hand outstretched.
Sam coughed as well and took the man's hand. Wren had a good, strong grip, which gave her all
sorts
of ideas that were bound to get her into trouble. "Wren? Or Warren?"
"Wren's fine." He had a southern twang like Phil, even a little stronger. "Ol' Skip ain't got more than ten teeth left, pro'lly--he's been calling me 'Wren' since I was knee-high to my Daddy, so everybody else calls me that, too." His smile was small, but it did confirm that he had all his teeth--point for him, at least.
"And you're one of..." Sam's voice trailed off, unsure how to finish her sentence.
Wren caught her meaning: "Yes ma'am, I'm here for the Meet, too."
"I didn't think you'd be here," Phil said. He sounded concerned, hinting at something Sam couldn't decipher.
Wren's smile faltered; he glanced at Sam, then back again. "Figured if you were hosting, that might be alright." The smell and look of him was all wrong, Sam thought; he tried to keep his tone neutral, but his flared nostrils and a smell of new sweat showed that was a lie.
"Well, reckon that the rest are waiting on us," Phil said. "C'mon." He led the way towards the door of the restaurant, carrying his helmet under one arm while fishing a key from his key ring and unlocking the door to usher them inside. As soon as they entered, he locked the bolt again from inside.
The interior of the building wasn't anything like Sam had expected. Her image of a diner vanished when she saw most of the booths had been removed. A bar was along one wall, and an assortment of stuffed chairs and other seats were spread around the space. Several large TVs were mounted to the walls, which were otherwise covered in framed photographs and other paraphernalia; neon beer signs were a common motif. There wasn't a soul to be seen, but plenty of piles of clothing and personal articles--some were folded neatly together, others were tossed in piles or strewn about on the floor.
Sam looked around in confusion, then back to the men, only to see that they too were beginning to shed their clothing. "Okay...?"
Wren, coveralls unzipped to his waist and his shirt half-off, looked at Phil in surprise.
"She's new," Phil said, as if that explained everything.
