《The Wolf's Reign》 Prologue ¡°Even a man who is pure of heart, and says his prayers by night, may become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms, and the autumn moon is bright.¡± - William Claude Raines as John Talbot, The Wolfman (1941) For¨ºt de Chaux, Dole, Franche-Comt¨¦, France October 25, 1572 2:30 A.M. GMT+2 High within the clouded night sky, the glistening, golden full moon peered through the misty grey clouds like an all-seeing eye; the lunar light illuminating the auburn autumn forest with a mystical aura. The moonlight pierced through a clearing within the forest like an arrow, revealing a lone red stag grazing upon the grass, adorning a large bony crown of magnificent antlers atop the dome of his skull. The majestic stag was completely oblivious to his surroundings, only caring for the wilting grass that it grazed upon - thus rendering him completely unaware that a pair of starving eyes were locked upon him. Hungry eyes that belonged not to that of a wolf, but of man. Lurking within the thick foliage, an emaciated dirt-caked man with long, stringy jet black hair peered through his hunting blind of vegetation at the grazing stag, his grip firm upon a crude, makeshift longbow. The weather conditions were ideal; no wind, no rain, and an ambience of cricket chirping muffled the unwanted sounds of twigs or dead leaves crunching beneath his bare, callused feet. It had seemed as if God himself was in his favor. The starving, desperate hermit, now confident with his shot, slowly raised his right arm behind his shoulder in order to equip a stone-tipped arrow from the raggedy leather quiver strapped around his pointed shoulders. Slowly and steadily, he knocked the split wooden neck of the handcrafted arrow onto the fiber bowstring consisting of worn rags, then slowly raised the bow up as he attempted to draw back. Due to his emaciated physical state, the man''s strength was lacking, rendering him unable to fully draw back the bowstring. However, his desperation fused with his determination had completely blinded him from realizing his weakness. The man squinted his left eyelid, focusing his right eye on the still-carefree grazing stag, struggling to keep himself steady while aiming due to his weakness caused by weeks of starvation. Soon enough, his fingertips gave in to the struggle as they slipped from the neck and feather fletching of the arrow. The arrow awkwardly wobbled as it whizzed forward, straight into a tree that was not too far ahead. Upon puncturing the tree trunk, the collision emitted a loud crack, fused with a sharp shattering as the stone arrowhead ruptured into tiny shards due to the force of the impact against the solid bark of the tree. The commotion, of course, had alerted the stag, of which shot his head up from the grass, his black eyes widening and ears perking up as he stared dead-towards the origin of the alarming sound. The now-wary stag brushed his tongue against his black nose, moistening it in order to assist in detecting any unbelonging aroma. Now fueled with rage upon his failure, the no-longer patient man leapt out from the brush, ushering out a desperate warcry as he charged towards the stag with a crude stone blade in his right hand, raised up in preparation to stab. His yellow-tinted, jaundiced brown eyes widened like saucers, as if his failure had driven him truly psychotic. Certainly enough, the stag had automatically caught onto the bloodthirsty scheme of the angered wildman, and his natural instinct to flee from danger took over as he swerved to the right and bounded off with incredible speed, outrunning and evading his bipedal attacker, back into the concealed depths of the woods. The adrenaline-fueled, rage-driven man attempted to chuck his stone blade at the stag like a miniature spear, but as expectedly, his attempt of desperation resulted in another shortfall as the blade bounced and chipped against the ground. As he watched the stag disappear into the woods, the scrawny, starved hermit halted his pursuit, dragging his mud-covered bare feet against the forest floor before falling to his hands and knees, having transgressed from the ¡°anger¡± to ¡°sorrow¡± state of grief. The feral-looking hermit proceeded to arch his back and stare blankly at the ground, baring his teeth as he ushered out frustrated growls and angered grunts, balling his right hand into a fist and repetitively punching the ground. He swore like a disgruntled sailor upon each impact of his fist against the ground until his breath ran short and stamina faded. "One chance¡­ and I blew it¡­" The hermit muttered out of frustration. "How can I manage to sustain myself and my wife, if I am in no condition to do so?" The hermit heavily respirated through his clenched teeth, his jaundiced eyes flooding as he once more continued to sulk and swear as he pounded the ground like a territorial silverback gorilla. As his tantrum proceeded, the hermit had been unknowing as a thick, eerie white fog rolled in from the shadowy backdrop of the forest. The ambience of crickets chirping had quickly silenced, rendering the white noise of the forest dead silent. As he heard his sulking and swearing reverberate throughout the forest as a loud echo, did he come to the realization that something was off, his awareness rising once more. With a faded, quiet sigh, the man slowly lifted his head up, staring straight ahead of his position in the trees. From the shrouded, foggy darkness, two pairs of gleaming eyes reflected back at him, watching him with intent. Predatory intent. Now he was the stag, and some other unknown predators had become the hunters. Due to the circumstantial changes, the skinny man''s instinct to defend himself kicked in as he swiped his cracked rock knife from the wilted grass and jumped back to his feet in defensive stature. From within the dense forest, a duo of wolves slowly emerged from the trees the moonlit clearing, slowly advancing upon their now-vulnerable bipedal prey. The first to reveal itself was a noticeably large black she-wolf, of which he assumed was the alpha. Following behind her emerged a rusty brown-colored aged male, with visible pink scars all around his snout. The wolf pair slowly approached the man, baring their sharp, stained yellow teeth and snarling intimidatingly in hopes of their two-legged prey fleeing, and thus commencing pursuit. The man, however, stood his ground, refusing to buy into their intimidation tactics as he brandished his stone knife at the approaching canine pair. Another instinctual sensation kicked in as the man checked his flanks. Sure enough, he caught another pair of wolves - both light grey females - attempting to ambush him from the side. "Stay back!" The man shouted furiously as he taunted the flanking pair by mock-striking towards the direction of the she-wolves, of which didn''t even flinch as he did so. Startlingly, a sharp, piercing pain in his left forearm caught the hermit completely off-guard, forcing out a shriek of pain as he glanced over and noticed a snowy-white male wolf clamping onto his forearm, shaking ruthlessly, blood pooling around the its teeth and gums as it pressurized its grip on his forearm. With desperation and the will to survive still resonating strong within him, the black-haired man tightly clutched the fiber handle of his stone knife with his unsubdued right arm, before delivering a viper-like strike to the white wolf''s face. The hermit repetitively struck the male wolf as it whimpered in pain, the sharp tip of the knife easily penetrating through the tight layer of skin around the wolf''s muzzle. Blood oozed from every incision caused by his fierce retaliating strikes. Finally, the alabaster wolf gave in, releasing its grasp around the hermit''s forearm all while whimpering and retreating back to a safer distance. With no time to inspect his injury, his focus shifted to the incoming wolf pair consisting of the black female alpha and the brown beta male, of which took advantage of their pale packmate''s ruse attack, lunged at their bipedal target with their jaws agape. With lightning-quick thoughts and reflexes, the man took advantage of his adrenaline-filled state in order to roll out of the way of the oncoming assault, dodging both wolves at once, causing them to collide with one another as their surprise attack failed, causing both wolves to fumble and skid into the forest floor. The hermit''s grasp remained firm upon his bloodstained stone blade as he steadied himself from his evasive roll, securing his feet and hands against the moist, muddy ground. His eyes remained locked upon the pack hierarchy as the alpha and beta wolves swiftly recuperated from their impact. The alpha black she-wolf stumbled as she stood, her black coat sprinkled and stained with mud and tiny pieces or dried leaves. She then let out a series of deep, raspy, and aggressive barks, commanding her subordinates to circle their two-legged target in order to initiate the kill sequence. The hermit glanced into the jade-green eyes of the alpha female as she infuriatingly growled. His soul burned as their eyes remained in contact with one another, feeling as if the she-wolf was telling him "you''re gonna pay for that." His ears deafened and rang as he felt himself enter a trance. A trance composed of fear and hopelessness. The will to survive still burnt like a wildfire within him, but the sense of hopelessness was like a heavy rain that slowly began to extinguish that raging storm of flames. Every member of the pack slowly crept around him, as if they were probing for any more weaknesses in order to commence a swift takedown. Each wolf patiently waited for the go-to signal from their dark-colored alpha to deliver the final blow to their human victim; snapping, snarling, and barking in a ruse to disorient the man''s focus, causing him to shift direction with a swing of his primitive stone knife, though none of the wolves budged from the mock strikes. They had their victim surrounded in the perfect spot for the kill sequence. Everything was now in their advantage. At last, the hopeless hermit sighed, realizing that there was nothing else left for him to do. It would be futile to even try and fight back. If the wolves didn''t finish him off, then starvation would surely get to him, which would be a slower and even more excruciating process than being dismembered by wolves. As there was nothing left for him in life, the hermit slowly loosened the thatch handle of his knife, allowing it to slip from his hand and into the forest floor. He''d then fall onto his knees, glancing at each member of the wolf pack - the black alpha she-wolf, the battle-scarred brown beta, the pearly-white male, and the twin light grey females - as they began to close the gap between them and their prey. At least something would be getting fed, even if he wouldn''t provide much of a meal. The hopeless man then glanced up into the cloudy night sky, at the elegance of the full moon that still shined brightly from the Heavens down upon the Earth. He clenched his eyelids shut as he raised his scrawny arms into the air in praise. "My time has come, my Lord!" He cried out. "I am ready!" Upon seeing their target at its most vulnerable state, the alpha she-wolf let out a loud bark, the signal to prompt her packmates to commence the assault, as she lunged forward with her maw agape, saliva trailing from the corners of her gums as she charged towards the man. The black-haired man''s eyes remained shut, securing his vision from seeing the jaws of death coming straight at him. As the hungry canines advanced closer and closer by the second, his fear subsided as he began to accept his fate. His entire body numbed up, in preparation for death, as the alpha female came within range to deliver the killing blow. ¡°Desino.¡± A thunderous, yet imperative female voice - sounding much like that of a mother scolding her children - boomed like thunder from all around him. The emaciated hermit felt the sensation of warm blood coursing through his body upon hearing the thunderous voice, of which had silenced the savage snarls and growls of the oncoming canine assailants. The voice couldn''t be real. He was already dead. His mind was probably undergoing a lucid postmortem trance. ¡°No, no¡­ I am deceased. This cannot be real¡­¡± The man expressed his skepticism, the sense of fear still present within his tone. He allowed his arms to drop from the air as he cupped his face with his rough, leathery hands. His ears once more proceeded to ring. The forest had become eerily silent, with the exception of the obnoxious raspy mouth breathing of the alpha she-wolf. Steadily, and with caution, the man dragged his hands down his cheeks, opening his eyes to see the alpha she-wolf once more staring dead into his eyes. However, her expression was no longer that of furiation and hunger, but more so that of fear and submission. ¡°Desino, statim!¡± The booming voice of a woman thundered once more. The alpha she-wolf lowered her stance in a submissive posture as she whimpered, backing away from the man. The hermit removed his rough, callused hands from his face as he lifted his head. He looked around the circumference of his vicinity, his eyes widening as he was rendered completely dumbfounded. Each wolf was now backing away in cowardice, fearful of an unseen, yet imposing presence. He looked down at the rest of his body, placing his right hand on his heart to check whether or not he still had a heartbeat. Sure enough, he felt the throb of his beating heart coursing into his hand. "By God, I still live?" He questioned in disbelief. He''d then shift his gaze back towards the wolf pack, of which had regrouped. Each wolf had their attention fixated towards the concealed, fogged woods. He had noticed the fog before during his standoff with the wolves, but he didn''t recall the fog having been this thick prior. The hermit''s heart sank as his mind attempted to piece together the alien nature of the present situation. ¡°Hello!?¡± The hermit gathered the courage to call out into the woods. ¡°Who¡¯s there!? Show yourself!¡± His shouts had echoed throughout the dead-silent forest. He could hear no other ambience other than the soft whistle of the breeze that had picked up. Other than that, the forest was as silent as a cemetery. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°If that is what you wish, then it shall be so." The disembodied womanly voice - now speaking in a soft, soothing tone -disrupted the silence from out of nowhere. Despite her calming tone of voice, the hermit still felt his heart sinking like a rock in the water. Nothing about this was normal. He remained on-guard, scanning all around his position. He knew solidly that whatever was happening was definitely not trickery of the mind. The scraggly hermit proceeded to scan his surroundings for the source of the otherworldly voice as the dense, white mist continued to thicken and shroud the forest, as if it were like a great wall closing around him. The wildman remained perplexed at the unearthly circumstance, as a cloud of fog started swirling like a vortex on the leaf-blanketed ground in front of him, picking up some of the leaves as it spun and rose upwards like a tornado. The hermit kept his eyes locked on the unearthly occurrence, inspecting the swirling fog closely. The swirling mist would rise upwards from the ground as it condensed and shifted. The hermit rubbed his eyes, making sure he was seeing correctly. Certainly enough, his mind wasn''t playing tricks on him. The spiraling funnel of fog was condensing and shifting into a feminine humanoid figure right before his very eyes! As the bizarre sequence extended, he could distinguish more and more feminine attributes to the humanoid figure. "A spectre?" The hermit questioned silently to himself. The mist would abruptly drop down like a loose quilt onto the forest floor, unraveling a gorgeous young woman with skin as pale as the winter landscape, and silver hair that shimmered like pristine metal. Her deep blue eyes sparkled like exquisite, flawless sapphires. She wielded a voluptuous physical structure, one that would catch the eye of any man, whether be wed or not. The mysterious woman adorned a revealing white gown that glistened like the moon. The hermit''s fear had quickly washed away as an aura of tranquility completely overwhelmed him. The beautiful woman of the forest slowly approached him, walking with feminine grace and elegance as the breeze tugged at the bottom of her gown, fog trailing from her bare feet with each crunchy step as they pressed down against the wilted leaves and dried twigs on the autumn forest floor.. He could hardly usher out any words, as his jaw was limp from disbelief and awe. "Everything is alright. You have nothing to fear." The woman spoke in a motherly tone of voice as she now hovered right over him. "Who-... who are you? What do you want with me?" The emaciated man finally mustered up the nerve to speak to the mysterious woman. "I am your salvation, my poor friend. What do I want? No, what I desire¡­" The palomino lady paused as she knelt down in front of the man, gently placing her hand on his rough, dirt-mottled cheek. "I can feel the pain you endure as you struggle to sustain yourself and your loved ones. Your soul is shattered, and your willpower is fading. It pains me within my heart to see a poor soul such as yourself lose all sense of hope. That is why I have appeared before you. To make all your burdens disappear." "How can you provide me with such luxury?" He questioned the woman with a softened, coy tone of voice. Everything she had just said was far from falsehood. It had seemed that circumstances for him were no longer ideal, and that all hope for him was nonexistent. Many attempts to hunt game for himself and his wife proved nothing more than futile. His only success had come from a singular ordeal, purely out of luck, when he had managed to kill a single rabbit by chance upon having it cornered against a cluster of stony crags. The mysterious, yet kind-hearted woman gently tilted his cheek to the right, towards the direction of the wolf pack, of which were each bedded down on the ground, watching the two closely while showing no indicators of fear. They behaved as if they were domesticated dogs. "Those wolves¡­" The woman stated as she pointed her pale finger towards the pack. "What about them?" The hermit inquired. "They are masters of stealth. They hunt their prey with great precision. They strategize and coordinate plans in order to bring down even the largest prey." His attention was fixated on the dark-coated alpha she-wolf, of which not too long ago had been prepared to claim his life within her jaws, now resting on the ground with her head in between her front legs, resembling a patient pup, waiting for food scraps to be distributed. "What are you trying to say?" The hermit asked, genuinely puzzled as to why she had brought up the wolves. What did the wolves have to do with beridding of his struggles whilst hunting? "I shall provide you with the ability to hunt with such precision, speed, and strength unbeknownst to yourself and your kind. No longer shall you suffer from starvation and the frustration of failure in your hunts." She then placed her small finger and thumb on the man''s chin, gently guiding his face back towards hers. His pupils slightly dilated as their eyes met, truly embracing the beauty of her sapphire-reminiscent eyes. "I shall provide the ability for you to become like them, yet only when the moons are full." Upon hearing this, the scrawny hermit felt his heart drop within his chest once more. "But doing so would be deemed such heresy¡­ a crime against God." The hermit stated softly once more, his gaze drooping back towards the forest floor. The woman let out a slight snicker, before sliding her hands behind his head and resting it against her half-exposed bosoms. Her skin on his cheek felt smooth and relaxing, her large, round breasts feeling like pillows of fine silk against his cheek. "I am afraid that your God is no longer in your favor, my dear friend." The woman whispered to him in her nurturing tone. The man would remain silent as he once more felt soothed by the woman''s soft, honeyed words and nurturing, tender embrace. "Then so be it. I accept your offer." "A wise decision." The woman stated as she lifted herself off the forest floor, breaking away from the embrace as she slid from his grasp. She would then raise her arm upwards towards the night sky, her hand sprawling open as if she were a child awaiting to catch a raindrop during a light storm. The emaciated man gazed up at the woman with curiosity as three strands of mist rolled down from the air like serpents into her sprawled fingers, once more swirling in a spiral within her palm. The woman of the woods started to chant in the same foreign language that she had spoken earlier. "Cum lumen lunae, et penetrabilior ululate in lupos. Ego hoc providere anima ante me posse trabea, ut callidum animal. Ut suum venatur in aeternum crescite, stomachum suum nunquam inanem, et animam suam aeternae!" The woman¡¯s voice boomed and echoed like that of a commanding goddess as her metallic silver hair flowed like a river within the cool night breeze. His eyes widened once more as a stone bowl engraved with unfamiliar runes formulated from the fog within her hand. His mind couldn¡¯t seem to fathom the events that were displayed before him. Was she using some type of magic to conjure up the bowl? Whatever substance that resided within the bowl seemed to reflect moonlight from the night sky back up towards the moon, producing a mystical ray of light that almost seemed holy. The beam of moonlight remained intact as the woman of the woods lowered the engraved bowl before the scrawny wildman. He inspected the contents of the bowl, which consisted of a thick, metallic grey-blue creamy substance that produced a strong, fresh aroma of rainwater within a spring forest. He then observed the inscriptions on the bowl, still unknowing of the meaning behind each series of symbols etched into the circumference of the bowl. "What is this?" The man asked the spectre. "An ointment. Adorn it upon your skin and all your troubles shall cease to be." The woman answered with a bright smile spread across her face. The hesitant, yet desperate man paused for a bit, gazing at his reflection upon the smooth surface of the creamy salve within the bowl. He furled his lips back, emitting a sigh from his nostrils as he dipped his bony fingers into the stone bowl, scooping a sizable glob of the ointment into his hand. He¡¯d glance back up towards the pale lady, of whom nodded in acceptance, before lathering the salve all over his face, arms, legs, and body. The sensation of the ointment upon the surface of his rough skin felt extremely cold, like he was submerged in a frozen pond. However, he could feel some other sensation seeping not just beneath his skin, but into his soul. Not a physical sensation, but one of emotion and instinct. The need to hunt. The desire to kill. Predatory instincts overtook his mind, fueling his willpower to persevere. In the distance, each member of the wolf pack individually lifted their heads from the ground, their ears perked up in curiosity and intrigue as they also closely inspected the transpiring of events. "Do you feel it? The call of the wild. The call of the blood?" "Yes¡­ it calls me. The wilds call me. My prey is waiting for me. I must hunt. I must kill!" The hermit exclaimed as he sprung up from the forest floor, curling his fingers as a flood of bestial desires completely flushed away any sense of regret or failure. "Then go on. Hunt. Sustain that growing hunger. Your struggles are no more." The woman of the woods imperatively exclaimed before shifting towards the opposite direction and returning to the fog. As the shape of the pale woman faded into the mist, the fog quickly cleared up, completely dissipating. The ambience of crickets chirping once more filled the forest, as if the ordeal with the woman had never happened. His animalistic needs still flamed on within him as he energetically paced around the clearing. There was a subtle sensation of an itch within his throat. The scraggly hermit thought little of it, until he noticed the severity of the itch rapidly increase and expand throughout his throat. He¡¯d begin to cough violently, wheezing like a smoker as spittle and phlegm spewed out from his mouth. His throat and chest quaked and ached as his hacking fit forced him back to the ground, holding himself up with his knuckles as he felt like one of his coughs would force up what little resided within his stomach - or blood from his lungs - at any second. As quickly as it had started, his coughing fit ceased, his dry, hoarse throat no longer itching. He¡¯d remain on the forest floor with his knuckles nestled into the mud as the aftershock of his coughing fit vibrated within his throat. He hoped that whatever altercation was stirring up within his body had finished, but a gut sensation told him that the unrelenting cough was just the beginning. And sure enough, a tense, splitting headache suddenly overwhelmed him, feeling as if his head were being smashed repeatedly against the pointy edge of a crag. The hermit groaned in agony, tightly gripping his face as he collapsed against the forest floor, kicking and thrashing his legs as the pain worsened and became unbearable. The moonlight illuminated upon him from above as the clouds that concealed the moon had dispersed. Even the dim hue of the moonlight felt like a blinding light as he removed his hands from his face in order to gaze up at the moon. The full moon glared down at him, as if it were anticipating the coming course of events. The splitting headache had numbed up as the influence of the full moon burrowed into his head, rendering him insane with carnivorous thoughts. "Hunt¡­ kill¡­ must hunt. Must kill!" The hermit grumbled audibly with a sense of aggression. Out of absolutely nowhere, there was a piercing pain in both of his hands and feet, as if they were being punctured by thousands of red hot iron spikes. The emaciated man released an agonized shriek as he raised up his hands in order to inspect what was going on with them. To his complete and utter shock, they were extending; stretching out in length as muscles and bone continuously ripped and mended. The cracking of bone and tearing of flesh were audible beneath his skin. Alongside the pain, his skin had started to dullen in coloration where the pain followed, his skin tone shifting from a pale tan to a dark grey. He grumbled, clenching his teeth as spittle and mucus spewed from his face as he tried his best to muffle any screams. Unfortunately, he could only tolerate so much for such a period of time, and thus released the need to scream as the pain progressively worsened. As he gripped his forehead, his fingernails gave off a sharp, prickly pain. As he jolted his hands forward to observe his hands, he noticed that his fingernails had elongated, thickened, and blackened into sharp, wolf-like claws. An extreme pain originated within his legs as the hermit attempted to hold himself up with his hands. He¡¯d attempt to scream once more, but his lungs were completely winded. He¡¯d glance over his shoulder to see his legs snap back into an L-formation, causing him to wince and cringe from both the sight and the intense pain. The hermit ushered out a slow, pained scream once more as his entire body felt as if it were being stretched apart. He cringed upon hearing his bones crackle and his muscles expand and rip as his entire body had begun to reshape its entire structure. He clenched his face firmly as his upper body was forced to fall forward towards the ground due to the unbearable, excruciating pain. As he caught himself on the ground, he noticed his hands had elongated and completely greyed-up. Tears, mucus, and spittle streamed down his face like small waterfalls as he then inspected his arms, which were almost completely covered with dark grey fur-like hair. As his legs started to bend, break, and reform, the man winced and sobbed as he weakly crawled towards a nearby puddle of rainwater. He observed his reflection within the puddle, seeing that his face had extended outwards, vaguely resembling that of a wolf¡¯s. His irises were dimly glowing, having changed color from their normal shade of brown to a deep, piercing amber. His teeth had sharpened, looking now as if they belonged to a wild canine. His frayed, black hair had noticeably lengthened and coiled around his neck like the mane of a lion. The transformation process was just about over. He was about to fully become a monster. A mythical beast from fairy tales and legends. He¡¯d slowly glance up towards the full moon as he noticed the intensity of the pain simmer down. ¡°Li-ar¡­¡± The hermit angrily grumbled through his agony in an inhumanly-deep voice. ¡°You¡­ damned¡­ WITCH! CURSED DEMON! HELLISH WHORE! GO BACK TO HE-...¡± A deep, chiming howl echoed throughout the night sky. I - Blood on the Trails Timbergold Trails Hunting Reserve, Montana, U.S. September 6, 2017 12:40 AM Everything was a blur as he sprinted blindly through the darkness. The faint silhouettes of the pine trees were his only indications to swerve left or right to avoid collision. The hiker profusely panted, his chest heaving as his lungs begged for him to catch a breath, but the adrenaline and fear resonating within him told him otherwise like a small voice within the back of his mind. Run. Don¡¯t look back. Run, or it¡¯s gonna get you. His subconsciousness warned him. As if circumstances could not become any more unfortunate, an unlucky rock positioned in his path knocked his footing off-course, the force of the collision sending his foot awkwardly upwards and twisting to the left, thus resulting in a sprained ankle. To follow, his momentum combined with the sudden, forced halt sent the hiker crashing forward onto the pine needle-blanketed ground. ¡°GAHHH!¡± The young hiker yelled out in pain as he clutched his ankle following his hard collision with the ground. Waaauuuooooooooooorrr The low-pitched roar of¡­ whatever that thing was¡­ echoed from the distance, serving as a reminder to the hiker that there was no time to sit and cry due to a simple ankle sprain. He needed to get moving. Staying still and laying on the ground like a wounded animal would be nothing short of a death sentence. Once more energized by adrenaline and natural instinct to flee from danger, the hiker pushed himself from the forest floor, once more attempting to flee. While he did not feel the pain due to the adrenaline coursing through his body, he found himself a lot slower, as his injured foot was preventing him from running at full speed. No¡­ no, no, no¡­ this can¡¯t be happening¡­ why did I choose to stay out later than the others!? He frantically thought. Surely, they would¡¯ve been worried for me at this point? Maybe they called Search and Rescue? His mind could no longer bear the situation he was in, producing hopeful thoughts. The lodge isn¡¯t too far away now, right? Right!? A series of aggressive snarls and growls reverberated from over the hiker¡¯s shoulders within close proximity as the thing quickly advanced upon him, joined with foliage tearing and branches snapping as the creature crashed through the woods in order to bring down its prey. By the second, it furthermore closed the distance between itself and its fleeing human prey. ¡°PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!¡± The man screamed out in pure terror and desperation as he shifted 180 degrees in order to face his bestial adversary, of which leapt into the air with tremendous speed. The creature opened up its claws and jaws, streams of saliva trailing from the corners of its mouth as it readied itself to commence the kill, while the poor soul of a man released his final screams. Eric''s Apartment, Grand Rapids, Michigan, U.S. September 30, 2017 8:30 A.M. EDT The tall, physically toned young adult man with light, auburn-brown hair and hazel eyes - named Eric Lanstrom - stepped out of the bathroom with a towel draped and secured around his waist. Today was the day. A trip planned years in the making, since he graduated from high school. After a series of poor luck hunting for whitetail within his home state, he had finally been selected by the Evergreen Hunting Reserve Conservation Association to have access to the Timbergold Trails Hunting Reserve, settled within a large chunk of land settled within the Western Rockies of Montana. The reserve itself measured a total of 8.2 square miles, well over five thousand acres. While hikers, sightseers, photographers, bird watchers, etcetera are granted free access to the reserve itself, being allowed to hunt it as of itself was considered a great privilege. The reserve was teeming with Mule deer and Rocky Mountain elk, of which grew to world class proportions. To follow, the reserve was also considered a safehaven for Grey wolves; albeit every now and then they would overpopulate and local reserve hunters would have to bag a few in order to cut the population down. Higher in elevation, within the chilly alpine peaks, Bighorn sheep and Mountain goats were a common occurrence, alongside Mountain lions that nestled higher up, only coming down in order to hunt or when traveling. White-tailed Ptarmigan commonly cooped up in extensive groups within the higher elevations, providing an extra treat for the bird hunters itching to fire away with their shotguns. Seasonally, Grizzly bears would make their way into the reserve while the trout and kokanee spawned in order to fatten themselves up until the coming Winter. Attacks from predators were rare, albeit every now and then a few reports popped up. Timbergold Trails was the second largest of the Evergreen Hunting Reserves, behind the Whiterime Ridge Hunting Reserve in Alaska. Man, I remember the details of that brochure all too well. Eric thought as he finished dressing himself. Eric¡¯s phone had begun to vibrate as he received a call, the vibrations against his nightstand creating a creaky humming noise. Eric paced over to his phone in order to see who was calling. Surely enough, it was his friend and hunting buddy Tom. ¡°Hey man, how¡¯s it going!?¡± Eric asked jubilantly. ¡°Going well! Are you all packed up and ready to go?¡± Tom asked. ¡°Yeah, sure am. Just gotta get my guns and bow packed and I¡¯ll meet you at the airport in a couple hours.¡± ¡°Sounds good, my guy. I¡¯ll see ya later.¡± ¡°Bye-bye.¡± Eric finished off the call before turning his phone off and slipping it within his pocket. Tom and Eric had been very good friends since their middle school years, and were both avid outdoorsmen. Both enjoyed hunting, enjoyed fishing - anything related to the outdoors, they''ve both done. The two had always dreamed of being able to hunt the Rockies together, as a trophy bull Rocky Mountain elk was one of their mutually-shared top-tier bucket list animals to successfully harvest. And they knew for certain that Timbergold Trails would be the right place to go in order to harvest a big bull elk. Many world-class bulls had been taken from the reserve, such as the likes of a sixteen-point bull that scored a total of 445, of which was featured on the Timbergold Trails information brochure. Eric caught himself daydreaming again. "Back to the matter at hand¡­ where''s my rifle at?" Eric quietly told himself as he made his way to his bedroom closet. He''d slide his closet doors open as he''d inspect the contents of his closet. His rifle remained leaning against the wall, with the scope still attached as he had left it. "There you are!" Eric exclaimed as he grabbed onto the stock of the rifle and brought it out from the closet. He''d pull out the magazine clip from the bottom of the rifle''s polished dark brown carbon body in order to check for any live cartridges that may have been left inside from the prior hunting season, though as he expected, the magazine was empty. As he looked over the heavy rifle within his hands, memories began to flood Eric''s mind; a concoction of both good and bad memories. It was originally his old man''s rifle, a 9.3x62 Ansch¨¹tz 1780 D FL Bolt Action of German design, and a limited edition engraved one at that. On the black steel barrel of the rifle were golden engravings of a Mule deer buck within a mountainous pine forest setting. Perfectly fitting for the location he was traveling to. On the dark brown-colored carbon body of the rifle was an engraving of a family portrait - including him, his dad, his mom, and his younger sister, of whom would be entering her junior year of high school by now. The scope affixed to the barrel was a high-magnification 5.5-22x56mm "Eagle Mk1" rifle scope, built for weather, shock, and water resistance. Just looking at the rifle for the first time since the previous deer season took him back to when he first started hunting. When he was younger, his dad would always take him hunting year-round for whatever was in season; Turkey and Black bear in the Spring, pheasant and Whitetail in the Fall. Eric had taken his first buck, a mature four-by-four eight point, using his dad''s rifle when he was only nine years old, and since then. His dad would always tell him hunting stories from when he was younger, including his Red deer hunting trip in Germany, from where he bought the custom-design bolt action rifle, following his return from Afghanistan during the war on terrorism under the Bush administration following the attacks on the World Trade Center on September 11th. Unfortunately, the long-term consequences of war had caught up with him, and in 2015, his dad was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer caused by smoke and chemical inhalation during his service that resulted in his death the following year, in 2016. Following his death, his mother and sister moved out of Michigan, while Eric stayed and bought an apartment for himself. All of his father''s inheritance had gone to his widow, while Eric insisted on working himself and making money for himself. Eric sighed as his gaze remained fixated on the engraved firearm. He''d then pop open the rifle case, gently placing the rifle into the plastic molding designed specifically for the 9.3x62 rifle and its scope. "Dad would be so proud¡­" Eric said to himself. Luckily he had been provided with vacation time from his work as an electrician and part-time construction worker, having saved up cash since the passing of his old man, in preparation for this hunting trip. His plans had already been set out, having negotiated with Tom on their plan of action. They would be renting bed and board at Everfall Lodge, to the Eastern side of the reserve. Due to its geographical location, they mutually agreed that it would be the better of the two lodges - Everfall and Goldhorn Pass - to stay. A large lake resided beneath the lodge, just beneath the hill. To the right side of the lodge was a pine forested-hill with a set of railroad tracks passing through on the way to higher elevations. Of course, this railroad system was old and defunct, no longer being in use today due to its aged and weathered condition. Due to the inactive usage of the railroads, the tunnels were commonly used as scapegoats for those who sought the higher-up Bighorn sheep and Mountain goats, though Eric doubted that they would have the time to do any sheep or goat hunting. Eric scrounged around his closet, searching for the 10mm semi-automatic handgun he would use only in case of a bear attack, albeit highly unlikely, yet still possible. "Oh, right. I think it''s still under one of my pillows." He reminded himself. Though he wasn''t a paranoid person, Eric kept his semi-auto pistol close at hand. Despite being calm most days, Grand Rapids had a reputation for higher crime rates during the night. Robberies, drug dealing, and the occasional murder weren''t unheard of, and thus being so, Eric had gone through concealed carry training and purchased a 10mm handgun in case of anyone intending to inflict any malice upon him. Some day, he planned to move out of Grand Rapids and to somewhere more quiet and safe where he could potentially start a family of his own, but for now, he was stuck to his cheap-rental apartment as he continued building up his savings. During his continuous train of thought, Eric had slipped his handgun from underneath the pillow, once more checking the clip. As opposed to the last inspection, Eric wanted the pistol to be loaded, as he never knew what time and what place it would be needed. Sure enough, the magazine was still full. "Yup. Good, good¡­" Eric approved as he slid the clip back inside the chamber within the bottom of the handgun''s stock. He''d then check the pistol''s safety mechanism, checking whether or not it was set to ¡°safe¡±. The small, rubber lever had already been pulled back, a green color coding behind the lever indicating that the safety was on. While safety mechanisms on firearms weren''t always a guarantee to prevent misfire, he would first have to cock the handle of the handgun to even load a round regardless. And now, all that was needed was his compound bow. While Eric preferred to hunt with firearm over bow, he still had plenty of practice with his Hoyt Axius compound. He hadn''t used it for hunting much, except for the last time he had gone turkey hunting with his dad back in 2014. Due to the special personal value of the trip, he came to the ultimatum to pack the bow along, having purchased multiple new broadheaded arrows, also equipped with glowing red tracers on the end of each arrow. He didn''t really expect to harvest anything with the bow, but still decided to bring it along in case he felt like spending time sitting and waiting in a treestand for a nice Muley buck or bull elk to pass by within close range. Tom had already agreed to bring a couple treestands and extendable tripod stands along, as he had been the one to have acquired the permits to place deployable stands within the reserve. Eric would once more make his way back towards his closet, where he could still see the compound bow resting in the corner of the closet, slowly collecting dust as it was left untouched for a lengthy period of time. Eric reached into the corner of his closet, grabbing onto the neck of the compound and pulling it out. It wasn''t as dust-covered as he thought, but there was still a bit of dust blanketed upon the camouflaged carbon surface of the neck. "Welcome to the light once more, old friend." Eric stated as he placed the Hoyt Axius compound bow onto his bed. He''d then pop open the box of sanitary disinfectant wipes residing on his night stand, pulling out a wipe, then scrubbing the carbon surface of the neck. He''d end up using multiple wipes, but made short work of the dust that had collectively built up on the bow, before placing each of his new arrows into the quiver situated on the side of the compound bow. A nifty and useful additive. To finish off, Eric situated the compound bow within its respective casing. Now everything was packed and ready-to-go. He still had around three hours before he had to meet Tom at the airport in order to leave. With the remaining time, Eric planned to head out and buy himself some lunch in order to prepare himself - and his stomach - for the six hour flight into Bozeman, Montana - the closest city to the reserve - that resided ahead of him. A lengthy trip, but would be worth it in the end. Eric was certain about that. Everfall Lodge, Timbergold Trails Hunting Reserve, Montana, U.S. September 30, 2017 7:00 A.M. MDT Within his office, the local Sheriff typed away vigorously at his keyboard, clenching his teeth. I''m growing tired of writing all these missing person posters. Why have so many people gone missing around the Trails? Why haven''t we received any leads on where to find them? Why have no bodies turned up? What''s causing this? The Sheriff pondered, his frantic mind running amok. He felt guilty and responsible for not being able to discover the whereabouts of the missing people. First it was a yoga instructor, a young blonde woman in her mid-20''s, named Gabriella Baden on July 9th. Then it was a husband and his 7th-grade English teacher wife who had mysteriously vanished after having gone fishing at the northernmost lake on the Trails on August 7th. Then not too long ago, on September 7th, a hiker who decided to stay out later than the rest of his group the previous night was reported missing after he didn''t return that night. The amount of missing people around the reserve was painfully worrying to the Sheriff. He and his bloodhound, Rocky, had been investigating each disappearance, with assistance from law enforcement. Every time, nothing had turned up. However, upon each investigation, the Sheriff had noticed a peculiar occurrence with his dog, and even the K9 unit German shepherds. Some dogs responded with fear upon catching the scent of each person''s last known location, while other dogs reacted aggressively; growling, barking, snapping, and even forcing their handlers to restrain them to prevent them from running off. Normally, domestic canines do not act with such aggression unless they catch the scent of a predatory animal, such as the likes of bears or even other canines. Which begged the question: was there some sort of predator, more than likely a Grizzly, that had gained the craving for human flesh, residing somewhere within the reserve? The Sheriff''s phone interrupted the course of his worrisome thoughts as it began to ring. He''d picked it up from his desk and answered. "Sheriff''s office, this is Williams speaking." He''d answer upon picking up the phone. "Hello, Buck. It''s Doc." A deep, middle-aged man responded. "Doc? It''s been a while since I''ve heard from you." Sheriff Buck Williams replied. "Sure has been, Buck. You know why I''m calling though, correct?" "I assume it''s regarding those missing individuals, of which we''re still unable to receive any leads or indications of their current whereabouts." Sheriff Williams responded, a discouraged sigh exiting his nostrils. "It''s as if you read my mind. I''ll be making my way down to the Trails in order to assist you with this whole ordeal." "I''d most certainly appreciate the assistance. Reservations for October hunters have filled up rather quickly. It''d be a damned shame if they all got frightened away by the news of random folks up and disappearing." "Most definitely. The amount of cash comin'' in from those hunters will definitely benefit the EHRCA. So from a business standpoint, having them all drawn off by the news of missing people would definitely be a major loss." "Yeah, you''re right on that one. When do you plan to come down to the Trails, then?" Sheriff Williams asked. "Expect me around later in October. I''d say about the 10th-15th. I''ve got plenty of paperwork wrapped around my head, as well as more troublemakers to deal with - you know how it is." "That I do. I appreciate your call and arranging the time to help get this whole ordeal sorted out." "No problem, Bucko. I''ll see you soon." If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "See you soon. Bye." Sheriff Williams hung up the phone and gave off another sigh. He was at least glad that he didn''t lose his position as Sheriff of the Trails, but was ashamed to feel as if he were incapable of being able to uncover the mystery. Colton Locke, known primarily by his nickname "Doc", was the current Master Warden of the Evergreen Hunting Reserves. He overlooked any activity that transpired within not just Timbergold Trails, but every other hunting reserve part of the EHR, sniffing out violators under any guise - whether they be poachers, irresponsible hunters wounding and leaving animals they shot to die, and even hunters using unethical firearms for select species. While at some points in time, he could be irrational and hot-headed, Doc was extremely professional at catching troublemakers red-handed. To receive a serious call from Doc himself meant that there was quite a serious issue at hand; even more so if he states that he''s personally going to make a visit to the reserve. "Whatever''s going on around here¡­ if it catches the eye of the Master Warden himself, then something is definitely quite wrong¡­" The worried Sheriff said to himself in a muffled, concerned tone. A sudden series of knocks on his door alerted the Sheriff, disrupting him from his troubled thoughts. "Come in." The door to his office was opened by the pretty young, black-haired waitress who had recently been hired. "Mr. Williams?" The waitress asked as she entered the room with an aluminum tray containing both a mug of coffee and a plate of lumberjack pancakes with bacon and eggs on the side. "Your breakfast?" "Let''s see here," the Sheriff stated as he peeked over his computer monitor and at the contents of the tray. "Lumberjack pancakes, bacon and eggs, and a good ol'' cup of black coffee¡­ yeah, that''s mine all right." The young waitress approached the Sheriff''s desk with the tray, noticeably struggling to keep the tray stable as she moved towards his desk. "Here, let me help you with that." Sheriff Williams said as he stood up from his office chair and helped secure the tray as she laid it down upon his desk. "Thank you, Mr. Williams." The waitress stated with exasperation in her tone of voice. "Anytime. You''ve been doing good up here. Keep at it." The Sheriff complimented the waitress'' work. "Thank you once again. I can''t stay and talk, though. Got more orders to carry out!" "No worries." Sheriff Williams said as the noticeably rushed waitress rushed out his office door. Suppose I''ll go out and do a little bit of fishing after breakfast. The Sheriff thought. Ease my stress a little bit. Rainbows and cutthroat should be ripe within the river right now. Gerald R. Ford International Airport, Grand Rapids, Michigan, U.S. September 30, 2017 12:20 P.M. EDT Eric relaxed against the window lobby, patiently waiting for Tom. Patience is a virtue, and is especially required for hunters. However, he had already expected Tom to have been here already. He''d once more slip his phone from his pocket, tapping on the "call" button on his phone. Eric started to dial in Tom''s phone number, when a familiar voice called out to him in the distance, among the wave of chatter that reverberated throughout the lobby. "Eric!" Eric looked over from his phone to the origin of the shout, spotting Tom in the distance signaling to him with his arms, waving them from side to side with a goofy, open-mouth smile spread across his face. Despite being a few months younger than Eric, Tom still didn''t look like he was twenty-two. He lacked a lot of facial hair, and his skin complexion was smooth in comparison to the roughness that develops with age. Despite that, his voice was still quite deep, almost as deep as Eric''s. Tom proceeded to pace towards Eric. ¡°Hey, man! What took you so long?¡± Eric asked his youthful-looking friend. ¡°Had to make a pit stop at the gas station. Car was running low on gas. Sorry, dude!¡± ¡°All¡¯s good,¡± Eric responded. ¡°We¡¯ve still got an hour before departure. Should we get some lunch?¡± ¡°If you want to.¡± Tom responded back. ¡°I already ate lunch. You see those girls over there?¡± Eric glanced over in the direction of where Tom¡¯s finger guided. Waiting in line for the cafe was a small group of women; a black-haired hispanic girl, a tall girl with blonde hair, and a brunette. ¡°Yeah, what about them?¡± Eric inquired. ¡°All of them are quite fine, don¡¯t you agree? I¡¯m gonna see if I can get any of their numbers while you¡¯re having lunch.¡± Tom stated with faint excitement in his tone. ¡°Mhm. Good luck with that.¡± Eric scoffed as he watched Tom make his way towards the group of girls. He¡¯d sigh, before turning and making his way towards the sub sandwich vendor. Thirty minutes had passed as Eric finished his lunch. He¡¯d roll up the thin parchment paper that had come with the sandwich into a crumpled ball, then tossed it into the nearby trash can as he heard the clapping of tennis shoes against the polished tile flooring of the airport. Eric glanced over, and sure enough, it was Tom. ¡°So how did flirting with women out of your league go?¡± Eric asked, chuckling. ¡°Oh, shut up!¡± Tom expressed with annoyance, punching Eric in the arm. Tom wasn¡¯t the strongest person physically in comparison to Eric, who had been lifting weights since high school, but Eric still played along with the punch as if it hurt a little bit. ¡°Ow, I was just kidding, man! Don¡¯t gotta punch me that hard.¡± Eric jokingly stated while rubbing his arm. ¡°Hmph. Anyways, I didn¡¯t get any of their numbers. Got asked if I was a teenager. Felt great.¡± ¡°How come that doesn¡¯t surprise me in the slightest?¡± Eric asked with sarcasm, rolling his eyes. ¡°Oh, fuck off, dude.¡± ¡°You know I was just teasin¡¯ ya, man.¡± Eric snickered. ¡°Right. Anyways, let¡¯s change the subject. What¡¯s the plan of action for the elk?¡± Tom inquired. Eric momentarily pondered on Tom¡¯s question. He wasn¡¯t exactly certain, but he had a few ideas brewing within his mind. ¡°If the other hunters posted at Everfall are willing, we could drive them from the railroad tracks and down to the lake. Might even trap a few mulies in the mix. How¡¯s that sound?¡± Tom would remain silent, as if he were questioning the method. ¡°Are there any regulations preventing us from driving animals?¡± Eric shook his head, furling his lips back. ¡°Nope. There are no rules preventing us from doing drives in the Evergreen Hunting Reserves. In fact, Logger¡¯s Point and Whitehart Island are commonly used for drives.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Tom slowly nodded his head as his question was cleared up. ¡°In that case, I¡¯m down.¡± The intercom abruptly interrupted their conversation as a female voice announced, ¡°Flight 176, please prepare for departure.¡± ¡°That¡¯s us!¡± Tom exclaimed. ¡°Come on! Don¡¯t wanna miss our flight!¡± Tom said ecstatically, like a child at an amusement park. ¡°That we don¡¯t. We¡¯re not getting a second opportunity!¡± Eric chimed in as the two began to pace towards their designated flight terminal. Timbergold Trails Hunting Reserve, Montana, U.S. September 30, 2017 2:14 P.M. MDT Sheriff Buck Williams pulled his ranger jeep off to the side of the dirt road, parking next to the cluster of aspen trees before the start of the old bridge that crossed over the river conjunction, from where water from the northernmost lake flowed down to the main river. Beneath the bridge would be the honeyhole, as the union of the rivers formed a deep pool where river-running trout and salmon would temporarily be relieved of the rushing rapids that carried them as they spawned. Buck would hop out from the jeep, retrieving his fly rod from the back of the jeep. He didn¡¯t plan on keeping any fish, nor did he expect to catch anything, but fishing made for a great recreational activity to free himself of the stress that came with the duties of being the local head Warden out on the Trails. After grabbing his fly rod, the Sheriff carefully paced his way down the steep decline from the road down towards the river. As he made his way to the river, Sheriff Williams noticed a small bachelor group of bull elk in the distance, drinking from the flowing river. He¡¯d place his fly rod onto the gravely riverbank in order to pull his miniature binoculars out from his vest pocket. He¡¯d raise the binoculars to his eyes, scoping through the optics in order to get a better look at the cluster of bulls. ¡°Fresh out of velvet, it seems. All nice bulls, too.¡± The Sheriff said to himself. ¡°That one in the back definitely looks like a trophy. Got the back tines, the height, the width¡­ very nice bull, indeed. Probably a fifteen - maybe sixteen - pointer.¡± He¡¯d then lower the binoculars, placing them back into his vest pocket. ¡°Some hunter¡¯s definitely gonna get a thrill out of taking that brute down.¡± Buck picked up his fly-fishing rod from the gravel, inspecting the rig at the end of the line. ¡°Salmon fly. Definitely what I¡¯ll want for this spot.¡± Sheriff Williams gave his line some slack as he gripped onto the handle, casting back and forth, the rod and line resembling a large whip, as he waited for the line to extend to his liking. He¡¯d cease his casting as the salmon fly nymph lightly landed on the still surface of the river intersection. And now, the waiting game. He thought to himself. He¡¯d glance back over towards the bachelor group of bulls, of which were now traveling upriver. ¡°Won¡¯t be too long until those bulls split up and start competing over cows.¡± Buck mentioned to himself. He¡¯d then continue to scan his surroundings. Now was also about the time the Grizzlies would be scouring the rivers in search of the spawning fish. While Grizzly attacks were almost unheard of within Timbergold Trails, he still couldn¡¯t risk being attacked, and thus always brought along his .454 revolver in case of the small chance a Grizzly attempted to assault him. Sure enough, there were no bears around at the moment. He didn¡¯t know how long that would last for, but usually once they discover that there¡¯s fish in a specific location, the bears would collectively gather and wait for an opportunity to catch one - or multiple - in order to sustain themselves. The Sheriff was still distracted in his thoughts that he at first didn¡¯t notice his salmon fly had disappeared beneath the surface of the water. The slack in his line had started to tighten up as Buck finally noticed a bit of tension on his rod. He¡¯d glance over towards his fishing line, noticing as the slack proceeded to tighten up. The sudden realization hit Sheriff Williams like a train as he abruptly jerked back his rod, stepping a few steps back, as he hooked the fish that had taken his fly. His heart pounded and raced as the fish tugged and jerked back. The Sheriff would pull his rod in different directions to prevent whatever fish was at the end of his line from evading through any rocky crevices beneath the surface. He¡¯d feel the fish thrash and rise up, preparing to jump from the water. Sure enough, the fish breached the surface, thrashing wildly as it leapt from the water, gleaming a bright silver as the sun reflected off its scales. From the distance, Buck couldn¡¯t exactly tell what type of fish it was, but knew it was decently large. He¡¯d proceed to reel in his catch, swinging his rod to the sides every now and then to prevent hanging up on any snag. Soon enough, his line would be closer to the riverbank. He¡¯d glance down into the water in order to see what his catch was. He¡¯d spot the fish, still thrashing in an attempt to free itself from the fly in its mouth. ¡°Looks like a rainbow.¡± Sheriff Williams told himself as he lifted his rod up in order to bounce his catch from the water and onto the shore. As he pulled up his catch from the water, the large, slender fish would flop vigorously, still attempting to free itself. The Sheriff quickly placed his hand upon the cool, slimy skin of the fish. The fish had a solid, rounded head with a hook-shaped lower jaw. Its long, slim body was green and dotted with many black spots. The fish¡¯s gill plate was a vibrant pink with traces of blue around the edges, and an elegant red band spanned down the middle of the fish¡¯s body. ¡°Yeah. Definitely a rainbow, all right. Male, too.¡± Buck said as he pulled out a pair of pliers in order to pluck out the salmon fly nymph from the trout¡¯s lower jaw. After extracting the fly from the trout¡¯s mouth, the Sheriff lifted his catch into the air. ¡°Too bad I didn¡¯t bring my measuring tape, though I¡¯d guess this trout to be about sixteen or seventeen inches. Beautiful fish.¡± Buck would lower the trout as he stepped closer towards the river¡¯s edge. He¡¯d lower to his knees, placing it into cold river water. He¡¯d gently swing the trout back and forth, coaxing it to take off. It didn¡¯t take long for the still-energetic rainbow trout to slip from his grasp and speed off back into the depths. Sheriff Buck Williams continued fishing for two and a half more hours, having caught an assortment of fish since his first catch, including three more rainbow trout, two cutthroat trout, and two kokanee salmon, all of decent size. He had just started to pack up when he heard the squawking of crows in the distance. Crows were a common sight around the reserve, usually flocking above wolf kills or the forgotten harvests of irresponsible hunters, so thus the Sheriff initially thought little about the crows. He¡¯d glance over towards the source of the squawking, originating to his left, across the riverfork. Next to the pine forest on the riverbank, the Sheriff spotted a moderately large group of crows, circling above the kill site, patiently waiting for other crows to gain their fill of carrion. However, something seemed off. Usually, even from lengthy distances, the Sheriff could spot whether or not the carcass belonged to that of a deer or elk. Whatever the crows were feeding on seemed to be too small to have been either of the reserve¡¯s low-faring herbivorous ungulates. Buck slipped out his binoculars in an attempt to get a better look at the carcass that the crows were scavenging from, glancing through the lenses in order to get a better visual on the corpse. Even then, he was still unable to fully make out what it was. He¡¯d have to cross the river to get a closer look. Fortunately for the Sheriff, there was a shallow portion of the river that hunters regularly crossed to get from one side of the river to the other, and it just so happened to connect nearby. Buck hooked up his salmon fly nymph to the central ring of his fly rod before departing from his fishing spot, making his way back uphill to his jeep. He¡¯d gently place his rod in the back of his jeep before hopping in the driver¡¯s side and starting up the ignition. ¡°Time to find out what those crows were feeding on." Bozeman Yellowstone International Airport BZN, Bozeman, Montana, U.S. September 30, 2017 4:33 P.M. MDT Eric''s eyes slowly peeled open as he felt butterflies in his stomach. The airplane was de-elevating and preparing to land at the airport. He''d look out the airplane window, overlooking the entirety of the city of Bozeman. From Bozeman, he and Tom would be renting a car in order to make their way towards Timbergold Trails, which was around forty miles Southeast of the city. There was a "bing" on the plane intercom. "Hello, everyone. This is your captain speaking. Please make sure your seat belts are on while we prepare for landing. Thank you, and hope your flight was enjoyable!" Tom was still fast asleep in the seat next to Eric, unaware that the plane was landing. Tom always was quite the heavy sleeper. Eric thought. Guess I should wake him up? Eric placed his hand on Tom''s shoulder, shaking him lightly like a limp ragdoll. "Hey, wake up, Tom! We''re landing!" Tom would slightly stir and grumble as he was awoken by Eric thrashing him around. "Okay, okay. I''m awake. Quit shaking me around." Tom grumbled as his eyes began to sluggishly open. "Well, the altitude drop surely didn''t wake you up, so I had no other choice!" Eric replied. As the plane landed on the runway, Eric turned towards Tom once more. "Even though I''m paying for the car rental, you''re still pitching in on gas, remember?" He assuringly reminded Tom. "Yeah, yeah. I know. That was our agreement for the trip." Eric nodded in approval. "Glad you remember." There was a brief period of silence as the plane decreased in speed under the signals of the ramp marshals. "So where are we renting the car from again?" Tom inquired, breaking the silence. "Nextcar." Eric answered straightforwardly. "Gotcha." The commercial aircraft came to a complete stop. The ground crew wasted no time as they prepared the jet bridge for passenger departure. The intercom dinged again as the flight captain addressed his parting announcement. "This is your captain speaking. You may now feel free to exit the plane." Eric and Tom both stretched as they stood up, arching their backs as they lumbered up their bodies to readjust to moving on their own two feet. "Well, let us get to it, then!" Eric stated as he stood up and scooted into the aisle, with Tom following behind shortly afterwards. Timbergold Trails Hunting Reserve, Montana, U.S. September 30, 2017 5:05 P.M. MDT The Sheriff stepped out onto the gravely riverbank from the shallow river passing. The flock of crows scattered as soon as they noticed him approaching. Immediately, a foul stench filled his nostrils, watering up the Sheriff¡¯s eyes and churning his stomach. He¡¯d grown used to the decomposing odors of the reserve¡¯s ungulate species, but this putrid smell had outclassed anything he¡¯d ever smelled. The buzzing hums of swarming flies emanated from the source of the stench. Sheriff Buck Williams inhaled deeply away from the stench in preparation to approach it, as the foul odor would only get worse the closer he got within proximity to it. ¡°Deceased predator? A wolf, perhaps?¡± He pondered aloud. Due to their carnivorous lifestyles, deceased predators gave off strong, rancid stenches consisting of digested meat within their systems and the bloating of internal gases during decomposition. Because of its smaller size, Buck assumed that the carcass belonged to that of a wolf. Maybe a poacher shot it and left it for dead. Huge violation. Sheriff Williams pondered to himself, disgruntled. ¡°Only one way to find out.¡± Buck quietly said aloud to himself. The Sheriff pinched his nostrils shut in hopes of blocking out the gut-wrenching odor that would increasingly get worse as he came closer to the carrion. He¡¯d then slowly approach the carcass, his eyes still attempting to make out what animal it was. Something peculiar abruptly caught the Sheriff¡¯s eye as he came within fifteen yards of the corpse. A piece of blood-stained red cloth, bearing the pattern of a flannel vest. Buck¡¯s heart dropped and the color drained from his body due to fear that the worst had come to pass. ¡°No¡­ it can¡¯t be!¡± He¡¯d exclaim aloud as he sprinted towards the body to get a better look, all while in total shock. The remaining distance to cover had not been very far as he forced himself into a halt, his leather boots skidding into the fine, gravelly sand. His eyes widened upon the clear visual of the carcass. It was not that of an animal. It was the mutilated body of a young man. ¡°Oh my God¡­¡± Sheriff Williams stated in complete and utter shock.