The Pain Of Their Presence - Sequel to Sound of Their Presence

Chapter Forty Two: Derogative

Cheyenne's POV

    I pull at the tops of my black leather combat boots and the hem of my matching jacket, with it's many pockets. Within the pockets, there are bandages and painkillers to be on the safeside. We are certain that our side will have injuries, if not many casualties. Besides the medical equipment, shells and bullets fill many of the pockets, in addition to a variety of knives. 

    Leo, the werewolf who helped me stock up on knives, must truly have it out for these hunters. He told me of his past. The way the hunters took his parents when he was but a young child. I feel terrible for him, and am empathetic, even if my losses were much more recent than his. He hopes that I will use of the more wickedly curved blades for skinnning one of the hunters. He finds that one kitchen blade, a steak knife, would be good for prolonging the pain of a stabbed hunter. I feel pity for this werewolf, whom feels vengeance is the only way to get over the past.

    I look at the oak tree to my left, where Shane stands on the thickest branches possible about eighteen feet off of the ground. I am about fifteen feet up in a red maple tree. I appreciate the green of the oak leaves, and the slight breezes in the heat. Some of the leaves in Shane's oak are starting to redden and turn orange and crisp. The maple I am perched in has a few leaves that have browned and crunched slightly past the maroonish and redder shades of the rest of the leaves filling the branches.

    Shane nods in encouragement to me, and I look out on the fourty some wolves below us. Some stand in the middle of the clearing, ready to leap into action against the hunters. Others, mostly the smaller wolves, whom are less dominant amongst the pack, stand within the centers of bushes, or behind groves of spruce and pines.

     "How many do you think are coming?" I whisper to Shane. He scowls that I would risk making any noise whatsoever, so I stare at the pistol in my right hand. I have another Glock .40 in a holster at my right hip, along with a small slingshot on my left hip, beneath my leather jacket.

    "Hundreds, maybe thousands,"  Shane does not offer comfort with these words.

    From nowhere, I hear splintering twigs and running feet, thundering over fallen trees in the Glades, that seem to go on forever. The wolves ears all prick up, and my heart begins to race. My breath hitchs. 

    And then, but only then, is it that they come into view. They are strong, and they are many. They weild enough weapons to fill many arsenals beyond capacity. How are there so many?!