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

Chapter Forty Four: Falling

Shane's POV

    I am firing at the endless horde of hunters with the crossbow. I keep up a constant whir of arrows, not wanting to lose this war. Would these hunters take prisoners? I should know . . . I was one of them once. It feels like so long, although it has been a few years of my life that I have even known Cheyenne. So long ago, it feels like I transformed for the first time. The moment I had to forsake my oriiginal fate. At least, if us, the paranormal creatures, win this petty war, I can be with Cheyenne.

     But that is when I turn to smile encouragingly to her, from the oak I perch in. I have not heard her fire a single shot with her pistol, but I can't blame her. She maay seem violent, but I don't think the thought of actually killing a person, human or no, sits well with her.

    But when my eyes search for her, I see that she is not there. She, Cheyenne, Is not standing in her maple, having some mental debate on wether or not to raise her guns. Instead, I see her laying on the ground in the swamp. This oh so peculiar swamp. This swamp, magically filled with oaks and maples. I get side tracked, until I find the bullet wound on her left shoulder.

      The bullet hole that ripped apart her leather jacket and thick tank top straps. And flesh . . . The skin that can be seen is soaked in thick red liquid, almost plasma-like. The flesh is shredded . . .

    My Cheyenne . . . hurt? Is she . . . Dead? Is it possible?!

    No! I must banish these thoughts, these terrible possibilities from my mind!

    I scale down the side of the oak tree, however peculiar for it to be in this swamp. When I reach Cheyenne's side on the ground, I find that her right leg seems to be fractured, in addition to the bullet wound she has sustained. Of all those to gain wounds, it had to be Cheyenne, didn't it? Is this the universe's way of punishing me for loving someone? For leaving the crueler parts of my family for someone I loved, when I hardly knew them?

    But now is not the time for thoughts. Cheyenne needs help. Assuming she is still alive, of course. She has to be . . . 

    I dig in one of her jacket pockets and find a bandage, like those used for angle or wrist wraps. I rip off her jacket and wrap the bandage around her shoulder. The wound looks deep .  . . too deep. But, it looks as if it has missed her heart, on the bright side. It needs to be cleaned, but I do not have proper equipment to do as such.

    I need to get her proffessional medical assistance before she dies of shock. Shock will kill her before even an infection sets in.

    "Leo! Lysander!" I shout for the only two werewolves I know by name. I pick Cheyennne and throw her up over my shoulders, so she is curved around the back of my neck. I continue my desperate yelling, hoping that either of the wolves will step forth and help me get Cheyenne to a hospital, or at least to the pack house.

    As I run, I find myself and Cheyenne amidst the chaos of bloodthirsty wolves and humans, alike. The hunters have reached the area that most of the wolves had been crouched, ready to spring into action.

    Hunters tear into wolves with knives and swords. Some shoote with bows and arrows and guns.

     At the same time, wolves rip hunters, especially the younger ones, to shreds with fangs and claws. One is even decapitating them with it's jaws. This is, until one girl, around Cheyenne's and my own age splatters it's tawny coast with it's own blood. 

    This girl keeps looking at Cheyenne like she wants to shoot her, but is debating running over and helping me carry her, at the same time.

    "Naomi!" I tall, stout man shouts. "Are you going to shoot the girl again?" He gazes at Cheyenne, who is limp over my shoulders. Is she even breathing anymore? I start to dart away. I need no more trouble!

     "Over here," Lysander shouts to me, beforing phasing back into wolf form. He allows me to pile Cheyenne onto his back. I hold her hand, as I struggle to keep up with him. When I look over my shoulder, a girl with short, hack-edged hair with many kinks in the same shade as sand on the beachs of Lake Michigan., chases after us. This girl looks out of breath, and I find in my quick analsys, that she, Naomi, is built similarily to her father, but with more muscle in her arms and abdomen.

    I pick up speed, until I know I can go no longer, and that the adrenaline will give way soon.