Hounded Page 7

  When I was done taking pictures, we moved on to the next building, which was a small medical facility. There were two examination rooms, one used for staff and the other for the detained werewolves. The two set ups were almost identical except for that in the werewolf examination room, all the supplies and tools were removed. John said that it was for the protection of the medical staff.

  Behind the examination rooms was a much larger surgery suite. It looked well equipped to handle most of what the reservation had to throw at them. John stood behind the operating table with his hand resting on the thick blue cushion.

  “When someone is detained under the suspicion of possessing the lycanthropy disease, they are brought to the medical facility for a full-on evaluation of their physical health. After it is distinguished that they have the lycanthropy disease, males are brought here for a vasectomy and females are given birth control.”

  This shocked me a bit. I had never read about werewolf pregnancy prevention in any of the reports during my research. Giving the males vasectomies seemed a bit extreme.

  “Why not just employ the use of condoms?” I questioned curiously.

  “We did that in the beginning, but the werewolves have a tendency to mate after they shift. In that situation, condoms obviously aren’t effective. We find that giving the males vasectomies has been the easiest and most cost effective way to control reproduction. Since the reservation was established, we’ve only had two live births. Both infants were born werewolves, and both of them died early on. It’s in everyone’s best interest if we prevent that from happening again.”

  “Why did they die?”

  “Well, the first one we left with the mother. During its first shift, some of the other wolves killed it. The second one passed away from illness.”

  “I see,” I replied thoughtfully.

  “That’s pretty much it for processing,” John told me as he led me out the door.

  We walked towards a fenced-in courtyard, which I could only assume was the outdoor recreation area. It had a small track and some pull up bars. After John confirmed its purpose, he led me to the cafeteria where I would be having my meals and then took me to the parameter fence to show me the security measures that had been implemented.

  There was a room filled with television screens where security personnel monitored the parameter of the reservation. John explained that, during the full moon, armed guards were stationed alongside the thirteen-foot-high fences to ensure none of the wolves tried to escape. He told me that any wolf that came within ten feet of the fence was tranquilized. That went for when the werewolves were in human form too.

  When the tour was over, I was allowed to roam freely around the compound. To my surprise, my badge worked on most of the doors that were for authorized personnel only. I returned to the Containment Center to interview Chris Abbot, but it appeared that they had already removed him for surgery. Oh well, I’d have plenty of time to talk to him inside of the reservation.

  After I was done taking pictures of the compound and documenting my findings, I went to the cafeteria for an early dinner. I had been so involved in my work that I had completely forgotten to take a lunch. It was important that I didn’t miss a thing though.

  Apparently, John decided to either take a late lunch or an early dinner as well. He waved me over to where he was sitting once I collected my tray of salisbury steak, powdered mashed potatoes, canned green beans, and some sauce that was so dark it almost looked like tar.

  “This place will never win a Michelin Star,” John said, noticing my less than enthusiastic expression towards the food.

  “Looks like typical cafeteria food to me.” I slid onto the bench across from him.

  “Wait till you taste it. Typical would be a blessing.” He grinned at his own joke. “How’s your report going?”

  “Well.” I cut into an excessively soft piece of steak, my once ferocious appetite suddenly waning from closer observation of the food. “I’m going to interview some of the personnel here after dinner. One thing I was wondering though, where do they conduct research for a cure to the lycanthropy disease and how is that research progressing?”

  John gave his mashed potatoes a grave look, and I couldn’t tell if it was because he detested the food, or because he knew I wasn’t going to like what he had to say next. “Off the record,” he began, “it’s hard to come up with a treatment for a disease when you can’t find its source.”

  “I thought you said that the disease passed through a bite.”

  “A bite, or sexually transmitted. But there’s nothing any different from their blood than there is with ours. No extra pieces to the puzzle that would give the source of the disease away. The only time they change genetic code is when they shift, but the truth is that most infection happens when they’re in human form. The largest cause for the disease spreading is sexual contact. Most of the time, it happens before the person is even aware that they’re infected. Kind of like HIV.”

  “So, are you saying that the government has given up on trying to find a cure?”

  “No.” John shook his head. “But research is carried out away from the compound. We take blood and tissue samples here and send them away to be studied. When one of the werewolves die, their body is sent away as well. For all the years we’ve been doing this, we’ve never even been close to finding a cure. I don’t think it’s a top priority of the government. One thing I do know is that government funding has been drastically cut on the research side. In the beginning, they had a team of scientists working to find a cure. Now, they’re down to only two.”

  “It sounds like they have given up.” I thought for a minute, wondering how hopeful for a cure that the people inside the reservation would be. From outside, it sounded like they might as well plan to be imprisoned for the rest of their lives.

  “Think what you will.” Johns fork made a loud clank against the plastic plate as he stabbed a green bean. “You might want to mention in your report that government funding appears to be sparse, but don’t mention where you got that information from.”

  I nodded, returning to my food and my thoughts. When we were finished eating, John went back to work, and I went on to interview some of his co-workers. Everyone seemed relatively happy, giving glowing descriptions of their job and the compound. I was certain that they had been coached on what to say. Most employees were when it came to media coverage.

  After I was done with my interviews, I returned to my room to compile my report. My findings were favorable. To be honest, I couldn’t think of a much better way to handle the werewolf problem. They seemed to be treated fairly, but I had to remember that this was only a small piece of the puzzle. The compound was just a gateway to the reservation. Detainees lived a strict month of confinement, which I could only imagine was frightening and miserable. After that, they spent a lifetime on the other side of the fence, a one thousand-acre prison.

  My only real complaint about the processing of detainees was the vasectomies given to the males. That would definitely end up in my report, since it was something that hadn’t been discussed anywhere else in the media. If one looked at it from a realistic standpoint though, it only made sense that they would go about birth prevention in such a way, considering that there was no cure in sight. That was the secret hidden message behind giving the males vasectomies. There was no cure, nor was any progress being made towards one.

  Lack of proper government funding was another issue I planned on tackling. There needed to be more people researching the disease. Perhaps it wasn’t a widespread epidemic, but the werewolves were being held captive for fault not of their own. It wasn’t fair for them to have to live this way without any sign of hope.

  I sighed as I stared up at the ceiling of my small room, wondering what tomorrow would bring. To be honest with myself, I was a bit nervous about being sent into the reservation. Would the werewolves resent me for being an outsider? Would they detest their confinement? Surely, the government wouldn’t have ag
reed to send me in if it wasn’t safe.

  Knowing that I wouldn’t sleep if left to my own devices, I took two sleeping pills to knock myself out. My alarm seemed to go off too soon in the morning, and I arose groggy, hoping that it would be an easy day. With a whole month inside of the reservation, I would have plenty of time to interview everyone without feeling rushed.

  There were only a handful of my belongings that I was allowed to take inside of the reservation with me. My toothbrush, my hairbrush, my camera, and a notebook and pen. Everything else would be provided to me once inside.

  John escorted me to a small shack outside of the reservation where I was given a hideous yellow jumpsuit to wear. I was also issued three additional jumpsuits, seven pairs of underwear, three bras, eight pairs of plain white socks, and a pair of slip on sneakers. He said that the clothes that weren’t on my body would be delivered to my room inside of the reservation.

  “We limit the provisions that the werewolves are given for safety reasons,” John explained, forgetting to mention what those reasons were before continuing. “Male werewolves are assigned blue jumpsuits. Females are assigned red jumpsuits. Medical personnel wear purple. Compound staff wear gray. And we’ve ordered this yellow one especially for you.” He smiled as if he thought I would fall in love with my new attire.

  That seems a bit prisonesque, I wanted to say, but I dare not insult their work. Perhaps this would be something else to go into my report. It felt like not allowing the werewolves to wear normal clothing would strip them of their sense of individuality and freedom.

  After I was dressed, John led me to the gate that stood as entryway into the reservation. From the corner of my eye, I could see two more personnel escorting someone in a blue jumpsuit towards us. It was Chris Abbot, scowling as he walked up to meet us.

  “Resident alpha Emmett will take you on a tour of the reservation. Then Devon, resident omega, will be your guide for the rest of your time inside of the reservation,” John said, and I wasn’t sure if he was talking to both of us or just me. “Open the gates,” he called to the guard who controlled the gate.

  The gate squeaked on its wheels as it rolled open, revealing an athletic man in a blue jumpsuit on the other side. He stood with an inviting smile, and I felt a sense of relief wash over me at the genuine appearance of it.

  Chris’s displeased expression didn’t waver. Then again, the situation was quite different for him. While I was only going to be locked in with the werewolves for a month, this was a life sentence for him. Once he stepped inside those gates, he’d never be able to leave. I couldn’t even imagine what that must feel like.

  “This is Emmett Kennedy, resident alpha,” John introduced us. Like a perfect gentleman, Emmett extended his hand in greeting. “Emmett has been part of the Blackfoot Werewolf Reservation project since he was eighteen. How old are you now, Emmett?”

  “Thirty-seven,” he replied without hesitation, his perfect teeth gleaming in the sun. It was obvious that the werewolves did not lack dental care.

  “This is Taya Raveen,” John told Emmet, “journalist for the National News Network. She’ll be staying with you guys for the month. And this is Chris Abbot.” He turned his attention to Chris. “He’s the new addition to your pack. Please make him feel as welcome as possible in his new home.”

  “Will do,” Emmett replied, motioning for us to follow him.

  I noticed that it wasn’t until Chris was inside of the reservation that the guards backed away from him, allowing the gates to close behind us. This was it; my true journey into the lives of the werewolves was about to begin.

  Emmett was quick to regain our attention, drawing it away from the ominous gate behind us. “First, I’ll show you guys all the common areas.”

  His pace was faster than I would have liked, but Chris and I did our best to keep up. For the most part, the buildings looked the same as they had in the compound, tan and plain on the outside. Plaques near the doors distinguished them from one another.

  “We’ll start with the less exciting stuff,” Emmett said with amusement in his voice. “This building is the laundry facility.” He opened the door to allow us entry. Instead of the standard washing machines lining the walls, there was a female attendant in a red jumpsuit standing at a counter, much like you would see at the cleaners. “The laundry facility is open seven days a week from eight in the morning until four thirty in the afternoon. The facility is closed on holidays. You’ll be assigned a specified day of the week to bring your laundry in. You’ll drop it off that day and pick it up the next. If you miss your specified day, you’ll be forced to wear dirty clothing until the next week.”

  I hardly listened as Emmett introduced us to the woman, too busy jotting down notes to pay much attention to her. This would be important for me to remember, not only for my report but for my own cleanliness.

  “Why aren’t detainees allowed to wash their own clothing?” I asked, glancing up just in time to see Emmett’s mouth dip into a scowl.

  “I would appreciate if you didn’t refer to us as detainees,” he rebuked me.

  “Apologies. I wasn’t thinking,” I replied quickly, understanding the error of my words. Still, this place looked a lot like a prison, both on the inside and outside. It was hard not to think of the residents in such a way.

  “We actually used to have a full laundromat,” Emmett continued, though the tension didn’t leave his voice. “But there were issues with some people using too much soap and washing their clothing too frequently, so the compound officials decided to start regulating laundry.”

  I hummed in reply, too intimidated by Emmett to ask any further questions until I was certain he had cooled off from my last one. It was obvious to me why he was the alpha of the group. Tall and broad, Emmett emitted a sense of power. His dark features helped him look the part, with shoulder length wavy black hair, large brown eyes, and a smattering of ebony chest hair peaking out from the collar of his jumpsuit.

  The next building that Emmett took us to was a small recreation facility. Tables and chairs were set up inside, with a ping-pong table and an air hockey table the main attractions. There was also a basket full of various balls in one of the corners. Volleyballs, basketballs, tennis balls, and those large round inflatable bouncing balls for children. It looked a bit underwhelming, but better than nothing. I took note of the surveillance cameras lining all four corners of the room. The compound didn’t seem to trust the werewolves with anything.

  “This is our rec. room,” Emmett told us. “We hold a ping-pong tournament every Thursday night and an air hockey tournament on Friday nights. It’s a good way to wind down and socialize. Once a month, the compound throws us a pizza party in here. They even provide alcohol, a rare treat. Otherwise, alcohol and tobacco products aren’t allowed inside of the reservation. The Rec Room is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for our enjoyment,” Emmett informed us before ushering us out of the door and to our next destination.

  One of the larger buildings in the reservation, the cafeteria was filled with rows of wooden picnic tables, large enough to accommodate at least seventy-five people, though I knew the reservation only had fifty-three residents, not including myself. About half of the tables were occupied with werewolves, taking a break from their breakfast to stare at us while Emmett continued the tour as if they weren’t even there. It was a bit nerve-wracking to feel so many eyes upon me, and I imagined that it probably made Chris just as uncomfortable, even though these would be his people soon enough.

  “This is the cafeteria. It’s open seven days a week. Breakfast is served from eight to nine in the morning. The cafeteria closes at ten to prepare for lunch service. Then it’s open from noon to two and again from five to seven. If you miss a meal time, you’ll be forced to wait for the next.” Emmett walked us to the food line, where a woman behind the counter came to greet us. After a quick introduction, Emmett continued his speech. “All the food served here is grown inside of the reservation. I’ll tak
e you to the garden and the animal barn after this.

  “If you’ll notice, there’s a case behind the counter with various imported products. Candy bars, sodas, chips, and a few other things that come from the outside world. You can purchase them with job points, which you earn by working various jobs around the reservation. Each item in the case is worth one point. Chris, you won’t be able to earn job points until you’ve been here for a week. Taya, you’ve already been assigned thirty job points to accommodate for your stay with us, since we won’t be expecting you to take on any jobs. You earn one job point for every hour that you work, no matter which job you’re working on. A list of all available jobs has been provided in each of your rooms. Some jobs are obviously more sought after than others. For those jobs, people are rotated in and out based on their place in the pack hierarchy. For less favorable jobs, the ones that no one wants, pack members are sometimes force assigned jobs. Usually, forced assignment only happens to those who don’t typically take on jobs, so it pays to be an active worker in our community if you don’t want to spend your days mucking stables.” Emmett grinned, obviously thinking of some familiar incident that was lost on us.

  “So, not everyone has to work?” I questioned.

  He thought for a moment. “Well, not exactly. At some point or another, everyone works. If you want privileges and a better life, you work for it, the same as you would on the outside world. But if you’re fine with the basics, you can get away with not working until you get a forced assignment. You’ll still have a roof over your head and three square meals a day.”

  “And how are job points kept? I mean, how do they monitor that you’ve actually done the work?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, there are security cameras everywhere,” Emmett replied in a tone that was borderline mocking. I was liking his arrogance less and less. “We log our job points in at the various computer stations around the reservation. Then, someone in the compound reviews the video tapes to make sure that the job time logged is accurate. Like on the outside world, job points are held back a week so that they can be verified before they are paid out.”