Marked by the Alpha’s Blood

The tires crunched over the gravel road, the sound swallowed by the stillness of the woods. My headlights cut narrow paths through the skeletal trees, their branches bending like they were whispering secrets to each other.

The GPS had stopped working three miles back. That was fine. I knew this part of Fenceville well enough even though it was a remote area where people barely lived.

The cabin soon came into view, one window fogged from the inside. I cut the engine and sat for a moment, feeling the cold seep through the car’s frame.

I slipped my portable voice recorder from the passenger seat, thumbed it on, and tucked it deep inside my coat pocket- just in case. My hearing aid buzzed faintly as I adjusted it. I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose. Time to work.

Award-winning investigative journalist and truth bearer of Fenceville, that was what the papers called me but in reality, I knew the cost of all the fame and glamour. Endless nights chasing phantoms, weeks with no sleep, and a constant reminder that the people I was exposing had more power, more reach, and fewer morals than I could ever prepare for.

This tip had been different. No names. No meet-up in the city. Just one printed note left in my mailbox, the kind of thing you’d expect in a bad noir film: Cabin. Old logging road. Fenceville. Senator Crest isn’t who they think he is.

Crest was Fenceville’s golden politician. The man had built his campaign on family values, business growth, and charitable donations to children’s hospitals. The man whose voting record was as clean as bleached linen. But I knew the signs of a lie when I saw one, and this one reeked.

When I opened the door of my car, the night air gnawed at my cheeks. However, the cold wasn't so inbearable that I would turn back on this moment.

I kept my totebag close and pressed my palm against the lump inside. Taser, pepper spray. Both were intact.

I have learnt not to have illusions about my safety. People thought journalism was all about cozy coffee shops and interviews. But in a city like Fanceville, with its terrorists sitting pretty as lawmakers who can have your head delivered on a platter for asking too many questions, you gotta know how to defend yourself when necessary.

The snow had just started with its thin, hesitant flakes spiraling down. I made my way up the creaking porch steps. My knuckles tapped against the wooden door once, twice. No answer.

I waited for thirty seconds, just listening. The wind sighed through the trees.

I knocked again, louder. Still nothing. The cabin was dark, no flicker of light between the curtains.

I frowned and checked the back. No back door, just boarded-up siding around the rear. A single chimney, no smoke. If someone was here, they weren’t planning to be found.

I pulled my phone from my coat pocket. No signal. Perfect.

Maybe it had been a prank, another distraction to waste my time. God knows I had enough enemies who’d like to send me running through the woods for nothing.

As I turned to leave, that was when I saw it.

A corner of manila paper peeking out from beneath the dusty welcome mat.

I bent down, fingers brushing the frozen mat aside, and tugged it free. It was a thick file. On the front, in block letters was written: PROJECT V-12. Inside, a flash drive nestled among sheets of paper.

Jackpot.

I barely had time to flip the first page when a sound knifed through the night.

It sounded like a sharp whistle but it was too high and too precise. It cut straight through my hearing aid, the pitch so violent I dropped the file and clutched my ears.

The world went white for a moment. My balance tilted and I stumbled against the porch railing. The whistle echoed inside my skull, twisting into a deep, bone-humming ring that made my teeth ache.

When it finally stopped, I stood gasping, eyes darting through the clearing.

“Hello?” My voice sounded too loud in the silence.

The woods gave nothing back.

I took one step toward the treeline. My hand brushed the pepper spray in my tote. My breath condensed in front of me, a pale cloud in the cold air.

A shadow broke through the trees.

A man came out of nowhere, colliding into me so hard my glasses nearly flew off.

I staggered back, clutching the strap of my tote like a lifeline.

The man was maybe my age, tall, his black shirt torn down one side. Blood smeared across his temple, trailing down his cheek. His breathing was ragged and unstable.

His eyes were a deep, unnatural shade of amber, almost molten like that of the predators I watched in those wildlife documentaries.

“They’re coming,” he rasped, his voice low.

“You have to leave before they find me. You have to leave now.”

His knees buckled.

“Wait—” I reached for him, but he was already falling. His weight hit me like a collapsing wall. We went down hard onto the porch.

The heat of him bled through my coat despite the cold, his chest heaving. A faint metallic scent curled into my nose.

I shifted him off me, my fingers pressing to his neck. His pulse was fast, too fast.

“Hey. Hey look at me. It looks like you need help but first I need to know your name.” I said, shaking him slightly. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.

My fingers tightened around his body before I heard the sharp whistle again, it was louder and longer.

Whatever was out there was bigger than the Press.

Everything seemed too dangerous for my curiosity to indulge. I needed to get out of there...FAST.

But what was I supposed to do with this pale person?