23

You return from the memory with a sharp shiver, a bitter wind rising up through the alley beside your perch. The wind brings with it the ripe scent of decay as bags of rubbish and waste slowly rot, tucked away in far corners and heaped within the confines of uninhabitable buildings.

The elders have often referred to Haven as the rotting corpse of a city, and now it smells the part. You can't be sure, but the last time the sanitation crew swept through the streets has to have been weeks ago; every adult wolf is now forced into one step of production or another, cogs in the gears of the human machine.

At first the Builders, wolves of manufacturing and metal, were grateful for the extra help in their labors, but as egos clashed and the wolves of the Alpha Assembly slowly accustomed themselves to working with their hands, production of the humans' goods barely peaked over the old standard.

It's whispered that the consolidation of the pack's workforce actually has less to do with productivity and more to do with control and cataloguing the location of each adult at all times. The days are for working, and the nights strictly for recovering for the next day's work.

Despite the military's curfew, the pack's youth chafed at being confined indoors during the late evening, and many risked reprisal by sneaking out to secret gatherings. There was a certain thrill to skulking about beneath the military's proverbial nose, and it almost felt like a game until one of your classmates was caught trying to steal a soldier's dagger.

The boy was rushed to the pack's doctor after being shot twice in the chest. The elders said he might never recover. The games stopped after that; reality finally sank in. The meetings continue, but there is a solemn quality to them now, absent the muffled laughter and merriment of the earlier gatherings.

Like most of your friends, you couldn't stay cooped up in your apartment for long, and soon you were breaking curfew with the rest of them. Who do you spend most of your time with during these secretive nights out?

"It all fell apart so quickly, you know?"

Dena's face is dark, backlit by the dim light of the moon, the edge of her cheek framed by light refracting from the water. The night is quiet and still around you; the pacification squads rarely roam as far as the coastline, and you've found this old abandoned quay to be a safe place to find respite from the humans. How many times have you met Dena here, searching for answers to a question neither of you can put a finger on? It can't have been more than a month, but it feels like a lifetime ago when you were blissfully ignorant pups starting out on an adventure to the Forbidden Zone.

You frown. "I don't know," you say, "maybe it was always like this, only now life's being more honest about it."

Dena sighs. "But there were good times. It wasn't all bleak and hopeless like it is now."

That's not true, Elizar Evenwood. Everything's changed."

You put your hand on her shoulder and look her in the eyes. "No. It's only our perception that's changed. We proved our old world to be a lie the day we crossed that bridge and found out the truth for ourselves. We can't bottle that back up and forget it exists. We need to deal with it, or it will kill us."

Dena looks down at the wood of the quay as a salty spray laps at the slowly rotting timbers. "So what can we actually do? We don't have the numbers, and we don't have the weapons to fight them off. We're stuck here. At least when we had the illusion of safety, I was happy."

"Now, see," Dena says, brightening up, "that's exactly what I was thinking, too! We know that there are activists outside the walls. Remember last year when that human girl slipped through a small crack in the wall and tried to sneak us out?"

"Yeah. Too bad she broke in on the eastern end. Walked right into the military base."

Dena nods. "Well, that's true, but it proves that if we put an effort in, we can at least get a message to the other side. I wonder if the humans who want to help us are still out there…." Dena falls quiet as the two of you look out over the moonlit water in silence, drawing strength from each other's company. It's a peaceful night. One of the last you'll be able to enjoy for a long time. She snuggles against you and tilts her head up, looking into your eyes.

"This may be the last chance we have to be alone for a while," she says softly. "You know I've always cared about you, Elizar Evenwood, and these nights out on the quay have meant the world to me. It doesn't have to end with us going separate ways…." The look in Dena's eyes shifts from gentle to smoldering. "Stay with me, here where no one can find us." She reaches a hand up and strokes your chin. "I want you."

You retreat from the lapping waves of the quay, hand in hand with Dena. You find a comfortable patch where the grass has overtaken the ruins of Haven's shoreline. There in the moonlight, you share an evening of intimacy, reveling not only in the tantalizing pleasures of the flesh but in a melding of emotional bliss only made possible through deep affection.

Afterward, you lie on your backs, staring up at the stars, lost in a sudden new world of thoughts and feelings. Dena rolls to her side and wraps an arm around you.

"Thank you," she whispers so softly that her words almost get lost even in the quiet of the night. "We were looking for proof that there's something good left in our world. I think we may have found it."

You fall into each other's arms again, and soon her words turn to moans of pleasure, interweaving with the sound of the waves as night slowly turns to day.

The Memories Fade

The ripe scent of too many wolves in too-tight quarters wafts up the stairwell leading from the roof to the meeting hall below along with the rise and fall of muted debate. Raised whispers clash like padded hammerblows as each wolf tries to be heard over the general din without shouting loudly enough to attract the attention of the pacification squads roaming outside.

Organizing is now seen as a criminal offense by the powers that be, and if this meeting is discovered, painful examples will be made to discourage potential repeat offenders.

You reach the bottom of the stairs, and your attention is immediately drawn to a long dinner table, atop which both Elder Ahote and Haken stand. They face the packed crowd of wolves around them as they implore the public and exchange jibes with each other. A soft murmur passes through the crowd as Haken jumps down to the floor, causing a group of smaller wolves to scatter or be crushed by his great weight.

"I stand here among our people, Ahote, not preaching from a platform, not looking down on the assembled wolves as though I know what's better for them. What do the humans care for peaceful protest? Have you forgotten what landed us in this glorified prison?" Haken spreads his arms wide in appeal as his eyes search the crowd for support. "Did the humans care for our protestations when they slaughtered our men, women, and children during the Purge? When they created the technology that tracked and corralled us in here like dogs? Even if we wanted to escape, they'd know the second we passed the wall! Slaves don't get to protest. They revolt!"

"How quickly you forget," barks Ahote in a gravelly voice disused to speaking publicly at length. "Where would we be without organization and protest?"

Haken stares murder at the old wolf.

"We live," Ahote says with a grand sweeping gesture taking in the entirety of the room, "because several groups of humans banded together with a singular purpose—protesting their government, their military, to put an end to the genocide of our species. We would do well to learn from their example, Haken."

The crowd explodes in clashing cries of cheers and boos, and you feel compelled to join the chorus.