The Border

Well. The final stage of the Chechnya Operation.
Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, Who also holds the copyright.

Conciousness returns again. Aided, no doubt, by the state of the road we are driving on. And also by Vixen shaking me, slightly. "Gorm. Wake Up." She bellows at me, shaking me again. Growling slightly. My eyes snap open. And my vision explodes in spots. And the pounding in my head intensifies. As does the ache all over my body. "Stand Up" She orders, helping me to do so. "We need to get these on you." She waves something vaguely fabricy looking in my direction. And slowly, stumblingly, with repeated instructions, gets the jeans she was waving on me. "Urgh.... Where ah..." more than that is too much. My stomach burns, with pain, with hunger, and with nausea. Not good. I think the last time I felt this dead was... Nope, not coming to me. She understood what I meant though. "We're coming up to the Georgian border. Now, they'll let us through armed, no problem. We still have enough money for bribes... But they may draw a line were you and Naked Girl unclothed." My mind ran in circles... Naked Girl? Who was Naked Girl? Vixen must have noticed my confusion, and pointed down. And there, lying curled up on the floor of the truck, was a naked girl.
And then I remember. She'd been part of the ambush. The bait if you will. They'd known no dominant Wolf, of which I am one, could tolerate the scent of a less dominant wolf under the knife. And you couldn't possibly find a less dominant wolf than the early teenaged girl whose wolf hadn't even manifested yet, who at this very minute is lying at my feet. But no, the scent of her fear and pain and humiliation had driven me into a killing rage. And it had got almost half of our force slain, and the rest shot to pieces. Which is about to make itself felt. As my legs give way. Vixen catches me, and eases me down onto the bench. And then sets me down so that I be lying on it. She and Tyrone rapidly put a set of clothes on the poor lass. Jeans and a loose shirt. As they do, Tyrone explains where we got them. "Och, no tae worry, lad." I tried to laugh at that. He can't be much older than I am, if at all. Of course, the laughter hurt, and segued into a coughing fit. Which hurt more. "Tey'res a passle o' Peasants be needing new trooser's. An' a new shirt. But tat's neit'er here nor tey're." His accent's not normally that thick. Indeed, more oft than not, you'd never ken he had one. But when he's trying to keep ones mind off things, he tends to thicken it, for comedic value. As soon as she be dressed, they lay her down, seated against the bench, her head next to my hand. Vixen settles down in the corner between Hugin and the bench, resting her head next to mine.
After a time, the truck slows, and stops. A few men in uniform come round the back, and have a look. They see nothing of interest, Tyrone having covered the Gryffons with the canvas tarp that normally covered the truck itself. And they had been paid off by the Sidhe who were driving it seemed. Their commander barks an order, and they wave us on through the checkpoint. Safe. At Last. We Hope. The drive to T'blisi is calmer, the roads getting better as we continue, and we get diverted to a Georgian Military base. A Valkyrien Personnel Transport is waiting to fly us back to the States, where HQ is. And, wonder of wonders, they have medical personnel. YAY!
Sadly, 'Tis to late to remove the bullets from my flesh without major surgery. They will need to fester out. On the other hand, We are all, those who survive, being giving medical leave to recuperate. I have those I consider to be close as kin. A boy called Michael, and his bride, Sara, Who dwell on a lake on a plateau in the mountains. Vixen promised to take me there as soon as we heard of our leave. If the Medic's grant her leave to come, it is likely that Naked Girl, who with any luck will regain conciousness so we can learn her name, will accompany us.