The tarmac quickly turned into dust and stones as we drove further away from the main road.

The sheer flatness of the dry earth plains that surrounded us felt almost surreal, especially for someone who had spent most of his life in the rather parochial surrounds of a pack village deep in the forest. In the distance, the barbed wire of the border fence gleamed in the sun.

The first thing we saw were the huge piles of rubbish in the distance, a line of garbage trucks patiently waiting to add their share. Figures in filthy clothes stood at the top of the smoking pile, picking out anything that might be of value.

A short distance later, a large hand-painted sign hung from the telephone poles welcomed us to Copenhagen Town, named after an impromptu remark by Alpha Cameron about the number of bicycles in the Industrial Zone, long ago back when he was OPLU chairman.

Little houses, each contained in a dusty plot of land, sprung up along the road road in neat rows. Some of the houses were well-kept, with brick walls and tiled rooves. Others were just lean-tos of corrugated tin and scrap wood. The occasional intersection with a street revealed an expansive patchwork of shacks stretching into the distance. It hadn't rained for some time, and a haze of dust hung in the air, coating everything in a matte sheen of rust-red.

We could definitely see the similarity with the Danish capital as we drove deeper into the town. Most of the traffic around us consisted almost exclusively of bicycles of every size and description, from secondhand mountain bikes donated from Zirconia to rusty old cargo tricycles, their beds loaded to the brim with refuse of all kinds. There was the occasional car, and several water trucks. Almost every house appeared to have a bicycle of some type parked against it. Our dusty old pickup blended perfectly into the traffic.

People were everywhere. People on bicycles, people pushing wooden carts, children in wolf form playing in the trash piles by the side of the street, their pelts dusty and matted. People sitting on the steps of their houses playing cards. I was struck by how many of them seemed to be in wolf form.

We drew up at a modest building with whitewashed walls behind a steel fence, looking quite extravagant for the area. The iron gates were wide open, and children were playing in the courtyard.

Herman was unloading crates of groceries from a Toyota pickup almost identical to ours. The children had stopped dead in their tracks.

He had aged quite a lot from when I had last saw him. there were a lot of wrinkles on his forehead I'd never seen before. And the pepper-and-salt hair he had sported when I had seen him last had long faded completely to white. but the beard was still the same, and the ___ eyes still shone with the same intensity.

"Uncle Herman!"

"Little Anna!" They embraced warmly.

"I rang and begged the dealership to give you another chance. They said they nee you first thing tomorrow."

He looked in surprise at the two of us behind. "Jim. Mike. What are you two doing here?"

"We thought we'd drop by." I watched as he unloaded a cardboard crate of bread, clearly struggling but trying to conceal it as well as possible. "Need a hand?"

"I'm getting on in years, but I'm alright." He sized us up. "You guys look a bit red, the both of you."

"Roncalli had a bit of a meltdown on 97.3 FM."

"No shit Sherlock, humans are the worst," Herman mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "What a legend. Come on in."

The children playing in the yard were still staring at us warily, me in particular. Herman's ease soothed them though, and they soon returned to their games.

Watching his shuffling gait as he led us inside, it was hard to believe that Herman had been at one time one of the most feared and ruthless assassins in the land.

***

Herman had turned up out of the blue one day at the main Interpack depot, asking for janitor job we had advertised a few days prior in the newspapers.

I had sat in at the interview. From the get-go it was clear that he was no ordinary rogue. But he wouldn't divulge his identity. It had taken several months before he finally confided in me, late at night in the workshops.

Herman was probably not his real name, and indeed, in the rumours I had heard of him, he had always been referred to simply as The Hunter. Nobody had known what his name was, or what pack he belonged to. All we knew was that he could be hired to kill anyone for the right price, and all you had to do was send a letter to a certain address.

One of his last jobs, as he had confided in me years later, had been a hit on a journalist living in Zirconia who was writing an expose on extrajudicial violence and indentured labour in the Sunshine Beach Pack. All his sources had said that the guy was alone, but after he had broken into the house, eliminated his target in his study room and made to leave, he had been assailed by the sound of screaming, and found the journalist's son, wide-eyed at the sight of a strange man over the lifeless body of his father.

He had panicked and smothered the child with his bare hands. He had regretted the decision for every day thereafter.

He had evaded the border guards and returned to his home pack safely, and he had been paid handsomely, but slowly he had begun to doubt himself, and his past actions came back to haunt him. He was a wanted man by the Zirconian authorities. They were closing in on him, and he was worried his pack would suffer if they came to get him, as they knew nothing of his crimes.

He had left his pack very suddenly one day, taking off with a small sum from the pack account. The pack had searched high and low for him, but he had covered his tracks well, and they had never truly discovered where he'd gone. He had travelled as a rogue for several years, lying low, living under assumed identities, picking up odd jobs to support himself, even crossing into Zirconia on the odd occasion in search of work.

He had never been a very good janitor. We had parted on good terms, and he had settled here in Copenhagen Town, where he ran a vegetable garden and adjoining soup kitchen. I still kept contact with him periodically.

***

We entered Herman's modest living quarters behind the soup kitchen, hidden behind some beads hung were where there should be a door. There were some tired-looking sofas, probably salvaged from somewhere, arranged around an equally jaded coffee table. As always, tea and biscuits were in plentiful supply.

Once all of us were comfortably seated, Herman sat down as well. "Well. How did you three wind up together? What in the name of Monagh happened?"

"Kaden happened." I gave a quick rundown what he'd done.

Herman shook his head. "That kid needs a good kick up the arse. Several, maybe."

"He's not a bad fighter. I've seen him in action. He's a natural. If only he could translate that talent into pack leadership."

"If only his old man was around." Herman downed his cup. "He'd kick him into shape in no time."

I sipped at the hot tea. "If only."

Despite his age, Herman seemed perfectly sprightly. "Well, let's go around for a tour."

"We can go to my house. Granpa doesn't like pack wolves very much. But hopefully he'll understand that you guys aren't like that."

"We can just have a quick look around and leave."

"I'll convince him."

"We don't have to go."

"I insist. It's only courtesy, considering what you've done for me." She looked at me. I gave in. 

I turned to Herman. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"It's perfectly safe." Herman led us through the back door, out into the expansive communal garden that the house backed onto. "They said we couldn't farm here. No water, very shallow soil. Now look at it! A bit of elbow grease, and now Groundnut Hill can't touch our productivity."

Workers were crouched in the fields, weeding and attending to the plants. "Before they'd just hang around doing nothing. Now they've got something to do."

We left the garden and entered the maze of well-trodden dirt paths, skirting around piles of garbage and pools of fetid water that looked as if they could stand on their own. The stench of sewage hung heavily in the air.

The smell intensified as we crossed a wooden plank bridge over an open sewer, the rubbish-choked water barely flowing. There was a strangely familiar undertone to the smell.

Anna didn't seem to be fazed by the odour at all. "You get used to it after a while," she explained.

I had absolutely no idea where we were now. The sameness of the windblown landscape with its neverending arrays of little houses, and the pervading odour were not helping my sense of direction. Herman and Anna, though, seemed to be completely at home here, expertly weaving through the endless grid of dirt streets.

We watched as a sales lady pushed a cart along the bumpy road, filled with Thunder Falls Foods candy, biscuits and soft drinks, in bright, almost garish packaging. I noticed some job recruitment posters pasted to the sides of the car, and more advertisements for

Herman looked at the food cart disdainfully as it rattled away. "All people eat around here is junk. I try to feed them some real food, teach them to grow stuff, but as far as I can tell, it's a losing battle."

"Don't they sell fruit?"

The Thunder Falls Pack had made its fortune from its pack orchards, employing an enormous army of direct sellers that travelled across. They came now and then to our pack, looking for sales. I didn't really have a problem with them. But the pack guards usually shooed them away.

"Oh, they sell fruit around here as well. They're generous enough to donate their leftovers to me. But it's the junky stuff with that everyone wants." Herman poked at an empty candy packet trampled into the dirt ground with the toe of his boot. There were some more in a dusty pile at the side of the road, and some empty soda cans. Most of them seemed to be Thunder Falls brand.

I peered at the wrapper. A face with ample jowls, horn-rimmed glasses, and a radiant smile beamed out from the billboard, holding an identical packet of fruit jellies, Droste-style.

Thunder Falls Fresh - Fortified with Vitamin E and Niacin, the wrapper read.

"Really? Fortified with Vitamin E?"

"Rumour has it that their orange soda glows in the dark." Herman led us into a small alley between two plots of land. The streets were getting narrower in this part of town, and the houses smaller and closer together.

I skirted a puddle. "I heard they took over Pine Hollow's fiction branch."

"They took over a majority stake of West Cliff Mills as well. They're too proud to admit it but they've been struggling with competition from overseas imports for a long time. Word on the street tells me they're looking for a transport company of some kind as well to take over.

"It's all part of their plan. First they hook them with the junk food. Then they tell people they have jobs lined up for them. Well paying jobs, with free healthcare and good conditions. And they can't refuse. And they never come back."

"They never come back?" I didn't know exactly why, but I felt a chill run down my spine.

"Some of them return to sell here, but a lot of others never return. Nobody knows for sure what happens after they leave." Herman waved at a small child peering at us from a dark doorway. "Maybe they're so satisfied with their new lives they forget about their families."

I noticed that quite a few of the houses we were passing were empty, their windows boarded up. "And nobody questions this?"

Herman shrugged. "Why should they? We may be rogues, but most of us here in Copenhagen have roots in the packs. Many of us had bad experiences, and many of us know we can never return, but we're still pack wolves at heart. What we want more than anything is someone to come and tell us that the past has been forgiven and that we can get back to being part of a big, happy pack. To a lot of people, Thunder Falls' presence is the closest thing they have to that."

"The other settlements have been a lot more hostile, as most of them never belonged to any pack. I heard they got run out of East Side."

He pointed to the large concrete husk of a building slowly taking shape to our left, its substantial height casting a shadow over the neighbouring houses. "I'm not the biggest fan of those Thunder Falls people, but as I said, they donate their old food to me, and they hold their promises. I heard a rumour that they found out the community leaders were holding their meetings in a vacant lot, so they were going to build a meeting hall for them. I thought it was just a proposal.

"The next day we woke up to the sight of this. It went up overnight! Overnight! If it was down to you guys it would have taken until the humans invaded. If I had a dollar for every time I've heard of some grand OPLU project that didn't come through, I'd be living in a mansion on the other side of the river by now. With an indoor pool and frescoed ceilings and a garage bigger than the actual house."

"I imagine Brian would be utterly horrified. And rightfully."

"How's he doing?"

"Pretty well. I don't think he ever anticipated he would become Beta of the pack, but he's coping. He's leading his first joint pack training exercise today."

"With the Rock River pack?"

"Stone River pack."

Herman shook his head. "Even an old hand like me gets things mixed up. Too many packs spoiling the broth."

"At Colditz?"

How did he know about Colditz?

I didn't skip a beat. "Yes. That's the place."

"I wish I had a actual training ground in my day. My old Alpha had this insane idea that we'd train in a gym like humans. We'd have sparring lessons, like wolves fight like that in real life. Like Virgin Active crossed with a medieval training ground on steroids.

"Anyway. Good luck. What's the plan?"

"We attack while the Stone River guys try to defend Colditz. Then we reverse roles and start again."

Herman only nodded in response.

We passed a bicycle repair shop, the only substantial dwelling for some distance. Rusty old bicycles lay everywhere. An old she-wolf was washing clothes in a bucket next to a standpipe, where people were queuing for water. They too glowered at us with suspicious gazes.

I looked at another group of wolves, staring at us inquisitively from the safety of the dark doorway of their house, itself contained behind a rusty wire fence . "Is everyone in wolf form?"

"It's easier on the food budget." She stated. "It also helps with the heating bills in winter."

A block away from us, a pile of rubbish was burning, a cloud of acrid black smoke billowing upwards, disspating into the blue sky.

The other two had gone ahead, and it was just

"How's Evan?" The question came out of the blue.

"He's doing well at university." I replied, somewhat more defensively than I'd wanted.

Herman's expression told me he didn't buy it. "He flunked?"

"No."

"He dropped out."

I didn't answer.

"Well. The Zirconian Dream is still alive and well." Herman remarked dryly. "He can still make something of himself regardless."

Sometimes I wondered how Herman managed to know so much. But I had long gotten used to it.

We drew up at a fence of old beer bottles which had been upended into the earth. The wooden house was evidently weathered, but still looked fairly sound.

We walked up the door, which hung crookedly on rusted hinges.

"Granpa!" she called out.

"Where have yer been?" A gruff voice rang out from behind the door. "I've been looking for you."

He regarded us with a wary eye.

"It was you! You kidnapped her!"

"I did no such thing," I replied, staring him in the eye with a steady gaze.

Anna stepped between us. "Granpa. Stop. He's a good person."

"The only good alpha is a dead alpha." He retorted.

The two disappeard into the house. She closed the door behind her as she went in. I heard raised voices. In my peripheral vision, curtains were being moved in the windows of the houses around us.

She popped her head out some time later. "He says you guys can come in."

We stepped inside. I had to stoop to clear the ceiling, from which a naked bulb hung. It was only early in the day, but the temperature inside the cramped interior of the house was already oppressively hot.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark room, I could see that the interior of the shack was sparsely furnished, but neat and well-kept. Floral curtains hung over the grimy windows. A stove sat in one corner. A table and some faded plastic chairs stood in another. To the left, the end of the dwelling was partitioned off with some salvaged fibreboard sheets, creating a rudimentary bedroom. A door stood ajar, revealing darkness beyond.

We sat down at different ends of the old formica table. Herman found a seat on the left-hand side of the table, while Anna went to fix some tea and biscuits.

For what seemed like an eternity, nobody spoke. Granpa and I just stared awkwardly at the worn surface of the table, two heads of households, unable to meet each others' gaze.

We stared. And stared.

I turned my head around and looked at the grimy photos on the walls. Many of them seemed to have been taken in a woodland setting. "You weren't born a rogue."

There was longing in the old rogue's eyes, a spark of something long dormant. "I was Groundnut Hill pack, the best pack of them all! I had the best memories of my life there! I was an omega, and it was hard work doing jobs around the pack, but it was steady work, and I was proud of it."

I peered at the closest picture, one of a group of people outside the pack house. It was dated March 1978. "That's some beautiful forest."

"By the Pine Creek. It was a beautiful place. Pristine forests, clear water, clear air. Still is."

He continued, a note of anger creeping into his voice. "The Alpha's son messed up. I was the fall guy. I was told I was banished for life and I had an hour before my family was run out of the pack." tears welled up in his eyes. "Just like that! Tossed away like a piece of old trash, thrown out with nothing but the clothes on my back, with a mate and a newborn baby to look after. Never to return. " His voice grew increasingly strident.

Next to me, she was looking increasingly anxious. "Granpa-"

"He took everything away from me! The bastard! And he's still walking out there, scot-free, and nobody can touch him, while I rot here! And now they've taken my children away. My Mara and her husband, off to Monagh knows where. And now I only have my granddaughter, bless her."

"I'm sorry for your-"

He stared me in the eye, his bearded face a rictus of unbridled rage, his sunken eyes flecked with orange. "Don't tell me you're sorry! You fucking alpha mutts! You bastards are all the same deep down! You're all the same! You'll never change! You'll never change!"

He launched himself at me with surprising strength. It was only the quick thinking of his granddaughter that prevented him from sinking his nails into me, as she frantically tried to force him back into his seat, "Granpa! No! Calm down! Please! He's not one of them! Please!"

"Nonsense! Utter nonsense! They're all the same, the lot of them! They can rot in hell!"

"I think we need to leave." Herman stood up calmly, pushing his chair in.

I watched helplessly as Anna wrestled with her own grandfather, the heat of the room becoming increasingly oppressive with each passing second. "Shouldn't we stay here and help her?"

"She can deal with it," Herman stated curtly, ushering Mike and I out of the door and into the harsh sunlight. His grip on my shoulder was firm.

The sunlight was blinding. All around us, people had emerged from their homes to see for themselves the source of the commotion.

Herman marched us through the narrow streets, shielding us from the prying eyes that bored into us from every window. The atmosphere had appreciably changed. He marched us all the way back to our truck, forcing us to get in. "I'm sorry. But you guys really need to get the hell outta here."

I sighed. "We understand. It was a mistake. We should have just dropped her off and left from here."

"It's not your fault. You couldn't have known it was going to set him off." He hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice slightly. "If I were you, I'd take a different route out."

"We will."

"Have a safe journey." Herman headed back to the house.