I seek the primal rhythms of the bush

I preserve great moments as they come

And sure this must be one

Brightly colored dancers on the screen

Are no more than a prelude to the ritual unfolding

- Steely Dan

***

Caleb Byers steered the rented Jeep Compass up the steep, overgrown gravel path.

The track was clearly little used. It was covered with a thick layer of leaf litter, and only mottled slivers of the late afternoon sunlight seeped in through the dense latticework of overhanging tree cover. Every now and then a particularly low-hanging branch would scrape over the roof of the car.

The car's number plates were stacked in the glovebox. There was no way he could travel in these parts with Zirconian plates, that would be courting death, or at least serious injury. He had replaced them with some old Sunshine Beach plates he had bought cheap online.

Caleb looked at the dog-eared map laid out on the front passenger seat. As the contour lines on the map indicated, the road began to slope up sharply, heading towards a blind crest.

He would not have known about the track if it had not been for his contact back in Canterbury. Caleb had a sudden flashback to the interview, in the small, musty third-floor apartment, located in the Old Town district, filled with antique furniture and old newspaper clippings, smelling of mothballs, the noise and bustle of the street below filtering in through the iron-barred windows. His contact had been looking furtively over his shoulder every few seconds while he jotted down notes. Don't go further than the crest, he had said, his hands shaking. There are sentry posts just beyond there. If you go over the crest the guards will see you. And they won't hesitate to kill you.

Caleb took a quick glance at the rear-view mirror to check if the duffel bag on the back seat, containing his photography gear, had shifted. It hadn't.

There were plenty of paparazzi trying their luck in the Independent Territories, hoping to catch some half-decent shots of a hunky Alpha getting out of his Range Rover, and make a quick buck selling to the Zirconian tabloids, while simultaneously trying not to get caught by heavy-handed pack patrols. Most of them headed for the Sunshine Beach Pack, the most open and neutral of the Independent Packs, and also the wealthiest. Few ever ventured out to the less well-known packs, and none had ever dared to cover the Thunder Falls Pack, one of the most secretive and feared. Until now.

He parked on the side of the road and got out of the car. He retrieved the duffel bag from the back seat.

Caleb took a short moment to catch his breath and take a quick look around. The woods were silent. Even though his contact had sworn that that this part of the woods was not patrolled, he could not shake the faint feeling in the back of his mind that he was being watched.

He started through the forest. The steeply sloped ground was coated in a thick layer of fallen pine needles, a suppliant surface which muted the impact of his footfalls. The sun was already beginning to set. He needed to be quick, and hopefully get back to the car before nightfall.

As he approached the top of the slope, the faint sound of cascading water cut through and gradually intensified with every one of his forward steps. Caleb felt his heartrate pick up. He was getting close.

A few steps ahead, the sides of the hill dropped away, and the valley of the Arrowhead River lay below, framed by forest on all sides, and in the distance, shrouded slightly by haze, snow-capped peaks.

He took a moment to drink in the view. The falls lay in all their grandeur in front of him, fifty metres of sheer drop, a white roaring, frothing curtain majestically crashing into the deep chasm below, clouds of vapour rising into the air. Just beyond the falls, on the opposite side of the swiftly flowing waters of the river, was the main settlement of the Thunder Falls Pack.

Scanning the tableau before him, Caleb breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the sentry post and the border fence near the bottom of the valley, almost on the bank of the river. He relaxed a little, knowing there was little chance that they could see him. He was safe.

He knelt down and unzipped the duffel bag, pulling out a camera and a tripod. He also produced a telephoto lens, which he carefully attached to the camera.

He set up the tripod, pressed his eye to the viewfinder and zoomed in.

The town lay before his eyes in high definition, an almost surreal sight. Caleb breathed in, the snippets of information about the Thunder Falls Pack which had so intrigued him in his childhood flooding back into his consciousness. A grainy black and white photo of a crashed airplane, dated 12 April 1982. A postcard of the Thunder Falls. A brief news bulletin about a massacre in the Highlands. Hushed whispers between adults at the dinner table of bodies washing up downstream.

The main thoroughfares were wide and paved with concrete. Many of the side streets and laneways were gravel or dirt. There were few pedestrians to be seen, and even fewer cars. Most of the houses were simple wooden tar-paper shacks, with a few weathered concrete apartment blocks dotted here and there.

Click. Click. Click.

The Alpha residence stood squarely in the middle of town, fenced off from the rest of the pack, a squat Corinthian-pillar-clad monolith of white marble rising two storeys into the air. From his vantage point up in the hills, Caleb could also see a swimming pool, and a sizeable fleet of cars. Outside the wall which surrounded the compound, guards stood sentry at the main gate.

Click. Click. Click. Click. He felt a rush of excitement as he imagined the photo – his photo - on the third page of the Daily Howl. And above that, a headline: Forbidden Photos Reveal Daily Life In The Secretive Thunder Falls Pack.

Soon, he told himself. Soon.

Caleb turned his attention elsewhere. His noticed a marketplace at the centre of the town, a hive of activity, shoppers haggling, piles of vibrantly coloured fruits and vegetables on display.

Click. Click. Click.

A traffic warden, standing on a raised platform in the middle of an intersection, directing traffic, resplendent in her uniform.

Click.

On the outskirts, an old farm truck was heading into town, carrying workers crammed into its bed.

Click. Click.

His eye was suddenly drawn to a group of vehicles making its way out of the settlement, heading in his direction, towards the waterfall, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them. There was a midnight-blue limousine and a black sedan, both sinister looking, pink-orange shades of the setting sun glinting off immaculately polished bodywork. Both cars bore single-digit number plates.

The cars pulled up on a rocky ledge overlooking the falls. He immediately recognised the bespectacled figure who emerged from the limousine, dressed sharply in a tan suit and cigar-brown loafers.

Click. Click. Click.

Caleb zoomed in a little further, so close that he could read the chrome lettering on the trunklids of the cars. Not that this meant anything to him. He'd never been a car person. Something his father had always been a bit miffed by.

Men in black suits got out of the cars. A small voice in his head told him it was probably not wise to take photos now. One of them opened the right-hand-side rear door of the black sedan. A dishevelled figure tumbled out, into the foetal position, on the ground.

Caleb felt bile rise up from his stomach. The man had visible bruises across his face and on his bare arms. He was clothed in the remains of what appeared to have once been an expensive jacket, and his hair was visibly matted.

He watched in horror as the black suits dragged the figure across to the ledge and tossed him over. The man with the cigar stood at a distance, leaning on the limousine, watching intently, the expression on his face undecipherable.

The figure tumbled down, limbs flailing, and disappeared into the churning maelstrom at the bottom of the cascade, the impact drowned out by the roar of the churning water.

As the cars drove away, Caleb found himself suppressing the urge to throw up. Dusk was falling, and a chill had descended across the woods. He needed to get out of here. Fast.

He stuffed the camera and lens back into the duffel bag. As he was doing so he went through the plan in his mind. High-tail it back to the Special Industrial Zone. Change number plates. Cross the border. Drop the car off at the rental agency in White City. Night train to Canterbury.

None of his friends or colleagues knew he was here. Officially he was doing a shoot at a solar panel factory in the Special Industrial Zone, or something like that. If something went wrong, he'd have to sort it out himself.

The stars were coming out, a rarity in the light-polluted environs of Canterbury, as Caleb headed downhill, as quickly as he dared. Underfoot, the pine needles cushioned his steps but made it difficult to grip, and Caleb found himself using every ounce of his strength in order not to slip or fall.

Some distance away to his left, a twig snapped.

Caleb froze, heart pounding, staring in the direction of the noise. Nothing but shadows. It could have been some kind of small animal, he told himself. But this was wolf country, up here in the Highlands. Few animals were brave enough to roam these parts at night.

He felt himself become acutely aware of every tiny movement, every miniscule change in tone in the faint background noise of the night. He felt the primal urge stir within him. His wolf, as his grandfather had called it. His psychiatrist had prescribed him pills for it. Twice a day, once at breakfast and once at midday.

Suddenly Caleb came to the realisation that he hadn't taken his pills, and that the pill bottle was still at home back in Canterbury, sitting on his bedside table. But there was no time for worrying about things like that right now. He could see the outline of the Jeep through the trees, glinting in the moonlight. He was getting close.

A scraping noise, this time closer, much closer.

Caleb stopped in his tracks. It could just be his mind playing tricks on him – He had been awake since six o'clock that morning.

Then he saw it.

There, to the left, behind some fallen branches. A pair of glowing eyes, unmistakeably humanoid in form, but in a yellow hue no human pupil possessed.

Caleb ran. He had seen enough in his two years of compulsory service in the Zirconia Defense Force to know that staying to fight was not an option, and that any hesitation would have fatal consequences. There was still a slim chance he might make it back to the car.

He felt something snap inside him, something which had not been triggered for years, suppressed by prescription pharmaceuticals and unspoken Zirconian social norms. He felt himself let go of the duffel bag, felt his limbs elongate, his entire body contorting into a quadrupedal position mid-stride, his skin darkening and taking on a suede-like texture. He was shifting. It was painful, but at the same time a strangely liberating feeling, and also oddly distant.

His brief reverie was interrupted by a deep growl from behind as the werewolf pounced, knocking him forwards onto his knees, in mid-shift. Caleb's vocal cords, stuck halfway between beast and human, let out a peculiar scream-whimper. This stopped abruptly as the beast wrapped its jaws firmly around the small of his neck and shook him like a child's security blanket, snapping his neck, killing him instantly.