4: Jack - In The Pack
Published by Mojocastle Press, LLC
Price, Utah
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
4: Jack
In The Pack
ISBN: 1-60180-050-9
Copyright
ã
2008
Carys Weldon
Cover Art Copyright @ 2008
Scott Carpenter
All rights reserved.
Excluding legitimate review sites and review publications, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Also By Carys Weldon
The Pack Series
Dedication:
4: Jack
In The Pack
Introduction
By Jack
The big problem with society is narrow-mindedness. We get something in our heads, think it’s the God’s honest truth, and we refuse to see what’s right in front of our faces.
All I can say is...
wake up
.
Kansas ain’t like it used to be. Neither is Philly, L.A., Toronto...or Bangladesh, for that matter.
And maybe you should do what I’ve been doing. Scanning old movies, newsreels, and paper archives. Some of those whacked out stories, the strange fiction ones, aren’t sounding too far out there now.
Not now...that I’ve been bitten.
I used to consider myself a realist, a straight shooting, up the middle kind of guy. An overachiever with one personal dream...to win the world. A tri-athlete Olympian with an eye single to the glory of my country.
People said I was good-natured, even-tempered, focused. I don’t think that’s changed all that much, all things considered. But I am considering all things differently now. Looking at the world with a new eye. And that ain’t shitting ya.
I see movies about demons, monsters, werewolves, and I think...little truths in all of them. I watch animal behavior documentaries with intensity, learning hunting strategy, the way other animals think.
And I think, holy shit, it’s a wonder there’s any humans left.
Did I say wake up?
There
is
an underworld on this planet, and yeah, it smacks big time of the Mafioso crap you’ve seen on T.V., but it ain’t that easy. And it ain’t anything you’d call normal.
But there’s been a million signs pointing you to the truth. Wide-scale, unexplained, heinous murder scenes. You see it on the world news, every day. Bio-warfare. You know that’s happening. Genetic experimentation. Hello. Cloning. Stem cell research. Hitler rising and falling.
It’s all moving us toward one end: world domination.
Remember the movie where Lon Chaney plays the werewolf and all the villagers hunt him down? Remember how all those old horror flicks leave you thinking that maybe, just maybe, the beast got away or left another for the sequel? Yeah. All I’m saying is it’s too late to get your guns, your shovels, your axes. You better start opening your eyes and asking yourself, what’s the best way to get along?
I say, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
I know that’s cliché. But one day you face a demon in the dark, beg for your own death, and wake up to find you are everything you never believed in. Then look around. See all the victims waiting to happen. See if you don’t change your vision of the world, and what’s important.
Work through your thoughts that isolation may be a good thing. There is a New World Order forming, and I’m telling you, it’s sink or swim. Hunt or be hunted.
I, for one, choose to be on the top of the food chain, not on somebody’s menu.
Prologue
The concrete courtyard of Lobos International is something to see. The wolf logo is imprinted on brass placards all over the place. Bronze statues have been placed strategically among the trees, which rise up out of holes in the concrete to shade the place and give the illusion of a forest filled with wolves.
At the edges to the courtyard, the wolves look like dogs, lying quietly. Their tongues loll out of open, laughing mouths. Some are even rolled over, so you could lean down and pet their bellies if you wanted to. Many children do that, when they come to Wolf Wonderland--as it’s been billed.
I thought, amazing. Amazing how much money they put into the sterile park.
Fantastic. Fantastic stretch of the imagination.
In the center is a magnificent fountain, wolves dancing, water spraying from their mouths and genitalia. When I first saw it, I thought, Jeez. Wow. Fucking cool.
I didn’t have a lot of time to contemplate it then. I had an appointment inside. So, dressed in my best three-piece suit, crisply starched from the cleaners, I snugged my tie, checked that my shirt was fully tucked in and stepped through the rotating door of one of the biggest buildings I’d ever been in. At least, it felt like it was.
Very open.
Personnel at Lobos are a little claustrophobic, I’ve learned. The elevators are huge, biggest available. Lots of plants. And like outside, trees literally come out of the floor. One of the Lobos’ building’s claims to fame is the fact that it’s environmentally friendly. Got a lot of Greenpeacers in their pocket--all over the world.
The whole bottom floor of Lobos is a museum-like nature exhibit. Lobos has a high profile, family friendly reputation.
It’s all a crock.
Like any business, they created an image that works for the general public.
Wait. I need to amend that. Lobos is very ‘family’ oriented. But, they’ve got their own definition of family. You’ll find it in Webster’s under ‘pack’. You’ll find it in Encyclopedia Britannica under ‘wolf.’
I was met at the door by a concierge type. “May I help you, sir?”
“Jack Barton. I’m here to see--”
The bellhop old-timer interrupted me with a big smile, “Ah. Of course. I should have recognized you. We’ve been expecting you, sir.”
That was good to hear...since I had
an appointment
. They’d asked to see me.
Me. Tri-athlete extraordinaire. American golden boy. Winner of many Olympic medals. I was making my rounds, checking out the sponsor opportunities, looking to plaster my pretty face all over the commercial spots.
Hey, that’s what you do when you’ve damn near won everything there is to win in your fields of expertise. Ya can’t knock it. There’s good money in it. Travel. Fringe benefits. It’s all good. It’s part of what you shoot for.
The only downside is...you have to put your name on products, some that you know very little about. But I’m not one of those brain-deads that sign any contract put in front of them. I do my research. I’m not putting my name to anything that I don’t believe in. Too many kids out there willing to try anything I point at.
The greeter picked up a phone on his podium, said, “Mr. Barton has arrived.” He listened for a minute and said, “Yes. He’s alone.” He smiled at me again as he hung up. “Someone will be right down.”
“Fine.” I looked around. Live birds fluttered around the rafters--tree branches, some maybe fake, gave them perch. Every color. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before, and I’d been to plenty of zoos, bird sanctuaries, that sort of thing.
“World-class atrium,” the concierge volunteered happily. He gestured toward a wall of interactive video screens. Many people were in front of it, finger touching, headphones on. “Would you like your own headphones, sir?”
I shook my head. I didn’t have time for it, but it looked interesting.
“You can identify the birds, do a virtual wildlife tour or read up on the business workings of Lobos International and its subsidiaries.”
My smile, I’m sure, looked pained. “Thanks.” I know it was his job, but I’d already indicated that I wasn’t that interested. If I had been, I’d have taken the damn headphones on the first offer.
I glanced at my watch. Five minutes early. I wondered if the product they wanted me to endorse was any good. I’d read the contract, gone through it with my lawyer. It looked straightforward.
Lobos had a reputation in the business community: tough competitors, cut above pay, thorough advertising and promotions. In short, you couldn’t go wrong with an international company that had a high return on their stocks that seemed to be skyrocketing in all markets. It looked like they could do nothing wrong.
Call me cautious. Too good to be true is too good to be true.
When the elevators opened up on a heavy whoosh, I turned to see one fine representation of feminine charm. Great legs. Stacked shack. Tight mini-skirt, business suit. Phenomenal smile. Super teeth.
Giselle Racini worked out. I could tell that from a mile away. Her lithe grace as she approached me had me hard-put to keep my eyes on her face. One hip at a time, she slinked my way, eyes alight with pleasure.
“Mr. Barton.” She extended her hand. “Welcome to Lobos.”
“Call me Jack,” I said with confidence. “Nice to meet you.” I leaned over, as much to look down her top as to read her name tag. Plenty of exposed cleavage. Just enough to really intrigue me. Her breasts were pushed up, but not overly large. “Ms. Racini.”
It came across like a bow of sorts, I’m sure.
That seemed to please her. She pumped my hand with a firm, two-squeeze-and-release motion that left me sadly itching to touch her again. The girl had something going on. A perfume I’d never smelled before that had me inhaling her up front. I think it came straight from the friction between her boobs.
“Let me show you to our executive suite.” Spinning on her stiletto heels, she led the way to the elevator she’d just come out of. A placard above the single UP button read ‘Executive Express Elevator’. It went straight to the top. No stops on other floors. And it was damn quick. Didn’t give me near enough time to chat up my escort.
Since I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be back, I knew I needed to ask her out before we hit the last floor. Talk about pressure. Luckily, I work well under it.
I said, “Look, I’m a stranger in town, just here for this appointment. Would you like to have dinner with me?”
She thought that was funny, I guess, because she chuckled. “Ooh. You don’t waste any time, do you?”
I liked her response. It gave me the perfect in for a quick comeback. “I run for a living, honey, jump hurdles, climb unscalable mountains, swim the deepest oceans. Life is short. Gotta grab the highlights where you see ‘em. How about it?”
She laughed outright then. “How can I refuse?”
The lights above the door were whizzing through their sequence. Before I could ask where to pick her up, or meet her, she glanced up. We were almost at the top. She said, “I’m a little intrigued by the whole Olympian thing.”
I tend to smirk when I feel like the world is at my fingertips. I replied, “Stamina is a virtue built by hours of physical exertion. I can show you how I work out.”
I hoped she was picturing us naked in the sheets, like I was. Because I was definitely having a quick fantasy about exposing that cleavage, and sliding that little skirt up to her hips. Yep, I couldn’t wait to get a glimpse of the curls between her legs, and the folds beneath that.
Glancing down, I noted that she had on no pantyhose. Finely tanned, firm legs. Ah. I bet money to myself that she could squeeze with those muscles, hang on tight.
I had visions of hitting the stop button without warning, locking the elevator between floors and turning to her in one fast move, lifting her up, unleashing my manhood and impaling her with my Olympian stamina right there.
She wrinkled her nose and glanced upward at the camera. I got the impression that she was irritated, maybe had thoughts along the same lines. I, too, glanced up at the obvious piece of security. What the hell? We could give someone a good show. I grinned to myself. It would never happen, but thinking about it was fun.
Had me happy when I stepped off on the thirtieth floor. The foyer there was anything but businesslike. I wondered who the hell did their decorating. Some outdoor enthusiast, that was for damn sure. The walls were oil-painted murals in vibrant colors depicting a forest. The hall was wide and full-sized trees were potted, giving the ‘room’ a 3-D effect. It even smelled like the outdoors. I noted the timed air freshener behind a plant, painted to blend in. The carpet was thick, rich green. I’d never seen such a carpet before. It must’ve cost the earth.
Not that I cared what they’d spent. But that represented to me a truth about Lobos. Money was no object. It was a good thing to notice if you were about to negotiate a contract, but then, I already knew the company was filthy rich.
There were several doors opening off the octagonal foyer, all blocked out with embossed leather bonding. Like I said, very opulent. I’m not really into art, but I was impressed by the attention to detail I saw there.
I cracked, “What? No birds up here?”
Ms. Racini laughed. That was easy to coax from her. “You’d be surprised what we have up here.”
“Pick a door, any door,” I quipped. “What’s behind door number three?”
She didn’t miss a beat, she said, “Let’s make a deal. You get the wolf behind door number one, or the shaft behind door number two.” She was leading me toward door number one. Suite number one, that is.
“Ah. I said I wanted door number three.”
Reaching out for the button beside door number one, she said, “Sorry. That one’s empty at the moment.” She winked. “But I’m sure if you work your cards right, you could get that one set up for yourself.”
“They want me that much?” It pleased me to hear it.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure that they’re dying to get you on the team.”
