Micky and I had at this time gotten to the border of Washington and Oregon. Not wanting to spend our money (of which there wasn't much) on a hotel, we merely took turns driving and sleeping, and when both of us were tired, we stopped and slept in the car. But our story isn't interesting right at this point, so back to Peter and Mike.
Peter, meanwhile had, unbeknownst to Micky and I, booked a flight to Fairbanks, and soon after Mike had left, Peter left. Peter arrived in Fairbanks, unsure of what to do. He began by asking almost everyone in the city of Fairbanks, but no one had seen a tall, dark haired man with a green wool hat. Actually, the problem was that everyone in Alaska had a wool hat, some of which were green. Peter tried showing them a picture of Mike, but still nothing. Peter decided to head south, thinking perhaps that Mike had only reached as far north as Anchorage. He hired a man to drive him down to there on a dog sled, since another flight was rather expensive (Obviously Peter didn't think about how to get back, but then he was Peter).
Mike was still staying at Fiona's. He'd been there for a few days, when one morning, he awakened, shivering in the cold, to find his clothes ripped up and on the floor. Mike was at first upset over this, but wrapped himself in a blanket and went to help Fiona. She was lying on the floor, with blood spewing out of various places. Mike, in horror, began to bandage her wounds. He noticed he had a scratch on his arm, but thought nothing of it. He continued to bandage her and placed her on the couch. Shocked, he sat on the floor and stared at her.
"What could have happened here?" he wondered. "And why was I not injured by whatever hurt her?" He shook his head in disbelief. By chance, he happened to look at his arm, which had the scratch on it. Mike looked at his arm, then at his other arm, shook his head, blinked, and looked again.
"I had this huge scratch here, I just know it," he mumbled to himself. "What is going on? Am I nuts?" He shook his head in disbelief. Fiona awoke, and looked at him.
"Did you hear that?" she asked.
"Hear what?" he started to ask, but was interrupted by a piercing scream. "That sounded like Peter.." he thought aloud. "But it couldn't be.." Another scream pierced the air.
"Whoever it is, I've got to help them." He found some other clothes, and put them on in a hurry. He shoved on his coat, boots, and of course, his hat, and ran out the door. "I'm coming, Peter!" he yelled. He grabbed the ax on his way out and ran. "Peter, where are you?" he yelled.
"Mike?" Peter yelled. "I'm over here."
"Just keep yelling Pete, I'll find you," Mike shouted back. He ran into a clearing and found Peter lying on the ground, moaning in pain, with his leg half eaten off.
"What happened Peter?" Mike asked.
"I don't know, Mike. I came to look for you and ....ooooooh," Peter began to moan, his leg in pain. Mike noticed the dead dog sled driver and looked at the sled. All of the dogs, though shaken, were still attached to the sled. Mike moved the dead guy off of the sled and began to try to work the sled. He picked up the reins (or whatever they're called) and moved them up and down as if he were driving a carriage of horses. Mike was not very experienced in this field, however, and the dogs stayed still.
"Aw man," Mike moaned. "Come on guys, mush." For some reason this seemed to work, and Mike somehow managed to steer them back to the cabin where Fiona was. Upon arriving, he looked at the dogs, and wondered about what to do with them.
"You undo them and then let them loose. They'll find a place to sleep, and they'll come back in the morning for food," Peter explained.
"Thanks, Pete," Mike said, looking at his injured friend. "How are you feeling, pal?"
"I'm ok, except my leg hurts," Peter said. "Where have you taken me, Mike?"
"This is a cabin owned by a recent acquaintance of mine," Mike explained. "You'll be all right here, pal." Mike half carried Peter in to the cabin. Once inside, Fiona, who seemed to have made a miraculous recovery, began to bandage Peter's leg. Mike began to ask questions of his friend.
"So, Pete, how did you find out where I went?" Mike asked.
Peter winced. "I kind of read your journal, Mike," he said, and winced again.
Mike forcibly stopped himself from yelling at his injured friend. "So, where's Micky and Davy?" he asked.
"I didn't tell them where I went," Peter said.
"You didn't tell them? But why Peter?" Mike asked, more surprised than angry.
"I thought they'd be mad at me for reading your journal, and probably wouldn't want me to go. They weren't even worried about you. But I was worried, so I had to come. I just knew something bad would happen to you." Peter explained rapidly, not giving Mike a chance to butt in.
"Aw, man," Mike moaned. "How'd you get up here, Pete?"
"I took some money and bought a plane ticket," he explained. "I thought it was worthwhile, but I guess I didn't think about how to get back. I was just worried about you, Mike." Peter was on the verge of tears.
Mike sighed. Peter didn't know how right his intuition was. "So, you went to Fairbanks, hired a dog sled, and just happened to have a tragedy outside of this cabin where I was. Speaking of which, what happened to you and the driver?"
"We were attacked by a..a wolf, I guess. I didn't really look at it well, but it was gray, and it seemed to be shaped kinda like a wolf. For some reason it went for Pierre, the driver, and not me or the dogs. They were all ready to run off, the wolf scared them, but, miraculously, it didn't attack them, and barely touched me. It's like the wolf had a personal grudge against Pierre. I was real lucky."
Fiona, who'd remained silent throughout the conversation, spoke up now. "That is rather odd," she said. "I've never heard of a wolf doing that. They usually avoid humans altogether. "
"Well this was an unusual wolf. Pierre did say that it looked rather large for a wolf," Peter added. "He even thought it might have been a..." he trailed off.
"A what Peter?"
"A...a werewolf."
"Well this is great. We're stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no way of getting back home, or to contact anyone to even alert them as to where we are. Gee Pete, Micky and Davy probably think we're dead or something," Mike said, thinking aloud.
