Three days after we flew away from the government forces, the FBI cordoned off the ruins of Damien's facility.
I watched the news coverage from a motel room in Oregon, Alexander asleep beside me on the lumpy mattress. The TV was muted, but the captions told the whole story: "Industrial Accident Kills Dozen in Mojave Research Facility." "Gas Leak Explosion Levels Biotech Complex." "No Survivors Found in Chemical Plant Disaster."
No mention of werewolves. No mention of seventy years of torture. No mention of the forty-seven people we'd rescued.
"They're lying," I said when Alexander woke up.
He rubbed his eyes and looked at the screen. FBI agents in hazmat suits were carrying evidence bags from the smoking crater that used to be Damien's underground hell.
"Of course they're lying. The question is whether they believe their own lies or if they know exactly what really happened."
"Based on yesterday's welcome committee, I'm voting for option two."
