Chapter 14 : THE HAVEN TAKES SHAPE
One week transformed the Silver Ridge complex from shelter into fortress.
The ghouls proved their worth within the first three days. Edgar's family had been digging tunnels for generations—they understood rock the way wolves understood forests, the way I understood predator psychology. Under their direction, new passages threaded through the mountain, connecting defensive positions, creating escape routes, establishing choke points where a handful of defenders could hold off an army.
I stood in the central chamber reviewing progress reports while Jenny outlined patrol schedules and Edgar cataloged supply needs. The System overlaid everything with efficiency metrics and optimization suggestions.
[HAVEN CREATOR PROTOCOL: TIER I ACTIVE] [CURRENT INFRASTRUCTURE: 34% OPTIMAL] [PROJECTED COMPLETION: 6 WEEKS AT CURRENT PACE] [RECOMMENDATIONS: PRIORITIZE CONCEALMENT, WATER STORAGE, SECONDARY EXITS]
"Perimeter team reports nothing unusual," Jenny said, checking marks off a list she'd started keeping. Organization was spreading through the coalition like a virus—my habits infecting everyone I worked with closely. "Western approach is clear. Eastern approach had some hiker activity, but they stayed on the marked trails."
"Feeding grounds?" I asked Edgar.
"Managed. Margaret has established rotation schedules for the cemetery access points. No single location gets visited more than once per week." He spread a map across the table—hand-drawn, detailed, annotated with ghoul-specific information. "These three are optimal. Isolated, rarely visited by humans, sufficient... resources."
Corpses. He meant corpses. I appreciated the euphemism for the benefit of the wolves, who still found ghoul dietary habits uncomfortable.
"And the tunnel network?"
"Primary connections complete. Secondary branches will take another two weeks." Edgar traced the lines on his map. "We've incorporated the natural cave system where possible. Less digging, more stability."
Ruth entered from the eastern passage. "Supply run completed. Food stores are adequate for three weeks. Ammunition is low—I couldn't find the specific rounds you requested without raising questions."
"We'll manage." I made a note on my own list. Ammunition was a human concern, but silver bullets didn't grow on trees. The coalition needed ranged options against creatures that claws couldn't handle.
[RESOURCE ALERT: AMMUNITION RESERVES LOW] [RECOMMENDATION: ESTABLISH SUPPLY CHAIN OR MANUFACTURING CAPABILITY]
Manufacturing capability. The System wanted me to start making silver bullets. That required equipment, expertise, and raw materials—none of which we currently had.
One problem at a time.
"Coalition meeting in one hour," I announced. "Full attendance. We need to address the hunting ground dispute before it becomes a real problem."
Jenny's expression tightened. "The wolves won't like being told where they can hunt."
"The wolves will like starving even less. Fair distribution benefits everyone."
The dispute had been building for days. Werewolf hunters—operating on instinct and pack tradition—had crossed into territory designated for ghoul feeding. No one had been hurt, but tempers had flared. Species that shouldn't be allies were remembering why they'd been enemies.
I'd dealt with similar problems in my old life. Corporate departments fighting over resources. Teams protecting their territory against perceived incursions. The solutions were the same regardless of whether the stakeholders were accountants or monsters: clear boundaries, transparent allocation, consequences for violations.
The meeting convened in the main chamber—the largest space in the complex, capable of holding all twenty coalition members with room to spare. I'd arranged the seating deliberately: wolves on one side, ghouls on the other, Skinwalkers in the middle.
"Two days ago," I began, "a hunting party crossed into feeding zone three without authorization. This created conflict with the occupants of that zone. We're here to ensure it doesn't happen again."
Cole—Jenny's beta, the scarred wolf who'd tested support beams during the first tour—bristled immediately. "We were following a deer. The trail crossed the line. Were we supposed to let it go?"
"Yes." I kept my voice flat. Emotionless. "When a trail crosses a boundary, you coordinate with the zone's designated occupants before pursuing."
"That's—"
"The rule." I met his eyes. Didn't blink. "Would you prefer to explain to the ghouls why their feeding ground was disrupted? Or to Jenny why her pack started a conflict that could fracture the coalition?"
Cole's jaw worked. Jenny's hand found his arm—restraint disguised as support.
"The boundaries exist because resources are limited," I continued. "If everyone hunts everywhere, we strip the territory clean in months. Managed feeding grounds ensure sustainable supply for all species. This isn't about control. It's about survival."
"Then why do the corpse-eaters get the best zones?" Another wolf—younger, less experienced—spoke from the back.
Edgar's dead eyes turned toward the speaker. "The 'best zones' are cemeteries. Filled with human bodies. Would you prefer to hunt there?"
Silence. Even werewolves found the idea of feeding in graveyards uncomfortable.
I pulled out the maps I'd prepared. Color-coded territories. Hunting schedules. Rotation patterns. "These are the new protocols. Wolves get zones one through four—deer, elk, smaller game. Ghouls get zones five through eight—cemeteries and morgue access points. Skinwalkers coordinate between both, ensuring no overlap."
"And if we disagree?" Cole asked.
"Then you bring it to me. We discuss. We negotiate. We find a solution that works for everyone." I set the maps down. "What we don't do is act unilaterally and then complain when consequences follow."
The meeting continued for another hour. Questions. Clarifications. Complaints that I absorbed and addressed one by one. By the end, something resembling consensus had emerged—not enthusiasm, but acceptance. The rules weren't popular, but they were understood.
Jenny caught up with me as I was leaving. "That went better than expected."
"Lower your expectations. It went adequately."
"You're tired."
I was. The exhaustion had been building for days—too many nights reviewing plans, too many hours managing disputes, too few moments for rest. Enhanced regeneration helped with physical fatigue, but mental exhaustion was harder to shake.
"I'm functional."
"You're burning out." Her bond-presence pulsed with concern. "When did you last sleep more than four hours?"
I couldn't remember. That was probably an answer in itself.
"The coalition needs—"
"The coalition needs you alive and thinking clearly." Jenny stepped into my path. "Sleep. Real sleep. I'll handle the night patrols."
"The supply schedules—"
"Can wait until morning. Ruth knows her job. Edgar knows his. You don't have to do everything yourself."
She was right. I knew she was right. The knowledge didn't make it easier to let go.
"Four hours," I said finally. "Wake me if anything urgent happens."
"Define urgent."
"Attack. Fire. Apocalypse." I managed a thin smile. "Minor inconveniences can wait."
The quarters I'd claimed were nothing special—a converted mine office with a salvaged mattress and rock walls that stayed cool even in summer. Better than any motel I'd occupied since waking up in Marcus Webb's body. Better than the Dusty Trails, certainly, with its water-stained ceilings and suspicious odors.
I lay down and stared at the stone overhead. The comparison to those early days struck me as strange—barely two months ago, I'd been hunting a Wendigo with nothing but road flares and desperation. Now I commanded twenty monsters and owned a mountain.
Progress, I thought. This is what progress looks like.
Sleep came faster than expected.
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