Grain Wagon Hunting Blind Novels & Stories

“Any word from the other teams?” “Nothing yet!” he shouted back, voice nearly lost in the wind. “The river team lost the trail at the water’s edge. They’re circling back.” The outlands stretched out before us, a maze of ruined buildings and lawless wolves who answered to no king or Alpha. Without a clear scent, we were hunting blind. But I would not stop until she was back under my roof. “Spread out wider,” I ordered. “Search every ruin, every hiding hole. Check for wagon marks, blood, anything. She is clever. She might have left us a trail. Find it.”

“The digital blackout hid the tracking data, and the wind hid the scent. The Wright pack opened the gates to their own graveyard without even knowing it.” I dug my fingernails into the edge of the stone table, my inner wolf baring her teeth. “Who took advantage of the blind spot?” My grandfather reached across the map and flipped a small iron marker over, revealing a deep crimson rune beneath it. “The Red Lake Pack.” The two captains went completely rigid. In the corner, Zanna stiffened, her breath catching in her throat. “The cannibals,” Boros whispered, his hand dropping completely away from his weapon in shock. “They’ve been locked behind the badlands for a decade.”

I once believed meeting Charles was the final ray of comfort in my life. A sightless man and a terminally ill woman, leaning on each other to find warmth in the dark. I gave up chemotherapy, pushing through cancer pain to work, all just to leave behind every cent I had for my "blind" boyfriend and our unborn baby. I even signed an organ donor form, hoping that after my death, my eyes could finally bring him light. That belief shattered when I saw a photo in the hospital director's office. There he was, surfing under the bright sun. His eyes shone, with an arm wrapped around an heiress dripping in multi-million-dollar jewels. It turns out our whole love story was nothing more than a rich

LOGAN The forest didn’t have a name on any map. Not one you’d find in any official pack ledger, at least. But every wolf who grew up near the Blightwood knew better than to say its name out loud. That was the kind of place it was. My tires crunched over brittle gravel, the road narrowing until the trees were practically scraping the sides of the car. I spotted her taillights ahead—dim red orbs flickering in the dark like a predator's eyes.

"There was a glitch in the northern gate camera last night at 2:00 AM. It lasted three minutes. Someone knew exactly where the blind spots were." "Look," Raven said, pointing at the floor near the empty crates. I knelt down. There was a small, oily smudge on the concrete. I leaned in and sniffed. It wasn't motor oil. It was a specific type of scent-masking spray used by Silverfang scouts to hide their smell from wolves. "A mole and a scout," I growled. "They met here." Suddenly, a shadow flickered past the high window of the armory. "There!" Raven shouted.

The kind of voice that had never needed to be loud to make people listen. I took a breath and walked inside. He was sitting behind a large desk. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Exactly as unforgiving as the photographs had suggested. And his eyes— Pale grey. Almost silver. They were pointed somewhere just past my shoulder. Not at me. Through me. For a second, I didn’t understand. Then I remembered. He couldn’t see me. I’d read about the accident. I’d known he was blind. But knowing something on a screen and standing three feet away from the person it had happened to were two completely different things.

I picked up my briefcase and gun before getting out of the car. The dark man got into the driver's seat, and the convoy continued going back to Town. “Okay boys, gather around,” a huge man said as he gathered everyone who got down from the cars. “We are on a hunt for a girl named Abby Chesterfield and a boy named Blake Hopper. They are in a cabin somewhere in the woods, find them and bring them here...ALIVE.”

July seemed enthusiastic about the idea. "Huh?" Really, Argus looks stupid with his current expression. "What do you mean by blind marriage? Will the guests wear blindfolds like a masquerade party or something similar? Or will the entire wedding hall be pitch black?" Whether the thought of a new idea for a marriage concept is too good or her mental health was depressed due to the pressure of the situation, Argus was dubious for a moment.

He looked at Grayson. "Black Ridge." No one said anything for a moment. Then Grayson moved to the front. "How many?" "Four." "Alive?" "Barely." The response struck more forcefully than it ought to have. Due to Hugh's lack of dramatic tendencies. Barely meant barely, if that's what he meant. The gate opened. A wagon passed by. We were the first to notice the smell. Blood. Mud. Smoke. The scouts had a terrible appearance. One was hanging at an odd angle due to a broken arm.

“I know.” She did not waste time on further warning. “There is a hidden blind two ridges over that Rowe stocked last autumn. We can reach it before full dark if we move now. From there we can signal the others and decide whether to push you back toward Crimson Hollow or keep you mobile.” I hesitated. Every part of me wanted to keep drawing the hunters away from Damon and Cato and the records. But the tremor in my hands had grown worse, and the glow under my skin was no longer answering only to fear. It was beginning to answer simple exhaustion.