A Cold Odyssey
Tonight is the lunar eclipse, and apparently the longest blood moon to be recorded in the past century. So that is cool- unfortunately I just found out that North America will not be able to see this event, which is very sad, but nonetheless I can still write about werewolves all day. I wanted to share with you an extended, exclusive scene. Even though it does not have a werewolf present, it does put into light a quote I revealed about Sarah.
Setting the scene, you may remember this tweet (or Facebook post).
It is no longer a direct quote in the story, because I could not fit in without sounding really awkward- yet- but it is now a sort of survival mantra. Here, Sarah is trying to escape a sniper by the name of Sven at an old mining facility. Samson, mentioned below, is a massive werewolf and the primary antagonist of the story. He is eight feet three inches tall. The largest on record. The normal height of a werewolf in my mythology is between six and seven feet tall. I named Samson after the biblical figure.
There was no place to hide. The reception desk was right in the doors and none of the surrounding buildings were above two stories; the sniper would be able to pin her, and she needed to keep moving, regardless of a decision. Sarah booked her ass to the left, into the forest where many of the branches were weighed down by ice. Potentially towards Samson. Needles snagged the beanie off her head as she landed stomach first onto a large log. A weak log. She barely felt it crack under her bullet proof vest. She rolled, a little breathless, and strapped the carbine over her back. She began crawling on all fours, parallel to the tree line.
A long string of bullets struck the weighted branches providing her cover. She lost count around fourteen of fifteen gunshots. Twigs, frozen needles, and snow began to the haze the air around her. The sniper followed. She felt every bullet hit the trees in her trembling bones and everything was getting in her hair and face. Little particles of ice blinded her. Five feet, seven feet, nine feet went by and still more branches fell. She was trapped in her own warzone, while William fought through his elsewhere on the compound. Her only salvation was the manmade, claustrophobia-inducing blizzard that the sniper had created; he had unintentionally given her more cover.
Wait, no. Shit. Maybe fifteen feet passed, and then maybe twenty, and then she finally saw what the sniper was really doing. The hail of bullets had finally ended and there were no more shadows to help cover her, and while the blizzard was still falling, they would be able to catch her. She heard yelling. The only distinguishable phrase was: “Fuck off. Protect the Ferals!” It was most definitely Sven. His accent seemed to only come out when yelling. He was not reloading. He was giving orders. Sarah saw two narrow trees that had grown together, knotted in the middle before separating again and she scrambled to get behind it. It gave her excellent cover, if he had not seen her. She braced the AR-15 in the gnarled roots. A thought came to her then, following a warm wave of relief now that she had completed traversing her cold odyssey.
I am not a lieutenant.
She crouched, absolutely still, and felt the sweat crawling out of her skin over her entire body like little wet bugs. She pulled the collar of her shirt out from under the vest and wiped her face, at the very least to keep her eyes clear. Sarah could also see her rapid breathing in the air; she was no longer really human, she felt more like a steam train chugging along the transcontinental railroad. She squatted against the tree and scooped the snow in front of her. She eyed the buildings at the far side of the compound and shoveled snow into her mouth. She felt most of the snow melting and the resulting sting, and without giving herself any hesitation, swallowed as much as she could in one go. She breathed out, saw that her steam-train breath was gone, and stood to face the compound.
By sheer luck, or God’s will, she saw Sven stand up on the roof of the mineral processing building. He scanned the forest for her through the scope of his rifle and then used one hand to guide himself into a chair. Sven took his time- he lingered over the twenty or thirty foot area between the buildings. As he was busy searching, Sarah got busy checking the carbine’s magazine (eighteen bullets) and decided she had enough to distract him so she could run or fucking kill him. She smirked to herself. Fucking kill him.
I am not a God fearing woman.
Sarah turned to the other side of the tree and crouched. She grabbed another pile of snow and caked it into her hair until she was satisfied she had transformed into the abominable snowman. She stood again, carbine ready, and looked through the crevice above the knot. He was standing now too. He was staring at her tree through his scope and then spreading his legs. She ducked low, almost tripping over the slippery roots, and gasped when she felt the tree thunk. Chips of splintered wood rained down over her face. Sarah waited for ten seconds, breathing heavily, praying to God- praying for William to jump up to the roof and tear out the evil fuck’s throat for her. But no, none of that happened, and she risked a glance through the new, head sized gap where the knot used to protect her. Sven had moved on. He was angling his rifle back towards the other side.
Sarah stayed low and braced the carbine in the small valley of wood that still remained and looked through the scope. Sven, sharp triangular face both angry and very confused, lowered his rifle to wipe sweat from his brow with his gloved hand. The veins in his neck were varicose and damn near black. She let out a slow breath to calm the adrenaline quake in her hands, set the fire rate to semi-automatic, firmly anchored herself against the tree, and
I am a mother.
Squeezed the trigger nine times.
Now, to appease anyone wanting werewolves out of me- here is the trailer for one of the better werewolf movies I have seen. Please, if you can see the blood moon, enjoy it. And do not forget to howl.