Whiteout: 1 (When is a Werewolf not a Werewolf?)

Here is the first chapter of my NanoWriMo book Whiteout. More to come every day of November. Caffeine on an IV, let's do this!

1. When is a Werewolf not a Werewolf?

We should have brought oxygen. The sentence rings through my mind clear as a bell even after everything else has become a rounded blur of its former self. James is sitting beside me, panting on a rock, his boyish hair slick with sweat, his parka crusted with fresh frost. Should have brought oxygen, and should’ve left the kid behind. I’ve never liked partners, they slow me down and die more often than I’d like.

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     “Wait where were you?” Says the gentleman intending to remember my story, yet still downing his second glass of wine in the introduction.

     “I’m getting to that part. Do you want to hear this or not? I’ve got plenty of other jobs that don’t involve me re-hashing emotional situations to old men in their parlors.” The man shuts up, offended, but still interested in hearing what I have to say. I take a swig of what has to be the worst scotch I’ve ever tasted and continue.

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It was around midnight that we first heard the howling. James and I had made camp in a small cave right in the side of the mountain. The world gets really fuzzy out there, and for the first few minutes I’m not sure if either of us rally heard the howling at all. We just sat by the glow of firelight, hoping that it wasn’t the day that we were going to be sent off to meet the Gods our profession so heavily opposed.

“Is that it?” Asked James from across the cave. He tried to hide it, but he was shivering worse than I was. His lips were cracked and blue. We should have brought oxygen. At that altitude you need oxygen to think. Especially in a blizzard, at night. It was the worst conditions we could have come across, but at least there was a cave.

After a few moments of sluggish processing it hit me. The answer to James’ question as well as the true nature of our predicament. “Werewolves don’t howl.” You may have seen it in the movies or TV, but the truth is they don’t. Werewolves are apex predators, and lone hunters. There’s no need for them to communicate. They don’t reproduce, they don’t have families, they just hunt, feed off the living and create more.

“Werewolves don’t howl.” The statement floated through the air lazily so that both James and I could get a better look at it. Why is everything so slow? I look over at James, hunkered to the side of the cave wall. We should have brought oxygen. It wouldn’t have been a problem if we had only been there for the day-trip we were being billed for, but when villagers fucking lie to you things get a bit dicey.

Werewolves are easy to track, big feet, lots of fur, and a wake of blood and destruction. “We’re not hunting a werewolf are we?” James mumbles from within his parka.

“Not anymore.” The howl comes again, piercing, even over the wind. It’s long and mournful. The number of animals that could have made that sound are very few. From my satchel I pulled out a leather-bound tome that had been given to me by an old friend as I was just starting in the business. Most of it was just crude drawings of various hell-bound creatures that the man had tried to seduce (he was a bit of a drunk, and a pervert, but a damned good hunter when it came down to it), but some of the pages contained useful information.

The sound was like that of a wolf, only longer, and louder. To be heard over the fury of a snowstorm is quite the feat. Even within the cave the wind roared, making sure that we never forgot its omnipresence. I shuffled through the many papers until I landed on the section about the Himalayas. Most people think that they’re barren and their altitude supports no life. Most people are wrong…