Whiteout: 4-5 (On Lupine Classification & A Trophy)

Well my writing is a little faster than my chapter headings, so today's post includes two chapters. 7,807 words down. These are going to continue to be rough, editing will happen in December. Also for those who are looking for more Death Co chapters, that story will be concluded in late November/early December when I finish NanoWriMo.

Cheers,

Mac.

 

4. On Lupine Classification

     “Wargs?”

     “You don’t even know what a warg is? How exactly did you get my information anyway?”

     “I paid a lovely young man in Bangladesh who said he had a score to settle.”

     “Damn you Martin. You throw one person into an underground fighting pit with a couple of undead soldiers and look what happens. I thought it was a good bit of fun.” I finish my glass and set it down roughly on the table beside me. This man knew who Martin was, that can’t be great for me. Truth is I screwed over Martin a little worse than just a tussle with the undead, but I wanted to see if he’d go with it.

     “Undead soldiers? Well who were they fighting for?”

“We’re in luck! Wargs only hunt at night. We have all day to find them.” Autumn in the Himalayas means a shorter day, but I was confident enough that I could take down a pack of wargs without a problem. I’d done it before, and I had somewhat of a personal reputation to maintain. If I couldn’t get rid of something as small as a pack of wargs they would call in Manchester.

Overall, it was a good day. The howling the previous night coupled with nearly freezing to death had set me a bit on edge, but a pack of wargs made for nice sport with no real danger. There was always the danger of the mountain, but in general wargs stick to the lower slopes and don’t like altitude all that much. “They must have been just on the edge of their winter cycle.” These climbers knew better than to come up here at this time, so what brought them here? Some questions are just better left unanswered.

“How can you be so chipper standing on the resting place of all these men?”

“I’m alive. Not to mention their resting place is now a few thousand feet down the mountain. This is nothing more than the frozen remnants of nature’s wrath. Come on; show me what you can do. Where were the wargs heading?” James was an exceptional tracker, one of the skills I had never been too great with myself. Most hunters can do it to some degree, but the cases I usually get involve following a trail of gore to some blatantly obvious cave.

James bent to the ground, sweeping aside snow to uncover the tracks. Base camp remained undisturbed from the day of the incident, giving us an edge. We could see exactly where the creatures had gone. It was just sheer luck for us that hunting werewolves and wargs are fairly similar. I unstrapped my pack and pulled out a series of vials.

Each contained a different strand of pure silvers. Different smiths believe that metal combinations with silver can produce varying effects. I’ve always been a fan of the silver and holy water, but wargs have no connection to God, so it would have been a waste. Instead I found a traditional silver bullet with a thermite tracer in it. I didn’t want to end up fighting in the dark, but so often these things never go as planned.

“There’s only one set of tracks, leading out over that ledge.” Base camp rests in a bowl of shattered rock fragments and snow. On one side is the steep descent to the lower valley, and on the other is the mountain and all of its fury. The tracks led up the mountain. From the lip of the crater base camp was a different place.

For climbers it was the beginning of their journey, the safest that they would ever feel on the mountain. For experienced climbers the ascent was nothing. For us it had nearly spelled death. Maybe next time it would be wise to take a better climbing course. My experiences in the mountains had mostly been trained by a rock climbing guide on a plastic wall in the middle of the city. On my other trips to the mountains I had managed to stay fairly low, from up there it was clear why I should have stayed that way.

“There.” Said james, pointing to an outcropping at the base of the mountain glacier. Every time a climber walks underneath it they run the risk of ice falling and ending their life in an instant. The animals have better senses of it and can flee in the moments before the fall. The den was almost too easy. A black hole jutting out of an otherwise white façade. Nothing about it seemed right, but I was willing to do anything for a quick paycheck and a warm bed. I wasn’t going to stay on that mountain any longer than I had to.

“Alright, here’s what we do. Take on of these.” I handed him an elephant rifle, loaded with the silver thermite bullets. It might seem like overkill, but wargs have abnormally thick skin, and can actually be dangerous when injured. “If you shoot it, make sure it’s dead. You’re only going to get a few shots before you have to reload, and you better hope they’re dead by then.

“You are going to sit on the rocks above the cave and wait for me to attack. I will be in a tent right outside the cave, luring them out. For the love of God don’t shoot me or you’re going to find that the wargs are the least of your problems…”

I waited inside a bright red tent like a matador taunting a bull. We had placed it right outside the cave mouth, about 100 feet away, visible, and close enough for them to smell me. Afternoon turned into evening and soon darkness was falling upon us again. The sun sets early in the mountains. Come mid-afternoon the sun is already mostly blocked by the mountain, leaving only a cold, blue glow in its place. Only when it went completely dark did I begin to hear the scrabbling.

Luckily for us it was a clear night. Wrapped in several sleeping bags I sat facing the slightly ajar zipper, shotgun in hand. No warg was going to get up after a face full of silver buckshot, that much I was sure of. It was colder than the night before as there were no clouds. The temperature dropped rapidly and I could hear creaks and moans as pieces of the glacier re-froze.

Then the howling started. Same as the night before. It sounded curiously far away to be coming from the cave mouth, but footsteps slowly followed. It only sounded like one or two of them. Wargs are not creepers, they are blitzkrieg hunters with no sense of stealth. By the time they were ten feet from the door I had my itchy finger strapped to the trigger.

Sweat beaded down my brow. No matter how many times I had done it, being bait still left me a little uneasy. There was a very small window in which James could fire. One second too early, he would get one and the other would be close behind to tear him to shreds. A second too late and they were in my tent and he risked hitting me when he shot them. It was a precise trap, but one we had used before.

From outside there was a low, throaty growl. It vibrated the tent poles, reverberating through the inside of my skull. “Come on you bastard.” I muttered to myself. Demeaning monsters always seems more badass in the movies, in reality it’s something to do so that you don’t shit your pants. The warg was outside the tent zipper, sniffing. Its breath came through, steamy and putrid. It was the one that had eaten the climbers, I was sure. When I thought I could wait no longer the first shot rang out.

Black stains coated the outside of my tent and I fired at the door. In the small space the sound was deafening. While the canvas doesn’t contain sound, it sure doesn’t help. There was a brief yelp followed by a flaming warg crashing through the front of the tent. It’s snout was mangled. Bits of fur fell with blood and flame onto the floor. Quickly I grabbed my knife and slashed through the back of the canvas. The flaming hulk crashed into me and sent me sprawling out onto the snowy ground beyond.

In front of the tent I could see the first corpse smoldering. At least James hit his shot. The flames spread to my coat and I rolled to put them out. The darkness was now a mix of orange and red, throwing shadows across the ground. The howling continued. The warg collected itself for another charge and stamped at the ground. The buckshot had only grazed him and pissed him off. Learn to follow your own rules Nick!

The knife was beside me, there was no time. The warg charged and I rolled towards it. Feeling the world crashing in around me everything ground to a halt. I could feel time slow as I faced my own mortality (a common occurrence). In front of me was a mass of bristled fur and drool, hurtling through the air like a cannonball. The fire had mostly disappated, but the smell of burnt hair was unbearable.

Somewhere in my roll I managed to pick up the knife as it was in my hand. I looked down at the silver blade. And they said not to get everything made in silver. It had cost me sure, but when in doubt it’s nice to have a cure-all. Silver seems to do the trick on most evil entities. You can’t kill them all with it, but it makes for a painful stab wound… Just saying.

The warg crashed into me and I drove my knife into its stomach. At the exact same instant the world was a blinding flash of orange. Before I had a chance to recover the warg had exploded and caught fire once more. I skidded to a halt on the ice and found myself in a pool of warg blood. The ice had turned a macabre black and red.

“Ugh, I thought they smelled bad on the outside.” Gunk covered all of my gear, but there was silence. No more beasts came and I gave the signal for James to come down from the ridge. “You’re getting to be a better shot.”

“I was trying to hit you.” We both laugh and the cold instantly swallows it up.

“Come on, we need to get one of these back to the villagers. Grab the knife…”

5. A Trophy

     It was just past midday when we reached the village entrance. The bags had begun to smell like rot. The cold at night did little to quell the stench of death. Blood just becomes more viscous and hard to get out at the cleaners. We’re going to need new gear again. I showed up to a town with a bloody backpack once. It’s the only time I’ve ever been chased by an angry mob with pitchforks. My first lesson: Always look rough and tumble, but relatively clean. There’s a happy medium between vagrant and business man. I live somewhere in there.

     The village looked stark and barren in the midday sunlight. It took a moment for the people to notice the two men standing in the middle of the road, but when they saw us they came running. I could have easily sauntered into the bar and found Lopsang, but like I said, sometimes monster hunting is half about the spectacle. It was the only sort of advertising I was able to afford, and the only kind people would actually believe.

     “This is my favorite part.” I whispered to James as Lopsang came bursting out of the tavern. I opened the drawstring on the mildewing bag in my right hand and spilled a head onto the ground. The blood had begun to dry a bit and I didn’t get the sickening squish that I was hoping for, but it made my point. Lopsang looked down at the monster in the street and kicked its head joyously.

     “You did it! My brother’s soul will rest at peace tonight! Tonight we celebrate!” The parties after killing a famous beast are some of the best. They’re unrivaled in their boisterous nature, and they usually involve an open bar. James and I trudged back to the lodge to savor our victory and get some warm food.

    

     “Speaking of which, if I’m going to continue this I’m going to need another drink. Garcon?” I motion lazily to the servant who I can only assume hides behind a curtain, waiting to fulfill his master’s every need.

     “Yes, of course. Jenkins?”

     Of course his name is Jenkins. Is that his original name or just something he picked up in the butler trade? Maybe they all pick it up in the butler trade. My extremities begin to warm from the two drinks I have already had, and my mind begins to wander wherever it so pleases. I can feel myself back in that village, back in the wooden lodge, back in the mountains. It’s a place I never wish to visit again. There was nothing there but death. I should have stuck to hunting small-time beasts. I was never meant for the real show.

     “So you killed the wargs and saved the village. I don’t see how this has anything to do with the—“

     “I’m getting there. It’s not a good story without some buildup is it? Besides you need a bit of backstory on the trade. Otherwise you wouldn’t understand why we had to do what we did.” A butler appears out of thin air and hands me a freshly moistened glass with wonderful brown liquid in it. I take a sip and sigh.

“But you killed the monster. The village was safe.”

     “Look, if I’ve learned anything it’s that villagers are never safe. Burn down one witch hovel and another will soon grow to take its place. Villagers are made to be oppressed by forces that the rest of the world doesn’t think exist. It’s been happening since the beginning of time, and with the upturn of cynicism recently I don’t see it changing.”

     “What do you mean by that?”

     “Allow me to demonstrate. Jeeves?” Butlers are the epitome of cynicism, always stuck serving at a table for a master that is inexplicably richer than them. It is only the middle-class that knows the true meaning of cynicism. The poor have a right to be skeptic, the middle-class are just bored and need something to fill their time and gripe about.

     “Yes sir?” Once again out of thin air.

     Spritely little bugger. “Jeeves, what would you say if I told you that as a profession I have killed 6 vampires, 2 lake monsters, a host of chupacabras, and one easily aggravated sea-devil?” The butler stiffened at the oddity of my question and stuck up his nose. “Thank you Jeeves, that will be all.”

     “Alright, I take your point. So the world isn’t ready for what you have to show them. Another tale old as time.”

     “No one was ready to accept Gallileo, and no one is ready to accept me. If I tell anyone about my work I’ve got a one-way ticket to an insane asylum. It’s people like you, paying big bucks for a story that really keep me in business.”

     “How do you know if I believe you?”

     “Doesn’t matter, you’re the man with the coin.”

     “Indeed I am. So the villagers weren’t safe even after you killed the monster.”

     “Well that’s the real problem with the mountains, there’s usually more than one…”