From the Land of Ice and Snow

Bending down, the figure looked over the prints left in the snow paths. Sure enough the pack had moved through here. By how quick they were moving it looked like they were light on their feet, made sense since he hadn’t found anymore corpses following them around. Heavier and straighter tracks suggested a larger animal, horse most likely by thinness of them. Only question was what the rider was doing all the way out in the stink of things.

The figure stood up, clutching at their left knee to ease the pain and wincing a bit as a familiar few cracks cautioned against such quick movements. At least the cold air kept most of it at bay, he though, but damn what he wouldn’t give to get a decent pair of knees again. He shouldered the hunting rifle and put his goggles back into place before moving off along the tracks again. It was the second day following this pack and frankly, he was surprised he was still doing it. When he had left two days he had planned a quick outing to bag a deer or two, maybe trap some varmint in the meantime and head home with some easy cuts of meat. But when he found the tracks...well as his mother used to say he never could walk away from the smell of a fight.

Night was getting a bit rough for his taste as he started up an increased slope of the hill, he zipped up his jacket closer to his neck, stuffing a few bits of his scarf deeper in so they wouldn’t get in the way of his breathing. He caught himself huffing and puffing ever more now and he gave a soft chuckle into the wind. He had scolded the little kid who had called him 'Gramps' earlier but maybe he had a point.

Ahh to hell with that kid anyway. Little scraper wouldn't know trouble if it introduced itself cordially at the door. Why at his age he'd…well damn if a lot of things wouldn't be different if he was his age.

He gazed up at the crest of the hill and breathed a sigh of relief. The tracks still showed the pack moving, though he also found what looked to be done boot prints walking near the crest. Just what the hell was he walking into?

The wolves' tracks split at the top, likely as they got a clearer look at whatever they were following. Keppler's Ford, how many times had he gone into this range of mountains on the hunt? He sat back into a snowbank and looked out into the woods below. Sometimes it felt like it had been a lifetime, others like he was only just getting to know it. Seeing as he had no idea what he was about to walk into after this crest he guessed it would be the latter.

He pulled out binoculars from a front pocket and flipped over to his front. As he crawled to the top of the slope he scooped up a chunk of snow into his mouth to keep from giving his position to any wolves or other dangers. Plus he hadn't taken a swig of water in a while and this was a handy workaround.

The typically idyllic backdrop of the creek was broken by the presence of a shuttle parked directly in it's center. It was closed up tight, but based on the near dead campfire right out the back of it he guessed someone had cosied up there for the night. And sure as there was stink on a skunk, the pack was closing in. Seems that they had a probing member near the door but he could see the others beginning to circle in. He knew they were hungry, but they must be real desperate to try and wait out or crack into a shuttle like that.

He looked the pack over carefully, they were cautious but the hunger was definitely on them. No young in sight so if anything this was just a particularly unsuccessful hunting pack. That made it easier, he thought, less of a cleanup and guilt not that there was much to begin with. He pulled the rifle from his shoulder and leveled it toward the larger pack leader. He liked this moment, the quiet before the shot. No thoughts, no problems, no pain, just him the creature, and the calm squeeze of the trigger.

The sound of the shot thundered across the small opening and the large wolf skidded slightly on the ice as his weight crumpled into it. The other stood in shock at the sound as they looked about for the source of the sound. It was a moment of hesitation, and it was the last mistake that another wolf made in their short life. The others of the group went as quickly as they could to the treeline. He tried to pivot to take a third, but he was too slow and only shot up some snow into the air.

He wasn’t fast to get up, gripping again at his bad knee and wincing in pain. He spit out the last of the snow melting in his mouth, he didn’t care much if the wolf corpses saw him coming. He kept the rifle at his side, too much experience had taught him that lesson. The smaller body was already limp, only a few death spasms left but he gave it another shot to the skull anyway just to be safe. He grabbed ahold of its back legs and slung it over his shoulder opposite his rifle. Lighter than he’d like, meant some tough times up here in the mountains, felt almost prophetic if he had time for those things.

He tossed the wolf besides the older one by the entrance. At the very least this one was eating better, or was old enough to know how to look out for himself. It had stopped moving, unflinching in the small puddle that now dampened its fur. The man slumped down to one knee, and turned to grab something from his pocket. In an instant the big wolf had turned and lunged for his attacker, clearly not about to let a bullet through half its head keep him down.

But before the wolf could grip to any final meal an experienced and heavily gloved hand shot at it’s throat and pushed it back down into the ice. “Too old for that one, we both know that.” the man said. The wolf thrashed in the small puddle as the man brought a bowie knife straight into its throat. There was a struggle for a moment, and he thought he might lose his grip with the cold now clinging to his fingers harder than he had on the wolf but somehow he held on. The blood mixed with the small puddle of water and the man breathed a sigh of relief as the struggle ended. Without another word he grabbed the hind legs of the old wolf and dragged it up to the corpse of the other.

The figure looked over the clearing, the beauty of these mountains always left him wanting more. But at the moment the only thing he wanted was a warm bed, maybe a fire, and if possible, not that he was being too picky, a nice tall glass of whiskey (hold the ice if you could). He didn’t know about the last one but he was betting he could get at least one in the shuttle. He approached the back door and wrapped a fist up against it twice. He kept a smile on his face, but he’d wouldn’t count himself so stupid that he didn’t have a hand on his knife as well.