The wind raged overhead, rushing and roaring through the
gaps and hollows of the surrounding forest; screeching eerily, like a cornered
beast of the night. Morgan Sinclair,
tattered and bloody, took pause at the sound emanating from the darkness. He slumped against the thick trunk of an
evergreen as a chill skittered down his spine.
Morgan's ragged attempts to breathe deeply and calm his racing heart
were lost in the cacophony of the frigid gale.
Cold was beginning to set in, bone-deep, rendering the fingers of his
right hand devoid of feeling. The white
of bone peaked from beneath the cloth of a makeshift sling, the result of a
compound fracture in his left forearm.
Never had he been so thankful for anything as he was now for his unusually
high pain tolerance. At the beginning of
his desperate woodland trek, he had staunched the blood flow and painstakingly
crafted the sling. Even so, the loss of
blood had begun to tinge the edges of his vision black. Hypothermia, too, was a risk, but the
constant movement was keeping that temporarily at bay. Morgan rose from his slump against the tree,
forcing his weary body to press onward, lest he lapse into unconsciousness and
shock in the depths of this god forsaken forest.
Leaves and
small bits of debris blew in a dervish about him, striking the broken cadence
of a handbeat drum against the trees.
Then, again, from the great maw of inky darkness all around, came the
scream of the wind; a wraith come to devour him. Tattered, hobbled, and bleeding, a thought
rose unbidden to his mind: many a
carnivorous creature numbered the dense forests of the Pacific Northwest. Despite the wind, could the metallic scent of
his blood draw a ravenous nocturnal terror upon him? The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end
again. Adrenaline born of fear rushed
through his body, spurring him into motion.
Morgan propelled himself onward as fast as his wounds would allow.
The full,
pale, disk that hung in the cloudless sky filtered through the treetops,
offering little light to navigate by.
Fortunately, Morgan knew he needed only to keep a straight course to
ultimately reach civilization. The
absence of light did, however, leave him stumbling over fallen logs and
branches in his fearful frenzy. For the
third time in as many minutes, his toe caught a rigid lip of bark, sending him
sprawling to the dirt. Morgan's fingers
curled into the dried dead leaves as he pushed himself up.
Midway to
his feet, he froze. Crunch. The noise came from behind him; twigs and
leaves snapping and disintegrating under a heavy foot. Morgan closed his eyes, convincing himself
that it had merely been the wind; that his fears were irrational. Just as his heartbeat began to slow, he heard
it again: Crrunchh. Louder this
time, closer behind him. This time the
noise was followed by another. A shuddering
snort, like that of a winded horse. Hot
air blew chillingly across his neck, leaving him frozen.
Morgan
Sinclair whirled around, good arm raised, and unleashed a loud bellow. He was greeted only with darkness. Fear and injury were causing him to
hallucinate, he concluded. Nevertheless,
he was shaken, and needed to hurry. The
cold was growing in intensity, the chill brought by the wind pierced through
his thin layers. His teeth chattered so
loudly that he could swear the town he was stumbling toward could hear them.
Sinclair
had been walking for more than an hour when he reached a clearing in the
wood. The sky overhead was cloudless,
glittering stars winked at him through his hazy vision. The pale white moon hung high in the night,
full and white, casting a ghostly light on his surroundings. He was weary, fading now at an exponential
rate. Morgan dropped to his knees, his
mind imploring him to lay down upon the dried leaves and sleep; to succumb to
eternity. He slumped to the ground, but
as his eyes flitted closed, swimming between life and unconsciousness,
something brought him back. Something petrifying.
Something terrifying.
A
howl. The voice of a wolf on the hunt.
Aroooooo! In his current predicament and state, the
sound was almost demonic to Morgan.
Again the howl came, bounding and echoing through the wood, coming,
seemingly, from all directions at once.
He sat up, eyes wide, and exhaled sharply, his worst fears had been
realized: he was being stalked. Morgan
could feel his heart thumping against his chest, as if a monster within was
trying to beat its way out. A new noise
invaded the frightening orchestra, barely audible, but infinitely more
horrifying. Emanating from the treeline
behind him, he heard a grunting growl, a forceful exhale. Morgan turned, expecting a horde of creatures
come to feast on his flesh. Again, he
was met with only darkness. He scanned
the treeline, a glint caught his eye.
The moonlight above reflected off two large eyes, peering at him from
the black. As though sensing his gaze,
the creature began to move. Slowly,
methodically, menacingly, the beast advanced into the light of the moon. Whatever nightmare he had been expecting, it
wasn't this. It had to be another hallucination. From his blurry gaze, the beast stood on two
powerful hind legs, stilting it to nearly eight feet in height. It was covered from head to foot in a matted
black fur, spiked and wild.
It dropped
to its forepaws, now advancing on four limbs, its long forelegs extended into
broad shoulders, knotted with ropy muscle.
A throaty growl reverberated all around Morgan, sending fear and
gooseflesh spidering across his body. Even
on all fours, the beast stood four and a half feet tall at the shoulder. It peered at him through a pair of luminous
eyes of ice blue. Emotionless eyes, mad
eyes, the eyes of a killer. Even from a
distance, the smell of the beast’s mangy coat, musky and sour, assailed his
nostrils, bringing water to his eyes.
Morgan
couldn't move. His injuries, compounded with
his sheer terror, paralyzed him. The
creature growled again, its upper lip curling back to reveal canines the length
of Morgan's palm. Saliva dripped from
its cavernous maw. With a mad snarl, the
beast's shoulders bunched in preparation, and it leapt. The burly, manged figure covered thirty feet
as if it were an inch with its bound.
All Morgan could do was cringe and brace for impact.
The impact,
however, never came. Morgan peeked
fearfully through fluttering eyelids, only to be assaulted by a wash of hot,
rancid breath. His field of vision was
dominated by the monster's long snout, teeth bared in an almost perverse
smile. A viscous gob of saliva fell from
its lips to land on his tattered jeans.
Sinclair sprang into action, scrambling backwards across the dead
foliage in a scuttling, hobbled, reverse crabwalk, as quickly as his injuries
would allow. The beast stalked after
him, slowly, menacingly. Desperately, he
looked for a weapon, something to defend himself, anything. Fallen leaves were all that was within his
reach. The beast reared back to its full
height, towering over Morgan like Goliath over David, and reached a long,
sinewy arm towards him. To his horror,
he saw that it was not a wolf's paw that loomed ever closer, but a grotesque,
black hand, capable of wrapping halfway around his skull. Each long finger was topped by a vicious
looking talon. Morgan screamed as the
creature hauled him bodily from the ground, raising him to eye level.
In a flash,
the monster lashed out, clamping its powerful jaws down. White hot pain spread through his body as the
fangs penetrated him at the pectoral muscle and just beneath his shoulder
blade. He screamed again as his vision
swam in agony. Raising his good hand,
Morgan struck back, thrusting his thumb deep into the wolf monster's left
eye. There was an audible
pop as the eyeball burst under the pressure, oozing fluid to mingle with the
blood filling the ragged socket. It released its jaws, unleashing a
blood curling roar of pain and anger, and threw him like a rag doll. Morgan tumbled fifteen feet through the air
before crashing back to the dirt, landing mercifully on his uninjured arm. A sharp pain blossomed in his mouth, he had
bitten his tongue in the fall. The
bitter, metallic taste of blood and bile filled his mouth. Dazed, all he could do was watch, in defeat,
as the beast turned and approached with renewed malice. Thick, dark blood flowed from the creature's
ruined eye socket as it reached again for Sinclair's helpless form.
Suddenly,
as the horrible claw secured itself around his leg, a loud crack of splintering
wood echoed through the clearing, and the beast, oddly, fell. Straight into the ground it seemed, pulling
Morgan with it. Both fell nearly ten
feet before hitting the ground hard.
Stunned, Morgan looked around, bewildered. In the moonlit darkness, he could make out
four walls, a desk and an old oil lamp.
“What the fuck?” he cursed, attempting to clamber to his feet. But the beast recovered first, grabbing him and flinging him against the wall. It held him pinned over the desk, eyes bright with murder, and almost more terrifying, a carnal intelligence. Morgan lowered his head in defeat, a plump tear rolling down his cheek, when he spied something laying atop the desk he was suspended over. Something shining in the moonlight, something silver. A blade. A short, wicked looking cutlass; and it was just out of reach. The beast bared its fangs, savoring the kill to come. He could feel its hot breath on his face and neck, humid and stifling. Morgan reached longingly for the knife, his fingertips brushing the handle. The giant black maw opened, deadly canines ready to finish him, when he managed to tug the handle into his grasp. As the fangs came down, he jammed the blade upward, driving it home through the monster's upper palate. Thick blood, black in the moonlight, poured over his hand. For an instant, it froze, stunned, and then it howled a bone-chilling howl, its features withering, like paper beneath a flame. In an attempt to unleash another bellowing roar, the blood filling the wolf-thing’s mouth cut its voice short, to an angry, sputtering gurgle. Contorting and cracking, the beast released its grip and stumbled backwards, trying to work the knife free. To no avail, after seconds of frantic movements, the wolf fell to the ground, slain. Morgan hit the desk hard, and wasted no time jumping over the creature's giant body, and clambering up a set of rickety stairs that led above ground, from the mysterious room beneath the forest.
“What the fuck?” he cursed, attempting to clamber to his feet. But the beast recovered first, grabbing him and flinging him against the wall. It held him pinned over the desk, eyes bright with murder, and almost more terrifying, a carnal intelligence. Morgan lowered his head in defeat, a plump tear rolling down his cheek, when he spied something laying atop the desk he was suspended over. Something shining in the moonlight, something silver. A blade. A short, wicked looking cutlass; and it was just out of reach. The beast bared its fangs, savoring the kill to come. He could feel its hot breath on his face and neck, humid and stifling. Morgan reached longingly for the knife, his fingertips brushing the handle. The giant black maw opened, deadly canines ready to finish him, when he managed to tug the handle into his grasp. As the fangs came down, he jammed the blade upward, driving it home through the monster's upper palate. Thick blood, black in the moonlight, poured over his hand. For an instant, it froze, stunned, and then it howled a bone-chilling howl, its features withering, like paper beneath a flame. In an attempt to unleash another bellowing roar, the blood filling the wolf-thing’s mouth cut its voice short, to an angry, sputtering gurgle. Contorting and cracking, the beast released its grip and stumbled backwards, trying to work the knife free. To no avail, after seconds of frantic movements, the wolf fell to the ground, slain. Morgan hit the desk hard, and wasted no time jumping over the creature's giant body, and clambering up a set of rickety stairs that led above ground, from the mysterious room beneath the forest.
His breath
was ragged, his wounds, both old and new, plagued him. No more than ten minutes later, struggling to
keep pressing on to civilization, darkness stole his vision, and Morgan
Sinclair fell into the abyss of unconsciousness, unsure if he would ever
awaken.
