Wolves of the White Queen
Title: Target Practice
Word Count: 465
Note: This was from back when this story was combined with another I was working on. It's changed considerably since then but I still love this section as a standalone scene.
The pressure change in the air was like the ripple in a pond, undulating waves of energy that lapped at his skin and sent a curious chill down his spine. It was just enough of a distraction to make his fingers slip, and instead of sawing through the length of tough rope in his hand the knife gouged into the meat of his thumb. Hissing a string of curses in a variety of languages, he dropped both items and pinched the wound closed, turning to face the direction the pulse had come from.
There was nothing there, of course, save the skinny trunks of the birch trees that made up the woods and the rasp of leaves in the wind. The sensation had rattled him, but it would have been far stronger if he'd been anywhere near the epicenter. Sighing in frustration, he slid his backpack from his shoulder and dug in it as best he could without bleeding all over it, removing a roll of gauze that he used to wrap his hand as best he could. It wasn't perfect, but it also wasn't his dominant hand, so he was sure it would last at least until he could get back to the others.
The creature still lay at his feet, three of its four limbs bound to trees so that it was held spread-eagle in the dirt. It was already starting to twitch as the sedative wore off, the black holes that served as its eyes twisting and contorting as it began to regain consciousness. He'd drugged it so many times at this point that another dose would probably kill it, so even though he was sorely tempted to do just that, he instead retrieved the knife from the dew-soaked grass at his feet and finished the cut, using the length of rope to bind the thing's ankle to a stump. By the time he was securing the last knot, it was starting to whine and growl, its voice garbled and confused.
He backed away, then, slinging his pack over his shoulder and heading up the steep hill nearby. Fifty yards from the writhing, wailing creature, his rifle sat waiting under the camo tarp he'd brought with him, and he settled onto his stomach with practiced ease, pressing the familiar weight into his shoulder.
"Alright, you fuckers," he muttered, as the creature's growls turned into high-pitched shrieks, eerily similar to the piercing feedback of amplifiers. The odd wave of energy and the many things it could mean had already left his mind. All that mattered, at this point, was the crashing of bodies through the trees as more of the creatures came to investigate the screaming of their pack mate. Grinning, he pressed his eye to the scope. "Let's play."
Word Count: 465
Note: This was from back when this story was combined with another I was working on. It's changed considerably since then but I still love this section as a standalone scene.
The pressure change in the air was like the ripple in a pond, undulating waves of energy that lapped at his skin and sent a curious chill down his spine. It was just enough of a distraction to make his fingers slip, and instead of sawing through the length of tough rope in his hand the knife gouged into the meat of his thumb. Hissing a string of curses in a variety of languages, he dropped both items and pinched the wound closed, turning to face the direction the pulse had come from.
There was nothing there, of course, save the skinny trunks of the birch trees that made up the woods and the rasp of leaves in the wind. The sensation had rattled him, but it would have been far stronger if he'd been anywhere near the epicenter. Sighing in frustration, he slid his backpack from his shoulder and dug in it as best he could without bleeding all over it, removing a roll of gauze that he used to wrap his hand as best he could. It wasn't perfect, but it also wasn't his dominant hand, so he was sure it would last at least until he could get back to the others.
The creature still lay at his feet, three of its four limbs bound to trees so that it was held spread-eagle in the dirt. It was already starting to twitch as the sedative wore off, the black holes that served as its eyes twisting and contorting as it began to regain consciousness. He'd drugged it so many times at this point that another dose would probably kill it, so even though he was sorely tempted to do just that, he instead retrieved the knife from the dew-soaked grass at his feet and finished the cut, using the length of rope to bind the thing's ankle to a stump. By the time he was securing the last knot, it was starting to whine and growl, its voice garbled and confused.
He backed away, then, slinging his pack over his shoulder and heading up the steep hill nearby. Fifty yards from the writhing, wailing creature, his rifle sat waiting under the camo tarp he'd brought with him, and he settled onto his stomach with practiced ease, pressing the familiar weight into his shoulder.
"Alright, you fuckers," he muttered, as the creature's growls turned into high-pitched shrieks, eerily similar to the piercing feedback of amplifiers. The odd wave of energy and the many things it could mean had already left his mind. All that mattered, at this point, was the crashing of bodies through the trees as more of the creatures came to investigate the screaming of their pack mate. Grinning, he pressed his eye to the scope. "Let's play."