Lore - The Winter Hunger

Visibility was nearly gone in the whiteout. Only the shriek of the wind and the crunch of snow underfoot remained. The trail needed no dog to follow. It was written in grotesque fragments. Clumps of skin, frozen blood, and strands of fur littered the area like trail markers.   She drew her revolver. Heavy. Custom issue. Built for something larger than men.   Squinting into the white nothing, she crouched to take a sample. Fingers clumsy in gloves, she pulled them off, baring raw skin to the knife's edge of the cold. She had to be quick. Get it back to the city. See if it was connected to the other incidents.   Then she heard it. A sound that twisted the stomach. Half human cry, half dog’s whine. Too close, too real to mistake for imagination.   Her body flushed in spite of the freezing gale. The stench of the beast hit first: sickly sweet rot, carried in the wind like a chemical weapon. She turned to face it, weapon drawn, heart pounding.   It crawled from the snow. Something between man and wolf, tearing its own skin away in shreds to reveal cords of muscle and bristling fur. Its eyes flickered with both rage and agony. A guttural noise shook from its throat; a horrible laughter tangled with a furious growl that raised goosebumps on her spine.   She fired. The magnum bucked, the hollow point tearing through its shoulder. The roar that followed was deafening- not just pain, but fury so loud it bent her to her knees despite herself.   When she looked up, it was gone, retreating into the storm. Barking, cursing, howling.   She brought her radio up with shaking hands, voice raw:   “Control, I have confirmed contact. Send a retrieval team- moltings are everywhere. And…”   She stopped, breath catching, staring into the storm that was no longer empty. Distant howls echoed. Answering...   “…and send backup. Lots of it.”

The bunker was a relic of the Second World War, its air damp with rust and old ash. A bulb swayed on fraying wire, throwing long shadows across the table where a group of indistinct figures gather.   A tall figure leaned on the wall, voice rough but steady: “These aren’t ordinary police. If her shot had been two inches higher, I’d be finished. Left a hole in me the size of a small pumpkin. Whatever they’re using, ain't no way it's standard issue.”   Another presence limped closer, one boot dragging softly on the concrete. His voice was quieter, deliberate, like every word cost effort. “I checked the records. Strange what’s I -can't- find. Whole sections redacted out. But we’ve pieced together enough.” He lifted a white cardboard box onto the table, a few papers spilling out like dry leaves.   One of the figures scanned the first file, speaking without much emotion. “Andrei Chenkov. Sixty-three. Career Interpol, but that thousand yard stare - bet my last dollar he served in the military at some point. Looks disciplined. Stubborn. Not someone that will be easy to sway.”   The tall one sighed as if this was an argument they had already had before. “Even stubborn men have a price. Don't think we should take paying them to look the other way off the table just yet.”   Another voice joined in, tone lighter, almost conversational. “Malcolm Shaw. Listed as a consultant. He is seriously wearing a priest's collar in every photo they have. Between that and his comic-book style beard I'd say they need him pretty bad. Interpol is normally, strictly, pretty boring. I'd say.. outside consultant? Maybe one of those American witch-hunters, or like a.. Vatican.. secret police?”   The limping figure added in nonchalantly with a faint shrug: “You listen to too many rumors. The Americans don't care what happens here and the Pope hasn't sanctioned hunting monsters for at least a couple centuries. Now days they just bury and guard the evidence.”   The next dossier rustled open, it was thinner than the others, the paper crisper. An enthusiastic voice chimed in like they were just happy to be a part of the meeting. “Phoebe Cunroe- Rookie. Barely out of training.. Why would they- Oh wow.. Languages listed on her file run longer than the page itself! That’s no normal education. She must be one of those grown up child prodigies.”   The tall figure shifted against the wall. “They are setting the poor girl up for failure. The Black Forest only respect strength. The elements alone might sort her out...”   The last file was thicker, its edges dog-eared and frayed. The voice that spoke was slower, tinged with fatigue. “Margaret Connors. Handler. Desk worker mostly. She’s the one who shot me. That’s why I’m still breathing. Lucky she spends more time with a pen in her hand and not a gun.”   Silence hung for a moment, the bulb buzzing faintly above. Then the limping figure spoke again, tone measured. “It’s a skeleton crew. But I'm told there are more agents nearby in Freiburg. If we can't scare them off, we will have to kill them. The Patriarch..” A pause as emotion was caught in the voice for a moment, "Must remain here. Therefore so must we."   The tall one shifted against the wall, voice lowering almost to reverence. “Then we know what we must do. Spread the word to the Watchers. I want to know their every movement.”