The Loyal Alone

Chapter One

I could smell him before I could see him. Not that it was all that impressive; considering what I am; or the fact that he reeked of alcohol and that was most likely the easiest smell to recognize- werewolf or not.

The wind carried him over to me like a mist of perfume on a summer breeze. It was a sweet, rotting smell, the smell of cheap- but probably overly-priced whisky; which hit my nose from the side and made me huff air out of my nose in an attempt to rid the smell.

I sat up from the front seat of our old truck and pulled the hat away from my eyes, letting it adjust to the sunset colors as they glanced off the snow in a cloudy purple. As they adjusted, I spotted my father as a dark spec in a flannel coat against the white of the snow. If the dusk were any darker, he might have blended into the trees behind him which encircled our entire encampment. I sat in the truck staying still, watching as this dot of a man became bigger and bigger. My fists were clenched in my lap, resisting the urge to scream, as my anger gave way to sadness anytime he stumbled.

Defeated. That was the only word I could use that would describe my father in his entirety. In his long life he had suffered through a lot, my anger wouldn't omit his struggles. He was a lost and wondering soul, simply trying to find shelter in his own storm and I felt as if I was only a few steps behind him. As he got closer I could see his dark curled hair get tossed around by the wind as it peeked out of his cap. His cheeks and nose are red, but not from the cold. His eyes are red too, maybe from crying... sometimes he did that, just cry.

I thought back to the fight we'd had hours ago before he'd left, trekking to town to get fuel. My chest felt hallow. Not that I would ever tell him that, he has more to worry about than my feelings. He has told me that a thousand times.

He stumbled again. This time he was close enough for me to get out and help him.

With a sigh, I straightened my hat over my ears and got out, blowing warm air into my hands which were already covered in gloves. My sneakers sunk into the snow next to the truck, which was parked in an empty campsite. It was cold and wet, and I contemplated getting back into the truck, but I didn't. The snow sounded like muffled rain as I kicked the softer under-bits of it, and it landed on the top crisper layer which had already begun to form into ice. My feet crunched, but not as loudly as my father's which were mixed with 'shits', 'fucks' and big splashes into the crusty ice when he fell.

My dad was only a few feet away from the truck when I got out. the truck's red but faded paint leading the way, a beacon in this white plain surrounded by black trees. The trail he had walked out of the woods on was still there; it hadn't snowed since we'd been here. I looked at the two paths he'd taken, one in the thinner snow next to the trees, meant to avoid getting more wet than necessary. The other, straight through the maximum amount of snow as possible. Clearly an indication of his soberness each time he moved. One path had purpose, the other- I don't know.

"Here," he says kneeling a bit to put down one of his gas cans for me to pick up. It hits the ground and the brown liquid in it sloshes a bit, stirring up the smell of gas in the air. An affront to anyone's nose. He doesn't look at me as he walks past and opens the shell hatch to the back of our truck.

I grab the other canister from the snow. "What took you so long?"

He moves his head like he was going to turn around, but he doesn't. Instead he hikes himself up into the back of the shell and begins to knock the snow off his boots. When I make it to the back of the truck I wait for him to say something. He doesn't.

I grab his gas can and head over to the side of the truck. He wasn't going to fill it, and I knew that, there was no point in asking.

"Might as well pour it into the truck," he mumbles, clearly not seeing what I was already doing. "Never know when we need to leave in a hurry." He crawled slowly, deeper into the shell, crunching old jerky bags with his knees. He didn't bother to knock the snow off his jeans as he clambered inside and flopped onto his cot. He kicks his shoes off and they tumble, releasing more snow onto the corrugated floor boards.