An Excerpt from Another Writing!

I’m out of town for a family funeral today, so here’s an excerpt from a paranormal, historical fiction novel I’ve been working on for quite a bit.

Galabovo, Bulgaria, December 1916

            “Christ, it’s cold.”

            Guy clenched his teeth and the shoulder strap to his rifle.  That was the fourth or fifth time John said that in an hour.  Had it been an hour?  His watch had died in Gallipoli.  Their trek had taken them from a sweltering summer in Turkey to a harsh, bleak winter in Bulgaria.  Of course it was cold; it was bloody winter.  They were all cold and ready to go home—past ready.  John just couldn’t manage to keep his mouth shut about it.

            “Yes, John.  It’s cold.  Just like the last time you said that.”

            “Ah, leave ‘im alone, Guy.  He’s right.  It’s bloody freezin’ here, and it’s gettin’ darker. We need to stop for the night.  We’re lost and we’ll never find where it is we’re tryin’ to go in the dark,” said Tom, the medic who had miraculously gotten lost with them.  “Besides, chances are someone’ll get hurt if we keep goin’, and I’m low on supplies as it is.  We’re already out of morphine, and James’ll be in a right state when the last of it wears off.”

            Guy knew Tom was right.  James Davis was on guard duty a few nights before.  He didn’t realize there was a small cliff near camp, and he fell and broke his leg while investigating a noise.  Luckily, though, John woke up when he heard James’s screams. 

            Guy sighed.  “Alright.  Set up camp.  Ben and Henry, you’re on wood duty tonight.  John, what do you need meat-wise?”

            “Three turkeys, five swans, and eighty kilograms of venison,” he remarked dryly.  Guy rolled his eyes.

            “Of what I can really go and shoot, how much do you need?”

            “Oh, squirrels, whatever you find.  I don’t care,” John replied, pulling out his tureen and ladle.

            A couple hours later, they were all around the fire eating some tough squirrel soup.  Ben and Henry were playing cards, John told stories of his home—the farm, his family, his sweetheart Laura. James was writing a letter home, trying not to get his cigarette ashes on the paper.

            Guy sat quiet, smoking his pipe and listening enviously to John’s stories.  It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for his upbringing on the family estate.  He knew he wouldn’t be an officer without it.  But it would be nice to have been allowed to get messy every once in a while.

            He snapped out of his reverie of smearing cow dung on his sister’s face.  Tom had snatched up James’ letter and was reading it aloud.  Apparently James wasn’t entirely off his morphine, and attempted some interesting poetry for his girl.  All were laughing, including James.

            A large snapping noise echoed through the camp.  Their laughter faded.  John still had his grin, though it wasn’t as big as it’d been a moment ago.

            There was another snap.  The men grabbed their rifles and aimed.

            The growl from between the trees seemed to come from all sides.  The clouds shifted to reveal a bright, beautiful full moon.

            The largest wolf Guy had ever seen stalked towards them.  Its giant eyes caught the firelight and were terrifyingly human.

            Guy suddenly felt ice in his veins.  He knew what would come next.

“Hold steady, boys,” he whispered.

“Holy Mother of God,” came from somewhere, but Guy was too focused on the beast.

The wolf pounced.