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.
I stop and turn back, undoing the few steps I'd taken and just glare in after him. Anger or sadness? I can't have both. He looked so weak...
Inside our topper is warm. It is insulated and 'refurbished' to have two beds with storage underneath; IE, two cots bolted to the floor, not that I like sleeping there anyways. Hanging from the top of the shell is a thick black net which holds a few odds and ins, like ropes and blankets, a first aid kit. Under my cot is a small bag with two changes of clothes and a fake ID that I do not like to carry and have never used. Under my dad's cot is a large pack with handguns, and maybe some clean underwear.
"You been drinking?" I ask setting one gas can down. I wait for him to say something, struggling to pull the cap off the canister with my gloves. Maybe he didn't hear me through the wall of the truck.
"I got gas- for the truck." His voice was mumbled by the wall of fiberglass between us.
"Oh, yeah?" I smirk, speaking a little louder. The cap came undone, with one hand I open the outer flap of the rusty old truck and begin pouring. "Before or after you had a drink?"
There was a long pause, and for a moment I thought that was all I would get out of him for the rest of the night.
"I miss your mother," my dad whispers.
That is all he had to say. That is all he ever has to say to get me to shut up. Works every single time too. I can't pry, I tried as a kid, but his macho heritage always caused him to close up. I'd learned at a young age not to ask questions, at least, not about my mom. I didn't even know my mother. All I know is that her recent loss brings him pain, and with the pain comes drinking, and if we ever want to reach Alaska, drinking is the last thing we need.
"I know dad," I said quietly.
"You still mad at me kid?" he asks, not looking at me.
"No, Sir," I didn't want to answer. I resist the urge to cover my face to hide from the fumes.
"Had a long trek today." He stretches his legs, and I can see him through the foggy iced window along the sides of the camper. "It's getting late. So- I'm going to nap for a bit, we'll head out in a few hours."
"You know we could just drive the truck into town next time," I scrunched my nose.
"You know- we can't." He yawns. "Not our territory, we have to drive straight through." He turns to look pointedly at me. "I knew you were still mad. You're such a woman." He lays his head down on his crossed arms as he mumbles that last part.
I roll my eyes at him. We've crossed hundreds of lines and no one had come looking for me yet. It was nearly an impossibility that even if another werewolf pack had smelled me that they would assume that I was actually a female werewolf. We are things of legends, technically, there is no way I could ever exist. Five minutes at a mountain town gas station wouldn't change that fact, even if it was in someone else's territory. But ever since mom's death, well, dad was always careful- but now he's extra careful.
I finished pouring the gas into the truck, hating the smell of gas, but relieved to be away from the intoxicating smell of whiskey which only reminds me just how weak my father is emotionally. And he tells me I'm the woman.
When I'm done, I climb into the front seat to sleep instead of on the cot. One, that cot is uncomfortable, and I prefer the smell and feel of the old seat than I do my cot. Two, I was mad at my father, didn't really want to see him. Three, it meant I could sleep with my bra off if I so chose, and I was okay with that.
* * *
"Mireya. Mireya." I heard my father's voice break through my sleep as the window between the back of the truck and the front is opened and his voice gets louder. "Do you smell it?" he asks in hushed tones. His head is leaning in through the window, his whispers pulse warm air across my face. His hand is reaching for my shoulder and I can tell almost immediately, even through a wall of impenetrable sleep, that he is impatient.
"Huh, Dad?" I roll over on the seat facing towards him, propping up on one arm, I come face to face with him. "I smell your breath." I open my eyes wide enough to glare at him.
He just stares back at me, rubbing the back of his neck, breathing. Exhuming fumes.
I look outside, noting that it was dark; well, as dark as it can get when it is snowing; before rubbing my eyes and rolling back over, tucking the blanket around my shoulders to sleep.
"We have to be up in an hour or so. Just sleep, Dad." I mumble.
"I- I'm going scouting." It sounded like he was putting on his boots but then he stops. "I swear I smell something," he says, breathing deep.
I open my eyes and sit up, taking time to inhale. I smell gas, from when I filled the truck. Some of it was on my gloves which I was still wearing. I smell whiskey, no doubt from the heavy breathing of my father. Behind that; wet socks, remnants of jerky... rust, maybe, something bitter and musky, could be peat moss or dirt, I don't know. Nothing alarming.
"I- smell- nothing." I sigh. "Absolutely nothing."
Dad ditches his boots and socks and shrugs off his coat. "I'm going scouting." He opens the hatch of our truck all the way and steps out, the snow on the bottom of his bare feet not even bothering him. He takes off his shirt, revealing a tan Spanish heritage and a large silver amulet. He collapses to his knees, out of sight under the back hatch.
For a moment, my half-awake brain thought he had collapsed from alcohol ingestion, but then I realized he was shifting. Rolling my eyes, I turn back away from him, content to let him travel the woods in the dark alone, if only it meant a few extra moments of peaceful sleep. I didn't like watching people shift anyways, there was a certain anxiety that came with it.
I brought my hand to my own amulet around my neck and traced the indentions with my thumb. It was small, there was a round chip of moonstone embedded into a silver coin with old runes on it; the same as my father's. The call of the change was reaching out to me, tickling my ears, raising tiny hairs on my spine. With another change that happened so close to me, I could feel the wolf's power seek to take another in the world.
I cradled the amulet close to me, thankful for the ability to control myself.
Growing up as a female werewolf, I was conditioned to never change unless my life depended on it- Or else I could be discovered. It's one thing for someone to think I am a werewolf, another thing to confirm for them that I am. I tried to drift off to sleep.
I didn't like changing. It felt foreign to me, though I would be lying if I said I wasn't jealous of the freedom others have, to change when they want. I used to be careless, changing anyways when I was young, which was quickly remedied by my father.
'You must be diligent with your identity,' he'd say.
And hide in fear, I'd think. I remember the beating I'd get when I was younger whenever a change triggered. Once I'd gotten too angry, and the pulsing need to change ran quickly through my veins before I could control it. But my father was quick with his paddle, leaving me sore and bruised and crying.
'We cannot let your feelings get the best of you. We don't have time for it.'
Regardless of my child-hood and the whoppings I received from my father; it's a cumbersome predicament for a 17-year-old girl to be in currently. Completely out of control of my own identity with no freedom, living in fear of being found, like my mom... Being dependent on the benefits provided by my father. When all I really wanted in life was... Peace? Normalcy? My own life...
Maybe it will be better in Alaska?