Animalian

Chapter One

It was early spring along the Laird River of British Columbia, a broad, rolling plain of subarctic climate where the Rocky Mountains began. 5000 kilometers of young mountains only 65 million years old, lay in row upon row of mighty peaks rising majestically into the sky and divided the entire North American continent. Farther to the south, the Rockies were dominated by national parks swarming with people and recreation, bathed in a far more temperate climate. Those peaks were subdued, their rocky surfaces smoothed with hiking trails and parking lots, their valley’s paved and travelled daily. This far north however, the weather was far too severe and relentless for such public enjoyment. The mountains here were savage and untamed, bearing the terrible cold with their bases covered in a thick shawl of near endless pine trees. That is until recently.

Even this remote location was becoming populated and consumed, not widely but increasingly. Logging roads now appeared, animals were hunted, garbage discarded. That was what civilization meant - consumption. A careful eye could determine where the shawl had already begun to recede, and a person's exposed skin could sense warmth in the air that had not been before. Our world's climate had changed permanently as had our lives, our civilization affecting all it touched as it grew.

But none of those things mattered to the great menagerie of creatures making up the population of Northern Canadian wildlife. This vast and unique panoply of animals spread out through the wilderness were all focused on the one thing that never changed or grew less important - breakfast.

Parsley fern sprouted through various cracks in a mountain side, it's spindly fronds reaching up to the sun for nourishment. A mountain goat munched on the fern, it's cloven hooves spread wide for balance on the precarious slope. It had spent the winter narrowly dodging being eaten by cougars, but now the warmer weather had made it safe to climb up the mountain and out of harm's reach.

A cougar watched the goat with interest from far down below in the foothills of the peak, but it knew the climb was beyond it's abilities. It then noticed a nearby porcupine that also had no reason to fear the dangerous cat. The cougar had learned the hard way several times to give a pass to hunting the walking pincushions, and trotted off with hopes of finding something easier to kill and eat.

The porcupine happily munched on bark and pine needles, the populous species free in this area from it's only natural predator, the Pacific Fisher. Over trapping had driven that tiny cousin to the wolverine much further south and east, allowing the porcupines to prosper and destroy huge swaths of the area's forests. That is until lumber companies had addressed the loss in their inventories by reintroducing the lithe little hunter to the province, and now this porcupine among many others had to look twice before coming out to eat.

All of these animals realized they were being watched from within the forest by a group of predators waiting in hiding, their hungry eyes peering through the dawn mist. When the animals sensed that they weren’t being hunted, they resumed their morning rituals. The animals who had been selected as prey, however, remained oblivious.

The hunters were dangerous, powerful, and about to exert their prerogative as the foremost animals of this area's food chain by killing the prey they had carefully tracked all morning. The oblivious doomed animals had no idea it was destined to die and that there wouldn't anything they could do once they had been chosen as prey. This was just as nature had intended and all perfectly normal, it was something that happened every day to every animal, everywhere in the world.

But what happened this morning in this place, was nothing like nature had ever intended before.

Blankets of snow covered an embankment down to the Laird River where a buck elk drank. From the tree line, a doe elk emerged and stepped carefully through the snow. It was unusual for either animal to be on their own so far from others. The female was small for her kind with a much higher rate of metabolism that meant she couldn’t afford to rest with her larger fat storing sisters and wait for the lush new summer grasses. She needed to seek out additional forage on her own, and had recently discovered this isolated river bank with it’s tasty pockets of hardy foliage. She was young and spry, feeling little need to cling to her herd for safety.

The buck’s solitude was a mystery to her, and she was surprised at his appearance, but not enough to drive her away from the food she had come for. The two deer shared a silent moment, unseen communication coursing between the two. The buck was interested and stepped back to allow her a spot at the river.

It was too early for rutting season, so the doe wasn’t interested in that, but was still curious as to why he seemed to be. When confronted with a male that needed to be discouraged, the female elk’s oft used solution was mimicry. Brazen and confident, she strode past the buck and drank from the icy cold water, still keeping him in her sight.

Very close by, branches cracked. The buck's attention was immediate. Following the doe was a pack of six timber wolves, each close to a hundred pounds, dark grey coats with silver eyes. The buck stepped in front of the shivering doe, lowered his horns and hunched his shoulders down. At their back was the Laird River, too wide and deep for them to cross. The wolves slank down the embankment, lean from days without food.

Steam rose from the buck's nostrils into the chilled air. Any indication of why the elk had failed to notice the wolves sooner or if it blamed the doe for leading them here was not visible in the buck’s large dark eyes. It was terrified and death was near.

The wolf leader - the alpha male - padded forward alone, staying between the elk and their only escape. It had stalked the trespassing doe for days and watched the deer leave it's herd to come here alone, so the wolf was surprised to now see the buck.

No matter. Here was a month’s worth of food, the pack was starved, and the leader unwilling to back down now. A purely instinctual decision was made without any thought. Kill the male, and while the female was still stunned with fear, kill her too.

The leader expected the buck to stamp it’s hooves to try and startle him away, but the elk must have been too frightened to even manage that. There was no room for the doomed animals to run or evade, the wolves had the initiative, the numbers, the desire, everything. The doe bawled for help that wasn’t going to arrive in time.

As the leader crouched to attack, the buck somehow growled. The leader hesitated, something very wrong here. The rest of the wolves backed away as the elk threw back his head, and let loose a blood piercing howl, the very air vibrating with a growing fury.

The elk impossibly metamorphasizes into a wolf!

The beast launched itself at the leader. Snow blasted everywhere as the two wolves viciously tore into each other. A terrible howl of pain ripped through the air. The rest of the pack raced through the trees, away from the river bank in mortal fear.

The wolf leader lay dead on the ground. His throat was ripped open, steam rising as his chest labored to produce a few diminishing breathes. The other wolf had returned to it’s elk form and looked down to confirm his enemy had finally passed. The doe retreated in a stumble, still badly frightened. He turned to her, and stepped forward tentatively. The doe backed into the water, seeming to prefer drowning to confronting the abomination in front of her.

Adrenaline brought on by combat still shot through his veins, making him dizzy and hyper alert. The metamorphosis of his body resulted in metabolic spikes so powerful that he was almost visibly shedding body weight. His victory over a numerically superior enemy combined with the freezing cold had left him flushed with a heart rate twenty points above midline. He also had a tremendous, bright red hard on and it was difficult to think of anything else other than his need.

He considered pressing his desire to rut and there wasn’t a single ethical concern in any animal species against doing just that. But an instinct foreign to any creature spoke within him, and he demurred. He turned his back on the frightened female and left the embankment, his long strides crunching through the deep snow.

The buck elk made his way through the woods and constantly checked to ensure the doe followed within eyesight. Normally they would take different trails through the heavy woods, the buck requiring more clearance for it’s antlers. But after the morning’s events, she took the same path at a distance, equally watchful of him as for any returning wolf. After a couple kilometers, he had escorted the doe to her herd and she raced for the protection of the others.

The buck stepped forward, but several massive elk stood protectively between the stranger and their herd, the doe peeking from behind. The buck called to her but it was the others that answered, their antlers lowered for attack. His need for the female was strong and not easily shaken off, but something far more primal called within him and demanded to be answered or else it would surely kill him. The buck snorted and galloped off as the herd cautiously watched him leave.

***

A Man approached a discrete opening in a mountain wall, the dead wolf leader he had killed was draped over his shoulder. He bore the weight effortlessly and strode uphill with movements sharp and direct. Two meters tall, the Man's dark fur covered a body that was young and powerful, his green eyes deep and haunted.

The doe and the dead wolf had both probably wondered desperately about a mystery that the Man would not have been able to reveal even if he'd wanted to - who or what was he?

Was he a man who could change his body into any animal or was he a beast with a soul? The Man could reform his body in defiance of numerous rules of biology, chemistry and physics, his cells impossibly containing the DNA coding of every animal in existence on Earth. But no matter what he became, he remained an anomaly who didn't even have a name.

The Man had sailed the wild blue yonder, crossed every desert, and stirred the soil of every ocean floor, but had yet to meet another like him. His species numbered just one and the single thing preventing it’s absolute and complete extinction was his beating heart. The only thing the Man knew for sure was that Earth had a food chain and he was at the very top of it.

The Man smiled fiercely, thinking that the wolf on his shoulder probably hadn't expected this outcome when it had picked a fight. He felt the bite marks from the wolf on his neck already healing, his ability to recover from wounds strangely far superior to any other beast he'd encountered.

The man stopped abruptly at the cave opening, sensing something.

He dropped the wolf and crouched down to run his fingers across the ground. Vague imprints were visible in the frozen ground and in the clumps of snow that oddly seemed strategically placed between the tree line and the cave. He smelled his fingers and his eyes widened.

The Man jumped up and charged into the cave. A moment later a grizzly bear erupted out, the enormous furry six hundred kilogram mass skidding and throwing up dirt in a raging tornado. Reared up to it's full height of three meters, the bear roared. Coming out of the cave, the Man roared back in the bear's tongue, impossibly louder. The bear bellowed again, but the Man had already turned his back on the dominant predator three times his size.

The bear couldn’t sustain his balance to stay bipedal, and dropped down to all fours. He considered the confusing reaction of his opponent and could not find an instinct that would properly determine his response. Prey did not act this way, nor did predators. He kicked dirt at who he thought was supposed to be a human, to illicit a response he would understand and react to. But the man ignored him completely. Not sensing an ounce of fear or care, the disgruntled bear turned and ambled off, his mind unable to consider any other action.

Opening the hollow handle of a wicked looking survival knife called The Skinner, the Man struck a match and lit a small pile of gathered kindling. He reached out a hand black with thick fur to the fire's warmth.

Fur recedes into his body.

The bear still watched from a distance within the trees and whined plaintively. It hated losing a warm, dry place to sleep and what looked like a big dinner to a diminutive foe, even if he had little to no real taste for either wolf or human meat. But it didn’t relish getting it’s large fuzzy butt kicked a second time either. The animal was hungry and tired, but common sense was still his strongest instinct right now. The bear snuffed his regret and eventually faded back into the freezing night.

The Man watched the bear leave, fully aware of the animal’s location and reactions despite his feigned ignorance. The creature had not been a true threat to him and it would’ve been the simplest gesture of charity to allow the bear one night’s sleep out of the freezing cold. But his mind was consumed with anger and indignation. He was royally pissed and not feeling particularly generous at that moment, still stung after being rejected by the doe.

The Man had no identity, no idea of where he came from, or who created him. He had always been alone as he was right now. He knew enough to hide his secret and to never allow any human to know about him or what he could do. That much was plain and he didn’t regret isolating himself from mankind at all.

But the incident with the doe was yet another in a series of reoccurring events. It hurt him far more than just losing a sexual partner, though on a cold night like this, that stung too. Far worse was that he had to admit to the unsettling feeling that he may never find another animal to accept him in any way. It just wasn’t instinctual for an animal to accept a freak into the herd. That was plain to him as well.

The Man had known about the wolf pack far in advance, his senses were so acute that he had known about their approach almost when they had first set out that morning. The man had allowed the wolves to attack so that he could be a hero and show off for the doe. He hoped to reveal his secret to her in a way that maybe she could forgive him out of gratitude for saving her life and allow him some quality time together. That had been the plan, anyways.

But apparently his differences were so abhorrent that she couldn't bare the sight of him, protector or not. Apparently she would chose death over accepting him, no matter how noble his character or that she owed her damned life to him. Apparently he was simply doomed to be a freak.

The Man lived a difficult life full of questions and as bad as it had always been, today had just gotten a little worse.

Self pity and indignation fired his ever present anger. Not the noblest of attitudes, it helped to keep him warm at night. But soon it waned, as did all other thoughts from his mind. They were wiped away by the singular need that drove everything he ever did and would never abandon him ever - the continual burning hunger in his belly.

This was a need he could tend to alone. The Man devoured piece after piece of the wolf, unconcerned with cooking it first.

Chapter Two

A bright yellow Antonov An-2 single engine biplane soared over the snow covered tundra of the Russian steppes towards a body of water unlike any other on the planet: the Blue Eye of Siberia, Lake Baikal. Twenty percent of the world’s fresh water lay here, covered by meters of ice clear enough to see through to the fish living within it’s depths.

The whine of the plane’s Shvetsov rotary engine cut through the frigid air as it approached a camp of several tents outlined with bright red flares. The Russian built aircraft was a rickety curmudgeon, the world’s largest single engine biplane, circa 1947. Despite it’s age, it still saw a great deal of service across the globe due to it’s durability, simple construction, and cheap cost. The logo painted on the cowling was that of a muscle bound man in overalls and a peasant’s cap towing along a wooden cart with a mule riding in the back. Emblazoned below that was Crazy Russian Airways: We haul your crap for less.

The ancient plane glided down with skis for landing gear, slowing down to approximately sixty KM/H. Where most any other plane would’ve stalled and crashed by now, the Antonov merely hung in the air with great patience and carefully eased downwards almost vertically. It’s leading edge slats extended to provide additional lift through a cleverly simple fully automated system. They were attached to the wings by a series of rubber bands and when there wasn’t enough airflow over the wing to keep them in place, they simply dropped down on their own.

The Antonov almost literally fell to the ground, moderately safely, then taxied to the camp. Three men, their faces covered in thick wool scarves, rushed over to the plane. Giving the still turning propeller a wide berth, they came around to the side door to find it already open. A moment later the pilot climbed out, the name tag on his coveralls reading Abraham Konofsky.

Abraham was a bald, weathered looking fellow, large brown puppy dog eyes set in a permanent scowl. The wind was bitterly cold and he immediately stomped his feet and pulled a beaver fur cap over his exposed dome. Sonofabitch! It’s colder than my goddamn mother in law’s laundry chute out here!

Ferst Rothschild, dressed in a down field parka, ignored the pilot and clambered up into the plane. Grateful to be shielded from the cold, he lowered his scarf and checked the wooden crates loaded on the plane. His cheeks were flushed red from the relative warmth inside, his hair bright silver, eyes ice blue. Reluctantly, he went back outside.

In a Belgian accent, he hollered over the wind. Yah, it’s a bit cold, hey? Verging on minus forty Celsius, Rothschild was making light of it for the benefit of the others.

Konofsky hunched his shoulders, appearing even more bullish with far more lines on his face than teeth in his smile. Cold? It’s colder than my goddamn mother in law’s milk jugs! Sonofabitch, what the hell are you doing out here! Sonofabitch, what the hell am I doing out here?!

You've got all of our supplies? Rothschild asked. I was expecting more.

I brought every goddamn thing I was paid to. Enough to stay here another whole goddamn month. Sonofabitch, you’re crazy to want to. Konofsky was bitching by reflex. Truth was that this was the first actually cold week of the winter and he was ticked because he had to finally pull his parka out of the storage box at home. Russian winters weren't anything like they used to be, and that wasn't just nostalgic memories of scoffing old timers. It was warmer everywhere, no question.

Konofsky couldn't believe that scientists still appeared on television to dispute global warming when you didn't need a computer forecast anymore, anyone could just stick their head out the window and figure it out. He liked having an extra long summer, but was sure that the seals here didn't appreciate the extended hunting season. Konofsky supposed that the formerly bitter winters used to give the little buggers a break from all the clubbing, but that was over now.

Tough luck for them, Konofsky decided. Warmer weather meant more charters and safer flying weather, and that's all he gave a damn about. That and getting back home.

Rothschild was losing the little bit of patience he had left for the cretinous man who was depended upon to bring their much needed supplies. Animal research. All in the name of science, you know.

Goddamn crazy scientists, nothing but trouble. That’s what I tell your sonofabitch assistants.

Who?

Goddamn cold make you deaf? Your assistants on plane! Konofsky bellowed. They came aboard in Irkutsk, said they missed their last flight. Bullshit! I’m only one sonofabitch crazy to fly out here and no one told me to take goddamn passengers! Especially that goddamn girl, drive me crazy whole goddamn flight, always asking questions.

Konofsky pointed to a man and woman running towards the tents. There, those are the sonofabitches! I told you!

I'm not expecting any assistants. Rothschild jogged over as the woman followed a trail of blood in the snow to a large tarp covered pile. Hey - you're not allowed there! Leave that alone!

The woman threw the cover aside to reveal a dozen dead baby nerpa seals, the only fresh water species in the world and native only to Baikal. Each of the pups had fur that was steel grey, silky and lush with none of the animals being over six weeks old. Seal skin coats were highly prized for their uniqueness, light weight, and their purported ability to slim a person’s appearance while wearing it. The hides of seal pups were of even further value than the flesh of an adult Phoca Subirica for reasons strictly of arbitrary fashion. As the seal aged, it’s skin browned. The purer the grey skin, the more attractive the coat it would make and the more highly desired it became.

But adult nerpas were small by seal standards and their babies obviously even more so. It would require a great many nerpa seal children to be slaughtered to clothe these hunter’s wives in time for their next gala event.

The woman cursed under her breath at the horrific sight. The hunters had already begun to skin the infant animals, but their finished carcasses were still visibly moving. It meant that the seals hadn’t been dead when they were skinned, the hunters impatient to finish their work in the frigid weather. That they were infants hadn’t mattered one bit.

The man beside her operated a broadcast quality video camera and panned to record the entire massacre. Regardless of the cold, Katherine Lyndstrom pulled back her parka hood to reveal a girl of only twenty one with shaggy brown hair and a freckled face pretty without makeup. She faced Rothschild, now with a microphone in hand.

I'm Katherine Lyndstrom from BBC News, reporting on the poaching of baby nerpa seals. Her tone was authoritative and insistent, but her British accent was somewhat less than authentic. Mr. Rothschild, what do you have to say about this criminal act?

I have a legal right to be here.

Why are you lying about being animal researchers?

It's necessary to keep protesters from interfering with our hunt.

Kate pressed further. This isn't hunting. Nerpa seals are unique to this area with no defense against a predator. You're slaughtering an endangered species. As she spoke faster and with greater anger, Kate's accent verged on a really bad Monty Python imitation that had Rothschild wincing.

What do you think makes them so valuable? They’re not endangered anyways, and this is a business ...

A business? Kate smacked a stunned Rothschild in the chest with her microphone. Repeatedly. They are warm blooded animals that don’t deserve to be turned into fashion ware. You're the one who should be hunted, Ferst Rothschild!

What ... you're no reporter - Mr. St Hier? Mr. De Souza?

The two middle aged men with Rothschild – Gerard St. Hier and Roberto De Souza - grabbed Kate and her partner Jesse Dern. De Souza snatched the video camera away from Jesse, a young broad shouldered man who had an easy four inches and thirty pounds on the diminutive Spaniard.

Hey, that's our equipment, pal! Jesse pushed De Souza hard, who stumbled backwards to the ground and dropped the camera. Jesse snatched up a nearby Hakapik, a wicked looking type of pick axe used to club seals. He’d seen pictures of them before, but had never wielded one till now. Heavy and not balanced very well, an ugly device. But it was designed to kill seals and that it did just fine.

What hunters did was to locate a group of holes in the ice made by the seals to provide them with a breathing place while they swam around searching for food. Here within the freezing depths of Baikal, the seals lived on fat, tasty omul fish. They didn’t have the luxury of buying the delicacies from one of the shacks set up along the nearby Trans-Siberian railway catering to tourists sight seeing the Russian frontier. The Nerpa seals of Baikal had to hunt up supper on their own.

The hunters waited for the babies to surface, their tiny lungs not allowing them to stay down as long as their parents. Hakapiks were swung, their blunt metal heads stunning the animals into submission. Then the wooden handle was spun in the hunter’s gloves, bringing to bear a sharpened scythe shaped blade that was driven with a powerful swing down into the seal’s skull, killing it nearly instantly. The seal’s body could then dragged aside by the hakapik and left in the snow to allow it to bleed out before removing it’s coat. This was the legally approved policy of most Western nations, Jesse knew, determined to be the most humane procedure to strip the skin from a seal.

The corpses on the ground, however, revealed several animals with multiple head wounds due to incompetent clubbing on the part of these particular hunters. In addition to being illegally skinned alive, there was little in this hunting trip to differentiate what was supposed to be a humane culling of a non endangered animal from the merciless torture and slaughter of a defenseless warm blooded animal who’s only crime was that it’s flesh looked appealing draped over fat rich women’s bodies.

Jesse had little to no mercy for men such as these. Bastards!

He raised the hakapik and threatened to treat De Souza to a taste of what he’d been doling out all morning. How about I put this chunk of metal through your brain pan and see how many coats we can skin out of your dumb ass? De Souza looked up, scared and not appreciative of any irony at that moment.

Jesse was about to retrieve his camera from De Souza, when he was distracted by St. Hier knocking Kate to the ground behind him. Jesse got between the two, dropped the hakapik and grabbed St. Hier’s jacket lapels. Hey, asshole, you don’t touch her, you got me?

A pistol barrel pressed into Jesse’s jaw, and the metallic click of its hammer drawing back chilled him more than the frigid weather ever could. He very slowly looked