Of the Wolves

The storm was like nothing Nolan had ever seen in his nineteen, nearly twenty years. The rain was so heavy and thick, that even with his powerful vision, he could barely three feet in front of him. His hunting party was struggling behind him, but Nolan knew that stopping would only be worse.

His father had told him that if he didn't return with the every single person, that there was no use coming back. Even though Nolan was not in charge of the party, his father would still make him hold the responsibility for it.

Through the rain and sleet, Nolan could faintly make out a glow about a ten yards away. "We're going to stop up at the shelter!" He screamed. Some of the men, he knew heard him, he just hoped others would follow.

They came to a cabin. It was impossible to describe, because the only way they knew it was there was by touching it. Nolan's feet found steps, and his hands found the door. He knocked. And they waited. He knocked again. And they waited. Nolan was about to knock a third time when the door opened.