They were eleven days homebound across the White when they spotted their first eater-beast. Naturally, it was Søren who spotted it, a man of much hair and beard, ice-ranging in his blood. The dark shape, more twisted, cooled shattered and reformed dark glass than any flesh, was bright in that day’s sun as it prowled ruins jutting beyond the ice.

A distant speck under Søren’s scope it stayed, before being lost to static roar of the afternoon’s storm.

It was Asilia and her many-fixed watch, bundled together in her sled, who called a stop that evening. 

Under-scarred Alfie unfolds a shovel, hacking away at the snow, digging shelter. He is joined by Will. In a different age he would have been fat, covered in expensive suits. Here, he is hard and frostbitten. 

Emilie tends to her precious tug-drones, pulling out sharp shards and dusting off fine ash, cooing to them as she does so.

Huddled around the lantern, the shelter is silent except for the whistle and roar of the wing. All small talk exhausted long ago, and they dare not sing. 

Søren takes a rope, counts out his bullets and trudges into the greying white. 

An hour later, they nod off in relief as he pushes his way though the fresh drifts outside, ammunition unspent.

And then they were twelve days across the White

That dawn, Søren claims the heat-lantern and overburdens himself with their precious cargo. As the rest of the caravan heads on, he heads up. Up the broken concrete and shattered steel bones that still poke above the White. 

Halfway up, dangling on precarious rope bogged down by his heavy pack and rifle and caked in an extra week’s worth of sweat – all with numb lips – he sprinkles a packet of their precious cargo into the dawn winds.

Nutrient flakes dance off, floating through the air as petals. He lets most of the bar out, before sneaking a bite, coughing as his mouth’s moisture is sapped. Crunching his sand textured teeth, he continues up until he is perched atop the ruin, a nest of cold scorched concrete, frozen smooth rebar and dry snow.

One eye watches the caravan push on. The other watches the wind, where the sandy flakes fly. Both wait for the beast.

And he waits.

The dark mass slithers out, its septapod legs stabbing the ice with unquiet disrhythm. Søren waits above, unmoving, snow in his mouth lest condensing breath give him away. Watching as it stalks out of the dark grey bones, sinking into the sled-train’s trail. Hunting not the meagre scent.

He places and steadies his rifle, flicking a switch on its side, taking sight, guessing distances, tasting wind. A few moments later, flakes turn to rivulets over the softly wound cover – a small puff of vapour and he flicks it off. 

Only now does he reach into his deepest pouch, drawing two fist sized bullets. Both have a splash of blue upon their tip, of these he has five. He loads one and holds the other against the warm bolt, straining his thumb. 

Now he brings the scope to his eye, cold metal freezing his sweat. By training, intuition, guesswork and hope he sets the sight a tad above and a little left of the strutting beast. 

He tightens the trigger to the catch, stills his lungs and slows his heart. 

He slowly pulls a little further.

There is a flash and his ears ring with the crack. The rifle slams into his shoulder. Now the adrenaline kicks in. 

Below and away, the round strikes against the beast, the orange flash unwitnessed by any natural eye. Chunks of carapace and ichor spray black across the white. 

Without turning, the best shifts course, scuttling towards the sound of the offending gunshot.

Heart unhelpfully thumping, his brain has nothing to do with his arms’ re-sighting and reloading the rifle, the precious brass spinning down the tower. 

He sights and fires again.

The creature is unslowed by a shower of sharp metal and concrete dust, an ancient wall shattering behind it. 

Two bullets left. 

Distant though it was, it now clings to the base of his hiding spot, its only wound already knitting closed.

Leaning over, held by his ropes alone, there isn’t time for the scope. All he manages is to blast another hole in the carapace. 

Last bullet.

It jumps, razor skin smashing him back from the edge. Flakes of beard and skin float down as the blood already begins to freeze.

It leers over Søren’s bloodied body, its carapace receding to reveal its serrated maw. 

Tired arms lower the gun.

It moves closer. 

Søren fires. A cloud of dust and snow rise up from below the beast. Ancient concrete and cold-weakened steel give way and the beast plunges from his sight. 

Looking down, it is impaled in a mess of rebar. But his job is not done. Not yet.

Ignoring his bleeding face, he retrieves a tankard of clear liquid, hoarded lovingly. With some solemnity, he empties the considerable weight over the beast, still liquid in its heat.

This he sets alight. 

The creature makes no cry, no sound but the sizzle of the flame and the thrashing of a dying beast. 

He warms his blisters and massages out his frostbite on its death-throes.

As he sets to the awful work of prying the charred offal from the carapace, he spies the train return.

They’ll want their hauler’s share. But he’ll get the ranger’s share. He continues to crunch his teeth as he works. Maybe some spices.