Chapter 1-Wolf Base
The cabin was warm, almost stuffy, and hidden in the thick of the woods. Four resistance members sat inside, one was working the radios, two stood by the fire, and the last one was asleep on the bunk. All of them oblivious to the swirling of snow or the falling sun.
The door swung open, allowing a sharp cold to blast in. Everyone but the sleeping fighter turned to face the door. A silhouette of a man wearing a long cloak holding a hunting rifle dominated the frame. He was almost six feet and when he walked in he had the stride of a veteran. The light revealed the snow covered man, "Is this Wolf Base?"
"Yes it is, I'm Victoria Frasier," The radio operator was a little shocked by the man's cold, calm, and almost poetic voice. Her hand hovered slightly over the side of her desk, just above the stock of her shotgun. A quick scan revealed the others standing by the fire were readying their weapons.
A low chuckle emanated from the man's throat. Setting his rifle against the wall, he removed his cloak in one smooth motion, eyes never leaving the radio operator, "You know, it's rude to conspire against your guests."
She now had a full picture of the man. He was in his late twenties and wore fatigues colored urban gray. A worn leather belt around his waist sported a pistol, spare clips, a large knife, a flashlight, and a canteen. There was a bandolier across his chest holding thirty ought six rounds for the rifle. On his face was a grin surrounded by a week's worth of stubble. His eyes were a piercing ice blue and hair light brown, almost dark blonde, "I'm not sure if you qualify as a guest. Who the hell are you?" Her hand was now on the butt of the shotgun.
The man let out an unexpected laugh, rousing the sleeping soldier, "I wouldn't do that Miss Frasier," he looked at her left hand, "Sorry, Misses Frasier. I would be able to kill you all before that shotgun was even level. I'm Doctor Gregory Richardson, here to assist you."
"Richardson? You were the one that came from the California resistance force. You were supposed to be here four hours ago," Victoria huffed, acting haughty when in reality she was relieved that he finally made it.
Gregory looked at her and saw the deception, he decided to play along. Digging into his hip pocket he pulled out five sets of dog tags, "I was a little busy. Another group needed my rifle," He tossed them on the floor in front of Victoria. Seeing the shock on her face caused him to chuckle again.
Her eyes never made contact with the tags, she was staring at his blood stained boots, "I see. Well, now that you're here I'll introduce you to the rest of the group," She pointed to the man on the bunk, "That's Pete over there," groggily the man waved. Her hand moved over to the blonde pair standing by the fire, "Those two are the West twins, Arthur and Beth," they just nodded in response, each one cradling an assault rifle.
Nodding, he stepped forward and kneeled to pick up the dog tags. Using this moment, he examined the leader of the resistance group. She was about his age, maybe a year older. Shorter than he was, she looked just as strong. A rugged quality hung about her, more so than him, "You've lived up here for a long time."
"And what is that suppose to mean?" her gray eyes sparked with a dangerous fire.
He stood up, returning to his standing position, "Nothing at all, just an innocent question," he glanced around the room, "I believe you received my bag earlier today along with your supplies. Where is it?"
She jabbed her finger to the corner. He bowed, "Thank you Madame," he said in his most courteous voice he could manage. His eyes lingered on her for a few more seconds, the same coldness in them. His bag had been unceremoniously tossed in the corner of the room, rummaging through it he withdrew a MAC-10 sub machine gun and Bram Stoker's Dracula. Removing his bandolier, he placed it gently in the bag and took out the spare clips for the MAC.
Pete spoke next, "And what do we call you? Professor?"
Gregory seemed to think on it, "You may call me," he glanced at the cover, "Upir."
Arthur turned to him inquisitively, "What the hell does that mean?"
Opening the book, Gregory read a paragraph before answering, "It's Russian for vampire. It seems there's a local legend up here about them. I say let's use it to our advantage," covertly peering over the book he saw Victoria stiffen at his sentence. She's a local, he told himself, "And besides, your friends at Washington Group have already decided to refer to me as such. It's shorter than the other monikers I've picked up."
Beth cocked an eyebrow, "What other ones?"
"Whispering Death, Hell's Hitman, Angel of Death," He looked at the group collectively become repulsed at the names, "And the White Russian."
"The White Russian!? Are you some sort of traitor?" Arthur pointed the M-14 he had at Gregory.
Slowly shaking his head, Gregory closed his book, "No. In the Russian Civil War after World War One there were two sides: the Bolsheviks, or Red Russians, and the Royalists, or White Russians. It was the name of my resistance group from UCLA three years ago."
There was a collective gasp, "You are a veteran of the first invasion?" "You've killed Soviets before?" "Do you know Christopher Stone?" were some of the questions he was bombarded with. Instead of answering, he stood up, threw on his cloak, and picked up his rifle.
"Where are you going?" Victoria was a little bewildered.
He turned back, a cruel smile on his lips, "Doing what the Upir do best," He opened the door, "Hunt…"