Wolves

   The wind whistled solemnly against my ear, a sort of moanish, tired whisper. I smothered the weak,  yellow fire over my campsite and set into my tent, completely regretting my goggled swim in the sticky, stench-filled bug-spray. I sneezed.
   My tent was a dark, camouflaging bluish-black, partially met with a vanilla-white color at the top. I couldn't help rubbing my nails against its fabric for that soft, zizzly overlapping plastic sound.
   Slipping out of my gigantic polo vest, I snuggled into my similarly textured sleeping bag. Getting comfortable, I began to feel my eyes flicker. And then I heard it.
   A strong, angry howling, East of my tent. Followed with similar wolf calls, the voice grew closer. I closed my eyes. "Oh, please no." I grabbed my rifle and held close to the trigger.
   Suddenly, I saw a dog-like shadow close against the walls of my shelter. I winced, hugging the rifle closer to my chest. In truth, I'd never used a gun before. I didn't understand its potential. So guiltlessly, I shot.
   For moments, there was no other sound. Just silence and realization. But then came moans. Shrieks. Screams.  Against the better good, I peered through the open tent.
   I had shot a mother. Her cub and pack right beside, mourning. This wasn't right. Mothers stayed behind. Cubs didn't hunt! My world began to spin. Slowly, one by one, wolves dove toward me, baring fangs and hissing threats. I dropped my weapon and let them.