by Stu Jones
One of the thugs pushed the others aside and got into Mico’s face. The man smiled, his swollen features, all mashed together as if he were a villain from the Dick Tracy comics.
“Whatcha doin’ on Coyote turf, shit stick?” the man asked as the other thugs around him laughed.
“You and your clowns don’t scare me.”
The men laughed harder.
“Everyone’s a tough guy until the pain starts. The boys call me ‘Shank,’ ” the thug slurred, bubbles dripping wet from his puffy lips. “You wanna know why?”
“I can’t wait to—” Mico groaned, his words cut short as he felt a blade enter his guts. He groaned in agony.
The thug with the knife laughed. “Now you know!” Shank giggled as he pulled the blade out and jammed it into Mico’s midsection again and again giving a brutal twist each time. Time slowed, and the world began to spin and blur as the bandits laughed at the tortuous murder of a fellow human being.
“Night-night,” Shank slurred.
As the darkness closed in on him, Mico felt the blade sting as it pushed deep under his chin with a scraping sound, and all the lights in the world went out.
The warrior boy, Tynuk, sat without a sound beside the small fire, his eyes gazing into the flames, watching them jump and disappear in a shower of sparks. He rechecked the pot that contained boiling bits of horsehide and sinew. It was ready. He dipped a small, wooden ladle into the gray glop and drew out the solid parts from the hide glue. The heat from the fire continued to refine the mixture.
Once the solids were removed, Tynuk dipped a small horsehair brush into the mix then pulled it out. He examined the stinking gray goop that clung to the bristles. Then he grabbed a yellowish, long, wide, flat bow rendered from a beautiful piece of Osage orange wood that he’d collected in the forest. The wood exhibited the perfect combination of weight, strength, flexibility, and durability under stress. The outer bark was scorched, but the heart of the wood appeared clean and supple—ideal for a bow.
Tynuk brushed the glue liberally along the back of the bow where most of the stress in the draw occurred. He then wrapped the handle as tight as he could with crisscrossed strips of sinew. He applied glue and sinew to the tips and notches of the bow to strengthen the points where the bowstring would hang. He then began to bind the sinew into a suitable bowstring while the bow hardened.
When he had bound a cable of suitable length and width, Tynuk moved on to finishing his arrows, beautiful ash stalks he had salvaged from the blackened woods. With great care he glued and bound a few pulled turkey feathers to each shaft. As the boy worked, his senses remained alert, but his mind began to flow into the past, to that fearful moment that set his destiny along its course.
The banging on the trailer door had been sharp. One, two, three, four, five—the knocks came, rousing the boy from his slumber. He threw back the sheets and took a moment to gain his bearings. He’d have to answer the door, since his mother had gone to bed only a few hours ago. She was still intoxicated.
The knocks came again, sharper and faster. It was still dark.
“Okay, okay,” the boy mumbled as he made his way down the narrow hallway of his mother’s trailer, the smell of cigarette smoke still lingering in the air. He unlatched the door and cracked it open to see who was outside.
“Tynuk! Come quick!” came the urgent voice.
“Grandfather? What—”
“No time!” came the old man’s hastened reply. “Throw on your clothes, grab your survival bag, and meet me at the edge of the woods by the Ash Mountain trailhead.”
The boy heard a tinge of fear in the old man’s voice, which caused his heart to drop. He never had seen grandfather show fear.
“Okay,” the boy managed, but his grandfather was already gone.
In a matter of minutes, Tynuk had slipped into lightweight clothes that he could move in easily. He grabbed his survival bag, which held several items essential for living alone in the woods. Bursting from the trailer, he sidestepped the stairs and launched off the porch, breaking into a swift and silent run across the trailer park. He slipped into the woods and made his way to the Ash Mountain trailhead.
As Tynuk moved, he heard the slight crackle and distant boom of some faraway explosion. Glancing up he heard the sound of jets flying overhead. They flew across the expanse of the heavens, their condensation trails like cotton candy littering the early-morning darkness.
Something wasn’t right, and the more he thought about it, the more it felt wrong. Grandfather never came to his house, and the fear the boy had seen in the old man’s face told him that something was definitely wrong.
At once a hand snatched hold of Tynuk’s arm, shattering his train of thought. The boy cried out and spun to face the dark figure, the hand gripping his arm like an anaconda.
“Calm yourself, boy!” came the familiar voice.
“Grandfather!” Tynuk yelled. “Calm myself? You’re scaring me to death!”
“I know, and I’m sorry, but something terrible is happening.”
“I heard the explosions and saw the jets.”
“Not jets, boy, missiles. The enemies of this nation are trying to finish us. I heard on the radio that several major cities have already been completely destroyed.”
Tynuk’s mouth dropped open. “But…we’re safe here in the mountains, right?”
“I fear that won’t be the case for long. The attacks are spreading, covering large areas. Much of the forest is already on fire. When panic sets in, people will begin to turn on one another. I’m afraid that few will survive this. You must go now, up the trail to the Ash Creek cave to hide. The spring inside the cave will provide water, and you have your survival bag. This is your final test.”
“My mother—”
“No, you must go now.”
“But—” the boy began to cry.
“You will not be able to wake her, convince her, and move her in time. You will both die—and you, my son, cannot die. You are the future of our people.”
“What about you?” the boy choked out, tears spilling down his face.
In the darkness, one could begin to see the glow of spreading fires. The old man smiled wearily and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“I am an old man. I will only slow you down.”
“No! You must come with me,” the boy cried.
“I cannot. I won’t be able to make the dangerous trek in time. I have lived a long and full life. I have taught you everything you need to know. You are strong and wise, and…I love you as my own.”
The boy lunged forward, smothering the old man in a bear hug. He buried his face against grandfather’s bony chest. The old man held the boy tightly for a moment before pushing him away, the warmth draining from him.
“You are Wolf Born! There are no more childish tears to shed over this,” the old man rasped, as he pushed a worn and beautifully ornate belt into the boy’s hands.
“Grandfather, your belt. I can’t—”
“You can. And when the time is right, this is how our people will know you. Remember what you have learned. Your destiny awaits you and the Great Spirit goes before you. Now go!” The old man nodded with one last wink of approval. Then he turned and trudged down the path, disappearing into the smoke.
The journey up the path was long and arduous. Though Tynuk had been there many times during his training, the landscape looked different this time. The forest appeared only as an outline, backlit by the raging fires that had begun to consume it. As a light sweat beaded on his brow, Tynuk pushed thoughts of his mother and Grandfather Nuk’Chala from his mind. Those thoughts would only slow him down. He moved with precision up the treacherous trail toward the cave, and as he climbed, the floor of the burning forest seemed to drop away below him.
After several hours of difficult climbing, the boy reached a plateau covered with boulders and pine trees. He hoisted himself up onto a ledge just as a blinding flash of light burst above. He squinted his eyes as he looke
d up at the sky, which appeared as bright as day for only a moment. Something exploded, sending an ear-shattering blast into the atmosphere above. Flopping to the ground, Tynuk pressed himself hard against the rock as the earth shook like an enraged titan. Fire fell from the sky as an orange glow bathed everything in smoke and flame. The boy hoisted himself up and began to run as the world burned around him. He scrambled up the path, his young limbs aching with the effort as he ran at a pace that would tire the most seasoned of adventurers.
A sharp cry caught Tynuk’s attention in the fiery morning darkness. He slowed his pace to listen. It was an animal, but the sound was so curious that it broke the boy’s concentration, causing him to pull away from the path. Nuk’Chala’s voice echoed in his ears, telling him not to stray, but he had to know. He had to see what would make such a noise. He felt drawn to the creature.
Tynuk moved to a ledge as the cry came again, a mixture of howl, bark, and hiss. As he peered over the edge, he caught sight of a small, black animal the size of a large possum. Through the burning pines, the boy saw a pack of coyotes surrounding the animal, baring their teeth in the orange glow. The small creature was backed up against the rock wall, showing his pup fangs, like little translucent daggers, as the crafty coyotes closed in. The wolf-like creature snapped at a coyote as it came for him, catching the edge of a foreleg and creating a long, bloody gash. The coyote howled and leapt back. The pup was holding his ground, but he was outnumbered and outmatched as the pack of scavengers continued to close in on him.
Tynuk pulled the war club from his satchel, steadying it in his hand as he crouched on the ledge.
Dropping low, he flung himself over the ledge with a fierce cry. When he landed he used his momentum to roll forward. As he righted himself, he used the club to strike one of the coyotes in the head, knocking the creature lifeless against the ground. Tynuk spun to his right, swinging the club in an arc to knock another coyote away into the darkness. He then hit a third as it leapt toward him. The coyotes were beginning to scatter, fleeing down the mountainside, howling in pain. Typical of scavengers, they’d wanted easy prey, not an open fight.
The boy stood, baring his teeth as he gripped the club in his right hand. The light of approaching fires flickered upon his face.
“Kip!” came a call from behind him. The sound was much different than what he had heard before. The boy tried to get a better look at the small beast.
“Kip!” the animal barked again, a hopeful sound.
Tynuk put the war club back in his satchel and showed the beast his open, empty hands. “I’m not your foe, little one,” he said, as he stretched his arms toward the creature.
The animal looked at him with silver eyes that cut through to his soul—eyes that seemed to harbor an unexplainable wisdom. The creature took a cautious step forward but showed no sign of fear as he moved toward the boy.
“Come on. We have to go before we get caught in these fires.”
“Kip!”
“You can trust me. I’m your friend.” The pup moved within arm’s reach, nuzzling his head against Tynuk’s hand.
“Okay. I have to pick you up. We have to go.”
The wolfish pup turned his head as though he understood. Tynuk scooped him up and placed him in his satchel.
As Tynuk climbed back up the rocks to the path, the pup didn’t make a sound. His oversize head and front paws hung limp from the opening of the bag. Tynuk stepped back onto the trail and took up a quick pace once more as the mouth of Ash Creek cave came into view.
The rising smoke stung his eyes, making it difficult for him to see. He climbed over the last few boulders and traversed a dangerous narrow ledge to the mouth of the cave. There the air was cleaner, and he heard the faint rush of the stream in the back of the cave, just like his grandfather had told him. He would take the time to fortify his camp later. Tynuk rested the satchel on the cave floor and lifted the wolfish pup, cradling him in his arms. He looked closer at the creature and noticed that he was unlike any animal he had ever seen. He had a long, noble snout surrounded by a shaggy, flowing mane of jet black hair. A patch of silver in the center of his chest stood out like a morning star in the midnight sky. The creature’s paws were thick, with sharp claws, more like the claws of a cat than a dog. The boy marveled at the animal.
“What are you?”
“Kip!” the animal responded, tilting his head up to lick the boy in the face.
“Okay,” Tynuk said as he patted the wolfish pup. “Well, for starters, you’ve got to have a name.”
The boy thought for a moment as he stepped to the mouth of the cave. Flashes of light bloomed on the horizon, and he frowned, knowing in his heart that each beautiful blossom of light meant the death of millions. He sat with his new friend and thought about what so many people were experiencing at that very moment. In the back of his mind, Tynuk wondered whether the world would ever be the same again. Would people continue on after such an event? Tynuk frowned again and looked at the pup.
“Looks like all we have is each other. The Great Spirit knew I would need a friend, so he sent you to watch over me. We’ll call you Azolja, which means ‘vigilant one’ in the ancient tongue.”
The boy smiled and patted his new friend.
“We’ll be all right, Az. You’ll see,” the boy whispered.
The two sat in silence, watching the flashes pop and swell along the horizon. A thick blanket of ash fell across the landscape, and from their tower of safety, they looked on in shock and amazement as the world below them died.
The two figures lay still against the barren hillside, watching for any signs of movement along the wood line. The teenage boy was growing restless. He pinched his fingers into the dirt and squirmed. They’d been in the same position for quite a while.
“Stop moving and lie still,” Kane whispered.
“There’s nothing going on here,” Jacob whined. “We’re wasting our time.”
Kane motioned for the boy to be quiet. Jacob rolled his eyes but kept his body still. They needed to be sure, absolutely sure before they pulled the trigger. As Kane searched, moving his eyes left and right, he drew his jacket up around him. The temperature was dropping, and the cold earth stealing away his body heat. A twitch of movement. Kane perked up and pointed his hand to the wood line.
“There,” he whispered, beginning to smile. “All good things come to those who wait.”
The boy guffawed and pulled up a pair of cracked binoculars, which he used to scan the edge of the woods. At once he froze.
“No way, man! I didn’t think any had survived.”
“I bet they’ve done better than we have. They know all the good hiding spots. I told you I saw the tracks. You can’t mistake deer tracks. That’s why you’re here learning from me and not the other way around, Jacob.”
Jacob nodded to acknowledge this fact, even though doing so appeared to injure his pride.
Kane met Jacob shortly after the events of Day Forty. Like many of the children that survived, the teen became an orphan when the End War started. Kane noticed that children of a certain age had a higher survival rate than adults during and after the end of the world. He wasn’t sure whether this was due to their ability to better adapt to change, or whether their young minds couldn’t grasp the full magnitude of what had happened. Many adults who survived just gave up and died. Kane had almost been one of them. The children, on the other hand, viewed the events as just the next thing in life. They seemed to take the devastation in stride.
Beyond the loss of Jacob’s family, Kane didn’t know much about the boy’s past. Jacob refused to talk about it. He just appeared one day with a scavenged emergency radio in his hand. He’d had heard the broadcasts and walked up the coast until he found the station. It surprised everyone when he arrived alone and without supplies—that he could survive that way. Jacob was one of the hardest workers Kane had at the station. He was always lugging something heavy or offering to give someone a hand, and he was always first to volun
teer for scouting or scavenging duties. At his core, the boy was a survivor. But one look in his sad eyes gave away the pain in his heart and the tragedy that he already had endured.
Kane had taken the young man under his wing, even though the teen’s incessant bravado wore him thin at times. Kane knew that his machismo was simply a defense mechanism designed to distract others from his vulnerability. But to hear Jacob tell it, there wasn’t an ass in the world that he couldn’t whip.
Kane rolled onto his right side and brought the scoped Marlin lever-action 30-30 up in front of him. He removed his jacket, wadded it up, and placed it behind his elbow to support his shooting position. Looking through the scope, he watched the wood line and saw a slight movement in the brush. He estimated that they were no farther than one 115 yards or so from the wood line.
“Okay. When he comes into sight, we’ll give him a kill shot behind the shoulder, and everyone gets deer stew for dinner. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds great,” said Jacob, noticing the slight rumble in his stomach for the first time that afternoon. Deer stew would be a treat. Jacob pulled the binoculars up again and waited for Kane to shoot.
The thick yet skeletal brush rustled again. Kane and Jacob both gasped as a beautiful six-point buck pushed its way out of the thicket, pausing as its ears twitched.
“He’s huge! What do you think he’s been eating with everything burned up?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. He must have a secret oasis somewhere,” Kane whispered.
Kane took a deep breath and let it out halfway before holding his breath. With a slow, steady squeeze, he began to depress the trigger as he took aim on the great buck. The wind picked up just as the crack of the Marlin echoed across the small valley. The buck flinched and stumbled before darting into the brush.
