Wild Hearts

by Bridget Essex

  Not looked back.

  Because when I glance up at the gas station attendant, open my mouth to tell him “thank you,” and “keep the change...”

  He's not there.

  He's not behind the counter. His phone's still sitting on the counter, face down; there's enough ambient light from the snow that I can make out that much.

  But the guy's not there.

  There's not that much room behind the register. There's the stool the attendants usually sit on. There's the line of cigarettes and cigars and chew and all their prices, neatly marked down the shelves. There's a broom, its worn handle leaning against the smokers' shelves.

  There's no place that he could just...disappear to.

  But that's exactly what he did.

  The convenience store itself is small. There's three aisles, two rows of foodstuff and the coolers along the walls. There's a back hallway that leads to a back room, but it's clear on the other side of the place.

  He'd have to walk past me to get there.

  And he didn't.

  He's just...gone.

  There's obviously some explanation. There always is. That sick feeling unfurling in my gut, the fear that blossoms quickly...I need to calm down.

  Because the guy's just slipped out for a minute.

  Maybe he left through the front door.

  Maybe...

  I mean, it could be anything.

  Couldn't it?

  Still, I'm backing away from the counter. My hackles are raised, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end, and I've got goosebumps all over. My body is telling me, in no uncertain terms, that I need to get the hell out of here.

  Now.

  I turn, glancing down the aisle.

  And it's as I'm turning that I see it happening.

  The front door of the convenience store...

  It's closing.

  There was snow piled up in front of it. Not a lot, but enough to keep the door open, and—anyway—it was stuck open from whoever came into the store.

  There is no way it's closing without someone having pushed it shut.

  I watch it, my mouth drying.

  The door settles in the frame softly, closing all the way.

  It makes no sound at all.

  The roar of the storm outside is cut off, mostly.

  And the silence that settles over the convenience store is...

  Heavy.

  My legs are frozen. I want to take the last few steps forward; I want to push my weight against the bar in the door, open it, leave. I want it so badly that if wanting could make the world turn, it'd already be done.

  But I can't move.

  All I can do is stand there and breathe.

  And it's because I'm standing there in the silence, simply breathing, that I hear it.

  I lift my chin, my eyes widening, my heart faltering in my chest.

  It's sudden, cold and sharp, the sound.

  The sound of a growl.

  That's what it is. It can't be anything else. There's a pronounced snarl, as if ripped from inside of too-big lungs, and then the growl rumbles long and low and vicious.

  This is a terrible sound.

  It's the kind of sound you hear right before you die.

  I whirl about in place, but there's nothing behind me. There's hardly enough light to make anything out in the darkened convenience store, but even with light, I don't know if I'd be able to tell where it's coming from.

  The growl is so low that my imagination is telling me that the floor is shaking.

  But it can't be shaking.

  That's not possible.

  But why do I feel the old, chipped linoleum vibrating under my boot soles?

  Get out of here. Get out of here. Get out of here. My very heartbeat is shouting that advice at me, so I've got to take it. There's some small part of me that's curious, of course...but that's the part that has absolutely no control over my muscles.

  So it's my good sense that finally gets my limbs moving, shaking them from their frozen state, muscles finally firing again after what seemed like an eternity, but what was, actually, just a heartbeat or two. I'm moving for the door again because screw all of this. Screw the cold and the driving snow and the sudden storm. Screw the power outage and the convenience store I've been to a million times turning into some sort of weird nightmare place. Screw all of it.

  I'm going home.

  I'm going home.

  The sudden pain in my head is surprising. It's hot, this searing agony, and it's immediate.

  I hit the floor hard, snow grinding beneath my cheek, my teeth smashing together. I slide across the cracked linoleum until I hit the opposite set of shelves.

  The cans on the shelves rattle, but they don't fall down.

  I stare, gasping for breath, clutching my arm, trying to make sense of what I see in front of me.

  What I see...

  It's not possible.

  Chapter 3: When Everything Changes

  I know a wolf when I see one.

  There are many moving shadows in front of me. Tall shadows. I just hit my head against the metal shelves from the collision, but even with the way things are fading in and out of my view, even though I'm seeing stars, even though I'm seeing doubles (hell, maybe triples) of things...

  I know a wolf when I see one.

  I scrabble up to my hands and knees. The floor is slick from tracked-in snow, and it's hard not to slip. I manage to get up onto all fours, and then I'm staring at what's in front of me. Panicked thoughts rise, adrenaline unfurling like blood in water.

  It's not possible.

  It's absolutely not possible.

  But I know a wolf when I see one.

  And that's exactly what's in front of me right now.

  Four enormous paws are within my line of vision. I raise my eyes. The lupine legs are covered in thick white fur. The thing is shaggy, as evidenced by its ragged white coat and thick, irregular tail.

  The animal is huge. Gargantuan. Much bigger than a wolf should be...or, maybe...is that even right? I don't think I've ever actually seen a wolf in person before. We didn't really go to the zoo when I was a kid, and that's the only place I'd spot one, right? Are they supposed to be this big?

  Is this...normal size?

  I've seen small ponies at fairs giving kiddie rides. This thing is bigger than those. Broader in the shoulders.

  It's...it's just huge, and there's something about it that seems...off.

  Impossible.

  Impossible...and monstrous.

  All of this I notice all at once.

  And then everything else fades away.

  Because what takes my attention then, what draws my entire focus, is the wolf's head.

  The wolf's face.

  Its gargantuan jaws are distended, open. Snarling. Its teeth are long and pointed, shining in the soft light from the snow. This much is obvious, expected. But the fangs are so long and so pointed that it seems almost...well, comical. Maybe if I'd hit my head a little harder, I'd be laughing right now at the absurdity of it. At the absurdity of all of this.

  But I'm not laughing.

  The teeth are as long as my fingers. They glisten in the strange ambient light from the snow. The wolf's lips are pulled up and over the teeth so their length and general pointedness are on full display.

  My breath hitches in my throat at the exact same moment that my heart falters in my chest.

  This is it.

  This is how I'm going to die.

  This is, impossibly, how I'm going to die.

  Where did it come from? How is this possible? Those sorts of reality-based questions no longer have any power here. Because it doesn't matter where it came from or where it's going.

  All that matters is that I'm going to die. Right now. Massive fangs will sink into my body, tearing it. Destroying it.

  That's what matters.

  And my whole self is bracing for that inevitability.

  I'm going to die.

 
And as I crouch there on all fours, the floor cold and wet against my palms, the melted snow soaking into my jeans at the knees, as I stare death in the face, quite literally...I realize.

  This is it.

  And...I'm okay with that.

  It's not necessarily peace that comes over me, by degrees.

  It's a sort of...acceptance.

  Since Ma died, what, really, have I had to live for?

  The answer is nothing.

  Maybe it's better this way.

  Maybe...

  Maybe this is how it should have been.

  These are all thoughts that rise along the edges of my mind: soft, wispy things that I don't actively think. They're just there, like old pictures that run in your brain as you drift off to sleep.

  I'm going to die.

  I'm going to die.

  I'm going to...

  The wolf takes one step forward. Time seems to be slowing down, as it does invariably when your world becomes a place of crisis. So there's time for me to see the ripple of muscles beneath the fur, to see how the animal takes up its paw and places it down with strength, deliberately, the toes flexing, the claws distending from the fur. The claws are long and black, not sharp at their ends, but blunted. I have the fleeting thought that this means the wolf must run a lot. I don't know why I think that; it's another one of those subconscious things that rises and then pops like a bubble in my brain. This wolf must do a lot of running.

  This wolf must be hungry.

  I watch the wolf snarling, watch the wolf take that one step forward, and then I realize, as if from some distant place, that the wolf is now crouching.

  It's getting ready to launch itself at me.

  I watch the shoulders flatten, watch the head lower, watch the muscles tighten, can see this as it happens, even through the shaggy fur...

  And it's then that I look at the creature's eyes.

  I don't know what makes me do it. I'm terrified. To say I'm not would be a lie, so there it is: I'm absolutely terrified. I'm not brave. No part of me is brave in this moment.

  All of me is scared.

  But I lock eyes with the creature anyway.

  And my whole body, full of its tension, its fear, my heart roaring inside of me...it all just sort of fades away.

  Everything does. The floor, the chill, the inevitability of my death.

  It all disappears as I stare into the wolf's eyes.

  I've never seen a wolf in person. But I've seen photos and pictures and paintings and videos.

  And I don't ever remember any of the wolves in them having human eyes.

  This wolf, crouching in front of me, about to leap, about to open its jaws and close them around my neck...

  This wolf has human eyes.

  There's so little light from the snow. I shouldn't really be able to make out much of anything. But maybe it's because of my adrenaline, or because of how everything else faded away. I don't know. I don't know how it's possible, but I can see the wolf's eyes, can see them clearly, almost as if the creature is glowing from within.

  Its eyes are blue, a light blue so crystalline that it reminds me of blizzards and ice and the sharpness of winter.

  Everything about them is cold and pointed, but I still know them for what they are.

  I don't have much time left, but I know that at least there's some humanity in the creature now.

  And that makes all of this so much harder.

  If it was me against some raging beast, I could brace against something like that.

  But there, staring back at me, is something that is at least a little human.

  Something human is going to hurt me. Something human is going to kill me.

  There's a slick tightening in my throat suddenly that makes me want to vomit. But I can't move. I can't so much as flick a muscle.

  I close my eyes to the creature's eyes. I close my eyes to everything because I can't bear it anymore.

  I hope it's over quick.

  I hope...

  I hear something behind me. It's almost imperceptible in its softness, but it's there, and that's what breaks me from the stillness. That's what makes me turn, open my eyes, glance over my shoulder.

  There, down the aisle of the convenience store, just a few feet away, is the shadow of a person.

  Is it the cashier? My mind is grappling with what's happening, is trying to put things into small, handy boxes that it can grasp and understand, but even as I think the thought I know it's not true. The cashier is a big guy, pretty tall, and this shadow is slight. Broad shoulders, but sort of proportioned like an upside down triangle.

  The shadow is holding up an arm.

  I squint, the snows shifting just outside the window.

  Is that a gun?

  Yes. I know that shape, can see it almost clearly now that my brain's identified it.

  The person is pointing the gun at the wolf.

  I should feel better now.

  I should feel safe.

  But I don't.

  The dread expands in my belly, filling every part of me.

  Instead of feeling relief, the fear grows.

  Have you ever had a situation where you just...know about somebody? You meet them for the first time, you shake their hand, and you can tell—instantly—that they're bad news.

  I'm not shaking this guy's hand, haven't even touched him, only glanced up at him. But still, I know, absolutely know, that this person wants to hurt me.

  Maybe even more than the wolf does.

  There's movement behind me, and I turn on instinct, still on my hands and knees in the darkened convenience store.

  The wolf is crouching, long and low now, its haunches high, its front descended close to the ground, its great white fur brushing the old linoleum. All of its muscles are tense and ready, gathering power.

  And by the time I turn my head, it's already happening.

  The wolf rises.

  I know the wolf is not flying. But it almost looks that way. The wolf ascends into the air, borne on a type of supple grace that exists in all predators: the ability to strike with power when it needs to. At any moment.

  I watch the wolf rise, my chin tilting up, my head tilting back. The fear should be rising in me, too. It should grow, a crescendo of terror that finally envelopes me whole.

  But that's not what happens next.

  As the wolf leaps into the air, I'm no more afraid than I was a moment ago.

  Instead, something else is gaining notice in my head and heart.

  Wonder.

  Awe.

  I stare up at the wolf, and I know I'm taking one of my last breaths here on earth, but still, the fear recedes in me, as if it's draining through me, out through my hands and into the floor somehow.

  I breathe in.

  And this is what happens next:

  As I take a single inhale, as my lungs expand, as the air enters me, only a small amount of time passes. A second? Less than? I'm not sure. But it's hardly anything at all.

  But, in that amount of time, a single breath, this is how the world changes:

  The wolf rises into the air—rises—and it's flying up, up, up, and I realize, that the arc of its body, crescent-shaped, is much too high.

  It's not going to hit me.

  Instead, it's going to sail over me.

  It takes a second, maybe two, for the hope to blossom in my heart, that maybe today isn't the day I'm going to die.

  I look up, at the wolf. It ascends over me like a constellation, its white fur almost bright in the strange half-light from the snowstorm.

  It's almost...

  My breath hitches in my throat, and my mouth hangs open.

  The wolf over my head is star-like. That's why it made me think of a constellation. But it's not star-like because the snow is somehow reflecting off its fur.

  It's star-like because it's...

  Glowing.

  The fur is bright, too bright for it to be light reflecting off of billowing snow, and, anyway, there
isn't any light to reflect off of anything. It's all the ambient light of the snow being brighter than the darkness outside. That kind of light doesn't reflect. That kind of light hardly exists.

  No.

  This wolf is made of light, is shining with light from within.

  I don't know how that's possible. Of course it's impossible. Of course it is. I know.

  I know.

  But it's happening anyway.

  I look up at the underbelly of the beast, at the soft white fur that looked so shabby some distance away. In its leap over me, it's close enough to touch the shining strands of its fur. The white fur is star bright in the darkness, iridescent and glowing from within. Have you ever seen one of those Christmas trees with fiber optic needles? The kind that sort of change color like the aurora borealis, all the colors of the rainbow emanating and flowing together, bright and garish, sure, but also...

  Beautiful.

  The wolf's fur is not exactly like the filaments in an artificial Christmas tree. But it reminds me of moments staring at the tree displays in department stores when I was a kid, moments where my eyes would unfocus and I'd let the colors play out, dancing in my view...

  I'd feel a tingle of magic in my belly then.

  I stare up at the wolf and the moment draws out, long and delicious.

  The wolf made me think of those memories, because the wolf, too, reminds me of magic.

  The moment ends. The beautiful arc of crystalline fur over my head lands, and lands hard, and there's a crashing sound as I whirl around on my hands and knees, trying to make sense of what I see in front of me.

  The shadow of the man with the gun.

  He's no longer there.

  Instead, there's a sprawling body on the floor.

  And the wolf's on top of it.

  Chapter 4: Impossible Things

  I didn't see the wolf hit him.

  But it must have been what just happened.

  It's so dark in the convenience store, but the impossible brightness of the wolf illuminates the scene before me now.

  I want to look away.

  But I...can't.

  The wolf's jaws are closed tightly around the man's neck.

  The wolf bites down.

  There's blood.

  A lot of it.

  There's nothing in my stomach—I didn't even really get a sip of the tea that's now spilled out and cooling all over the floor—but that doesn't stop me from turning away and dry heaving. My entire body rejects what I've just seen. I curl forward, muscles moving without my say in the matter.