We rush toward one another, backs pressed together. Pilot waves the torch from side to side, the flame dangerously low. After several horrible minutes, we begin to relax.
“What if they’re still out there?” The terror on Elton’s face dances in the fire’s glow.
“They were just getting a look at us,” Ms. Wade says, shuddering. “They haven’t done anything to anyone. Let’s remember that.”
“They’re growing more aggressive,” Mr. Foster says.
“Nonsense.” Ms. Wade presses her lips into a tight line, but even I can see her doubt. “Wolves don’t hunt people. Not here at least. I’ve never heard of an Alaskan wolf biting a human. That thing with Elton, they were just chasing him ’cause he ran. And they smelled the venison on Mr. Foster. That’s all.”
Mr. Foster approaches Ms. Wade carefully. Then, slowly, he removes his jacket and pulls up the sleeve of his sweater. A sock is wrapped around his arm, right below the elbow. And beneath that—red and swollen—are teeth marks.
“I tried to clean it … ” Mr. Foster’s voice trails off.
My hands shake, and my throat tightens. The wolves bit through his jacket and sweater and every last piece of clothing he’s wearing, and still managed to puncture his skin. How did I miss the torn fabric?
“They got at you,” Nash says. For the first time, he doesn’t laugh or add a witty remark. “That’s why you been holding that arm.”
Many emotions flicker across Ms. Wade’s face as she studies Mr. Foster’s wound—
Shock. Disbelief. Concern.
And then, finally, acceptance.
“We’ve got to get more tinder for the torch,” Elton says.
Nash stares into the woods, searching for those yellow eyes. “How? They’re probably still out there. Just smelling us and biding their time.”
“If we don’t get more,” Elton insists, “the fire may go out before it’s light.”
“We stay put.” Ms. Wade’s voice is different. She knows the wolves aren’t merely watching us. They’re following us. Stalking us. They’ve bitten Mr. Foster and may have done worse if he hadn’t fallen off that ledge.
One by one, we settle ourselves back onto the ground. I grip my father’s gun until my knuckles whiten. Mr. Foster holds my .22 mag. I can’t stop staring at him holding that rifle—clumsy, his hands in all the wrong places. It’s disturbing to see such fear on my teacher’s face, someone who always has the answer.
I don’t close my eyes as we wait for the sun to rise.
Not once.
I am exhausted as we locate the shelter we missed last night. My legs shake from exhaustion and lack of food. The cold wraps around my waist and squeezes like one of those man-eating snakes. I can’t think past the chattering of my teeth. The aching in my muscles. I need sleep. And food. And warmth.
I need my dad, and my sister too.
The blizzard has passed us by, but it left behind a bone-deep chill, two feet of snow, and broken spirits. We’d celebrate if we weren’t so exhausted.
I forget my own discomfort when Pilot removes his gloves. He’s hunched over, trying to inspect his fingers in private. But I see them all the same. They’re too red in places, and there’s a spot on his thumb that looks bruised. No blisters yet. But he’s going to have frostbite if we don’t get to Vernon quickly.
First though, we have to eat.
As I grab my .22 mag, a much-needed energy rushes through my arms. The weight of the gun in my hands is like waking up in the morning, safe and warm beneath a pile of blankets. A sense of calm settles between my shoulder blades.
“Put your gloves back on,” I tell Pilot, nodding toward his hands. “Elton will build us another fire tonight.”
“Easy for you to say.” Elton rubs his eyes.
“There are more shelters beyond this one,” Nash says, nodding to the flimsy structure. “But if we walk hard, we can bypass them all and make it to the river sooner.” Nash casts a glance at Ms. Wade. “If we’re not being slowed down.”
“Just get us back on the right track,” I say to Nash. “Think you can handle that?”
Mr. Foster smiles. Nash glares. And I lean my .22 against my shoulder.
“I’m going hunting,” I announce, handing the rifle to Mr. Foster.
“Can I go with you?” Pilot asks.
Well, obviously. I’ve got my lasso around your waist.
“Me too.” Elton says. His voice is so small this morning, so strange sounding, that I can’t tell him no.
“I’ll look for kindling for the boy’s fire,” Nash says. “And I’ll babysit these three.” He jabs a thumb at Mr. Foster, Ms. Wade, and the dog.
Ms. Wade ignores Nash and looks at me with a tired smile, her face so very pale. “You’re the best of us, Sloan.”
I return her smile, a little embarrassed, and march into the trees and away from our clearing, listening for the sound of Pilot’s footsteps. And Elton’s too. No way am I going out here alone. Even with a gun. Even without the wolves.
It doesn’t take long before I find what I’m looking for. The grouse perches in the spruce tree. The bird, spotted in black and white, could feed me and Pilot both. And while seeing one doesn’t guarantee you’ll see another, it’s a good sign there may be more.
I take aim as Pilot and Elton step back. It’s a far shot, but this gun has more trajectory than you’d think. I see the bird in my scope, my mouth watering over the sight of its swollen belly. People are counting on me. I will not miss.
I pull the trigger.
A heartbeat after the bullet fires from my gun, the grouse flutters and falls.
“Yes!” Pilot exclaims. “You got it, Sloan.”
I smile despite myself, happy to have his approval.
He scratches the back of his neck and walks toward the bird. “I don’t know much about hunting. Or even shooting, really.” Pilot laughs uncomfortably. “Must think I’m pretty useless, huh?”
I watch him, realizing I’m not the only one who’s searching for approval. His brave orange color flickers.
I’m about to tell him that I think he’s kind, and strong, and that fighting for things that are right as he does means more than being able to handle a rifle. But before I can get a word out, movement catches my attention. I swing to the left and spot a second grouse among the treetops.
I nuzzle my cheek against the barrel a second time, cock the gun, and still my thoughts. I caress that trigger until the gun strikes back like a cat tired of human hands. This bird doesn’t even flutter. It simply falls toward the earth.
Before I can gather the bird, Elton says out of nowhere, “My head is all weird today. I don’t think … I don’t think we should have left town.”
I look at him, set my jaw.
“We had heat there,” he continues, his words coming faster as his panic grows. “Maybe not a lot, but even once it cut off we had walls. We could have built fires, and eaten the rest of the food from the store. At the very least, we should have gone back for the things in the trailer. Food and more bullets and that compass you had.”
“Elton—” Pilot starts.
“No! We should have stayed! I’m hungry and tired and we have no idea how far we are from the river. What were we thinking? Why didn’t we stay put? Maybe someone made it back from Vernon. Maybe they called in a plow.” Elton looks at me as if this is my fault. Maybe it is. “We shouldn’t be out here. Maybe we should go back.”
As eager as I am to get Ms. Wade to safety, his words entice me in a way I can’t explain. It would be easier to return home. To wait for someone to make their way to us, instead of the other way around.
“We’re almost to the river,” Pilot says simply, striding toward our second prize. He’s nearly there—just about has his hands around the bird—when I see the wolf.
Its ears are laid back, tail tucked close to a lean body.
“Pilot, stop.”
He sees what I see, and freezes. My ears ring as Pilot steps slowly backward, his e
yes fixed on the gray wolf. I shouldn’t be surprised to see it here, though my stomach twists all the same. It’s that same young wolf I’ve seen before, the one with the sharp nose and strong hunting instincts. The same one I’ve seen bullied by its pack mates.
The wolf may be young, but she’s large enough, and quick enough, to take any of us down. Her posture doesn’t seem aggressive though. She trots sideways a few steps, glancing at the three of us in turn, and then at the grouse. Slowly, as I remind myself to breathe, the wolf stalks toward the bird.
She already has our meal between her teeth when a second wolf appears.
A larger wolf.
The first wolf drops the grouse and scampers back. Then, as if catching herself, she thinks better of the fearful message she’s sending and returns to her place beside the fallen bird.
Pilot, Elton, and I are out of sight, though certainly not beyond their range of smell, when the rest of the wolves appear. They were there all along, I realize. Frightened by the sound of my gun, but drawn by hunger. Blood spreads from the plump bird into the snow as the wolves circle the prey. The larger wolf rushes toward the gray female, and snaps at her face.
She drops the bird, and the second wolf quickly snatches it up and carries it to the black alpha male—the same one that stopped to sniff the female I shot.
The gray wolf whines, and I feel myself angry on her behalf. I’ve seen that gray wolf hunt. Her eyes are the keenest, her sense of smell the strongest. They’ll follow her on a hunt, so why won’t they give her the respect she deserves?
As if reading my mind, the gray wolf runs toward the wolf that stole her bird. But when she gets within a few inches of the lighter-colored wolf, the animal turns sharply and nips the gray wolf’s ear.
She yelps and backs up, and I think for a moment that it’s over. The pup’s fear will get the best of her again, and her hunting will go unnoted. But when the lighter wolf drops the grouse at the alpha’s feet, and is rewarded with a lick to her jaw, the gray wolf growls low in her throat. It sounds like the first real growl she’s ever released, like there’s nearly two years’ worth of fear and frustration bottled inside her.
We edge farther away, but our steps are slow. We’re terrified by the idea of so many wolves in one place, but there’s also an energy that keeps our eyes locked on the animals.
The gray wolf raises her head, ears up, tail straight out from her body.
The lighter wolf matches her posture, her larger head held a touch higher.
Teeth bared.
Hackles raised.
The two wolves charge toward each other.
The gray wolf springs onto the back of the lighter wolf, but that wolf growls and twists away, biting the gray wolf on the neck as she spins. The gray wolf yelps, and the lighter wolf dashes out of reach.
The other wolves watch, beautifully still. They don’t make a move to help their pack mates, recognizing that the battle is for rank. We stand frozen. Pilot’s hand is in mine. I don’t know how it got there, but I squeeze his fingers and move closer to Elton. My heart thumps so intensely that they must feel it.
I grip my gun until my arm shakes.
One bullet remains.
And look how many wolves. One, three, five, eight—
I stop counting when the lighter wolf launches an attack. Rearing onto her opponent’s back, the lighter wolf raises her nose to the sky. The gray wolf reaches her head back and bites the lighter wolf’s leg. Using her strong, youthful jaws, she yanks the other wolf off and throws her to the ground.
For one moment, I think it’s over—the gray wolf will go for the lighter wolf’s throat as I saw her do with the hare. But instead, the lighter wolf bounds onto her feet. My stomach drops like a stone, and the lighter wolf soars back on top. Her head is high, high, high. And though the gray wolf snarls and snaps at the older wolf, she remains in place. After a few seconds, the gray wolf’s growling becomes less threatening, and more desperate.
My entire body tightens with anticipation and terror. As I watch the two wolves battle for dominance, all I can think is—
One bullet.
One bullet.
One bullet.
Not a strong bullet. Not for a wolf.
The gray wolf slinks backward at last, head lowered. But I see the way the other wolves look at her, with interest, with curiosity. The gray wolf lost her scuffle with her older pack mate, but she gained a new respect from her family. The alpha strides toward the young wolf, and though I expect her to tuck tail, she simply lowers her head.
I don’t move a muscle, waiting to see what will happen. The alpha stands very still for several moments, and then sniffs a wound on the young wolf’s check. He licks her there once, twice. The other wolves see their leader’s response, and they start to sniff and lick and jump around their pack mates, releasing their nervousness, having enjoyed the entertainment, but also happy that peace has returned to the group.
I do not know the things Ms. Wade does about these wolves, but what happened just now—I understand it as if I grew up running alongside them. They are not so mysterious after all.
The alpha wolf takes the grouse in his jaws and the pack moves toward him. I notice the spaces between their ribs, and how eager they are for this meal. When one of the wolves, a male that stays close to the alpha, raises his nose and turns his head in our direction, I realize he knew we were there the entire time. They all did.
A shiver works its way down my spine as I tell Pilot, “Drop the grouse.”
“No,” he says firmly. “They take one, we take one.”
I grab the grouse from him and throw it five feet. One of the wolves lowers its muzzle, curious. But now more of them move toward us. The smell of blood is in the air, and no matter how still we stand, we ooze fear. Wolves may not target humans when there’s another option, but we can’t be stupid.
“Move slowly,” Pilot whispers to Elton and me. “Don’t turn your back.”
“I won’t,” I reply, raising my gun.
We stake a small step back. Then another. And another. The wolves snatch the second grouse and, after casting one last look in our direction, trot away into the woods.
“Why did that small wolf attack that other one?” Pilot whispers. “It could have been killed.”
“Maybe it was just tired of being afraid,” I reply so quietly I wonder if he hears.
Elton cranes his neck toward where we last saw the wolves. “Maybe they’ll go away now.”
But I don’t respond. Because I’m worried that what actually happened was we reminded the wolves how good it feels to eat. Worse yet, I’m afraid we created an association for the wolves—
Smelling humans.
Feeding their stomachs.
These things belong together.
Pilot, Elton, and I walk in silence until we hear the sound of Mr. Foster yelling.
We exchange a worried glance, and then we’re running, our legs carrying us through the snow as fast as we can go.
We’re almost back to the shelter when I hear a new sound. My entire body goes numb, and I wish I were deaf in both ears. Wish I couldn’t hear the terrible noise I’ve learned to recognize—
The static of wolves.
Mere seconds after I hear them, I spot them. The same wolves that stole our birds. They crowd inside the shelter, growling and tugging at a large shape on the floor. Five wolves work their powerful jaws into Ms. Wade and tug backward, digging their paws into the snow, trying desperately to pull her from the shelter.
Elton screams and the dog barks and Nash appears from out of nowhere, a confused look on his face. Mr. Foster aims my daddy’s gun like he’s trying to use it, but the safety is still on.
My legs turn to pudding, and a cry rips from my throat. One of the wolves raises its head at the noise, muzzle covered in red. That’s the sight that sets me in motion—Ms. Wade’s blood on that wolf’s lips.
I toss my .22 to the ground and snatch the rifle from Mr. Foster. My legs tremble and
tears sting my eyes and my throat burns. But my hands are steady on that gun. My gaze finds those crosshairs and the world stops tilting.
I pull the trigger.
And the largest wolf falls.
The remaining wolves leap to the side and start to retreat. But hunger keeps them lurking at the edges of the trees. They sniff the air, whining. That’s their meal, and we’re attempting to take it.
“No!” I roar, grabbing my .22. “You can’t have her!”
I line up a second shot on the alpha. Our eyes meet, my brown to his yellow.
I see you now.
I pull the trigger.
The alpha male darts to the side, but he doesn’t move fast enough. I graze his back leg, and he releases a yelp of surprise. This time, the wolves don’t hesitate. They race into the forest and camouflage themselves among the trees. The alpha goes with them, limping and bleeding into the snow.
“We were only gone a second,” Mr. Foster says, shaking.
But it doesn’t matter.
Ms. Wade’s leg sticks out from the doorway, her pant leg raised to the knee. Pale skin glows in the morning air. Even from here, I can see the teeth marks above her sock hem.
Elton is first to the shelter, until Mr. Foster grabs him by the shoulders and guides him out. The boy takes three quick steps in my direction and throws himself at me. When his knees buckle, and he’s too heavy for me to hold up, I guide us both to the ground. Though I turn my face away, I can’t cry.
Deep inside my chest, a layer of ice rises from Sloan the Brave’s ashes. It crawls over my heart the same way it did when my mother left. When Pilot drops down beside us and puts his arms around me, the tears still don’t come.
He holds Elton and me for another moment before I pull away and walk toward the shelter.
“Just stay back,” Nash says. But what does he care?
Nash reaches out to touch me but—oh, look!—I remember the gun. One bullet. That’s all we have remaining, and I’ve got it aimed at Nash like it was his teeth that tore into the only semblance of a mother I had left in this world.
Nash raises his hands as I train my daddy’s gun.
Hear the Wolves Page 8
