The Wolves of Winter

by Tyrell Johnson

  “Lynn, you need to run,” Jeryl whispered, eyes serious.

  I gave him an Are you kidding? look and shook my head.

  “Lynn, please. They can’t find you. Go. Now.” What? What did that even mean? He looked panicked. Almost begging me. His hand was still on my arm, practically pushing me down the hill.

  “No,” I said, a little too loud. Jeryl grimaced, and we both lifted our heads over the hill to see the approaching men. Jax was still walking, not taking his eyes from Wolf, who was now a good distance away, whining softly.

  The men spread out, guns still up and pointing at Jax. The horses shot out billows of white air through their nostrils. Wolf kept staggering up the hill, until he disappeared over the other side. He was gone. Only then did Jax stop walking. His shoulders slumped, and his head was limp.

  “Drop the knife,” the man with the green hat said.

  “No,” Jax said.

  “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  “No.” Jax was still holding his bloody knife. A drop of blood spilled from the tip of the blade and spread into the snow.

  “Hands in the air.” The man still seemed relatively calm, confident he had the advantage. Jax lifted his hands as he turned to face them, keeping the shining red blade firm in his grip. That’s when the sleeve of his left hand slipped up. One, two—the first numbers of his tattoo were visible.

  Then, like a plucked string, tension visibly vibrated through the men. “On your knees!” the green hat man yelled. “Hands behind your head! Move slow!” His voice was raw, panic in it now.

  Jeryl lifted his gun. I adjusted my grip on my bow, sliding my other hand along the frame toward the quiver. How fast could I string an arrow? I’d never had to be fast. Always had to be slow, silent. “Jeryl,” I said. Jeryl, what are we going to do? Jeryl, we have to do something. Jeryl, help him!

  “On your fucking knees!” the man ordered.

  Jax shook his head. “No.” The word hung in the air like fresh meat on a rope. Heavy, dripping.

  Green hat man squinted. “Shit.”

  Then Jax was moving.

  His knife was out of his hands and twirling. It flashed, a bird with silver wings, then sank into Green Hat’s chest. The first shot tore through the air and Jax jerked back. Something reeled in my mind, something like panic. He wasn’t shot, though. He should have been shot. But he’d dodged the bullet. A quick dip of his shoulder, a tilt of his head, and the hot metal that should have ripped through him passed by harmlessly. Impossibly.

  By the time the second shot was fired, Jax was running toward the men. Not just fox fast. Faster. Like the snow wasn’t there, like he was riding on lightning-quick wheels. I barely registered his snagging Green Hat’s gun from the ground. Then he fired back. He shot—killed—shot—killed. He ducked another man’s gunfire. He shot again and the gunman dropped to the ground. The horses reared and scampered. One bolted back the way the men had come. The other circled madly between the trees behind them, both riders hanging on for dear life.

  Then another shot split the air and Jax dropped to a knee. Pain on his face.

  “Alive alive alive, keep him alive!” one of the men yelled. The men on horses managed to get the animals under control as the man on the ground ran toward Jax. Jax started to rise, but the man slammed the stock of his gun into Jax’s face before he could. Then again. And again.

  “Jax!” The name was out of my mouth like an arrow. Loosed. I couldn’t pull it back. Too late. The men turned and saw us. Guns raised.

  “Dammit,” Jeryl said. He lifted his gun and fired. Missed. Then he grabbed me, turned us both around. “Run run run!” he yelled. I didn’t have time to think about it; I followed him down the hill.

  The sound of the horses’ hooves thundered behind us. Jeryl shouted something. Another shot. Then the galloping was right behind me. The snow sucked at my feet. I couldn’t lift my legs fast enough. I turned to see the backside of a gun swinging through the air. I ducked just in time as the horse sped past, separating me from Jeryl. Then I ran for the hill to my left.

  More gunfire and shouting. Jeryl?

  I turned and saw the two horses. One standing over Jeryl’s body, which was lying on the ground. The other was racing toward me. My heart hammered in my chest. He’s fine, he’s fine. Please, let him be fine.

  I should have strung my bow then. I should have aimed and fired.

  But I didn’t. I ran.

  I’m not an idiot. I knew I couldn’t outrun a horse. But when you see an animal like that—especially one that’s got a man with a gun on top of it—barreling down on you, it’s hard not to run. I ran for seconds, minutes. I’m not really sure. When I could feel the animal’s hooves on my heels, I stopped, spun around, flicked an arrow off my mounted quiver, and nocked it.

  Breathe.

  Aim.

  The man raised his gun.

  I let the arrow fly.

  It struck him in his left shoulder. He didn’t fall, but his body jerked to the side, tugging the reins with him. The horse let out something like a scream and veered. I didn’t wait to see what happened. I ran again, crushing dead bushes beneath my boots. Behind me, the horse’s hooves stomped, stuttered, then stopped. I kept on through the snow. I heard the man’s voice. The sound of my own breath, my feet stomping powder, my heart in my ears. The horse’s hooves. Again again again.

  Goddammit. I tumbled down a hill, slipping and falling on my ass. The horse followed, its bulk passing in front of me.

  “Stay down!” the man said.

  I got up and ran along the slope of the hill. The man kicked the horse’s flanks and started after me again. I could practically feel the animal’s hot breath over my shoulder. Then something hard and heavy—the man’s gun?—slammed into the back of my head. I fell into the snow once more. I tasted ice, mud, and iron. I lifted my head—it felt like it was full of sand. Through watery eyes, I saw boots square off in front of my face. Hooves behind them. Strong, powerful animal legs shaking the earth.

  When I looked up, all I saw was the butt of a gun.

  19

  Dad used to keep a notebook. That stupid notebook—it drove me crazy imagining what was in it. He never struck me as a notebook-keeping kind of guy, until he was. Whatever he was writing, it had to do with his work in the basement.

  In the basement was Dad’s lab and office. It seemed normal, at the time. Dad was a biologist and, as far as I knew, demoted or not, he still worked for the university. He told me once that they’d sent him to Alaska to study some northern plant and its effects on human skin.

  “What kind of plant?”

  “Well, it’s a few different ones.”

  “What are you making out of it?”

  “Hopefully something that will save a lot of lives.”

  “Like for skin cancer?”

  “No, not for skin cancer.”

  I’d see him writing in his notebook while the TV was on, during dinner, and while drinking a beer on the back porch—mosquitoes buzzing around his head, his pen scraping on paper, his eyes fixed to the page.

  “What’s he writing?” I asked Mom once while she was doing the dishes. Dad was outside, thumbing through pages under the blue porch light.

  “He’s working,” she said.

  “On what?”

  “A shot in the dark.” She went back to scrubbing, wouldn’t say any more.

  * * *

  Back and forth, back and forth. The smell of warm animal hide. The weight of something pressing against my stomach. Snow in front of me, pale and shimmering in the daylight. I felt something slither in my mouth. I spat out a glob of blood, thick like snot. It landed on the snow with a gross splat. Then I was moving. Or the ground was moving. No, I was moving. I was flopped over the back of the horse, a rope running from my left shoulder to my right hip, strapping me to the animal. My ribs felt broken and the side of my head throbbed where his gun had hit me, flashing pain with every heartbeat. Gingerly, I reached up and felt a huge welt.


  In the bright snow beneath me, a man’s face streaked by, bearded, bloody, eyes wide open, lips parted—dead. A stranger, thank God. Then the face was gone, replaced by more snow. I grabbed the rope at my shoulder and pulled it up, squirming loose. I pushed against the side of the horse, lifting my body. I saw the man who’d hit me walking in front of the animal, leading it up a hill. I threw my legs to the left until I was straddling the horse’s wide back, looking forward. Never been on a horse before. Never really wanted to.

  He heard my movements and turned to glance at me. “Don’t try anything dumb.”

  We crested the hill and looked over the other side. His gaze was fixed, focused on something in front of him. We were back where we’d started, where they’d attacked us. I examined the scene below. A massacre of bodies between bloody hieroglyphics in the snow. My eyes flashed from body to body, looking for a recognizable face or familiar jacket. Nothing. No Jax, no Jeryl.

  “Fuck,” the man said. He looked at me again. Blond beard, brown eyes. A big guy. Big nose, big face like stone. He wasn’t wearing a hat, leaving nothing but his close-cropped blond hair to protect him from the cold.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  I bit my tongue.

  “You know who that tattooed fellow was you were traveling with?”

  Pause.

  A sharp, humorless guffaw escaped his mouth. “I bet you don’t.” He looked back at the bodies. “We’ll find him. Make no mistake. We know he’s close by. We’ll find him. We have to.” So he was alive! Jax was alive. Was Jeryl?

  He led the horse down the hill. My hips swayed with the movement. My ribs ached. I wasn’t tied up, but I was a prisoner, sure enough. My bow was tucked under the man’s arm, my knife tucked into his belt. Running away was impossible. Already tried that. So I rode with Blondy, searching the hills and trees for any sign of Jeryl or Jax, listening for movement. But all I heard was the steady clomp-crush, clomp-crush of the horse’s heavy hooves.

  * * *

  “I bet you’re hungry,” Blondy said, ripping at a piece of jerky and massaging the meat between his teeth. He was leaning up against the tree that he’d tied the horse to. I tried to give him a look that said I’m not scared and You better watch your back. But I’m pretty sure all it said was I’m a bloody, beaten coward.

  “Too bad you can’t talk,” he said, taking another bite of the dried meat. He took a swig of water from a canteen that he produced from his belt, then he splashed some against his shoulder where I’d shot him. “Ahh, shit,” he said, wincing. I wondered where my arrow was. Bastard probably broke it. “You’re not a bad shot. Not a great shot. I’d be dead if you were a great shot.”

  He knew nothing. I was a great shot. He’d been moving. I was panicked, rushed. Never shot at a man before. Screw him.

  “So you really not going to talk?”

  I looked away.

  “Ha. The perfect woman.”

  I pictured diving at him, pulling my knife from his belt, slicing it into his laughing lips.

  Once we got moving again, it took us maybe another hour before we found his camp. The sun had already sunk behind the mountains, casting ghostly gray light over the hills. My head was starting to feel a little better, but my sides ached and my ass was numb from riding the horse bareback. Turns out, saddles were not a luxury of the apocalypse.

  The camp was three large, pavilion-like brown tents and seven smaller tents that backed up against a large hill to the east and a sparse group of spruce trees to the west. Scattered around the site were long poles with lanterns on them, not yet lit. A man was walking outside one of the tents. He had a white star on his coat and was carrying what looked like a toolbox in his hand. When he saw us approaching, he stopped and lifted the flap of one of the smaller tents, and another man emerged. This one looked older, had an ugly ponytail trailing his head—a hairy worm. Ponytails are gross.

  Then I saw a woman approach, blond hair peeking out from beneath a purple skullcap. It was weird seeing a woman. For so long, the world of estrogen belonged to me and Mom. It was hard not to stare. What was her name? How old was she? Could she hunt with a compound bow? I doubted it. Blondy led us into camp, walking in front of the horse, me riding like I was his prize. “What happened?” the woman asked when we got closer, eyes studying me.

  “We found him,” Blondy said. The woman gasped.

  “Where?” Ponytail asked.

  “Few miles south,” Blondy replied.

  Ponytail scowled. “Where’s your team?”

  Blondy spat on the ground and rubbed his shoulder. “He was too fast. Silent Jane here”—he nodded toward me—“was with him. His little helper.” He pulled back his coat and showed the bloody stain on his shoulder, then held out the compound bow as if in explanation. Ponytail’s gaze shifted from my bow to Blondy’s wound, no sympathy in his dark irises. Then he looked up at me and my insides turned all wormy. I didn’t like whatever it was that was going on behind that man’s eyes.

  “Get her down,” Ponytail said, gesturing at me like I was luggage. Blondy offered me a hand, and I kicked at him. He dodged my foot easy enough. I kicked again, and he grabbed my leg and pinned it against the horse. With his other hand, he pulled at my arm. I started punching his head with my free hand over and over while he ducked and dodged. I don’t know why I was fighting; it’s not like I hoped to accomplish anything.

  “A little help?” he called out.

  More hands were on me then, pulling, pinning, grasping. I kicked and flailed and scratched. They swore.

  Then I was turned around, and in front of me was the blond woman’s face, the glistening flash of a needle in her hand. I felt the sting in my neck, a burning sensation flowing through my body. The chain-like grip on me loosened. Suddenly, I was flat in the snow. I tried to stand, but I couldn’t move. My limbs were glued to the ground. The sky was swirling. Was this what it felt like to die? I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Three figures above me now, spinning in a pulsing gray dance. The edges of my vision folded in. Not again, dammit. Then darkness ate the world.

  20

  Think happy thoughts.

  Mom pushing me on the swing at the park.

  Dad catching me at the bottom of the slide.

  Ken and me trading candy on Halloween.

  Chassie Emerson slipping and falling in the mud.

  Joshua trees.

  Family trips to Palm Springs.

  Long, warm days.

  Burgers on the back porch.

  Dad giving me my knife.

  Dad laughing at his own jokes.

  Flying in a plane over frosted mountains.

  Turbulence. Dad taking my hand.

  Dad in the basement.

  Dad with a syringe in his hand.

  Dad in bed all day, not feeling well.

  Sunken eyes.

  Sad smile.

  Snow.

  Darkness . . .

  Shit.

  * * *

  My eyes opened with a click. I could feel crusties in my eyelashes. I lifted my arm to wipe them away. But no. My arm wouldn’t move. I tried to raise my head to see what the hell was wrong with my arm, but it wouldn’t budge. Okay. This was a problem. I wasn’t strapped down or restrained in any way, at least not that I could feel. I just couldn’t move my limbs.

  I looked around. I was in a tent. A small fire was burning on a pan sitting on a plastic foldout table beside whatever I was lying on. The smoke, combined with the wet, muddy ground, made the air feel thick. There was what looked like luggage, boxes, drawers, storage strewn around the room. In the corner was a shelf filled with books, old magazines, and a small, wooden figurine of a man—a mountain climber perched on his heels—the kind that rocks back and forth on the edge but never falls. The ground was cleared of snow, a muddy mess. I figured I was on something like a cot, with blankets over my body. My jacket, gloves, and hat were thrown across the table beside me.

  I tried to move again. Focusin
g. I could turn my head. I could rock back and forth, but not enough to get momentum going. And even if I could, what then? Fall off the cot and land facedown in the mud? Probably not the best idea. But I had to do something. I was starting to panic.

  I heard voices outside. Tried to listen but couldn’t make anything out.

  Then I heard the sound of the zipper tearing the tent flap.

  “Hey, you’re awake.”

  The blond woman with the purple wool hat. She hovered over me. She looked taller than me, and pretty, with a small nose and big round eyes. She could rot in hell.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  I didn’t say anything. She looked me up and down, concern on her face. Made me feel sick.

  “Can you move?”

  I didn’t move. It was answer enough.

  “Sorry, it’s powerful stuff I gave you.”

  I glared.

  “You do speak English, yes?”

  I glared some more.

  The corners of her mouth turned slightly upward like they were being pulled by fishhooks. I imagined the hooks jerking back, ripping her cheeks open. “Yeah. You speak English.”

  She picked up a case from the floor and set it down on the table. She opened it, put on white gloves, and pulled out a needle. God, not again.

  “Don’t worry. I’m just going to take a small vial of blood. No big deal.”

  My blood? Why the hell? She took my arm. I was helpless to stop her. It was like when you’re a kid, and your older brother pins you down and dangles a glob of his spit over your face and there’s nothing you can do about it. That feeling of complete helplessness. There’s nothing in the world more frustrating.

  She pinched my arm and stabbed it with the needle, and dark red blood filled the capsule. When she got all she wanted, she removed the needle, gave me a bandage that looked more like a strip of white tape, then fumbled around in the suitcase for a minute. When she turned back to me, her gloves were off, and she had that fake smile on her face again.