The Wolves of Winter

by Tyrell Johnson

  From my cot, I listened to the sounds of the camp quieting. A voice here and there. Someone was dragging in a deer from an evening hunt. Campfires were extinguished, lamps were lit, and the three guards took up their post around my tent.

  I lay back and waited. I didn’t close my eyes. Didn’t want to fall asleep and miss my chance. On the other side of the tent, the empty space where Ariane’s cot had been was a black hole. Where was she now? I wondered. I felt on edge, ready to leap out of bed at any sudden threat, but not sure from what direction it might come. I waited for what I hoped was hours. For the camp to be utterly silent. And then I waited longer. Finally, I decided it was late enough. It was quiet enough. It was time to run.

  I got out of bed and put on my clothes. I started to head toward the tent flap, then stopped. I turned around and walked to the shelf with the little mountain climber. He was poised on edge as always, staring into space like he was thinking about something important. I reached up and tipped him over the edge. He landed with a smack on the wet ground, his painted eyes staring at the ceiling. Little wooden bastard.

  I made my way toward the entrance of the tent and unzipped the flap as quietly as I could. Then I stepped through. There were guards outside, two men, who looked at me. One had a brown, thick beard and an eyebrow ring. The other was much younger with a patchy beard.

  Eyebrow Ring opened his mouth to say something.

  “I gotta go to the bathroom,” I said.

  He grinned like he’d won a bet. “I heard you weren’t talking.”

  “I need to take a shit, please.” I emphasized the words to hurry him up.

  “Right.” He turned to the younger man. “Justin, that’d be you.”

  Justin’s face went blank. “You serious?”

  “Off you go.” Eyebrow Ring nearly laughed as he said it.

  Justin sighed, then took the hanging lantern from the post beside him. “Come on,” he said. We walked away from the tents into the spruce trees. Soon we saw the squat, stank-smelling shack appear in front of us.

  I held out my hand. “I need the lantern.”

  “What?”

  “The lantern.”

  “No.”

  “I’m not going in there and falling in that hole. I need to see what I’m doing.”

  He looked behind him, like he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to. He adjusted his belt, and I saw a flash of metal beneath his jacket. He had a gun. Of course he did. Then he handed me the lantern. It was heavier than I thought. The wick was small, but it produced enough light. I pushed the door open—it made one of those old-door creaking sounds—stepped through, then kicked it shut.

  Oh God, it reeked in there. My gloved hands fumbled with the lantern, but I got the little latch open.

  Then I blew it out.

  “Hey,” I said. “The lantern’s out.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I can’t see a damn thing.”

  “Well, come out.” I heard his footsteps in the snow, getting closer to the shack.

  “My pants are down.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Stupid boy. “I need help getting out of here. It stinks.”

  “Fine, I’m coming.”

  I adjusted my feet as the door creaked open, slowly, cautiously. Man’s greatest fear: seeing a girl take a shit.

  When his face came into view, I could see the confused look, even in the dark.

  “Where—”

  I brought the lantern down hard over his head, heard the crash of shattered glass. He dropped flat into the mushy, muddy ground, his face barely missing the shit hole. He was out cold. I’d thought it was going to be harder than that. Guess I hit him pretty good. I dropped the lantern, jumped over his body, and ran.

  Moving through trees, night air stinging the back of my throat, I made my way north through the camp, scanning for movement in the shadows and listening for the echo of footsteps, the snap of tent flaps. I had to move quickly and hope that the other guards didn’t hear me or catch on that I wasn’t coming back. How long did they assume a girl could stay on the can?

  I found the large brown tent by the horses. As I approached, a big tan one stomped its foot at me and bucked its head. I kept moving, pretending I was supposed to be there—trying to fool a horse.

  The zipper screamed into the night, so I pulled it slow, until there was just enough room for me to squeeze through. I stepped into the tent. The lights were out, the plants sleeping and growing in the darkness. I made my way to the corner and found them. My bow. My arrows waiting on the mounted quiver. My knife. The bow felt good in my grip. The weight of the knife felt right on my belt. It balanced me out. I was whole again.

  Footsteps echoed outside, followed by a gentle whistling. I crouched low, praying whoever it was wouldn’t see the tent flap open.

  The footsteps sounded to the left of the tent. Crunch crunch crunch. Pause. Zip. No! Then the splashing sound of urine smacking the ground, burrowing a little pee hole into the snow. The man kept whistling as he peed. I didn’t recognize the tune. He went on for way too long, then finally zipped back up. I held my breath as he passed by the tent and disappeared.

  I sat in the dark, holding my bow to my chest, and counted out a full minute before stepping back out. I probably should have waited longer, but I couldn’t help myself. How much time did I have? Would the other guards go looking for me? Would Justin wake up? I needed to move. Besides, I wasn’t helpless anymore; I had my bow now.

  I was walking toward the exit when I heard the sound of voices. Men were yelling something. My insides froze. Shit. Movement outside. Hurried footsteps. The camp was waking up. I peeked out the tent flap and saw two men racing toward the south end of camp. Toward my tent. No one nearby, no one looking at a tent full of plants. I couldn’t wait any longer. I stepped out, exposed to the night.

  The lanterns flashed, and the stars shone down on me like spotlights. There she goes there she goes there she goes! No clouds. No cover. I moved fast. Skirting around the big tent, next to the horses. One of them grumbled as I passed. I could have cut the stupid thing’s throat. Instead, I moved faster. Then, amazingly, I passed the tent. I climbed the hill behind it, following old footprints—probably someone who’d gone off to hunt earlier that day. The voices continued behind me. As I reached the top of the hill, I heard stomping and rustling from the horses. I looked down the slope. From the glint of a lantern light, I could see men inside the horse enclosure, putting bits in the horses’ mouths, Anders talking to them. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was pointing in all directions. As he did, riders rode out. Two of them turned toward me, heading up the hill. Shit. I ran, but not far. I was done trying to run from horses. I crouched low in a group of snowy bushes, easing my bow from over my shoulder, and quickly snapped an arrow off my quiver. The stomping grew closer.

  I saw the head of a horse crest the hill, eyes bulging, ears pointing, listening for me. Then another. Two horses. A man and a woman rider, eyeballing the trees. I saw the purple hat even in the darkness. Braylen. Damn her. I nocked my arrow. Could I really kill somebody? Could I kill Braylen? The horses came forward, getting closer to where I was squatting. I had to act. I aimed, setting my sighting pins to the man’s chest. They pulled their horses to a stop. Had they heard me?

  The bowstring pressed through my gloves to the calluses on my fingers. I took a breath, getting ready to fire, when the man’s gaze spun toward me. He raised his gun.

  “Stop,” he said. “Put the bow down.”

  I didn’t move.

  Then Braylen saw me. Something like pity registered on her face.

  “Do as he says,” Braylen said.

  They could call out at any second, and it would all be over. But with a single flick of my fingers, my arrow would sink into his chest.

  “I’m counting to three,” the man said.

  “Give her a second.”

  “One.”

  My fingers twitc
hed.

  “Two.”

  “Stop,” Braylen said. She started to raise her own rifle. I had to act.

  “Three.”

  Just as I was about to let go of the string, launch the arrow, Braylen swung the stock of her rifle at the man. But he saw it coming, dropped his own gun, and lifted his hands to block the blow. The rifle struck him on the shoulder as he grabbed it. He tumbled over the horse, pulling the gun and Braylen down with him.

  They hit the snow, one on top of the other, struggling for the rifle as I stood, bow drawn, unsure what to do, who to aim at, or what the hell was going on. Braylen was putting up a fight, but the man was too strong. He was saying something to her, maybe asking her what she was doing. What was she doing? What was I doing? I needed to run. I saw Braylen get a hand on his face, claw at his eyes as she shifted, pulled a knife. She struggled beneath him, twisting, groaning, turning the blade. The man gripped her hand, wrangled the knife from her fingers, then plunged it into the side of her ribs. She sucked in a shocked gasp. He pulled it out as Braylen went limp. He lifted it over her chest. Even in the darkness, I could see a shimmer of wet blood on the blade. He was lowering it again when my arrow took him through the temple.

  I hadn’t thought it through. Hadn’t said to myself, I’m going to shoot him now. I just saw that knife again, saw what he was going to do, and somehow, my fingers let loose the string. My hands were already shaking as his body collapsed into the snow.

  I stood up straight and walked toward Braylen, who was lying on the ground, looking at me. She coughed suddenly and I saw blood dribble from her mouth. Her breathing was ragged. “So you can shoot that bow,” she said weakly. Her eyes seemed to be having a hard time holding focus.

  I crouched over her, unsure what to say. “Why did you stop him?” I finally asked.

  She was concentrating on her breathing. Her hands were pressed to her side, blood filling her palms. Her eyes met mine.

  “Too important . . . that you live. I . . . never meant to hurt you.” The sound of her voice was even weaker now, and I leaned closer.

  “Listen,” she said, gripping my arm with surprising intensity. “You have to get to Vancouver. There are people there, scientists, good men—not like Immunity, not like Anders and the others. Look for a man named Sutton. He can use your blood to find a cure—find a way to save everybody. I was going to help you get there.”

  My mind was churning, unable to settle on an interpretation of this that made any sense. A group in Vancouver? Had Braylen really been playing Anders all along? Was she playing me now? Was I so important?

  I searched her eyes for the truth.

  “Believe me, Annie,” Braylen said softly. Her body went slack then rigid in a matter of moments. Suddenly—unexpectedly—I felt sad for her. Sad for the life she lived and for the fact that she was on my side, and I never trusted her. Did I trust her now?

  “My name’s Lynn,” I said. But she wasn’t there anymore. She didn’t hear me.

  More voices carried up the hill from camp. I stood up and ripped my arrow from the dead man’s temple. The shaft made a sickening sucking sound as it cleared his skin. I tried to keep my hands from shaking.

  I looked at the two horses, standing a ways away now, huffing and turning, unsure what to do with themselves. I didn’t want to take one, but I’d be faster, traveling would be easier, it was the right choice. I stepped toward the animals, my hand reaching out. “It’s okay,” I said. “You’re fine.” One of the horses stomped and turned around while the other batted its head, stepping slowly backward. “You’re all right. I won’t hurt you.” I reached out for the closest one’s reins, but the damn things were spooked. The closest horse jerked backward, while the other bolted, screaming as it ran. Dammit, that was loud. Someone would have heard that. Screw you, horses.

  I turned east and ran. Away from the sound of voices and the horses’ hooves, away from Braylen’s still-warm body, away from Anders, Harper, and all the rest. Had I really just killed a man? Was Braylen really dead? Would I go to Vancouver? Which were the lies, and what was the truth?

  I couldn’t think. I just had to run.

  I had to find Jax and Jeryl. Make it back home.

  27

  I put as much distance behind me as quickly as I could, using deer paths, then veering away from them by jumping deep into the undergrowth. I zigzagged, brushed away some footprints, then climbed hills and circled back down. I was moving erratically, following other prints when I could, trying to throw them off my trail. I just needed time. Time to get far enough away from them. Time to make it home. But then what? I didn’t know. Was I leading them back to my family? To Jeryl? To Jax? What choice did I have? I pushed the thoughts away. One thing at a time. What I needed was a good, heavy snow to cover my prints.

  Hours later, my legs were tired, but I was still on high alert, listening and watching for any sign of Jeryl and Jax. Maybe they’d gone back to the cabin, hoping I’d meet them there. Or maybe they did get caught. Maybe Immunity was watching me. I felt eyes on me, like every tree was a camera, turning its branches to watch me go. Stupid. I was being paranoid.

  All night, I moved through snowy tundra like a drunk reindeer, not covering a lot of ground. With the trees grown sparse, everything seemed wider, the world larger, the sky filled with more stars, and the snow stretching on and on. When the black night changed to a silver morning, I stopped to catch my breath on a hill overlooking a narrow ravine filled with thick brush and spruce trees. The sky turned obnoxiously blue, with only the occasional wisp of a cloud blowing low over the horizon. I’d been resting for about ten minutes when I saw a man on horseback, maybe only a mile off, emerging from the trees at the edge of the ravine. Only a mile. He had a horse, and my legs had lost their steam. Shit. I stood up and started moving again, doing my best to quell the panic I felt building in my chest. I pressed my gloves to my face and blew out warm air. With the lack of movement, the cold had caught up to me. I stuffed my hands into my coat and felt something in my left pocket. I pulled it out. The wire dangled between my gloved fingers, bright, silver. My trapping wire.

  A plan started to take shape.

  * * *

  Step one: Find a spot

  Just like when you’re setting a hunting trap, you want to find the best spot. Between two sturdy trees, in a place where animals are likely to travel. Ravines are good for this. But if not, you can create logjams on either side of the trees to usher the animals through. I didn’t have time to do that, but luckily, I had the luxury of my footsteps, which I knew the man was following. So I found two healthy spruces, a good distant apart.

  Step two: Set the wire

  Mine had been broken by fat-face Conrad, so it wouldn’t hold all that well against a thrashing buck or bull. But I didn’t need it to. Normally, you’d set it in loops to try to snag your prey around the animal’s neck or antlers. But I had a better idea. Trip wire. Horses don’t have antlers, and they’re strong as elk. But God played a practical joke on them by making their legs stupidly easy to break. One wrong step and snap. Horse jerky.

  Step three: Write your message

  If my footprints weren’t enough to lead the man to my wire, I wanted to make it obvious. I needed a glowing green light that he’d never miss. So I snapped off a few low branches from the base of a pine tree and organized them into two large, clear letters: “FU.”

  * * *

  I found a good spot on a hill just west of the trap I’d set, sat in the snow, and waited. The sun was frozen in the blue sky and the slight wind had died down. All was calm. Anticipating, I sat there for something like twenty minutes before I saw him clopping through the trees. His head was down, following my scattered footprints. I didn’t recognize him. At least he wasn’t Anders, Harper, Tom—the bird collector—or the guy by the fire, Lance. Just a lackey. He was approaching my wire. Come on, you bastard. Come on.

  Then he looked down at the snow, and his eyes froze on my message. Yes! Right there. Just for you.


  He kicked the horse forward, stopped, laughed, then lifted his pack over his shoulder and pulled out an orange gun. An orange gun? He raised it above his head and fired. A flare burst from the thing, screaming into the air in a brilliant red streak. Here she is, this way, everybody! He scanned the trees a moment longer before stepping forward.

  One step, two steps. The horse should have hit my wire by now.

  And then it did. The animal careened forward violently as the man launched over its head. He slammed down hard into the snow, and the horse jerked back, neighing like its tail was on fire. The man got up, pressing a hand to his back. He managed to seize the horse’s reins and tried to get back on, but the animal kicked and danced away from him. It bucked its head, whinnied, and galloped north. The man looked to both sides of the trail, then stomped after the horse, still holding his lower back.

  All in all, a successful mission.

  Except for that flare.

  * * *

  And then more walking. In thick snow. No food in my pack. No pack either. Lifting heavy legs through grasping powder. All day. Till the sun rolled down the side of the mountains. But I pushed on, needing as much distance between me and Immunity as possible. It would take time for them to regroup, time to find my tracks again, but then they’d come fast. I couldn’t stop.

  I had to stop. Just for a minute—to rest my legs. I’d been going half the previous night, all day, and now it was full-on dark, with only a silver smear of stars to light my way. I’d been moving as fast as I could, trying to put ground, snow, air, hills, and trees between me and Immunity. My legs were anvils, my feet were raw, my stomach was groaning, and my face felt like plastic. I needed to make an igloo or a fire. Preferably both. The igloo wasn’t the problem. The fire was. It’s very, very difficult to start a fire in the snow with no material, especially with no dry wood.

  I checked every low-hanging branch for a good stick. Eventually, I found a fallen log with a few limbs that seemed dry enough. I snapped one off, cleared a small patch of snow for a place to sit, and got to whittling. I had to strip the bark and shave off a good portion of it before I reached dry wood. It wasn’t a ton, but maybe it would be enough to get something started. Dad had shown me how. I stripped the rest of the branch and made a pile of shavings that I balanced on my thigh. I sharpened the end to a dull point, then carved a small divot in the middle of the stick. I snapped off the pointed section of it about twelve inches from the end, put the shavings in a small pile inside the divot, and propped it against my leg. Then I pressed the sharpened end into the divot and began to push it toward the small pile of shavings over and over again, trying to create heat, a spark, fire, goddammit. “Friction,” Dad had said. “It’s all about friction.”