The Wolves of Winter

by Tyrell Johnson

  I pressed and pressed and pressed and pressed and pressed and pressed and pressed.

  Nothing. Not a puff of smoke. I stopped, pulled off my glove, and put my hand against the sharpened end. It was warm in my palm, almost hot. But not nearly enough. The sky was metallic black, and the stars’ little heads were watching me fail from a billion different perspectives. I started at it again. Press press press press presspresspresspress.

  “Dammit!” I threw the stick hard against a nearby fir tree. After years of hunting, sitting, waiting, doing nothing, I thought I’d developed plenty of patience. Then again, when I was hunting, no one was tracking me; I wasn’t waiting for someone to jump out of the brush at any moment. My arms hurt, my ass was sore, and I didn’t have a thing to show for it. I was sure I could survive the night, but I wouldn’t be able to let myself sleep for too long—as if I could control that. I’d have to keep moving, keep my body temperature up. At least there wasn’t a blizzard.

  I looked out at the cold hills, the sharp shadows, the piercing stars. Sure, it was all beautiful, but there was something so distant about it. And yes, I was scared. I was so scared. My hunting trips never lasted more than a day—at least, the ones by myself. Where was Jeryl? Jax? Wolf? Were they all dead in the snow? And Mom. I should have never left. I thought of Ariane then. Alone in the camp. Without her son. Where was she now? Then I thought of the man I’d killed. At one point he had a family. Would anyone miss him now that he was gone?

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and tucked my legs up to my chest. Freezing, shaking, feeling sorry for myself, I closed my eyes. Should have built an igloo.

  28

  I dreamed of Dad, which is weird because I hadn’t had dreams of him in a long time.

  I was at home when I heard him calling me from the basement. I ran to the basement door and opened it. A bitter wind blasted my face, and I stumbled down the cement steps. It was so cold down there. A frosty breeze swirled in the small space. Dad was in the corner of the room, his arms wrapped around himself. His lips were blue, and he was shaking.

  “I’m sorry,” he kept saying. “I’m sorry. It’s you. It’s you. It’s you.”

  I tried to run to him, but I slipped on the icy floor. I felt myself falling and jolted awake.

  It was still dark outside. My cheeks felt numb and my limbs stiff, but I managed to stand. There was a breeze blowing up from the valley below me. It stung my eyes, my lips, and my ears. I felt raw. I needed to get moving, warm myself.

  I made my way down the slope, trying to find some easier ground as more trees broke up the tundra. I found a deer path and followed it. I kept moving, watching as the day turned gray, then the sun popped its head over the hills. I stopped every once in a while to shovel a few handfuls of snow in my mouth. It stung my teeth, but it was worth it. Somehow, by working my jaw, it felt like I was eating food. But my stomach knew the difference. I know it was just over a day, but still, a day of trudging through thick snow, without food, after having had some of my blood stolen by Immunity, builds the appetite. I didn’t know if my legs could make it all the way home.

  Then I saw it. A deer. God help me, a deer.

  Just at the base of the hill to my left. A doe. On its own. I moved cautiously, nocking an arrow. The morning sun was bright and golden against the animal’s brown hide. I watched its ear twitch. You’re fine, deer. You’re all alone, relax. It was munching on the lichen of an old pine tree, rustling through the dead branches to reach it. I kept moving, one foot at a time, the snow ringing beneath me like warning bells. But the deer didn’t look up.

  When I came within shooting distance, I took a knee to steady myself and raised my bow. It was mostly facing me, so I’d go for its chest, hope to hit the heart. Not an ideal shot, but it would have to do.

  Dad had taught me how to shoot. He didn’t know everything there was as far as the form went, but he knew enough to get me started, to give me an idea of how to stand, how to draw, how to aim, how to position my body, my hands, my elbow, how to pull back on the string. Once he gave me all his tips and pointers, it was up to me. I practiced. I slayed snowmen. I built them carefully and lovingly, and then I murdered them while they stood helpless in the snow. I shot from short distances, long distances, longer distances, from hills, from valleys. I even climbed a tree a few times and shot from there. I learned to adjust my arch and account for wind. Sometimes, when I was really bored, I’d draw faces on the snowmen, give them sticks for arms, then fill them with arrows. Once, I even stole Ken’s hat and put it on one of them. You get bored out there with nothing to do. That is, nothing to do but slaughter snowmen and get really freaking good at shooting a compound bow.

  The deer lowered its head. I kept my sighting pin aimed, and I waited. Its mouth worked on the lichen. Munch munch munch. Finally, it raised its head again, ears pointing at me, chest exposed. There was no wind, and it was a clear shot through the trees. I don’t miss clear shots. I took one steadying breath, and snap.

  I heard the pluck sound the arrow made as it sank through deer hide. The doe jumped into the air, then turned and ran.

  It kicked up snow. Then it slowed. And with its head dropping toward its chest, it collapsed.

  Meat.

  My head rushed with excitement, and I actually fist-pumped into the air. “Yes!” I yelled before remembering Immunity. I looked around, but no men burst through the trees. I raced down the hill, nearly falling twice. When I reached the deer, I knelt in the snow, took off my gloves, and placed a palm on its still-warm hide. The fur was winter thick but fine. I pulled out my knife.

  As in all things outdoorsy, Dad had shown me—and Ken—how to properly field dress a deer. The cold weather might have kept it just fine, but in case my arrow punctured something, I didn’t want to risk spoiling the meat. I started by cutting the anus. Gross, but it was the best way to do it. Once that nasty red-and-white cone was out, I cut from pelvis to chest, doing my best to keep from puncturing the stomach sac that protruded from the carcass like a rotten gray balloon. Then I shoved my hand in and cut the entrails from the body cavity. It was so warm inside I held my hands against the slippery organs.

  Next, I ripped the whole large, grimy, steaming bag of guts out. I took a deep breath, accidently breathing in the smell, and my stomach spun. I wiped my forehead with the back of my sleeve, then sunk my knife between the deer’s ears and cut down, pulling more and more of the skin back, revealing the muscle underneath.

  Then I sliced a bit of shoulder meat. It was red and raw and fresh. As fresh as you can get. The meat was juicy in my hand. Cooked, seasoned, it’d be the most delicious thing in the world. But right now, delicious didn’t matter. Sustenance mattered. How many more days did I have? How many more nights? It’s not just the walking that will sap your strength; it’s the cold.

  I took several deep breaths and put the raw slice into my mouth. I chewed quickly, but the bloody flavor sent water rushing to my tongue, and my throat closed up. I started to gag, but I forced the half-chewed bit down and got ahold of myself. I wiped the side of my lips, and the back of my hand came away bloody. I was an animal, a predator.

  The second bite wasn’t any easier. While cutting the third piece, I felt my saliva thicken, my stomach cramp. I dropped my knife, bent over double, and vomited into the snow.

  This wasn’t going to work. I had to cook the meat. I had to start a fire. But how?

  Take a deep breath. Think it through.

  Well, easy for you to say, Dad, you’re not the one in a frozen wasteland with nothing but a knife and a bow. You’re gone. You left me!

  But I did take a breath. I scoured the carcass as if a fire starter and kindling were about to jump out of the deer’s mouth. Then I looked at the deer’s mouth. Well, screw me sideways—another Dad phrase. Lichen. Crunchy, dead, dry, burnable lichen, hanging from the deer’s jaws.

  I stood up. Got to work.

  At the base of some of the pine trees, beneath the canopy of snow, was dry lichen and s
mall, dead twigs. I gathered as much as I could, then snapped off a few thicker branches and trimmed off the wet bark. I also managed to find some rocks, buried in the snow next to a fallen spruce. They were a bit wet but would hopefully still work.

  I dried off one of the rocks as best I could using my shirt, then placed a bit of the lichen on top: another technique Dad had shown me—using char cloth, though, not lichen. I got out my knife, and using the back of it—which is a shitty thing to do to my poor knife—I slapped it against the side of the rock to create a spark. Just one measly little spark. Please, please, please.

  Nothing. Nothing but straight white lines slashing across the rock’s surface. I turned and spat. My spit was pink.

  I kept at it with the rock and my knife. Slash, slash, slash. Words forming in my mind with every stroke.

  Come.

  On.

  You.

  Stupid.

  Piece.

  Of.

  Flash. A little flame hit the lichen, died immediately. Uggghhhh. But it was all I needed. A little encouragement. I went at the rock, faster. I felt something on my eyelash and I wiped it away. Looking up, I saw snowflakes starting to fall from fat clouds. No no no no.

  Slash slash slash, flash! Another spark burst to life and a trail of smoke rose from the lichen. I dropped my knife and blew, oh so gently, on the dried old man’s beard. More smoke. Come on! I blew some more. Then, like a tiny flag of victory, a flame flapped to life.

  “Yes!” I yelled. Didn’t care about Immunity. I’d made fire.

  I set on a couple of the small, dead pine twigs as the lichen caught. More flame, more smoke. Then more sticks—a few of the bigger ones. I blew hard now as the flames tongued the wood, testing it, teasing it. Before long, I had a warm, burning fire. It wasn’t huge, but it would do.

  The despair that had clung to me melted away in the heat.

  I’d made fire.

  I was a complete and utter badass.

  29

  The deer was a sad thing.

  I didn’t like leaving it like it was. The sun had risen and was now navigating through a network of passing clouds. No more snow at least. I’d made camp there by the deer, allowing myself a staggered sleep. Eyes popping open at any animal sound, thinking Immunity had come for me. I was tucked away between hills, so I allowed myself a medium-sized fire, hoping that the smoke wouldn’t be too noticeable by the time it crested the peaks. I’d also made a makeshift igloo to protect me from the snow. It was mostly just an overhang, since I didn’t want to be closed in if I needed to make a quick exit. Then I’d cooked a few more slabs of the deer meat and stuffed them in my pockets, but I was leaving most of the carcass. It was a bloody, sprawling mess in the snow, the lichen still stuck between its jaws. Maybe wolves would come and finish what I started. Circle of life.

  I found my way back up the hill and worked through the trees and dead bushes. I felt a little lighter on my feet after the food and the rest. I headed south. In the direction I thought our homestead was. But with all the jagged turns I’d taken, I couldn’t be sure. I had to keep moving, though. Above me, I saw the black shape of a falcon, riding a high wind current.

  After about an hour or two of walking, I heard voices.

  They were soft, but in the silence of the snowy landscape, even whispers can carry a long way. I froze. Listened. Had I imagined it? Was I losing my mind?

  Then the distinct shushing of footsteps sounded along the ridge to my left. I crouched low and pulled an arrow from my bow. Had to be Immunity. They’d caught up while I slept. But I wasn’t going back to that camp. God help me, I’d die first. I nocked the arrow. Then the hollow fear returned. A prickle in my spine. I could see myself immobile in the cot in that damn tent. I could see the blood pouring out of my arm. Ariane—sick, then healed. All of it a nightmare I wasn’t returning to, no matter what. But I thought of the man I’d shot in the head, and I had to fight my hands from shaking.

  The sound grew closer. Thirty yards away. I pulled back on the string as a figure rose over the ridge. The first thing I saw was the coat. The black furry coat. Jeryl’s coat. Jeryl’s mustache! Then came Jax, behind him, his blue, blue eyes surveying the trees like he’d heard something.

  “Jeryl!” I yelled, lowering my bow.

  He turned and relief flashed beneath bushy eyebrows.

  “Lynn,” Jax said. His voice was the sound of coming home.

  I stood. Could have cried.

  30

  I was so happy to find them. Jeryl gave me a hug—very un-Jeryl-like—and Jax’s eyes glowed, his smile warm, not the smirk I was so used to. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “That you’re . . . I’m glad.”

  We kept on south. Nobody wanted to stop with Immunity hot on our tail. As we walked, I told them everything. Almost. How I was drugged and numbed. About Braylen and Anders, the nature of my escape. I even told them I killed someone. Jeryl’s face remained neutral as I said that part, but Jax just nodded like it was completely understandable, which made me feel a little better. I didn’t tell them about Ariane or my blood. I didn’t think I was ready to face that just yet.

  “So the man with the flare. He left?” Jeryl asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Jeryl turned to Jax. “What do you think?”

  “They’ll regroup, gather whatever supplies or weapons they need, then follow. Buys us a little time.”

  We were trudging next to a towering hill of limestone and scattered, snowy brush. Next to us was an open plain, a few sections of spruce growing where a streambed might be, buried beneath the powdered layers.

  “So how’d you escape?” I said.

  “Jax rescued us from the rest of those men,” Jeryl said. “As they were trying to truss us up, he woke—”

  “I was never out,” Jax said.

  Jeryl gave him a look like this was news to him. “Anyway, he got his hands on a gun, I managed to get mine back, and . . . well. We had no idea where you were, and Jax was hurt. So we hightailed it. Once he’d healed up—”

  “You mean once you dug the bullets out of me with your knife? Then burned me with coals?” Jax said.

  “You’re healed, aren’t you?”

  “Would have healed either way.”

  “Anyway,” Jeryl continued. “We went looking for you and tracked down their camp, but they were on us. Chased us hard. I wasn’t sure we’d make it. We’ve been avoiding them ever since and trying to make our way back to the camp to get to you.”

  “And Wolf?” I asked.

  Jax’s face went blank, and Jeryl shook his head. “Can’t say we were really looking. But no sign of him.”

  A falcon launched from a cliff overhead and sailed across the plain. Its wings made a whooshing sound as it passed over us.

  “So,” Jeryl said, looking from Jax to me. “Jax and I had a long talk, and I think he owes you an explanation.”

  I looked at Jax.

  “Go ahead,” Jax said. “Ask me your questions.”

  Both men’s eyes turned to their moving feet, waiting for me to speak. I didn’t know where to start. I launched in with: “What are you?”

  Jax sighed, like he’d expected as much. “I guess you could say I’m one of Immunity’s experiments. I grew up in one of their research centers. My mom and me. They were doing genetic testing. They paid good money, and Mom had nothing at the time. This was before the war, the flu. There were others, other kids, but they didn’t survive the tests. I was their one success.”

  My mind flashed to Ariane. Her son had been given something, not the flu, and died. Had he and Jax been part of the same experiment, the difference being that Jax had survived? I could see Ariane’s tears sliding down her smooth cheeks.

  “Immunity was working on a gene-enhancing serum. I think it was intended to be used as a weapon. We were intended to be used as a weapon. Who needs a vaccine if you can create humans who are immune? And who wants to go to war against an army of stronger, faster, better soldiers? When the w
ar came, they sent me to fight, and when the flu spread, I escaped the collapse. They’ve been looking for me ever since.”

  “So this gene-enhancing serum, it gave you powers?”

  “Not powers exactly.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m faster, stronger, can see farther, heal quicker than normal people. I didn’t really know the extent of it until I was deployed.”

  “So if I put an arrow through your eye?”

  “I’d be very dead.”

  “And the numbers on your arm?”

  “Can’t remember even getting them, to tell you the truth. Maybe they’re a patient number. Or a serum number. The other kids at the center had them. When there were other kids, I mean.”

  “So they all died? Why?”

  “The serum. Some kids’ anatomy just didn’t adapt to it—I don’t know why. They were okay for a while and then they just got sick. I always thought the same would happen to me. Was kind of shocked when it didn’t.”

  I watched his face. His expression was blank, but there was sadness in his eyes. Sadness that explained some of the walls he’d put up around himself. He’d watched those kids die, he’d watched his mom die, and now he was a danger to everyone he came in contact with. I felt sorry for him. I wanted to reach out and comfort him. “Is your name Jackson Day?”