The Wolves of Winter

by Tyrell Johnson

  I looked at Jax. It was a lie, but I said it anyhow: “I’m so sick of all these goddamn beards.”

  I turned toward the door and heard the sound of them laughing. All three of them. It was good to hear. I pulled the handle and stepped out into the night.

  35

  I went for a walk.

  My legs were tired, my head swiveled on my shoulders, but I wasn’t ready to sleep. Not yet. If tonight was going to be my last on earth, I may as well live it. As I walked, I felt my blood sluicing through my ears. My golden blood. My life-giving blood. What’s your name? Anders had asked me. Your last name? Why had Dad never told me?

  I shook away the thought—tried to think about something else. Anything else. Maybe I should have sex with Jax. Even as I thought it, I knew I was nuts. The combination of fear and vodka was playing tricks on me.

  Heading south, I found a pine tree and stood next to it. I think maybe I’d drunk more than I thought because I tore off a bit of the bark and examined it under the light of the half-full moon like it was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. The intricate pattern of crevices, hundreds of them burrowing into each other. So small. I broke it apart in my hands, smelling the musk.

  I heard footsteps crunching in the snow beside me, and my first thought was that it was Jax and that if he wanted me, I’d say yes.

  When I saw Jeryl with a brown bag slung around his shoulder, my cheeks flushed. Jeryl paused by the tree. His wide, bristly mustache shone with moonglow. I almost laughed out loud.

  “What are you doing out?” He looked suspicious.

  “Just walking.” That wasn’t unnatural. I often went out at night. “What are you doing? Thought you were keeping watch.”

  “Headed that way now. I was warning Conrad.”

  “About Immunity?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell him about me?”

  Jeryl shook his head. “He only knows they’re after you and Jax. Didn’t tell him why. He didn’t seem to care.”

  “Is he going to help?” I focused on my pronunciation.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Did you ask him for help?”

  “Nope.”

  I wiped the bits of bark off on my jacket. “He’s not going to help. He’s an asshole.”

  “I think you might be right.” Jeryl looked up at the sky. “It’s a nice night,” he said.

  “Maybe our last.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  I felt sick. The ground moved under my feet like I was on a snowy treadmill.

  “Since you’re up anyway, want to help me with something?” Jeryl asked.

  “Help you with what?”

  “Dynamite.”

  * * *

  In the life before, the life in Eagle, Alaska—back when there were towns and invisible lines separating sections of land with arbitrary names—Jeryl had worked in construction. He and Ramsey’s dad, John-Henry—who was, according to Jeryl, currently a seven-hundred-pound grizzly stalking the hills just east of us—worked in the business together. Westpoint Construction. Jeryl was a site manager and John-Henry was an estimator. They did different projects around Alaska, very few of which were actually in Eagle. They built a hotel in Anchorage, a restaurant in Two Rivers, and a small housing development in Fairbanks. At least, those were the projects I knew about.

  As it turns out, sometimes you use dynamite in the construction business to make quick and easy holes in the ground. It’s a fairly old-school method, which worked for Jeryl. One particular project required dynamite, but a couple days into site prep, the city planners threw up all sorts of roadblocks and the project fell through. Thing was, Jeryl had already purchased the stuff. Six sticks, blasting caps, firing wire, and a thirty-cap blasting machine. Knowing Jeryl, he probably bought it off some backwoodsman who built the dynamite himself. Jeryl showed me the blasting machine as we made our way over the hill just north of our cabins. It was a boxlike contraption with a small handle at the top that twisted to generate electricity through the firing wire. The wire sent it to the blasting caps, which had their own internal detonation that triggered the sticks of dynamite.

  Jeryl inserted the blast caps carefully, wrapped the sticks of dynamite in cloth to minimize their exposure to moisture, then buried them in the snow in the middle of the northern valley, just past the first hill behind our homestead. He handed me a shovel and took the thirty-cap blasting machine up the western hill, leading the spool of firing wire behind him. I did as I was told and followed carefully in his footsteps. Feeling almost completely sober at this point, I used the shovel to cover the blasting wire and our footprints with snow.

  Good thing the moon was so bright. I could see the dark blue wire clearly against the glistening snow. I covered it carefully, methodically, doing my best not to leave a trace and not step outside Jeryl’s footprints. It wasn’t easy. He ran the wire a couple hundred feet across the valley and up the hill. He had to weave slightly around a few fir trees. When he got to a good lookout over the valley, he stopped. I filled in the last of the wire and footprints. “Well, that should do it,” Jeryl said.

  We followed the hill back toward our cabins, trickster spirits up to no good.

  “Think it’ll work?” I asked once we reached the base of the hill.

  The wrinkles around his mouth crinkled. A grin from Jeryl? It was like spotting a lynx. No, it was like having a lynx come right up to you and kiss you on the nose.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I think it might.”

  * * *

  After, Jeryl planted himself on the north hill to stand guard, and I headed back to my cabin. I knew I needed to sleep, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I was looking at my stump, contemplating sitting again, when I heard the door behind me.

  I turned and saw Jax stepping out of Ken’s cabin. He was brushing his beard as he caught my eye.

  “Not in bed yet?” he asked.

  “That’s a stupid question.”

  His smirk. “Yeah. I guess so.” He took a few steps toward me, eyes fixed on mine. “I realized something,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t like vodka.”

  “Yeah. It’s gross.”

  I looked away, but I could feel his eyes still on me.

  “Do you mind if I try something?” he asked.

  “What?”

  He closed the gap between us, lifted a hand. He held out his palms as if to show me he was unarmed. “What are you doing?”

  “Just hold still.”

  He slowly reached out to my face. I felt his gloved fingers touch my cheeks. Then he took the corner of my skullcap and lifted it up over my head. My hair tumbled down my shoulders, an embarrassing nest of tangles and knots. I felt exposed.

  “Looks good,” he said.

  What a stupid thing to say. And yet, I loved it. Felt my cold skin thawing. When was the last time someone told me I looked . . . anything? I realized then that I shouldn’t have felt so comfortable around Jax. Who and what he was. His connection with Immunity. What he did in the wars. It was all so much to take in. But for some reason, I couldn’t see him as dangerous. Maybe he was more than a man. Was it possible I was more than a woman too? I wondered how he saw me, what thoughts were trapped behind those eyes.

  Then he leaned in closer. I thought he was going to touch my hair, so I kept still, my neck and shoulders stiff. “What are you—”

  When his lips met mine, I nearly pulled away, but his hand came to rest on the small of my back, and I melted into him. Somehow, the world had shrunk, had folded in on itself, and there was only his warm mouth and that hand on my back. His lips were soft, but his beard was rough on my skin. Some part of me felt that I should push him off, kick him in the shins, tell him to eat shit. But I didn’t. God, I couldn’t. I kissed him back, slow and gentle. Then harder. I felt his body press into me. I pressed back. I was lifting my arms toward his shoulders when we heard the sound of Ken’s cabin door. I pulled away and looked past Jax. The door wa
s closed. Had someone come out or not? Ramsey? My cheeks burned against the icy air.

  Jax was breathing hard, his blue gaze fixed on my face like he couldn’t care less about the door, about whoever was behind it.

  “You’re drunk,” I said. A dumb thing to say.

  “Alcohol has very little effect on me.”

  I took a step back. “I should get some sleep.”

  “You should,” he said, but it sounded almost like a question. His eyes were on my mouth. He lifted a hand and smoothed my hair. Then he pulled away, and I watched him watch me. Drinking it all in. “Yes,” he said. “You should.”

  I didn’t want to go. I really didn’t. “Good night,” I said.

  “Good night.”

  I turned toward my cabin, tucking my hair back in my skullcap as quickly as I could, my hands shaking.

  36

  I stepped through the door of our cabin. What had just happened? Had Jax really just kissed me? Had I kissed him back? Had Ramsey seen? Was it just a stupid, drunk impulse? I didn’t feel drunk. Maybe he kissed me because we might die tomorrow. Did it really matter or mean anything? The fire was burning in the hearth, and Mom was sitting next to it in one of our chairs. She was drinking something, and judging by the mist snakes dancing above the cup, it was rhododendron tea.

  She didn’t turn around as I shut the door behind me. The cabin was warm. Uncomfortably so. I took off my gloves, boots, snow pants, jacket, and hat. I ran a hand through my damp, tangled hair and my fingers got stuck. My hair was like frayed rope. What could Jax possibly like about it?

  I started for the stairs when Mom spoke. “We should leave. Just leave. Now,” she said.

  I stopped, looking up at the loft, where my cot waited. Suddenly I was tired. It would feel good to lie down for a bit, rest. To turn my mind off, just for a moment.

  “You heard Jeryl,” I said. “Where would we go? And how long would we have to look over our shoulders?” And what if they caught up to us? What if they took me?

  “Better than staying here and dying.”

  “We’re not going to die.” I felt metal forming in my bones. A resilience, determination. We had guns and dynamite and Jax. We had a chance, didn’t we?

  Mom took another sip from her cup. Shadows from the fire rolled over her like water. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” she said. Something about her voice made me picture her from before the flu. Mom the librarian. Dependent on Dad, kind to me and Ken. Softer, sweeter. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. She wasn’t just talking about Immunity; she was talking about all of it. About the flu, Dad, the Yukon. None of this was what she wanted for us.

  I felt sorry for her. Sometimes she’d get quiet, stare at the wall, the fire, the snow, and I’d know what she was thinking. She wouldn’t say it, but I knew it. She missed Dad.

  “Mom,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me before, about Dad?”

  “Because he didn’t want me to.”

  “What?”

  She raised her cup to her lips, then lowered it without drinking. “Here . . .”

  She went to her room and returned with a folded piece of paper in her hand.

  “He wrote this to you before he died.” The words burned a hole in my chest. The paper was shaking slightly as she held it out to me. It felt soft between my fingers, like it had been handled, opened and closed a hundred times. He wrote this to you before he died. And then anger filled me.

  “And when were you going to give this to me? Were you hoping maybe we’d all die and you wouldn’t have to deal with this?”

  “Gwendolynn.” She wasn’t scolding me. There was sorrow, regret in her voice. “Yes,” she said. “I thought about burning it. We didn’t need to remember, rehash our mistakes. We needed to move forward, to survive. We needed to bury the past.” The tears were falling down her cheeks now. Strong Mom, iron Mom, Yukon Mom. “But every time I went to get rid of that letter, I couldn’t. It was a part of him, and it was for you.”

  I felt my own tears pushing up into my eyes. I fought them down.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I stared at the paper in my hand. I was scared. Oh, so damn scared. It felt like I was going to see Dad again, just one more time. What if I said the wrong thing? What if he said the wrong thing?

  “You should go to bed,” she said, her voice low. “You’ll need your sleep for . . .”

  She trailed off, the unspoken words loud in both our ears. I looked from the letter back to Mom’s glistening eyes. “I’m sorry for running off, Mom.”

  “Ah, Gwendolynn.” She came to me, hugged me hard. It felt weird—her body so close to mine, her arms tight around my shoulders. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d hugged me. It was before the Yukon, I know that much. Her voice sounded a little brighter when she took a step back. “It’s okay. You get some sleep.”

  “You too,” I said.

  I walked up the steps to my cot and sat.

  The letter, the letter the letter the letter the letter. The flu. My blood. The basement. The notebook. Alaska. Immunity. Dad.

  I stuffed the paper under my pillow and dropped my head against it. I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t do it. If I was going to die tomorrow, I’d die with the old Dad in my head. Mine. My loving, hunting, fishing, singing dad, who laughed with his eyes and smelled like campfires and aftershave.

  I closed my eyes.

  Please, God, let me sleep.

  The letter burned a hole through my pillow.

  37

  I dreamed of Wolf again. We were running from Immunity. I was trying to move quietly, but he thought it was a game, kept jumping and barking around me. Then I was in my cot, sleeping, and he was next to the bed, snoring. Then he was in my bed, his fur tickling my face, the weight of him pressing down on my chest. Then something heavy was falling onto the roof. Knock. Knock. Knock.

  I opened my eyes to Jeryl stepping into the cabin. Mom was standing by the fire, her shotgun already in hand. A wall of darkness waited just beyond the open door, kept at bay by the dimming firelight in the hearth. I threw my blanket off. Was this the last time I was ever going to do that? On the bright side, maybe I would see Dad today. God, what morbid thoughts. I stuck my hand under my pillow, felt the letter still there. I left it where it was.

  I grabbed my bow, which I kept mounted on the wall by my bed with two nails I’d put up myself. Then I hefted the duffel bag from the floor and tossed it over my shoulders. It was full—well, half full—of arrows. I carried everything down the steps, then pulled on my snow gear. Mom leaned the shotgun against the chair and put her hand on my shoulder. “You be careful,” she said. “Stay close to Jeryl, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Then she pulled me into a hug. The second in less than twelve hours. She squeezed like she didn’t want to let go. Or maybe like she was saying good-bye. Her hair smelled like warmth and dirt and smoke. “Jeryl,” she said, pulling away. Translation: Keep her safe, don’t do anything stupid, bring my girl home.

  “Mary,” Jeryl replied. She’ll be fine, I’ll watch over her. There were dark circles under his eyes.

  His response seemed to satisfy Mom. She stepped back and picked up the shotgun again.

  “Ramsey will be over soon,” Jeryl said as he shut the door behind us.

  Outside, the moon was gone, but the stars were out and flashing. We made our way up the west hill, taking a wide route away from the valley so that our footprints wouldn’t be seen. It was tiring work with the duffel bag. Arrows are like snow or sorrow or secrets—they seem small and light, but their weight adds up.

  When we got to the top of the hill, Jeryl found the tree where he’d set the blast machine. He cleared away a bit of the snow and we sat.

  “Jax and Ken in place?” I whispered in case my voice spilled down the dark silver slope.

  “They left just before I got you.” I looked across the valley, wondering where Jax was, wondering what he was thinking.

  “How long till morning?�
�

  “Couple hours yet.”

  “You think they’ll be here before the sun?”

  “Not sure.”

  I was like a kid asking too many questions in a movie, but I couldn’t help it. “And what’s the plan exactly? We going to talk or just start shooting?”

  “Follow my lead.” I wasn’t sure if that meant he had a plan. Maybe he meant shut up and sit.

  I opened my duffel bag, the zipper humming loudly through the night air. Twenty-eight arrows, not including the four on my mounted quiver. More than enough. Was I actually going to kill someone today? Again. Maybe not. Maybe the dynamite would be enough. God, let it be enough. I adjusted my position on the ground and leaned my bow against my leg.

  All we could do now was wait.

  A lot, if not most, of hunting is waiting. If you go tromping around the woods forever, chances are, animals are going to hear you and run off. You have to find a likely place for them to drink, eat, travel, mate during the rut. Once you find your spot, you sit, and you wait. And wait. Your thoughts wander, you draw pictures in the snow with your arrows, sometimes you fall asleep, and always you endure the hard, uncomfortable ground. The mark of a good hunter isn’t just her aim. It’s her tolerance for letting her ass go numb.

  Sitting out there with Jeryl was a lot like hunting, only I was too antsy. There was too much going in my brain. Immunity. Dad. His letter. Jax. Anders and Harper, guns in their hands.

  I shifted my weight. And steadily, the blue-gray haze of morning filled the air, killing the stars and giving the world a misty feel. And still nothing.

  “Maybe they aren’t coming,” I said.

  Jeryl’s eyes were granite. “They’re coming.”

  * * *

  It was midmorning. The clouds were fat and bright and moving quickly in a high wind like they were being pulled on a giant blue conveyor belt. No sign of Immunity. Jeryl had brought some meat, potatoes, and goat cheese that we munched on while we sat. No carrots. Carrots were too loud.

  I looked at the blast machine sitting beside him. Such a small, simple-looking thing. Two knobs, a handle that twisted. Twist twist twist, boom! As easy as that. I hoped it worked. It had been hidden away for seven years. What would seven years do to a machine like that? What would a deep freeze do? Would the dynamite even be good? Had he sealed it up to protect it? Damn, it wasn’t going to work, was it?