Hear the Wolves

by Victoria Scott

  As soon as the door is bolted shut, Elton gasps. “What are they doing here? Why are they so close?”

  I shake my head and watch as the curious wolf rejoins the pack.

  “I thought they kept their distance,” Elton says, as if I summoned them myself.

  “Maybe they just haven’t seen us lately.” I realize for the first time that I’m cradling my .22 mag. “They’ll run off once they realize we’re still around.”

  But the statement rings hollow, even to me. My eyes flick toward the field, and my stomach flips as I wonder how many rabbits have survived the blizzard without their burrows.

  Without the rabbits, what will the wolves eat?

  I think on the ranching fence my father helped build these past two years, all those rolls of barbed wire forming a half-moon through the woods. It was meant to disrupt large game’s migration patterns. Keep them closer to Rusic for better hunting even after the winter ends and they normally return to the mountains. But what about the wolves? Has it kept them from traveling to seek new food?

  Through the window, I spot the young gray wolf with the whitish belly; the same one that killed the rabbit only last night. Her teeth sink into the deer’s neck; she’s playing the part of a hunter though the animal is dead. The young wolf leans into the leader, but is warned away with a swift snap.

  There’s no question that the gray wolf sits at the bottom of the pack’s hierarchy.

  “Remember what Teddy said about all those pups being mostly grown by winter?” Elton whispers.

  I cock my rifle, and Elton’s attention snaps to the gun in my hands. He gives a small smile, heartened by the sight of my weapon. I pack a bag along with the gun, and I’m thankful that Elton is here even though the boy is two years younger than me. I gather clothes, a can opener, matches, a compass, and the ammo from beneath the couch, a jolt of frustration firing through me as I stuff them into the bag.

  I tug the strap over my shoulder, and hand Elton my father’s jacket. He slides it on as I move to get my mag. When I spot the wolves outside the window though, I stop. My gun is great for hunting small game, but I’ll need something with more bite if we encounter an aggressive animal in the woods. Like a moose. Or a bear.

  Or a wolf, my mind whispers.

  Crossing the cabin, I zero in on my father’s gun. He left it behind so he could be at peace as he snuck away into the night. After all, what could go wrong with a sharpshooter for a daughter, and an heirloom .30-06 rifle for protection?

  I hesitate to take it though. My father wanted me capable and strong, for me to simply watch the world for motion and to shoot it, but my mother never wanted me to be just a hunter.

  “You view the world with an artist’s eye,” she said to me one night as Maren snored softly. “I love your daddy something wild, Sloan. But don’t let him take that from you.”

  But Mama deserted us in favor of adventures far away, and this gun is a lot more useful than a paintbrush.

  I wrap my hand around the barrel, give her a little toss, and re-grab her firmly around the middle. A shiver races across my skin at holding my daddy’s gun. My granddaddy’s gun. I always imagined this thing would go in the ground with my father. Never figured I’d become its handler long before then.

  “So … I can take this other gun?” Elton asks, reaching for my .22 mag.

  I grab his wrist before he touches my baby, but in the end, I sigh and point to the switch. “The safety’s here. Don’t point it at anyone, and don’t point it at the ground either. You’ll shoot your foot.”

  Elton puffs out his chest, trying to appear older than the ten-year-old boy he is. “I’ve held a gun before.”

  After I double-check that the shells are safe in my pack, and pray I can find more, Elton and I move toward the front of the cabin.

  “We need to hit the store,” I tell him. “Hold on to me, okay?”

  His eyes dart to the wolves, and he nods.

  With the weight of Elton’s hand on my arm, I throw open the door and we trudge into the storm, the cold stealing my breath. I keep the wolves in my peripheral vision, white-knuckling my father’s rifle against my chest.

  We reach the general store, our footfalls hurried by the wolves at our back. Once there, I make my way down the shelves. Shelves that will be full again when the town returns with supplies from Vernon.

  “You don’t notice how little there is until a blizzard comes out of nowhere,” Elton says, toying with a two-way radio.

  Though there’s more than enough food, my heart drops when I find only dust where the ammunition is sold. How many shells do I have on me? Six? Eight? When I notice the boy chewing his bottom lip, I set aside my own worry and ask, “Why are you here, Elton?”

  I heard Ms. Wade and Mr. Foster ask him the same question last night, but he only shrugged then.

  The static from the radio fills the silence. Finally, Elton says without meeting my eye, “Told my mom I was riding with Beau. This blizzard can last as long as it wants if it keeps her away.”

  “Your mom didn’t check with Beau’s parents before she left?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Your mom, she didn’t make sure you had a ride?”

  Elton cocks his head. “What is that sound?”

  At first I think Elton is avoiding the question, but then I turn my head, tilt my hearing ear to the ceiling, and pick up what he does. Someone is yelling. Someone is yelling and I know that voice and he is right outside that door.

  I rush to the window with Elton on my heels. When I see him out there in the snow, waving his arms, his runt basset hound barking at the wind, I frown. His was the face I woke to after lying in the snow far too long. His were the arms that carried me back to town, to my father.

  His name is Pilot.

  And I hate him.

  “Oh, man, Sloan,” Elton points clear away from Pilot, and when I see what he does, my entire body clenches.

  A large black wolf trots sideways, back and forth, as Pilot waves it away. Seeing how confident it acts, I imagine it might be the alpha male.

  When Pilot’s dog ventures too far in an attempt to flee the predator, the wolf darts in the basset hound’s direction. The wolves may not attack us, but they’ll claim a dog in a pinch. It’s happened before.

  Pilot races to his dog’s side as the blizzard circles the three players, nudging them closer. The predator lowers its head, and when the dog dashes from between Pilot’s legs, the wolf makes a second attempt to claim its meal.

  I grab my .22 from Elton, race to the door, and take aim at the sky.

  The gun kicks and Pilot startles at the sound. Kissing the rifle to my shoulder, I put those delicate crosshairs between the wolf’s eyes and pull in a gentle breath.

  Try me, I tell the wolf with my practiced stance.

  Not today, he responds, and trots away, vanishing into the whirling snow.

  Pilot hustles inside the store with his dog. As soon as we’re inside, I close and lock the door.

  Then I turn on Pilot. “What were you doing out there?”

  “Nice to see you too.” He narrows his eyes. “What are you doing in my mother’s store?”

  My face warms, recalling a time when we chased each other around the schoolyard—him a boy who walked to school every winter without a pair of gloves, and me the girl who stuffed a used pair in his cubbyhole. I’m not sure if he knew it was me who left them, but it doesn’t matter either way. We grew older, grew apart. Barely spoke until he went and played the hero.

  “I’m borrowing supplies,” I answer. “I was looking for”—I glance toward the window—“ammunition.”

  “And you?” Pilot asks Elton.

  “I’m with her.”

  Pilot runs a hand over his blond buzz cut. “There’s a lot of ’em out there. I think they’re looking for food.”

  “No kidding,” I mumble.

  “This little guy isn’t exactly a guard dog, huh?” Elton bends to pet the animal. “What’s his name?”

/>   “Farts,” Pilot answers. Then, with a shrug: “He gets into our cabbage.”

  I set down my gun and cross my arms. Perhaps I should be relieved Pilot is here. It couldn’t hurt, especially with hungry wolves circling. But this boy reminds me of a day I’d rather forget, and if we’re going to be trapped together until this blizzard lifts, I’d rather not relive my lowest moment on repeat.

  Pilot clears his throat, and when Elton is busy opening a bag of Cheetos and giving one to Farts, Pilot takes a step in my direction and lowers his voice.

  “I don’t go to the festivals anymore. My dad … ”

  I turn my face away, because I know all about his father.

  I also know the boy gets in fights. His father gave him that—the quick temper. But his mother taught him about compassion, and gave him a shyness that deceives. Pilot may keep his head down, but try teasing a kid outside Mr. Foster’s classroom and see who steps in.

  I don’t know these things about Pilot because I care. It’s a small-town kind of thing.

  “You been at your place since the storm hit?” I ask. And what I mean is, Why are you just now showing your face? But when Pilot only shrugs, and I recall the wolves, I let it drop. “Ms. Wade fell down her stairs,” I say instead. “We need to get her to the doctor.”

  Pilot scratches his cheek. “No cars left in town.”

  I bite my lip, and then unload my idea. “I’m thinking we need to travel to the river.”

  “Mr. Clive’s boat?”

  I nod, and Pilot glances out the window, no doubt searching for those wolves.

  “My dad’s got ammunition at his place,” he says. “He’s got a gun like your old man’s. Not the same, exactly, but close enough.” Pilot hesitates. “But the weather … ”

  I ensure Elton’s not listening before adding, “She’s getting worse.”

  “I can hear you.” Elton shakes a length of rope he’s knotted for the dog. It’s a secure, intricate knot, and I wonder who taught him such a thing. “And, yeah, she is getting worse.”

  “We’d die from the cold trying to get to that river,” Pilot points out.

  “Afraid?” I challenge.

  “Yeah, and so are you.” He sighs, and then scrunches up his face, thinking. “My mom had these shelters built in the woods. She uses them to stock supplies when she makes trips for the store, and in case she encounters bad weather along the way.”

  I’d almost forgotten that Mr. Clive takes jaunts to Vernon for Pilot’s mother. But the man certainly wouldn’t help her transport the supplies from the river to the general store. Mr. Clive can’t be counted on to do much of anything besides carry the mail and boast that he’s the only person east of the Samos Divide with a running boat. At least, that’s what Daddy says.

  “That’s perfect!” I say. “We can stop at those along the way. You know where they’re at? These shelters?”

  Pilot nods his head. “Yeah. Well, kind of.”

  “We could leave now,” I suggest. “Why wait?”

  “If Norma Jean’s as bad as you say she is, then she could get worse on the way.” He pauses. “She could die out there, Sloan.”

  “If we stay here, she will die.”

  “I know why you want to help her, Sloan. When your mom—”

  “Just shut up.” I cut him off, because I can’t have this conversation. This conversation only takes place in my head. Everyone knows not to speak to me about this, so why is he bringing her up? The invitation in my pocket grows heavy, nearly brings me to my knees.

  “Where is she? Ms. Wade?” Pilot asks. And I see it then—his color. It’s a resilient, brave orange. An orange that burns bright, try as others might to douse the flames. I’m envious of that powerful color.

  I load more food into my pack and then motion toward the door, indicating I’ll show him. Pilot follows me, with Elton and the dog close behind.

  We march in silence toward the chapel, our heads snapping back and forth, each of us searching for the wolves.

  I’m not sure what’s more troubling—the sound of those wolves howling, or the smell of Ms. Wade’s wound.

  “It’s infected,” Elton tells her.

  “Think I don’t know that, child?” she responds.

  “We put that cream on it though,” I say.

  “Didn’t do enough.” Mr. Foster considers her wrappings in the afternoon light.

  “If we had maggots … ” Elton says softly.

  My face scrunches up. “What?”

  “Maggots,” he repeats. “You can place them in the wound and they eat away the dead tissue. Works pretty well.”

  I nearly lose my dinner, and Ms. Wade just shakes her head.

  “We’ve got to get you to a doctor,” Mr. Foster all but shouts.

  “I’m old, not hard of hearing. I’ve been following the conversation, try as I might to ignore it.” Though Ms. Wade attempts to hide it, she can’t get through her response without clenching her injured side. When the color returns to her face, she adds, “If you insist on overreacting, then at least let me stay here until you get back.”

  “That won’t work,” Mr. Foster clips. “What if we can’t return? What if the doctor is tied to other patients in Vernon?”

  “Then the kids will stay here, and you and I will go,” she says. “No reason for them to come and freeze.”

  “You’ll need someone who can handle a rifle,” I say firmly. “Just in case.” But it’s more than that. My heart flutters thinking about the place where Mama and I camped. I searched the ground a trillion times for that ruby ring that day. But I can’t help imagining that this time, I will somehow find it, even beneath all this snow. And when I slip it on my finger, I won’t be afraid anymore. Because I’ll remember the fearless girl I was the last time I wore it. Before my mother left her husband and two daughters, and took half my hearing, and all my courage, along with her.

  “I’m going too,” Pilot says. I roll my eyes. Him and that rescue gene of his needed by no one.

  “Me too.” Elton bites his lip. “I won’t get in the way.”

  The way the kid says it, it’s like he’s afraid we might string him up to that cottonwood and let the wolves get at him the way they did that deer.

  “Yes, we should all go,” I say. “Better that way.”

  “The dog?” Mr. Foster asks.

  “He’ll come too,” Pilot says before glancing at Ms. Wade. “Can you walk okay?”

  “Yeah, I can walk,” she mutters.

  “It’ll be slow going out there,” he continues. “And we can’t underestimate what being out in that cold could do. To all of us.”

  “I said I could walk.” Ms. Wade squares her shoulders, and I see it then—not a fear of dying, but a desire to live. That will be the thing to keep her heart beating, but it’s hard to hold on to.

  I would know.

  Pilot leaves, and returns with armfuls of donated clothing, things the people of Rusic have outgrown or worn thin. They’re stored for those enduring trying times.

  Well.

  “We could go back to our places and get more stuff,” Elton suggests, but no one responds.

  Pilot loads two packs with what food we found at the store, and offers his basset hound a stick of dried venison. The dog hardly chews before swallowing.

  Because the time has come to face cold, hard facts, I take stock of my ammunition. Looks like I’ve got two rounds in my trusty .22 magnum rifle, and another four in my pocket. Though that gun is my pride and joy, she’ll only take down small game: squirrels, raccoons, quail … maybe a fox or coyote if luck’s on my side. My father’s gun, on the other hand, is up for anything. Four 180-grain Noslers whisper of death inside that box, and there’s one in the chamber. So a total of five bullets for my father’s rifle, and six for my own. If the wolves keep their distance, it should be enough.

  After we’ve dressed in as many layers as we can manage, and Mr. Foster has tended to Ms. Wade’s wound, we shuffle toward the door.

  “
We should stop by my father’s place,” Pilot says, a tremble in his voice at the mention of his horrid old man. “Get more ammo. In case we need it.”

  When we file into the blizzard—two days strong and gaining momentum—the wind chuckles.

  So you think you can dance with me and survive? it taunts.

  It takes ten minutes to reach Pilot’s father’s trailer, and already I can hear Ms. Wade’s breathing growing labored.

  The trailer squats in the snow like a rotten molar. The screen door is split down the middle, a blue tarp covers part of the roof, and there’s trash littering the area, even with the snow burying much of the yard. A rusted truck is parked next to the home, but one look tells me it doesn’t run.

  Pilot uses his shoulder to shove open the front door. The first thing that hits me is the smell, and I gag and cover my nose with my jacket. But when I see Pilot’s cheeks redden, I drop my hand and breathe through my mouth, mad at myself for overreacting.

  Towers of stuff are piled in every corner, and the kitchen is no exception. I can’t imagine how Nash clears a place to sleep amid this junk, or how he got his hands on all this stuff when he doesn’t have a dime to his name.

  “I’ll try to find your ammo,” Pilot says so quietly I almost miss it.

  After he heads to the back, Ms. Wade shakes her head. “Stolen, all of it. And to think that boy lived here for years before his mama found the good sense to leave. He’s a monster, that man.”

  “Norma,” Mr. Foster warns, casting his eyes toward Elton and me like we don’t know it’s the truth.

  Ms. Wade opens a cabinet beneath the sink, and bottles clatter to the floor. The old woman frowns and opens her mouth to object, when a crash emanates from the back of the house.

  Pilot flies out from behind a curtain that serves as a doorway, and Mr. Foster catches him before he crashes to the floor. I don’t understand what’s happened until the curtain parts, and a man as thin as a pumpkin seed appears. He’s got a hatchet in his right hand, murder smeared across his face, and his eyes set on his only son.