34 #3
But the pack scatters only a few paces before hunger makes them still again. Low bodies. Lifted lips. Steam threading from their muzzles.
‘Smokehouse,’ he says – doesn’t shout. I hear it loud and clear despite the gap between us. ‘Now.’
I can’t put my feet to work.
The largest wolf steps forward again.
Elias lowers the crossbow, draws another bolt and works the cocking lever one-handed until the string locks with a hard click.
It takes long enough for the nearest wolf to test another step. Long enough for me to realise exactly how little time we have.
‘Leah,’ Elias says, and this time there is a crack beneath the calm. ‘Get. Inside.’
That finally reaches my legs.
A snarl cracks through the clearing. The wolf lunges at him, teeth flashing.
He fires.
The bolt takes the wolf high in the side and drops it hard into the snow. The sound it makes rips straight through me, and I nearly flinch towards it instead of away.
Whatever brittle order held the moment together snaps.
The pack scatters in a frenzied burst of fur, snow and frightened snarls as the wounded wolf begins to thrash.
Elias’ boots crush through the snow as he breaks into a run across the open ground between them and me.
‘The smokehouse!’ he shouts, and this time the command cracks through the chaos.
I stumble back. One step. Two.
My heel strikes the wall beside the door. I fumble for the latch with one hand, the other hauling the shovel up in front of me. My glove slips against the metal – twice.
A wolf pivots towards the movement. Its snarl cracks through the clearing.
Every muscle in me locks.
Elias barely gets the crossbow across his body when the animal explodes from the treeline. Past Elias. Straight for the smokehouse – straight for me, eating the distance in several long bounds.
And just as a scream gets stuck at the back of my mouth, Elias cuts in front of me out of nowhere and swings the stock across its path.
The impact catches the beast high in the shoulder and knocks it sideways, but the force rattles the crossbow in his grip.
He half-slips, somehow gets the string drawn back with a sound that seems as if it hurts.
The bolt seats.
And the injured beast cries out, splitting the air.
Another wolf spins back towards Elias, lips peeled away from its teeth as it places itself in front of the others.
The animal is on him before he can shoulder the weapon – a blur of fur and teeth slamming into his side.
The weapon flies from his grip, skidding in an ugly arc and burying itself halfway between us in the snow.
Still loaded.
‘Elias!’ I scream.
They go down with a sound that empties my lungs.
Smokehouse forgotten, I shed my gloves and dart for the weapon without thinking, chest burning with the cold.
A kick from Elias catches one wolf in the ribs and sends it skidding away with a yelp. He rolls to all fours, one arm tucked close to his body, blood already staining the torn sleeve.
But another wolf is almost on him, head lowered with its hunger bleeding through its eyes – and the awful simplicity of teeth, momentum and nowhere left to move.
My fingers close around the cold frame of the crossbow.
It feels wrong in my grip, heavier than I expected. The stock slips against the padded bulk of my snowsuit as I drag it up. I do not aim so much as point every shaking part of myself at the thing between Elias and a very painful death.
There is a small lever near my thumb. I graze it without knowing.
Before its purpose clicks into my head, a wolf darts towards him. He snatches the snow shovel from where I dropped it and—
—the psycho charges straight at them. Roaring.
What the…?
The wolves recoil. Elias keeps coming, swinging the shovel I’d dropped and bellowing into the clearing. The animals jerk backwards before they break for the treeline.
I watch the last two wounded ones limp away.
The world starts turning.
The only sounds are the ragged rasp of our breathing and the distant whine of hurt beasts retreating into the treeline.
Dark smears of blood crystallise behind them, too dark against the white.
I stand there with the crossbow still braced badly against my shoulder, hands shaking so hard the front sight wavers.
Elias straightens with a grunt, heaving from the rush, snow clinging to his hair and beard, blood darkening the torn fabric at his arm.
My heart starts racing all over again.
He scans the trees for movement. Left and right. When there is nothing left but the shadows, his gaze finally slides to me.
He meets my eyes, breath fogging his face.
Whatever he sees there stills him.
He looks at the crossbow, then returns to my face. This time, he looks at me for a beat longer. More carefully.
The thought that follows is colder than the metal under my palms.
Doors. Keys. Distance. Blood.
His voice cleaves straight through a memory: I’m a sick man. You’re the prey. There’s nowhere for you to run.
My spine realigns.
I am not prey.
My fingers clench the weapon tighter.
His eyes flick down to my hands again, to the bolt track and my finger still too close to the trigger.
A darkness settles in his eyes as they lift back to mine for the final time.
‘Hand me the crossbow, Leah,’ he says quietly.