Kit Broker stood shaking at the edge of the woods, looking back across a field of new snow that glistened like a million sequins. She could see her boot prints stamped in that clean snow like a line of huge black ants.
She saw the bad man who shot Uncle Harry stagger into the driveway, inspect the basement window where’d she’d escaped the house. Then he started across the yard, following her tracks, and saw her. He yelled something and raised his hand. His hand twinkled, and then she heard a sharp crack. Branches snapped farther down in the trees.
Shooting at her.
People kept getting shot in her young world. Auntie Jane. Uncle Harry. She knew she should move. Get out of here. But she kept looking down the road, her eyes pleading for headlights, for her mom and dad. Go in the woods, and she’d lose the road. The cell phone Uncle Harry gave her made a lump in her jacket pocket.
The man was coming. With his gun.
Still she couldn’t move. She was rooted in the snow, so far inside the shaking, she couldn’t find a way out. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. What do I do?…I don’t know. Just some words Mom and Dad said: What goes up comes down; don’t quit, don’t cry…
Words.
He was almost halfway across the yard now, this lumbering shadow, coming to hurt her. Worse. Uncle Harry…And then, finally, she did know something. Balling her gloved hands into fists, she yelled at her pursuer: “I am not a little shit!” Galvanized by the sound of her voice, she turned and plunged into the forest, pumping her arms and knees, running zigzag through the trees and bushes.
Heard him behind her, crashing in the brush. Something else. Like a horn?
She fell headlong, plunging her arms into the snow, felt sharp things in the dirt tear at the palms of her hand; pushed herself up on her stinging hands. Lost her hat, branches ripped her face. Tasted blood. Got her feet under her.
A doe bolted in front of her, so close she could see the bulging white of the terrified animal’s eyes. Just running like crazy.
Run faster. Have to run faster because…
Because he was running faster than her, because he was running beside her, this shadow flitting through the trees, against the clean sparkles. Then crossing in back of her, back and forth. But quiet, not crashing. Silent.
And then he was on the other side too. He was everywhere. She sobbed for breath and ran harder, but he stayed with her, and then she saw a long low shape that was too short to be a man. More than one. Running on either side, pacing her. Hard to tell. Looked like dogs. One of them bounded ahead of her and stopped, watching her with shining eyes. Then it raised its pointy head and howled.
Kit stopped running and stood absolutely still.
Not a dog.
Dumb little shit. Where did she think she was going? Blind man could follow these tracks. Shank pushed on, gaining ground, driven by a raging necessity to lay his hands on that kid. But by the time he made it to the trees, he knew something was seriously wrong. His left pant leg was stiff with frozen blood, crackling at every step. More disturbing was the deadening cold in his hands and legs. When he gripped the SIG, the pressure stopped in his palm, didn’t make it to his fingers. Swung his eyes at the hostile trees. Not that cold out.
Was it?
He didn’t know a whole lot about anatomy. Just knew he was bleeding way too much for a flesh wound. Fucker. Musta got the vein…
The cold was inside, not outside coming in…
All his warm stuff was dribbling out.
He blinked, and it felt like his eyelids were sealed, glued. Vaguely he realized he had stopped sweating. His breath no longer fogged the air. No heave to his chest. He lurched, reaching for the trunk of a pine tree. Pressed his cheek into the rough reddish bark. Rest a second. Squinting. Limbo light through the branches-clouds spun with amber in the tree breaks, like cotton candy. His eyes focused, and he noticed that the kid’s tracks were crisscrossed with other smaller tracks. Lots of them. His left leg buckled, and he bumbled down, hugging the tree trunk until he collapsed heavily in the snow. Rolled over on his back.
A blur of movement against the snow, low, to the right. He swung the pistol and fired twice. When he tried for a third shot, he realized his numb hand was empty. He’d lost the SIG.
Amazed, as his kidneys released, he became fascinated with a tiny wisp of steam rising from his crotch. Warm there. His stiff right hand fumbled for the warm. Couldn’t feel it. When he raised his hand, his fingers looked like they were covered with sticky oil. When he brought the oil to his lips, it tasted like blood. The hand fell to the snow and he couldn’t raise it.
When the eerie summoning howl bounced off the trees, Shank barely heard it, just part of the rushing background noise draining from his mind.
He didn’t see them gather at first, sniffing the blood trail, circling patiently in the creepy shadows. By the time he did see them sitting patiently in a semicircle around him, that’s all he could do. See.
Last picture his brain took. Snapshot from the dawn of time. Hot yellow electric eyes, electric fur. A flicker of teeth. Deep in his still chest his heart might have screamed. One furtive thump. He didn’t feel the rough tongue lick at the bloody thigh. He was gone before the first tearing bite.
Kit found herself suspended in a strange breathing bubble inserted in the ocean of fear. Entranced, she watched the wolves sniff the air, then wheel and bound away. Slowly, soundlessly, she walked though the trees, putting distance between her and the snarls of the feeding pack. When the sounds faded, the bubble burst and the fear rushed in, but it was a hot fear now, angry. She broke into a run. Not sure what happened back there. But she hoped it was him they got. Hoped it hurt.
Then she saw the slow moving light tremble through the trees. Sprinting now, she dashed toward it, falling, getting up, breaking out of the trees, tumbling in a ditch, getting up again, running up the road shoulder toward the now stationary headlights. Screaming.
“Mom. Dad. Help!”