Hear the Wolves Page 4

  His color is red, red, red.

  I’ve got my daddy’s gun pointed at Nash Blake’s chest faster than he can blink.

  “Put it down,” I say, “or I’ll put you down.” My voice doesn’t even shake.

  Nash lowers his arm and gives a smile that could skin a cat. “I wasn’t gonna do nothing. My boy scared me, that’s all.”

  “Why are you here?” Pilot asks.

  “I could ask you all the same question,” Nash answers.

  The man storms by, swaying as he walks, and I lower my gun. When I turn to follow him, I notice Elton holds my own gun between shaking hands. I reach out, slowly, and lower the barrel. Nod at Elton.

  Nash pulls open the blinds covering the kitchen window. “I was supposed to ride to Vernon with Hank. Guess I slept in too late for his taste. Some kinda pal he is.”

  Ms. Wade snorts because we all know why it was Nash didn’t get out of bed. Hank must have been relieved when Nash didn’t show up at his house.

  “It’s been grisly out there. You guys got something to eat?” When no one responds, Nash raises his voice and throws his arm around his son’s neck. “Your daddy’s hungry, my boy. What do you have in that pack?”

  Pilot looks to Mr. Foster for help, but it’s Ms. Wade who responds. “I got something for you, Nash Blake. Why don’t you come over here and I’ll show you.”

  Nash booms with laughter. “Woman, you forget Teddy isn’t around to back up that mouth of yours anymore.”

  Ms. Wade’s face floods with anger and hurt, but before she can react, Mr. Foster steps in front of her and holds out his own pack. “I’ve got some dried venison. Help yourself.”

  After Nash snatches the container and flops down on a chair covered in magazines, I summon the courage to answer him. “We’re taking Ms. Wade to Vernon by way of the river, but we need ammo for the trip. You got some thirty-caliber around here?”

  Nash talks around his mouthful of jerky, saliva wetting his lips. “Why you gotta go now? Too cold out there to breathe much less travel. In fact, it’s getting too cold in here.” He waves his hand to indicate his place. “I went to the store for more generator oil, but the witch ran out.”

  Pilot curls his hands into fists, but keeps his head down.

  Nash points at Mr. Foster. “The reverend’s got extra oil, yeah? Why don’t you and my son go fetch a barrel.”

  “We’ll just be taking the ammunition and going,” I say.

  Nash’s eyes don’t move from Mr. Foster. “After I get my oil.”

  Mr. Foster squirms under Nash’s glare, but manages to say, “He doesn’t have any reserves.” His eyes flick to Ms. Wade. “It’s one of the reasons we decided to head out.”

  Nash laughs and says, “Well, doesn’t this just put a spin on things. I guess we’re all going to Vernon, huh?”

  Pilot’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “You can’t come with us.”

  “The blizzard will ease soon enough, and the residents will return with supplies,” Ms. Wade offers. Her voice has lost its edge. Like she’s trying to talk a tornado into changing directions.

  “Sounds like you guys don’t want me tagging along.” Nash raises the hatchet. “If you’re traveling to the river, you’ll need me for protection. Besides, things are getting pretty dry around here, if you catch my drift.”

  Pilot eyes the empty bottles on the floor. “You can’t come,” he repeats. “We didn’t pack enough food.”

  Nash glares at his son and tosses another piece of jerky into his mouth.

  “Give that back,” Pilot demands, growing bold.

  Nash grabs a handful of the dried venison and shoves it into his mouth slowly, a cold challenge in his eyes.

  Mr. Foster clears his throat. “Maybe if you went to the store, Nash, and got some stuff for the trip. We could wait here … ”

  The teacher is clearly lying, which pleases me to no end.

  A hush falls over us as Nash and Pilot have themselves a stare-off, warming the trailer for the first time since we arrived.

  “Don’t eat any more of that,” Pilot warns. “Not one. More. Piece.”

  Nash grins. Raises his hand. Tosses jerky into his mouth—

  And Pilot charges his father.

  Pilot throws a closed fist into his old man’s stomach, and his dad grunts before grabbing his son’s arm and spinning him in a circle. The two slam into the wall before Pilot lands a second hit in his father’s side. Lowering his head, Nash tackles his son and takes him to the opposite wall. Mr. Foster tries to break them up, and though I hold my father’s gun, I don’t dare raise it with the three guys wrestling.

  “Stop fighting,” I yell instead. “Stop!”

  Pilot collides into Ms. Wade and she yelps with pain. That’s all it takes to get the boy to cease fighting.

  Nash throws his arm around his son’s neck, crowing. “You see that?” he hollers at no one in particular. “My son thinks he’s become a man.” Pilot wriggles beneath his father’s hold. But Nash only leans in and kisses his boy on the temple. “You remember when I had to change your sheets every single night?”

  Pilot rips away from his father. “Shut up!”

  Nash rubs his knuckles into his son’s head. “He wet himself until he was eight years old. Can you imagine? Eight years old!” Nash laughs until he can hardly draw a breath. Then he straightens and points at his son, still smiling. “I changed those disgusting sheets. Don’t you forget that.”

  Pilot shakes, and though I know what he wants more than anything is for me not to notice, I do. I notice the way his chin trembles as he combats embarrassment and anger. The pulse in my neck flutters as I struggle against the urge to grab Pilot’s hand and tell him I don’t care. Not about the bed-wetting or his repulsive father or this grimy trailer.

  Nash grabs the venison container from the ground, opens the door, and tosses the remaining jerky outside. “There, now no one has to argue over it anymore.” Nash throws the empty container and it clatters along the floor. “I’m beat. Let’s get some sleep and leave in the morning. We wasted the last of the light.”

  After he disappears behind the curtained doorway, the rest of us form a plan to the sound of Nash snoring. We can’t leave now and risk the man waking up and realizing we’re deserting him. So we opt to steal a few hours’ rest, and then slip out before the sun rises with Nash’s ammunition.

  As Mr. Foster and I remove cardboard boxes and a microwave from the couch, I think about the choice we’re making. To start our journey in the dark is to risk running into the wolves blind. But to leave in the light of day is to travel alongside something much worse.

  I shiver as Ms. Wade takes her place beside me on the couch. Mr. Foster slips into the armchair, careful not to touch the magazines, and Elton scoots close to Pilot.

  “You hit your dad,” Elton whispers excitedly. “Like, a real punch.”

  Pilot grinds his teeth, still too upset to respond.

  Seeing Elton’s face fall, I say, “Someone should sleep with the dog. He looks upset.”

  “I can watch him.” Elton slides toward the basset hound and rubs behind his ears. “Everything’s cool now, King Farts.”

  Elton clings to that dog like he hasn’t had a friend to call his own in some time. My heart aches, understanding the feeling. When Elton sees me watching, he offers a cautious smile, and I return it, ashamed at how good it feels to have someone close to my age recognize my existence.

  The boy scoots a few inches in my direction. It’s barely recognizable, the movement. But I notice it. I do.

  The trailer quiets as, one by one, everyone closes their eyes and their breathing deepens. As I look at all these people sleeping around me, people I don’t usually talk to, I think about Maren, and how she’s always telling me to stop living in a shell. What she can’t understand is that I don’t want a shell. Not anymore. After Mama left, sure. I didn’t want to look at anyone, much less talk to them. But as the months passed, I grew lonely, and the kids at school gre
w nervous. I was the girl who didn’t speak. The girl who raced into the woods after her mom left. The girl who spent five days and four nights alone in the snow.

  At school, some kids get labeled. Too skinny. Too fat. Too smart. Too dumb. Too loud. Too quiet.

  It’s hard to lose those labels. Maybe impossible. But I’m gonna see if there’s another label for me down by the river.

  Intuitive and vulnerable.

  Smart and brave.

  I lay my hand over the pocket holding my invitation. My sister may have sent in my samples, but she won’t go with me on the trip. Neither will my dad. He says I’m old enough to fly on my own, especially with one of the contest volunteers. But it’s only a test. He thinks I need a good, hard shove to get over my fear of being alone. Maybe he’s right, but sometimes I think what I really need is something a bit softer.

  Never thought you’d be afraid, Sloan, my father said to me a few weeks after Pilot found me in those woods. I know her leaving upsets you, but you gotta get over this. You’re my Sloan the Brave. Where’s that girl of mine now?

  He hugged me then. Only for a moment, but I’ve held on to the feel of his arms around me for two years. When the invitation arrived, I folded that hug right alongside it and kept both safe in my pocket.

  I put away the paper, and even with the sound of Nash snoring close by, I manage to drift to sleep. Much later, when Nash has quieted, and all the world is gravely still, I hear a new sound.

  Rustling.

  Scratching.

  I open my eyes slowly, one at a time, allowing my sight to adjust to the darkness. It isn’t until I look up at that blue tarp being yanked aside that I see the wolf—a shadow against the falling snow. The animal stares down from the roof, whining and scratch-scratching at that tarp.

  Elton wakes up.

  Elton wakes up and screams, and our sleepy trailer erupts into chaos.

  Gripped by fear, Elton does the worst thing he can do in this moment—he flees into the night. With the front door gaping open, and Pilot’s basset hound barking, the wolf tears away from the hole and disappears from view.

  “What’s happening?” Ms. Wade yells.

  I’m running for my daddy’s gun as I respond. “Wolf on the roof!”

  “How’d it get there?” Pilot demands, as if that matters.

  “The truck,” Mr. Foster reasons. “It’s next to the trailer.”

  I grab my .22 mag and toss it to Pilot. He catches it one-handed and switches off the safety. I race toward the front door as Nash Blake crashes into the room.

  “You trying to leave me?” he roars to no one.

  When I get outside—snow falling over my shoulders, wind snapping through my hair—I freeze.

  Elton stands between two wolves. They wag their tails and lower their heads. Their stance reads as uncertainty. Elton is scared, which triggers their hunting instincts, but the wolves don’t associate him with food. Not yet.

  Even from here, I can see how unlike dogs they are. Hungry, wild dogs would be barking mad, working themselves into a frenzy. These wolves are stoic, thoughtful, every move deliberate.

  The young gray wolf is steady on one side of the boy, and a large adult female dances on his other side. I’m not sure which is the greater threat.

  “Stay there, Elton,” Ms. Wade says from the wood deck. “And don’t look them in the eyes.” Her aloofness regarding the animals has vanished. In its place is a graveness that causes my legs to weaken. “When I say, I want you to take a small step—”

  But Elton has lost his mind to the situation.

  He runs.

  The wolves run.

  I brace my rifle against my shoulder, and pull in a breath. The larger wolf lies squarely in my sight, but even as I start to tighten my finger on the trigger, Elton takes a sharp turn and dives into the woods.

  As the wolves disappear, I swing the gun under my arm and run. I hear Pilot yelling, and Mr. Foster, he’s yelling too. But I don’t hear what’s being said. I’m racing through the snow. Elton has stopped screaming, but I know he’s out here.

  My heart jackhammers in my chest and goose bumps crawl along my arms. A shadow flashes behind me and I spin around, terror ripping down my backbone. I don’t see anything, but a new noise reaches my ears. It escalates until I’m afraid I may collapse from anxiety.

  Ms. Wade is the first one I see.

  She holds her side and runs through the blizzard, surprisingly fast despite her age and injury. Mr. Foster is on her heels, carrying a pack and appearing twice as hefty as normal. Pilot races next to him, leading his dog and glancing over his shoulder at his father, who whips past his son with a lit cigarette pinched at the corner of his mouth. Nash Blake jogs with his face turned toward the moon, as if that will somehow make him quicker.

  It isn’t until I see three wolves running after them that I raise my gun. But there isn’t time. The wolves are too swift, and I have no choice but to join the insanity and keep sprinting.

  The wolves catch up blindingly fast. But they don’t lunge as I feared they might. They simply run alongside us, watching. It’s then that I realize they don’t want a kill. We’re running, and they’re chasing because that’s what hunters do. But there are five of us within sight, and three of them. They may act aggressively, but they are still cautious animals. And they’ll keep their distance if we remind them that we aren’t prey.

  “We have to stop running!” I yell.

  Ms. Wade is the first to obey. Mr. Foster and Pilot are next to follow suit.

  Only Nash charges onward.

  The wolves close in on him, and now I’m filled with dread that Pilot will watch his father be torn apart. Ms. Wade yells and waves one arm over her head, attempting to scare off the wolves. Pilot and Mr. Foster do the same as the basset hound howls. At last, Nash stops.

  The wolves stop too.

  And that’s when I see Elton.

  He stands surrounded by the two wolves that chased him from the trailer. The three additional wolves circle the boy, tempting him to run.

  Nash takes off toward us, abandoning Elton.

  I raise my father’s gun and step forward. One footfall after another. Slow, slow. Control. Confidence. Forget everything except the feel of that cold weapon in my hands.

  “Sloan,” Elton says, tears streaking his face.

  “They won’t hurt you,” I say simply.

  “Animals act on biological impulses,” Mr. Foster sputters. “So maybe if—”

  “Quiet,” I tell him, pulling in a practiced breath.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Nash snatch my .22 from Pilot. He doesn’t even put the gun into position before he’s pulling the trigger. Whatever his target, he misses, but the sound startles the larger female wolf. And the wolf charges Elton.

  I line up the shot.

  Narrow my eye.

  Pull the trigger.

  And the animal drops to the ground.

  Two of the remaining wolves flee as if they never wanted to be a part of this. They run toward us for a moment, and then veer, heading toward town. Only two stay behind—the black alpha, and the young gray. The male bows his head to the fallen female and whines. When the gray wolf comes to sniff the female too, the male bites at her face and snarls.

  The young wolf casts a glance in my direction and holds my stare before dashing after her pack mates. And a moment later, the male leaves too.

  Elton crumples to his knees, and Ms. Wade goes to his side.

  I move toward the fallen animal. I got it above the back leg, so the animal still kicks. The wolf reaches back to lick the wound, but I can see the creature’s insides, and I know it won’t live for more than a couple of minutes. I walk over to Nash and yank the .22 from his hands. Then I return to the wolf, and as my stomach rolls, I cock the gun and take aim.

  “Don’t you dare waste bullets on that thing,” Nash says.

  I pull a trigger for the second time tonight.

  “Idiot!” Nash roars.

 
; But Ms. Wade comes to my defense. “It wouldn’t have gone for the boy if you hadn’t shot that gun. They were about to scatter when we started yelling.”

  “What do you know?” Nash says between clenched teeth.

  “My husband was our ranger, remember?” Ms. Wade snaps before returning to Elton. “It’s okay. They won’t come back. They’re just looking for food in town because the rabbits are dead. They don’t want us.”

  Elton stands and takes a step toward me. “Thank you.”

  I shake my head, because killing should never be applauded.

  Mr. Foster stares in my direction as if seeing me for the first time. I’m not sure why he’s looking at me that way. He knows I’m my father’s daughter. He glances at the dead wolf and runs his hands through his hair, shaking his head in shock.

  “We’re not too far from the first supply shelter,” Pilot says.

  “We’ll be toasting in Vernon by tomorrow night,” Nash adds.

  “I got some of our things.” Mr. Foster mutters, hoisting his pack. “But maybe we should go back for the rest.”

  No one says anything though. We just stare in the direction we last saw the wolves heading. Toward our town. Toward our homes and warm beds. But those beds won’t be warm much longer, and when I glance at Ms. Wade, whose face drips with sweat despite the freezing temperature, I know we don’t have a choice.

  And so the six of us, together with one terrified basset hound, head into the mouth of the forest in search of the river.

  By the next evening, we are in good spirits, despite the weather. Mr. Foster leads our parade, pointing out plant species and teaching us the names of the stratus clouds overhead—cirro, alto, and nimbo—which sound more like sled dog names to me. Ms. Wade seems revived by walking in the cold air, and Elton is elated to, well, to not have teeth marks. Even Pilot and his father have found common ground, talking at length about the second shelter’s location. The first one we passed this morning, stopping only to eat and rest.

  Farts romps ahead through the heavy snowfall, barking at squirrels that snub his existence. And as for me? Well, I’m cold. Mr. Foster grabbed our coats before he fled the trailer, which is why he appeared so bulky as he ran. But if I put on every piece of clothing we have between the six of us and wore Farts as a hat, I’d still be shivering.