two

Old-timers talk about back when we had wolves and mountain lions in these woods, and roll their eyes at hunters these days whining about a few stray dogs. The old-timers are full of shit. At least a wolf or a catamount would slink off if they heard me coming. These dogs know humans, and we don’t scare them.

I’m moving at a jog now, praying those aren’t the snarls and snaps of a feasting pack. I found a body out here once. I don’t want to ever do it again.

The light is fading fast. That’s one problem with being on the east side of the mountains. Once the sun drops behind them, it’s like snuffing a candle. I’ve learned to hunt in twilight because it’s the best time for game, but this is too dark for safety, so I clip on my headlamp. It’s modified from old mining equipment, which we have plenty of. For a weapon, I’m more comfortable with my bow, but when I’m moving at this rate, the hunting knife is more reliable.

There’s no doubt now that I’m hearing the dog pack. I slow and make sure I’m downwind so they won’t smell me. Then I exchange the knife for my bow and turn off my headlamp. Each step lands in silence as my eyes adjust to the twilight. I can smell the dogs now. They reek like an old cat that’s lost any interest in keeping itself clean.

I round a bush and spot Reject, the pack omega. She keeps to the edges, eating whatever the others leave. Last spring, she was pregnant, the dogs having apparently found a use for her. I never saw the pups. I suspect the alpha bitch killed them. These aren’t wolves or foxes or even coyotes—they’re half-mad beasts.

I pity Reject, but trying to tame her would be foolhardy—she’s as crazy as the rest of them. I keep an eye on her as I move closer, in case she notices me and sounds the alarm.

Reject stands at the edge of a clearing, watching the others. When I pass more bushes, I see them: Flea, Scar, Mange, One-Eye, and Alanna. I named Alanna after a girl at school. She’s the alpha bitch. The dog, that is. The girl is just a bitch.

The dogs are barking at something in a tree. When I see that, I exhale. I ease around the bushes for a better look, but even an unobstructed sight line doesn’t help much in the darkness. Whatever they’re barking at is just a shape in a shadow-enshrouded oak. Then I lean to the side and spot a white Air Jordan, dangling from a leg, at just the right height to convince the beasts that if they keep jumping they’ll eventually snag it.

Assuming the guy isn’t stupid enough to intentionally tease feral dogs, I’m guessing he’s unconscious. Or so I tell myself. He climbed up there and passed out. That’s all.

I could leave him and go for help. But there’s no guarantee those dogs can’t get his leg in a freakishly high jump. Nor any guarantee he won’t bolt awake and fall.

I survey my options, find a suitable oak, and shimmy up. Hunkering down on a wide branch, I notch an arrow and let it fly into the tree trunk, over the pack’s heads. That’s not a misfire. There’s no way in hell I can take down five dogs with a bow and a half dozen arrows.

The first arrow gets their attention. My second flies into the underbrush with a crackle and thump…and the dogs take off after this new threat. I jump down and race to the tree holding the one-sneakered stranger. I take a few precious seconds to fire another even more precious arrow. Three gone, and they’re good ones—carbon hybrids—a luxury I allow myself because they’re more effective. I’ll have to mentally map this spot and come back for them.

I climb past the stranger, well out of reach of the dogs. Then I look down. It’s a guy, not much older than me. Dark hair hangs as his head lolls. His eyes are closed, and he’s sprawled on the branch, as if he collapsed there. His shirt is bloodied and torn, as is one leg of his jeans.

I can’t tell if he’s alive. That’s the main thing right now—not his age or his hair color or the condition of his clothing.

Is he alive?

The dogs are back, yipping and yelping as they scent their old enemy. I barely hear them, too focused on answering that critical question.

Please be alive. Please.

I keep seeing flashes of that other body—the one I found two years ago—and I’m shaking as I lower myself onto the branch beside his. My boot touches down, and I catch a better view of his face, battered and bloodied, and I’m trying to see if he’s breathing and I lift my other boot, confident the first is securely planted. It isn’t.

My foot slips.

As I drop, I wildly grapple for a hold. Alanna lets out a crow of victory. She jumps and her fangs graze my leg. Then my arm snags a branch, awkwardly catching it in the crook of my elbow, my arm scissoring shut, pain ripping through my shoulder as my full weight slams down.

My free hand finds and grabs the branch as Alanna’s fangs sink into my leg. My yowl only whips the dogs into a frenzy. I pull my leg up as far as I can, but Alanna is hanging off it, her teeth digging in.

I gather all my strength and kick. She might be fierce and wiry, but she’s small, and I send her flying. There’s pit bull in that bitch, though, and her teeth rake down my calf, furrows splitting open as I howl in pain.

The damn dogs join in, howling along, and rage fills me—frustration and fury—and there’s a split second where I almost drop from the tree. Drop to face them, armed with my hunting knife, like some crazed action hero pushed one step too far. Finally facing off against my canine nemeses, blade flashing, blood spraying, taking down one, maybe two…before they rip me apart.

Here lies Winter Crane. So brave. So daring. Such a freaking idiot.

I resist the urge to go Lara Croft on their heads, and instead swing up my legs until I’m hanging off the branch like a sloth. I stay that way, catching my breath and ignoring the pain in my leg and the blood trickling down it. Then I clamber up and climb opposite the one-sneakered boy.

He’s dead. I’m sure of that now. With everything going on, he hasn’t even stirred.

As I lay my fingers on his neck, I get a better look at his face—inky black eyelashes against a pale cheek, dark stubble, arched brows, one split lip bitten under impossibly white teeth—and I have this bizarre urge to kiss those lips and see him wake, like Sleeping Beauty. Which proves I’m in a lot of pain and possibly hallucinating.

When I first feel his pulse under my fingertips, I don’t trust myself. I want it too much. I want this boy to be alive. I want to be the one who saved him, as if that justifies living in a shack and hunting rabbits and squirrels, because it means that I could be here for this stranger, to save him from the wild beasts.

Yep, pretty sure I’m hallucinating. I just hope that damn bitch isn’t rabid.

I check twice more before I am convinced the boy is, indeed, alive. Which only means that his heart beats. Not that he isn’t comatose or brain dead. Or that he’ll survive until I get him help.

Well, that’s more like it. Welcome back, sunshine.

I honestly can’t do much more than confirm he’s alive, as frustrating as that is. The dogs are still circling below. I’m stuck on this branch, unable to get close enough to examine him, and even if I could, I wouldn’t, for fear of startling him into waking and tumbling to the jaws of the hellhounds below.

I can only wait until the dogs lose interest, however long that might take.