Hear the Wolves

  Mr. Foster considers Pilot. “That’s not really ambition. It’s more—”

  But Nash cuts him off, saying, without turning around, “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Sure you were, Dad,” Pilot snaps. “For once, you really were.”

  Nash shakes his head. “You should have let me die.”

  “Finally!” Pilot booms. “The man talks sense.”

  Nash shakes all over as he hunches toward the fire. He wipes his face real quick, but I can’t see why he does it. “When your mother told me she was carrying, it made me so happy it was like I couldn’t catch my breath. I wanted to do right by you. Get straight work. Make your mama happy so she’d see it was a good thing, you coming and all.”

  Pilot leans back, as if his father’s sudden turn hurts him more than biting words.

  “When you were born you were so small. I would hold you in my hands and stare at you and I’d get sick with how much want was in me.” Nash keeps his face turned toward the fire as he speaks. “No matter how hard I tried though, I always messed up. I would forget to give you your milk when your mama went out, and one time I let you roll right off the bed. I may be dense, but even I could see you loved your mama more. I hated her for it because she was the one who didn’t know about you in the beginning. So I started up again … What I mean is I started going to the tavern again to get my head right. But then that made you want your mama even more.” Nash swallows. “I wanted you more than anything in the whole world. And you didn’t want me back.”

  Nash turns from the fire and looks at his son. He holds Pilot’s gaze and says, “I’m a waste of a father. But I didn’t mean it back there. If I’d have killed you, I would’ve done myself in next.”

  Pilot’s face pulls together, pained, and my own heart clenches wondering how he must feel about his father saying something he’s probably waited his whole life to hear. Pilot rolls his shoulders back, and instead of looking at Nash, he looks at me.

  “We’ve got to get him to Vernon. He’ll die out here if we don’t keep moving.”

  Nash raises his fingers as if he might touch Pilot, but is worried what’ll happen if he does.

  Pilot snaps his own hand away. “Don’t. We’re not good. We’ll never be good. I barely believe a word that comes out of your mouth.” He pauses. “I’ll get you to Vernon. After that, I want you to stay there. Don’t come back to Rusic. If you do that for me … if you stay there and don’t try to contact Mom or me or even ask about us, then maybe, and I do mean maybe, one day I’ll look for you.” Pilot sighs. “You sure you know the way to the last shelter? Can you find it in the dark?”

  Nash stares at his son. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something stupid, but then he just nods.

  Pilot grabs the back of Nash’s jacket and hauls him up. Then he looks at Elton. “Can we make torches like we did the other night?”

  Elton hesitates, surprised. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Good. Let’s get moving, then. I’m tired of these woods.”

  We all pitch in, adrenaline thumping through our veins. Soon, we have two torches ready to brave the night. As we duck our heads and crunch into the snow, sidestepping the safety of Elton’s fire, I’m feeling torn. On one hand, my body screams for rest. On the other, my heart leaps at the thought that we’ll make it to the river tomorrow. Tomorrow! Will I feel my mother’s presence there? And is it true that I’ve had the two things I needed to be an artist all along? How is it that Daddy was so wrong about those words?

  Pilot puts a hand on his father’s back and gives him something between a pat and a shove. I eyeball Pilot’s hands. Wonder what they look like under those gloves. Wonder what Mr. Foster’s arm looks like too, and whether his wound will go bad the way Ms. Wade’s did.

  Another icicle on my heart melts, and a shard of sorrow slams into its place, chewing at my insides. Sucking air between my teeth, I march toward the front and say, “The faster we get there, the faster we’ll be warm and fed.”

  But what I mean is: The faster we get there, the less likely another of us will lie down in these woods to feed the wolves.

  We walk for a good half hour, every small sound causing us to crane our necks. The smell of smoke tickles my nostrils, and the torches cast a small, safe bubble of light around us.

  “We should have done this all along,” Elton says. “It’s so much colder at night, and it’s easier to stay warm this way.”

  I open my mouth to agree, to make conversation, when I notice Pilot snapping his head to the left and the right. Soon, Mr. Foster is making the same odd, jerking movement, and that basset hound is whining something fierce. They hear something. I cock my own head, raising my good ear and listening and listening and praying I don’t hear the thing they do.

  But I do.

  I hear it, and I know it’s coming closer.

  Pilot and Mr. Foster swing their flickering torches like knights with swords, awaiting a dragon in the darkness. The sound comes from the right, and I twirl in that direction, my gun at the ready.

  “Move together,” I tell our group. “Shoulder to shoulder.”

  Nash and Elton close in tight, listening for the breathing, shuffling thing. Or things.

  My legs grow restless as we wait, the corners of my vision blurring with panic. I place myself in the hunter’s position. Decide what it is I’d want most from my prey. Then I say, “Let’s keep going. Stay together, but Nash, keep guiding us.”

  Nash starts forward again. We move slower this time. Take three steps and then listen. Take three more and do it again. After a while, we stop hearing the shuffling and march without pausing. What do we have to fear? We have fire!

  We make it another half mile or so before my eyes spot movement. I spin toward the figure I saw, and my heart pounds. I take one tiny step toward the concealed shape. A couple more because Pilot and Mr. Foster may have battle swords, but I have a shiny shield in the form of a thirty-caliber bullet.

  “Sloan?” Pilot says, his feet silent against the snow.

  I breathe slow and steady, keep my finger on that trigger, and look deep into the woods. I’ve almost decided I don’t see anything other than the trees, when out steps a wolf.

  She walks slowly, one foot after another, nose lowered to the ground. Her tail is straight out from her body, the ruff on her neck rigid. Still, I don’t miss the fear in her yellow eyes. It’s me who’s startled her, but that doesn’t mean she’ll back down. Not with a hungry belly to feed. Not when she doesn’t have any other choice.

  My body goes numb, and my own eyes widen in awe of this lean, lethal animal. Just a day ago I saw this young gray wolf fight for respect among her pack, and now look at her, facing down a human with new confidence.

  The gray wolf growls deep in her throat. A warning. Then she backs up a few steps. Taking her cue, I retreat into Pilot’s waiting hands.

  He grabs me and yanks me beside him, and I’m so thankful for those hands I could weep.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper. “We have to get out of here.”

  But before we can take a single step, a different wolf steps into view—the alpha male. He leaps off the ground, excitedly. Nervously. I spot a third wolf, performing the same gesture a few feet away. They seem to be getting each other worked up. Chops are licked and ears are erect and noses are raised.

  “Move,” I say, not knowing whether that’s right and hardly caring. “Go, go!”

  Nash takes the first step and we follow, arm against arm, hip against hip. The basset hound scratches at Pilot’s leg, and Mr. Foster looks at the dog hard, and somehow—because I am so panic-stricken I’m afraid I may run just to get on with the killing—I know what the man is thinking.

  Give them the dog.

  I shake the thought from my mind and follow behind Nash, step for step. The wolves follow every movement, whining, growling, yipping. They hate that we’re going slow. They want us to run. But I know what will happen if we do. And even though I understand this, I can
’t stop the twitching in my legs. The bursts of energy in my arms and chest and head that say, Run, run, run!

  It’s something in the way they track us at the edges, trotting and leaping.

  Is this the way the rabbits felt?

  I moan with fear and follow the group. Elton holds tight to Mr. Foster and Mr. Foster holds tight to him, and Nash moves as fast as he can without breaking into a sprint.

  “Get away!” Nash roars.

  “Why are they acting that way?” Elton asks, his voice wobbly.

  A wolf dashes toward our group, but Pilot is there to greet him. He swings his torch in a great burning arc, and the animal leaps back. A second wolf lunges forward, snapping at Elton’s leg, and Mr. Foster charges toward the wolf, his torch granting him courage. The flames touch the wolf on the back, and it yelps. I half expect the wolf to catch fire, but the snow on its back works as armor against the heat.

  “We need to run,” Nash yells.

  “No,” I scream. “Stay together! Do not run.”

  My instincts tell me if even one of us flees, then it’s over. The wolves will charge, and we’ll be divided. Our best bet is to keep their sense of fear stronger than their sense of hunger.

  “Keep going,” I tell Nash again. “Slow. They’ll leave when they see we won’t run.”

  I don’t know if I’m right, but it sounds good. When Nash takes another careful step, our group takes it with him. He takes another, and we match it. We’re doing well, moving through the snow like a great, slithering monster, our torches two glowing eyes.

  Finally, finally, the wolves lose interest. As their excitement wanes, my muscles begin to relax.

  “They’re going away,” Elton says.

  Mr. Foster waves his torch back and forth, and though we still see the wolves, they are farther back. Less wild, more watchful. “I believe you’re right,” he says. “If we just keep going along this way, we’ll be okay.”

  The fire is our protection. A place inside my chest swells remembering that we are man, and they are animal. We create things like fire and torches, and so we win. There is a food chain, even in the heart of these woods.

  I think all this with a sense of pride, and relief.

  I think all this as I feel the first droplets of rain.

  The sizzle of rain hitting the torches fills me with terror. My lungs tighten around my breath. Pilot glances in my direction, his face a mirror of my own.

  It’s raining harder.

  Water hits the tip of my nose, slides down my jacket, and splatters against my boots.

  Elton casts his eyes to the torches. Notes how they dim in the rain.

  “What do we do?” the boy yells.

  The wolves creep closer, noses to the ground, eyes locked on our twitchy movements. Goose bumps race down every inch of my skin.

  “How far until the next shelter?” I ask Nash.

  “Too far,” he says.

  “How far to get back—?”

  “Too far!” he roars.

  “Should we run?” Elton asks.

  “No!” Pilot and I bark at once.

  No one says anything. No one moves. I can practically hear our pulses throbbing. We push toward one another, each of us trying to shoulder our way into the center of the group. Into a spot of safety.

  But there’s no such thing in the woods.

  In the rain.

  Quietly—so softly I almost don’t hear him—Mr. Foster says, “I thought it’d be the cold that killed us.”

  And then the flames lick out.

  Panic buzzes over my entire body. My skin stings, my hands shake so that I can hardly keep ahold of my rifle. I swing it chaotically, forgetting every lesson I’ve ever learned. Elton screams, but I can’t see him. Can’t see anything.

  As my eyes adjust to the sudden darkness, Pilot grabs my arm. Fumbling, I swivel in the opposite direction and accidently hit Elton with the butt of my rifle. He releases a startled sound as I loop my leg around his.

  He understands what I’m doing and grabs on to me with both hands.

  “Where are they?” Mr. Foster yells. “Can you see them?”

  One second I’m on my feet, the next I’m on the ground.

  “It’s got my foot!” I scream. The wolf thrashes its head back and forth, my entire body jolting from the movement. Pilot rears back and lands a solid blow into the wolf’s side as I slam my rifle into the animal’s jawbone.

  The wolf releases me with a yelp, but now Elton is screaming.

  “I can’t find him,” Mr. Foster yells. “He’s not here!”

  I scramble across the snow, feeling the ground, seeing only yellow eyes in the night. Behind me, Pilot makes a strangled noise, and Mr. Foster yells again, only this time it sounds like he’s far away.

  I hear the snapping of teeth, the urgent rush of paws. And something else. The noise of someone taking flight.

  “No!” I yell. “Don’t run!”

  It feels like kicking a door shut. Like wind rushing across my skin. They’ve left. The wolves are chasing someone.

  Feet scurry across the ground. Paws and boots in one great, chilling flutter of sound. In its place is an emptiness I’ve known before. My stomach rolls.

  “Pilot!” I scream, the sound of my voice jolting me more than wolf teeth on my boot.

  When he doesn’t respond a million thoughts rush into my mind—

  He found me in the woods when I’d given up.

  He stayed behind after my father and sister left me.

  He reminded me of Sloan the Brave, and I kissed him back.

  I scramble to my feet, swinging my gun, horrified that I might be wrong. That the wolves are still here. That I’m the only one left alive and they’re saving me for last. I’ll never again feel the sunlight on my back as I pull water from our well. I’ll never work the summer soil into a harvest, or peel the husk off ripened sweet corn.

  And I’ll die with this stupid invitation in my pocket!

  I hear the sound of Elton some distance away. I scramble over the snow until I find his arms. Yank them up until he’s on his feet. His entire body trembles, but he’s okay.

  “Where’s everyone else?” I demand, shaking him by the shoulders. But he doesn’t speak. I don’t blame him. My voice sounds like it’s coming through a microphone, even to my one good ear. If the wolves are still nearby, will making noise call them back?

  I drag Elton after me through the pelting rain, my gun balanced in one hand. We walk slowly, afraid to call out anyone’s name, afraid not to. Elton clings to me and I cling to him and I’ve never been so scared in my entire life. Vomit threatens to rise from my throat as my limited vision blurs.

  I’ve decided I can’t take another step—not one single step—when I hear Mr. Foster.

  “Anyone there?” he whispers.

  “We’re here,” I respond, as loud as I dare. Mr. Foster makes his way over, and we grab arms, thankful we’re alive.

  “Pilot?” I ask Mr. Foster.

  I just barely make out my teacher shaking his head. What does that mean?

  What does that mean?!

  The wolves howl.

  The sound rushes up my ankles, my legs, rises to my neck so that I’m drowning under waves of fear.

  “Pilot!” I scream, no longer caring. I have a gun. I have a bullet. I have an aim that’s true. “Pilot!”

  The wolves howl. They sound close. So close my bottom lip quivers and my ears burn and tears slip down my cheeks because I want my dad and my sister, even if I’ve disappointed them and they’ve done the same to me.

  And I want my mom. Oh, God. I want my mom!

  The pack growls. They’re moving closer. Elton’s and Mr. Foster’s fingers dig farther into my arm, and I wonder if they’ll steal my rifle if it comes down to it.

  “Sloan?”

  A voice in the darkness.

  Pilot’s voice.

  I don’t hesitate. I break away from the two at my side and run.

  He’s squatting bene
ath a bush when I find him. As if the wolves couldn’t smell him out, drag him out. I pull on his leg, but he won’t come. I grab his hand and pull, but he doesn’t budge.

  Panic splits through me as I yank and yank and Pilot doesn’t move.

  No, my brain fires. No, no, no!

  I search the snow beneath him, feeling for—what?—blood? Finally, I take his face in my hands and say, “Pilot, say something. Please, please, say something.”

  His head lolls downward. I open my mouth to scream, but then Pilot Blake opens his and says, “Here.”

  That’s all he gets out, and I don’t care. That word is the sun and the moon and the stars. I grab him and haul him to his feet, or as much as I can when he outweighs me by thirty pounds. As soon as he’s up, his puppy scampers out from under the bush too. The wolves howl again, and again. Pilot snaps to attention, remembers what’s happening.

  “Where is everyone else?” he asks.

  I shake my head, dread crashing over me because I left Elton and Mr. Foster to find Pilot. Stupid, stupid! Pilot grabs my hand and leaves behind the version of himself that cowered beneath that bush. We race through the woods, through the rain, alarm bells ringing as snow crunches under wolf paws. We need to get back to Elton and Mr. Foster and Nash too, but even more important is learning where exactly those wolves hide. I scan the forest, but I can’t see them. I can’t see anything!

  A human scream rips through the night.

  The scream is loud enough to split the ground wide open. The noise races up my backbone and stops my heart. The wolves answer the cry, but theirs is one of triumph.

  They’ve taken one of us.

  The scream comes again and again. It’s Elton! No, it’s Nash! It’s Mr. Foster for sure!

  I see two silhouettes. My hand is empty. Where did Pilot go? There! Pilot is safe. Who is he hugging? Elton! I twirl around, searching, searching. And then I see him.

  Mr. Foster marches toward us, face twisted in panic, hands over his ears.

  Pilot’s dog howls in alarm, but it does nothing to mask the sound of those screams. I see it the moment Pilot spots Mr. Foster and realizes—