Tails of the Apocalypse (11 page)

Jack and Carrie climbed down a rocky path they’d explored a few times over the last two days. Their familiarity with it made their steps certain, even in the dim twilight of the early morning. The stream was their hunting ground, and if today was a good day, they’d catch a dozen or so fish before the sun came up.

Carrie was only a few feet ahead when she stumbled and let out a muffled scream. The dark shape on the ground appeared to be a large blanket at first. Jack went down on one knee to explore the lump on the ground, then jumped back, pulling Carrie with him.

Before them lay a body. Jack dared not speak. Both looked at it, watching for any movement. After a moment, Carrie knelt and shook it slightly. There was no reaction. Jack knelt again beside her.

“Jack,” Carrie whispered. He could hear the fear in her voice.

“Yes?”

“Whoever this is—was—is wearing a robe. A hood.”

The hair on the back of Jack’s neck pricked up. There was a moment when he felt paralyzed, unable to take another breath or move. He felt the darkness closing in around him, and a grim certainty that his own death was imminent descended over him.

“What shall we do?” Carrie’s voice brought him back. Jack took her hand as they retreated.

“We have to tell the others,” he said.

She nodded.

They made their way quietly but quickly back along the rocky path, their feet swift and sure again. When they arrived at the camp, the eastern horizon became a pale, orange hue, pushing the darkness back.

“A dead cloaked one, halfway down toward the stream,” Jack said to the two women holding watch. They rushed to the others in the camp, waking them quietly.

“Get ready to leave,” Jonu told the group after they’d roused. Two older men had already shouldered their weapons.

Jack’s heart raced when they returned with the others to the body. Carrie wouldn’t let go of his hand, and he was glad to offer his own for comfort. He’d never seen her afraid until today. But now he saw the terror in her face, and he knew it mirrored his own fear back to him. He was glad she wouldn’t let go of his hand. The gesture filled him with an irrational sense of calm. Perhaps, he thought, it was fate balancing the scales, offering him absolution for when he’d held Manny’s hand but fled, leaving his dead brother behind.

By the time they reached the cloaked figure, the horizon had lightened. Dawn was now in full bloom. The early light softened the face of the dead man lying on the ground. Jonu turned him on his back, and his hood slipped off. His head was shaved bald and covered in blood. His right ear was missing. When Jonu opened his tunic, the extent of his injuries became visible. One part of his neck was ripped away and hung by a few pieces of skin and muscle. His sword was still in its sheath, as if he hadn’t had time to draw it against his attacker.

“An animal,” Carrie said.

“Yes,” Jonu replied.

“Shouldn’t we have heard it?” Carrie asked.

“Not necessarily,” Tom, one of the older men, said. “It was far enough down the path, and as long as he didn’t scream, we wouldn’t have heard him.”

A feeling had gnawed at Jack since Jonu had exposed the man’s wounds. Their size, their shape. Could it be?

He looked from the man to Carrie and the others. He’d never told anyone about the cub. And now, they were hundreds of miles away from where he’d first encountered the wolf, when he’d saved him from the iron trap.

No
, he thought, dismissing it again.
It can’t be. Maybe another wolf, but not that one.

“Wolves?” Jonu asked, voicing the question everyone was thinking. The wounds had demanded it be asked.

“This far into the mountains?” Tom sounded doubtful.

“We need to leave.” Jonu unbuckled the belt and took the man’s sheath and sword. “We need to leave now.”

The fear in her voice made everyone move quickly. Now and then, Jack looked back to scan the land below.

No
, he thought again.
Impossible
.

He packed his sleeping blanket and hunting quiver, and while the others hurriedly gathered the little they had, he decided to tell Carrie about the cub. She needed to know. He couldn’t think of a good reason for why he hadn’t told her already. Was he afraid she would judge him for not telling the group about saving the cub rather than offering it as food to the village before?

The group made its way along the rocky mountain pass in single file, with Jonu scouting ahead a few hundred feet and Tom at the end, guarding the rear. They carried a few smoked fish from the previous day but little else. Jack calculated they’d be able to move for two days, assuming they found a fresh source of water. After that, they’d have to catch more fish or find another source of food.

None of them spoke. They glanced worriedly about, all lost in their own thoughts, each fighting an individual battle against a feeling of rising dread. If an attack came, they’d never survive, so exhausted were they from their long, strenuous march. The hope they would reach safety had vanished this morning.

“We’ve got three more days, maybe two, before we reach the stronghold,” Tom said quietly when they rested next to a small pool of water. “At this speed, three is more likely.”

Jack could see the fatigue in his weathered face.

“We’re so close,” Tom lamented.

Tom’s wife had died on the same day as Manny, Jack knew. Most if not all those who’d survived had lost at least one loved one. Carrie had lost her older brother; Jonu her two children. Jack’s parents had died the year before the raid, but he’d always had Manny.

“We’ll make it,” Carrie said.

Jack wanted to believe her. In fact, at this moment, there was nothing he wanted more. He wanted to be strong for her and tell her that he’d be there to help her and the others—that he’d protect her, all of them, from harm. But the place that held that belief in him was nearly empty. He cast his eyes down and didn’t speak for the rest of the day as the group sought refuge deeper in the mountains. His thoughts circled around Manny and what he could have done—what he’d failed to do—to protect him.

It wasn’t until after they’d settled down for the night that the howling began.

The wolf had picked up the scent of the cloaked ones a few days past. They smelled of death and decay, of festering rage. He circled around them and stayed downwind, careful not to get too close, vigilant to remain hidden from their scouts. He saw their curved blades and remembered the slain bodies in the boy’s village. But the way they moved, swift and fearless and as one group, recalled another memory from even further back: the memory of life as a cub with his pack. Following the leader without question, unified and complete as a group, he’d felt utterly whole.

During the last few months, he’d longed for the companionship and trust of the pack. His natural instinct to protect others lay buried deep below his need to survive on his own. But as much as he yearned for the safety of companions, he also sensed the danger that wafted from the group he was tracking—their willingness to take life, without mercy; simply for the pleasure of taking it.

A few hours ago, he’d passed the two scouts who moved a mile ahead of the rest. Now he made his way deeper into the mountains, following the small creek as it flowed over smooth rocks.

He spotted a few small fish. He was hungry and looking for the best place in the water to snatch them from, when he saw the boy. A female was with him. The humans weren’t cubs anymore but they were still young. The female stood at the center of a basin, spear in hand. She was quick and caught one fish after another in a short time. The wolf admired her stealth and swiftness.

His instinct told him to retreat, to leave and find a different hunting ground. But he only stepped backward into the brush until he was certain he couldn’t be seen. From there, he watched. He knew the scouts of the cloaked ones were close and feared they’d fall upon the boy and the others during the night. When the boy and his companion left, the wolf followed them until they reached their group’s camp. When night fell, he doubled back toward the creek, looking for the cloaked scouts.

When he was halfway down the mountain, he saw the first one. The cloaked figure moved up the narrow, silvery path toward him. Then the wolf saw the second scout. That one was farther down in the valley, moving away from them and in the opposite direction, most likely to guide the rest of the hunters to their quarry.

The wolf didn’t think. He didn’t calculate the value of his own life versus the boy’s. He moved as a fast, gray shadow darting across the dark landscape. When the first scout became aware of him, it was too late. The human grabbed for his sword but the wolf jumped, his fangs clamping shut around the side of the man’s neck first. The scout fell, already dead before his body touched the ground. His companion fled.

The wolf sped toward the creek and crossed it in two leaps. The second scout was a fast runner, but the wolf gained quickly on him. He’d never been a strong sprinter, but no prey could outrun him over distance. The wolf saw the cloak’s silhouette move in the wind as the scout ran toward a copse of small trees in the distance.

Until now, the wolf had used the rocks to stay hidden from his target, but now he stepped into the open, where he could move more quickly. The moon shone bright in the night sky, illuminating the land around him. In long strides, the wolf leapt after the running man. Farther down the path, a group of cloaked ones started toward him, swords in hand. The wolf knew he’d reach the scout before his comrades could, but it would be a close race after all.

The scout stopped and turned, drawing his sword. The wolf slowed, baring his teeth, one weapon challenging another. His head low, the first scout’s blood still crimson on his muzzle, he circled his second target warily. If he didn’t attack soon, the wolf knew, he’d be overwhelmed when the other humans arrived.

The scout smiled, a hunter certain of his prey’s fate. The wolf heard the others coming and growled as he retreated, then turned and disappeared into the night. By the time the other cloaked ones arrived, the wolf was gone.

He watched them from afar as they gave up the search for him and made camp for the night. A few slept on the ground with their swords close, but most stood in pairs at the perimeter, their backs to one another, holding watch. Low to the ground, the wolf crept toward them. He’d watched them hide two traps in the grass before, but the night was his ally, and for a few more hours he’d be invisible to them, a shadow at best. He wouldn’t let them get to the boy.

He quietly approached the two guards who kept watch to the east. They spoke quietly to each other. If not for that, they might have heard him.

He jumped, his jaws open, his fangs ripping into the first man’s sword arm. The second scrambled, fumbling for his sword leaning against the rock, but the wolf was too fast. The man threw his hands over his face as a last defense against the onslaught of sharp teeth ripping into his forearms and hands.

The wolf disappeared before the others, alarmed by the screams of the two watchmen, arrived. He heard shouts behind him as he slunk low in the darkness, once again beyond their vision.

There were eight cloaked ones left. One kindled a fire. Two brought driftwood and the dried remnants of a dwarf tree. The flames licked upward into the night, creating a circle of orange light around the men who gathered within its warmth, their backs toward the heat, their eyes watching the shrouded land beyond.

The wolf knew he wouldn’t be able to attack now and live. The light was too bright for him to move among them unseen. His eyes found the horizon, where night would soon surrender to dawn. He hoped the dead one he’d left near the boy’s camp would be enough warning. He hoped the boy’s pack would be gone. He hoped he’d bought them enough time. And with only the boy’s image in his head, he stepped forward into the circle of firelight.

Jack and the others had reached the mountain pass that evening—the narrow road that would lead them to the stronghold and safety. Their camp lay behind a cluster of rocks near a small spring.

They were weary of walking. Their feet were blistered and raw, and they needed to rest. Jonu tended to the children, and Tom organized the watch schedule for the night. Jack sat next to Carrie, who used her knife to divide the last of the fish.

When Jack heard the howl, he knew. They were used to hearing animals along their journey. There’d been distant cries of coyotes at night, of owls hunting for food. But this one was different. It was full of pain and weak, and somehow Jack knew it was
his
wolf calling to him.

Everyone heard the howl when it came. Tom grabbed his bow, Jonu the sword she’d taken from the corpse of the cloaked one they’d found the night before. As Jack got on his feet, the wolf stepped unsteadily into their camp. Tom raised his bow, but Jack quickly moved between him and his wounded friend.

“No!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

As Tom lowered his bow, Jack went down on one knee. The wolf, shaking and barely able to stand, stumbled forward, then sank to the ground.

“We need water,” Jack whispered.

Carrie handed him one of the canteens, and Jack poured the water into his cupped hand. The wolf licked at it. His coat was covered in crusted blood. A large cut to his hind leg was visible, and half his left ear was missing.

“We have to clean those wounds,” Jonu said as she knelt next to Jack. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t judge. She simply ripped off part of her scarf and soaked it in water, then wiped the crusted blood from the cut. “How do you know him?” she asked.

Jack looked at her for a moment, considering his answer. He wasn’t the same person from nine months ago. He was no longer a child. He’d lost his brother, his best friend. He’d learned to provide for the group. The boy from that earlier time was gone, killed on the same day as Manny had been. When he answered, Jack spoke as a young man whose life had changed in an instant; who’d survived against long odds.