Ashton Daigle

As promised, Rakov checked in on Jesse, who was rising from bed, just before dawn. Jesse threw on his overcoat, collected his gear and the two men walked downstairs into the dark and cold morning. Rakov had a wagon parked outside pulled by two horses.

“What is the trail like that way?” Rakov asked, glancing towards the south. “Is it passable with wagon?”

“Depends on how much snow there is,” Jesse said. “But if I remember right, most of the heavy stuff was before I found the wolves. We should be allright.”

A deafening silence fell over the sleeping town. The air was cold and the shadows seemed somehow longer than they ought to be, lending a surreal feeling that hung heavy, palpable in the morning still

“Very well,” Rakov said, as he climbed up into the front seat of the wagon.

Jesse climbed up and they began to roll towards the southern end of town. At the towns edge, about two hundred yards out, a small camp fire was burning. The horses moved at a slow trot, and for the time being, Rakov didn’t bother to hurry them further. Both he and Jesse squinted into the distance to examine the fire.

“There’s people out there, camped out,” Jesse said.

“Garvey,” Rakov muttered with contempt as he blew breath onto his bare hands before slipping on a pair of thick, fur-lined gloves. “He finally got around to pulling that death wagon of his out of town last night. I would imagine they’ve been burning the corpses all night.”

But, as the wagon drew even nearer to the makeshift camp, both Jesse and Rakov could see the wagon was still piled with the bodies of the dead wolves. The stench was unbearable, and made worse by the heavy smell of spilled whiskey, urine and vomit from the camp site, where Garvey and three of his guys were passed out drunk, comatose, oblivious to the world.

“I hope they fucking freeze to death,” muttered Rakov, clearing his throat and spitting a thick glob of phlegm out.

The flying glob of mucous arched high in the air and landed with a sickening, yet satisfying plop onto Garvey’s face. Garvey barely flinched in his drunken slumber, eventually brushing his face, as if shooing away a fly, the mucous clinging to his fingertips like liquid spider webs.

“Nice shot,” Jesse said, chuckling.

“How you say, beginners luck,” Rakov replied. “I despise that man.”

“Yeah, you and just about everybody else in the world,” said Jesse. “Guys like Garvey, they’re not even worth the spit you just hit him with.”

“You are right, of course,” Rakov said, reaching into his kit bag at his feet, and pulling out his bottle of vodka.

“A little early for that don’t you think,” Jesse said.

But Rakov only smiled.

“In Russia, in the coldest of winters, this is how we stay warm,” Rakov said. “Unlike Garvey, we don’t drink to get drunk. We drink to stay warm. We take small sips at the top of each hour.”

Rakov did, in fact, only take a small sip before handing it to Jesse.

“What the hell, is colder than a witch’s tit out here this morning,” Jesse said, taking the bottle and copying Rakov, only taking a small sip. Jesse handed the bottle back to Rakov, who capped it and put it back in his bag.

“Are we ready then to ride?” Rakov asked.

Jesse nodded and Rakov slapped the reins down on the horses backs, and they broke into a gallop.

The hunt had begun.

—– ——- —— ——-

It was wounded and wounded badly. It had lost a lot of blood. It was hurt. It was confused. It traveled when it could, but the loss of blood made it hard, so it rested a lot too when it found safe places to stop and rest. It traveled mostly by night. By day it either nestled in deep, gnarled thickets or completely burrowed itself under the heavy snow.

It preferred the latter because the cold snow brought relief to the many bites and scratches it had received during its encounter with the others, the pack. The cold compacted snow, pressed against its wounds also helped stem the loss of blood.

It was also tired. It was tired of the pain. It was tired of the confusion. But mostly, it was tired of running. There were times when it felt it had been running since the beginning of time, for as long as it could remember.

There was once a time when it yearned, desired with every ounce of its being, to be accepted by a pack, to be loved, to be part of something larger than the sum of its own feeble parts. But it knew better. It would never be loved, never be accepted not by others of its kind, and never by humans. It would only be hunted, only be hated.

It had even trusted once, both other wolves, and, for a brief time, humans. And the only lesson from those lapses of judgment resulted in the same thing.

Every time there was only betrayal, hurt, and, of course, running. It would never be accepted. And as much agony as this realization caused, it was simply something that just was; like water, food, the air and the heavens above.

But that was about to change, for it carried within its own flesh its own hope; its own chance for redemption; its own chance to create a pack of its own, as if by magic.

It was now driven by a single imperative - to stay alive.

It was well on the outskirts of the town, the town it had been driven from. In the dark it was a blurry block of dark shapes, but it was where humans lived. In order to get to its cave, it knew it would have to bypass the town.

And it was in the process of skirting around to the western side, when its brain and nostrils nearly exploded with sickness and fear that was so intense, so powerful that it drove it down to its haunches.

If it could have, it would have ripped out its own eyes, bitten and chewed its own nose off; anything to stop the spasms of pain that undulated through its body like shock waves. It couldn’t even scream, so powerful was the smell of blood and death that rippled off the dark town ahead.

Its brothers and sisters had died there, in unimaginable, horrible ways. Others were still alive, barely, clinging to life, just not as tenaciously as she clung to her own. They were slipping into the abyss of death, their mourning; their degradation was complete.

And although it knew it would never be accepted, there was a part that understood that it was, and always would be a part of them. It also understood at some primitive level, that it was responsible for the scene of horror wafting through its nostrils; that it had caused this tremendous amount of death and suffering of its own brothers and sisters.

It wanted to get away, to run as far and as fast as it could away from this dying horror that lived so strong, pounding, hammering away at its every sense. But it couldn’t. It was too weak. It was bleeding again and weak and had to lay down. It had to rest or else it would die, just like the rotting carcasses in the distance had died.

It laid down and finally, thankfully, unconsciousness overtook it. Death was not an option. Failure was not an option.

It had to stay alive.