Our clothes, when we had found them lying in the snow, were frozen into stiff shapes that we had to shake out, chattering our teeth and breathing clouds into the air. Giggling. We were laughing at each other’s nakedness, the weird way our clothes had frozen and how mine were mangled. My undershirts now flap against my skin where the seams ripped, the buttons gone. The laces in my boots had snapped, and now I kick them easily off my feet and curl my toes up under the blanket.
Without words, Kayla and I draw closer, pressing ourselves against each other, warmth rising. She smells cold and clean, pure and wild, that faint lilac scent musky and inviting. Our lips touch – hers are wet and warm, mine chapped and cold. The scents are stronger, piney forest and earth, a flower ready to bloom. Her fingers find the gaps between my clothes and my skin, and guide my hands to do the same. My rough hands travel over her smooth body, hovering over the cold places until they warm to my touch.
It becomes a game, a push and pull. I am hesitant to hurt her, and she takes advantage and pins me to the bed. Her hair tickles my face, breath clouding the cold air between us.
Smiling, she leans in.
When she is only an inch from my face, I lurch up and nip her on the nose. She growls, smiling, and her mouth presses against mine.
A new kind of hunger takes over me, and all it craves is her skin on my mine. I want to be inside of her clothes, inside of her. My shredded pants are too tight. As if sensing this, she rips at my shirt with her hands, and with her legs wrapped about my torso, she uses her feet to push my jeans off my hips.
My mouth finds that small cut on her neck, made by a claw and not teeth. It tastes like copper and salt. She pulls back and looks at me. Then she grins, grabs two fistfuls of my hair, smashes her forehead to mine.
Her hands move down my face, my neck, over my shoulders, and grip my arms.
(you killed them you killed them for me)
I tighten my grip on her. Press my face into her neck. I want to hold onto this feeling, this idea that someone might care about me, and never let it go.
* * *
We are still lying in each other’s embrace when Candi arrives home, announcing her entrance with a gust of cold air and a slanted ray of sunshine.
“Well, don’t you two look cozy,” she sneers.
Kayla and I move apart guiltily. I sit up, wrapping my buttonless shirt around myself. “This is my cousin, Kayla,” I tell Candi.
“I’m sure she is.”
I can’t look either of them in the eye as shame heats up my face. Instead I busy myself, putting on my sweatshirt and jackets and gloves. Kayla reads my mind and begins dressing and packing up as well.
We are a mile along on the cold road when Kayla finally says, “It was time to leave that place, anyway.”
I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know if she’s as ashamed as I am. What was I thinking last night? Kayla is my cousin. My cousin. I kissed her. I…
Her hand slips into mine.
“This is meant to be,” she says. “It’s everyone else who says it’s shameful. Not me. Not you.”
She means that if we both think it was okay, then it was. But I’m not sure I do think it was okay. I was on a high from fighting and I was cold and needed warmth.
Kayla’s hand slips from mine. “Besides, who cares what some prostitute says, anyway? Like she’s got a strong moral compass.”
At first I imagine Kayla has said this to hurt me. My fists curl up inside my gloves. She doesn’t know, I tell myself, forcing my fingers to straighten out. She doesn’t know about all those nights I spent in the company of others. Of course, I don’t remember most of those nights, and the only payment I ever got for anything I did was money I stole on my way out the door, or a shared meal, or a hot shower.
It’s much warmer out today than it was last night. Still, it can’t be much more than twenty degrees out, and my clothes are drafty. I follow Kayla without much thought. We’re headed in a different direction than the way we went last night. We aren’t following the trail of the wolves that attacked us. I can smell that trail leading off into the northeast. A shudder runs through me
chase hunt kill
but it fades quickly enough, although Kayla turns to give a quizzical look. I don’t look at her but briefly, and train my eyes on the snow-crusted ground.
(Kayla?)
(Yes?)
(Can you hear every thought I think?)
(…)
(I’ll take that as a yes?)
“No,” Kayla says without turning toward me. “I can’t hear everything.”
Our boots crunch crunch in the snow. I walk fast enough to catch up beside her.
“So what can’t you hear?”
She looks at me sideways. “It’s not like what you think.”
“No? You can tell what I’m thinking right now?”
“We’re not telepathic,” she explains. “We’re linked.”
“That clears it up,” I mutter.
“We’re linked. You and I. This link… I’m not entirely sure how it works. I can tell how you’re feeling, and sometimes what you’re thinking, especially if you’re thinking it at me.”
“Okay… so why is it just you and me who are linked? Is it a pack thing?”
“Not exactly.”
And even though she doesn’t say it, I can hear it:
(it’s a mate thing)
I fall back behind, and try not to broadcast my thoughts to her, but since I don’t really know how not to broadcast my thoughts I can’t be sure she isn’t hearing them. What I’m thinking is
(mate? like sex?)
I flash back to the disgusted look on Candi’s face, when she saw the two of us in bed together.
(is Kayla my mate? did I do this? could I have stopped it?)
After a long time of walking and silence and thinking, my thoughts turn from Kayla to the bigger problem. Why did this other pack attack us? Why did Kayla stop me from chasing them and killing every last one? I could have done it. I felt that power in those short moments when I was a wolf and fully aware. It would have been safer to kill all of them.
-48-
We stay on the road, near civilization, where wolves are unlikely to attack. It is bitter cold and more than once I think of how I could have a warm fur coat instead of these flimsy layers of fabric. We walk all day, stopping only to relieve ourselves and to share the rest of my sandwich from the night before. At nightfall we step away from the road and dig ourselves a hole in the snow. There is no shelter around for miles. The landscape reeks of desolation.
Kayla and I haven’t had much conversation all day, and our telepathy seems to have run dry as well. My mind feels as blank as the sheets of snow covering the flatlands around us. In the hole it is only marginally warmer and we curl into each other for warmth. I breathe into her hair, which smells more of stale sweat and cold than lilacs now. I can’t imagine the stink I must be emitting.
The shivering sets in after only a few minutes.
We cling tighter. I think
(wouldn’t this be better with a fur coat)
She sighs.
(maybe, but if we are wolves, surrounded by clothes, and we are found, it could end badly for us)
The darkness is so complete that only the cold pressing against my eyes tells me if they are open or shut. I can’t imagine anyone finding us here, in the middle of nowhere.
Kayla’s breathing slows into a steady rhythm against my neck. I realize that I am rubbing her neck, right where her wound has healed into a tight white scab. I should have protected her. Even as a wolf, I should have protected her.
I stay awake all night, trying to protect her.
* * *
The next day on the road I am sluggish. It is an effort to pick up my feet above drifts of snow. Midmorning, we catch a ride. The driver is a woman with rough red cheeks and flaming auburn hair under her cap. I have never been picked up by a woman before. For some reason it makes me feel safe,
and I lean against the window and fall asleep within minutes in the heated cab, my breath fogging the window.
“Daniel.” A rough shove at my shoulder. “This is our stop.”
My eyes creak open. The sun is mostly gone; it is late afternoon.
“Thanks,” I mumble to the driver, who gives me a wry smile in return as I lurch out of the cab and back onto the road. I squint around. Neon lights, rumbling motors, scents of gasoline and fried foods.
Truck stop.
“Do we have any money for food?” I ask, knowing we don’t.
Kayla just looks at me.
We start off down the road into the twilight. My stomach growls and I hope Kayla doesn’t hear. Her stomach isn’t growling. I feel like a failure at survival, despite the three years I spent on my own.
Three days on the road like this. I can’t sleep but fitfully, determined to somehow protect Kayla from whatever lurks in the dark. My nose detects no trace of those other wolves, yet my body refused to relax into sleep. Three days of letting Kayla find food for me during the day–stealing from gas station convenience stores, digging through dumpsters, scraping leftovers from plates at a recently abandoned table at a diner one night. A fistful of French fries, a half-eaten chicken tender and the bun from a hamburger brought to me in a napkin, because I couldn’t even muster the energy to walk in there. “You’re too conspicuous, anyway,” Kayla told me. She meant I looked like walking death, and the other diners might smell me coming.
Three days, and three long, cold nights.
On the fourth night I leave her.
-49-
This isn’t a good idea.
I tell myself this, but as I’m asleep on my feet, I keep forgetting. This isn’t a good idea. This isn’t a good idea.
I can’t stay with her. I’m not the hero she wants me to be. I’m better off on my own. Kayla can take care of herself. She was just fine when she caught up to me, back on that country road in the late summer. Well-fed. Strong. Me, I was half-starved and half-suicidal. Now we’re both half-starved, and slowly freezing to death. I haven’t been able to feel my toes for the past two nights, which I haven’t minded since it means my toes haven’t felt cold.
She doesn’t trust me as a wolf, either. I can’t blame her; I don’t trust myself as a wolf. Yet we both know we’d be almost home by now if we traveled as wolves.
All my weaknesses are killing us.
In the flakes of snow pouring from the sky, I shuffle through waist deep snow. I’m so tired that I’m not sure which direction I’m traveling. Away. I’m headed away.
This is not a good idea.
Just a few miles more, a few yards, a few feet. I can do this. I can disappear. Whatever hope Kayla is hanging on my shoulders will disappear into the white. She’ll realize she doesn’t need me as much as she thinks she does. She won’t be able to follow my scent through the storm. She’ll be forced to go on without me.
Trees. A meager forest. I move among the branches, grateful for their cover. Maybe I can find a sheltered spot to lie down. Sleep pushes on my eyelids and makes everything feel like a bad dream. I’m falling, or maybe I chose to lie down here. I hit the snow and it’s like icy feathers tickling my face. Spread eagle in the snow, my eyes drift closed. Before the lights go out, I think one last time,
(This is not a good idea.)
-50-
Something is tickling my face. It’s wet, and dripping, and sliding down my cheeks and rolling into my ears. I shake my head because opening my eyes seems like it might be too much work. That’s when I realize I can’t feel half my face. It’s buried in snow.
I open my eyes.
At first all I see is white, but after I push my face away from the ground, I can see the sky, bright blue, through the canopy of pine branches over my head. Snow is melting and dripping into my face.
It’s a struggle to get up, pushing myself up only to have the snow collapse beneath me. I try rolling once – only once – the movement sends a spike of pain up my leg and leaves me gasping for breath for a few moments.
I fell, I think. I vaguely remember falling. My leg could have twisted or something and I might not have felt it with the cold.
I manage to twist around to get a look at the damage.
To say that it’s a little more serious than a twisted ankle is an understatement.
There’s blood. Not much – not like when I black out and become wolf – just a little on my pants and on the snow around where the steel trap has clamped on my leg.
Back to face down. Breathe. Try not to vomit into the snow.
(it looks like it’s almost severed my leg)
I’m alone. Kayla is far behind now, and my trail is buried under the snow. Could she hear me if I yelled?
(would something Other hear me?)
There’s nothing around but a blanket of white, unless you could the trees all standing around, watching my misery. Imagine if I had stuck with Kayla, her lugging me all the way back to Montana with my busted leg. Better that I’m alone, I suppose.
Options. There are always options. Maybe I’m not some warrior hero, and maybe I’m not real good at taking care of my well-being, but I managed to survive for three years. I can survive this. I think.
First things first: I can’t do a whole hell of a lot lying face down in the snow.
(this is gonna hurt like a bitch)
I don’t have a stick to put in my mouth like they do in the movies to stop themselves from screaming or biting off their tongues or whatever, but I have a scarf. I bite down.
Fast, or slow. One rip of pain, or a slow burn with less probable damage. Maybe I’m stupid, but I’d rather not tear my leg open to the bone
(if it isn’t already done)
by flopping over. I struggle to my knees. I arc myself in a Twister-crazy move so my upper half is flipped but I’m kind of supporting myself on my right leg and with my free arm I’m struggling to twist the trap along with my leg. It sticks in the snow and I have to rock it
pain pain pain
Finally it gives and flips and I collapse and there’s still a giant howl of pain muffled by my scarf which echoes a little bit.
I pant until I can breathe without whimpering.
It takes a while. Hard to tell how long. Maybe half an hour.
Now that I can sit up and see
(still looks gory as hell)
I try to think of how to get out of this. The trap looks pretty strong. I’ve never tried to pry open a steel trap, but this one’s got a good grip on my leg. I’d rather not work at prying it open and then lose my grip and have it snap back on and snap my leg off in the process. Plus, even if I got the trap far enough open to get my leg out, I’m not entirely sure I can move my leg. The foot part feels really numb.
All around me is white snow. Nothing to use as a tool within arm’s reach. Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. I think of that family, the one that got trapped in their car in a snowstorm. A father, a mother, and a baby. The mother kept the baby alive by eating snow so she could breast feed. The baby lived. The father lived. The mother died. The snow lowered her body temperature so much that she froze to death.
So, I won’t eat the snow.
(but I’m so thirsty)
I don’t know how long I stare at my leg caught in the trap. The sun has moved across the sky, the shadows have shifted. I should feel cold, but I don’t. I’m numb. I lie down and stare up at the clouds as they scroll across the sky.
When darkness falls, I allow myself to fall asleep.
-51-
In the distance, someone is watching me. I can feel their eyes on me. I can hear their breathing, heavy like they’ve been running or hiking for a long time.
A heavy mist hangs in the air and coats my skin with moisture. The storm is over and now the air is warm. I struggle to sit up, having forgotten about my predicament. The pain crashes over me and darkness follows in a deafening roar.
When consciousness returns to me, before I
open my eyes, I can feel the cool shadow of someone standing over me. They have a gun; I can smell the gunpowder and the steel. I play dead and wait for their move, all the while trying to unravel the clues my nose is giving me.
A male. He smells of clean sweat and wood and smoke. Because he isn’t moving I can’t tell his size or age. But male, and not a small child. Presumably he was the one who set this trap. I imagine the trap is to catch animals for food, and he must be perplexed to have caught a human, unless the trap is meant to catch trespassers. I am ready to assume the former when he pokes me with the muzzle of the gun.
I roll over and snap at his leg with my teeth. He steps back, although he was out of my reach anyway. I glare up at him and growl. He is a much younger man than I expected. A teenager. He has acne along his jaw line and shaggy blond hair under his red and black checked hunter’s cap. It’s hard to tell looking up at him, but we might be the same height. Only his eyes, wide with fear, make me think he’s younger than I am, maybe fourteen.
“Hey, calm down,” he stutters, holding up his hands and point the gun at the sky. “I’m not gonna shoot ya. I thought you was dead, is all.”
The pain, or the hunger, must be triggering my temper. All I want to do is maul this kid. I suck a deep breath through my clenched teeth.
“Um… my dad is back at the cabin… um, well, let me try to do this.” The boy leans the gun against a tree trunk and hunkers over the steel trap. “This thing got you good, huh?”
I growl.
“All right, then.” He grasps the two halves of the steel jaw and pries them apart. “Don’t move now, don’t wanna slip here. Usually I kill the animals afore I open the traps. Hey, watcha doin’ out here, anyhow? There’s no trespassin’ signs all over. My dad hates trespassers.”
I wait until the trap is open and then use both hands to lift my leg out. The steel teeth stick in the muscle of my leg and the boy looks worried as I work myself out. It doesn’t help that black spots keep dancing in front of my vision. Once my leg is free and clear he lets down and the trap snaps shut with a metal clang.