The wolf gasped as straw drifted down around him, floating in a gentle breeze as it twirled to the ground. He saw the pig running across the hollow. He knew where he was headed, knew he should follow, but for the moment he stood still, shocked he’d destroyed the home, ripped apart the only walls between him and the nightmare still pouring out of the forest. He’d only meant to knock, to get inside, not to destroy it, but in his haste it’d all come tumbling down.
He looked back, grimacing at the sight. Had every animal he’d ever killed—for food, out of anger, or simply for the hell of it—suddenly dug themselves from their graves among the leaves on the forest floor, determined to make him as dead as they were? Some loped along with slow, jerky movements. Others pulled themselves on gnawed limbs, intestines dragging behind them. Grunts and groans measured their effort, but none of them looked as though they would stop anytime soon. If he wanted to stay alive, the wolf had to run.