“Harlan?” I say, keeping my voice low.
The wolf barks–a high-pitched, almost whining sound, then gives another long snarl. I can feel my heart beating hard enough to punch through my chest wall.
Harlan ignores me. His eyes are locked on the lead wolf. Slowly, he reaches into his jacket, hunting for something, never taking his eyes away from the wolf. The others are moving now, coming in from both directions, low to the ground. They’re just as thin and undernourished as the lead wolf, but their teeth are knife-point sharp.
This must be the pack Harlan mentioned. I hear his words in my head: Getting more aggressive every year. I flick a glance at the rifle. With no bullets, it’ll be next to useless–and even if it was loaded, there’s no way we shoot them all.
We have to get out of here. We have to run. I have no idea if we’ll be able to outpace the wolves in a flat sprint, not if they’re as fast as I remember, but we don’t have a choice. There’s no way we’re taking out this many.
I look round. There’s a gap in the closing circle of wolves, at my two o’clock. If Harlan and I run at the same time, we should be through it before they take us.
“All right,” I say, my voice now barely above a whisper. “See the gap? We’re going to go through it. Run as fast as—”
“Stay put,” Harlan says. He’s found whatever he was looking for, and is drawing it slowly out of his jacket. “Gotta face ’em head-on.”
Adrenaline is starting to shoot through me, a thousand tiny blades dancing on my tongue. “Too many,” I say, hissing it out the side of my mouth.
“Just wait,” Harlan says.
The thing in Harlan’s hand is a metal cylinder, bright orange, about three inches tall. There’s writing on it, too scratched and faded to make out. A large black nozzle sits on the top of the can, made of dented plastic. As I watch, Harlan moves his thumb, flicking open a safety catch. The lead wolf growls.
Harlan slams his thumb down on the nozzle. A jet of fine mist shoots out of the can, dull orange in colour, curling and drifting across the ground. The moment it touches the wolves, they squeal in pain, pawing their faces, snorting, shaking their heads. I catch the scent of the spray and it makes me want to put my own arm over my face. It’s like food that’s been heavily spiced, then left out for days to rot.
Harlan sprays in quick bursts, targeting different groups of wolves. They all react to the spray, and one or two of them take off, hurrying back into the woods.
But not enough of them. Not nearly enough. And the spray is dissipating, vanishing in the cool air. Harlan’s bursts are getting weaker–whatever propellant is in the can is being drained off with each hit.
“Come on now,” says Harlan, as if pleading with the can to work. He gives it a vigorous shake. Something inside the can clacks as it swings back and forth.
“Harlan, if we don’t run—”
“Never run,” he says, as the remaining wolves circle around. “They’ll chase you down like a damn dog. You can’t outrun wolves.”
“Yeah, but that stuff’s not working.”
The circle is getting tighter. A couple of the wolves are darting forwards and backwards, snapping their jaws. Everywhere I look, more of them are emerging from—
The trees.
There’s a fallen one close to the side of the road, its trunk tilted at forty-five degrees. I follow the trunk–when it fell, it landed on one of the thick tree branches, which is still supporting its weight. That branch is about ten feet off the ground.
At that moment, the lead wolf attacks.
It moves with a languid grace, appallingly fast. I can see the muscles rippling under its fur, see its ears flatten against its head. But I’m moving, too, pulling Harlan with me. He’s off balance, and the wolf flies past him on the left, jaws snapping at the air. It slams into the ground, spraying up clods of dirt, legs scrabbling for purchase.
I can feel the other wolves pounding the earth as we sprint towards the tree. One of them appears in front of me. Its head is turned sideways, jaws open wide. Its mouth is a gaping black hole, flecked with a stardust of saliva.
I swing my fist in an arc, smashing into the side of the wolf’s head. It’s like punching a wall, but it’s just enough to knock the wolf away. Its jaws snap shut on open air.
I can still smell the spray from Harlan’s canister. It’s as if a red-hot poker is being jammed into the back of my throat. My eyes are streaming, itching like crazy. I have to fight to keep them open.
I jump, my feet landing squarely on the trunk. There’s no time to look back, no time to check if Harlan’s all right. I move up the trunk as fast as I can. It’s too steep to rely on just my feet, so I use my hands, moving on all fours in an awkward crouch. My heart is hammering, urging me to hurry.
Harlan screams.
I look back. One of the wolves has him around the ankle, its jaw locked on his foot. It’s twisting its head back and forth, as if trying to rip the leg clean off. Blood wells up around its teeth. Harlan is on his backside, pulling his way up the trunk, trying to kick at the side of the wolf’s head with his other leg. The wolf barely notices his blows.
I lunge backwards, lifting my leg so it travels over Harlan’s right shoulder. My foot slams squarely into the wolf’s muzzle. It lets go of Harlan, yelping, and topples sideways off the trunk. Its claws scrape along the bark.
The move has left me off balance again. I manage to right myself just in time, breathing hard, focusing on the top of the trunk, which is resting cleanly on one of the thick tree branches.
I reach the top, climbing onto the branch and steadying myself against the trunk. I look down without meaning to, and it almost makes my heart stop. The ground is a snarling, biting, furious mass of teeth and fur.
“We have to keep going,” Harlan says. His voice is ragged with effort.
But where? There are no other fallen trees around us, no convenient branches to clamber along. We’re trapped.
Think, Riley, says the voice inside. Find a way.
My gaze snaps to one of the other trees. It’s upright, but only just–its roots are sticking out of the soil, the trunk hanging on by threads. Its branches are thin and insubstantial, but there’s a tree a short distance away that has thicker ones. I track the trees, mentally jumping from one to the other. There’s no telling where this is going to take us. But it’s the only choice we have.
It’s an easy jump to the almost-uprooted tree–a few feet, no more. I’ve jumped wider gaps on Outer Earth. But I have to shut my eyes for a second, will myself to do it. I turn my head sideways as I hit, just in time to avoid breaking my nose. The impact knocks the tree out of alignment, and I can feel it tilting.
I’m slipping, so I tense my legs, locking myself to the trunk. Below me, the wolves are throwing themselves into a frenzy.
With a crunching, crackling sound, the tree topples over. I hang on tight as it slams into the one alongside it, crashing down onto the branch. The impact nearly knocks me off, but I manage to hang on, my legs still wrapped around the trunk. I scramble up it, heart hammering in my ears.
It’s just as well I made the jump first. There’s no way Harlan would have managed it if I hadn’t knocked the tree over. Even then, it takes him twenty seconds to make the jump, psyching himself up for it. He almost doesn’t make the landing, but then he gathers himself, scrambling up the trunk. The wolves try to follow, hauling themselves over the destroyed roots, but there are too many of them, and they’re too frenzied with hunger–every time one of them gets close, another one tries to push past. Harlan’s eyes are glazed with fear, and his boot is soaked in blood–I can’t smell it, but it’s a sure bet the wolves can.
There’s another branch above me, to my left. I swing up onto it, making room for Harlan. The wolves aren’t giving up. As I look down, I see that they’ve made it onto the fallen trunk. One of them is a few feet up, trying to dig its claws in, but it topples backwards, landing on two of its friends.
Stopping, even for a few seconds, drives the situation home. We’re moving away from the road, and we can’t stay in the trees forever. But I feel elation, too. It worked. Wolves can’t climb. As long as we stay up here, they can’t get us. They can’t—
I slip. I don’t know whether it’s a wet patch, or just bad balance. One second I’m crouched on top of the branch, and the next I’m falling. My fingers claw at the bark, hunting for a grip, and get nothing. The familiar, sickening feeling of gravity takes hold of me, and then I’m tumbling down towards the snapping wolves.