It’s jumped the gap, launching itself right into the plane, the back of its body hanging out of the door. Its mouth is drawn back in an enormous snarl.
I jerk away, and a second later its jaws snap shut right where my head was. I’m still on top of the Nomad, my knee in his throat. The wolf lunges again, biting, snarling, moving in a fury. I try to get my feet underneath it, try to tuck them to my chest so I can kick it off, but I can’t get enough space.
The wolf rears back, its front legs straight, its head silhouetted against the light from the camp. Its eyes are alive with the hunt, its mouth open, flecks of saliva flying as it bares jagged teeth. It’s smart, backing off a little, giving it a bit more space to jump. This time, its teeth are going into my throat.
I don’t see Harlan coming. All I see are his hands, wrapped around the wolf’s midsection. With a terrified roar, he hurls the wriggling wolf right into the lake.
This wasn’t the plan. They were supposed to come when the platform was clear. I thought that the Nomads would occupy the pack, letting us steal away in the plane as the camp dissolved in chaos. I didn’t count on one of the wolves following me. Not that I have time to complain–Harlan saved my life. Eric and Finkler are pounding up the shore behind him, leaping onto the platform.
I don’t have time to be relieved to see them. Harlan shoves me back into the plane, scrambling in after me, and then Eric and Finkler are there and my hands are shaking and I can barely breathe.
They grab the Nomad I punched, taking him by the arms. My punch was hard enough to break his jaw, which is already beginning to swell. I’m dimly aware of my hand aching, of a feeling of wetness as blood runs down from my knuckles.
The Nomad groans as they pull him up. “Can you fly this thing?” Eric shouts at him. The fire on the shore makes the sweat on his face glisten. When the Nomad doesn’t answer, Eric sticks a rifle barrel in his face, jamming it against the man’s undamaged cheek. “Can you?”
The Nomad nods, his eyes squeezed shut. Without another word, Eric pulls him towards the cockpit.
The interior of the plane is cramped, with a bare metal floor and straps hanging from the walls. Finkler is up against the wall next to me, hyperventilating. The camp is a nightmare. Dark shapes fly across the ground, flames lick at the sky. Screams and gunfire echo across the lake.
“The plane! They’ve got the plane!”
The shout comes from the shore, where two Nomads are running towards us. Their bodies are dark shapes against the flames.
Harlan swings the rifle around, and fires. His first shot goes wide, and he rips the bolt back, chambering another round. This one takes a Nomad in the shoulder, sending him spinning off the wooden platform and into the water. Harlan fumbles with the gun, his fingers slipping on the bolt, and then the second Nomad reaches the plane.
He’s big, with square shoulders and jagged red paint above an unkempt beard. He doesn’t have a gun, but he plants his hands on either side of the door, and starts to haul himself in. Harlan swings the gun around, but the Nomad just grabs the barrel.
I lash out, hammering my elbow into him. He’s not expecting an attack from the side, and it knocks him off balance just enough for his one hand to slip off the doorframe. He tries to stay on, so I grab hold of his fingers, ripping them away. He goes down, falling out of sight.
The engines start, the propellers on either side of us whirling to life. The noise is so loud that I have to clap my hands over my ears. It’s like being inside the belly of a roaring monster. I can see into the cockpit, up at the front. The Nomad’s hands are moving like lightning, flicking switches and pulling levers. Eric is seated on the right, head low, gun trained on the pilot.
The plane starts to move, juddering beneath us. I can just see the shore slipping sideways through one of the windows.
We’re moving way too slowly. Another burst of gunfire rakes the side of the plane. Finkler grabs me and pulls me down, just in time, almost slamming my head into the bare metal.
The plane lifts, just for a second, then hammers back down onto the water. This time I do knock my head on the floor and stars explode across my vision. Finkler’s hand finds mine, squeezing tight.
We lift upwards for a second time. And stay there.
My stomach is rolling, not used to the sensation of take-off. Finkler’s face is split in a massive grin. He pumps the air, cheering, then grabs my shoulders and pulls my face close to his. I can see his lips moving, see him shouting something, but I can barely hear the words over the noise of the engines and the rushing air from the open door. Harlan is there, too, down on one knee, breathing hard.
I sit back against the wall, feeling the vibrations travel through me. We have a seaplane. And we’re flying.
The relief is exquisite, so powerful that I have to close my eyes for a second, fight the tears back. We did it. I can get to Anchorage.
The feeling lasts all of three seconds. Another window shatters, the bullet burying itself in the far wall.
The second seaplane comes into view, flying alongside us.