I shoot for impact.
I aim instead for the snow cornice hanging over the chimney, a massive lip of wind-loaded snow that has been stacking up there all winter. I have read a hundred slopes like this one in the field, logged which faces hold and which ones are only waiting for an excuse. That overhang is a trigger nobody has pulled yet.
CRACK.
The bullet strikes the base of the cornice.
Nothing happens.
"Dammit," I curse.
The snow swallows the round whole. Of course it does. Powder absorbs a shock; it doesn't carry one. I need the rock the whole slab is hanging on, the thing that will ring like a struck bell and shear the load off its own base.
Nash fires the shotgun into the wolves below, buying me one more breath. "Whatever it is," he shouts, "now, Aris!"
I cycle the bolt. I aim for the rock face just below the snow.
CRACK.
This time, the report slams back off the far wall.
A crack appears in the cornice. A slow, spiderweb fracture.
Then, with a groan that sounds like the mountain is waking up, the snow gives way.
It's not a huge avalanche, but it's enough. A cascade of heavy, wet snow and ice chunks tumbles down the chimney, right into the path of the climbing wolves.
The Beta looks up just in time to get buried. He loses his footing, tumbling backward down the slope in a wash of white. The other three wolves scramble to avoid the slide, skidding down the scree, yelping.
On the ledge above, Waldo watches the avalanche sweep his predators away. He doesn't panic, doesn't run. He stands there, chewing his cud, looking down at the chaos with an expression of utter boredom.
"Genius," I whisper. "You magnificent, arrogant genius."
"Aris!" Nash yells. "Focus!"
I snap back to reality. The three wolves pinning us down have used the distraction to close the gap. They're fifty yards out.
"They're committing!" Nash shouts. "They've given up on the herd! We're the easier meal!"
Nash fires the shotgun.BOOM.
The lead wolf, a scrawny female, flinches but keeps coming. They are desperate. The winter has been hard.
"We need to move!" Nash says. "Back to the repeater! Put the tower at our backs!"
We scramble backward, retreating toward the metal structure. We put our backs against the cold steel lattice.
"I have two rounds left," Nash says, checking the shotgun.
"I have three," I say.
The wolves circle. They're wary now, pacing at thirty yards. They know we have bite. But they also know we can't stay here forever. The cold is seeping into my bones. My hands are numb.
The Beta, the black wolf, shakes himself off at the bottom of the slope. He looks at the blocked chimney. He looks at us.
He starts to trot up the hill. He's reuniting the pack. Now there are six of them.
Six against two. With five bullets.
