"Where is the key?" I scream to the empty house. "Where is the damn key?"
Top of the fridge. I filed it away my first night here without letting myself think about why I was doing it.
I climb onto the counter, knocking over a jar of flour. It explodes in a white cloud, covering the floor, but I ignore it. My hand gropes blindly along the top of the refrigerator.
Dust. Grease. Metal.
I grab the key. I jump down, landing in the flour, sliding slightly.
I run to the mudroom. I jam the key into the cabinet lock. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely turn it.
Click.
I throw the door open.
The .300 Win Mag, the one I learned on, the one I shot the stump with, is there. I grab it. It feels heavy, cold, and lethal. I grab a box of ammo from the shelf, tearing the cardboard open.
I run for the front door.
I throw it open just in time to see the nightmare.
The wolves have crossed the open ground. Three of them are inside the yard.
Nash is swinging the shovel like a medieval weapon. He hits the black wolf, sending it yelping back, but the others are circling him. They're snapping at his legs, trying to hamstring him, trying to bring him down.
One of them gets him. I hear the shout more than I see the bite. His right leg buckles for a half-second and comes back under him. He keeps swinging.
They move on him like a coordinated military unit.
"Nash!" I scream.
I raise the rifle.
It's heavy. My breath is coming in ragged gasps. I try to find a sight picture, but they are moving too fast. Nash is in the middle of the swirl. If I shoot, I might hit him.
"Shoot!" Nash yells, not looking at me. He slams the shovel into the ground, blocking a lunge. "Aris, shoot!"
I can't shoot into the melee.
I aim high. I aim for the tree trunk just above the chaos.
CRACK.
The sound is thunderous.
The wolves flinch. They scatter for a split second, startled by the noise.
It gives Nash an opening. He backs up, putting his back against the smokehouse, wielding the shovel like a shield.
"Again!" he yells. "Shoot to kill!"
The gray male, the leader, steps out from behind the corner of the smokehouse. He looks at me. He looks right at me standing on the porch.
He doesn't run. He snarls, baring teeth that look impossibly long.
And then he charges. Not at Nash.
At me.
