He's been there for an hour, hunched over the receiver, twisting the dial through the static.
Hiss. Pop. Hiss.
"Anything?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Same aurora," Nash mutters, not looking up. "Still scattering everything."
He spins the dial again. "On a normal night Reid would be clogging the marine band right about now, bragging about a halibut haul or flirting with the dispatcher. Tonight, nothing."
"Reid," I repeat. He drove me in from the harbor my first day, all grin and no filter. "The charismatic one?"
"The loud one," Nash corrects, dry. "He's got a forty-foot boat and an ego to match. If anyone could punch a signal through this static, it would be him. Just to hear his own voice."
He tries the handset again. "Lantern Bay, this is Misty Meadows. Do you copy? Reid, are you out there? Over."
Static.
Nash slams his hand down on the table. "Useless." He picks up the emergency sat unit, watches it search for a sky it can't find, and sets it down gently, which is somehow worse.
He stands up, pacing the room. He checks the shotgun by the door and the rifle leaning against the couch. He checks the window coverings, sheets of plywood he screwed into the frames an hour ago, leaving only narrow slits for observation.
"They're out there," he says, stopping at one of the slits. His voice has dropped an octave.
"They're waiting for full dark," Nash says, keeping his eyes on the slit. "They lost their Alpha. The new Beta has to prove he can lead. And we're the thing that killed his predecessor."
"So we're a job interview," I say, my scientist brain reaching for a metaphor, anything to make the fear hold still.
"Basically."
I walk over to the window slit and peer out.
The yard is illuminated by the floodlights Nash rigged up. The snow is blue-white, stark and empty. The trees beyond are a wall of black.
"Turn off the inside lights," I say.
"What?"
"If the lights are on inside, they can see our silhouettes moving. We can't see them. We need to reverse the advantage."
Nash looks at me for a second, then nods. "Smart."
He moves around the room, killing the lamps. The cabin plunges into darkness, lit only by the firelight.
Now, when I look out, I can see better.
And I see them.
They're shadows detaching themselves from the tree line, ghostly shapes drifting over the snow.
"One," I whisper, my breath fogging the cold glass.
"Two," Nash murmurs from the other window. "By the shed."
"Three," I count, spotting movement near the incinerator. "And four. They're flanking."
"Five," Nash says. "Near the snowmobile."
"Six," I finish, seeing the largest shadow peel away from the darkness near the woodpile. "The big black one keeps circling behind the others."
