The Release

Hope tiptoes forward, parting the flap with an outstretched elbow.

Her eyes adjust to the dark, and it takes her a moment to locate the wolf. It’s as big as she feared, and prowling the aisles. Its fur is singed from where it went through the fire. She assumes that at any moment it’s going to stop and attack one of the three Less Thans there, but instead it keeps moving—as though it’s checking out the situation. Counting its prey.

The wolf rears back its head and sends a piercing howl toward the ceiling. The sound sends a shudder down Hope’s back.

The emaciated Less Thans start to wake. One sits up in bed.

“Don’t move,” Hope whispers fiercely.

They obey. The wolf turns and stares at her, just as she stares at it. For the longest time, neither of them moves. Then Hope slowly nocks an arrow and draws the bowstring back. But just as she’s about to shoot, the wolf leaps forward, landing on the Less Than who’s sitting up. Hope wants to release the arrow, but the wolf is smart enough to get behind the LT, shielding itself.

Trying to get a better angle, Hope runs to another aisle. But every time she moves, so does the wolf, repositioning itself behind the sick LT. Hope could run back in the other direction, but the wolf will just move again. Meanwhile, it continues to howl, its piercing wail blasting her ears.

“Have it your way,” she mutters, and draws the bowstring back until her thumb tickles her cheek. She waits until the wolf is midhowl, and then she sends the arrow flying. It zips through the infirmary in a horizontal blur, missing the LT by an inch and impaling the wolf in the neck. It shrieks, then crumples to the ground.

The infirmary comes alive. The Less Than is sobbing hysterically, and there are startled cries as other LTs race in from the party. But even as they come running to find out what’s going on, Hope is headed the other way. She’s taken care of the situation, and now she’s getting out of there.

Picking her way through the snowy back alleys of Libertyville, Hope’s heart races. The thing she can’t let go of is that howl. That wasn’t some mournful wail, some aimless baying at the invisible moon. That was a call to arms.

A signal to attack.

5. (#ulink_077ecc16-d2fe-51af-b728-7af952f4fe77)

WE LEFT THE NEXT morning.

There were those who disagreed with our decision, but Hope was right. We had to get out of there.

“That wasn’t a wolf attack last night,” Hope said as we were tying up the last of the packs. “It was a scouting mission. That thing was here to let the rest of the pack know what it’d seen.”

It was crazy what she was saying. Ridiculous, even. But I knew that she was right. Like her, I had seen the attack on Skeleton Ridge.

That didn’t mean we were ready to leave. For all the reasons Flush had voiced earlier, we weren’t even remotely prepared for this. But the alternative was worse.

The LT who’d been pounced on by the wolf died during the night, as much from shock as from the attack itself. With no shovels and little time, we topped the grave with rocks to prevent the wolves from unearthing the corpse.

“What’s the point?” Sunshine mocked. “If those wolves want him, they’ll get him. Nothing we can do to stop ’em.”

“The rocks’ll stop them,” I replied.

“The rocks’ll slow ’em down.” Then he added, “Probably better for us if the wolves did get him. That way they won’t come chasing after us.”

No one bothered to respond, and Sunshine ran a hand through his greasy hair. It was so blond it was practically white, and when he laughed, his cheeks turned bright red. He looked like a demented elf. Although he was one of the emaciated ones we’d rescued from Liberty, you wouldn’t know it now. He was brash to the point of cocky. People put up with him because he was a fellow Less Than … and because he was good with a slingshot. We had a feeling we’d need every fighter we could get.

When we finished creating the burial mound, a number of us stood awkwardly around the grave while I recited a poem.

No man is an island,

Entire of itself,

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

A little John Donne to feed our souls—not that anyone had the faintest idea what the poem was or who wrote it.

Our number was down to seventy-four.

After placing our few belongings in the middle of tarps and bundling them into Yukon packs, we squinted into the morning sun.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cat said, impatient to get going.

“Which direction?” Flush asked.

“Where else? East to the river.” It’s how we’d gotten here, and it was how we’d get out.

Cat took the lead, finding an opening in the ring of fire’s dying flames, and everyone else followed. We carried supplies and dragged the two wounded on triangular stretchers through the calf-high snow.

I was the last to leave. I turned and took a final look at Libertyville, at what had once been Camp Liberty. I hoped to never lay eyes on this part of the Western Federation Territory again.

6. (#ulink_c23fd75b-e541-5eae-8bb7-70043ce1615a)

THE SNOW IS DEEP, the going slow, and by the time they reach the river—a winding sheet of ice—they’re huffing for air. They head south along its banks.

The sun is a blinding splotch of yellow that bounces off the snow and spears their eyes. Hope is glad for the hood. It shields her eyes from the glaring sun … and conceals her scars from others.

“Hey.”

Book is suddenly walking alongside her. She angles her head in the other direction.

“You doing okay?” he asks.

“Doing fine.” There is defiance in her voice. Even a touch of contempt. Only the weak and helpless accept pity. Hope is neither of those.

“You sure?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

Book allows the silence to stretch between them. All around them is the muffled thud of footsteps as seventy-four stragglers wade through snow.

“What do you want, Book?” Hope finally asks.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me, it’s not.”

“I’m looking for someone—someone I used to know who’s gone missing.”

“Who’s that?”