38
Blizzard
Chap 4: Frost Bite
"Tell the swine we will make it out alive. There's snow on your face and your razor blade…sing to me about the end of the world. Hold on to the world we all remember fighting for. There's still strength left in us yet. Hold on to the world we all remember dying for. There's still hope left in it yet…"Arise by Flyleaf
Nobody spoke. No attempt at words seemed appropriate or necessary after such an incredible, distorted moment.
What would I say? Greta reasoned. Hey, I'm sorry about my perverted reaction to your amazing naked body.
She thought of Tippie Claiborne, the county bar whore and realized she was no better than that woman who brought home truckers and traveling laborers to screw every Saturday night. As she tended the cowboy's hand with salve for the puncture and fresh, dry bandages for the healing frost bite, she wondered where Tippie was right now.
Probably eating the guts out of one of those electricians she favored, she snickered.
Her smarmy smile caught his nerves.
"What?" He barked, more irritated by the shock of pain electrocuting his hand than her pretty grin.
His foulness didn't surprise her. He'd been flashing her scornful looks ever since he'd emerged from the bathroom. She shrugged, shaking away the image of a ghoulish Tippie corpse with her rib cage exploding from torn flesh and an eyeball hanging by its meat from its lonely socket.
"Nothing," she mumbled, "just thinking of people I used to know."
He grunted, but continued to avoid any more conversation.
She served him the coon stew and the few remaining biscuits she'd stored in the bread bin. He gnawed at one, scowling at the way it resisted every bite. She sat across from him on the sofa, again watching him eat; ready to intervene or assist like she thought she needed to.
"The biscuits get soft if you soak them in the broth," she told him.
He huffed something unintelligible at her, prompting her to talk more. "I can bake more tomorrow if you'd like. I,"
Aw fucking shut up! His nerves had been pulled so tight he thought he'd snap with one more of her pleasant generosities. He heaved his half-eaten boulder into the fire where the flames consumed it, turning it to dust.
"Seriously?" She scoffed. "Somebody could've eaten that! They weren't that bad. And I said I'd make more."
"Suit yourself, but I'm outta here at first light tomorrow," he growled. And he meant it. No more hanging around here playing House like Merle accused him of.
He watched her closely for any sudden change of expression; any hint that what they'd just experienced had changed her, the situation, in any way.
But her eyes only narrowed, her tone taking on caution, disapproval. "Oh, no, I really don't recommend that, Cowboy. In case you haven't noticed, you now have a hole in your hand and a good size concussion from that little stunt you pulled out there."
Her concern for him only made him dig down deeper for his most horrible self. Nobody, not even Carol, stood a chance against that bastard. She'd be better off alone. I can't give her anything but more shit to worry about and another mouth to feed.
His eyes had frozen up again like slivers of ice along a gutter. They fell on her, slicing her mercilessly. "I hope you know what happened in there doesn't mean we're goin' steady."
She almost choked on her last bite of stew. "What?"
"It don't mean I'm stickin' around."
He'd done it. He lit that fire and there was no putting it out now. His surly little mouth cocked in her direction had her flying from her seat. She stood, indignant and proud to be on her own. "I wouldn't want you stickin' around if you were the last man standing."
He had the gall to chuckle, and somewhere, in that weird place that had opened up inside her, she laughed back. "Lady, I am the last man standing in your world."
She couldn't suppress it. She did laugh because he spoke the God's honest truth, and the fear of it tickled her. "Not for long," she said above her laughter.
He was up now, too, moving into her space, towering over her like he enjoyed doing, putting his mean finger in her grinning face. "You got that right!" He yelled. "I don't need this shit!"
He paced off, but she waited, knowing his temper would bring him back. "You don't need me or anyone else! God knows why you had your hands all over me! Why ya didn't just let me die out there!" He threw his arms out, enveloping the room. "You got it all figured out here on your own, Farm Wife!"
She just stared at him, letting his words slam into her, dent her metal plated chest. Because remember I have no heart, she reminded herself.
Daryl shoved past her to one of the boarded windows, wishing there was a place to go that wasn't covered in fucking snow. He looked back at her. That goddamn smile; so broken and pretty and…and…
"Why are you so angry?" She asked, too fragile. He lost his people, too. "Is that what you think? That I don't need anybody? That I've been fine here with just the goats and the chicken and the hogs?" Her head started to shake, then her shoulders, then every part of her quivered. "You have no freakin' idea."
Pain set her into motion. She rampaged the room, gathering dirty dishes, adding more logs to the fire, refolding blankets, ranting, "Sure, I may have just got you off in my bathtub, but you don't know anything about me! What I've been through these last six months! What existence I have to look forward to until somebody cures this…this…disease or whatever it is. I lost my husband!"
Daryl's eyes followed her around the room. He watched her touch everything in it, hoping like hell she'd miss the baby quilt he'd tossed away the night before. But she didn't. He winced when her quaking hands scooped it up, pressed it to her lips. She breathed in its familiar powdery scent.
"I lost my son." The tears streamed. And sobbing ensued. And Daryl had no reaction but to steel himself against it, look away cold. I lost Carol and Sophia and Merle and Rick and Carl and aw fuck them and the assholes that took em. She'd be better off getting over it quick. Stop cryin' about shit she can't change and folks she can't ever get back.
She cried out frantically to herself. Greta, what on earth are you doing? These are not the rational thoughts and actions of a person with no soul left.
She headed for the stairs, suddenly unconcerned about boiling water to wash dishes or keeping herself in check.
His final stab cut through her back like the machete still lying in her bed. "And my name's Daryl; not Sam. Don't call me no dead man's name."
So he'd heard me. Just before he fell. When I'd lost my mind. She ignored him, holding Griffin's quilt to her chest, letting his scent perforate her pajamas as she rounded the banister.
For the last time, Daryl flipped around on the couch. He stared at the fire he kept stoking, trying to stay warm and concentrate on his revenge. Som' bitchin' wolves. Trying to finish me off. And tearin' up that henhouse. And her, he huffed, missin' that shot; wasting one of my arrows.
The woman. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind wandered right over to her. The smell he first encountered in the house, her pretty pleasing smile, her grit; the way she gripped him. How that mouth tasted. How bad he needed that moment and how she'd been able to see and fill that that need so clearly. How it felt to hurt her.
All these thoughts just distracted him from the real issue. The wolves. I'd get up an' leave now if it wasn't for…
"For what, Farmer Daryl?" Merle leered at him from his standing post by the fire. "This bitch got you whipped already?"
"Fuck you!" Daryl pouted. "How'd you get in here anyway? Got the place locked down like Fort Knox."
"Ole Merle has his ways, lil brother," Merle clucked. He stepped around the living room, feigning an approval that had never found its way straight to Daryl. "Not bad," he whistled. "Gotta nice little place here for you and the new Misses. Pretty soon she'll be shittin' out some baby Daryls…or maybe some lil Merles."
He was in Daryl's face in a flash, his rotten breath more threatening than his presence. "Whaddaya say lil' brother? Wanna share?"
All my life I've either been cowerin' from this asshole or fightin him off. I'm done with this shit. Daryl rolled over, jerking the pillow up over his ear. "Get lost."
Above him, Greta paced the floor. She'd cried herself dry for the night. Yearning for Griffin, she'd resisted crossing the hall to his nursery. It was a room she'd barely entered since summer, but she missed the soothing blue paint and the comforting shadows his elephant nightlight had let guard the walls. Now, shadows meant something far more sinister and deadly.
She'd checked off the calendar box. Only a day until December 31st. I have exactly one day to finish with crying; feeling sorry for myself. There's going to be some real changes around here, she insisted.
Then there was him. "Daryl," she said. "Daryl?" She repeated, a bit more smug. "Real redneck of a name, that's for sure." It satisfied some shallow part of her to be so small.
She crawled into bed thinking, if only he knew. If only he could see what is burned into my mind; what will never leave my memory until the day I'm dead and buried.
On her back, she squinted in the dark, peering at the ceiling she'd watched Samuel and his brothers raise. She wondered what had happened. Why it felt like Daryl hated her, but in the bathroom, he'd held her tighter than she held him, forcing her to kiss him. That hate, the hurt he'd put upon her, it wasn't doing what it was supposed to. She was supposed to hate him back.
Her hands remembered his shoulders, the long trek down his slippery wet arms, his nervous shuddering body responding so violently, the eyes that killed her and brought her back to life all in one look. Something else burned in her, and it wasn't her temper. She bit her lip.
Can't hate a man I want so much.
Daryl was relieved when dawn finally broke. He'd spent his dreaming hours feigning off shape-shifting walkers that morphed into eerie caricatures of his brother then transformed completely into blood-thirsty wolves.
The woman made another hearty breakfast, serving him with silence and the pleasant smile he expected, but something had changed about her. The light behind her eyes had grown from an untamed spark to something feral, out of control. She seemed different. How she moved and demanded his eyes constantly. Of course, she didn't give the time enough to wonder on it.
"Figured you'd be gone by now," she said, a bit saucier than intended.
He was finishing the last of the ham steak, smearing it around in the runny eggs. "Nah, we got work to do first."
She stopped short, looking down at him from her place gathering the used plates and utensils. "Oh we do?"
He nodded. "Yeah, we need to check out the damage to your chickens. Move the coop if there's anything left of em,"
"I've already surveyed the damage getting the eggs for breakfast. The wolves took out one of the roosters and a few of the sicklier hens. Really smashed up the egg hatch. If you are sticking around for now then you are right; we've got big work to do."
They worked with renewed purpose despite the freezing rain that pelted them constantly and the wind that threatened to solidify them in their tracks.
When will this storm end? He'd nearly shouted, but didn't dare complain to a woman that went about her daily business as if the sun was brightly shining and all was calm in the world.
She did her barn chores while Daryl tracked wolf prints to the edge of the forest clearing. Interestingly enough, the first wolf, their predator, had taken the same exact path, print for print, as it had the night before he had first arrived. Its competitor, the wolf that had attacked in the nick of time, had come from yards across; its tracks leading him to believe that it had spent some time wandering the property, maybe watching them, guarding over us?
No way. Daryl rejected the idea as quickly as it entered his fool head. The wolves are hungry. Reclaiming their space. Taking out what stands between them and the hunt. And vying for pack leadership. It reminded him of the relationship he had with Merle. Someone always going for the throat, proving to be Alpha Male.
Daryl sifted the snow, looking for blood, but gave up too easy when his frostbitten hand began to ache. It was healing slowly, regaining some feeling. That was a good sign, but it made for a shitty day working in the cold.
He found her in the barn, pitching the axe blade at a pretty thick branch.
"Here, lemme do that," he offered.
She threw him a wary glance over her shoulder. "No thanks. I've got it."
He bit at his lip, watching her for a moment before reaching for the arm she was just about to swing. "Look, you're only cuttin' enough wood for each day. If you let me chop for awhile, I'll get ya enough wood for at least a week. You can go milk goats or somethin."
"But your hand,"
"Hand's better," he said, and to prove it, he removed the glove, flexing the pins and needles from it.
Sullen, but intrigued with this seemingly subdued cowboy, she took him up on the offer and handed him off the axe. She gathered the milking supplies, but the mare's frightened whinny distracted her.
She went to the dappled horse, removing her gloves, and soothing the restless beauty's mane with long, slow strokes. "What's wrong, Maizie? Hm? What's got you so upset?"
"Wolf's prob'ly got 'er spooked," Daryl suggested. He was setting up the logs for the splinter. She watched him as he sloughed off the heavy winter coat and poncho.
"Oh? You think so?" She asked, only mildly interested.
Her eyes were on him, and although she really was concerned about her animal's well-being she was more interested in watching him peel off layer after layer of the gear until he stood, poised, down to the long sleeved flannel shirt and coveralls. He'd rolled up the sleeves and bunched the coveralls at his waist, apparently ready to work up a good sweat wielding that axe. Greta smiled sheepishly knowing that she was going to enjoy this gratuitous show of muscle and manhood.
"Yeah," he grunted, taking the first swing. "Animals sense that stuff."
"I see," she murmured.
He said something else, more talk about strange animal behavior, but Greta was oblivious. That thing that had been conceived the night before was kicking and spinning inside her. It wanted loose. With every lift and swing of the axe, he made the same sounds he'd made for her in the tub. His arms rippled and stretched, and her body went crazy.
He had no idea of the ruckus he was causing in her. His mind was on the settling of scores. He'd needed something rote and routine to do while he plotted the next move; how to take out the wolves especially since they were moving during the day. The most obvious strategy he hatched was to go on the offensive; go on the hunt rather than just waiting them out. Hearing the angsty wind howl and whine, he knew getting the woman to go along with it was only going to be one obstacle.
Despite her two meals a day rule, she fed Daryl a scanty lunch of canned green beans and stewed tomatoes and canned meat with a side of jarred apricots.
"You're bigger than me and you need more fuel," she answered him when he questioned her with unsure silence. "Just wish I had more to offer. Gotta ration for the rest of winter though."
he accepted her food, muttering meek thanks. He pushed aside the burdensome feeling he'd always wrestled with even before the world went to shit. The feelings his Pa and brother had beaten into him as a young boy. When simple, everyday things like hunger and discomfort and hurt were just another irritation, interrupting someone's selfish existence. Daryl almost snickered at the irony of how life had come full circle and those same easy-to-fix issues now troubled him somethin' fierce.
His determination grew severe with every bite, watching her continue on without a single serving. This is why I got to get those wolves. I can't be a taker anymore. If I can rid her of these wolves; teach her how to protect herself from any more attacks, she'll have fur and meat and safety. It satisfied him enough to think he could give her something in return for all she'd done to keep him on his feet; that she'd be safe without him. Be okay without her husband.
After lunch, they made a clearing in the barn and resettled the half-destroyed coop and its terrified occupants. He stood back, watching, as she calmed them by scattering feed along the new floor. She called the clucking hens by name; Cinderella, Esmeralda, Ginny, and Josephine, and they hesitantly emerged from their cozy little places, trying to trust again.
"You name them?" Daryl snickered.
"Of course," she said. "They all have their own special markings so I can keep em straight."
Looking closer, he did notice the one she pointed out as Ginny had a deformed claw. And the one she named Cinderella was by far the most homely and scrawny.
Of course she names them. These animals aren't just her source of living, but they're her companions. The only living things she's had to rely on for food and company. Daryl considered. It made the situation with the wolves that much more dire.
He had started to brood again when the woman approached him, shedding her heavy winter clothes. "Hey, how about a game of Chase the Chicken?" She suggested.
He shook his head, almost shrugging her off. He had more important tasks to attend to; not play barnyard games with a bunch of noisy chickens.
"Oh, come on. It's actually fun. We used to play it all the time as kids," she winked. "Afraid I'll catch Cinderella first?"
A challenge. She knew where to get him. And her face, so lit and playful, took him back to those carefree summers of Kick the Can and Ghosts in the Graveyard with the other poor kids from the area. He pulled at the coat, tossing it somewhere behind him.
"Okay, so, what? Just try to grab 'er or?" He wondered.
She was tying her shiny dark hair into a high ponytail, plucking at her overgrown bangs, readying herself for some good competition. "Yep. Pretty simple, hunh?"
At her start, the race was on. The other hens seemed to sense the nature of their play, and they danced and hopped around the barn floor, a few screeching while the others clucked happily. Daryl kept his keen gaze on the skittering Cinderella amidst feathers flying and dust and chicken feed kicked up into his face. He kept his footing, always within fingertips reach, but the measly little clucker pecked in her defense, traveling faster for the safety of her coop.
The woman was adept at dodging the frantic hens that ran aimlessly, making a kind of chaos she seemed to enjoy greatly. Her whooping laughter and fowl calls filled his head. They bashed into each other twice. Each time she recovered with bursts of real laughter, giving him a hard shove. He wasn't sure how to respond to her except to move away and keep his focus on the frightened hen. But she was always there; in his path, goading him with small pushes or insignificant bumps from her hip.
The woman found a goalie spot in front of the coop, keeping guard and batting Cinderella away from its opening. The hen squawked its desperation.
"No fair, Cindy!" She shouted. "You can't go and hide!"
Daryl laughed, and the woman straightened, her face falling still. A tiny smile played at the edges of her lips, her eyes skewering him with slight surprise.
He stopped. "What?"
"You're smiling," she said. Her head cocked, contemplating him.
"Yeah, so?" He barked.
"Yeah, so it's nice. Unexpected.," she confessed softly.
Everything about him went uncomfortable. His jaw tensed and some kind of pain shot up from the scabbing hole in his hand to his elbow. He winced.
She stepped forward, her healing hand outstretched. "Daryl, I,"
He turned away from her quickly. "Stop."
She did. Only inches from him, letting the chicken feed dust settle over her used-to-be-white snow boots. She watched, breathless, as he effortlessly scooped up the bewildered Cinderella that had came to his still feet looking for a safe base. Looking her in the eye, he gave the flailing hen's neck a graceful twist. Both barely flinched at the crackle and snap of thin bone.
Daryl handed her the limp chicken before reaching for his coat.
She smiled, shrugging, "winner, winner, chicken dinner?"
She knew he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of her comment, but he was trying so hard to regress back to the surly Survival Man he'd come to her as. The game had been short-lived, but fun, and she wanted to keep the light-hearted momentum going.
"Hey, I know! Why don't we take Maizie out for a ride?" She beamed. "She's been cooped up in the barn for days, and she really does love to hurdle the snow."
Daryl thought of his last experience with a horse; how it had gotten spooked on his quest for Sophia. He'd lost control and spent an afternoon clawing a ravine, grappling with the ghost of Merle, and almost getting himself chewed in the process.
"Naw, I'm no good with horses," he admitted.
She wasn't going to accept that. "Don't worry about it. I'm an expert rider. If you can hold on you'll be just fine."
He conceded under one condition. "Lemme load up the bow. And you get armed, too. If we're gonna be away from the property we need to be prepared for anything."
She agreed, thinking to pack a few edible provisions along with strapping on Samuel's old gutting knife. While Daryl gathered his gear, she saddled and prepared the horse. Maizie whinnied anxiously, impatient for her long-awaited jaunt through the woods.
The cold was exhilarating. It packed her lungs, filling her with life again. The large exquisite snowflakes, each as unique as the stars in the night sky, flew into her face, blinding her as Maizie galloped at full speed around the perimeter of the farm.
Greta hooted her delight, gripping the reigns, and prodding her pretty mare to gain more ground before hurdling each mounting drift like an experienced show horse. Her owner had trained her well.
Greta tilted her chin to the grey sky as it cried its icy tears, but she smiled wide; no fear, no worry; just the freedom of a caged bird soaring fast and low to the ground.
She loved the way Daryl held her, his arms clasped firmly around her bundled waist. She could turn her cheek and glimpse his face. He gasped for breath against their high velocity. His eyes, so startling blue against the drab scenery, squinted against the storm. His face was stripped of any reservation, grinning tight-lipped, but content.
If only I could see the deer congregating in the clearing. That would make this moment perfect.
Maizie sensed her desire to be near the trees. She wheeled around smoothly, forcing her stranger passenger to hold tighter, he whistled and chuckled between his teeth. Greta smirked, giggling low.
"You better hold on, Cowboy!" She warned him, yelling against the wind.
But as they entered the eternally white forest, Maizie had lost her steam and was ready for a slow tread. As invigorating as winter could be, it also slowed everything down much faster. Greta respected that truth. She sat back, leaning into the strong man behind her, reveling in the moment of unintentional closeness.
They passed under the low-hanging branches burdened with layers of snow and ice, both silent and observant. Daryl's eyes seemed to be following some kind of print while she gazed all around her, taking in the bright winterscape surrounding them. It felt like the forest's huge eye was solely upon her, watching her every move while the earth froze still.
Maizie saw it; the busy red cardinal flitting around a branch. It called to its mate, but only the horse puffed in response. Greta had only seconds to ponder the mare's reply before Daryl's anxious voice broke through her peaceful trance.
"Go! Go!" He commanded. He kicked at the horse's sides, using Greta's arms as puppet strings to manipulate the reigns. "Go!"
She couldn't move fast enough. Whatever slammed into them had been a speeding blur, blindsiding her, knocking her completely from Maizie's back. Daryl fell, too, making a terrible winded sound. She felt herself roll, snow filling her mouth, her nostrils, sliding down her neck and filling her coat.
She felt Maizie land next to her, close enough to crush her, but the snow caught the horse's impact. The mare recovered quickly, wheezing and snorting, terrified by something coming. Greta tried to reach for the swinging reigns, but Daryl was over her, pushing her down into the smothering snow as something whizzed above them.
Its snarl echoed around her. Her rationalizing mind had one second to think, the wolf. It can't be.
But it was. In its frenzy to attack, the wolf had overestimated its jump, hitting into a tree, and landing in a dazed-awake furry heap of flying snow. Greta knew she had moments to regain her footing, but there would be no way to outrun the beast. Her neck twisted, searching for Maizie, but the horse had turned back, galloping for the clearing.
Daryl had her by the arm, hauling her to her feet. She sunk into the ground, but was able to balance herself enough to stand and face the wolf that was also regaining its senses. Greta's strained pants mimicked her bursting heart. She watched as Daryl positioned his bow, taking aim at the great grey beast.
"Go!" He blasted her, pushing her away. "Get the fuck outta here already!"
Her head shook. She stuttered no, but he pushed her again before letting the trigger go. The arrow spun, splitting the air. It landed, piercing the charging wolf's shoulder. It fell back, letting out an anguished yelp. To Greta, it sounded more angered than hurt.
And it was getting up despite the arrow jutting from its flesh. The beast hurled snarls and frothy spit, baring the teeth of a violent predator.
"It's fucking rabid," Daryl announced, the fear in his voice scaring her more than his revelation. "Get up a tree. Now!"
Up a tree? "Wwhha?" She sputtered as he moved around her, making fast tracks to the nearest tree behind them. He was pulling her by the sleeve. It was no use. Her leg cramped. Lifting it above the drift at the trunk of the tree was nearly impossible. She cried out, anguished, grabbing at the calf muscle that seared hot pain against her skin. If she could have tore it out she would've.
It's no use. It's gonna get me. She panted. But Daryl was still there beside her, unsnapping the fishing knife from her leg holster with his bare hands. She screamed as the animal leaped at them, and Daryl flipped the knife. It sliced through the snowflakes then stuck with a weird thud into the wolf's chest. Again, it fell back, yelping and grappling with the protruding handle.
Daryl nimbly began reloading the bow, but all Greta could do was stare at him in shocked terror.
"Gawdamn it, will you get up the tree," he seethed.
"What are you going to do?" She gasped.
"What the fuck does it look like, woman? I'm gonna kill the bastard."
"No!" She roared. She knew they only had seconds before it charge them again, but fear had rendered her hysterical. If he missed or the wolf overpowered the hit again, it would maul him. And then…the disease would take him, and she clung to him. "NO!"
He yanked away, taking a swipe at her with an agitated arm. "Get away! Just climb!"
She finally erupted. "You, you obstinate asshole!" She gripped his coat collar, putting her terrified owly eyes inches from his sneering face. "You're the only person I know anymore! I can't lose you!"
His hostile eyes narrowed on her. He licked at his lips, not even considering what he'd just heard. There was no time. The infected beast was coming at them again like a relentless machine. He aimed the bow, pulled the trigger, but the wolf's impact was ferocious, jarring them both like a car crash. The arrow spun, uncontrolled, into the distance.
Greta rolled onto her front. She clawed at the snow, feeling the weight of the writing wolf press her down. She was the weaker; the easier kill. It sensed that, and it intended to go at her with all its vicious might. Its teeth were like razors at the back of her neck, the kill shot, but the fur-lined hat and riding layers of winter gear cushioned the bite.
She heard her own wails and Daryl's desperate grunts as he beat at the wolf with the stock of his weapon. It was clawing, tearing at the fabric, and feigning off the man's blows with gnashing teeth.
It's gonna get me. He's going to have to kill me again. I'll be like Dead-Walking Samuel with the broken neck, his head lolling to one side, biting into our baby's little body. And Daryl will be like heroic me, pulling the knife from the wolf and jabbing it into my skull like I did Zombie Sam and then plunging it into Griffin's…
"Oh my God!" Her scream peeled back Daryl's skin. He was sure her blood would be spraying him at any second, but the wolf just kept tearing at her, its foaming muzzle caked with fuzzy lining and shreds of her clothing.
I've got to reload. But he knew every second he stopped distracting the wolf would lead closer to her death.
From the corner of his eye, Daryl spied another white blur. Much bigger than a chasing snow hare and stealthier than an abominable snow walker. He spun around, giving the attacking wolf a massive kick to the side, but the wolf responded by snagging his leg and shaking him onto his back.
The fucker's strong, I'll give it that. At least it'll kill us both and nobody will have to kill anybody twice. It wants her first, but I'm the better kill. Alpha Male.
"Come on, motherfucker!" He hollered, wriggling his leg, agitating the beast. "Come get some!"
He heard it first, running, its silent paws making tiny dents in the snow, reverberating into his brain. Then, he smelled it; that wet dog fur tainting his nostrils, and Daryl braced for the impact of another set of steel jaws clamping down on his skull.
But he heard the warning growl above him and snow fell into his face. His eyes jerked open. He found himself under the belly of another great white wolf, but this one stood above him, its protective stance shielding him from what he knew would happen next.
The wandering wolf. The attacker from last night. Daryl's first instincts were right. It had been there, watching, protecting the property, warding off the sick wolf in time for them to escape into the cabin.
The rabid wolf attacked without hesitation. It abandoned the thrashing, shrieking woman to fend off its new opponent with a new, brutal vengeance. Daryl didn't think. He moved, rolling onto his knees, and dragging at the woman by the arms. She struggled to get on her knees, but the cramp in her leg put her back on the ground.
She cried out, sobbing now, but Daryl refused to let her weakness be their demise. He bent, scooped her up, and stomped into the snow. The wolves at his back were fighting like crazed lunatics. He knew this time only one would walk away. He hoped like hell it would be the guardian. He couldn't leave the farm unless it was.
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