Chapter Five

A very weary Puck gazed out gloomily at the downpour through dripping leaves. He had spent six long, lightless hours getting soaked to the bone on a muddy, noiseless hill. He had stopped caring after the first two.

When Puck had recommended that watchful guard should be kept at all times for the flying creature's return, he should have made an exception on such star-forgotten days. Even if the airborne predator decided to come for seconds, it would be nigh impossible to spot on a completely bleak day.

But it could be worse, Puck reminded himself. Life could always throw much worse things at you than rain.

Snow. Snow was worse. Snow did not, in any way, shape or form suit the Emerack metabolism. It would slow your movement, spoil your food and keep your fur damp and freezing long after you had found shelter. It highlighted tracks, ruined camouflage and sometimes made noise in your footsteps.

And it killed. More surely than any other natural force, snow killed.

Puck's very earliest memory was of a winter in his childhood. He was most likely no older than twelve seasons at the time, and was partaking in a last-ditch migration effort. The pack must have had an abysmal scavenging year to attempt a foray outside in such a time. Memories were etched into Puck's mind of hour upon hour spent trudging through almost waist height snow. The hunger pangs he had felt, Puck recalled, were torturous. Every so often a broken Emerack would fold up and collapse suddenly before re-emerging seconds later, shaking violently. On several occasions Puck's body would simply refuse to function and had to be carried by his mother, holding him close and shivering.

It was odd, Puck mused, that he could remember that traumatic experience many years later and yet have no idea of how or when his mother had died. It wasn't from the snow, he was positive, but his memory extended no further. It was just another event that came without warning or reason. Life never ran out of those.

Out of the corner of Puck's eye, a blurred figure emerged from the hill's base and darted upwards and out of sight, all sound muffled by the rain. Puck waited for twenty seconds, staring rigidly ahead. Noise and movement still appeared to be drained from the black-and-white world. For the first time in hours, Puck roused himself and said loudly; "Put the acorn down, Kirett. You're not helping anything."

Sighing, Kirett tossed his cache of missiles aside and sat down. "How're you feeling?"

"Drowned."

"Would a snack help?"

"Please."

Kirett flicked a few berries into his lap. Puck picked them up and chewed them without much enthusiasm. "What do you think the rain's made by?" he asked.

Kirett paused before replying. "The stars spitting on us?" he tried with a tiny smile.

Puck groaned. "That sounds suspiciously like one of Jacinth's ideas."

"Well, I try to keep an open mind," Kirett grinned. "For example, you would usually say that rain follows clouds. How do you know that clouds don't follow rain?"

Puck rolled his eyes from his ever-philosophical friend. They sat in silence for a little while longer.

"How long do you think it'll last, Kirett?"

"Hmm?"

"This ordeal. This crisis. This race against time to buy more of it."

"Years," Kirett answered simply. "I hate to say it, but I don't see our situation improving in my lifetime or yours. All we can do is move on and keep our heads to the ground, and live every day as if it's our last."

And so it's been for my whole life, Puck thought miserably. Ever struggling, never changing. Regressing rather than advancing. If one of us could ever break the cycle-

Every muscle in his body became stiff as rock as a terrifying, ululating shriek echoed around the hill from far out in the forest. Without any word needed, Puck and Kirett both leapt up at once and rushed to the side of the Gorae tree and scaled its branches with a practised urgency. Their heads broke the top of the leaves and they peered down at the woods below. They stayed motionless despite the deluge, and kept constant watch as the foraging Emerack returned one by one. Darrel, Yalo, Arone, Seprai, Wirax, Letham, Jacinth.

Firtale did not return.

. . .

Sniffing the air around it, It felt a sense of peace. In the absence of any competition, It was alone to feed and renew the hunt later. Perfection.

. . .

Eyes: Do you see the scan results?

Ears: Yes. This was unforseen.

Eyes: Specimen #1's restless behaviour has, incredibly, managed to trigger a prey migration. As these reports transmit themselves, an entire den of voracious stalker-beasts is closing in on one particular location . . .

And so there is the calm before the storm. Once again, I'm furious at myself for delaying so long, but I got myself bogged down in end-of-year schoolwork and holiday preparations. I'm hoping to get Number Six done before long, as I don't want my holiday or the story getting in each other's way. As a warning beforehand, the next chapter will certainly contain a fair bit of violence, so you could say that it's about to earn its T rating. Other than that I have nothing else to say, except of course that reviews never go unnoticed and always help me improve. Feel free to hammer this chapter with strongly-worded criticism if you like, I will still read it all.