1.1.
Once again, I can’t catch a break.
I’d just sat down to eat dinner.
Wolfie was on edge. Somewhere nearby, a pack of feral dogs was prowling. Wolfie wasn’t scared of them, but he hated them with a passion. He used to be one of them—or would’ve been, if I hadn’t picked him up as a pup. And I didn’t make a bad choice. He’s grown up to my mid-thigh, with a head like a bear’s and paws the size of my fist. A real wolf, except his fur is mostly black along his back. He learns fast and understands me with just half a word. Sometimes, he doesn’t even need words at all.
I talk to him a lot. When I do, he lies down in the middle of the room, rests his massive head on his paws, and looks at me from under his brow. He listens.
Yeah, he can’t stand the feral dogs. He doesn’t like anyone who steps onto his territory. Except me, of course. I think I’m the one looking after him, but he’s convinced it’s the other way around—he’s looking after me.
Right now, he was pacing around the house, darting to the door and pawing at it, like he was saying, “Let me out, I’ll handle this.”
“Calm down,” I grumbled in response. “Take a breather. We’ve got work to do tonight.”
Wolfie shot me a reproachful look, stepped away from the door, and flopped down on the floor. In the corner, no less—that means he’s sulking.
I’d already dished out some porridge to eat, but a growing sense of unease stopped me. I didn’t know exactly where trouble was brewing yet. It might mean I’d have to run out any second, so I didn’t start eating.
It’s always like this. First comes the feeling of restlessness. Then, vague images start to form—I know something’s going to happen, but not who’s involved or where. Soon after, that clarity comes too; I see in my mind what the trouble is and who’s in it, and then I know exactly what I need to do. From there, I have to act fast and decisively. I won’t have any peace until the job’s done—until whoever’s in danger is one hundred percent safe. Can you imagine what it was like for me during the wars? Yeah. No rest for years.
Not wanting to waste time, I set my backpack by the door. My “work” bag, as I call it. It’s always packed with the essentials, from rope to a first-aid kit.
Wolfie sensed my mood. He got to his feet, circled the room, and sat down by the backpack.
The images were coming into focus now. I could feel what was about to happen. A young woman, a stalker, had gotten lost. She’d either split off from her group or who-knows-what, but she was alone now, holed up in an abandoned house, hoping to wait it out until morning. She’d injured her leg—not fatally, but bad enough that she couldn’t walk. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. The real problem was that a “Brit” was tracking her. Without my help, she didn’t stand a chance.
Do you know what a “Brit” is?
Good thing you don’t. Picture a British Shorthair cat, but the size of a medium cougar, only skinnier and half a body length longer. Hell if I know why, but the mutation hit this specific breed of cat, and they’re the ones that produced mutant offspring. Nasty, aggressive creatures. By my count, there are about thirty-five of them in the Zone. Luckily, they reproduce slowly. But they live incredibly long for felines and keep growing their whole lives. Though, when they get old and reach monstrous sizes, they turn lazy and sluggish, eating anything they can get their paws on—even carrion—until they quietly keel over. I think they die of starvation; otherwise, they’d just keep growing, ageless.
The Zone has its own rules of evolution.
The one tracking this girl was young and strong. Brits have a keen sense for blood, like sharks in water. No matter how well she hid, it would find her sooner or later, and she’d have no shot at survival.
I jumped up and slung the backpack over my shoulders. Wolfie sprang to his feet too, standing taut as a wire, ready for any command.
I opened the door.
“Let’s go.”
Wolfie shot out onto the path like a bullet.
Good thing I hadn’t eaten. We had to run fast. The Brit was closing in. The girl had turned on a flashlight, which might slow it down a bit, but not for long. The only thing these creatures truly fear is the light from a green chemical glow stick. Green specifically—other colors don’t faze them one bit. Why? I have no idea.
Her flashlight was electric, battery-powered. And not green. The cat wasn’t scared, but it was cautious. The moment the light went out, it would strike.
We’d make it in time. Wolfie was flying like a rocket. I kept up behind him. Near the house we needed, Wolfie veered to the side, took a stance, and growled. The cat was crouched by the window, like it was guarding a mouse hole. If it had attacked us right away, we’d have been in deep trouble. But every living thing—even a mutant—needs a split second to size up an opponent and decide what to do. Those fractions of a second gave me just enough time to pull out my CLSs (chemical light sticks) and snap them. Three at once. But, damn it… how long does the chemical reaction take to kick in?
The cat lunged. Wolfie engaged, not head-on but from the side—otherwise, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. With his lightning-fast reflexes, he started harassing the creature, darting in from one side, then the other. It’s how hunting dogs wear down a bear. They exhaust it until it collapses. Good job, buddy, buy me some time.
The CLSs finally lit up. I hurled one toward the cat, one into the house where the girl was hiding, and kept the third in my hand.
The creature let out a yowl so loud it would’ve shattered any glass left in the windows, and it leaped back about twelve feet.
Wolfie didn’t miss a beat. He snatched the glow stick in his jaws and charged after it. The cat retreated further. Wolfie kept up the assault from all angles, now with the light stick in his mouth. The Brit backed off a few more times, then turned tail and ran. Wolfie gave chase.
I headed for the house.
The girl was huddled against a wall in one of the rooms, right where I’d instinctively thrown one of the glow sticks. She stared at me, terrified.
“Hey there,” I said, sliding off my backpack and stepping toward her. She tried to shrink back, but there was nowhere to go.
“Don’t be scared,” I said, crouching down beside her and glancing at the leg she was carefully holding out in front of her. The chemical glow sticks gave plenty of light. Her leg was broken below the knee. Over her torn military-style pants, she’d tied a crude bandage, with blood seeping through in spots. How the hell had she even made it to this house?
“I’m just gonna check the injury,” I said, inching closer.
“Don’t touch me,” she snapped. “Who are you?”
“Listen,” I said. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to save you. If I leave, that thing waiting outside will come back the second the light goes out…”
“It didn’t see me,” she interrupted.
“Yeah, right,” I thought to myself. “And you didn’t see it either.”
“You’re wrong, sweetheart. It saw you, and it heard you. It still hears you. It can smell your blood from a distance and is practically drooling with rage because we chased it off. And even if it doesn’t come back, what are you gonna do tomorrow morning when your leg swells up so bad you can’t stand, let alone touch it without screaming?”
She didn’t take her eyes off me, desperately searching for a way out of this mess. But she knew she couldn’t do anything on her own.