A harsh gust of wind, blown down from the mountainside, brought with it a lone howl, long and low. They did not stop, pressing on and only hoping that the wolves had not yet found their trail. Sera glanced over her shoulder and could see the sun dimly through the canopy. It was low in the west, lower than she would like, and she had to focus to keep her breathing under control.
Like a thunderbolt, a cracking twig ahead of them froze the pair midstep. “Probably just the ice,” Nils muttered, mostly to himself.
“Trees branches fall all the time. Besides, that howl was at least a mile away.”
They nodded to one another, hands twitching as their eyes seemed to catch every flake of falling snow, every needle and cone upon the trees, every hint of movement that might betray their enemy. They found no fallen bough, but saw several freshly cracked trunks, and both breathed deeply for the first time in what seemed ages.
“How far do you think?” Sera was nervous. The shadows were getting long, and she could see no more than fifty feet ahead.
“To Whitlin?”
“No, to the sun.”
Nils grunted, “Shouldn’t be more than another mile.”
“It’ll be dark by then, Nils.” Her voice quavered with her courage, and she slowed, glancing back over her shoulder. “We can’t go fast enough, Nils.”
“Shhhh, we’re fine,” he said, more confidently than he felt. In truth his heart was in his throat, and his stomach knotted to see the sun falling so low. He ran now, urging Sera to do the same. They no longer pretended to be stealthy. In both of their minds this was a race for their lives, and they flew across the snow with their feet scarcely touching the ground.
They both heard it, the betraying crunch of old, frozen snow beneath a foot too heavy to hit it softly. A growl shook the trees and air around them. Neither dared look for fear it would slow them, and they ran harder than they ever had, pouring out the last of their energy into cold, tired limbs. The sunlight failed, and the shadows gaped in front of them, threatening to hide tripping roots and holes. Sera heard Nils swear as he fell, kicking up a cloud of snow and profanity. A part of her felt she should stop and help him, but that small part was easily overpowered by the fear that dominated her motivation. She had to run, and he did not resent that her pace never slowed.
After a few moments Sera expected to hear screams. She thought she would hear tearing flesh, breaking bones, and the sounds of the wolf feasting, but it did not come. She slowed when she heard Nils’ laughter break the silence, “It was just the snow!” His voice was jubilant with relief, and he laughed loudly once more.
Sera shouted back, “Then hurry!” Her voice echoed among the trees, but there was no reply.
He was silent, and the only response was an awful crunch. She thought to run, and tried to move her legs, but they were frozen in place. As she turned the crimson maw, filled with dagger-like teeth and fresh flesh, engulfed her vision. She did not even the time to scream before the wolf’s jaws clamped down on her throat, silencing her forever.
A stormy winter night in Whitlin followed, and soon enough the red patches were buried by drifting, white snow. Invisible, as though they never lived at all. Returned in the end to that which made them feel safe, and there was only snow.
Clint Foster
About the Author
Clint Foster published his first novel, Pawns of the Shadow, in 2017. In 2019, he began submitting shorter pieces to anthologies, and in that short time has received 25+ publications, and the list continues to grow. His work can be found in the upcoming and already released anthologies, Love, Hate, Oceans, Apocalypse, Pride, and Lust by Black Hare Press, Fall into Fantasy 2019 by Cloaked Press LLC, Organic Ink Volume 2, and Reign of Queens by Dragon Soul Press, and It Calls From the Forest by Eerie River Publishing. His first professionally published solo piece, the epic poem, The Lay of Thorriman, is set to be published by Dragon Soul Press in September of 2020. He loves telling stories as much as he does reading them, and hopes to create pieces that bring enjoyment and maybe a little terror. He lives with his herd of four cats, beloved Basset Hound, Zero, and wonderful wife, Nik, in Iowa. www.facebook.com/clintfosterauthor
Carhaze
Dale Drake
Benny Matheson turned up the radio, perhaps a little too loud. If Marsha noticed, she didn’t mention it. He was pissed, but trying hard not to show it. This was, after all, a special weekend, and Benny had big plans. He had been dating Marsha for a little over two months now and, apart from a horny almost-tryst on the sofa, he had gotten no further than a wild night fumbling at her bra. His erection had pushed at his jeans like an insane Jack-in-the-box before she had shoved him away, a maddening little laugh chasing him.
Once she had gone home he had masturbated, almost angrily, then gone to bed. His dreams had been no better; she pranced naked as a nymph through his subconscious mind. He had awoken the next day, sandy-headed and more than a little moody. He was just grabbing his first cup of coffee when the phone let out a shrill ring.
“Hold on,” he said, setting down his cup and hurrying across the room. “Just hold your God-damn horses.” He scooped up the phone, growling an ungracious “Yes?” into the line before plonking himself down on a nearby sofa. Marsha’s voice floated through like a soothing balm. Pissed as he was he was still glad to hear from her.
• • •
He
