Cut

Dogs

Since we've reached the lowlands, my senses are pricked. Runner trudges on as if all is normal, but that doesn't make me any less nervous. I've never seen land as flat as this. When the sun is hiding behind a thick blanket of clouds — which it does most of the day — I have no clue where I am and where we are heading. I've always known where's north and where's south. The mountains told me. Here, the featureless surface melts into a featureless sky. I can't even tell where the horizon is in all this white. But the worst is that there's no place to hide.

Suddenly, Runner's stride stiffens and I lift my eyes. Dark shapes trail through the white — a line of dots that are growing larger. We stop simultaneously. He curses and breaks into run, his breath, sharp clouds of fear. I follow with a feeling of rising panic.

'We'll separate,' he huffs.

'Dogs.'

'Yes.'

I don't know where to turn. We're on a perfectly flat and white platter. The next tree line is several kilometres away, stuck to the horizon. We are trapped by vastness and a bunch of hungry beasts. I feel my heart hopping in my chest. It wants to flee and so do I.

I almost bump into Runner when he stops. He flings his rucksack from his back, takes ammunition from a front pocket, yanks his snow goggles off, and the next thing he does makes me want to retch.

He pushes buttons on his SatPad, logs in, and speaks into the machine. 'I give operating rights to...' Then he holds it in my face.

'Fuck you!'

'Operating rights to fuck you, please acknowledge,' the machine squeaks.

'Acknowledged,' he says and turns to me. 'You know how to operate both.' He holds out the SatPad and the FireScope.

I grip the straps of my backpack harder.

'No time for discussions, Micka,' he warns.

'We have a rifle. We can shoot the dogs.'

'You probably haven't counted them.'

I focus at the approaching animals and count — more than sixty. They are fast. No time to think. He throws both machines into the snow, yanks the rifle around, and points the barrel at my stomach.

'I will not hesitate to shoot you. An abdominal wound bleeds and makes you writhe in pain, enough to let the dogs go crazy about you. It's either you or me serving as bait. Choose.'

I grind my teeth. 'I'll need my air rifle if you don't want me to starve to death.'

Without blinking, he takes the weapon from his backpack and hands it to me. I sling it over my shoulder, pick up the SatPad, the FireScope, a box of pellets, and march off without a word.

I keep my head slightly cocked to listen to him shuffling his rucksack around, the clinking of the bullets in the box — ready to reload his rifle quickly.

What a fuckuppery. There's no elevation, not even a shrub I could pretend to climb. I run a wide arch until I come to a halt perpendicular to an imaginary line between Runner and the pack.

I throw my ruck into the snow, put the machines and the box with the pellets on top of it, take off my snow goggles, then stretch my tense shoulders. Runner aims his weapon in my direction. 'No, Micka!'

'I can shoot your right eye out!' I yell at him. When I take aim, he drops his arm and swings around. We both point at the approaching dogs.

Within seconds, they enter his shooting range and Runner goes wild. He shoots twice, reloads, shoots twice, reloads. His hands are a blur of action. I've never seen anyone kill that fast.