Call of the Wild

1 - The Impact

Running isn't new to me. I've been running all my life. Only this time, I can't stop, or else they'll kill me.

And I would quite like to live, thank you very much.

So I run. And I run.

Jeering, frightening howls and snarls echo around the shadowy woods. Leaves crunch and twigs snap under the thunder of many heavy paws. I dart through foliage, my muscles screaming with strain, and propel myself onwards. Wind rushes in my ears— a howling melody that echoes the morbid symphony of the wolves biting at my heels.

After the storm that dragged on for days, the ground is sodden with thick mud that squelches beneath my paws and sticks to my fur. It makes running a whole lot harder, but at least it will slow the others down, too. Though the sky is black and canopies of leaves choke the moonlight, casting the woods in a cloak of darkness, I can see just fine.

Which, of course, means the others can, too.

My mind is alive with the insistent tug of my pack members currently chasing me to my death. They're scratching at the wall I've shoved up to block them out, and every shred of my concentration is devoted to running and to holding up that flimsy barrier beneath their fury.

The sharp, acrid stench of blood scorches my nose. I sneeze and shake my head in an attempt to dislodge the scent, but to no avail. My snout is crimson and my fur is caked and cracking with sticky, drying blood. The scent isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Not unless I can find a lake or a stream.

Besides, taking an impromptu bath will waste precious moments. Moments I cannot afford to lose.

They're closing in.

I dart through thickets, weave between trees, leap over fallen logs. My smaller size comes in handy — though I'm no match to the strength of the wolves chasing me, their size slows them down whereas mine helps me along — and I dance out of their reach. A rush in the wind.

Howls of rage echo behind me. My ears twitch and I race on with renewed vigour.

My thoughts are burning embers caught in the wind, and I cannot grasp them. Ever since the Call was initiated. Ever since the hunt began. Ever since the chase.

The night — a hunting festival known as the Call of the Wild, where the best of the best challenge one another to catch their prey before the moon reaches its peak — has gone disastrously wrong.

What began as a hunt has descended into chaos. A maelstrom of blood.

Now, I am not just mere prey, racing from my pack to avoid their jeers and claws.

Now, I'm the target of their rage. Racing from a painful death. If they catch me, they won't just win the Call. They won't just win the title of alpha. They'll tear me to pieces to avenge their fallen brother.

Their fallen brother shouldn't have cornered me.

The Call of the Wild is a night where emotions run high. My fear, for example, became a primal urge to defend myself against a wolf that has taunted me for years.

Kain was — was — the bane of my existence. The previous alpha who kept me around as target practice, or as a toy to torment. He had gotten impatient or bored or curious one night last year and tried to make a move on me. He thought the promise of his protection would make it all okay, and when I tucked tail and bolted, he never let me forget it. He ensured I suffered. He made my already miserable life absolute hell.

I returned the favour.

Kain is now dead. Because of me. His blood is drying on my fur.

But I cannot let myself think of what this means. I cannot let my thoughts stray for even a moment. One lapse in my focus and I'm dead.