Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-51-

In the distance, someone is watching me. I can feel their eyes on me. I can hear their breathing, heavy like they've been running or hiking for a long time.

A heavy mist hangs in the air and coats my skin with moisture. The storm is over and now the air is warm. I struggle to sit up, having forgotten about my predicament. The pain crashes over me and darkness follows in a deafening roar.

When consciousness returns to me, before I open my eyes, I can feel the cool shadow of someone standing over me. They have a gun; I can smell the gunpowder and the steel. I play dead and wait for their move, all the while trying to unravel the clues my nose is giving me.

A male. He smells of clean sweat and wood and smoke. Because he isn't moving I can't tell his size or age. But male, and not a small child. Presumably he was the one who set this trap. I imagine the trap is to catch animals for food, and he must be perplexed to have caught a human, unless the trap is meant to catch trespassers. I am ready to assume the former when he pokes me with the muzzle of the gun.

I roll over and snap at his leg with my teeth. He steps back, although he was out of my reach anyway. I glare up at him and growl. He is a much younger man than I expected. A teenager. He has acne along his jaw line and shaggy blond hair under his red and black checked hunter's cap. It's hard to tell looking up at him, but we might be the same height. Only his eyes, wide with fear, make me think he's younger than I am, maybe fourteen.

"Hey, calm down," he stutters, holding up his hands and point the gun at the sky. "I'm not gonna shoot ya. I thought you was dead, is all."

The pain, or the hunger, must be triggering my temper. All I want to do is maul this kid. I suck a deep breath through my clenched teeth.

"Um... my dad is back at the cabin... um, well, let me try to do this." The boy leans the gun against a tree trunk and hunkers over the steel trap. "This thing got you good, huh?"

I growl.

"All right, then." He grasps the two halves of the steel jaw and pries them apart. "Don't move now, don't wanna slip here. Usually I kill the animals afore I open the traps. Hey, watcha doin' out here, anyhow? There's no trespassin' signs all over. My dad hates trespassers."

I wait until the trap is open and then use both hands to lift my leg out. The steel teeth stick in the muscle of my leg and the boy looks worried as I work myself out. It doesn't help that black spots keep dancing in front of my vision. Once my leg is free and clear he lets down and the trap snaps shut with a metal clang.

"Okay, now, I guess I'll have to bring ya back to the cabin. My dad won't be happy at all, but you're gonna have some trouble walkin' outta here, huh?" He stands over me and offers his hand. "Come on."

I stare at his hand. I don't especially want to go home with this kid or meet his father, but the boy is right. I seethe through my teeth, then take his arm and try to haul myself up. Somewhere about halfway to standing I pass out again.

Next thing I know, I'm sliding along on my back, watching the clouds and tree branches overhead pass by. The reek of dead animal fills my nose no matter which way I turn my head. At first I hear only the sounds of the kid huffing and puffing and the sled runners scraping over the snow. Then I hear a door slam.

"What the fuck is this?" A rough voice, followed by boots crunching through the snow. "What the fuck is this?"

"I found him in one of the traps—" The kid's sentence is cut off by a slap.

I snarl as I try to sit up. "Don't hit him," I growl. I barely recognize my own voice.

The bearded man in the flannel coat turns to look at me. "Are you fucking kidding me?" He strolls over to where I'm lying on a heap of animal carcasses and grabs me by the neck. "You fucking trespass on my land, get your fool self injured, and think you're gonna tell me what to do?" He examines me as he slowly crushes my windpipe. He takes in my secondhand clothes, the hollows in my cheeks, my dirty face. My hands are too cold and can't pry off his grip.