The ground rumbled as though a herd of Mustangs were stampeding down the hill. I twisted my neck.
No wild horses galloped.
The noise was coming from rocks.
Huge rocks.
They smashed against each other as they rolled. Sharp debris rained down on me, whipping my back. I sprang into action just as a large rock skimmed my hind paw. I faltered but recovered my footing fast. Desperation converted to pure adrenaline. As the stones thundered closer, I sprinted, the world blurring green, brown, gray. Thorns and rough bark frayed the pads of my paws, but I kept running
I tried to change course, but a small boulder arced through the blue air and pounded into my spine, shredding my breath. I went down, down…down, rolling over and over. As the world spun out of focus, as up became down and down became up, I thought of the elders and the cruelty of their little game. Were they watching? Were they enjoying my grievous fall?
My mom’s face swam through my mind, eyes as blue as cornflowers, hair fluttering around her face like stalks of wheat caught in a breeze. I drifted in the beauty of the memory, finding comfort in her bright smile, in the low timber of her voice as she spoke my name. As my name transformed and distorted into something else entirely.
A roar.
An inhuman roar that had me snapping my lids. A black shape floated between sky and earth. Another boulder? I blinked, but shards of rock sprayed my face, spoiling my already poor sight. Another roar, more wolf than stone, shook me fully awake.
I dug my claws into the earth, but I wasn’t on soft earth. I was on solid rock. And not just a rock. A Flatiron. Oh God…
From my vantage point, there was no telling how steep the fall. Calling on the last dregs of energy, I channeled all of my weight into my paws, mincing my claws on the searing rock. My muscles screamed as my speed decreased, as my claws were sanded down and my pads ribboned. I was still coming at the edge of the cliff too fast.
Gritting my teeth, I locked my muscles and dug what remained of my filed claws into the rock.
An inch from the edge, I came to a stop. I kept my head down until the rubble stopped walloping my battered body.
Shivering, shuddering, heart pounding against the sun-soaked Flatiron, I waited for silence to replace the pitter-patter of rock. Once it finally draped over the land, I lifted my head and squinted upward at the gritty trail of blood and chalky scratch marks.
I’d survived the fall, but would I survive the rest of this brutal contest?
Ilicked my wounds a long time. It wasn’t as though I could possibly win anymore. Unless another contestant had run into a trap more perilous than mine. I doubted it. The others were surer-footed and more attuned to the land than I was, thanks to the years of experience I lacked.
After a lengthy interlude of self-deprecation, I pressed my battered body up onto my shredded paws. I groaned, feeling as though I weighed a ton more than I had at the start of this godforsaken race. I took a step and whimpered. Another step. Another whimper.
Well, this’ll be fun.
And slow.
I hope you’re all enjoying this, you asswipes, I howled into the inert air.
Running was out of the question. Tripping repeatedly, I hobbled down the grassy sides of the Flatiron then headed back toward the evergreens. At least, at this pathetic speed, I couldn’t possibly run into another trap.
The sun baked my hide as I traipsed clumsily toward the trees. After what felt like a day, I reached the dappled forest. Shadows cooled the bitter heat, and damp moss alleviated the pain that was each step. Moss and shadows could unfortunately do nothing for my sore spine. I wondered, more than once, if the stone that had landed on my back had dislodged a vertebra.
Could I still move with a dislocated vertebra?
I was no doctor, but I guessed my spine must be intact
My breaths were no longer coming in short spurts. They were lengthening like the shadows as the sun dipped a little lower in the sky. I sniffed the air to make sure I was still heading in the right direction. I caught the sweet smell of tobacco and the crisp scent of cedar, but it was muddled by that of blood.
Fresh blood.
I stopped and sniffed my paws. It wasn’t my blood I smelled.
I sniffed again.
Then I followed the tinny trail through the trees, through a shrub of wild roses that layered their sultry perfume over that of the blood. I pushed past them, their thorns snagging in my flesh, and almost tripped on a mound of blond fur.
Matt whipped his head toward me, leveling his green eyes on my face and letting out a low growl. I backed up, but then my gaze snagged on the metal snare jammed around his forepaw.
The jagged trap had bitten into his flesh, revealing bits of white bone and pink sinew. He snapped his teeth at me. I gnashed my own teeth and barked, I didn’t come to gloat. I mean, look at me.
He looked me over. Grasping I wasn’t a threat, he lowered his muzzle to the metal, trying to pry it open with his fangs, but all it did was steep the fur of his face in blood.
I stood motionless for a moment.
I could still win.
The realization fluttered through me as delicately as butterfly wings.
I could leave him behind.
Even if he managed to break free, he wouldn’t be able to beat me with a mangled leg. I turned southward and stared at the green hollow covered in deciduous trees. The race would end somewhere in those woods. I could reach them in minutes-fifteen, twenty at most-and once I found Eric, I could inform him of Matt’s whereabouts.
Low whines lanced through the air.
I closed my eyes.
Matt was crying.
This bear of a man was crying.
There goes winning.
I twisted back to find the brute gnawing on his forearm. Was he planning on chewing off his paw to get out of the trap? It wouldn’t regenerate. We were wolves, not lizards.
I moved back toward him. Stop
A pitiful snarl rose from his reddened muzzle. Go away.
I shook my head then dipped it toward the snare. I’d get no pleasure in winning if I left him behind. The smell of Matt’s blood, of his agony, overwhelmed my senses. I almost retched.
Matt snapped at me with blood-soaked teeth. Growling, I rammed my head into his chest to get him to back off. Stop your yapping, Hulk. I’m trying to help you.
He froze. I placed my paws on either side of the snare and drove my weight down hard on the levers. Besides sending explosive bolts of pain into my bones, it created a thin opening, but failed to release Matt’s paw. I tried again, wincing. Matt must’ve shifted his paw, because when the metal jaw clamped back shut, he let out a low, mournful keening, and fresh blood gushed down his fur.
Don’t move, I grumbled.
He snarled at me. I shot him a look that must’ve translated well because he shut his muzzle. I heaved on my paws again, and again the trap opened, but not wide enough for him to shimmy out. Why the hell did he have to have giant paws anyway?