Winter Study

“No.”

Maybe it would be good for Robin to keep working, keep moving, so A

The wind stopped, the trees ceased their muttering and silence as cold and deep as an ice cave poured down. Into that silence came the sound A

Whether a curious moose, a band of squirrels or a slavering wog was with them, they couldn’t stay where they were. Ridley and Bob were already out of sight. Without light, Ridley couldn’t come back to help them; all he could do was follow Bob’s flashlight the way a lost ship follows the flashing of a buoy. Shaking her head to clear it, A

Without a word, Robin put her weight behind the harness and pulled. From her kneeling position, A

A

“Hold up. You’re killing me.”

The light stopped. A

She laughed shortly, and the bark of sound made the ensuing silence deeper. Through the thick, black quiet came the distinct crack of a twig snapping and a swish as of a tail sweeping over the snow. Not squirrels; two ounces of rodent didn’t snap twigs. Not a moose; moose were not subtle creatures.

“Stop it!” Robin screamed. A

The biotech, so seemingly strong and untiring, was breaking apart. Delayed reaction, A

“It’s okay,” A

“Let’s go. It’s nothing. The wind plays tricks.”

“It isn’t nothing,” Robin hissed at her. “It’s not fucking nothing!” she yelled at the dark. She began thrusting the flashlight beam into the trees, stabbing, as evil Nazis did with bayonets into haystacks in old movies.

A

Robin’s tears metastasized; she sobbed, snot ru

“Pull,” A

Through thick down gloves, A

“Ridley!” A

There was no answer. Like a will-o’-the-wisp, Bob’s stolen light had led Ridley astray. Ahead was only darkness and silence.

“Fuck them,” she said cheerily. “We’re better off without them.” She squeezed Robin’s hand in what she hoped was a reassuring ma

For twenty minutes, they labored on without speaking. Twice the Sked caught on downed tree limbs and twice A

The howl of a wolf ululated through the frigid night, leaving not a ripple; a round, perfect sound that too many stories and too many movies imbued with the absolute distillation of terror. A

In the falling-apart arena, Robin beat her to the punch. She dropped like a stone, gloved hands over her ears, knees up under her chin, then rolled over into the fetal position. The flashlight hit the snow and disappeared into the powder, leaving only a glow where it had gone under.

A

The howl came again. This time it had a sorrowful, almost questioning tone. A

“Wolves won’t hurt you,” A

“Come on,” she said, changing tactics. “Up. Get up. We’re moving.” She uncurled Robin and forced her hands away from her ears.

“Stand while I untangle you.”

When the harness and the pull ropes were straight, A

Robin didn’t budge. She turned her head as if she heard something besides the howling, a call from the woods that was above the frequencies humans could hear. For a long time, she stood, staring, and a cold more severe than winter crept deep past A

“We’ve got to go.” She’d meant to say the words in a normal way, a comforting, leaving-the-mall-before-traffic kind of way. What came out was a squeak that would have emasculated the tiniest vole. She said it again and had a better result.