Amarok (9 page)

The gentle images faded, and he slipped back into the brutal reality of agonizing death.

Emma clenched her jaw.
No! She wouldn’t let this happen!
She whipped her head around, searching the cabin for a weapon. A club, a knife… anything! Finally, she spotted the stock of a gun sticking out from under a saggy twin bed. She ran, dropped to her knees and pulled it out. She clutched the beat-up rifle, flung the door open, fired, and missed.

The kick of the gun smashed into her shoulder, and with a yelp Emma flew backward onto the floorboards. The rifle spun away from her hands and rattled across the floor. Emma scrambled for the firearm, set it against her shoulder, and winced. She knew it would bruise, but she didn’t care. She pulled the trigger again and shut her eyes, but nothing happened. She screamed in anger and pulled the trigger again. The grizzly heard her cry, lifted its giant head, and sniffed. With a roar, the bear left Amarok in a bloody heap and charged. Emma rushed to bar the door, but then spotted a lever sticking out the side of the gun. An image of her stepfather, Stan, flashed into her mind.
What did he do when he shot at gophers?
It suddenly came to her. She slapped up the lever and it knocked the bolt loose. Emma pulled it back and slammed it forward. With a click it locked down, and she pointed it back at the beast. The ground shook beneath her as the massive grizzly neared. She squeezed the trigger again, and this time it fired. The sound cracked across the space between them and landed somewhere in the bear’s neck. The grizzly slid to a stop, shook its head, and staggered away into the brush.

Emma kept the gun raised and crept to Amarok. A rustling came from the brush behind her. She whirled around, her heart battering against her ribcage. She stared into the woods, searching. Tree limbs shook. Emma held her breath, fighting the urge to disconnect, to escape the suffocating terror. She focused on Amarok while she inched forward, keeping the gun raised. Her throat went dry, her breath suspended. How many bullets did she have left? Emma glanced at the cabin, and then to the spot where the grizzly had retreated. If it returned, she’d never make it to safety in time.

She reached down, snatched Amarok’s collar and pulled him toward the cabin, all the while on the lookout for the bear. She strained under the dead weight and cringed, thinking how it must pain him to be dragged across the ground while so badly wounded. Sweat poured down her face by the time she reached the cabin. She hauled Amarok inside, bolted the door, and dragged him next to the cold hearth. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes remained cold and fixed.

Emma’s tears fell onto his blood-soaked fur, and he shivered beneath her touch. “Please, Amarok. Please don’t die. I need you.” Sadness strangled her throat. “I’ll get you warm, then I’ll fix those wounds. Everything will be okay. It has to.”

She rushed to the fireplace, grabbed a handful of dried twigs from the metal box next to the hearth, and tossed a log on top. Emma ran her fingers over the mantle and found a book of matches. Her hands shook as she struck a match against the strip on the side of the booklet. She held it to the twigs and watched the yellow flame catch and dance over the dry wood. The small fire simmered into a roaring blaze. Emma scanned the filthy interior, doubting she’d find anything resembling disinfectant to clean Amarok’s wounds. The whole cabin stood in disarray. Rough-cut timber made up the floor; two chairs carved from logs sat near the hearth. A table covered in hides, a ratty twin bed, and an old army chest were crammed into a corner.

A small kitchen contained a rusty woodstove, basin, and hand pump. Emma rushed to the sink, pumped water into a bucket, and grabbed a dirty hand towel. She rinsed the cloth until the water ran clear, and knelt at Amarok’s side.

Deep gashes and puncture wounds from Suka’s teeth covered his side. Blood. So much blood. She wiped away the dirt and grime, and with it came chunks of flesh and fur. The more she wiped, the more hair he lost from his ragged coat.

She could tend to the deepest of cuts on her own body, but it broke her heart to see them riddled across Amarok’s brittle frame. Why did this have to happen? She gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes at the ceiling. Why did she have to suffer one more loss in her life? Emma hated death, the finality of it all—no second chances. The helplessness. She barely clung to the ledge of sanity and if Amarok died, she’d let herself fall, spiral away into an endless sleep.

Emma returned to the sink, rinsing out the bloody rags. She eyed a large butcher knife resting near the sink and longed to run the blade across her skin, to release the utter panic filling her head, burning through her body. A physical wound was something she could treat, tend to, and control. But no matter how she tried, she couldn’t fix the pain and worry welling up inside, an unreachable suffering. Emma picked up the knife. The blade glinted in the shadowy light. Such a nice, sharp edge—it would make a long, thin cut. She gently slipped the dull side across her wrist and closed her eyes, savoring the feel of the cool, crisp steel against her fevered skin. Her eyes snapped open and she tossed the knife onto the kitchen table. What was she thinking? Cutting only brought more despair.

Amarok lay in a daze, his body riddled with misery so great he could hardly breathe. Although weak from loss of blood, his heart still pumped with triumph. He had done it. He had saved the girl, and somehow she’d managed to save him as well, even though it wouldn’t be for long. Every bone ached, many seemed broken, and as his brain swelled, his vision blurred even more.

His spine went rigid as thoughts of Suka tormented him. The bear would be back, and then who would protect the girl? He knew she would never find the cache where Weasel Tail hid his supplies and ammunition. Without food or a way to protect herself, how would she ever make it out alive? The troublesome thoughts heightened the agony coursing through his ruined body. At least she was alive, for now, and he was grateful.

Amarok forced himself to relax, letting the pain envelop him, praying death would be swift, relieve him of the terrible burden. He also prayed for the girl’s safety, for the Great Spirit to protect her on her journey down the mountain to freedom.

The girl’s soft hands touched his battered body, and his raw nerves fired like lightning growling from the sky. She ran her hand over his nose and he licked her fingers. The girl began to cry, and her whimpering hurt his heart as much as the wounds searing across his flesh hurt his body.

Death
, he whispered silently,
please come swiftly
.

Emma cleaned the rest of Amarok’s wounds and searched for something to bandage them with. She knew it would do little good—his injuries were too great—but she refused to give in, to let him slip away. She watched his chest heave, his breathing rapid. Her gut twisted at the sacrifice he’d made for her. In one selfless act, this kind and beautiful creature had given his own life to save hers, and suddenly she felt ashamed. Shame for all the times she’d so carelessly stalked death, walking close to the edge. Amarok had done nothing when the bear attacked the man, but when it had turned on her, he hadn’t even hesitated. More tears came, which surprised her. She didn’t think she had any moisture left.

Emma got to her feet and searched the grimy kitchen. She eyed the chest near the foot of the rumpled bed. Racing to it, she flipped open the lid to find a dusty stack of sheets. She started to pull them out, but felt hard, square objects wrapped inside. She unwrapped them to find black and white pictures in glass frames. She set them aside and hurried to Amarok. She didn’t have time to look at them now. Emma shook the dust from the linens, tore them into strips, and knelt to wrap his wounds.

She carefully bound the cloth around his bloodied body. So many injuries covered his wounded frame, she might as well cover him in one giant sheet. When she was done, she noticed his breathing seemed shallower.

“No, please, Amarok,” Emma whispered. “Live for me, as selfish as it sounds.” She sobbed. “I need you.”

She ran her hand over his broad head. She would give anything to feel him gently nudge her, or give her a playful nip as he had done so many times on the trail, pressing her onward, giving her hope—a reason for her to exist in the darkness.

Cold emptiness filled Emma’s heart. Her eyes strayed to the knife on the kitchen table. The sharp edge glinted seductively. She looked away, fighting the addiction to cut as the pain of withdrawal stabbed at her insides.

Emma shivered and glanced at the fireplace. Her heart lifted. The flames had gone out and with that came a task, something she could do to make things better. She would keep the fire stoked and the heat would heal Amarok. Everything would be okay and together they’d walk down the mountain. She’d even take him to California with her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew it wasn’t true, that he probably wouldn’t make it, but she wouldn’t allow the terrible thought to fully surface. Emma added more wood and stoked the fire into an energetic blaze.

Amarok lay very still. She grabbed a blanket from the bed and draped it over him. Emma examined the rest of the room and shuddered. She couldn’t imagine living in such a dump. Who was this guy? And why had he kidnapped her? Was it just some random act of a madman? She returned to the trunk; crudely carved into the lid was a name, “Ryan.” A first or last name? Emma sorted through the photographs, searching for answers. A wolf—one with identical markings to Amarok—was in many of them. Beside the wolf stood a man holding up some kind of ivory carving on a long leather cord. The man gleamed in the pictures, while the wolf cowered.

She took the photos to the window for better light. Sure enough, the wolf featured had white tips on the ends of its tail and forelegs and wore an identical collar. Maybe it was one of Amarok’s ancestors. In the background, perched in a stand of trees, was the blurry outline of a great bird—an owl.

A bloody hand bashed against the window. Emma screamed and dropped the pictures to the floor. The hand banged on the glass again. She peered through the window and saw her captor, lying under the windowsill in a pool of blood.
Why wasn’t he dead?

“Help me,” he growled through the glass.

“No!”

He kept banging until the panes shook. The man pulled himself up until his mangled face pressed against the window, his eyes fixed on Amarok. He held up an ivory object on a leather cord, leered at Emma with blood-encrusted teeth and squeezed it. Amarok let out a strangled cry, kicking his legs as if trying to escape some kind of suffocating pain. The man released the object and all was quiet again.

“Help me or I’ll kill him.”

“Never!” Emma roared.

The man squeezed the object again, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Amarok let out another weak cry and his chest heaved.

“What are you doing to him?”

“Get me inside or I’ll kill him,” the man gasped.

Emma hesitated and he wrapped his fingers around the object again.

“NO! Don’t!”

Her mind raced. How could an object have so much control over Amarok? Could it be some kind of shock collar? Whatever it was—she had to get the object away from him. Emma went to the door, gun in hand. She could just shoot him and then take the object. Her chest constricted, and then suddenly deflated. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t intentionally kill someone. Her mind drifted to her mother with that sudden realization. Yes, it was true. She had snuck out the night of her mother’s accident, but she hadn’t meant for her mother to die. She was no killer.