Lamb - Alexis DeWitt

              The men think themselves smart, so they bring axes with freshly sharpened iron blades and guns that smell of sulfur and burnt metal; good tools for killing wolves. The Boy stares at one of the axes; one end of the blade is chipped and tainted by rust. To split a wolf’s belly open, one’s blade must be sharp and clean and untainted.

              The largest of the men eyes him. “What are you thinking about, boy?”

              “Nothing,” The Boy answers, turning his eyes towards his feet.

              Largest snorts and presses a heavy hand against The Boy’s head, pushing so firmly he hears the bones in his neck creak. “You’re a bad liar, Boy.”

              When the hand leaves, Largest whistles sharply, and the sound echoes throughout the cold air; this space is where the land divides itself between village and dark woods. The other men quickly gather their things, hoisting knapsacks over shoulders and affixing axes and guns to their belts or backs. The rusted axe is given to Largest, who eyes it with visible disdain and spits in the snow. He shoves it into one of his belt loops, beckons The Boy over, and grabs him by the nape of his neck. 

              “Wolves like tender meat,” he says. “World hasn’t roughened you yet. It’ll be quick. Feast for them and then a feast for us when the beasts are dead and their bellies split open.”

              The Boy bites his tongue and keeps his gaze focused on the woods. There is a long, lonesome howl and the shudder that creeps up his spine settles coldly against his nape where Largest presses his hand. The bigger man squeezes, shakes him once in a too-rough way, and marches them towards the front of the group, stepping over the dividing line that separates man from beast. 

              The mens’ weapons clang together, thumping against backs and thighs, as they traverse deeper. The moonlight grows dimmer and dimmer until the only light is the small flame of a lantern hastily shoved into The Boy’s hands. Largest keeps a firm hand tight on his neck. The Boy provides light, and Largest offers warmth in his thick, foul-smelling coat. The snow crunches beneath their feet. There are ten or so, big strong men with strong weapons. 

              A pack hunting a pack.

              Somewhere, a wolf howls. 

              “If they come, play dead,” Largest offers him. “Maybe if you go limp quick enough the first shake will break your neck and you won’t feel a thing.”

              They follow the invisible snow-laden path for an hour, and The Boy shivers and flexes his fingers against the handle of his lantern to keep from dropping it. The wind blows. Dead branches creak above their heads. One man coughs.

              The lantern’s flame flickers. Largest peers at The Boy. The small thing cowers and turns his head anywhere else.

              A branch snaps.

              A howl.

              A pattering of footsteps.

              The wolves are creeping closer. 

              “Light towards the tree, Boy.” The Boy complies and lifts the lantern. The tree is a snarled, ugly thing with writhing roots that peer through the snow like black worms. There’s a large hollow opening facing them, filled with snow and thorns. “They’ve marked this spot. They’ll come soon enough.”

              “And then?” The Boy asks.

              “And then we kill them.”

              “How many do you think there are?”

              “Too many. Would do us all some good to see some gone. Quit talking, you aren’t needed for that.”

              The Boy digs his boots against the snow. The men wait, guns cocked and axes at the ready, for signs of louder snarling. One man falls asleep where he stands. Another smacks him awake.

              When the wolves do come, The Boy hears them. He finds the tree once more and the hollow space. The lantern’s flame flickers. He waits until he hears them crawl closer, hears their paws crunch snow. 

              A snarl. A low growl. 

              A crack rings through the woods. The man who’d fallen asleep yells out as his shot misses and a wolf clamps its jaws around his neck, dragging him to the ground. Another man yells, and when the sound of iron cutting into flesh reaches his ears, The Boy drops the lantern in his hand. The flame snuffs out and he runs.

              In the dark, he scrambles forward with his hands raised. His fingers skim against cold wood. A bullet cracks against the tree and embeds in the bark. He hauls himself inside. Thorns prick his fingers and the bare skin of his face.

              The Boy’s breaths came shaky and short, visible in the cold air. 

              These men thought themselves smart with fancy axes and expensive guns hauled onto their backs. These men are stupid, however, wandering too close into territory where they believed themselves superior, lacking coordination and sense. 

              Weak-willed and weak-brained predators. 

              Outside, the yelling dies down, and the wolves’ growling ceases. Snow crunches, and the scent of blood is thick. The Boy waits. He will continue to wait until the sun has risen and the wolves are sure to have left, returned to their dens and away from him. Then he will climb from his sanctuary and peel guns and axes from backs and find coins and provisions hidden within pockets. He will follow the path home and sell what he has carried, and his dinner will be hot and filling. These stupid men will rot and the scavengers will gnaw at their bodies, and The Boy will be within the warm with the money peeled from their pockets and sleep in deer skin blankets. 

              For now he waits and tucks his knees close to his chest.