Survivor’s Instinct

By Lisa Breen

The wolf pack was hunting again. I could sense it in how their ears perked, the subtle way they started to fan out and slink off, taking up their positions perfectly without any audible communication.

Scanning the city streets far below me through my scope, I searched for their prey. Rusted cars rested on cracked concrete, but there was no movement through the shattered and grimy windows. Copses of swaying grass spilled out of unruly flowerbeds lining the sidewalks. A crow perched on a sewer grate, pecking at a small, decomposing animal that was barely more than a mass of fur and dried blood.

There.

A man yanked on the door to an apartment building, similar to the one I was squatting in. It didn’t open, and a panicked expression flitted across his face. His steps quickened as he scurried to the next building. He could feel that something was off, that he needed to find safety, but he didn’t know what from yet.

Not far behind him, a wolf slinked around a tall maple tree, branches brushing a nearby roof missing most of its shingles. It moved with unsettling grace, one paw sliding in front of the other as it navigated the sprawling roots.

I pondered firing a warning shot, but the man already knew to be afraid. The shot would only make him panic and run against his better logic. Everyone still alive knew running was a last resort these days. It meant admitting you were weak, and weakness meant death.

After the rotted door gave in with a shove, whatever he saw in the foyer of the next apartment made him turn right back around. I could imagine the frantic beat of his heart, his quick shallow breaths.

A few of the wolves trotted ahead, blocking the road. One stood quietly in the middle, its brown eyes wise and perceptive.

Finally, the man’s attention caught on the lead wolf, and though I could only see the stiff posture of his back from my vantage point, I knew from experience that his face paled and his stomach dropped, as heavy as a stone sinking to the cold depths of a lake. It was a gut-wrenching feeling I was no stranger to.

The beast’s auburn coat shone in the waning sunlight, and it stood on long, powerful legs. It bared its teeth, fangs pointed and terrible.

The man ran.

I sighed, still tracking him through my scope.

It took less than five seconds for gnashing jaws to close around his ankles, to pull him to the ground. As he beat his fists into any fur-covered flesh he could find, more wolves joined the attack, swarming him. His scream was bloodcurdling, cutting through the empty streets with all the finality of a descending guillotine blade. Alarmed, a trio of pigeons flitted away from their roost on an overhead streetlamp and scattered into the shadows.

For a moment, I thought his eyes met mine through the window, or maybe I imagined it, needing a reason to act on the little humanity I had left.

I pulled the trigger, and his screams cut off abruptly. Withdrawing from the window, I didn’t watch the wolves feast. Unlike long ago, I didn’t mourn the man’s death, or ask myself why I hadn’t shot at the pack to give him a fighting chance.

Instead, I calmly loaded another bullet into the chamber and thought of how it’d be safe to scavenge tomorrow, now that the wolves had full bellies.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lisa Breen is a college engineering student who writes fantasy, sci-fi, and dystopian stories in order to express her creative side and escape from the realities of the no-nonsense STEM world she resides in. She is constantly on the prowl for the adventures she so often reads and writes about.