Johnson, Tyrell - The Wolves of Winter by Johnson Tyrell

Author:Johnson, Tyrell [Johnson, Tyrell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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My eyes opened with a click. I could feel crusties in my eyelashes. I lifted my arm to wipe them away. But no. My arm wouldn’t move. I tried to raise my head to see what the hell was wrong with my arm, but it wouldn’t budge. Okay. This was a problem. I wasn’t strapped down or restrained in any way, at least not that I could feel. I just couldn’t move my limbs.

I looked around. I was in a tent. A small fire was burning on a pan sitting on a plastic foldout table beside whatever I was lying on. The smoke, combined with the wet, muddy ground, made the air feel thick. There was what looked like luggage, boxes, drawers, storage strewn around the room. In the corner was a shelf filled with books, old magazines, and a small, wooden figurine of a man—a mountain climber perched on his heels—the kind that rocks back and forth on the edge but never falls. The ground was cleared of snow, a muddy mess. I figured I was on something like a cot, with blankets over my body. My jacket, gloves, and hat were thrown across the table beside me.

I tried to move again. Focusing. I could turn my head. I could rock back and forth, but not enough to get momentum going. And even if I could, what then? Fall off the cot and land facedown in the mud? Probably not the best idea. But I had to do something. I was starting to panic.

I heard voices outside. Tried to listen but couldn’t make anything out.

Then I heard the sound of the zipper tearing the tent flap.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

The blond woman with the purple wool hat. She hovered over me. She looked taller than me, and pretty, with a small nose and big round eyes. She could rot in hell.

“How’re you feeling?”

I didn’t say anything. She looked me up and down, concern on her face. Made me feel sick.

“Can you move?”

I didn’t move. It was answer enough.

“Sorry, it’s powerful stuff I gave you.”

I glared.

“You do speak English, yes?”

I glared some more.

The corners of her mouth turned slightly upward like they were being pulled by fishhooks. I imagined the hooks jerking back, ripping her cheeks open. “Yeah. You speak English.”

She picked up a case from the floor and set it down on the table. She opened it, put on white gloves, and pulled out a needle. God, not again.

“Don’t worry. I’m just going to take a small vial of blood. No big deal.”

My blood? Why the hell? She took my arm. I was helpless to stop her. It was like when you’re a kid, and your older brother pins you down and dangles a glob of his spit over your face and there’s nothing you can do about it. That feeling of complete helplessness. There’s nothing in the world more frustrating.

She pinched my arm and stabbed it with the needle, and dark red blood filled the capsule. When she

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