Taking a look at the direction of the rising sun, I oriented my path and set off. If you're wondering why I didn't use a compass, I'll tell you: a compass can go wrong here, twisted by the magnetic anomalies of the mountains and the sheer volume of metal in the earth. But the sun will not be rising from anywhere other than the East.
I walked for about six grueling hours. The blizzard, thankfully, had begun to subside, the howling winds lessening to a mournful sigh. When the snow finally let up enough to see more than a few feet in front of me, I unfolded the stretcher on a relatively flat expanse of snow and allowed myself to rest for two hours, replenishing my energy with food and water from my thermal bottle. Then, I continued my relentless trek.
Two hours later, just as the landscape started to shift, hinting at the approach of a more defined terrain, I heard it: the guttural, chilling howl of wolves. My blood ran cold, but a surge of grim determination propelled me forward. I recognized the sound, a primal echo of Danny's desperate tale. Danny said he and his mother were chased by a pack of wolves and she stayed behind so that he could get away.
I sprinted towards the sound, the snow crunching under my hurried boots. Ten minutes later, I reached the location. Three wolves, their fur matted with snow and blood, were snarling, tearing at a bloodied, fallen person, who could do nothing more than weakly cover their face with an arm. The sight sent a jolt of recognition and fierce protectiveness through me. That probably is Heather Rand. Danny's mother.
I quickly dropped everything else—my bag, the stretcher—and gripped the army knife in my hand. Its cold hilt felt strangely comforting, a small anchor of steel against the rising tide of fear. Without hesitation, I rushed towards the horrific scene, a small, yet fiercely determined, defender against the ravenous pack. As I got closer, a better, more horrifying look confirmed my suspicions. Heather Rand was barely conscious, her winter coat ripped to shreds, revealing raw, red bite marks that marred her legs and arms. Blood, stark against the pristine white snow, seeped from numerous wounds, and I realized, with a sickening lurch in my stomach, that I had to be fast. Every second was precious.
The wolves, alerted by my sudden approach, snapped their heads up, their predatory eyes, cold and calculating, locking onto my small form. One of them, a large grey male with a particularly vicious snarl, immediately sprang at me, a blur of muscle and teeth. I didn't meet its charge head-on. Instead, I slid expertly under its lunge, a move honed from years of rigorous training in my past life. As I passed beneath its belly, I thrust upward with the knife, leaving a slight, shallow gash on its soft underside. It yelped, a surprised, pained sound.
Seeing their companion injured, the other two wolves, a sleek female and a younger male, snarled, their eyes glinting with renewed aggression. They advanced together, flanking me. Now, I was faced with all three of them simultaneously, their growls a menacing symphony in the biting wind. A few seconds into the chaotic, desperate dance, a sharp claw from the female nearly raked my eye, forcing me to duck, feeling the wind of its strike dangerously close to my face.
I quickly realized my fighting method was fundamentally wrong. My body, that of an eight-year-old, couldn't absorb their sheer momentum or shrug off their brute force like my adult memories might have suggested. I was too light, too small to directly counter their powerful attacks. Instead of fighting head-on, trying to meet their power with my own, I shifted tactics entirely. I used my small size and agility to my immense advantage, darting in and out, a blur of motion in the snow. Whenever they pounced on me, I evaded, leaving quick, precise injuries on their limbs, targeting their legs and shoulders, anything to slow them down, to reduce their deadly speed.
It took me about ten brutal minutes, each second an eternity of dodging, stabbing, and narrowly escaping gnashing jaws, to reduce their mobility to acceptable levels. But I was also getting visibly tired, my breath coming in ragged, painful gasps, my muscles screaming in protest. The first one to fall, whimpering faintly, was the one I had injured initially, its leg now useless. As the female wolf, desperate and enraged, pounced on me again, its teeth snapping for my throat, I went down on one knee. I used my left arm to block the attack, feeling the searing pain as its teeth grazed my forearm, but it bought me the crucial second I needed. With a guttural cry, I plunged the knife deep into its ribs with my right hand. The wolf shrieked, a terrible, dying sound, collapsing into the bloody snow. However, my knife got stuck for a crucial moment in its thick fur and bone, which gave the last, desperate wolf a chance. It lunged, sinking its fangs into my left shoulder with a tearing rip. I roared, a raw, almost animalistic sound of pain and fury, pulling the knife free with a desperate yank and quickly dispatching it with a swift, brutal thrust to its neck.
It almost had my neck there, I thought, a cold shiver running through me as I felt the sudden warmth of fresh blood seeping into my coat, soaking through my thick layers. I collapsed onto my knees, covered in sweat, blood, and snow, breathing heavily. I suffered from nasty, deep scratches on both legs and arms, and a deep, throbbing bite wound on my left shoulder, radiating agony. After making sure I would live for now, forcing myself to push past the searing pain, I quickly stumbled over to Heather Rand, Danny's mother, and checked her condition. She was still alive, in a truly terrible state, barely clinging to consciousness yet alive.