Excerpt
Irma, Thal, and I return to the area of three-story buildings and the big tower. My heart pounds so hard, I almost wonder if others can hear it. My skin turns cold and clammy. I have my bow out, fingers pressing an arrow against the string. Irma and Thal have their bows out also, but don’t look worried. All three of us carry machetes for close combat.

It’s quiet. I see no fires or other signs of people. Nor do I see any animals or edible plants.

We take a pathway off the main road, heading west through a wreckage of pines and sweetgums. Brick buildings are visible here and there through gaps in the trees. Whenever Irma stops to look through her see-far glasses, we strain our ears for sounds of trouble. Just faint wind rustling the treetops and distant crickets, no voices or footsteps.

We come to a section of trees that extend so far to the north, we can’t see through them. Irma puts up a hand and points in that direction. The trees will supply cover to approach the tower, as long as we’re careful not to step on any twigs.

We move slowly and carefully, closer and closer to the unseen tower. I hear leaves rustle to the left, stop and spin to face it. Something dark is creeping toward us. It’s lower to the ground than a human. I put up a hand, then point.

Thal points to the right. Another shape jumps over a log and disappears in the underbrush. We form a tight circle, each covering a third of the woods, bows ready.

I hear growling. A coyote, or a large dog. Dogs are more dangerous because they travel in large packs and coordinate their attacks.

Thal whispers, “Come to me, walking meat.”

A large, dark brown dog—not a coyote—emerges from the shadows in front of me. Ears back, it displays a mouth full of sharp teeth. It barks, low and loud.

All around us, more dogs bark. Then they attack, dashing toward us.

I release my arrow. It hits the big dog in the chest. It yelps and crashes to the ground.

I hear two more yelps. Thal and Irma must have hit also.

Fangs clamp onto my right leg. Another dog, a little shorter and thinner, with tan fur. My deer hide pants are too thick for its teeth to pierce—at least for now.

I sling my bow over my shoulder—can’t afford to lose it—and pull out my machete. The dog tears at my pants, trying to reach the flesh beneath.

I swing the machete down, cutting deep into the dog’s neck, all the way to the spine. Blood spurts out, soaking my tunic. The dog wobbles and collapses, but its teeth are stuck in my pants, and the half-severed head won’t let go. I pry it off with my machete, slicing through the snout in the process.

I hear scuffling and cursing from Thal and Irma, and the yelps of injured dogs. I don’t turn to look; I keep my eyes on my third of the forest.

No more dogs attack, as if they’ve accepted defeat. I risk a glance over my shoulder at Irma. “Are they gone?”

“Yes,” Thal says, “and we have meat for many days.”

An arrow flies through the trees and strikes Thal in the shoulder, passing through his buckskin vest. He stares at it with surprise on his face. I want to scream, but can’t even do that.