Alpha

Alpha

The scent of gunpowder is still fresh in the air; the sound of the hunter’s feet crunching on dead leaves and bark is miles away now, far enough where even his weapon can’t reach us. He has a companion today, a smaller companion with softer footfalls and clumsier steps - a pup.

I creep from the underbrush and wait. The edges of the clearing are empty; I hear running water from the stream just below the crest of the hill, pine needles falling from the towering hemlocks, and the hunter’s ever-distant footsteps. I see nothing but white snow, gray trees,and black rocks. But the hunter is the trees. The hunter is the snow. The hunter is everywhere. I pad towards the dead carcass; longing to lick the dark pool staining the white snow just beneath the neck. I survey its pale, marbled skin and its massive body, more than ten of us in size, and lament its missing coat, its scarce meat. Even you could not live, old friend.

My pups tumble out of the forest behind me and race to the carcass, eagerly tearing at its bare legs, some of their teeth still too weak to break into the bone. The yearlings skulk along the perimeter of the clearing, their heads held low and their nostrils busy sniffing at the air. One of them stops and lifts his left against a rock. I nudge the little ones towards the areas with the most meat and retire to the pool of blood, eagerly lapping it into my mouth; I thirst for meat, but the pups need it more than I do. Their fur is so thin, and their ribs so frail. We were six, and now we are only five.  

But their hunger doesn’t stop them from romping around the carcass. They mouth each others’ muzzles and nip at each others heels, playfully fighting over the carcass’ hind parts and somersaulting over the hard, icy snow. The biggest of the pups, almost a year grown now, perks his head up and attempts a howl - it begins strong but tails off into a stream of yelps. I walk over to lick her face.

But then - a bark from one of the yearlings. I turn to find him sprinting for the woods, still barking. I sense a flash of movement amidst the bare trees in the woods, opposite from whence the hunter and his pup left. I turn to flee, knowing that my pups will follow, but it’s too late.

The gunshot cracks the air in two. I hear her fall to the ground, whimpering. I turn back, against every instinct and every pang of fear, I turn back for her, because they cannot take another from me. I turn back because I am the alpha.

I grab her by the nape of the neck, just as another shot sounds, and sprint for the woods, weaving and lunging and panting, jets of snow spraying at my paws with each new wild gunshot. With every shot, my ears flick back against my head from fear. I keep waiting for the shots to cease, but they just keep coming; I hear them whizzing by, sporadically ricocheting off distant trees and exploding into sidelong snowbanks.

We break into the woods and I see the others around me, gray blurs weaving between tree trunks. We run until we reach the den. How did they sneak up on us?

The Hunter’s Pup

“We had them fooled.” He keeps saying that, again and again; first to my face, then to himself under his breath, and then to the trees.

“God damn it. We had them fooled and you missed the shot.” He’s yelling now; the trees are no longer a suitable audience. “I told you. What did I tell you? I told you, one shot - one steady shot. And how many shots do you take?”

I don’t answer.

“How many shots do you take? It must’ve been ten shots. And you missed every time.”

“I didn’t miss.” Im glad I’m walking in front, because my face is as red as the moose’s blood in the snow. “I hit it.”

He grabs me by my hood and rips me backward onto the hard snow. Before I know it, he’s on top of me, his massive knee pressing down on my chest, forcing my air to flee from my lungs. He brings his face close to mine. I can smell the pine on his breath.

“No kill - no hit.” The words seem to hang in the little bit of air between our faces, rank and imposing. He grabs my collar and yanks me forward. “Say it with me.”

“No kill - no hit,” I sound off in a hoarse whisper. He shoves my head back onto the ground and gets up. “Get your hood,” he barks.

I look at him confused for a moment, then realize the wind biting at my ears. I turn around to find my hood on the ground, a ripped piece of deep red fabric. Red on white snow, just like the wolf pup’s blood. I’m glad I missed. I hope that wolf lives and kills you one day. I don’t dare say it out loud.