Free Dawn of the Yeti by Winchester Malone

its own. I dump the still-bubbling water over the wound. The
surrounding flesh turns a beet red, and the crusted blood washes away in thin
torrent. The shot starts to bleed again, but no more than a trickle.
    With the leftover
snow, I hold it to the wound, letting the cold both sooth and seal what’s left.
I examine my work the best I can, but my arm doesn’t bend quite enough for me
to see the damage in full. I figure I’ll live—as long as I can find some
food and get out of here without the Jo-Bran finding me.
    I put the furs
back on, one layer at a time. It surprises me how quickly the smell fades and
becomes a part of me once again. I grab the two remaining cans of food from the
pantry shelves and stuff them into my pouch, grab the gun, open the back door,
and head outside before I have time to second guess myself and just hole up in
the home.
    My family’s voices
call to me as I traipse down the back steps, telling me to stay and that
everything will be alright if I join them. Looking back at the house, I remind
myself that it isn’t mine; it never was or will be. Someone else’s ghosts haunt
the place. My ghosts haunt me—and always will. I’ll carry them with me
until I find a way to silence them, satisfy them of their longing, my longing.
But for the moment, I use their memory to press on, out and away from this
place, their voices, death.
    I keep to the
shadows, trying blend in amongst the blinding white snow as I possibly can.
Every now and again I hear the sounds of gunfire, a few screams, the occasional
growl, but they always sound distant, too far for me to bother with or worry
about. From building to building I travel, hiding behind the larger walls and
piles of rubble, and soon there are no more buildings left for me to use: I’m
at the city’s edge.
    There is only one
place for me to go. The Spire. I know it isn’t the best of places, but I need
food, shelter, and it’s the only place I might find both. Maybe hunker down for
a few days until I can come up with some sort of plan, some way to move on,
find a new pack, survive.
    The only problem
is getting there. I might’ve been able to make it by nightfall if I’d left with
the sunrise, but it’s pushing the middle of the day, the sun almost directly
overhead. As it stands, I’ll have to travel a few hours after nightfall, which
shouldn’t be a problem—as long as no one or no thing sees me on my
journey, which is next to impossible. Even in the daylight, the Jo-Bran should
be able to spot me, a black spot amongst the snow. My only hope is that they
will go after the fleeing Banjankri and leave a lone set of bootprints alone.
    Giving one more
sweep of the land, I don’t notice any of the monsters lurking about. I turn to
run, even take my first few steps when I hear the grunt, a quick huff of breath
that demands my every ounce of attention. My head jerks. A Jo-Bran stands to my
right. I’m just out of his reach.
    I swing the
shotgun around, but I’m too late to fire. He’s already swinging at me. I dive
to the side, firing once in his direction. It explodes across his stubby leg,
causing it to fall with a roar and spray of blood. I try to roll out the way,
but I don’t quite make it in time, his claws raking across my back. A scream
bursts from me as I train the shotgun on the Jo-Bran’s face.
    Click.
    Boom.
    Brains.
    I lie back,
pushing my wounds into the snow, the cold numbing them. They already burn, ten
times as fierce as my arm. Part of me wants to just stay here, give up, and
wait for something else to come over and finish me off. But I can’t, my ghosts
won’t let me.
    Even though it
hurts like hell, I sit back up. Stand. Then run.
    I can feel the
blood trickling down my back, the frigid air entering through the tears and
cooling the rest of my skin. I hope the blood will freeze, close the wounds,
but I doubt it will. It won’t be long—if I’m not already—that my
blood will leave a perfect trail for anyone and anything to