Free Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller by Deborah Rogers Page A

den. I forget the pain and the soreness, the discomfort and the cold. I think only of the possible food and how I can get it. The wolves might be more physically powerful than me, especially in a pack, but I can outthink them. I am the one with the human brain.
    For an entire day I watch them, careful to keep myself downwind. I arm myself with rocks should they come after me. But they never notice I’m there.
    They have no set routine and stick close to the cave. The alpha takes prime spot on top of a flat rock to bask in the weak autumn sun. The others rest under trees or occasionally roughhouse in the dirt. In total, I count seven wolves, including a mother with two rubber-limbed teenagers, whom she is forever kicking away from her drooping teats. There’s also an outcast of sorts, a male with a withered hind leg, who skips around the fringes of the pack in a curious lopsided gait.
    Twice the pack goes out to hunt. Twice they return with nothing. Then late in the afternoon on the second day, one of the smaller wolves drags a mauled carcass of a bighorn sheep back into camp. The others gather, and I watch from a distance, salivating, as they tear into the meat.
    When I come back the next day, the sheep remains are gone, most probably dragged into the den for safekeeping. I sit there in the bushes wondering what to do. I lift my hand. It’s as bony as a bat’s wing. This is my third day without food. The plums are a distant memory, and the little water I’ve managed to harvest will not keep me going much longer. I need to carry on south as I had planned. That sheep meat would give me the strength I need to make the journey. I just have to work out how to get it.
    The next day my luck turns. Just before sunrise I hear howls. I rush from my shelter to the den. When I get there, the wolves are all gone. I’m not sure why—whether some prey has been spotted or another pack is threatening their territory. Whatever the reason, I need to hurry because there’s no telling when they’ll be back.
    In the dim light, I cross the camp and reach the entrance of the den, pausing there to check over my shoulder. I crouch down and go inside. The first thing to hit me is the odor. Pungent, fatty, like meat left too long, mixed with a ripe canine scent. I wait for my watering eyes to adjust to the dark. But with the sun yet to rise, it’s difficult to see anything. From what I can tell, the den is more dugout than cave, with the wolves burrowing further back into the side of the hill.
    Unable to stand, I duck-walk a few steps and find myself in total blackness and am forced to poke blindly at things with my fingers. I touch a pile of something, grab two handfuls and pull them out into the emerging daylight. Sticks and bones, old, all shapes and sizes, with the odd patch of fur that could belong to a rabbit, rat, or raccoon. But no meat.
    On my knees, I venture in further than before, patting the cool dirt ground as I go. The space gets tight and my shoulders brush against the curved, hard earth. Reaching, I feel out the little wall coves the wolves have excavated.
    The smell of meat becomes overwhelming. I’m close. But abruptly I come up against the end of the den and can’t go any further. I pause. It has to be here somewhere—the odor is just too strong. My hand hovers across the ground, fully expecting to knock into the carcass, but I can’t find anything. I feel out the back wall, thinking maybe I missed a cove. That’s when I lose my arm in a hole. A tunnel really.
    I look over my shoulder. By now a bulb of light glows at the entrance. If they find me in here I’m as good as dead.
    I face the tunnel. It’s pitch black and tiny and I won’t be able to turn around but what choice do I have? I need food.
    I lie down on my front and snake through the opening on my belly. My arms extended out front, I reach into the darkness. Something runs over my spine and I bang my head on the ceiling. I should turn back. Get the hell out