The Keeper of Wolves

Prologue

Morten was running.

He didn't know where he was running to. Or what he was running from. But he was running.

They'd come in the middle of the night. No one ever saw them or heard them. Survivors only existed because people awoke to the sounds of others screaming. Morten had bedded down with his small band in a ruined building in what used to be Chicago and settled in for the night, with Thomas taking the first watch. Major cities were the best and worst place to be, as they well knew: there were more resources, and more people. Both could be boon or bust. They came and went from this place often, though, with little to no sign of the beasts that had suddenly erupted from seemingly nowhere only three years ago and driven humanity back to the wilderness where some might argue they belonged.

His heart raced from nerves and exertion. His lungs pulled heavily to keep up with his pulse. His legs and chest alike burned. Stray vines and branches hanging off or out of buildings whipped his face. His unshaven cheeks offered a meager protection, but the sting was acute nonetheless. Morten hauled faster, harder, hearing the telltale shrieks behind him that meant that the beasts had caught up. But the city limits were approaching, and he had no idea what lie beyond.

The stitch in his side was growing, becoming more painful by the second, but still, Morten pressed on. The crumbled halves of buildings that stood on the outskirts of town were whizzing by as he pelted down the cracked and buckled street; the freeze-thaw cycle that would have normally destroyed the road before had been replaced by the ground-shattering earthquakes that had taken over the entire continent. Most people had abandoned the coasts long ago in favor of ground that was less liable to break off and drift away into the sea forevermore. The dense forests and raging rivers were easier to navigate.

Still, Morten balked slightly as the trees began to come into view. A lightless chasm of pitch directly ahead of him, the road swallowed by writhing, twisting roots and the stars and moon blotted out by a thick canopy of branches, Morten wondered for a moment if he would be better off taking his chances hiding here, alone, as opposed to plunging into the unknown. But one look around dashed his hope: these buildings were all at least half demolished, many more so. He was alone, and he had nothing with which to defend himself. He had no idea what had become of his comrades. It was forward, or backward, and he refused to willingly walk into the mouths of the monsters that had sprung to life from nightmares and claimed so many.

One good thing about entering the forest, Morten noted almost immediately, was that it was nearly impossible to run in. Between the lack of light and the severely unstable footing, he was forced to slow to a walk, still breathing heavily, as he picked his way through the trees. Haphazardly at first, hands thrown wide and feeling for any trunk or branch or boulder he was about to run into, Morten gradually slowed his advance from a frantic scramble to a more cautious pace. Now that his breathing and heartbeat weren't so loud, Morten could hear the world around him, and was disturbed to realize that he could in fact hear nothing at all. Pulse quickening slightly again, but unwilling to race again, Morten swallowed against his terribly-dry mouth and pressed onward.

The silence quickly became deafening and oppressive. Ever since nearly half the world's population had perished in what many now called the mass extinction, Morten had had to learn to deal with the quiet. But this...this was uncanny. The silence was so total and so absolute and so all-encompassing that it felt tangible. Like a blanket wrapped around him, pressing in tightly and heavily on all sides. Shivering slightly as his sweat-drenched body began to cool, Morten forged onward, hoping for a sign.

He received none. In the end, his hands and arms and face were scratched and bloody, his feet were sore, his legs were aching, and he would have gladly killed for a drink. But the gentle burble of water never reached his ears, and the wheel of stars passed by overhead entirely unseen. Time ceased to exist, measured only in his growing misery. Once the immediate danger had passed, Morten began to wonder who else had escaped. Thomas, Evan, Marcus, Anna, and Talia were all smart, quick, fit, and had survived for as long as they had because they possessed all of these qualities plus a grit and will to live that others did not, but these terrifying beasts were a force unknown save for the dire whispers that reached them on the wind. And once they'd been separated...

Morose, Morten flopped down when he felt a large rock brush past him at about hip height. Slightly taller than average, well-muscled but not overly so, Morten raised a strong hand to push his longer, slightly-waved salt-and-pepper hair from his face as he sat, and then put his stubbled chin in his hand and let his face simply slide down his palm, only remembering that he had cut himself more than once when his skin shrieked in protest and the renewed slick of blood welled forth. Groaning, Morten sat up slightly, shook his hand in an effort to dispel any stray drops, and blotted it once on the stone.

He had just enough time to register the spine-tingling growl before he instantly blacked out.