The Sound of the Axe

The hit came from nowhere. A wall of solid mass, not ice, not rock, but something alive and heavy. It slammed into Rory’s side, a dull thump that vibrated through bone, then a screech of metal on frozen ground. The air left his lungs in a rush, a wheezing choke. He didn’t even see it, just felt the brutal, sudden impact, the ground rising up to meet him. Snow exploded around him, a blinding white cloud, bitter cold in his mouth and nose.

He landed hard. His head cracked back, not against the ground, but something softer, then harder. A pack. Sage’s pack? His vision swam, a messy kaleidoscope of black spots and the stark white of the snow. His ears rang, a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else. Pain flared in his ribs, a deep ache that promised more later. Right now, it was just a dull throb, a signal he was still in one piece.

“Sage?” The word was a whisper, raspy. He couldn’t hear it over the ringing. He pushed himself up, an arm flailing, sinking into the deep snow. His gloves were useless, soaked through. The cold instantly bit at his fingers. He pulled the hand back, gritting his teeth. Get up. Get up. His legs felt like wet rope.

He rolled onto his stomach, pushing with his elbows. His good side screamed, a sharp, angry protest from his hip. He ignored it. Had to. The wind, which had been a constant companion for days, now felt like a personal enemy, whipping snow into his eyes. He coughed, a dry, painful sound that scraped his throat raw.

Movement. A shadow, huge and dark, against the already dull, gray light of the winter sky. It moved fast, a blur of something massive. It wasn’t a deer. Not a bear. This was bigger, faster. And it had a shape. A hard, angular shape to its bulk. Like it was made of broken things. He scrambled, trying to get to his feet, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick, frozen earth beneath the fresh powder.

“Sage!” He tried again, louder this time. His voice cracked. The ringing in his ears hadn’t faded. He finally got his knees under him, swaying. His head spun. He gripped the heavy fabric of his coat, pulling himself upright, one painful inch at a time. His vision cleared, just enough.

Sage. She was down. Not far. Maybe ten feet away. A dark lump in the snow, half-buried. Her hat had come off, her dark hair a messy tangle against the white. Her pack was ripped open, gear spilling out – a half-eaten jerky stick, some kind of small tool, a roll of twine. A single, dark boot stuck out at an unnatural angle. Something was wrong.

Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the pain. Rory stumbled forward, a clumsy, lurching run. Each step sent a fresh jolt through his ribs. He felt the cold in his lungs, burning. The air was thin up here, always was. Now, it felt like trying to breathe through a wet cloth.

He reached her, dropping to his knees. “Sage? You okay?” He slapped her face lightly. Nothing. Her skin was pale, almost gray. A thin line of red ran from her hairline, disappearing into the snow. Not good. Not good at all.

The metallic scent in the air. He realized what it was. Blood. His own? Hers? Both? He pulled off his glove, pressing his bare palm against her neck. A pulse. Weak. But there. His breath hitched, a small, involuntary sob. He had to move her. Had to get her somewhere safe. But where? What was safe in this frozen hell?

He looked around, squinting through the swirling snow. The creature was gone. Vanished. Just a faint, wide track in the fresh snow, leading off into the dense, dark trees. No. Not gone. Just out of sight. It was hunting them. Waiting. He could feel it. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

He fumbled at his belt, pulling out his small utility knife. The blade was dull, scratched, but it was something. His hand trembled, not just from the cold. Fear. Real, gut-twisting fear. He glanced at the knife, then back at Sage. Useless. What was he going to do with a knife against that thing?

He had to move her. He tried to slide his arms under her, but she was heavy, dead weight. His ribs screamed in protest. He bit back a yell. “Damn it, Sage, help me out here.” He knew she couldn’t. He pulled, grunting, trying to shift her just an inch. The boot. Her ankle. It was bent at that horrible angle. He couldn’t just drag her.

He needed a plan. Something. Anything. His mind was a blank. Just the ringing, the pain, the cold. And Sage, limp in the snow. He looked at the torn pack. The jerky, the tool. A small, dull pry bar. Not much, but maybe useful. He snatched it up, stuffing it into his belt. Every second felt like an hour.

He remembered the cave. A small overhang, half a mile back. A long half-mile with Sage. Too far. But it was their only chance. He had to try. He ripped a strip of cloth from his own shirt, clumsy fingers fumbling with the frozen material. He tied it around Sage’s ankle, trying to brace it, knowing it wouldn’t do much. Just a gesture. A desperate, useless gesture.

He grabbed her under her arms, gritting his teeth against the fresh burst of pain from his own body. He pulled. Slowly. An inch. Another. The snow was soft, forgiving, but she was still dead weight. His lungs burned. Sweat, cold and clammy, beaded on his forehead. He kept pulling, one agonizing step after another. He could taste blood in his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue. Or split his lip. Didn't matter.

The wind picked up, a sudden gust that nearly knocked him off his feet. It stung his raw face, freezing the sweat on his skin. He tucked his head down, pulling, pulling. His eyes burned from the wind and the effort. He glanced back, trying to see if the tracks of the thing were clearer now. Nothing. Just the endless, fresh snow.

He heard it then. Not the creature. Something else. A distinct thwack. Then another. And another. The sound of wood hitting wood. A rhythm. Slow. Deliberate. Not a tree falling. This was too precise. Too steady. Like someone working. Or… like someone chopping. An axe. Close. Too close.

Rory froze, his hands still gripping Sage, half-lifted from the snow. The ringing in his ears faded, replaced by the sharp, clear sound. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. It was coming from the direction of the overhang. The cave. Their only chance. And someone was there. Someone with an axe. He didn't know which was worse: the silent, unseen thing in the trees, or the clear, deliberate sound of the axe. He pulled Sage a little closer, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs, a frantic drum against the cold.

Then he saw them. Shadows, just barely visible through the falling snow, moving between the trees. Not one. Several. And they were coming this way.