Page 43 of The Last Sanctuary
The otters chirped in greeting when she inched past their glass-front habitat. She could barely make out the shapes of Whiskers and Mo lounging on their favorite heat rock.
Raven reached the cinderblock maintenance shed and hesitated. The tranquilizer guns and the emergency rifles were stored inside. Though she felt exposed and vulnerable standing out in the open, she couldn’t justify leaving them behind. The bikers were dangerous. She might need to protect herself.
Quietly, she unlocked the rusted metal door with her handprint. The corrugated roof leaked. Junk cluttered every corner—coils of rusting wire, broken power tools, buckets of old batteries, shelves of solar lamps, hammers, and wrenches.
A filmy layer of grease and grime coated everything. Dust swirled in the panels of milky moonlight filtering through the single, high window.
A tickling sensation irritated her throat. She swallowed a cough, forcing it down.Only dust, she told herself. It wasn’t the first sign of a lethal disease.It’s only dust.
She maneuvered around the metal workbench, grabbed a burlap sack hanging from a hook next to the shovels, and sidestepped two large containers of jugs of gasoline for the lawn mower shoved against the wall below the gun rack. In front of her, two tranquilizer guns and one hunting rifle hung on the wall.
She shoved the guns into the sack, stuffed her cargo pockets with a handful of ammo and extra tranquilizer darts encased in metal cylinders, then hooked the strap of her father’s hunting rifle over her shoulder. She attached the burlap sack to a loop in the rifle strap.
As she exited the shed, she locked it behind her, then moved on. The rifle banged against her ribs. The heavy sack dug into her shoulders. She straightened her spine and kept walking. Her footfalls echoed strangely in the fog. She strained her ears forany sound that might signal danger, for the thud of footsteps stalking her every move.
A minute later, she reached the lodge.
Voices boomed from inside, raucous laughter and boisterous shouts echoing into the night. The bikers must’ve found the Grizzly Grill’s alcoholic-beverage supply. The front windows glowed with the light of several solar lamps.
Her bedroom window was dark.
Raven scanned the area, searching for something to aid her plan. Her gaze caught a row of cinderblocks lying beneath the oak tree behind the woodshed. Her father had intended to build a fire pit, but it never happened. They would serve her now.
Raven crept across the lawn, hauled one of the cinderblocks in her arms, and moved awkwardly toward the lodge, huffing as quietly as she could. Dropping it beneath her window, she removed the burlap sack and set it next to the concrete block.
Using the block as a stool, Raven stepped on it and peered inside her bedroom window. Shadows drenched the darkened room. The bedroom door was closed. She grasped the window frame and carefully inched it up. The lock had broken years ago. No one had bothered to fix it.
The window scraped against the wood.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Every sound was impossibly loud. Balanced on the cinderblock, she craned her neck from side to side, searching for movement, for a man-shaped shadow slipping through the fog.
She paused for another long moment, listening hard. No strange or out-of-place sounds. The loud voices continued. Nothing moved inside. Nothing moved outside.
Raven pushed the window up, her muscles straining. She braced her elbows on the sill and pushed off from the cinderblock, using momentum to push herself up. Sheclambered inside, careful not to kick or bump anything on her dresser located directly to the left of the window.
Lowering herself soundlessly to the floor, she stood in her bedroom and let her eyes adjust to the darkness.
The bikers had been in her room. A few drawers were left open. The rumpled bed had been slept in, her pillow on the floor next to a pile of her clothes. Her dresser was cluttered with dusty wooden figurines and spilled wood shavings. She caught a whiff of her green apple body lotion.
The faded army-green backpack leaned against her dresser, ready and waiting. Raven took a dark-colored raincoat from her closet. With her undershirt, a sweater, and her raincoat, which boasted an inner synthetic lining for warmth, she had enough layers to withstand frigid October nights in the woods, when the temperatures dropped into the 30s, sometimes colder.
Quietly, she pulled her good hiking boots from the closet and packed extra socks. Her stomach growled loudly. She froze, half-expecting the bikers to hear it on the other side of the lodge. They didn’t.
She had granola bars in her pack; she could eat later, but her thirst was overwhelming. Her throat felt dry as a desert. Her whole body ached for water.
Fumbling for her water bottle, she took a long swig, water dribbling down her chin. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then took another drink. She could have cried from gratitude.
Her body needed sustenance and fuel. It made her feel weak and needy, but also alive. So afraid, but alive.
Before leaving, she paused, scanning the bedroom for anything else she might need. Something glinted in the back of her closet. The hoverboard her mother had bought for her seventeenth birthday. The one Raven had refused to use onprinciple, as if her mother would have even known whether her daughter used it or not.
Maybe it would come in useful. She could travel faster, without leaving footprints. She grabbed the hoverboard and the solar charger, too.
She unzipped her pack, shoved the board halfway in, and dragged it over to the window. She had no way to lower the pack silently. She’d just have to dump it and hope no one heard. She hefted it, her sore muscles groaning in protest, and pushed it out the window. It hit the ground with a thud.
The raucous voices down the hall covered the sound of her movements. They were so loud she could almost make out the individual words. They were getting louder, drunker.
She turned away from the window, listening hard. A single word came through clearly:wolf.
