"Good start."
I crawl out on the tree branch over him to conduct a full visual sweep. I don't see a trip wire, and I tell him that, adding, "But don't take my word for it."
"Oh, I'm not. Sorry. Can you climb out over the gun?"
"Yes, but I can already tell that won't help. It's nestled in the vegetation. I'm going to check it out. Just hold on."
I retreat down the tree. Then I circle wide. When I'm on the far side of the gun, I walk toward it, checking before putting each foot down. Finally, I reach the spot. I crouch. Then I swear.
"That doesn't sound good," Anders says.
"No, it's--Just hold on."
I swore because I know this gun. I'm temporarily putting that on the "not important" shelf, along with the ramifications of having a sniper in our forest.
I hunker down. Then I lie on my belly, getting a straight-on view of the gun.
"And . . ." Anders says.
"I don't see any sign of a trigger device. It looks as if the shooter just left it behind."
"That's actually kinda disappointing."
"At the count of three, I'll knock the barrel aside, and you'll dive for cover. We'll tell everyone else it was rigged, and you narrowly escaped death. Plus, of course, I saved your life, and you owe me forever."
"Yeah, no. But you can move the barrel aside. Carefully please."
I lean over the gun and take another good look, running my fingers along the perimeter for a trip wire. The trigger is clear, and the gun seems fine. I ease the barrel away from Anders.
"Thank you."
I start to rise, and he says, in a low voice, "Stop."
A low growl sounds behind me. I look over my shoulder to see a muzzle and eyes peering from a clump of weeds.
11
"Is that a . . . ?" Anders begins.
He doesn't finish, but I know what he was going to say. It looks like a wolf--the size, the build, the ears, the muzzle shape, and the white and gray fur. But there are brown spots in that gray, and its face is freckled.
"Wolf-dog," I murmur.
"Shit," Anders says.
It's the dog part that worries me. I hear wolves almost every night, but I've only spotted them deep in the forest, as they catch wind of us and disappear like ghosts. Dogs are another matter. They're feral, descended from those either released or escaped from Rockton, back in a time when pets were allowed. Those canines don't always slip away like wolves. Even a few generations removed, they retain their fearlessness around humans.
I aim my gun. I don't want to. But this is Dalton's rule. If a feral dog makes an aggressive move, we must shoot to kill.
I can't tell with this one. It's watching me just as carefully as I'm watching it.
"Got your gun ready?" I ask Anders.
"I do."
"Count of three. Three, two, one--"
I lunge at the wolf-dog and let out a snarl. I'm hoping it'll run. It doesn't. Nor does it attack. It just hunkers down and snarls back, fur bristling. Anders curses some more, and I agree. We like our decisions cut-and-dry, and the universe isn't complying these days, not even with a damned dog.