Dying Later

Cold bites with mean blue teeth, and it bit her savagely now. Cheeks and nose-tip raw, and the rest of her fairly frozen to match, all the way down to her bones.

Stumbling through the drifts in the silver twilight, she'd been pushing forward on the strength of will alone, the baying of dogs behind her.

Every breath raking her nose and mouth. Each step under protest by muscles that had enjoyed too little nourishment these many months.

She'd have sobbed in a panic, but that would have wasted energy. Eyes wide and teeth gritted, she pushed on. The baying sounded closer. Her muscles screamed as if in answer, and she ignored them, except to try forcing them to move faster.

Her whole life distilled down to a frozen handful of terrified moments. Whatever she had left. Nothing visible beyond that. Everything was now. The universe full, edge to end and back again, with nothing but fright, and cold, and death nip nip nipping so close at her heels.

A thought crept up and squeezed in where there was barely any room not taken up with sheer survival, and it was this: Running is useless, they're faster than you.

They were definitely closer, if she wasted precious seconds and energy looking over her shoulder she'd surely see them, loping over the white with their eyes and teeth flashing.

No time to turn and face them, they were to close, she needed to-

Was that hot breath on the back of her legs?

Down she went.

She lost precious seconds, face down in the snow.

They were so close now, she had no time to stagger to her feet.

She rolled, one hand clutching a rock, bringing it up in an arc. Yelping, the dog was knocked aside.

It shook its head, lip curling. Pained, but not incapacitated. Not deterred. It readied for another leap.

She flung one arm up to protect her face. Hot, smelly breath filled her nostrils. She thumped anywhere she could reach with the rock. The snarling ratcheted up a notch. Teeth found her forearm, hardly stifled by the tattered layers she wore, and the smell of blood was hot and sharp in the cold air.

The others (how many? she wasn't sure) were close. She loosed the rock and dug her fingers into its throat, squeezing the windpipe.

Finally, its jaw loosened. Still squeezing, a sob escaped her lips at last, because is it dead? and too late! too late! they're already upon me-

She abandoned protection of her face to scrabble at the throat and face of the next one with vulnerable fingers, red and wet with her own blood.

Another lunged for her leg; she kicked at it. Teeth met shoes that hardly earned the name; she jerked her foot back and kicked again, hard.

Before this one could sink his teeth into her arm, she thrust her fist into his mouth as far as she could. A brief flicker of satisfaction, seeing those eyes widen.

At last, her questing fingers found something solid in the snow and she brought the icicle up point first.

The first stab got his soft belly, the next hit ribs and her weapon broke in her hands. She pushed him away, and scrambled to her feet.

Now she heard the shouts of men hunting her.

The dogs hesitated, eyeing her. As long as she stood her ground, they'd stand at bay, the men getting closer. The moment she ran, the dogs would bring her down.

I'm not going back there.

No way out of this. The men's shouts were louder now, closer. Time was running out. She stood her ground, eyeing the bristling fur, the bared teeth, the pairs of intense eyes skewering her to the spot.

The dogs had skill, working together seamlessly. They spaced themselves so she couldn't watch all of them at once. When her eyes swiveled right, the beast on the left took a step towards her. When she looked left the one on the right moved in. Always inching closer, trying to get close enough to sweep behind her.

The one in front made the most noise, the most threatening display. As if to keep her attention there, and let the others move around her all the quicker.

Her eyes flashed, left! right! as if marking time.

tick. tock.

The dogs seemed to stand still on stiff, furious legs. Yet impossibly, they were closing in.

To turn is to die. Or to say it better, to turn is to die now. To hold is to die later. Isn't Dying Later what it's all about? For everyone? Across species, even? Isn't that Hope?

They grind Hope out of you in the camps. Or they try to. It doesn't work on everyone. Some found a way to keep holding on to it even if it was only a grain of it, like sand. Even if it was only by a fingertip. Sometimes it was some steel in their character, forged by the fire that was supposed to put them out. Sometimes it was something external, a person, a symbol. Sometimes it was belief in a god like Job's, who only seemed to have deserted them.

She'd not got this far by choosing the Die Now option. Always, always, choose to Die Later. Spin out another second, buy another breath.

Something whistled past her head and struck the dog on her left, then a thump to the right. Whizz, thump. Yelps of pain, and then now now now now now

sobbing

running

to trees

allies

safety?

another breath

freedom

dignity

hope

to live