Post by account_disabled on Dec 11, 2023 23:55:50 GMT -5
The screams continued, feeble. And then the blood. She saw Braschi with the binoculars, the red snow and something dark nearby. He was shaken. I encouraged him to move, to move forward and reluctantly he recovered. Mancini stopped. He broke off a sturdy branch and attached the mountain poles to his backpack. "Do the same if they attack us." Worrying invitation. We obeyed, nervously. It took us forty minutes to get down to the valley. From there, we soon saw the footsteps of the small group following the herd.
Clear, on the snow. Two distinct rows of tracks, human and lupine. For a few minutes the screams and growls had stopped completely. We had very little hope of finding them alive. I imagined the Phone Number Data massacre, the mauled bodies and I pushed it all back. Maybe, I told myself, they had made it, they had managed to climb a tree and save themselves. And we still had sticks. Three against six ravenous and hungry wolves. I concentrated on the path. The valley was a sort of wide gully closed on both sides by slopes. It went down, decreasing in altitude with little difference in altitude. Further ahead it curved. “It's back there,” Mancini said. «Let's take off our snowshoes, the snow here is solid and we will walk better.
And we leave our backpacks." “Yes, but not on the ground,” I said. «Let's hang them on some branches.» What I wanted to avoid was being left with nothing left, tent, food, in case some wolf, after having put us to flight, went to rummage through our stuff. "Good," said Mancini, when we were ready. He also needed a little courage. "After you." A few steps away from us was all that remained of the group. The blood couldn't penetrate the snow, it reddened it, forming dark patches on which shreds of flesh floated. The snow-covered ground was in turmoil, as if a battle from another era had been fought there. Potholes, deep footprints, piles of snow, bloody limbs, protruding bones. They had killed them all. Braschi cursed.
Clear, on the snow. Two distinct rows of tracks, human and lupine. For a few minutes the screams and growls had stopped completely. We had very little hope of finding them alive. I imagined the Phone Number Data massacre, the mauled bodies and I pushed it all back. Maybe, I told myself, they had made it, they had managed to climb a tree and save themselves. And we still had sticks. Three against six ravenous and hungry wolves. I concentrated on the path. The valley was a sort of wide gully closed on both sides by slopes. It went down, decreasing in altitude with little difference in altitude. Further ahead it curved. “It's back there,” Mancini said. «Let's take off our snowshoes, the snow here is solid and we will walk better.
And we leave our backpacks." “Yes, but not on the ground,” I said. «Let's hang them on some branches.» What I wanted to avoid was being left with nothing left, tent, food, in case some wolf, after having put us to flight, went to rummage through our stuff. "Good," said Mancini, when we were ready. He also needed a little courage. "After you." A few steps away from us was all that remained of the group. The blood couldn't penetrate the snow, it reddened it, forming dark patches on which shreds of flesh floated. The snow-covered ground was in turmoil, as if a battle from another era had been fought there. Potholes, deep footprints, piles of snow, bloody limbs, protruding bones. They had killed them all. Braschi cursed.