Kien watched as the path to his son was cut off by a pack of wolves. He counted nine surrounding Amos and the tattooed freak. He shook his head, feeling the blood-dried strands of hair on his scalp.
Kien had to do something. His son was in trouble.
He hefted his rusty shovel, estimating his chances at success. They weren't good, but it didn't matter. If he died and Amos lived, that was okay with him. He sighed and made a sign - a straight downwards motion with his right fist over his heart and ending at his hip - then started forward.
"For Progress..." he muttered to himself.
He got within earshot of the two boys easily. Then, an additional two snarling wolves came to block his path. They were large, but thin - starved.
A hungry beast is a beast with nothing to lose.
Without warning, one of the wolves pounced onto Kien. It landed with all four paws on his chest, jagged jaws snapping at his face. As it pushed him to the ground, forcing him to drop the torch, the other wolf dashed around to his side and immediately bit down on his arm.
It sank its razor teeth into his flesh. Kien cried out in pain, but he didn't let go of the shovel.
The other wolf - the one standing on top of him - was snapping at his face, claws scratching at his upper body. It was trying to get at his neck, to rip open his jugular and tear his windpipe free.
Kien gritted his teeth. He kept his free arm up, forearm catching the brunt of the attacks directed at his vitals. The wolf gave up on his neck and directed its attention to his side. It was fleshier and less protected, after all.
It jumped down, taking advantage of Kien's exposed flank, and bit into his stomach. There was pain. Searing, sharp, hot, pain. The smell of blood, the feel of it too. Slick on his body. Metallic.
He looked down to see what the predator had done to him. It was gleefully swallowing a chunk of meat. There was a hole in his side, above his hip, of equal size. Kien's vision began to fade. He was losing too much blood even to scream.
This was the end.
He couldn't...
Save...
...
Amos watched the father he had only known for a week and a half fall to two meagre wolves. His face was a picture of shock and horror. He would have rushed forward, fighting and tearing to save Kien, if not for the nine other wolves that encircled himself and Ink.
"Dad! No!" was all he could manage.
From this distance, Amos could see the flaming torch clatter to the dry undergrowth. Its light began to grow in intensity. The fire began to spread.
It licked at the trees and dead leaves, the bushes and twigs, racing across the ground with its flickering light. Quickly, the flickering became a roaring. In the face of such imminent danger, the wolves around Ink and Amos decided now was the moment to attack.
They split into two groups - three and six - moving like a well-oiled machine. Perhaps the wolves had done a similar maneuver on helpless prey or other weakling humans lost in the forest. Amos prepared himself for the onslaught by holding out his pitchfork like a spear, assuming an air of unearned confidence. Ink stood to the side, unsure of what to do with himself.
The group of three came at Amos - two in front, one behind. They snapped at his feet, trying to hinder his movement, darting in and out of his reach. Amos swept around him with his pitchfork, but the prongs were made for piercing, not slashing. He succeeded in smacking the wolves' snouts, but did no real damage. As he did so, they let out a yip of pain.
"Hey!" Ink shouted, "This isn't playing! Bad dogs!"
"You have to fight, Ink!" Amos screamed back, "They'll kill us!"
Amos hardened his resolve and lunged forward, targeting the wolf in front of him. It tried to pounce out of the way, but he twisted at the last moment. He speared it mid-air, its blood raining down onto him from above, dripping down the handle of his makeshift weapon. It wasn't dead, yet, but severely injured.
Amos pulled back, hard. He retrieved his pitchfork from the beast's side and left it lying in the undergrowth as he turned to the other two. He fell back into that stance - the one he had seen on the cover of a movie in his old life. It felt right.
He caught sight of Ink, illuminated by the blaze. The six wolves were taking turns pouncing on him, trying to push him over like they did to Kien. He didn't budge. Each time they jumped, they snapped at him, trying to tear free a morsel of flesh.
"No! Naughty!" Ink said.
The next wolf that came at him caught a slap to the side of its head. It wasn't a particularly malicious blow, but as it connected there was a sick crunch. Its head twisted almost in a full circle on its neck, the skin stretching and tearing. It fell with a dull thud.
Ink was dumbfounded. He looked at his hand in horror. It was clean. Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn't have time to mourn. The remaining five redoubled their efforts against him.
...
The fire was raging now. It spread faster and faster, eager for more fuel. The two wolves feasting on Kien while he still breathed turned to appraise its path, contemplating whether it was time to run. As they did so, Kien felt a rush of adrenaline.
Not done yet.
He had never let go of his shovel. Not while the fire burned around him, not while the wolves ate his body, not while he bled out with alarming alacrity.
His muscles trembled. He shouldn't have been able to move. Adrenaline, however, grants anyone that feels its touch a shard of the superhuman. An echo of power left in each and every ordinary person. The ability to ignore pain, to push through anything.
To fight.
...for my son.
Amos.
While the wolves were turned away from him, he swung at the closest one with all his might. His attack came from a prone position - an upwards blow. He grunted with the exertion. When blade met hide, it split cleanly, as if making way for Kien's destruction.
The wolf's guts fell in a messy puddle, no longer protected from gravity by its stomach. It yelped and stumbled away, then fell over to die. Its companion jumped back and snarled at the desperate father, but its back was to the flame. Kien could smell the beast's singed fur from proximity to the fire. He snarled back at it.
Kien stumbled to his feet. He put a hand to his side and it came away crimson.
The second wolf came low, but he was prepared. Kien met it with his boot - a strong kick. Its ribs cracked, but Kien wasn't unscathed from the maneuver either. He coughed up a globule of blood, spitting it to the side.
Kien held his shovel in scratched, torn arms. The second wolf was whimpering, lying on the ground and looking up at him with pleading eyes. There was nothing in Kien's but the flame, dancing on the edges of his vision. He brought the shovel down on its neck, decapitating its head. A quick end.
Kien didn't care to watch it die. He stumbled towards his son, dragging the shovel behind him with limp arms. Another howl sounded, a klaxon against the crackling fire and sounds of struggle.
More wolves.
Kien raised his gaze, only to find the blaze blocked his path. It climbed the trees around him, blackening the bark.
Amos and Ink were on the other side.