Alison suddenly covered her nose. Harold sniffed the air; his face fell instantly, and he froze in his tracks. Alison stood beside him, her head tilted to the right, peering at him in confusion.

  The stench of waste, sweat, and chemicals filled the area. A rustling and a screeching sound tore through the silence of the forest. The wolf began to growl again, its body tensed and upright. Harold and Alison turned their heads to see the wolf staring at one of the trees.

  A creature with rough, hairless skin covered in a layer of what looked like sweat or filth emerged. It had long hind legs packed with massive muscles and short arms ending in claws as sharp as blades. Its eyes were two tiny dots in the center of its large, round face; its nose was two gaping slits surrounded by a sticky substance, and its mouth was crowded with golden teeth—not made of gold, but from the excessive accumulation of calcium from the blood of its victims. It leaped from one tree to another.

  It was a "Branch Skipper." In the blink of an eye, it pounced on the wolf, tearing it to shreds as a howl rang out. Before the cubs could realize what was happening, it swallowed them one by one in three bites.

  Harold and Alison froze. Alison’s face paled, her jaw dropped, and her eyes widened in pure terror. Harold grabbed her hand and began to retreat as the Branch Skipper turned toward them.

  Harold scooped Alison up and started to run, but before he could even cover five meters, the Branch Skipper tackled him to the ground. Harold pushed back with his body, forcing the creature away from Alison while trying to reach for his axe, but time was not on his side.

  Alison scrambled up from the ground, her eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets, her face as pale as the snow. The Branch Skipper leaped onto Harold again.

  "A-a-a-a..." Alison tried to scream, but the letters froze in her throat, coming out as nothing more than a distorted rasp.

  Harold sacrificed his left hand to protect his neck from the bite. He tried to wrench his arm free but couldn't. Alison looked around frantically for something to use; she spotted the wide hunting knife she had been using to trim branches. She dragged her body toward it.

  With trembling hands, Alison gripped the knife and ran toward the Branch Skipper, which was busy mangling Harold’s arm. She plunged the knife into it again and again with frantic, random strikes that, by some miracle, struck both its eyes. The monster let out a piercing shriek that nearly shattered their eardrums, but she didn't stop. She stabbed it again until it released Harold’s arm.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Its foul, cold, yellow blood splattered across her face; some of it even entered her mouth. The Branch Skipper lashed out with its claws. Alison tried to recoil, but her face was already gasping under the scratch of its talons. She delivered one final stab. The Branch Skipper thrashed, bleeding the yellow fluid that mixed with Harold’s red blood.

  The knife trembled in Alison’s hand as she stared at the creature lying on the ground, seemingly unconscious, but she didn't let go. The sound of Harold’s moaning snapped her back to reality.

  Alison covered her mouth, dropped to her knees, and vomited everything in her stomach. She caught her breath, then collapsed onto her side.

  She saw Harold, then scrambled across the snow to kneel before him. She stripped off her coat to bandage Harold’s hand, using her shoelaces to tie it tight. Harold’s bones were exposed; a bone fragment even fell onto the snow beside Alison as she tried to gather what remained of his arm.

  Harold’s lips began to turn blue, and his skin paled, but he leaned on Alison and stood. They walked a few meters, leaving a trail of blood behind them. Harold collapsed, his eyes losing focus as he began to mutter unintelligible things.

  Alison’s teeth chattered, and her hands began to turn a deep berry-blue from the cold. She stepped back, looking at Harold’s blood staining everything nearby. She clenched her fists and looked at him, then at the trees around her until she found a large tree with dry bark. She began striking the trunk with precise blows, creating cuts that formed a rectangle.

  She used the knife to peel the rectangular piece of bark in one go, then carved the bark deep into the snow. She dragged Harold’s body—his temperature dropping rapidly—onto the bark and managed to secure him inside.

  Alison took a deep breath and pulled the cord, but the makeshift sledge wouldn't budge. She went to the back and began to push, leaning in so hard her face buried in the snow. This time, thanks to the fresh snow and the mountain's slope, it moved. Alison kept pushing. Her shoes slipped off her feet, but she continued, stopping every five minutes to breathe. Wood splinters pierced her fingers, and the rough bark tore at her palms. Her teeth chattered in a rhythmic, repeated melody, but she did not stop.

  Alison reached the outskirts of the village. The first to spot her was a villager on his roof clearing snow. He noticed a shadow in the distance—a child dragging something, and that thing was leaving a trail of deep crimson.

  The man’s features froze, and he scrambled down from his roof. "Blood! There's blood!" he shouted, running toward Alison.

  Other villagers turned, dropping their tools and leaving their work to follow him. Alison’s teeth were chattering violently. Her hands were mangled and stained with blood, her body pale, her consciousness barely hanging on.

  As the villagers arrived in a rush, Alison collapsed onto the snow. She stared at the villagers gathering around Harold; they hadn't noticed or remembered her yet. She watched them checking on him; her face tightened into a smile as the last of her consciousness slipped away.