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.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  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.

  ...

  Seven of the original eleven wolves remained. Two on Amos, five on Ink.

  Amos' assailants were weary of him. Of his weapon, more likely. Its points caught the destructive light of the flame, reflecting its power. Amos exhaled sharply and attacked before the wolves could - he wanted the upper hand.

  He jabbed with the prongs of his farm tool, driving back the wolves. Not one of his blows landed as his enemies danced away from each strike. They retreated slowly. Amos kept the sharp end close to his body, ready to lash out when the wolves pounced.

  Ink stared at his hand with unseeing eyes. The lifeless corpse lay just past him, its neck a corkscrew of torn sinew. It was like he didn't know his own strength.

  The wolves didn't allow him that moment of introspection. They attacked as one, darting in and out, feinting strikes and bites. Ink spun around, unsure where to defend. He swatted at the lithe wolves, missing each time. His frustration grew and the swats turned to fists swinging in wild arcs.

  Amos saw a wolf latch onto Ink's leg in his peripheral vision. He turned immediately to help, forgetting the two he had cornered for a moment. In that second of indecision, both wolves pounced on him as one. He tumbled to the ground and instinctively put his arms out to break his fall. In doing so, he dropped his pitchfork - his lifeline.

  The wolf with its teeth in Ink's leg growled. It yanked and pulled, but Ink didn't budge. He reached down with a thick hand to grab the wolf's scruff. Its fur was coarse and thick, dirty. Ink got a good grip and pulled. The wolf ripped a piece of his calf off, carrying it in its maw as it was lifted in one hand.

  Ink spun around with the wolf in hand like a shot put. His eye caught Amos' - his friend - on the ground, at the mercy of two predators. Ink released the wolf at the perfect time to send it careening into the two on top of Amos. It collided with them and the three went sprawling into the burning bush behind.

  Panicked yelps and broken howls rose from the inferno, but they soon faded with a crispy crackling. There was a scent of burning hair and cooking meat.

  Amos jumped to his feet, taking the pitchfork in his hand once more. He rushed over to stand next to Ink, who leaned on his shoulder, taking the weight off his injured leg.

  Four left.

  "Amos!" Kien's voice came over the roar of the fire, from the other side. "There's more coming!"

  "Shit," Amos said to himself, then louder, "Get back home! We'll meet you there!"

  "Get to the river! They'll lose your scent!"

  "Will do! Go, now!"

  "Stay safe, son," Kien yelled before he turned to run, "Praise Progress!"

  "Praise Progress!" Amos shouted back. It felt like a blessing. "Can you run?" he asked Ink.

  Ink just nodded, lips drawn into a thin line.

  The remaining wolves were pacing, apprehensive. They still had the numbers advantage, but they weren't stupid animals. They had seen Ink's strength, they knew the pain of a sharp implement, and the heat of the fire pushed them back. All these factors compounding, they made the smart decision. The wolves whined softly for the fallen and retreated into the forest.

  "They're gone now," Ink said.

  "Yeah. We still need to go to the river," Amos said, "They might follow us. Plus that fire looks like it'll get nasty."

  "Okay," Ink said, "I know where the river is. Shanty brought me that way."

  "Shanty?"

  "Yes, Shanty's my friend too. Not like these wolves."

  Is this the 'project' they were working on with Yakob? Why they told me to stay away from the forest?

  Amos just shook his head, "Take us to the river. We can go slow if you want."

  "Why?"

  "Your leg? Didn't the wolf bite you?"

  Amos looked at Ink's calf. There was a ring of blood, but no wound. In the place it should have been was a layer of shiny skin - scar tissue.

  "It's nothing," Ink said.

  "Right," Amos said, confused, "Let's go."

  ...

  They arrived at the riverbank shortly. Shanty had called it the Armastan River. It was wide and meandered across the landscape, carving its way through the hills. Fields lay on either side, and there was a stilted house down the current with a water wheel turning lazily attached.

  The flow wasn't particularly strong, but the surface was a dark colour. It obscured the depths of the river itself, holding its secrets close. Amos breathed deep, casting a glance back at the forest. It was smoking, the air filled with the resulting haze.

  "Come on," he said, "We have to wash this blood off."

  "Wait," Ink said.

  "What?"

  "I, um... I don't know how to swim."

  "It'll be okay," Amos smiled and held out his hand, "Let's go together."

  Ink took his hand and they waded into the water together. It was cold, freezing cold. Ink's steps were shaky and unsure. He inhaled sharply as the water lapped at his skin. The blood - theirs and their enemies - mixed in the water, cloudy.

  "See," Amos said, looking over his shoulder at Ink, "It's not that ba-"

  Suddenly the silt beneath his feet gave way. Amos fell down, pulling Ink with him. Though they were underwater, they fell as if through air.

  They kept falling, together.

  Falling and screaming...

  Until...

  ...

  They righted, breaking the surface of the water into a bright space. Amos was blinded from the sudden change from darkness to light. He waited for his vision to return. When it did, he realised where he was:

  The Infinite Lake!

  Ink was kneeling in the water, hands on his head. His body was shaking. Amos waded over to him. He went to lay a hand on his shoulder, but hesitated.

  "No no no no no no no," Ink repeated, quietly, rocking.

  "You're back!" Amos' soul materialised next to him, "Who's this freak?"

  "Why would you bring me here?" Ink turned to Amos, looking up at him with fearful, pleading eyes, "Take me back. Take me back now! I can't be here!"

  "Woah, calm there," said the soul.

  "TAKE ME BACK!"

  Amos held his hands out in a placating gesture, "Ink, calm down."

  "TAKE. ME. BACK. NOW," Ink stood up. He looked taller in the Lake, stronger. He exuded an aura of power that smelled like rot and instilled Amos with fear.

  What is he?

  Amos' soul put a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back to stand in front of him. As he did so, the memories transferred from Amos' mind to his soul's. Flashes of light; shared visions.

  Screams. Ink. Wolves. Blood. Fire. Kien.

  The soul gasped, staggering back. It glared at Amos.

  "What the fuck are you doing here?" it demanded.

  "I-" Amos started.

  "No, don't give me your bullshit excuses again! My dad nearly killed himself for you, and you just left him? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  "He told me to run."

  "I don't give a shit what he said! That's not your dad," the soul pointed furiously at the spherical void of anti-light, "Go back. Right. Now."

  Amos didn't respond. There was nothing he could say. He grabbed Ink by the wrist, pulling him along.

  "Come back when it's safe," the soul said, "We need to talk."

  "How?" Amos asked.

  "Water," Ink answered, "You come here through the water."

  He's right. Last time I entered, I fell into a water trough.

  Amos nodded his thanks to Ink, then to the soul he said simply "I'll be back."

  "You'd better."

  He reached into the deep blackness that he knew as the portal back home. The tugging sensation returned. This time, he observed a red string extending itself from within and attaching to his chest. It yanked him through with a pop, and he pulled Ink with him.