The sky, a stunning shade of red. The sun, low on the horizon. The temperature, dropping rapidly. Sonny needed to get moving if he wanted to survive the night.
He snaked through the uninhabited forest, gathering fuel for his campfire. Then he heard it — the unmistakable crack of dried wood.
An unexpected visitor.
Sonny dropped his firewood and sprinted towards a thicket of black spruces, his only sanctuary.
Experience told him they hunted in packs. And that they wouldn’t be emptyhanded.
He kept running. If they wanted him alive, they’d have to catch him first.
Good luck with that.
The Weekday One Hundred 