The door splinters, groans, gives. In a moment the thing will be inside.
In the corner, amongst a welter of tools, a pick leans against the wall. Arnie
lunges for it and seizes it as the wolf thrusts its way inside and crouches, its
yellow eyes gleaming at the cornered man. Its ears are flattened back, furry
triangles. Its tongue lolls. Behind it, snow gusts in through a door that has been
shattered down the center.

It springs with a snarl, and Arnie Westrum swings the pick.
Once .

Outside, the feeble lamplight shines raggedly on the snow through the splintered
door .

The wind whoops and howls.
The screams begin.

January