A lone wolf stands at the top of the pass looking down onto the small town below. He can smell the stench of burning meat, it fills the air and is carried on the breeze straight towards him. He salivates, drool running down his throat and dripping off his mangy fur. The wolf hasn’t eaten for days, but he makes no attempt to get closer to the food he knows is there for the taking.
He’s afraid of the flames – the flames which have engulfed the small town – the flames which are cooking the slaughtered inhabitants of the once thriving community. He’s afraid of the humans who are left alive, the ones who have mastered the art of creating scorching, searing, murderous heat.
In his younger years he was the leader of his pack, his job to protect and to provide. He knew no fear. Now in his old age he has no pack, he is responsible only for himself, and his strength has gone.
His legs give way and he slides onto his side. Too weak now from hunger, he knows he won’t last another day. He settles down to die. Another victim of the marauding horde.