The Orphan Army by Jonathan Maberry

mysteries and monsters.
    â€œWe have another hike tomorrow,” said Shark, interrupting his thoughts.
    â€œWhat? Since when?”
    â€œSince this evening. It was on the schedule in the mess tent.”
    â€œHow long?” asked Milo, dreading another trip into those woods.
    â€œFive miles, I think.”
    â€œOh. That’s not too bad.”
    Five miles was within the normal radius of the foot patrols. Not even wolves could do much against soldiers with rifles.
    Even so, those woods surrounded them right now. Huge and so dark that anything— anything— could be out there. Hiding. Watching.
    â€œWhat time do we go out?” Milo asked.
    â€œYou won’t like it.”
    â€œI never like it,” said Milo.
    â€œLineup’s at six, which means we have to be dressed, fed, and geared up by six, not getting up at six.”
    The way he said it, Milo knew that Shark was quoting someone. Probably Barnaby, who always tried to sound like an adult drill sergeant.
    Milo groaned. Sunrise was around six thirty. That meant getting up and ready in the dark. In an empty tent, with Mom gone. In a camp where most of the soldiers were out on the patrol.
    â€œMaybe we could say we’re sick,” he suggested hopefully. “You could have an asthma attack, and I’d volunteer to stay here and—”
    Shark shook his head. “Tried that too many times. Last time Barnaby dimed me out to Aunt Jenny and I got in trouble. And I do not want to shovel out the latrines again. No thanks.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œUnless you want to join me. ’Cause, really, shoveling poop is the most fun in the world. You should try it.”
    â€œForget I said anything. We . . .”
    His voice trailed off as he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He turned quickly and thought he saw those pale eyes watching him.
    â€œWhat is it?” asked Shark. Killer came to point and stared fixedly into the shadows.
    â€œI . . . ,” began Milo. “I thought I saw something.”
    The darkness was blank now. There was nothing.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat wolf,” said Milo in a frightened whisper. “I thought I saw it looking at me.”
    They both peered into the shadows. Killer crept to the edge of the woods and sniffed. After a long time of total concentration, all three of them relaxed.
    â€œNothing there,” said Shark.
    â€œI guess not.”
    Shark didn’t bust on him for “seeing things.” Alertness bordering on paranoia was one way for everyone to stay safe in a world where all humans were constantly being hunted.
    They stood there and watched Killer shift from looking for mystery dog eyes to sniffing at all the places he—or the other camp dogs—had peed recently. Exciting stuff. The pale eyes did not reappear.
    Very weird, thought Milo. I definitely saw something.
    Shark said, “I remember reading once that we have dogs now because a long time ago wolves used to hang around the camps of early humans. You know, to get scraps and stuff. People started leaving stuff out for them, and after a while, they kind of brought some in.”
    Milo thought about that. “I don’t think that’s what this is. I don’t think the wolf is looking for scraps.”
    â€œThen why do you keep seeing it?”
    â€œI . . . don’t know. . . .”
    The moment stretched and thinned and faded into nothing, leaving them standing in the night with a small dog and not much left to talk about.
    Shark nodded to the locked cart. “Want some leftovers? I know where Mr. Mustapha keeps the key.”
    Mr. Mustapha was the cook, and finding ways to break into his food cart had become Shark’s mission in life. Mr. Mustapha frequently threatened to add Killer to the stewpot, but no one took him seriously.
    â€œSure,” said Milo sourly, “and if we get caught, we’ll both be shoveling latrines until we’re fifty.”
    Shark