Child of Her Generation, Jo's definitely heard more howls of wolves in things on television than; Child of Hunters, she's heard them in forests she had to in for one case or another. Not enough to have done anything like this—as the howls get louder and louder, far become closer becoming close; heart rate kicking up—but far more than enough to know what you should do. Which should be somewhere anywhere not there, not in their way.

Her mind doesn't even think about the monsters in the desert or the weapon she's been training with for almost three months now; it's all instinct. Her hands are empty. The slapping and sliding sound of many running feet on the stones is vast, fast, and multi-strained. One wolf and then several round the corner, eyes golden-wild and mouths slavering a clear & reddish mix, the same bloody color staining the muzzles.

A heavy, pained slam of déjà vuu Jo can't give any of her attention to ricochets through her, but her hands are moving already. A crack cuts the air loudly, shooting from the (very familiar feeling) sawed-off shotgun suddenly in Jo's hands.