[ WP ] You are a resident of a remote town with a population of around 1300 located in Russia , and have just been besieged by a large pack of 400 wolves . You must hold out until you can get assistance from the government . [ xpost from /r/todayilearned ]

It started a few weeks ago, with blood on the snow, with men in fur coats standing around dark heaps of mutilated meat and gnawed bones. Their breath raised above their heads, also covered with fur, in great icy clouds and vanished under the starry sky. No one said anything, no one moved. It was too cold to spend energy on useless words, when everybody knew what happened. The tracks around the remains of a reindeer herd were too familiar. The killers were wolves, and the only thing unusual was their sheer number. 
 
 These were the tracks of at least a hundred of the grey beasts. 
 
 Nobody has ever seen such a great pack. Even the oldest hunters, those who could remember the war, did n't believe what we told them at first. But then they saw what was coming. The eyes in the gloom, the prints of clawed feet, a grey shadow streaking in the end of a street. Everything pointed at something unheard of - a colossal pack, a few hundred of starving predators. 
 
 I was there in the night of the first attack. I was amongst those men pondering over the dead reindeer, looking at the tracks. While others said that it was one-of-a-kind occurence, that the grey ones would never attack in such a great number and would go away in a few days, I felt they were only lying to themselves, trying to drown their fear in wishful thinking. I decided to prepare for the worst. I had two kids - Sardana and Aisen - and a beautiful wife, Masha. I would n't forgive myself if something happened to them and I was powerless to help. 
 
 The town was wary, like a prey animal that caught a scent of its hunter. People went outside only in small groups, often armed with rifles, and children did n't leave homes at all. The school was closed anyway because of the cold. My children complained sometimes, but mostly played with each other quietly or read their books, and I was proud with them. They understood something about the taiga and its inhabitants that the people from big cities would never learn. 
 
 We called for help, and these bureaucrats promised it, but only in a week.'The trucks and helicopters can not come right now, it's the weather, we hope it gets better in a few days', they said. And I heard in their words only boredom and disdain.'It's only a few wolves, surely you are used to such things in your middle of nowhere, worthless little town? Those hunters, always embellishing their stories out of any reasonable proportion... Why do n't you leave your godforsaken frozen place so we do n't have to be bothered with your problems?' 
 
 But it was our place. My place. The place where all my ancestors lived, battling for it every single day with harsh and uncaring forces of nature. And I did n't want to give it up to some mindless animals that only managed to get in a large pack. 
 
 As I learned later, it was n't the only thing that was unusual in their behaviour. 
 
 One day, when it was snowing, the wolves came all at once, all four hundred of great grey blurs of fur and bared teeth. When we expected it the least, they came and killed, tore and shred in starving frenzy. As if they were given a signal, the wolves came to eat. 
 
 The only thought that flashed in my head when I looked outside through the frost-tinged window and saw the giant pack was'Sardana'. My little daughter, my precious one, she came up to me an hour earlier, she wanted to play in the snow with her friends... and I let her go. The wolves would never attack during the day, I thought. And when I remembered, I screamed in rage and despair. 
'Masha, do n't let Aisen out!' I told my wife as she stared at me in fear, and ran to the door. 
 
 My Mosin-Nagant hung on the wall by the entrance. The rifle which belonged to my father and his father before that, the death of many beasts and men who were worse than beasts alike. I remember how it was suddenly in my hands, how I was suddenly in the street and how I started shooting in the wiry grey and black forms, screaming my daughter's name. I do n't remember much between that. 
 
 A fanged maw lunging for my throat split and blossomed like a red carnation. A pair of bright yellow eyes glazed and went as dark as a bullet hole between them. A guard dog seized a young wolf by its neck and shook it, and then two other wolves fell upon the dog and tore it apart. I shot one of them through the chest, another got a shotgun blast to its flank and fell on the fresh snow with a terrible, miserable howl. 
 
 And, like it was another signal in their inhuman language, the wolves turned tail. They raced to the forest, hundreds of grey silhouettes on the white, too fast to be caught by chasing bullets. A few dozens of them laid on the street, covered in blood, as well as four or five human bodies, and the snow had already started to cover them with a soft white shroud. There were no children amongst the dead, I saw it already. It did n't give me any relief. 
 
'Sardana! Sardana!' I shouted her name in vain. My voice was harsh and hoarse, there was taste of blood in the mouth and the feel of tears freezing on my face. 
 
'They got her,' said a voice from behind my back.'I'm sorry, Semyon. They took her away to the woods.' 
 
 I turned so fast the speaker started back. It was one of the older hunters with white hair broken loose from under his fur hat. His coat was spattered with blood and he smelt of gunpowder and death, just like myself. 
 
'Was she... alive?' I croaked, suddenly choked by the last word. 
 
'She was,' said the old man with a sigh.'A grey bastard took her by her parka and ran away. I tried to shoot him but... Hey! Are you going after them? Do n't you see snowstorm's coming! Are you mad?' 
 
 I did n't listen any further. I knew what to do. 
 
 There is a snowmobile in my shed. It's a Buran, an old workhorse, filled with gas to the brim. There is a rifle on my back, and a knife on my belt, and a whole lot of bullets, enough to deal with all four hundred of them, even if they all come at me at once. And there is a little girl somewhere in the forest, crying, waiting for her father. 
 
 My Buran is tearing through the storm. The sky is darkening quickly, and the temperature is fourty degrees below zero. My face, my coat, everything is plastered with snow, the blizzard is dancing madly around me, and its howl in my ears is mixing with howling of the wolves. 
 
 In the horrid din of the hostile nature I hear a single cry, and my snowmobile turns sharply in its direction. 
 
 I wo n't be long, Sardana.
