by Ilsa J. Bick
What, she thought, are you?
64
A flare gun? Sighing, Chris massaged his aching temples and let himself sink more deeply into the bed. What the hell had Penny been thinking?
He was alone again, Hannah having locked him in almost a half hour ago, according to the old clock. He could hear her moving around in the kitchen downstairs, caught the chatter of plates and chinks of glass as she put together food to take out to Isaac in the lambing barn. His own lunch still waited. He should probably eat, but the prospect of dragging himself off the bed made him groan and pull a pillow over his eyes to blot out the bright afternoon light. After two weeks spent dreaming, he’d have thought he would never want to lie down again. Yet the creep of a deep weariness was too powerful to ignore, the bed very inviting—and he needed some time to digest all this.
Having burned so bright and hot, Peter’s boat sank fast in water over five hundred feet deep. Neither it nor the dead girl were ever recovered, and so they joined the litter of wrecks at the bottom of the largest and deepest of the Great Lakes. Which meant that Peter’s story—an engine room fire ignited by an electrical short—never could be investigated. According to Hannah, the Coast Guard and then the police questioned them but got nowhere. Simon was the only eyewitness who hadn’t been drinking, and he backed up Peter.
“I knew what I’d seen,” Hannah had said. “But it all happened so fast, I kept thinking I might be wrong. I didn’t know it was even a flare until Simon finally told me. Can you believe Penny still had the gun? After she shot it off, she crammed everything into her pockets.”
From below came the muted thump of a door: Hannah, leaving for the barn. The silence settled. His clock ticked off the seconds.
Why Hannah kept in touch with Simon was a mystery. All she said was, We got close. Even so, Simon’s suicide attempt was a shock. But Chris could see it. He understood the impulse.
Your father kills his girlfriend. Chris hugged the pillow to his eyes. You—the little kid—help him hide the evidence. You lie to the police because your dad says it’s the only way.
He remembered that, too. His father, reeking of booze, the smell of blood wreathing him like a fog: They’ll split us up, boy. Put you in a home where there won’t be no one to give a shit about you. You want to be safe? You don’t want boys and old men doing filthy things to you? You want a roof over your head? Then this is what you’re gonna say. This is what you’re gonna do.
“Shut up, Dad,” Chris muttered. “It was never about me. It was always about protecting you.” And keeping secrets until you wake up one day to find you live with two monsters, the one with your dad’s face and the thing rotting inside—
“Chris.”
The sound of his name felt unreal, like the slash of an exclamation point at the end of a sentence you hadn’t realized you’d written. The sound was short and sharp, like knuckles on a door, and knocked him from his thoughts. Before he could reply, he heard the doorknob rattle.
“Come in,” he said, not moving from the bed. Probably Hannah, back from the barn, wanting his dishes. When he didn’t hear the hinges complain, he waited a moment. “Hannah?”
The knock came again. This time, he tossed the pillow with a groan. “Hang on,” he said, swinging his feet to the floor. That was when he remembered. “I can’t unlock it from my side.”
Hannah said something he didn’t catch. “What?” he called. She said something else, but her voice was muffled. There was another rattle, followed this time by the scrape of the bolt. Without thinking much about it, he turned the knob and pulled open the door. “Sorry, I was—”
Everything in him—his brain, his breath and blood, the thump of his heart—stopped.
There, her lime-green scarf still twined around her neck, was Lena.
65
Alex had been right. It was a wolf—and it wasn’t. Some kind of hybrid. This animal was much larger than even a malamute, but without the curlicue tail. Its fur was virtually white, with only streaks of gray. The shape of the head, snout, and ears reminded her of Jet, Chris’s black German shepherd, but the facial markings and light black mask resembled a husky.
Why show itself now? Was that because of the candy? What it thought was an offer of food? Possibly, but the scent wasn’t right. Like the alpha wolf, this animal’s scent didn’t scream hunger or danger. Over the lingering sweetness of chocolate and coconut, she could taste the emptiness here, all cold dust and gray ash. This wolfdog was both alone and lonely.
But where did you come from? For that matter, why had it risked following her? Maybe it was like the dogs before: how they always clamored to be near and protect her, if need be.
They stared at one another. Unlike Jet, the wolfdog’s eyes were an intense, stunning gold. Only after they’d locked gazes did she remember that it was dangerous to stare down a wild animal. Yet as their eyes held, that lonely taste again washed over her tongue; her chest ached. It had been a long time since she’d seen a dog. Even a wolfdog was somehow more normal. It made her feel … human.
Moving slowly, she swiveled her head to the right. Head jutting like a Neanderthal’s, Darth was clomping past the wraparound porch, heading for Bert and Penny, who were just emerging from the woods. From the crinkly nip in the air, she knew they’d hauled back mostly desert-dry pine, which she, oh joy, would then sort through, because these kids just didn’t learn: pine + fire = big trouble. But this meant she had a few more minutes.
She turned back to the animal. “Hey, boy, whatcha doing?” she said, softly, knowing better. This was something poor, cranky, sweet little Ellie would’ve done: Hey, strange animal, come give me rabies. The thought pushed a lump into her throat. If Ellie magically reappeared, she could make nice to every animal in the forest, and Alex wouldn’t bat an eye. She should know better, too. Given Wolf’s interesting fetish, encouraging this animal to stick around was a death warrant. But she suddenly longed to touch it. Just ruffle her fingers behind its ears. Selfish, she knew, but she really, really needed this.
“Hey, boy, whatcha doing? You stealing my food? Huh? That’s okay,” she soothed, and saw the tip of its tail twitch back and forth. Relax, breathe out; let go, so it can. “But next time, you think you might leave me some—”
There was a sudden urgent push in her head, a kind of mental shove in the center of her brain. A split second later, she felt a heaving sensation that was like the unfolding of arms and legs, the swiveling of a gigantic head, the baring of needle-teeth. The opening of yellow eyes. What the hell? Her mind shimmied as if the ground were shifting under her feet, the snow ready to let go and carom down a rise and sweep her away. Gasping, she flinched away, nearly tumbling down the steps, barely aware of the wolfdog’s small, queer yip of alarm.
The monster? Why was it waking up now? Not because of Wolf. There was no way to get used to a monster, but she was beginning to sense a difference in what the monster did. Never fully asleep now, the monster always poked its nose up for a sniff whenever Wolf was near. That feeling was close to her dream: fire and need. Desire. The monster reaching out in a lover’s embrace because it wanted Wolf.
But this was different. It’s like that night Spider killed Jack, when I got yanked behind her eyes. Like when Leopard wanted me in the mine. And just days ago, when Acne tried to kill her. This was bloodlust, a killing frenzy. There was something—someone—pulling at the monster, reaching in with clawed hands, dragging it along and into …
… into a mind that isn’t hers, behind alien eyes—push-push, go-go—in a body she doesn’t recognize—push-push-push—and isn’t sure belongs to a girl. Go-go, push-push, she/he/it is moving with four others, just as fast and silent and gogogo: a red storm, pushpush over the snow, through trees, pushpushpush, a swirl she/he/it sees through many eyes. To its left, there are bright flashes of sun dazzle shining through breaks in the forest. That portion of the forest curves, following a broad swath, rimming a bowl of unbroken snow. Behind, not very far, there is the pushpushgogo.
And there is another, almost a brother but still an enemy, and that one is screaming: GOGOGO, LET ME—
Very far ahead, there are six more, and the red storm drives pushpushpush them on, gogogo—and then what she sees and where she is collapses. There is another shimmy, a shift. Now, suddenly, she’s jumped again to slip behind the eyes of someone else, who is chasing after three others. One has a head of wild, untamed hair; another is small and his pain is a ripe, bright scent. And there is a third, but he … it?… is hard to read; there is nothing to roll around the mouth—but pushpushpush her head is a red storm full of gogogopushpushPUSH—
66
Chris felt his mind try to push back, run away. But he could only stare, frozen. Petrified.
Lena was skeletal, all sharp angles and tented skin. Sunken in their sockets, her dull eyes were smudged with hollows the color of old coffee. Except for the scarf, her clothes were torn, filthy. Matted with forest rubbish, her thick hair was a tangle of dead leaves and broken twigs.
“Lena.” Her name came in a wild, strangled choke. His heart suddenly kick-started in a chest that felt too narrow, his lungs squeezed between iron walls. “Wh-where … H-how …”
She said nothing, and for a split second, he thought, She’s not real. This is a trick. You feel guilty, that’s—
Then his eyes—the only working parts of him, it seemed—hooked on the bright lime-green scarf. Oh God. His head ballooned with horror. The last time I saw that was the night we stayed in that school, when the Changed came. Chris had stolen Lena’s scarf and deliberately placed it in a pile of bodies. Because I wasn’t sure what was happening to her. He remembered how his stomach had bottomed out when that boy, a Changed, wrapped Lena’s scarf around his neck. But now Lena had her scarf and that meant …
“W-w-wait.” He tried to step back, but his feet wouldn’t budge. “L-Lena …”
With no sound at all, she came at him, a blur of clawed hands and tee—
“No!” Flailing, he scrambled bolt upright, thrashing his way off the bed, thumping to the floor hard enough to rattle the windows. Gasping, he sprawled on his back. His chest was drenched; his hair clung to his scalp.
“Relax, it was a dream,” he said to the ceiling. He armed clammy sweat from his forehead. “Just a dream.”
God, but so real, like the nightmares. His eyes crawled to the nightstand clock. Only five minutes had passed. Except for the clock, the house was dead quiet.
Dozed off. Pushing to a sit, he propped himself on his hands. “Why do I keep dreaming about you, Lena?” he whispered. This was going to eat him alive if he wasn’t careful. Groaning, he rolled to hands and knees, then got a leg under, pushed to his feet, and staggered to the south window. The frozen pond was a golden oval. A long rectangle of blue-black shadow cast by the house stretched toward the far barn. The corral was empty, all the cows probably inside for the afternoon milking.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Chris. Take a chance like you did with Alex. Stop hiding,” he said to the room. He palmed chill glass. “For God’s sake, you’re not eight years old anymore. Tell Hannah or Isaac about Lena and Alex, but tell someone. Just do it. If they understand, they understand. If they don’t …” Well, they wouldn’t kill him to protect themselves, would they? His forehead crinkled with sudden disquiet. No, that was crazy. Would he, if the situations were reversed?
“No,” he said. He’d give a person like him some supplies, then blindfold and lead him far away, point him in the right direction, and wish him luck. If Hannah and Jayden were smart, they’d move and never give him the chance to retrace his steps. Leaving all they’d built up would be hard, but they were strong, tight. They’d manage.
First chance he got, he should leave. There was nothing more he could do here, or discover. No army of willing children either. If that was Jess’s plan, then she was insane. These were only kids, trying to survive. He couldn’t force them to come back, wouldn’t even ask.
As for the rest—all those secrets—okay, now he knew. Yay. And so what? The only unanswered question was whether the people in Rule suspected what Peter and the Council were up to and just kept their mouths shut. Did he really care enough to risk going back to dismantle the Zone, take on the Council?
“Maybe so.” But not for them. The kids Peter and I brought back; they didn’t have a say. You can’t let them grow up in the shadow of that. What kind of people will they be in the end? Of all people, he should understand what it was like to grow up with ghosts and blood that never washed away.
His stomach picked that moment to grumble, an incongruous sound that made him laugh. He ought to eat up. This might be his last good meal for a long time. Just as he turned from the window, his eyes hooked on a very slight shift in the light, some dark slink out of the corner of his eye. He shot a quick but offhand glance, more from habit than anything else.
Two boys—Jayden and Connor, he thought—hurried over the snow toward the barn. Oh was all the thought he gave them, because he was preoccupied, focused on food and how to break the news about Lena and Alex before heading back to Rule. South was best, a straight shot that wouldn’t take him but four days on foot. Three, if he hustled. Hunter said they had Nathan’s gear. A lucky break. He could listen in with the radio, figure the best way to slip into the village without getting his head blown off.
The stew was stone-cold, the glutinous sauce clinging to chunks of potato and carrot and venison. He shoveled in a mouthful. The meat tasted a bit musty, gamy, and it was tough. Probably an older buck, or Jayden might not have dropped it right away. Peter once said that the longer a deer ran after it was shot, the gamier it tasted because of the acid buildup in—
“Muscle,” he said out loud, around stew. Wait a minute. What did I just see? Leaning back, he carefully replaced his spoon in the bowl, replayed the view from his window. Two boys, heading for the barn. And this was a problem because?
“Because”—he swallowed—“they were hunting.” So if Jayden and Connor were hunting and checking traplines … “Where’s the game?” he said to his room. “Well, they might not have bagged anything, right? Everyone has bad days.”
But hadn’t Hannah said that Jayden never came back until he’d gotten something; that he always pushed the envelope and this scared the hell out of her?
Then Chris realized what he hadn’t seen.
“Oh shit.” His chair toppled as he darted back for the window. “It’s not only that they don’t have game. They don’t have guns.”
The boys were much closer to that far barn now. No guns. No horses. No game—but that was because they were still on the hunt.
And instead of only two Changed, now … there were ten.
67
“Go, go, go.” Alex could hear herself now, but the sound was tiny in her mouth, the red storm still huge in her mind. “Push, push,” she said, unseeing, the words falling off her tongue. “Push push push. Go, go after them, go faster, go—”
A jolt of pain raced up her right thigh. Grunting, she hissed out a breath as she felt whatever had grabbed the monster in her head suddenly let go. She looked up to see Darth, who was just winding up for another kick.
“Stop, Darth, stop,” she said, laboring to her feet. “I’m getting up, okay?” Yet, for once, she was almost glad to see him. God, what the hell was all that? She put an absent hand to an itch on her upper lip, then felt her thoughts stutter as her eyes fell first to her glove and then jumped to the step. Red spiders spattered the snow. Oh no. A clot of fear wedged in her chest. The last time she’d had nosebleeds, the monster had chewed up enough real estate to double in size. Maybe the red storm, that pushpushpush, was nothing other than the monster, now stronger and bigger, ripping up her brain.
So maybe that’s what happened just now. The monster’s developed to the point where it can do this … this … Well, whatever had just happened. She didn’t even know what she could call it.
Darth nudged her again, this time with the business end of the rifle. “Yeah,
yeah,” she said, snuffling back blood. As she began trudging across the cut to the driveway, however, Darth moved on ahead again and she was able to flick a quick look toward the clutch of low cedar. At first, she thought the wolfdog was gone, but then spotted it well back, mostly hidden in the dense shadows beneath a blue spruce. And how weird is that? Darth didn’t seem to notice or care about this animal. With those carcasses standing as ritual sentinels here and Wolf’s cowl, Darth must have known the animal was there. Unless this was only Wolf’s peculiar little fetish, his spirit guide or whatever, that Darth and the others put up with.
She turned her thoughts back over what she’d just experienced. What would she call that? A mind-jump? Or someone else dropping in? Both? Think, Alex, how did it start? She’d been with the wolfdog … but no, that wasn’t quite right. The mind-jump had happened when she relaxed to coax the animal closer. She’d let down her guard, and then either her monster got out, or something—someone—grabbed it. Which meant what, exactly?
Her monster always woke up when Wolf was around. So Wolf could be on his way back, and she’d gotten a kind of subliminal whiff of him, one she hadn’t really noticed or paid attention to because she was so used to the Changed. That was possible. She had no idea what the range of her spidey-sense might be, and it was probably dependent on the wind, which was relatively still at the moment. But Wolf might be nearby. One eye on Darth, she slowed and sampled the air, letting it whisk over her tongue. All she got, however, was the copper of her blood, pine, snow, the evanescent coil of the wolfdog. No Wolf.
Okay, scratch that idea. Unless Wolf’s on his way back and the monster knows this somehow. Yeah, but how would that work? Maybe the same way you got a premonition about someone and then your cell would ring. Which would mean that her monster was syncing up in some funky way with Wolf?
