The Totem

by David Morrell

  "One thing more. We know that they're not dangerous to one another," Owens said. "When I put some of them together in the same container, they ignored each other, staring fiercely at the light and lunging at the glass around them."

  Slaughter thought about the figures he had seen up in the bushes by his barn tonight. "You mean they hunt in packs?"

  "Not necessarily, although it's possible."

  "But what would make them do that?"

  "Look, this virus gives control back to the limbic brain and makes it act the way it once did several hundred thousand years ago. To hunt in packs is natural. It's even a survival trait. Individual behavior, at least in humans, is by contrast very recent."

  EIGHT

  Wheeler braced himself up in the tree and waited for the sunrise. He'd been up there all night, and his back and legs were sore and twisted from the way he was positioned among the branches. He was numb from lack of sleep, his eyelids heavy, plus his hands were cramped around the rifle he was holding, but for all that, he was satisfied. His effort had been worth the pain. He smiled toward the murky rangeland and the object lying by the sagebrush. Yes, he'd gotten what he had come for, which was something very different for him, getting what he wanted. Things had not gone well for him in quite a while. Since 1970 and that October afternoon when he had shot that hippie. On occasion when he managed to be honest with himself, he recognized that he had been in trouble long before that, with his wife and in particular his son, but if he'd helped to make that trouble, it was nothing that they couldn't have worked out among themselves. What had made the difference were those god-damned hippies who had come to town. They were the cause of this, their loud mouths and their garbage. He remembered how he had gone to town and first had seen them, angered by their sloppiness, their easy answers to the country's problems. Sure, drop out and act like children, more than that, like animals. Oh, that was some solution, all right. They were just afraid to go to Vietnam is all, too god-damned yellow to protect their country. He had been there when the town had forced them from the valley. He had helped to push them out. He'd kicked and thrown rocks as had others. He had shut their filthy mouths for them and hoped they'd learned their lesson. But his son had gone up to that lousy commune then, and he himself had been made to look like a fool. No son of his was going to end up like those freaks, not so that the town could make jokes about him.

  Plus, those hippies might be dangerous. The drugs they took, they might do anything. Wheeler had known he had to get his son back. So he'd gone up to the commune, and of course, they tried to fight him, to hide what they were up to. There'd been no choice. He'd had to shoot the hippie who had come at him. It was self-defense. The town would understand that, Wheeler had figured. But it hadn't understood, and his son had turned against him as well, and he himself had gone to prison for two years. Oh, that was fine, the way his friends had turned against him. He couldn't count on anyone. He should have learned that lesson years before, but he had learned it then all right. His son had run off after that, and then while he himself had been in prison, he had gone through all that trouble with the guard. The guy just wouldn't let him alone. There wasn't any choice except to fight. By Jesus, he wouldn't be pushed around, so instead of getting time off for good behavior, he'd been forced to serve the full extent of his sentence.

  What did he expect? If they were out to get him, he was powerless, and then his wife had turned against him. She'd been keeping up the ranch while he was gone. She hadn't come to see him, but he'd figured that she'd been so busy that she couldn't get away. The day he came home he found out the truth, however. She told him that she'd stayed to manage things because she didn't want to leave the place to strangers, but she wasn't going to live with him, and now that he was back, she wasn't needed, she was leaving. He had fixed her for that. She had limped out to the taxi when it came for her. He didn't help her with the bags. He let the driver do that. He just stood there on the porch and cracked his knuckles, telling her that he would never take her back, that if she tried to come back, he would beat her even worse, and that had been the last he saw of her. Well, that was fine as far as he was concerned. She'd never been good for him, always nagging at him about how much he was drinking, about the work he didn't want to do. Christ, he was better off without her and without that mouthy, trouble-making son. He didn't need them. He could get along without them.

  But Wheeler had trouble, all the same. His former friends avoided him, although he expected that. They really hadn't been his friends. All they'd wanted was a sucker to buy them drinks. Sure, they'd been lying to him all the way. But he'd found new friends, trail hands and a couple ranchers in the valley who were not so god-damned proper that they wouldn't take a little time out to relax. A man got stale if all he did was work. That wasn't any kind of life. But then Wheeler's cattle got sick one year. The next year, there were many stillbirths. After that, the price of beef went down. There wasn't any way to get ahead once everybody turned on you. This year, the bank was making noises about mortgage payments that he hadn't met; the barn was close to falling down; the winter had been so bad that he'd lost more stock than he had counted on; and now the predators were moving in.

  Wheeler had found the first steer Friday morning, so disfigured that he almost didn't recognize what it had been. He'd never seen a carcass like it. Not just one wolf or a coyote, but a whole damned pack had done this, in a frenzy. He heard that night about another rancher who had found a steer like this, and in the morning when he'd gone out to check his stock, he'd found three other mangled steers, and he couldn't stop from cursing. Hell, they meant to ruin him. He heard that a dozen ranchers in the valley had also found cattle like this, and they didn't know what they could do except to post some guards and maybe have a meeting. There was no sense in their leaving poison that the cattle might get into. But Wheeler knew what to do. He was not about to let this thing continue. He meant to stop it dead right now. Those predators had picked the wrong man to play games with.

  In the afternoon, he chose three steers and led them to the spot where he had found the mutilated carcasses. The predators were in a routine, choosing this location each time. With the foothills so close, they just figured they could slip down for an easy kill and aggravate the man who owned their supper. But tonight he would surprise them. First he staked the cattle, leaving portions of the mangled steers to spread their odor and to hide his scent. If he had lately not been good at ranching, he was very good at hunting, and he'd gone back to his house to eat and get his rifle and the Benzedrine he'd been given by a trucker in a bar one night. He'd walked back toward where he had staked the cattle. That was crucial, not to drive his truck and warn whatever might be watching. When he'd come to within a quarter mile, he had eased down, crawling, inching toward a solitary tree that was between him and the three steers. From there, with the moonlight to help him, he would have a good view, and he stayed low by the tree until sunset, waiting even longer for the darkness to enclose him before slowly standing, hidden by the tree, and climbing through its branches to a cradle near the top.

  He moved as silently as he was able. Then he settled back against the trunk and swallowed a Benny, staring toward his cattle. He checked his rifle and made sure that he hadn't lost the extra rounds that he'd put in his pocket, and he knew that he was ready. Even with his jacket, he was cold, but that was just because he couldn't warm himself by moving. He ignored the cramps in his legs and scowled toward the cattle as the moon rose higher and higher.

  The cattle were nervous, but he saw no sign of anything coming toward them. Soon he swallowed another Benny. Abruptly he saw shadows moving and aimed his rifle, only to realize that the shadows were only in his imagination. Shit, this idea had been wonderful when he had planned it. Being here was something different, and he almost climbed down, going to his house, when what seemed several hours later, they were out there.

  First he heard them baying at the moon. He tensed. Then he saw a silhouette to one side, next anothe
r just behind it. As he blinked, he saw the darkness filled with them. He couldn't wait until they came so close that they would see the tethers on the cattle, dimly sensing they were ambushed. He quickly aimed, but he couldn't chance a poor shot that would scare them off and make this agony of waiting worthless. He would have to do this properly, and breath held, he was thinking of his wife, his son, the prison guard, his former friends, imagining that they were swarming out there. He was easing his finger onto the trigger as one silhouette became distinct, and when he fired, the recoil knocked him hard against the tree trunk. He worked the rifle's bolt and fired again, but they were gone now, although he saw a huddled figure out there by the sagebrush. It was still and silent, and he smiled to think that he had dropped one, maybe more if he kept waiting, and he shivered from excitement, from the Bennies and the cold, but he didn't see further movement in the shadows. He just heard them howling somewhere in the distance. Then the howling stopped when the moon went down.

  He waited even longer. Once he thought he saw something, but it darted so fast that he didn't know what it was, and he wanted to go down and see what he had shot, but he'd stuck things out this long, he might as well stay put a little longer. For a change, he'd see a project to the finish. But his legs were sore and twisted, and the darkness was turning gray, the sun about to rise. At last, he climbed down the tree and hobbled toward the figure.

  From the distance, it had seemed like a wolf, but now as he came closer, it looked more like a bobcat, smaller, with long hind legs and a face that wasn't pointed but flat. The fur was draped around it more than growing on it. The fur was ragged, torn in places, and some sections of the skin were bare. There wasn't any tail, and coming closer, Wheeler was frowning, thinking that this was his imagination, trying hard to calm himself. But then he stopped and saw the feet and hands and nose, and what he felt was like a replay of that instant twenty-three years ago. God, he'd shot somebody! Not a man! A boy! The kid looked maybe twelve. But why was this kid dressed in ragged pelts the way he was? Had children from the town come out to scare the cattle? Had some campers…? But Wheeler knew the answer even as he asked those useless questions. That long hair below the shoulders. Christ, he'd shot another hippie.

  He pivoted, scowling around him. Had another bunch come through here? Was that first bunch still up in the mountains? He had heard that they had left, but if they hadn't, this might be one of their kids. That big hole in its back from where the bullet had burst out. That motionless, silent body. He was nudging at it with his boot, but nothing happened. He breathed, shaking. How could he explain this? First one, now another, and the town would act the way it had the first time. No one would believe him when he said it was an accident. They'd send him back to prison, and he knew he couldn't bear that. Not that guard again. He couldn't stand it. Just because these god-damned hippies came down here to take things out on him. He started digging with his rifle butt, but all he did was chip the wood because the ground out here was hard, and he needed tools, a pick and shovel. Quick before somebody found this. He stumbled from the figure, bumping against the tree, and lurching toward his ranchhouse. Then he started running. Have to hurry, get that pick and shovel, make the hole deep, make sure scavengers don't dig up the body, sprinkle it with quicklime. He ran harder. His fear had changed to a frenzy, his speed now almost manic as he saw the ranchhouse in the distance while, his stomach churning, he kept charging toward it.

  PART FIVE. The Lake

  ONE

  Slaughter stood before the glass partition, numbed by what he saw. Cody who had found the boy inside the mansion last night and been bitten was now snarling, writhing to escape the straps that bound him to the bed. His throat was bandaged, and the damage there might help explain the hoarse inhuman sounds he made, but Slaughter didn't think so. No, the virus was at work. The man was like a lunatic, and Slaughter thought again about the medical examiner's remark, about the madness from the moon. "It's just a guess," he told the orderly beside him. "Turn his room lights off, and maybe that will calm him. God, I wish he'd pass out."

  Even with the window as a buffer, Slaughter felt the snarling touch him. He was nauseated by the foam that drooled from Cody's mouth. The snarling and writhing became more extreme. Cody tried to twist his head to bite the nearest strap around him.

  "I can't watch this."

  Swallowing, Slaughter glanced at where Marge waited at the far end of the hallway. She was peering through another window. Slaughter knew that the mother of the dead boy was inside there, and he took one final look at Cody before walking slowly toward Marge.

  "I just hit her," Marge said, not turning to him. 'There was nothing else I could do. I didn't mean to hit her so hard. She was-"

  "You can't go on like this."

  "But she's got a fractured skull."

  "You'd rather that she'd killed her husband?"

  "No, I…" Marge faced him.

  "Then take it easy. You did what you thought was necessary. As it is, she's going to live. That's all that really counts, although I don't know what they're going to do with her. There isn't any way they know to cure her."

  He peered through the window at the mother who was strapped unconscious to her bed, bandages around her skull, an intravenous bottle draining toward a needle in her arm.

  "We know this much," Slaughter said. "She shouldn't be sedated, so the fact that she's unconscious from the blow you gave her might turn out to be the best thing, all considered. If she were awake, she'd be hysterical like Cody up the hall."

  Even here, Slaughter heard the snarling from the other room.

  Marge leaned against the wall.

  "Hey, why not go home?" Slaughter suggested. "There isn't anything that you can do here. You'll be told whatever happens."

  "What about yourself?"

  "Oh, don't you know? I'm trying for a record. How long I can go without sleep."

  He hoped that would make her smile, but she only stared.

  "Marge, I know that what you did was hard."

  She studied him.

  "I know that if there'd been another way you would have chosen it. I think that you did fine. I wish you wouldn't feel so bad."

  "You'd feel the same."

  "Of course, I would. But then I'd need a friend like you to say what I just said to you. I mean it. You did fine. I don't want you to worry."

  "Thanks." Marge bit her lip. "But it doesn't help."

  "All the same, go home. I'll get word to you."

  She nodded. Even so, she lingered.

  "Come on. Let me walk you down."

  He touched her arm, and she responded, walking with him along the hallway. Neither looked at Cody. At the corner, she glanced back at the windows in the wall down there, and then she went downstairs with him, and he was watching by the back door as she walked across the parking lot.

  That poor, sad, lonely, tortured woman, he was thinking. When she raised that baseball bat, she must have been in agony. He waved in farewell as she drove away, then thought a moment before heading toward the phone inside the nurses' station.

  He'd avoided making this call much too long, reluctantly dialing Parsons' number, and the man answered, sleepy, angry.

  "Slaughter? Eight o'clock? On Sunday? Can't this wait until a decent hour?"

  "No, we really have to talk."

  "Well, Jesus, Slaughter-"

  "This is serious. We don't have too much time."

  Parsons exhaled. "All right, then. I'll see you in my office in an hour. But this better be important."

  "Oh, don't worry," Slaughter told him. "You'll wish that you didn't know."

  Slaughter frowned and hung up. He was thinking that in all the years he'd lived here he had never been to Parsons' house, and he wondered why just now he'd thought of that, with everything he had to keep his mind on. Then he guessed it was because of all the power games that Parsons liked to play. The man kept his subordinates away from where he lived because he wanted to dissociate them, keep them from assu
ming friendship. That way he intimidated them. But Slaughter didn't care much. He had never been afraid of Parsons, although in truth he didn't want to go through this with him, and needing to keep occupied, he went out, driving to the station where already, even early in the morning, there were calls about more prowlers, about mangled cats and dogs and cattle, several missing persons. Well, it's just beginning, he decided. Then he did his best to shut his mind off as he cleaned up, washing in the men's room, changing from his sweaty shirt to one he kept inside his office drawer. No, Parsons wasn't going to like this, and a half hour later, as the two men (Slaughter unshaven) sat facing one another, it was worse than Slaughter had expected. Parsons had been fifteen minutes late, and Slaughter had been forced to wait outside the locked doors of the Potter's Field Gazette. Then Parsons had shown up, freshly showered, wearing a suit and tie. "No, not yet. Wait until we're in my office," the man had told him, and upstairs the man had listened, then quite calmly answered, 'You expect me to believe this?"

  "I don't know. I wish I didn't."

  "Really, Slaughter, think about it. All you're sure of is that a boy came down with some disease, or maybe he just had a breakdown. Then his mother got hysterical and fought her husband. Cody is in shock. He's got a raging fever. There's your explanation."

  "You've forgotten Clifford's body."

  "No, I haven't. Clifford was attacked all right and likely by a wild dog as you say. But were there any tests performed?"

  "Just to find out what attacked him. At the time, we had no reason to suspect a virus."

  "So the only tests were on that sick dog, and the evidence was very close to rabies."