The Pack (2 page)

Bradley looked across and saw Floris's blond head falling onto her shoulder, her eyes flickering open and shut, open and shut, and at Victor nodding slightly, his square face earnest and pale, willing the Old Woman to carry on, not to finish, though he sensed the end in sight; willing her not to bring them back to where they were, squatting on the hard earth round a rusting brazier. Three dogs dozed among them; one of them, black as coal with a silver chest, was so large no stranger would have dared to rouse it.

“Thomas bent down and reached out a hand”—to a plate that seemed to sit just before where the children sat—“and he picked up one of the sausages; it was a lovely golden brown. He raised it to his lips—oh, it smelled so good—and he took one bite. One bite and his fate was sealed. They came at him from everywhere! They jumped on him from trees, out of rabbit holes, from behind rocks. They were so small and so quick he couldn't make out their faces or their forms, but they squealed with delight, their sharp teeth flashing, and they held Thomas and bound him and they took him under the green mound where they lived and where he would never ever be found.”

The Old Woman swept her eyes from one child to the other to make sure the lesson had been learned: stay within the world you know; to be inquisitive about another will lead you only to your death.

“Never ever?”
said Floris.

“Never ever,”
said the Old Woman, whose performance was not quite finished.

“What is the world made of?” she asked.

“Ashes,” the children replied.

“Ashes and dust,” she said and held out her hands to let one or the other blow from her huge flat palms, till there was no sign of it.

“All worlds,” she said. “All worlds … But what cannot crumble, what cannot burn or be broken?”

“Stories,” the children replied.

“Stories,” she said. “Now be gone and let an old woman get some sleep.”

From time to time, Bradley had watched bats go to sleep, pulling a long thin wing over themselves, and so it was with the Old Woman, who pulled a wing of her black cloak across herself and closed her eyes. The children rose then and left her without a word, the dogs—Hunger, Fearless and Shelter—padding behind them. Where the Old Woman finally stretched out herself—or if she ever did so—Bradley never found out, but if ever he passed her brazier at dawn, the only sign of her was the story turning in his own head; the next he'd see of her was on the street, pulling off another of her daily miracles.

*   *   *

In the basement where they lived, Victor and Floris curled into each other on their nest of blankets like dogs and were soon fast asleep. The dogs themselves settled around Bradley, their breathing chests lightly pushing into him.

A story,
said Hunger.

“You've just had a story,” said Bradley and gave one of Hunger's ears a playful pull.

A story,
said Hunger.

The dogs looked at him expectantly. They liked to hear the rising and the falling of his voice, not crisp with an order, but unwinding at the end of the day.

“All right,” said Bradley, “you win,” and he told them one of the Old Woman's stories, one of their favorites.

As the dogs settled to listen, he imagined a time when they would take this story into the forests and into the mountains the Old Woman had told of. The tale then would seem as distant to them as the shards of his own memories. But every so often, he thought, an image or a simple rhythm, lodged in the creases of a pink ear, might return and connect them again with the Old Woman and with the boy Hunger had saved to become their leader.

2

HUNGER

Floris coughed lightly. Bradley saw the puff of her breath in the cold air. She didn't wake herself, but Victor momentarily opened an eye and squinted at her. Hunger raised the long black wedge of his head, sniffed the air, glanced at Bradley and, assured all was well, returned it to the pile of rags they slept on.

Bradley was already awake. He pushed the blanket from him and eased himself from under Hunger's weight. The black dog liked to sleep so close to him, often his paws or his belly almost pinned Bradley to the ground.

The first cold light of day angled in the slats of the broken windows. One corner of the basement looked precious and warm—a box of old switches, plugs and circuits. Above it, an old shopping basket hung from the ceiling.

From his nest, Victor watched him. Beneath his blanket, his body began to coil and the muscles to tense, as his stomach thought for him. What put the glare in his eyes this morning more than another was not a question that concerned him. The sealed lips of the scars he carried on his arms and legs had been speaking to him again. They reminded him of how, in a time of scarcity, starving dogs had turned on him, driving him from a nearby Zone. He had sought brief refuge in the Forbidden Territories before Bradley found him. But he would not trust easily again. He and Floris were alone. And instinct told him Floris was weak and needed food.

Bradley had only begun to unwind the rope from its hook and to lower the basket, when Victor pounced. Using his knuckles as front paws, in an enclosed space Victor was fast as a cat. He lunged at Bradley's arm with his teeth and the rope spilled from his hand, the basket falling dully on the floor and its contents—the stale slices of bread, some withered carrots and an onion—tipping out.

Before either of them could react to this, a black shape the size of a small deer arced before Bradley's eyes. Victor took Hunger's paws full on the chest and fell backwards. Hunger pinned him to the ground, covering him like a black table. He bared his teeth and nipped Victor's neck to let him know how vulnerable he was. His steady growl became louder when Fearless and Shelter padded over, thinking to clear up breakfast. Instead, they settled back on their haunches, prepared to wait calmly, as every morning, for Bradley to divide up whatever food they had.

It was then that Bradley became aware of Floris in the other corner. She was whimpering behind her blanket, her eyes wide with terror, seeing Hunger stretched out above Victor, hearing that menacing growl.

“Hunger,” said Bradley, “enough.” Hunger knew Bradley's tone, as Bradley knew his. Hunger took a few steps back; Bradley took his snout in his hands and stared a moment into his black eyes—to let there be no mistake, he was back in charge.

Victor scrambled up and retreated beside Floris.

All the dogs, even Hunger, whined as Bradley pulled the basket up and secured the rope. Only then would he deal with Victor. He moved slowly—no sudden movements—Victor was closer to his dog's life than he was. The Old Woman had taught Bradley to walk straight, to clean himself, to think for tomorrow, just as Bradley was now teaching Victor. But still sometimes Victor forgot and slipped back into the habits he'd shared with the dogs he had lived among: he ran on all fours, he fouled himself where he stood; if there was food, he wanted it all now.

As Bradley crouched down before him, he heard Victor's breath rasping in fear and anger. Victor pushed Floris behind him; there was no fight, whether with Bradley, Hunger or the whole pack of them, that he would not face to protect Floris. But still his eyes would not meet Bradley's. Instead, they darted nervously around the basement.

Once, Bradley would have reached out and grabbed a fistful of Victor's hair and forced him to meet his gaze; once, he would have added his bite to Hunger's.

“Victor … Victor…” Bradley put the flat of his hand out in front of Victor. If he wished to sink his teeth in, now was his chance. Victor cocked his head, then looked down. Bradley cuffed him, rocking him back on his heels, and for a moment Victor's eyes flared up at him. Bradley held his gaze steady and Victor again looked down.

Bradley reached his hand out again, but this time ran it over Victor's black spiky hair, remembering how, when they had found him—a stray from the Forbidden Territories—his hair was long and matted down his back, his legs and arms covered with bites. He would only allow Floris to get close to him then. She had poured some water from the can over a rag and dabbed at his wounds, no more scared of him than she would have been of a bird tipped from its nest. Or, more properly, a child. For, from the start, Floris had been able to see past the animal in Victor to the small, frightened boy he was. Still, in spite of Floris, in those early days and weeks he would squat awake all night, his eyes fearful and glowing like blue coals in the darkness.

Though Victor never spoke of it, Bradley imagined things were a lot worse beyond the territory Hunger, Fearless and Shelter mapped out for them. Certainly that was what the Old Woman believed; she was never done warning them to keep within the Zones, never to stray into the Forbidden Territories or to dream of the Invisible City, whose distant lights they could make out pooled in the dark sky.

“Victor is OK,” said Bradley. “Victor is OK. Floris is OK. OK with Bradley, Hunger, Fearless and Shelter. One of us, Victor. One of us, Floris. We share.” Bradley opened his arms and passed them in a circle around Victor, Floris and Hunger, who had patiently tucked his head between his forelegs.

Victor stared back at Bradley through his tears. “One of … one of…” He coughed out the words.

Just then, Floris began to smile. Shelter, the youngest of the dogs, was on her feet and snapping furiously at a sunlit column of dust stirred up by the commotion. With each snap, her paws left the ground and she took a little jump backwards. Victor, turning to see Floris smile, began to smile too; then Floris gave a light trill of a laugh. Victor stuttered out his own broken laugh and Bradley laughed when Hunger, Fearless and Shelter began baying along with a sound they couldn't imitate, but whose meaning was clear. For Hunger understood the big emotions well enough. He knew when a story was happening and when it had come to an end and he could communicate these things to the other dogs.

“Well,” Bradley said at last, “come on, there's more to eat here than sunbeams.”

He let down the basket again and took out the bread, the carrots and the onion. “The bread now,” he said. “The carrots and the onion we'll give to the Old Woman. She'll turn them into soup for us.”

Bradley broke up the slices of stale bread and shared them with Victor, Floris and the dogs. Victor wanted to take his piece in his mouth straight from Bradley's fingers, but Bradley held it out of reach. Victor grabbed it and ran with it into a corner to eat on his own. Bradley unscrewed the top of the old gallon can they kept rainwater in and took three good gulps. He poured a little water into three bowls before passing the can to Floris.

The sky had been full of an icy rain and the can was heavier than usual. Floris tipped it up and, losing control, spilled the water down her chin and her neck. The Old Woman and Bradley never laughed at waste, but Floris gurgled her delight. Her eyes were blue—blue as the piece of worn glass that was her most precious possession. She could lie for hours simply turning it against the light. It was only the size of a large coin but, looking through it, Floris could see another world. It was the world she had come from and to which she would return. In it, she lived in a house made of glass, filled with light. Each evening there would be a fire and, before it, she would sit in her mother's lap and listen to story upon story.

Her favorite game with Victor was to imagine the glass had been lost and to search for it. The pair of them would turn over the sacks and old rags they slept on, becoming ever more agitated, till, “Victor! Victor! Here it is!” And Floris would clutch the glass to her chest and trill her delight to Victor and promise never to let her dream of home out of her sight again.

“Tell me,” she said to Bradley. “Tell me again the story of my name.”

“Later,” Bradley said. “Tonight. If I don't start soon, we won't be eating tomorrow—and then you won't be smiling.”

3

THE WAGER

Bradley left Victor and Floris with the dogs and climbed out into the cold sunlight. The building above their basement had been an old warehouse. It had been looted and torched in the Dead Time. Its façade still stood, buttressed by crumbling walls. At its top you could read, carved in sandstone with pride,
WYLIE'S ENGINEERING WORKS.
Every so often, scavengers poked among its burnt offerings for something to barter with. But the Pack had left them with nothing.

No passing stranger could have guessed that under the reinforced floor, the basement was still intact. A loose mesh of charred wood covered the entrance and Bradley, Victor and Floris always glanced around before entering or leaving. As for the dogs—well, stray dogs were everywhere.

At the end of their alley there was only one street to Main Street. From the doorways of empty shops, eyes watched Bradley pass. Even in his hooded sweatshirt, padded against the cold, he moved lightly on his feet; you could see he had an animal awareness of what lay just beyond his vision. The eyes let him pass because he seemed at home in this world; they knew there was nothing he could give them.

On Main Street it was still early, but the traders were about their business. They moved slowly in their shawls and heavy coats, laying out their wares on blankets, trestle tables or in the centres of old tires.

One man laid out the contents of a small sack of potatoes. It must have passed through many hands to arrive here. He sat by them with his wife, who held one in her hands like a squirrel, rolling it beneath her nose, her eyes shut as if the smell of earth were her most powerful memory.

Another man sat picking the insignia from a pile of old army uniforms. They shone dully from the tin plate he put them in. Uniforms were highly valued for their warmth. But the truth was, anything was of value—the old coins, rusty nails, broken-up computers, plastic Mickey Mice. You had to have something to barter with to survive. And the tricky thing was, though everything was of value, you didn't know to whom; so you had to simply deal and trade and hope that sometime you would meet someone who had something you really wanted—food, matches, clothing—when you had something they wanted as badly—a padlock with the key still in it, a chain, a knife.