Wolves (20 page)

The sky is yellow now, the sun sitting above the horizon line. Despite the added light, the landscape looks darker. It is backlit by the rising sun, and it makes things harder to see in detail, but he can get the gist of them from the movement of the shapes.

Low stands in the middle of what might be considered the “yard” of the trailer. A dusty expanse with boot prints belonging to the family, and many more belonging to people that the townsman would not know. But he would not notice such things, Huxley thought. Or
hoped.

Off to the right, in amongst the dry scrub grasses, there are the corpses.

Huxley's heart hammers in his chest as he stares at the corpses.

They are side by side, like they are holding hands and staring up at the sky to talk about shapes in the clouds. Two young lovers on a grassy hillside in some park, a long time ago and in a place so far away from Huxley that he does not remember the name. They are barely concealed. There is some dry brush around them, and their rags are the color of the desert. But they are not camouflaged, and they are only a few short paces from the dusty road that leads to the trailer.

He will see them
, Huxley tells himself, gripping his revolver hard.

He won't. He can't. He'll be focused on the boy. The half-light will make them hard to see. The brush and the rags will conceal them … 

On a whim, Huxley dips his knees and cranes his neck, looking skyward first through the window, and then bending back to look up through the hole in the roof that serves as their chimney. A dark shape swoops across that small opening, then another, or perhaps the same one.

Huxley grinds his teeth furiously, feeling the pit of his stomach like a hollow, heavy hole that seems to be expanding, eating him up inside. Those were carrion birds. They'd smelled the dead and had come for their meal.

He'll see the carrion birds. He has to see them.

Everyone sees those birds. Everyone looks for them.

One did not simply travel without an eye to the sky to see where the birds were hovering over death. They were a sign from nature that warned wise men away, warned them to take a different path, warned them that the path they were on was headed for death and danger.

Too late now. Too late to do anything about it.

Huxley leans hard against the cabinet, feels the coolness of the fake wood against his face, the scratch of his beard, the sweat breaking over his brow.
I shouldn't sweat. I shouldn't worry. It's not for me to die today. I'm not weak. The townsman is weak. He's riding alone into an area hovered over by carrion birds. He's making stupid choices. The world won't miss him. If he sees the bodies, or if he notices the birds, it means nothing to me.

If he has to die, I will kill him.

Low stands, very still in the dawn, in the middle of the yard. Now Huxley can hear the
clip-clop
of the horse's hooves on the hard-packed trail, the subtle grind of the tires as they pass over rocks and gravel and course sand. The entire wagon creaks as though it is held together precariously by just a few nails or bolts.

Huxley can see the man much clearer now. He holds a scattergun in his lap, two revolvers in fine leather holsters on his legs. His face is shadowed by a wide-brimmed straw hat that has seen better days, but Huxley can still see the gray that traces through his beard. An older man. Not old as old used to be, but old in the way that men grow old and survive only by the skin of their teeth. The only men that grew truly old were those that had children to lean on. But Mr. Crofter's children had died, according to Low.

In the yard, Low waves, haltingly.

He doesn't look natural.

Huxley looks across the doorway and into the shadows where Jay and Don are hunched next to each other. He looks at Jay first, but Jay is staying quiet. He is staying quiet often enough to cause Huxley to wonder. Up to this point, he had been so vocal, pushing his opinion on every issue. Now he seems to be just sitting back and watching.

Beside Jay, Don is shaking his head and baring his teeth. “That fucking kid,” he mumbles, looking back and forth between Low in the yard and Huxley behind the cabinet. “He's gonna get us killed. This was a dumbshit idea to begin with. Shouldn't have even let him live.”

Huxley turns his focus outward again. “Ssh.”

The old man and his wagon have slowed now and are pulling into the yard. Huxley watches his face carefully, watches to see where the eyes go, what expressions he makes, whether the truth is apparent to this man or whether he is tricked.

Low waves at him, more aggressively this time, a gesture that says to keep his distance. “Mr. Crofter!” he calls out. “Mr. Crofter, stay there! We've got the sickness!”

Crofter reins up and lifts his head so that he can see past his low-hanging straw brim. He has a pair of squinty eyes, suspicious either by nature or what he has seen, Huxley can't be sure. The horse comes to a stop, stamping little marks into the dusty yard, about fifteen feet from Low. The wagon creaks as it rolls back and then catches on the horse harness.

“Wha's'at, Lowell?” The man calls out, inclining an ear. “Couldn't hear yah. What're you doin' out in the yard with yer face covered up? Wha's wrong, son?”

Low steps forward, his eyes glancing about. Huxley prays that he will not look directly at them, and that at least is a prayer that is answered. Low clears his throat and speaks again, his voice a little firmer than last time, a little more sure of himself as he repeats the lie.

“Mother and Father have the sickness. I'm taking care of them, but it's catching. Didn't want you to get too close.”

Crofter leans back in his bench seat, concern scribbled over his features. “Oh, well … Son, that's no good news. What type of sickness?”

Huxley can watch the boy's thoughts scrambling about in his brain. He can see it in the way the boy's fingers twitch and his knees knock around, locking and unlocking as though in his mind he is running. He hopes that to Crofter, Low just seems like a fidgety boy.

Maybe he's not fidgety normally. Maybe that will just raise Crofter's suspicions.

“I don't know,” Low finally says. “But they're real sick. Mother caught it from Father.”

“And you haven't got it yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you should come to town with me then, get Doc Watson and bring him back here. Ain't got much to trade at market today, so the day won't be that much of a loss. I don't mind making the trip. Specially for good folks such as yourselves.”

“Uh …” Low seems trapped, his feet shuffling around like he's looking for a way out.

Inside the trailer, Don is cursing under his breath, even as Huxley's heart is throbbing in his chest. He wonders why his body is sending these signals through him, telling him to be scared. He should not be scared of a single old man on a wagon. The man should be scared of them. They are three, and he is one. He will not win that contest, no matter what.

This is the way of the world.

I am not weak. I will not be weak.

“This kid's gonna blow it,” Don hisses. “We should just shoot this motherfucker and get it over with.”

“Shut up,” Huxley bites back under his breath. “Stop talking.”

Outside in the yard, Crofter leans forward and puts an elbow on his knee, for the first time perhaps sensing that something is off. “Son, if your parents are down sick like that, then they should be checked out. Could be the flu, or it could be something worse. Doc Watson should look at them.” Crofter glances to the trailer. “Can they not even get up to come talk to me?”

“No,” Low says hollowly. “They can't get up.”

“Well, if they can't get up, that'd be pretty serious.”

“They'll be fine.”

Crofter looks at the boy, then at the trailer again.

Huxley cringes, thinking,
He knows, he knows, he knows that something is wrong.

Crofter's hand scoots up to lay on the butt of his scattergun. Huxley watches it. “Well, mayhaps I should walk up and holler at 'em through the door. At least that way they know that help is comin'.”

“No,” Low says abruptly, then seems to rush to find a reasonable justification. “They're sleeping. They should sleep. Don't wake them.”

“You're acting strange, son.”

Low is suddenly stock-still where before he had been fidgety. “No. I'm not strange.”

Crofter's hand is fully gripping the scattergun now.

“Hux,” Don whispers. “We need to do it.”

But Huxley is shaking his head.
It's gonna eat me alive.

No, you need to do it. You're just being weak.

Stop. Stop being weak.

Crofter's finger is hovering near the trigger, his thumb hooked on the crank, the scattergun held in both hands, but still across his lap, still not completely threatening. “Lowell. What's wrong? Has something happened? You know that you can tell me. It's okay to tell me if something happened.”

Low stands in the yard, struck dumb and mute.

Huxley watches the old man's eyes pass over the trailer, lingering on the front door and the window, looking into the darkness. Huxley knows that Crofter can't see him, but he feels the man's eyes on him anyway. It makes sweat break out on his palm and the grip of his revolver becomes slick in his hands. His finger wants to touch the cold, steel trigger.

“Hux.” This time it is Jay that speaks.

Huxley looks at his companion. “Just wait. There's still a chance.”

Chapter 3

In the middle of the yard, Lowell stands stock-still, trying not to shake. Boots dusty. Clothing dirty. His face feels stiff and cold. The rag over his nose and mouth smells like a strange man's sweat and his own breath, hot and sour, clinging to his lips and nostrils. He has nothing in his hands, but he wishes for something, anything. Here and now, he feels naked. Defenseless.

He looks up at the old man who is now standing on the wagon. Mr. Crofter's scattergun is held in both hands, but down at his side, not pointed at anything in particular. His eyes are directed at the house, squinting as though with concentration he can see through the dull aluminum walls and view what lies inside.

Strangers,
Lowell thinks.
Dangerous men.

“Please,” Lowell says, his voice very quiet.

Mr. Crofter looks down at him, for the first time, those squinting eyes showing some fear. “Lowell, what happened?”

Lowell shakes his head, ever so slightly, and he hopes for his sake and for the sake of Mr. Crofter that his words are too quiet to be heard, that they are lost and carried away by the steady winds that gust through the flat plains, whistling and moaning in the collection of boulders where the spring of water lays like dragon's gold, lusted after and dangerous to touch, killing all those that come into contact with it.

“Please, Mr. Crofter,” Lowell says, so very quietly. “You should go. Please, just go.”

Crofter leans over, catching the cue from Lowell to be quiet. He mumbles, just loud enough for Lowell to hear, “Who's inside there?”

Lowell feels his whole body trembling. His limbs feel like dead weights hung about his torso. His chest is on fire. His head buzzes uncontrollably. It is difficult to see, to think, to feel anything but fear. He knows what will happen if Mr. Crofter does not go away, please,
please, just go away, you don't know what's inside, you don't know … 

“There's bad men,” Lowell whispers. “There's bad men inside and they're gonna kill you.”

Crofter looks back up to the trailer, his eyes wide, and he starts to raise his scattergun, starts to crank the element,
zzzzz
 …

Too late.

Lowell hears the door slamming open behind him, and he flinches. Up on the bench seat of his wagon, Crofter's whole body locks, stiffens, his mouth coming open in a wordless cry, teeth bared. Lowell turns and looks to see who has come out of the trailer, but as he turns, in that tiny split second, it is already done.

Lowell hears the
snap-BOOM
and something rips through Crofter's gut, causing the old man to grunt like he's been punched hard. Almost on reflex, the scattergun in the old man's hands goes off, a giant plume of smoke and a belch of flame and the sound of a hundred tiny projectiles clattering and pinging across the trailer.

Lowell ducks as he turns. Hits the ground on one knee, his hands up around his face as though to cover his ears. He can see the trailer now, the door still hanging open. It is the man, Don, who stands in the doorway, revolver held out before him, barrel pointed up as he snicks back the hammer for a second shot.

It is Father's revolver. He stole it from Father after they killed him.

“No!” Lowell screams.

Crofter drops the scattergun. It clatters noisily onto the deck of his wagon, and then over and onto the ground. His knees tremble unsteadily, one hand on his gut, turning red, and the other groping for his holstered revolver. “You sonofabitch,” Crofter whispers, weakly. He gets his hand on the butt of his revolver.

Don levels another shot at him, squeezes off the trigger. He disappears behind a cloud of gray, shot through brilliantly with morning light. Crofter cries out as the second lead ball careens through him, this time through his upper chest, collapsing lungs and rupturing arteries. He falls to one knee, still trying to yank his revolver from its holster, his cry turned to a ragged groan. And then the third shot comes, this one striking him in the cheek, spilling him backward over his own bench seat and silencing him.

Lowell huddles on the ground.

The horse harnessed to the wagon is pulling in different directions but not really going anywhere, whickering in a quiet, scared sort of way. The horse is familiar with the sound of gunfire and it is not fully panicking, but it smells the blood and knows the danger. Its owner and rider is sprawled across the bench seat, chest slaked in blood, brain matter dripping from his head and into the back of the wagon. One of Crofter's feet twitches, the toe pointing at the trailer, then at the sky, then at the trailer again, like an accusation.

“Goddamnit!” Don shouts out.

Lowell looks at him, numbness and shock settling over him like a cold, white cloud. A chunk of Crofter's scattershot has ripped into Don's shoulder and the man is turning in circles like a dog chasing his tail, his weak hand holding the revolver and flailing it about while his strong hand tries to find and extract the piece of whatever it was that found his flesh.

“You said,” Lowell mumbles, but he knows it isn't loud enough for any of them to hear. “You said you weren't going to kill him.”

Lowell's gaze falls to dust and gravel and dead grass. He stares at the tiny contours of the ground in front of him, the grooves that his own feet and shoes have dug into the soft, dry dirt. The imprint of the soles of his shoes. He stares at it and sees blood and bone and murder. He stares at it and feels nothing. Nothing save for some peripheral sense of falling, sliding down, losing ground, going backward.

He knew the world was like this.

He had experienced it before.

How could he have ever allowed himself to believe that goodness was alive again? Mother and Father did not love him. They had only pitied him. Father more so than Mother. But regardless of their own loss, regardless of his strangeness and his savagery when they pulled him from that cave, they had taken him in and given him food and shelter and clothes to cover his skin. They had shown compassion, and he had believed that the world was capable of it.

But then they'd been killed.

I let them trick me
, he thinks.
I was stupid, and I let them trick me.

Dead, dead, dead. Everybody is dead.

He does not lift his eyes, but he hears the words spoken in the dusty yard as gunsmoke settles and the horse steadily calms itself.

“What the fuck was that?” Huxley's voice, though his voice is not as edged as his words might imply. As though he wants to care, but couldn't find the gumption.

Don is matter-of-fact. “He knew. He fucking knew.”

Huxley swears. “We could have taken him captive.”

“And done what? Tied him up and taken him with us?” Don makes a derisive noise. “If he was alive, he was gonna find a way to get to a town and tell a sheriff, and then they would've been on us.”

“There's already a captain of the guard after us,” Huxley says flatly. “Why not a sheriff?”

“What? What captain? What for?”

Huxley doesn't respond to Don.

Lowell hears boots crunching on dust and gravel. He is sitting on his heels, knees in the cold dirt, hands splayed across his thighs. He appears almost restive, and perhaps in a way he is. His soul is not in the turmoil that it should have been. Something inside of him, something that was supposed to be processing all of this, was broken.

This time, he looks up.

Huxley stands there, revolver in hand, the barrel hanging low and tapping out a slow, thoughtful rhythm against the side of Huxley's leg. He is looking at the wagon, the horse, the dead man. His lips compressed so that they disappear behind his beard and mustache. He sniffs. Spits in the dirt. Then he meets Lowell's gaze.

“Where's the town?” he asks.

Lowell blinks. “What town?”

“The town where this guy goes? Have you ever been there?”

“Yes. Me and Father go … we went … to sell scrap.”

“Where is it?”

Lowell looks to the east. “That way. Straight on the wagon road. No turns.” He dares to hope that Mr. Huxley is asking these directions because he intends to leave Lowell there and move on by themselves. His heart beats fast with his desperation. Then he wonders if he wants Mr. Huxley to leave.

Of course I want him to leave. He's evil.

But he's like you, Animal Child. And you're like him.

And if Mr. Huxley left, then it would be just Lowell again, in the wilderness, all by himself. And he would die. Just like Mr. Huxley said he would. Maybe he would survive for a time … but eventually … 

“How far?” Mr. Huxley asks.

Lowell thinks about handwidths and horizons. He and Father would leave at dawn and the sun would be two handwidths above the horizon when they got there. “Two hours, I think,” Lowell says. “Maybe a little faster on the wagon. I don't know.” He is suddenly unsure of himself. All the things he knew, all the things that Father had taught him, they seem far away and unreal now that he is no longer there. Like maybe they were foolish things that he had dreamt up in his sleep.

Goodness is not real. Why would any of it be real?

I am an orphan again.

I am lost again.

Mr. Huxley is speaking.

Lowell blinks again.

“Low?” Huxley says, repeating himself. “Can you take us there?”