Malefactor

by Robert Repino

  “Not a finger,” she said absently.

  “Okay, a few fingers. But he was able to walk afterward.”

  He stopped, realizing too late that he should have simply lied. She did not need to hear another story like this. The distance between them widened as she drifted to the edge of the road, her gaze focused straight ahead. No, no! It couldn’t be that easily lost, could it? Were things that fragile?

  He closed the gap and tried to match her pace. As he tried to think of something else to say, they passed the body of a wolf, an older female who’d lain on the asphalt and gone to sleep. Mort(e) could smell the gangrenous wound on her ribs. The blood dribbled on her blue war paint. There would be more before they reached Earthblood territory.

  Walking slightly behind D’Arc, Mort(e) reached out his hand to her shoulder. She saw him but did not react. The hand awkwardly hung there before he withdrew it

  A howl broke out among the caravan. Some of the heavily painted marauders ordered their brethren to stop. It made no difference. If the wolves gave away their position with their song, so be it. One of their elders had fallen, and they would mourn.

  D’Arc arched her spine and pitched her head back. She released a howl that lasted a few seconds before turning into a wheezing sound. Then she began again. She must have learned it from the Mudfoot. Her voice cracked, a desperate cry that Mort(e) had not heard since the war. It was the kind of noise he thought he had left behind, and here it was, rising from the throat of the person he raised. The person he created. He realized that he would never fully accept that she walked this other path of her own choosing. With each broken howl, another sharp rock fell to the pit of his stomach, weighing him down. He slowed his pace as D’Arc moved farther and farther away. Soon he became lost among the canines. He was the only one who did not cry out.

  The highway exited into a college town that the humans had long since abandoned. The Earthblood maintained these old settlements to mark the borders of their territory, one of the only wolf packs to do so. Rumor had it that they used a ten-story hotel near a ski resort as a major base of operations, and they painted it red with blood. Every few years, they needed a fresh coat. So the rumor went.

  Near the highway ramp, a crater marked the former location of a gas station, lost in an explosion. Deeper into the town, the school’s main building rose above the rotting husks of cottages and shops. An intricate layer of vines climbed the brick walls, curling around the decaying bell tower. At this time of year, the vines lay dormant and brown, waiting for spring when they would burst out in green again. The same vegetation tethered the hollowed-out cars to the ground, transforming them into elaborate flowerpots, with tentacles crawling across the seats and through the chassis. A row of bicycles, still chained to a rack, also fell prey to the vine. The windows of the administrative offices remained mostly intact, though they were layered in dust.

  Earthblood she-wolves, their faces painted red, greeted the arrivals in the enormous courtyard. The older females resembled human grandmothers feeding their pets, while desperate, delirious canines reached out to them, begging for treats. The wounded were sent to the sports arena to receive treatment, and a line had already wrapped around the building.

  Mort(e) turned away from the spectacle to find the only sign of the war in town: a Huey helicopter in an empty parking lot. He got close enough to see a human skeleton in the cockpit, still in a jumpsuit, with a rusted pistol in their lap and a jagged hole in the top of their skull. Most likely, the pilot ran out of fuel, landed here, and weighed their options.

  Mort(e) may have passed through here with the Red Sphinx at some point. He could picture his comrades mockingly toasting the dead pilot. The memory—if it even was one—melded with all the others. He stood staring, mumbling nonsense to himself while the wolves raced past him, heading for the scent of meat.

  A hand pressed against his arm. Too big to be D’Arc’s.

  “Mort(e),” Falkirk said.

  Mort(e)’s tail straightened. “What? What is it?”

  “I told the Mamas that you would pay them a visit.”

  “The Mamas?”

  “The old dogs.” He pointed to the courtyard. “They can give you a place to lie down.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “We’ve already had this argument. Maybe you don’t remember.”

  Mort(e) did not.

  “D’Arc and I are meeting with the elders,” Falkirk said. “To decide what to do next.”

  Despite his exhaustion, Mort(e) forced himself to speak. “I should go with you.”

  “Talk to the Mamas first,” Falkirk said.

  Mort(e) watched the throng of wolves swirling about the courtyard.

  “Don’t worry,” Falkirk said. “We’re not leaving without you.”

  Falkirk patted him on the shoulder and walked away. Mort(e) watched him as he pushed through the crowd toward the main entrance, directly below the bell tower. The enormous doors opened to let him in.

  Mort(e) entered the courtyard, where frenzied wolves fought over pieces of meat as soon as the Mamas handed them over. Two of the wolves tugged so hard on a piece of flesh that it flew from their mouths and flopped right at Mort(e)’s feet. It rested on the ground, crusted with dirt. A wolf scooped it away, which prompted another melee. One wolf rushed in so quickly he nearly knocked Mort(e) over.

  The elder females scolded them. “There’s enough!” one of them shouted. “Enough for all! Save your energy!”

  The younger wolves stopped on command. Mort(e) smiled at the thought of these great warriors, these invincible marauders, who still needed their mothers’ approval.

  Mort(e) followed the wall of the gymnasium to the service entrance at the rear, where capsized dumpsters and composting piles of trash littered the parking lot. A gang of young wolves gathered there, maybe fifteen in all. Fresh blood stained their lips. They had arrived here first, gotten the healthiest slices of venison, and now relaxed with full bellies. One of them, the smallest, sat in the middle while another painted his coat with a handmade brush. The young wolf had passed his first test on the way to becoming a full-fledged marauder, and thus earned a new set of markings.

  “Tekni!” the wolf called out drunkenly. Mort(e) smelled moonshine. Some of the wolves passed the bottle behind their backs so he wouldn’t see. The wolves always claimed they stayed away from the stuff, but no species could resist entirely.

  The circle opened to welcome him. Mort(e) figured that these young warriors had been instructed to show deference. The Mournful in particular liked the ceremony of rank. But after a day’s march, with the world ending all around them, these exhausted wolves ignored the protocols.

  “Tekni,” the baby of the group said again. “Tekni, Tekni, look.” He clumsily pointed to the painting on his fur, showing a pitched battle in bright red, orange, and blue. It would wash away in the rain, and he would touch it up again, like a human fixing their makeup.

  “Shhh,” one of his comrades said. “Quiet.”

  “What?” the wolf said. “What, I wanna show ’im something.”

  “Tekni, we’re sorry,” another said. “Jovan here is drunk, likes to run his mouth.”

  “Jovan asked us for the markings!” yet another said. “It was his idea!”

  “Yeah, yeah!” more of them chimed in. “He thought he was being funny.”

  “It’s not bein’ funny!” Jovan said. “It’s in honor of—”

  “Shut up!” one of his friends said.

  Mort(e) got closer. “Let’s see it.”

  They fell silent.

  Jovan pointed to an image of a dog on his chest. A white dog, holding what appeared to be a stick, charging into a forest. It was D’Arc. Upon closer inspection, the stick had a nice curve to it. The wolves’ ability to paint on fur astonished him. He had not seen artistry like this since the war.

  As h
e leaned in closer, someone tried to distract him by shoving a bottle of moonshine in his face. “Try some of this!” Mort(e) pushed it away.

  “Just let me show ’im!” Jovan insisted. He traced a line to his ribs, the part of him that would display most prominently when he ran on all four feet. The painting depicted a group of wolves standing in a circle. Their spiky fur and red eyes indicated a sinister intent. Even more ominous, they surrounded a smaller creature, a puppy that reached out his hand to D’Arc.

  “Sheba the Mother,” Jovan said proudly. “To the rescue!”

  “That’s enough!” another wolf barked.

  Mort(e) straightened himself. With their snouts lowered and their eyes drooping, the marauders had transformed into meek puppies, hoping to regain their master’s favor.

  “Congratulations on your promotion,” Mort(e) said.

  “Thank you!” Jovan said. As Mort(e) turned away, someone hit Jovan on the back of the head. “Hey!” the wolf barked.

  “I told you to shut up!” someone said. An argument began. Mort(e) left it behind, making his way across the courtyard, through the chaos of the new arrivals. The Mamas shouted to him to join them, to get something to eat.

  “Fill your belly, kitty!” one of them said. Mort(e) sauntered right past. For the first time in days, he felt like his old self. No hint of salt water in his mouth, no sound of lapping waves chugging in his ears. His senses sharpened, and movement around him slowed until he could see the individual hairs on the hide of each wolf. They must have smelled it on him, this new sense of clarity, for they cleared a path even as they fought for the last scraps of meat.

  Two guards waited in front of the main building, leaning on the Roman columns, where the steps rose to an archway and a pair of glass doors. When they spotted him approaching, they whispered to each other. These wolves enjoyed a higher rank than the others, judging from the sidearms dangling from their leather belts.

  “I’m sorry, Tekni,” the larger one said, extending his palm. “The elders are meeting.”

  “You gonna shoot me if I try to walk in?”

  The smaller one puffed out his chest, prompting a snicker from Mort(e).

  “Please, wait out here,” the larger one said.

  Mort(e) gestured to the gun. “How fast are you with that thing?”

  The guards glanced at each other.

  “You’ve already let me get too close,” Mort(e) said, emphasizing the last word by climbing one more step. “It’s too late to draw.”

  The larger one suddenly found his courage. “No it isn’t.”

  “Show me.”

  The wolf squared his feet. It was one move too many. Before his fingers could tap the holster, Mort(e) shot his fist out and drove his knuckles into the smaller wolf’s throat. With his other hand, he grabbed the wolf’s pistol and spun him around, finishing with one arm over the guard’s neck, the other pointing the newly acquired gun. The larger wolf, still squared and ready to draw, had managed to pull his own weapon halfway out of its holster.

  “Now,” Mort(e) said, “you can either let me in, or we can tell Grieve what just happened. All three of us.”

  The glass doors opened to a lobby with a dusty marble floor and rotting paintings of pudgy men on the walls. An earthy scent seeped through the next set of doors, smelling like the bottom of a ditch after a rainstorm. Mort(e) grabbed the handles and swung them apart, revealing a large hall that formed the heart of the building. On the high ceiling, a freshly painted star chart set Polaris at the northern corner of the room. The floor, astonishingly, was covered in an elaborate earthwork sculpture, complete with grass, stacks of rocks for mountains, pools of water for lakes. In order to move forward, Mort(e) needed to climb the miniature terrain. He noticed small model houses, packed tightly together, along with an enormous model of the city of Hosanna, built beside a river, a wooden bridge stretching across it. Ringing the city were wooden stakes poking out from the dirt, organized by color. Red for the Earthblood; blue for the Mournful; green, yellow, and orange for the smaller packs. And surrounding them all stood stakes with dark brown paint, some of which had received a new coat only hours before.

  Mort(e) stood atop a three-dimensional model of wolf country and its surrounding territory. Some Earthblood elder must have demanded it so he could seem important while planning out another senseless raid, another pointless skirmish over land that they would lose within a season anyway. The wolves who constructed this map room enjoyed a level of sophistication and comfort that most of their people would ridicule. What kind of a hunter had time to make something like this?

  To the north of Hosanna, a tiny gathering of wolves and dogs huddled in a square. Grieve, Harrek the White, Falkirk, and D’Arc. Three more guards lingered in the other corner, near the edge of the forest where the bears lived. At the center, a cylindrical object carved from wood rested on the ground. Mort(e) recognized it as the Vesuvius. On the other side of the river, a capsized cylinder marked the crash site of the Upheaval. The Earthblood tracked the airships’ movements through a network of eyes on the ground and in the air. Falkirk probably gave them even more intelligence.

  Only the guards noticed Mort(e) enter, and by then it was too late. Mort(e) lifted the model Vesuvius and flung it at Hosanna. The resulting bang echoed off the walls. All the people in the room jumped, but Mort(e) took note of D’Arc in particular. Her ears perked, and her hand shot right to the pommel of her sword. Her face sank when she saw him stomp through Hosanna like a giant. He gave the tower in the middle a swift kick, sending it flying far out into the wilderness.

  Grieve at least had the decency to find it all amusing. Mort(e) remembered that grin, the same one the wolf had showed years earlier when Culdesac agreed to get rid of his brother.

  “I asked you to wait outside,” Falkirk said. He shut his mouth as soon as he saw the look in Mort(e)’s eyes.

  “Forget it,” D’Arc said, waving him off. She watched Mort(e) for a moment, much like she did before the Change, when there were no words to confuse them.

  “He knows,” she said.

  Behind the main building, a dried-out fountain moldered among the fallen bricks and other debris. The stone basin had cracked and crumbled in several places, and rust had sealed the metal hose shut. In the center, the severed feet of a discarded statue were fused to a pedestal. D’Arc sat on a section of the basin she deemed secure while Mort(e) paced around her.

  “I don’t owe you an apology, Old Man,” D’Arc said.

  “You lied. You said you were never with Falkirk.”

  “It was my way of saying that it was none of your business.”

  “I told you,” Mort(e) said. “I told you that these pets from Hosanna would—”

  “I know what you told me,” she snapped. “I’ve thought about it every day. Every day since I left, I’ve had your voice in my head lecturing me.”

  “Oh yeah? Was I right about anything?”

  “A few things. And I know how important that is to you.”

  As Mort(e) turned away, he spotted two young wolves peeking around the corner, eavesdropping. The two vanished when he caught sight of them.

  “I can’t make you understand,” D’Arc said. “But when I left—when I set out on my own—I was trying to do something good for once. Something that would create rather than destroy.”

  Mort(e) snorted.

  “Don’t laugh!” she said. “We’ve had enough of the war. I sat out most of it, and I know you’ll never forgive me for that.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t need to.” She stood. “I was trying to do something new,” she said. “Maybe I could help make things better, in my own way.”

  A flurry of desiccated leaves scraped along the fountain.

  “I was trying to avoid becoming like you,” she said.

  Mort(e) stopped pacing. “How di
d that work out?”

  She folded her arms. “Don’t you even want to know about them? My children? I had a chance to get one of them back until you messed it up.”

  “Tell me.”

  D’Arc extended her arms and cupped her hands. “They were so small.”

  She told him their names. The first, Tristan. The second, Nautica. And a third, with no name, whom she held and lost, and then held and lost again. The universe tugging the child away from her each time she grasped for him.

  “They’re your children too,” she said. “In a way.”

  A lightness swelled in his stomach as he remembered a vision that the Sarcops bestowed on him: Sheba’s first litter of pups, lost to the war. Three little ones, calling him a name that no one would ever use for him.

  Papa.

  Papa, over here! Papa, come find me!

  “Mort(e),” D’Arc said. He realized that he had moved several feet without realizing it. Another hallucination. At least it was a good one this time.

  “There are more important things going on right now,” D’Arc said. “Harrek is leading his people west. A few of us are going east. To fight.”

  “It’s suicide, then.”

  “It’s suicide if I don’t go. Only slower. I know you understand that part.”

  In frustration, Mort(e) sat on the lip of the fountain. “These wolves can see the future,” he said. “So I’ve heard.”

  “I’ve been inside their camp,” D’Arc said. “I know how they operate, how they move.”

  “Even so. How long before the humans bomb all of it to hell?”

  “Falkirk says it’ll be soon. That’s why have to move now.”

  Mort(e) knew then that he could not convince her to walk away, cut her losses.

  “I can help,” he said weakly.

  “Mort(e),” she said. “You’re not well. I’m sorry you came all this way. It wasn’t for nothing—the Mournful saved my life. But I can’t . . .” She pulled her hand away and covered her mouth with it. “I owe you everything, but I can’t bring you with me.”