D’Arc squeezed him so tight that he could hardly breathe. “We have to get on that train.”
“On it? No, it’s too late for that.”
Her claws dug into his skin.
“We’ll follow it,” he said. “We’ll figure something out on the way.”
“No!” she said, her voice raspy. “We have to get on!”
She barked, the way any dog would when an intruder invades their home. This wasn’t D’Arc speaking. It wasn’t even Sheba. This was some primal language, a grunting that signaled something worse than danger.
“What is it?” Falkirk said. “What do you see?”
“Get us on that train,” she said, and then barked again. “I don’t care how. Just get us there. It’s the only way.”
Falkirk took the next right and sped toward the train tracks. A row of houses and driveways streamed past him while dead powerlines zipped overhead. At the end of the road, the last car on the train lazily rolled through the intersection, leaving a void in its place.
D’Arc gasped for air, as if gravity had collapsed on top of her.
“Talk to me,” Falkirk said. “What’s going on?”
“There’s too many of them . . .”
“Too many wolves?” He knew that already.
She searched for the word while her teeth grinded. “Too many futures. There are all these paths to take. They all point outward from here. I see all of them.”
“Focus on the train, then,” Falkirk said. “Focus on where it’s going.”
Falkirk swerved left onto an unpaved service road that led out of the station, running alongside the tracks. A rusted chain-link fence separated the road from the rails. As the train gathered speed, Falkirk weaved around a fallen telephone pole and a dead tree, both painted green with moss. He caught up with the last car on the train, a metal passenger coach with oblong windows. Something moved inside. They must have heard him. And now they could see him.
D’Arc had been quiet for a few seconds. He turned to see her reaching for the train, her hand coming dangerously close to the fence. Falkirk jerked the bike to the left to keep her from slicing her fingers off.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Falkirk,” she said, on the verge of tears. “Hurry.”
In another half mile, the train would pass under a bridge.
“Look out!” D’Arc screamed.
A muzzle flashed from the train car, and machine gun fire clattered in his ear. Bullets whizzed overhead. He eased the throttle, and the train began to pull away.
“No!” D’Arc said. She reached for the handlebar and tried to accelerate. Falkirk batted her hand away.
“We have to find another way,” he said.
“There is no other way,” she said. “Look.”
She nodded behind them, where a truck pulled onto the road, shooting gravel as its tires spun. A wolf stood in the rear of the pickup, aiming a rifle. He slapped the top of the cab to urge the driver to go faster.
“Tell me what you see,” Falkirk said. “Is it our son?”
“It’s everyone,” she said. “If we don’t stop this train, they all die.”
The road terminated at a hill covered in dead grass, which formed the base of the bridge. Falkirk scanned the fence, hoping to find a gap in the chain links. If he tried to turn to the left, he would go straight into another stretch of forest, where he would have to abandon the motorcycle and most likely get caught by the marauders in the truck, if not some other hunting party.
More of them waited on the other side of that hill. Not just wolves, but lost dogs like him, like his brother. It might be a husky like Wendigo who finally ended this journey for him, sending him into the white forever.
Falkirk twisted the handle forward.
“Yes,” D’Arc said. “Keep going. This is how we get on the train. I can see it.”
“See what?”
The engine drowned out the sound of gunfire from the train. A few bullets sparked against the fence, while others splashed in the dirt. Falkirk overtook the train and its rear gunner. More wolves moved about inside the car, searching for a spot where they could take aim. One of them tried to kick out the window, but managed to make only a few cracks.
The road ended, and the tires slipped a little in the dead grass. But the bike was going too fast now. It was simple physics. Falkirk held on tightly as the bike ascended, and the train fell away. Angling the handlebars, he pulled back as the bike launched over the bridge. Weightless, they cleared the two-lane road and hung for a frozen, breathless moment above the train.
Gravity caught them. The bike dropped, the rear tire connecting with the metal first. Falkirk turned the handlebar to the left to keep from gliding off the top, but this forced the motorcycle to tip over. As he tried to brace himself with his leg, he let go, and the motorcycle slid away from him, tires spinning madly, the engine smoking. With D’Arc still holding on to him, he slammed his palm onto the metal and dug in with his feet. They came to a stop right at the edge. The bike tumbled over the side, hit the ground and flipped over in the dirt, its front wheel bent from the impact.
Falkirk breathed. He patted his ribs and his leg. Nothing broken, though everything would be sore in the morning, if he survived that long. An enormous dent in the roof showed the path the bike had taken. D’Arc lay beside him, huddled against his fur, her eyes sealed shut.
The marauders would arrive any second. Falkirk reached for the gun in his holster.
“How many futures are there now?” he said.
Without pause, without any emotion, she answered him: “Two.”
Chapter 21
Back and Forth
D’Arc saw everything. All that there was, and all that there could be.
Like a bird flying over Hosanna, she watches as the train enters the city. The metal serpent slithers into a concrete maze, its venomous head painted bright orange. The people gather in the streets, on rooftops, the crowds surging to see the wolf queen and her child. Flags wave, showing a burgundy pawprint against a white background. The dogs separate into packs, howling in praise of their savior as she at last arrives on a chariot stolen from their enemy. For their part, the humans take their places along the barricades and wait, hardly moving, barely acknowledging one another. By returning the train, the Mudfoot succeed where the other packs have failed. They honor the terms of the ceasefire. And now the humans will listen.
D’Arc walks among them, trying to peer over their heads. A human child runs toward her, bumps into her hip. He holds a doll made of rags, a stuffed wolf that an older relative must have made for him. He wants to talk to her, but his friends chase him away. A woman tells them to slow down before they trip and fall.
D’Arc blinks and finds herself at the checkpoint, a rifle in hand. The weight of it startles her. She nearly drops it. The human guard beside her notices but says nothing. A barricade of barbed wire and logs blocks the path of the train. Behind it, a row of concrete cylinders adds another layer. Pillboxes and sniper nests, manned only with handpicked human soldiers, surround the train as it arrives. Mercy the Merciful has come in peace, but Hosanna has prepared for war.
The train slows. The brakes squeal, a sound that the citizens of Hosanna can hardly remember. This is, after all, another reclaimed relic, a tool from a more civilized time that will help the humans be human again.
Something moves inside the cabin of the front car. A door slides open and a man emerges, wearing fresh deerskin, a grotesque tattoo shading his face. He climbs the ladder and rises to the top of the engine so everyone can see him, even the crowds watching far behind the barricade. Despite their preparation for this moment, despite their training, the guards react in their own quiet ways—shifting their stances, tightening their aim, sneaking a glance at their comrades. This man-wolf represents everything that has gone wrong with their peaceful
experiment. He is the claw of the great ant Queen, plunging into the city’s chest and ripping away its heart.
The female wolf emerges beside him, skinnier than expected, smaller. But strong, with defiant eyes, pointed ears. She holds a furry bundle at her chest. And as she climbs the ladder to stand beside the man-wolf, she raises her child, the future leader who was never meant to live. The pup unfolds and flops open, his tail dropping to the wolf’s knees. A grin opens from ear to ear, spiked with white fangs. D’Arc waits to hear his thoughts in her head. But they do not come. As she sinks into the emptiness of this moment, a lone howl begins somewhere in the crowd. Another voice joins, then another. Soon, almost every dog joins the song. Their pack has arrived.
A single bullet could end this. Another path for the future to take. But the humans do not fire, and the path closes. Of all the wolf packs, the Mudfoot have kept their promises and delivered on their threats. The dogs of Hosanna have seen the rumors coming true. All the bullets in the world cannot stop what will happen next.
The humans frantically search the train, checking for weapons and bombs. The Toqwa warriors and the Mudfoot marauders exit their respective cars and climb on top while the humans rummage through, barking their military codes. “Clear,” they shout, their boots stomping the decks.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
It takes a long time. The Mudfoot and their allies remain still and calm. The humans sweat. A stain spreads on the commanding officer’s jacket from his armpit to his ribs.
When it’s over, the barricades lift. Two bears roll away the concrete cylinders, opening a path for the train to enter the city and make its way to the station. The passengers return to their cars. As the train rumbles forward, the howl from the crowd becomes a roar. The train crosses a small river, where people of various species cheer from canoes and makeshift rafts. The spectators have been waiting for more than a day. On land, fights break out as the dogs try to push their way to the edge of the tracks. A game of zagga spontaneously begins, forcing a circle to open among the onlookers. Several of the flags collapse in the chaos, but more rise to take their place.
On the platform, the newly installed Archon waits, his hands folded at his belt. Here, the roof of the station shades the concrete island where the passengers will disembark. At the far end, severed pillars point sharply into the air, the remnants of a Parthenon-like structure mostly destroyed in the war. This place was never meant to receive a train again, and yet the oncoming locomotive generates a breeze that swishes the Archon’s robe and flutters his salt-and-pepper beard. The bodyguards squeeze in tightly around him. More soldiers arrive, flooding the platform.
D’Arc is so close to him that she can feel his heartbeat, yet no one sees her.
The breeze from the train grows stronger. The Archon blinks. The bodyguards shuffle. The old wheels of the train scrape and squeal as the engine gathers speed. Some of the people in the crowd cheer louder. But the rest know something is wrong. They know that the train is not stopping.
Not a single one of the dogs loyal to the Mudfoot are anywhere near the station.
Two pairs of hands grip the Archon by the shoulders and arms, dragging him away. The train roars through the station, past the pillars, heading south along the river. A metal click cuts through the noise. The three cars in the rear disconnect from the engine and roll freely. Their brakes engage and they grind to a stop at the edge of the platform. Some of the soldiers scream to stay away, while others rush to the scene.
The flatbed with the trash truck on top sits in between the other two cars. D’Arc witnesses the explosion in slow motion. The blast shreds the metal, splitting the truck open like the skin of a molting insect.
Everyone in the crowd cowers, some dropping to the ground. After a few seconds, they realize that they are still alive. The bomb is a dud. Either it failed, or the wolves intended it as a message to their canine allies in the city. Many of the onlookers laugh out loud. Black smoke billows from the fissure in the trash truck, carrying the scent of burnt oil and grease.
In the distance, the train streaks along the river, wobbling on the old tracks. A few rogue soldiers take potshots, if for no other reason than to blow off steam. The officers let them do it for a while before ordering them to hold their fire. The train’s horn blows, one final taunt as the wolves return to Mudfoot territory.
It’s over. The people are safe.
But more paths to the future suddenly close, never to open again.
A new breeze brushed through D’Arc’s fur. She opened her eyes and found herself on top of the moving train, lying on her side. She could still hear the soldiers from her vision firing blindly.
Falkirk knelt beside her, screaming something, but she could not hear what he said.
The gunshots snapped in her ear. Much closer now.
D’Arc rolled her head to the other side, toward the rear of the train, just in time to see bullet holes puncturing the roof of the car. Someone was inside, pointing a machine gun at the ceiling and firing in a zigzag pattern from one end of the car to the other. The rounds punched through the steel in tiny smoking volcanoes.
D’Arc scuttled to the front of the coach and slid over the edge, landing on the small platform above the coupler. She unsheathed her sword. The metal door clicked and slid open. A wolf with blue face paint stepped out, gun raised to his chin. D’Arc blinked as the muzzle fired a round right over her head. Above the wolf, Falkirk hung over the side, gripping the handle of a knife. The blade sank into the base of the wolf’s neck, above the collarbone. He tried to turn to see who had stabbed him, but the movement wedged the blade even deeper. Falkirk withdrew the knife, and the wind threw a skein of blood against the metal wall. The wolf fell into the space between the cars and vanished into the blurring tracks.
Falkirk jumped onto the platform, landing to the right of the door. He peeked inside the car, then immediately took cover. A volley of bullets sprayed from the door, ricocheting off the next car. Falkirk removed a grenade from his belt and yanked the pin. As an act of mercy, he stuck his hand out so the wolves could see. The gunfire stopped. D’Arc leaned in to see one brave wolf charging right at them, a young one with no war paint. Falkirk lobbed the grenade, and it bounced off the wolf’s chest. As it clanged on the deck, the wolf finally realized the danger. He turned and ran. Falkirk slammed the door shut.
The blast blew out the windows in the coach. D’Arc smelled burnt plastic and fabric before the wind sucked it away.
“Where’s our son?” Falkirk said.
“At the front. Four cars away.”
D’Arc held the sword so that the blade rested on her shoulder. She nodded to the door of the next train. Falkirk removed another concussion grenade.
“Last one,” he said.
He opened the door and tossed it in. Someone inside shouted, but the door slid shut and silenced him. A thud followed, like a hammer against the hull. The door popped open an inch, releasing white smoke.
“So we fight our way through,” he said.
“It’s our only chance,” she said. “They didn’t see this coming.”
“And what do you see?”
She allowed the image of the train station to bleed into her field of vision again. “I see nothing but . . . animals. Tearing one another apart. Like it was before.”
No more talk of compromise. No more treaties or diplomacy. They would cut their way through this human contraption or die trying.
Inside the car, two humans lay on the floor by the baggage rack. A dazed Toqwa warrior knelt in the center aisle. The fire alarm on the ceiling blared and then went out. With blood dripping from his ears, the warrior gripped the seat rests and got to his feet. When he bared his teeth, the tattoo mask stretched into a hideous, scowling wolf. He pulled a cutlass from his belt, the handle beaten and weathered. Behind him, the door slid open, and more humans formed a line in
the aisle, brandishing clubs, their wolf tattoos sneering. Near the front of the train, a spear rose above the others and poked the ceiling. All at once, they stampeded toward D’Arc, their footsteps rumbling on the deck like a boulder.
D’Arc lifted her sword and ran straight into the maelstrom.
She stands on the platform in Hosanna again, completely still, when the first scream pierces the air.
No, she thinks. Enough of the future. I need to stay here.
Her mind will not listen. She has to see it again. Until it becomes the present.
The exploded trash truck continues to vent its thick smoke into the sky. The humans who had rushed the train now drag one of their own away from it. Clad in their camouflage uniforms, they each take the limb of a man who convulses and squirms. Someone calls for a medic as they set the man on the concrete. He pulls one of his hands free and tears at his jacket. His comrades try to keep him from bashing his head on the ground. More soldiers arrive to keep the crowd away. When one of them falls to his knees, his body jerking about and his hands clutching his throat, someone finally asks, “What’s happening?”
D’Arc spins around to see more people, animals and humans, falling into seizures. A cat kneels on the pavement with her hands around her neck, choking, trying to cough something out that will not let go. One of the bears at the checkpoint claws at an old telephone pole, and, when this fails to knock it over, he rams it with his shoulder again and again. When D’Arc completes her revolution, she sees one of the dogs overcome with rage. He bounds over the first row of spectators and latches his long jaw onto a human’s neck. The people scream—but not in shock. With incomprehensible grunts, they egg him on. And then they pounce, moving as a single organism toward their prey. The soldier disappears in a mass of bodies. A trickle of blood streams out from the scrum before gathering in a crack in the cement.
Both the humans and the animals move on all fours, convinced that the space in front of them is their territory, under attack. The air grows thick with blood and musk. D’Arc turns to find a human racing toward her, spittle dropping from his lips. His torn shirt flaps about, barely hanging on to his shoulders. She raises her hands in time to grab him by his neck. She wrenches him to the side and cracks him in the face with her elbow. She blinks and his red face suddenly bears the wolf tattoo. Another blink, and he is the raging man again, driven mad. D’Arc stands in two places at once, in the present and in the very near future.
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