Pack

by Lilith Saintcrow

  The kid shook his head.

  “Parents? Do you remember them?”

  Another shake, he sucked on another small can of evaporated milk. He didn’t betray any curiosity at the water, or at the bunk, or Oscar’s lolling grin. I took a couple bites of an energy bar, on the principle that the alpha ate first and Oscar really did need to know who was in charge, and then fed the damn dog, which meant I had to step over him again and again to check the soaked rice. The hot plate would cook it just fine, and by the time it was done Oscar would want to trot outside, and I’d make the fire.

  So I kept talking. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I expected another headshake, but instead I got a slow, very definite nod and a gleam in those big dark eyes.

  “Good.” Kind of at a loss now, I poured another scant measure of bottled water into a battered enamel cup. “And you don’t have a name.”

  Another shake.

  Well, great. I’m going to civilize yet another a nonverbal fourth grader. “I’ll call you Huck,” I muttered. “Short for Huckleberry Finn. Do you know how old you are?”

  That one got me a shrug.

  “Fair enough.” I got down a can of green beans, and another of Spam—hey, it never goes bad. “So, Huck. You ever had potted meat before?”

  Another grave head shake. He drank the water and held out the cup for more. Oscar, head down in his food bowl, decided to make some more room, and let out a whopper of a fart.

  The kid laughed even while I swore, my eyes already watering. Bright, unaffected laughter, the scar on his lip flushing, and his teeth were white and straight.

  Fire is always the best insurance. I’ve seen trailers opened like tin cans, but flimsy tents with a banked campfire left standing. Whatever fuckery from the stars the Others were, they didn’t like flame. Electric light didn’t bother them one whit, I guess, given how they went through the cities like a hot knife through butter. The rural areas fared better; a bunch of crackpots and survivalists made it too. Most of them were of a biblical bent, and a lot of them decided it was Judgment Day and they might as well get going while the getting was good. Which meant families, neighborhoods, even whole compounds doing a Jonesboro. They were a great place to hunt for supplies if you didn’t mind having to bury folk.

  The sense of being watched inside them, those compounds, though…that I mind. Animals, not Others, got at the corpses, which was thought provoking. Maybe the religious had just bugged out in time.

  Anyway, I had a load of tolerably dry wood, and we ate at the fire. The boy wolfed his rice and Spam, even though he made a face over the potted meat. There’s only so much you can do with Spam, I found that out when I went to Hawaii before shit went down.

  No more trips to the islands for me. I’d saved for a decade to take that vacation, and came home six months before the news reports started to get weird.

  At least I’d had that much. Lucky me.

  Huck ate with his fingers, and I gave him seconds once I was sure he wouldn’t throw up. With his face scrubbed and dusk falling, he could almost be mistaken for a normal kid.

  I chewed each bite the regulation thirty times to make it last longer. It turns the food into a kind of slurry, but it keeps me occupied. Huck crouched near the Boy Scout–approved fire, staring with rapt fascination.

  Just like a little caveboy at the dawn of time.

  Oscar stayed at my feet, hoping to lick the bowl, and when I put it down for him he actually wriggled with delight. The kid rocked back and forth a little, and after a while started to make a funny humming noise.

  Dusk deepened. I watched the sky. Oscar loped off to do his nightly business, returning to lean against my leg while I stroked his head. The nightly ear-scrubbing and talkies were his favorite part of any day—that is, if he hadn’t herded anything. If we ever ran across a bunch of sheep I’d probably lose him for good.

  Full dark spread like an ink stain. The nightly buzzing and burring began, and still I watched.

  Oscar whined, deep in his throat. It’s bedtime, human. I patted his shoulder. “I know. Soon.”

  They started in the north, shimmering cascades moving against the stars. You could mistake them for aurora borealis, except for the queer wrongness of the way they moved. And the colors—shades your eyes couldn’t really define because as soon as you decided they were red they’d switch to green, or violet, or colors there aren’t names for.

  They were far away, though. That was a relief.

  Huck shifted nervously, made a small whining noise Oscar echoed.

  Okay. “I don’t think they’re close,” I said. “Go on inside, kid, I’ll build up the fi—”

  That was when they hit.

  “Oscar! No!” The rifle barked, jolting against my shoulder, and Oscar didn’t growl. He was all silent business, darting around the campfire and nipping at the things as they reached into the circle of firelight.

  They never attacked at dusk, and they didn’t usually attack campfires, and normally the lights preceded them. Which made it my fault, because I’d gotten too comfortable.

  Huck snarled, his teeth champing together. I squeezed my knees together—he had tried to dart between my legs, and instinct had clamped down on him. He was wiry-strong, and his thrashing was going to throw my aim off, but the alternative was him running straight at the goddamn things, their ropy arms flickering and smoking as the firelight scored them. Were they desperate? Starving? Who knew? It wasn’t one of the quasi-human-shaped Others. It wasn’t an Other wearing a human skin.

  I’d never seen one like this before.

  The kid wriggled and bucked, and the sounds he made would have chilled me if the Others hadn’t been shrieking much, much louder. I yelled for Oscar to “cut it out and come here, dammit,” thinking we could retreat inside the trailer and have at least some shelter, but the damn dog had picked that moment to stop listening to me.

  The things made sounds too—dry bristling scrapes, the steaming as their long, flexible, claw-tipped tentacles darted into the fire’s flickering circle, their shrieks as Oscar nipped. The kid howled, I yelled, and the rifle barked again, just as one of the arms did the impossible and looped over Oscar, dragging him out into the dark. He gave one amazing, earshattering yipe as he disappeared.

  “NO!” I screamed, and a bright bolt of pain lanced up my thigh.

  It was the kid. He’d bitten me, teeth lancing my jeans and puncturing a mouthful flesh just above the knee, grinding down. I jerked away and he skittered forward, clearing the fire in a skimble-legged leap, and hurled himself after Oscar.

  Growling. Snapping. My own voice, screaming “Oscar! Oscar! Oscaaaar!” Fury smoking red hot all through me, I got the rifle steady and cracked off another shot at the hulking of the thing the tentacles were springing from, was rewarded with a screech. Dropped the rifle and grabbed for the fire, coming up with a smoke-flaming wood, ignoring the tearing pain in my hand as I leapt in the direction Oscar had vanished.

  Maybe it was the flames. Maybe it was…something else, I didn’t know. Another shattering shriek, and my brain refused to hold the shapes I saw. The thing—a colony of ropelike excrescences coming together in a horribly wrong-shaped clot, the tentacles lashing, towered over me, the hot wind of its breath stripping my sweat-soaked hair back as I waved the flaming chunk of firewood. There was a long, liquid, furred shape, so still on the ground, and another darting in, a flash of something red-gold, a blossoming like the fire I held.

  The Other-thing backed off. The shape on the ground was Oscar. I pressed forward, screaming.

  “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck off!”

  Yeah, it wasn’t the most eloquent, but it got the job done. At least, the thing slunk back even farther.

  I found myself standing over Oscar, waving the wood. The other shape dancing around was the kid. A hot slick of blood down my leg from where he’d bitten me, soaking into my jeans, and somehow the kid must have caught some of the fire too, because he lunged like a dancing ca
ndleflame and the thing howled, cowering away.

  I got a fistful of Oscar’s slick fur. Had I bled on him? Please let it be my blood, please. I hauled, and he was so heavy. Tripped, landed on my ass with a jolt, my teeth clicking together painfully and almost taking a chunk out of the inside of my cheek.

  Got a firmer hold. Scrabbled back, still waving the burning wood. Someone was repeating Oscar’s name, and no, and vile obscenities, at top volume in a cracked, hoarse howl.

  So much blood. Deep punctures, and one of the thing’s tentacles had been severed and lay with its toothed circle of clawmouth fingers buried in Oscar’s shoulder. I brought the flame closer to it and it squirmed, letting go and wriggling away, disgustingly fat and rubescent. Gorged with blood, even as it leaked foxfire-luminescent fluid from its severed end.

  Oh Oscar no no no—

  Heaved him back into the circle of firelight. Oscar twitched, and his entire left side had been stove in just like a trashcan hit by a sledgehammer. My eyes burned, snot slicking my upper lip, gulping sobs.

  A rushing sound, wind in the treetops. I grabbed for the rifle, but the thing’s passage faded in the distance—it sounded big, too big—and the only thing moving on the border of firelight was the boy. He was covered in foul guck, reddened in places, and his eyes sparked with yellow deep in the pupils.

  “Stay back.” I scrabbled for the rifle, but he crouched, cocking his head, hands flat on the dirt. “Don’t make me—”

  Darting forward with eerie speed, the boy leapt into the fire. My garbled exclamation didn’t stop him, and I sat there with Oscar moving weakly against my knees as the kid turned in the flames as if he was taking a shower.

  And remained unburnt.

  Oscar twitched. The bite on my leg throbbed, still welling. It hadn’t hit an artery, thank God. The kid stepped out of the fire and shook himself, smoke spattering like water. Then he darted for us, and I lunged for the rifle.

  “You’re one of them!” I got the gun and whirled, socking it to my shoulder, the bite on my leg tearing and sending another hot jolt all through me.

  Huck knelt next to Oscar. His hands vanished into the dog’s thick pelt, and his eyes rolled back inside his head. The trigger halted, because…

  Oscar twitched.

  My dog’s ribs made creaking sounds, snapping out, and he took a deep breath. His eyes opened. He whined, and Huck folded over sideways, curling up like a pillbug.

  My dead dog leapt to his feet, blue eyes wide, and barked, sharply, his old familiar what’s up, alpha? He turned in a clockwise circle, as if chasing his nonexistent tail, danced a few steps, and shook himself. Blood and muck whipped away.

  All the air left me in a rush. I eased off the trigger, just a little. The chunk taken out of my thigh throbbed, and now that I was thinking I probably couldn’t fault the kid for biting me.

  But still.

  Huck whined, way back in his throat, and stretched out on the ground right next to the fire. Curled up again, and sagged. His eyes closed. Oscar nosed at him, and began to lick at the boy’s smoke-filthy skin.

  That’s impossible. I took a step back, my wounded leg threatening to buckle.

  Everything was impossible these days. It started with the news getting weird and ended with the cities becoming hunting grounds, and then the smaller towns getting visits from the things in the night.

  What are you gonna do, Lydia? Adrenaline jitters whipped through me, and a fresh trickle of hot blood slid down my shin. I had a short while before the fight-or-flight hormones wore off and I got tired, and I had to use it.

  Oscar sat down next to Huck and whined, looking at me. Make it better, alpha. Decide what to do.

  The boy began to snore.

  I built up the fire, got them both into the trailer and reasonably cleaned off. Huck was heavier than his skinny ass should have been, but it was probably all muscle. He curled up in my narrow bed, and Oscar hopped up to settle next to him.

  “Traitor,” I told him, but not very harshly. I petted him a lot and even gave him a Greenie I’d hit a pet store two towns back for.

  The slapdash bandage I’d put on the bite stuck to clotted blood; I peeled it away and rinsed the wound with a bottle of water, hissing through my teeth. The shape of the bite was human, but it was…weird. The toothmarks cut too deep. He could have taken a much bigger chunk out if he’d wanted to.

  A human mouth wouldn’t do that.

  I poured peroxide on the punctures, smeared the whole bite with antibiotic, and did a proper bandage even though it was probably too late. Then I went outside, propped myself against the trailer’s step, the sharp edge against the middle of my back likely to keep me awake if I slumped, and eyed the woodpile. We had enough.

  I pulled my shearling jacket closer around me, kept an eye on the lights rippling to the north, and waited for dawn.

  By the time the sun peeked up over the far horizon in a glory of gold-and-red morning—sailors take warning—I was shaking and sweating with fever. The fire was a low glow blurring in front of me, but at least the thing hadn’t come back. When the sun was a safe hand’s length above the rim of the planet, I got up.

  It took me two tries. My wounded leg pretty much refused to hold much weight, and something was really, really wrong with me. I banged the trailer door open just like a reeling drunk come creeping home at last and hauled my recalcitrant limb up like deadwood. There were antibiotics in the cabinet above the postage-stamp counter, and I could work out a dosage after…

  They looked up from my bed. Huck’s mouth a little open, those teeth gleaming wickedly. Oscar, his coat shedding muck and dried blood—Aussies are wash and wear—hopped off the bed, bounding to greet me.

  I don’t know what would have happened if I’d been able to stay conscious. As it was, I went down hard, and the last thing I heard was Huck making a strange hooting noise as Oscar nosed at the bandage on my leg, nipping sharply to get under it and lick at the wound. Then the boy’s hands were on me, pulling and tugging, and I passed out.

  Nightmare, leering faces and twisted scraping sounds. I burned and thrashed while outside the fire crackled, and the things, sensing our weakness, pressed close. They did not attack again, though, even when the little one darted out of the trailer’s shell to put more wood on the fire. Clouds loomed overhead, delaying dawn and threatening rain, and the dog’s low growl thrummed all through me.

  Skeins of meaning unfolded. The sound was a warning. Something out there, the dog was saying, nastybad badnasty ugly, alpha wake up, when alpha wake up?

  A short yip of a reply from outside, a wash of feral scent. Warm thing good, that scent said, a complex tapestry of fear and determination. Big bad no come, big good better soon. Better soon.

  Struggling to make coherent sounds, to get up and protect them, to get to the antibiotics. My voice cracking as I raved, weakly, secrets spilling out—the towns since I’d hit the road, all the death and the terror and the futility, and finally shooting the fat survivalist while Oscar howled in the too-small, filthy cage, the Taser falling from the fat fuck’s hand as I swore, no, not the dog, you sonofabitch, you will not hurt that dog…

  The fever clawed, sweat and sick pouring off me in waves, the sheets soaked and I was going to die here in this tincan hole, the boy and the dog were going to have to make it on their own, die, die in this hole, die, die die die.

  Crusted guck gluing my eyelids down. A titanic stink, reeling flashes of color and meaning inside my aching skull. Cool water splashed on my cheek, and the bottle tipped up. He almost drowned me before I pushed his hand away and grabbed at the bottle, drained it. My stomach rebelled, tried to hork it all up, and settled for filling my nose with stinging bile-laced fluid.

  Oscar, snuggled against my side, wriggled and licked my face. Licked and licked, as my hand fell away with the empty water bottle. I tried blinking, had to drop the bottle to rub at the matted filth over me.

  When I could open my eyes, blinking against weak cloudy sunlight coming
through the trailer’s half-pulled blinds, Oscar shoved his nose further in my face and began assiduously cleaning me. “Ugh,” I managed. My mouth felt funny. Every muscle aching-weak, like I’d had influenza or something.

  Antibiotics. A deep croak came out of my throat.

  The boy loomed above me. His wide dark eyes were the same, and he hunched uncertainly on the back of the dinette booth, perched just like a vulture.

  Now there was an uncomfortable thought. “P-pills,” I managed.

  He tilted his head, his hair moving uneasily. “Piz,” he mimicked, trying out the word. Pointed at Oscar. “Piz?”

  “That’s Oscar.” I moved, impatiently. I was hungry, and sore all over, but I didn’t feel that bad. My upper lip was crusted with something hard.

  I felt for the bandage with my free hand. My fingertips wormed through the hole I’d cut in my jeans, and met cool, unmarked flesh.

  “Ozzz-cur.” The boy nodded. He pointed at me. “Piz?”

  “Lydia,” I corrected, and succeeded in rolling over. How long had I been out?

  “Leeee-dah.” He nodded again, pointed at himself. “Piz?”

  “Huck.” I pushed myself upright on shaking arms. The trailer wasn’t a wreck, like it might have been if I’d been out of commission for longer than overnight. “Huckleberry.”

  “Huck.” He could say that with little trouble. A satisfied smile dawned on his small face. “Huck.”

  It stank in here, but the reek was comforting. So many smells my head reeled, flashing through me and telling me all sorts of disconnected, jumbled things. Boy-smell, me-smell, Oscar-smell, all clearly distinguishable, and ghosts of the former owners of the trailer, as well. The ugly stink of things outside that sent a shiver up my back, a prickling rasping against my filthy shirt.

  The boy hopped down. Amazingly light on his feet, but the whole trailer rocked. He was heavy because of muscle packed onto his skinny frame.