Tails of the Apocalypse

by David Bruns

  The cub appeared even smaller now as it lay, back pushed against the flinty wall of the hollow, licking the handkerchief. Though Jack expected to be punished once Manny returned and the villagers learned what he’d done, he ran upstream just the same. Part of him regretted setting the cub free. It would most likely die anyway, either from hunger or from the infection in its leg. He should have killed it and brought it back to the settlement, he knew. Everything would have been better. Perhaps even for the cub, blessed with a merciful, quick death.

  * * *

  The pain was red.

  It wasn’t only in his leg. It radiated upward into his chest. When he slept, his fever dreams were filled with images of crows pecking at the wound, piercing the slowly healing skin and ripping out large chunks of it.

  The night before, he’d eaten a rat. It crept up from the stream, probably attracted by the blood seeping through the cloth around his leg. He couldn’t keep any of it in his stomach. It came back up in heaves, though he managed to walk a few feet before he threw up.

  The boy returned after two nights and brought a bowl of thick liquid. He only stayed for a short time, during which he replaced the smelly cloth with a fresh one. The new cloth had some kind of salve on it. It smelled almost as bad as the previous one, so the cub shied away from it.

  The next day—or maybe it was the day after that—the boy came back again. The other boy was with him, and they each brought him a fish. They sat with him for a while, cutting the small fish into pieces and feeding them to him. He felt better after that.

  From then on, the boys came every day. They never stayed long but always brought something for him to eat. They petted him, and when he began to feel better, he played with them, pretending to gnaw them but never actually biting them. In his mind they were cubs like him, from the same pack and equals.

  After a few more days, he was able to put both front paws on the ground with only a little pain. The boys came one last time. That day, he saw fear in their eyes, and when they left, he knew they wouldn’t return. He waited at the entrance to the cave for two nights and two days.

  When they didn’t come back, he left his hiding place and followed their scent along the banks of the creek until he reached the settlement. His nose caught the sweet smell of death before he found its source.

  Half the huts were burned to ashes. Slain bodies lay on the ground, limbs ripped from their torsos. There was no sign of the boys. No sign anywhere. He sniffed at each tent, each hut that still stood, and even the remnants of all the burned ones. He found the younger boy along the lakeshore, ten feet from the water’s edge. Half the boy’s arm was missing. His lifeless eyes stared into the sky. The cub’s howl echoed across the water.

  He picked up the older boy’s scent at the edge of the green surrounding the lake. He followed it into the tundra, the pain in his heart as wide as the land that lay before him, as vast as his hope for the boy’s safety. The stars stood cold against the darkened sky that night, and he felt immeasurably small below them.

  The next day brought rain. It washed away the scent, leaving no trace of it behind. For seven months, he searched the steppe. He traveled far to the east until he reached the mountains. From there he went west, through the swamps and the lowlands. Twice he came upon another settlement. Perhaps the boy had joined one of those packs. But he didn’t dare go near them to see, though he so desperately wanted to. He remembered the lesson of his pack. He remembered how much humans loved wolf meat.

  Except for a slight limp in his right front leg, he became strong and fast and a fierce hunter. His scorched fur grew back in, and save for a streak of black skin, a ghost of his burning, it stood thick and warm against the winter. He learned how to fish in the narrow creek beds and hide from the packs of hyenas at night. He learned to be a shadow in the dark. The cub had become a wolf.

  * * *

  Jack and the others had fled across the plains and toward the mountains. There were twenty-eight of them left. First, they’d run from the fire. Now they ran from those who hunted them. They’d found a small plateau in the hills, protected by a steep, narrow incline in front and sheer cliffs in back. They stayed there for a few months. It reminded Jack of the small hollow he’d found for the cub. And as he had then, the survivors clung close to the rocks, protected by them, until the wounded were able to walk again.

  But as the nights grew colder and food once again became scarce, they left their refuge and made their way along the green river at the edge of the desert. The rocky landscape made it difficult for anyone following to spot them. At the same time, the rough ground slowed their progress to a few miles per day.

  One night, Jack overheard the men talking about a settlement, a stronghold where they would find safety and food and warmth. The mountains on the horizon came closer each day. Yet, they seemed unreachable in Jack’s mind, standing distant and mocking him with false hope, a promise of safety never to be fulfilled.

  Seven moons ago, Manny had taken his hand and pulled him to safety when the dark figures charged into their makeshift camp. The boys had risen early and snuck into the kitchen hut to steal a bowl of wheat porridge for the cub. From there, they’d seen the shadows moving through the fog that stretched across the lake at dawn.

  The intruders were cloaked in dark robes, hoods pulled over their heads, and armed with long, curved swords that gleamed in the early light. One minute the camp lay sleepy and quiet alongside the water’s edge; the next, chaos reigned. The attackers set fire to the huts to force out the ones sleeping inside, then cut down anyone who escaped the burning. They slaughtered his fellow villagers right in front of him, and Jack knew the cloaked invaders weren’t merely after their food—they were after them. Through the smoke that filled the air, Manny took his hand and pulled Jack away and toward the shore and safety.

  “We’ll swim out,” he said. “We’ll be safe out there.”

  Only a few feet before they reached the water, Jack felt his brother’s grip release as the sword cut across Manny’s back. With a cry cut short, his twin fell to the ground. Jack stumbled on, driven by terror, the screams of his fellow villagers echoing across the lake. When he looked back, he saw the cloaked man kneeling next to Manny, lifting his brother’s arm up and pulling it toward his own mouth, teeth bared.

  Pain gripped Jack’s heart as he fled. He wished he could’ve found the courage to return to his brother’s side. But the way Manny had slumped to the ground made Jack certain he was dead.

  Tears stung his eyes and blurred his vision as he ran as fast as he could along the edge of the water to where the lake became swampland. From there he went east, and following the high grass, Jack circled the settlement. He stayed low to the ground, running from one boulder to the next for cover.

  Jack had found the other survivors a few hours later. The small group, mostly women and children, huddled against a large, rock outcropping, tending to the wounded. The few men remaining were too old to be warriors. None had brought more than they wore on their backs. A few had knives, and one carried a small bow. From that day until this one, they’d lived their lives on the run.

  * * *

  Jack grabbed the quiver he’d made from the furs of muskrats he caught by the river. He’d made it his mission to look for long, thin sticks he could cut into spears for fishing. During the last few months, he’d become one of the group’s main food providers. Jonu, one of the older women, taught him how to set traps for animals, and Carrie, a girl only two years older than him, showed him how to use the spears to catch fish. She’d stand completely still in the center of the stream, holding the spear above the water, then drive it through an unwary swimmer.

  Now they fished and hunted together. Carrie let Jack use her knife to whittle the sticks into spears. It was important not to make the tip too long and thin, or it would break. Too short a tip would leave the spear dull and unusable. They figured out how to attach sharp pieces of narrow and pointy stone to the tips to make them more effective.


  Carrie knew that Jack and Manny had been brothers. Every once in a while, she’d ask Jack if he still thought of his twin. He’d simply nod his head and continue with whatever task he was working on.

  Jack wanted to talk to her about Manny, wanted to tell her all about him and how they’d found the cub and brought it food each day. But he was afraid he would start to cry. So he kept silent, even though he suspected she’d understand.

  “When we reach the stronghold,” Jack said, “I would like to find a stream and build a dam in it and name it after Manny.”

  “I like that idea,” Carrie replied.

  She was shouldering a spear with four fish stacked on it. As long as he’d known her, she always wore her hair long and braided. About a month before, she’d come to him, handed him her knife, and told him to cut off the braid as close to her head as possible. He didn’t want to do it at first, but she told him it was getting knotted and filthy and she couldn’t take it anymore. So she sat down on a rock in front of him, and he cut her hair while tears ran down her cheeks.

  To lay his palm on her head felt strange. He’d touched her hands before, but that was necessary touching, when his hands were tools that helped her up onto a boulder or pulled her out of a deeper part of a creek. But Jack had never touched her like this.

  Despite the dirt, her hair was soft, and he felt the warmth of her head under his hand. When he saw Carrie crying over her lost braid, he wanted to hug her and hold her, but he could only bring himself to pick up the braid from the ground and hand it to her. After that, her hair always stood up in all directions.

  Sometimes, when he watched her kindle a fire with two sticks and a few blades of grass or tell stories to the younger children in the evenings, he wished they’d lived in a time where she hadn’t had to cut her hair, where she could wear it long and beautiful and pretty.

  You would like her, Manny, he thought during those times. She’s one of us.

  One morning, Jack felt someone tugging at him in his sleep. When he opened his eyes, Carrie knelt beside him, pulling his shirt.

  “You’re early,” he whispered. Except for the two women holding watch at the edge of their camp, nobody was up yet. The night was just beginning to lose its hold on the land, and Jack saw only Carrie’s silhouette against the sky.

  “I couldn’t sleep anymore.”

  Jack got up and grabbed his quiver. They left the camp silently, signaling the guards on their way out. They’d been in this spot for a few days now, mainly to stock up on food and water before they went farther into the mountains. The rocks all around them gave them cover from anyone approaching from the east and south. To the west stood a large cliff. It rose up steeply, protecting the group from possible attack from that direction. The land to the north sloped downward and into a valley. A cold, clear stream rushed over the rocks, providing pools of water for fishing and some of their more basic needs, like washing clothes and bathing.

  They hadn’t seen other groups for the last six months. After the cloaked invaders killed two-thirds of their group, they avoided contact with anyone else. Though they’d taken to sleeping huddled together against possible attack during the first few weeks of their flight, they’d become more confident now, spreading out more—still holding watch each night but not under constant fear of death.

  Jack and Carrie climbed down a rocky path they’d explored a few times over the last two days. Their familiarity with it made their steps certain, even in the dim twilight of the early morning. The stream was their hunting ground, and if today was a good day, they’d catch a dozen or so fish before the sun came up.

  Carrie was only a few feet ahead when she stumbled and let out a muffled scream. The dark shape on the ground appeared to be a large blanket at first. Jack went down on one knee to explore the lump on the ground, then jumped back, pulling Carrie with him.

  Before them lay a body. Jack dared not speak. Both looked at it, watching for any movement. After a moment, Carrie knelt and shook it slightly. There was no reaction. Jack knelt again beside her.

  “Jack,” Carrie whispered. He could hear the fear in her voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Whoever this is—was—is wearing a robe. A hood.”

  The hair on the back of Jack’s neck pricked up. There was a moment when he felt paralyzed, unable to take another breath or move. He felt the darkness closing in around him, and a grim certainty that his own death was imminent descended over him.

  “What shall we do?” Carrie’s voice brought him back. Jack took her hand as they retreated.

  “We have to tell the others,” he said.

  She nodded.

  They made their way quietly but quickly back along the rocky path, their feet swift and sure again. When they arrived at the camp, the eastern horizon became a pale, orange hue, pushing the darkness back.

  “A dead cloaked one, halfway down toward the stream,” Jack said to the two women holding watch. They rushed to the others in the camp, waking them quietly.

  “Get ready to leave,” Jonu told the group after they’d roused. Two older men had already shouldered their weapons.

  Jack’s heart raced when they returned with the others to the body. Carrie wouldn’t let go of his hand, and he was glad to offer his own for comfort. He’d never seen her afraid until today. But now he saw the terror in her face, and he knew it mirrored his own fear back to him. He was glad she wouldn’t let go of his hand. The gesture filled him with an irrational sense of calm. Perhaps, he thought, it was fate balancing the scales, offering him absolution for when he’d held Manny’s hand but fled, leaving his dead brother behind.

  By the time they reached the cloaked figure, the horizon had lightened. Dawn was now in full bloom. The early light softened the face of the dead man lying on the ground. Jonu turned him on his back, and his hood slipped off. His head was shaved bald and covered in blood. His right ear was missing. When Jonu opened his tunic, the extent of his injuries became visible. One part of his neck was ripped away and hung by a few pieces of skin and muscle. His sword was still in its sheath, as if he hadn’t had time to draw it against his attacker.

  “An animal,” Carrie said.

  “Yes,” Jonu replied.

  “Shouldn’t we have heard it?” Carrie asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Tom, one of the older men, said. “It was far enough down the path, and as long as he didn’t scream, we wouldn’t have heard him.”

  A feeling had gnawed at Jack since Jonu had exposed the man’s wounds. Their size, their shape. Could it be?

  He looked from the man to Carrie and the others. He’d never told anyone about the cub. And now, they were hundreds of miles away from where he’d first encountered the wolf, when he’d saved him from the iron trap.

  No, he thought, dismissing it again. It can’t be. Maybe another wolf, but not that one.

  “Wolves?” Jonu asked, voicing the question everyone was thinking. The wounds had demanded it be asked.

  “This far into the mountains?” Tom sounded doubtful.

  “We need to leave.” Jonu unbuckled the belt and took the man’s sheath and sword. “We need to leave now.”

  The fear in her voice made everyone move quickly. Now and then, Jack looked back to scan the land below.

  No, he thought again. Impossible.

  He packed his sleeping blanket and hunting quiver, and while the others hurriedly gathered the little they had, he decided to tell Carrie about the cub. She needed to know. He couldn’t think of a good reason for why he hadn’t told her already. Was he afraid she would judge him for not telling the group about saving the cub rather than offering it as food to the village before?

  The group made its way along the rocky mountain pass in single file, with Jonu scouting ahead a few hundred feet and Tom at the end, guarding the rear. They carried a few smoked fish from the previous day but little else. Jack calculated they’d be able to move for two days, assuming they found a fresh source of water. After that, they’d have to catch
more fish or find another source of food.

  None of them spoke. They glanced worriedly about, all lost in their own thoughts, each fighting an individual battle against a feeling of rising dread. If an attack came, they’d never survive, so exhausted were they from their long, strenuous march. The hope they would reach safety had vanished this morning.

  “We’ve got three more days, maybe two, before we reach the stronghold,” Tom said quietly when they rested next to a small pool of water. “At this speed, three is more likely.”

  Jack could see the fatigue in his weathered face.

  “We’re so close,” Tom lamented.

  Tom’s wife had died on the same day as Manny, Jack knew. Most if not all those who’d survived had lost at least one loved one. Carrie had lost her older brother; Jonu her two children. Jack’s parents had died the year before the raid, but he’d always had Manny.

  “We’ll make it,” Carrie said.

  Jack wanted to believe her. In fact, at this moment, there was nothing he wanted more. He wanted to be strong for her and tell her that he’d be there to help her and the others—that he’d protect her, all of them, from harm. But the place that held that belief in him was nearly empty. He cast his eyes down and didn’t speak for the rest of the day as the group sought refuge deeper in the mountains. His thoughts circled around Manny and what he could have done—what he’d failed to do—to protect him.

  It wasn’t until after they’d settled down for the night that the howling began.

  * * *

  The wolf had picked up the scent of the cloaked ones a few days past. They smelled of death and decay, of festering rage. He circled around them and stayed downwind, careful not to get too close, vigilant to remain hidden from their scouts. He saw their curved blades and remembered the slain bodies in the boy’s village. But the way they moved, swift and fearless and as one group, recalled another memory from even further back: the memory of life as a cub with his pack. Following the leader without question, unified and complete as a group, he’d felt utterly whole.