by Piers Torday
I clench the horn tight and slowly raise myself up, trying to breathe.
*Please hurry, Kester – please! You have to! Take it! Use it!*
Still gasping for breath, on my hands and knees, I look down through our gates, beyond Skuldiss and Polly.
*Wolf-Cub,* I shout – but the only sound I make is a hoarse croak.
I stagger to my feet, unable to stand up properly. Doubled over, I shake my head, trying to see straight.
*Wolf-Cub!* I shout again, louder this time.
*Wildness!* comes the reply that I can only just hear over the shooting and screaming.
*Your father looks like the man from the fish-road!* calls the wolf-cub. *And he is firing his stick at us! This is the worst cure in the world!*
*That’s because – he is the man from the fish-road!* I shout back.
*Then I shall tear out his eyes and his throat!* comes the growled reply. *I shall overcome my fear of his firestick!*
I’m not near enough yet.
*No – wait, Wolf-Cub! You are brave, you do not need to prove it now – wait for my command –*
It’s too late –
The wolf-cub leaps out between the animals skidding for cover, his grey body bounding across the road – towards Skuldiss and Polly –
Anyone else would run from a wolf leaping at their throat, but not Captain Skuldiss.
All he does is raise his crutch, just like that – as Wolf-Cub flies towards him, jaws bared to their max, and then I’m running too, forcing and sucking breath down through my stinging windpipe –
The wolf-cub and I lock eyes over Skuldiss’s shoulder –
I know he can read the signal in my eyes, but it’s too late –
He’s already jumping through the air, and I find I’m jumping too, the stag’s horn clutched in my outstretched hand, throwing myself at the Captain’s back, and he lurches to the left as I tackle him –
But as he falls under my weight, there’s a single shot – and an invisible hand slams the wolf-cub in the chest, hurling him to the ground.
Now it’s the turn of my eyes to go red. Not with a virus, but with rage.
Before he can pick himself up, I’m on top of Captain Skuldiss, I’ve got the stag horn in my hand, and I’m trying to stab him. I never knew it was possible to hate one person so much. But Skuldiss has his hand around my wrist, his grip is tight and strong, hurting me. He’s smiling. Water splashes in his eyes, I’m trying to stab him, and he’s smiling.
Polly runs over to Wolf-Cub, lying sprawled out on the hard tarmac, a dark puddle oozing out from a hole in his side.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asks. She speaks so quietly, I can only just hear her above the pitter-patter of the rain. She doesn’t talk to me, but into her chest, looking at Wolf-Cub’s head held in her hands as he shivers and coughs.
‘You aren’t going to let him kill all the animals, are you?’
I shake my head. I wish I could explain. Wish that my eyes could hold letters, that my face was a book.
Skuldiss squeezes my wrist tighter and tighter, trying to make me drop the stag horn, but he’s looking at something over my shoulder.
I turn to see his cullers running down the street towards us with their rubber suits and boots.
‘It’s over, childrens,’ Skuldiss says with a smug grin, as the cullers draw near. ‘Why bother for these nasty animals? It’s either your infectious beasties or the human souls in this here city. You have to choose. Who do you want to live?’
I look at Polly and at Wolf-Cub, at the houses surrounding us, houses I thought of whenever I imagined home, which now look so unfriendly, so silent. And I press the point of the horn hard against his skin, a white spot in a white throat pushing the blood away, pushing until –
‘Have you ever killed a man before, childrens?’ says Skuldiss, sounding strangled and strange. ‘I have. And the first time is always the hardest.’
His eyes stare up at me, as calm and murky as two stagnant ponds.
My hand shakes. My heart is about to burst out of my chest. I think of Sidney. I think of the stag, lying on his own in the wasteland, and of Wolf-Cub, not speaking now, not even murmuring, as Polly strokes his head. Of the old hare, of the dead and wounded lying around us.
But I can’t. I can’t do it.
If I thought me killing Captain Skuldiss would make things better –
Would make them all better –
Then I would, I really, really would –
But deep down, I know it won’t.
A crooked smile begins to creep over the white face pressed against the tarmac.
‘You can’t do it, can you, childrens? I knew it!’
Polly doesn’t say anything. The wild don’t say anything.
With a lurch, a hole seems to open in the pit of my stomach, and inside I feel like I’m falling, and falling – as I realize that the stag was right.
A great stag always faces his fate.
My shoulders sink, and I loosen my grip –
Skuldiss grabs the horn out of my hand and flings it against the wall of the house, where it clatters uselessly to the ground.
‘No, don’t!’ shouts Polly.
But it’s too late.
The cullers leap on me, pulling my arms tight behind my back, squashing my face into the road –
Polly is staring at us with her mouth hanging wide open, like she’s the one who can’t speak now.
Captain Skuldiss picks himself up, brushes the dust and mud off his jacket and straightens his tie – looking naked without his crutches, standing unsteadily, holding his hands out for balance. ‘Childrens, childrens, when will you ever learn? Don’t get involved in things you don’t understand.’
He laughs to himself, and then quickly bends right over. At first I think he’s lost his balance, but he is just pulling up his trouser leg. I get a glimpse of a scarred and mangled calf, and something else – pulled free from a strap with a flourish. A flash of steel – which now dances between his hands, catching the light. A short, flat spear. The kind you can attach to guns – or crutches.
A bayonet.
The animals shuffle back in alarm but I hold my head up, stare Skuldiss right in the face, and smile.
‘I don’t think I said anything funny. Would you like to explain the joke, boy-childrens?’ says Captain Skuldiss, twirling the bayonet.
I’m smiling because of the noise.
He stares at me smugly, like he’s just won the game.
Unluckily for him, in this game, the noise I can hear gives me the courage to hold up my head and stare Skuldiss right back in the eye.
Because there are giant hoofs pounding down the street towards us, hoofs that can only belong to one creature in the world.
Polly can hear it now as well, and she’s looking up at me, daring to give a half-smile. Then the other animals can hear it too, and they’re cheering, and Skuldiss has turned round, as have the cullers, but it’s too late –
A huge set of horns collides with the men in rubber suits, tossing them out of the way like they were rag dolls, barging straight through and skidding to a halt – snorting and pawing the ground – right in front of me.
His eyes are a fierce red. Sweat foams and drips from his flank, he heaves for breath and his horns are chipped and bent – but he is here. He came back for us.
He came back.
*The stag,* he says between gasping breaths, *saved himself for one last fight.*
Skuldiss just stares at him. He stares at the slumped bodies of the unconscious cullers. He has gone bone white.
The stag looks at the wolf-cub on the ground, a tiny light still flickering in his eyes.
*Did the man with his sticks do this?*
I nod. The stag stalks towards Captain Skuldiss, who crouches down, smiling his sharp-toothed smile.
‘Come on, you big lovely brute,’ he says, jabbing the air with his bayonet. ‘Let’s be having you.’
For the first and last time, th
e great stag, from the last wild, speaks to Captain Skuldiss. Speaks to him in a voice he will never, ever understand.
*Man, in the name of all those whom you have killed, prepare to meet your fate.*
Then he throws his head back and bellows so loud that the windows of all the smart houses shake.
And I do nothing to try and stop him as the stag charges at the man who tried to kill his wild, leaping clean off the ground, his horns lowered.
Then, like that, Captain Skuldiss is no longer standing, no longer speaking, no longer killing – and the stag has collapsed on the ground beside him, bloodied but alive, steam clouding out of his muzzle. The cullers still lie where he tossed them, breathing but not moving.
I look up at the sky.
The rain has finally stopped.
I crouch down by the deer. *When it started to rain, I thought that was the storm to end all storms, that you had –*
He shakes his bloodied head.
*No. Not yet. You will know that when it comes. But animals died here today. Animals will have died at the Ring. You must hurry!*
But where?
Around us, the sky begins to brighten up, turning grey-white behind the aerials on the roofs of the Culdee Sack. Everything smells fresh after the storm. In the distance, there are the noises of Premium waking up. I look at the wild, collapsed in a heap, stinking of damp fur. I’ve brought them here – but there’s no Dad, and there’s no cure.
We can’t go any further.
I run to Wolf-Cub, lying in the middle of the road.
He’s going cold. I kneel down and cradle his damp head on my lap, his tongue hanging out at a funny angle.
His eyes turn towards me, every word a massive effort. *I faced my fear, Wildness – did you see that?*
*Yes, you did, Wolf-Cub – you were very brave.*
*Was I the best … ?* But he can’t finish the sentence. My hands freeze mid-air above him, waiting for a clear instruction from my brain.
*Is it always this cold in the city?* says Wolf-Cub.
I shake my head and hold him, trying to stop the blood, trying to stop everything.
*Keep your eyes open, Wolf-Cub,* I order. *Just keep them open.*
I look up at the grey sky and imagine crying out one question: ‘Dad, where are you? I’ve brought them here, to our home – where are you?’ But the only noise comes from the wolf-cub, his breath fading in and out. I hold him tight, hoping I might be able to stop the hot blood leaking away. I feel it spill over my T-shirt, my arms, my legs.
*Take my hand,* I say, smelling his warm fur and pressing my hand to his mouth, wanting him to bite it. Weakly he opens his jaws and closes them around my fingers, teeth barely pressing the skin.
He gave his life trying to protect me, to protect all of us.
*No, no, don’t go, please don’t go –*
Then Polly is shouting at me. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her standing in our driveway, yelling, but I don’t listen. Instead I just hold the wolf-cub, his body going limp in my arms, his breath gurgling in his throat.
‘Kester, listen to me. I can hear a voice.’
I can’t even look at her.
She stomps over, squats down in front of me and grabs me by the shoulders, her voice low and deadly serious.
‘Kester! Why won’t you listen to me for once? I went inside your house. I heard a human voice. There’s someone else in there.’
Quickly I look around for the cockroach – but he’s already settling on my knee.
*General, you have to take charge now. You know where to find me if anyone comes –*
*Have no fear, I will keep a safe guard over this wild. Reporting for duty!*
He buzzes sharply over to the kerb and perches on the edge, overlooking the assembled wild lying exhausted in the road.
I carry the wolf-cub as carefully as I can up my drive and follow Polly through the open door, into the big hall with the shiny wooden floor. Wolf-Cub trails dark blood everywhere.
Polly is shouting, ‘Hello? Hello?’
Her voice echoes off the bare white walls, the walls that I know so well, but it doesn’t feel like home any more, it feels different.
We stop, both our hearts thumping away in the silence, trying to listen, listen for the other voice in the house.
Then – I hear it too – a hammering on a door, a muffled shout. I know exactly where to go, and hurry down the wide stairs at the end of the hall, that lead down to the basement, and to a solid, shut metal door.
The door to my dad’s lab.
Polly and I stop in front of the door. We exchange glances. The wolf-cub gives a tiny whistling mew.
The hammering continues from the other side of the door, but getting slower, like the person doing it is tired. I want to speak; I can feel the air bubbling in my throat, my lips and tongue trying to make a word –
The hammering stops. There’s a muffled cry from behind the door.
Polly looks at me nervously. ‘Who’s there?’ is all she says in reply.
Then I hear the voice too, behind the metal –
Saying the words I have been waiting to hear for six years. But the voice is so faint –
‘Kes? Kester? Is that … you?’
I take a step back, suspicious. How does he know it’s me, through a locked steel door? I think of what Ma said by the fire. I look at Polly.
‘Yes, it is,’ she says, without any hesitation. Then – ‘I’m his friend. Can you let us in?’
For a moment there is silence behind the door. It doesn’t open.
There’s one last thump. A thump of frustration.
‘We need to break down the door,’ says Polly in a matter-of-fact way. She turns to me. ‘In fact, you need to break down the door.’
I lay down the wolf-cub as gently as I can. Stepping back, gesturing to Polly to move out of the way, I run at the heavy steel.
I charge and charge until my shoulder is sore –
Until with a noise like a broken spring –
The door clicks open.
Rubbing my shoulder, I stare at the doorway. At the silhouette of a tall man, crazy hair and beard sticking out in all directions. I can’t see his face at first, in the shadows, but then he steps out of the lab –
Through the broken door, into the light of the stairway.
My dad – Professor Dawson Jaynes.
For a moment, Dad just stares, looking past us and up the stairs. I didn’t know if the city would feel normal. But I had no idea how this moment would feel. And the shock nearly knocks me off my feet. It’s actually Dad. Still here after all this time – still with crazy hair, a crinkled shirt and a forgetful look on his face – still the same old Dad.
My chest tightens like a vice. I properly missed him. I missed him so much more than I realized. At first I don’t know if he’s thinking the same, because he snaps out of his stare and balls his fist up, ready to fight. ‘Is that wretch still here?’
With a flash of relief I realize he means Skuldiss. Polly and I both shake our heads.
Then he nods to himself and I know he feels the same because he says it.
‘Kes … Missed you … So much.’
And then he envelops me in a massive bear hug, pressing my face against his lab coat – but I wrestle free. There isn’t time for hugs now. I need help. Dad looks at me, then at Polly, and finally down at the wolf-cub, pulsing on the floor.
‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Is this your friend?’
‘Yes,’ says Polly. ‘He broke into my house—’
Dad interrupts her with a wave of his big hands. ‘I meant, is this your friend?’ He points to the wolf-cub, and I nod.
‘Hmm,’ says Dad, kneels down, scoops him up in his arms and hurries into his lab. We follow him in, Polly looking at me all the time.
The lab used to be all clean white surfaces and glass. It’s filthy now. There are piles of paper everywhere, covered in crazy scribbles and diagrams and symbols and numbers, and unwashed plates and greasy
glasses. A dozen computer screens flicker away, wires twisting out of them like ivy. The four big sloping glass walls that look on to the garden and the river beyond are smeared with dust and grime, making the room darker than I remember.
Then the smell hits me. I thought the stench in the cockroach tunnel was bad, but this is something else, perhaps because it’s – human. Polly and I both put our hands over our nose and mouth. Strangest of all – there’s a bed in the corner of the lab, the blanket pulled roughly back, a bare-bulb lamp on the floor next to it, poking out of a pile of clothes and shoes. And a single toothbrush stands in a mug by the sink.
Still carrying the wolf-cub, Dad frees a hand to sweep papers and plates off the worktop on to the floor. He lays him down in the cleared space and swings a big lamp over. He’s rolling up his sleeves, pulling on rubber gloves out of nowhere, and talking at Polly and me to get things, telling us where they are, in his usual forgetful Dad-like way – as if nothing has happened, nothing has changed.
‘Swabs, bandages and a dressing, I think – probably in the cupboard above the sink. You’ll have to borrow a chair to stand on – what did you say your name was again?’
‘Polly,’ says Polly, already dragging a chair across.
Then Dad is giving me orders, like I’ve never even been away.
‘Forty-eight milligrams or so of sodium thiopentol – Kes, if you would, it should be in a glass bottle on that shelf, or if not, try under my chair –’
Within minutes, the wolf-cub stops yelping, stops shivering and just lies there sleeping. A syringe of white liquid sticks out of his leg and an oxygen mask is clamped firmly round his muzzle, his chest slowly rising and falling.
Now Dad gives us stuff to hold and things to cut, never panicking, always staying calm, as he bends the lamp right down over the wolf-cub to see what he’s doing. Then he’s picking sharp instruments off a tray that Polly and I have carefully cleaned with wipes smelling of alcohol, the only clean things in the whole place – and we have to look away because of the wound.
Dad is digging around inside the cub, and then he says, ‘Salver,’ and I hand him a metal dish to drop the bloody, sticky bullet in. I think I’m going to be sick, but then he’s sewing Wolf-Cub up again, careful stitch by careful stitch. Dad injects him one last time, makes sure the oxygen mask is firmly on and steps back to check his work.