The Monster Novels: Stinger, the Wolf's Hour, and Mine

by Robert R. McCammon

  The infant had been cleaved in half. Franco could see the marks of the large fangs. The top half, including the head and the brains, was gone. Flies spun around Franco’s face, and with them the coppery aroma of blood and decay. He looked to his right, at another smear of red in the dirt. A small leg, covered with fine brown hair. He made a soft, terrible moaning sound, and old bones crunched under his feet as he stepped back from the crimson remains.

  “The berserker,” Mikhail heard him whisper. The birds sang in the treetops, happy and unaware. All around were uncovered graves and fragments of skeletons, both infant and adult, human and wolf. Franco spun toward Mikhail, and the boy saw his face—the flesh drawn tight around the bones, the eyes glassy and bulging. The pungent reek of rot wafted past Mikhail’s nostrils. “The berserker,” Franco repeated, his voice thin and quavering. The man looked around, his nostrils flared and sweat gleaming on his face. “Where are you?” Franco shouted; the bird song instantly ceased. “Where are you, you bastard?” He took a step in one direction, then a step in another; his legs seemed to want to pull him in two halves. “Come out!” he shrieked, his teeth bared and his chest heaving. “I’ll fight you!” He picked up a wolf’s skull and hurled it against a tree trunk, where it shattered with a noise like a gunshot. “God damn you to hell, come out!”

  Flies battered into Mikhail’s face and spun away, disturbed by Franco’s turbulence. The man seethed, bright spots of red in his sallow cheeks and his body trembling like a taut and dangerous spring. He screamed, “Come out and fight!” and his voice sent the birds flying from their branches.

  Nothing responded to Franco’s challenge. The grinning skulls lay like mute witnesses to a massacre, and the dark curtains of flies closed over the red infant flesh. Before Mikhail could move to defend himself, Franco rushed him. The man lifted him up off his feet and shoved his back against a tree so hard the breath whooshed from Mikhail’s lungs. “You’re nothing!” Franco raged. “Do you hear me?” He shook Mikhail. “You’re nothing!”

  There were tears of pain in Mikhail’s eyes, but he didn’t let them fall. Franco wanted to destroy something, as the berserker had destroyed the bodies of his children. He shoved Mikhail’s back against the tree again, harder. “We don’t need you!” he shouted. “You little piece of weak-willed shi—”

  It happened very fast. Mikhail wasn’t sure exactly when it happened, because it was a blur. A pit of flame opened within him, and seared his insides; there was a second of blinding pain, and then Mikhail’s right hand—a wolf’s claw covered with sleek black hair that entwined his arm almost to the elbow—streaked up and across Franco’s cheek. The man’s head snapped back, bloody furrows where the nails had slashed. Franco was stunned, and his eyes glinted with fear. He released Mikhail and jerked back, the blood trickling in crimson lines down his face. Mikhail settled to his feet, his heart slamming; he was as surprised as Franco, and he stared at his wolf’s claw, bright red blood and bits of Franco’s skin on the tips of the white nails. The black hair advanced past his elbow, and he felt pressure in his bones as they began to change their shape. There was a hollow pop! as the elbow went out of joint, and his arm shortened, the bones thickening under the moist, black-haired flesh. The hair advanced up his arm, toward his shoulder, and shone with dark blue highlights where the sun touched it. Mikhail felt throbbing pain in his jaws and forehead, as if an iron vise had begun to tighten around his skull. The tears broke from his eyes and ran down his cheeks. His left hand was changing now, the fingers snapping and shortening, growing hair and young white claws. Something was happening to his teeth; they crowded his tongue, and his gums felt ripped. He tasted blood in his mouth. He was terrified, and he looked desperately at Franco for help; Franco just stared at him, glassy-eyed, the blood dripping from his chin. It smelled to Mikhail like the red wine he remembered his father and mother drinking from crystal goblets, in another life. His muscles tensed and shivered, thickening across his shoulders and down his back. Black hair burst wild at his groin, under his dirty clothes.

  “No,” Mikhail heard himself groan, the harsh rasping of a frightened animal. “Please … no.” He didn’t want this; he couldn’t stand it, not yet, and he fell to his knees in the leaves as the bending bones and thickening muscles freighted him down.

  An instant later the black hair that had coiled over his right shoulder began to reverse itself, receding back down his arm. The claws of his fingers cracked and lengthened into fingers once more. His bones straightened, and his muscles thinned to those of a human boy again. His jaw and facial bones made little popping noises as they rearranged. He felt his teeth slide back into their sockets, and that was perhaps the worst of the pain. And less than forty seconds after the change had begun, it had completely reversed; Mikhail blinked, tears burning his eyes, and looked at his human, hairless hands. Blood was oozing from beneath the fingernails. The unaccustomed heaviness of new muscle was gone. His tongue felt human teeth, and blood tanged his saliva.

  It was over.

  “You little bastard,” Franco said, but most of the steam had gone out of him. He looked deflated. “Couldn’t do it, could you?” He touched his furrowed cheek and stared at his red-smeared palm. “I ought to kill you,” he said. “You marked me. I ought to tear you to pieces, you little shit.”

  Mikhail struggled to rise. His legs were weak, and wouldn’t allow it.

  “You’re not even worth killing,” Franco decided. “You’re still too much of a human. I ought to leave you out here, and you’d never even find your way back, would you?” He wiped blood from his oozing wounds and looked at his palm again. “Shit!” he said, disgusted.

  “Why … do you hate me so much?” Mikhail managed to ask. “I’ve never done anything to you.”

  Franco didn’t reply for a moment, and Mikhail thought he wasn’t going to. Then Franco said, his voice acidic, “Wiktor thinks you’re special.” He slurred the word, as if it were something nasty. “He says he’s never seen anyone fight to live as much as you did. Oh, he has high hopes for you.” He snorted bitterly. “I say you’re a weak whelp, but I’ll give you this: you’re lucky. Wiktor never hunted for anyone else before. He does it for you, because he says you’re not ready for the change. I say either you become one of the pack, all the way, or we eat you. And I’ll be the one who cracks open your skull and chews your brains. What do you think about that?”

  “I … think …” Mikhail tried to stand again. Sweat was on his face. He started up, on willpower and bruised muscles. His legs almost went out from under him again, but then he was up, breathing raggedly, and he faced Franco. “I think … someday … I’ll have to kill you,” he said.

  Franco gaped at him. The silence stretched; distant crows called to each other. And then Franco laughed—more of a grunt, actually—and the laugh made him wince and press his fingers against his slashed cheek. “You? Kill me?” He laughed again, winced again. His eyes were cold, and they promised cruelty. “I’m going to let you live today,” he said, as if from the grace of his heart; Mikhail guessed that it was because he feared Wiktor. “Like I said, you’re lucky.” He looked around, his eyes narrowed and his senses questing. There was no sign of the berserker except the uncovered graves and the broken bones: the scarred dirt and masses of leaves showed no tracks, there were no hanks of hair caught in the underbrush, and the berserker had rolled in the rotting flesh to mask his scent. This sacrilege against the pack had been done perhaps six or seven hours ago, Franco thought. The berserker was long gone. Franco walked away a few feet, bent down, and brushed flies away. He picked up a small, ripped arm, the hand still attached, and rose to his full height. He gently touched the fingers, exploring them like the petals of a strange flower. “This was mine,” Mikhail heard him say in a quiet voice.

  Franco bent down again, scooped away a handful of earth, put the chewed arm into it, and carefully replaced the dirt. He patted it down and covered it over with brown leaves. He sat on his haunches for a long time as flies buzze
d around his head in search of the lost flesh. Several of them landed on Franco’s bleeding cheek and feasted there, but he didn’t move. He stared, motionlessly, at the patchwork of earth and leaves before him.

  And then, abruptly, he stood up. He turned his back on the ruined Garden, and quickly strode away into the forest without glancing at Mikhail.

  Mikhail let him go; he knew the way home. Anyway, if he lost his bearings he could follow the smell of Franco’s blood. His strength was coming back, and his skull and heart had stopped pounding. He looked at the garden of scattered skeletons, wondering exactly where his own bones would lie, and who would cover them. He turned away, shunting those thoughts aside, and trailed Franco by following his tracks on the bruised earth.

  3

  THREE MORE SPRINGS CAME and passed, and the summer of Mikhail’s twelfth year scorched the forest. During that time, Renati had almost died with worms from an infected boar. Wiktor himself had nursed her to health and hunted for her, showing that granite could be tender. Pauli had given birth to a girl baby that Franco had sired; the baby had died in the night, her body contorting and rippling with light brown hair, when she was two months old. Nikita had seeded a child in Alekza’s belly, but the growth passed away in a rush of blood and tissue when it was less than four months along.

  Mikhail wore a deerskin robe and sandals that Renati had made for him, his old clothes much too small and tattered. He was growing, getting gangly, his thick black hair hanging around his shoulders and down his back. His mind was growing, too, from the food of Wiktor’s books: mathematics, Russian history, the languages, classical literature—all were the feast that Wiktor offered. Sometimes it went down easily, other times Mikhail all but choked on it, but Wiktor’s thundering voice in the fire-lit chamber commanded his attention. Mikhail even enjoyed Shakespeare, particularly the gruesomeness and ghosts of Hamlet.

  His senses grew as well. There was no longer any true darkness for him; the deepest night was a gray twilight, with flesh-and-blood forms outlined in an eerie pale blue. When he truly concentrated, cutting off all distractions, he could find any of the pack in the white palace by trailing the distinctive rhythm of their heartbeats: Alekza’s, for instance, always beat fast, like a little snare drum, while Wiktor’s beat with slow and stately precision, a finely tuned instrument. Colors, sounds, aromas intensified. In daylight he could see a deer running through the dense forest at a distance of a hundred yards. Mikhail learned the importance of speed: he caught rats, squirrels, and hares with ease, and added to the pack’s food supply in a small way, but larger game eluded him. He often awakened from sleep to find an arm or leg covered with black hair and contorting into wolfish form, but the totality of the change still terrified him. Though his body may have been ready for it, his mind certainly was not. He marveled at how the others could slip back and forth between worlds, almost as if by wishing it. The fastest of them was Wiktor, of course; it took him less than forty seconds to complete the change from human flesh to gray wolf hide. The next quickest was Nikita, who made the transformation in a little over forty-five seconds. Alekza had the prettiest pelt, and Franco the loudest wail. Pauli was the shyest, and Renati the most merciful; she often let the smallest, most defenseless prey escape even when she’d run it to exhaustion. Wiktor scolded her for this frivolity, and Franco scowled at her, but she did as she pleased.

  After the destruction of the Garden, a coldly furious Wiktor had taken Nikita and Franco out on a long, fruitless hunt for the berserker’s den. In the three years since, the berserker had made himself known by leaving little piles of excrement around the white palace, and once the pack had heard him wailing in the night: a deep, hoarse taunt that changed direction as the berserker deftly shifted his position. It was a challenge to battle, but Wiktor declined; he chose not to run into the berserker’s trap. Pauli had sworn she’d seen the berserker on a snowy night in early November, when she’d been running at Nikita’s side on the trail of caribou. The red beast had come out of the snow at her, close enough for her to smell his rank madness, and his eyes had been cold black pits of hatred. He had opened slavering jaws to crush her throat—but then Nikita had swerved toward her, and the berserker disappeared into the snowfall. Pauli swore this, but Pauli sometimes mixed nightmares with reality, and Nikita didn’t remember seeing anything but night and whirling flakes.

  On a night in mid-July, there were no snowflakes, only the whirl of golden fireflies rising from the forest floor as Mikhail and Nikita, in human form, ran silently through the woods. The herds had been thinned by the drought weather, and hunting had been poor for the last month. Wiktor had ordered Mikhail and Nikita to bring back something—anything—and now Mikhail followed the older man as best he could, Nikita running about twenty feet ahead and breaking a trail. They were heading south at a steady pace, and in a short while Nikita slowed to a brisk walk.

  “Where are we going?” Mikhail asked in a whisper. He glanced around through the night’s twilight, looking for anything alive. Not even a squirrel’s eyes glinted with starlight.

  “The railroad tracks,” Nikita answered. “We’ll see if we can’t make this an easy hunt.” Often the pack was able to find a dead deer, caribou, or smaller animal that had been hit by the train, which passed through the forest twice a day between May and August, going east in daylight and west at night.

  Where the forest was stubbled with large boulders and cliffs fell off to the south, the tracks emerged from a rough-hewn tunnel, curved downhill along the bottom of a wooded gulley for at least six hundred yards, and then entered another tunnel to the west. Mikhail followed Nikita down the embankment, and they walked along the tracks, their eyes searching for the dark shape of a carcass and their nostrils sniffing the warm air for fresh blood. Tonight, no kills lay on the rails. They continued to the eastern tunnel—and then Nikita suddenly said, “Listen.”

  Mikhail did, and he heard it, too: a soft rumble of thunder. Except the sky was clear, the stars sparkling behind a gauze of hazy heat. The train was coming.

  Nikita bent down, placing his hand against the iron. He could feel it vibrate as the train gathered power, heading into its long downhill run. In another moment it would burst out of the tunnel only a few yards distant.

  “We’d better go,” Mikhail told him.

  Nikita stayed where he was, his hand on the rail. He stared at the tunnel’s rocky opening, and then Mikhail saw him look toward the western tunnel’s entrance, far away. “I used to come here alone,” Nikita said quietly. “I used to watch the train roar past. That was before the berserker, damn him to hell. But I’ve seen the train go past many times. On its way to Minsk, I think. It comes out of that tunnel”—he nodded toward it—“and goes into that one there. Some nights, if the engineer’s in a hurry to get home, it takes less than thirty seconds to make the distance. If he’s drunk and riding the brake, it takes around thirty-five seconds from one tunnel to the next. I know; I’ve counted them off.”

  “Why?” Mikhail asked. The train’s thunder—a traveling storm—was getting closer.

  “Because someday I’m going to beat it.” Nikita stood up. “Do you know what, for me, the grandest thing in the world would be?” His almond-shaped, Mongol eyes stared through the darkness at Mikhail. The boy shook his head. “To be fast,” Nikita went on, excitement mounting in his voice. “The fastest of all the pack. The fastest who ever lived. To will the change between the time the train comes out of the first tunnel and reaches the second. Do you see?”

  Mikhail shook his head.

  “Then watch,” Nikita told him. The western tunnel had begun to lighten, and the rails were throbbing with a steam engine’s mighty pulse. Nikita threw off his robe and stood naked to the world. And then, quite suddenly, the train burst from the tunnel like a snorting, black-mawed behemoth with a single yellow, cyclopean eyeball. Mikhail leaped backward as its hot breath enfolded him. Nikita, standing right at the edge of the tracks, didn’t move a muscle. Freight cars rumbled past, red
cinders spinning in the turbulence. Mikhail saw Nikita’s body tense, saw his flesh ripple and begin to grow its sheen of fine black hair—and then Nikita started running along the tracks, his back and legs banded with wolf hair. He ran toward the eastern tunnel, his spine contorting in an instant, his legs and arms shivering and beginning to draw themselves upward into the torso. Mikhail saw the black hair cover Nikita’s buttocks, a dark wartlike thing grew and burst at the base of the spine and the wolf’s tail uncurled, twitching like a rudder. Nikita’s backbone ratcheted down, and he ran low to the ground, his forearms thickening and his hands starting to twist into claws. He caught up with the engine, racing alongside it toward the mouth of the eastern tunnel. The engineer was riding the brake, but the furnace was still spouting sparks. Grinding wheels thundered two feet away from Nikita’s legs. As he ran, his heart hammering, his feet contorted and threw him off balance, and he lost precious seconds as he struggled to right himself. The train’s engine left him behind, black smoke and sparks swirling around him. He breathed the corruption of man, and his lungs felt poisoned. Mikhail lost sight of Nikita in the black maelstrom.

  The train roared into the eastern tunnel, and continued its journey to Minsk. A single red lamp swung back and forth on the railing of its last freight car.

  The smoke that had settled along the gulley had the sour tang of burned green timber. Mikhail walked into it, following the tracks, and he could feel the heat of the train’s passage. Cinders still spun to earth, a night of dying stars. “Nikita!” he called. “Where are—”

  A dark, powerful form leaped at him.

  The black wolf planted its paws on Mikhail’s shoulders and drove him down to the earth. Then the wolf stood astride his chest, its slanted eyes staring fixedly into his face, and its jaws opened to show clean white fangs.