And like all the other children, Jack laughed when it happened. It was a show. A happening. No game or movie could beat the sight of a pack of powerful animals ripping their prey to shreds. The funniest part would be whenever the catch of the day tried to beg for help. Didn't they know by now? There wasn't anyone coming for them. What would be the point? You can't stop the wolves once they were on the prowl. No one would ever even try.
As a boy of fifteen, Jack asked. The question most children asked at that age.
“Why do we let the wolves hunt? Why do we let them kill and eat up all the old folks?”
His brother punched him on the arm and told him not to ask stupid questions. His mother sent him to his room without dinner. His teacher made him stay after school. Only his father was kind enough to answer, if you considered sharing the truth a kindness.
“You see, kiddo, the wolves are there to save us. They're here to protect us from ourselves, so we don't starve by wasting our dwindling supplies when feeding the leeches of society. There's too many of us, you see. Too many people who eat and use up all the things that we need to keep things running. We can't allow parasites to thrive while we, the healthy and the strong, work and struggle. But the laws forbid us from harming each other in any way. So, with no other options, the Party looked to our enemies from the past from back when we weren't on top of the food chain. We turned to our old enemies from within the forest. The wolves.
“Back when we were savages, these great beasts could only be stopped by our weapons and our fire. We drove them back until there weren't any left. But stopping them led to no-one dying outside of old age. No-one dying led to too many of us. Too many led to conflict over space and food. War. Hunger. Disease. We nearly wiped ourselves out, you see. That's when the new order decreed to have the wolves brought back.
“The wolves became our wardens, culling the old geezers, the fatties, the druggies and the retards. We let them hunt so we will never destroy ourselves ever again. And that is the last we'll ever speak of this. Now go help your mom set the table.”
Jack accepted this. If his father said it was for the greater good, then it must be true. He wouldn't lie. Not to his son. And now that he knew the reasons behind the hunt were just, he could laugh again with the other children, as they watched the packs hunt the streets for society's vermin.
Oh, how he laughed when he saw an old man running down the street from his bedroom window. The pack of wolves that stalked and surrounded him, cutting off his way to home. He gasped when the man tried to fight the hunters off with his walking cane. He cheered when a gray female pounced at him and ripped his throat apart. The blood ran through the gutters as the pack ripped their prey apart. What a sight! What a hunt.
“Beautiful,” he gasped.
As young man of twenty, Jack witnessed. He witnessed the violence that was unleashed on insurgents who opposed the law. He saw the price of resistance firsthand and how the law deals with those who would deny the wolves their hunting rights.
It was another young man, about roughly his age, with broad shoulders and blue eyes. He attended the university as well, albeit in a different class. Jack talked with him on occasion. He seemed like a sensible fellow. A quiet young man who would never dream of being insurgent. Thus, all the greater Jack's surprise when he witnessed the young man do the unthinkable.
It was near dark. A pack of six surrounded an elderly woman. They had her cornered. The crone pleaded and begged for mercy, as the hungry eyes locked onto her.
“No, stay away! Leave me alone! Someone, help me!” she shrieked.
The people in the street ignored her and went on with their business, averting their eyes. Some kids gathered around to cheer and throw rocks at the woman. Jack and his circle of friends, decided to enjoy the nostalgia of watching the wolves at work, like they did when they were kids. A few other students joined them, including the broad shouldered young man.
The woman's time was up. The wolves were done playing with her. Now, the feast could begin. A young hunter swiftly pounced and sank his teeth into the woman's ankle, tugging on her rickety old leg. She shrieked and cried for help. The tearing of aged skin and breaking of brittle bone caused a crowd to gather and watch the spectacle in awe. Some gasped. Some laughed. Most just saw it as what it was: the natural order of things. The woman wailed once more, begging to be saved. A female readied her jaws for the kill.
Then, it happened. Jack couldn't believe his own eyes. The young man with the broad shoulders began beating the wolves off the woman, armed with a pipe. The yelps of pain from the wolves were bone-chilling to the gathered crowd. One unfortunate she-wolf broke her tooth on the pipe, yipping in agony as she slinked away. Unaccustomed to such an attack, the pack fled into the shadows, but did not retreat fully just yet. They had been wronged. Angry howls came from the darkness. A promise had been broken. Their prey had been stolen from them. The howls echoed throughout the city. Sirens soon followed, responding to the cries. Jack preferred the deep howls over the screeching blaring that came with the coming approach of a different kind of predator.
The lawmen arrived at the scene in their large black vans, the vinyl red wolf snarling at the crowd from the vehicle's side. Their sirens blared. Their boots stomped on the hard pavement as they exited, creating a wall of black leather and silver chains between the crowd. With their arms locked together, they stepped forward, pushing Jack and the rest of the spectators back. Not one of them spoke. But their clawed gauntlets and blood-red nightsticks sent a clear message. No-one was to interfere with what would happen next.
The investigator, a corporal with a ranking of two red stars, walked onto the scene. He asked no questions. One look at the woman, the youth and the pipe in his hand, covered in blood and clumps of wolf hair said more than any words could. The corporal walked up to the young man, stopping a few inches short from pressing his black, faceless visor against the youth's face.
“Explain!” he snarled.
“She was hurting,” the youth mumbled. “I couldn't . . . I mean, I had—”
The corporal drew his gun and shot the young man twice, a bullet in each knee. He wailed like a child as he fell to the ground. For extra measure, the corporal shot the old woman in her knee as well. Some in the crowd gasped, but the lawman's growls silenced any voices of protest and disgust. The corporal raised his visor slightly and blew his whistle twice, giving the all clear. As suddenly as the lawmen had appeared, they rushed back into their vehicle and sped off into the night, leaving two crippled bags of meat and a crowd too frightened to speak a single word.
Slowly but surely, the crowd began to disperse. A few children lingered to throw stuff at the two doomed souls, but their parents pulled them away, knowing that one bad throw could make them prey as well. It wouldn't be long now. Jack could already see the eyes glinting in the darkness. The hungry growls that grew louder and louder, as soft paws hit the pavement, their claws ticking against concrete.
His friends pulled them away, claiming boredom as their excuse for their exit. Jack looked back once, before walking off with them and trying his best to forget what he'd witnessed. Behind him, he could hear screams and the sound of flesh being torn.
From all around, peeking from every window, nook and cranny, the laughter of children echoed, cheering as the pack dug into their game. But Jack could witness no more. For once, Jack didn't feel like watching the carnage. Something had vanished that day, and the hunt was no longer the spectacle it once was.
The last time Jack ever heard someone speak of the young man was when his face came up during a government bulletin. Apparently, before his violent and unprovoked attack on the pack, the young man had been diagnosed as a violent schizophrenic sexual deviant, guilty of launching into numerous other attacks against wolves throughout the city. It was only now that he had acted in front of witnesses, finally paying for his crimes. Upon searching his home, the lawmen also found a plenitude of evidence that he was pederast as well. In the end, the young
man paid the price, and all was well in the world once again. His name was Jack as well.
It was strange, though. While they'd only met on a few occasions, Jack didn't recall the other Jack ever exhibiting any odd behavior of the like. He seemed like a perfectly ordinary young man, if a bit quiet and reserved, but intelligent and compassionate. He couldn't believe that the same young man could be guilty of the crimes associated with him. But it had to be true, didn't it? The bulletin couldn't possibly be wrong. The kid was obviously a sicko. A degenerate who tried to go against the natural order of things. He deserved being torn apart and having his intestines spill into the streets.
At least, that's what Jack told himself every night for the following weeks, just so he could sleep somewhat soundly each night. He tried to forget the other Jack, knowing full well he never would.
As a man of thirty-five, Jack heard. He heard it clearly, even as the familiar voice on the other end of the phone kept pausing to catch her breath. It was his mother, calling him very late in the night. She was hysterical.
“Ma? What is it? What's wrong?”
“Jack . . . your father . . . he hasn't come home. I don't know where he is, Jack. I don't know where he is!”
It had finally come. The call he'd been dreading these past few years, as his parents grew frailer and weaker. Like a fool, his father had gone out for groceries by himself and hadn't come home. It was long past sundown, and the temperatures had dropped fiercely. With the night and the coming winter and regular game being scarce, his father practically served himself to the wolves on a platter.
Jack's mother had asked around the neighborhood, but no-one paid her any mind. His brother didn't answer any of her calls, and the neighbors were ignoring her constant badgering at their door. So mad with fear and hysteria, she was ready to go to town hall and inquire about her missing husband.
“No! You stay where you are,” Jack snapped. Having her walk the streets was dangerous enough. But a woman of her age going to town hall and asking the questions no-one wants to answer could have bought her a one-way ticket to a personal session with the lawmen. What was left of her would just be fed to the wolves. He offered to ask around, pleading with his mother to stay indoors and make no attempt to contact the lawmen.
Of course, Jack didn't do as he promised. Yes, he could have asked around about the whereabouts of his father, but what would they tell him he didn't already know? Instead, he drove around all night, trying to come to terms with the truth. They got him. The goddamn wolves got him. His father must have been too slow or careless. How could he have been so stupid? Jack knew this day would come sooner or later. With his father's bad knee, worsened eyesight and poor hip, it was a long time coming, inevitable really. But why did it have to be so soon? Why now? Why?
Those damned wolves. Savage beasts. Monsters. Man-eaters. He remembered his childhood, watching the hunters from his window.
It had all seemed funnier back then. Watching someone else's loved ones being run down in the street only to be ripped to shreds. Now it was a terrifying reality for him. How could Dad have been so foolish to go out alone? he thought. Why didn't he ask me to come with him? But then, what could he have done to help? Surely he couldn't fight the wolves. Or the lawmen. They'd both be chow. Damned wolves.
Hours had passed before Jack finally dared to go to his parents' house. He imagined the state his mother would be in. Sobbing and weeping on her couch, hysterical about what was to become of her. It would be up to him to calm her down. With his father gone, all they could do was silently mourn him, then forget he ever existed and move on with their lives. Mentioning him would be a surefire path to more trouble.
Jack parked a block away from his parent's house. While he knew he probably shouldn't have, he felt like walking. Looking around his old street, he couldn't help but feel it wasn't the same place anymore. Had it always been this cold? Did he always feel the hairs on his neck stand up whenever he walked past a darkened alley? He couldn't remember feeling like this before; the feeling of being watched from the darkness, as hungry tongues licked saliva over bared teeth. The street where he grew up changed, without even a single brick being moved.
Then, in the distance, Jack heard a howl. He didn't think much of it at first. It was the chuckles and happy shrieks that roused him out of his funk. The sound of children's laughter.
Then it hit him. She wouldn't have, would she? He raced home as quickly as he could, being met with a wide-open door. A woman's slipper lay in the front yard. He ran through the house, checking the kitchen, every room, and even the basement. Nothing. Not a trace of her. He raced outside, looking across the empty street for a sign of her.
“Mom?” he shouted. No answer came, barring the distant howl of the pack.
As a man of forty-eight, Jack trembled. He shook like the last dead leaf fluttering on the end of a branch, pulled by the wind as it desperately tries to hold on. The night he feared for so long had come. The night when he first came face-to-face with death.
After a long day of work at the Office of Property Assessment, he'd taken a short cut into the street with the deli. The Party had imposed a temporary lift on the cigarette ban, so Jack figured he'd stock up on enough smokes to last himself for a while. With three large cartons of cigarettes under his arms, he rushed home. It was then that someone smashed into Jack, throwing them both onto the street. Cigarettes flew in the air before hitting the dirty road. Time slowed down for just a moment, right before Jack violently collided with the cobblestone ground.
For a second, Jack struggled to regain his senses. He felt crushed cigarettes beneath his fingers, dried tobacco sticking to his palms. A man, about ten years his senior, laid on top of him, frantically trying to get up. Jack pushed the man off of him. His arm hurt. Blood seeped into the fabric of his coat. He prayed it wasn't broken. Walking home with a wound would be akin to slathering himself with gravy and serving himself to the hunters on a platter.
“I'm sorry,” the older man gasped. “I didn't—”
“Can't you see where you're—” Jack began. A deep baritone snarl interrupted him, freezing both men in place.
A growl. Spittle ran down a set of white daggers that were the wolf's teeth. Jack met the eyes of a lone wolf. Exiled from its pack, starved and desperate for food, it approached the two sacks of meat. The beast was in luck. After chasing the older man for a few blocks, it now had two meals to choose from.
Hungry eyes darted between the two men, gasping their quick and frightened breaths, unsure of which of the two to pick. Its nose twitched, smelling blood in the air. To Jack's horror, the wolf locked its eyes on him. Wounded prey is easier prey, is it not?
“No! Him. I'm not there yet,” Jack shouted, frantically pointing at the other man. “Take him! You were after him!”
The predator didn't take to his protests. It was hungry, and food was on the table. What difference does one juicy slab of meat to another make anyway? A good meal as any, even with Jack's slight age difference.
Jack panicked. He needed a weapon. Something to fight the beast off. He felt around, fishing through the sea of cigarettes for anything that he could use to fight back. There! A loose brick in the road. He frantically pried it loose, breaking his nails, blood seeping from his fingertips. He held the brick up high, armed and ready to defend himself. But what difference would it make? Slay the wolf, and the lawmen would serve him up to a different pack. Do nothing, and be eaten. He was trapped.
Then, as suddenly as he appeared, the man who collided with Jack leaped up and rushed away. The wolf's attention snapped back to his original prey. In that instant, Jack jumped up and threw the brick at the fleeing man. A direct hit! The older man fell down and hit the ground. A stream of blood gushed from the back of his head, enough to stir the wolf on.
The predator rushed at the hunk of fresh meat laying in the street, dragging its prey by the leg into an alley. The man screamed and wailed, begging for help. From a window, three children laughed, clapping
and cheering for the wolf.
But Jack couldn't laugh. While relieved to be alive, at what cost did he achieve it? He nearly attacked a wolf! He cracked a man's head open with a brick to save his own hide. He stumbled behind a trash can and vomited. Did surviving always feel this wretched?
As the older man's death throes died down, Jack wobbled his way back home. He cursed the loss of his smokes and the pain in his arm. Two lawmen stomped right past him. Jack saw his reflection in their visors and noticed them clenching their tight grip on their night sticks. Younger men, hungry for blood and aching for an excuse to hurt another. While he could not see them, he imagined their eyes, indistinguishable from those of the hunters of the night. For a moment, he couldn't remember which one was the bloody predator that hunted these parasites of society and fed on their meat.
Jack slinked away, afraid of being thrown before those bloody fangs for the second time in one night. His heart raced. He remembered the laughter and the fun it had been, watching the hunt when he was a boy. Did the world change, or was it just him? Had it always been this cold and unforgiving? Was it getting worse each day? In the distance, Jack heard the howls.
At sixty-one, Jack ran.
His time had come. Like so many before him, he had no option left but to run. He ran as fast as he could, though he knew it would never be fast enough.
With every step, his aching joints screamed at him. His heart pumped blood at a tremendous speed, yet he felt like he might as well have been crawling at a snail's pace. The sweat from his brow stung his eyes. Breathing became a nightmare, as he hacked up dark blotches of phlegm with each exhale.
There were two others that ran as well, a woman and a man. They were behind him a minute ago, but the pack got one of them. Jack had no idea which one, nor did he care anymore. Where the second one went, he didn't know either.
Hinnom Magazine Issue 003 Page 8