We’re about halfway down a street called Manderson Ave. when I smell the dog.
It’s on Zeke’s side, kept in on a screened porch. We must be downwind, because it hasn’t scented us yet. From across the street I watch Zeke go right into the driveway and open the car door. He must not have smelled the dog, or maybe he doesn’t realize the sort of effect our kind have on dogs.
I shut the door of the Honda I was checking and lope across the street.
“Zeke,” I whisper as loudly as I can.
He sees me coming and looks around, presumably to see if the owners of the house are still asleep. All the lights are still off, and so he shrugs at me and continues searching the car.
Maybe it’s my footsteps slapping against the pavement, or maybe it’s the muffled “Yes!” coming from within Zeke’s scarf. Maybe the scent of us two together. The dog launches out of sleep and into a barking frenzy.
“This one has keys!” Zeke says, not even whispering as a light goes on upstairs.
I don’t say anything. I shove him into the driver’s seat and climb over him.
He takes the hint and closes the car door, puts the key in the ignition.
Then he stares at the steering wheel.
“What are you waiting for?” I hiss. The dog is leaping up against the screens on the porch, its nails scratching. White strings of saliva fly out from its snapping jaws. “Let’s go!”
I’m not sure what Zeke says, because most of it is lost in a growl. His mittened hands are clenched into fists.
“No, no, let’s just go,” I say. “You don’t need to fight that dog. Come on. Just turn the key and go!” Inside the house, heavy footsteps are coming down the stairs. Soon the owner is going to stop being pissed at his dog for waking him up and start being pissed at the two delinquents stealing his car.
A growl rises from my own throat as I pull Zeke over to the passenger side hard enough to knock his head against the window. I settle into the driver’s seat and turn the key. The car – a messy compact – grumbles to life. I stare at the shifter. Reverse, I need to reverse. There’s a red R, must be reverse. I slide the shift to the R.
Zeke roars with vocal chords that are no longer human.
I hit the gas, managing to keep my hands on the steering wheel despite the fact that they are trying to change into clawed paws. As the car spins backward into the street, the pads of my hands slip.
A tearing sound fills the air as Zeke’s clothes split.
“Go go go,” I tell myself. If I can get Zeke away from that dog’s sound and scent, maybe he will calm down. The numbers on the shifter aren’t corresponding for me. There’s no G for Go, no F for Forward. What is N? What is D, and D2? I try N.
Nothing happens.
“Why the fuck is there a gear that does nothing?” I yell, slamming the shifter clumsily to the next one down, D. The car lurches forward. “Yes!”
Zeke is scrabbling at the door handle, doubly awkward with his mittens and the paws inside of them. Most of his clothes are still on him, though split to accommodate the change. His face has elongated into a wolfish muzzle, but there’s no fur. I tear my gaze away from him to hunt for the button that will lock all the doors, it doesn’t seem to be there. And I’m still driving, sliding across the icy road much faster than I want to be.
Finally I find the button, and just in time, too – I’m at Route 2, sliding into the road, my foot pressing down on the brake. Bright lights, a long blaring horn, Zeke slams sideways then on top of me, then he rights himself. The car slides off the road and into a low snow bank. Stops. Finally.
I take a moment to breathe and get myself together. The windshield has fogged up and is slowly clearing with the heat blowing. “Okay,” I say. “Okay.”
I look at Zeke.
“You’d better get a little closer to human,” I tell him. When he stares at me blankly, helplessly
(I don’t know how to do this)
I growl at him. “Change back!” I bark. The slightest hesitation from him, a shifting of his eyes and I’m on him, holding him with my stare. “Human. Now.”
With our eyes locked together, his pupils dilate. Beneath my hands I feel his body shifting. I return to the driver’s seat, still maintaining eye contact.
“That’s better.”
I take up the wheel again, relieved that the snow bank has kept the car from rolling away.
“How did you do that?” Zeke asks. His voice is clear now. I glance at him – there’s no trace left of the wolf in his face. “It’s like your voice… did something. Activated the change. You told me to change and I had to do it.”
I say nothing. Keep my eyes on the icy black road ahead. It did feel like that, like a pull on my brain, a push of energy, giving him my power to control the transformation. Kayla never mentioned anything like this, although she did something similar a few times. Calmed me down so I didn’t change. Some kind of psychic injection of calmness.
It’s interesting but I can’t think too much on it. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel. It hits me: I’m driving for the first time.
-62-
I wake up with a start, my breath frosting into the air. It only takes me a moment to remember that Zeke and I pulled into a WalMart parking lot late last night and fell asleep. Zeke’s still conked out, his seat reclined and his fist curled under his chin.
Of course, then I also have to recall that Zeke is now an orphan no thanks to me, and that I’m driving a stolen car that by now has probably been reported to the police.
With that in mind, I start up the car and get the hell out of there. Zeke mumbles something and falls back to sleep. What a stupid idea. We thought it’d be for the best parking at a 24-hour WalMart, where people wouldn’t wonder why a car was parked there all night. But now the sun is up and everyone in the world must have seen us sleeping. And WalMart parking lots have security cameras. We should’ve found some deserted road and parked there, where no police cruiser would happen to drive by and see two teenagers crashed out in a car and run the plates.
We were damn lucky not to get caught.
I find myself on a highway, Route 2 East. Of course, the opposite direction I want to go. I don’t dare try to figure out how to change direction and continue driving at exactly the speed limit while cars zoom by. Don’t want to attract any attention to ourselves.
“I’m hungry,” Zeke says a short time later.
“Got any money?” I ask.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
We’re quiet for a time, until Zeke’s stomach’s rumbling gets too loud. He switches on the radio, and punches through the radio’s preset buttons. Classic rock, heavy metal, pop rock, commercial jingle, more classic rock. “Dad always liked listening to the news.” It’s impossible to mistake the sadness in his voice. Finally he stops on a station playing Led Zeppelin.
“Leave it,” I say. I always liked Led Zeppelin, those few times whoever I hitched a ride with liked classic rock. The songs all felt like they were about travelling, roaming, wandering… sort of like me, I guess.
About twenty minutes later a yellow light appears on the dashboard. “What does that mean?” I figure it out as I say the words. “Crap.”
“What?” Zeke leans over to look. “Oh.”
The gas gauge’s needle points right at the red letter E, and the yellow light is in the shape of a gas pump.
“So, uh, we’ve got no money,” I reiterate from our previous conversation. “Any other suggestions?”
“I guess we could steal some gas.” Zeke shrugs. “I know how to siphon gas, if we can get a hose and maybe a funnel.”
Where on earth would we get a hose? “Or we could steal another car.”
“We could rob a gas station, like hold someone at gunpoint and make them fill our tank.”
“How about we call a tow truck, then steal that?”
Zeke and I trade a few more suggestions before we can’t think of anything more ridiculous
and our immediate dilemma sinks in. We drive in silence.
“How long after the low fuel light comes on before the tank is actually empty?” I ask.
“No clue.”
When the car runs out of gas a few miles later, we have no choice but to get out and start walking.
“It was a good idea, while it lasted,” Zeke says.
“Thanks.”
For a time I wonder if it would be better if we turned wolf and crossed the miles that way, the way Kayla always wanted to do, the way Kayla and I did during those dark days I barely remember until I woke to find I’d eaten a child. For the first time I wonder what the point of leaving that injured, helpless creature there was. Kayla said the other pack left the little girl there as some kind of bait, and clearly it worked – I showed up, didn’t I? – yet the other pack didn’t attack us. Were they watching, just trying to get a good look at their competition?
If so, what did they see? A monster, or a pathetic starving piece of shit with no respect for human life?
Maybe Kayla was lying. To make me not feel like a monster.
It’s better for us to be human, Zeke and I. Maybe I can control Zeke and maybe it was just a fluke, but if Zeke got out of control what would I do, when I can barely control myself?
Just as I think this, Zeke growls, “I’m hungry.”
Shit.
I look around at the desolate whiteness surrounding us. Even if there was a rabbit prancing along right at that moment, no way I could hunt it down, not with all the traffic on this road and no trees. “Look.” I point to a sign up ahead. “Truck stop, four miles. Think you can wait that long?”
Zeke mumbles what I hope is an okay.
I’m hoping for a diner where we can chew and screw, or maybe do some dishes to pay for our meals if they’re feeling generous and Zeke hasn’t killed anyone yet. What I get, as I go on almost 24 hours without food, is a rest stop with a couple of vending machines.
We break into a run and assault the machines with little regard for the two truckers whose big rigs are idling in the parking lot and the family belonging to the beige minivan. The rest stop is basically two restrooms with a roof bridging the space between and protecting the vending machines. Zeke’s muttering gibberish and growls and I hold back, alert to see how human he appears, ready to grab him if he begins to look too wolfish. He smashes the glass front of one of the machines and grabs bags of chips, cookies, I can barely see what he’s taking because it seems like he’s grown bigger, taking up the space that was once the glass front of the machine.
“Okay, Zeke, I think you’ve got enough,” I say.
His head whips around and all I see are teeth bared at me.
Just then, a mother and her school-age daughter walk out of the women’s restroom. I see the way the mother pushes her daughter behind her, how they cower against the wall, fearfully taking in the two teen boys who have destroyed a vending machine. Maybe she doesn’t see Zeke’s wolfish face pushing out, but she knows something’s wrong and once she runs to her car with her daughter in tow, she’ll dial the police on her cell phone and then we’ll be caught.
“Zeke, let’s go.”
I head out the other side of the rest stop building, toward the back of the parking lot. My brain feels a pull when I turn away, but I pull back and then I hear Zeke’s footsteps echoing mine.
Hunkered down behind some thorny bushes, I try to eat some of the packaged food. It’s too salty – my throat is dry, and I end up coughing. I wait, listening for the sound of sirens after the minivan peels off, but there’s nothing.
“Wait here,” I tell Zeke. Not that it matters. He’s in a feeding frenzy and I can see wrappers going down along with the chips.
Back at the rest stop I listen for anyone else in the bathrooms, but the two truckers from before must have gone. I head into the bathroom.
When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, it really surprises me that the woman didn’t call the police. I’ve got blood on my temple – not my blood, either – and myriad bruises and cuts on my face. I shove my face into the sink and gulp water until my mouth gets too cold, then try to scrub the blood off. Ears alert for approaching footsteps, I untuck my shirt and lift it to look at my ribs.
The bandage is dark red and stiff. I pick at the tape and slowly peel it away to check out the real damage. With everything going on, my injuries have been the last thing on my mind. The stitches held up pretty well, considering the changes my body went through. The thread broke in the middle and unraveled, leaving about an inch of half-healed skin. I touch the white scar tissue lightly. Still sore, but healed. I just hope the inside has healed as well as the outside.
I don’t want it to get infected, so I wash it carefully and stick some of the tape I salvaged from the soiled bandage to a folded up square of toilet paper that will serve as a clean dressing. Better than nothing.
Next, my leg.
With my foot on the sink and my jeans rolled up, I can see that my leg’s looking even better than my ribs. Completely healed, and only the faintest of white lines where the teeth of the bear trap bit. I yank out these stitches as well and wash my leg. Good as new.
I gulp some more water and start to wash my hair in the sink before remembering Zeke out there in the woods eating snack packs of Lays and Doritos and Chips Ahoy. He’s never been hungry like I’ve been. I imagine he’s ravenous. And who knows if he might black out and start killing people like I might have at his age.
Drying off my hair with a fistful of paper towels, I rush back out to where Zeke was.
He’s gone.
-63-
The smell lurks in the air, so heavy I’m not sure how I didn’t smell it before, when Zeke and I were eating. They must have been here watching us even then. My shoulders slump and I stare at the mess of cellophane and wrappers on the ground. All I had smelled was the food.
snap out of it
They can’t be far. I was only in a bathroom a few minutes. A quick glance around tells me the rest stop is deserted. I take off my clothes, scowling at the cold air as I stash them behind a tree, and
change
The scent is clearer now, painfully clear. Zeke’s unwashed body odor drowns out that piney milk smell I once associated with him. But there’s that black wolf smell again, that wild musky smell. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I don’t smell any others.
I don’t smell lilacs, either.
I follow the scent. It’s strong here where Zeke and I sat, spreading wider than where we had crouched. Zeke must have put up a fight. I circle until I find a trail leading away. Strong, so strong I can run and still follow it. Winding into the trees, then back toward the rest stop. It stops before the rest stop. Exhaust and motor oil fills the air.
As a wolf I can’t see as well as when I’m human, so I change to make sure. A narrow dirt road, more of a dead end, coming from the rest area parking lot, the perfect place to hide a car. A car was here. I can see the tire tracks from when it drove off in a hurry.
Footprints of several people scuffling around are here too.
Trudging back to where I’ve hidden my clothes, I puzzle through this. The black wolf came back, and took Zeke away in a car. I have no idea where they’re headed. Or why the black wolf didn’t stay to take me on.
It occurs to me that it was the black wolf who bit Zeke in the first place, so maybe Zeke and this other wolf have some kind of connection. Maybe I can’t be Zeke’s alpha if he was bitten by someone else.
It occurs to me that I should have changed back into wolf form instead of hiking back through the snow, as my feet are now completely numb.
I get there soon enough, half running to keep warm, and start pulling on my clothes. I don’t know if I can track down Zeke, but I do know that if I can ever bet back home, at the very least my mother and my aunt can help me out. And Kayla, if she has been killed by those other wolves already.
No time to think about it. I slip-slide-run into the parking lot, look a
round. A man in flannel and a down vest is coming out of the bathroom, heading for the big rig idling next to the building. “Hey,” I call, slowing down when I see that I’ve startled him. “Hi. Can you give me a ride?”
“A ride?” The trucker’s gaze flickers back and forth. He’s trying to come up with an excuse not to. I’m so used to getting rides only from people who stop that I’m rendered speechless for a few moments.
“I need to get to Montana,” I say. “Please.” I finally catch his eye and plead with my own.
Montana please important Kayla Zeke need to get there
He scratches up under his cap, where the hair is sparser than the gray ruff around his ears. “That’s a far piece off. I’m only going as far as Rapid City.”
“Great! That would be great! Thank you!” So he didn’t come out and agree to give me a ride, but my enthusiasm must have eased his fears of serial killer hitchhikers, because after giving my second-hand clothes and lack of any supplies a once-over, he nods and walks toward his truck.
We’ve been on the road cruising north for a time before he says, “My name’s Roy.”
“I’m Dan.”
“What’s in Montana?”
I remember a time when someone asking me all kinds of questions would have made me dizzy and murderous. I can control the wolf now. I don’t have to hide now. I have a mission, a purpose. No more running away.
“Home.”
-64-
In Rapid City Roy drops me off when he stops at the end of the off-ramp. “Thanks,” I say, hopping down. I walk back up to the highway, and keep walking until finally the exhaustion catches up to me. I need food. No one’s gonna stop for me on a highway this big, a highway peppered with signs prohibiting hitchhiking.
I veer off, away from the road. This is all barren, covered in snow. Rolling hills upon hills of white. I slog through over the crest of a hill and collapse. I’m not sure I can control my wolf when I’m this hungry. I’m not sure there’s even any animals to hunt out here. Not many other options.
My clothes I leave in a heap on the ground.
Sharp, the smells are sharp, crisp. The faintest whiff of prairie dog and I’m racing across the crust of snow, sniffing and digging and crunching down bones and fur that I then have to cough up. Then I keep running. I’m tired but my wolf isn’t; I give him enough free rein that he goes into autopilot, finding north with one of those animal instincts humans lost along the way. Finding home.
Hitchhikers Page 17