Running With the Pack

RUNNING WITH THE PACK

EDITED BY EKATERINA SEDIA

To all sheep in wolf’s clothing . . .

Copyright © 2010 by Ekaterina Sedia.

Cover design copyright by Stephen H. Segal.

Ebook design copyright by Neil Clarke.

ISBN: 978-1-60701-249-8 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-60701-219-1 (trade paperback)

All stories are copyrighted to their respective authors, and used here with their permission.

PRIME BOOKS

www.prime-books.com

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

For more information, contact Prime Books:

[email protected]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION
,
Ekaterina Sedia

WILD RIDE
,
Carrie Vaughn

SIDE-EFFECTS MAY INCLUDE
,
Steve Duffy

COMPARISON OF EFFICACY RATES FOR SEVEN ANTIPATHETICS AS EMPLOYED AGAINST LYCANTHROPES
,
Marie Brennan

THE BEAUTIFUL GELREESH
,
Jeffrey Ford

SKIN IN THE GAME
,
Samantha Henderson

BLENDED
,
C.E. Murphy

LOCKED DOORS
,
Stephanie Burgis

WERELOVE
,
Laura Anne Gilman

IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING
,
Molly Tanzer

ROYAL BLOODLINES
,
Mike Resnick

THE DIRE WOLF
,
Genevieve Valentine

TAKE BACK THE NIGHT
,
Lawrence Schimel

MONGREL
,
Maria V. Snyder

DEADFALL
,
Karen Everson

RED RIDING HOOD’S CHILD
,
N.K. Jemisin

ARE YOU A VAMPIRE OR A GOBLIN?
Geoffrey H. Goodwin

THE PACK AND THE PICKUP ARTIST
,
Mike Brotherton

THE GARDEN, THE MOON, THE WALL
,
Amanda Downum

BLAMED FOR TRYING TO LIVE
,
Jesse Bullington

THE BARONY AT RØDAL
,
Peter Bell

INSIDE OUT
,
Erzebet YellowBoy

GESTELLA
,
Susan Palwick

About the Authors

Publication History

About the Editor

INTRODUCTION

There’s a view of werewolves (espoused even on the back cover of this volume) as an expression of the animal and the dark in the usually suppressed and mild-mannered civilized person; we like to think of ourselves as beasts, our wild instincts kept in check only by a thin veneer of social necessity. This fantasy is a persistent and appealing one: a jacketed executive by day, but the moment the full moon breaks through the clouds, watch out! There will be claws and fur and blood and howling.

But is this view accurate? I’d like to propose that it is not. In our natural state, humans are large, hairless apes who run well and live in groups. We are not predators—we are prey, something many romantically-minded individuals discover (one assumes, to their chagrin) while trying to survive in the wilderness, communing with nature, and engaging in other solitary pursuits in areas inhabited by large meat-eaters. Wolves and large cats are predators; we are their food.

And this, I think, is really the crux of the matter: werewolves are not the expression of our own wildness, but the longing to be like those who hunt us, the desire to become the predator. In that sense, the entirety of human civilization, our conquest and subjugation of the world, can be seen through such a lens. Being prey is embarrassing and undignified, it exposes our soft chewy insides, and who likes that? So we dominate and posture, and pretend that we are wolves inside of ape suits, rather than just . . . well, apes.

Then again, all of this is conjecture. If you look at the diversity of the stories presented here, the familiar tropes twisted in interesting ways, you’ll see that lycanthropy is much more than a simple urge to be an animal—it can be a metaphor or a joke, a tale of extinction or a new beginning, a disease or a blessing. So why don’t you sit back, crack the book open, and indulge in the fantasies of being a predator?

Ekaterina Sedia

January 2010

New Jersey

WILD RIDE

CARRIE VAUGHN

Just once, he wouldn’t use a condom. What could happen? But it hadn’t been just once. It could have been any one of the half-dozen men he’d drifted between over the last two years. His wild years, he thought of them now. He’d been so stupid. They all had said, just once, trust me. T.J., young and eager, had wanted so very much to please them.

“I’m sorry,” the guy at the clinic said, handing T.J. some photocopied pages. “You have options. It’s not a death sentence like in the old days. But you’ll have to watch yourself. Your health is more important than ever now. And you have to be careful—”

“Yeah, thanks,” T.J. said, standing before the counselor had finished his spiel.

“Remember, there’s always help—”

T.J. walked out, crumpling the pages in his hand.

Engines purred, sputtered, grumbled, clacked like insects, and growled like bears. Motorbikes raced up the course, catching air over hills, leaning into curves, biting into the earth with treaded tires, kicking up clods, giving the air a smell like chalk and gasoline. Hundreds more idled, revved, tested, waited. Thousands of people milled, riders in fitted jackets of every color, mechanics in coveralls, women bursting out of too-small tank tops, and most people in T-shirts and jeans. T.J. loved it here. Bikes made sense. Machines could be fixed, their problems could be solved, and they didn’t judge.

He supposed he ought to get in touch with his partners. Figure out which one had passed the disease onto him, and who he might have passed it on to. Easier said than done. They’d been flings; he didn’t have phone numbers.

“Look it, here he comes.” Mitch, Gary Maddox’s stout good-natured assistant, shook T.J.’s arm in excitement.

Gary’s heat was starting. T.J. looked for Gary’s colors, the red-and-blue jacket and dark blue helmet. He liked to think he could pick out his bike’s growl over all the others. T.J. had spent the morning fine-tuning the engine, which had never sounded better.

They’d come up to one of the hills overlooking the track to watch the race. T.J. wanted to lose himself in this world, just for another day. He wanted to put off thinking about anything else for as long as possible.

The starting gate slammed down, and the dozen bikes rocketed from the starting line, engines running high and smooth. Gary pulled out in front early, like he usually did. Get in front, stay in front, don’t let anyone else mess up his ride. Some guys liked messing with the rest of the field, playing mind games and causing trouble. Gary just wanted to win, and T.J. admired that.

Mitch jumped and whooped with the rest of the crowd, cheering the riders on. T.J. just watched. Another rider’s bike, toward the back, was spitting puffs of black smoke. Something wrong there. Everyone else seemed to be going steady. Gary might as well have been floating an inch above the dirt. That was exactly how it was supposed to be—making it look easy.

“Ho-
leee
!” Mitch let out a cry and the crowd let out a gasp as they all saw one of the riders go down.

T.J. could tell it was going to happen right before it did, the way the rider—in the middle of the pack to the outside—took the turn a little too sharply to make up time, gunned his motor a little too early, and stuck his leg out to brace—a dangerous move. His front tire caught, the bike flipped, and it might have ended there. A dozen guys dropped their bikes one way or another every day out here. But everything was set up just wrong for this guy. Momentum carried the bike into the straw bale barrier lining the track—then over, and down the steep slope on the other side. Bike and rider finally parted ways, the bike spinning in one direction, trailing parts. The rider flopped and tumbled in another direction, limp and lifeless, before coming to rest face up on a bank of dirt. The few observers who’d hiked up the steep vantage scattered in its path.

For a moment, everyone stood numb and breathless. Then the ambulance siren started up.

Yellow flags stopped the race. Mitch and T.J. stumbled down their side of the hill trying to get to the rider.

“You know who he is?”

“Alex Price,” Mitch said, huffing.

“New on the circuit?”

“No, local boy. Big fish little pond kind of guy.”

The rider hadn’t moved since he stopped tumbling. Legs shouldn’t bend the way his were bent. Blood and rips marred his clothing. T.J. and Mitch reached him first, but both held back, unwilling to touch him. T.J. studied the rider’s chest, searching for the rise and fall of breath, and saw nothing. The guy had to have been pulverized.
Then his hand twitched.

“Hey, buddy, don’t move!” Mitch said, stumbling forward to his knees to hold the rider back.

T.J. thought he heard bones creaking, rubbing against each other as the rider shuddered, pawing the ground to find bearings. Next to Mitch, he tried to keep the rider still with a hand on his shoulder. Price flinched, as if shrugging him away, and T.J. almost let go—the guy was strong, even now. Maybe it was adrenaline.

The ambulance and EMTs arrived, and T.J. gratefully got out of the way. By then, the rider had taken off his own helmet and mask. He had brown hair a few inches long, a lean tanned face covered with sweat. He gasped for breath and winced with pain. When he moved, it was as if he’d slept wrong and cramped his muscles, not just tumbled over fifty yards at forty miles an hour.

At his side, an EMT pushed him back, slipped a breathing mask over his face, started putting a brace on his neck. The second EMT brought over a back board. Price pushed the mask away.

“I’m
fine
,” he muttered.

“Lie
down
, sir, we’re putting you on a board.”

Grinning, Price laid back.

T.J. felt like he was watching something amazing, miraculous. He’d
seen
the crash. He’d seen plenty of crashes, even plenty that looked awful but the riders walked away from. He’d also seen some that left riders broken for life, and he’d thought this was one of those. But there was Price, awake, relaxed, like he’d only stubbed a toe.

Price rolled his eyes, caught T.J.’s gaze, and chuckled at his gaping stare. “What, you’ve never seen someone who’s invincible?”

The EMT’s shifted him to the board, secured the straps over him, and carried him off.

“Looks like he’s gonna be okay,” Mitch said, shrugging off his bafflement.

Invincible, T.J. thought. There wasn’t any such thing.

At the track the following weekend, T.J. was tuning Gary’s second bike when Mitch came up the aisle and leaned on the handlebars. “He’s back. Did you hear?”

The handlebars rocked, twisting the front tire and knocking T.J.’s wrench out of his hand. He sighed. “What? Who?”

“Price, Alex Price. He’s totally okay.”

“How is that even possible?” T.J. said. “You saw that crash. He should have been smashed to pieces.”

“Who knows? Guys walk away from the craziest shit.” Mitch went to the cab and pulled a beer out of the cooler.

It was true, anything was possible, Price might have fallen just right, so he didn’t break and the bike didn’t crush him. Every crash looked horrible, like it should tear the riders to ribbons, and most of the time no one was hurt worse than cuts and bruises. In fact, how many people even looked forward to the crashes, the spike of adrenaline and sense of horror, watching tragedy unfold? But something here didn’t track.

T.J. tossed the wrench in the tool box, closed and locked and lid, and set out to find Price.

Today was just practice runs; the atmosphere at the track was laid back and workmanlike. Not like race days, which were like carnivals. He went up one aisle of trucks and trailers, down the next, not sure what he was looking for—if he was local, Price probably didn’t ride for a team, and wouldn’t have sponsors with logos all over a fancy trailer. He’d have a plain homespun rig. His jacket had been black and red; T.J. looked for that.

Turned out, all he had to do was find the mob of people. T.J. worked his way to the edge of the crowd that had gathered to hear Price tell the story. This couldn’t have been the first time he told it.

“I just tucked in and let it happen,” Price said, a smile drawing in his audience. He gave an “awe, shucks” shrug and accepted their adoration.

T.J. wanted to hate the guy. Not sure why. He wasn’t quite his type. Or maybe it was the matter of survival. Price had survived, and T.J. wanted to. Arms crossed, looking skeptical, he stood off to the side.

Price looked friendly enough, smiling with people and shaking all the hands offered to him, but he also seemed twitchy. He kept glancing over his shoulder, like he was looking for a way out. T.J. worked his way forward as the crowd dispersed, until they were nearly alone.

“Can I talk to you privately?” T.J. said.

“Hey, I remember you,” Price said. “You helped, right after the crash. Thanks, man.”

T.J. found himself wanting to glance away. “I just want to talk for a second.”

“Come on, I’ll get you a beer.”

Price led him to the front part of the trailer, which was set up as a break area—lawn chairs, a cooler, a portable grill. From the cooler he pulled out a couple of bottles of a microbrew—the good stuff—and popped off the caps by hand. Absently, T.J. wiped the damp bottle on the hem of his T-shirt.

“What’s the problem?” Price asked.

T.J. wondered if he really came across that nervous, that transparent. He was trying to be steady. “The crash last week. What really happened?”

Price shrugged. “You were there. You saw the whole thing.”

T.J. shook his head. “Yeah. I saw it. You shouldn’t be standing here—your legs were smashed, your whole body twisted up. Everyone else can write it off and say you were lucky, but I’m not buying it. What really happened?”

He expected Price to deny it, to wave him away and tell him he was crazy. But the guy just looked at him, a funny smile playing on his lips. “Why do you want to know? Why so worked up over it?”

So much for playing it cool. “I need help.”

“And why do you think I can help you? What makes you think I can just hand over my good luck?”

He was right. T.J.’s own panic had gotten the better of him, and he’d gone grasping at soap bubbles. Whatever he’d seen on the day of the crash had been his own wishful thinking. He’d wanted to see the impossible.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Never mind.” Ducking to hide his blush, he turned away, looking for a place to set his untasted beer before he fled.

“Kid, wait a minute,” Price called him back, and T.J. stopped. “What’s your name?”

“T.J.”

“What would you say if I told you you’re right?”

“About what?”

“I’m invincible. I can’t be killed. Not by a little old crash, anyway. Now—what are you looking to get saved from? What are you so scared of?”

Now that he’d said it, T.J. didn’t believe him. Price was making fun of him. And how much worse would it be if T.J. actually told him? He turned to leave again.

“Hey. Seriously. What’s wrong? Why are you so scared of dying that you need me?”

T.J. took a long draw on the beer, then said, “I just tested positive for HIV.” It was the first time he’d said it out loud. It almost hurt.

“Rough,” Price said.

“Yeah.” T.J. kicked his toe in the dirt. And what did he expect Price say to him? What could anyone say? Nothing.

“Hey,” Price said, and once again T.J. had to turn back, obeying the command in his voice. “What are you willing to do to turn that around? You willing to become a monster?”

“You talk to some people, I already am,” T.J. said, putting on a lopsided smile.

“You know about the Dustbowl?”

“Yeah.”

“Stop by tonight, seven or seven-thirty. If you’re really sure.”

“Sure about what?” he asked.

“Just show up and I’ll explain it all.” He walked away, past the trailer to the cab of the truck. Meeting over.

It seemed like an obvious trap—he’d show up and walk into a beating. The Dustbowl was one of the bars up the road; some of the riders liked to hang out there. Not Gary—he was serious about riding and didn’t feel much of a need to show how tough he was off the track. T.J. had stayed away; the place had an uncomfortable vibe to it, a little too edgy, though it was hard to tell if the atmosphere was just for show. He preferred drinking at one of the larger bars, where he didn’t stand out so much.

He didn’t know whether to believe there really was something different about Price, something that had saved him from the awful wreck, or if Price was making fun of him. He could check it out. Just step in and step back out again if he didn’t like the look of the place. Make sure Mitch knew where he was going in case something happened and he vanished.

That would solve his problems real quick, wouldn’t it?

He hitched a ride with some friends of Mitch who were on their way into town. T.J. must have sounded convincing when he said he was meeting somebody and that everything was okay. The sun was close to setting, washing out the sky to a pale yellow, and summer heat radiated off the dusty earth. The air was hot, sticky, making his breath catch.

The Dustbowl was part of a row of simple wooden buildings set up to look like an old-west street, but without disguising the modern shingles, windows, and neon beer signs. At one end was a barbeque place that T.J. had heard was pretty mediocre but cheap. The place smelled like overcooked pork, which made his stomach turn.