Wolf Running (12 page)

The fine hairs on her arms rose. She shook her head slowly and moved further away. Matt’s smile faded slightly, and he ran a hand over his forehead. “Now, what’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?” As he talked the other two men moved to either side of him. She took another step back, keeping all three men in her field of vision. “Been on your own for awhile, huh? Tryin’ to go it alone, with all the dead-heads, that can be trouble. I know, honey, I been there too. You get all weird and stuff, don’t know who to trust.” Behind the group of men the camper rocked slightly.

Nowen pointed the hatchet at the camper. “Who’s in there?” Her voice sounded strange to her, and she realized absently that these were the first words she had spoken aloud in months.

Matt looked at the one called Tuck. The older man cleared his throat, and Matt turned back to Nowen. His pleasant smile had shifted to an uneasy grin. Again he wiped his forehead. “So, you want a ride south, or not? We’re movin’ along here pretty soon, and it’s a long walk to Colorado.” While he’d been talking Nowen had watched Tuck nod at Oliver. The big man was now walking casually away from Matt, and she realized that he was trying to circle behind her. She tightened her grip on the hatchet’s handle and addressed Matt.

“Who’s in the camper?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” Tuck spoke this time. His words were clipped and forceful. Matt swallowed loudly and glanced away from Nowen.

“You’re right. It doesn’t concern me.” Tuck’s eyebrows rose in astonishment as she turned her back on him and headed to the highway. She’d made it past where the big man was standing, mouth agape, and was almost at the pavement when she heard Tuck shout “Get her, you idiot!”

Nowen whirled, flipping the hatchet so the blade faced inward. Snow exploded as Oliver launched his mass at her like a runaway train. She planted her feet and raised her weapon, waiting for the right moment to strike. Behind the big man she could see Matt racing to join in. Oliver’s massive arms reached for her, and she swung.

The flat of the hatchet head slammed into his rib cage. Oliver cried out, more surprise than pain in his voice. The blow slowed his forward charge but didn’t stop him, and the heavily muscled arms closed around Nowen, trapping her arms at her sides. He squeezed and her arms went limp, the hatchet dropping from her nerveless fingers. She smashed her forehead against his nose. His cry this time held nothing but pain as blood burst from his nose in a red flood and gushed down his face.

The warm liquid dripped across her mouth and she automatically licked her lips. The wet metal taste slammed through her body. Wild eyes opened in her mind; feral strength rushed through her veins. Nowen bared her teeth in a vicious growl and arched her back against Oliver’s hold. She could feel his grip giving way and she pulled her knees up to his abdomen, bracing them there for leverage as she pushed.

A movement to the side drew her attention, and then Matt was there, the sun flaring off his shades, the shotgun raised on high. He brought it down, butt-end first. Nowen jerked her head to the side and the stock connected with her collarbone instead. The pain only brought the wolf closer to the forefront. She could feel her body trembling on the edge of violent change as she growled again, louder this time, thrusting all her weight against Oliver’s grip. Someone shouted “Hit her again!”

This time the blow hit its mark. Lambent amber eyes winked out as a sickening agony bloomed above her right ear and planted bright spikes through her head. Black oblivion threatened to drag her down as her entire body went limp. The tight grip relaxed and she collapsed at the big man’s feet, her arms and legs no longer hers to control.

Through a dim haze Nowen heard Oliver speaking, his voice nasally. “Bitch broke my nose! I’m gonna kill her!” She was roughly rolled onto her back. From behind her half-lidded eyes she watched as Oliver squatted next to her. He grabbed her by the chin and squeezed, his words low and furious. “I oughta snap your neck, you goddamn bitch. Who the fuck do you think you are, breaking my nose? Huh? Huh?!” The big man shook her roughly, and Nowen fought to stay awake beneath the rising wave of pain that swamped her with each movement. She could hear Matt yelling as Oliver drew his fist back, and then Tuck shouting “Stop!” just as the fist slammed into her face.

Then

She is running through a forest at night. The world is alive with a thousand different sounds and smells. Small creatures flee through the rustling underbrush and overhead wings whisper through the trees. A fat hare darts in front of her, an easy catch, but she ignores it. There is a different prey she hunts tonight. The wind is her friend, bringing her the stories of all the little lives around her, and her enemy, hiding the scent of her quarry from her. Finally she catches a whiff of terror and the chase is on. Pale skin flashes through gaps in the trees, leading her deeper into the woods.

Nowen woke slowly, the dream forest fading away in the bright sunlight that poured through the open curtains. She lay on her back on the couch and stared at the water-stained ceiling. One wavering brown line formed a strange butterfly, with mismatched wings and long trailing antennae. She had traced the butterfly with her eyes many times over the past two weeks.

There hadn’t been much else to do as she waited her ribs to heal. An exploration of the house, conducted with a slow, shuffling step, had revealed small details about the previous occupants. Unopened mail from veterans’ organizations and a bookcase overflowing with romance, western, and religious books. Pictures of a white-haired couple either alone or surrounded by smiling people, taken in front of forests or at picnics or in this house. Furniture and dishes and clothes all well-used but obviously well-cared for. And no clue that she could find as to where the people had gone.

The kitchen had yielded food in the form of a lot of canned stuff, both home-canned and store-bought. The water in the kitchen still ran, but she filled every spare container she could find, just in case. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom held a lot of prescription bottles with names she couldn’t even pronounce. She did find a large bottle of aspirin, and it now sat in the living room next to the couch for when her pain got too bad.

Nowen had considered using the bedroom, but the living room faced east and on sunny days got the lion’s share of warmth, with the help of a large bay window. She closed the doors to the bedroom and bathroom to keep the heat from being squandered, but not before raiding the closet for clothes.

Nowen turned carefully now onto her left, gritting her teeth against the ache on her right side which had lessened some but which still prevented her from doing much. Breathing was no longer painful, but walking around was a chore and standing up was intolerable after just a couple of minutes. The enforced inactivity had given her a lot of time to worry over questions for which she had no answers.

She knew where she was - the mail had told her she was in Wyoming, in a city called Laramie. But she had no idea how she had gotten here, no idea how long she’d been gone from Exeter, and still no memory of before she woke up in the hospital. She felt like she was putting a puzzle together blindfolded, and all the pieces were the same shape. Every detail of the last day in Exeter was crystal clear: Jamie in the field, Nowen running from the Revs, going down among the undead like a deer to the wolves. And then - nothing, nothing until she found herself lying naked in a field next to a dead antelope.

She had turned each piece of the mystery that was her life over and over in her head, poking and prying and coming up empty-handed. And then, she’d found how easy it was for her to put most of the questions aside, to set them on a high shelf in her mind where they didn’t bother her. Life lived day-to-day was easier to handle.

I can deal with not knowing who I really am,
she thought now, as she watched a line of clouds stitch themselves across the morning sky.
Either that memory will come back, or it won’t. I can deal with not knowing how I got here. I’m here now, and that’s what counts.
Nowen raised her arms; the skin was smooth and unblemished.
I start to have trouble dealing with how I’m here and still myself, and not a Rev.
The image of the little girl in the blood-spotted dress flashed before her eyes.
She bit me, and she wasn’t the only one. How did I survive? Am I immune? Is that even possible? I never saw anyone who was bit by a Rev that didn’t either die or turn into a Rev. But it could have happened to someone somewhere, right?

A pressure in her bladder was a welcome distraction, even though it would mean a painful journey outside. She levered herself up in increments until she was standing and then made her slow way into the kitchen. By the back door she slid her feet into oversized tan work boots, checking the outside thermometer as she did. The metal sign, shaped like a crowing rooster, showed the temperature was just above freezing. With the sun out and no wind the cold would be tolerable, so Nowen decided against a jacket, trusting that her thick sweater and jogging pants would be sufficient.

She let herself out the door and stood on the minute back porch for a moment. The air was clean and crisp, and she breathed as deeply as she could before she headed around to the side of the house. The snow was deep and undisturbed here and this was where she had made a make-shift latrine. By the time she had finished and shoveled snow back into the hole she had dug her ribs were screaming with pain and the twenty feet back to the kitchen door looked a mile long.

Nowen had made it all the way to the porch, already thinking longingly of the couch, when she slid on a patch of ice. She kept herself from falling by pure chance when one wildly flailing hand latched onto the door knob, but the strain on her ribs was almost too much to bear. Agony dragged its claws along her side. She fought for consciousness, bracing her hands on the door to keep from collapsing. She fixed her watering eyes on her hands, using them as a focus point while she tried to outlast the pain.

And then watched in horrified amazement as bands of black fur wound up her arms, almost covering them completely before disappearing back into her skin.

Chapter Thirteen

Now

Nowen woke to the taste of blood in her mouth. It was hers and not a prey animal’s, which meant that something was wrong. She kept her eyes closed and concentrated her other senses on finding out where she was.

The smell of fear mixed with the smell of unwashed bodies, several of them, kept too close together in a small space. There was a faint murmur of voices nearby, and a sensation of gentle rocking. A fleeting feeling of déjà vu had her wondering if she was back in the hospital, and everything that had happened in the last few months was a dream.

Nowen assessed herself next. She was lying on her side with her hands restrained behind her. A headache throbbed through her skull, making her nauseous, and the right side of her face ached in sympathetic counterpoint. When she tried to open her eyes only the left one did; the other eye felt glued shut. She blinked a couple of times and then looked around. Six sets of eyes looked back.

A tall, thin young man detached himself from the group of people huddled together a few feet from her. He knelt next to her and laid a hand on her head. Worried grey eyes set in a light-brown face studied her as he used his other hand to brush back the wild black curls of his hair . A large bruise spread across his left cheek. “You’re awake, finally. I’d ask how you feel, but that would be a silly question, wouldn’t it?” The young man spoke with a British accent, a tone that made Nowen think of movies with stuffy people wearing suits. “I bet something cold would feel nice against that eye, but we used up the last packet of frozen food a couple of days ago, I’m afraid.” He pointed to the bruise on his face as he said this. “You’ve been out of it for close to six hours. Do you think you can sit up?

Nowen looked from him to the rest of the group of people who hadn’t moved from their huddle. She returned her gaze to the brown-haired man. “Who are you?”

He smiled. “You can call me Lennon.”

“Is that your name?”

“Well, it’s my last name. I’m not fond of my first name, so I try to never use it. Now, do you feel like sitting up?” At her nod Lennon slid an arm under her body and helped her up to where she could lean her back against the wall. Her head pounded from the exertion and she had to close her eye for a moment. Lennon must have noticed her discomfort and she heard him ask for someone to throw him a water bottle.

She opened her eye as he held the plastic bottle up to her lips. She took a few sips and then looked around. She was in the small camper, she guessed, and the interior looked a whole lot like the truck cab in which she had sheltered the night before - just a little bigger. She nodded at the other people who still hadn’t moved from their position. “What’s wrong with them?”

Lennon looked at them with a hint of disgust as he capped the bottle and set it on a small counter behind him. “They don’t like me much, and they’re afraid of you.”

Nowen stared blankly at the young man. “Afraid of me?’

“Well, a little afraid of you, and more afraid of what our captors might do to us because of you.” He paused, thoughtfully. “You’ve not told me your name. What should I call you?”

“Nowen.”

“Just Nowen?” He looked bemused for a second, and then shrugged.”Eh, I’ve heard stranger. Anyway, we watched as you took on Tuck and his men. You did rather a good job on the big one - broke his nose! - but now you’ve made them quite mad. Oliver hit you a couple of more times after you went down, and then when they threw you in here they warned us not to assist you.”

“So why are you?”

Lennon smiled again. “Oh, I like to rock the boat.”

Someone from the group called out, “The rest of us are going to pay the price for that!”

Lennon rolled his eyes. “Here, lets introduce you to the rest of this cheery group. The loudmouth is Hank Roberts,” and he pointed at a middle-aged man with dark blonde hair and a beer belly. Roberts narrowed his eyes at this but didn’t say anything. “The lovely woman next to him is his wife, Carla, and the two girls are their daughters, Lisa and Michelle.” Mrs. Roberts, thin as a racehorse, drew her two small children closer to her sides. The girls were twins and looked to be about eight years old. They took after their mother, with the same thin build and the same auburn hair. All the family members eyed Nowen suspiciously. A short young woman unfolded herself from the corner of the camper and came forward. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and had startling purple and green streaks running through its mouse-brown color. She dropped to the floor next to Lennon, and Nowen realized that she was couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen years old.