Wolves (13 page)

Chapter 5

Lowell moves half-naked through patches of dark and light. The midnight shadows are deep and black, and they interrupt the endless stretches of sand and dust that shimmer like struck silver in the glow of a bald-faced moon. The sky above him is cloudless and perfect, a host of stars so bright and clustered that his fingertip cannot trace through the spaces between them.

Father had once told him, on a night much like this one, that in the Old World they hadn't been able to see the stars. Father had said that even in the places where they thought they could see so many stars, there were only half as many as they could see now.

“Are there more stars nowadays?” Lowell had wondered.

“No,” Father shook his head. “It's the same stars that have always been there. We just covered them up.”

“Why?”

“Because we didn't need them anymore.” Father's voice grew sad. “We didn't need them to show us the way, or to make us feel less alone at night. We had everything figured out.”

Lowell does not know what Father meant by that.

Lowell doesn't have anything figured out.

The world is still a mystery to him.

Now, walking in the dark and light, he wears only a worn-out pair of underwear. The rest of him is exposed to the air, to the moonlight, the stark coldness, the wildness of it all. He spreads his arms, feels the wind across his chest, pulling the warmth out of him. He breathes the night air and regards his spread arms with curiosity, seeing the way they reflect the light of the moon. His skin seems to glow against the muted backdrop of the desert all around him.

He does not know what draws him out on nights like tonight. Some unquenchable desire to wander, some deep-seated quirk in his soul that makes him unable to sleep and to want the cool darkness on him. Without it he grows restless and fidgets in his bed until eventually he sneaks out, silently and without waking Father or Mother.

This was his life for a long time, before they found him. And though he does not recall many specific memories of those times, he remembers the night. The safety of darkness. The light of the moon was the only light he would ever need because the sun was hot and the sun brought out the worst people, and it shined on him so that they could see him and chase him … 

Lowell shudders at the precipice of a memory and mentally retreats.

He picks his way through desert scrub and sharp stones, his feet never having lost the calluses he developed when he was alone. Each footfall is just a whisper of shifting sand. He has no destination, but strides carefully around the outcropping of boulders that his home is nestled into. By now he is on the opposite side of the boulders from the trailer and he stops again to breathe deeply and to enjoy the night air.

It is there in the stillness that he hears the noise.

He does not react immediately, but rather inclines his ear.

The noise is coming from the boulders.

What is it?

Water. Splashing. Like the lapping of an animal.

Lowell hunches slightly, his form becoming strangely predatory for such a small and skeletal thing. He wishes for his spear, because he knows how dangerous the night can be and suddenly he wishes the trailer was not so far away. Images of coyotes fill his mind, their toothy muzzles covered in blood after a fresh kill.

Maybe he should call for Father.

But what would Father think?

What would
Mother
think?

To catch him wandering around in the middle of the night, nearly naked. He realizes how very strange this would appear to them, and how upset Father and Mother would be if they were there to see him.

More than the fear of coyotes, the fear of their disapproval suddenly causes a cold sweat to break out on his back.

It was stupid of him to wander off into the darkness. He should have laid down in his bed and closed his eyes and counted as high as he could count, just like Mother had taught him to do when he couldn't sleep. It didn't work as well as his walks for soothing his mind, but it also didn't have coyotes and he rarely got past a hundred before falling asleep.

If he continues in the direction he had been walking, he will pass in front of the small cave that leads to the spring and he will be forced to encounter whatever is taking water there. He would have to go back the other way … 

As he turns to make his way back, another noise stops him.

A sigh.

The sound of someone taking a breath after a deep draught of water.

Not the kind of sound a coyote makes.

The lapping continues for another moment, followed by another sigh of satisfaction, this one slightly quieter.

Lowell fidgets with indecision.

If he calls for Father, he will be in trouble. But there shouldn't be anyone else using their water. Father had made it very clear that the spring was to be a secret, and the thought of some stranger putting his filthy face into their spring makes Lowell angry.

But the only other option is to confront the person alone.

Lowell first turns back toward the trailer. The safe direction. He should bite the bullet and tell Father. But then he hesitates, thinking again of their paralyzing disapproval, and he turns back in the direction of the spring.

He finds himself staring across a short distance at a man.

The two beings regard each other tensely, the boy with raging fear that squeezes the muscle of his heart so hard it seems that blood will begin to leak from him with the pressure of it. The man seems just as frozen, but with a cringing sort of hesitance, as though he fears the boy will scream or sound some other alarm. But there is also some confusion in his gaze. This skinny wretch, standing stock-still in the desert, dripping with translucent moonlight and wearing only underwear—a picture the man cannot make sense of.

Lowell judges the distance between them, and he judges the man he is looking at. The two are separated by less than twenty feet. The man is younger than Father, but still old in Lowell's mind. He has a mop of tangled, curly hair atop his head, dreadlocked in places and parted down the middle so that it frames his face like the man is peering out from behind a curtain of vines. He has a puckered, sour-looking mouth and his eyes flit around nervously. Lowell knows the man is not large compared to other men, but he is still larger than Lowell.

After a long moment's silence that stretches as each waits for the other to do or say something, Lowell breaks the night air with a harsh whisper. “What are you doing, Mister?”

The man holds up a placating hand. He looks around with a grimace. “What about yourself, kid? Wandering around … naked in the desert … what the hell are you thinking? It's almost freezing out!”

“I'm fine.”

“Do you live near here?”

“I live in the trailer right there.”

The man glances in the direction of the trailer. “All by yourself?”

Lowell shivers, the first time the night has seemed too cold. “N-no.”

The man looks at him with a half smile and narrowed eyes. “Really? So … you have parents?”

“I'm gonna yell for them if you don't leave.”

The half smile morphs into a grimace. “Relax, kid. I ain't done nothin' wrong.”

“You drank our water.”

“I was dyin' of thirst, kid.” The man wipes at the corners of his mouth. “You gonna let a man die of thirst?”

“You're not supposed to drink other people's water.”

“I don't see a fuckin' sign on it,” the whisper is a vicious snap.

Lowell trembles, tenses for flight.

“Look,” both hands now, raised up, trying to show how harmless he is. “Sorry, kid. I'm tired, and I'm hungry, and I've been on the road all day. My name's Don. What's your name?”

“How'd you find us?”

“I just told you my name, kid. Aren't you gonna tell me yours?”

The boy considers this for a time. Then: “Lowell.”

“Lowell, can you come a little closer so we don't have to whisper so loudly?”

“No.”

“I won't hurt you.”

“I think you will.”

“If you really thought that you would've called for your parents by now, right?” Don cocks his head. “Unless you don't really have any parents. Unless you're really all alone out here.”

Lowell sticks his chin out. “Maybe I'm just not scared of you.”

“If you ain't scared then come here.”

Lowell takes one hesitant step, followed by another. The man smiles and shakes his head and it seems a challenge, so Lowell takes a few more steps until he is standing just outside of the man's reach. Don looks him up and down and then nods.

“Alright then. You're a brave little fucker.”

“You should go,” Lowell says, and he is proud of how firm his voice sounds.

Seeming not to hear him, Don scratches the side of his head. “You got a nice little spring of water. Bet it spits up more than you can drink in a day, huh?”

Lowell closes his mouth.

“Bet you got food in that trailer.”

Silence.

“Yeah.” Don seems sure of himself. “You got food. Look, kid, I ain't a bad man, but I'm hungry, okay? I ain't eaten anything in almost three days now. Man could do some nasty things for food when he gets that hungry, you hear me?”

“We don't have any food for you.”

“Look, kid …”

“I'm gonna scream!”

The man is fast—faster than Lowell expected—and he crosses the short distance between them in a flash. There is the sound of his sharp intake of breath and also of steel drawing from leather, and then his hands are upon Lowell, hard and rough. His neck is clamped between fingers like iron and just as cold, and he feels the sharp point of a metal blade against the side of his face.

“You shut the fuck up!” the man hisses in Lowell's ear. “You make a fuckin' sound and I swear to God I'll cut you up into a thousand pieces, you understand me?”

Rather than speed up, Lowell's heart seems to have seized in his chest, along with everything else. He cannot breathe, he cannot move, he cannot think. All he can feel is the grip and the point of the knife and the wet warmth flowing down his leg.

“I didn't want to do this, you little runt! You made me do this! You could have just given me what I wanted and I would have been on my way! I'm not a bad guy! I'm not a bad guy! I'm just hungry, okay?”

“Okay … okay …” panicked breaths, anything to soothe his attacker.

“I just want some food.”

“You can have the food.”

“Who's in the trailer?”

“Mother and Father.”

“Do they have any weapons?”

“Yes.”

Don shakes him hard. “Well? What kind?”

Lowell closes his eyes, feels tears wriggle down his cheeks, warm at first and then quickly turning cold. “Knives … and a gun … Father has a gun.”

“Like a rifle?”

“No. It's a pistol.”

“Okay.” Don takes a deep breath, sounding almost as nervous as Lowell is. His breath smells of dead things and his sweat is a warm draft of rank in the cold night air. “Okay. Okay. We can figure this out …”

A new voice breaks into the darkness, causing Lowell's eyes to snap open.

“I've got a gun …” Father's voice wavers and it is the least confident Lowell has ever heard it. “Just let him go. Please.”

Still holding on to Lowell like a shield, Don spins toward the sound of the voice and there is Father, backlit by the moon, almost nothing more than a silhouette except for the arm extended out and the dull shine of light on the barrel of the revolver that he points in their direction. Lowell is immediately afraid that Father will shoot them both. He knows that Father does not shoot the revolver—in fact he cannot remember ever seeing him shoot it—and he points it without confidence and with a wavering grip.

Don seems to sense this weakness. “You gonna shoot me while I'm holding your son?”

“Yes,” Father says, and even Lowell cannot tell if he is lying or not. “Please, just let him go.”

“You'll shoot me.”

“I'll shoot you if you don't let him go.”

“No,” Don shakes his head, now glancing about desperately. “If I let him go, you're gonna shoot me.”

“I don't want to shoot you,” Father pleads. “You can walk away. No one needs to get hurt.”

Don continues to shake his head, but doesn't respond. He is slowly inching away, still clutching the boy, while Father keeps taking halting steps forward, perhaps in a hope that a shorter distance will provide a clearer shot.

“Don't kill me,” Don says, now sounding plaintive. “I'll leave, I swear it. I'm not a bad guy. I swear I'm not a bad guy.”

“Just let him go,” Father repeats.

Don breaks. He releases the boy and shoves him toward the other man, and then turns and runs into the desert as fast as his feet will carry him.

Lowell stumbles after being shoved from behind, then looks up at Father, who stands as still as the boulders around them, his arm still outstretched, watching the man disappear into the wastelands. Father's eyes are wide and unsteady and they glisten with tears in the sterling light. His hand begins to tremble and then his entire body. Eventually, the revolver sinks down so that it points to the ground.

Father's haunted eyes fall to the pale form before him.

His voice quakes with relief, or anger, or both. “What were you doing, Lowell?”

The child bursts into tears. “I was only walking!”

Father drops the revolver in the dirt, bends down and seizes his son by the shoulders, the boy's skin cold to the touch. “Why would you walk around in the middle of the night? Jesus Christ, Lowell! You don't even have any clothes on!”

“I don't know!” The syllables are a miserable sob of noise. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry!”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Father shakes him.