Echoes of Darkness (34 page)

I wonder how long I’ve been working out here. Then I wonder what time it is. Then I wonder what
day
it is, and how long I’ve been here in the clearing. Three days? Four? I glance up at the sky, looking for the sun, trying to gauge whether it’s on its way up or down. Tilting my head back causes me to nearly tip over, and I lean against the plane to keep my balance. My stomach chimes in as well, rumbling painfully, curling me forward, and I spend a moment just leaning there, trying to remember what it was like when I ate those mints. Those pills. That lipstick.

The moment stretches.

My calf begins to cramp from standing there so long, leaning with most of my weight on one leg. My tongue rakes the backs of my teeth, looking for a hint of taste, even the waxy, flowery taste left behind by the lipstick, but there is nothing. Nothing but the fuzzy, rancid slime coating my teeth after . . . how long has it been since we crashed? Since we took off?

My hand slips on the plane, numbed fingertips burning as they slide across the icy metal. I catch myself through pure reflex, but the jolt to my head gives me a fresh batch of pain to worry about, the accompanying nausea sending thoughts of candy and pills skittering away. I bend cautiously, grip the limb I dropped as I stood there lost in fantasy, then trudge on, sliding myself almost bodily along the Piper’s slippery hull. I have work to do.

It takes some doing, but I manage to fasten some of those branches in place like crisscrossing bars, weaving the crooks of branches together like table forks with their tines meshed. You can push and pull at those meshed tines all you want, but the only way to free up those forks is to pull the whole thing apart from the sides. With some of the branches braced inside the plane, others outside, the only way those wolves are going to get into the plane again is by pulling this lattice apart from the sides, like those table forks, and they just aren’t smart enough.

I give the rough lattice a shove, then a pull, easing my weight back against my grip on the crossbars. It’s in there solid. I’m pretty wedged in as well, having shoved myself under the protruding nose of the plane, right in under the upside down engine, to get to the broken windshield.

I’ve avoided looking in at Bill, though he hangs just feet away, even when I was working part of the lattice in under the tree limb protruding through the glass . . . and Bill. He’s in rough shape, much rougher than me, and—quick motion catches my eye. I peer through the glass at Bill. Did he actually move? Maybe wanting to show his approval for what I’ve done, protecting the plane, protecting him? That
must
be it! I look at him, right into his shredded-meat face, looking for some sign . . . but there is nothing. He’s not even looking at me, but past me, as if I’m not worth his time.

Or he’s looking at something behind me.

I turn, and for an instant it appears the snow is alive, tendrils rippling toward me across the unmarked surface of the clearing: the wolves are back. Running low, legs all but hidden by the snow, they come, gray upon white, swift and silent as windblown storm clouds scudding across a steel-gray sky. They’re halfway across the clearing already, and closing fast.

I’m moving before I know it, sliding out from beneath the engine and heading for the Piper’s door. I have to cover a fraction of the distance they do, but I’m exhausted, and sick, and I haven’t eaten in days. I know I can’t walk upright, never mind run, so I don’t even try. Throwing myself forward, I scramble through the snow on my hands and knees, a clumsy imitation of the wolves’ fluid gait. Though my skull screams in protest, I know I can’t stop, rolling under the remaining wing rather than going around.

I’m just gripping the Piper’s door handle with numb, clumsy fingers when I hear the whisper of fur on snow and the light crunch of running paws behind me. I don’t try to look back—I don’t dare—but twist the handle for all I’m worth and yank the door hard. The pull sends me off-balance again, but I’m falling in through the opening door. I manage to shift my grip to the inner handle, thanking God it’s a great big bar rather than some silly little doorknob, and let myself tumble into the plane, trying to get my legs and feet in while my body weight slams the door. From the feel of my head, landing on my back in the plane may well kill me, but at least I won’t wind up—

Teeth clamp onto my boot, a muscular neck twisting, trying to rip and tear. I’m jerked to a halt, by both the boot and my grip on the door, though one of my hands slips loose, the arm flailing behind me. My scream is propelled by both pain and fear, the swollen, pulsing agony that is my head vying for dominance with the primal terror of being savaged and eaten by the monsters of the forest.

A guttural yelp echoes my own cry. I look down at my trapped foot and straight into the eyes of the wolf, its head half again as big as my own. Its own lunge through the slippery snow, combined with my own still-considerable weight, has pulled it partially into the plane, the closing door slamming into its side, pinning it in the doorway.

Rather than just letting me go, however, the beast wrinkles black lips back from white teeth that look
enormous
from this close, and bears down. I feel the bones in my foot threatening to give way and flatten like a stomped-on soda can, expensive boot or not, and I howl with pain. Toes flex, claws screeching against the metal and molded plastic of the ceiling-cum-floor, and the thing gives a heave, like the family dog playing tug-of-war with his favorite toy, but strong, so
strong
, and I’m all but yanked out of the plane like an oyster shucked from its shell.

My flailing arm comes back around, palm slapping hard against the bulkhead. My sliding foot butts up against the lip of the doorframe, the bolted-on white sign with its black lettering spelling out an upside down
watch your head
. My mind is strangely clear, clearer than it’s felt in days, and I’m terrified but seeing everything, seeing every little thing, and I note the gap between the door and the wolf’s heaving shoulder as it wrestles to pull itself free and take me with it. Planted hand and foot, a death-grip on the door handle, I yank back with all I’ve got, slamming the heavy metal door into the animal’s side again.

Another yelp, and I gain some ground in the tug-of-war.

The thing whipsaws its head from side to side in retaliation: a terrier shaking a rat. My whole body jerks, and I scream, feeling swollen tissue tear in my throat as my knee explodes with sick pain. The wolf is winning the tug-of-war in a series of quick yanks: my hand is sliding on the bulkhead, my good leg nearly buckling from the pain in my other knee. It’s almost out now, has almost taken me with it. Shapes streak past the gap in the door: the rest of the pack milling about, waiting for this one big son of a bitch to pull me out of my shell. Once I’m out there I’ll be done, torn to pieces in seconds.

Screaming again in rage and pain I use my only weapon, the door, actually pushing it open a bit in order to get a good swing. I shove that heavy piece of metal away, then pull as hard as I can, throwing my weight back with it in an all-or-nothing
yank
.

The door slams like a snapping jaw, catching the wolf’s head between its swinging solidity and the edge of the frame.

The yelp this time is high and shocked, no hint of a growl left in it. The grip on my boot suddenly lets go, but my hand on the door handle keeps me upright. The wolf’s jaws no longer snap, its round, golden eyes are dim, and it sags for a moment in the gap, held in place by the pressure of the door. I push and pull the door again, a quick, savage movement as fast as I can, though lacking the power of that great blow. The door smashes the wolf’s head once, twice, as I struggle to get both feet under me again. The beast yips and yowls, trying to pull loose as I finally manage to get myself ready to throw my body into the blow. Claws scrabble desperately on metal and plastic as I
scream one last time and push and
pull
with everything I have left.

The door swings open and closed, actually slamming this time, metal on metal, and I twist the handle to the closed position, locking the wolf and its pack out in the cold. Twisting the handle finally costs me my grip, and I tumble backward, trying not to strike my head again. I have no idea whether I do or not, there is so much pain, from so many places, and I’m just so damn
tired
.

I hear a ravening growl, then another, loud and clear, not filtered through the plane’s hull or window glass. I roll to my side, toward the sound, and see those shapes through the windshield again, passing this way and that. Hear them yipping and growling there at the broken window, trying to get in the way they did before. A flanking maneuver. I hope my hastily made lattice of branches will hold. If it gives way I’m done for. We’re all done for.

Keep an eye on them, Billy
, I think as I roll slowly away from the windshield, unable to watch.
You keep an eye on them, while I
 . . .

Rolling brings the door into view, and here, lying on the ceiling, or the floor, or whatever the hell it is now, I find a new thing in the plane. There’s blood on the door, dark in the fading, dusky light, and more on that upside down sign about watching your head. The blood on the sign is shaped like a comma: thick at the top, trailing down through a short, narrowing curve, almost like an arrow. An arrow pointing to the new thing.

A wolf’s foot.

It lies there below the door, severed at the wrist—do they call it a wrist, when it’s a dog?—snow crystals still sticking to the gray fur between the pads at one end, white bone sticking out of the red meat at the other.

The red meat.

Keep an eye on them, Billy
, I think again, though all that comes out of my mouth is a low moan. And drool. My breath practically slurps in and out, and I feel moisture on my chin as I wriggle close enough to touch the foot. The adrenaline is leaving my system, though, and I can’t ignore the pain any more, and the pressure in my head is growing. Grown. Grown huge, and monstrous.

I pull the paw to me, almost cuddling it: Christ, I must look to Maggie like some overgrown toddler, snuggling his Wubbie in the cradle, but I can’t help it. Just by chance, I grabbed it oriented to me, stub up, toes down. Some part of me assumed it would be stiff, and stuffed-feeling, but it’s not. It’s flexible, and soft, and still . . . warm.

The pressure in my head is huge and pushing, pushing me toward the darkness. Toward rest. I know I can’t fight it off: losing this battle is the cost of winning the one at the door. I look at the stump of the foot, snugged up against my chest, the warm, raw, red end almost touching my chin. It’s a bit mashed, a bit messy. Not the cleanest cut. Butchery by Piper.

My head propels me brutally toward the precipice of consciousness, but my stomach fights back. It’s a hard, tight ball of pain and want, so shriveled-feeling as to be unable to even growl any more. My head pushes, but my stomach rolls my tongue out and into that rough butchery just as my awareness receives that one final shove, and I savor the taste, salty and sweet and oh-so-
good
, as I finally topple into the dark.

The flare is a compromise, but I think it’s a good one. I woke with the taste of salt on my tongue and dried blood on my lips. It may be mine, but it may not—I’m somewhat hazy on what happened last night once the wolf got a hold of my boot. The sun is high, the day bright, and a glance through the windows shows some of the snow is churned and red, and I have this foot . . .

Did the pack turn on one of its own? Is that why my lattice held? Did I—I hold up the foot, a lucky charm from the world’s largest rabbit—do this?