Chapter 4 The God of the Lost #2
Then the eyes of Car bore down upon him. He snapped his head to the right. I’m not going to make it, he thought. It’s so fast. But it was too late to stop and too dangerous to go back. Seeing no other choice, he turned into the flow of them and sprang into the air as high as he could.
The first one clipped his foot as it passed by underneath.
That did no real damage, but it spun him in the air.
Bright, he thought. The one behind it was larger.
It caught him midair, slamming into his hip.
It didn’t hurt, not really, but it knocked the breath from him.
He felt warm, confused. He snapped out of it as he fell, bit down hard.
That was just reflex, but it served him well enough—some part of the thing broke off in his jaws.
He came down in the soft weeds that lined the edge of the road. Scrambling to his feet, gasping and disoriented, he looked around. There seemed to be two of everything. He took a deep breath, then shook his head to clear it. Better.
He was out of the path of the monsters now, safe enough on the far side of the road.
The Car that hit him paused a little ways down, panting at the edge of the black path.
Light poured out of the hole he had bitten in the skin of the top—or head, or whatever it was called.
Not metal, but not flesh, either—something like the imitation skins that men covered themselves with, but thicker.
The taste was unpleasant, chemical and raw. Blacktail spat it out.
The wound must have hurt, though.
The eyes on Car’s hindquarters—or whatever they were—flashed red. It’s angry, he thought. It’s not the only one.
Car puked up a man. The man lifted its forepaw to shield its eyes from the oncoming lights, peering into the dark.
It’s looking for me. Blacktail thought. Very well. Here I am. He took a step forward, baring his teeth. When he was sure it could see him, he made the killing sound, deep in his throat.
The man’s eyes grew wide. A moment later the ammoniac scent of terror-piss wafted to him, unmistakable even mingled with the smoke of Car farts. The man stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet. He scrambled back into Car and darted out into the distance—going…going…Gone.
Despite everything—or perhaps because of it—he found this a little funny. I didn’t realize they could run that fast. His tail twitched. I wish Renren was here so I could—No.
He cut the thought off and turned back to the south. The patch of trees, meager as it was, beckoned to him. He smiled a little when he took his first step, thinking, I’ll be safe in there.
Only then did he realize that his hind leg was broken.
ii
At first the pain was not so much. Probably he was in shock.
He put the road at his back and limped far enough away that the eternal din of Car’s migration grew soft and distant.
But with each step, the pain bit a little deeper.
Soon his hip began to swell. He tried to ignore it, to crush the pain down with his mind.
By the time the sun was high in the sky he was punctuating every limping pace with a yelp.
Water was scarce here. Soon the thirst burned his throat. He could smell a stream, but he thought it was very far. At the rate I’m moving, it will be tomorrow before I come to it, he realized. Maybe the day after that. And what of the hunt? He had not eaten in a long time.
By sunset he was reduced to crawling. Holding his hind leg off the ground as he moved took a toll on his strength.
The muscles of his hip thrummed with effort.
Even so, try as he might, he could not keep his wounded leg up all the time.
When it brushed against the ground, the pain was such that the rim of his vision went black and fuzzy.
Around midday he lost his balance and fell, crushing the broken leg between his body and a tree trunk.
That time he actually lost consciousness, for how long he did not know.
When he came back to himself, he did not try to rise.
Instead he lay on his unwounded side and began to drag himself toward the scent of water a whisker’s length at a time.
When the moon rose, he allowed himself to sleep.
He woke the next day with a gasp, then coughed until his throat was raw.
With no small horror, he realized that in addition to his other woes he had become ill while he slept.
First he felt a terrible chill. Only a few minutes later he burned like the sun.
The sounds of the woods buzzed strangely in his ear.
His thirst had become bad enough to challenge the pain in his leg for his attention.
If I do not find water soon, I will die, he thought.
I must stand. I must walk. He did stand, even walked a step, but his vision grayed out again.
He fell, landing on the broken leg. The pain jarred him awake as nothing else could.
With a groan, he rolled back on his side and resumed his slow lurching progress.
All through that day he inched forward. The sun beat down.
The thick gray fur that kept him warm in the snow was worse than useless here.
His tongue, swollen and dry, hung out the side of his mouth.
He panted to cool himself, but with little effect.
By the time the sun began to set, he was losing consciousness regularly.
Even when he rallied enough to drag himself along, he was not sure of his direction.
The fever affected his senses. Sometimes he moved in circles.
He woke the next morning to the sight of vultures circling overhead.
He dragged himself forward and winced. Even his unbroken side was raw and bloody from dragging himself over rocks. With an agonal effort, he moved forward an inch. Then he passed out again.
This time when he woke, there was a two-legs standing not far away, looking down at him.
He thought at first this might be a dream.
The man did not go away when Blacktail blinked and shook his head.
It cast a shadow. It smelled of rage and sour sweat.
It breathed. It was holding something in its forepaw, something bright and sharp and metal.
It took a step closer, though not close enough to bite.
Blacktail raised his head and snarled at it, too weak even to growl.
“You came,” the man said. It spoke to him in the language of the hunt. Its accent was thick, but not incomprehensible. “The little ones—the mices—they said you would come.”
Blacktail tilted his head quizzically, then passed out.
iii
He woke to the smell of water. The stream he had yearned toward for so long flowed deep and clean a few inches from his nose.
He stretched out his neck and drank for a long time, lapping the sweet water.
It cooled his throat in a way that reminded him of his mother’s kiss.
When his thirst was slaked, he looked around him.
It was night now. He was deep in the stony desert.
He smelled a Car not far away, but its fumes were cool.
It had been asleep for a long time. The lights of men were only a dim glow on the horizon.
The sounds of the road were only a distant murmur, barely audible over the gurgling stream.
Stars and the moon shone down over red sandstone boulders, agave and juniper, tumbleweeds.
How the hell did I get all the way out—
“My Lord Hunter is better now,” said a voice from behind him. Blacktail whipped around, suddenly enough that his broken bones ground together. He winced, but again the pain was distant. The strangeness of that struck him, but he had more pressing concerns.
“You,” he said to the man. He blinked. “You can talk?”
The two-legs shrugged. “Sometimes. When the hunt rises in me. Not always. Other times I forget. How do you say? You know how there are times when you sleep and chase the rabbit that isn’t there, but when you wake you forget the rabbit, and forget that you chased it? Is like that.”
“A dream?”
The man wagged his head up and down. “Yes! That word! Dream! When I not on the hunt, times like now is like a dream.” He paused. “But even when I talk the true talk, I maybe not do it so good.”
“You do well enough,” Blacktail said. “My leg—”
“Is not hurting, yes?”
Blacktail wagged agreement. “How did you…?”
The two-legs frowned. “There are no words. Magic. Men have magic. That is how I do it.”
“Are you a wizard, then?”
“No. Not me. In some places, places of men, there are…” Again, he struggled to find the words.
“Special acorns whose magic is to fix hurt things. Some take pain away. Some fix the blood curses. When I bring you here, I see you very hurting, very sick. I go to the place of the magic-that-heals and bring for you these things.”
“As easy as that?”
“No. Not easy,” the man said. “They not want to give to me. But I make them give.”
“Thank—”
“No! Not thank. I am of the faith. All faithful know of Lord Hunter’s search. All pray for him. Not thank. Is my honor to do this thing.” He paused. “May I come closer? I bringed food.” He pointed at a crumpled body laying a little ways away. It was human. “I bring?”
Blacktail’s stomach rumbled. “Yes,” he said. “Come.”
Though himself fairly slight, the man picked up the body with little apparent effort.
Its head flopped back. Blacktail saw that the throat had been torn out, not with some metal thing, but with teeth.
The wounds were more tears than bites because, of course, the beast that killed it had no fangs.
Well, Blacktail thought, looking at the man with a new regard, I suppose he can hardly help that.
“You said ‘faithful.’ You are of the hunt, then?”
The man smiled back at him, but sadly. “I want to be,” he said. “I try. But Lord Hunter find me too slow to be of his pack, I think.” With a grunt, he lay the body before Blacktail.