On the turnpike, big semis droned by, filling the air with the stink of burned diesel fuel. The woods here were trashedout, the way the woods bordering any interstate rest area always were. Empty Dorito bags. Squashed Big Mac boxes. Crimped Pepsi and Budweiser cans with poptops that rattled inside if you kicked them. Smashed bottles of Wild Irish Rose and Five OClock gin. A pair of shredded nylon panties over there, with a mouldering sanitary napkin still glued to the crotch. A rubber poked over a broken branch. Plenty of nifty stuff, all right, heyhey. And lots of graffiti jotted on the walls of the mens room, almost all of it the sort a fellow like Emory W. Light could really relate to I LIKE TO SUK BIG FAT COX. BE HERE AT 4 FOR THE BEST BLOJOB YOU EVER HAD. REEM OUT MY BUTT. And here was a gay poet with large aspirations LET THE HOLE HUMAN RACEJERK OFF ON MY SMILING FACE. Im homesick for the Territories, Jack thought, and there was no surprise at all in the realization. Here he stood behind two brick outhouses off I70 somewhere in western Ohio, shivering in a ragged sweater he had bought in a thrift store for a buck and a half, waiting for that large bald man down there to get back on his horse and ride. Jacks POLICY was simplicity itself dont antagonize a man with large bald hands and a large bald voice. Jack sighed with relief. Now it was starting to work. An expression that was halfanger, halfdisgust, had settled over Emory W. Lights large bald face. He went back to his car, got in, backed up so fast he almost hit the pickup truck passing behind him (there was a brief blare of horns and the passenger in the truck shot Emory W. Light the finger), and then left. Now it was only a matter of standing on the ramp where the restarea traffic rejoined the turnpike traffic with his thumb out . . . and, he hoped, catching a ride before it started to rain. Jack spared another look around. Ugly, wretched. These words came quite naturally to mind as he looked around at the littery desolation here on the rest areas pimply backside. It occurred to Jack that there was a feeling of death herenot just at this rest area or on the interstate roads but pressed deep into all the country he had travelled. Jack thought that sometimes he could even see it, a desperate shade of hot dark brown, like the exhaust from the shortstack of a fastmoving JimmyPete. The new homesickness came backthe wanting to go to the Territories and see that dark blue sky, the slight curve at the edge of the horizon. . . . But it plays those Jerry Bledsoe changes. Dont know nothin bout dat . . . All I know is you seem to have this idear of moider a little broad. . . . Walking down to the rest areanow he really did have to urinateJack sneezed three times, quickly. He swallowed and winced at the hot prickle in his throat. Getting sick, oh yeah. Great. Not even into Indiana yet, fifty degrees, rain in the forecast, no ride, and now Im The thought broke off cleanly. He stared at the parking lot, his mouth falling wide open. For one awful moment he thought he was going to wet his pants as everything below his breastbone seemed to cramp and squeeze. Sitting in one of the twenty or so slant parking spaces, its deep green surface now dulled with roaddirt, was Uncle Morgans BMW. No chance of a mistake; no chance at all. California vanity plates MLS, standing for Morgan Luther Sloat. It looked as if it had been driven fast and hard. But if he flew to New Hampshire, how can his car be here? Jacks mind yammered. Its a coincidence, Jack, just a Then he saw the man standing with his back to him at the pay telephone and knew it was no coincidence. He was wearing a bulky Armystyle anorak, furlined, a garment more suited to five below than to fifty degrees. Backto or not, there was no mistaking those broad shoulders and that big, loose, hulking frame. The man at the phone started to turn around, crooking the phone between his ear and shoulder. Jack drew back against the brick side of the mens toilet. Did he see me? No, he answered himself. No, I dont think so. But But Captain Farren had said that Morganthat other Morganwould smell him like a cat smells a rat, and so he had. From his hiding place in that dangerous forest, Jack had seen the hideous white face in the window of the diligence change. This Morgan would smell him, too. If given the time. Footfalls around the corner, approaching. Face numb and twisted with fear, Jack fumbled off his pack and then dropped it, knowing he was too late, too slow, that Morgan would come around the corner and seize him by the neck, smiling. Hi, Jacky! Alleealleeinfree! Games over now, isnt it, you little prick? A tall man in a houndstoothcheck jacket passed the corner of the restroom, gave Jack a disinterested glance, and went to the drinking fountain. Going back. He was going back. There was no guilt, at least not now; only that terrible trapped fear mingling oddly with feelings of relief and pleasure. Jack fumbled his pack open. Here was Speedys bottle, with less than an inch of the purple liquid now left (no boy needs dat poison to travel with but I do Speedy I do!) sloshing around in the bottom. No matter. He was going back. His heart leaped at the thought. A big Saturdaynight grin dawned on his face, denying both the gray day and the fear in his heart. Going back, oh yeah, dig it. More footsteps approaching, and this was Uncle Morgan, no doubt about that heavy yet somehow mincing step. But the fear was gone. Uncle Morgan had smelled something, but when he turned the corner he would see nothing but empty Dorito bags and crimped beercans. Jack pulled in breathpulled in the greasy stink of diesel fumes and car exhausts and cold autumn air. Tipped the bottle up to his lips. Took one of the two swallows left. And even with his eyes shut he squinted as 16 Wolf 1 the strong sunlight struck his closed lids. Through the gaggingsweet odor of the magic juice he could smell something else . . . the warm smell of animals. He could hear them, too, moving all about him. Frightened, Jack opened his eyes but at first could see nothingthe difference in the light was so sudden and abrupt that it was as if someone had suddenly turned on a cluster of twohundredwatt bulbs in a black room. A warm, hidecovered flank brushed him, not in a threatening way (or so Jack hoped), but most definitely in an Iminahurrytobegonethankyouverymuch way. Jack, who had been getting up, thumped back to the ground again. Hey! Hey! Get away from im! Right here and right now! A loud, healthy whack followed by a disgruntled animal sound somewhere between a moo and a baa. Gods nails! Got no sense! Get away from im fore I bite your Godpounding eyes out! Now his eyes had adjusted enough to the brightness of this almost flawless Territories autumn day to make out a young giant standing in the middle of a herd of milling animals, whacking their sides and slightly humped backs with what appeared to be great gusto and very little real force. Jack sat up, automatically finding Speedys bottle with its one precious swallow left and putting it away. He never took his eyes from the young man who stood with his back to him. Tall he wassixfive at least, Jack guessedand with shoulders so broad that his across still looked slightly out of proportion to his high. Long, greasy black hair shagged down his back to the shoulder blades. Muscles bulged and rippled as he moved amid the animals, which looked like pygmy cows. He was driving them away from Jack and toward the Western Road. He was a striking figure, even when seen from behind, but what amazed Jack was his dress. Everyone he had seen in the Territories (including himself) had been wearing tunics, jerkins, or rough breeches. This fellow appeared to be wearing Oshkosh bib overalls. Then he turned around and Jack felt a horrible shocked dismay well up in his throat. He shot to his feet. It was the Elroything. The herdsman was the Elroything. 2 Except it wasnt. Jack perhaps would not have lingered to see that, and everything that happened thereafterthe movie theater, the shed, and the hell of the Sunlight Homewould not have happened (or would, at the very least, have happened in some completely different way), but in the extremity of his terror he froze completely after getting up. He was no more able to run than a deer is when it is frozen in a hunters jacklight. As the figure in the bib overalls approached, he thought Elroy wasnt that tall or that broad. And his eyes were yellowThe eyes of this creature were a bright, impossible shade of orange. Looking into them was like looking into the eyes of a Halloween pumpkin. And while Elroys grin had promised madness and murder, the smile on this fellows face was large and cheerful and harmless. His feet were bare, huge, and spatulate, the toes clumped into groups of three and two, barely visible through curls of wiry hair. Not hooflike, as Elroys had been, Jack realized, halfcrazed with surprise, fear, a dawning amusement, but padlikepawlike. As he closed the distance between himself and Jack, (his? its?) eyes flared an even brighter orange, going for a moment to the DayGlo shade favored by hunters and flagmen on roadrepair jobs. The color faded to a muddy hazel. As it did, Jack saw that his smile was puzzled as well as friendly, and understood two things at once first, that there was no harm in this fellow, not an ounce of it, and second, that he was slow. Not feeble, perhaps, but slow. Wolf! the big, hairy boybeast cried, grinning. His tongue was long and pointed, and Jack thought with a shudder that a wolf was exactly what he looked like. Not a goat but a wolf. He hoped he was right about there not being any harm in him. But if I made a mistake about that, at least I wont have to worry about making any more mistakes . . . ever again. Wolf! Wolf! He stuck out one hand, and Jack saw that, like his feet, his hands were covered with hair, although this hair was finer and more luxuriantactually quite handsome. It grew especially thick in the palms, where it was the soft white of a blaze on a horses forehead. My God I think he wants to shake hands with me! Gingerly, thinking of Uncle Tommy, who had told him he must never refuse a handshake, not even with his worst enemy (Fight him to the death afterward if you must, but shake his hand first, Uncle Tommy had said), Jack put his own hand out, wondering if it was about to be crushed . . . or perhaps eaten. Wolf! Wolf! Shakin hands right here and now! the boything in the Oshkosh biballs cried, delighted. Right here and now! Good old Wolf! Godpound it! Right here and now! Wolf! In spite of this enthusiasm, Wolfs grip was gentle enough, cushioned by the crisp, furry growth of hair on his hand. Bib overalls and a big handshake from a guy who looks like an overgrown Siberian husky and smells a little bit like a hayloft after a heavy rain, Jack thought. What next? An offer to come to his church this Sunday? Good old Wolf, you bet! Good old Wolf right here and now! Wolf wrapped his arms around his huge chest and laughed, delighted with himself. Then he grabbed Jacks hand again. This time his hand was pumped vigorously up and down. Something seemed required of him at his point, Jack reflected. Otherwise, this pleasant if rather simple young man might go on shaking his hand until sundown. Good old Wolf, he said. It seemed to be a phrase of which his new acquaintance was particularly fond. Wolf laughed like a child and dropped Jacks hand. This was something of a relief. The hand had been neither crushed nor eaten, but it did feel a bit seasick. Wolf had a faster pump than a slotmachine player on a hot streak. Stranger, aintcha? Wolf asked. He stuffed his hairy hands into the slit sides of his biballs and began playing pocketpool with a complete lack of selfconsciousness. Yes, Jack said, thinking of what that word meant over here. It had a very specific meaning over here. Yes, I guess thats just what I am. A stranger. Godpounding right! I can smell it on you! Right here and now, oh yeah, oh boy! Got it! Doesnt smell bad, you know, but it sure is funny. Wolf! Thats me. Wolf! Wolf! Wolf! He threw back his head and laughed. The sound ended being something that was disconcertingly like a howl. Jack, Jack said. Jack Saw His hand was seized again and pumped with abandon. Sawyer, he finished, when he was released again. He smiled, feeling very much as though someone had hit him with a great big goofystick. Five minutes ago he had been standing scrunched against the cold brick side of a shithouse on I70. Now he was standing here talking to a young fellow who seemed to be more animal than man. And damned if his cold wasnt completely gone. 3 Wolf meet Jack! Jack meet Wolf! Here and now! Okay! Good! Oh, Jason! Cows in the road! Aint they stupid! Wolf! Wolf! Yelling, Wolf loped down the hill to the road, where about half of his herd was standing, looking around with expressions of bland surprise, as if to ask where the grass had gone. They really did look like some strange cross between cows and sheep, Jack saw, and wondered what you would call such a crossbreed. The only word to come immediately to mind was creepsor perhaps, he thought, the singular would be more proper in this case, as in Heres Wolf taking care of his flock of creep. Oh yeah. Right here and now. The goofystick came down on Jacks head again. He sat down and began to giggle, his hands crisscrossed over his mouth to stifle the sounds. Even the biggest creep stood no more than four feet high. Their fur was woolly, but of a muddy shade that was similar to Wolfs eyesat least, when Wolfs eyes werent blazing like Halloween jackolanterns. Their heads were topped with short, squiggly horns that looked good for absolutely nothing. Wolf herded them back out of the road. They went obediently, with no sign of fear. If a cow or a sheep on my side of the jump got a whiff of that guy, Jack thought, itd kill itself trying to get out of his way. But Jack liked Wolfliked him on sight, just as he had feared and disliked Elroy on sight. And that contrast was particularly apt, because the comparison between the two was undeniable. Except that Elroy had been goatish while Wolf was . . . well, wolfish. Jack walked slowly toward where Wolf had set his herd to graze. He remembered tiptoeing down the stinking back hall of the Oatley Tap toward the firedoor, sensing Elroy somewhere near, smelling him, perhaps, as a cow on the other side would undoubtedly smell Wolf. He remembered the way Elroys hands had begun to twist and thicken, the way his neck had swelled, the way his teeth had become a mouthful of blackening fangs. Wolf? Wolf turned and looked at him, smiling. His eyes flared a bright orange and looked for a moment both savage and intelligent. Then the glow faded and they were only that muddy, perpetually puzzled hazel again. Are you . . . sort of a werewolf? Sure am, Wolf said, smiling. You pounded that nail, Jack. Wolf! Jack sat down on a rock, looking at Wolf thoughtfully. He believed it would be impossible for him to be further surprised than he had already been, but Wolf managed the trick quite nicely. Hows your father, Jack? he asked, in that casual, bytheway tone reserved for enquiring after the relatives of others. Hows Phil doing these days? Wolf! 4 Jack made a queerly apt crossassociation he felt as if all the wind had been knocked out of his mind. For a moment it just sat there in his head, not a thought in it, like a radio station broadcasting nothing but a carrier wave. Then he saw Wolfs face change. The expression of happiness and childish curiosity was replaced by one of sorrow. Jack saw that Wolfs nostrils were flaring rapidly. Hes dead, isnt he? Wolf! Im sorry, Jack. God pound me! Im stupid! Stupid! Wolf crashed a hand into his forehead and this time he really did howl. It was a sound that chilled Jacks blood. The herd of creep looked around uneasily. Thats all right, Jack said. He heard his voice more in his ears than in his head, as if someone else had spoken. But . . . how did you know? Your smell changed, Wolf said simply. I knew he was dead because it was in your smell. Poor Phil! What a good guy! Tell you that right here and now, Jack! Your father was a good guy! Wolf! Yes, Jack said, he was. But how did you know him? And how did you know he was my father? Wolf looked at Jack as though he had asked a question so simple it barely needed answering. I remember his smell, of course. Wolfs remember all smells. You smell just like him. Whack! The goofystick came down on his head again. Jack felt an urge to just roll back and forth on the tough, springy turf, holding his gut and howling. People had told him he had his fathers eyes and his fathers mouth, even his fathers knack for quicksketching, but never before had he been told that he smelled like his father. Yet he supposed the idea had a certain crazy logic, at that. How did you know him? Jack asked again. Wolf looked at a loss. He came with the other one, he said at last. The one from Orris. I was just little. The other one was bad. The other one stole some of us. Your father didnt know, he added hastily, as if Jack had shown anger. Wolf! No! He was good, your father. Phil. The other one . . . Wolf shook his head slowly. On his face was an expression even more simple than his pleasure. It was the memory of some childhood nightmare. Bad, Wolf said. He made himself a place in this world, my father says. Mostly he was in his Twinner, but he was from your world. We knew he was bad, we could tell, but who listens to Wolfs? No one. Your father knew he was bad, but he couldnt smell him as good as we could. He knew he was bad, but not how bad. And Wolf threw his head back and howled again, a long, chilly ululation of sorrow that resounded against the deep blue sky. Interlude Sloat in This World (II) From the pocket of his bulky parka (he had bought it convinced that from the Rockies east, America was a frigid wasteland after October 1st or sonow he was sweating rivers), Morgan Sloat took a small steel box. Below the latch were ten small buttons and an oblong of cloudy yellow glass a quarter of an inch high and two inches long. He pushed several of the buttons carefully with the fingernail of his lefthand pinky, and a series of numbers appeared briefly in the readout window. Sloat had bought this gadget, billed as the worlds smallest safe, in Zurich. According to the man who had sold it to him, not even a week in a crematory oven would breach its carbonsteel integrity. Now it clicked open. Sloat folded back two tiny wings of ebony jewelers velvet, revealing something he had had for well over twenty yearssince long before the odious little brat who was causing all this trouble had been born. It was a tarnished tin key, and once it had gone into the back of a mechanical toy soldier. Sloat had seen the toy soldier in the window of a junkshop in the odd little town of Point Venuti, Californiaa town in which he had great interest. Acting under a compulsion much too strong to deny (he hadnt even wanted to deny it, not really; he had always made a virtue of compulsion, had Morgan Sloat), he had gone in and paid five dollars for the dusty, dented soldier . . . and it wasnt the soldier he had wanted, anyway. It was the key that had caught his eye and then whispered to him. He had removed the key from the soldiers back and pocketed it as soon as he was outside the junkshop door. The soldier itself he threw in a litterbasket outside the Dangerous Planet Bookstore. Now, as Sloat stood beside his car in the Lewisburg rest area, he held the key up and looked at it. Like Jacks croaker, the tin key became something else in the Territories. Once, when coming back, he had dropped that key in the lobby of the old office building. And there must have been some Territories magic left in it, because that idiot Jerry Bledsoe had gotten himself fried not an hour later. Had Jerry picked it up? Stepped on it, perhaps? Sloat didnt know and didnt care. Nor had he cared a tinkers damn about Jerryand considering the handyman had had an insurance policy specifying double indemnity for accidental death (the buildings super, with whom Sloat sometimes shared a hashpipe, had passed this little tidbit on to him), Sloat imagined that Nita Bledsoe had done nipupsbut he had been nearly frantic about the loss of his key. It was Phil Sawyer who had found it, giving it back to him with no comment other than Here, Morg. Your lucky charm, isnt it? Must have a hole in your pocket. I found it in the lobby after they took poor old Jerry away. Yes, in the lobby. In the lobby where everything smelled like the motor of a Waring Blender that had been running continuously on Hi Speed for about nine hours. In the lobby where everything had been blackened and twisted and fused. Except for this humble tin key. Which, in the other world, was a queer kind of lightningrodand which Sloat now hung around his neck on a fine silver chain. Coming for you, Jacky, said Sloat in a voice that was almost tender. Time to bring this entire ridiculous business to a crashing halt. 17 Wolf and the Herd 1 Wolf talked of many things, getting up occasionally to shoo his cattle out of the road and once to move them to a stream about half a mile to the west. When Jack asked him where he lived, Wolf only waved his arm vaguely northward. He lived, he said, with his family. When Jack asked for clarification a few minutes later, Wolf looked surprised and said he had no mate and no childrenthat he would not come into what he called the big rutmoon for another year or two. That he looked forward to the big rutmoon was quite obvious from the innocently lewd grin that overspread his face. But you said you lived with your family. Oh, family! Them! Wolf! Wolf laughed. Sure. Them! We all live together. Have to keep the cattle, you know. Her cattle. The Queens? Yes. May she never, never die. And Wolf made an absurdly touching salute, bending briefly forward with his right hand touching his forehead. Further questioning straightened the matter out somewhat in Jacks mind . . . at least, he thought it did. Wolf was a bachelor (although that word barely fit, somehow). The family of which he spoke was a hugely extended oneliterally, the Wolf family. They were a nomadic but fiercely loyal race that moved back and forth in the great empty areas east of the Outposts but west of The Settlements, by which Wolf seemed to mean the towns and villages of the east. Wolfs (never Wolveswhen Jack once used the proper plural, Wolf had laughed until tears spurted from the corners of his eyes) were solid, dependable workers, for the most part. Their strength was legendary, their courage unquestioned. Some of them had gone east into The Settlements, where they served the Queen as guards, soldiers, even as personal bodyguards. Their lives, Wolf explained to Jack, had only two great touchstones the Lady and the family. Most of the Wolfs, he said, served the Lady as he didwatching the herds. The cowsheep were the Territories primary source of meat, cloth, tallow, and lampoil (Wolf did not tell Jack this, but Jack inferred it from what he said). All the cattle belonged to the Queen, and the Wolf family had been watching over them since time out of mind. It was their job. In this Jack found an oddly persuasive correlative to the relationship that had existed between the buffalo and the Indians of the American Plains . . . at least until the white man had come into those territories and upset the balance. Behold, and the lion shall lie down with the lamb, and the Wolf with the creep, Jack murmured, and smiled. He was lying on his back with his hands laced behind his head. The most marvellous feeling of peace and ease had stolen over him. What, Jack? Nothing, he said. Wolf, do you really change into an animal when the moon gets full?  Course I do! Wolf said. He looked astounded, as if Jack had asked him something like Wolf, do you really pull up your pants after you finish taking a crap? Strangers dont, do they? Phil told me that. The, ah, herd, Jack said. When you change, do they Oh, we dont go near the herd when we change, Wolf said seriously. Good Jason, no! Wed eat them, dont you know that? And a Wolf who eats of his herd must be put to death. The Book of Good Farming says so. Wolf! Wolf! We have places to go when the moon is full. So does the herd. Theyre stupid, but they know they have to go away at the time of the big moon. Wolf! They better know, God pound them! But you do eat meat, dont you? Jack asked. Full of questions, just like your father, Wolf said. Wolf! I dont mind. Yeah, we eat meat. Of course we do. Were Wolfs, arent we? But if you dont eat from the herds, what do you eat? We eat well, Wolf said, and would say no more on that subject. Like everything else in the Territories, Wolf was a mysterya mystery that was both gorgeous and frightening. The fact that he had known both Jacks father and Morgan Sloathad, at least, met their Twinners on more than one occasioncontributed to Wolfs particular aura of mystery, but did not define it completely. Everything Wolf told him led Jack to a dozen more questions, most of which Wolf couldntor wouldntanswer. The matter of Philip Sawtelles and Orriss visits was a case in point. They had first appeared when Wolf was in the little moon and living with his mother and two littersisters. They were apparently just passing through, as Jack himself was now doing, only they had been heading east instead of west (Tell you the truth, youre just about the only human Ive ever seen this far west who was still going west, Wolf said). They had been jolly enough company, both of them. It was only later that there had been trouble . . . trouble with Orris. That had been after the partner of Jacks father had made himself a place in this world, Wolf told Jack again and againonly now he seemed to mean Sloat, in the physical guise of Orris. Wolf said that Morgan had stolen one of his littersisters (My mother bit her hands and toes for a month after she knew for certain that he took her, Wolf told Jack matteroffactly) and had taken other Wolfs from time to time. Wolf dropped his voice and, with an expression of fear and superstitious awe on his face, told Jack that the limping man had taken some of these Wolfs into the other world, the Place of the Strangers, and had taught them to eat of the herd. Thats very bad for guys like you, isnt it? Jack asked. Theyre damned, Wolf replied simply. Jack had thought at first that Wolf was speaking of kidnappingthe verb Wolf had used in connection with his littersister, after all, was the Territories version of take. He began to see now that kidnapping wasnt what was going on at allunless Wolf, with unconscious poetry, had been trying to say that Morgan had kidnapped the minds of some of the Wolf family. Jack now thought that Wolf was really talking about werewolves who had thrown over their ancient allegiance to the Crown and the herd and had given it to Morgan instead . . . Morgan Sloat and Morgan of Orris. Which led naturally enough to thoughts of Elroy. A Wolf who eats of his herd must be put to death. To thoughts of the men in the green car who had stopped to ask him directions, and offered him a Tootsie Roll, and who had then tried to pull him into their car. The eyes. The eyes had changed. Theyre damned. He made himself a place in this world. Until now he had felt both safe and delighted delighted to be back in the Territories where there was a nip in the air but nothing like the dull, cold gray bite of western Ohio, safe with big, friendly Wolf beside him, way out in the country, miles from anything or anyone. Made himself a place in this world. He asked Wolf about his fatherPhilip Sawtelle in this worldbut Wolf only shook his head. He had been a Godpounding good guy, and a Twinnerthus obviously a Strangerbut that was all Wolf seemed to know. Twinners, he said, was something that had something to do with litters of people, and about such business he could not presume to say. Nor could he describe Philip Sawtellehe didnt remember. He only remembered the smell. All he knew, he told Jack, was that, while both of the Strangers had seemed nice, only Phil Sawyer had really been nice. Once he had brought presents for Wolf and his littersisters and litterbrothers. One of the presents, unchanged from the world of the Strangers, had been a set of bib overalls for Wolf. I wore em all the time, Wolf said. My mother wanted to throw em away after Id wore em for five years or so. Said they were worn out! Said I was too big for them! Wolf! Said they were only patches holding more patches together. I wouldnt give em up, though. Finally, she bought some cloth from a drummer headed out toward the Outposts. I dont know how much she paid, and Wolf! Ill tell you the truth, Jack, Im afraid to ask. She dyed it blue and made me six pairs. The ones your father brought me, I sleep on them now. Wolf! Wolf! Its my Godpounding pillow, I guess. Wolf smiled so openlyand yet so wistfullythat Jack was moved to take his hand. It was something he never could have done in his old life, no matter what the circumstances, but that now seemed like his loss. He was glad to take Wolfs warm, strong hand. Im glad you liked my dad, Wolf, he said. I did! I did! Wolf! Wolf! And then all hell broke loose. 2 Wolf stopped talking and looked around, startled. Wolf? Whats wr Shhhh! Then Jack heard it. Wolfs more sensitive ears had picked the sound up first, but it swelled quickly; before long, a deaf man would have heard it, Jack thought. The cattle looked around and then began to move away from the source of the sound in a rough, uneasy clot. It was like a radio soundeffect where someone is supposed to be ripping a bedsheet down the middle, very slowly. Only the volume kept going up and up and up until Jack thought he was going to go crazy. Wolf leaped to his feet, looking stunned and confused and frightened. That ripping sound, a low, ragged purr, continued to grow. The bleating of the cattle became louder. Some were backing into the stream, and as Jack looked that way he saw one go down with a splash and a clumsy flailing of legs. It had been pushed over by its milling, retreating comrades. It let out a shrill, baaaing cry. Another cowsheep stumbled over it and was likewise trampled into the water by the slow retreat. The far side of the stream was low and wet, green with reeds, muddymarshy. The cowsheep who first reached this muck quickly became mired in it. Oh you Godpounding goodfornothing cattle! Wolf bellowed, and charged down the hill toward the stream, where the first animal to fall over now looked as if it were in its deaththroes. Wolf! Jack shouted, but Wolf couldnt hear him. Jack could barely hear himself over that ragged ripping sound. He looked a little to the right, on this side of the stream, and gaped with amazement. Something was happening to the air. A patch of it about three feet off the ground was rippling and blistering, seeming to twist and pull at itself. Jack could see the Western Road through this patch of air, but the road seemed blurry and shimmery, as if seen through the heated, rippling air over an incinerator. Somethings pulling the air open like a woundsomethings coming throughfrom our side? Oh Jason, is that what I do when I come through? But even in his own panic and confusion he knew it was not. Jack had a good idea who would come through like this, like a rape in progress. Jack began to run down the hill. 3 The ripping sound went on and on and on. Wolf was down on his knees in the stream, trying to help the second downed animal to its feet. The first floated limply downstream, its body tattered and mangled.


Get up! God pound you, get up! Wolf! Wolf shoved and slapped as best he could at the cowsheep who milled and backed into him, then got both arms around the drowning animals midriff and pulled upward. WOLF! HERE AND NOW! he screamed. The sleeves of his shirt split wide open along the biceps, reminding Jack of David Banner having one of the gammarayinspired tantrums that turned him into The Incredible Hulk. Water sprayed everywhere and Wolf lurched to his feet, eyes blazing orange, blue overalls now soaked black. Water streamed from the nostrils of the animal, which Wolf held clutched against his chest as if it were an overgrown puppy. Its eyes were turned up to sticky whites. Wolf! Jack screamed. Its Morgan! Its The herd! Wolf screamed back. Wolf! Wolf! My Godpounding herd! Jack! Dont try The rest was drowned out by a grinding clap of thunder that shook the earth. For a moment the thunder even covered that maddening, monotonous ripping sound. Almost as confused as Wolfs cattle, Jack looked up and saw a clear blue sky, innocent of clouds save for a few puffy white ones that were miles away. The thunder ignited outright panic in Wolfs herd. They tried to bolt, but in their exquisite stupidity, many of them tried to do it by backing up. They crashed and splashed and were rolled underwater. Jack heard the bitter snap of a breaking bone, followed by the baaaaing scream of an animal in pain. Wolf bellowed in rage, dropped the cowsheep he had been trying to save, and floundered toward the muddy far bank of the stream. Before he could get there, half a dozen cattle struck him and bore him down. Water splashed and flew in thin, bright sprays. Now, Jack saw, Wolf was the one in danger of being simultaneously trampled and drowned by the stupid, fleeing animals. Jack pushed into the stream, which was now dark with roiling mud. The current tried continually to push him offbalance. A bleating cowsheep, its eyes rolling madly, splashed past him, almost knocking him down. Water sprayed into his face and Jack tried to wipe it out of his eyes. Now that sound seemed to fill the whole world RRRRRIIIPPPP Wolf. Never mind Morgan, at least not for the moment. Wolf was in trouble. His shaggy, drenched head was momentarily visible above the water, and then three of the animals ran right over him and Jack could only see one waving, furcovered hand. He pushed forward again, trying to weave through the cattle, some still up, others floundering and drowning underfoot. Jack! a voice bellowed over that ripping noise. It was a voice Jack knew. Uncle Morgans voice. Jack! There was another clap of thunder, this one a huge oaken thud that rolled through the sky like an artillery shell. Panting, his soaked hair hanging in his eyes, Jack looked over his shoulder . . . and directly into the rest area on I70 near Lewisburg, Ohio. He was seeing it as if through ripply, badly made glass . . . but he was seeing it. The edge of the brick toilet was on the left side of that blistered, tortured patch of air. The snout of what looked like a Chevrolet pickup truck was on the right, floating three feet above the field where he and Wolf had been sitting peacefully and talking not five minutes ago. And in the center, looking like an extra in a film about Admiral Byrds assault on the South Pole, was Morgan Sloat, his thick red face twisted with murderous rage. Rage, and something else. Triumph? Yes. Jack thought that was what it was. He stood at midstream in water that was crotchdeep, cattle passing on either side of him, baaing and bleating, staring at that window which had been torn in the very fabric of reality, his eyes wide, his mouth wider. Hes found me, oh dear God, hes found me. There you are, you little shithead! Morgan bellowed at him. His voice carried, but it had a muffled, dead quality as it came from the reality of that world into the reality of this one. It was like listening to a man shout inside a telephone booth. Now well see, wont we? Wont we? Morgan started forward, his face swimming and rippling as if made of limp plastic, and Jack had time to see there was something clutched in his hand, something hung around his neck, something small and silvery. Jack stood, paralyzed, as Sloat bulled his way through the hole between the two universes. As he came he did his own werewolf number, changing from Morgan Sloat, investor, land speculator, and sometime Hollywood agent, into Morgan of Orris, pretender to the throne of a dying Queen. His flushed, hanging jowls thinned. The color faded out of them. His hair renewed itself, growing forward, first tinting the rondure of his skull, as if some invisible being were coloring Uncle Morgans head, then covering it. The hair of Sloats Twinner was long, black, flapping, somehow deadlooking. It had been tied at the nape of his neck, Jack saw, but most of it had come loose. The parka wavered, disappeared for a moment, then came back as a cloak and hood. Morgan Sloats suede boots became dark leather kneeboots, their tops turned down, what might have been the hilt of a knife poking out of one. And the small silver thing in his hand had turned to a small rod tipped with crawling blue fire. Its a lightningrod. Oh Jesus, its a Jack! The cry was low, gargling, full of water. Jack whirled clumsily around in the stream, barely avoiding another cowsheep, this one floating on its side, dead in the water. He saw Wolfs head going down again, both hands waving. Jack fought his way toward those hands, still dodging the cattle as best he could. One of them bunted his hip hard and Jack went over, inhaling water. He got up again quick, coughing and choking, one hand feeling inside his jerkin for the bottle, afraid it might have washed away. It was still there. Boy! Turn around and look at me, boy! No time just now, Morgan. Sorry, but Ive got to see if I can avoid getting drowned by Wolfs herd before I see if I can avoid getting fried by your doomstick there. I Blue fire arched over Jacks shoulder, sizzlingit was like a deadly electric rainbow. It struck one of the cowsheep caught in the reedy muck on the other side of the stream and the unfortunate beast simply exploded, as if it had swallowed dynamite. Blood flew in a needlespray of droplets. Gobbets of flesh began to rain down around Jack. Turn and look at me, boy! He could feel the force of that command, gripping his face with invisible hands, trying to turn it. Wolf struggled up again, his hair plastered against his face, his dazed eyes peering through a curtain of it like the eyes of an English sheepdog. He was coughing and staggering, seemingly no longer aware of where he was. Wolf! Jack screamed, but thunder exploded across the blue sky again, drowning him out. Wolf bent over and retched up a great muddy sheet of water. A moment later another of the terrified cowsheep struck him and bore him under again. Thats it, Jack thought despairingly. Thats it, hes gone, must be, let him go, get out of here But he struggled on toward Wolf, pushing a dying, weakly convulsing cowsheep out of his way to get there. Jason! Morgan of Orris screamed, and Jack realized that Morgan was not cursing in the Territories argot; he was calling his, Jacks, name. Only here he was not Jack. Here he was Jason. But the Queens son died an infant, died, he The wet, sizzling zap of electricity again, seeming almost to part his hair. Again it struck the other bank, this time vaporizing one of Wolfs cattle. No, Jack saw, at least not utterly. The animals legs were still there, mired in the mud like shakepoles. As he watched, they began to sag tiredly outward in four different directions. TURN AND LOOK AT ME, GOD POUND YOU! The water, why doesnt he throw it at the water, fry me, Wolf, all these animals at the same time? Then his fifthgrade science came back to him. Once electricity went to water, it could go anywhere . . . including back to the generator of the current. Wolfs dazed face, floating underwater, drove these thoughts from Jacks flying mind. Wolf was still alive, but partially pinned under a cowsheep, which, although apparently unhurt, had frozen in panic. Wolfs hands waved with pathetic, flagging energy. As Jack closed the last of the distance, one of those hands dropped and simply floated, limp as a waterlily. Without slowing, Jack lowered his left shoulder and hit the cowsheep like Jack Armstrong in a boys sports story. If it had been a fullsized cow instead of a Territories compact model, Jack would probably not have budged it, not with the streams fairly stiff current working against him. But it was smaller than a cow, and Jack was pumped up. It bawled when Jack hit it, floundered backward, sat briefly on its haunches, and then lunged for the far bank. Jack grabbed Wolfs hands and pulled with all of his might. Wolf came up as reluctantly as a waterlogged treetrunk, his eyes now glazed and halfclosed, water streaming from his ears and nose and mouth. His lips were blue. Twin forks of lightning blazed to the right and left of where Jack stood holding Wolf, the two of them looking like a pair of drunks trying to waltz in a swimming pool. On the far bank, another cowsheep flew in all directions, its severed head still bawling. Hot rips of fire zigzagged through the marshy area, lighting the reeds on the tussocks and then finding the drier grass of the field where the land began to rise again. Wolf! Jack screamed. Wolf, for Christs sake! Auh, Wolf moaned, and vomited warm muddy water over Jacks shoulder. Auhhhhhhhhhhh . . . Now Jack saw Morgan standing on the other bank, a tall, Puritanical figure in his black cloak. His hood framed his pallid, vampirelike face with a kind of cheerless romance. Jack had time to think that the Territories had worked their magic even here, on behalf of his dreadful uncle. Over here, Morgan was not an overweight, hypertensive actuarial toad with piracy in his heart and murder in his mind; over here, his face had narrowed and found a frigid masculine beauty. He pointed the silver rod like a toy magic wand, and blue fire tore the air open. Now you and your dumb friend! Morgan screamed. His thin lips split in a triumphant grin, revealing sunken yellow teeth that spoiled Jacks blurred impression of beauty once and forever. Wolf screamed and jerked in Jacks aching arms. He was staring at Morgan, his eyes orange and bulging with hate and fear. You, devil! Wolf screamed. You, devil! My sister! My littersister! Wolf! Wolf! You, devil! Jack pulled the bottle out of his jerkin. There was a single swallow left anyway. He couldnt hold Wolf up with his one arm; he was losing him, and Wolf seemed unable to support himself. Didnt matter. Couldnt take him back through into the other world anyway . . . or could he? You, devil! Wolf screamed, weeping, his wet face sliding down Jacks arm. The back of his bib overalls floated and belled in the water. Smell of burning grass and burning animals. Thunder, exploding. This time the river of fire in the air rushed by Jack so close that the hairs in his nostrils singed and curled. OH YES, BOTH OF YOU, BOTH OF YOU! Morgan howled. ILL TEACH YOU TO GET IN MY WAY, YOU LITTLE BASTARD! ILL BURN BOTH OF YOU! ILL POUND YOU DOWN! Wolf, hold on! Jack yelled. He gave up his effort to hold Wolf up; instead, he snatched Wolfs hand in his own and held it as tightly as he could. Hold on to me, do you hear? Wolf! He tipped the bottle up, and the awful cold taste of rotted grapes filled his mouth for the last time. The bottle was empty. As he swallowed, he heard it shatter as one of Morgans bolts of lightning struck it. But the sound of the breaking glass was faint . . . the tingle of electricity . . . even Morgans screams of rage. He felt as if he were falling over backward into a hole. A grave, maybe. Then Wolfs hand squeezed down on Jacks so hard that Jack groaned. That feeling of vertigo, of having done a complete dipsydoodle, began to fade . . . and then the sunlight faded, too, and became the sad purplish gray of an October twilight in the heartland of America. Cold rain struck Jack in the face, and he was faintly aware that the water he was standing in seemed much colder than it had only seconds ago. Somewhere not far away he could hear the familiar snoring drone of the big rigs on the interstate . . . except that now they seemed to be coming from directly overhead. Impossible, he thought, but was it? The bounds of that word seemed to be stretching with plastic ease. For one dizzy moment he had an image of flying Territories trucks driven by flying Territories men with big canvas wings strapped to their backs. Back, he thought. Back again, same time, same turnpike. He sneezed. Same cold, too. But two things were not the same now. No rest area here. They were standing thighdeep in the icy water of a stream beneath a turnpike overpass. Wolf was with him. That was the other change. And Wolf was screaming. 18 Wolf Goes to the Movies 1 Overhead, another truck pounded across the overpass, big diesel engine bellowing. The overpass shook. Wolf wailed and clutched at Jack, almost knocking them both into the water. Quit it! Jack shouted. Let go of me, Wolf! Its just a truck! Let go! He slapped at Wolf, not wanting to do itWolfs terror was pathetic. But, pathetic or not, Wolf had the best part of a foot and maybe a hundred and fifty pounds on Jack, and if he overbore him, they would both go into this freezing water and it would be pneumonia for sure. Wolf! Dont like it! Wolf! Dont like it! Wolf! Wolf! But his hold slackened. A moment later his arms dropped to his sides. When another truck snored by overhead, Wolf cringed but managed to keep from grabbing Jack again. But he looked at Jack with a mute, trembling appeal that said Get me out of this, please get me out of this, Id rather be dead than in this world. Nothing Id like better, Wolf, but Morgans over there. Even if he werent, I dont have the magic juice anymore. He looked down at his left hand and saw he was holding the jagged neck of Speedys bottle, like a man getting ready to do some serious barroom brawling. Just dumb luck Wolf hadnt gotten a bad cut when he grabbed Jack in his terror. Jack tossed it away. Splash. Two trucks this timethe noise was doubled. Wolf howled in terror and plastered his hands over his ears. Jack could see that most of the hair had disappeared from Wolfs hands in the flipmost, but not all. And, he saw, the first two fingers of each of Wolfs hands were exactly the same length. Come on, Wolf, Jack said when the racket of the trucks had faded a little. Lets get out of here. We look like a couple of guys waiting to get baptized on a PTL Club special. He took Wolfs hand, and then winced at the panicky way Wolfs grip closed down. Wolf saw his expression and loosened up . . . a little. Dont leave me, Jack, Wolf said. Please, please dont leave me. No, Wolf, I wont, Jack said. He thought How do you get into these things, you asshole? Here you are, standing under a turnpike overpass somewhere in Ohio with your pet werewolf. How do you do it? Do you practice? And, oh, by the way, whats happening with the moon, JackO? Do you remember? He didnt, and with clouds blanketing the sky and a cold rain falling, there was no way to tell. What did that make the odds? Thirty to one in his favor? Twentyeight to two? Whatever the odds were, they werent good enough. Not the way things were going. No, I wont leave you, he repeated, and then led Wolf toward the far bank of the stream. In the shallows, the decayed remains of some childs dolly floated bellyup, her glassy blue eyes staring into the growing dark. The muscles of Jacks arm ached from the strain of pulling Wolf through into this world, and the joint in his shoulder throbbed like a rotted tooth. As they came out of the water onto the weedy, trashy bank, Jack began to sneeze again. 2 This time, Jacks total progress in the Territories had been half a mile westthe distance Wolf had moved his herd so they could drink in the stream where Wolf himself had later almost been drowned. Over here, he found himself ten miles farther west, as best he could figure. They struggled up the bankWolf actually ended up pulling Jack most of the wayand in the last of the daylight Jack could see an exitramp splitting off to the right some fifty yards up the road. A reflectorized sign read ARCANUM LAST EXIT IN OHIO STATE LINE 15 MILES. Weve got to hitch, Jack said. Hitch? Wolf said doubtfully. Lets have a look at you. He thought Wolf would do, at least in the dark. He was still wearing the bib overalls, which now had an actual OSHKOSH label on them. His homespun shirt had become a machineproduced blue chambray that looked like an ArmyNavy Surplus special. His formerly bare feet were clad in a huge pair of dripping penny loafers and white socks. Oddest of all, a pair of round steelrimmed spectacles of the sort John Lennon used to wear sat in the middle of Wolfs big face. Wolf, did you have trouble seeing? Over in the Territories? I didnt know I did, Wolf said. I guess so. Wolf! I sure see better over here, with these glass eyes. Wolf, right here and now! He looked out at the roaring turnpike traffic, and for just a moment Jack saw what he must be seeing great steel beasts with huge yellowwhite eyes, snarling through the night at unimaginable speeds, rubber wheels blistering the road. I see better than I want to, Wolf finished forlornly. 3 Two days later a pair of tired, footsore boys limped past the MUNICIPAL TOWN LIMITS sign on one side of Highway 32 and the 104 Diner on the other side, and thus into the city of Muncie, Indiana. Jack was running a fever of a hundred and two degrees and coughing pretty steadily. Wolfs face was swollen and discolored. He looked like a pug that has come out on the short end in a grudge match. The day before, he had tried to get them some late apples from a tree growing in the shade of an abandoned barn beside the road. He had actually been in the tree and dropping shrivelled autumn apples into the front of his overalls when the wallwasps, which had built their nest somewhere in the eaves of the old barn, had found him. Wolf had come back down the tree as fast as he could, with a brown cloud around his head. He was howling. And still, with one eye completely closed and his nose beginning to resemble a large purple turnip, he had insisted that Jack have the best of the apples. None of them was very goodsmall and sour and wormyand Jack didnt feel much like eating anyway, but after what Wolf had gone through to get them, he hadnt had the heart to refuse. A big old Camaro, jacked in the back so that the nose pointed at the road, blasted by them. Heyyyyy, assholes! someone yelled, and there was a burst of loud, beerfueled laughter. Wolf howled and clutched at Jack. Jack had thought that Wolf would eventually get over his terror of cars, but now he was really beginning to wonder. Its all right, Wolf, he said wearily, peeling Wolfs arms off for the twentieth or thirtieth time that day. Theyre gone. So loud! Wolf moaned. Wolf! Wolf! Wolf! So loud, Jack, my ears, my ears! Glasspack muffler, Jack said, thinking wearily Youd love the California freeways, Wolf. Well check those out if were still travelling together, okay? Then well try a few stockcar races and motorcycle scrambles. Youll be nuts about them. Some guys like the sound, you know. They But he went into another coughing fit that doubled him over. For a moment the world swam away in gray shades. It came back very, very slowly. Like it, Wolf muttered. Jason! How could anyone like it, Jack? And the smells . . . Jack knew that, for Wolf, the smells were the worst. They hadnt been over here four hours before Wolf began to call it the Country of Bad Smells. That first night Wolf had retched half a dozen times, at first throwing up muddy water from a stream which existed in another universe onto the Ohio ground, then simply dryheaving. It was the smells, he explained miserably. He didnt know how Jack could stand them, how anyone could stand them. Jack knewcoming back from the Territories, you were bowled over by odors you barely noticed when you were living with them. Diesel fuel, car exhausts, industrial wastes, garbage, bad water, ripe chemicals. Then you got used to them again. Got used to them or just went numb. Only that wasnt happening to Wolf. He hated the cars, he hated the smells, he hated this world. Jack didnt think he was ever going to get used to it. If he didnt get Wolf back into the Territories fairly soon, Jack thought he might go crazy. Hell probably drive me crazy while hes at it, Jack thought. Not that Ive got far to go anymore. A clattering farmtruck loaded with chickens ground by them, followed by an impatient line of cars, some of them honking. Wolf almost jumped into Jacks arms. Weakened by the fever, Jack reeled into the brushy, trashlittered ditch and sat down so hard his teeth clicked together. Im sorry, Jack, Wolf said miserably. God pound me! Not your fault, Jack said. Fall out. Time to take five. Wolf sat down beside Jack, remaining silent, looking at Jack anxiously. He knew how hard he was making it for Jack; he knew that Jack was in a fever to move faster, partly to outdistance Morgan, but mostly for some other reason. He knew that Jack moaned about his mother in his sleep, and sometimes cried. But the only time he had cried when awake was after Wolf went a little crazy on the Arcanum turnpike ramp. That was when he realized what Jack meant by hitching. When Wolf told Jack he didnt think he could hitch ridesat least not for a while and maybe not everJack had sat down on the top strand of guardrail cable and had wept into his hands. And then he had stopped, which was good . . . but when he took his face out of his hands, he had looked at Wolf in a way that made Wolf feel sure that Jack would leave him in this horrible Country of Bad Smells . . . and without Jack, Wolf would soon go quite mad. 4 They had walked up to the Arcanum exit in the breakdown lane, Wolf cringing and pawing at Jack each time a car or truck passed in the deepening dusk. Jack had heard a mocking voice drift back on the slipstream Wheres your car, faggots? He shook it off like a dog shaking water out of his eyes, and had simply kept going, taking Wolfs hand and pulling him after when Wolf showed signs of lagging or drifting toward the woods. The important thing was to get off the turnpike proper, where hitchhiking was forbidden, and onto the westbound Arcanum entrance ramp. Some states had legalized hitching from the ramps (or so a roadbum with whom Jack had shared a barn one night had told him), and even in states where thumbing was technically a crime, the cops would usually wink if you were on a ramp. So first, get to the ramp. Hope no state patrol happened along while you were getting there. What a state trooper might make of Wolf Jack didnt want to think about. He would probably think he had caught an eighties incarnation of Charles Manson in Lennon glasses. They made the ramp and crossed over to the westbound lane. Ten minutes later a battered old Chrysler had pulled up. The driver, a burly man with a bull neck and a cap which read CASE FARM EQUIPMENT tipped back on his head, leaned over and opened the door. Hop in, boys! Dirty night, aint it? Thanks, mister, it sure is, Jack said cheerfully. His mind was in overdrive, trying to figure out how he could work Wolf into the Story, and he barely noticed Wolfs expression. The man noticed it, however. His face hardened. You smell anything bad, son? Jack was snapped back to reality by the mans tone, which was as hard as his face. All cordiality had departed it, and he looked as if he might have just wandered into the Oatley Tap to eat a few beers and drink a few glasses. Jack whipped around and looked at Wolf. Wolfs nostrils were flaring like the nostrils of a bear which smells a blown skunk. His lips were not just pulled back from his teeth; they were wrinkled back from them, the flesh below his nose stacked in little ridges. What is he, retarded? the man in the CASE FARM EQUIPMENT hat asked Jack in a low voice. No, ah, he just Wolf began to growl. That was it. Oh, Christ, the man said in the tones of one who simply cannot believe this is happening. He stepped on the gas and roared down the exit ramp, the passenger door flopping shut. His taillights dotdashed briefly in the rainy dark at the foot of the ramp, sending reflections in smeary red arrows up the pavement toward where they stood. Boy, thats great, Jack said, and turned to Wolf, who shrank back from his anger. Thats just great! If hed had a CB radio, hed be on Channel Nineteen right now, yelling for a cop, telling anyone and everyone that there are a couple of loonies trying to hitch a ride out of Arcanum! Jason! Or Jesus! Or Whoever, I dont care! You want to see some fucking nails get pounded, Wolf? You do that a few more times and youll feel them get pounded! Us! Well get pounded! Exhausted, bewildered, frustrated, almost used up, Jack advanced on the cringing Wolf, who could have torn his head from his shoulders with one hard, swinging blow if he had wanted to, and Wolf backed up before him. Dont shout, Jack, he moaned. The smells . . . to be in there . . . shut up in there with those smells . . . I didnt smell anything! Jack shouted. His voice broke, his sore throat hurt more than ever, but he couldnt seem to stop; it was shout or go mad. His wet hair had fallen in his eyes. He shook it away and then slapped Wolf on the shoulder. There was a smart crack and his hand began to hurt at once. It was as if he had slapped a stone. Wolf howled abjectly, and this made Jack angrier. The fact that he was lying made him angrier still. He had been in the Territories less than six hours this time, but that mans car had smelled like a wild animals den. Harsh aromas of old coffee and fresh beer (there had been an open can of Strohs between his legs), an airfreshener hanging from the rearview mirror that smelled like dry sweet powder on the cheek of a corpse. And there had been something else, something darker, something wetter . . . Not anything! he shouted, his voice breaking hoarsely. He slapped Wolfs other shoulder. Wolf howled again and turned around, hunching like a child who is being beaten by an angry father. Jack began to slap at his back, his smarting hands spatting up little sprays of water from Wolfs overalls. Each time Jacks hand descended, Wolf howled. So you better get used to it (Slap!) because the next car to come along might be a cop (Slap!) or it might be Mr. Morgan Bloat in his pukegreen BMW (Slap!) and if all you can be is a big baby, were going to be in one big fucking world of hurt! (Slap!) Do you understand that? Wolf said nothing. He stood hunched in the rain, his back to Jack, quivering. Crying. Jack felt a lump rise in his own throat, felt his eyes grow hot and stinging. All of this only increased his fury. Some terrible part of him wanted most of all to hurt himself, and knew that hurting Wolf was a wonderful way to do it. Turn around! Wolf did. Tears ran from his muddy brown eyes behind the round spectacles. Snot ran from his nose. Do you understand me? Yes, Wolf moaned. Yes, I understand, but I couldnt ride with him, Jack. Why not? Jack looked at him angrily, fisted hands on his hips. Oh, his head was aching. Because he was dying, Wolf said in a low voice. Jack stared at him, all his anger draining away. Jack, didnt you know? Wolf asked softly. Wolf! You couldnt smell it? No, Jack said in a small, whistling, outofbreath voice. Because he had smelled something, hadnt he? Something he had never smelled before. Something like a mixture of . . . It came to him, and suddenly his strength was gone. He sat down heavily on the guardrail cable and looked at Wolf. Shit and rotting grapes. That was what that smell had been like. That wasnt it a hundred percent, but it was too hideously close. Shit and rotting grapes. Its the worst smell, Wolf said. Its when people forget how to be healthy. We call itWolf!the Black Disease. I dont even think he knew he had it. And . . . these Strangers cant smell it, can they, Jack? No, he whispered. If he were to be suddenly teleported back to New Hampshire, to his mothers room in the Alhambra, would he smell that stink on her? Yes. He would smell it on his mother, drifting out of her pores, the smell of shit and rotting grapes, the Black Disease. We call it cancer, Jack whispered. We call it cancer and my mother has it. I just dont know if I can hitch, Wolf said. Ill try again if you want, Jack, but the smells . . . inside . . . theyre bad enough in the outside air, Wolf! but inside . . . That was when Jack put his face in his hands and wept, partly out of desperation, mostly out of simple exhaustion. And, yes, the expression Wolf believed he had seen on Jacks face really had been there; for an instant the temptation to leave Wolf was more than a temptation, it was a maddening imperative. The odds against his ever making it to California and finding the Talismanwhatever it might behad been long before; now they were so long they dwindled to a point on the horizon. Wolf would do more than slow him down; Wolf would sooner or later get both of them thrown in jail. Probably sooner. And how could he ever explain Wolf to Rational Richard Sloat? What Wolf saw on Jacks face in that moment was a look of cold speculation that unhinged his knees. He fell on them and held his clasped hands up to Jack like a suitor in a bad Victorian melodrama. Dont go away an leave me, Jack, he wept. Dont leave old Wolf, dont leave me here, you brought me here, please, please dont leave me alone. . . . Beyond this, conscious words were lost; Wolf was perhaps trying to talk but all he really seemed able to do was sob. Jack felt a great weariness fall over him. It fit well, like a jacket that one has worn often. Dont leave me here, you brought me here . . . There it was. Wolf was his responsibility, wasnt he? Yes. Oh yes indeed. He had taken Wolf by the hand and dragged him out of the Territories and into Ohio and he had the throbbing shoulder to prove it. He had had no choice, of course; Wolf had been drowning, and even if he hadnt drowned, Morgan would have crisped him with whatever that lightningrod thing had been. So he could have turned on Wolf again, could have said Which would you prefer, Wolf old buddy? To be here and scared, or there and dead? He could, yes, and Wolf would have no answer because Wolf wasnt too swift in the brains department. But Uncle Tommy had been fond of quoting a Chinese proverb that went The man whose life you save is your responsibility for the rest of your life. Never mind the ducking, never mind the fancy footwork; Wolf was his responsibility. Dont leave me, Jack, Wolf wept. WolfWolf! Please dont leave good old Wolf, Ill help you, Ill stand guard at night, I can do lots, only dont dont Quit bawling and get up, Jack said quietly. I wont leave you. But weve got to get out of here in case that guy does send a cop back to check on us. Lets move it. 5 Did you figure out what to do next, Jack? Wolf asked timidly. They had been sitting in the brushy ditch just over the Muncie town line for more than half an hour, and when Jack turned toward Wolf, Wolf was relieved to see he was smiling. It was a weary smile, and Wolf didnt like the dark, tired circles under Jacks eyes (he liked Jacks smell even lessit was a sick smell), but it was a smile. I think I see what we should do next right over there, Jack said. I was thinking about it just a few days ago, when I got my new sneakers. He bowed his feet. He and Wolf regarded the sneakers in depressed silence. They were scuffed, battered, and dirty. The left sole was bidding a fond adieu to the left upper. Jack had owned them for . . . he wrinkled his forehead and thought. The fever made it hard to think. Three days.


Only three days since he had picked them out of the bargain bin of the Fayva store. Now they looked old. Old. Anyway . . . Jack sighed. Then he brightened. See that building over there, Wolf? The building, an explosion of uninteresting angles in gray brick, stood like an island in the middle of a giant parking lot. Wolf knew what the asphalt in that parking lot would smell like dead, decomposing animals. That smell would almost suffocate him, and Jack would barely notice it. For your information, the sign there said Town Line Sixplex, Jack said. It sounds like a coffee pot, but actually its a movie with six shows. There ought to be one we like. And in the afternoon, there wont be many people there and thats good because you have this distressing habit of going Section Eight, Wolf. Come on. He got unsteadily to his feet. Whats a movie, Jack? Wolf asked. He had been a dreadful problem to Jack, he knewsuch a dreadful problem that he now hesitated to protest about anything, or even express unease. But a frightening intuition had come to him that going to a movie and hitching a ride might be the same thing. Jack called the roaring carts and carriages cars, and Chevys, and Jartrans, and stationwagons (these latter, Wolf thought, must be like the coaches in the Territories which carried passengers from one coachstation to the next). Might the bellowing, stinking carriages also be called movies? It sounded very possible. Well, Jack said, its easier to show you than to tell you. I think youll like it. Come on. Jack stumbled coming out of the ditch and went briefly to his knees. Jack, are you okay? Wolf asked anxiously. Jack nodded. They started across the parking lot, which smelled just as bad as Wolf had known it would. 6 Jack had come a good part of the thirtyfive miles between Arcanum, Ohio, and Muncie, Indiana, on Wolfs broad back. Wolf was frightened of cars, terrified of trucks, nauseated by the smells of almost everything, apt to howl and run at sudden loud noises. But he was also almost tireless. As far as that goes, you can strike the almost, Jack thought now. So far as I know, he is tireless. Jack had moved them away from the Arcanum ramp as fast as he could, forcing his wet, aching legs into a rusty trot. His head had been throbbing like a slick, flexing fist inside his skull, waves of heat and cold rushing through him. Wolf moved easily to his left, his stride so long that he was keeping up with Jack easily by doing no more than a moderately fast walk. Jack knew that he had maybe gotten paranoid about the cops, but the man in the CASE FARM EQUIPMENT hat had looked really scared. And pissed. They hadnt gone even a quarter of a mile when a deep, burning stitch settled into his side and he asked Wolf if he could give him a piggyback for a while. Huh? Wolf asked. You know, Jack said, and pantomimed. A big grin had overspread Wolfs face. Here at last was something he understood; here was something he could do. You want a horseyback! he cried, delighted. Yeah, I guess . . . Oh, yeah! Wolf! Here and now! Used to give em to my litterbrothers! Jump up, Jack! Wolf bent down, holding his curved hands ready, stirrups for Jacks thighs. Now when I get too heavy, just put me d Before he could finish, Wolf had swept him up and was running lightly down the road with him into the darkreally running. The cold, rainy air flipped Jacks hair back from his hot brow. Wolf, youll wear yourself out! Jack shouted. Not me! Wolf! Wolf! Runnin here and now! For the first time since they had come over, Wolf sounded actually happy. He ran for the next two hours, until they were west of Arcanum and travelling along a dark, unmarked stretch of twolane blacktop. Jack saw a deserted barn standing slumped in a shaggy, untended field, and they slept there that night. Wolf wanted nothing to do with downtown areas where the traffic was a roaring flood and the stinks rose up to heaven in a noxious cloud, and Jack didnt want anything to do with them, either. Wolf stuck out too much. But he had forced one stop, at a roadside store just across the Indiana line, near Harrisville. While Wolf waited nervously out by the road, hunkering down, digging at the dirt, getting up, walking around in a stiff little circle, then hunkering again, Jack bought a newspaper and checked the weather page carefully. The next full moon was on October 31stHalloween, that was fitting enough. Jack turned back to the front page so he could see what day it was today . . . yesterday, that had been now. It had been October 26th. 7 Jack pulled open one of the glass doors and stepped inside the lobby of the Town Line Sixplex. He looked around sharply at Wolf, but Wolf lookedfor the moment, at leastpretty much okay. Wolf was, in fact, cautiously optimistic . . . at least for the moment. He didnt like being inside a building, but at least it wasnt a car. There was a good smell in herelight and sort of tasty. Or would have been, except for a bitter, almost rancid undersmell. Wolf looked left and saw a glass box full of white stuff. That was the source of the good light smell. Jack, he whispered. Huh? I want some of that white stuff, please. But none of the pee. Pee? What are you talking about? Wolf searched for a more formal word and found it. Urine. He pointed at a thing with a light going off and on inside it. BUTTERY FLAVORING, it read. Thats some kind of urine, isnt it? Its got to be, the way it smells. Jack smiled tiredly. A popcorn without the fake butter, right, he said. Now pipe down, okay? Sure, Jack, Wolf said humbly. Right here and now. The ticketgirl had been chewing a big wad of grapeflavored bubble gum. Now she stopped. She looked at Jack, then at Jacks big, hulking companion. The gum sat on her tongue inside her halfopen mouth like a large purple tumor. She rolled her eyes at the guy behind the counter. Two, please, Jack said. He took out his roll of bills, dirty, tageared ones with an orphan five hiding in the middle. Which show? Her eyes moved back and forth, back and forth, Jack to Wolf and Wolf to Jack. She looked like a woman watching a hot tabletennis match. Whats just starting? Jack asked her. Well . . . She glanced down at the paper Scotchtaped beside her. Theres The Flying Dragon in Cinema Four. Its a kungfu movie with Chuck Norris. Back and forth went her eyes, back and forth, back and forth. Then, in Cinema Six, theres a double feature. Two Ralph Bakshi cartoons. Wizards and The Lord of the Rings. Jack felt relieved. Wolf was nothing but a big, overgrown kid, and kids loved cartoons. This could work out after all. Wolf would maybe find at least one thing in the Country of Bad Smells that would amuse him, and Jack could sleep for three hours. That one, he said. The cartoons. Thatll be four dollars, she said. Bargain Matinee prices end at two. She pushed a button and two tickets poked out of a slot with a mechanical ratcheting noise. Wolf flinched backward with a small cry. The girl looked at him, eyebrows raised. You jumpy, mister? No, Im Wolf, Wolf said. He smiled, showing a great many teeth. Jack would have sworn that Wolf showed more teeth now when he smiled than he had a day or two ago. The girl looked at all those teeth. She wet her lips. Hes okay. He just Jack shrugged. He doesnt get off the farm much. You know. He gave her the orphan five. She handled it as if she wished she had a pair of tongs to do it with. Come on, Wolf. As they turned away to the candystand, Jack stuffing the one into the pocket of his grimy jeans, the ticketgirl mouthed to the counterman Look at his nose! Jack looked at Wolf and saw Wolfs nose flaring rhythmically. Stop that, he muttered. Stop what, Jack? Doing that thing with your nose. Oh. Ill try, Jack, but Shh. Help you, son? the counterman asked. Yes, please. A Junior Mints, a Reeses Pieces, and an extralarge popcorn without the grease. The counterman got the stuff and pushed it across to them. Wolf got the tub of popcorn in both hands and immediately began to snaffle it up in great jawcracking chomps. The counterman looked at this silently. Doesnt get off the farm much, Jack repeated. Part of him was already wondering if these two had seen enough of sufficient oddness to get them thinking that a call to the police might be in order. He thoughtnot for the first timethat there was a real irony in all this. In New York or L.A., probably no one would have given Wolf a second look . . . or if a second look, certainly not a third. Apparently the weirdnesstoleration level was a lot lower out in the middle of the country. But, of course, Wolf would have flipped out of his gourd long since if they had been in New York or L.A. Ill bet he dont, the counterman said. Thatll be twoeighty. Jack paid it with an inward wince, realizing he had just laid out a quarter of his cash for their afternoon at the movies. Wolf was grinning at the counterman through a mouthful of popcorn. Jack recognized it as Wolfs A 1 Friendly Smile, but he somehow doubted that the counterman was seeing it that way. There were all those teeth in that smile . . . hundreds of them, it seemed. And Wolf was flaring his nostrils again. Screw it, let them call the cops, if thats what they want to do, he thought with a weariness that was more adult than child. It cant slow us down much more than were slowed down already. He cant ride in the new cars because he cant stand the smell of the catalytic convertors and he cant ride in old cars because they smell like exhaust and sweat and oil and beer and he probably cant ride in any cars because hes so goddam claustrophobic. Tell the truth, JackO, even if its only to yourself. Youre going along telling yourself hes going to get over it pretty soon, but its probably not going to happen. So what are we going to do? Walk across Indiana, I guess. Correction, Wolf is going to walk across Indiana. Me, Im going to cross Indiana riding horseyback. But first Im going to take Wolf into this damn movie theater and sleep either until both pictures are over or until the cops arrive. And that is the end of my tale, sir. Well, enjoy the show, the counterman said. You bet, Jack replied. He started away and then realized Wolf wasnt with him. Wolf was staring at something over the countermans head with vacant, almost superstitious wonder. Jack looked up and saw a mobile advertising the reissue of Steven Spielbergs Close Encounters floating around on drafts of convection. Come on, Wolf, he said. 8 Wolf knew it wasnt going to work as soon as they went through the door. The room was small, dim, and dank. The smells in here were terrible. A poet, smelling what Wolf was smelling at that moment, might have called it the stink of sour dreams. Wolf was no poet. He only knew that the smell of the popcornurine predominated, and that he felt suddenly like throwing up. Then the lights began to dim even further, turning the room into a cave. Jack, he moaned, clutching at Jacks arm. Jack, we oughtta get out of here, okay? Youll like it, Wolf, Jack muttered, aware of Wolfs distress but not of its depth. Wolf was, after all, always distressed to some degree. In this world, the word distress defined him. Try it. Okay, Wolf said, and Jack heard the agreement but not the thin waver that meant Wolf was holding on to the last thread of his control with both hands. They sat down with Wolf on the aisle, his knees accordioned up uncomfortably, the tub of popcorn (which he no longer wanted) clutched to his chest. In front of them a match flared briefly yellow. Jack smelled the dry tang of pot, so familiar in the movies that it could be dismissed as soon as identified. Wolf smelled a forestfire. Jack! Shhh, pictures starting. And Im dozing off. Jack would never know of Wolfs heroism in the next few minutes; Wolf did not really know of it himself. He only knew that he had to try to stick this nightmare out for Jacks sake. It must be all right, he thought, look, Wolf, Jacks going right to sleep, right to sleep right here and now. And you know Jack wouldnt take you to a HurtPlace, so just stick it out . . . just wait . . . Wolf! . . . itll be all right . . . But Wolf was a cyclic creature, and his cycle was approaching its monthly climax. His instincts had become exquisitely refined, almost undeniable. His rational mind told him that he would be all right in here, that Jack wouldnt have brought him otherwise. But that was like a man with an itchy nose telling himself not to sneeze in church because it was impolite. He sat there smelling forestfire in a dark, stinking cave, twitching each time a shadow passed down the aisle, waiting numbly for something to fall on him from the shadows overhead. And then a magic window opened at the front of the cave and he sat there in the acrid stink of his own terrorsweat, eyes wide, face a mask of horror, as cars crashed and overturned, as buildings burned, as one man chased another. Previews, Jack mumbled. Told you youd like it. . . . There were Voices. One said nosmoking. One said dont litter. One said groupratesavailable. One said Bargain Matineepriceseveryweekdayuntilfourp.m. Wolf, we got screwed, Jack mumbled. He started to say something else, but it turned into a snore. A final voice said andnowourfeaturepresentation and that was when Wolf lost control. Bakshis The Lord of the Rings was in Dolby sound, and the projectionist had orders to really crank it in the afternoons, because thats when the heads drifted in, and the heads really liked loud Dolby. There was a screeching, discordant crash of brass. The magic window opened again and now Wolf could see the fireshifting oranges and reds. He howled and leaped to his feet, pulling with him a Jack who was more asleep than awake. Jack! he screamed. Get out! Got to get out! Wolf! See the fire! Wolf! Wolf! Down in front! someone shouted. Shut up, hoser! someone else yelled. The door at the back of Cinema 6 opened. Whats going on in here? Wolf, shut up! Jack hissed. For Gods sake OWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Wolf howled. A woman got a good look at Wolf as the white light from the lobby fell on him. She screamed and began dragging her little boy out by one arm. Literally dragging him; the kid had fallen to his knees and was skidding up the popcornlittered carpet of the center aisle. One of his sneakers had come off. OWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHOOOOOOHHHHOOOOOO! The pothead three rows down had turned around and was looking at them with bleary interest. He held a smouldering joint in one hand; a spare was cocked behind his ear. Far . . . out, he pronounced. Fucking werewolves of London strike again, right? Okay, Jack said. Okay, well get out. No problem. Just . . . just dont do that anymore, okay? Okay? He started leading Wolf out. The weariness had fallen over him again. The light of the lobby hit his eyes sharply, needling them. The woman who had dragged the little boy out of the theater was backed into a corner with her arms around the kid. When she saw Jack lead the stillhowling Wolf through the double doors of Cinema 6, she swept the kid up and made a break for it. The counterman, the ticketgirl, the projectionist, and a tall man in a sportcoat that looked as if it belonged on the back of a racetrack tout were clustered together in a tight little group. Jack supposed the guy in the checkered sportcoat and white shoes was the manager. The doors of the other cinemas in the hive had opened partway. Faces peered out of the darkness to see what all the hooraw was. To Jack, they all looked like badgers peering out of their holes. Get out! the man in the checkered sportcoat said. Get out, Ive called the police already, theyll be here in five minutes. Bullshit you did, Jack thought, feeling a ray of hope. You didnt have time. And if we blow right away, maybejust maybeyou wont bother. Were going, he said. Look, Im sorry. Its just that . . . my big brothers an epileptic and he just had a seizure. We . . . we forgot his medicine. At the word epileptic, the ticketgirl and the counterman recoiled. It was as if Jack had said leper. Come on, Wolf. He saw the managers eyes drop, saw his lip curl with distaste. Jack followed the glance and saw the wide dark stain on the front of Wolfs Oshkosh biballs. He had wet himself. Wolf also saw. Much in Jacks world was foreign to him, but he apparently knew well enough what that look of contempt meant. He burst into loud, braying, heartbroken sobs. Jack, Im sorry, Wolf is so SORRY! Get him out of here, the manager said contemptuously, and turned away. Jack put an arm around Wolf and got him started toward the door. Come on, Wolf, he said. He spoke quietly, and with an honest tenderness. He had never felt quite so keenly for Wolf as he did now. Come on, it was my fault, not yours. Lets go. Sorry. Wolf wept brokenly. Im no good, God pound me, just no good. Youre plenty good, Jack said. Come on. He pushed open the door and they went out into the thin, lateOctober warmth. The woman with the child was easily twenty yards away, but when she saw Jack and Wolf, she retreated backward toward her car, holding her kid in front of her like a cornered gangster with a hostage. Dont let him come near me! she screamed. Dont let that monster come near my baby! Do you hear? Dont let him come near me! Jack thought he should say something to calm her down, but he couldnt think what it might be. He was too tired. He and Wolf started away, heading across the parking lot at an angle. Halfway back to the road, Jack staggered. The world went briefly gray. He was vaguely aware of Wolf sweeping him up in his arms and carrying him that way, like a baby. Vaguely aware that Wolf was crying. Jack, Im so sorry, please dont hate Wolf, I can be a good old Wolf, you wait, youll see . . . I dont hate you, Jack said. I know youre . . . youre a good old But before he could finish, he had fallen asleep. When he woke up it was evening and Muncie was behind them. Wolf had gotten off the main roads and on to a web of farm roads and dirt tracks. Totally unconfused by the lack of signs and the multitude of choices, he had continued west with all the unerring instinct of a migrating bird. They slept that night in an empty house north of Cammack, and Jack thought in the morning that his fever had gone down a little. It was midmorningmidmorning of October 28thwhen Jack realized that the hair was back on Wolfs palms. 19 Jack in the Box 1 They camped that night in the ruins of a burnedout house with a wide field on one side and a copse of woods on another. There was a farmhouse on the far side of the field, but Jack thought that he and Wolf would be safe enough if they were quiet and stayed in most of the time. After the sun went down, Wolf went off into the woods. He was moving slowly, his face close to the ground. Before Jack lost sight of him, he thought that Wolf looked like a nearsighted man hunting for his dropped spectacles. Jack became quite nervous (visions of Wolf caught in a steeljawed trap had begun to come to him, Wolf caught and grimly not howling as he gnawed at his own leg . . .) before Wolf returned, walking almost upright this time, and carrying plants in both hands, the roots dangling out of his fists. What have you got there, Wolf? Jack asked. Medicine, Wolf said morosely. But its not very good, Jack. Wolf! Nothings much good in your world! Medicine? What do you mean? But Wolf would say no more. He produced two wooden matches from the bib pocket of his overalls and started a smokeless fire and asked Jack if he could find a can. Jack found a beer can in the ditch. Wolf smelled it and wrinkled his nose. More bad smells. Need water, Jack. Clean water. Ill go, if youre too tired. Wolf, I want to know what youre up to. Ill go, Wolf said. Theres a farm right across that field. Wolf! Therell be water there. You rest. Jack had a vision of some farmers wife looking out the kitchen window as she did the supper dishes and seeing Wolf skulking around in the dooryard with a beer can in one hairy paw and a bunch of roots and herbs in the other. Ill go, he said. The farm was not five hundred feet away from where they had camped; the warm yellow lights were clearly visible across the field. Jack went, filled the beer can at a shed faucet without incident, and started back. Halfway across the field he realized he could see his shadow, and looked up at the sky. The moon, now almost full, rode the eastern horizon. Troubled, Jack went back to Wolf and gave him the can of water. Wolf sniffed, winced again, but said nothing. He put the can over the fire and began to sift crumbled bits of the things he had picked in through the poptop hole. Five minutes or so later, a terrible smella reek, not to put too fine a point on itbegan to rise on the steam. Jack winced. He had no doubt at all that Wolf would want him to drink that stuff, and Jack also had no doubt it would kill him. Slowly and horribly, probably. He closed his eyes and began snoring loudly and theatrically. If Wolf thought he was sleeping, he wouldnt wake him up. No one woke up sick people, did they? And Jack was sick; his fever had come back at dark, raging through him, punishing him with chills even while he oozed sweat from every pore. Looking through his lashes, he saw Wolf set the can aside to cool. Wolf sat back and looked skyward, his hairy hands locked around his knees, his face dreamy and somehow beautiful. Hes looking at the moon, Jack thought, and felt a thread of fear. We dont go near the herd when we change. Good Jason, no! Wed eat them! Wolf, tell me something am I the herd now? Jack shivered. Five minutes laterJack almost had gone to sleep by thenWolf leaned over the can, sniffed, nodded, picked it up, and came over to where Jack was leaning against a fallen, fireblackened beam with an extra shirt behind his neck to pad the angle. Jack closed his eyes tightly and resumed snoring. Come on, Jack, Wolf said jovially. I know youre awake. You cant fool Wolf. Jack opened his eyes and looked at Wolf with bleary resentment. How did you know? People have a sleepsmell and a wakesmell, Wolf said. Even Strangers must know that, dont they? I guess we dont, Jack said. Anyway, you have to drink this. Its medicine. Drink it up, Jack, right here and now. I dont want it, Jack said. The smell coming from the can was swampy and rancid. Jack, Wolf said, youve got a sicksmell, too. Jack looked at him, saying nothing. Yes, Wolf said. And it keeps getting worse. Its not really bad, not yet, butWolf!its going to get bad if you dont take some medicine. Wolf, Ill bet youre great at sniffing out herbs and things back in the Territories, but this is the Country of Bad Smells, remember? Youve probably got ragweed in there, and poison oak, and bitter vetch, and Theyre good things, Wolf said. Just not very strong, God pound them. Wolf looked wistful. Not everything smells bad here, Jack. There are good smells, too. But the good smells are like the medicine plants. Weak. I think they were stronger, once. Wolf was looking dreamily up at the moon again, and Jack felt a recurrence of his earlier unease. Ill bet this was a good place once, Wolf said. Clean and full of power . . . Wolf? Jack asked in a low voice. Wolf, the hairs come back on your palms. Wolf started and looked at Jack. For a momentit might have been his feverish imagination, and even if not, it was only for a momentWolf looked at Jack with a flat, greedy hunger. Then he seemed to shake himself, as if out of a bad dream. Yes, he said. But I dont want to talk about that, and I dont want you to talk about that. It doesnt matter, not yet. Wolf! Just drink your medicine, Jack, thats all you have to do. Wolf was obviously not going to take no for an answer; if Jack didnt drink the medicine, then Wolf might feel dutybound to simply pull open his jaws and pour it down his throat. Remember, if this kills me, youll be alone, Jack said grimly, taking the can. It was still warm. A look of terrible distress spread over Wolfs face. He pushed the round glasses up on his nose. Dont want to hurt you, JackWolf never wants to hurt Jack. The expression was so large and so full of misery that it would have been ludicrous had it not been so obviously genuine. Jack gave in and drank the contents of the can. There was no way he could stand against that expression of hurt dismay. The taste was as awful as he had imagined it would be . . . and for a moment didnt the world waver? Didnt it waver as if he were about to flip back into the Territories? Wolf! he yelled. Wolf, grab my hand! Wolf did, looking both concerned and excited. Jack? Jacky? What is it? The taste of the medicine began to leave his mouth. At the same time, a warm glowthe sort of glow he got from a small sip of brandy on the few occasions his mother had allowed him to have onebegan to spread in his stomach. And the world grew solid around him again. That brief wavering might also have been imagination . . . but Jack didnt think so. We almost went. For a moment there it was very close. Maybe I can do it without the magic juice . . . maybe I can! Jack? What is it? I feel better, he said, and managed a smile. I feel better, thats all. He discovered that he did, too. You smell better, too, Wolf said cheerfully. Wolf! Wolf! 2 He continued to improve the next day, but he was weak. Wolf carried him horseyback and they made slow progress west. Around dusk they started looking for a place to lie up for the night. Jack spotted a woodshed in a dirty little gully. It was surrounded by trash and bald tires. Wolf agreed without saying much. He had been quiet and morose all day long. Jack fell asleep almost at once and woke up around eleven needing to urinate. He looked beside him and saw that Wolfs place was empty. Jack thought he had probably gone in search of more herbs in order to administer the equivalent of a booster shot. Jack wrinkled his nose, but if Wolf wanted him to drink more of the stuff, he would. It surely had made him feel one hell of a lot better. He went around to the side of the shed, a straight slim boy wearing Jockey shorts, unlaced sneakers, and an open shirt. He peed for what seemed like a very long time indeed, looking up at the sky as he did so. It was one of those misleading nights which sometimes comes to the midwest in October and early November, not so long before winter comes down with a cruel, iron snap. It was almost tropically warm, and the mild breeze was like a caress. Overhead floated the moon, white and round and lovely. It cast a clear and yet eerily misleading glow over everything, seeming to simultaneously enhance and obscure. Jack stared at it, aware that he was almost hypnotized, not really caring. We dont go near the herd when we change. Good Jason, no! Am I the herd now, Wolf? There was a face on the moon. Jack saw with no surprise that it was Wolfs face . . . except it was not wide and open and a little surprised, a face of goodness and simplicity. This face was narrow, ah yes, and dark; it was dark with hair, but the hair didnt matter. It was dark with intent. We dont go near them, wed eat them, eat them, wed eat them, Jack, when we change wed The face in the moon, a chiaroscuro carved in bone, was the face of a snarling beast, its head cocked in that final moment before the lunge, the mouth open and filled with teeth. Wed eat wed kill wed kill, kill, KILL KILL A finger touched Jacks shoulder and ran slowly down to his waist. Jack had only been standing there with his penis in his hand, the foreskin pinched lightly between thumb and forefinger, looking at the moon. Now a fresh, hard jet of urine spurted out of him. I scared you, Wolf said from behind him. Im sorry, Jack. God pound me. But for a moment Jack didnt think Wolf was sorry. For a moment it sounded as if Wolf were grinning. And Jack was suddenly sure he was going to be eaten up. House of bricks? he thought incoherently. I dont even have a house of straw that I can run to. Now the fear came, dry terror in his veins hotter than any fever. Whos afraid of the big bad Wolf the big bad Wolf the big bad Jack? I am, I am, oh God I am afraid of the big bad Wolf He turned around slowly. Wolfs face, which had been lightly scruffed with stubble when the two of them crossed to the shed and lay down, was now heavily bearded from a point so high on his cheekbones that the hair almost seemed to begin at his temples. His eyes glared a bright redorange. Wolf, are you all right? Jack asked in a husky, breathy whisper. It was as loud as he could talk. Yes, Wolf said. Ive been running with the moon. Its beautiful. I ran . . . and ran . . . and ran. But Im all right, Jack. Wolf smiled to show how all right he was, and revealed a mouthful of giant, rending teeth. Jack recoiled in numb horror. It was like looking into the mouth of that Alien thing in the movies. Wolf saw his expression, and dismay crossed his roughened, thickening features. But under the dismayand not far under, eitherwas something else. Something that capered and grinned and showed its teeth. Something that would chase prey until blood flew from the preys nose in its terror, until it moaned and begged. Something that would laugh as it tore the screaming prey open. It would laugh even if he were the prey. Especially if he were the prey. Jack, Im sorry, he said. The time . . . its coming. Well have to do something. Well . . . tomorrow. Well have to . . . have to . . . He looked up and that hypnotized expression spread over his face as he looked into the sky. He raised his head and howled. And Jack thought he heardvery faintlythe Wolf in the moon howl back. Horror stole through him, quietly and completely. Jack slept no more that night. 3 The next day Wolf was better. A little better, anyway, but he was almost sick with tension. As he was trying to tell Jack what to doas well as he could, anywaya jet plane passed high overhead. Wolf jumped to his feet, rushed out, and howled at it, shaking his fists at the sky. His hairy feet were bare again. They had swelled and split the cheap penny loafers wide open. He tried to tell Jack what to do, but he had little to go on except old tales and rumors. He knew what the change was in his own world, but he sensed it might be much worsemore powerful and more dangerousin the land of the Strangers. And he felt that now. He felt that power sweeping through him, and tonight when the moon rose he felt sure it would sweep him away. Over and over again he reiterated that he didnt want to hurt Jack, that he would rather kill himself than hurt Jack. 4 Daleville was the closest small town. Jack got there shortly after the courthouse clock struck noon, and went into the True Value hardware store. One hand was stuffed into his pants pocket, touching his depleted roll of bills. Help you, son? Yes sir, Jack said. I want to buy a padlock. Well, step over here and lets us have a look. Weve got Yales, and Mosslers, and LokTites, and you name it. What kind of padlock you want? A big one, Jack said, looking at the clerk with his shadowed, somehow disquieting eyes. His face was gaunt but still persuasive in its odd beauty. A big one, the clerk mused. And what would you be wanting it for, might I ask? My dog, Jack said steadily. A Story. Always they wanted a Story. He had gotten this one ready on the way in from the shed where they had spent the last two nights. I need it for my dog. I have to lock him up. He bites. 5 The padlock he picked out cost ten dollars, leaving Jack with about ten dollars to his name. It hurt him to spend that much, and he almost went for a cheaper item . . . and then he had a memory of how Wolf had looked the night before, howling at the moon with orange fire spilling from his eyes. He paid the ten dollars. He stuck out his thumb at every passing car as he hurried back to the shed, but of course none of them stopped. Perhaps he looked too wildeyed, too frantic. He certainly felt wildeyed and frantic.