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, I’ve called the police already, they’ll be here in five minutes.”
Bullshit you did, Jack thought, feeling a ray of hope. You didn’t have time. And if we blow right away, maybe—just maybe—you won’t bother.
“We’re going,” he said. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that . . .
my big brother’s an epileptic and he just had a seizure. We . . .
we forgot his medicine.”
At the word epileptic, the ticket-girl and the counterman recoiled. It was as if Jack had said leper.
“Come on, Wolf.”
He saw the manager’s eyes drop, saw his lip curl with dis-
taste. Jack followed the glance and saw the wide dark stain on the front of Wolf ’s Oshkosh biballs. He had wet himself.
Wolf also saw. Much in Jack’s world was foreign to him,
but he apparently knew well enough what that look of con-
tempt meant. He burst into loud, braying, heartbroken sobs.
“Jack, I’m 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.
Let’s go.”
“Sorry.” Wolf wept brokenly. “I’m no good, God pound
me, just no good.”
“You’re plenty good,” Jack said. “Come on.”
He pushed open the door and they went out into the thin,
late-October warmth.
The woman with the child was easily twenty yards away,
but when she saw Jack and Wolf, she retreated backward to-
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ward her car, holding her kid in front of her like a cornered gangster with a hostage.
“Don’t let him come near me!” she screamed. “Don’t let
that monster come near my baby! Do you hear? Don’t let him come near me! ”
Jack thought he should say something to calm her down,
but he couldn’t 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, I’m so sorry, please don’t hate Wolf, I can be a good old Wolf, you wait, you’ll see . . .”
“I don’t hate you,” Jack said. “I know you’re . . . you’re 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 Cam-
mack, and Jack thought in the morning that his fever had
gone down a little.
It was midmorning—midmorning of October 28th—when
Jack realized that the hair was back on Wolf ’s palms.
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19
Jack in the Box
1
They camped that night in the ruins of a burned-out house
with a wide field on one side and a copse of woods on an-
other. 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 steel-jawed 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 it’s not very good,
Jack. Wolf! Nothing’s 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. I’ll go,
if you’re too tired.”
“Wolf, I want to know what you’re up to.”
“I’ll go,” Wolf said. “There’s a farm right across that field.
Wolf! There’ll be water there. You rest.”
Jack had a vision of some farmer’s wife looking out the
kitchen window as she did the supper dishes and seeing Wolf
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skulking around in the dooryard with a beer can in one hairy paw and a bunch of roots and herbs in the other.
“I’ll 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 pop-top hole. Five minutes or so later, a terrible smell—a reek, not to put too fine a point on it—began 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 theatri-
cally. If Wolf thought he was sleeping, he wouldn’t 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, punish-ing 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 beau-
tiful.
He’s looking at the moon, Jack thought, and felt a thread of fear.
We don’t go near the herd when we change. Good Jason,
no! We’d eat them!
Wolf, tell me something: am I the herd now?
Jack shivered.
Five minutes later—Jack almost had gone to sleep by then—Wolf leaned over the can, sniffed, nodded, picked it up, and came over to where Jack was leaning against a fallen, fire-blackened 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 you’re awake.
You can’t fool Wolf.”
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THE TALISMAN
Jack opened his eyes and looked at Wolf with bleary re-
sentment. “How did you know?”
“People have a sleep-smell and a wake-smell,” Wolf said.
“Even Strangers must know that, don’t they?”
“I guess we don’t,” Jack said.
“Anyway, you have to drink this. It’s medicine. Drink it up, Jack, right here and now.”
“I don’t want it,” Jack said. The smell coming from the can was swampy and rancid.
“Jack,” Wolf said, “you’ve got a sick-smell, too.”
Jack looked at him, saying nothing.
“Yes,” Wolf said. “And it keeps getting worse. It’s not
really bad, not yet, but— Wolf! —it’s going to get bad if you don’t take some medicine.”
“Wolf, I’ll bet you’re great at sniffing out herbs and things back in the Territories, but this is the Country of Bad Smells, remember? You’ve probably got ragweed in there, and poison
oak, and bitter vetch, and—”
“They’re 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