The Talisman by Stephen King

worked his way close to one of the towns north of them. Jack couldn’t be sure, but he thought that a transformed Wolf

would probably be capable of slaughtering at least half a

dozen people before somebody finally killed him.

“Damn, damn, damn,” Jack said, and began to climb up the

far side of the gully. He had no real hopes of seeing Wolf—he would probably never see Wolf again, he realized. In some

small-town paper, a few days down the road, he’d find a horrified description of the carnage caused by an enormous wolf

which had apparently wandered into Main Street looking for

food. And there would be more names. More names like

Thielke, Heidel, Hagen . . .

At first he looked toward the road, hoping even now to see

Wolf ’s giant form skulking away to the east—he wouldn’t

want to meet Jack returning from Daleville. The long road

was as deserted as the shed.

Of course.

The sun, as good a clock as the one he wore on his wrist,

had slipped well below its meridian.

Jack turned despairingly toward the long field and the edge of the woods behind it. Nothing moved but the tips of the

stubble, which bent before a chill wandering breeze.

HUNT CONTINUES FOR KILLER WOLF, a headline would read,

a few days down the road.

Then a large brown boulder at the edge of the woods did

move, and Jack realized that the boulder was Wolf. He had

hunkered down on his heels and was staring at Jack.

“Oh, you inconvenient son of a bitch,” Jack said, and in the midst of his relief knew that a part of him had been secretly delighted by Wolf ’s departure. He stepped toward him.

Wolf did not move, but his posture somehow intensified,

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became more electric and aware. Jack’s next step required

more courage than the first.

Twenty yards farther, he saw that Wolf had continued to

change. His hair had become even thicker, more luxuriant, as if it had been washed and blow-dried; and now Wolf ’s beard really did seem to begin just beneath his eyes. He entire body, hunkered down as it was, seemed to have become wider and

more powerful. His eyes, filled with liquid fire, blazed Halloween orange.

Jack made himself go nearer. He nearly stopped when he

thought he saw that Wolf now had paws instead of hands, but a moment later realized that his hands and fingers were completely covered by a thatch of coarse dark hair. Wolf continued to gaze at him with his blazing eyes. Jack again halved the distance between them, then paused. For the first time

since he had come upon Wolf tending his flock beside a Territories stream, he could not read his expression. Maybe Wolf had become too alien for that already, or maybe all the hair simply concealed too much of his face. What he was sure of

was that some strong emotion had gripped Wolf.

A dozen feet away he stopped for good and forced himself

to look into the werewolf ’s eyes.

“Soon now, Jacky,” Wolf said, and his mouth dropped open

in a fearsome parody of a smile.

“I thought you ran away,” Jack said.

“Sat here to see you coming. Wolf!”

Jack did not know what to make of this declaration. Ob-

scurely, it reminded him of Little Red Riding Hood. Wolf ’s teeth did look particularly crowded, sharp, and strong. “I got the lock,” he said. He pulled it out of his pocket and held it up. “You have any ideas while I was gone, Wolf?”

Wolf ’s whole face—eyes, teeth, everything—blazed out at

Jack.

“You’re the herd now, Jacky,” Wolf said. And lifted his

head and released a long unfurling howl.

8

A less frightened Jack Sawyer might have said, “Can that

stuff, willya?” or “We’ll have every dog in the county around

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here if you keep that up,” but both of these statements died in his throat. He was too scared to utter a word. Wolf gave him his A #1 smile again, his mouth looking like a television commercial for Ginsu knives, and rose effortlessly to his feet. The John Lennon glasses seemed to be receding back into the

bristly top of his beard and the thick hair falling over his temples. He looked at least seven feet tall to Jack, and as burly as the beer barrels in the back room of the Oatley Tap.

“You have good smells in this world, Jacky,” Wolf said.

And Jack finally recognized his mood. Wolf was exultant.

He was like a man who against steep odds had just won a particularly difficult contest. At the bottom of this triumphant emotion percolated that joyful and feral quality Jack had seen once before.

“Good smells! Wolf! Wolf!”

Jack took a delicate step backward, wondering if he was

upwind of Wolf. “You never said anything good about it be-

fore,” he said, not quite coherently.

“Before is before and now is now,” Wolf said. “Good

things. Many good things—all around. Wolf will find them,

you bet.”

That made it worse, for now Jack could see—could nearly

feel—a flat, confident greed, a wholly amoral hunger shining in the reddish eyes. I’ll eat anything I catch and kill, it said.

Catch and kill.

“I hope none of those good things are people, Wolf,” Jack

said quietly.

Wolf lifted his chin and uttered a bubbling series of noises half-howl, half-laughter.

“Wolfs need to eat,” he said, and his voice, too, was joyous.

“Oh, Jacky, how Wolfs do need to eat. EAT! Wolf!”

“I’m going to have to put you in that shed,” Jack said. “Remember, Wolf? I got the lock? We’ll just have to hope it’ll hold you. Let’s start over there now, Wolf. You’re scaring the shit out of me.”

This time the bubbling laughter ballooned out of Wolf ’s

chest. “Scared! Wolf knows! Wolf knows, Jacky! You have the fear-smell.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jack said. “Let’s get over to that shed now, okay?”

“Oh, I’m not going in the shed,” Wolf said, and a long

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pointed tongue curled out from between his jaws. “No, not

me, Jacky. Not Wolf. Wolf can’t go in the shed.” The jaws

widened, and the crowded teeth shone. “Wolf remembered,

Jacky. Wolf! Right here and now! Wolf remembered!”

Jack stepped backward.

“More fear-smell. Even on your shoes. Shoes, Jacky! Wolf!”

Shoes that smelled of fear were evidently deeply comic.

“You have to go in the shed, that’s what you should remem-

ber.”

“Wrong! Wolf! You go in the shed, Jacky! Jacky goes in shed! I remembered! Wolf!”

The werewolf ’s eyes slid from blazing reddish-orange to a

mellow, satisfied shade of purple. “From The Book of Good Farming, Jacky. The story of the Wolf Who Would Not Injure His Herd. Remember it, Jacky? The herd goes in the barn.

Remember? The lock goes on the door. When the Wolf knows

his Change is coming on him, the herd goes in the barn and

the lock goes on the door. He Would Not Injure His Herd.”

The jaws split and widened again, and the long dark tongue

curled up at the tip in a perfect image of delight. “Not! Not!

Not Injure His Herd! Wolf! Right here and now!”

“You want me to stay locked up in the shed for three

days?” Jack said.

“I have to eat, Jacky,” Wolf said simply, and the boy saw

something dark, quick, and sinister slide toward him from

Wolf ’s changing eyes. “When the moon takes me with her, I

have to eat. Good smells here, Jacky. Plenty of food for Wolf.

When the moon lets me go, Jacky comes out of the shed.”

“What happens if I don’t want to be locked up for three

days?”

“Then Wolf will kill Jacky. And then Wolf will be

damned.”

“This is all in The Book of Good Farming, is it?”

Wolf nodded his head. “I remembered. I remembered in

time, Jacky. When I was waiting for you.”

Jack was still trying to adjust himself to Wolf ’s idea. He would have to go three days without food. Wolf would be free to wander. He would be in prison, and Wolf would have the

world. Yet it was probably the only way he would survive

Wolf ’s transformation. Given the choice of a three-day fast or death, he’d choose an empty stomach. And then it suddenly

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seemed to Jack that this reversal was really no reversal at all—he would still be free, locked in the shed, and Wolf out in the world would still be imprisoned. His cage would just be larger than Jack’s. “Then God bless The Book of Good Farming, because I would never have thought of it myself.”