Hunger and Thirst by Wayne Wightman Page A

himself beyond his imagination. But he did it and he lived with it and now he held them in his hands without the slightest idea of what to do next.
    A pack of six or eight swarmed up the highway from the east. They all panted and looked tired. Jack prepared to sling the bones at them if they lunged at him to tear him apart, but it looked very quickly like that wasn't going to happen.
    The dogs gathered, seemed to look around at each other for some kind of agreement, then one sat down; then another; another. Several rolled onto their sides and panted. They noted Jack, but they didn't pay him much attention.
    And they had settled themselves exactly between Jack and the highway.
    He watched them carefully for a while, finished with his rice — one eye on the dogs, an occasional look-around for Artie — ate half of it and stashed the other half. Natalie hadn't said much about the dogs, other than that they didn't come close enough to be a problem, even with the rabbit hutches. That was frail hope.
    Jack stood up. What else was there to do? He could stay where he was or see if he could get past them.
    Although they didn't seem to be watching him, most of the dogs stood up when he did.
    By the time he'd got his pack on, all the dogs were afoot and looked ready — for what, he didn't want to guess. A single canine whim to take down the human, and they'd all follow. Once they got him, he figured he'd probably have under a minute left. It would be a bad under-a-minute. Whatever happened next, it was their choice, not his. So — as long as he wasn't dead, he'd keep going west.
    First thing was to collect Artie. He wasn't going without Arthur, he decided, even if he got killed protecting him.
    Artie was terrified enough to let himself be found, and he didn't object when Jack folded the towel-sling around him to both conceal him and to keep him from seeing potential assassins.
    “Okay, Arthur. I got my bones in my throwing hand and you in my holding hand. Let's see if we're alive in five minutes.”
    He didn't move quickly and he didn't look directly at the dogs. He aimed himself upslope, toward the side of the pack, and expected them to converge on him there... but they didn't. They moved back away from him, giving him wide room to pass.
    Jack slowed a little and veered more toward them... and yes, they did move back away from him, leaving a twenty-yard margin. Jack headed on up the road. The dogs lagged behind, slowly dropping further back till he didn't see them anymore. When he ate, later that day, there were no dogs to be seen in any direction, none could be heard.
    “Whatever.”
    It was another mystery until that night. He awakened to hear something tearing through the brush followed by frenzied barking dogs tearing past him. There were some distant scuffles, a few barks, and all was again quiet.
    Jack put his head back down the top of his pack. “We have an escort,” he whispered to Artie. “I'm sorry they're dogs.”
    ....
    He had heard there were permanent thieving stations along the pass highways, but he only encountered one. A man ambled out of the woods, rifle in hand, smile on his face. Two other men and a woman hung back. They all seemed cheerful. The woman even gave him a little finger-wave.
    “Howdy,” the man said. He was in his fifties, craggy, and a bit shorter than Jack; his down jacket made him look top-heavy. “I'm here to take your stuff. Whanchew put it down there so I don't have to work at gettin' it off your corpse.”
    Jack dropped his pack. “I got my cat in this sling.”
    “Oh, goody. Dinner. Put it down and let me shoot it. Or I shoot you first and then it.”
    Behind the man, Jack saw one of the other men laughing and grabbing the woman's butt. She shrieked and danced away to the other man.
    Jack had one of the finger bones in his hand. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “This is the only valuable thing I've got. Here.” He held it in his palm, offering to toss it over.
    The