Hunger and Thirst by Wayne Wightman Page B

man nodded and Jack tossed it to him. He caught it.
    The man's eyes went wide and wild. Jack took the finger bone out of his hand and the rifle from under his arm. The cartridges he pocketed and the rifle he leaned against the man's body; he'd take it with him and throw it off the road somewhere.
    The two men and the woman off in the back stopped laughing and approached at angles to see what was going on. One of the men now had a rifle in his hands.
     “I don't know how long you'll be that way,” Jack said to the man in the down jacket. He hoisted his pack. “Nor do I care. But do tell your friends, if you get the chance, that I was a nice guy about this. I didn't cut your throat. I think most people would have, don't you?”
    Jack saw the dogs as he was shrugging into the pack. They were coming up behind him and they didn't look like they were out for exercise. Their heads hung low and they focused on the three on the hillside. The people didn't run at first — they hesitated, knowing that if they ran, the dogs would follow. They hesitated till one dog just couldn't wait and broke for them. The rest of the pack lunged forward.
    There was one gunshot. The humans didn't get up to speed, or out of Jack's sight, before they were brought down. It was noisy. It was all dog noise.
    Three dogs from the back of the back of the pack apparently decided the competition was too heavy and broke off, circling back toward Jack and standing, pacing, just outside the personal limit they sensed that he had.
    Jack stepped up and said into the man's face, “I don't know if you had any friends before, but you don't now.” Jack snapped shut the last strap on his pack; he was ready to travel.
    The man still quivered, straining to move, like he might split out of his skin.
    “If our positions were reversed, you'd probably find this humorous — power of life and death over a helpless person. I don't find this humorous. You're like a dirty job that stepped out of the woods and needed doing.”
    The man stared at him, his eyes huge. Steam rolled off his pants where he peed.
    Jack started to leave but stopped. “One last thing. Do you suppose this is what your victims felt? Bad feeling, isn't it.” Jack walked away.
    The three dogs moved in as Jack moved out. In thirty seconds the dogs had quieted and settled into feeding from their proprietary areas.
    Jack didn't look back. The day continued.
    ....
     There was a three-foot-wide path of packed snow where animals and other travelers had passed. The day had barely brightened to a gray glow and it stayed that way till nightfall. Then it repeated, with drizzle.
    Jack trudged on, tired, dirty and wet — forward... forward to the Pacific. With the poncho hooded over him he almost missed the sign, and he was glad he hadn't.
    It was almost billboard size, at least fifty years old, barely legible, with a hundred bullet holes in it:
     
    WELCOME TO CALIFORNIA
    THE GOLDEN STATE
    Littering Punishable by $450 Fine
      
     “We made it, Arthur. Don't drop any of your litter. Next stop, the blue Pacific and palm trees. Those babes better be in bikinis. Lotta sand on those beaches for you. Cat paradise.”
    Artie stuck his nose out of the sling, saw the rain and pulled his head back.
    “I share your excitement.”
    Jack trudged on. He felt like his Hope Meter had moved from one to two. But it moved.
    ....
    In full sun, using his jacket as a pillow, Jack dozed on a stretch of shaggy grass. Gulls wheeled and called overhead. Near him, Artie batted at a leaf with his toeless paw, bit it, and rolled onto his back, like Jack. The Pacific Ocean lay at their feet, stretched across half the world, and it was bluer than the sky.
    He had arrived in this place a month before. He had found a decent abandoned cottage, had started a garden, and accumulated some food. But today, sunning himself here, now — this was exactly the place he wanted to be.
    “Hey, you fuck.”
    Jack opened his eyes.
    Hewitt. Squatting at