Wolf Flow by K. W. Jeter Page A

in all directions. Bright enough to do what he was told, but not any brighter than that-which suited Mike fine. He'd instructed the kid to come back when it was dark. They'd make the push to get him to a phone then, when nobody would be likely to see them.
        If he made it till then. He'd used up what strength he'd had, just pulling it together long enough to talk to the kid and make plans. Plus, pitching down the building's stairs-he'd known going up there had been a bad idea, but the dream's shifting memory had pulled him on-had left him more fucked up than before. His vision was going; when there had been light enough to see, the doubling and the blurring had gotten worse, much worse. All the well-established indicators of the blood seeping inside his skull. He'd had only a brief glimpse of Doot's face before it had diffused into something like a pink cloud with a voice attached to it.
        The pain had become something he could handle-or he couldn't handle; he had no choice about it. It made him think of something a cop had told him once, about how phony movies were where somebody gets the crap beat out of him, then the next day is up and doing shit, like he's Dirty Harry or something. Man, you get hit in the gut hard enough, next day you don't even want to live . He didn't have a choice about that, either. If he wanted to look up Aitch and Charlie again…
        His arm worried him, though, the one he couldn't move. With his good hand, he gathered the blanket tighter around himself; underneath it, he tried again to clench his right fist. He couldn't even feel it. Plus the leg on that side was starting to numb out as well; it had flopped and dragged behind him when the kid had carried him out to the verandah. Nerve damage, probably from one of the blows to his spine, or another symptom resulting from the swelling of the brain tissue. Either way, it was getting worse.
        The last thing Mike had the kid do, before he'd gotten on his little motorbike and taken off, was to help him stand up at the edge of the verandah, over to the side and away from the stairs. With his good hand, he'd been able to get the fly of his trousers open. His piss had been red with blood, leaving his bladder and kidneys aching. It made a dark puddle soaking into the ground.
        So where was the kid now? Doot and his motorbike. Doot doot doot . Mike raised his head, trying to hear anything that might be coming down the road, out past the lane that ran through the weeds in front of the building. Nothing. Complete night had wrapped around the hills; overhead, the stars blurred and danced as he looked up at them.
        "Come on…" He murmured the words deep in his throat. You stupid little shit. Get your ass back here. He hunched down, feeling the night's cold penetrating the blanket.
        Another light moved, closer to him, in the darkness around the building-red, instead of the cold blue-white of the stars up above. He squinted, trying to make out what it was. He managed to focus well enough that the red light condensed into two points. Like eyes-the eyes of an animal regarding him, silent and watchful. And there were others, pairs of the red sparks, creeping down out of the hills. They stopped at a certain distance, as though an invisible line were drawn there, several yards away.
        "Shit." This was all he needed. Fucking coyotes, or something even worse. He hoped they were just coyotes. Was he far enough out in the sticks for there to be wolves around? How far east, he wondered, had Aitch and Charlie driven before they'd dumped him off? Start getting close to the Idaho border, and there were forests and mountain lakes that got socked in good and tight during the winter, real "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom" stuff. All kinds of shit out there, including wolves.
        These were coyotes. He was sure of it, he wanted to be sure. Not much more than skinny dogs, clever and cowardly. The smell of the blood,