The Pack Read Free

the slats of the broken windows. One corner of the basement looked precious and warm—a box of old switches, plugs and circuits. Above it, an old shopping basket hung from the ceiling.
    From his nest, Victor watched him. Beneath his blanket, his body began to coil and the muscles to tense, as his stomach thought for him. What put the glare in his eyes this morning more than another was not a question that concerned him. The sealed lips of the scars he carried on his arms and legs had been speaking to him again. They reminded him of how, in a time of scarcity, starving dogs had turned on him, driving him from a nearby Zone. He had sought brief refuge in the Forbidden Territories before Bradley found him. But he would not trust easily again. He and Floris were alone. And instinct told him Floris was weak and needed food.
    Bradley had only begun to unwind the rope from its hook and to lower the basket, when Victor pounced. Using his knuckles as front paws, in an enclosed space Victor was fast as a cat. He lunged at Bradley’s arm with his teeth and the rope spilled from his hand, the basket falling dully on the floor and its contents—the stale slices of bread, some withered carrots and an onion—tipping out.
    Before either of them could react to this, a black shape the size of a small deer arced before Bradley’s eyes. Victor took Hunger’s paws full on the chest and fell backwards. Hunger pinned him to the ground, covering him like a black table. He bared his teeth and nipped Victor’s neck to let him know how vulnerable he was. His steady growl became louder when Fearless and Shelter padded over, thinking to clear up breakfast. Instead, they settled back on their haunches, prepared to wait calmly, as every morning, for Bradley to divide up whatever food they had.
    It was then that Bradley became aware of Floris in the other corner. She was whimpering behind her blanket, her eyes wide with terror, seeing Hunger stretched out above Victor, hearing that menacing growl.
    â€œHunger,” said Bradley, “enough.” Hunger knew Bradley’s tone, as Bradley knew his. Hunger took a few steps back; Bradley took his snout in his hands and stared a moment into his black eyes—to let there be no mistake, he was back in charge.
    Victor scrambled up and retreated beside Floris.
    All the dogs, even Hunger, whined as Bradley pulled the basket up and secured the rope. Only then would he deal with Victor. He moved slowly—no sudden movements—Victor was closer to his dog’s life than he was. The Old Woman had taught Bradley to walk straight, to clean himself, to think for tomorrow, just as Bradley was now teaching Victor. But still sometimes Victor forgot and slipped back into the habits he’d shared with the dogs he had lived among: he ran on all fours, he fouled himself where he stood; if there was food, he wanted it all now.
    As Bradley crouched down before him, he heard Victor’s breath rasping in fear and anger. Victor pushed Floris behind him; there was no fight, whether with Bradley, Hunger or the whole pack of them, that he would not face to protect Floris. But still his eyes would not meet Bradley’s. Instead, they darted nervously around the basement.
    Once, Bradley would have reached out and grabbed a fistful of Victor’s hair and forced him to meet his gaze; once, he would have added his bite to Hunger’s.
    â€œVictor … Victor…” Bradley put the flat of his hand out in front of Victor. If he wished to sink his teeth in, now was his chance. Victor cocked his head, then looked down. Bradley cuffed him, rocking him back on his heels, and for a moment Victor’s eyes flared up at him. Bradley held his gaze steady and Victor again looked down.
    Bradley reached his hand out again, but this time ran it over Victor’s black spiky hair, remembering how, when they had found him—a stray from the Forbidden Territories—his hair was