Wolf Flow Read Free Page A

He carried the weight toward the truck, leaving behind him his own bootprints and two parallel lines from the guy's dragging feet.
        In the Peterbilt's cab, the body slumped against the angle of the seat and the righthand door. The trucker got in on the other side and slid behind the wheel. He could see some of the guy's injuries better now. Somebody had whaled on his head with what looked to have been a steel bar; the straight imprint was plain along the side of the guy's skull. That was what had broken open the scalp and left the hair matted and spiked with blood. If they'd wanted to, whoever had done it could just have easily taken off the whole top of the guy's head. They must have wanted to leave him alive, or just dying slowly, and then dump him out here: the high desert got cold enough at night, even at this time of year, to have finished him off. Not a fun way to go.
        The guy was moaning, his face contorting after a series of quick, gulping breaths. The trucker watched him, then rooted through the stuff behind the seat and came up with a thermos bottle. The coffee in it was over a day old and stone cold, but it was something wet at least. He poured the plastic cup half full and leaned with it toward the guy.
        "Here you go, ace." He held the cup to the guy's mouth, pulling him forward with a hand at the back of the head. "Try and get a little of this down."
        Some of the coffee dribbled out of the corners of the guy's mouth, but the muscles of his throat clenched, working the rest along. Then he coughed, shoulders jerking, and the last mouthful welled over his chin and onto the torn green shirt. The head slumped back, but the panting breath had slowed and deepened.
        The trucker screwed the cup back onto the thermos and set it down between the seats. He dropped the Peterbilt into gear and eased it back onto the road.
        They had hardly picked up any speed at all when the guy opened his eyes-slowly, as though they were working free of stitches. He winced as he turned his face toward the trucker.
        "Where…" The guy could barely speak. The voice sounded like an old man's. "Where we going…"
        The trucker grunted. "Where the hell do you think?" He glanced over at him. "I'm taking you to a hospital."
        The guy's body stiffened, the spine coming up from the seat and shoving his shoulder blades back. Underneath the dried blood, his face whitened with the sudden effort. He shook his head, teeth gritting against the pain. "No-no hospital-"
        He couldn't believe he'd heard that. "What're you talking about? You're in a world of hurt, fella. You need some taking care of."
        The guy leaned forward, with agonized slowness. He twisted around so that he could reach down between the seats. The trucker saw that the guy's right arm and hand weren't working too well; they flopped loosely as the guy reached for the thermos bottle. He managed to one-hand the cup off, then the plug at the bottle's opening. He got the bottle to his mouth and gulped at what was left inside, a mix of blood and coffee running in rivulets down his throat. The empty bottle fell to the floor as he collapsed back against the seat.
        The trucker looked over at him. The road was a perfect straight line, nothing between here and the low horizon, so he could keep his eye on the guy for several seconds. "I ain't shittin' ya, man. You need a doctor."
        A smile, or the lopsided fragment of one, came up on the guy's face. Even a little laugh. "I am a doctor."
        He looked at the guy for a moment longer, then turned back to the road beyond the windshield.
        

TWO
        
        The hawk had watched the hurt thing being taken away. That had been hours ago-nothing to the hawk's slow patience-when the sun had still been slanting across the world. Now the hills had started to turn red, sinking toward black, and the seeing of things was getting harder.
        Nothing