Morte (18 page)

Tracksuit did not need to tell Wawa to get in. She went straight for Cyrus, sniffing him, licking his face and the base of ears through the metal bars. Cyrus reciprocated by snapping playfully at her. Through sheer will, he had defied the men who had descended from the night sky. He had survived the battle and found his way through the forest to where the sun rose peacefully. It was then that Wawa felt the primal urge of her species: to be a part of his pack, to be one of his people. To hunt with him, to taste blood and share it. To roam the forests, meadows, and mountains, claiming territory for her clan. To huddle together under the night sky in defiance of the cold, without cages to separate them. She would still die for her master, but she belonged
out in the wild, without a rope tied to her neck, without canned food served in a child’s bowl. It was Cyrus who made her realize that she had been in a cell, and that the love and protection that Tracksuit bestowed upon her was somehow an illusion. She did not understand it yet, and the thought often fell out of her primitive brain whenever she felt the need to bark, eat, or piss. But the seed took root, and it sustained her through the worst times of her life. Even before the ants began their experiment, Cyrus showed her that there was such a thing as freedom.

On the way home, Wawa pledged her life to Cyrus. She would die for him if she had to. And she would kill.

“LUFF-TENANT,” SOMEONE SAID.
Wawa knew right away that it was Archer, a raccoon who had followed Culdesac’s soldiers around for days before the colonel finally relented and allowed him to join the Red Sphinx. Archer insisted on using the weird British pronunciation of Wawa’s rank. When asked why he spoke the way he did, he claimed that he hid in the basement of the main branch of the New York Public Library after Manhattan was evacuated. He spent months learning the classics, watching documentary filmstrips, learning things that the ants could not program into his brain. Wawa had once seen him pick a bullet out of his thigh with his claws, wipe his hands on his tail, and keep fighting. He had earned the right to be a little snooty. Even though he still ate trash on occasion—a trusty survival skill, she had to admit.

“What is it?” she asked.

“First of all,” he began, “I should point out that this is not in jest.”

“Go on.”

“I saw a human.”

Wawa lifted her hands from the keyboard and swiveled her
chair to face him. She wrinkled her nose and tried to think of what to say.

“I would not play games with this,” Archer said. “Certainly not at this hour.”

“Where did you see the human?”

“Bonaparte and I were on our way to the supply depot near the creek. The pig pulled over to urinate about a quarter of a mile north of the quarry. There was a man standing nearby.”

“You’re sure it was a man?”

“It could have been a woman,” he said. “It was the tail that gave it away.”

“The tail?”

“He was disguised as one of my kind. A raccoon. But the tail didn’t wave right. He wore a mask that he pulled over his face when he realized that I could see him. Then he ran away.”

“Bonaparte saw nothing, I suppose,” she said, “or else he’d be in here with you.”

“The pig can’t see at night like I can, Luff-tenant,” Archer said. “But he can smell just like I can.”

“Did you
both
smell a human?”

“No, we smelled raccoon,” he said. “But it wasn’t right. It was … fake.”

“Fake?”

“Dead, to be more precise. I could tell it was taken from a corpse. I’m good at smelling dead things.”

Wawa genuinely felt for Archer. He knew that he had no evidence, but they were investigating EMSAH, so even the unlikely sighting of a human had to be noted. Still, Bonaparte had refused to take part in this, and was probably snoring away as they spoke. She imagined the debate they must have had over whether to approach her about it. Wawa’s job often required her to be tougher than she really was. This time, she decided to be gentle.

“Corporal,” she said, “there are a lot of people moving in and out of this sector. They’re scared. Some of them are traumatized. Is it possible that it was a local who was trying to see what you were up to, and then got spooked and ran off? We are a little intimidating, and our presence has probably alarmed some people.”

“I trust my eyes, Luff-tenant.”

It was implausible that humans were willing to take such a risk when they could spread the infection from a safer distance. They had done it before. Archer, Bonaparte, and all the rest were probably exhausted, nothing more. After training for months to be the best soldiers in the world, they had been given the thankless task of running this sector, and it was probably getting to them.

“Archer, your report is noted. I’ll include it in my daily for the colonel. And we’ll send a team to investigate the area near the depot. Is there anything else?”

Archer hesitated. “Luff-tenant,” he said, “if something is going on in this sector that could endanger the Red Sphinx, you would tell us, right?”

“I fail to see the point of your question.”

“I mean, if there is to be a quarantine, we would have the opportunity to get out. You would not keep us here simply because you were ordered to.”

This raccoon was speaking out of turn, something she suspected would never happen with Culdesac. It was because of that damned Mort(e), the one with the special privileges straight from the Colony, slugging the colonel in front of everyone. Archer was aware that Mort(e) had been Culdesac’s chosen one, while Wawa was merely the latest replacement as the unit’s executive officer. Mort(e)’s first replacement, a cat named Biko, got himself killed within two months. The next one lasted
longer, but caught EMSAH in the field. Culdesac had the grim task of putting him down and cremating the body. Both Number Ones felt obligated to mimic Mort(e)’s cowboy style of leadership, and luckily got only themselves killed rather than others. Wawa ran things differently, and this back talk was almost certainly a direct consequence of that decision.

She leaned in closer to Archer, who instinctively located the exit in case he had to make a quick getaway. “Corporal,” Wawa said, “we have sworn our lives to this cause, and we will follow orders. All of us.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It would be in your best interest if I did not hear about this again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She dismissed him and returned to her desk. It had been a rotten day, and she still would not be able to sleep. Twice now, she had been reminded of how she was stuck in this unending war with phantoms and rumors. She found herself once again thinking of Jenna, the person she used to be. She could not help it. It was more comforting than picturing the quarantine. At least Tracksuit’s basement was familiar.

The computer screen melted away, replaced with the white stucco wall.

WAWA WAS ASLEEP
in her cage when the sound of the other dogs barking woke her up. Tracksuit stood in front of her gate, holding what appeared to be a squirming bundle of fur. It carried with it the scent of an intruder. Wawa backed away, unsure if this beast was somehow attacking her master. The others were going crazy. Tracksuit opened the cage, shoved the animal inside, and slammed the gate shut. The creature unfolded himself until his yellow eyes glared at Wawa in the low light
of the cage. A muffled growl leaked from his mouth—this was definitely a dog, a mutt puppy. But there was something shiny attached to his snout, an alien prosthesis that prevented him from barking normally. Similar bindings were on the dog’s four paws. The dog tried to puff himself up in a vain attempt to claim his territory. Wawa was not afraid. She would defend the pack as Cyrus had done. She would bring this intruder’s carcass to him as an offering.

Wawa pounced on the dog with the voices of her brothers and sisters echoing around her. The dog tried to bat at her with his taped paws. She bit into him, feeling her teeth puncture the skin, feeling the animal’s pulse in her throat. The dog eventually surrendered. Wawa wrapped her jaws around his throbbing neck and throttled him until she felt the crunch of his vertebrae like a warm bag of broken glass. She dragged him to the front of the cage, where Tracksuit was waiting. Pleased, he opened the gate and removed the dog. The entire pack howled as one, but Wawa could still detect Cyrus’s voice among the others. She always could. She shouted to him,
I am one of you
.

The scene repeated itself many times. Some animal—usually a puppy, but sometimes a large cat—would be placed in her cage, and she would kill it with increasingly ruthless efficiency. Wawa did not understand where they were coming from, or how they were getting past Tracksuit’s defenses. But she could feel the pack willing her to fight for them. And when Tracksuit put her on a strict exercise regimen, marching her endlessly on a treadmill with heavy chains on her shoulders, Wawa felt her body getting stronger. She was becoming an extension of this pack.

Every two weeks or so, Tracksuit let Cyrus out of his cage for another fight. Hours later, he would return, occasionally with a scratch, reeking with the blood, fur, and saliva of the rival he had vanquished. She would join the others in praising him.

One day, Wawa heard the tense voices of Tracksuit and his friend. They entered the room, Tracksuit carrying Cyrus’s hind legs, his friend carrying the front. Cyrus was barely conscious. His spine bent toward the floor with the weight of his stomach. His tail was shredded. One leg dangled as if the bones had been liquefied. His snout was a mask of dried blood. With a tenderness that Wawa had never seen before, the two men placed Cyrus in his cage and closed the gate.

The room where the pack slept was oppressively quiet for two days. Wawa occasionally whimpered, hoping that Cyrus would hear her. Sometimes he would move, and Wawa could feel everyone in the room tense up and try to listen, to see if Cyrus was attempting to speak to them. But the moment would pass. Upstairs, Tracksuit paced the floor, slamming things.

On the morning of the third day, Tracksuit opened Wawa’s cage and walked her to a room in the house where she had never been. The space had been cleared out, save for a small table in the center, which was just high enough for her to prop her belly on. The surface of the table was made of smooth wood, and the metal legs were bolted to the floorboards. Tracksuit fastened Wawa’s leash to the front of it. He then took another leash and tied her ankles to the back legs. She was in no mood to argue with him. She was already convinced that whatever he was doing had everything to do with Cyrus and the good of the pack.

Tracksuit left her under the buzzing fluorescent light, her tail to the door. About twenty minutes passed until he returned. Wawa picked up Cyrus’s scent right away. She spun her head as far as she could in order to see him. The great dog limped into the room, favoring his front right paw. Though the blood had been cleaned off him, the gash in his face was still raw and infected. Cyrus needed Tracksuit to push him along. Once the dog was close, Tracksuit retreated to a corner of the room and
sat with his head between his knees. Cyrus was the broken one, but Tracksuit looked ready to die and turn to dust right there.

Cyrus limped closer to her, still emitting the alien scent of the dog that had crippled him. Wawa did not fully understand what was meant to happen next, but she knew that she and Cyrus were supposed to join together somehow, that this was how the pack would survive. This would be her greatest service to the others.

Cyrus placed his paws on her skin. She faced forward. But then, with a sickly tremor, he slid away from her and fell to the floor, his claw scraping along her ribs. Quickly, Tracksuit was upon him, cradling him in his arms, saying soothing things. She had never seen Tracksuit cry. But now water streamed down his stubbly cheeks, dripping onto Cyrus’s fur. Wawa could smell the salt, mixed with some alcohol. Tracksuit did not have the energy to release Wawa from her bonds. All he could do was rock Cyrus gently, saying he was sorry over and over. After a while, he stood up and carried Cyrus away. Wawa stared into the dog’s eyes, knowing it would be for the last time. The sun went down before Tracksuit returned, released her from the table, and took her back to her cage.

Wawa went to sleep that night knowing that the pack had been broken. It was the moment she became self-aware, when she saw the world as more than simply her immediate field of vision. There were other packs out there, she realized. The world was enormous, unfair, unknown but knowable, arranged by rules that did not always make sense. She wondered how she did not know these things before. And then she noticed that she was in the act of wondering, of using her mind to do more than track food and assess friends and foes. She considered the possibility that Cyrus had somehow passed these gifts on to her in their final moments together. She quickly dismissed the notion. Cyrus, she
now understood, was a mere animal. She was moving beyond whatever he had been.

Lost in thought, Wawa did not notice that the hair had begun to fall away from her paws.

When Tracksuit opened her cage the next day, Wawa thought that he was letting her go. But she realized that he expected her to fight. She saw how easy it would be to escape—it was a matter of sprinting for the open door. She decided against it. She wanted to learn everything, to gather as much information as possible. Going with Tracksuit to the house at the end of the trail would be the best way to do it.

They arrived at the brightly lit building at the tree line. When she exited the van, Wawa immediately sought out the giant red objects attached to the front of the structure. The realization eased into her mind: they were letters, forming a word. The word represented a sound. The sound represented an idea, or a name, or a thing, or a place. The sign was speaking to her.

There was some commotion going on inside the building. The items on the shelves had been scattered about the white linoleum. People scooped up cans and boxes from the floor and display cases. The front window was broken, leaving a jagged hole large enough for a person to jump through.