Wolves Read Online Free PDF Page B

teeth away—that good, cleansing pain. This is Huxley’s weakness: he is still trying to have pity. He is still trying to show mercy to people. But what place does that have in this world?
    He hates the slavers for what they did. But that doesn’t mean that this dying man is his friend. Huxley owes him nothing. And Jay is right. He will be dead soon enough. Giving him anything would simply be a waste of their resources.
    Huxley takes a breath and looks at the old Mexican man. “I can’t give you water. No agua. You are going to die anyway.”
    â€œSí, agua,” the old man says, pointing at the water skin.
    For all Huxley knows, he is the original owner of the water skin.
    But not anymore.
    â€œNo,” Huxley says. “Not for you. You are going to die. You understand that, right? Comprende? You’re going to die. But your water will help me live. And because I can live, I can find the people that did this to you.” Huxley shakes his head. “I know you don’t understand a word of that. Or maybe you do. But that’s the way it is.” Huxley points the knife between him and Jay. “We’re strong. We will survive.”
    The man falls silent, but breathes rapidly, shallowly.
    Huxley turns his back on him.
    Jay continues to pick through the wreckage looking for valuables left behind by the slavers. Huxley goes back to the ox carcass and the meat he had been able to harvest from it. He takes the meat, and he lays the pieces over a stick, and he holds the stick over the embers of one of the wagons and lets them cook. The meat chars and sizzles, fat dripping into the fire. Smoke lifts into the air.
    What do I feel?
    I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed that I am standing in the middle of all this death, and my mouth is watering for stolen meat, and I’m alive because of stolen water.
    He should feel it stronger, he supposes, but it is a muted thing. A far-off cry.
    The old dying man has been quiet since they walked away, but he begins to cry out, his voice dry and cracking. “Agua!” his voice hisses. “Amigos … amigos … por favor. Ten compasión. Agua! Agua!”
    Huxley doesn’t look. He keeps his eyes on the bubbling, crisping flesh.
    The man’s cries become faint, and then they are gone.
    Huxley pulls the meat from over the coals. It smokes in the air. Huxley is starving. He cannot remember when he ate last, and whenever it was, it wasn’t much. He’s holding chunks of meat now, and nothing else matters.
    He grabs a piece of the meat and starts shoving it in his mouth. It is burned on the outside, nearly raw on the inside. It doesn’t matter. Blood and grease pour down his chin and into his beard. Jay appears at his side, drops a canvas satchel on the ground that clanks noisily, filled with pilfered items. Huxley gives him the other half of the meat. The two men squat down and tear at the chunks. If they’d been able to see themselves, they might’ve had pause. But their bodies need food. That is all they know.
    They eat the meat. They drink more of the water. And it is only then when some of the madness of starvation has been put aside, that their eyes come up and see what is around them. Burning wreckage. Dead bodies. Blood everywhere. And out beyond the wreckage, shapes that scamper back and forth, eyes shining in the dark.
    There are a lot of them.
    Only when Huxley notices them do they begin to yip back and forth.
    â€œCoyotes,” Huxley says, reaching for his knife.
    Jay shoves the rest of his meat in his mouth, his cheeks bulging. He chews manically, as though he would fight these beasts for it. When he has some room around the wad of food in his mouth, he stands up slowly and speaks. “They just want to eat. Just like we did. Let’s just take what we have and go.”
    â€œGo out there?” Huxley isn’t so sure, but he is standing with Jay.
    Jay nods, carefully grabbing the