CHAPTER TWENTY‑TWO

Lander Dills, perched in a tree where he’d spent the past few hours in restless sleep, opened his eyes. The forest was bright with daylight.

He sidestepped away from the trunk. Holding on to an upper branch, he urinated into space. His stream glinted silver in the sunlight.

“Ruth and Lander sitting in a tree, ” he recited. “P‑ i‑ s‑ s‑ i‑ ng.

He laughed, but his laughter died.

No Ruth.

Lost.

O lost, and by the wind grieved.

Wolfe. Thomas Wolfe.

You can’t go home again. No home to go home to. No Ruth, no Cordelia.

Just me.

There is a wolf in me.

He pulled his hatchet free of the branch where he’d left it embedded. He dropped it to the ground. Then he climbed down from the tree, careful not to abrade himself on its rough bark.

On the ground, he stretched. He ached as if every muscle had turned to stone. His arms and legs were bruised. Dozens of scratches crisscrossed his skin. He was lumpy with welts, probably from insect bites. He itched all over. Gingerly, he scratched a mosquito bite on the side of his penis.

A bath is what he needed. A dip in the stream.

A few minutes of quick walking took him to it. He put down his hatchet, and plunged in. The cool water felt good on his irritated skin. It made the itching stop. In midstream, he stood. He peeled off his vest and turned it, studying it in the morning sunlight.

The skin was dark and smooth, the tattoo stunning.

“Stunning, ” Lander said.

The tattoo’s naked woman stood with her legs spread wide. Her red pubic hair was shaped like a valentine heart. Her big breasts had red nipples. Her protruding tongue was forked like a snake’s, and a nest of vipers writhed atop her head.

Medusa!

In the palm of each hand, she held a dark nipple of the man who had worn her on his chest.

Who wore her no more.

Well, his chest still wore her.

“But I’m wearing his chest, ” Lander said. He put it on. It clung to his back with a clammy touch that made him shiver.

Suddenly, he heard a voice. A distant voice, but too close. From the direction of his tree. He stood motionless, listening. The whispering rush of the stream was loud. It hid all but the most obvious sounds. Good thing one had talked.

Blessed is he who speaks for he shall warn Lander.

He gazed along the shore, but saw no one.

He looked downstream. Twenty yards off, he saw a bend. If he could make it that far, he’d be well out of sight.

But so would the intruder.

Lander wanted to see him. Or them.

Fair game.

So he quietly sidestroked downstream. Halfway to the bend, he swam toward the shore. The bank, here, was high and steep. Roots of a nearby tree hung out the dirt wall and drooped into the water. Lander squeezed among them. He squatted so that only his head remained above the surface of the water.

At once, he heard splashing. He looked upstream through the cage of roots. There, just where he’d been standing a minute ago, a girl was plunging through the water.

A chubby thing, by the looks of her. She swam a bit, then waded out, skin shiny, ass jiggling. On the far shore, she turned around. A pudge, all right. With tiny, glossy boobs. And a spare hand hanging over her hairless slit.

It dropped from sight as she sat down and crossed her legs.

She called, using unknown words.

Male voices called back.

Then Lander saw three boys in the stream, carrying arms and legs. All teenagers. In the deep part, they swam awkwardly under their burdens. As they waded ashore, Lander counted the severed limbs. Four arms, but only three legs.

Caught themselves a gimp.

Or snacked on the missing leg.

There’s food for thought.

No heads.

Fancy that.

How could he tell who belonged to what?

No torsos, either.

He stared hard at the legs. They looked like boys’ legs, didn’t they? The one certainly did. It was bigger than the other two, and hairy.

Belonged to a tall chap like Ben.

His eyes jerked to the other legs. They were smaller. Slim, almost feminine.

Ah, but the skin was too dark.

Definitely, too dark. Not the legs of the fair Cordelia.

The chubby girl spoke. She raised an arm and pointed toward Lander.

The boys turned. They all stared directly at him. One pulled a knife from his belt.

Lander pushed through the hanging roots, eyes on the group, heart racing. He moved toward the middle of the stream.

A boy called out to him.

Lander raised both arms above his head fists clenched, and roared.

“Get him! ” yelled a voice from behind.

He swung around, glimpsed a pair of savage girls, and dived.

He swam underwater. His heart thundered. His lungs began to burn. He touched the bottom, and pulled himself forward by gripping the slippery rocks.

When he thought his lungs would burst, he arched toward the surface. His head broke free. He spun, and looked back.

Nobody there.

He’d passed the bend.

But they might be coming.

He charged ashore, and scrambled up the bank on his own side of the stream. Then he ran. He dodged trees. He crashed through bushes. He tumbled into a gully, and crawled along the bottom until he came to a dead tree that had fallen across it. He scooted under the old, barkless trunk.

He stared at the gray wood, less than two inches above his face.

Each time he sucked air into his aching lungs, he felt his chest press against the trunk.

They’ll never find me here, he thought.

The wily fox has gone to ground.

As time passed, he heard no pursuers. Nothing to worry about, on that score.

But Lander felt uneasy. He’d seen something back at the stream–something terribly important. But he didn’t know what.

An ugly yellow spider scrambled over the trunk, just above his face. He watched it, hoping it wouldn’t drop. When it was out of range, he tried to concentrate.

What had he seen at the stream?

Girls and boys and bodies.

Arms and legs.

Legs.

The girls had long, slim legs. Not the chubby girl–hers were short and thick. The other two, who showed up late. The two he only glimpsed.

One, he suddenly remembered, had called out in English.

Get him! ”

Was that what troubled him? Her English?

No, her legs.

Or the other’s.

Legs.

He tried hard to picture the girls. Both naked and filthy. Bloody. One taller than the other.

Nice tits.

Pubic hair like arrowheads pointing the way down to dark mysteries.

Ah, he would like to give them a roll, to clutch those tits, rut in those hidden holes.

The head of his erection rose against the wood.

He forgot the uneasiness he’d been trying to fathom. He had a new uneasiness, now, an ache that shouldn’t be difficult to cure.

It only required a woman.

A girl.

He squirmed free of the trunk, and stood. He breathed deeply. The morning air was perfume. The perfume of a lovely woman.

He could have taken one last night. He could have taken many. They’d been so available, as he stalked them in the night. If he hadn’t been so timid…

“Wee timorous beastie, ” he muttered.

He looked down at his erection, and chuckled.

Not so timorous now.

Nor so wee.