Free Pack by Lilith Saintcrow Page A

took out bases and installations even before they did the cities. Still, it wasn’t a bad idea to use a military mind-set while carrying around a damn rifle you could kill yourself or anyone else with. Or when you were dealing with things that hid in the night and ate people like they were popping a can of Pringles.
    Now there was a good thought. A nice big can of overprocessed potato, probably still crispy.
    The sound kept going, with breaks for breathing. Sobbing, moaning, but why hadn’t Oscar alerted me to humans? It was high noon, there shouldn’t be an Other out. Besides, their ululating cries and click-hisses don’t sound in the least human.
    I peeked up over the edge of the rise. It was a one-stoplight town, Oscar was working around to the left, taking advantage of overgrown bushes, just where he wouldn’t be visible to whatever was making the noise.
    I could see movement now. I squinted, glad I’d had Lasik before the world went to crap—trying to clean glasses would be goddamn impossible in these conditions—and finally scooted back and stood up.
    What the hell?
    A sharp bark, Oscar’s all-clear. I went on over the rise in a rush, running for the nearest building—a hardware store, with plate glass in front. Unbroken plate glass, which was a good sign. Trash had built up on the sidewalk, but it was covered by dust, dirt, and growing weeds; juicy green also thrust up through the worn roadway’s cracked face. Ole Ma Nature certainly was doing a grand old job at taking everything back. Maybe I should blame her for the Others.
    Anyway, the sounds were coming from the middle of the road, and I stepped out from cover and stared.
    That was how I met Huck.
    Â Â 
    Skin and bones, dark hair crusted with filth, he looked about ten years old. Stark naked and rolling on the ground, clutching his stomach and wailing. I glanced around—a trap wasn’t out of the question, I still remembered the roving gangs of armed men when everything started breaking down. I’d almost been caught once or twice, and I’d seen the bodies they left behind plenty enough. Funny, how those were pretty much always worse than the Others’ kills.
    The Others don’t mount their prey on pikes, or rape them to death, or flay them, or anything else inventive little human brains can come up with.
    They just… eat .
    I finally squatted, easily, once I was fairly sure there wasn’t anyone hiding on a rooftop or in one of the few alleys. Gas station, all-and-sundry, Laundromat. All dark, all with unshattered windows. Except for the trash and the greenery, it could have been Before.
    The kid was throwing a right purple-faced fit. Oscar snaked out from some corrugated tin leaning against the side of the all-and-sundry and lolloped up, grin-panting. He looked very proud of himself, as usual, and it was his appearance that shut the kid up.
    There was fifteen seconds of pure blessed silence, and I checked the sky. Sun still high, plenty of time.
    The kid’s face was a ruin, covered in dirt, tears, and slobber. He curled over like a worm, hugging his belly, and stared with huge dark mournful eyes. That wasn’t all, though. His upper lip had a scar—a harelip, they used to call it; looked pretty ragged. He got his hands and knees under him and shrank back, cowering, and the sight did something funny to me.
    â€œMorning,” I said, my voice cracking because I didn’t use it much. I talked to Oscar, you know, but it wasn’t the same. “Or maybe afternoon.”
    Could this kid talk? It was a pure miracle he was even alive. The really young, like the really old, mostly went first. Was it appendicitis? If it was, he was dead. I didn’t know enough about surgery, and forget sterile conditions.
    Oscar sat down, licked his chops, and looked so fuzzily self-important I was hard put not to laugh. I was conscious of the kid watching, though, and wondered again how