Wolf Flow by K. W. Jeter Read Free Book Online Page A

sad thinking about that; a different tear welled at the corner of his eyelid. With her hair pulled back and lifted off her neck, instead of all tangled-out to the width of her shoulders. That fucking bimbo style. If he pulled through this, if he ever made it back-big ifs-he'd do that, he'd get her one of those dresses, he'd have it made for her. She might go for it if she thought it was kinky enough, some particular fantasy of his that he was dressing her up for and inserting in place. A change from all those little numbers that just barely covered her ass, and all that Melrose Avenue crap. It'd be nice… something to think about…
        He felt himself falling again, into the soft dark, and pulled himself back up. If he went under, he knew he might not make it back to the light. He was that close; he could feel it, like working on a cardiac arrest in the ER and sensing it slipping away, beyond the reach of his hands and all their cleverness.
        He forced his eyes open. The wedge of sun fell right on them, dazzling him for a moment. He turned his head away. With his cheek against the bare plank floor, he could see across the space to the round, marble-topped counter and the grand staircase curving beyond. The same as he'd seen in his dreaming, only now covered with dust and dust-clotted cobwebs. One of the mahogany panels at the front of the counter had been kicked in, leaving jagged splinters. A big section of the reception desk's marble top had been pulled away and thrown to the floor; the pale, veined shards were scattered across the floor like bits of sugar candy.
        Something else was different. Different from when the truck driver had dragged him in here and laid him down on the floor. He lifted his hand-the left one; his whole right arm was still a floppy, useless appendage-and touched his side. He didn't feel the bare skin and crusted blood over his ribs; instead, the texture of soft cloth, bound tight. Lifting his head from the blanket underneath, chin pressing against his collarbone, he saw the white bandages wrapped around his chest. They were smudged with dust from the floor, and red had started to leak through, from a torn place in the skin beneath his arm. His breath strained against the bandages, the broken ribs twinging sharply.
        The effort of moving had drained him. He fell back, his head thumping on the blanket. The ceiling above him blurred, his eyes losing focus. Raising his hand, he touched the side of his head and felt the bandages there. He could even catch the faint scent of some kind of disinfectant.
        He let his hand flop out to the side, and it hit something soft. He clutched his fingers into it, and drew it to him. He could just make out its color, but that was enough-it was his green scrub shirt, with his name stenciled on the breast pocket, from the hospital laundry. He held it close to his bandaged chest, panting from the exertion of the last few moments. The ceiling's cracked plaster kept on blurring and swimming about; he had to close his eyes.
        Thinking about it kept him from slipping back under. Somebody had bandaged him up while he'd still been unconscious-maybe that was what the dream, at least the doctor part of it, had been all about. Though it wouldn't have had to have been a doctor; a boy scout with a merit badge in first aid could have done as much as this. Still… the image of the bony face, the skull with skin over it that he'd seen, came back unbidden. With the scalpel, and all that other creepy shit. His eyes flew open, to the comforting sunlight.
        Getting up from the floor almost killed him: the pain burst and sparked along his spinal column, his breath hammering against his broken ribs as he rolled onto his side, then pushed with his good hand. On his knees, with his paralyzed arm curled under him, he looked across the room to the counter and staircase, miles away. He knew he'd never be able to crawl that far, not with the one hand