Jungle Of Steel And Stone

Then the small metal bang-stick spear is out. Veil reels from pain, but he knows that there is still one thing left he must do. He shoves the spearhead back into the flames and slowly counts to ten. Then, in one swift motion, he withdraws the iron and slaps its face against the torn, bleeding flesh of his left shoulder. There is a sharp hiss, accompanied by the sweetish smell of burning flesh.

The desert-images explode in a kaleidoscope of color and distant, wailing sound as Veil faints.

* * *

Veil's dream-body, his Toby, awakens to the feel of a cold rain falling on his face and an animal sniffing at his left ear. His instincts, born of survival in a narrow twilight zone separating life from death in the desert, tell him to remain still.

He parts his lips slightly to let raindrops fall on his parched and swollen tongue, but even this small movement brings a menacing growl from whatever animal crouches to his left, just beyond his field of vision. It does not sound like a leopard, Veil thinks, and a lone baboon or jackal would not come this close to a breathing man. It could be a Newyorkcity camp dog, but it sounds larger.

Still sniffing and growling, the animal moves forward until Veil can see it; it is a dog, but unlike any he had ever seen before. This animal is all black. Muscles ripple beneath its sleek, glistening hide, and its bare fangs are white and unchipped. The dog's tail appears to have been torn off in a fight, for it is no more than a lump on the animal's hindquarters.

Breathing evenly and staring directly into the dog's eyes, Veil gropes with his right hand for his spear. Suddenly the black dog snaps at his face, and Veil moves his head aside just in time to avoid the animal's sharp fangs. At the same moment his fingers touch the shaft of his spear. He grips the shaft and rolls hard to his left, lunging directly at the startled animal and driving the spearhead deep into its throat.

The dog coughs a thick spray of blood and saliva, then shudders and collapses without a sound across Veil's chest. Veil immediately presses his mouth to the animal's throat and drinks the nourishing blood that pulses from the severed jugular. The blood hits Veil's stomach with the force of a physical blow; its effects spread quickly throughout his body, warming him and lending him strength. He is still drinking in great, deep gulps when the animal's heart finally stops beating.

The Nal-toon is merciful, Veil thinks; evidently satisfied with the courage he has displayed up to this point, God has provided him with the food he needs to go on.

His strength replenished, Veil carefully wraps the Nal-toon in a piece of clothes, then places God under the overhang, out of the rain. He drags the dog's carcass under the ledge, then meticulously smooths out all signs of struggle and death from the sand. He builds a small fire, then dresses the cauterized wound in his left shoulder with herbs from his medicine pouch and strips of clothes.

Reasonably free of pain, with his belly full and his mind in peaceful communion with God, Veil once again lies down and drifts off to sleep within sleep.

In Veil's dream, his Toby has lost track of the time that has passed since he found sanctuary in Centralpark, but the wound in his shoulder is now almost completely healed. Also, there has been such an abundance of food in this jungle that his normally lean body has begun to show traces of fat.

While the first dog had been delivered to him by the Nal-toon, he has had to stalk the others he has eaten. The water in the large pool nearby is not as sweet as that in the desert, but Veil has never seen water in such quantity; here it is not necessary to quickly scoop it up and store it in eggs before it seeps into the ground. He has been free to drink his fill each night, and this has made the long, hot, and waterless days spent hiding under the ledge easily bearable.

Now he feels strong and rested, and he knows that it is time to begin his journey to the vast, smooth, stone fields where the airplanes stay. There, he thinks, the airplane that brought him to Newyorkcity will be waiting to take him home. The Nal-toon will make sure that it is so.

Veil made no attempt to remember the many bends and sharp turns in the streets Reyna used to bring him from the airplane fields to the Nal-toon; there had been no need, for Veil does not travel on streets. He had carefully noted the position of the setting sun —first at the airplane field and again at the place where he had found the Nal-toon. The two sightings are all he needs, and he knows the precise direction in which he must travel to reach the airplane fields. The sun, and the stars at night, will guide him there.

It is night now, and the full moon is partially obscured by clouds. With Centralpark free of Newyorkcities, he goes to the pool to drink and wash himself. Once again, as on other still nights, he hears the roar and cough of great hunting cats; the sounds seem close, to the east. Veil has become increasingly puzzled by the sounds, for they would seem to indicate that there are hunting cats in Newyorkcity, yet he has never found any spoor.

The clothes given to him by the missionaries have become shredded and filthy, an affront to his senses. He removes them, washes them as best he can, and, from the strips, fashions a loincloth, a cloak to ward off the night chill, and a carrying sling.

He walks to the crest of a hill and takes his bearings, using a tall building in the distance as his first landmark. He carries enough strips of dried dog meat in his sling to last many days; he wishes he had an egg in which to carry water but he does not, and he does not dwell on the problem. Water seems to be plentiful in Newyorkcity.

Drenched in moonlight, Veil stands perfectly still for a few minutes, closing his eyes as he offers thanks to the Nal-toon and prays for a safe journey home so that his people may survive. Then he hitches his sling with its precious contents over his shoulder, grips his spear in his right hand, and starts down the hill.

He retraces his original route, skirting the large, open meadow by moving, as silently as his moon-shadow, through the encircling trees. Finally he comes to a wide, stone path which he must cross. He crouches, listening, but can hear nothing but the intermittent whine of cars on the street a hundred or so running-steps to his right. He straightens up and steps out onto the stone path.

Suddenly two Newyorkcities leap out from behind a tree.

'Hold it, turkey!'

Veil stops and assumes a fighting stance. He knows that he cannot hope to escape with the Nal-toon in the sling weighing him down, and so he will have to fight. He waits calmly, body half turned and spear arm cocked, as the warriors approach. Veil is relieved to see that the men carry only knives and not bang-sticks.

'Hey, Mason.' Will you look at this turkey? He's gotta be stone crazy.'

'Fuckin loony, all right.'

The taller of the two men approaches, waving his knife back and forth in front of his body, then stops a few paces away from Veil. 'What's in the sack, man?'

Veil cannot understand the warrior's words, but their threatening tone is unmistakable. He considers his options, then decides that it would be better not to battle the two Newyorkcities if there is any way to avoid it. To fight, he must set down the Nal-toon, and he does not wish to do this. Also, a wound— even if not fatal—could force him to go to ground again in Centralpark, perhaps for many more days. He wants to go home. Courage, he thinks, must always be tempered by wisdom.

'Let me pass,' Veil says evenly, using his free hand to make the sign of truce used by both K'ung and Bantu.

The short man frowns. 'Christ, Blade, you ever hear anyone talk like that?'

The other man shakes his head. 'I ain't sure it's real talk at all. I think he's just makin' crazy noises.'

'Hand over the sack, man!'

'Hey, watch out for that pig-sticker he's got.'

'Shit. I'm gonna hang that spear on my wall. You circle around on his ass. First one with an open shot cuts out the fucker's heart.'

Veil shifts his weight to his opposite foot and hefts his spear as the short man begins circling to his left. The Newyorkcities are leaving him no choice, he thinks. Their intentions are clear, and he wastes no further time in waiting. Suddenly he leaps forward, thrusting the spearhead through the taller man's throat.