-3-

Already his eyes were adjusting. Already he didn't have to squint quite so much in order to make anything out clearly.

He was in some sort of metal box, moving through this strange bright world at speeds that had been terrifying at first, but which now seemed almost natural. There had been the loud cracking sounds, and once the clear solid water-like stuff in front of his face had cracked as though something had struck it, although he had seen nothing do so. Then there had been the great roaring beast so horrifically close, he had been sure it was about to devour them whole. And through it all this strange creature (man? was it a man? …was he a man, too?) had been next to him, apparently controlling the box, every now and then jabbering those strange sounds at him.

The sounds definitely made some kind of sense. He wondered if they would make more sense as time went on.

But he couldn't wait around just to satisfy his curiosity. The creature (man) next to him had hurt him, had sliced into his flesh with something thin and gleaming, and had spilled his blood. Nothing had happened to him since, but that didn't mean that nothing would. The only way he could be sure he was safe was to be on his own. He had to get away.

He cast a quick look around him. The moving box was cramped, but no more so than some of the smaller caverns. It was also full of the most interesting things: bags, a few more of those sticks the men in the pool cavern had been carrying, strange, small, boxy things that would fit easily in the palm of one forepaw (hand?). He chanced a look behind him and saw more space in back, more bags, pieces of the material that the creature next to him wore, material that looked like a far richer and more luxurious form of what some of the things in the caves wore… and which he now wore himself. Wonders. He would have liked a chance to examine them all more closely.

But he couldn't let himself be distracted. He had to be watching and ready. He had to be prepared to take the first chance he saw.

But there didn't seem to be any chances immediately present. They were moving far too fast for him to be able to try jumping out of the box, and the creature next to him was still too wary. He thought it might be dangerous if he crossed it; it was strong and fast and had weapons he had no concept of. And there was something coiled about it, something taut and ready to spring. He had seen it in some of the strongest down in the caves. The best hunters had it.

He thought that perhaps he had had it, once upon a time.

He was still hungry, but the hunger had subsided into a dull ache for the moment. His throat was still dry and raw, but that too was fading into the background. Even the cuts and bruises were a faint unpleasantness in the back of his head, except for the cut on his chest, which throbbed nastily in time with his heartbeat.

What he was more than anything else was sleepy. The movement of the box was gentle and lulling. The light seemed to be growing slowly dimmer. The creature was no longer making his strange sounds, but the box itself was humming and buzzing in a way that was dangerously soothing. He couldn't fight it. He didn't really want to.

Tom Hobbes closed his eyes and slept.

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Pinocchio cursed under his breath. He had been doing a lot of that lately.

The last hour had been a silent one and an uncomfortable one. Hobbes had sat next to him, not speaking, barely moving, his eyes flitting around the interior of the car in a strangely bird-like fashion. Observing, scanning, recording the information. Maybe marking weaknesses and possible points of exit. Pinocchio had briefly toyed with the idea of binding his hands, but had rejected it as impractical and possibly even more dangerous than leaving them free. In order to tie them he'd have to stop the car and root around in the back for one of the lengths of rope he kept there. Perfect chance for Hobbes to do something, if he was going to do anything at all. He supposed he could hold him in place with a gun, but he wasn't convinced that Hobbes even knew what a gun was.

So he drove, and tried to stay as ready as he could for anything, which was fairly close to his normal state of mind anyway.

Hobbes was asleep now, turned sideways and facing him, his head against the back of the seat. Pinocchio noted the way Hobbes curled up into himself while he slept, saw the way he was unwilling to turn his back on the man beside him. Defensive. Even sleeping, defensive. In Harsh Realm one always had to be ready to defend against anything, but this was something else. This was something deeper, wilder. Something he didn't think Hobbes could just turn off.

He knew very little about the prison. It was the only one of its kind, or at least the only one anyone knew of; a system of tunnels and caverns carved deep into rock for some original, long-forgotten purpose. Only one combined entrance and exit, and that heavily guarded. No guards in the prison itself. No order. No control. Throw you down there in the dark and the cold and let you rot, let whatever happened to you happen. It hadn't occurred to him, when he'd first learned of the prison's existence, what a year in a place like that could do to a man.

He remembered reading a story as a child, where there had been a creature who had lived in caves for years. It had been described as a pale, slimy, frog-like thing with huge eyes and an insatiable hunger.

Gollum. Pinocchio shivered and shook his head fiercely. No. Not Hobbes. And he didn't look frog-like, anyway. Dirty, unshaven, emaciated… but no.

Emaciated. He would have to take care of that. And for right now…

He reached over, snapped open the glove compartment, pulled out a canteen and nudged Hobbes's shoulder with it. Hobbes jerked awake instantly, his eyes wild and frightened, and scrambled back against the door, steeling himself for blows.

"Hey! Easy!" Pinocchio held out the canteen, turning it. "It's not gonna hurt you. I'm not gonna hurt you. Look, it's just for water." He flipped off the cap with a thumb and tipped it back, letting Hobbes see the water running into his mouth. He swallowed and held out the canteen again. "Go on. It's okay."

For a moment Hobbes simply crouched there, his eyes flicking back and forth from Pinocchio's face to the canteen, back and forth again, seeming to weigh the situation. Then he hesitantly put out one bony hand and took the canteen. He turned it over in his hands, puzzlement furrowing his brow. He lifted it gingerly to his mouth, tipped it back as he had seen Pinocchio do—and his eyes widened with amazement. Suddenly he was gulping it down, and Pinocchio snatched it out of his hands. Hobbes wrinkled his lips back, growling.

Pinocchio held out the canteen again. "If you don't go slow," he said, careful to keep his tone even, "you're going to make yourself sick. Take it a little bit at a time."

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Just as he'd thought; the man was torturing him. He'd offered him water—God, there had never been colder, sweeter water—and had taken it away just as the first drop had hit the bottom of his aching belly. Now he was jabbering again. Hobbes didn't want to hear it. He didn't give a fuck. There was water, water inches from him, he'd tasted it, and now it was being kept from him. He bared his teeth, threatening. He'd kill for it, if it came to that. He didn't think he was strong enough to win against this man, but he wasn't going to die of thirst, either.

Suddenly one of the man's jabbering sounds seemed to hit his ears… and stick there. He felt some inner eye looking at it, turning it over like the canteen, examining its curves and edges. A quick hiss, a rolling of the tongue, and then the lips opened and drawn together again.

Slow.

The man was holding out the canteen again. There was no sneer on his face, no sadistic delight in his eyes. He was simply offering Hobbes the thing he wanted.

Slow.

Hobbes reached out, closed his fingers around the canteen… and the other man took his hand away. Hobbes looked at it for a moment, then up at the man, who had turned his attention back to the front of the box. He looked back down again.

Slow.

Hobbes raised the canteen, drank. Swallowed. Waited. Drank again. This time it was not taken from him.

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Pinocchio sighed. Hobbes seemed to have understood that, at least. One need taken care of. Food would just have to wait until later.

The shadows were starting to stretch out into late afternoon. They were in deep forest now, and the road bent and twisted through trees thick with early summer growth. They had changed roads several times; if they were being looked for, as they undoubtedly would be at some point, it would take them a while to be found.

He realized that although everything up until now had been carefully and meticulously planned, with allowances made for every slip-up and unforeseen occurrence, he had given very little thought to what he would do when Hobbes was free. His one idea had been to run, run as fast and as far as they could; then, once they were safely lost in the wilderness that was the majority of what remained of the United States of America, then they would figure out what was next.

But Hobbes was in no shape for hard travel. He was too thin, too weak, and he had injuries that needed attention. Fortunately, Pinocchio had thought ahead that far.

He pulled up onto a gravel drive that led away from the main road. A signless signpost marked the turnoff. Hobbes had emptied the canteen and now seemed to feel slightly more comfortable, for he had turned away from Pinocchio and was gazing out the window, grimy fingers pressed against the glass. Pinocchio was reminded of Dexter, and smiled tightly. It would have been good to have Dexter here. Dexter might have made more of an impression.

On either side of the gravel road were smaller drives, leading off into the trees. Short wooden posts marked each drive, rusted metal numbers still clinging to the wood. Pinocchio drove past a series of these before turning up one of them, bumping over even rougher gravel. After a few seconds the trees opened into a small clearing, in the middle of which was a small cabin. In the front was a small concrete stoop, barely big enough for a lawn chair. Two sad looking windows flanked the door, glass panes long gone. Off to the side of the stoop was a metal circle topped with a grill, and an old-fashioned hand pump. Once upon a time the cabin had been for the use of vacationers and campers, people who wanted to get away from it all. Now it was being used that way again, albeit in a slightly different sense.

Pinocchio pulled to a stop along the edge of the clearing and peered past Hobbes at the cabin. "Home sweet home," he said, "at least for now. We'll probably only be able to stay here a day or so, but it's something." He opened the driver's side door, stretching as he stood, feeling his stiff joints crack pleasantly. He had popped the trunk, pulled out his pack, and made it halfway to the door when he realized that Hobbes wasn't following. He turned, sighing inwardly. Of course.

Hobbes was still inside the car because he didn't remember how the doors worked. It would have almost been funny if it didn't hurt.

He walked back to the car, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Hobbes just sat there and looked at him, his eyes oddly blank. Pinocchio jerked his head towards the cabin. "C'mon. You wanna sleep out here? There's food in there, and more water, and—" Pinocchio wrinkled his nose. "Definitely a bath, I think." He held out his hand. "Come on."

Still hesitant, Hobbes reached out and took it, letting Pinocchio help him to his feet. He looked awkward standing upright, as though it was not something he was used to. He wavered slightly. Pinocchio considered half-carrying him to the cabin, then decided against it. Not with how skittish Hobbes had been. He turned, shifting the pack higher on his back—and felt a quick, hard tug at his hip. He knew immediately what it was and what had happened, and he swore silently. Stupid. He whirled around, dropping the pack heedlessly behind him.

His knife was gone. Hobbes was gone. There were crashing sounds past the treeline, in where the leaves made everything dim and strangely colorless.

Fucking hell. Definitely not an extremely good week. He charged into the trees, stopped, and pulled out his gun, trying not to let the action sting as much as it did. More crashing off to his left and he ran towards it, cursing as he ran. Hobbes. Fucking Hobbes. You never could just let things be simple.