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The Stranger needs more ammunition. Always, always, always, he needs more ammunition. He's a good shot, but every day the Woods prove to him that there are more horrors here than he could have imagined the day before. He feels no thirst, no need for sleep, no hunger except the craving for mushrooms. The one constant in his new life is the need for ammunition. For anything that would keep the monsters at bay. So he makes his daily journey to the Wolf.
On the walk to the Wolf's hideout, the Stranger feels around in his pocket for something he'd found a while back. There. Rectangular, small enough to fit inside your hand, with buttons and a screen. A handheld game. Normally something that a child would enjoy, but it has wolves on it, so maybe the Wolf will get a kick out of it, too. Maybe the Stranger can even trade it for more ammunition. The image of the Wolf playing a handheld game is a little funny to him. He hadn't realized before now that he could still find things funny. The emotion is welcome.
The Stranger locates the Wolf immediately upon entering his territory. He's out in front, tossing meat to the multitude of dogs that inhabit the complex. The dogs are mangy, disgusting, and many of them are infected with parasites that swell their bellies to twice their natural sizes. The Stranger would have thought that the Wolf would find them loathsome, but here he is, throwing slabs of mystery meat at their gaping jaws. He reaches out a furry hand to scratch one of them behind the ears, then freezes when he sees the Stranger approach. He straightens his back and sticks his hands in his pockets.
“Back again, Meat?” he asks. The Stranger nods. “Got anything for me?” He nods again. The Wolf grins and beckons towards the door. “Then follow me to my cave of wonders.” A true gentleman, he holds the door open for the Stranger, and begins unpacking his wares along a beat-up table in the center of the room.
“See anything you like?” he asks. Silently, the Stranger takes two small caliber magazines and puts them in his backpack. He lays down a shiny stone and the Wolf's face lights up. The Stranger doesn't understand what the Wolf or the Trader or anyone could possibly want with them, but they're practically currency around here. He also pulls the electronic game out of his pocket and holds it out in front of himself. Immediately, Wolf's face darkens. He growls.
“Is this a fucking joke?” he demands. He snatches the game out of the Stranger's hands and hurls it across the room, shattering the plastic. The Stranger holds up a finger – “wait.” He rummages around in his bag until his fingers come into contact with something wet. He takes it out and presents it to the Wolf. A piece of meat on the verge of spoiling. The Wolf snorts, already calmer than he had been just a second ago.
“You think I can't feed myself?” he asks. The Stranger shakes his head and tosses the meat to a nearby dog. Then he takes out another slab and does the same for a dog further across the room. The dogs devour the meat, ripping into it and slobbering like they haven't been fed in days.
“Wretched things,” says the Wolf, but he's watching intently as they eat. When he looks back, there's something unfamiliar glinting in those yellow eyes. Predatory, like always, but there's something else there, too, piercing through the Stranger, almost painful. The Wolf draws close, dangerously close, and licks his face, sloppy and hot, breath reeking of rot and blood. He truly is capable of feeding himself, apparently.
Tugging at the scarf with an inhuman paw, the Wolf begins to lick the Stranger's neck. It sends a shiver down his spine, and it begins to dawn on him that this is the Wolf's way of kissing. He shivers again. He hasn't been kissed in a long time. Or maybe it just feels like a long time. After all, he is learning that a lifetime ago can amount to no more than several weeks.
He stays still. Not deathly still, not terror-stricken still, but as still as he had been before. Because as startling as this is, as disgusting and slobbery and ugly, he can't say even to himself that it's unwelcome. He doesn't know why the Wolf is doing this, but he figures that there's no harm in letting it go on for a little while. Which is ridiculous, because there is harm in it. As ever with the Wolf, danger looms like a storm cloud, waiting to burst open. Beyond that soft, fetid tongue are teeth, sharp and yellow and ready to rip open the neck they graze so close to now.
The Wolf presses his body closer, licks long, slow lines along the cords of his neck. Then, all of a sudden, he collapses against him. The Wolf's body is shaking, shuddering. The Stranger wonders at first if this is a seizure but quickly realizes that it isn't. The Wolf is either laughing… or sobbing. His snout is buried in the crook of his shoulder as his body heaves. While all this is happening, the Wolf remains silent – even his uneven breaths make no sound.
They stay like that for a while, the Wolf's body quaking against him. No tears wet the side of his neck, but with every passing moment, this bizarre occurrence seems less and less likely to be laughter. Slowly, carefully (because a wolf is still a wolf), he lifts his hand and places it on the Wolf's back. He doesn't know if it's the right gesture, but it's what he would want done if he were on the other side. Or, he thinks it is.
It's like a switch being flipped. As soon as that hand touches the Wolf's shoulder, the Wolf's muscles tense, his body goes rigid, in stark contrast to the body-wracking sobs of just a few seconds ago. He braces his hands on the Stranger's shoulders and shoves him away. His claws leave tiny holes in the Stranger's coat, and pinpricks of warm blood well up on his skin where they dug in. The Wolf's eyes don't glisten with tears, but that could mean nothing – the Stranger doesn't know if wolves can cry.
“Get the fuck out,” growls the Wolf. The Stranger does not move. The Wolf approaches him again, this time with a stalking gait that belies not the slightest hint of affection. “Did you fucking hear me? Get the fuck out!” Again, the Stranger makes no move. The Wolf grabs at his shoulders again, slamming the Stranger against the wall. Their faces are close, and the Stranger's nose is filled with that same carrion stench from before.
“Who do you think you are, Meat?” the Wolf demands, shaking him. “Pitying me! Shit-for-brains! I could tear you limb from limb right here! I could eat you alive! Is that what you want?” Slowly, the Stranger shakes his head. “Then get. The FUCK. Out of here!”
With this final shout, it seems that every dog in the compound has begun to howl. The cacophony fills the Stranger's ears, almost unbearable in its volume. He decides that it is probably best to heed the Wolf's warnings. He holds up his hands in surrender, turns, and walks away, careful to avoid the snapping jaws of barely-tamed dogs on his way out.
While he walks, the Stranger thinks about the Wolf. About his bizarre behavior, the rank odor of his breath, the cooling saliva on his own face and neck. He examines the holes in his coat and skin, tiny and stinging, and appreciates that the Wolf could have done much, much worse to him. Appreciates that during their encounter, foolishly or not, he never truly felt that the Wolf would kill him. Everyone, he supposes, needs to be touched sometimes. Who knows how long it had been for the Wolf? Who knows how long it had been for the Stranger? Even he isn't certain.
In this moment, the Stranger feels a great sense of loneliness open up like a pit in his belly. As he walks further away from the complex, he can still hear the howling of the dogs. At the center of the din, he hears one howl louder than the others. It sounds almost like a man.