The Pale Man Rises

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

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After they tumbled into the Alliance River Blue Boy managed to swim to shore even as his wound poured blood. Once he achieved dry land he turned and watched as the dangerous Luther, exhausted from his failed attempt to stay afloat disappeared beneath the surface of the river.

Though he never revealed it Luther had been one of the reasons the pale man had not immediately feared discovery. He had sensed the biker was behind them. He was unaware of course, that he was disposing of their victims, though he suspected he was doing something on their behalf. He was inclined to believe he was protecting them, that he had become their self-appointed bodyguard.

And he knew why. He realized somehow, like himself, this leather clad being was just as much an alien, force as he was. He was an aberration of his own species of course, a stranger in a strange land, if you will, among his very own kind.

And Luther was aware of his own vicious nature. Certainly there were many like him within the greater social structure, and perhaps many would have chosen this path, and if it was so Luther decided then they were all probably members of a subspecies of humanity who were destined to live an evil existence.

Regardless that was the way he was. He had no counsel with him to define it down to the minutest atom giving a clear explanation to it all and he was grateful for that because giving it to much thought made his head hurt. But the fear had, in the end, lain like a plague upon his cruel shoulders and Luther Newton had hesitated. It had led him to this, to his drowning as the pale man and his mad assistant drew away from him in their boat.

And so his body as well as the body of the dead black man Lewis was destined to drift down stream and stay beneath the river's waves until the gases of their corpses would force them to rise up to the surface of the river bloated parodies of what they once were. Within six days they would be spotted by some fishermen along the shore and it would be reported to the authorities.

Blue Boy had made it to the shore none the worse for wear. The pain in his thigh was excruciating, but he was determined to survive and continue on with his quest to rid the world of the horrific pale man. 

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 Once completely ashore he shivered off the water and the blood that was seeping from his wound. It was a clean wound the bullet having passed through his flesh before it had time to shatter.

He licked at the hole and then limped forward into the damp grass along the shore. Being a bloodhound was a definite advantage in the dense forest. Such a breed's nose is even more reliable than their eyesight, which is quite good. Sniffing out infection would be easy in the days to come. A bloodhound's olfactory sensors can detect cancer cells even in their embryonic stage and thus the dog was well equipped to survive in this wilderness.

The wound didn't seem to be life threatening at the moment unless it continued to bleed profusely. He needed to staunch the blood flow. But he wasn't a human and so he could not dress the wound as a human would be capable of doing. Yet he sensed that this must be done.

He wallowed in the mud of the river's bank as if he was a hog frolicking in a sty. He grimaced when the wound came into contact with the wet earth. But at last he was able too completely coat the wound with mud, and it was now in effect, a bandage for his damaged thigh.

When he was satisfied that he'd tended his wound well enough he returned to the dark shelter of the trees where he somehow with one paw managed to dig himself a bed into the ground. The dry leaves that had fallen from the trees would be a good, noisy pillow. He could not pursue them any further tonight. He needed rest; his wound could stand no more traumas for the day. And soon he was hard and fast asleep.