by David Wood
“You okay, son?” Amos said, leaning forward. “You look kinda pale there. You should lie down, you took quite a beating.”
Grant shook his head. “It's not that.” He took a deep breath. Crazy hillbillies doing evil things in the name of their wacko religious cult was weird, but it still fell within the realm of expected human behavior. What would Amos think about what he was about to tell him? “That finger I found, it has an effect on me that I can't really explain. Like it's trying to guide me.”
Amos stood, paced a small circle around the room. When he finally looked at Grant, there was no scorn, amusement, or disbelief in his eyes. Strangely, Grant found himself thinking he would have preferred that to the old man's sober expression.
“My Jesus, I could have done lived this lifetime and another without ever seeing that accursed thing and been happy about it.”
“Me too,” Grant said. He stood, pulled on his clothes, wincing against aches and stabs of pain. “But it's all we have. Maybe I need to find out more about it.”
“Was that thing...” Amos swallowed, shook his head, tried again. “Was that thing pointing the way somewhere?”
“I think it's guiding me to Cassie. Whenever I think hard enough about her, it... points, like that. Part of me just wants to go now, follow it and save her. But we have no idea what we might be walking into.”
“We, boy?” Amos's eyes were wide.
“Please, Amos. I'm alone in all this. I need some help. I don't know anyone else.”
“I'm an old man, what can I do?”
“I don't know.” Grant slipped his shoes on, rose with difficulty, and stumbled toward the door. “Maybe you can help me learn some stuff. Stuff that can help us?”
“That conjunction happens tomorrow night,” Amos said, offering him a helping hand as he guided Grant out into a single room with a small kitchen and dining area to one side and a living area on the other. “Hell, it's nearly tomorrow already. You've probably only got the day time to figure out what you're going to do. Maybe you need to consider that there ain't nothing you can do.”
“I refuse to accept that! I at least have to try.”
“I'm sorry, son. I don't know what else to tell you. There's maybe one person anywhere near here that knows more about this stuff than me, but she's...”
Headlights cut across the front window, setting the tattered curtains aglow. Grant stood, but Amos made a calming motion.
“It's just my son,” Amos said. “Back from town. He went to get some more bandages and such from the store while I kept an eye on you.”
A rill of fear tickled along Grant's spine. “We're not in town?”
“No, we're on the edge of the woods, a couple of miles from town. After spending all day working in the diner, I like me some peace and quiet.” Amos went to the door and pulled it open.
A young man stood there, tall and lanky with light brown skin and amber eyes, a rifle cradled in his arms. “Sorry about this, Pops, but we want Shipman.”
“What are you talking about, Elijah? Who is we?” He glanced over his son's shoulder and whoever or whatever he saw there made him gasp, his eyes wide.
“Come on out!” another voice yelled. The unmistakable burr of Jesse Stallard. “We got unfinished business with Shipman. Give him over and we'll leave you alone, Amos.”
Through the front door, Grant saw several silhouettes out front, stark against the headlights of a truck.
Elijah gave his father a shove and Amos staggered backward, colliding with a small dining table. He turned to Grant, and pointed at the back door. “Run!” he gasped.
Grant took a step toward the door and froze as Elijah leveled his rifle at him. His son distracted, Amos grabbed a wooden chair and swung it with surprising strength.
The upswing caught Elijah's forearm, knocking the rifle barrel upward as he pulled the trigger. The shot went off with an ear-shattering report, and the ceiling light exploded in a shower of sparks, plunging the small house into darkness.
With a grunt of fear and frustration, Grant turned and groped for the door handle. He cried out as a hand grabbed his upper arm and dragged him to one side. “It's me,” Amos hissed.
The headlights of the truck outside arced through the door, casting long, confusing shadows. People pushed and shoved to get into the house. “Fuckin' shoot 'em both!” someone yelled.
Rather than coming after them, Elijah turned and stumbled toward the door, cradling one arm in the other. “Not my Pops!” he shouted.
Two gunshots rang out and wood chips exploded from the wall by Grant's face. He jumped aside, half-pulled by Amos, and cracked into the door Amos pulled open. They tumbled through with the sounds of scuffling behind them. Three more shots barked out in the darkness accompanied by fiery flashes. Amos yelped, but pushed on, slammed the door behind them. “There!” He pointed across the small yard to a Yamaha trail bike parked up near the tree-line. “Key's in it. You can ride, right?”
Crashing noises came from the house as they ran across the scrub and dirt, ducking into shadows.
“You have to come with me,” Grant said. “They'll hurt you if you stay.”
“My own goddamn son.” Amos's voice dripped pain.
“I know, but it was me he was giving up, not you. He tried to protect you.” Grant jumped onto the bike and turned the key. His thumb found the starter and it roared into life.
“I didn't raise him to fall in with fools like that!” Amos said.
The back door burst open and gun barrels swung towards them.
“Get on!” Grant screamed and the old man swung a leg over the pillion seat. As soon as his weight hit the bike, Grant opened it up and fishtailed across the dirt, wincing at the sound of rifle shots. He headed for the trees, Amos hanging on valiantly, one arm tight around Grant's waist.
The bike slipped and skidded, tires spinning for grip on the loose earth. With sheer force of will and more than a little luck, Grant managed to control it and speed into the woods. He was thankful for the half a dozen sessions of mini-motocross he’d insisted on as a kid. He flicked on the headlight and tipped left and right as guns fired and bullets bit chunks out of the tree trunks by their heads. Hoping he could out-run and out-maneuver their shooting, he powered through the forest, up the mountain.
Chapter 17
The gunshots stopped as they barrelled up the steep incline behind Amos's house. There was no way the Stallard's truck could follow them through the dense woods, but Grant had no idea where they were or where to go. “You okay?” he shouted over his shoulder, slowing to a safer pace to navigate the trees.
“Those bastards got my son.” Amos said weakly, barely audible over the bike's engine.
“I know, I'm sorry. But if we stop them, you'll get your son back.” Grant felt terrible laying his own agenda over the old man's grief, but it was the truth.
“I should kill every last one of those Stallards and Brunswicks,” Amos said. “Those families are the heart of all this. Always have been.”
“So we need a plan. Where to?”
“Just keep heading up. Soon enough you'll hit a fire trail. When you do, turn left.”
Grant followed the simple instructions. Sure enough, a scrubby track soon appeared across their path and he turned onto it, grateful for a reprieve from tree dodging. They rode more sedately as the trail wound slowly up the mountain at a shallower gradient. Amos lay heavy against Grant, his one-armed grip weakening. “You okay?” Grant called back to him.
“Soon enough there's a fork in the trail,” Amos said. There was a disturbing slur in his voice. “Take the right fork and head on up till you find a cabin. Ma Withers lives there.”
“Ma Withers?”
Amos nodded weakly against Grant's back. “She's a witch. And she's older'n the hills themselves. But if anyone knows more than me about this stuff, it's her. Mind you, she's plum crazy too.”
“Will she help us?”
The old man didn't answer.
Grant tried
to see back, but couldn't turn and safely control the bike. Gritting his teeth, anger a red heat in his gut, he powered on up the trail. Hang on, Amos, he thought. Please hang on.
The fork appeared after less than a mile and Grant turned up the mountain. The trail got thinner and rougher and the trees denser. How could anyone live all the way out here? He slowed enough that the bouncing suspension didn't dislodge the old man from behind him and prayed the cabin wasn't far. He was rewarded a few minutes later as the trail opened into a natural clearing and a moss-covered, broken-down building stood bathed in moonlight. It looked like little more than a garden shed, but there was candlelight flickering inside and a figure stood on the small front porch. As Grant pulled the bike up, the headlight illuminated the oldest person he had ever seen. Shrunken with age, bent over, stick-thin, bald and toothless, the woman looked barely human. Her skin was a deep mahogany, striped with more wrinkles than Grant would have imagined possible, hanging off her spindly bones like parchment.
Grant pulled the bike up and killed the engine, silence settling quickly over the woods. “Ma Withers?” he asked.
“Get him in here, he's hurt.” The old woman turned back into the hut.
As Grant put the bike onto its stand, Amos slid sideways off the seat. Grant jumped off and caught him. The old man’s left arm was soaked in blood, the sleeve of his shirt dark with it. It dripped off his fingertips. Grant picked him up with a grunt and turned for the cabin.
“My own son...” Amos mumbled. His eyelids flickered like he was having a bad dream.
At least he was still alive. Grant carried him inside and was assailed by a harsh, smoky smell that made his eyes water. Ma Withers walked circles around a table in the middle of the room, wafting a bunch of burning leaves in the air. She pointed to the table and carried on circling, muttering words Grant couldn't understand. He laid Amos down on the table and took the old man's shirt off. There was a broad gash across Amos's upper arm, the skin red and angry either side of the welt. It bled heavily.
Ma Withers pushed Grant aside and dropped the remaining smoky leaves into a copper pot under the head of the table. She pulled out a box of bottles and rags and set to work on Amos's wound. Grant retreated to a rocking chair in one corner and sat, watched her work. His body thrummed with the pain of his own injuries, but he ignored them, intent only that Amos would be okay.
Before long the old woman stepped back, looked at her handiwork and nodded. She pulled a kettle from over the open fire in one corner of the shack and poured hot water into a tin mug. “Help me here, son,” she said.
Grant stood, lifted Amos's shoulders to a half-sitting position and Ma Withers tipped the mug against his lips. He moaned and liquid ran over his chin. There must have been something already in the mug as the liquid was dark and foul-smelling.
“Drink, son,” Ma Withers said, her voice soft and musical.
Amos opened his mouth and sipped. She tipped the mug up and he gulped until it was empty. He sighed as Grant laid him back down and was almost immediately sleeping, his chest rising and falling in a slow, gentle rhythm.
“Thank you for helping us,” Grant said. “I'm glad you were up. You seem strangely prepared.”
“Ain't nothing strange about it,” Ma Withers said, sitting in her rocking chair with a groan. “I got up about an hour ago when I seen you was coming. Had plenty of time to prepare.”
“Seen we were coming?”
She tapped the side of head with one gnarled finger. “It ain't something I'm about to explain to you, boy. Just accept it.”
“Okay. I appreciate it.”
The old woman leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes. “So I been seeing those Kaletherex bastards all week, walking roughshod through my dreams. Now I see that you're the connection. You're in deep trouble, eh?”
Grant looked around for somewhere to sit. He was bone-tired and every part of him hurt. As the excitement of their flight from the Stallards dissipated, his whole body began to tremble. He sat heavily on the edge of the small bed, the only other furniture in the one-room house. “Yes, ma'am, I'm in trouble. I'm sure they have Cassie and I think they mean her harm.”
“What's that in your pocket?” Ma Withers asked.
Grant dropped one hand to his hip. “How do you...?”
Ma tutted, shook her head. “Just accept it, boy. We ain't got time for teachings and history.”
Grant pulled the small tin from his pocket and took out the blackened finger. He held it up and Ma Withers leaned forward to see, squinting so much her eyes seemed to disappear in folds of skin.
“Where'd you get that?”
Grant told her everything. The book, the finger, Cassie, the Stallards. She listened, nodding occasionally, sometimes flapping her hand at him if he went on with too much detail.
Eventually she sighed and smiled. “Well, that finger you found is probably the one piece of good luck you've had, boy. But it'll cost you.”
“Cost me?”
“That kind of power never comes without a price. Maybe we should make time for some history. Let me tell you a little bit about Josiah Brunswick. You see, he was a powerful warlock and probably the best thing to happen to Wallen's Gap. The original people here, they set up a small town but they were a deviant bunch. They worshiped an evil demon by the name of Kaletherex and the reason they set up a home here in the mountains was in order to commune with their evil god at their leisure. See, when they first came here, this place was in the middle of nowhere, but civilization has a way of catching up to people whether they like it or not.
“Anyway, they set up here and they worked hard at pleasing their demon lord and eventually they managed to raise that black-hearted son of a bitch to what they call corporeality. He actually came from hell to this world and did them favors. Course, you don't play with a demon and keep your mind intact and it drove people mad, but it gave them power too. They got all kinds of boons from their ministry as long as they kept the demon fed. And it only liked to eat the flesh of its most pure followers. Oh, don't frown and wince, boy, you know you're in something deep and evil here. Just accept it and listen.
“The story goes that old Josiah Brunswick heard tell of what was happening up here and his crusading warlock urges drove him to come and sort it out. Now I don't know exactly what he done, but he got in with the townsfolk and lived among them for a while as he learned all about the situation. He even had himself relations with one or two of the ladies and that's kinda his biggest mistake, but we'll get to that. He realized that this little mountain town was only the beginning and if Kaletherex was left to grow and gain power, it would soon devour this place and move on. The stronger it got in the human realm of existence, the more of this world it would want and the more it would get. Old Josiah Brunswick saw Armageddon being born and he fixed to stop it.
“But it was gonna cost him his life. See, he figured out that the only way to defeat this demon Kaletherex was to poison it here in our world and send it permanently back where it came from. So he offered himself up for sacrifice. He played the part of the zealot, the crazy advocate of the demon, so desperate to serve that he wanted to be fed to it. Now the demon will consume any flesh it's offered, so it took old Josiah up gladly, but the brave damned warlock had set spells and charms into himself before the sacrifice and those enchantments exploded inside that demon and carried it straight back to hell and Josiah Brunswick with it, poor bastard.
“But the legend has it that old Josiah left a small part of himself in this place, as a kind of anchor of the flesh, just in case something went wrong and anyone needed some of his power again. So I think that what you have there is old Josiah Brunswick's finger.”
Grant sat open-mouthed, his head swimming with the things the old woman had said. It was hard to believe any of it, but given what he had experienced so far, he had little choice. As Ma Withers herself kept saying, just accept it. “But what am I supposed to do with it?” he asked.
“I dunno, kid. That's
for you to figure out.”
“You said something about relations with ladies?”
Ma cackled a phlegmy laugh. “Yeah, old Josiah liked the ladies. So much so that he left a few Brunswicks behind in their bellies and that's what gave old Kaletherex a window back here. See, he's kinda trapped in hell, but whenever them fools make the proper sacrifice during the grand alignment, he gets himself a moon's cycle to play havoc here again. Those cultists discovered it by killing one of the babies he left behind, but they had to wait a few years for a particular conjunction of planets for the power to be strong enough. Since then they've been protecting the Brunswick line and breeding just for to feed their demon god. But they cut it fine this time, got lazy and complacent. It's been fifty years since the last alignment and the knowledge of their rituals nearly died. But fortunately for them there was one virgin Brunswick girl left.”
“Cassie!”
“Yep. They ain't many Brunswicks now, excepting for Cassie's daddy and a few uncles, and they ain't got no children, though I reckon a couple of them might still be able to get a woman with child. Ain't been many Brunswick girls in a long time. Cassie had a little sister what died as an infant. For now, she's all they got. I've seen 'em in my dreams, preparing her at their rituals in the night, getting her ready. She's a pawn in their game, knows nothing about it.”
“She thinks she's been sleepwalking,” Grant said.
“Mm hmm. And my dreams told me someone was coming from far away to put a bur under their saddle, but that stuff was never clear to me. I guess that’s you.”
“You happen to dream about whether I succeed or not?”
Ma Withers chuckled. “Don’t work like that, son. Mind, I wouldn’t tell you if it did.”
Grant looked out the window at the dark sky. “So what can I do? It's happening tomorrow tonight.”
Ma Withers shrugged. “Like I said, that's for you to figure out. Or you can just stay here and wait for the month of madness in town to pass. It's a force of nature. A force of unnature, perhaps. If you want to try to stop it, I can maybe help you, but I'm an old witch, and you ain't no warlock, son.”
