Blackbone

by George Simpson

  Churchill watched her carefully.

  Loring put out her hand to be licked, but it was the one with the salt on it. The dog jumped up, shot past her, and retreated down the length of the ward, disappearing into the back cubicles.

  “Win a few, lose a few,” said Gilman, getting up and moving to the cot. “Where were we?”

  “Oh, Christ. I’m sorry, but I’m one of those girls who just can’t do it with a monster on the loose.”

  Gilman snorted a laugh. They looked out the window. The snowfall had slowed to a trickle. The sky was starting to lighten. Dawn was only a few minutes off.

  “As soon as the sun comes up, we should be relatively safe, at least for the day,” said Loring. “The djinn will be dormant, hidden somewhere. Whatever it turns itself into, it will have to stay in that form. We’ll have to figure out what and where. But at least we can hunt it down without worrying about being torn to pieces.”

  Churchill was whining.

  They hurried across the ward to investigate and found him hunched in front of the closet door, his hindquarters raised and front paws extended. He glanced up at them and whimpered.

  Gilman stared at the closet door. Loring ran back to the cart for a couple of salt cocktails. Handing one to Gilman, she hefted the other herself. Gilman studied the door.

  Wouldn’t it be smarter to just clear out and run?

  He reached for the handle. It turned easily.

  Churchill ran and hid under the sink. His whining grew increasingly worried.

  With a glance at Loring—she was ready with her bottle of salt solution—Gilman turned the handle until it stopped and he could feel the door loosen in his hand.

  The djinn is in the closet. It’s been there all the time. It’s waiting for me to open the door.

  Gilman fought panic.

  “Now,” Loring said, braced with her salt cocktail.

  Gilman yanked open the door.

  For an instant, nothing happened. Then something stirred in the darkness within. It leaned out and the light fell on it—a brutally mutilated human corpse, its clothing torn to shreds, its arms dangling from their shoulder sockets, held in place only by the remaining stretched and exposed tendons. The throat was gone and the head hung back on the shoulder blades, chin pointed to the ceiling. It wavered a moment then crashed to the floor.

  Gilman stared at the face. Hopkins.

  Loring’s salt bottle slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. The liquid splashed away, most of it running under the corpse. Gilman whirled and saw Loring stagger a few steps, white as a sheet. Her eyes rolled back, her knees buckled, and she dropped to the floor.

  Gilman backed away, for a moment too stunned to do anything. Then he remembered that wasn’t just water running across the floor. It was a triple-strength saline solution, and it was pooling under Hopkins’ corpse.

  But there was no sizzle or spark, no reaction at all. This time it was Hopkins, the real Hopkins, dead Hopkins. It wasn’t the djinn.

  Gilman’s gaze darted to the closet.

  It wasn’t the djinn, but the djinn had put it there. It knew they were in here. It was in here with them.

  Gilman put down his salt cocktail and kneeled beside Loring. Trying to revive her, he kept glancing over his shoulder to be sure Hopkins didn’t get up and walk. He slapped Loring’s cheek, pinched her arm, talked to her urgently. She stayed out. Maybe sleep had finally caught up with her, and she was too exhausted to wake up.

  Gathering her body in his arms, Gilman carried her to a cot and stretched her out. He glanced at Hopkins’ corpse—it still hadn’t moved. Relieved and trying to laugh off his fear, he looked outside.

  Dawn was breaking. Light was spreading over the crest of Blackbone Mountain.

  Maybe it would be all right, Gilman thought. Maybe in a few minutes, he wouldn’t have to worry. Maybe the djinn had given up. Maybe he could let Loring sleep. Or carry her to the gate and get her out. Then he could sleep too. No. No sleep. Not until the djinn was found. He glanced at the dog.

  Churchill was still huddled under the sink, staring at Hopkin’s body. The sink. Gilman grunted.

  That’s how you wake them up from the faints. Water.

  He crossed the room. Looking for a glass, he found one in the cabinet next to the sink. He filled it with tap water and hurried back to Loring. Slipping one arm beneath her shoulders, he raised her up. The motion helped. She stirred and started to come around woozily. He held the glass to her lips and tried to get her to drink.

  She blinked and forced her eyes open. It seemed to Gilman that she wasn’t seeing anything; she could still be asleep. He tilted the glass slightly. Her lips remained closed. Water moistened them. Her eyes fluttered and finally she looked around.

  “Come on, Loring,” he said. “It’s just water.”

  She looked at Gilman, at the room, at the body on the floor, then her gaze settled on the glass, and her eyes widened sharply.

  Her hand crashed into his, knocking the glass away. It smashed on the floor. The water splashed away in a widening circle.

  Gilman grunted in surprise, but before he could say anything, the spilled water rushed together and out of it grew a column of oily blackness, whirling toward the ceiling like a dervish, spreading and turning into the djinn.

  Its immense head lunged at them and fouled the air with its breath as it let out an enraged roar.

  Loring spun off the bed to the floor. Gilman dove over the cot and rolled, then pulled his legs up under him, sprang to his feet, and darted toward the salt cocktail he had left beside Hopkins’ corpse. Snatching up the bottle, he turned to see the djinn in the air, leaping across the room at him. Its cloven hooves crashed heavily on the floor. Its arms shot out, the claws jumping in the djinn’s frenzy to get at him.

  Gilman threw the bottle. It smashed against the wall behind the djinn, splashing some of the salt solution on the demon’s back. Wherever the liquid touched his hide, fire erupted.

  The djinn sprang upright. Both its arms shot high into the air. Its roar of rage turned to an agonized shriek of terror, the sound of a thousand demons writhing in mortal pain. Flames sizzled on its back, emitting a greasy gray smoke. Bits of ash were whipped about as the djinn threw its giant arms behind its back to claw at the pain.

  Dodging past it, Gilman reached Loring and looked up in time to see the djinn spinning itself into a black tornado that quickly became a cloud of black smoke and rushed toward them.

  Gilman threw Loring to the floor. The cloud blew over the cot and exploded out the window, shattering glass.

  Leaping up, Gilman stared through the empty frame. The blackness whipped off in the growing dawn, around a corner and out of sight, trailed by an agonized howl that rolled up the side of Blackbone Mountain and came down as a resounding echo. Then it diminished to silence.

  He turned to help Loring up. She pointed out the window and said, “Look.”

  The sun appeared over the top of Blackbone.

  “It’s gone,” Gilman said. “Dead. Finished. Right?”

  She shook her head sadly. “We didn’t see it die. We saw it leave.”

  “Screaming in pain!”

  “That could be another trick.”

  “For God’s sake, how many does it have?”

  “Before we let anybody back into this camp, we have to be sure!”

  Gilman looked past her and saw Window Hill in his mind. He shook his head. “But it’s daylight now. If it’s supposed to be helpless, what can it do?”

  Loring stepped away and stood over the shattered glass cup on the floor. Churchill wandered over and sniffed the pieces.

  “It has to remain in some dormant form until dark,” she said. “The only thing that makes sense is to turn itself into something that can be eaten. Like it did with the water. It doesn’t matter if that trick didn’t work the first time. It just has to keep trying.”

  “Won’t do any good. There’s nobody in here to do any eating except us. And frankly,
I’m not hungry.”

  “That’s not the point. If it’s in food, we can find it. Even though the mess hall was burned flat and all those supplies are gone, there is still food left in this camp. When the prisoners were evacuated, they left behind everything edible, remember? That’s where the djinn is going to be, waiting for someone to come back and have a snack.”

  Gilman opened the door and they stepped out. The snow had finally stopped. The black clouds were moving on to the east, leaving clear sky and sunlight. The ground was wearing a thick white carpet. Gilman looked over at the remains of the mess hall. Though reduced to a blackened ruin, it too was covered with a layer of snow.

  Churchill bounded between their legs and ran off, romping and barking happily.

  There was a shout from the gate. Looking up the slope, Gilman and Loring saw POWs and MPs gathered on the other side of the fence, dozens of them looking in, waiting.

  Borden met them at the gate. Gilman studied the men crowded against the fence, all of them—Americans and Germans alike—afraid, uncertain, wanting to know.

  “Hopkins is dead,” Gilman explained. “So is Steuben. The thing we’re after is still on the loose, though it might not be dangerous at this moment.”

  Borden nodded but looked at him suspiciously. Gilman realized he and Loring were getting funny looks from all the men, and that some of the MPs had their weapons casually pointed in his direction.

  “Look,” said Gilman. “What I said before still stands. No one goes in or out until we all know for sure that this thing is dead. But if anybody gets itchy right now, you’ll never know.”

  A few held their looks then lowered their weapons.

  “Got a call from headquarters during the night,” said Borden. “General Hawthorn was concerned you might not follow his orders and keep the prisoners in the compound. We had to tell him the truth.”

  “And?”

  “He was mad as hell. Said that storm or ho storm he was sending a detachment by truck convoy. At last report, they should be here in thirty minutes.”

  Loring felt hope sink in her stomach. She looked at Gilman and saw his despair and knew what he was feeling. Window Hill. Once again, he would be in hot water over a disobeyed order. But this time, more was at stake. When the detachment arrived, they would find a lot of corpses and a screwy, unbelievable explanation. This time they would throw the book at Gilman.

  “The orders remain the same,” said Gilman. “Everyone stays put. No one comes through that gate.”

  “Major, General Hawthorn isn’t going to wait for your permission to enter,” said Borden. “If we don’t open the gate, he’ll drive through it.”

  “Stall him. I’ll handle the rest.”

  Gilman turned his back on the mob at the fence and strode quickly through the snow, back down to the camp. Loring hurried after him.

  Chapter 30

  Snow crunched under their feet. The sun was up, but it would be a while before the white blanket began to melt and turn to slush.

  “Red Cross parcels,” Gilman said.

  “Pardon?” Loring gave him a puzzled look.

  “The International Red Cross supplies parcels to war prisoners. Everybody gets the same thing, usually books, baseballs, underwear—useful stuff like that.”

  “And food?”

  Gilman nodded. “Not just a few candy bars and cookies, either. There might be a whole shipload of plum puddings scattered among the huts.”

  “We’ll find them. We’ll gather them all up and bury them in salt.”

  “Salt went up in the fire.”

  “There must be more salt in your own supplies.”

  “Do you want that general to walk in here and find the two of us burying food in salt?”

  “Will you stop worrying what he’s going to think?”

  Gilman paused outside the Krankenhaus. He looked at the sky, the mountain, the snow. “Time,” he said. “There isn’t enough time.”

  “There is, too! Now let’s split up and get busy!”

  Loring stalked into Hut 4. Gilman stared after her.

  Why should she be right about what form the djinn would take? Why should it conceal itself in food? Wouldn’t it realize they might guess? Wouldn’t it try to outsmart them? Sure it would.

  Gilman set off around the huts, determined to find it. Dislodging thick drifts of snow piled up against the foundations, he poked and prodded under the huts.

  It could turn itself into anything. A rock, a stick of wood, a window pane, mattress ticking ...

  Gilman stomped into Hut 5 and stood in the corridor, listening. There wasn’t a sound. He entered the first room and stared at upturned mattresses draped with belongings: books, pictures, and clothing. He opened the single storage cabinet. Inside he found two tin cups, a chocolate bar, a small sheaf of prison stationery, pencils, a box of tea bags, and two cans of condensed milk. He debated whether to bother with it and finally decided to leave it. If in the next fifteen minutes he couldn’t find the djinn, he could always make an end run from hut to hut, grabbing up food stocks and throwing them on whatever pile Loring started outside. Then they could burn the whole lot and salt it later.

  Not that he believed it was necessary.

  Gilman went on to the next room.

  Loring dumped an armful of food into the snow outside Hut 4. She had found ten chocolate bars, several boxes of tea, four cans of condensed milk, and a stale sponge cake. She looked around for Gilman and, not seeing him, went into Hut 7.

  She rummaged through the first two rooms, finding more tea and chocolate. She was loading it into a pillow case when she heard the scratching sound.

  The outside door. Someone trying to get in.

  She heard it open and creak on its hinges, then it banged shut. Something padded down the corridor. Loring turned, the pillow case clutched in both hands. She shrank back, her heartbeat quickening, her breath coming in short bursts.

  There was a low whine from the corridor.

  Loring expelled her breath in relief. She had forgotten about Churchill. Lowering the sack, she went to the door.

  He was standing in mid-corridor, looking right at her. Loring smiled and wiggled her fingers. “Come here, boy. Here, Churchill.”

  He watched her uncertainly then slowly made his way toward her. His tail was down, his eyes on her all the time, alert and suspicious.

  Loring’s hand remained outstretched, but as the dog got closer, her fingers instinctively curled inward, and she withdrew her hand as it occurred to her that something didn’t seem right about Churchill. He looked subdued, different....

  Loring backed into the doorway. Churchill stopped and met her gaze. They stood watching each other for nearly a full minute, as Loring wondered if she had been all wrong about the djinn, if maybe it wasn’t dormant during the day at all but had somehow changed into the dog and now it was going to...

  Churchill was intent on the sack. His ears pricked up. He edged his nose forward and sniffed. Ignoring Loring, he padded closer and sniffed the bottom of the sack. His nose left a trail of dampness. Loring held the sack out so he could get to it easier.

  Churchill sat down on his hindquarters and looked up at Loring expectantly. At last, she decided to accept him for what he appeared to be—a lonely, hungry dog.

  But he wasn’t about to get anything from that sack.

  She crouched and extended a hand, and Churchill sniffed it. In a moment, they were friends again, with the dog panting, thumping his tail on the floor and licking her fingers.

  He followed her from room to room and patiently watched her gather up the rest of the food. He waited and hoped and kept his eyes on the sack, but he never got anything.

  Gilman sat on the stoop outside Hut 9 with the sun Warming his face, trying to think. In his state of mind, that was nearly impossible. He was immobilized with worry. All he really wanted to do was lie back and let the sun burn away the night and its memories. He pulled off his coat and threw it into the snow.

  O
ut the corner of his eye, he saw Loring emerge from Hut 7 with a sack slung over her shoulder—Santa Claus weighted down with Christmas goodies.

  Damn. Christmas is coming. Where will I spend it this year—in Leavenworth? Or consigned to some icy outpost in the Aleutians? While the djinn moves into Meagher County, Montana, and makes mincemeat of the local residents.

  Resting his head on his arms, Gilman again tried to think: Where would that sonofabitch hide?

  Dormancy. He kept thinking of dormancy. Why should Loring be right about that? He watched her tie up the ends of the sack, which he now recognized as a pillow case, then dump the load into the pile outside Hut 4.

  Then he saw Churchill watching the pile. Loring shook a warning finger at the dog, shooing him away. Churchill trotted off but, when Loring moved away, he turned and eyed the pile again.

  Oilman had just stuck two fingers in his mouth to whistle the dog down when he heard the first distant roar of a vehicle. He listened. Loring was about to enter Hut 6. She stopped too.

  Gilman rose and went to the bottom of the slope. The men were still lined up along the fence, but their heads turned as they too became aware that something was approaching.

  The roar grew louder. Something rounded the distant bend and came into view. Gilman swallowed. A snow-plow.

  He glanced back. Loring stood outside Hut 6, watching the snowplow come down toward the camp.

  The relief detachment would be right behind it, probably in trucks. Gilman felt all hope sink in his chest. There were only a few minutes left and he had done nothing. He hadn’t a clue where to find the djinn. And all Loring had managed to accomplish was to pile up some food in the snow. Churchill was scratching at the pillow case full of food, trying to open it. Gilman gave the dog one short, sharp whistle.

  Churchill scurried back to Loring. Gilman returned to the stoop he had left, shoving his hands in his pockets and encountering the salt tablets he had stuffed in there last night.

  Loring walked around a puddle in the snow and joined Gilman on the stoop. They sat quietly and watched the trucks come down the valley road and grind over the hump above headquarters, then brake as they came down to the gate.