The Lurking Season

by Kristopher Rufty

  A Haunchy cemetery.

  All the times she’d come out here, she’d never seen it. Never seen any of this. And seeing a consecrated place for dead Haunchies made her skin feel too tight.

  Heather dropped to her knees and slid beside her. Patting Erin’s back, she reached under her stomach with her other hand. She tried lifting her up, but Erin couldn’t move.

  “Come on,” said Heather. “Don’t stop now!”

  Erin rolled onto her side, scanned the area around them. They’d stayed away from the trails, mostly. Doing a circle around the neighboring habitations, they were close to where they began. She couldn’t believe all the stick-built shanties she’d seen. Some on the ground, others in the trees and others still buried partially underground like dens.

  So far, they’d maintained a lead on their pursuers. It wouldn’t last, Erin knew.

  Heather sniffed the air while Erin rolled onto her back.

  “What are you doing?” asked Erin through her wheezes.

  “Don’t you smell that?”

  Erin caught the delectable smell of cooking meat. “Food,” said Erin.

  “I watched them cook a friend of mine,” said Heather as if in a trance.

  “I…” Erin knew nothing she could say would help Heather. “Where’s it coming from?”

  Heather turned to the side. “I wonder…” Standing, she crept to a tree. She peeked around it. “Come here.”

  Erin groaned. Guess she forgot she’s supposed to be helping me since my foot’s messed up. She managed to get to her knees, then to her feet. The chains clinked together as she hobbled over to where Heather was.

  “What is it?” asked Erin.

  “Look.”

  Erin put a hand on Heather’s shoulder for balance, leaning to the side to see.

  A ramshackle shanty was just yards away. Larger than the other buildings they’d spotted throughout the woods, two pipes pillared through the ceiling, casting out thick lines of smoke.

  Even from here, Erin heard the faint sounds of sizzling.

  “Must be a smoke room,” said Heather.

  “What’s that?”

  “Where meat is cooked. Smoked, you know? My grandfather used to smoke ham that way. Makes the meat last longer.”

  “Yeah,” said Erin, licking her lips and hating herself for it. “It doesn’t smell like ham, though.”

  “Come on,” said Heather. She pulled Erin’s arm around the back of her neck, letting Erin lean against her for support. Heather eased her mouth close to her ear and whispered, “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “In there.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “I have to make sure none of my friends are in there. They fucking cooked Ted. The others might be in there, you know? Maybe they’re alive.”

  “What if there’re some of…them in there?”

  Heather frowned. “We’ll worry about that if it happens.”

  Erin wanted to argue some more, but Heather gave her a soft push forward. Reluctantly, she started moving with Heather. Staggering over the uneven soil, she kept her weight against Heather’s side. It was hard to walk and not put pressure on her ankle. The tugging of the chain around the cuff of her hurt hand made her arm throb.

  I’m a damn mess.

  They approached the shanty, pausing outside the door.

  This’ll be fine. We’ll just take a quick look around. Plus, nobody would think of checking for us in there.

  But what if someone’s already in there?

  Heather opened the door..

  Erin followed her inside.

  Heat engulfed them. Smoke hung heavily in the air like a hazy tarp. The hiss of cooking meat was louder now, coming from sheets of meat on hooks mounted in the ceiling. Stretched and filleted, they looked like leather vests sprinkled with spices. A wall of embers burned behind the meat, throwing its heat against the hanging morsels. The sizzling sounds came from there.

  The door slammed behind her. Wincing, Erin turned her head to see Heather. She shrugged as if embarrassed by making so much noise.

  Now Erin detected another noise—bubbly and splashy, like a hot tub.

  In the center of the room was a large iron pot. At least a foot taller than them, it was filled to the top with a boiling brown stew. Erin figured it had to be at least this size to feed so many members of their clan. Ingredients floated on top of the gurgling brew, bouncing in the bubbles.

  Steps had been built around it. Heather was already climbing them before Erin had even noticed she was about to. She reached the top and leaned over the pot as if to take a whiff. Eyes narrowing, her head moved around to watch the fluttering bubbles.

  Checking for people she knows.

  Erin’s bowels felt cold and achy.

  While Heather examined the stew, Erin stayed on the lower level, quietly searching the place. So far, Erin hadn’t encountered any Haunchies manning the operation. They were probably out on the hunt, leaving the food to cook in their absence. Though she hated being in here, she was also glad to be out of the snow.

  She spotted a wall of empty jars. Wooden crates of lids and rims were stacked in front of the shelves containing the jars. Some had fallen onto the dirt floor.

  Canning?

  Sure looked that way.

  She moved on. Here, hooks lined the walls. All of them were empty except for two. Slabs of meat hung from the curvilinear points. One had been completely skinned, chunks were missing.

  Erin looked down at the other hanging slab. The upper torso, dragging the floor, was also skinned. Between the shoulders she saw a head canted to the side. Its oval shape was a network of muscles and tendons entwined around protruding white teeth.

  A human!

  Jumping back, Erin gasped, scanning the rest of the inverted carrion of a torso. It was flayed up to its jeans. The hooks were stabbed through its tennis shoes. Skechers. Black ones.

  Lawrence…

  Erin screamed. Cupping her hand over her mouth, she tried to stop them. But her screams cut through her hand muffle as if it weren’t there at all.

  Heather dashed down the stairs. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Erin pulled her hand away from her mouth. Her lips moved, but instead of words only high-pitched shrills surfaced. She raised her shaky hand and pointed at the wall.

  Heather turned around, looking. From behind, Erin watched Heather’s head move from low to high. Stopping at the shoes, she screamed too. Staggering back, she bumped into Erin. The force of their collision threw Erin against the pot.

  The wooden stairs cracked, fracturing in half as the pot toppled over, spilling hot stew all over, turning the dirt to mud with its hot broth.

  Heather was drenched in the cascade of searing brew and was thrown to the ground by the current. It scorched her skin, forming blisters that immediately peeled back in flimsy layers. Trying to get up, she pushed against the sodden ground. Her gelled skin peeled off in clumps, making her fall back down. She screeched even louder, holding her arms up while the loose skin dangled and sagged from the bone like leaves of cooked cabbage.

  Heather’s cries petered out to thin groans before she collapsed. She landed in the muck and didn’t move.

  Erin backed away, shaking her head. Streams of stew channeled along the ground, splashing over her shoes. Objects bounced over her feet.

  Erin noticed the chunks of meat were actually severed arms, feet, and a head.

  Then she quivered so hard she vomited, splashing the broth rivulets, mixing the two.

  Brooke

  Walking slightly behind Wendy, Brooke kept the 12-gauge pointed outward, ready to fire. She followed Wendy because the woman knew where to go. Brooke, though she’d been here many months, still hadn’t seen the entire village. Hopefully, Wendy could get them back to the car when the
y were through, since Brooke had no idea where they were.

  They stopped behind some pine trees with limbs sagging from heavy snow. It looked as if the green bristles had been sprayed with foam. Crouching, Wendy scooted her way into the thicket. How she could move like that with that enormous belly impressed Brooke.

  Not knowing what else to do, Brooke followed her into the dense darkness inside the pines. She felt hands grab her arm and pull her down. Brooke’s knees sank in the snow. She started to say something when a hand slapped over her mouth.

  “Shut up,” said Wendy in a harsh whisper. She let go of Brooke. “Keep quiet.”

  Brooke could see the pale streaks of Wendy’s face amongst the shadows. She saw movement, something going back and forth. As her eyes started to adjust, she realized it was Wendy pointing ahead of them.

  Brooke peered out through a small gap between the branches. A small shack sat ahead of them, inside meager fencing that looked constructed of rotted logs. The middle rails weren’t proportionate to the others. Thick in the middle they turned scrawny on either end, pockmarked with holes from an obvious termite infestation.

  “He’s in there,” said Wendy.

  Brooke nodded. She wasn’t sure if Wendy had seen or not.

  Wendy scuttled farther, stopping when she was nearly outside the huddle of pines. She looked one way, then the other. She was about to step out.

  Brooke glimpsed the pale rush of movement and reached out, putting her arm in front of Wendy to stop her.

  Haunchies rushed by, their tiny feet galloping softly in the snow.

  After they were gone, Wendy muttered “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  Wendy checked one more time. This time the coast was clear and Brooke didn’t stop her when she crawled out. Brooke followed. They stood up, wiping the snow off their skin. It itched where the snow had been stuck to Brooke’s legs.

  Wendy ushered her. Not changing their routine, Brooke trailed slightly behind, covering Wendy as she reached the fence. So far, nobody came from either direction.

  If watching Wendy crawl around effortlessly while her stomach was so large and about to pop weren’t remarkable enough, seeing her hopping over the fence definitely was. Her determination astounded Brooke. Though Wendy barely moved her left arm, she wasn’t about to let the gunshot slow her down. Not with her son motivating her.

  Brooke hobbled over the fence nowhere near as flawlessly as Wendy. They stepped up to the rear wall, pressing their bodies flush against its loose boarding. The craftsmanship was shoddy. A serious wind would probably bring the entire structure tumbling down.

  Wendy motioned for Brooke to follow her, and again she did. They paused briefly at the corner so Wendy could poke her head around, then they moved on.

  On this side, Brooke saw the small blocked opening meant to be a window. A flimsy sheet of plastic was plastered across the aperture to keep the cold out. The golden flicker of firelight reflected off the translucent surface.

  Wendy snuck to the window. Keeping her back against the shack, she took a break for some innervating breathing exercises. After three heavy huffs, she turned her head, leaning it slightly to see through the mock window. Then she snatched her head back. “Two females,” she said.

  Brooke assumed she meant Haunchies. Wendy started moving, ducking low to avoid crossing in front of the plastic. Brooke did the same.

  Finally they stepped around to the front, pausing outside a door manufactured from cornstalks. The thin stalks had turned an insipid gray, the husk leaves dangling like shriveled banana peels.

  Brooke stepped next to Wendy, aiming the barrel at the door. She gave her an approving nod, letting her know she was ready.

  Wendy nodded back. And instead of throwing her foot out to kick in the feeble door, she stepped up to it and politely rapped her knuckles across a lower section.

  Some hushed chatter came from inside. Brooke heard the light crunches of feet on dirt and rock coming to the door. It opened, swinging inward.

  A doll-like woman stood in the frame, her face bloated with puffy cheeks that seemed to swallow her eyes. Spiral locks of hair hung around her face like a nest of snakes. Two acicular ears jutted on either side. When she opened her tight mouth to gasp, Brooke noted the sharp, browning teeth.

  Wendy’s arm shot out, gripped the Haunchy woman’s neck and snatched her off the ground. She swung her around so her frail back squished Wendy’s breasts. Then she cracked her neck in one vicious, jerking motion. The face now leered at Brooke with empty, dead eyes. Bumpy shapes bulged against the skin of her tiny, broken neck.

  Wendy dropped her. Her limp body landed in an awkward pile on the ground.

  The other female was on her way to the door when Wendy let the dead one fall. Seeing what had just transpired, she reeled back, opening her mouth to scream. Brooke recognized the quick intake of breath as being the first steps of unleashing a powerful alerting screech.

  But Wendy was quicker. She threw her fist out. Shoved it into the gaping mouth and gripped the jaw. She yanked down, snapping the bone and tearing the skin where it attached to the neck. The jaw dangled like a broken trap, her tongue lashing wildly as she gurgled and moaned. Wendy grabbed the crown of the Haunchy woman’s skull and threw her to the ground.

  Raising her foot, Wendy positioned it directly above the minute head.

  Then she brought it down, busting the skull with sounds like a smashed melon.

  Brooke watched Wendy lean her head back, panting. She glanced back over her shoulder. “You coming in?”

  Brooke realized she was still standing outside the small shack. “Yuh-yeah…” She crossed the threshold, ducking as she entered.

  Here, tables lined each wall, a row of baskets devised from cornhusks on top. Glancing inside them, Brooke saw tiny creatures sleeping on their backs inside the makeshift cots. Wrapped in cloth, they resembled hairless cats with their pink, wrinkled skin, compressed faces and pointy ears. Some of them even had sprigs of hair sprouting from their cheeks like whiskers, but others did not.

  God, they’re so ugly…

  Brooke had never seen something so ghastly.

  She heard Wendy talking softly, calmly, trying her best to sound soothing. Looking to the corner of the shack, she saw Wendy crouching. Her arm with the injured shoulder was resting on her burlap dress, while the other reached out. At first, Brooke couldn’t tell what she was trying to touch, but as she got closer she saw the small boy sitting in the corner with his knees up and arms crossed on top. His face was buried in their folds.

  He was dressed in the same filthy rags as the rest of them, but even being so young, he was already noticeably taller.

  “It’s okay,” said Wendy, her voice higher and softer than normal. “I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you.” She gently stroked his hair. Her bottom lip trembled as her fingers rubbed. Tears trickled down her cheeks, cutting paths in the dirt and dried blood on her face. “Please look at me. Please? You’ll see I’m not lying.”

  Her hand reached into the small space between his face and arm. She lifted his head, her fingers under his chin. A normal-looking boy with tear-soaked eyes looked up at her. They were such a luscious shade of blue they could have been chiseled from sapphires. He was adorable, so innocent and unaware of the horrors he was living in.

  Though he was no older than four, Brooke could easily see the resemblance between him and Wendy. Same eyes, same color of hair. The nose was different, slightly upturned but cute, and his lips were full and handsomely shaped where Wendy’s were thin and hardly prominent.

  Though she was smiling, Wendy sobbed. “I’ve wanted to see you for so long…to hold you. You look so much like your father. He would be proud.”

  The boy smiled. Tears clung to his upper lip, held there a moment, then dripped. His teeth looked strange. Something about their shape. Had they been…?


  Wendy held out her arms, opening herself up so her son could come into their protective embrace. The boy started to slowly stand, pushing up with his legs and bracing himself with his back against the wall.

  “Come here,” said Wendy.

  That smile again. And this time Brooke knew for certain something was wrong. The teeth were sharp, animallike. No way had he been born that way. They’d been sculpted to look like that.

  “Wendy!” was all Brooke managed to get out before the boy lunged.

  He punched a knife into the center of Wendy’s chest.

  Wendy sucked in a gasping chirp of shock and betrayal. Her eyes, never leaving her son’s, were wide with hurt. Her mouth seemed to be stuck open as she fell back, landing flat.

  Brooke gawped at the wild boy standing between Wendy’s spread legs. Her knees pointed up, their dusky hues gleaming under sweat. The candles made them look as if they’d been painted in butter. Between her breasts, the hilt of the knife jutted. String had been wrapped around the handle, the tip hanging like a loose strand of hair.

  Brooke took a step back, her eyes switching from Wendy to the crazed boy who wouldn’t stop smiling in that creepy way. His deluded mother lay before him, her arms locked on each side, fingers stuck as if she were miming a bear’s claws. Blood streamed from the dip where the knife was embedded. Her throat made phlegmy quacking sounds.

  The boy put his hands on Wendy’s knees, reaching for the knife. Brooke, remembering the shotgun clutched in her sweaty hands, pointed it at Wendy’s son. “Stop!” she said.

  The boy only gave her a fleeting glance before his hungry, wicked eyes turned back to Wendy. Brooke knew without any doubt that he was somehow enjoying this. It was as if knowing she was his mother made it even more satisfying.

  “I told you to stop!” said Brooke.

  The boy ignored her. Wendy shook her head, her eyes looking at Brooke from their corners. They begged Brooke not to do what she was thinking. It seemed to Wendy that being slaughtered by her son was somehow not as awful as watching him die.

  Brooke didn’t care. She couldn’t let him continue. Her finger squeezed the trigger. The buckshot was launched from the barrel with a trail of crackling fire. It punched a decent-sized hole in the boy’s chest, but made a much larger one when it exploded from his back in a blossom of blood. The force of the shot lifted him off his feet and threw him through the crudely built wall. He landed somewhere outside.