Slate remembered touching the stone, feeling it; remembered that pebble, too, had a song to sing. He nodded but did not speak.
“That seed is what you are. What you are becoming. We are not many, there have never been many, but we are powerful.”
“What do I do about it?” Slate asked.
“Embrace the changes. I fought mine and in the end it caused me nothing but pain.”
“What is the song I hear?”
“That is magic trying to tell you how to grow and become strong.”
“Do you hear that same song?”
The thin man looked at him with a cold, sly expression. “I am the song.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We are a part of the world. This world and others. We can listen to the song and we can sing notes from the song and create wonders. But we must feed if we listen to the song.”
He wasn’t sure if the thing was being deliberately vague or simply lacked the ability to explain itself. Either way, he was starting to dislike the thin man.
“What do we have to feed on?”
“Mostly pain, and others like ourselves.” That smile grew larger.
Then the thin man reached for him and placed a hand on his chest and something inside of him pulled and twisted and shook through his body like a tree’s roots being ripped from the ground. Lucas Slate tried to step back, tried to break free, but the thin man’s hand on his chest burned at him and left him unable to move a single muscle. He stared at the yellowed teeth in darkened gums surrounded by white, smiling lips, and felt hatred rip into his heart.
In a lifetime full of predatory people who thought he was easy prey Lucas Slate had proven more than his share of people mistaken. He could not make his body move. He could not make his anger known by any of his previous methods. He could not, by God, even call out to Jonathan Crowley a dozen strides away. Instead he listened to the song that called to him and tried to understand the things it was saying.
The pain fought for his attention. The song had been trying to get his notice for longer.
He let the song win.
* * *
Crowley stared hard at the two pale men, waiting as they stood face to face and spoke. He could not understand a single word they were speaking and that, too, was something he was unaccustomed to. He did not understand because the words were new to him, but they were also not words, not exactly. Damned if it didn’t sound like to two of them were harmonizing.
As a counterpoint to their song, the battle raged close by and drew closer. The Cavalry was fighting against the invading Apache and by the sounds of screams, cries, and gunshots the conflict was in a full fury.
Crowley stared toward the sound of battle and saw the soldiers retreating, heading at a slow crawl toward where he stood and watched another war taking place.
Sometimes the conflicts seemed impossible to escape.
The gaunt man facing off against Lucas Slate slapped Crowley’s companion in the chest and Slate started jittering where he was, standing still and twitching, seizing again and again. The usually calm face pulled down, drawing into a pained expression and Slate’s eyes raged silently.
Crowley’d planned on doing nothing at all about this. He made it a habit not to get involved in several different sorts of situations, not the least of which were cases when one monster fought another.
Did he think Slate was a monster? That was the question.
Not far away the dead boy kept screaming his anger to the skies. He refused to be placated by whatever it was the afterlife was supposed to offer him. From the corner of Crowley’s eye he could see the vaporous spectre of Molly Finnegan, dead since the previous winter, buried by none other than Lucas Slate, and whose body once pushed itself out of the ground at the behest of whatever sort of creature Slate was becoming.
Behind Molly a Cavalryman’s head snapped back violently and he flopped to the ground without making a sound that could be heard from the distance. Molly looked at the body expectantly. Crowley looked away.
Helping Slate would be a hideous mistake. The events of the last summer had proved that beyond a doubt. The man had muttered words and shattered the ground at his feet. He was no longer human.
And yet, as Slate asked for help in the tent earlier, Crowley was still allowed to respond now. He was freed from his usual constraints when asked for assistance by a human being.
And he was freed when asked by Lucas Slate.
“Damn me,” he muttered.
The gun was in his hand in a second. He cocked the hammer, aimed and fired. Aimed, fired. Aimed, fired, and then again.
All four bullets slammed into the thin man. The first shot surprised him. He had apparently forgotten Crowley was there. The bullet tore his right arm apart, dragging it from Slate’s chest. Slate staggered backward, gasping. The second bullet took the thin man in the left shoulder blade and spun him where he stood so that he was looking toward Crowley’s feet. The third round punched into the thin man’s chest and blew a hole through his left lung. The fourth round hit him in the stomach and doubled him over as sure as if he’d been kicked by a horse.
The thin man gasped and grunted and then fell to his knees, trying to balance himself on his hands. He bled from each wound, streams of blood flowing to the ground. Crowley took three strides forward and looked down at where Slate lay on the frozen soil. Slate looked at him then sat up, wincing. Where the thin man had touched him, his shirt was torn and the skin underneath was already bruising, showing an amount of red that would have been alarming on most people, but for all Crowley knew, the color was perfectly normal in an albino who got himself bruised properly.
“I wasn’t sure if you were going to help me or not.” Slate’s voice was more raspy than usual.
Crowley did not answer. To his left he saw the thin man getting to his feet.
“Mister Crowley!” Slate’s eyes grew wide.
The thin man was looking hard at him and he was scowling. His face, already long and thin, grew longer still as he opened his mouth to speak. What he said meant nothing at all to Crowley. It was just gibberish. Just the same he felt his body hurled backward and did his best to prepare himself for impact.
The good news was that he landed on a canvas surface. The bad news was that a cast iron stove was under that canvas. He felt his ribs break on impact, and his right arm snapped in three places. He did not black out. He was not that fortunate.
* * *
The Skinwalker looked at his prey and smiled again. The wounds hurt, but he would heal. He would take from the younger, weaker Skinwalker and he would feed on the essence as had been done for as long as there had been Skinwalkers. Each was born, each created their seeds, each offered the seeds to worthy humans and then left. Later, after the seeds had a chance to grow, they came back and harvested their children. This one was not one of his, but that did not matter. He would feed and he would feed well. If the one who created this one took offense, he would feed on the progenitor as well.
The young Skinwalker stood, shivered. His chest was an angry red mass. The bruising was no doubt painful. The seed was deep inside this one’s chest, near his heart. That was why he’d grabbed him there. Most Skinwalker’s chose to place the seeds in the forehead. It made it easier for their children to see with their new senses and it also made harvesting them easier.
“I will kill you now. If you stay still I will try to make your death simple.” It was a mercy he was willing to offer.
The young one nodded and said, “Fuck yourself.” The shotgun rose and both barrels of the weapons fired.
The Skinwalker had been alive for a very long time and he was familiar with European weapons. Familiarity, however, did not prepare him for the pain. A hundred tiny pellets rammed through his flesh and burned into muscles, into bone. One of the tiny shots tore open his right eye and the agony was greater than he had felt in lifetimes.
He yowled and fell back, clutching at his face. He had planned to be merciful. Tha
t plan was finished.
He looked through his good eye in time to see the young one breach the shotgun and pull out the hot shells. As he watched two more were inserted and the gaunt man came closer, scowling down at him.
He raised one arm and sang. His right arm was ruined and hadn’t had time to mend, but his left worked well enough. His fingers clenched the air and he pulled with his song, with his mind, willing the seed deep in the other to come to him, to tear free of its moorings and come to him.
* * *
Lucas Slate dropped the shotgun and clutched at his chest. Was this a heart attack? He had no idea, had never felt one before. The pain grew larger and he fell to his knees, crying out.
Had any pain ever been this large? His hands held tight to the front of his chest, and under the palm that touched his pallid skin he felt something moving, twisting. He remembered the day he’d swallowed the oddly carved pebble he’d been given as a gift. It was a memory he’d done his best to forget, a fevered dream he never wanted to recall.
Much like the pain tearing him in half.
Lucas Slate screamed, something he hadn’t done since his transformation had started. The sound was not remotely human.
* * *
For three seconds Crowley had a fantasy about Molly. Her body was next to his and she whispered in his ear, a warm breath that tickled pleasantly. Then the pain kicked in and took him from his reverie.
There was magic about and while he often hated that notion, Jonathan Crowley was healed by the presence of the supernatural. His skin ached and his bones shrieked a symphony of pain, then the agony faded into a deep fiery itch as they pulled themselves to where they belonged and healed within him.
Crowley opened his eyes and stared at Slate and the thin man. Both of them were on their knees, straining and bleeding and locked in some sort of silent struggle. Slate did not seem to be winning. He would rather Molly whispering in his ear, but she was dead and the past offered him little solace.
“All right then,” he moaned. It took only a moment for him to stand.
The sounds of gunfire grew closer, drowning out the cries of the dead pickpocket and the unsettling scream coming from Slate.
Crowley started walking, heading for the two of them.
The first of the Indians came into view and almost immediately reined in their horses. They stared at the thin man and Lucas Slate with expressions of dread that were nearly comical, and grew almost as pale as the two of them.
He had no idea why the Apache were so afraid of the pale men and he did not care. What mattered at that moment was that the whole marauding lot of them watched for all of five seconds, and then their leader let out a command that had them turning tail and leaving the area at high speed.
As Crowley had witnessed, the Indians in the town had been scared of Lucas Slate. Apparently two of his kind in the area was a bit too much for them to stand. Crowley smiled at the notion, even as he looked back to Slate and the thin man.
Slate screamed again and blood spilled from between the fingers clamped over his chest. His eyes were wide and his mouth moved like a trout out of water seeking a gasp of proper breath.
“Move your hands, Mister Slate!” Crowley bellowed the words and the thin man ignored him.
Slate looked at him and managed a puzzled expression. “I am… I can’t. What do you need?”
“I need to see what he’s reaching for inside of you.”
Slate stared at him for a moment and slowly, carefully let his hands fall away. The lump that was revealed was the size of an apple. That Slate’s chest had not exploded was something of a miracle in Crowley’s opinion. Heavy lines of red stained a great deal of his body and in addition to the heavy lump trying to tear free of him, there were other lines, other things moving under his skin. All of them seemed connected and all seemed determined to come out.
Crowley looked away from Slate for only a moment to assess the thin man. He’d been beat down a good bit. Four holes from the bullets Crowley himself fired and more still from a shotgun blast or two. Only one eye remained and it stared only at Slate.
The bastard was smiling.
Crowley hated when other people had a reason to smile. Well, at least when they were enemies of his. He walked closer, scrutinizing the thin man’s face.
One eye was gone. One remained. Centered above them was a small opening in his head, and that at least was something Crowley was familiar with.
He had seen similar stones in Carson’s Point. They had caused him no end of troubles.
Two fast steps had him picking up his pistol. Three more strides and the barrel was one inch from the center of the thin man’s forehead.
As he cocked the hammer back, the bastard finally noticed him and his one remaining eye opened wide. Crowley pulled the trigger and ripped the top of the thin man’s head away with one shot.
The thin man launched backward and slammed his ruined head into the frozen ground. Deep within his skull a collection of grey things wriggled. They all seemed to be seeking something that was no longer there.
Crowley looked at the body for a moment and then checked the remaining portion of the skull. The bullet had managed to destroy that damned stone, whatever it might be, and though he couldn’t be sure, he suspected that was a mighty fine thing, indeed.
Slate fell forward and caught himself on his hands again, whimpering.
The sounds of combat were gone. The noise of people screaming had died as well, though in the distance a dead boy wept with less fervor, perhaps one step closer to accepting his fate.
Crowley put his weapon away and helped Lucas Slate to his feet.
“Are you well, Mister Slate?”
“I am not, sir. But I am alive and I thank you for that.” His voice was fainter than usual.
“You’ll have to be well enough.” Crowley squinted as he looked around. “You take the Indians and I’ll handle the soldiers.”
“What do you mean?”
“I intend to stop this damned fighting before one or both of us is killed.”
Lucas Slate nodded, hefted his shotgun and looked toward the direction the Indians had gone, the direction of most of the fighting.
As he walked, he murmured under his breath, words to a song that no one else in the vicinity could hear or understand. The furious red marks on his torso rapidly faded, first to pink and then to the same color as the rest of his flesh.
He was learning. The song had many, many notes and Slate suspected he would not know them all for years, but for now he learned how to heal himself with the song and it was a start.
* * *
Crowley found Sergeant Fowler and his men gathered near the far side of town, following orders. They were there to make sure the Indians didn’t storm in from the other side of the area, and likely to clear a path should it become necessary to flee Silver Springs.
Crowley walked directly up to the sergeant while the man watched warily.
“Sergeant?”
The man nodded and came toward him with caution. There was no telling where a man might stand on the Indians. Most agreed they should be sent away, but wise soldiers didn’t take that for granted.
The spell was simple, and one of the very first he’d learned ages ago. Crowley didn’t like using sorcery on human beings, but if he had to, he made exceptions.
“Sergeant, I’m sorry to inform you that your captain and most of the rest of your soldiers are dead. They were killed by the Indians, who are fleeing even as we speak. You’ve won the battle, but the cost was high.”
There was truth to his words, but only as much as he needed. He could have told the man that it was the heart of summer and he’d have agreed. That was how sorcery worked.
“I’m sure they fought bravely.” The sergeant’s voice was slightly slurred.
“Of course they did. They fought valiantly and they won. But wouldn’t it be best if you returned to your base camp and reported in? If more Indians should come back they might see your pre
sence as a challenge and you can’t do your duty if you’re all dead.”
The sergeant looked around uncertainly. There were seven men with him. The rest were elsewhere or dead.
“Yes, of course. We’ll head for home.”
“An excellent idea, Sergeant. You have to make sure your men are safe, after all.”
He finished the incantation. The sergeant would forget having seen his face. The men around him would remember only that the sergeant had been informed of their pyrrhic victory and nothing else.
A short walk had him reuniting with Slate and with the man who stood near him. Stinky Napier was clean and sober, his eyes haunted by the sights that Crowley didn’t need to see to understand. There were dead men up ahead and likely a lot of them if the sounds from earlier were anything to be judged by.
Crowley smiled broadly for him. Napier flinched a bit but stood his ground.
“And is the town still alive, Mister Napier? Or are we the only survivors?”
“Oh, there are more, Mister Crowley. The Indians only wanted the soldiers. They were good about not shooting anyone else.” He frowned a moment. “Can’t say the same for all the soldiers. Some of those boys shot anything that moved.”
“Still think the red men are all heathens?”
“Absolutely. Doesn’t mean I have to hate them. I just know they do not properly worship Jesus Christ.”
Crowley shook his head and said nothing. That was a story he was wise enough not to touch on.
“Your friend is very persuasive.” Napier’s voice caught him off guard.
“How so?”
Slate chuckled to himself. He was looking remarkably healthy for a man whose chest had been nearly broken open twenty minutes earlier.
Napier eyed him dubiously but continued on. “Walked right up to the Indians where they were getting ready to have a bit of fun with the soldiers and put a stop to it.”
Crowley’s grin was quick and savage. “And what did you say to them, Mister Slate?”
Slate looked directly at him. “Leave.” He shrugged. “They left.”
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 37
