by J. P. Sloan
I look over to Cheevey, who stares over the bolt with eyes heavy lidded and drooping.
“You boys need some sleep.”
Cheevey nods and gives me a weird chuckle before he hops over the edge of the cart and bustles on up toward the jailhouse.
Scarlow leans on Ingrid, running a hand over her like he was steadying a horse.
“You happy?” he asks.
“Don’t think I’d call what I’m feeling happy, but it’s one weapon stronger than we were before.”
He shrugs and closes his eyes for a long moment.
“Scarlow? Go sleep. I need you in fighting shape.”
“When’s this all goin’ down?”
“Suppose it’ll have to be tonight, just after sunset. Sooner is better.”
“Why then? Why not now?”
“Can’t roll with the sun overhead, or we’ll lose our reinforcements.”
“And they are?” He checks himself even as he asks it. “The blood-drinkers from out of the caves?”
“Katherina’s leading the charge. They’re throwing in.”
“And Richterman?”
I stare into his face for a good long minute before I answer. “I think you’re in danger, Eddie.”
His eyes widen, tossing off their drowsiness. “What, now?”
“Richterman’s talking about you. And what he’s saying ain’t exactly charitable.”
Scarlow bristles as he straightens his spine. “What happened? What did I do?”
“Not sure, but he’s made gestures.”
He whispers, “What kind of gestures?”
“I think he’s of a mind to replace you.”
Scarlow shakes his head slow, then reaches for the side of the cart. He backs away, reaching for the rail with his foot before sliding off onto the dirt road.
“He told you that?”
I consider the question, then nod once.
Scarlow backs away some more, his face ashen. “I… I think it’s best I git.”
“Probably.”
He pauses, bringing up his arms in a strange kind of questioning shrug.
“You go ahead,” I call out. “Before this whole valley drowns itself in blood.”
Scarlow lingers a moment, balling and unballing a fist, his face twitching with words he can’t seem to pull out of his brain. So he just nods and turns his shoulder to trot off around the corner of the assay office. A minute later, as townsfolk begin milling into the street under Toomey’s urging, a set of hoofbeats pounds off into the distance.
And Scarlow is gone.
I lean against Ingrid as eyes turn my direction. At first just a half-dozen, then twenty, then about forty souls fill the street, gathering at a good distance from the cart.
Hell’s fire, I wish I had Denton’s way with words.
I remove my hat and give them a good, solid nod.
“Well, I suppose most of you know who I am at this point.”
A chuckle ripples over the crowd. I can’t divine the humor in the comment, so I let it be.
“I am what I suppose you’d call a minister of God. Least I aim to be.”
No laughter this time.
“Now, I don’t claim to be your superior. I’m not a priest. Not a lawman. I’ve got one mission in mind. I aim to wipe out the evil that’s breeding in those hills.”
I point to the north.
A voice grumbles, “Heard this before.”
I search the crowd, and all eyes drop quickly.
“Right,” I answer. “Probably have, haven’t you?” I lift my eyes to the second-story windows across the lane. I see Richterman’s shadow behind one of the curtains. More feel it than see it, but I know he’s listening. “Richterman’s probably got you all a touch cynical about the whole damn mess. And to date, he ain’t had no plan outside of throwing lives at the problem.” I shout it loud enough for the sumbitch to hear. “Well, me? I got a real plan. A real notion of what can bring these ugly, bone-chewing bastards down for good.”
The crowd is silent.
“And they all have to die. Every last one. If we leave a single survivor, it’ll turn a whole new mess of those things, and it starts all over again. That’s not an option. We kill them. All of them. And I do mean ‘we,’ because I’ll need your help in this.”
Postures shift; feet shuffle.
“There are two known weaknesses we can exploit against these cannibals. One: silver drops them dead. So if any of you good folk have any fine silver lying around or tucked away, it would be the smart choice to hand it over for us to use against these creatures. It’s the best weapon we got. Two: a length of aspenwood direct through the heart will drop one and keep it dropped. This is, as you see, why we’ve been hacking at the grove down the lane. Now, this ain’t the prettier option. Requires we get good and close to these monsters.”
I run my hand over the iron straps left drawn short on Scarlow’s contraption.
“This beauty here, now. This can throw a whole tree trunk, but we’re saving it for the big ones.”
A voice calls out, “What big ones?”
“These are monsters. They ain’t men. Not no more. Some kind of curse has twisted them into something inhuman. I intend to take good potshots at anything taller than a story high. The rest of you will have to lure them inside the town.”
“Are you insane?” the same voice calls. I squint into the morning sun as a couple townsfolk part to reveal Grangerford, still sporting the shiner I’d given him in Broad Creek.
“These things are stronger than any of us,” I retort. “Our only chance is to fight smart. We lure them into the buildings, where we’ll be ready to strike. One stab, right through the heart. Then we clear the corpses and set for another. Strongest men take position on the first floors, women and children hole up in the cellars. If one of these things takes a bite out of you, you’re as good as damned. I mean it. Anyone gets bit, you put that person down quick. No hesitation. They’re already cursed, and we’ll have two to kill instead of one.”
Grangerford raises his hands and turns a slow circle as he addresses the surrounding crowd. “Is no one going to state the obvious, here?”
Those nearby seem a touch alarmed at being so close to the man. I hold my position of higher ground as he winds his way toward me, or more specifically the center of the crowd.
“He’s the one that brought these things here! And now he’s making this our problem?”
“It is your problem, Grangerford. Those things are getting hungry up there, and they won’t stay out of this town for long.”
He sneers up at me. “And whose fault is that?”
“Well, it ain’t for sure how this curse took hold, but my sense is it’s Magner that started this whole thing.”
Grangerford releases a quick, dry chuckle. “Now he’s blaming poor old Magner for this. The man’s demented. Why are you all just standing here, listening to him?”
I hop down off the cart. “Because they know I’m right. They know they’re going to end up like Parson Uriah. That’s right. He got bit. He turned into one of those things. And he came right into town, hungry for flesh. There’s a war on, people. A war between two forces you can’t understand. If you just sit here on your asses, this war is going to gut the lot of you. You’re already committed. Time to arm yourselves.”
Toomey takes a half step forward and wheezes, “What two forces?”
“Hmm?”
“You said a war between two―”
“Yes. Magner’s cannibals up in the hills is one. The Strigoi are the other. They’ve been keeping Magner’s numbers down, but they can’t hold out.”
Grangerford runs a hand over his head and winds another histrionic circle. “Oh, Lord. Now we’re talking about that witch you’re shacked up with?”
I grip a tight fist as he ventures closer.
“Strigoi? That’s what you call those things? Those blood-sucking parasites that hover over that prairie like locusts?”
I mutter, “You’
re gonna want to step off.”
“Do you hear this, people? Another phantasm of this diseased mind. Walking corpses everywhere!” He turns to me and continues in a lower voice, “Not all of us are illiterate, sir. Some of us have read a penny-book or two. Some of us have read these grim tales of ghouls and ghosts in castles. Maybe you should stop trying to scare people for once?”
My hands ache to reach out and strangle the life out of this wormy little piece of hog shit, but this isn’t the kind of argument that’s won with violence.
I look around the crowd. “Where’s your wife, Grangerford?”
His face pales.
“Not here, I reckon? You told her to stay put, nice and safe in your house? Way down the other end of the valley, far from the cannibal hills. What were you afraid of?”
He draws in a breath, but I don’t give him the chance to reply.
“You ride out into the hills at night, Grangerford? No? Do any of you?” I ask as I turn a crowd-grabbing circle. “It’s easy to blow hot air in the light of day. But come sundown, and you shit your pants at every noise outside your house, that’s when you rely on the likes of Richterman. Because you know, don’t you? All of you. You know what he is. Why he never walks in the sunlight. Why he’s always in earshot, always listening. You know he’s a Strigoi.”
I take a gauge of the crowd. The faces are a mix of bewilderment, dread, and desperation.
I pause at Grangerford. “So, when a man like Richterman asks a man like me for help, maybe you can afford me an ounce of fucking respect?”
Grangerford’s eyes narrow, and he steps away.
“I’m burning the forest just above the old mine. Toomey’s loaned me all his lamp oil. I know it rained a couple weeks back, but it should be dry enough to get a good range fire rolling. These things cotton to fire about as well as the Strigoi, so I figure it’s the best way to make sure they all come running.”
“How many are there?” Toomey asks.
“No way to know until they come. We’ve carved out as many aspen stakes as we can. By my head count, we got about five per man.”
A lean, bronze-faced woman with black braids steps from her husband’s side. “And woman?”
I give her a slow nod. “If you got the will to fight, we’ll put a stake in your hands.”
Her husband reaches for her shoulder, but she twists away, giving him a hairy eyeball.
I continue, “When the fire brooms these things into town, you’ll have to be ready. Tuck yourselves low and strike fast. Remember, these things can tear a door off its hinges, but what they’ve gained in strength, they’ve lost in brains. And I ain’t seen two of them work together worth a damn. Forget your guns. They’re useless against these creatures and will only announce your location. Now, I can’t guide each of you in turn. I just have to trust you have the means and the desire to survive this.”
The words hang in the air as I lose my train of thought. The entire crowd stands stone silent.
Like a funeral.
“At least, I’ll do my part,” I conclude.
One by one, the people mill around. Some move immediately to the cart of stakes. Some wander in languid circles, figuring out what to do with themselves. Others, like Grangerford, hightail it out of town on the quick. Good. Those we don’t need. Those are the ones that’ll lock up when a Wendigo draws up on them.
I give Richterman’s window another glance. No sign of the bastard. He wanted me as his Second. Don’t think he figured on me gunning for First.
Toomey is the last to head off, snatching a particularly hefty length of aspen and ushering a half-dozen men into his general store.
I make my way to the assay office and step inside. I only find two of Scarlow’s men waiting there, the boys with my silver, both snapping to attention with what looks like promising sobriety.
“Where’s the others?” I grunt as I close the door behind me.
They look back and forth one to another like a pair of gun-shocked squirrels. “There’s a couple around, but most ran off.”
“You boys still got my silver?”
They both pull their weapons and hold them clear for me to inspect. One Remington, one Colt.
“Glad you boys stayed. What’re your names?”
The man with the Remington answers, “José.” He points to the blond, and adds, “He’s Eli.”
I give them quick handshakes. “You probably know already, but in case you don’t, Scarlow’s lit out. Probably for good, if he’s smart.”
José grimaces, but Eli seems unsurprised.
“Don’t lay too much blame on the man. I’m the one what drove him out. Richterman’s got designs on his position, and… well, I’m your man now.”
The two exchange weary looks.
I continue, “I’ve got a special job for the two of you.”
I lead them upstairs, pausing at Richterman’s office, which I find empty. I give the ceiling a good skimming before I spot a trap door to the roof. With the help of a fine-polished table, we shimmy up through the hatch and look out over the town.
“Your job is to pick off the Wendigo that try to run out of town. We can’t let them escape. One shot, one kill. I’m giving you each three more bullets. That’s six apiece, so make them count.”
I turn to the north and seek out the next tallest building, the feed store set next to the jailhouse.
“José, you’re up here center of town. Eli, I want you yonder on the feed store, covering the skid back to the mine hills. Don’t fire on them until the townsfolk have had a crack at them. We have limited ammunition. Understand?”
José squints over my shoulder. “What happens when we run out of silver?”
“I suggest you grab yourselves an aspen stake each and hole up. Things play out our direction, you’ll be the safest souls in this town.”
“If they don’t play out?” Eli prods.
“Then we’re all dead.”
Either by loyalty to Richterman or the sheer resignation to their fate, the two offer no argument as I divvy out three more of Gil’s cartridges to each. I get a sense of mission from these two, and I doubt they’ll scurry out with the silver to piss away on whatever spirits they can find outside of this valley.
And that is all I have left to do until sunset, when I rally my “other” troops.
I head back to the smithy and spend some time brushing Ripper down. It could be his last day on this Earth, as well, and that fills me with more dread than anything. Humans could die. I could die. Ripper has had no bones about any of my business. He’s just been here, hoping I take him away from the guns and danger, and probably thoroughly disappointed on both counts to date. The Wendigo seem particular in their meat, tucking into nothing but human flesh. That don’t mean they won’t go on a righteous tear and kill old Ripper out of spite. I don’t want to subject the old boy to this carnage, nor do I want to ride him into those hills with Richterman tonight. I just want him to stay safe somewhere, maybe in some meadow full of wildflowers. Hell, maybe up Seattle ways.
I find tears falling from the tip of my nose, and I wipe my face clear with my sleeve. Goddamnit. I gotta pinch this off if I’m going to be of any use to anyone, especially Ripper.
The sun rises slower than I’d like. The day drags out, and it tugs on my brain.
I try sleeping again, but it’s no use.
I rummage over through Toomey’s store, checking on their progress. The people have a good sense of how and where to hide. With any of God’s luck at all, more will survive than not.
The thought of Richterman’s whiskey crosses my mind, but I banish the thought before it takes too much root. Don’t need to dull my brain any. Hell, it’s dull enough with all the things I need to see done. Want to see done.
Want.
There’s one place to be right now, with regards to want. And if Denton held on to his own body after our brief conversation this morning, then I might find him on the homestead.
With the sun just past its noon
time station, I saddle up Ripper and wind my way out of town westward. To the homestead.
To Katherina.
o horses out by the shelter. If Richterman bothers with horses, then he’s still somewhere in town. With Denton’s and Richterman’s comings and goings, I wonder if he hasn’t run several horses directly into the ground. I dismount, tie Ripper up at the shelter, and take a slow walk around the homestead. A gentle breeze flows off the hills, filling my ears with the sound of rustling grass and my nose with the smell of pine and rot.
I pause near the back of the house as an uneasy feeling flutters across my rib cage. I spot the four graves I dug. The unhallowed ground holds the bones of Christopher Hitchens and the monsters I dropped before the boy nearly sent me to the hereafter. I remember that day I first set eyes on the Hitchens family from Folger’s cart. How they held tight jaws as Folger/Richterman gave them cause for hope and fear, all at the same moment. The Hitchens boy had come for Folger because he was gunning for Richterman, trying as I feel so sorely tempted to put the self-twisted man out of all our miseries. Might have succeeded, too, were it not for Magner’s Wendigo.
Still, the graves send a chill colder than the winter wind blowing up into my midsection, as if they’re calling to me. Taunting me. “This is your fault,” they tell me. “This is your reward.” Besides, something just ain’t right about them. Something important, but I can’t wrap my head around it.
I trot back around to the front of the homestead and nudge the door open. The cabin is quiet and empty. Looks like the stove ain’t been fired up for a while. My old cot’s still sitting along the far wall where I left it. I check Folger’s room, but it’s empty as well, bed still made up neat.
I’m alone.
At least, alone with Katherina.
I steel myself as best I can, but no matter how much work my brain puts into talking me out of it, I still find myself winding back around the outside of the house to the cellar doors.
The sun’s heading toward the west. Probably still too high to be healthy for Katherina. So I call out to her.
