"You know how long he's been out there?" the old man asked, unsure if Hank was awake.
"Not long," Hank's voice echoed from his own stone cell. "Mumbled something about some crows he's feuding with."
Another two shots rang off in quick succession, cutting of Hank's words. The old man was keeping a mental tally, accounting for the rounds that the cannibal was wasting.
"I've counted four shots. Did you hear any more before I woke up?"
"No. He's only fired the four times."
Another two cracks fired, within seconds of each other. Unless he'd had the forethought to grab some extra ammo, he'd be coming back in soon.
"Sounds like he ain't faring so well against wise old Corvus."
"Who's Corvus?" Hank asked with a bit of confusion and refreshing childishness that the old man was surprised to find still present in the boy.
"It's Latin for crow." The old man left it at that, figuring the boy didn't need any schooling given their predicament. When Hank replied with an inquisitive "Oh?" he thought that maybe the boy could deal with something to distract him, and refined his explanation.
"Not really for crow. It refers to that whole family of blackbirds, all the different types of ‘em."
The conversation was turning bittersweet for him. Memories of explaining and examining the difference between animals with his boy came flooding back to him. The old man had a passing knowledge of wildlife, partly from books, but mostly from traveling across the great stretches of North America. His wife, while unacquainted with Latin, had been able to tell the subtle differences between creatures with just a glance. Between the two of them, they had taught their son about naturalism and the wonders of the wild.
"Where'd you learn Latin? You go to priest school or something?"
The old man stifled a laugh. "No, nothing of that sort. Always liked to build stuff and tinker, so I went to university for a spell to study engineering. University folks are just as fond of dead languages as the Catholics are."
The door to the cabin burst open, ending the momentary illusion that the two were in a normal situation, chatting about mundane subjects. Cold air rushed in behind the cabin's owner, chilling the structure's entire volume.
The old man crossed his arms over his chest and got ready to make his move.
"Piece of shit gun," the hillbilly said as he slammed the door shut behind him.
"It's a poor tradesman that blames his tools," the old man replied, loud enough for the angry cannibal to hear him.
Hank gasped and in an audible whisper said, "What are you doing?"
"What the hell did you just say to me?" the mountain man growled back.
"Just saying, that's a fine pistol. Made it myself. Modeled after the Colt Dragoon, but designed for cartridges instead of ball and powder. Quick reload, and enough stopping power to put down a grizzly."
"Fire's for shit. You make lousy weapons."
"Ain't my fault you ain't got no aim." The old man spoke the words, staring at the stone ceiling of his cell, just inches from his face. The fact that he refused to crane his neck to look at his captor was a deliberate, subtle show of disrespect.
"That gun's a faithful weapon that just shoots where you tell it,” he continued.
"Faithful to you, maybe. That what these lines carved into the barrel mean? They some kind o' curse, so's no one else can shoot it worth a damn?"
"No, ain't a curse. Those lines spell out its name. Tools of great quality deserve a name of their own."
"So what's it say?"
"Donner. It’s the German word for Thunder. It has earned the name. Even god trembles when its iron is trained on him."
The mountain man approached the old man's cell with anger in his heart.
"I won't be having blasphemy like that in my home!"
The old man could hear Hank scurrying away from the bars in the cell next to him. Fear of the monster's rage may have filled the boy, but the old man had been banking on it.
"That's why he told you how to find me, you know? Because he's yeller. I'm not a free meal. I'm the killer on his tail."
The mountain man bent down, just out of the old man's reach, anger and confusion on his face.
"The boy told you that God talks to me! Don't pretend you knew that on your own!"
"You think you're the only one who's talked to god?" The old man let a manufactured laugh trail out after his words.
"You don't know nothing!" the cannibal screamed.
In a calm voice, still intentionally looking straight up into the stone above, the old man replied, "I know that the only thing keeping you alive right now ain't god, but the bars between us. Maybe you should start praying to them."
"You…" the cannibal's voice was quivering with emotion now. "You're the one who should be praying!"
The cannibal slammed the business end of the pistol, whose name he couldn't read, through the bars and into the top of the old man's head.
"How about I just blow—" That was as far as his question went before the old man's hand shot between the bars like a rattler.
Rawhide hands with the strength of a man who's worked hard his whole life gripped the hillbilly's wrist and pulled his arm, along with the revolver, back through the bars.
The old man had not made it through life in the west, the war of the states, and a crusade against the children of Utgard by underestimating anyone. Whatever else might be said about his captor, he was sure that a man who lived in such harsh conditions would be plenty strong. His enemy was off balance, surprised, and overwhelmed with anger, but this advantage would vanish soon. As quickly as he had pulled the hillbilly's arm into the cell, he leveraged the man's arm against the bars, simultaneously crushing his wrist within his vice-like grip.
After a few seconds of sudden and intense pain, the cannibal lost his grip and the revolver fell. The old man leveraged his enemy's arm against the bars harder, for a second longer, just to insure that he would instinctively pull his arm back instead of grabbing for the pistol. Suddenly the old man let him go and, sure enough, the hillbilly pulled his arm back with lightning quickness. He pulled away so fast, in fact, that the momentum caused him to fall on his ass.
"Motherfucker!" the hillbilly yelled, rubbing his arm where the old man had seemingly tried to break it off.
"I guess the bars ain't doing a great job of protecting you either," the old man said in a dry tone as he pulled the revolver down to his side. "Better pray harder."
"You just laugh it up in there! I was gonna do you quick and clean, keep you fed 'til your time was up. Now I'm just gonna let you die of thirst in there. Real ugly way to go, you'll see."
The cannibal got to his feet, angry and hurting.
"And you can keep your piece of shit gun. I used all the bullets. Lotta good it'll do you."
The old man traced the acid-etched runes on the barrel of his pistol with one finger. He hoped that setting off the bastard on the other side of the bars wouldn't endanger Hank. As much as that might sadden him though, the child's life would be an acceptable loss. The only thing that mattered was his own boy. If he had to leave a mountain of corpses behind him to save his son, so be it.
The rest of the day went by with a dreadful slowness, and nothing more of note happened. The old man stayed silent for the rest of the day. Hank kept quiet as well, aside from the occasional weeping. The mountain man went about his daily routine. Twice throughout the day he went outside to gather hunks of Hank's father that he had kept frozen in the snow outside and made an afternoon stew, followed by a dinner of meat he roasted on a stick over the flames of his stove. At each meal he prayed, perhaps a bit louder than usual, just for the old man to hear. Twice he came to Hank with water, making a show of it for the old man's benefit. Eventually he went to sleep, resting his body for the continuation of his spartan existence the next day.
Once the still of night arrived, and the unwitting servant of Thurs had been snoring for the better part of an hour, the old man got to work. Car
eful not to make any unnecessary noise, he brought the pistol up to his chest and released the secret compartment in the grip. A piece of walnut, notched perfectly to hold two .44 cartridges, pulled out from the gun. The emergency rounds gleamed in the dim, dancing firelight.
He reached his hand out between the bars and up, checking once more if he could locate whatever locked them in place. Whatever was keeping the cell locked was out of his reach. This left him with the less desirable option. The old man wasn't the type to drag out the unpleasant though.
Careful not to spill anything, he popped the cap off of the backside of the round, exposing the powder inside. He then emptied the powder from the first round into one hand, and began packing it in the space between one of the bars and the hole in the stone that it passed through. He did this with slow and careful precision to limit the loss of any powder. Once the space was packed full of gunpowder, he opened the second round and repeated the process with another bar, two places over.
That night the old man didn't sleep. He lay awake until morning, waiting for the cannibal to go outside and retrieve the ingredients for breakfast from his stash of human flesh. Once the door to the cabin closed behind him, the old man sprang into action.
"Hank, cover your ears. It's time," his voice came out drier and coarser than he had expected. Nearly two days without water had taken a toll on him.
"Time? You can get us out?"
The old man didn't reply. He knew that he had only moments to act before the cannibal hillbilly would return. He only hoped that his dehydrated, sore body would be able to drag itself out of this earthen prison quickly enough.
The old man covered his face with one arm, taking special care to protect his eyes, and scraped the iron on the edge of his gun against the stone above him, right where he had packed the gunpowder. After two hard drags across the stone a spark hit the powder, causing a loud bang. The old man felt tiny pieces of stone shrapnel rain down upon his naked flesh. The sulfurous smell of spent powder wafted into his nostrils, sparking a rush of adrenaline.
With a sense of urgency, he scraped the iron sight against the stone where he had packed his second charge. This time the spark caught the powder right away. Another loud pop was followed with more debris falling upon him. If the stone around the bars had been compromised enough by the blasts, he might be able to escape. If not, then he was surely a dead man.
For the first time since being locked away in the tiny space, the old man was glad that the cell was too small for him. Tucking his chin to his chest, he extended his scrunched up legs, pressing against the stone wall with his feet and driving his shoulders into the bars. His cramped, water-starved muscles protested and screamed. Even dehydrated, hungry, sore, and without rest, the old man's great size made him stronger than many men half his age. The stone around the bars began to give, signaling that the powder had done its work.
With one more push from his massive leg muscles, the old man pushed the iron bars clear through the crumbling stone. Just as he had freed his shoulders from the cell, extending his body fully for the first time in days, the mountain man came rushing back in through the door.
The sight of the old man crawling out from the smoking, broken cell froze the cannibal with shock. After a moment of initial disbelief, he ran across the room and pulled a hunting knife out from a wooden stump that lay near the bed of hay where he slept. He spun around to see the old man rising to his feet, naked and bleeding from small cuts and scrapes that littered his body. Until this moment, set against the backdrop of powder born smoke and life or death struggle, the mountain man had not truly realized how large his quarry was, nor just how scary the man could be.
The hillbilly raised his knife and took a wide stance, more practical for capturing an animal than for fighting another person. The old man, in turn, raised his revolver, tipping the barrel toward the sky, so that it bisected his face. With his right hand he made a dramatic, upward gesture, running his first two fingers across the inscription on the barrel. This movement was a bluff that held no arcane meaning, but he hoped it would distract the hillbilly from the fact that he had no ammo.
The hillbilly knew little of magic, despite unwittingly serving the Devourers. He bought the old man's bluff. What he did read correctly was the look in the old man's eyes, and that surrender would mean certain death. Rather than die on his knees, the cannibal lunged forward with his knife, risking whatever spell the naked beast of a man before him might cast.
The old man sidestepped and grabbed the cannibal by the wrist of his knife hand. Holding his enemy's arm up high, the old man swung to strike him in the face with the butt of his pistol.
Before he could follow through on this, the cannibal smashed his booted heel down onto the old man's bare foot. A tidal wave of pain shot through his foot and up his leg, and his grip on the cannibal lessened.
With a great tug that caused him to stumble back, the mountain man freed his hand and the weapon it held. He shuffled to the left, trying to get a better angle on the old man, who was still distracted by the pain in his foot.
Risking it all, the cannibal lunged, as he would onto a wounded animal. The old man sidestepped again, this time grabbing his captor by the hair and using his own momentum to send him falling forward, into the cast iron stove. A sickening thunk and sizzling sound followed the hillbilly's face smashing against the burning hot cast iron. If he had fallen down just inches to the right, his head would have gone right into the fire, where the door had long ago rusted off of its hinges.
The folly of instinct caused the man eater to push himself back, away from the thing that was burning his face, and in turn pressed his hands against the stove's surface. He screamed with pain as he fell away from the stove, leaving some of his flesh behind on the scalding surface.
The old man pressed his advantage. He pounced as the cannibal stumbled backward on his knees. With a quick movement he took hold of his enemy's hair from behind and slammed the barrel of his pistol into the base of his skull. The hillbilly slouched forward a little, but maintained his consciousness. Not wishing to let the man eater regain his senses, the old man ended the battle by shoving his captor into the open front of the stove, all the way to his shoulders.
The cannibal let out a hellish cry that chilled Hank's blood. His body twitched and convulsed, protesting the pain like an angry child. His hands pressed hard against the stove, willing to let themselves burn away if it meant saving the head. Despite his desperation, the hillbilly couldn't overpower the naked crusader's patient, iron hold.
After more seconds than it was pleasant to think about, the twitching and screaming stopped. The cannibal's body fell limp, allowing the flames to feast upon him in peace. The only sounds in the cabin were the crackle of burning tissue and burning wood, set against the old man's heavy breathing.
The old man released his grip on the dead hillbilly and eyed his own hand. He had had to hold it uncomfortably close to the fire in order to maintain the proper leverage on his captor. The heat had left its mark. Several angry, red blisters were already forming on the back of his hand. Without uttering a word the old man limped over toward the door of the cabin. He opened it and thrust his burned hand into the snow outside. It took the edge off.
Naked, hurt, and dehydrated, he reached up above the door and grabbed the effigy of Christ off of the wall. He looked at it with anger, wondering how many other myths and ideologies the Devourers hid behind. Then, almost as an afterthought, he tossed the crucifix into the fire, letting the idol burn along with its servant.
He spun around in a slow circle taking in the whole of the cabin for the first time. Looking at where he had been imprisoned, he could see there were three cells, including his own. A shelf of stone jutted out from the one wall of the cabin that was natural cliff face. Below it, three sections of stone had been hollowed out, either by man or nature. The cannibal, or whoever had built the place, had somehow cored holes through the top of the stone shelf and down into the hollows beneath.
Five iron bars went through the cored holes above each hollow and were joined into a wooden slat that ran horizontally. The wooden slat was in turn held in place by a metal rod that slid across it and into another hole cored into the cliff face behind it. All three cells were like this, except of course the one that the old man had just destroyed.
He pulled away the iron rod that held Hank's bars in place and flung it back against the body of the man he had just killed. He then hunched over and pulled up the wooden slat and the attached bars, freeing Hank from the hole he had been trapped in.
The old man looked at the boy’s dark skin and shaggy mess of hair as he inched toward freedom. Perhaps if it wasn’t for Thurs and what had happened to his own boy, he might have found room for some bitterness toward the Negro boy. Plenty of his Confederate brothers had carried a deep hatred for colored folks, blaming the whole war on them. There was no room for further animosity in his heart though, especially for another human being. His ire was exclusively reserved for those dark things what lay beyond, and the witches that serve them.
The old man backed away, giving Hank space to come out. The boy did so slowly, like an animal expecting to be struck by the hand of a cruel master. He exited the cell and stood up for the first time in longer than he could account for.
The boy was a filthy wreck. His ribs jutted out, and his body was covered in scrapes. Smears of dirt and dried tears marred his face. Lack of quality rest had left the boy with bags under his eyes.
“You alright, boy? You can sit for a spell.” Despite his pain and exhaustion, the old man was calm and patient with the child.
“I’m good. It feels nice to stand.” Hank’s words pleased the old man. He found worth in men that could stay positive. Wars, in his opinion, were won or lost as much by morale as by weapons and tactics.
“I had my eyes closed the whole time. I could hear the fight though. The sizzle of flesh. The cracking of bones. The screaming. I was afraid he was killing you.”
The Devoured Page 7
