Texas Strange

by West, Terry M.

“It ugly,” Dreg said, fascinated. “What it be?”

  “When a baby be born dead, the couchemal escapes from the baby's body,” Papere explained, arching up into his seat. “It's a water demon. If a baby dies during birth, you have to burn the body, and drain all the water nearby. Rain barrels. Troughs. It all gotta be emptied, or the couchemal will follow you for life.”

  Dreg closed the book and handed it back to his grandfather.

  “You the only one of the enfants around here that even cares about this book,” Papere said, putting warm eyes on his favorite grandchild. “Le Loup favors you above them others. You got more magic and more wolf than even your father. They may all try to forget the ways, but you don’t let them. You will lead this pack someday. And the old ways must never die, Dreg.”

  “Yes sur,” Dreg replied.

  The old man stretched his arms open and Dreg climbed onto Papere’s skinny lap.

  “It is yo’ destiny to find the angel maker who will bear yo’ cubs,” Papere explained as Dreg got comfortable. “A louve. She wolf. A traiteur may only take a strong angel maker as mate.”

  “How will I find my angel, Papere?” Dreg asked.

  “She will find you,” Papere replied. “And you will know yo’ louve when you see her. She gotta bear the magic sign.”

  Papere gently stretched Dreg’s left hand open.

  “Speak the book to me, Papere,” Dreg said, quite insistently.

  “Yes sur,” Papere complied, happily. He cracked the book open and started reading aloud.

  ***

  It was Dreg’s seventeenth birthday, but he didn’t feel much like celebrating.

  Mama was in the back room of the cabin, screaming in agony. Dreg’s brother was due, and Dreg was a little jealous that the baby was coming on his birthday.

  Dreg sat in the main room of the cabin. He was joined by his father and Papere. Father sat nervously on the junkyard sofa. Papere sat silently in his handmade wheelchair. The old man had had a stroke seven months back, and he was trapped in his own head. Dreg spoke to Papere often, hoping his grandfather was still inside there somewhere. But the old man seemed as aware as the furniture in the room. La magie noire de dieu rested in Papere’s lap. It sat there most of the time, now, and Dreg feared his pack would bury the book with the old man. Father hadn’t spoken with la magie noire de dieu in well over a year. Dreg was not happy with Father’s negligence as the leader of the pack.

  Dreg’s sisters were acting as sage femmes for Mama and his brothers waited patiently outside. Dreg had grown larger and more opposing then his father or brothers. He was now a breath away from leading the pack. He had given into his moniker of laid loup fantôme. He had even filed his teeth into crude points to add to his mystique. Dreg had more wolf in him than his siblings. He had taken to hunting with his very hands and teeth on moonlit nights. This wasn’t just theatrics, though it did leave an impression on his brothers and sisters. Dreg felt Le Loup in him, deep and permanent. The fatter the moon, the more raw, pure and intimate his kills became. None of his siblings challenged him over anything these days. He was too strong for them. Stronger even than his father, Dreg suspected. Father looked especially weak and helpless that day.

  Mama gave one last shrill shout of pain, and Dreg could hear his sisters encouraging her. And then he heard them begin to moan and wail.

  “Why he ain’t crying?” Mama asked, frantically. Then she began to weep as well.

  Father shot up, quickly. He rushed to the back room. As he moved, he bumped Papere’s wheelchair. The book fell from the old man’s lap and hit the floor. Dreg knelt down to pick the book up. It was opened. The illustration of the couchemal stared at him. Dreg looked up at Papere. The old man, his focus a rare thing after the stroke, stared grimly at Dreg.

  ***

  This wasn’t right.

  Dreg’s family was pressed solemnly onto the front porch. Mama wept silently as her children huddled around her. She was dirty still from the birthing. Her face and hair were graying and the misery made her look even older. Papere was parked on the porch next to the kin. He sat alone in his wheelchair like a stranger to the clan. Papere still had la magie noire de dieu with him. That the book wasn’t presiding over the sad festivities infuriated Dreg. The morning was cold and rain was drizzling down from the heavens, but Dreg stood off to the side of the house. He grew wet and angrier as he watched his father.

  Father finished digging the small grave in the center of the yard. He lowered Dreg’s unnamed brother, covered in dirty linens, into the hole.

  Father then looked for his god in the gray skies. “Le Loup,” he called overhead. “Take this young cub to yo' kingdom. Let him hunt by yo' side. You seen fit to take him from us, so raise him well, hunter of hunters.”

  Dreg could take no more. He marched through the tall grass toward his father.

  “This be no good!” Dreg shouted at his father.

  The family gasped. Father had been docile for a long spell, and none of them wanted to see him stirred up. They knew the wolf inside the man slept lightly.

  “What you be doin' boy?” Father said, in a deepened voice, but Dreg could see that Father feared him. It gave off a scent.

  “La magie noire de dieu say dead pup be evil. You burn it, or the couchemal come. You bury dat evil, you curse our den,” Dreg said, puffing up bigger as he got closer. The gospel was larger than Father. The ways would be observed.

  Father looked to his wife and children, who watched the exchange with fearful curiosity. Father then angrily regarded Dreg. “You hesh up, boy! I lead dis pack. I be traiteur and I know what da book say and mean. This pup be part of us. It be buried here, where we all be buried some day. This pack run together in life and death.”

  “No,” Dreg said simply and without malice.

  “Wha' you be sayin', boy?” Father said, picking up the dirty shovel. “I can just as easily dig two graves.”

  “You a stupid vieil homme who curse us all,” Dreg said, hatefully. “That pup was dead ‘fore it was born. It be couchemal, now.”

  Dreg looked over to his kin to see if any would rally to his side. The family clutched tighter to one another. They waited, like fearful curs, for the outcome.

  “What you know of the truth, Dreg? You can't even speak to the book. But I can. I know da truth, and I learned it to you. The couchemal not a real thing,” Father said, speaking to both the family and Dreg at the same time.

  “Yeh-heh!” Dreg argued. “The couchemal the most evil thing there is, and you curse us now, old wolf. Maybe this pack need a new leader.”

  Father nodded. He dropped the shovel to the ground and walked slowly to his son. He came close enough for a hug, and then he backhanded Dreg. It was so forceful that Dreg nearly collapsed to the ground.

  “I be leader, Dreg,” Father said, rubbing his hand which ached from the violence. “You jes' a wild pup who know nothin' of the truth or bein' a traiteur. Now, you tell yo' mama you sorry or I'll beat you like a cur, boy.”

  Father stepped beyond Dreg and spoke to his family, who were starting to finally relax. “Laid loup fantôme!” Father shouted, pointing back at Dreg. The children laughed. Mama watched stoically.

  Dreg’s face rose up, slowly. He saw the amused faces of his siblings. The boogeyman had been hauled into the daylight and there was nothing left for them to fear. And their fear was the only thing noteworthy that Dreg owned. Suddenly, rage exploded in him. A bestial cry escaped from his lips. Dreg grabbed his father from behind. He opened his huge mouth and he put those pointed teeth of his to work. Father struggled and even managed to land a few forceful blows, but it was no contest. Dreg tore open his father’s throat. The hot blood painted his ghostly face.

  Father went down, quickly, growing whiter than his son and Dreg agreed that a second grave was in order. Dreg stared back at his family as Father pissed himself and died.

  “I be wolf!” Dreg announced proudly, his crimson face glowing victoriously. “This be my pack, now!”
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  Suddenly, Dreg’s brothers and sisters ran from the porch. They collected large rocks off of the ground and they began tossing them at their brother. Dreg cringed and winced as a few of the rocks found their mark.

  “Stop!” Mother shouted. She stood, holding a loaded shotgun in her hands. “No, Dreg. You have no home here. Dis pack won't follow you.”

  Dreg looked at his frightened but defiant family. His face curled up again in fresh anger. “Curs! Dreg start a new pack! With a proper angel maker! I curse you all to da couchemal!”

  “Just go,” Mama said, firmly.

  Dreg looked to Papere, who stared at the air stupidly. “You take care of Papere,” Dreg demanded of his mother.

  “He ain’t my kin,” Mama said, walking to the old man and shooting him in the head. Papere fell from the wheelchair and landed in the mud near the porch. His blood colored the wet earth.

  Dreg howled like a rabid monster.

  Mama pointed the second barrel toward her son. “We done with gods and magic around here. Now go, Dreg.”

  Dreg noticed Papere’s book in the grass. He approached it, slowly. “Dat comin’ with me, mama,” he said, pointing to la magie noire de dieu.

  “Dat damn book gonna feed my fire tonight, boy,” Mama said, taking aim at her son. “You leavin’ with nothin’ but yo’ ugly face, Dreg. So take it now and git!”

  Dreg turned and marched sadly and angrily through the swampy woods. The rain came harder, rinsing his father’s blood away. The rain also hid the tears that were coming down for Papere. He would miss the old man, but Dreg would see him again, one day. He was sure of it.

  He was apprehensive of the world beyond his swamp. But Dreg would make his way through it. And if he had to make his way alone, that was fine, because he had been alone his whole life. Even in a small house filled with his kinfolk. His stomach growled.

  Dreg needed dinner and a boat.

  CHAPTER 1

  Interstate 45 near Madisonville, Texas

  Summer, 1999

  Texas Highway patrolman Ross Carson took a sip of cold coffee. He grimaced and came to the conclusion that slow and uneventful nights were worse than crime sprees. Ross’ eyes ached and his ass was numb. He hated the night shift. It was too quiet, too dark and his mind drifted a lot. His brain played that stereotypical image of a country officer sleeping in his patrol car behind a billboard. And he wouldn’t have minded being reduced to a caricature that night. But there were no billboards on this stretch of Interstate. There was only heavy forest that parted occasionally for an old gravel road.

  A talk show on the AM side played on the radio of his squad car. People were calling in with outrageous biblical ramifications of Y2K. Ross had heard all of the idiotic Y2K chatter. He couldn’t seem to escape that nonsense anywhere. Ross wondered how any reasonably intelligent person could think that a shortage of ones and zeroes in computer code could trigger Armageddon.

  He didn’t believe the world was going to end on January 1st, but he did believe he was still going to be a busy beaver on New Year’s Eve. Ross knew people, sensible people, who were putting their homes up for sale and arming themselves and heading for the woods and hills. Ross thought it all pretty damned silly. When the end of all came, he had always figured on it sneaking in like a thief in the night.

  Ross wasn’t that God-fearing a person. He was listening to the religious station because it was the only clear channel he could raise on this patch of 45. But it was wearing on him, these fanatical idiots who presumed to know what no one did. So Ross shut it off, figuring he would sort it out with Jesus himself when his time came.

  Without outside activity to occupy his mind, his thoughts drifted back to the conversation he had with his wife, Florence, that morning.

  She had slapped all of her worn, creased cards on the table. Flo wanted Ross to leave the force. He had known for months that something was troubling her. Though he was relieved that it was finally out in the open, he was also frustrated by her unreasonable request. How could he quit the force? Sure, it could get pretty hairy sometimes. Ross had taken a bullet in the shoulder in ’85. He had pulled a Corvette over for speeding and someone shot him before he made it to the window. He had run the plates, which came up clean before, as the car had been stolen a few hours earlier and had not yet been reported. Ross never caught the bastard, and this troubled him every single day.

  He had hardened, after that. Ross had no kindness left for the world, save his family. Ross was over-protective and over-reactive and these traits sent him and Flo to counseling over and over. He felt blessed that she hadn’t divorced him, yet.

  So, his wife wanted him to hop off the merry-go-round before he lost any more of his goodness or succeeded in finally getting himself killed.

  And Ross did have to admit that the dangerous aspect of wearing the badge thrilled him. The threat of death gave him a rush and teased a small part of him, deep inside, that welcomed oblivion.

  Hell, his life sucked. He paid alimony to a high school sweetheart turned ex-wife and child support for two other children, a boy and a girl, who had been programmed by their mother to hate him. He and Flo’s daughter, Becky, had been born with a bad ticker that had kept her in and out of the hospital for ten of the girl’s twelve years. So, he didn’t really fear for his life that often. Ross had known for a very long time that he would die in his uniform.

  He wasn’t fit for much else. Security work was the only other option he had, and shit, at least being a cop put a gun in his holster. A security guard’s wage wouldn’t even put a dent in what his family needed just to get by. And now, on top of the medical bills, it looked like Becky needed braces. If he had qualified for a decent life insurance policy he would have driven that car of his full speed into a god damn tree.

  Ross finished off the coffee, almost gagging on it. Maybe he would make a coffee run; go on up to the Midway Cafe and refill his thermos.

  The freeway was deserted. The dark Interstate loomed liked the tongue of oblivion. Ross drove a good five minutes before he passed an indication of civilization- a gas station called General Gasoline, which had been closed a long time. It advertised pump prices from the Carter administration.

  Yes, sir. Places were pretty spare out there, and that was fine with him. Let the wildlife thrive. He didn’t need them all-night pizza parlors and peep show places in the Baptist sticks. Let New York and California cater to such.

  Ross glanced at the clock on the dash. It was 3:00 a.m. Two more hours until his shift was over. He yawned and realized he would not make it without another helping of java. He had to watch it, though. Pace yourself, son. Drink just enough to keep your eyes open and not enough to keep you up when you get home. Sleep for Ross was becoming a rare commodity, and so was sex.

  He could not remember the last time he had felt Flo’s shapely legs around his flabby hips, heard her soft, subdued moan of pleasure (Becky’s room was next to theirs and the walls were all but transparent); tasted her spearmint flavored mouth (Ross feared Flo was addicted to breath mints) or smelled the residue of strawberry shampoo on her short, auburn hair.

  He made a mental note to send Becky to Houston for a weekend visit to Flo’s mother so he could surprise the hell out of his wife.

  Ross tugged at the awkward position of a schoolboy erection and smiled to himself.

  “Won’t do at all,” he said, snickering. “Can’t have a hard-on on the job.”

  Maybe he would twist Flo’s arm a bit by kissing her where she liked it most when he got home that morning.

  Ross looked down the dark stretch of Interstate 45.

  Just like the tongue of oblivion, he thought again, leading to the mouth of nowhere. That was pretty creative, he mused, and he considered jotting it down. Now, it appeared he was closing in on that mouth. In the distance, wavering at the infinite edge of the maw, a dark figure was walking between the lanes of Interstate 45.

  Ross switched on the patrol car lights, but he saw no reason to hit the sir
en. He was supposed to call it in, but he didn’t see a need to. Not yet. Ross hated that big brother shit. A situation wasn’t a situation until he decided. It saved him time on paperwork and made him feel like less of a drone. The dispatcher didn’t need to know if Ross was stepping out to piss on a bush.

  Ross was confused by the wanderer. Houses in these parts were deep beyond the freeway and miles apart from each other. If the guy’s car had broken down, why hadn’t Ross passed it? The man was heading in the other direction. Ross grumbled at this slight detour from his coffee run, but decided to be pleasant and see if he could help out.

  As Ross drew closer, the man stepped to the shoulder of the road, as if to allow Ross to continue on his way. Ross pulled the police car to the shoulder and put it in park. He stepped out of the car, expecting one of two things: Either the man had some motor trouble and would be grateful to see the officer, or he would be on an innocent stroll (though that still seemed unlikely to Ross) and he would assure the officer he was fine. What Ross got was indifference. The man shuffled on, ignoring the Highway patrolman. By the light of the car headlights, Ross could see the back of the man.

  He was tall and lanky. He wore dirty gray pants and an olive, short sleeve shirt. The man had long, silver hair and he was carrying a duffle bag over his shoulder.

  “Hey, partner,” Ross called out, trying to close the distance between him and the man. Christ! The old guy was fast. “Hold up! I want to talk to you!”

  Ross had to get the old man off of the Interstate, what with the Keepsake Killer once again stalking 45. Didn’t the crazy old codger read the papers? A recent series of gruesome deaths strung out on 45 like road kill would make even the stupidest fella stay in a broken-down car with his hazards running.

  The man continued at his pace. Was he stone deaf? No, Ross could sense an air of arrogance in the man’s walk.

  “I said hold up, old-timer. Now!”