Walk the Sky

by Swartwood, Robert

  There was a heavy silence again. The grandfather clock continued to tick in the next room.

  “Ma’am,” George said, turning to Marilyn, “I thank you for the meal, but I believe it’s time my friend and I be on our way.”

  He nodded at Clay and pushed his chair back and started to stand—Clay doing the same—when the Reverend spoke.

  “Gentlemen, I urge you to reconsider. It is not the place of man to mistrust the Lord.”

  Another moment passed, both men now completely standing, and when it was clear that neither Clay nor George was ready to humor the Reverend any further, their host clapped his hands twice.

  And suddenly Joe and Roy appeared, stepping into the room, both with pistols drawn and aimed at Clay and George.

  Reverend Titus Willard shook his head solemnly. “My heart is quite heavy now for the choice you gentlemen have made, but it is clear that you both have made your choice. That is, after all, the greatest gift the Lord has given us: free will.”

  “I think you misunderstood us,” Clay said. “We don’t mean you any harm. We’ll just collect the boy and be on our way. We don’t want any trouble.”

  “I’m sorry,” the Reverend said, “but the boy’s fate has already been decided. The Lord decided it from the moment that boy was a gleam in his father’s eye. You see, that is part of the Lord’s beauty. He has a plan for everything. This morning I feared that He would not answer my prayers, but He has. He’s brought the three of you here. And your boy, sent by the Lord like manna from Heaven, will be tonight’s sacrifice.”

  6.

  Sacrifice.

  The word instantly sobered Clay. It had been unnerving to see the guns drawn, but it had been devastating to hear the Reverend refer to the boy as a sacrifice.

  Clay said, “He’s just a boy.”

  “Believe me,” the Reverend said, “we do not take lightly what we must do. It is with heavy hearts and many sleepless nights that we do what is required of us. But it must be done if the town and its people are to survive. It is the only way. It is the Lord’s way.”

  “To sacrifice a child?”

  “It is easy to judge what you do not understand,” the Reverend said. He wiped a cloth napkin across the corners of his mouth, placed the napkin on the plate before him, and pushed back from the table. As he stood, he nodded in Joe’s direction.

  Joe motioned for Clay to step around the table.

  Roy motioned for George to do the same.

  The Reverend let out a deep breath that seemed to fill the room. “I realize this is difficult, my friends. However—”

  “It’s crazy is what it is,” George muttered.

  “However,” the Reverend repeated with emphasis, his fiery gaze now locked on George, “you need to understand that this town has fallen under the plague of the Devil. For the past several weeks we have been visited nightly by his every unimaginable aberrance. These take the form of demons which, simply upon sight, are enough to drive a sane man to cower in the darkest corners of his mind. So as distasteful as it may be, my friend, a sacrifice is our only protection against these abominations. If not for a sacrifice, we would all be given to the Devil.”

  George said, “Why don’t you sacrifice yourself?”

  The Reverend’s face softened. It was an unpleasant transformation that bared a soul as dark as the Devil he feared.

  “If only it were that simple. Someone has to lead the flock.”

  “Generous of you to volunteer.” George turned his head. “Clay.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think it’s time we leave.”

  It happened quickly then. Suddenly George was moving, knocking the gun free from Roy’s hand and finishing with a right cross to the man’s jaw. The act surprised Clay, causing him to hesitate. But courage and fear fueled his soul and he stepped forward too, right at Joe. Joe raised the gun. Clay ducked and swatted the man’s hand. The gun went off—bang!—and Marilyn screamed as a piece of the ceiling fell. Clay, his ears ringing, pushed Joe hard enough against the wall that Joe lost his grip on the gun. It clattered to the floor.

  “Run!” George shouted.

  Clay ran. He took off for the nearest door. Through the archway, he turned left and sprinted down the hallway toward the front of the house, his footsteps nearly silent on the thick Oriental rug.

  Somewhere not far behind him, he heard the Reverend let out a scream: “I want him alive! Bring him back alive!”

  At the front door, Clay struggled with the knob momentarily, then the door flew open and he fell out onto the front porch. He was down the steps and into the dirt of the town’s main street before he even realized the sun had begun to set.

  The final vestiges of light were strung across the sky above the horizon, leaving shadows strewn about the town like gathering ghosts.

  Or demons, Clay thought as he stepped into one of the dark spots.

  He caught movement in the dusk.

  Three men, moving up the street. They had the boy with them, dragging him on a long length of rope as he kicked up dust struggling against his restraints.

  It wasn’t dark enough yet for Clay to be comfortable in the shadows, but he stood as still as possible until another muffled shot went off back at the house. The noise sent a chill through him. He swallowed a breath, then glanced first at the house, where there didn’t appear to be any activity, then up the street at the men.

  All three of them stopped and turned, curious. They exchanged a few words that Clay couldn’t hear, and then one of them broke away and hurried down the street toward the house.

  He passed within feet of where Clay stood flat against the building.

  Clay waited five seconds, then ten, before leaning his head out again.

  The man who had hurried past was gone. The two others had continued on up the street, dragging the boy along.

  Clay looked back at the house, wondering what had happened and if George was all right. Then he looked back up the street and wondered what he was supposed to do now.

  Go back and help George, or try to free the boy from his captors.

  He had no idea how he would go about doing either.

  Clay decided of the two, George had the best chance of taking care of himself. It was the boy who most needed Clay’s help.

  Once that decision was made, Clay stayed in the shadows of the buildings as he followed the men down the street to the center of town. There they tied the boy to a thick wooden post.

  The boy, shedding frightened and angry tears, struggled against the bindings.

  One of the men told him to be quiet and that this was God’s will.

  Clay leaned back against the wall of a storefront, the edge of a rough-sawn board biting into his back before he straightened again.

  What now?

  He knew the Reverend was dangerous. He knew the Reverend’s men were dangerous. But he couldn’t be sure how much of the converter’s ravings could be believed and how much could be chalked up to corral dust.

  Was this the Devil’s town?

  Once sundown was complete and night filled in the shadows, would there be demons roaming the street, looking for a sacrifice?

  Either way, the boy was set to spend the last of his time on this good earth tied to that damned post unless Clay could do something to stop it.

  Back up the street behind him, everything was strangely quiet and still.

  Clay had expected the Reverend’s men to come pouring out of the house in pursuit of him, but that hadn’t happened. He thought he could probably thank George for that. His friend had a way of occupying the attention of bad men.

  The two men who had dragged the boy down the street and then tied him to the wooden post now hurried off, disappearing into the shadows.

  Clay hugged the building and counted to ten in his head. Time was running out. The little light left in the sky was almost gone. If he was going to act, he needed to act now.

  Clay held his breath, gaining all his courage, before he stuck
his head out to peer around the corner.

  And found himself staring straight into the barrel of Joe’s revolver.

  The Reverend stepped out from behind his right-hand man. “I am disappointed in you, my friend. After we opened our home to you, shared our food with you, this is the way you repay us?”

  “Let the boy go,” Clay said. “Take me instead.”

  “I cannot decide whether you just are not trying or the lesson escapes you, but I do not think you understand the situation. Trust me on this; you cannot give back what God has given.”

  Then a hand came down, the muzzle of Joe’s pistol slamming against the side of Clay’s face, and everything went black.

  7.

  Clay was dreaming.

  He knew he was dreaming because he was back home, in the parlor, sitting in his chair and reading a book. The house was still and silent ... though it wasn’t. There was a shuffling sound coming from somewhere close by.

  Hello? he called out, but because this was a dream his voice made no sound.

  The shuffling continued, coming from outside.

  He stood up and turned to the window.

  Hello? he called out again.

  The shuffling was even louder.

  Because this was a dream he did not have to walk to the back door. All he had to do was blink and suddenly he was there.

  The book was still in his hand. It felt like it weighed one hundred pounds.

  That shuffling continued, louder now, and faintly, somewhere beyond it, a whimpering.

  It was coming from outside, in the backyard. He knew that just as strongly as he knew this was a dream. He also knew what he would find once he opened the back door. The same thing he had found that terrible night a week ago.

  His daughter and Bolton’s son.

  What the young man was doing to his daughter.

  Clay reached out, gripped the knob, turned it.

  He opened the door.

  The book fell from his hand.

  Clay wanted to scream but he could not.

  All he could do was stand there, listening to the shuffling, to the whimpering, and watch his daughter tied to a post as the demons moved in to feast.

  * * *

  He came to suddenly with a start but knew he was still dreaming. After all, he could still hear the shuffling outside. Only, he realized an instant later, this wasn’t a dream.

  Despite the pain circulating around his head, Clay tried to sit up.

  He couldn’t.

  He lay on the floor on his side, his ankles bound, his wrists tied behind his back. There was a long piece of cloth tied around his mouth. It tasted like dirt. It made it impossible to speak but still he tried, creating a low gagging sound.

  “Shh,” a familiar voice whispered. “Quiet now.”

  He went still. It was dark but his eyes had begun to adjust. He saw the bars in front of him and quickly recognized it as the jailhouse. He tilted his head back and saw George on the floor in the far cell, also tied up and gagged. On the bench in the middle cell between them sat Reverend Titus Willard.

  “Be very still,” the Reverend whispered. “Do you hear them?”

  Outside, the shuffling continued, slow and steady. It sounded like a dozen people were sliding their feet across the dirt.

  “That is them,” the Reverend whispered. “Those are the Devil’s minions. You did not believe me, but here they are.”

  The shuffling, and beyond it, just like in his dream, Clay heard faint whimpering.

  The boy.

  Of course it was the boy.

  Tied up to that post at the end of the main street.

  Clay tried moving again, wanting to break free of his restraints, jump to his feet, rush outside to save the boy. It was a bold ambition but one that would never happen. Even if he wasn’t tied up like this, he doubted his worn body would allow him to act quick enough to rescue the boy.

  “For weeks,” the Reverend whispered, “they have been coming to our town. Every night it sounds like more join their army.”

  That slow and steady shuffling.

  “And every night we give them their sacrifice, and they leave the rest of the town alone. It is what the Lord demands we do for the time being, before he delivers us from this evil.”

  That distant whimpering, sad and pathetic.

  “After we sacrificed the children, we had no choice but to start with the women.”

  The whimpering growing more frantic before becoming an unintelligible shouting.

  “It was difficult for the men to accept at first—even more difficult than it was to accept about the children—but they eventually saw it was the Lord’s will.”

  That unintelligible shouting becoming a tortuous screaming.

  “Some of the women tried to flee. They had allowed us to sacrifice their children, but when the Lord deemed them worthy of sacrifice, they became scared.”

  That tortuous screaming going on ... and on ... and on ... until it became gargled.

  “We had to track those women down. Some of them put up quite a fight. A few we had no choice but to kill. It was a waste, but they needed to be taught a lesson.”

  That gargled screaming dimming out like a dying candle.

  “The others,” the Reverend whispered, “we brought back and had to lock up. And every night, we took one of them out just like your boy. We tied her to the post and waited for the demons to come.”

  The gargled screaming dimming and dimming, that candle almost burnt out.

  “Earlier this week we sacrificed the last woman. Except, of course, my precious wife. The Lord has given me permission to allow her to live.”

  The gargled screaming had stopped but the shuffling continued, Clay now staring past the bars at the window, at the dark night.

  “After a while, they will leave us. And then the sun will rise on a new day, and we will all thank the Lord that we survived the night.”

  Reverend Titus Willard shifted on the bench.

  “Just remember, I gave both of you gentlemen the chance to be a part of this town. I tried to show you mercy, but you wanted none of it. And now here we are.”

  Clay closed his eyes and saw his daughter tied to that post, screaming.

  “Tomorrow night one of you will be chosen for sacrifice. If I were you, I would make my peace with the Lord to ensure my soul does not burn in those eternal flames like the rest of those demons.”

  Clay opened his eyes and stared past the bars into the dark. He heard the Reverend’s words, but he didn’t. All he could hear was the shuffling, that slow and steady and continuous shuffling, all those dozens—no, hundreds—of demons outside, searching for a new sacrifice.

  part two

  POSSE

  8.

  Sheriff Jeremiah Logan picked up the gold coin off the glass counter of Goodman’s Mercantile and turned it over in his fingers.

  “They were here.”

  Fred Bolton stepped up next to him. “How do you know?”

  Logan held up the gold piece and said, “George Hitchens is the only man I know foolish enough to leave payment for stuff he could just as easily walk off with.” Then he grinned and slipped the gold piece into his vest pocket.

  Bolton looked uneasily around the store. This was the first town they had come across after a full day of riding, and it was completely deserted, as if the townspeople had just disappeared. The mayor couldn’t recall a time in his life when he’d felt as isolated and alone as he did right now. After the death of his son at the hands of Clay Miller, he’d been so filled with rage there wasn’t any room for the emptiness. But now, here ...

  “What do you suppose happened to everyone?”

  Logan shrugged. He absently wiped at the scar across his right check, where a drunk had once slashed him with a broken whiskey bottle just before Logan decked the man with the butt of his pistol.

  “Don’t know.”

  “It’s not natural.”

  “Maybe so, but—”

  Ou
tside, an explosion of gunfire erupted.

  Both men quickly turned to the front window of the mercantile, looking out on the street. They had put together a posse of five men to track Miller and Hitchens. Two of the men had dropped out the day before yesterday after one had encountered a rattler that left him with a superficial snakebite. The other three men were supposed to be out front, checking the nearby buildings.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Bolton asked as the gunfire continued.

  “Four men, on horses.” Logan drew his pistol, spun the cylinder to make sure there were no empty chambers. “Looks like they ambushed Samuel and Pete. Johnny’s got ’em pinned down from across the street, up high.”

  “What do you plan on doing?”

  “Making it a fair fight.”

  Bolton grabbed the sheriff by the forearm. It was an instinctive grab and as he held it, his fingers began to tremble. Words caught in his throat, and he couldn’t bring himself to look his friend of many years in the eye, especially as the words finally forced their way free.

  “It’s too late for that. You’ll let them know we’re here.”

  Logan pulled his arm free from the mayor’s grip and raised the gun in the air. There was an expression of disgust etched in his face that Bolton would never forget.

  “Please,” Bolton said. “You can’t leave me here.”

  “No one’s holding you back.”

  Logan’s body was pressed against the wall, his silver belt buckle buried under the bulk of his gut. He took a slow, deep breath. Then, in a move that defied his overlarge build, he rushed out the mercantile doors, gun blazing.

  The sound was deafening.

  Bolton fell back against the wall and did his best to watch the scene unfold through the front window without giving away his presence. His legs barely held him up as he witnessed Logan take out the first man with a shot that hit the man in the back of the head.