Walk the Sky

by Swartwood, Robert

  “This isn’t God’s will,” he said.

  One of the men took a kerchief—perhaps the same one used from yesterday—and put it in Clay’s mouth, tied it around his head so he couldn’t speak.

  Without a word both men turned and hurried away.

  Clay watched them retreat back down the street before they disappeared into the black veil of distant shadows.

  His first instinct was to test the bindings. He could barely move. The men had been doing this for weeks now, having tied most of the townspeople and anyone else who happened to come along to this post, and they had become experienced at it.

  Still, he tried again to pull himself free of the rope.

  Again, he was barely able to move.

  And then Clay remembered what Marilyn had said.

  Once you’re tied to the post, keep your eyes cast down.

  It was getting almost too dark to see the ground right in front of him, and certainly too dark to clearly make out anything in the dirt. So why did she want him to keep his eyes down? Was it something to do with the demons? Something about looking into their eyes?

  No—she said it would give him a fighting chance.

  Marilyn wanted him to find something.

  Clay dragged the heel of his boot across the surface of the dirt in front of him. It left a smooth track. No hiccups, no surprises, just dirt. When he dragged his heel against the grain he had created, the result was the same.

  He tried the dirt closer to the post.

  This time his boot stopped against something solid.

  Something buried in the dirt.

  Clay raised his leg and dragged his boot heel over it again, coming up against the same stop.

  Excitement overtaking him, he tugged once more against the rope wrapped around his waist. But that only made things worse. The more he tugged, the more the rope seemed to restrict his movement.

  And then he heard it, faint and distant ... shuffling.

  Clay looked up into the darkness. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there, just as they had been there last night.

  Demons.

  They were coming.

  The thought pushed him into a panic. He tried fighting against the restraints again, realized it was a losing battle, and was finally able to get his feet out far enough in front of him so that the weight of his body slid him down the post. From there, Clay rotated around the base until his fingers found the tip of the object buried in the dirt.

  Shuffling.

  Clay glanced up. The beat of his heart felt as if it might tear a hole in his chest.

  In the distance, he saw movement.

  Dark shadows in the night, moving awkwardly and off balance.

  His fingers dug into the dirt. Brushing away anything and everything that was loose. Finally they hit on a solid object. Not a rock—he could tell that right off. A stick, perhaps.

  Clay picked at the loose dirt around the edges, uncovering a little piece at a time. It wasn’t a stick. It was too well formed for that. And it felt as if a design had been carved into the side.

  The sound of movement was louder now, closer.

  The flesh on his bones rattled with the vibrations.

  A quick glance up and he realized the darkness had expanded. It seemed as if there were an army of shadows hovering at the edges of the darkest corners, moving ever closer.

  He wrapped his fingers around the object. Tugged on it. The dirt’s grip began to loosen. Not enough to pull it free, but enough to give Clay hope.

  His fingers dug deeper around the base of the object ... tugging ... pulling ... until they hit something.

  A sharp edge.

  Shuffling.

  It was a knife.

  Clay found the hilt. In the next moment, with what felt like the last of his strength, he gave it a violent yank and the blade slid out of the ground.

  Shuffling.

  The blade of the knife found the rope linking his hands, and as he began to slice into the first strand, he did the one thing he knew he shouldn’t do just then: he looked up.

  An army of black figures that looked more human than demon as they took shape approached.

  The knife moved faster over the surface of the rope.

  Through the first strand ... onto the second ... onto the third ...

  Until—snap!—his hands were suddenly free and the rope around his waist released its death grip, allowing him to let out a breath.

  Clay madly unraveled the rope until he was able to climb to his feet and step out of the bindings.

  By then, the demons had appeared out of the shadows under the mercantile across the street, and from the plank walkway behind him. They were naked, lumbering forms, human but not human, their moonlight-reflected gazes hollow and unlike anything Clay had ever seen.

  With the knife in one hand, tearing the kerchief out of his mouth with the other, he headed away from the godless hordes. Running past several demons that seemed to step out of nowhere. Back down the street in the direction of the jailhouse.

  The town was deserted now.

  All the buildings were dark and silent.

  Clay stopped just before the plank walkway in front of the jailhouse to catch his breath.

  Behind him, the demons gathered into a huge, lumbering mass that reminded Clay of a colony of ants organizing to bring its prey home. They weren’t as fast as ants, but they scrambled over one another, fighting for position, stumbling and pushing to get to the forefront.

  He turned from the hordes back to the jailhouse just as a demon stepped out of the shadows less than five feet away. When it reached for him, Clay brushed aside its arm and landed a blow to the side of the demon’s head that sent it toppling over.

  It was the first time in his life he’d landed a punch—it was a shove that had sent Bolton’s son tripping over his own feet onto that rock—and it hurt like hell.

  Clay turned away and tried to shake out the pain.

  As he did, he was met by another demon, this one bigger and stronger. It was nearly on top of him, and Clay’s reaction was instinctive and without thought.

  He plunged the knife into the demon’s stomach.

  The creature had no eyes but its crude mouth opened in a soundless roar as the demon fell backwards, black blood oozing from the wound, the body all at once going rigid as it hit the ground.

  That was as much as Clay saw.

  The rest of the demons were even closer now, almost on top of him, and he turned and ran.

  The moon shined down on him as if he had been chosen, providing all the light he needed to slip past the town’s last building. From there, the moonlight took him through the surrounding desert to the rise of a hill less than a mile away.

  When Clay reached the top, he stopped, bent over, and nearly threw up.

  His muscles cramped. His lungs ached. His head pounded.

  The town was a speck in the distance now, though the darkness appeared to churn with movement.

  The demons.

  They would be out all night. Most of them had probably given up hunting him, but a few who were determined would still be coming. He’d have to keep moving. At the moment, he was safe, but he’d have to keep moving.

  Still breathing heavily, Clay stood up. He looked down at his hands and saw they were empty. Where was the knife? He had a faint memory of stabbing the demon, and then ... had he dropped it back in town?

  It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was safe. For now.

  Feeling some of his strength returning, he turned to run deeper into the desert when a hand reached out from the dark and touched him on the arm.

  14.

  Reverend Titus Willard was lying in bed, staring at his beautiful sleeping wife, when there was a knock at the door.

  Marilyn stirred beside him. She murmured, “What is it?”

  “Stay here.”

  He slipped out of bed and grabbed his robe and headed out of the bedroom toward the front door where Roy stood on the other
side of the glass.

  “Yes?” Willard said, opening the door.

  Roy nervously bounced from one foot to the other, his face pale and drawn.

  “We got trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Can’t quite explain, Reverend. You just need to see for yourself.”

  “I’m spending time with my wife,” he said in a voice much louder than was needed, wanting Marilyn to hear how he did not want to leave her. Not that he didn’t love her already, but after last night, her coming to him like she did—like he had always prayed for, coming to him as a wife was supposed to come to her husband—why, it had set every wrong in the world momentarily right.

  “I understand, Reverend, and I apologize. But”—Roy swallowed—“you really need to see this.”

  “Very well,” Willard sighed. “Let me get my shoes.”

  He returned to the bedroom.

  Marilyn stirred again, her eyelids fluttering open. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.” With a warm smile he leaned down and kissed her on the lips. He let the kiss linger more than he had ever done before, and, grace be to God, she let him. “I’ll return shortly.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  He slipped on his shoes and met Roy at the door. The man still looked nervous. Willard understood the reason why. Before, Joe had been Willard’s right-hand man, the one he counted on for everything. Now with Joe gone, Roy had taken over that position and Roy didn’t want to disappoint.

  “Okay,” Willard said, stepping out into the crisp morning, “where is this trouble?”

  Roy led him toward the center of town. Before they had even gone fifty yards, Willard said, “I don’t care to see the remains.”

  Roy said nothing, just kept walking.

  “I said I don’t care to see the remains.”

  Roy paused, kept his eyes downcast. “I know, Reverend. That’s what the trouble is.”

  They came to the center of town. Two men stood by the post, waiting for them. Willard noted, with a churning in his gut, the dirt stained dark with blood. Almost two month’s worth of blood, so much so it appeared the ground had stopped soaking it up.

  Willard had always made it clear he didn’t want to deal with the remains—the scraps of clothing, the bones, the stray body parts—and Joe had understood that just fine. Maybe he would have to rethink keeping Roy as his right-hand man.

  Nobody spoke, so Willard looked pointedly at each man and said, “Well?”

  Duane, the shortest of the bunch with a ridiculous mustache, held up a length of rope. It was the same rope, presumably, that they used every night. Willard couldn’t really say for sure. Despite overseeing the town during this evil time, he had always kept a fair distance between himself and the sacrifices.

  “Reverend?” Roy said questioningly, as if the evidence of the rope should be obvious enough.

  “What?”

  “Can’t you see?”

  Willard sighed, his impatience waning. “Can’t I see what?”

  “The rope,” Roy said. “It’s been cut.”

  The sky above them was a light and hazy blue that stretched on for miles. A few clouds hung on the horizon. The town itself was quiet except for those men who were slowly waking and doing their assigned chores.

  Willard stepped forward. He took the rope from Duane and inspected it. As Roy claimed, it appeared to be cut straight through.

  “What are you saying?” Willard asked. When there was no answer, he raised an eyebrow at Roy. “Well?”

  “He’s gone.”

  Willard lowered the rope to his side. “Would you be so kind as to repeat what you just said?”

  “He”—Roy swallowed again—“he’s gone.”

  “That’s what I thought you said. But I’m still confused. After last night, he should be gone, correct?”

  Roy nodded quickly. “Yes, Reverend. But the demons, they didn’t take him. There was ... nothing here this morning. No remains. That man, he managed ... he managed ... he managed ...”

  “Just spit it out already, would you?”

  This time taking a large gulp of air, Roy murmured, “He managed to escape.”

  Willard didn’t know when it had happened, but he had begun gripping the rope so tightly his nails bit into his palm.

  He took a slow, deep breath, held up the rope, and said, “How?”

  “Well, Reverend, there’s something else you need to see.”

  Roy and the two men led him toward the jailhouse. Here another man stood with his hands in his pockets, looking just as nervous as Roy. On the ground beside him was something Willard had never seen before.

  “What ... what is that?”

  “Sir?” Roy said, his voice hesitant. “That ... we think that’s one of the demons.”

  Willard tilted his head slightly, squinted down at the thing in the dirt. Now that he was looking closely, he could see features that may have been legs and arms, even a head. But the flesh on the creature was not at all what he had expected. It was hard and weathered and ... green?

  “It looks like some kind of overlarge plant,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. We thought so too. But that’s not all we have to show you.”

  “There’s more?”

  Roy nodded. He motioned at the man with his hands in his pockets. The man, standing on the other side of the dead creature, lowered his gaze to the ground. Willard did the same, but he couldn’t see anything except the creature.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Here,” the man said, taking a hand out of his pocket to point at the ground.

  Willard carefully stepped around the creature, expecting it to move at any moment. He let his gaze follow the man’s finger to the ground. A knife lay in the dirt.

  “We think he used that to cut his bindings,” Roy said. “We think he must have also used it to stab this ... this thing. He must have dropped it when he was escaping.”

  Willard stared down at the knife for several seconds before blinking and looking up at the jailhouse.

  “Did he try to free the other one?”

  “He may have tried, but the man is still locked up.”

  “Have you talked to him yet?”

  “No, sir. We wanted to wait to see what you thought.”

  “Haven’t you at least searched the town in case he’s hiding?”

  “We did that already. We searched every building inside and out and even under. Unless he’s in your home, he’s gone.”

  Willard, mindful of the dead creature only inches away, bent and picked up the knife and shook off the loose dirt. He stared down at the design on the handle, at the little scratches on the blade.

  “Reverend?”

  Willard said, “Get a group together, larger than normal. Use every man that’s available. He couldn’t have gone far. The demons won’t let him.”

  “Yes, Reverend,” Roy said, and immediately began directing the other men to get the horses and round up a few more hands.

  In the back of his mind Willard thought he had underestimated Roy. That when the time came the man would make a fine right-hand. For now, though, he had other worries that needed dealing with. It was bad enough that a man had escaped the sacrifice last night—and how the demons hadn’t attempted to take more lives was beyond him—but the simple fact remained that the man had had help.

  And Willard knew exactly who it was that had helped him.

  He recognized the knife, after all.

  It had once been his father’s.

  part three

  THOSE THAT WALK THE NIGHT

  15.

  Clay’s reaction to the hand on his arm was the reaction of a man who had literally just run a mile to save his life from creatures that shouldn’t exist.

  He was breathless, his heart pounding, sweat falling down his face, all his focus on the few demons coming his way, and when the hand touched him in the dark he cried out, spun around, raised his fist to strike whatever
was there ... but his feet twisted and he fell back down onto the ground.

  “Are you okay?”

  The voice—it was quiet, soft, feminine—made Clay pause. He had been expecting ... something else. Certainly not a voice that spoke words in his own language.

  “Please”—that quiet voice again—“stand up. We cannot stay here.”

  At first all he saw was a dark figure, a silhouette in the night. Then she moved closer, her features becoming a little more pronounced by the moonlight, a small dark face and long black hair.

  “Please,” she said again, “we must hurry.”

  Before he knew it she was bending down and grabbing his arm and trying to pull him up—and, somehow, succeeding. He knew he wasn’t the lightest man in the world, but this girl (because that’s what she was, he now saw, she was just a girl) lifted him to his feet like he was nothing more than a ragdoll.

  “Hurry,” she whispered, pulling him forward.

  “Why?”

  “They cannot know I am here.”

  “Who?” he said, a little too loudly, and she shushed him, pressing three of her fingers to his lips.

  “Those That Walk The Night.”

  A moment passed and it was like it was just the two of them in the world at that instant, no one else, not the crazy townspeople behind him or the cicadas trilling around them or the creatures that shouldn’t exist coming to kill him.

  Clay touched her hand, moved her fingers away from his lips, and whispered, “Who are you?”

  She kept her fingers where they were inches from his face, as if debating whether she trusted him to keep his voice low. Then she looked past him and her eyes widened just a bit, and he turned to see that the few creatures that had been following him were now less than one hundred yards away.

  “Hurry,” she whispered again.

  She grasped his hand and pulled him forward into the night.

  * * *

  How far and how long they ran, Clay did not know. There were clouds in the sky and frequently they shifted in front of the moon, creating even more darkness. It was like he was moving through pitch black, only the girl kept hold of his hand and didn’t let go, pulling him through the dark like he was just a toy. She was strong and fit and could probably run miles without breaking a sweat. He, however, was old and weak and could barely walk a mile without taking a much-needed break. Clay knew that any moment his heart might explode in his chest, so he stopped suddenly and stood still.