Walk the Sky

by Swartwood, Robert

  But there Clay stood, lowering his pistol to his side, his gaze focused on the second floor of the saloon. His shoulder was bleeding from where he had been shot but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Witashnah turned her attention to the saloon. She could make out two figures through the open window, two dark shapes, and she thought she heard them shouting though she couldn’t be sure. Those That Walk The Night were even closer now, their shuffling growing louder, though there was something different about the sound, something that didn’t sound right.

  She sprinted forward. Marilyn lay dead on the ground, and just seeing her there—Marilyn’s pale face, her staring eyes, the blood—made Witashnah’s heart tighten. She wanted to do something for her friend, to say something, but instead she took a breath and looked directly at Clay.

  “We must hurry.”

  Clay kept his focus on the second floor of the saloon, the gun still at his side.

  “I believe the man who killed my daughter is up there.”

  “There is not much time. Those That Walk The Night ...”

  It suddenly occurred to her what was different about the sound, and she turned away, facing down the street, staring off into the darkening night.

  Suddenly gunfire erupted. The shots did not come from the saloon but elsewhere farther down the street. They were wide, too, the bullets tearing into the ground several feet away from them, spitting up dirt.

  “What’s wrong?” Clay asked, watching her face.

  “Do you not hear them? They are running.”

  It was true—the shuffling had turned into a hard pounding, the feet of hundreds and hundreds of demons striking the desert floor.

  “Then we best hurry,” Clay said. “How many sticks of dynamite are left?”

  “Five.”

  He scowled at her. “You used three already?”

  “Only one.”

  “But we brought eight back with us.”

  “There were only six when we arrived here.”

  “Then we need to make them count,” he said. “Hand me one.”

  She looked at him and was surprised. The man standing there now was not the same scared and broken man she had encountered last night. Instead his eyes had darkened. His posture had straightened. His entire body had tightened. Somehow, in the space of only hours, he had become a warrior.

  More shots rang out, the bullets still missing them, as she brought out a stick of dynamite and handed it to him.

  “Light it.”

  The pounding of the desert floor grew even louder as she used the piece of flintlock to spark a flame and ignite the fuse.

  “Now run.”

  She didn’t hesitate—she sprinted away, back toward the destroyed building, already reaching in her bag for another stick of dynamite.

  The creatures were even closer now, a sea of black writhing shapes hurrying their way.

  She took one last look over her shoulder just in time to see Clay throw the stick through the air, the fuse spinning end over end as it arced toward the second floor of the saloon. She heard shouting coming from the open window and then the stick of dynamite disappeared inside.

  For an instant nothing happened, and then the second floor exploded, a blast so loud it momentarily drowned out the other gunfire and the quick and frantic approach of Those That Walk The Night.

  24.

  George wasn’t alone in the jailhouse.

  Two of the Reverend’s men were with him. One was the young jailer, the other an older man with a mustache. Both held rifles aimed at the door.

  George sat on the bench in his cell, watching the men. He didn’t know what was going on. Last night only the young jailer had stayed with him, and he hadn’t even touched his gun, as outside his friend was sacrificed ...

  But had Clay been sacrificed?

  George didn’t know. But something strange—well, stranger than the usual strange—was happening. These two here now tightly gripping their rifles just proved it.

  The Reverend had been on a tear this morning, angry with his men about something. George hadn’t been able to make out the words through the barred window, but he’d heard the rage and displeasure in the Reverend’s voice. Something had gone terribly wrong. That much was evident.

  But what exactly had gone wrong, George couldn’t say.

  Throughout the day, he had gone from believing Clay had somehow managed to escape last night, to believing if Clay had escaped he would have come back, and since he hadn’t come back, then he probably hadn’t escaped after all. Which meant the Reverend was ranting about something else altogether. What else would have riled the man up like that?

  In the end, George had to admit he didn’t have the slightest idea of what had happened last night or what had gotten under the skin of the Reverend this morning. All he knew for certain, hours later, was that night was approaching, he was still locked in his cell, and that if it all ended tonight he would die without regret. He had done the right thing in helping Clay escape the injustice imposed by Bolton and Logan. And if it had brought George here, to this place and time, and this fate, then so be it.

  Something shifted.

  George sensed it immediately.

  He leaned forward and listened to the hush that seemed to have fallen over the town. The sudden quiet had become familiar now. He imagined it arrived every night, just as darkness was falling, just before the demons came forth from the desert.

  The young jailer leaned forward even more on his chair. He moved the rifle from one leg to the other and slipped his hand inside the trigger guard.

  Off in the distance, the quiet finally broke.

  That god-awful shuffling started up, as George had known it would, and it brought to mind a herd of buffalo snorting warm air on a cold morning. He had no idea why the sound brought up that particular image, but it filled his mind almost immediately and was lost again only after he heard the sound of voices somewhere outside.

  For a moment, George wasn’t sure he had heard voices at all—maybe it had been his mind making another unexplainable jump—but by the time he had convinced himself it had been voices, a single gunshot rang out from somewhere down the street.

  There was a brief silence, then another shot.

  Both of the Reverend’s men roused off their chairs to their feet. They kept the rifles aimed at the door.

  An explosion went off outside.

  A flash of light through the jailhouse windows bloomed briefly. The repercussion from the blast rattled the jail cell bars. Dust rained down from the ceiling.

  George moved to the bars to see what was going on.

  The explosion had been nearby, just down the street.

  Another single gunshot sounded, followed moments later by an explosion of gunfire.

  George couldn’t see what was going on from the cell, but he could smell the acidy smoke and gunpowder in the air.

  What the hell was going on out there?

  Another explosion of sound erupted.

  Not gunfire this time.

  And not from down the street.

  Someone was pounding on the jailhouse door.

  In one moment, all the color fell out of the face of the young jailer. In the next moment, the kid panicked and opened fire at the door. The second guard joined in a second later and the room became deafening.

  George watched them riddle the door until their rifles finally kicked out the last shells and there were no more bullets.

  The room fell into an eerie silence.

  Smoke hung thick in the air, drifting in the soft breath of moonlight.

  The two guards exchanged a glance that betrayed their apprehension. Then the older man motioned the kid to open the door.

  George moved to the front of the cell. He wrapped his fingers around the bars and felt the cool metal press into his palms.

  The kid approached the door as if he thought it might explode with the slightest misstep. He took hold of the knob, sucked in a breath, and yanked the door open. As he
stepped back, he raised the empty rifle.

  Nothing stood on the other side.

  Not a person.

  Not a demon.

  Not the Reverend.

  Nothing.

  The kid lowered his rifle and turned back to his partner. He whispered, “There’s nobody—”

  A figure stepped into the doorway.

  Two quick shots rang out, and both guards collapsed to the floor.

  The figure entered the jailhouse, stopping long enough to pick up the cell key from the desk, and approached the cell door.

  George said, incredulous, “Clay?”

  “We need to hurry.”

  Outside, a new round of gunfire went off, barely heard beneath another raucous explosion. Once the sound of the explosion began to quiet, another sound moved to the front of George’s mind—the shuffling of the demons.

  Only ... they weren’t shuffling. Not like they had last night. But they were close now. Nearly in the street.

  Clay shoved the key into the lock, turned it, pulled the cell door open.

  “They’re already here,” Clay said. “We have to hurry.”

  “Who? More of the Reverend’s men?”

  “Those That Walk The Night.” Clay took the rifle hanging off his shoulder and shoved it in George’s hand. “Get moving.”

  25.

  It wasn’t the explosion that ended Reverend Titus Willard’s life, but rather the saloon stairs. Only the stairs themselves did not kill him; they were merely the means to an end.

  Bolton was closest to the door when Clay, down on the street below them, threw the dynamite. He should have been the first one out. But Willard moved quicker than he had ever moved in his life, flaying his arms at Bolton until his fingers grasped part of the man’s shirt, and he managed to pull Bolton back, creating enough space to slip through.

  Willard ran.

  Right down the hallway of the saloon, right for the stairs. The distance wasn’t that far but it felt like miles. He was briefly aware that his heart was pounding something awful. He could feel it in his chest and in his throat and in his head. A bead of sweat had formed on his brow and hung on one eyebrow, just dangling there, until it dropped into his eye. He blinked suddenly, and right then the dynamite exploded, rocking the entire saloon, and Willard, having reached the stairs, tripped over his own feet.

  He went headfirst down the stairs, tumbling like a child at play. Only there was no fun and games to be had here. There was only pain—massive amounts of pain—streaking through his body as bones twisted and snapped. One of his hands sprang out to grab hold of the railing but his fingers just barely grazed the wood. He kept rolling and rolling until, all at once, he stopped.

  He lay on the floor at the base of the stairs, staring up at the ceiling. Bits of dust sprinkled down on him, having been disrupted from the explosion. He watched it from his place on the floor, all those thousands and thousands of dust particles floating through the moonlight slicing in through the window. They looked like stars, those dust particles, and for an instant Willard believed he was in space, floating among the heavens.

  A voice spoke from somewhere nearby—

  “Reverend?”

  —and at once Willard was no longer floating in space but rather lying on the floor of the saloon. The pain he had felt before came on even stronger, pulsating throughout his body. He tried sitting up but his left arm was broken. He tried moving his feet but his left foot was broken. At least he thought they were broken—he couldn’t quite see them from where he lay.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs, coming closer, and tilted his head to watch Bolton navigating the steps. The man did so in a slow nature, with one hand pressed against his head, like he was hurt.

  “Are you okay?” Bolton asked, stopping on the bottom step, his hand gripping the railing.

  “Do I look okay?”

  The Reverend’s voice was deep and guttural. Something sharp pierced his chest with every word.

  Outside, there was a sudden volley of gunfire. It was coming from down the street. From the jailhouse, most likely.

  Willard squeezed his eyes tight. He took a slow breath and once again felt that sharp piercing in his chest. He tried another breath, this one much slower, and while he felt the piercing, it wasn’t as bad.

  Bolton said, “I nearly died up there.”

  Willard opened his eyes.

  “You were just going to leave me up there, weren’t you?”

  Willard said nothing. It wasn’t from lack of having the words, but simply from the fear of how much pain it might cause to voice those words.

  Outside, there came more gunfire, more explosions. But, most importantly, there also came screams. Ear-splitting, agonizing screams.

  “They’re here, aren’t they? The demons.”

  Willard forced himself to nod, despite the pain.

  Bolton looked around the remains of the saloon, as if inspecting the damage.

  “What was your plan? When no more drifters came by your town? When the men who were left would have to start dying night after night?”

  Willard said nothing.

  “You don’t even know, do you? You convinced the town into sacrificing their own children, said it was God’s will, but you never thought about what would happen when everyone in town died. First the women, then the men, and then ... what? Just how were you going to keep it going?”

  Still Willard said nothing.

  Bolton shook his head slowly, offered up a heavy sigh.

  “Well, Reverend,” he said, stepping over Willard’s broken body, “I thank you for your hospitality, but I best be on my way.”

  Willard tilted his head just slightly so he could track the man with his eyes. Bolton had only taken six steps before he slowed and stopped and then just stood there. He offered up another heavy sigh, and turned back around.

  “Well, hell,” he murmured. “I can’t just leave you lying there, now can I?”

  * * *

  The Reverend was surprised to learn that the pain really wasn’t all that bad. Sure, it was excruciating, almost to the point where it forced Willard to pass out, but the good part was in the minutes he had lain on the floor at the base of the stairs, his entire body had gone numb. Pain kept circulating, but he only felt a specter of it.

  It took much effort on both of their parts to get the Reverend on his feet again—well, on his foot; his left ankle had indeed been broken during the fall—but once he was up and had his arm around Bolton, they started toward the exit without much trouble.

  Outside the saloon came more gunfire, as well as another explosion, and there was even more shouting and screaming.

  Willard braced himself against the pain, his eyes shut. In the darkness he could picture them there in his mind, the demons surrounding his men, eating them alive.

  Then they stopped and Willard opened his eyes and saw that they had made it to the saloon’s front door. Somehow it hadn’t been destroyed during the explosion. Even the glass hadn’t been cracked. Through it Willard could see them out there, the demons.

  Based on the nocturnal shuffling he had heard these past several weeks, he had expected them to be slow creatures. But here they were running, nearly sprinting, moving at unnatural speeds as they climbed up the sides of buildings, as they tore his men limb from limb.

  “Back,” Willard managed to say. “We ... should use ... the back.”

  “There they are,” Bolton said, pointing with his free hand.

  Willard squinted, pain flaring up his neck as he tilted his head. He couldn’t make out what Bolton meant at first. All he could see were the demons.

  Then he saw them, Clay and his friend and ... was that a woman?

  “Where are they headed?” Bolton asked, as the three disappeared into a building.

  Willard’s focus shifted back to the street. To the demons sprinting back and forth. To the pieces of his men strewn about the dirt. To all the blood glimmering in the moonlight.

  “Hey!” B
olton said, jerking him.

  Willard blinked at the sudden pain, shifted, and muttered, “The livery.”

  A moment later three horses came racing out of the building, carrying Clay, his friend, and the woman. A few of the demons spotted them, started giving chase.

  “Let’s go,” Bolton said, reaching for the saloon door handle.

  “No ... we can’t ... go out there.”

  Sunbursts of pain exploded with every desperate word.

  “Not we, Reverend. You.”

  Willard tilted his head slightly to look at Bolton.

  The man was grinning back at him. “I may be a coward, but I am not a stupid man. If I have any chance of leaving this town alive, I’m gonna need some help—and you, Reverend, are that help.”

  Bolton’s hand gripped the door handle, and immediately Willard understood.

  “No,” he whispered, shaking his head in small jerks.

  Bolton opened the door. He said, “May you rot in hell,” and pushed Willard forward, out over the walkway into the street.

  Willard tried swinging his arms to catch his balance, he even tried to move his feet, but it was no good. He went down face-first into the dirt.

  The demons nearby sprinting back and forth—many streaked with his men’s blood—immediately stopped and turned in his direction.

  Their faces had no eyes, but their mouths were large with teeth.

  Reverend Willard Titus offered up one final prayer—

  Dear Lord, please no

  —but it was already too late.

  The demons sprang forward and began to feast.

  26.

  The creatures had somehow doubled in their individual physical size since Witashnah had last seen them. They were huge. And they were fast, too, almost too fast, cluttering the main street, swarming onto the plank walkways, scaling the sides of buildings. Luckily, only a portion of them gave chase as she led Clay and George out of town, urging her horse to go faster and faster.