The far end of the tunnel, where it opened to the outside, was churning with creatures.
They were too big to squeeze into the opening and were fighting each other for position, dark forms writhing in a pile that made them almost impossible to discern individually.
“What now?” George asked.
“We cannot go back.”
“Doesn’t look like we can go forward, either.”
Witashnah said nothing. Chances were they weren’t going to survive either way. But at least this way they had a fighting chance.
She gripped George’s arm and pulled him forward, running as fast as she could through the tunnel. As she hit the wall of writhing creatures at full speed, she lowered her head and braced for the impact—which came right as the world exploded behind her.
The sound was deafening.
The ground rumbled.
Rocks and gravel rained down from overhead.
She stumbled forward into the creatures, managing to break through, losing her grip on George as the concussion of the blast flung them forward.
She hit the ground hard, her hands extended to break her fall.
George landed a few feet away, crying out in pain.
A massive cloud of dust billowed from the cave entrance, obscuring their view of the creatures surrounding them.
Witashnah sat up, her ears ringing. She reached for her gun but it was gone. All she had left was her knife, and while she knew it was worthless against the creatures, she pulled it from her belt anyway.
Somewhere beside her, George groaned.
She gripped the knife tightly, waiting for the first creature to strike.
Nothing happened.
Besides the ringing in her ears, the world was silent.
Then the dust began to settle. A cloud shifted in the sky and the moon showed they were indeed surrounded.
But the creatures were gone.
Now all around them, stretching far down the ravine, stood a cropping of cacti.
* * *
Witashnah stood up straight, surveying the empty horizon.
George groaned again. “My ankle ... I think it’s broken.”
She helped him stand, bracing his weight against her, as he favored his right leg.
They stood in silence, suspiciously watching the cacti.
“What happened to them?” he asked.
Witashnah didn’t answer. Still bracing George’s weight, she took an unsteady step toward the closest cactus. She reached out her hand, the one gripping the knife. The tip slid into the flesh of the cactus, but that was it. The cactus did not move. It did not bleed black blood.
“Is it dead?” George asked. “The god?”
When she didn’t answer again, he glanced back at the tunnel entrance.
“They’re now trapped in there, aren’t they? Probably dead.”
“You cannot kill a god,” she whispered. She lowered the knife to her side, looked too at the tunnel entrance which had become sealed by an avalanche of rocks. “But you can cause it to leave.”
“So it’s gone?”
She nodded. “For now.”
There was a moment of deep silence until, somewhere in the dark, first one cicada began to chirp, followed by another, and another, and another, until an entire chorus rang out into the night.
“So now what do we do?”
She glanced down at his ankle. “Can you walk?”
He put some pressure on the foot, scrunched up his face, and said, “I can try.”
“Then let us walk.”
* * *
Without their horses, they did not go far. An hour passed and they had barely made it down the mountainside.
“Would you like to rest?”
“No,” he grunted, but it was clear the pain was too much.
“Are you thirsty?”
“Do you have water?”
“No.”
He grinned. “Then yes, I’m very thirsty indeed.”
She allowed herself a small smile. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Everyone she had ever known and loved was gone. She was the last of the Tachucua tribe. What was she supposed to do now?
George stared off toward the horizon, then raised his face toward the stars.
“Where are we going anyway?”
“I do not know.”
Soon they started out again. This time their pace was even slower. As they reached the base of the trail, Witashnah paused, holding George beside her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
She smiled as they continued forward. Several minutes later they rounded the corner, and standing on the other side of a massive rock was a saddled horse. Its coat seemed to gleam in the moonlight.
“Well, would you look at that?” George said. “Guess our luck hasn’t run out after all.”
Behind them, a voice said, “Not quite.”
31.
George closed his eyes, grimacing against the pain as he and Witashnah turned around.
Fred Bolton stepped out of the shadows, a revolver in his hand.
“Where’s Clay?”
“Why?” George asked.
“He and I have some unfinished business to take care of.”
George shook his head. “You mean after everything that happened tonight—all the people that died—you still want revenge?”
“Not revenge. Retribution.”
“What’s the difference? It wasn’t Clay who got your son killed. That was an accident. But you ... you strangled that poor girl.”
Witashnah released her grip on George, took a step away.
“Don’t move!” Bolton shouted, pointing the gun at her. He asked again, “Where’s Clay?”
Neither of them answered.
“He’s dead, isn’t he? I saw that explosion. I saw what happened to those ... those monsters.” Bolton shook his head. “They left town right after you three did. It was like something ... like something was calling them. They just stopped what they were doing and left. I was in the saloon at the time, trying to figure out a way to leave with my life. But then ... then when they all just went away, I hurried out and found a horse still alive in the livery, and I ... well, curiosity got the better of me, so I followed them. I watched them from a distance, surrounding that cave you were all in.”
George said, “Are you going to kill us?”
“Been thinking about it. Ever since I saw the two of you start down the mountain. I saw which way you were going and came down here to the base. Figured you would come through this way.”
Witashnah took another step away from George.
Bolton aimed the gun at her again. “I said don’t move!”
George glanced at Witashnah, not sure what she was doing. Then he saw what she was holding behind her back, the object she had pulled from her belt.
He said, “Your boy was a bully.”
The revolver swung back to George. “Watch your mouth.”
“None of the girls in town liked him much, so he had to force what he wanted out of them.”
“Shut your mouth!”
“But you already knew that, didn’t you?” George nodded to himself. “Yeah, you did. Like father, like son.”
The revolver began to shake.
Bolton’s jaw tightened.
He raised the gun, his finger on the trigger, started to speak—
“I’ll show you ...”
—when Witashnah’s knife buried itself into his shoulder.
Bolton screamed. He dropped the revolver, reached for the knife, his face going immediately pale in the moonlight.
Witashnah sprinted forward. She scooped up the revolver, aimed it at Bolton.
“Don’t,” George said.
She looked back at him.
He held out his hand, started limping forward. “Let me.”
She waited for him, keeping the revolver aimed, and when he reached them she handed him the gun.
&nb
sp; Bolton again tried to reach for the knife in his shoulder.
“Leave it,” George said.
Bolton’s entire body shook. His shoulder was dark with blood. “But I—”
“Leave it.”
George opened up the gun, emptied the bullets into his palm, tossed the empty cartridges aside.
“Looks like there’s only two rounds left,” he said. He reinserted the two bullets, spun the cylinder closed, pointed the barrel at Bolton. “Make amends.”
“What?”
“Tell us truthfully what you did to Clay’s daughter.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
George pulled the trigger.
The hammer clicked empty.
“That right there?” George said. “That’s God giving you one more chance to own up to what you did.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“No.”
George raised the gun to Bolton’s face.
“Okay, okay,” Bolton said quickly. “I did it. I killed her.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Why?”
“Because of the election! If the voters found out what my boy did, they wouldn’t re-elect me.”
“So you strangled a poor, defenseless girl.”
“Yes.”
“Just to save your career.”
Bolton was crying now. “Yes.”
“You talk about retribution? This is retribution.”
George tilted the gun down and shot Bolton in the ankle.
Bolton screamed.
George tilted the gun again and shot Bolton’s other ankle.
Bolton screamed again, this time even louder. He rolled on the ground, tears in his eyes.
George leaned down, withdrew the knife from Bolton’s shoulder. He wiped both sides of the blade on Bolton’s shirt, then leaned back and handed it to Witashnah.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now we leave.”
She nodded and turned and retrieved the horse. She climbed up into the saddle, then helped George onto the back of the horse. Witashnah took the reins, steered them away.
“Wait!” Bolton screamed. “Come back! You can’t leave me! You can’t leave me!”
But they did. They kept riding, neither one looking back, until the mayor’s voice faded away on the wind like it had never been there to begin with.
Epilogue
They rode until the night began to dissipate and grow into morning. The dark black of the sky became a dark blue. Off in the east, the sun began to rise.
They came to a stream and stopped to let the horse drink and rest. Witashnah helped George to the water, and they washed their faces and wounds. Then they sat on the bank and watched the eastern light grow brighter and brighter.
“What do we do now?” George asked.
“I do not know.”
“I can’t go back home. Not after what I just did.”
“I no longer have a home.”
They didn’t speak much after that. Eventually they would get back on the horse and keep going west, but for now they just sat there and watched the sun do what it had done every day since the beginning of time: rise higher and higher in the eastern sky, chasing away the dark.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Robert Swartwood’s work has appeared in The Los Angeles Review, The Daily Beast, ChiZine, Postscripts, Space and Time, and PANK. He is the author of several novels and the editor of Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer. Visit him online at www.robertswartwood.com.
To stay updated on Robert’s latest ebook releases, sign up for his newsletter (you’ll immediately receive a free ebook) or follow him on Twitter: @RobertSwartwood.
View more of Robert’s work in the US Kindle Store or the UK Kindle Store.
David B. Silva is the Bram Stoker and World Fantasy Award-winning author of seven novels. His short fiction has appeared in The Year’s Best Horror, The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror, and The Best American Mystery Stories. He served as the editor of The Horror Show from 1982 to 1991. He passed away in 2013.
View more of David’s work in the US Kindle Store and the UK Kindle Store.
When Dave and I published the At the Meade Bed & Breakfast ebook, we included a conversation at the end where we talked about ghost stories and the collaborative process and other fun stuff. We had planned to include a similar conversation in this ebook, only talking about our collaborative process on Walk the Sky. Unfortunately, Dave passed away before this could happen, so instead I thought it would be only fitting to include the blog post I wrote the day (March 13, 2013) I found out Dave had passed away.
R.S.
* * *
I learned just a few hours ago that David B. Silva passed away earlier this week. He was 62 years old.
I’m not really sure what else to say about it. It fucking sucks. It sucks when anyone dies, but especially those friends and family close to you. Dave wasn’t just a veteran of the horror field, he was a legend. I guess it would be best to simply share with you his bio:
David B. Silva’s first short story was published in 1981. His short fiction has since appeared in The Year’s Best Horror, The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror, and The Best American Mystery Stories. In 1991, he won a Bram Stoker Award for his short story, “The Calling.” His first collection, Through Shattered Glass, was published by Gauntlet Press in 2001. In 2009, Dark Regions published his collection of eleven new stories and one reprint, The Shadows of Kingston Mills. His novels include All the Lonely People, Child of Darkness, Come Thirteen, The Disappeared, The Presence, and The Many.
He is probably best known as the editor of The Horror Show, which was published quarterly from 1982 to 1991. This small-press horror magazine won a World Fantasy Award in 1988 and went on to publish the first early works of some of today’s most talented and influential horror authors, such as Bentley Little, Brian Hodge, and Poppy Z. Brite.
Silva also co-edited (with Paul F. Olson) two anthologies published by St. Martin’s Press: Post Mortem and Dead End: City Limits. In addition, he edited The Definitive Best of The Horror Show, published by CD Publications in 1992.
From February 1997 until September 2002, and from late 2004 until the present, Silva has served as editor of Hellnotes. Originally a weekly subscription newsletter dedicated to the horror professional and horror fan alike, Hellnotes was recently purchased by JournalStone Publishing and is currently a free blog, updated several times a day by Silva with latest news in the horror genre.
Anybody familiar with this blog knows just how much I loved Dave’s work. I must admit, The Horror Show was before my time, but in high school I read several issues of Cemetery Dance, which I later learned had been inspired by The Horror Show. In fact, when Jesus Gonzalez showed me some past issues of The Horror Show, it was clear that CD had used it as a model — the layout, formatting, everything.
The Horror Show was groundbreaking and seminal and it launched the careers of so many writers. Talk to any horror writer over forty years old and they’re apt to tell you just how much The Horror Show influenced them. In many ways, it helped shape and nurture the horror genre as it is today.
I don’t remember exactly what my first David B. Silva story was. I think maybe it was “Dry Whiskey,” or maybe it was “The Calling.” Whatever it was, I remember being blown away and instantly knowing I needed to read more of his work. There are few writers out there that inspired me as much as Dave’s short fiction did. I looked everywhere for his stuff. And this was before ebooks, so most of his stuff was out of print. I managed to track down his chapbook “The Night in Fog” and I managed to get my hands on a promotional copy of his amazing collection Through Shattered Glass. While I read and enjoyed a few of his novels, it was his short fiction that really shined for me, that always made me want to step up my game.
How we ended up in touch, I can’t remember. Obviously it was me who contacted him, probably to tell him
how much I enjoyed his work. Then, later, when I was helping edit Flesh & Blood magazine, I asked him if he would be willing to submit a story — and was thrilled when he said yes. Unfortunately, I can’t remember what that story was called; F&B folded before it ever came out. I do remember reading the story and loving it but thinking there could be one slight change. It was really nothing major — there was mention of a character passing by a movie theater, and the movies on the marquee were The Lord of the Rings and Cheaper by the Dozen. I felt those titles would eventually make the story dated, and suggested he change the titles, perhaps make them something by Hitchcock or something else that was old, as if the theater was showing classic movies.
The reason I remember this so clearly is because I was very hesitant to ask Dave to make this minor change. I mean, just who the hell did I think I was asking him to change anything about his story? He was David B. Fucking Silva. The man behind The Horror Show. One of my all-time favorite short story writers. Who was I to ask him to do anything?
But I took a chance and sent Dave the request and he replied saying sure, no problem at all, that made sense, and I realized that along with being a great writer, Dave was a true professional through and through.
When I wrote my first novel, The Calling, I contacted several writers asking if they would take a look and, if they enjoyed it enough, to possibly provide a blurb. The idea was to use these blurbs when querying agents. Dave was kind enough to agree to look at the book. After a few weeks, or maybe it was a month or more, he sent along a short blurb. I was thrilled, of course, but I could tell the blurb wasn’t overly enthusiastic, just a sentence or two about the book, so I asked him if he had any comments or suggestions to make the book better. He was hesitant at first — the reason, apparently, that many young writers in the past got angry when they were told they weren’t the greatest living writers in the world — but eventually we began a back and forth about the book, and it was one of those priceless learning experiences that every writer should be so blessed to receive. Dave didn’t have to look at the book to begin with, and he certainly didn’t have to give me his feedback, but he took the time and because of it I learned what I was doing wrong and how to fix those mistakes. (It’s also one of the reasons why I dedicated my latest book, Real Illusions, to Dave, along with Stewart O’Nan, with these three words: inspiration, guidance, friendship.)
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