Shadow Falls: Badlands

by Mark Yoshimoto Nemcoff

  His voice croaked, and the words came forth.

  But the clouds did not open, did not release the peril that he had deeply believed would happen for him. A second coyote locked onto his right arm. The two beasts pulled on him like dogs fighting for a bone, tearing his living body in half.

  Nena dropped to her knees and clutched her head as she watched the horror unfold at the base of the hill. The beasts that had made it past the first—and only—resistance of the Magus charged toward her and her brother, picking off the stragglers and deserters one by one. The bucket boy had found his end when the massive coyote pounced on his back, breaking his neck as he fell; he would never know the agony of being eaten alive, like the others.

  Miles turned his gaze upward—toward the hill—and Galen could see clearly the eyes of his brother. Even from this distance, Galen could sense there was something very wrong. The sudden longing to go to Miles, who before he could only sense as his brother, snapped, and what filled Galen as he watched the four-legged killers rushing toward him was the overwhelming urge to flee.

  He turned and grabbed Nena’s shoulder. She was gripping her hair in both hands. He pulled her to her feet.

  “How do we get out of here?” he asked.

  The first coyote to reached the top of the hill. With a single arm extended, Nena used her hand to beast stopped in its tracks. With her eyes, she caught the coyote’s gaze. When she broke the stare, the beast turned and launched itself at the coyote following it, clawing at the eyes of its former mate.

  “That will buy us some time. Let’s go!” she yelled, rushing toward the woods.

  “How did you do that?” Galen called out as he ran after her.

  Miles waded through the bodies lying on the grass, marveling at this outdoor slaughterhouse—his creation. Once the coyotes had finished, what was left of the Magus was barely recognizable as human.

  And there on the ground, he saw it and stopped. It was the eye of his father, the one he had given to Alyson all those years ago. Its surface was pitted and aged, but there was no mistaking this petrified relic that he had last seen almost 150 years ago.

  His fingers closed around the orb and he slipped it into his pocket, avoiding any chance of staring into it; not now—there would be time later. He would enjoy this moment. Miles noticed a number of horses and animals corralled nearby. He wandered over, beckoning a single old burro with his outstretched hand. Miles stroked Blue’s muzzle. He shook his head in disgust at the animal’s sunken back and filmy cataracts. With a single finger, he pressed into Blue’s forehead and, as if shot, the animal fell dead to the ground.

  Up the hill, he heard a commotion followed by a yelp. To his surprise, two of his beasts were locked in combat with each other, one having just snapped the neck of its brethren.

  Miles stalked through the bodies, kicking aside those laying in his way. The traitor had taken down another coyote, and was preventing others from passing. Pushing aside his beasts, Miles faced the rebel animal, grinning while it snarled at him, his master. He approached and the traitor snapped at him, its jaws striking like lightning. But as fast as the beast was, Miles was faster, moving almost as a blur. With a single blow, he drove his palm into the bridge of the coyote's nose with fatal force. The boy turned to his regiment, eyeing them with a burning anger.

  Miles hissed, running his fingers across his throat, causing the beasts to break ranks and dash up the hill toward the two figures disappearing into the woods.

  Galen pulled Nena further into the forest. Ahead the woods grew thick to the point of darkness. Crossing his mind was the memory of his wagon ride down into the valley when he had tried to find help for Maria. There had been things in these woods, things not seen, but heard.

  “Do you know what is out there?” Nena asked, her voice full of utter terror.

  “If you have a better idea, I'm all ears!” Galen shouted, continuing his pace.

  “The river!” she yelled.

  From a perch high above, he watched them disappear deeper into the forest, away from the light of open ground and straight toward the ghosts hiding in its shadows. Cyril knew they were there because, coming from the opposite direction, he had seen them: beings hidden on the edge of light and darkness; spirits straddling this mortal plane and the next. These woods were full of them.

  Cyril had no intention of following the pair—at least not yet. He wanted to guarantee his one chance at surprise.

  ***

  As the coyotes entered the woods, they slowed from a gallop to a crawl, carefully sniffing the air. They could sense there was need to be cautious.

  Also in the air was the scent of the man and woman they were hunting, and it was in that direction which they stalked, keeping low to the ground.

  Miles came up the hill into the woods behind them and, once he saw the dogs’ wariness, his own guard went up as well. Never had the beasts he’d come to control ever showed reluctance. Though they were moving slowly, he would give them a head start.

  Let them clear the path ahead, he thought. It was only so far that his brother and sister could run. Soon their mortal bodies would tire, and the coyotes would—

  The thought broke off. He needed only to look at his feet to see what he was about muse.

  Miles realized: she obviously let these people—her people—die.

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew the petrified eye of his father. In his mind he sensed…

  …something…

  Cyril had seen the boy enter the woods, and, as luck would have it, Miles slowly drifted fifteen feet underneath the perch he had taken in wait. Silently, Cyril drew his dagger and held it, blade down, timing his leap.

  Miles looked up just in time to catch the heel of Cyril’s boot on his chin. The force of the blow drove Miles backwards onto the ground, his mouth bloodied. The hard landing had twisted Cyril’s ankle, but the pain didn’t register. Miles was prone, and here was his chance.

  Cyril tightened his grip on the knife and advanced on the master who had betrayed his trust. He knew he couldn’t kill Miles, but after he was done butchering the monster, there would be little left to hurt anyone again.

  But as Cyril took another step toward the boy, murder in his eyes, Miles rose straight up to his feet, pivoting on his heels as if on a hinge. With his thumb, he wiped the blood from his lip and turned his enraged gaze at yet another traitor.

  Cyril’s breath froze in his throat. He raised the knife at the boy. He was close enough to take one last shot.

  But before he could make the move, his body was broadsided by eighty pounds of coyote. The lunge took Cyril to the ground, and the obedient beast held him down as the master approached.

  “For you, this is full circle, I suppose,” Miles mocked. “Pity, you could have served at my right hand.” With a slight nod of his head to the beast, the coyote tore its jaws into the soft flesh of Cyril’s face, enjoying his scream as it disappeared down its throat.

  ***

  They had covered ground as fast as they could, escaping on nothing more than adrenaline. Suddenly, the abated death shriek of Cyril, cut off halfway, reached them through the air—reminding them they weren’t far away from danger.

  “The river is about a mile ahead,” Nena told Galen, nearly out of breath. “Those creatures won’t follow us into the water.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Galen asked, his legs pumping.

  “No,” she answered.

  ***

  Miles watched with great pleasure as the coyotes disciplined Cyril. He was quite satisfied by all of Cyril’s struggling. What was left was a torso—no arms or legs—skinned and shredded to the bone. He whispered into the ear of a beast, now sated with the flesh of his master’s enemy, before the coyote began digging a hole in the earth.

  At four feet deep, it emerged from the shallow grave and pulled Cyril’s limbless body into the pit. When it came back to pick up one of Cyril’s arms, Miles stopped it. The beast dropped the torn limb and, at Miles’ comm
and, began filling the hole with dirt. Miles stood and grinned.

  “Now let us find them,” he told the coyote as he stroked its blood-soaked muzzle.

  ***

  Galen suddenly realized he was holding Nena’s hand as they ran together. Her legs were faltering, but he kept trying to keep pace.

  Midstride, Nena’s feet gave out from under her and she fell to her knees, again gripping her temples.

  He tried to pull her up, but couldn’t. Nena cried out in pain, fighting back tears.

  “Are you hurt?” asked Galen.

  But before she could answer, he heard them coming through the woods—Miles’s regiment of unholy creatures, their snarls rumbling through the air.

  Galen stepped in front of Nena, shielding her. They stalked behind the trees, keeping their soulless and hungry yellow eyes affixed on their prey, closing the distance in a semicircle around Nena and Galen.

  He looked at the approaching creatures, their razor sharp teeth gnashing against salivating gums. They stunk of death and blood—and immediately Galen thought of the day he left his cell at Sagebrush, and what he saw on the outside. He couldn’t fight the idea of jaws crushing his bones. With his head on a swivel, he tried to guess how many there were: too numerous to count. Besides, it would only take to tear out his throat.

  And then what? he thought. They could stand around and wait for him to come back to life and do it again and again, if that’s what Miles wanted.

  There was nowhere to run. They were surrounded, and within heartbeats of being eaten alive.

  *****

  CHAPTER 25

  As the first coyote—an aged and scarred killer with hollow and diseased eyes—advanced on them, Galen fanned his arms back, hoping to protect his sister from his same fate. He knew it was futile, though.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’m sorry, Alyson.”

  “Don’t be,” she muttered, coming to her feet behind him.

  The feeling on the back of Galen's neck was like some kind of strange electricity; it made each hair stand bolt upright. The power coming from her body was enormous—the sense of which, in Galen's estimation, was akin to standing next to a hundred coiled springs waiting to explode. She didn’t pushed him aside, but rather moved him across the ground so she could face the beasts who stood only feet away, ready to strike.

  Her arms stayed to her sides— a gunfighter’s stance—as her eyes swept across the beasts in front of her.

  “You won’t win today,” she spoke. As the last syllable left her lips, the coyotes descended on them like wildfire.

  Quick as a shot, Nena’s left palm snapped out and she let out a grunt. The coyote closest to her was blown backwards by an unseen force so mighty Galen could see the beast’s entire head cave in. With another grunt, her right arm shot forward toward a second charging coyote and it too was vaulted backwards, slamming into its brethren behind it, knocking aside their broken bodies like so many bowling pins.

  As a third beast left its feet leaping at Galen, Nena cast a blow in its direction, propelling the coyote at a ninety-degree angle from its original trajectory, barrel-rolling through the air until crashing into a large oak. The beast’s body snapping in the middle as its legs and head nearly met on the backside of the tree’s trunk.

  Spotting a thick fallen branch on the ground, Galen snatched up the hefty chunk of wood, wielding it two-handed as the remaining coyotes approached. With all the strength he could muster, he swung the crude club, striking one of the creatures between the eyes hard enough to stun it. With a second upward blow he drove the beast’s muzzle inwards, killing it instantly. As he turned to spot another, Galen swung the branch low, and could hear the wet snap of bone as he caught the predator at mid-leg. The coyote howled in agony as it plowed headfirst into the ground, unable to advance any further.

  His heart racing with adrenaline, Galen felt the dark thrill of the kill shoot through his veins like a drug. The singular sensory explosion of battle had come rushing back as he raised his club to crush the spine of another beast to the point where, unbeknownst to Galen, a slight grin crossed his face.

  He turned his head toward Nena as she dispatched beast after beast with a power he could only assume was some sort of witchcraft. The invisible strikes she rendered each time with a grunt and a slight shake of her head, blow after blow, caused mangled coyotes to fall at her feet, dispatched the way one would crumple a piece of used paper.

  Immediately Galen’s mind flashed upon a memory from his childhood in a previous life as Thomas Lawton, one so clear it seemed he could reach in from the other side of the door he was hiding behind and touch his mother Corrine Lawton as she drew the pentagram on the floor of their home in preparation for the company she and his father were expecting. It was part of the rituals he often heard them perform as he laid awake upstairs in his bed. The word had never been spoken but on that day, Thomas remembered thinking it: Witch.

  And as he watched Nena’s psychokinetic display of bone crushing power and the glare in her eyes, he was struck by the fact she was, in every way, the spitting image of their mother.

  But as his attention wavered from the field of battle, it was only out of the corner of his eye that the frenzied beast appeared, coming toward him with its teeth bared. Quickly he turned, holding the club out as it barreled into him, impaling itself on the branch through its mouth as the impact knocked him off his feet.

  Galen kept his grip on the branch as he tumbled onto his back. The wounded beast, uncaring about its own condition, focused only on the kill. It lurched forward further pushing the branch deeper into its mouth as its jaws snapped against the club in an attempt to get to the warm flesh of its prey. With a yell, Galen shoved the branch until he felt it snap forward through the back of the beast’s throat. The massive coyote instantly went limp, collapsing on top of him, knocking the wind from Galen’s lungs. Through the beast’s chest he could feel the beating of its heart slow and then suddenly stop.

  He tried calling out to Nena but could not gather the air to speak. Bodies of slain coyotes piled at her feet on the ground around her but he could tell by the shaking of her arms that the continued battle was taking a great physical toll on her, that she was weakening.

  I have to help her, he thought, though he could not move. Again a wave of buried memories came forth about their mother—the home they had left for reasons he never understood as a child, the journey aboard the Majestyk, the task their mother had on board to take care of the sick and dying.

  And the prayers and chants she said over them as they passed from this world.

  Galen’s mind flashed back to the memory of his father dropping Anne Walsh’s body over the side of the boat into the swirling ocean.

  Then to the one-eyed guide who had mysteriously vanished the night after fighting with his father.

  And it was the wispy vision of his father, William Lawton, that Galen thought he saw standing behind Miles as the boy came up quietly behind Nena. His brother looked directly back at him and grinned like a spider eyeing a fly caught in its web before turning back to her. Galen pushed against the heavy body of the beast pinning him to the ground. He had to help her. The heavy animal crushing him budged slightly then settled against his flagging strength, feeling even heavier against his chest.

  Suddenly, Nena sensed the presence behind her and spun around to strike, but it was too late. Miles grabbed her by the throat and the young boy lifted her up into the air with one hand. Her eyes opened wide because she saw it too, the image of their father, before it vanished into thin air.

  “Very tricky, my dear sister,” Miles hissed. “Sacrificing the flock to make yourself stronger. You are now learning the family curse, I see.”

  He paused for an answer but she was struggling for her breath.

  “However, I have quite a bit more blood on my hands than you. You cannot expect to overpower me so easily.”

  Nena’s legs kicked in the air as she slowly strangled. Miles cocked his head
as he looked into her eyes. Finally she gasped. “Kill me now, but know I will come back to stop you.”

  “Hmmph,” chuffed Miles, slightly amused. “You still think you have the answers. It’s not quite that simple.”

  Miles grinned again as he squeezed her throat, choking her past consciousness until her body slumped lifeless. He was enjoying this immensely. It would all soon come to an end. He glanced over to where his brother had been pinned under the beast and let the expression on his face change.

  Galen was no longer anywhere to be seen.

  And was the pressure Miles felt around his own throat as Galen wrapped his arm around him that caused Miles to drop his sister to the ground. With his other arm, Galen wrapped up Miles’ free hand and pulled it behind him while squarely pushing his knee into the boy’s back with as much force as he could muster.

  The choking rattle of Miles’ surprised exhale echoed loudly into the air and Galen could feel the hot tears streaming down his own cheeks as he gripped his brother as hard as he could.

  To his surprise, at no time did Miles struggle against this chokehold. As the boy’s head pointed upward, he opened his eyes toward the sky, gazing directly into the heavens as if fully accepting his fate.

  Though he continued to remind himself that what existed inside this shell was no longer his younger brother but a monster, powerful sobs erupted from Galen’s throat as he felt Miles’ strength ebb from his small body as he led his brother to the ground.

  It was here in the final moments that Miles struggled for the first time, reaching for the forearm wrapped around his neck, pulling it away, almost effortlessly, enough to utter his last words.