by Jeff Chapman
“Go. Go!” shouted the man.
My legs twitched. Part of me counseled running, another said to hold the fort and wait for Wilbur, our ace up the sleeve, our cavalry. When Isobel and I stood our ground, the man’s forehead wrinkled and his fists clenched into sledgehammer heads. He let loose a roar. I expected to see teeth filed to points, but his lips curled back round his gums, the way they do on old folks who’ve got no teeth to speak of.
He stepped forward, roaring and shouting for us to go. I crouched, waving my knife, a bluff which didn’t trouble him. He kept coming. Isobel’s arm swung forward. Like David and Goliath, the stone flew true. It struck him square between the eyes. He wavered and stumbled a half step back to catch his balance. Take that, I thought. Marzby’s giant was stopped by a wisp of a girl throwing stones. That single stone doubled my hope for victory. Isobel dug in her satchel for another rock.
“Wilbur!” I called. Was about time he stepped in to help, unless he was waiting for us to get our limbs torn off.
The man stepped forward as Isobel cocked her arm and took aim with another rock, but she never threw it. Wilbur’s gun roared. The buckshot caught the monster of a man in the back and spun him round. As he turned past us, a red stain bloomed across his shoulder blades. He moaned, hitting the wall hard. His gaze fixed on Wilbur, who was raising his gun for barrel number two.
The realization hit me as hard as a mule kick to the head. We were downstream of the next blast, not direct but close enough to catch stray pellets if we weren’t lucky. I twisted round, catching Isobel with my arm as we crashed to the balcony deck. Wilbur’s gun belched as we fell. Pellets whistled overhead, and splintering thuds sounded as a few lodged in the railing and post. The balcony shook with a heavy crash behind us.
“Get off me, Jimmy. Tryin’ to crack my skull open?” Isobel sat up, rubbing the back of her head.
Fishing for gratitude is like fishing without bait, my grandma said.
I slouched against my arms spread out behind me, my knife held loosely now, and sighed. Fighting was not my calling.
“What’s wrong with his eyes?” Wilbur bent over the bleeding body.
“He’s a Monster-man,” I said.
The giant lay on his stomach, his head twisted to the courtyard. A bloody wound oozed from his back. A slick, crimson stain scarred the stucco wall, and blood pooled across the balcony planks, spreading from under his chin. The scent of cordite and blood stung my nose, reminding me, if I needed reminding, that we were at war, in a fight for our lives, and casualties were expected.
The leading edge of the blood rolled toward my boot like a wave coming ashore. I scrambled up and pulled Isobel to her feet.
“Is he dead?” said Isobel.
“I reckon,” I said. “He ain’t movin’.”
Isobel clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her stomach. I let go of her arm. She leaned over the railing and gave in. Watching Wilbur kneel over the corpse, it came to me that if Wilbur’s shells hadn’t fizzled in the cornfield, I’d look much the same and just as dead. A wave of weakness spread over me at the thought. I put a hand against the wall to steady myself. Wilbur’s defective shell was the most important bit of luck to this point in my young life. Nobody wanted their existence to be based on a spider-silk thin strand of luck.
“You two hurt at all?” Wilbur stood up to reload. The empty shells fell in the bloody river, which was now cascading over the edge of the balcony and splattering on the gravel below.
I figured scolding Wilbur for his wild shooting would do me as much good as hoping for thanks from Isobel.
“I think we’re unscathed. I reckon there’s nobody else around or they would’ve come runnin’.”
“Or hidin’.” Wilbur kicked the corpse.
“One of Marzby’s creations,” I said. “I think that explains the eyes. Might be a reanimated corpse. I wouldn’t place necromancy beyond Marzby’s morals.”
“What bleeds will die.”
I wasn’t none too sure about that, but I was loath to argue with a man carrying a loaded gun. Wilbur’s eyes had gone all queer and wide and the blacks had grown to push out all the color. Seemed to me Wilbur had a taste for killing, a taste he hadn’t known about until now.
Wilbur knocked my shoulder as he brushed past me. One of his boots splashed in the blood, spraying crimson drops across his pant legs. “We best keep a clear eye.”
I grabbed Isobel’s arm and pulled her along. She looked a bit green, but we hadn’t eaten much. Wilbur’s boot left bloody footprints, I sight I didn’t think proper for a young girl to see. What was I gonna tell her mama?
We followed Wilbur down the stairs, every other step stamped with blood. More of the stuff dripped from the edge of the balcony, pooling in the courtyard like the runoff from a storm. What would the sheriff say about this, I wondered. Murder? Self-defense? My head felt stuffed with wool. Images of the shooting had soft, rounded edges, as in a dream, like I didn’t believe what Wilbur had done, nor the coldness with which he’d done it.
Standing on the edge of the courtyard in the shade of a rosebud tree, we studied the outbuildings arranged in a semi-circle behind the house. A walnut tree grew between each building and the next. A very neat and tidy arrangement. The way Marzby liked it, I reckoned.
The stables sounded empty. Some pigs snorted in the sty. Five chickens pecked at the dirt inside the coop. I glanced back at the balcony. He was there alright, a mass of bone and muscle more akin to a bull than a man, and the blood was running more like water now, which didn’t seem right. The crimson cascade matched the red roses planted in a square inside the courtyard.
We decided against the kitchen. There was no smoke coming from the chimney so we assumed it was unoccupied. Made no sense to consider the corncrib or the livestock shelters, which left the barn and two squat buildings.
“Someone oughta watch to see Marzby don’t come back and surprise us. You’d have a right good vantage from atop that ridge,” I said to Isobel.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said. “I can smell a trick to be rid of me like a buzzard on a day-old carcass.”
After a minute or two of yammering, we split the buildings betwixt us. Isobel was told to search the barn, the least likely place, leaving the squat buildings to me and Wilbur. Hard to believe such horrible doings happened in such pleasant surroundings. I reckoned this courtyard smelled mighty sweet when the trees and roses were all in full bloom.
Isobel set off at a run for the barn. The grass was thin where Marzby and his minions had worn tracks. Wrongdoing always leaves a trail, my grandma said. Wilbur marched toward his target with his gun leveled as if he planned to shoot it to splinters. Would he have minded if he’d shot me and Isobel up on the balcony too? I couldn’t rightly say.
I stepped forward, wondering what I’d do if the door was locked and there weren’t no windows. Might be a sure sign it was the right place.
Breaking glass shattered my thoughts. I turned back to the house, but before I could think about a broken window, a muzzle flash pricked the kitchen darkness. Lead whined above me, lifting my hat clean off my head as the crack of a rifle reached me. I didn’t need to be told twice. I dove behind the rose bushes in the courtyard as another bullet whistled behind me.
I lay on the path of pebbles surrounding the flowers, digging up handfuls as my fingers flexed. My legs felt weak and my heart raced like a rabbit staring down a fox. Between Wilbur and whoever was in the kitchen, I’d had my fill of being shot at for the rest of my days. I knew one fact. Wasn’t Marzby handling that rifle. He wouldn’t need to mess with no gun.
Without raising my head, I twisted my neck round to survey the yard. There lay my hat, so far the only casualty. Isobel must’ve made it to the barn. How much time had lapsed since Marzby had driven his wagon away? Every minute brought his return closer, and if he came back while we were pinned down, our goose was done roasted and on the table.
The rifle cracked. Lead kicked up dirt near the house. Red
rose petals showered the path two feet ahead. I tasted fear on my tongue, and all my trembling being whined to stay put, but another shot might spray a new shade of red across the path—my blood. What I needed was to get behind some solid cover, maybe the edge of the house, if I could cross the courtyard.
I forced my arms and legs to work and inched along the border of the bushes, pushing with my toes and pulling with my hands. I didn’t dare raise my back. The right angle turn was tricky, trying to stay as flat as could be and remain behind the bushes, but I managed it, swinging my legs out and pivoting on the corner. The house was four strides distant, plenty of time to squeeze off a couple shots. I sure could have used Wilbur’s help about now, but I didn’t dare try to signal him. Maybe we were all waiting for the other to make a move. I brought my knees up into a low crouch. “If anybody up there is watching over me,” I whispered. “I could use your help. Right. Now!”
I sprang into the gap, stumbling headlong for the house. The rifle cracked. A window shattered. Wilbur’s shotgun roared, the most blessed sound I’d heard in a long time. I slammed into the side of the house, welcoming the pain when my hands met the stucco. As my grandma said the first time I fell off a horse, If you still feel hurt, you ain’t dead.
With my back flat against the house, I gulped air to calm my thumping heart. The ranch was quiet as a church on Monday, even the hogs and chickens were holding their breaths. Wilbur was out there somewhere, and I assumed Isobel was hiding in the barn. The corner of the house hid the kitchen from me. Maybe Wilbur had scored another notch in his gun stock? I plucked up enough courage to peek around the corner.
An urgent click snapped the silence and then another. Out of bullets. My spirits climbed like a hungry squirrel up an oak tree. There was some clattering in the kitchen, pots and pans clashing. I stepped around the corner of the house as the door burst open, its hinges screeching to hold on. What emerged from that kitchen stopped my spirits climbing and my heart from beating.
Chapter Nineteen
What I saw coming at me with raging bull fury was an impossibility, but most of what I’d seen over the past few days wasn’t possible neither.
Running with arms outstretched and thick fingers poised to squeeze the life out of my neck came the Monster-man. Same gray eyes. Same bald head. Same massive shoulders. Wet blood streaked down his white shirt, bubbling from a wound in his chest. A deep thrumming battle roar escaped his toothless mouth. The sound would have stampeded a herd of bison.
Up on the balcony lay the body of the first Monster-man, blood dripping over the edge. Had Marzby created an army? Pounding feet snapped me back to the moment. I drew my knife, ready to stab and twist away in the same motion.
He hit me like a runaway stagecoach down a mountain and took me with him. When he crushed me into the gravel, he squashed all the air out of my lungs. Hellish fingers wrapped my throat, and before I could draw a breath, he locked his arms and pressed his weight on my Adam’s apple. With the little strength I had left, I drove my knife into his side. Hot, sticky blood gushed over my hand, but those gray eyeballs belied nothing and his fingers held tighter.
My lungs burned. My temples pounded like a boiling kettle. My head verged on exploding. I saw stars—fuzzy, white snowflakes—and Orville’s face, his big mouth shrieking in terror because I wasn’t there to save him. I tried to pull out my knife to stab the Monster-man again, but my strength was draining out of me faster than a bucket with no bottom. I’m sorry, Orville. Sorry Isobel. My lids fluttered and the stars faded as darkness crowded the light from my vision.
A mighty wind like a tornado whirled above me. The Almighty had come to take me, I reckoned. The crushing hands round my throat were gone, and I could draw breath if not for the rushing wind whistling past me and stealing all the air. Did souls in heaven breathe?
My eyes squinted against a twisting cloud of dust. Heaven looked more akin to a wind storm in a desert. Maybe I wasn’t there yet. Maybe I had to cross a land of dirt devils and burning scrub brush like Moses. As my muffled ears cleared, a scream of endless agony roared above me. The wind slackened, and a face emerged from the dust, its mouth a gaping black hole. Even with its eyes half closed I recognized those gray orbs. The Monster-man. This wasn’t heaven.
I was alive. As if in confirmation, a burning torment seized my throat, a thousand needles, like I’d rammed a prickly pear down my gullet. I filled my lungs with sweet air and added my own cry to the tumult above me.
The dust cleared, but what I witnessed belonged in a nightmare. The Monster-man’s skin commenced to blow away, peeled off like layers of sand, dust to dust in a moment. Over his shoulder crouched Isobel, quivering like a stuck arrow, both hands planted on the man’s back. As the Monster-man’s flesh crumbled, a skull appeared, but the bones were fluid, moving like quicksilver, morphing until they fixed into a new head, the long-faced, horned skull of a bull.
I swung at the skull and kicked, anything to get out from under the giant turned bull skull-man. My fist struck the side of its head below the horn and sent the skull flying into the roses. So fixed had my attention been on the skin peeling off his face, I hadn’t noticed what had become of the rest of him. His flesh had blown away too, leaving a jumble of human and bovine bones. Two kicks sufficed to scatter them.
Isobel studied her trembling hands that held the black blade where the body had been, her eyes had gone glassy.
“What in blazin’ hell happened?” said Wilbur.
I scrambled to my feet, kicking bones aside. When I turned my head, I wished I hadn’t. Every muscle in my neck had a crick in it.
“We killed the bad guy,” I said. “Another of Marzby’s infernal creations.” I put my arm around Isobel’s shoulders. The girl was trembling all over, vibrating like the rails of a train track. “You alright?”
Wilbur nudged some of the bones with his shotgun. “Some of these is cattle bones.”
I got on my knees so my face was level with hers. She wasn’t a tall girl. “Can you hear me? Isobel?” The experience had been too much for her. Even I felt shaky. What was I gonna tell her mama when I handed a catatonic girl back to her. I figured Isobel’s pa was digging me a grave already.
“You see what happened?” I asked Wilbur. Twisting my neck, even a few degrees, sent lightning bolts of pain through it.
“She buried that blade in his back. I didn’t dare shoot with her standin’ there.”
“I’m glad you held your fire. For once,” I muttered. I shook Isobel, calling her name, but she was as stiff as an icicle. I hoped she wasn’t half as brittle.
“What the hell?” cried Wilbur. He ran past me, and his boots pounded on the stairs to the balcony.
The tip of the black blade’s hilt stuck out between her hands. I reached to pry it from her, thinking it wasn’t safe for her to be holding a weapon without all her faculties. When my fingers touched the hilt, a spark flashed and crackled, burning my fingertips like lightning blackening a tree. I yelped and fell on my back, my fingers seeking the cool saliva in my mouth.
“You alright, Jimmy?” Isobel stood over me, perplexity and concern furrowing her brow. “What happened to that big oaf stranglin’ you?” She toed a bone with her boot.
“He’s gone,” I said. “You stabbed him. I reckon you saved my life.”
“Always knew I’d be good in a pinch.” She examined her hands and the blade. “Ain’t no blood. You sure I got him? Where’d he go? And what’s all these bones?”
Before I could answer, a clattering behind us interrupted our conversation. Wilbur was kicking bones off the balcony.
“Same thing,” shouted Wilbur. “There was two of ’em.”
“There’s more to that knife than a keen edge. You best put it away,” I said to Isobel.
“I don’t understand.”
“There ain’t time to explain it all now,” I said, rising to my feet. Somehow, that blade had reversed whatever Marzby had done to those two. Had the knife done something to her? Or maybe powe
r left over from the Wise One’s possession? “Wilbur!” I shouted. “We gotta move.”
I retrieved my knife from among the bones. Isobel glared at me with her hands on her hips.
“My mama’s been tellin’ me for years that men don’t tell women folk what’s really goin’ on cause they think we’re dumb or delicate. Well I ain’t neither. You tell me what those bones are or I ain’t movin’ from this here spot.” She stomped her foot.
For a moment I considered throwing her over my shoulder or calling her bluff, but I figured I needed her help more than ever.
“Some sort of storm blew up when you stabbed him and his flesh all turned to dust except for these bones. And they’re cattle and human bones all mixed together.”
Wilbur tromped past us toward the outbuildings without paying us a sideways glance.
All the fiery indignation in her countenance turned to ash, like water on a fire. “Is that the truth?”
“On my grandma’s Bible.” I grabbed Isobel’s arm and tugged her along, veering off course a few steps to retrieve my hat. “Marzby may have felt what happened. We gots even less time than before.”
Isobel came along without a fuss. “Most peculiar,” she muttered.
“You see anything in the barn?”
“Nothin’ but hay and tack. He don’t even have a cow.”
“His patients likely pay him in kind.”
Wilbur’s gun roared and wood splintered as he blasted the lock to one of the outbuildings. The door surrendered without further resistance as he ducked inside. The other structure squatted beneath two walnut trees, hiding like a frog among cattails. I didn’t need to break open the door to know what it was. My nose answered all my questions. A smokehouse.
“This ain’t it,” I said. “I would’ve remembered us being caged in a smokehouse.”
Wilbur stomped out the doorway of the other building, looking angrier than a bear woken in January.
“Nothin’,” shouted Wilbur.
