Skinwalkers

by Hill, Bear

  Dewayne threw back his head and howled at the blood-red sky.

  The bounty hunter emerged from the armory with four new six-shooters and a restocked gun belt. He holstered two of the pistols and then stuffed the other two down his gun belt—one in front and one in back. He hoped at least one of the weapons worked. He judged his chances were good based on the Gatling gun’s performance.

  That’s a bet you better win, Dewayne, because the stakes are your life.

  He entered the sanctuary to find the others staring in disgust as Little Joe used the knife he’d carried in his belt to hack off an arm from the corpse of a dead Navajo. When he’d finished, the big native wiped the knife clean with the hair of the corpse and then held the severed limb out to Farnsworth.

  J.T. stared at the arm as though it were a cobra about to strike him. “Please, Little Joe, for the moment I’m fine with letting the appendage rest upon the floor.“

  Little Joe shrugged and dropped the bleeding arm onto the ground.

  “You still sure you want to do this?“ the bounty hunter asked.

  “Your use of the word still implies that, at some point in the past, I had fully resigned myself to this course of action,“ J.T. said.

  The bounty hunter eyed him with a confused expression.

  “What I mean to say is,“ Farnsworth said, “only a fool would willingly run out amongst those monsters waving a bloody arm.“ Farnsworth winked at the man. “However, considering the speed of foot I’ve obtained sprinting away from cuckolded husbands and determined lawmen such as yourself, I may be the only one present able to provide you with a diversion who could still hope to flee to safety’s breast once the endeavor reaches conclusion.“

  “You ain’t half the sack of shit I took you for, Professor.“

  “Oh, begging your pardon, dear man, I am positively overflowing with shit. So much so that it threatens to gush out of my ears while forcing my eyeballs from my head.“ Farnsworth extended his hand to the man. “But let me say that my own first impression of you was also unwarranted and ill deserved.“ The men shook hands as Wilson exited the rectory, loading a pair of pistols as he approached.

  The bounty hunter frowned. “Where do you think—?“

  “I don’t want to hear it,“ Wilson said. “If, miracle of miracles, you actually manage to get back into town, it would be better if you had someone with you who knows his way around.

  “And don’t give me any horseshit about my dying, either.“ Wilson sighed and he hung his head. “Mister, I died a long time ago.“

  The bounty hunter eyed Wilson for a time and then nodded. He turned and faced Sanchez where he stood beside the Gatling gun. The weapon was now positioned only a few yards out from the mission doors.

  “When that door opens,“ the bounty hunter said, “be ready for anything.“

  Sanchez nodded and wiped sweat from his forehead. His face had turned as red as Arizona clay and perspiration was dropping from him in buckets.

  “Can you do this, Private?“ the bounty hunter asked. Sanchez nodded. Not having any alternative if the private was too sick to operate the Gatling gun, the bounty hunter nodded in return. “All right then.“

  He’d started for Wilson and Sanchez when Maxine rushed into his arms and pressed her mouth to his. He took her willingly, enfolding her in his arms.

  “Thank you,“ Maxine said as she drew back. Her voice was barely audible. The bounty hunter smiled and caressed her delicate, bronze face. He lingered a moment and then rejoined Wilson and Farnsworth. The latter now held the bloody, severed arm in one hand.

  “I should say a prayer over you men,“ the reverend said. “And one for the boy’s safe return.“ The three men looked at one another.

  “Reverend,“ the bounty hunter said, “we’re all prayed out.“

  Farnsworth had been running his entire life for all the wrong reasons. He’d run from his fears of the bridge troll as a boy. When he’d become a teenager, he’d run from his family, his home. As a man, he’d run across country looking to make it rich, high-tailing from one state to the next as one scam after another blew up in his face. Most of all, he’d run when someone tried to get close to him, leaving at least one broken-hearted woman in every city, town, and settlement he’d passed through. This had finally culminated in his running away from the woman pregnant with his child whose name he couldn’t even remember. But all these things were superficial—external symptoms of an internal problem. What J.T. had truly been running away from all these years was himself.

  Jonathan Tiberius Farnsworth had spent his life in one diversion after another—books, gambling, drink, women—in utter fear of what he might find should he turn his keen intellect inward and take inventory of what he found. In doing so, Farnsworth created a vicious cycle of self-fulfilling prophesy. He’d become the very thing he so desperately dreaded: a troll. Not one armed with fang and claw, but a troll with the far deadlier weapons of lies and deceit in its arsenal. But here, in this church at the end of the world, so close to death, Farnsworth was about to change all that. Now he would be running to save life, rather than to deny it.

  The bounty hunter handed J.T. a pistol. “Too dangerous to test it downstairs. Like the reverend said, this place might go up in smoke. And we don’t want to shoot it off up here, neither. Don’t want to draw their attention to the church right now. The whole point of sending you out is to get them interested elsewhere.“

  Farnsworth flexed his burned hand. “’To be, or not to be: that is the question.’“ He took the pistol and stuffed it down the front of his pants.

  “Give us five minutes,“ the bounty hunter said. “Circle out for two and a half and then circle back in. Don’t waste no shots trying to get their attention. Just wave that arm and shoot off nonsense from that big mouth of yours like you do.“

  “Everyone’s a critic.“ Farnsworth gave a crooked smile. “Now let’s do this before my courage gives way to saner lines of thinking.“

  The bounty hunter turned toward Sanchez. “Be ready.“ Then he turned to Little Joe and nodded. “Open it up.“ Little Joe shoved the post barring the doors to one side and began pulling them open.

  “Wait!“ Farnsworth cried. All turned to look at him. “Like Jesus on the cross, if I’m going to die so that you might live, I would at least appreciate you telling me your name.“

  “Dewayne,“ the man said. “Dewayne Jefferson.“

  Farnsworth nodded. “See you in hell, Dewayne Jefferson.“

  A moment of silence. “Yeah.“

  Dewayne drew one of his pistols and nodded to Little Joe. Little Joe resumed his labors, tugging at the door until a proper gap presented itself. Without another word, Farnsworth slipped through to meet whatever fate awaited him in the fog-enshrouded night.

  Farnsworth sprinted through the mist away from town for the hills beyond the church, waving the bloody, severed arm high in the air above him as he went. He spared a brief backward glance to ensure the mission steeple rose above the fog where he could see it. Satisfied, J.T. quickened his pace and began to scream at the top of his lungs.

  “Come forth you sons of bearded dogs! Come forth and suck my tremendous and legendary cock! I fucked your bitch mothers and made that fucking troll father of yours watch and hold my hat and coat as I performed! I—!“

  Howls rose into the night sky behind Farnsworth, loud and furious.

  Maybe ten left by the sound of it. Small comfort.

  Fifty yards out from the church, Farnsworth heard the skinwalkers snarling as they bounded up the hill behind him. Farnsworth was seized with fresh terror and the last of his adrenaline drained away.

  Idon’twanttodieIdon’twanttodieIdon’twanttodie!

  A skinwalker roared and Farnsworth turned just in time to seeing it leaping for him through the fog. Somehow, the gun found its way into J.T.’s hand in enough time for the writer to fire a shot. It struck the monster in its chest, sending it tumbling backward. Two more skinwalkers appeared out of the fog to lea
p over their fallen brother in pursuit of Farnsworth. J.T. slung the severed arm to their right. Luck smiled upon the writer and the two coyote-men swerved away from him to chase after the discarded limb.

  J.T. changed direction. He backtracked across the hillside in a wide arc that would eventually bring him to the mission. I’ve given you all the time I can spare, Dewayne.

  A roaring skinwalker flew out of the fog at Farnsworth. They crashed, their bodies tangling in a mass of flesh and fur. They hit the earth and it gave way beneath them. In the back of his mind, Farnsworth registered the fact that he heard the sound of boards splintering. They were in freefall for a moment and then all was black and silent.

  The solider—Dewayne Jefferson—awoke to stare into the glazed, dead eyes of his commanding officer, Colonel Robert Gould Shaw. The dead Colonel’s face was mere inches above Dewayne’s own. His mouth was open in a strangely intimate way. It was as though Shaw was trying to give his subordinate a tongued kiss from beyond the grave. Dewayne screamed and tried to pull away. He was horrified to find he couldn’t move. It was only then that Dewayne felt the crushing weight of the dead bodies piled on top of him.

  Dewayne squirmed, desperately trying to free himself. “Help! Help!“ He felt something crawling along his torso and looked down to see two beady-eyed rats worming their heads out of the gap between his body and the corpses.

  Be still, their twin gazes seemed to say. We’ll get to you soon enough.

  Dewayne shrieked, his voice cracking at the end of his wail.

  “Scream all you want, Nigger,“ Colonel Shaw said. His voice was that of the man who’d owned Dewayne as a slave back in Tennessee. Dewayne new that was impossible. He knew neither the colonel nor the slave owner were talking to him anymore than the rats had been. But that didn’t make the horror of what he was experiencing seem any less real. “Bawl your goddamn porch monkey eyes out,“ the corpse continued. “You ain’t under no rotted cow no more.“

  Dewayne’s screams continued long after they’d brought several federal soldiers running to dig him out of the pile of his dead friends.

  “Shut it,“ Dewayne said. Little Joe forced the mission door closed. Dewayne turned to Wilson. “We’ll give them a minute to pass and then head out.“ The group dropped into silence as the howls and roars began to sound outside the door.

  “This is insane,“ the reverend whispered. “We shouldn’t have let him go.“

  “He knew the risks,“ Wilson whispered. “After all his whining, I’ve got to give the son of a bitch credit. At least he’ll die on his feet.“

  “Pray we do better,“ Dewayne whispered. “We won’t have long to get to wherever it is we’re going.“

  “We’ll start back at the saloon,“ Wilson said. “If Pablo got away from that thing, he probably went somewhere familiar.“

  Outside, the howls now issued from the backside of the church. The skinwalkers appeared to have taken the bait.

  This is it, Dewayne thought. “Now!“

  Little Joe grimaced and moaned as he tugged the church door open far enough for the men to slip through. Dewayne exited first, his pistols drawn. Wilson followed. The men surveyed their immediate vicinity. They were relieved to find no rabid skinwalkers jumping out at them from the fog.

  Wilson shot off into the mist. Dewayne sprinted after him, praying they were heading in the right direction. As Dewayne ran through the dense green fog, it seemed to him things were moving in slow motion. It was like being in a dream where you had to reach the end of a long corridor, but the hallway just kept stretching farther and farther ahead. His body felt sluggish and impotent. It was as though the fog had congealed, approaching a molasses-like consistency impossible to move through.

  In truth, the creeping of time as he ran reminded Dewayne of none of these things. Though he was loath to admit it, reality was moving exactly like it had on the day those three men had tried to steal his hog—his entire livelihood. He’d shot them dead. And his pregnant wife, Sonny, too, though by mistake. Dewayne might as well have turned his gun on himself right then and there, for, in that one moment, he had ceased to live in any true sense of the word. Dewayne had died. The bounty hunter had been born. And his existence had been a living hell—a hell he desperately wanted to end, one way or another.

  The saloon’s rear entrance appeared out of the fog before them. Wilson took a position to the left of the door. Dewayne slowed his advance to keep from slamming into the saloon’s outer wall. He took up a position opposite Wilson on the door’s right side.

  “Cover our flank,“ Dewayne said. Wilson nodded and turned to peer out into the fog, his guns held at ready. The door was ajar. Dewayne gulped. Although he knew it had been left this way in haste, Dewayne wondered if there was anything scarier to a person than finding a door cracked open when it should be closed.

  Dewayne snaked the back of his left hand—still armed—into the gap and pressed the door open, moving slowly so as not to make any noise.

  He poked his head inside. The dead, mutilated bodies of the soldiers littered the hallway. Half-gnawed arms, legs, and torsos lay akimbo on the floor. The walls were now black with splatters of gore. So much blood had been spilled the wooden planks hadn’t been able to soak it all in.

  Dewayne felt his chest tighten. Looking at the piles of corpses, all he could think about was how he’d lain beneath the dead, bloated cow as a boy and then, as a soldier, how he’d been trapped for hours at the bottom of a mound of his dead friends. It was as though he was doomed to relive this fate again and again. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, death always came crashing down on him.

  Dewayne felt something touch him and he whirled, his pistols held high and ready to blast away. Wilson jerked his hand away from Dewayne’s shoulder. “Jesus!“ Wilson said, his voice low. “What’s gotten into you?’“

  Dewayne sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of an armed fist. “Nothing.“ A pause, then, “I’m all right. It’s clear.“

  “Come on, then,“ Wilson whispered. “I don’t want to be out in the open whenever those fucking dogs decide to come sniffing back around here.“

  Dewayne nodded and then followed Wilson as he crept inside the door. Dewayne watched the color drain from Wilson’s face as he saw the hallway of death.

  You’d think after everything we’ve been through, we couldn’t be spooked by anything. But every time, just when you believe you’ve reached your limit, some new evil is there to teach you different, and you’re scared and disgusted just like the first time all over again.

  The saloon itself was no better. Dismembered and decapitated bodies covered the floor, both soldier and reverted Navajo. And they had brought the rats. And the bugs. The corpses were crawling with them. The flies weren’t blanketing the bodies yet, but they soon would be. And it was all Dewayne could do not to fire his pistols as he watched several fat, black rodents chew on slimy pink loops of exposed intestine.

  Wilson stepped forward and slammed his heel down on the head of an especially large rat. There was a small, clipped shriek as its skull collapsed beneath of the weight of his boot. Dewayne thought about telling him not to do that again, but opted simply to nod in approval. There had been rats on the beach at Wagner, too, of course. They were opportunistic creatures, and sand had proved little of a deterrent. Even under their current circumstances—hell, especially because of them—one less rat in the world was a good and fine thing as far as Dewayne was concerned.

  “Let’s check upstairs,“ he said. “If nothing else, we need to make sure there are no surprises up there waiting on us.“ The men made their way up the stairs, treading gently so that no creaking boards gave them away.

  They reached the top and moved along the promenade. They reached the first of four doors and repeated the sequence of actions they’d performed when entering the saloon, Dewayne opening the door while Wilson covered. They found nothing but a few pairs of soiled undergarments belonging to the late Gertrude, judging by
the abundant size of them.

  They made their way to the second door and ran through their routine once more. Here was where Dewayne had enjoyed Maxine’s company. But there was nothing warm or vibrant about the room now. The bed and the curling, yellowed paper adorning the walls surrounding it were now mocking and lifeless. Silence and darkness were king and queen here now.

  The third bedroom was also empty of either monster or child. When they reached Garrett’s office, both men could smell the stench of burned flesh wafting from the door and they had to cover their noses before entering. They found the charred corpse of the skinwalker Farnsworth had vanquished, now reverted to its true Navajo self—or at least, what remained of it—slumped against the wall, blackened jaws locked into a silent wail of anguish for all eternity.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,“ Dewayne said.

  “Amen,“ Wilson agreed.

  The men exited Garrett’s office and descended the staircase. They were just about to move on to the next building when a soft but very inhuman moan uttered from behind the bar. Both men froze. A heartbeat later, they took aim at the bar. They waited—each man a coiled spring—for several tense moments of silence, but nothing appeared.

  Another soft moan, this one sounding full of pain and misery, rose from behind the bar. It was accompanied by a whispered chorus of strange sounds: popping, cracking, and a noise like a boot being repeatedly extracted from wet mud.

  Dewayne gestured for Wilson to move to the closed end of the bar, the unspoken assurance that the bounty hunter would move to the bar’s open end passing between them. Wilson nodded. Both men began to creep into position.

  Wilson reached his station first. Dewayne saw his partner’s eyes grow large with horror at whatever he saw on the other side of the bar. Dewayne tightened his fingers around his guns’ triggers and slowly walked the remainder of the way to the bar’s open end.

  Dewayne’s mind rebelled at the sight which met his eyes. A soldier missing his lower body lay writhing on the floor. Somehow, despite his guts being sprawled out on the floor like bloody, pink hosing, he was still alive. Dewayne saw the soldier’s severed spinal column jutting out into empty space where he should have had an ass and legs. But that was not the worst of it. The soldier—barely old enough to shave—was changing. Dewayne realized the alien chorus of sounds they’d heard was that of bones breaking and reforming inside the solider—internal organs transforming, rearranging. Dewayne saw tuffs of fur sprouting on the solider’s face and exposed wrists. The soldier’s fingernails were hardening and lengthening into black claws. His face was trying to elongate, his nose and mouth becoming a fanged muzzle.