Predatory Animals

by Gabriel Beyers

  The water was frigid, and beneath the surface his body rebelled. His muscles cramped. His arms and leg ceased to obey and went stiff. The shock of cold caused him to gasp, and suck in a great gulp of dirty water. There was a split second of total panic—a moment when mind and body separated and stood against each other.

  But then the cord of steel he purchased in the Marines burned hot within him. Despite the cold and pain, Casper focused, calming his senses and blocking out the mayhem that sought to consume him. He pushed all of his will into his lethargic limbs, forcing them to obey. His arms and legs were stiff at first, but soon yielded to their master. He pumped toward the surface, managed to poke his head up long enough to vomit out the river water and draw a gulping breath before the undercurrent grabbed him by the thighs. He went under again.

  Casper surfaced and this time he turned over into a sitting position to keep his feet up. If he could keep out of the undercurrent and avoid jamming his feet in between the rocks he might escape drowning. But the river was swollen and angry and moving faster than he had anticipated. The panicked screams of his children were falling farther and farther behind him and it occurred to him how foolish his valor was. After all the training, he still wasn’t able to quench the impulsive thunderstorm that brewed within him. He tried to swallow his guilt but it went down no better than the river water.

  He looked back to the bridge. A police cruiser was parked behind the pickup truck. The cop car’s red and blue lights flashed like the beacon of a lighthouse, but Casper was floating the wrong way. He thought of screaming out, but he was out of breath, and too far away for the cop to help, anyhow.

  He started working his way over to the shore (a terribly difficult feat), but then caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye. The burlap sack tumbled to the surface just ten yards in front of him. Even over the raging water Casper could hear the terrified shrieks within. That fiery cord within him went white-hot with anger. Nothing deserved to die like that. He had to save whatever was within the bag. He had dedicated most of his life to fighting what he understood as evil. He might have retired as a soldier, but he could never retire from the ideals that shaped his character.

  Casper flipped onto his stomach and swam for the sack. The trees on either bank became blurs as he poured his own strength to the inertia of the speeding river. He pushed on trying not to notice how tired and winded he was. A stitch gnawed at his side; his lungs were raw and gritty.

  A swirling lateral current sent Casper drifting to the left. He was going too fast now. There would be only one chance at this. If he missed, it was all over. The water slapped at his face distorting his vision. The surface bubbled and rolled as he passed over the shallows. A jutting rock caught Casper in the ribs and stole the breath he was holding. The bag was closer. Almost within reach. He shot out his hand, slapping at the water. His fingers grazed the rough burlap, but found no purchase. He slipped past the bag. Casper spread his arms to slow his speed, but it was useless. The bag churned frantically as it started to sink. He spun his body clockwise so that his feet were down river. The bag vanished beneath the water. Both hands searched . . . searched . . . then he felt it.

  Casper wrapped his hand in the bag’s edging, forced his body into a vertical position, and brought the sack out of the water. A chorus of high pitched barks erupted and the inside of the bag pulsated like a soon-to-erupt egg sack. He brought it to his chest and struggled at the twine that held the opening shut. The puppies within struggled against his body, fighting for freedom. He felt three of them, of varying size, but all small.

  The river carried him around a bend and one of the many defunct train trestles that crossed the swollen river loomed before him. With the banks overtaken, Casper was now washing toward a set of concrete pylons used to uphold the tracks. He brought his legs up to brace for the impact. A lightning strike of pain erupted in his left leg, but the agony was short lived. The velocity of the current whipped him face forward into the pylon, bringing a world of starbursts, then darkness.

  Visitor in the Pines

  Clifton Arnold wasn’t from Shadeland, but he’d lived here long enough to be acquainted with the curious rumors surrounding The Pine Belt. He’d moved here five years ago from San Diego after accepting the position of assistant curator of Midwestern Native American Culture at the modest, but upcoming Demaree Art Museum.

  He was writing his doctoral thesis on the subject of local lore and superstitions. More succinctly, he was writing about how these superstitions were the byproduct of a “cultural guilty conscience” stemming from the European slaughter of the innocent indigenous peoples. Not to toot his own horn, but it was going to knock some socks off. He might even expand it into a book deal. Who knew? The future was limitless.

  As he moved at a slow even pace around the slender trunks weeping their sticky tears, poking at the carpet of needles with his hand carved redwood walking stick, he couldn’t help but daydream of leaving the museum for his writing career. He didn’t care for the earthy stench that rose when he disturbed the ground, but it wasn’t without its charms. Far from the country folk that trampled through these woods, drunk and firing their guns at any woodland creature unfortunate enough to cross their path, he was a true outdoorsman. He took pleasure in the complex diversity of the ecosystem and its ability to thrive against insurmountable scientific odds. It also thrilled him to think about what nature would bring about after the failed reign of humanity was at last laid to rest (most likely by its own hand).

  The tip of Clifton’s walking stick struck something hard buried beneath the needles. He hitched his khaki pants up and squatted, peeled back the rotting layers of detritus with a paleontologist’s patience, finally rescuing a small pointed stone from the dark, rich soil. He stood up, cleaning the dirt away, and smiled at his find. It was a nice specimen. An intact arrowhead carved from dark stone.

  Something stirred behind him. He turned expecting to see some inconsiderate person coming to invade his solitude, but no one was there. Clifton looked about, wondering if he misjudged the direction of the sound. He knew from experience that the hill-and-hollow topography of Indiana had a way of distorting sound. Perhaps it was a foraging squirrel or a wild turkey fidgeting in its roost.

  He returned to the arrowhead. It was primitive, formed from black shale, about the size of a half-dollar, and just as sharp as the day it was made. He pulled a small envelope from his shoulder bag, dropped the arrowhead in then returned it to the bag.

  He loved The Pine Belt. Not only was it a treasure trove of Native American artifacts, but the sinister lore attached to the place kept the ignorant locals from tainting its purity. Of course, their silly fear also provided wonderful fodder for his thesis.

  Another sound, like the shuffling of heavy feet, sounded to his left. He gazed through the crowd of trunks but once again he could see no perpetrator, human nor animal. Then came the laugh.

  The laugh was high pitched and tittering, almost like a hyena’s call. Clifton shivered as his arms and neck broke out in goose bumps. He turned in a circle, squinting into the distance, but the pines had a way of absorbing the sunlight, casting the air of The Pine Belt into a false twilight. His heart rate jumped and sweat broke on his forehead despite the sudden coolness of the air. He smiled and shook this off. Too much research into the lore of this place. Too much solitude. That alone could steer even the most stable and studious mind into the vein of paranoid musings.

  Clifton Arnold was not a man given to such emotional tripe. A wave of shame over his irrational fears washed over him. He turned to go home because he was tired and hungry, not because he was spooked by some phantom sounds. Yet, despite his internal pep talk, he couldn’t stop fidgeting. He teetered from one foot to the next, rubbing his hands together as he made his way out of The Pine Belt. He kept his eyes aimed toward the ground as he walked. If something moved around him, he didn’t want to see it.

  Clifton stopped suddenly as he heard something approach from behi
nd. It was its breathing that caught his attention; a kind of ragged wheezing, like someone who has exerted too much energy at high altitudes. The rate of breaths cycled at a pace much too long for human lungs. Clifton wanted to run, but his feet were fastened to the ground.

  I’ve wandered into a bear, Clifton thought, or a cougar.

  “Don’t be silly,” a voice said and Clifton cringed as though he heard a sudden thunderclap. “There are no bears in Indiana,” the voice went on. “And the mountain lions have barely begun to trickle in. The odds of running into one of those are quite large. Although . . . .”

  The voice was sardonic, full of arrogance and mockery.

  Clifton forced himself to turn. Before him stood a man dressed in a long black coat and a short black hat with a wide brim. He had a well-trimmed beard, but no mustache, lending him the look of an Amish gunfighter. He was tall with gaunt, alabaster skin, except for the wash of red (Clifton wasn’t sure if it was a scar or a birthmark) covering his left eye and cheek. The stranger stared up to the treetops in deep contemplations, tapping on his teeth with the nail of his index finger. He spied Clifton watching him then turned toward him with a smile that might very well make a shark uneasy. His wide, open grin showcased too many teeth, and hung restlessly beneath his beak-like nose.

  “But how rude of me,” he said still holding that poisonous smile. “I’ve startled you. My apologies.” He removed the hat, pulled it to his chest and bowed. It was so archaic of a gesture that Clifton wanted to laugh. But he didn’t. It somehow seemed a bad idea to be jovial around this man.

  “My name is Uriah. And you are? No, wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.”

  The man circled Clifton like a hunting wolf. He tapped his teeth while grunting out some unfamiliar tune. Clifton’s back was now saturated with sweat, and drops were traveling his scalp, preparing to break from his hairline and rush toward his eyes. His dry throat clicked with every swallow, and his heart thrummed in his ears. He thought of running, but his legs felt wilted and weak. Besides, if he ran, Clifton was sure the man would pounce like a cat with its prey.

  Uriah completed his circumspection then stood facing Clifton. “Let’s see. I’m gonna say you’re a Crispen. No. Clifford. No. It’s Clifton. Clifton Arnold.”

  Clifton gasped, and this caused an eruption of titters from Uriah that was no less menacing than the chatter of some giant insect.

  “How did you know that?” His voice was dry and hoarse. “Do you know me?”

  “No. We’ve never met. I just have a certain knack, you might say.” Uriah winked, and his eyes flared a brilliant orange-yellow. It was like staring into twin suns, each with a tiny planet, eclipsed black, passing before them.

  “That’s an interesting item you’ve picked up,” Uriah continued, as if all of this were quite normal. “Mind if I take a look at it?”

  Uriah reached into his hat, fished around for a moment then pulled his hand out. Resting on his open palm, its sharp tip pointed at Clifton, was the tiny black arrowhead. Clifton reached a shaking hand into his bag, retrieved the envelope then opened it.

  Empty.

  “This place called to me, so I had to come see for myself,” Uriah said. “Where I come from, we call this a kelsor. A Place of Doors.”

  “What does that mean?” Clifton asked.

  Uriah’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It is a means of passing from one room to another. You’re an educated man. I would think you would know what a door is.” He smiled and the red mark on his face seem to glow for a just a moment. “There is so much history here. So many stories. Take this for instance.” Uriah held the arrowhead higher. “I could tell you a story about this, though you’d never believe me.”

  “How did you—”

  “Oh, what the hell,” Uriah interrupted. “This arrowhead once belonged to a young Shawnee brave named Cloud Coat. When the comet of 1811 appeared in the sky, Cloud Coat took it as a sign from the Great Spirit that the white man’s tyranny was about to end. One night he crept into a trading camp and murdered two men, four women and three children. When the great earthquake hit a few weeks later he took this as a sign of the Great Spirit’s displeasure at his savagery. Cloud Coat pierced his carotid artery with this very arrowhead.”

  Suddenly, Uriah’s glowing eyes darted around, as if he heard a sound he couldn’t quite locate. His face split in an impossible grin; a mouth too wide for any human, full of sharp, nightmarish teeth.

  Clifton turned to run. But, his feet were heavy, and his knees were weak. He shook uncontrollably, on the verge of sobbing. When he found Uriah standing once again before him without having taken a single step, his bladder released.

  “W-who a-a-are you?”

  “I told you. My name is Uriah.” The smile dissolved from his face, and the red mark flared like a breathing coal. “Through some doors I’m known as The Prophet. Some call me The Dark Dealer. I’ve been called The Cancer Man or Old Man Apocalypse and even The Executioner. But all that is vanity. I am a simple servant of a higher power. If you must call me anything, call me obedient.”

  The muted light trickling through the trees darkened as if the sun above was being blotted out. The trees dissolved into blackness. Clifton could no longer judge up from down, left from right. “W-what d-d-do you w-want?”

  “To extinguish the light. And you will help me.”

  Uriah held the arrowhead in his left hand; he put his right hand up, palm toward Clifton. With the point of the arrowhead he traced a line from the tip of his index finger down to the heel of his palm. The sharp slate rock opened his flesh with surgical precision. Blood sprang forth, but just enough to highlight the cut, never enough to gush or even drip. Uriah moved to his middle finger, cutting a similar line that ended at the point of the first. He repeated this step with all five fingers. When finished he tossed the arrowhead away. He turned his palm up, brought it close to his face then spat into the blood.

  Clifton tried to close his eyes, but couldn’t.

  Uriah squatted to the ground. With his left hand he cleared way the rotting pine needles, revealing the dark soil beneath. He looked up at Clifton.

  “Behold, I show you a mystery. I bestow upon you a miracle. With this key I open the door and draw forth a gift.”

  He placed his bleeding right hand onto the patch of exposed soil. He churned the dirt with his fingers, his face alternating between revulsion and rapture. Uriah snatched his hand away from the dirt as if he had been bitten. He stood to his feet, donning that shark’s smile once more. He brushed his hands together, and as the dirt fell away, Clifton saw no wound on Uriah’s hand.

  Clifton remained in place, sweat stinging his eyes, shivering enough to rattle his teeth.

  “Watch. No, not me. There.” Uriah pointed to the clump of blood-mud. At first nothing happened. Then the mud started to move.

  The ball rolled around the clear spot, stopping at the pine needles—as if it were checking its boundaries. As it moved it took on mass, swelling to the size of a bowling ball, though it didn’t take more dirt unto itself. Once it stopped growing, it settled back into the center of the cleared circle, where it sat pulsating like a diseased disembodied heart. It made a sound like a soft coo combined with the repetitious fervor of a rattlesnake’s warning.

  Uriah leaned over the ball, his hands clasped before him as if he were in prayer. “Come forth, stranger.” His glowing eyes were wide and wild with glee. “Step through the door and enter this world.”

  The mud dried, lightening to the color of clay fresh from the kiln. The shell cracked, and began to chip away. Clifton’s eyes bulged with anticipation. He was bathing in his own perspiration and he had wet himself again. His legs gave and he fell hard on his butt. The cooing sounded again, this time loud enough to hurt his ears and make his eyes water.

  The air was filled with a musky scent that reminded Clifton of semen. The shattered shell collapsed into a ring of dirt. Clifton leaned forward to see the hatchling, but the space was empty.
>
  There was a brief moment when the air swirled and the ground twisted, as it does when heat rises, but then it was gone. Uriah stared at the empty circle, his hands to his mouth, like a proud grandmother watching her newborn grandchild through a nursery window.

  The air and ground within the circle distorted again, bringing a wave of vertigo and nausea to Clifton.

  “Gentle.” Uriah put his hands up before his chest. He spoke not to Clifton, but to the rippling air within the circle. “It is I that called you here.”

  A deep chill passed through Clifton.

  “This place is ripe. Rise, slake your thirst. Spread and devour.” Uriah stood straight then backed away from the circle.

  Clifton pushed himself to his feet. The air warbled towards him and for a moment he thought he saw a form hidden within the folds of twisting light. He spied a long tail and several thin insectile legs. But then the image was gone, like smoke rolling in the wind.

  Clifton was not a man given to superstition. He did not believe in any gods. Ghosts were laughable projections of our own desire to continue after breath has left the body. He once entertained the idea of extraterrestrial life, but he had been young then. Now, he was a pragmatic man with two feet planted firmly on the ground. A soldier of reality, wielding the sword and shield of science. Yet, here in The Pine Belt, he had watched as Uriah the Wizard brought forth something not of this world. Something bizarre and beautiful, menacing yet magical. A maelstrom of turmoil warred within him.

  He needed to understand what he was seeing. He needed to save himself.

  The swirling air stopped and all but vanished. I can only see it when it moves, Clifton realized. And it’s been creeping closer to me this whole time.

  Another of those strange cooing noises filled the air. Then the thing within the distorted air shucked off its cloak of invisibility and revealed its true form.