Half-Made Girls

by Sam Witt

  He recognized the voice, one of Schrader’s deputies, but couldn’t put a name to it. Probably had never bothered to learn the name. “That what you call this chicken-scratch bullshit?”

  The deputy grinned; Joe could see his teeth gleam in the mushrooms’ light. “Nobody tells us what we can or can’t write on that wall. You hear the call, you come on down and write whatever moves you. That’s freedom.”

  Joe stalled for time, letting his words out in a slow, even cadence. “You call living in these tunnels full of batshit freedom?”

  “Better’n livin’ under the sun and worryin’ about some asshole coming around and shooting up your granny because she magicked up a birthin’ fix.”

  Murmurs of assent rose from the rest of the crowd. Joe wanted to believe that he’d only killed when it was called for, when it couldn’t be avoided. He didn’t remember kicking in the doors of people who didn’t have it coming. But after all those years of drinking, he had to admit there were a lot of things he didn’t remember so clear these days. These people were scared of something, maybe it was him.

  “Not like I had a lot of choice in what went on, you know.” Joe scratched at the stubble on his chin with his left hand. “I had my job, just like you had yours. People broke your laws, you didn’t hear me telling you how to handle it, did you?”

  The deputy laughed at that, because Joe had busted their balls more than once for their lackadaisical approach to law enforcement. “Sure, Joe. Always stayed on your side of the line. Nice fuckin’ memory ya got there.”

  “Water under the bridge.” Joe’s palm felt warm on his pistol’s grip. He took a step toward the tunnel. He didn’t have time to sit around and jaw with these meatheads all day. Very soon now, his people would be starting in on their own business, and he needed to get his distraction going if he didn’t want their whole plan to end in blood and tears. “Why don’t you get the hell out of my way so I can get my girl and go home? We can have ourselves a nice chat over a cup of coffee once the sun’s full up.”

  The deputies didn’t take a step, but Joe could see the barrel of a rifle swing down off a shoulder. Joe hoped they all had rifles. Might make this next part easier.

  “I don’t think that’s gonna happen. Whyn’t you scribble your piece on the wall there and get on the right side of this fight afore it’s too late?”

  Joe looked over his shoulder at the wall and took a step forward. Closer to the deputies, he could see their tics and fidgeting. If it wasn’t for the batshit, Joe knew he’d be able to smell the heavy chemical stink of a meth on all of them. “I’m already on the right side. The side that doesn’t take little girls down into the dark to sacrifice to their fucked-up god.”

  “Ya motherfucker,” the deputy started, but Joe cut his sentence off by taking a rushing step forward and slamming his pistol up under the man’s chin. His forehead itched like crazy, and he could feel a black rage roaring inside him. It was time to get down to business, to put his doubts aside and get his baby girl back from the monsters. Whatever might have happened before, however heavy his hand had become, these people had done wrong. They had this coming.

  The man’s rifle swung toward Joe, but it was too awkward for close quarters fighting. Joe didn’t give him a chance to figure it out. He pulled the trigger and painted the ceiling with the inside of the deputy’s head.

  The rest of the pack began to holler, unsure of who had fired or who was dead. Joe jammed his pistol into the ear of the man next to him and pulled the trigger again. The tunnel lit up with a pure white light that jumped out of the side of the man’s skull and blasted into the neck of another deputy. A mist of blood and brains and smoke filled the tunnel in a choking cloud.

  Joe caught a hard punch to the ribs on his left side and swung his elbow up to where he hoped his attacker’s face would be. The impact jarred his arm all the way up to the shoulder and sent crazy tingles of pain jetting down to the nerves in his fingers.

  Blows rained down on his shoulders and the back of his skull, bruising punches that forced his head down and rattled his teeth in their sockets. But the pack was crammed in too tight to get full force behind their blows. To his advantage, Joe wasn’t using his fists, but bullets.

  A deputy made the mistake of trying to worm his rifle into Joe’s gut, but he was too slow and too clumsy to get the job done. Joe felt the sight scrape along his ribs and reacted by punching his pistol into the man’s ribs and blasting a shot through his heart. The bullet burrowed up through the man and plowed out of the back of his neck on a fountain of scorched blood and silver fire.

  A knife flashed through the purple light, and its tip gouged the skin of Joe’s left bicep. His blood ran black in the dim light, and the knife came around for a second slash that opened a six-inch groove along the outside edge of his forearm. The pain was liquid fire that sucked the wind from Joe’s lungs.

  The wild punches wore Joe down, rocking his head from side to side. He couldn’t get his bearings, couldn’t catch his breath as the remaining men threw hooking blows into his ribs and kidneys. Before the Long Man’s fall, Joe would have pushed through the pain, trusted in his ability to endure the punishment and heal from his wounds when the battle was over.

  With that strength flagging, Joe felt his legs going out. He fired his pistol and heard someone yelp in pain, but it wasn’t enough to drive his attackers off. They could smell his weakness, and it filled them with a hunger for violence. Someone grabbed Joe’s gun hand and pried his fingers off the pistol. Someone else kicked at his knees until they buckled and the Night Marshal crumpled to the cold stone.

  But the Night Marshal was far from done fighting. Joe swung his left fist up, driving a punch into the balls of a man next to him. The man crouched in pain, and Joe grabbed his belt and hauled himself onto his feet.

  More punches battered his ribs. A lucky shot snapped Joe’s head back hard enough to fill his eye with stars. His balance was going, his thoughts too scrambled to keep himself upright. He was tired, ready to quit.

  But his little girl was down here, somewhere. The thought of her being taken by these animals filled Joe with a righteous rage, a furious strength that kept him from going down. Wild animal instinct kept Joe in the fight. He lashed out with his left hand to scrape a man’s eyes out of his head with raking fingers.

  Joe raised his right foot and drove his heavy, hobnailed boot down in a vicious stomp that tore a kneecap off the man holding his right hand. That one fell screaming, and Joe swung his freed hand to the holster on his left side.

  A deputy lunged for Joe, hand outstretched toward the rising pistol. The gun roared and punched through the center of the attacker’s palm. Fire followed the smoking lead, which burrowed up through the man’s forearm, snapping both bones before smacking hard into his elbow. With a warbling whine, the bullet ricocheted off the ball of bone and spun in toward the man’s chest. The tumbling bullet carved through his sternum and sent shards of hot metal and splinters of bone through his lungs and heart.

  The gun barked again, and a bullet punched through a cheek, blowing a fist-sized crater through the back of a man’s head and sending both of his eyes slopping out of their sockets.

  His attackers fell back, screaming and stumbling over one another in the cramped tunnel. Joe took advantage of his enemies’ retreat to scoop his dropped pistol from limestone floor. He raised both weapons and kept firing, punching smoking holes through heads and spines, dropping foes with every shot.

  When the hammers clicked on empty chambers, Joe was alone. Surrounded by cooling bodies, Joe threw his head back and drew in deep, ragged breaths. He shook as the heat of his rage leaked out of his pores, dripping off him in fat, slick beads off sweat. His forehead itched and his brain was wreathed in fog. The violence, the slaughter, felt right. It felt just.

  Joe knew that meant something was wrong. He knew this wasn’t right, but he couldn’t deny the way it made him feel. Like this was what he was really born to do, that laying waste to those
who stepped over the line was all he should do. It wasn’t right, but he couldn’t convince himself it was wrong.

  “Fuck it,” he grunted. He reloaded the pistols with the thirteen bullets from his belt. “Should’ve brought more ammo.”

  Joe headed down the tunnel, deeper into the earth. He had a little girl to rescue. And a whole shitload of assholes to kill.

  CHAPTER 57

  ELSA RAISED HER head when she saw Sheriff Dan enter her cell. He was one of the police, and her mama always said the police were there to help you when you were in trouble. Elsa hoped the sheriff was here to chase off the nasty woman who had done such terrible things to her. Elsa’s hopes were raised even higher when she saw that Dan had her daddy’s shotgun. Maybe her daddy had sent the sheriff to get her out of this mess.

  “Sheriff Dan,” she croaked, her voice raw from all the screaming she’d done during the past hours. She wanted the sheriff to know that the woman in her cell was a monster. But the sheriff didn’t look at her. Maybe he hadn’t heard. “Sheriff.”

  The monster pressed one blood-stained fingertip to Elsa’s lips. Elsa whimpered as the monster’s finger pressed down hard, grinding her lips against her teeth.

  The half-made girl’s tongue lashed the air as she formed impossible words that seemed to come from the air above her head. “Is he here?”

  Dan nodded and hefted the shotgun in his right hand. “He’s comin’, all right. I hope your boss has a better plan than just lettin’ him kill all my deputies.”

  The woman flickered away, and Elsa cried out in warning. The half-made girl appeared next to the sheriff and struck him with the back of one misshapen hand so hard the skin over his cheek split wide open. “Do not question your betters,” the half-made girl hissed. The air popped and crackled with the force of her words.

  Blood spilled down the side of his face, a red sheet that soaked into the collar of his shirt. Sheriff Dan didn’t seem to notice.

  Elsa met the sheriff’s eyes and saw a strange flicker of darkness inside him. All hopes of being rescued by the sheriff drained out of her. He was one of the police, but he was with the monsters. He didn’t take orders from the Good Guys, but from the Bad Guys. Bitter tears coursed down Elsa’s cheek. The sheriff looked away.

  The monster they shared some words Elsa couldn’t hear with the sheriff. She didn’t care anymore, anyway. Whatever they were saying wouldn’t be good for her. Elsa bit her lip and choked back her tears. No one was coming to save her. If she wanted to get out of this mess alive, she’d have to rescue herself.

  Elsa knew she wasn’t just a little girl. She could call spirits and let them live inside her. If she wanted, she could even bend those spirits to her will.

  The torture she’d endured had done something to her head. She could think differently now, see things that had been hidden from her before. Most spirits belonged to dead people. But everyone had a spirit.

  It felt like a dirty thing to do, but Elsa didn’t know what other choice she had.

  Elsa opened her eyes and looked at Dan. He nodded to the monster, but his eyes kept flicking back to Elsa. He looked sad and afraid.

  “Watch her,” the monster girl said and floated out of the cell. “If anything happens to her …”

  Dan nodded and looked at the floor. The half-made girl drifted away, disappearing down the hall.

  Elsa furrowed her brow in concentration and reached out to the man’s spirit.

  Look at me.

  Sheriff Dan’s eyes drifted back to Elsa. For a moment, she could see herself through his eyes. Her wounds were terrible; she was more bloody than not.

  She smiled at him. She didn’t want him to be afraid of her. She wanted him to trust her. It would make things easier.

  He smiled back, but it was a weak and sad expression. Elsa didn’t think he meant it, though he wanted to.

  Elsa felt like she might puke up her belly. She felt dirty for what she was doing, soiled by her own actions. But her little test had worked. If she wanted to get out of this mess, there was no more time for playing around.

  She reached out for the sheriff and felt his spirit stretch out between them. Most of his spirit was still inside him, but there was a piece of it inside her, now. Elsa could feel it, like a little drop of oil floating on the waters of her mind.

  He rubbed a hand over his face and looked away from Elsa.

  Elsa didn’t want to do this. It felt wrong. Maybe it would change her, make her different than she was before. Her mama had told her over and over again that her powers worked both ways; whatever she did to others would come back to her.

  Elsa didn’t want to do wrong.

  But she didn’t want to stay here either. She had to get away.

  “Sheriff,” she whispered, “I need your help.”

  Elsa prayed her plan would work.

  She held tight to the piece of him inside of her and pushed her need into it. She took her fear of the cell and her desire to be free and wrapped them around that piece of the sheriff. It made her sick to do it, but she was so afraid.

  “Save me,” she whispered.

  Sheriff Dan recoiled from the words like someone had slapped him. His eyes rolled wild in their sockets like a frightened rabbit’s, and he bit his lip so hard blood ran down his chin. He shook from head to toe, then stared at Elsa with flat, empty eyes. He started for her cell, hands stretched out in front of him like the talons of a diving raptor.

  CHAPTER 58

  AL WOKE TO the sound of whining dogs. He opened his eyes to pre-dawn darkness and tried to remember where he was. There was no one else at the deer camp; he was alone. Something scratched feverishly at the door.

  His parents were gone. His sister was gone. A dollop of panic splashed into his empty stomach and got him moving.

  Something was wrong.

  “Jesus, all right. I’m coming.”

  He unlatched and opened the door, shivering as the cold morning mist lapped against his skin. He wrapped his arms around his naked torso and stomped from foot to foot to knock off the chill. A pack of enormous black hounds milled outside the door. Heads so big they wouldn’t have looked out of place on horses turned toward Al, then swiveled to stare out into the morning darkness.

  “It’s a little early for the Lassie shit.” Al left the door open and turned to get some clothes. The dogs followed him into the cabin, flowing around him like a flood of shadows. They bumped into the furniture, knocking chairs back and scooting the table across the floor. Al could see they were wounded, swollen and cut, the only survivors of what had happened at the Lodge. “Let me get dressed.”

  Al scooped a flannel shirt off the arm of the couch and shrugged into it. He watched the giant hounds move around, feeling at once relieved and disturbed by their presence. After what happened at the Lodge, he’d never thought he’d see their kind again. Now that they were here, Al wondered how many of them there were and who they really served.

  He buttoned his shirt and shoved his feet into his boots. Being close to it made his skin crawl and his hair tingle at the roots. “Is it Joe?”

  The biggest of the dogs shook its head hard enough for its ears to flap, then let out a long, low moan, a baying that matched Al’s anxious state of mind. He wanted to go with the dogs, shed his skin and get down on all fours and run with them into the darkness. Letting the animal loose, becoming a demon, it would all be so much easier than trying to be a man.

  The dog plowed its big head into Al’s thigh, pushing up against him so hard Al almost lost his footing. He scrubbed the hound’s head with his nails, digging into the thick black fur to scratch its scalp. The dog shoved him, and Al flopped back onto the couch. He tied his shoes and buckled the belt on his jeans.

  Al helped himself up onto his feet with one hand buried in the dog’s fur. It walked with him to the door and leaned heavily against his legs. “If it’s not Joe, then it must be Mom.”

  The biggest dog raised its snout and chuffed in agreement. It’s deep, amber ey
es glowed with a warm light.

  Al followed the pack outside and locked the door behind. The dogs raised their noses into the wind, and Al did the same. He caught a whiff of honeysuckle and sage, sandalwood and roses. The alpha chuffed and pushed its nose into Al’s hand.

  “Okay, Benji. Lead on.”

  The dog snapped its jaws and caught Al’s hand in its mouth, a secure grip on his fingers. It looked up at him with big brown eyes that flickered with primal flames. Then it released his hand and ran.

  Al ran with them, free and fast, part of the pack.

  CHAPTER 59

  JOE FOUND THE knife that had cut him. It was a crude, curved blade mounted on a handle made from a deer’s antler, still clutched in a dead deputy’s hand. Joe had two just like it tucked in his belt, trophies from the assholes who’d tried to stop him. He kicked the knife out of the dead man’s hand, and it sparked off the stone. The deputies. The meth heads. Who else was in on this bullshit? How many had turned to the Left-Hand Path out of fear and desperation? How many had turned because of him and how he’d done his job?

  Joe’s forehead itched as the guilt burned in his brain. He shook his head. He couldn’t let himself get caught up in feeling bad for these assholes. Whatever had come before, they’d chosen the dark road. He was chasing them where they led.

  The tunnel hooked downward and to the left, a gradual, sloping spiral. Joe limped along, rubbing at the maddening itch in the center of his forehead. With the fight over, his head felt thick and foggy, brain slopping around in his skull like a lonely chunk of bacon in a crock of old beans.

  His arm throbbed, a nagging pain that flared with every step. A week ago, Joe would have walked through that fight and come out the other side with nothing to show from it but a pink welt and a couple of bruises. Now, he had a concussion and a pair of cuts that needed a swarm of stitches. With the Long Man weakened, Joe was weakened. The half-made girls had cut him off at the knees.