by Mark Lukens
. . . can’t be real can’t be real can’t be real . . .
The strength drained out of Jed’s body. He lowered the rifle. He felt the weapon slip out of his fingers. He heard it hit the hard-packed dirt with a thud. It didn’t matter; Jed realized that the weapon was useless now. Roscoe and Dobbs couldn’t be killed. They should already be dead. Maybe they were dead.
They get inside a person. That’s what Red Moon had said before, his words echoing so loudly in Jed’s mind that he swore Red Moon was speaking them again. They can raise the dead. Make them walk and talk again.
These skinwalkers could do anything they wanted, Jed saw that now. Were the skinwalkers approaching at that very moment, ready to attack from the woods?
Why would they need to? The skinwalkers could cast their spells from afar and perform their magic from where they hid in the woods. Why bother showing themselves now?
“Jed,” Roscoe said again, a fly crawling inside his mouth as he spoke. He rolled his eyes down, looking down his nose at Jed.
Dobbs stared straight ahead, his eyeballs like perfect round orbs in his face, ready to spill out of the sockets. His teeth looked too big in his skinned face. His ears were gone, just black holes where they used to be. He sat perfectly still, breathing slightly, his neck muscles like cords of thick rope. Flies and gnats flew around, landing and then taking off again from his body.
“Jed,” Roscoe said. “Leave your prisoner with us.”
It took a moment for Jed to understand what Roscoe was telling him to do. He could feel his mind wanting to break, and he swore he heard the cracks inside his head like an ice-covered lake suddenly thawing.
“Do what he asks,” Roscoe said. “Give him what he wants and he will let you live.”
“Jed!” Red Moon shouted, drawing his name out in a sob, like this was his one last chance to get through to him, one last plea for mercy, one last reminder of a promise.
“No,” Jed croaked. “No. This can’t be real.”
“It is real,” Roscoe snapped and then smiled, his mustache twitching up with his grin. “It’s so real. And you’ll feel it too if you don’t do what he asks of you. You have to give him what he wants. There will be other things he asks of you soon.”
Jed realized that he was backing away from Dobbs and Roscoe’s head cradled in his hands. He was backing up along the trail, heading north, the way out of these woods. He was leaving Red Moon behind.
“Marshal!” Red Moon sobbed. “You promised!”
Jed wasn’t listening to Red Moon anymore. He saw the rifle on the ground a few feet in front of Dobbs, but he didn’t go back for it. All he could think about now was getting away from this monstrosity that used to be two people he knew.
Jed turned and ran. He hadn’t run this fast since he’d been a boy. He never even turned around to see if the skinless Dobbs had gotten to his feet to chase him, carrying Roscoe’s head by his gray hair, the head swinging back and forth as he ran. He didn’t even care if he was being chased. He didn’t care if the skinwalkers were gliding through the forest like ghosts. All he cared about, all he could focus on right now, the only thing his mind could handle at this moment was running.
Fifteen minutes later Jed slowed down. He was breathing so hard he thought he might pass out. His thigh muscles burned and his feet throbbed from running in his cowboy boots. His skin was slick with sweat despite the chilly air.
When was the last time he had run like that? The last time he’d run that far?
He wanted to keep running, but he had no choice but to stop; if he didn’t, he was going to collapse. The trail was still somewhat wide, but much narrower than the clearing where Dobbs and Roscoe had been.
Once he was out of the woods, Jed rested against a tree. He took a few sips of water from his canteen and his hands were shaking so badly he spilled some of the water down his chin and onto his shirt. His feet were throbbing, his back and legs sore. He needed to rest for a second, afraid that if he tried to run down the hill he would fall and break his leg or arm.
He checked his compass and map as he waited by the tree, making sure he was still heading north. If he followed the trail down the hill he would be heading northwest, but he would eventually veer north again. He stood up on trembling legs, looking around. There was nothing in front of him except the rolling hills and the jagged mountains in the distance. The sun was still high in the sky, but night would come quickly out here.
Realizing that his trip to Smith Junction was going to be much longer and more arduous on foot, Jed checked his map for any towns that were closer. There was only one—the town of Hope’s Spring. It was a tiny town, but it had grown quickly when silver and copper had been discovered in the nearby hills. But as quickly as the metals had been discovered and the town built, the silver and copper had dried up. Now the town was dying, and many called it Hope’s End.
Jed realized that if he couldn’t find a horse between here and Hope’s End, then that little town was going to be his best chance. He started his journey, hurrying down the hill into the valley below. He climbed the next hill, and when he was at the top of it, he saw a house in the valley below, far off to his left. There was no smoke rising from the chimney, but the place didn’t look abandoned. Near the house there was a barn, and another building inside a corral that had to be a horse stable. This would be his best chance to borrow a horse.
Hope spurred Jed on as he walked down the hill a little quicker than he should have. He lost his balance a few times on the way down, falling once and sliding down the dirt and brittle grass on his butt, but he didn’t hurt himself.
Twenty minutes later he stood at the edge of the homestead.
Everything was quiet and Jed found it odd that there weren’t any people working in the corrals or at the barn and stables. There were some sheep farther out in one of the corrals, with some cows a little closer inside another fence. There were horses in the stables, Jed could hear them nickering and snorting in there.
But where was everyone?
Maybe no one was home.
Or maybe whoever lived here had seen him coming. Maybe they were waiting inside the house with their rifles ready.
Jed started walking slowly towards the house. He didn’t want to survive the horrors he’d been through up in those woods just to be shot by some nervous ranchers now.
Everything was still quiet. He didn’t see any movement from the house, which was a large adobe structure with a porch running along the entire front of it. A stack of firewood was piled up at the side of the home, between the house and the corral fence on that side.
“Hello!” Jed called out, walking slowly towards the house.
No answer. He didn’t even hear a dog barking.
“Anyone here?” Jed called.
Still no answer. Everything was silent; no noises except the cold breeze whistling through the group of trees to his left, rattling the leaves like the scraping of thin, dry bones. A horse snorted from inside the stables.
“I’m a U.S. Marshal,” Jed said, holding up his badge that he had dug out of his pants pocket. “I’m a lawman. My name’s Jed Cartwright. My men and I were robbed by bandits. They stole my horse and pack. Killed my men.” A white lie, but the truth would be a little too complicated to explain right now.
No one answered from the house.
Jed still had his badge in his hand, both of his hands raised halfway up in surrender. “Please don’t shoot. I just need some help.”
A few moments later Jed stood in front of the porch steps. He studied the front windows, but didn’t see any movement behind the glass. There was some kind of Native American weaving attached to the front door of the home, and bone chimes hung from the edge of the porch roof on leather strings.
Jed figured the family that lived here was Navajo. Many of the Navajo had been given small plots of land by the government recently afte
r the years of battles throughout this region. Many Navajo had built homesteads and even small villages around here—places that wouldn’t be on any map. Many Navajo herded sheep or raised cattle and traded horses.
“Hello,” Jed called out. “Ya-tah-hay,” he said, calling out the greeting in Navajo, not even sure if he was saying it correctly. It was one of the few phrases he knew how to say in Navajo. Maybe the people inside were nervous as they watched him walk up to their home with his badge in his hand—maybe being a U.S. Marshal wasn’t doing him any favors right now.
“I don’t mean you any harm,” Jed said as he stepped up onto the front porch, still looking for the glint of a rifle barrel in the windows. “I just need some help.”
Maybe there were only women and children inside, the men having gone off to tend to a herd or sell part of it. Maybe the women and children were too scared to open the door for him. Maybe they didn’t speak English.
The front door opened by itself, just a crack, the hinges creaking, the sound so loud in the silence.
Something was wrong here. At first Jed thought the feelings of fear and dread were just hangovers from what he’d felt up in those woods, and that would be perfectly understandable. But that wasn’t the case. He felt something terrible had happened here—something like what had happened up in those woods. Now that the front door was open, he could smell the blood and gore from inside the house . . . the smell of death.
CHAPTER 7
Jed jumped awake, sitting up on his bedroll. He looked around, not remembering where he was for just a second. He saw the dying fire, then he saw David sleeping nearby. He saw the shapes of the horses in the darkness just beyond the light of their campfire.
He let out a slow breath, shuddering a little. He had fallen asleep. He’d been dreaming about being inside David’s house again. He lay back down and tipped his hat down low onto his forehead, shivering a little in the cold.
A moment later he closed his eyes, and he was back on the front porch of David’s house.
*
Jed was beside the front door in a flash, staying to the right side of it in case shots were fired. He drew his Colt .45 and hugged the wall beside the door. “Everyone okay in there?”
No answer.
The smell of blood and death was stronger now, like the smell of the dead animal they’d seen on the trail in the woods, the one that had been turned inside out. Or the smell of Dobbs.
“I’m coming inside,” Jed yelled. “Please don’t shoot. I’ve got a gun with me, so don’t shoot.”
Jed kicked the door all the way open and then backed out of the way.
The smell was even stronger with the door all the way open. He heard the sound of flies buzzing around inside. He had given enough warnings to whoever was inside the house. If someone in there was hurt, then he needed to get inside to help them. He rushed in through the doorway with his Colt .45 in his hand.
The house was a wreck. Furniture was tipped over, paintings torn off the walls, a handwoven Navajo blanket ripped to shreds on the wood-planked floor. Broken bits of glass and pottery littered the floor along with the smears of bright red blood. The walls had more blood on them, splatters of it everywhere. Among the debris on the floor were what looked like small bits of meat. It seemed like someone’s body had been dragged across the floor over and over again, leaving trails of blood behind. And there were trails of blood on the walls, too.
Jed almost retched. His stomach convulsed, his mouth beginning to water as his digestive system readied itself for the vomit to come up. But he managed not to throw up. He pulled his bandana up over his mouth and nose with his left hand while still holding his gun in his right hand. The bandana only helped a little with the smell.
Several people had been murdered here. Maybe a whole family. Something had happened in this house that was as bad as what had happened up in those woods.
Jed fought against the voice in his mind screaming at him to leave. He remained in the house, taking a few steps deeper into the living room, his boots crunching over the broken bits of glass and pottery. He did his best not to step in the large swaths of blood, but it was difficult to avoid all of it.
“Hello?” Jed called out, clenching the handle of his Colt even tighter. He felt a little silly calling out to the empty house, but he had to see if someone was still alive.
The kitchen area off to the left of the living room was divided by a stone fireplace that was cold and black inside. The kitchen was as ransacked as the living area was. The kitchen table and chairs had been smashed to bits, dishes shattered. The potbelly stove was tipped over onto its side, the exhaust pipe torn from the wall leaving a circle of daylight invading the kitchen through the adobe wall.
There was more blood in the kitchen, like someone had splashed buckets of blood around.
But no bodies.
Maybe the bodies were in the bedrooms.
That creepy-crawly sensation was moving along Jed’s skin again, that sensation that he’d come to know so well. His mind was buzzing with panic, his muscles twitchy.
Jed went back to the living room, his boots thudding on the wood floor. His path towards the other side of the house disturbed the flies that hovered over the bloody smears, the flies scattering. An archway in the far living room wall led to the two bedrooms.
A wide trail of blood led into the small hall area beyond the archway. Hundreds of maggots wriggled around in the blood. The doors to two bedrooms were almost all the way shut. It was darker back here in the small hall area, colder, and the smell was just as bad.
He checked the bedroom to his right first, pushing the door open with the barrel of his gun. The room was as destroyed as the rest of the house: furniture broken apart, blankets and clothing torn to pieces, glass shattered, feathers from the pillows everywhere, some of the feathers stuck in the bloody smears like it was tar.
But there was no one hiding in the bedroom. No bodies.
He checked the other bedroom, pushing that door open slowly. This was obviously a boy’s bedroom judging from the broken bits of wooden toys all over the floor. The bed was flipped up against the wall.
There was no blood in this bedroom—the bloody smears stopped at the doorway.
Jed stood there for a moment, staring down at the floor. But he had to make himself turn away. He was sure the skinwalkers had done this—they had wiped out an entire family. It was time to leave now. He would take a few supplies and a horse and saddle.
As Jed turned to leave, he heard the whimper of a child. He turned back around and looked at the bed leaning against the wall—the place where the whimpering had come from.
Someone was still alive.
Jed took a step into the bedroom, but then he froze. He thought of the hooting owls and howling wolves in the woods; he thought of Red Moon telling him that skinwalkers could mimic any sound, transform into any animal they wished. Could it be a skinwalker behind that bed making the whimpering sound of a child? Could a skinwalker be trying to draw him closer? Were there more skinwalkers right outside the house, inhabiting the dead bodies of the family, controlling them? Were the dead stumbling towards the front door right now?
“Come on out,” Jed said, aiming his gun at the bed.
The whimpering stopped.
Jed’s blood froze in his veins. He was suddenly sure he was being tricked.
“Show yourself!”
A boy poked his head out from between the leaning bed and the wall. He looked to be eight or nine years old.
“Come on out,” Jed told the boy, still aiming his gun at him. “I don’t mean you any harm. I just need to see who you are.”
The boy just stared at him, still cowering in the shadow of the upright bed. He looked to be full-blooded Navajo, and there was a chance that he didn’t even understand English.
“I won’t hurt you,” Jed said. “I’m a U.S. Marshal.” He p
ulled his bandana down so the kid could see his face. He dug his badge out of his pocket and showed the boy. “See? I’m a lawman.”
The boy came all the way out from behind the bed. He was dressed in wool pants and a button-down shirt that looked too big for him, most likely a hand-me-down from an older brother.
An older brother who was dead now.
The boy’s hair came down to his shoulders, and his dark eyes were wide with fear. There was a chance the boy was too traumatized to speak.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jed said in a softer voice. He lowered his Colt, but he didn’t holster it yet.
The boy stood very still in front of his tipped-up bed.
“What’s your name?”
The boy wouldn’t answer.
“Do you understand English?”
The boy nodded.
“What’s your name?” Jed asked again in a gentle voice.
“David,” he whispered.
Good, at least David could understand and speak English. “Who did this to your family?”
David shook his head, refusing to talk, on the verge of tears.
Jed decided on a different line of questioning. “The ones that did this to your family, are they gone now?”
David nodded.
“Okay,” Jed said more to himself than to David. “Did anyone in your family get away? Could they be hiding somewhere else around here? Hiding like you were?”
David’s chin trembled and tears pooled up in his eyes. He shook his head no.
“The bad people took your family, didn’t they?”
David nodded.
Jed sighed. He wasn’t going to get too far with this conversation with David. Jed still felt nervous—downright scared—but for some reason he felt braver now that he had someone to look after. He had no choice now but to master his own fear so he could take care of this boy. Jed had lost a lot up in those woods, but it was nothing compared to what David had gone through in this house. And those skinwalkers weren’t done yet—they could be back at any moment.
