by Mark Lukens
“We all fell asleep,” Esmerelda reminded him.
“No,” Moody snapped and then looked back at Jed. “You fell asleep on your post.”
“A sleeping spell,” Billy said. “The Ancient Enemy is a powerful force.”
“I don’t believe in that,” Moody grumbled.
“You will,” Billy told him.
Karl moaned. He kept his head on the table but moved his hands below it, holding his stomach.
“What’s wrong?” Moody asked.
“My . . . stomach . . . it hurts.”
Moody got up and gently pulled Karl up onto his feet. “Come on, let’s get you lying down on your blanket.”
Karl stood up, but not all the way; he was hunched over and wincing in pain. He shuffled over to his blanket and lay down with some effort, Moody guiding him all the way.
Jed watched as Allen Moody tried to soothe his Swedish friend who had curled up in a ball on his side as he did so often lately, only now he was groaning lowly in pain, his red face shiny with perspiration even though it was cold in the saloon.
And then Jed’s eyes shifted to David when he heard a hiss of air and David’s cup of tea fall down onto his blanket where the crumbs from his cornbread muffin were scattered. But David didn’t seem concerned about the crumbs or the spilled tea—his eyes were on the saloon doors. Now it seemed like David was holding his breath as he stared at the doors.
Esmerelda noticed David staring at the doors; she was beside him in a flash, not bothering with the cup of spilled tea—her eyes were on the doors, just like David.
Jed’s skin prickled with fear, the nerves just under the skin buzzing with energy—an all-too-familiar feeling these days. He glanced at the doors, then at Billy. The Navajo stared at the doors just like David and Esmerelda were—he could feel something out there, too.
“What’s wrong?” Jed asked as he drew his pistol from his holster. He didn’t cock it yet, but he wanted it in his hand. He looked at David, directing his question to the boy. “What is it?”
“He’s out there,” David whispered.
“Who?”
“The one who wants things.”
Moody was on his feet, leaving Karl in his fetal position. He was across the room in a flash, his shotgun in his hands. “What’s that mean?” he asked, but he kept his eyes on the doors.
You know what it means, Jed almost said, but he remained quiet; no use wasting breath on words right now.
Everyone except Karl was watching the double doors now, even Sanchez who was up on his knees, his right arm stretched out behind him. “Uncuff me, marshal,” he snapped. “Give me my guns. I can help you.”
Esmerelda met Jed’s eyes. “Maybe he can.”
Jed didn’t bother answering her. He rushed to the window, the one to the left of the saloon doors. He feared a burst of gunfire, but at the same time he knew it wasn’t coming.
They don’t need to shoot at us—they can do so many other things.
Jed looked out the window at what was in the street, and then he looked over at Moody who was already at the other window with his shotgun ready. The Irishman stared out the window for a long moment, his face falling slack in both fear and confusion. His body seemed to go limp, his arm dropping down as he barely held on to the shotgun. Jed thought Moody was going to drop his weapon, maybe even faint. Moody shook his head, muttering to himself as he stared out the window.
“Hey!” a strong, deep voice called to them from outside. “Come outside!”
“Who’s out there?” Esmerelda asked.
Jed looked at her, and he swore she already knew the answer. Chances were she recognized the voice, but he was convinced she already knew who it was before she even heard him speak.
“It’s Pastor Starke,” Moody answered without turning around to look at Esmerelda.
CHAPTER 24
“He was dead,” Moody muttered to himself. “Pastor Starke was dead. We all saw it.”
Jed remained by the window to the left of the doors, his Colt .45 in his hand, but the pastor wasn’t coming towards the saloon. Pastor Starke didn’t have a weapon, he wasn’t making any kind of a threatening gesture—he was just standing patiently in the dirt street. But Jed could feel that there was little patience in the being that stood out there.
“Who else is with him?” Esmerelda asked. She was still beside David on the blanket.
Billy seemed to appear right beside Jed with Karl’s Smith & Wesson in his hand; Jed hadn’t even heard him walk across the room.
“He’s alone,” Jed told Esmerelda. “Nobody else is out there with him.” He looked at Moody who still hadn’t torn his eyes away from the window he stood in front of. Jed knew Moody was wrestling with what he was seeing out there in the street, trying to understand it.
“Maybe he wasn’t dead,” Moody said, and he seemed to be talking to himself, trying to convince himself. He looked Jed’s way, hoping for agreement. He turned around and looked at Esmerelda.
“He is dead,” Billy said as if he’d been asked personally.
“We all saw him,” Esmerelda nodded in agreement with Billy. “We saw him hanging upside down in front of the church. We saw his face, the blood. His eyes were wide open. He wasn’t breathing.”
Jed felt that seductive pull of rationalization trying to tug at him. He wanted so badly to believe that the pastor hadn’t been dead, only injured and in shock. He’d heard of men surviving hangings, gunshot wounds, and falls. Maybe the pastor had untied his legs from the rope that suspended him in front of the church, maybe he’d gotten down somehow. Maybe he’d come to the saloon looking for help.
But deep down inside Jed knew none of that was true. There was a dead man standing out there in the street right now, a puppet controlled by the dark thing Billy called the Ancient Enemy.
“Hey!” Another sharp yell from the pastor. “Come outside. We need to talk.”
The one who asks for things, that’s what David had just called him. He, or it, whatever it was, had asked for Red Moon when Jed had been in the woods. What would it ask for now?
Jed looked back out the window. “What do you want?” he yelled through the window at the pastor.
The pastor didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He remained fifteen feet away from the steps of the saloon’s walkway. A cold breeze ruffled the pastor’s suitcoat flaps and pants legs, even though they seemed stiff with dried blood. The pastor’s face was deathly pale underneath a black hat pulled down low. His eyes were sunken into his face, just dark shadows from this distance. His face was long and narrow, his body thin, with a malnourished look to it even though he was a tall man with broad shoulders. His arms looked a little too long, his hands a little too large, and those hands were covered with dried blood that looked like mud.
“I want to let you live,” Pastor Starke finally said. “He wants to let you live. He wants most of you to live.”
Most?
“But first there is a test you have to pass,” Pastor Starke said.
Esmerelda joined Jed and Billy at the window. Jed moved to the side a little so she could look out through the glass over the table top they had nailed to the bottom half of the window.
Sanchez rattled his handcuff against the foot rail again, pulling on the cuff, grunting with effort as he tried to break the metal rail away from the bar. He looked back at Jed. “Cut me loose. I can help.”
Jed didn’t answer Sanchez; he looked at Moody and saw the glimmer of hope in the man’s eyes, a look that said there could be a way out of this, a way to survive. But Jed also saw that Moody was still struggling to convince himself that Pastor Starke was alive, that he was some kind of messenger sent by Red Moon and his skinwalkers.
A skinwalker—that’s what Pastor Starke was now. Something had invaded the pastor’s body, walking around in his skin, using the dead man like a puppet.
“We should hear him out,” Moody said, looking right at Jed. “He said he’ll let us live.”
“He said most,” Jed reminded him.
“Does that mean he wants one of us?” Esmerelda asked.
“I won’t wait much longer!” Pastor Starke called out. His voice sounded so deep and loud, gravelly. “He won’t wait much longer. Either you give him what he wants, or bad things are going to happen to all of you.”
Everyone was quiet in the saloon now—even Sanchez had stopped rattling his handcuff against the foot rail, and Karl had stopped rocking and moaning on his blanket.
Jed stood close to Esmerelda. He could smell the faint scent of her perfume. It was a normal smell, a smell of nostalgia for a normal world far removed from this hell they were trapped in now. He looked back out the window and watched the pastor.
The pastor hadn’t moved an inch; he was still in the same spot as before. There was nobody else within sight, nobody on the rooftops across the street, no one inside the buildings beyond the dark windows. Nobody anywhere . . . only the pastor.
“You have three seconds to decide,” Pastor Starke said.
In the silence of the saloon, a noise sounded from upstairs: the creaking of wood. There was a loud stomp up there, then another, then another, like something heavy was walking around up there.
It’s heavy because it’s two people twisted together, walking together, and it’s coming down here now.
Jed wasn’t going to watch that thing come down the steps. He kicked the table leg off of the door, the leg knocking loose easily. He kicked the other one free, pulling it loose from the saloon door. He had made everyone’s decision for them. He unlocked the saloon doors, opened them, and stepped outside. Esmerelda, Billy, and Moody followed him.
“We’re here,” Jed told Pastor Starke when the four of them had gathered on the front walkway. “Call off that thing upstairs.”
Pastor Starke smiled; it was a quick, emotionless smile, the same smile Jed had seen on Roscoe’s severed head, like invisible strings had jerked the corners of his mouth up.
Jed was tempted to stick his head back inside the saloon to make sure Rose and the cowboy weren’t coming down the steps, but he didn’t. He was sure the pastor (the Ancient Enemy) would keep his word, and he was also sure that if something like that was coming down the stairs, David would be out here in a flash.
Moody still had his shotgun and Billy still had Karl’s pistol, but both men kept their weapons down by their sides like they knew the guns were useless against what inhabited the pastor. Jed holstered his Colt.
“What did they do to you, pastor?” Moody called out to the man. “Are . . . are you dead?”
The pastor’s smile was still plastered on his face, the smile of a dummy controlled by a ventriloquist. “I’m both. I’m dead but still somehow alive. He keeps you alive for as long as he needs to. You feel the pain and the terror and the suffering. And it goes on and on and on. He won’t let you go.”
“You said you would let us live,” Moody said. His voice was shaky, and he seemed to be on the verge of tears.
The pastor’s smile drooped down into a frown, his face blank for a moment. Then the smile reappeared, the corners of his mouth jerking up, his dead eyes hidden under the shadow of his hat. “Yes. But you must give him an offering first.”
“And then we’ll live?” Moody asked.
“First the offering, and then he will decide.”
“What kind of offering do you want?” Jed asked.
“Before noon today, he wants a human tongue out here on the floorboards. It doesn’t matter whose tongue it is, as long as it is from a live person. If you don’t have the offering out here by noon, then bad things are going to happen. Such bad things.”
PART 3
BAD THINGS
CHAPTER 25
Two hours later they weren’t any closer to making a decision about the human tongue that Pastor Starke wanted in front of the saloon before noon, but at least they hadn’t heard any more shuffling sounds coming from upstairs. An hour ago they had gone upstairs and entered the room where the abomination that used to be Rose and her cowboy customer lay. Billy looped a rope around one of the twisted ankles and tied the other end to the leg of the bed while Jed kept his Colt .45 aimed at the double-headed thing in case it moved. Billy then looped another rope around the two arms twisted together, pulling it tight at the wrists, then he secured that end to the bed leg underneath the headboard.
“I don’t know if that will be enough to hold them here,” Jed said.
But it was all Billy was willing to do, as close as he or any of them were willing to get to the thing on the bed.
“Maybe we could nail the door shut,” Esmerelda suggested. “Bar it shut somehow.”
After getting the hammer and can of nails, Jed managed to toenail a few nails into the door and then into the frame. He also nailed a few slats of spare wood they’d gotten from some large crates in the storeroom across the door.
Jed still didn’t think it was enough to keep that monstrosity inside the room, but it was going to have to do.
Now Jed, David, Billy, Esmerelda, and Moody were all seated at the table. Karl was lying on his side on his blanket, moaning softly in a fitful sleep. Sanchez had switched positions on the floor in front of the bar he was chained to, but he still looked uncomfortable.
Moody poured his second shot of whiskey, but instead of drinking it, he curled his hands around the shot glass like he had a habit of doing, like the feel of the glass in his hands was as comforting as the whiskey inside of it was. He had taken his pocket watch out earlier and laid it on the table. “We have to do it,” he said, staring at his pocket watch. “You heard Pastor Starke, or whatever it is. It won’t let us live if we don’t give it what it wants.”
“We’re not giving it a tongue,” Esmerelda said.
Moody glanced at her like her opinion didn’t matter, then he looked at Sanchez.
Sanchez stared right back at Moody.
Moody turned back around and spoke in a low voice. “There’s only one person we can use, only one person we would all agree on.”
“No,” Jed said softly.
Esmerelda let out a long, slow breath of relief. She seemed worried for a few seconds that Jed might agree with Moody’s suggestion.
“Why not?” Moody asked, slapping a hand down on the table, making David jump. “You said yourself that Sanchez is an outlaw. A criminal. A killer. You’re taking him to Smith Junction where he’ll surely hang.”
“No,” Jed said again without much force, but it had a ring of finality to it.
“He’s going to die anyway,” Moody said. “We could use him now to save us all.”
“We don’t know if he’ll hang,” Jed said. “He hasn’t been convicted yet. He hasn’t been in front of a judge or a jury.”
Moody sighed like he and all of the others knew which way an Arizona judge and jury were going to side in a case against a Mexican outlaw.
“Maybe we could use Rose upstairs,” Esmerelda said. “Or the cowboy’s tongue.”
Jed saw their melted faces in his mind, their mouths melted together as one, bits of teeth and glistening meat twisted together, their tongues somewhere in that mass of flesh.
“The pastor said it had to be the tongue from a living person,” Moody reminded her.
Esmerelda sighed and everyone was quiet for a moment.
“So that’s it?” Moody finally asked. “Everyone’s made their decision? Everyone’s agreeing to just give up? We’re all going to put our lives at risk to save some murderer’s tongue?”
Jed looked over at Sanchez who was watching them intently. He didn’t look scared, he looked ready to fight to the death rather than let them carve his tongue out of his mouth.
“We could vote,” Esmerelda said.
Moody s
ighed loudly again.
Jed nodded. “That sounds good. Let’s vote. All who agree not to give that thing out there one of our tongues, raise your hand.”
Jed raised his hand, and he looked around the table. Esmerelda, Billy, and David raised their hands. He looked over at Sanchez who had his free hand raised. Karl was still in and out of consciousness, rocking and moaning in pain right now, not even listening to them.
“The boy doesn’t get a vote,” Moody grumbled. “And neither does the outlaw.”
“He’s got rights like any of us do,” Esmerelda said.
“Even if you discount David and Sanchez,” Jed told Moody, “and even if Karl could wake up and agree with you, then it would still be three to two against you.”
“Fine,” Moody said, throwing his hands up in disgust. “It’s getting close to noon. I suppose we’ll just sit back, relax, and see what bad things are coming for us.”
They were all quiet again. Moody poured his third drink, but he didn’t pick it up yet. He stared at the glass of whiskey as he spoke. “Why a tongue, anyway? What would that thing want with a tongue? It has all of those other bodies in the church to use.”
“It does not want a tongue,” Billy said.
They all looked at him.
“How do you know that?” Moody asked.
“It wants to see how far we will go,” Billy said.
“If it’s so powerful, if it can bring the dead back, then why doesn’t it just come in here and take us?” Moody asked.
“It wants us to do something for it,” Billy said.
“What?”
“It will tell us,” Billy answered him.
Jed watched Billy, and in that moment he was sure that Billy knew what that thing out there really wanted.
“It’s probably not going to tell us anything now,” Moody sulked. “Not if we’re not doing what it tells us to.” He checked his pocket watch again on the table. “Quarter to noon,” he announced.
Jed got up and walked to the windows. They had braced the doors shut again, but it probably didn’t matter anymore now if they did or not. He knew he was taking a chance by not following the Ancient Enemy’s orders, but he just couldn’t allow himself to tear someone’s tongue out of their mouth, whether they were a murderer or not.
