Jackals

by Charles L. Grant

  If he waited long enough, it was possible the women might go ahead and fight, right here, going for the throat. But he didn’t think it likely. This quartet was the last of the main branch of the Modeens, and even in their mutual distrust and anger, they surely had to know what they would lose if they even lost just one.

  “Listen—”

  “Wade, I told you to hush!”

  Wade grabbed a pebble from the ground and tossed it angrily aside. “Who the hell died and made you boss?”

  “Momma,” she answered flatly. “And it was Jim Scott that did it.” Jim rose to his full height. The wind picked up, staying high, tipping the crowns of the dark trees; the mist thickened into near fog.

  “Well, listen,” said the other man, “I’m getting hungry, and if you two don’t stop it soon, me and Wade are heading to the road.”

  Rachel turned on him. “You’ll do as you’re told, Bobby Modeen.” Jim could hear the nasty smile in his voice: “I don’t think so, Rachel. Not yet I don’t think so.”

  Stick figures shifting, still on the ground but moving behind Ruthann.

  Jim allowed himself a smile of his own.

  “I’ll do it alone if I have to,” Rachel told them.

  “No, you won’t,” Ruthann said. “You’ll be dead, just like Momma.”

  Stick figures shifting without leaving their places. Jim raised the flashlight, pointing it like a gun. And froze. Stick figures lifting, and freezing, finally falling to all fours. A hissing from one, snarling from another, and from Rachel a low whistling just this side of a howl.

  are they human?

  i think so.

  They didn’t sound human at all.

  Bracing the shotgun snugly against his side, he switched on the light, and almost immediately the other beams exploded from either side while he averted his eyes quickly to keep his vision intact.

  He wanted to say something then—for Peter, for Nola, for poor damn Charlie Acres—but he couldn’t say a word, and he couldn’t pull the trigger.

  They hadn’t moved, not an inch, except to turn their heads to locate the source of the intrusion. Their faces, washed of shadow in the brilliant white, were distorted, lips snarling, teeth bared, flesh pulled back to give them the look of skulls.

  And their eyes glowed dead white.

  Not human at all.

  He had never seen them like this, not even on the night that old cop had introduced them. Not so starkly. Not so clearly. Not so clearly inhuman. He came close to despair at yet another mistake, his left arm lowering just a fraction, because all these years he had truly believed he’d known them, but he had never known them like this.

  “James,” Rachel whispered—whistled softly, not frightened at all.

  Slowly Jim brought the shotgun up.

  Too slow.

  Too damn slow.

  “James.”

  He recognized it in the instant before the first of them moved.

  The trap.

  The bait.

  It was too late.

  The game had to be played.

  Without visible signal, they flung themselves apart high and low, snarling, close to barking, as Jim fired at Rachel and missed. Fired again, while Maurice fired, Janelle fired, their lights swinging madly to be swallowed by the low clouds, scattered by the misty fog.

  Firing again as the jackals scattered for the trees, not for him or the others, and when the first blast tore the ground not five feet from where he stood, he cried out a hasty warning and fired at one who had stumbled near the perimeter between him and Jonelle.

  The pellets caught his leg, and Wade went down, screaming, howling, rolling over, clutching his shin.

  Lights swept the clearing erratically, moving closer toward the center.

  “No!” Jim shouted when Maurice blasted a shadow, taking a branch off its trunk near where Jonelle should have been.

  Lights punching through the dark, accentuating the fog.

  Wade scrambled to one knee, left leg dragging.

  Jim started over, chambering a round, but one of the beams caught Jonelle full in the chest as she walked out of the woods, flaring off her shirt, and the sudden glint of a blade.

  He couldn’t see her face.

  He could see the arm, the fingers that grabbed a handful of the boy’s hair, could feel the wrenching back, could see the knife slice swiftly and deeply across his throat.

  But he couldn’t see her face.

  Maurice fired into the trees.

  Jim ran to the center, turning in a careful circle, the trunks and leaves a sickly grey as the beam swept over them too fast, much too fast. Too many shadows moved in too many directions, too many branches looked too different, and as the preacher trotted to his side, he switched the light off before it died on its own.

  A moment later Jonelle joined him, and he put a hand to her cheek.

  Just to know she had a face.

  “Like the boy said … stupid,” Maurice muttered, sweeping the clearing once more before extinguishing the beam. Jim agreed, panting to keep his adrenaline from pushing him too hard.

  Amateur night is what this fiasco had turned out to be. Goddamn amateur night, the jackals using his own firepower to work against him, no doubt hoping that the hunters would kill or disable themselves while they themselves escaped without harm. It was so obvious a ploy, he should have recognized it from the start, when they hadn’t moved at the first flash of light; hell, before it began. They had used one of his own simple tricks against him.

  By now, with their speed, they could be halfway to Missouri, and he was left with only one of them on the ground. A male. Which, on any other hunt, would have been just fine.

  Christ, he thought, glaring up at the night; Christ!

  They heard it:

  James

  Maurice was afraid.

  To work so long to do the Lord’s will, to purge the evil, yet knowing in his heart that the ones who now prowled around the top of the ridge were still, at the core, decidedly, if evilly, human.

  And to be so wrong.

  Fog drew a damp shroud over his face.

  Lord, I have seen them.

  He couldn’t keep his finger from dancing off the trigger. dancing back; he couldn’t find the nerve to turn the flashlight back on.

  If he did, he might see them.

  The eyes were bad enough, hellish without the hellfire, but the distortions he had seen in what had been human faces were far worse than the condition of the angel that had set him on this road.

  He was going to die.

  Out there now, hissing, snarling, moving in a great slow circle to keep him moving in a circle of his own, was the one who would kill him. Butcher him. Devour him.

  He moaned, and James took brief and gentle hold of his arm.

  He had seen the anguish in the Hunter’s expression before the last light had died, the recrimination he had taken to his heart for being led to this place when he thought he’d been doing the leading. For him, then, to make the gesture put tears in Maurice’s eyes.

  But still, he was going to die.

  The fog thickened.

  Out there, invisible, one of them laughed softly.

  Soon they’d be able to walk right up to him, be not six feet away before he could see them. By then it would be too late. They were fast. And quick, very quick. He would barely have time to pull the trigger once. If he missed, he wouldn’t be able to pull it again.

  His shoulders rolled, his legs shifted, his hands eased and tightened their grip on his weapon.

  If it’s to be, Lord, just don’t let me scream, and don’t let me leave without at least one good pop. I’d hate that. I surely would hate leaving without one of them bleeding.

  james

  She stood with her back to Jim’s right side, shotgun in one hand, knife in the other. When she fired the first time, she’d nearly been knocked off her feet. Then she had seen what those things were trying to do and had taken out the blade.

  I
t was luck that had brought that male to his knees.

  It was Peter who had driven her out of cover to finish it, barely thinking at all when her blade took its blood.

  She supposed she ought to be feeling something now, some kind of reaction, but it was all she could do to concentrate on the dark, hoping to see something out there before it saw her.

  Right now, it was Jim she feared, and feared for.

  She could tell by the feel of his faint trembling against her back that he believed more strongly now that whatever it was that had set him apart from the others, and set him apart from the jackals, was lost. Really lost.

  Revenge for Maryanne had been sated long ago.

  It had become something else, and until he learned what it was, he’d be no different than he had been before the hunting started.

  A brief violent shudder made her turn, eyes straining, until she heard him sucking air harshly through his mouth.

  “What?” she whispered.

  He shook his head.

  She insisted.

  He shook his head.

  “So now what?”

  He didn’t move at all.

  james, pretty james

  The clearing was a hundred feet across, maybe less, he figured, and right now they were close to the drop that ended at the Snake’s midpoint. Mostly rock and erosion slides, with a few trees and shrubs rooted along the way. With their hands free, they might make it to the road with a minimum of injury; the jackals weren’t spiders, they couldn’t climb up or down walls any better than anyone else. The problem would be at the bottom could they make it to Janelle’s house before the jackals caught them?

  With a series of nudges and gestures, he told Jonelle to protect her limited vision, and got Maurice to unclip his light and sweep it in a wide semi-circle before them, then douse it.

  A frantic scurrying made him smile.

  They could see ten, fifteen feet before the fog formed its wall.

  Too damn close, but the illusion of distance was at least a small comfort, which was more than they had before.

  The wind still blew, and still stayed high. The fog wouldn’t rise, but it wouldn’t dissipate either. He had seen it move instead—stray drafts curling it upon itself, thinning it in one place, turning it to smoke in another.

  Jonelle’s light made the circuit.

  He could feel Maurice counting, and tugged at his arm to pull his ear down. “Regular will give them a clue.”

  The preacher nodded.

  “They’re not gone,” Jonelle whispered, not quite a question.

  He nodded. Rachel, at least, wouldn’t leave. She was the one calling his name; she was the one, if she wanted to lead, who would have to kill the Hunter.

  Ruthann knew it, too.

  He used his foot to tap the others’ ankles, raised his shotgun, and fired blindly into the fog. He felt Maurice stiffen, felt Jonelle jump. He also felt her smile. Then he tugged again, and brought them each down on one knee.

  “We’ll be here all night,” Jonelle said, lips nearly brushing against his ear.

  “No. They won’t wait that long.”

  Maurice agreed. “That girl,” he said. “The other one. We might use her.”

  “Never happen,” Jonelle said.

  Jim aimed his light; nothing out there but the fog.

  Toward the mountains he heard the wind begin to cry.

  pretty james

  “Girl’s screwing with your mind, James.”

  “She went to college.”

  Jonelle shifted. “She’s trying to scare us.”

  “Too late,” Maurice said, no music there at all.

  Jim shifted to his other knee, sensing a change in the night, feeling stronger drafts push past and through him now and then. He didn’t like it. If the fog left, they would have the sight, but the jackals wouldn’t have the extra cover.

  They were fast.

  They weren’t that fast.

  They’d be tempted to leave.

  On the other hand, the flashlights wouldn’t last much longer. Once again he kicked himself for not bringing regulars with him. What was it he had thought the other day—getting older, getting slower? Right; especially in the head.

  Signaling that he had to stand or grow too stiff, he rose and flexed his knees, pointed the light, and saw a shadow flash from right to left.

  He fired.

  Without needing instruction, Maurice and Jonelle fired as well, each just ahead of the other.

  No sound; they had missed.

  “Bold little bastards,” Jonelle complained, reloading.

  Or desperate, Jim thought; good God, suppose they’re desperate?

  He backed off until his heels scraped the rocky edge of the cliff. A glance down showed him nothing. He didn’t dare tum on the flash because it would tell them what he was up to, although he wondered if it really mattered. They’d either take the easier slopes through the woods, or the road, or they’d try to follow. Either way, once he was down there, he sure wouldn’t be able to just walk away.

  Maurice turned toward him, looked over his shoulder, and closed his eyes for just a second.

  He knew.

  Jim lifted an eyebrow—you got a miracle up your sleeve?

  A sudden husking rush made him straighten, step to one side with his weapon up and ready, but Maurice just as suddenly arched his back, threw up his hands, and started to fall, his mouth wide in a silent choking scream.

  Jim emptied his hands to catch him.

  Jonelle used her light and fired several shots in swift succession across the clearing’s center.

  Something shrieked out there.

  She fired again.

  Jim eased the big man to the ground, half on his lap, and checked his back with his light.

  “Aw, Jesus.”

  Jonelle dropped her shotgun and reached for her hip as she darted into the fog. He called out; she didn’t stop; and Maurice moaned, shook his head. “O Jesus, O Lord, Jesus H, James, O Jesus.”

  The suit jacket had been shredded across the spine just below the shoulder. While he couldn’t see bare skin, there was blood; too much blood.

  Maurice arched his back again.

  “Lord, Lord, take it away, take it away.”

  Laughter in the dark, quiet and mocking.

  “We have to go down, Maurice.”

  “O Jesus, take it away! No, James, I can’t.” He groaned and spasmed, nearly breaking free of the helpless grip.

  An agonized grunt, somewhere in the clearing.

  No laughter this time.

  Jim searched for his shotgun and pulled it close, trying not to move Maurice as he searched and found that one as well.

  “O Jesus, Lord.”

  His light, much dimmer and growing visibly worse, tried to show Jonelle the way.

  He couldn’t see her.

  “Jesus.”

  “Maurice, we have to go.”

  “I can’t do that, O Jesus, James, I can’t, don’t make me.

  Jim wanted to hit him; he pushed lightly instead, trying to maneuver the man onto his knees. The preacher groaned, but he moved, and Jim didn’t know whether to scream or weep when the man spasmed and nearly fell. This time, however, big hands braced themselves on the ground, head bowed, while Jim snatched up both weapons, the light still searching for Jonelle in the fog.

  Maurice rocked forward suddenly, then flung himself back and up, face contorted and lifted to the sky, bloodied lips pulled away from his teeth. He jerked back a little, sideways, then found a measure of equilibrium where the pain seemed to be slightly diminished. His head was cocked left, his cheek nearly resting on his shoulder; his left hand was hooked uselessly into his jacket.

  “Jonelle!”

  No answer.

  pretty james

  “Jonelle!”

  pretty james, a taunting echo.

  The flashlight faded quickly.

  Jim reached for Maurice’s sleeve, grabbed it, and slipped away when the preacher
lurched alarmingly to one side. Hissing. Head trembling. A rush of blood slipping black down the sides of his chin.

  “You first,” Jim snapped, moving out of the way.

  Maurice didn’t move.

  The light nearly died.

  “Go, damnit!” Not caring now, he slapped at the preacher’s arm, braced himself against the low moaning scream. “Maurice, for God’s sake, hurry up.” Maurice toppled forward, caught himself with his right hand, and struggled toward the edge, a huge three-legged dog. Hissing the entire time.

  “Jonelle!”

  A sudden wind-slap turned his head, and he nearly moaned himself when he saw the fog shred and boil away, and felt the mist shift to rain. They’d never make it now. The rocks would be too slippery, no place for a grip.

  “O Jesus, Lord,” a whisper behind him.

  The light no longer reached across the open ground, but it was far enough for him to see the body not fifteen feet away. It was sprawled on its back, one hand raised and frozen as though trying to claw at the night.

  It had no face; it had been either blown, or cut, away.

  It was Bobby Modeen.

  There was no sign of Jonelle.

  Laughter again, from two places in the dark. Jackals, he thought wildly; God, they sound just like jackals.

  A flare of dead white eyes.

  His light went out.

  He retreated again, felt a fumbling hand on his hip and whirled just as Maurice thrust his own flashlight at him. He grabbed it, switched it on, and spun back again, catching Ruthann in its beam as she darted toward the road. He fired blindly from the hip, and nearly broke his wrist, reacting too fast to brace for the recoil.

  She dove to the ground, rolled over, and stood.

  Hands on her hips.

  White eyes.

  Glowing eyes.

  james, from somewhere else.

  A swing left showed him nothing but the quicksilver fall of light rain.

  james

  A swing right, trying at the same time to see where Ruthann had disappeared to, and again there was nothing but trees and the rain.

  “O Jesus.”

  “Get moving, Maurice,” he said quietly, angrily.

  james pretty james

  Right again, but not all the way. He checked himself in mid-sweep and spun instantly back, grinning mirthlessly when Ruthann was caught streaking toward him from a spot not twenty feet away.