by Tonia Brown
“And I will too.”
“Yes, you will. Because if you don’t, you’ll make a whole lotta people a whole lotta mad.”
“Yes, Mr. Theo.”
“Now, again, what’s rule number one?”
“Do as you say, not as you do.”
“Good. You learn fast, son. I like that.”
****
return to table of contents
****
Chapter Eleven
Mr. Theo gave me an old pair of long rawhide gloves and suggested I trim them down to fit. I always had a knack for seamstress work, and took to the task with undisguised pleasure. Ironically, Mr. Theo teased me more than once about my eagerness to sew and how I enjoyed it far too much for a young lad. Aside from this, keeping my sex hidden was simple enough with just one man to fool. I was able to insist on a certain amount of privacy when handling my personal business, which he seemed all too willing to give me as long as I stayed within earshot.
The farther away we got from Boudreaux’s estate, the less frantic our pace. This had a pleasant effect aside from the ease of travel. Mr. Theo soon felt comfortable hunting and preparing our meals as opposed to eating a quick repast of dried beef or hardtack. We lived healthily off the land through his talent. Mr. Theo was a topnotch marksman, so we never wanted for fresh meat. Rabbit, squirrel, even the occasional deer made its way into our cook pot. As I feasted on this generous bounty, I blessed the heavens that the revenant infection didn’t spread to animals, else we would’ve been in a far worse situation. I wasn’t sure how much more hardtack my stomach could withstand.
My mentor was a wealth of knowledge, pouring upon me the end result of well over thirty years of trapping experience. Yet as the days tumbled along, I began to worry that I wouldn’t get to put any of it into practice. While I helped him dress the occasional wild game, I had yet to skin a revenant. Telling me what to do was a fine thing, but two weeks came and went, and we had seen neither hide nor hair of anything undead. Sure we had a few scares—some noises in the dark of night or rustling bushes at mealtime that spooked the pair of us into grabbing our guns. But each and every time, it turned out to be nothing more than some passing wild animal.
Our second week into our journey, as we moved into the thick of a darkened forest, I became too curious about this and raised the point. “I heard rumors that the Badlands were, well, more bad than this.”
“I don’t think I get you,” he said.
“I just wondered where all the revenants are supposed to be.”
“Ah, I see. Very good question. Like I said, wild undead are slim pickings these days. I guess there’s more than one reason Boudreaux was farm-raising his own. It’s getting to where I find more empty traps than full. This place is almost cleaned up. It’ll be time to move on soon. Shame too, I was beginning to like it here.”
“You move around a lot?”
“More than I care to. I spend about two or three years on any given line.”
“Sounds exciting. I’ve always wanted to travel.”
“You’ll get your wish if you stick with this job. Once a place is cleaned up, you have to pull stakes and start again. Revenants won’t come to you. You gotta go find ‘em. They aren’t like other animals. They don’t run migration routes or keep dens or raise little ones. They wander an area until either that place is laid to waste or the undead fall apart and can’t roam no more. After that, we pack up and move on.”
“Do you mind if I ask where you come from?”
“Only if I can ask the same question.”
While I had no intention of telling him everything, I didn’t mind sharing parts of my life, as bland as it was. “I was raised in Atlanta.”
“I figured as much from the accent. You’re a long way from home, son.”
“Not really. I’ve never had a home. Never knew my parents. I was raised in an orphanage, but they …well … they turned me out when I reached my teens. That’s why I was at the workhouse, with Pete.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Every kid should have a home. As for me, I’m from the South, but I spent the last half of my life around these parts.”
“Is this where you first met Boudreaux? He claimed to be a French trapper, but I’m not sure he really was.”
“Sure, I met him farther north, and no, he wasn’t a trapper then.”
“Then what did he-”
“He traveled about selling wigs. Claimed they were made from real human hair.”
I surprised myself by letting out a little giggle. “How odd.”
“I know. After the lengths he went to for his pelts, I’m sort of left to wonder where he got the hair from. Or rather, who he got it from.”
I couldn’t fault Mr. Theo for his concern, because I was wondering the same thing. “Do you reckon he scalped folks? Just like the savages used to do?”
“Naw. If anything, those wigs were horse hair. And just for the record, not all natives scalped folks. Nor were they all savages. That’s just what the white man wants you to think. Because our masters write the history while everyone else makes it.” He stopped short in his words, as if he’d just remembered I was, indeed, one of these white men. “No offense meant, son.”
“None taken.” The natives of the American landscape were a thing of legend to someone my age, most of them long gone from this earth before I was able to say my first words. But I overlooked that Mr. Theo may have actually known some. Especially since he worked this part of the land before the Great Uprising began. “I didn’t mean anything by it, sir. I’m afraid I don’t know much about the Indians.”
“No one does anymore. It’s a shame too. They were a good people. Not all of them, mind you. But most.”
“Did you know any natives?”
“A few. I had the pleasure of trading with the Blackfoot and Crow tribes before they were taken by the infection. Or killed off.”
“I heard about that. What numbers the infection didn’t kill, we did. The white man, I mean. Is that true?”
“It’s true. Sad, but true. But it wasn’t just the white man. It was pretty much everyone’s fault. The world was at war with the undead, but the red man was easier to blame. The epidemic began in their tribes, so the powers that be decided that all Indians must be the cause. Or at the very least, the carriers. Better dead than red, as they say.”
“Do you think they’re really gone? All of them?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I suspect not. They are a resourceful breed of folks.”
“I’ve never seen one.”
“If every other race alive was gunning for your hide because they suspected you might carry the threat of infection, would you ever show your face again?”
“I reckon not.”
“Heads up,” Mr. Theo said all of a sudden. “Looks like it’s time to get to work.”
A small well of excitement sprang up within me as I eagerly followed his lead. This excitement died in a sudden gust of frustration when I laid eyes upon our goal. At the edge of the path, in the low light of the late-afternoon sun, rested a series of huge metal buckets tipped on their sides. Five in total.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Our traps,” he said. “Bucket traps, to be exact. Cleanest way to catch a rev.”
Each bucket measured about a foot and a half in diameter and at least a foot or more deep. The mouth of each bucket held the trapping mechanism—a series of metal rings bolted to the sides, tipped by sharp jaws and backed by a spring the size of my fist. These constructs were attached to a pair of metal rings slid down stakes driven into the ground on either side of a bucket, the whole line of which, in turn, was bolted to a length of chain tethered to a large oak about six feet away.
“That’s all?” I asked, confused how such things could stop the undead, much less kill them.
“It’s deadlier than it looks,” Mr. Theo said. “Those jaws are wound tight enough to snap the neck of a buffalo.”
Still, I couldn’t see how it cau
ght anything at all, for all of it sat in plain view of anyone passing by. No camouflage. No attempt at concealment. It seemed a foolish sort of way to catch prey.
I said as much, at which Mr. Theo was quick to correct me.
“It’s obvious to anyone alive,” he said. “Normally, I would prefer to bury a trap, try to lure the prey into it with a bit of trickery, but with a revenant, you don’t have to. They’re always too eager to eat. They come sniffing along, poke their heads inside, and snap! We have ourselves a head in a bucket and a skinnable corpse.”
“What if they stick their hand in instead?”
“Then you end up with a hand in a bucket and no corpse. Hell, son, I’ve come back to a single foot on more than one occasion. The trade is all about patience, persistence and luck.”
“Seems like it would be easier just to hunt them.”
“You think so, huh? Well, I speak from experience when I say that hunting yields more product, true, but it’s far more dangerous. Put yourself in the midst of a hungry herd of those things with no way out, and you’ll appreciate the wisdom of patience and persistence.”
“And luck?”
“That too. The bucket trap is more effective than you would think. The revs operate mostly on smell, and once they get the scent of the bucket, they tend to go in head first, expecting something to bite on the bottom.”
“But they lose their head instead.” It made sense, but still, I had my doubts. I would have to see it in action to believe it could work. “I suppose it’s the best way to get the most out of the revenant too. Separate the head and save the rest of the skin.”
“Yes, but you should always remember what our real purpose is. What we are here for. Killing every last one of those monsters is our real job. The trade is just side work.”
“Yes. We have to clear the lands so the American people can move back in and reclaim what was once rightfully theirs.”
Mr. Theo eyed me with a sideways glance. “What are you on about?”
“Oh, it’s something the workhouse master used to say. It was supposed to inspire us. You know, instill a sense of patriotism. That sort of thing.”
He snorted as he made his way back to the wagon. “Patriotism is for flag-wavers. And I ain’t got time to wave flags. There’s too much work to be done.”
“You don’t think this work will help our nation reclaim-”
“No, I don’t,” he said over me in a huff. “I do this work because it suits me. Not for any other reason. Understand?”
I was surprised by his abruptness. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Theo returned to his wagon, rifling about inside until he produced a metal rod, which he handed to me. One end was wrapped in leather, producing a makeshift handle, while the other was threaded, as if some vital part were missing.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“We gotta trip the traps before we can clean them up,” he explained.
“Clean them? They haven’t even been used.”
“They sat out here in the wind and sun and rain for almost three weeks unattended. A poorly maintained trap is money in the trash. We can’t do upkeep on them set like that.”
I looked down at the rod, realizing what he was saying. “You want me to set ‘em off? I can’t. I don’t know how.”
“Come on, son. Deep down, every living, breathing thing knows how to close the jaws of a beast like that. Even those who don’t breathe do a fair job of it. Just run the rod into the bucket. The trip point is about halfway down. But be careful; that thing will take off your hand if given the chance.”
“I imagine it would.”
“Get to it, then.”
It was more than just a command from master to apprentice. In the task, I sensed a trial of sorts. He was testing my eagerness to obey, and though I was afraid the trap would indeed claim my hand, I had no option but to comply. I took a few tentative steps forward, waving the rod ahead of me as if it were some wand that could make the trap close with a magic spell.
“Nice and easy, son,” he said from behind me. “Keep your head and body back, reach out and press the rod onto the trip point. She’ll do the rest.”
I followed his words, holding the rod as far from me as I could manage. The metal bar shook with my fear as it edged toward the trap. Inch by inch, I pushed the rod into the bucket, toward the small metal square on one side that served as the trip point. Finally, I pressed the rod onto the square. My heart went still for a single beat as I awaited the dreaded results of my task.
As expected, the trap closed, giving off an earsplitting crack. What I didn’t expect was for the thing to jump into the air or jerk the rod from my hand. The metal jaws swept the rod from me, pulling the thing into its grip as the bucket slid up the metal stakes and leapt away. At this, I shrieked, loud and shrill, just like a little girl. As I yelled aloud, I tumbled backwards until I was on my rump a good twenty feet from the now-closed trap and scurrying farther away. Off to my left came the rising and falling sounds of muffled laughter. I turned to see Mr. Theo covering his mouth, trying hard not to be amused, and failing miserably.
“I’m glad you think this is funny,” I said, scrambling to my feet.
“No,” he said. “Not at all. You did fine. Just fine. It can be surprising, I know. Best get used to it if you’re going to take on the work. Shall we try again?”
“Yes, sir.”
After I cautiously set off the other traps (four more terrifying experiences with him laughing ever harder as I went), we spent the better part of an hour cleaning and oiling the mechanisms while Mr. Theo lectured me on the nature of the trap.
“Occasionally you’ll find a rabbit or squirrel,” Mr. Theo said. “Some small thing that got too curious for its own good. Every so often, I come across some foolish wolf or deer, but most of the larger animals seem to know better than to mess with the things.”
“There must be a way to keep animals from sticking their heads into the trap.”
“Sure is. We musk it. Keeps the animals away and attracts the undead like flies to garbage.”
“Musk?”
“It means we mark it. With human smell.”
I stared at the traps. “How?”
“The same way other animals do.” Without warning, Mr. Theo stepped up to the line of buckets and lowered the front of his trousers. I spun about just before he could get everything out in the open. From behind me, there arose the sound of a steady stream of fluid splattering against metal.
“Is that necessary?”
“Yes. Yes it is. Not shy, are we, son?”
“A bit.”
“You’ll need to get over that. Musking a trap is essential. If you can’t watch me do the work, then I can’t teach you anything.”
“I think I can figure out how to piss in a bucket.” I cringed at the sound of my own insolence, so I added a quick, “Sir.”
“All right, smartass. You can turn around now.”
I did so to find him staring at me with his arms crossed. I grinned, sheepish and shamed, both for the reasons of which he accused me and so much more. This was an unexpected hurdle. How could I ‘musk’ a trap when I lacked the appropriate equipment for, well, aiming? I supposed I cold squat over it, but I did well enough not to get my pants wet in the normal course of things. Mr. Theo said nothing else on the matter, instead instructing me on how to reset the traps before we moved along. I tried not to retch as we returned the urine-filled buckets to their appropriate places.
About an hour later, we ran across the next grouping, all of which were also empty.
“You want me to trip them?” I asked. “Or do you want to do it?”
“I’ll do it,” Mr. Theo said.
I offered him the rod, but he shook his head and looked about as if searching for something. Spying what he was after, he bent to retrieve a rock about the size of his fist.
“Watch and learn,” Mr. Theo said. He stood a few paces from the first trap and tossed the rock into the bucket, at whic
h the trap snapped closed.
I was confused, to say the least. After all the fuss he made about tripping it with that blasted metal rod. “The rod!” I shouted, waving the thing at him.
“Don’t need it.” Mr. Theo fetched the rock and tripped the next one.
“The rod!” I repeated, once more waving the thing in his direction.
“I said we don’t need it. For this, anyway. But it sure was funny to see your face when that thing almost snapped closed on your hand.”
I didn’t think it was funny, but I kept my opinions to myself for fear of a physical reprimand. (Though I had my doubts that Mr. Theo was the kind of man to teach by such measures.) We cleaned and oiled the traps, and I turned away as he marked each with his scent. At his prompting, I returned to his side and helped pack the equipment, a small flame of hope flickering in my soul as he seemingly ignored my timidity. A flame he was quick to snuff once we got on the road again.
“I don’t care how shy you are,” he said. “You’re gonna have to musk one eventually.”
I gave a curt nod, but again held my tongue. Darkness fell before we could locate the next line, and Mr. Theo suggested we rest rather than risk stumbling into them. As we bedded down, I tried to concoct an elaborate series of excuses as to why I couldn’t drop my pants in front of him.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to make a single excuse.
****
return to table of contents
****
Chapter Twelve
Most of the next day saw Mr. Theo espousing the merits of a clean and sharpened skinning knife. I listened with feigned interest, worried more about my belly than my blade. Either the trail rations or the constant travel had left me ill, for I awoke that morning with a terrible ache, a deep-seated cramping that wouldn’t go away. I did my best to keep this from Mr. Theo, as I didn’t want to burden him any further than I was sure I had.
As for Mr. Theo, he was just recapping his lecture on how to ensure your blade remained in top shape at all times, when he was interrupted by a low, steady moaning.
