Judgement

by Eric A. Shelman

  Georgie looked up at me, a smile on her tired face. “I was worried,” she said, reaching down and taking my hand.

  “What … happened?” asked Carla.

  Bert jumped in. “You and me were just layin’ there when they started shootin’ over our heads. They lit the field on fire in about ten places and it spread so fast we got caught.”

  “And you … stayed?” she asked, incredulously.

  “Well, yeah,” said Bert. “I don’t leave anyone behind. It’s not in me.”

  “You military?” I asked.

  “Oorah,” he said. “United States Marine. 2nd Infantry Division. I just got back from South Korea when all this shit happened.”

  “Oorah, motherfucker,” I said. “Thank you for savin’ our friend.”

  “He’s … my friend, too,” said Carla, her voice like a rasp. “Bert and me have been working on gun repair and cleaning back in Lebanon.”

  “Judgin’ from the stack of bodies down there, looks like ya’ll did it right,” I said. “Now let’s get you on your feet and back in your vehicle.”

  She never blamed Phil for driving away without her. Either she hadn’t figured things out yet, or she knew the score in a world like this one.

  I figured the latter.

  We cleaned the busted glass out of the Toyota Phil, Lucy, Carla and Bert were riding in, then got back in a row.

  I pushed the radio button. “We need fuel. Let’s keep goin’ south toward the freeway. Stay to the right and pray that fire don’t jump the road and kill our visibility.”

  It was bad enough with just the crops to our east on fire, but at least I could still make out about twenty-five yards of road beyond the hood.

  Ω

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Red Sand Hintoka Reservation

  Magi entered the large tent – which was really more of a traditional teepee – and marveled at the sheer size and opulence of the interior. Animal hides stretched over its conical frame and inside, the sound was deadened by many pelts and hand-made throws spread among pillows and other means of seating.

  Silver Bolt had entered with a contingency of four others; his most trusted. He’d knelt to one knee keeping his spine straight and tall; he’d taken a knee not in supplication, but in greeting. He was still terribly shaken by what had become of Mundunugu and wondered if the medicine man-chief’s demise was truly the end of all hope that the skinwalkers could be eliminated.

  Suddenly, everyone stood. There were around fifteen other men and women in the teepee. All were elders; Magi and his attendees were the youngest there.

  Where are all his fighting men? he asked the question of himself, but answered it before it materialized in his mind. Every young fighter was at the perimeter, either guarding the entry gates or the fence surrounding the res.

  He stood, motioning for his tribe to stand as well.

  An ancient man appeared in the space at the front of the tent. Two of his Hintoka Tribe members held the flaps open, and he stood there, his bright, inquisitive eyes taking in each person in attendance. One of the men holding the flaps open said, “Chief Qaletaqa.”

  When his eyes turned toward Magi, the old man nodded. “I am sorry to hear what became of Climbing Fox.”

  Magi felt as though an electrical charge flashed through his body. His jaw dropped and he stared at the elderly man, hard. He had never seen the chief before, but the name … it was part of their history somehow. An ancient part. It needled at him. Instead of asking about it, he said, “You … knew Chief Wattana?”

  “Chief?” the old man said. “What became of Iron Eyes?”

  Magi stared at the old man. The name was one he’d only known from their history books, but he had been a powerful chief of the Henomawi Tribe in the mid-1910s or even earlier. It had been some time since Magi had studied up on the tribe’s past leaders. He said, “Iron Eyes? He has to have been dead for seventy or eighty years. Long before I was born. How do you know of him?”

  A smile touched the old man’s mouth, and it was as fascinating as a brilliantly colored flower blossoming on a barren cactus in the middle of the desert.

  The old man’s eyes lifted to meet his. He didn’t answer, but walked forward with amazing ease, stepping atop the piled pelts and rugs, making his way to the rear of the space where he dropped down into a cross-legged position with an ease equal to the way he walked.

  How old must he be? thought Magi.

  “I do not know my age,” said the old man, as though hearing his thoughts. “But I knew Iron Eyes. He was a friend to my son, long before he grew to a position of power within the tribe. I am Henomawi. Just in case you have not guessed this.”

  “How?” asked Magi Silver Bolt.

  “How? How am I from the Henomawi?”

  How are you alive, how are you Henomawi, how do you still hear and see and speak?

  All of these questions ran through Magi’s mind.

  Before he could formulate an actual question, the ancient man spoke again. His eyes were slits through the tanned, wrinkled skin, and his cheekbones protruded from paper-thin skin.

  “I see the questions in your mind, my son. I have not answers, but your arrival here is no accident. Was it your idea?”

  Magi slowly nodded. “I forced Climbing Fox to come. When Standing Rock was killed, he ascended to chief, though I do not believe he wanted it. He was happy as our Mundunugu. He taught us many th- ”

  Magi stopped speaking. He recalled seeing the bones of Angeni Dancing Rain piled just outside the chief’s door, the skinwalkers having consumed every bit of her flesh from her bones.

  “What is it, young man?”

  “You know Climbing Fox started all of this,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  “I have a television,” he said.

  For some reason, this surprised Magi. He said, “Standing Rock hid a very old Henomawi text in his home. It was well-hidden, but discovered by my fiancée, Angeni Dancing Rain.”

  “Sometimes, when things are well-hidden, they are better off left alone,” said the old man.

  Magi stared at him, wondering if he, now the Henomawi interim chief, could speak with this man as an equal.

  “The text cannot be unseen, and the effect of what he caused cannot be denied,” said Silver Bolt.

  The nod seemed to go on forever, as slight as it was. “True, very true,” said Qaletaqa. “Do you have this book?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and reached into the cloth bag beside him. “Most of the text in it is a mystery to us.”

  “I have never forgotten our old language,” said Qaletaqa. “It would be like forgetting how to walk.”

  Magi got up and carried the book to where the old chief sat. He took it with frail, but somehow powerful arms, nodding.

  To Magi’s surprise, he set it aside. “And you believe the words from this text, presented in a ceremony, caused the black rain?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “You do not grow to be wise by believing what everybody else believes,” said the man, his voice grinding like a dry gearbox. “Are there blank pages in this book?”

  “Yes,” said Silver Bolt. “Many of them. Some are between other pages with text.”

  The ancient chief’s smile revealed corn-yellow teeth. He nodded. “I will keep this. For now.”

  Magi felt his control – or what he had believed was control – slipping away. While he knew he was a guest on this reservation, he did not intend to give away the only connection he had to the curse that set the end of the world in motion.

  He stood. “Chief Qaletaqa,” he said. “I can’t leave that book behind. If you don’t know how to stop what Mundunugu started, then I need to keep searching until I find out who can.”

  “And where will you go?” the man asked. “Who will you see to do that for you?”

  Magi stared at him. “Why did you ask about empty pages?”

  The smile returned, and the old man nodded. “Ah, you are listening,” he said, tapping one croo
ked finger to his temple. “How many from your tribe are here?”

  “I brought everyone left alive; lots of them were bitten and they changed. Did you know that was possible?”

  He nodded again. Now it was the old man’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Did you intend to return to your reservation when whatever you sought to do –”

  “I sought to ask you and your people to join us!” interrupted Silver Bolt. “You’re the first, but I need more people. Way more.”

  The interruption had every pair of eyes stabbing into Magi Silver Bolt. The pure silence was palpable in its entirety.

  The man’s eyes grew intense, burning into the young, new chief. “You wish for my people to follow you,” said Qaletaqa, his voice like sand ground through gears.

  “Why not?” asked Magi, suddenly standing. As he looked down at his host, an audible gasp could be heard. Magi did not notice. “The white men are all skinwalkers now. We are no longer relegated to the reservations, none of us! Once we destroy these things, we can live as we wish!”

  “And you do not believe others of your kind who survive will fight you for whatever you take?”

  Magi wasn’t sure where this was going. The thoughts he had just vocalized were never meant to be spoken. He felt the eyes of his tribe members upon him, and he felt the coldness of their stares. They never believed they weren’t going home eventually.

  He had to rectify it. He turned to them.

  “With the skin paste and the ability to go where you wish, I never thought you’d want to stay on land the white man forced you onto.”

  Magi did not notice the old man had picked up the book, but now it was open to the last page.

  The page he had translated and used to make the paste. “You read the Henomawi language,” graveled the elder. His expression appeared to reflect a decision that had been made at that moment.

  Magi nodded. “I learned what I could from our elders before they passed. I studied, but most of it is still just marks on paper.”

  “Sometimes it is the paper between the marks that is most important to see,” said Qaletaqa.

  He stood, and everyone else pushed up to their feet. The ancient text was held lightly in his hands. Magi stared at it, but did not ask him to return it.

  “Stay within our walls tonight,” said Qaletaqa. “I will read this text while the moon fills the sky. All of it. At sunrise I will come and see you to tell you what I have learned.”

  Ω

  Magi returned to their vehicles outside the walls, and explained to everyone the plan for the night. They all seemed relieved. He saw the tension drain from their shoulders at his news.

  Before he joined his people at the gate, he went around to the rear of the vehicle and stared up at Mundunugu. His guttural growls and snapping jaws never ceased.

  “You did all of this,” he whispered over its groans. “I’ll know whether to thank you or hate you by tomorrow morning.”

  When they re-entered the confines of the Hintoka Tribe’s reservation, they were stripped of their remaining weapons. There were no skinwalkers within their walls, so they would not be needed.

  They were led to a series of four large teepees, identical in size to the one in which Qaletaqa had held court. They were told to divide up the group as equally as possible, and the four structures would allow them plenty of bedding and room to stretch out.

  When Magi Silver Bolt went inside, he believed it. The interior was different from the more utilitarian tent in which the old chief had held court. The cushions, while well-worn, stretched from edge to edge, with narrow walkways between them. There were tables on one side that held fresh fruit and pitchers of water.

  His stomach growled, but he was too tired to eat. Magi felt sleep try to overtake him as he fell down onto his back. Questions were posed by some of his people, but he waved those asking them away.

  Sleep for now. Rest. In the morning, hopefully Chief Qaletaqa would have answers for them.

  And a plan. A plan to defend against the coming storm, whatever it may be.

  Ω

  “Think you can get that gen goin’?” I asked. We had a couple pumps that ran on battery power, but somebody had been sucking the fuel out of the underground tanks, and they were low. Too low for our tiny-ass pumps to grab hold of it.

  “All these damned trucks are runnin’ on fumes. If we siphon gas out of any one of ‘em, and that gen doesn’t start, we’ve killed one,” said Carla.

  “Don’t matter,” said Danny, standing in the back of his truck, a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

  I walked over there. We were all parked around a Mobil Station. Three zombies were trapped inside the attached store, and several of our folks were contemplating killing them to see what goodies could be gotten from the mini-mart.

  We had plenty of food, but I guess a good Chick-O-Stick could put a smile on a face or two. When I reached him, Danny looked down at me, his face grim.

  I knew better than to ask. I went around to the tailgate, and he held out a hand. Taking it, he pulled me up.

  Holding out the binoculars, I waved him off. “No need. I see ‘em from here. Is that … what I think it is?”

  “Biggest goddamned horde we’ve seen yet,” muttered Danny, the glasses back up to his eyes. “I’d say about four miles away.”

  “Four miles could pass fast.” I looked down at the abandoned freeway. It told me how fast everything happened. Of course it wasn’t entirely empty. There were flipped cars and trucks here and there, a couple of big rigs on their sides. Further west, something glinted in the sun. Something big.

  I turned back to Danny. “Gimme those.”

  “Ask nice.”

  “Fuck off, hand ‘em over.”

  Danny smiled and followed my instructions. “What?”

  I scanned Interstate 80, hoping what I thought I saw was what I really saw. A smile crossed my lips.

  “What?” asked Danny.

  “You’ve been up here how long?”

  “Why?”

  “You missed a tanker?”

  “Gas tanker?”

  “Chevron sell soda pop?”

  Danny laughed. “I’ve been kinda preoccupied with the horde of a few thousand.”

  I got why he hadn’t seen it yet. Everybody behind us was scrambling to figure out how to suck some fuel out of this place. When they dipped the tank and tried the pumps, I knew it was useless. He’d probably been thinking the same and focused his attention on the coming horde instead.

  “Tanker, about a mile west down there on the I-80. You can just see the rear of it, with the Chevron logo smack dab in the middle.”

  I gave him the glasses. “Follow along in the fast lane until the median gets real wide. Then you’ll see it tucked into some bushes, right past that flipped lime green Kia Soul.” I watched him move the binoculars until a smile formed. He lowered the glasses and looked at me. “How the hell did you spot that?”

  “It’s called desperation. I have a newfound burst of energy. How about you?” I shot my eyes toward the mini-mart. “Up for a Slurpee?”

  “Fuck, I wish,” he said. “But anything sweet, yeah.”

  “High in preservatives. Beeline, buddy.”

  The confidence must’ve been dripping off us like honey from a comb. We both slid our .22 Henrys from our back scabbards and practically skipped to the mini-mart. Nobody else had chanced a break-in just yet.

  When we got within four feet of the door, Danny ran toward it, raised his foot, and planted it right beside the jamb. I heard aluminum tear, something pop, and the door flew inward, slamming against the wall.

  We stopped and raised our Henrys. The zombies inside, two women and a man – who all looked Middle Eastern, based on their beards – staggered toward us, filthy fingernails at the ends of rotten hands, clawing the air.

  My count was fast. “One Two Three,” I said without pauses between. We fired the .22 rifles at the same time, putting clean little holes dead center in the middle of both w
omen’s heads. As their spindly legs folded beneath them, black goo running down their shrunken faces, I heard Danny’s lever action double-click, and he took care of Mohammed, who was bringing up the rear.

  Hell no, I’m not being racist. That was the name on his work shirt. I turned and yelled, “What’re you waitin’ for? An engraved invitation?”

  “What about fuel?” called back Micky. He held out his hands in a shrug. I looked and saw Carla standing beside him, shaking her head.

  “We got it covered,” I yelled. “But we kinda need to hurry. Grab your treats of choice and let’s roll down to I-80.”

  I crunched over the shattered, tempered glass and found the candy row. Sure enough, there was the open box of Chick-O-Sticks, right next to the rolls of multi-colored Neccos. I glanced over my shoulder and scooped up at least six each before hurrying back outside.

  I wanted to avoid the rush.

  Ω

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I-80, Southwest of Potter, Nebraska

  “Good eye CB,” said Lilly, as we pulled up to the tanker truck. All the tires on the driver’s side were flat, but the way the truck was sitting, it was mostly level.

  “How we gettin’ it outta there?” asked Danny.

  “We got Tank,” said Carla.

  I whirled around, and she was literally two feet behind me, no worse for wear after her earlier ordeal. Beside her, was Tank.

  “Hell, I forgot you came with,” I said.

  “Been staying in the truck.”

  He held a large pair of bolt cutters.

  “If you know how to use those, I’d get to it. That horde is movin’ faster than I thought.”

  We all looked down the long, straight interstate. The evening light was fading, but at the end of our sight was a black, moving shadow. I was surprised to see nobody held up binoculars.

  I knew why. They didn’t want to see. I turned to Tank. “If there’s a lock, cut it off. Let’s everybody grab cans and get this thing done.”