Judgement

by Eric A. Shelman

  I had my DP-12 slung over my shoulder, but I didn’t bother with the drum magazine. In a town with the population of 2, it was unlikely I’d need to lay a roomful of dead sideways.

  We stood about ten feet away from the faded wooden porch, all breathing out puffs of steam in what had to be 30-degree weather. Everyone had thrown on their heaviest coats, which had mostly stayed in the beds of the trucks or behind the seats.

  Not anymore. As we plunged deeper into the calendar and higher up in the mountains, staying warm and dry would become very important.

  We all heard the sound of feet clomping on floorboards.

  “Whoever it is, they’d have come out if they weren’t dead,” said Georgina Lake. She began to walk forward.

  “Hey,” I said. “What are you doin’?”

  She shook her head and didn’t slow a notch. Reaching the door, she put her hand on the handle, made out of an antler. “Ready?” she asked, smiling.

  I shrugged, unslung the DP-12, and shouldered the weapon. “Just open it and slide sideways, fast.”

  “Duh,” my girlfriend mocked.

  Snickers from behind me. My 25 or so closest friends.

  She pulled it open, and as I had instructed, she took four backward steps, her sneakers quiet on the raised porch.

  “Watch out!” The voice was Micky Rode’s, and for a minute, I thought he was about to drop a 45 RPM of Louie Louie onto the turntable.

  I saw it just as the rotten man came stumbling out of the Trading Post. A dead woman, patchy hair and peeling face, one foot completely missing as she stomped forward on her right leg bone toward Georgie, who had not yet turned to see her pursuer.

  “Run, Dr. Lake!” shouted someone else, but Micky was already charging forward, his .22 raised.

  I was several feet away and pacing him, two huge strides of my legs and steps of my boots bringing me within eight feet of the store’s dead proprietor.

  Behind me, the rest of our traveling posse stood perfectly still, transfixed as they were at what was unfolding.

  With no initial movement from our group, the dead man had clearly noticed the motion of the dead woman advancing on Georgie, because he turned to his right and staggered toward them.

  I didn’t take any chances. As he staggered toward Georgie, who was still trying to understand what all the yelling was about, I reached him, pushed my barrel against his skull and pulled the trigger at the same time.

  The shotgun blast echoed through the dusky landscape, and half the thing’s head disappeared as his body’s forward momentum carried it to Georgie’s feet, where she jumped back in time to be shoved aside by Micky, who’d reached the pair.

  Georgie went hard down to the ground as the rotten woman’s arms swiped at thin air.

  Micky put two rounds in her face, causing her to wobble, then drop, black ooze running into the sandy loam beneath her.

  Two quick whistles came from the crowd, followed by, “If you would have stayed put, I could have shot her from here!”

  It was Jimmy Sanchez, and Carla stood right beside him. “I mean, good job, Mick, but next time there’s no sense in expending all that energy.”

  Breathing hard, Micky just looked over at me, helping Georgina back to her feet.

  “You okay?” asked Micky.

  “I’m fine,” said Georgie, dusting herself off.

  “Sorry about that,” said Rode. “I just reacted. That bitch was like two inches from you.”

  “You saved my life,” huffed Georgina. “Don’t be sorry. Thank you.”

  The murmurs from the group behind us all reflected the relief I felt, and after Georgie and I shared a relieved embrace, we walked into the store. Sure enough, there had been one man in there.

  The black footprints from the tracked-in rain residue was all I needed to tell the story. Clearly the proprietor had gone out in the rain and back inside, only to change into a monster and trap himself.

  Clearly no Indian blood. I’d gotten a look at the man outside, and he didn’t look like he was Vietnamese, and I knew the guy who’d bought the town was.

  Then it hit me. The new owner had wanted to run his coffee business from his home country, so he’d hired a guy who wanted the isolation of this spot. This must have been that guy.

  Inside the store we found moldy cookies and a whole bunch of coffee, all sealed up in pretty bags. Some of the vacuum sealed pouches were pre-ground, and others were coffee beans, but despite the underlying funky smell of the dead guy who’d been trapped in there for months, it just smelled like goddamned Heaven.

  Plus, there were about ten 5-gallon bottles of Sparklett’s Water in there. Lilly practically ran back to the truck to grab her coffee maker.

  Yep. It ran on batteries, and it was made by Makita. Now, those folks normally specialize in power tools, and that was the beauty of her setup. We had four of the rechargeable batteries for Makita power tools, and we’d installed power inverters in all the vehicles for the trip, so every Toyota had two 120v outlets available. Lilly used those outlets to keep her coffee pot power at full charge.

  To be fair, we did have some power tools with us too, so it wasn’t all about coffee.

  But it was a lot about coffee.

  I supposed we could figure out accommodations later. Right now, everybody was digging through the stock, trying to find cookies or scones that were doused in preservatives enough to enjoy with their mugs of brew.

  A perfect beginning to the end of a long day. If we could find a good place to rest our heads, it would tie everything up into a pretty little bow.

  Ω

  “Hurry, this way!” called the voice, as Tommy staggered through the night with Silver Bolt on his shoulders, each agonizing step putting distance between them and the blazing tents. His lungs burned from the searing heat and smoke they had just escaped.

  Behind them, the rising flames now licked at the darkened sky, sending the soot of the burning Henomawi people toward the heavens.

  Tommy slowed and turned toward the voice. Magi gripped him, saying, “Let me down! I can walk now.”

  Without weapons, they were at the mercy of whoever it was who beckoned them.

  “I can save you!” came the voice. It was that of a woman, not much more than a whisper, but the desperation was clear.

  Tommy eased him to the ground and Magi steadied himself briefly on Tommy’s shoulder, then made a snap decision. He jerked his head behind him to see silhouettes of the Hintoka who had likely set fire to their teepees beginning to surround the burning structures, poking at them with sticks and inspecting them.

  “Now!” the voice urged.

  “Come on!” said Magi, tugging Tommy’s shirt. Together, they ducked and ran toward the voice.

  When they reached the base of what appeared to be a water tower, the woman said, “Follow me, and be quiet.”

  She hurried ahead. Magi did not know whether she was old or young, but she moved with speed and agility around the next three corners, essentially zigzagging away from where – he presumed – her people were gathered, watching the carnage.

  There were lights on behind shaded windows they had passed, but when they reached what appeared to be a low, block building with no lights on, she pulled open the door and said, “In, now!”

  Magi stopped, looking at her in the darkness, trying to gauge her intent.

  “I am helping you,” she said. “Please!”

  Magi nodded and went inside. Tommy followed behind, and she followed them, closing the door behind her.

  “Who are you?” asked Magi. “What just happened?”

  Breathing hard, she moved through the darkness. She said nothing but motioned with her hand to a set of wooden chairs; without thinking, Magi and Tommy sat and waited. A moment later, a match flared, igniting a small oil lamp, then was quickly extinguished.

  The girl – or woman – turned the lamp’s flame down so low, it barely flickered.

  It allowed Magi and Tommy to see her. She could have been no m
ore than eighteen or nineteen years old.

  “Who are you? Why did you help us?” asked Magi.

  “You must be very quiet. Qaletaqa is very sensitive. His quarters are on the other side of the reservation, but he knows things sometimes.”

  “You didn’t say who you were.”

  Without speaking, she hurried to a dark corner and grabbed a duffle bag about 24” long and 12” wide. She carried it to them and dropped into an identical wooden chair as the ones in which they sat.

  “I must come with you. Qaletaqa has killed all of your people. He was trying to kill you, too.”

  “No shit,” said Tommy.

  “Please,” said Magi. “Why did he do that? We came to him for help.”

  “This is his plan!” she said.

  “What is his plan?” asked Magi.

  “This! All of it. The black rain, everything!”

  “No, no it’s not. I know who caused that. I know who did it!”

  She shook her head. “Climbing Fox Wattana did not cause what has happened to the world. It was always Qaletaqa.”

  “No, it wasn’t! My fiancée found a book hidden by her father, Chief Standing Rock. He passed away and while working in his house, Angeni Dancing Rain found it and showed it to me. I –”

  “There is no time. If you do not leave, they will find out you did not die in the fire. They will count the charred remains, and they know how many of you were in the tents!”

  “Where are we going to go?”

  “We can get a car in the next village. To the west of here. I know a way out other than the main gate.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Qaletaqa’s daughter,” she said.

  Magi Silver Bolt stared at the young, beautiful girl. Her features were soft and chiseled, clear even in the flickering light of the lamp. Her hair, straight and dark, fell to the middle of her back, pulled into a ponytail.

  “But … he is so old, and you are barely a woman.” Magi’s voice was almost a whisper.

  “I cannot explain everything to you now. Please. We must travel many miles tonight if we are to get beyond his reach. Will you come? If you will not, then you will die.”

  It wasn’t a hard decision. Magi stood, and Tommy followed suit. “Okay. Let’s go. Do you have water?”

  “Yes, in my bag. Food, too. In case things do not go as planned.”

  “Okay,” said Magi. “Go. We’ll follow.” He took the bag from her and she stared at him briefly before moving to the window and pulling back the shade.

  After a long look, she reached for the knob and turned it. Pulling it open, she stepped out, looked in all directions, and nodded toward them. “Come,” she whispered.

  They moved quickly and quietly through darkened streets. Magi did not know in which direction they traveled, but he believed it was northwest.

  “Our vehicles are outside the entrance,” he said, the effects from the smoke still causing his lungs to sting with each breath.

  “No, they are not,” she said, hardly winded. “They were removed the moment you were brought inside our walls. You were never intended to leave again.”

  Magi’s mind spun in a thousand directions. He did not know who or what this Qaletaqa was; only that he was a mystery.

  A frightening mystery.

  They reached the wall, which was identical to the one where the gate was mounted. It was painted in a terracotta color with darker brown, vertical sections every ten feet or so.

  “How are we going to get over?” asked Tommy.

  “It’s an illusion,” said the girl. “There is a way through. Watch.”

  She moved to the wall and stood with her back to it. Sidestepping twice, she disappeared.

  Tommy looked at Magi. “What just happened?”

  Magi didn’t answer. He moved to the wall and stood where the girl had. He also sidestepped until he moved behind a narrower wall.

  It was an illusion! It was not solid, but the paint made it appear to be! In the middle was a turnstile, and the girl pressed herself against the wall, her foot inserted into a depression carved into the stone. She pressed down, and the turnstile unlocked with a metallic click. “Come,” she whispered.

  Magi pushed through and Tommy followed seconds later, both stepping around the girl. She followed when they had passed.

  Three more steps and they were standing outside the walls of the Hintoka Indian Reservation.

  Ω

  They moved along the shadowed sides of the streets, some paved, some red dirt and gravel. As they came to a side street heading north, they turned on Spicer Lane and picked up their pace, following the young girl’s lead.

  “There are empty homes here,” she said. “Qaletaqa sent raiding parties here two months ago. Nobody remains.”

  Magi Silver Bolt, the new, young chief of a tribe that now consisted of only two men, pondered the situation. The old man had seemed hospitable enough during their brief meeting, but he had clearly misjudged the man.

  If indeed, that’s what he was.

  Homes were just ahead, the windows dark. Vehicles, including old pickup trucks and dilapidated tractors, sat idle in dirt driveways and overgrown yards. It looked like what it was. A dead town.

  In the gloom of the half-moonlit night, Magi saw clumps of what first appeared to be leaves, piled to the left and right of the road. As they approached, the girl moved away from each pile.

  “What are they?” asked Tommy, moving toward one.

  “Do not –” the girl began, but her warning was interrupted by Tommy’s gasp.

  He jumped back, staggering to the point he nearly tripped and fell onto his back. Catching himself, he said, “They’re alive!”

  “They are not,” she said. “They are dead.”

  “But … but they’re moving!”

  Magi’s curiosity got the better of him and he put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, pulling him away. Magi neared one pile. He felt the blood drain from his face.

  “They are skinwalkers,” said Magi. “Chopped up into pieces, but not dead.”

  Tommy bent over and threw up onto the ground, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He spat, and turned to them. “Why didn’t he burn them? Or pierce their skulls?”

  “He created them,” said the girl.

  They still did not know her name.

  Ω

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Buford, Wyoming

  If our intention was to stay somewhere quiet and safe, it seemed we’d picked a good town. If you could really call it that. The store didn’t have much more than coffee, mugs and stale but still somewhat edible accessory foods to eat, but thanks to preservatives, nothing that was packaged was moldy yet. Unfortunately, all the once tasty cookies and pastries in the little glass cases had molded over long ago.

  After drinking so much coffee I was jittery as hell, we’d made our way over to a large house that was once the residence of Suzi, the former owner of the Appaloosa ranch, but it was hardly a ranch. One large, overgrown pasture and an intact stable with fifteen stalls.

  We cleared the house and did some minimal sweeping and cleanup, and I was actually glad to see a couple of mice scurry out of our way as we worked our way through. Small things that made us all feel like not everything had changed.

  Never thought I’d be thankful for rodents. Normal rodents, though. That’s why. We already knew what had happened to the gators and crocs. We didn’t need hordes of flesh-eating mice and rats on top of it.

  The horses had clearly been gone long before the apocalypse struck, because when Micky, Tank, Danny and I ventured over there to have a look, no horse skeletons decorated the earth within, and it looked to have been out of business for several months, if not years.

  The lower level of the house had exterior doors in the rear, leading into several small quarters. There was also a 20’ x 20’ wood porch with a railing around it, with several sun-deteriorated lawn chairs strewn around.

  We guessed the lower level had been for th
e horse trainers and other ranch hands. The front door led right up some stairs to a living area with another four bedrooms, a kitchen, two bathrooms, a family room and a game room, complete with pool table and foosball.

  Foosball always made me feel inadequate. Danny used to kick my ass at it in high school. There were too many players and I didn’t have enough hands to spin all the bastards at the right time.

  But I digress.

  Georgie and I took the smallest bedroom upstairs, with a window facing the front of the house. After finding some spare sheets in a hall closet, we carefully folded the dusty ones that were on the bed up to keep the crap from flying, bundled them up and tossed them out the window.

  When we settled in we lay there beside each other for a few minutes, and I slipped my arm over her shoulder, bringing her in for a snuggle.

  “How are you?” I asked. “I’m pickin’ up on a little sadness.”

  She was quiet for a while, but she kinda nuzzled into me a bit, so I knew she was putting her thoughts together.

  “I miss Roxy. Even Terry. Mostly Roxy.”

  “We need to get her on the radio tomorrow then. We’ll fire up the portable ham and see if we can scare her up.”

  “Strange choice of words,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I hope they’re okay.”

  “They’re monitoring the ham in Micky’s car, so don’t worry. Somebody would’ve called out if anything happened. I’m sure she’s wonderin’ about you, too.”

  “Us, Cole. You won her over pretty fast.”

  “I hope so. She’s a lot like you, so she was easy for me to like. Terry took me by surprise. At first, I thought he was gonna be a pain in the ass, but he’s really stepped up.”

  I felt Georgie nod against me. “They’re good for one another,” she said.

  “Who’s got first watch again?” I asked.

  “Tank,” she said. “Scary looking man. Nice, though.”

  “Until he’s not,” I said. “But I do feel good about him on first shift. He can shoot.”

  We were quiet for a long time, and I felt exhaustion drape over me like a humid, Florida day. As my mind was ready to shut down, Georgie said, “Cole? You awake?”