The Serial Seven (The Final Form Series Book 2)

by J. D. Cavan

  “Mud?” Hank said, as he reached into the fire to take his coffee pot out.

  “Okay,” Charlie replied. Hank took another tin cup out of his sack, filled it and handed it to Charlie. He poured more coffee into his metal cup and drank some. “Gather more wood when you can. I would go but I don’t want to miss anything.” He motioned out into the vast empty wilderness in front of them.

  “What are you looking for?” Charlie asked. He sipped his steamy coffee and it felt good going down, warming him despite the bitter taste.

  “Caribou, elk, bison, moose, bear, deer, wolf—you name it. We take the meat and the skins.” He took another drink from his cup. “The grizzlies out here, they’ll tear your head off! I seen a guy last year try and get one and he got killed. We found a skeleton in snowshoes, I tell you it was like Halloween.” Charlie shivered at the thought of it and Hank laughed at him quietly.

  The fire popped a little and then Hank grabbed his gun, seemingly ready for something. Charlie felt his heart pound a little and he peeked up over the ridge to take a look. He didn’t see anything.

  “Nope, nothing,” Hank said. He threw the rest of his cold coffee out of his cup and filled it again from the pot. “So Charlie, between you and me and these trees over there, who are you?” There was a pause and Charlie poked the fire with the small stick he carried.

  “I don’t know what happened to me,” he replied. His story seemed unlikely to him too. Charlie glanced over his shoulder. He knew he needed to take a risk. His pulse raced a little before he said, “Bill wants to kill me. He’s going to try and shoot me.”

  “He ain’t serious, Charlie,” Hank replied.

  “He plans to make it look like an accident.”

  “How do you know that?” Hank glared at him.

  This isn’t working. What was he going to do, tell Hank he could read Bill’s mind? Charlie just stared blankly at Hank. He had no explanation.

  “I figured. Don’t bring this up again!” Hank finally said.

  Hank didn’t really care about him either, or wanted him dead too, Charlie determined. He hated the fact that he needed to stay with them, but he knew the truth. He couldn’t run; he’d be dead in the wild. They were miles from any civilization. Even if he took a sled, a gun and some supplies, how far would he get before they tracked him down? He didn’t have his own gun, but glanced at Hank’s. He didn’t even know how to shoot one, or at least he didn’t remember if he ever had known.

  Charlie waited all day by the fire and watched Hank drink coffee, roll cigarettes and smoke them to stubs. They hadn’t heard a single shot from any of the other men. No one was having any luck. There wasn’t much daylight and the sun was already on its descent. Finally, the men began to trickle back to camp. Soon they were all warming themselves by the fire and smoking.

  “Well that’s it, we outta head back,” Tom said as he started to pack his supplies.

  Bill shook his head back and forth and spit out some tobacco from his mouth. “We’re low on meat, forget about the skins.” Charlie had overhead them saying earlier that the hunting had been bad. Not only were they not getting pelts to sell, they weren’t getting much food either.

  “And we got another mouth to feed,” Bill said angrily, standing at the ridge holding his rifle. Charlie’s heart started to pound. He didn’t have to read Bill’s mind to know what he planned to do. Charlie glanced at Hank’s gun. Could he get there in time? Never. He’d be shot dead by Bill.

  Suddenly, Lang hushed everyone and quickly moved over by the ridge, holding his rifle and peering out over the landscape.

  “We got a gold mine, boys!” Lang whispered. They all raced over to the ridge. Down by the frozen river was a large herd of Caribou walking slowly by. The men quickly spread out with their guns. At Bill’s signal, all of them planned to hit their targets. They would surely get at least one of the majestic beasts.

  Just as Bill lowered his arm, Charlie saw one of the Caribou look up at the ridge. It happened in a fraction of a second. The huge animal gazed up, not just at the smoke coming from the fire or in the direction of the smell of the men—but right at Charlie. Charlie could see it. It was as if they were looking at each other, just as he’d had that moment with the wolf. Charlie felt his heart fill with something that felt like exhilaration, and then it happened. The herd suddenly began to run, quickly darting off out of sight. Guns fired, many of them popping off before the shooting finally died down.

  Charlie’s heart was pounding and he searched the landscape to see if any of the Caribou had been shot. But there hadn’t been a kill. They had all gotten away. He slowly glanced up toward Bill and felt a pit in his stomach. Bill had been staring at him. Charlie caught the rage in his eyes and the rifle in his hand.

  Charlie tried to back away, and then he heard a “click.” Charlie’s eyes opened wide in terror, but Hank must have heard the sound of the gun misfire too.

  “Bill!” Hank shouted.

  “I’m out of rounds! I knew that,” Bill proclaimed. He continued to glare at Charlie. Charlie breathed out a sigh of relief. He knew Bill was lying, and so did Hank. If there had been a bullet left in Bill’s gun, Charlie would’ve been dead. He had gotten lucky, plain and simple.

  * * *

  IT SEEMED LIKE a much longer trip back to the cabin because it was silent. Charlie took the sled over to an enormous woodpile that was behind the cabin under an exposed shed the men had built to protect it from the snow and ice. Charlie filled the sled full of wood. Another storm was coming and they needed enough to get them through the harsh night. When he returned to the cabin, it had become very dark and the oil lamps were on. The men had started drinking already and begun the conversation again.

  The night went by quickly and the men drank and ate. Charlie had been allowed to sit with them at the table for the first time. They offered him whisky, but he refused. He wasn’t sure of his age, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t old enough to drink.

  Soon the men were playing cards and getting even drunker. Occasionally one of them would get up and put their boots on and head out to the outhouse. The frigid air and errant snowflakes tore into the cabin whenever the door opened. Charlie eventually moved himself away from them to sit on his bench and tend the fire.

  “So, an update of the sorry situation?” Bill asked Tom, referring to their supply of meat.

  “You don’t wanna know,” Hank said.

  Bill shook his head back and forth, then took another bottle of whisky off the shelf. “You like to live in a state of denial, don’t yah?” he said to Hank, slurring his words. He opened the bottle and filled everyone’s cups. As Tom dealt the cards the smoke from their rolled cigarettes and pipes hovered over them.

  “It don’t matter. We’ll get lucky again,” Hank replied.

  It was silent for a couple of moments, with only the sound of the cards and cups occasionally dropping down on the wood table. Charlie watched the wind blowing and the snow piling up high outside the window, but was paying careful attention to the conversation.

  “We’re losing money,” Bill commented. There was a break in the game, and he had taken his tobacco tin out.

  “We always get pelts—”

  “Not this time,” Bill interrupted Hank.

  They fell silent again before Tom finally spoke up. He had been packing his pipe. “Was that the strangest thing… I never seen animals do that before.” Someone had finally brought it up, what had happened earlier with the Caribou.

  “What, run away?” Hank replied. “They do it all the time.”

  “I don’t know about that. We had um, had um in our sights,” Tom said, before another long pause.

  “It’s the boy, I tell yah—” Bill said, mumbling his words. Charlie’s stomach dropped.

  “Yeah, and it’s the boy’s fault there’s a storm outside too,” Hank said in Charlie’s defense. Lang had been quiet for most of the evening, but he burst out in a strange cackle after Hank’s comment. Charlie looked at Lang, and for
the first time, instead of Charlie having to force himself to get inside someone’s mind, Lang’s thoughts just popped into his head.

  So, you can talk to animals, Charlie heard Lang think, almost as if he was talking directly to him.

  You can hear my thoughts? Charlie quickly replied to Lang inside his mind. His heart leapt in his chest—this could be the break he needed! Maybe he could find out about himself and save his own life from Bill.

  What do you think? Lang replied.

  Do you know who I am? Charlie thought to Lang, his pulse racing. Lang just smiled at him a little. Please tell me! Tell me who I am, Charlie begged.

  It was a long time ago, Lang replied, before turning away from Charlie.

  When? Charlie demanded. But Lang ignored him and started playing cards again.

  “The fire’s almost out,” Hank said, pointing the tip of his whisky bottle at Charlie. “Charlie!” he shouted. Charlie snapped out of it and turned to look at the dimming fire. He’d been so caught up he hadn’t noticed the fire burning down. He quickly tossed his last two pieces of wood on the dwindling flames.

  “Now head out to the pile and get a real load this time,” Bill told him, spitting his smelly black tobacco into an empty bean can after he spoke.

  “I’ll go. I could use the fresh air—” Hank started to say, but Bill stood up in front of him.

  “Let the boy do it, Hank—he needs to earn his keep.” Bill sat back down and poured himself another drink.

  Charlie started to get dressed while Hank, Tom and Lang got ready for bed. Bill sat at the kitchen table staring at Charlie as he put his boots on. Soon they all began to climb into their cots—all but Bill. Charlie felt sick to his stomach, and then as he lit his oil lamp and walked toward the door, he stopped and tried to think to Lang.

  Bill wants to kill me. Please help me! he pleaded to Lang. But Lang didn’t reply, just lay on his cot looking as if he’d passed out already.

  “Get a move on, boy. That fire’s not gonna burn on its own,” Bill said to him.

  Charlie slowly walked out of the cabin and into the whipping wind. He squinted his eyes and peeked through the long wool scarf he’d wrapped around his head to protect him from the snow and frigid air. He thought about taking off, right there, but he could feel the below-freezing temperature through his heavy clothing and could barely get one foot in front of the other in the high snow. He’d die in minutes out here. So he hauled the sled over to the woodpile and, in total exhaustion, began to put more logs onto the sled.

  He stopped for a second and thought he heard someone calling to him, so he grabbed his oil lamp and turned to look around but didn’t notice anything. He adjusted the flame on the lamp a bit, turning it up to see out into the pitch black, extending his arm out as far as he could into the blistering air. There was nothing, just the blurry images of the snow ripping across the landscape.

  He returned to the work of stacking the wood, then noticed another light over by the cabin. It seemed as if one of the men was headed to the outhouse, but then the person turned toward the back of the cabin, toward Charlie. The dark figure moved closer and as much as he wanted to believe it was Hank coming to help him, he knew it wasn’t.

  The man moved quickly on his snowshoes and stopped as he got closer to Charlie. The snow tore past Charlie’s line of vision, and although he still couldn’t tell who was standing in front of him, he could see the shining blade of a knife in the man’s hand.

  “Hey!” Charlie shouted as the figure swung his arm and the knife left it, spinning through the air.

  Before Charlie could get out of the way, the knife ripped through his parka at the elbow and pinned it against the woodpile. Charlie immediately reached up and yanked the heavy knife’s handle to try and free himself, but then he saw another knife twisting and turning toward him through the air. This one ripped through the lining of his coat on the other arm, sticking it back against the wood with an incredible force. With both arms pinned back behind him, Charlie kicked his legs out and frantically tried to pry himself off when another knife came, and another, both tearing through his pants at the legs. Charlie found himself totally stuck against the woodpile, helpless.

  To his dismay, Charlie could feel the sting of the blades, and the freezing air rush in through the tears. Not only had the knives pierced his coat and wedged deeply into the wood, the blades had torn into his skin as well!

  He grunted in pain and screamed for help, but the whistling of the wind made it impossible to be heard. He watched the man move fast toward him then seem to disappear in the snow and wind. He fought with all his might, yanking his right arm until the knife freed itself and fell into the snow. The arm that had been pinned was now free, and he quickly grabbed the handle of the other knife and tried to pull it out. But it wouldn’t move an inch. He shouted in pain and with his last bit of energy, he jerked at the knife again and it came loose! But when he glanced down toward the other knives, he saw the man’s boots in front of him. He looked up to see the hooded man’s scarf drop from his face.

  It was Lang who stood in front of Charlie, with his final hunting knife in his hand. Charlie stared into his face and into the darkness of his eyes, then watched Lang’s face start to change. Charlie focused his eyes. He couldn’t believe it was real, but it was as if Lang’s skin dissolved, or became transparent, exposing his skull right in front of Charlie. Charlie’s eyes widened and he shouted in terror as he gazed into the skeletal face of Lang, who looked like he’d come directly from hell to kill him.

  The Lang zombie thing quickly brought the knife down and Charlie knew he was finished. Charlie closed his eyes and waited for his end, but then a shot rang out. He opened his eyes and Lang was still standing in front of him. The blade had fallen in the snow and for a moment it seemed as if Lang was going to bend down and pick it up, but he slumped and collapsed into the snow. There was blood everywhere and Charlie noticed a person standing by the cabin with a rifle.

  The snow turned red with blood surrounding Lang’s body. Whatever hideous thing Lang had become, he looked dead now. Chillingly enough, his normal face had returned and his eyes were open, but they were completely still and black with nothing inside them. Charlie squinted and struggled to see; maybe he’d imagined Lang’s face had turned into that of a skeletal zombie. He pushed his head even further to get a good look, and then Lang suddenly jerked his head up like a jack-in-the-box. Charlie shouted. But only a small trickle of blood came from Lang’s mouth, as if he was trying to talk. Charlie was captivated. Gazing into Lang’s eyes was like diving into a dark tunnel of vast emptiness. Then he heard Lang in his mind.

  We all turn, Charlie heard him say.

  Charlie then said it to himself, as if he was trying to understand it. We all turn?

  Lang started to get up and Charlie lost his breath and tried to shout, but nothing escaped his lips. Lang leapt and lunged at him, and another shot rang out, this time ripping through Lang’s head and blowing it into a million pieces. Charlie shut his eyes as he felt parts of Lang’s skull spray over his face.

  Moments later the rest of men were out of the cabin. One of them, Hank, wrenched each knife one by one from the woodpile. Charlie was in a state of shock and felt the dull numbness of the frigid cold before falling unconscious.

  * * *

  SOON CHARLIE WAS sitting at the table and starting to feel the pain of his injuries. Hank leaned next to him while Tom cleaned the wounds on his arms. Luckily, they were all mostly surface cuts, the blades designed to pin him first before the kill. Charlie flinched as Tom poured grain alcohol over the gashes.

  “Hold still,” Hank said. He started to wrap a bandage tightly around Charlie’s bicep, while Charlie squirmed in pain. “I’m trying to stop the bleeding; then we can patch it.” Even though they weren’t deep wounds, Charlie had lost a lot of blood, and much of it was all over the cabin floor in a trail from the door to the table. He flinched again and drank small amounts of whisky to numb the pain.

&nb
sp; “Lang wasn’t messing around,” Tom uttered as he built the fire higher. “That last knife was meant for your heart.”

  “Who killed it—ummm… I mean him?” Charlie asked. He felt sick to his stomach, the image of Lang’s terrifying skull face etched in his mind.

  “Bill shot um,” Tom replied. He had started to quickly mop up the blood from the floor when the front door opened. Bill walked in and Charlie startled, watching him carefully. Bill took his jacket and boots off and went over to the fire to warm himself. There was a long moment of silence in the cabin, and Charlie realized that Bill had saved his life twice. It didn’t make any sense. If anyone was going to try and kill him, it would have been Bill.

  “Come over here, Charlie,” Bill ordered, without even looking at him. Charlie nervously glanced at Hank before he slowly got up from his chair and wobbled over toward Bill, who was now sitting in the rocker. Hank came over and handed Bill a cup of whisky before he sat down on the end of the low table.

  “Sit down,” Bill said. Charlie dropped down on his wooden bench. “Lang had all his stuff packed, and for some reason wanted to kill you before he left.” He glared at Charlie suspiciously. “Now why would that be?” he asked. Charlie waved his head from side to side and Bill dropped his gaze and stood up by the fire. He wasn’t about to tell him what Lang had said to him in his mind, that “We all turn.” Or that he wasn’t Lang at all but some kind of zombie that claimed he knew Charlie “a long time ago.” He had no memory of Lang, or of zombie monsters posing as people. It all suddenly seemed ridiculous.

  “I didn’t trust the guy anyway, that’s why I went outside. But I don’t trust you either. Some guy shows up here and in master-assassin style tries to kill you with throwing knives? Don’t make sense,” Bill said to the fire.

  Charlie’s head was spinning and he felt dizzy again so he leaned his back against the window. There was a long pause.

  Bill sighed loudly. “I was gonna kill yah right after I killed Lang, but I thought of a much better idea. You owe me now, Charlie.” Charlie glanced at Hank again, but Hank didn’t return the look, just drank whisky from his cup.