by Shane Staley
They ran back to the gates and he set himself, legs shoulder-width apart, shovel gripped in both hands. “Wish me luck,” he said.
“Luck.”
He swung the shovel, his arms shuddering as it made contact. The lock didn’t break. He tried again, harder this time. He kept going, slamming the sharp edge of the shovel into the lock, against the chain. Sparks flew. He grunted with each impact. The lock held.
“Fuck.” He leaned on the shovel, breathing hard. “This is useless.”
Something large and slow and heavy stirred in the darkness inside one of the houses. He looked over there, saw a shape shifting past the doorframe. Something flickered behind it, a shape like the raised tip of a snake’s tail.
“Oh my God…” Ria had seen it, too. “What the hell is that? What do we do? What are we going to do?”
He threw down the shovel. “I don’t know.” He looked up at the high fence, at the deadly razor wire set along the top. Even if he got up there, he’d be torn to shreds. They’d find his corpse there in the morning, skin hanging like streamers, blood flecking the steel uprights and his legs dangling in the breeze.
Something growled in the darkness. It sounded like a lion. The sound was hideously out of place, at odds with the mundane surroundings.
Perhaps he would make it over the fence after all. He’d be wounded, bleeding, but he might have enough strength left in him to run and find help—surely there was something close by, a farm, some houses, even a small village?
He had no choice. He either died trying or he died not trying.
“I don’t know,” he said again, as if it might make a difference.
“Come on.” He grabbed hold of Ria’s arm and dragged her back to the security cabin. She came willingly. She didn’t understand what he was doing. He pushed her inside, kissed her face, hard and fast, and closed the door on her as she began to struggle. He blotted out her objections, trying to focus on what he needed to do.
“No!” Her voice was muffled on the other side of the door. He managed to tune out of the sound when she started banging with her fists, yelling at him to let her out.
He used the shovel to wedge the door shut from the outside, so she couldn’t escape. “Lock it! You need to lock yourself in from that side!”
She banged on the door again, and on the metal walls, but then seemed to get the message. He heard the click of the locking mechanism sliding into place and she fell silent.
He walked around to the side of the cabin and looked through the window. She was standing there, clutching herself and shaking her head. Her face looked dirty. She was crying.
“We have no other option,” he said. He placed his hand flat against the window; he’d seen people make the gesture in prison documentaries. She did the same. An inch of glass separated them; it might as well have been a mile. They might never reach each other again.
“I love you,” he said.
She nodded, repeated the words, and then mouthed them silently, with tears streaming down her face.
He took away his hand but she left hers there. Her hand started to tremble against the pane.
“Close the shutters. Keep quiet. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
He jogged to the fence, feeling eyes upon him. There were no sounds except the crunching of his feet on the gravel and his breath rasping in his throat. He didn’t feel afraid now. He didn’t feel anything at all, apart from the desire to survive.
He stopped and looked again at the fence, the wire, wondering if he were strong enough, mad enough to make it over the top, and if what was left of him would be in any kind of shape to travel more than a few yards on the other side.
He didn’t wait there for long.
Once he had his breathing under control, he reached up and started to climb.
CHILDREN OF THE HORNED GOD
Christopher Fulbright
Clayton James saw the devil the night his wife died.
He was half buried in snow, one leg crushed, one hip shattered. His metallic red Ford Super Duty lay on its top in a deep white drift after rolling from the Jeep trail on the mountain slope above. A single headlight that remained unbroken sent a glowing yellow ray through the pine forest, snowflakes drifting through the beam. Clay wiped blood out of one eye and saw Leigh’s body sprawled and broken over a pile of boulders. She was at the edge of the truck’s light. He tried to call out to her but it came out a groan.
He tried moving, and that was when he realized he was bad off. He focused on the unmoving shape of his wife’s body.
“Leigh,” he managed to say, a pain-heavy rasp.
She didn’t move.
But something behind her did.
From the dark of the forest, through pillars of pines, a hunched shape crept stealthily but purposefully toward Leigh. Dark fur covered the thing from head to legs. As it neared the light, he could see it had canine thighs with hock-like bends, though it walked upright and its lower legs were thick with massive hooved feet. Its torso was thin but its shoulders wide, arms like a gorilla. The strangest incongruity of all was the head that rested upon those stout shoulders—a head that was a cross between wolf and elk, with saliva-wet teeth, fierce eyes that carried the night deep within, and atop its awful skull a rack of black antlers like those of a demonic Herne come to claim its prey.
It came into the edge of light long enough to lift his wife’s limp corpse into its arms. Then it turned away, carrying her back into the dark.
Clay screamed. He yelled for the thing to stop, to come back, and cried for all the power of God to come down and help, to save his wife, to rewind the world and take them back to that moment he would always remember—the last moment they were happy together, in front of that roaring fire at the ranch house, before they’d seen the strange lights on the hill and gone up to investigate, before the thing had dashed in front of the truck and he’d jerked the wheel, before the very heart of his world stopped beating.
He was babbling and had frostbite and hypothermia when they found him.
A traveler on the highway in the valley below had seen that single headlight beam, called 911, and waited to lead the deputy and EMTs to the accident. Clay didn’t remember any more than snap-flashes of the night, like stills from a horror show that had dropped its curtains on reality for a few terrible moments, leaving death behind.
Rehab had been arduous. They’d brought him back from the edge of ruin. But he always felt that bone-deep cold, especially in the dead of night. Sometimes in his dreams he still laid in that icy snow, unable to move, screaming his wife’s name.
One Year Later
Clay stomped up the front steps of the Big Sky General Store, a simple log building that served the town’s small population with the style and grace of the pioneer era. It was tucked away off the main road, and though the snow had been plowed from the circular drive the night before, a fair amount had accumulated since it started snowing again at first light. Multi-colored strings of lights flashed in the cabin windows, beyond which a small Christmas tree gleamed with ornaments inside the store. He climbed onto the porch, a pronounced limp in his right leg. Clay opened the squealing screen and pushed open the door. Bells hanging from the knob inside announced his arrival.
The smell of the place was pumpkin and spice, wood smoke and cigars. The pumpkin and spice was Rachel Weller’s doing— she’d put out some crafts for the holidays hoping to stir up some extra money. The wood smoke and cigars were Mac Weller’s doing—a wood burning stove heated the place, and every Friday night, he and the gray-haired Sky Valley Regulars sat in the back, smoked cigars, drank whiskey and played poker like God didn’t mind a sinner if he was a man of a certain age.
When Clay came in, Mac closed the door on the woodstove with a clang, dropping the lever to hold it closed. Heat radiated off the stove’s black iron.
“Clayton James! Up early again, I see. How’s the ranch treatin’ you this week?”
“Like an old horse on his last leg, Mac.”
<
br /> “Hell of a cold spell this week. Rachel,” Mac called into the back, “bring out two cups of coffee.”
Rachel made an indecipherable response through the wall of the back room.
“Well, what can I do ya for?” Mac wiped his hands on a rag behind the counter.
“I’d like to pick up my new Winchester today. I’ve got my final payment here. Just in time for the holidays,” Clay smiled but it felt like a wince so he dropped it quick. “Merry Christmas to me.” He pushed a small pile of bills across the counter.
Mac looked down at the money. “So, you’ve finally put it together.” The old man made a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. Clay thought the old man should have been happy to sell one of those high-dollar items gathering dust back in his sporting goods section—just a corner with some rifles and fishing rods. “Good for you, man. A Model 70 Classic. One fine gun. One helluva caliber, too.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, some bears been creeping around the creek, and I had two dogs turn up dead. Chicken coop got raided, too. Lost a helluva lotta birds.”
“Well, if you’re havin’ bear trouble, I’d say that’s probably one ornery beast, as they’re all supposed to be snoozing away the winter right about now.”
Clay gave Mac a tight-lipped smile. Mac’s new wife Rachel emerged from the back of the store with a black cup for Mac, Golden Nugget—Las Vegas in gold letters on the side, and a Styrofoam cup for Clay with steaming black coffee. He nodded thanks. She smiled through cat-eye spectacles she’d probably had since 1967 and flittered off to a far corner of the store like a gray moth. Mac was still looking at Clay.
Clay narrowed his eyes at the man. He felt a quiver of unease at what he saw there. Something that didn’t quite belong. And maybe it was just his nervousness, his natural distrust of these people. Maybe he really had gone all the way crazy out here, working the ranch by himself this past year.
Yeah, just the local kook. That’s me—the guy who saw the devil.
“That’s right,” Clay told him. “Gives me plenty of time to practice.”
Mac studied him a moment longer. “All right then. You’ll need some ammunition.”
“Four boxes for now.”
“Fair enough.”
Mac was his old self again, the tense moment could almost have been imagined. He moved from behind the counter and went back to that distant corner of the store. The rifles were kept in a safe, so he had to work the tumblers and make a production out of setting the weapon free. Mac laid the gun before Clay. He hefted it in his hands and felt a strange power course through him. It felt good.
“And the bullets.”
“Thank you much, Mac.”
They completed the transaction and Clay was just leaving when Reverend Fleming came in, bells on the doorknob jingling. He was wrapped in a long, black coat with a scarf, fresh snowflakes dusting his shoulders and gray-streaked black hair. The reverend smiled at everyone, but lost a beat when he saw Clay limping toward him, cased rifle over his shoulder and bag of bullets in hand.
The Reverend regained his composure quickly, but not so quick that Clay couldn’t see the same thing he’d seen in Mac’s eyes—questions, leeriness, mystery, duplicity. Clay had a sudden deep surge of loathing for the reverend, although he’d done a masterful job of officiating Leigh’s memorial service last year. Still, he hadn’t known her but as a young girl years ago, when her father owned the ranch, before he passed away and she’d inherited the whole thing. Leigh hadn’t grown up the church-going type, and Clay didn’t have a mind to be told how to live. The way he figured, God wanted him to do something specific, He’d deliver the message Himself. The Reverend promised that the church would love to have him, crooned about how they wanted to reach out and bring him into the fold. Clay had nodded and smiled and never again darkened that old church’s door.
“Good morning, Mr. James,” Reverend Fleming said.
“Morning, Reverend.”
“Off to do some hunting?”
“No, just to do some thinking.”
“Heavy thinking, I’d say.” There was that damned hint again, that thing lurking behind the man’s eyes. And when Clay looked back at Mac, the old man shared the look. Like, for just a minute, their heads were empty, and something else lived inside.
“Heavier than I’d care to elaborate,” Clay said, a slight tone of menace unintentionally slipping into his voice. His right eye twitched as he regarded the men. “Tell Rachel thanks for the coffee, Mac.”
The bells on the doorknob jingled as he went out limping, his leg and hip aching in the cold.
* * *
Clay stood on the front porch of the ranch house in the bitter cold of a still morning later that week. Fresh snow had piled atop everything, creating a pillowed silence in the forest. He had a cup of coffee in his hand, a cigarette in the other. He took a deep drag, paper sizzling, smoke curling around his head, and watched the deputy’s patrol Blazer come up the long drive. The house where he’d lived with Leigh, where she’d been raised by her late father, sat with its back to the edge of the forest at the foot of a steep mountain range, overlooking the ranch in the open trough of the valley. The Blazer rattled over the cold planks of the creek bridge and ascended the long driveway, exhaust puffing as he parked in front of the house.
Deputy Dale Barr shut off the Blazer and got out. The slamming of the door made some snow drop from a nearby branch.
“Howdy, Clay.”
“Mornin’, Dale.”
The deputy came up the stairs uninvited. Clay smoked and looked away from Deputy Dale. The slope of the mountain range behind the house was steep. The Jeep trail on which he and Leigh had crashed last winter led that way, into the thick forest of pines. Dark clouds hung low from the overcast sky. In the muted daylight, the trees seemed black, the snow blue-gray. Clay took another drag off his cigarette.
“Talked to Mac the other day. He thought I should come out to see how things were going for you.” Deputy Dale paused at the top stair, one booted foot on the porch, leaning against the rustic but sturdy railing. The officer pushed back his white cowboy hat and regarded Clay.
“That so?”
“He said you’d had some animal trouble; some chickens and a horse went missing.”
“Chickens and two dogs.”
“Ah.”
Deputy Dale reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of gum, popped it in his mouth, and made a big production out of folding the foil wrapper. He chewed for a minute. Clay dropped his cigarette butt in a clay pot near the door. He slid his hands into the pockets of his insulated overalls and stared at Dale.
“Mac said you got a new gun. A Model 70 thirty ought six.”
“Mac talks too much,” said Clay.
“Maybe so, but not much else to do around these parts. You’ve been around long enough to know that, at least.”
That and more, you little son of a bitch, Clay thought. He said, “I suppose so.”
“I guess if you’ve got a bear problem, that’ll take care of it for you. You got a bear problem, you think?”
“It’s possible.”
“You seen a bear round these parts recently?”
“I guess that’d be highly irregular this time of year.”
Dale shrugged. “Not impossible. They’ll stick around as long as there’s food to be had. You seen one?”
“Nope. Just the dead animals.”
“Just guessing then, huh?”
“Just playin’ it safe. Plenty of good reasons to have a rifle out here.”
“Absolutely. And those Winchesters are damn nice. Had one myself for a time. A Model 70, too, but mine was a .270. Seemed a little more accurate at long range, but then I was just using it for deer hunting. And I haven’t been out for a few seasons, much to my wife’s dismay. She liked that time to herself. Me and the fellas head out, I figure she’s got some hot little number lined up from Bozeman.”
Clay grunted. Dale’s wife was ugly enough to scare buzzards of
f a meat wagon.
“Well,” Dale went on. “You have any trouble out this way, don’t be afraid to call the sub-station. Me or one of the guys’d be happy to come out and check things out with you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dale was almost back to his vehicle when he half-turned and said, “Say, the Reverend mentioned you last Sunday in some casual conversation. We figure it’s not good for a man to be alone during the season. Especially considering the circumstances.”
Clay didn’t respond. His breath misted from his nostrils.
“The Regulars are meetin’ up at the church Thursday night for some cards and holiday libations. Mac’s bringing some of his special stock.” Dale grinned and it wasn’t pretty. “Anyway, we’d like you to join us. Seven o-clock. Penny ante … just a friendly game.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
Dale opened the door of his Blazer. “You do that.”
He drove away.
Clay stayed on the porch for a minute. He gazed back up at the mountainside, then went inside.
* * *
Friday night he gave in to an increasing need to drink and swallowed a few shots of bourbon that tasted and felt far better than he remembered. He was careful not to drink too much, just enough to take the edge off. It also spurred him into misty-edged recollection of the day he and Leigh met three years ago.
He’d been in Bozeman, Montana doing temp work, having moved from Colorado to get farther away from civilization and the Hollywood hell that all the state’s beautiful places had become. Naturally, he’d left behind more than that—a failed engagement, an ailing father he’d just planted in a cemetery in view of Cheyenne Mountain, and a thousand memories of things better left unremembered. The move had done him good, but money was running short, and office temp work suited him like a bikini on a bull. Wilderness called, so when he saw the “Ranch-Hand Wanted” ad in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle, he made the 45-mile drive through the loveliest pristine mountains he’d seen, into Big Sky Valley. His interview had been with Leigh’s father, old Jim Bourne, who’d finally admitted to himself that he couldn’t run the small ranch on his own at age 72. Jim Bourne reminded Clay a lot of his dad. In fact, they had the best talk Clay’d had with anyone since before Dad died, and maybe the old man felt it too, because he got hired on the spot.