The Cutthroat Cannibals

by Craig Sargent

  “That’s right, Stone—I’m a doctor. A real doctor. All this”—he waved the rattle for a second—“is bull. It’s what they want to see, and I know how to give it to them. After medical school I did return to my own tribal reservation determined to set up a practice and help my people get real medical treatment for the first time in their lives. Only thing was, I was on my way home when a nuke just happened to come down about twenty miles from the reservation. By the time I arrived there wasn’t a hell of a lot left to treat. They were already all dead or dying from radiation poisoning. Teeth coming out like spilled marbles, hair—the strength of an Indian—falling out like scythed hay. Bald, bleeding Indians. Quite a sight to see. So when the last one croaked—a baby, only three, who fell apart in my hands, its destroyed cells actually turning to an ooze that dripped down and burned my arms…. But anyway, when it died there was no reason to stay anymore. And having not a hell of a lot to live for I just sort of walked around in a daze for nearly a week, not eating or sleeping or anything. It was like I had gone over the edge of madness. When I came to the river about a hundred miles upstream I dove in. I wanted to die but, god knows how, somehow I became entangled in a tree. I fell in and out of consciousness for what seemed like months. When I came to, I was here. And being an Indian, they let me live unlike the others they’ve fished out. And being the smart cookie that I am, and having medical skills, I soon saw that if I played the whole thing right I could become a real power in the village. And though my people were dead, at least I could be aiding my race, my blood.”

  The man took a deep breath and Stone realized that he had told his entire life history in one great blast of air and words. The fellow was definitely on something.

  “And the dog?” Stone asked, pointing over at Excaliber, who didn’t seem interested in the witch man’s rap and had turned completely over in the other direction, his nose buried as deeply as possible into the narrow opening between two tires as he sucked in the outside air. He seemed to hate the rubbery scent even more than Stone. But then his nostrils were ten thousand times more sensitive.

  “Your mutt there—a pit bull if I remember my interspecies anatomy, happens to resemble Myhwhanka, the Hawk Dog, the most powerful of the tribe’s gods. The Hawk Dog runs the whole fucking show. They’re scared shit of your animal. They’re not really sure what to do about it. I don’t think the chief really believes it is Myhwhanka, but on the off chance that it is, he has to be extremely careful. For the Hawk Dog is the bringer of death, total destruction, when he bares his fangs. I really don’t know what’s going to happen to you, Stone, I swear. I’ll do what I can, but it’s not much. Though I’m a medicine man I’m just one of five here, and the lowest on the totem pole so to speak. They let me perform certain ceremonial functions and help a few kids who get sick, but I can’t do much. The reason they sent me in here to investigate the supernatural potential of the situation is because it was beneath the rest of the witch boys’ stations to come. They got a strong union. Also I’m the most expendable in case something goes wrong.” The purple lips stopped moving for the first time in a minute and smiled, again showing those filed-down vampirelike stumps that Stone had a hard time looking at.

  “Just one more question,” Stone said, sitting up and rubbing his leg, which had begun throbbing painfully, sending rivers of fire up and down his nervous system. “Why the hell should you help me, pal? You’re one of them, I’m a paleface. What’s in it for you?”

  “Believe it or not I still try to follow the Hippocratic Oath—you know, that corny old thing about helping others. Once I get everyone out of whatever rubber teepee I’ve been called to I always ask to be left alone with the patient. Then after I do my rattle bull I go to this.” He pulled a black leather medical satchel from beneath his rotting fur robes and threw it to the ground next to Stone’s leg. “This too came floating down one day. I managed to barter it away from the finder with some rather potent hallucinogenic mushrooms I find very useful as exchange around here, since these fellows love to commune with the gods. Anyway why the hell, shouldn’t I help you?” he asked. “Whether I look like a psychotic savage to you is irrelevant. I assure you, Stone, I do know what I’m doing. Top of my class—Boston Med.”

  He took a glistening scalpel from the bag and leaned down again toward Stone’s leg. Excaliber looked over suddenly, sensing the drawing of a cutting implement. The dog started to rise until Stone motioned it down.

  “Relax, dog, he’s a vet.” The animal closed its eyes and harrumphed disgustedly, snorting air out through its nose like a whale clearing its breathing tubes. “All right, doc…” Stone faltered on the words, again looking into that nightmarish face. But he went with his instincts. “Do your thing, doc… whatever that is,” Stone said, lying back and gritting his teeth.

  The witch man lifted the rattle and shook it loudly at the door, letting loose with a few war cries just so it didn’t get too quiet inside. “Love this job,” he said, as he sliced the blood-soaked pants all around the fractured leg so he could get a better look.

  “But listen, Stone, there is a price for my medical talents: tell me what the hell’s going on out there. A number of times I’ve thought about leaving. It’s, uh, interesting here but not exactly the peak of intellectual or social stimulation.” He cut the pants open and peeled back both already hardening pieces of material to see just what the avalanche had wrought on breakable flesh.

  “Well, as far as I’ve seen,” Stone replied, resting his arms back behind his head against one of the tires, “you’re just as smart to stay here until hell freezes over. It’s bad out there. It’s horrible. A place that should only exist in nightmares and grade C horror movies. If I were you I’d stay put. You got a good job, security. Probably grow old and become top witch man, maybe even run the show.”

  “That’s about what I figured,” Nanhanke said as he stood back from his close inspection of the wound. “You could see from a lot of the stuff that floated downriver—especially the bodies—that the world had taken a decided turn for the worse in the last few years. Just wanted to confirm it, I guess.”

  “Well, consider it confirmed,” Stone said. “As bad as you visualize it, it’s worse.”

  “All right, Stone, I’ve got good news and bad news,” the medicine man said, shaking the rattle about five times and then dropping it down. “The good news is that your leg is healing nicely.”

  “And the bad?” Stone asked, fearing the worst.

  “The bad is that it’s healing improperly, at an angle. Once the bone re-fuses with itself you’ll walk with a pronounced limp, maybe won’t even be able to run or anything. Not exactly a survival trait in the outside, I would imagine.”

  “So what’s the treatment?” Stone asked nervously, knowing that whatever it was, it was going to hurt like hell.

  “There’s only one thing I can do: try to force the damned thing back into a straight alignment. But it’s already started healing… so… so”

  “So, spit it out man. Christ, your bedside manners leave something to be desired.”

  “So I’m going to have to rebreak it, maybe slam the living shit out of it to get the bone back into place.”

  “You’re kidding,” Stone whispered, his face growing white.

  “No joke about it, gringo,” Nanhanke said with a grin, trying but failing to lighten the tense mood. “Either I do my best or it’s cripple time for the Stone man.”

  “Go ahead then,” Stone said, getting a sinking and dark feeling in his guts. He wasn’t afraid of dying, but there was something about being torn to pieces bit by broken bit that he wasn’t looking forward to at all.

  “Better warn your dog there to cool it if you start screaming or something. Because I can promise you only one thing—it will hurt.”

  “Excaliber,” Stone yelled, cupping one hand over his mouth. “Shut up!” He figured if he prewarned the dog it would listen. But the canine was already fast asleep and in much too pleasant a dream to pay Stone’s a
dmonitions from the real world the slightest heed.

  “Go ahead man, do your fucking thing,” Stone said, gritting his teeth.

  The Indian moved fast as if he wanted to get it over with quickly. He grabbed hold of the inner rim of a tire about six feet up and getting a good grip, suddenly jumped up in the air and came down with both feet right on the broken bone. Stone let out a scream that surprised even him. And Nanhanke rattled madly at the door while he let his patient settle down. Once Stone’s mouthings had dropped to dull hisses of torture, the witch man got down on his knees and examined the wound.

  “Good, good, I did it—or very close. Now we’ll just—” He reached out without giving Stone any warning, and grabbing at the leg with both hands slammed the two pieces against one another with all the strength of his 230-pound, well-muscled body. He was, after all, an Indian. This time Stone actually managed to keep the scream to a long whistling trainlike sound that went on for a full minute. For though it hurt like a bitch, he could suddenly sense that the bone did fit properly now. It was as if his whole leg suddenly felt straight, as it should be.

  “I think you… you actually fixed it,” Stone said, reaching down to touch the wounded area.

  “Uh-uh,” Nanhanke said, slapping down at Stone’s hands. “Don’t touchee now,” he mocked him as if addressing a child. “Infection, that’s going to be your biggest worry now. I’ll squirt some of this Indian goo on. It really works, has antibiotic properties.” He inundated the still-oozing split skin that stretched half way around the leg with a greenish substance that felt both cool and instantly soothing on Stone’s torn flesh. “And then we’ll just throw some white man’s bandages on here.” He wrapped some sterile gauze around the wound and tied it all down with thin threads of buffalo intestine.

  “Jesus Christ,” Stone blurted out in sheer amazement as the witch doctor stood back and surveyed his work.

  “No—Nanhanke,” the medicine man chuckled, his broken teeth reflecting the light that flowed in from outside. “Wish I had a business card to give you.” He patted at his animal hides and fox-jaw necklaces as if he might have somehow misplaced one somewhere inside. “Well anyway, that’s all I can do. God help you, Stone, Indian and gringo gods alike. It’s out of my hands now. Just keep in close proximity to your bird dog there, he’s your ace in the hole.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Linderstein,” Stone said half mockingly, addressing the man with his other alias. “I won’t forget it.”

  “Don’t mention, don’t mention,” Nanhanke said, starting toward the door. He began waving his rattle again, dancing up and down as he chanted deep guttural sounds like a dying man clearing his throat. He screamed at the tires and the braves quickly pulled them back, letting him exit. They loaded in some food—two big bowls, each holding a good gallon of steaming stuff. Since the chief felt he had to be hospitable to the possible dog god, they were both given a stew of the tenderest venison.

  Excaliber’s eyes lifted from out of deep sleep at the scents suddenly wafting over his nose, which were even stronger than the wretched rubbery smell. He was at his bowl and slobbering up a virtual eruption of the steaming food before Stone had a chance to lift his fork. Yea, though we walketh into the shadow of the Valley of Death—let’s eat first.

  CHAPTER

  Eight

  STONE had to admit that the Atsana treated him pretty well—for a man who was most likely headed for the grave, that is. For he had no illusions about the future of things. They were still unsure of just what the hell to do with him and his crazy dog and held endless meetings on the subject. But at least they treated him as if they were following the Geneva convention on POW treatment—plenty of food, care for his wound, and shelter. Only problem was he couldn’t go anywhere, just stayed locked inside the tire prison with shifts of braves waiting out front in case he got any funny gringo ideas.

  But at least he could see out the slits and cracks between the tires. From the moment he awoke the next morning, after a heaping breakfast of corn gruel and nuts, he spent the rest of the morning and afternoon glued to the openings in the igloo of black rubber trying to find out everything he could about the Indian village, its beliefs, its people. Any information he could pick up might mean the difference between life and death. Stone remembered being out in the mountains with his father, the major. He was only six and they were coming down a mountain path when Clayton Stone stopped in his tracks and put his hand on his son’s shoulder to stop him, putting his fingers to his lips at the same time. He pointed down at some tracks in the inch or so of freshly fallen snow.

  “Mountain cat, Martin, see?” The boy looked down. Stone remembered being both very cold, his breath falling from his mouth like liquid oxygen from the tail of a rocket, and at the same time very excited. A mountain lion. He had never seen one. “It’s the little things that tell you everything son, see.” He traced the outline of the track with his finger. “We know by the size and shape of the foot what it is, and by the fact that the edges are still almost straight, not rounded off by the wind, that he’s probably within a hundred yards of us. It’s the little things around you that reveal everything.” And though Stone could hardly believe that even his father could predict such things, lo and behold they moved on slow and quiet as possible and within seventy-five yards came to a good-sized cat behind a bush ripping away at a cottontail. The lion looked at them, they looked at the lion, and young Martin’s heart sped up to the beat of a drum machine. But it was the lion who broke and ran first. The little things. They revealed all. So Stone set to find those little things in every action, every movement he could make out through the slits and cracks of the tire palace.

  Excaliber as well seemed to have found ways to occupy himself. The dog had discovered that it could use the spaces between the tires to sort of half climb/half hang off the wall. And by taking a good running jump the animal was actually able to scamper right up the side of one of the walls nearly to the ceiling where, after a few frantic seconds of trying to get a hold on anything at all, it would fall back to the earth below with a thud. But the dog was so tough that it wasn’t fazed. And each time, the canine would rise up again, bouncing right off the earthen floor like a ball, get a good running jump, and try again. No matter how many falls it only seemed to drive the terrier to greater efforts. It virtually flew up along the walls and ceiling like some sort of misfit that had neither the physiology nor the muscular abilities to climb.

  Meanwhile, Stone was fascinated by what he observed outside. It was like looking back onto a primitive world, almost prehistoric. Men had doubtless lived like this ten thousand years ago. Carrying water in gourds from the river, living off the fish pulled from the roaring waters with crude nets they had set out. Women on their knees wearing thick buffalo and buckskin outfits grinding corn kernels that had been stored from the summer before, into paste for breads and crackers. Young braves running around half naked as they played at spearing one another with branches, shooting each other with imaginary bows and arrows, each one taking turns to kill and then be killed. Everywhere there was a myriad of activity and over the hours Stone counted at least a hundred people as he tried to keep mental track of those who went by.

  After a while in fact, he came to recognize and name—at least in his own mind—those he was observing. There was the Old Lady with a Face Like Leather Who Could Carry a Thousand Pounds. She would go up and down the hill on one side of Stone’s rubber home with a look of supreme patience on her copper red face filled with cracks and rivulets that life had chiseled across her features. Down the hill to the river, filling four huge gourds with water and then carrying them back up balancing them on a long pole that she carried over her shoulders. Just by the way the pole bent Stone knew that the weight was 150, possibly 200 pounds, far more than the ancient squaw’s weight. When people didn’t know they “couldn’t” do something, they seemed to have the remarkable ability to do it.

  Then there was the Hunter Who Liked to Brag for Hours. Stone sort of li
ked the guy. A huge brave, garbed in a bizarre sort of costume created of equal parts of bear pelt and plastic spandex ribbing in the arms and waist, with football shoulder protectors sewn in with leather thongs around the shoulders. Then a baseball cap with NY METS on it, feathers stuck in top through the green sunglass visor that had been built into the brim for watching games. The combination of styles gave the yellow striped face a look of something the avant garde fashion designers of Soho and Paris were playing with before there were no more clothes to design and no more stores to sell them in. Still the guy could doubtless have made quite a hit back in the right circles. But he seemed to be doing pretty good right here. The Indian had bagged a moth-bitten mountain goat and had dragged it back, depositing it on the ground where he proceeded to spend hours bragging to whoever he could get to stop how big the thing was.

  Though the Indians seemed to take pride in how they looked, many of them had physical infirmities and deformities. Most had lost their teeth and had mouths of wooden teeth that kept coming out. Others were missing arms, hands, a leg here and there. And as always, as Stone had seen throughout his travels, radiation burns and the resultant symptoms and diseases caused by it. Some of the children were the worst. Their parents would have been exposed to high levels of radioactivity out here. Stone had seen two H-craters within a hundred miles of the place. And it was their children who had paid the price for those who lived to breed, for many were deformed, some quite horribly. Arms twisted at odd chicken-wing like angles, faces missing chins or ears, lips where noses should have been, three eyes. Even a pair of completely legless boys. And yet he had to hand it to all of them, to the sheer tenacity of the Atsana spirit. For the ugly bastards played and laughed and ran with the others like the healthiest of children. Even the legless ones were carried, the eyeless ones were led. All were allowed to join in, all screamed out in wild childish laughter.