by Weston Ochse
Matt had to giggle at his guardian’s petulance.
“And stop giggling,” Jacket said crabbily. “I may have had to dig through dirty diapers, spoiled milk and fried chicken leavings, but you have to call your parents.”
Matt’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth, but Jacket cut him off before he could get the protest out. “Uh-uh.” Jacket punched a finger in Matt’s direction. “To pull this off, you have to call them. Don’t go getting soft on me now.”
Matt swallowed, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m not getting soft.” He scrunched his eyes together and stared up to where the faces the four dead presidents were carved into the side of the mountain. “I’m just figuring out what I’m gonna say.”
Rumbles from a dozen engines suddenly disturbed the mountain peace. Turning, Matt and Jacket watched as Ali Baba and some of his thieves pulled into the parking lot. They drove around the RV once as if to inspect it and the bikers who had remained. When they were satisfied, they rolled to a stop and parked side by side.
Ali Baba got off his bike, stretched, then turned in their direction. Both Jacket and Matt instinctively dropped to the ground. Although Reggie’s cousin had never seen Jacket before, he knew what Matt looked like. If he saw the boy, Ali Baba would know something was going on. The last he’d known, Matt had been picked up from the fish hatchery by his mom and dad.
Suddenly, Ali Baba pointed directly toward them.
“Uh-oh,” Jacket muttered.
Matt closed his eyes, but instead of a shout of alarm, they heard laughter. When he opened his eyes, Matt saw Ali Baba and three of his thieves chuckling. After a moment, they turned and entered the RV. The rest of the bikers split up and found places on the ground or empty picnic benches. Spooked by the rough-looking group, two older women in matching T-shirts that read I’m A Grandma. So what? left their table and rushed to a pale blue station wagon. Two of the thieves plopped down at their table and helped themselves to the women’s sodas and half-eaten bucket of chicken.
Satisfied no one was watching them, Jacket and Matt rolled onto their backs, then realized what Ali Baba and his thieves had been laughing at. A hot-air balloon with a curvy-looking cartoon woman drifted slowly in front of the faces of the presidents.
Matt and Jacket exchanged looks, then rolled back onto their stomachs so they could watch the RV. Matt hoped Reggie wouldn’t get into too much trouble. He felt a little guilty at putting her in this position, but it was the only way he could think of to get her away from her cousin and help at the same time.
Matt spied movement at the back of the RV. He stared directly at the spot, but he couldn’t quite figure it out—all he could catch was the edge of the vehicle and part of a tire mounted on the back. He shook his head and returned his gaze to the door and windows.
Then he saw it again. A quick movement, a shift of shadow, as though someone were hiding behind the RV. Still, when he stared at the spot again, he saw nothing … but when he looked away, he saw the movement again. Strange.
Puzzled, Matt turned his head back and forth slowly, alternating his gaze from the door to the rear of the RV. He discovered that the only way he could see the movement was if he resisted the temptation to look directly at it.
Now he was sure that there was a man behind the RV, someone cloaked in shadow. Once Matt made out an arm. Another time a foot. Twice he saw a face and could have sworn that it was staring at him.
“What are you doing?” Jacket demanded. “I didn’t even ask a question and here you are telling me no.”
“I see something,” he answered. “There, at the back of the RV.” He hesitated. “Or at least I think I do. I think it’s a man, but I can only spot him if I kind of look sideways.” It was the only way Matt could find to describe it. His guardian’s grin turned into a scowl as the explanation unfolded.
Matt wasn’t happy at Jacket’s expression. “What’s wrong?”
Jacket closed his eyes and shook his head. “I should have known,” he said, more to himself than Matt. He turned and stared at the back of the RV, using Matt’s technique of looking slightly away, then back. After a moment, his scowl deepened. “I knew it.”
“What?” Matt stared from Jacket to the RV. “What did you know?”
Jacket hesitated. “Not all of us are nice, you know? There are those of us who seek to … use you.”
“Who? Bikers?”
“No, not them. The dead. People like Raisin and me are more common. You could even call us good guys, if you stretch the meaning of the word a little. Then there are those like Calamity and Wild Bill. They’re neutrals, really. They don’t need people bothering them, and they don’t want that, either. In fact, they’d leave people alone entirely if it wasn’t for the fact that they’re usually at popular places.” Jacket paused. “Then there are the bad guys. We’re talking dirty, rotten human-hating, hate-feeding things that shouldn’t even be allowed to exist.”
Matt’s eyes widened. “Really? Like what?”
“Phantoms—that thing down there.” Jacket gestured at the RV, his eyes still dark. “It feeds on bad emotions like hate and anger. It also feeds on other ghosts, murdering them and consuming their essence.”
“That thing’s a phantom?” Matt stared at the creature out of the corner of his eye.
Jacket pressed his lips together. “I should’ve known all the bad things that Ali Baba creep is doing would draw one down here.”
“Or maybe the phantom is causing the whole thing,” Matt suggested.
“Well, that’s a thought. Either way, there’s enough negative energy coming out of that RV for the thing to be pretty powerful.”
A chilly wind suddenly brushed their faces, and they both realized the sky had darkened as a prairie-spawned thunderhead covered the sun.
“Gotta warn Raisin,” Jacket said, then he jerked as Matt made a hissing sound beneath his breath. “What’s wrong?”
“The phantom—it’s coming this way!”
Jacket spun and stared, moving his head the way he’d learned from Matt. Sure enough, the creature was taking advantage of the gloom and creeping across the parking lot directly toward them. It had arms and legs, but like a skewed human, it moved with strange, jerking movements. Its color was a smoky dark gray, but in some places it swirled to black, the substance of itself moving and shifting. With morbid curiosity, they couldn’t pull their gazes away as it made it to the bottom of the incline.
Matt twisted his hands. “Can it hurt living people?”
“I don’t think so,” Jacket said, then he squinted. “I mean, I’m pretty sure it can’t.”
His doubtful tone was hard to miss. “Then why are you worried?”
“’Cause I don’t know which category I fall into,” he admitted.
“Oh,” Matt said. “Oh!” Abruptly realizing that they could be in serious danger, Matt grabbed Jacket’s hand and they scrambled backward. They managed to put about six feet between them and the incline before the phantom crested its top.
It was even more horrid up close. Its head was hairless and oblong, with hungry eyes squatting at the midpoint above a gaping, toothless mouth. Gray and black swirled across its misshapen body. The only purely black space was its mouth, as if that orifice was the entrance to an endless void.
The only way they could see the creature was to stare at each other. “Don’t move,” Jacket whispered.
Matt didn’t dare answer. He felt the phantom’s hunger wash over him, a needy, oily feeling that made Matt sick to his stomach. He wanted nothing more than to get away from the thing, but—“I can’t move!”
Jacket’s voice was so low Matt nearly didn’t hear his reply. “It’s just as well.” There was a tone to Jacket’s voice again, but this one sounded alarmingly like resignation.
The creature hissed suddenly and raced across the small space to get to Jacket. When the phantom brought its face level with Jacket’s and hissed again, Jacket didn’t try to run—it was far too late for tha
t. Although Jacket was staring at Matt, he was looking right at the creature from the corner of his eyes. The two stayed that way for several seconds—Jacket paralyzed, the black and gray creature staring in something like puzzlement. Finally the phantom drifted down and circled Jacket several times, as if it was looking for a way to get inside him.
“Whaaaat issss thissss?” hissed the creature. “Thissss issss dead and thissss issss alive. Dead and alive in the ssssame body.”
The sound of its voice was like knives scraping against each other. Goose bumps skimmed along Matt’s exposed skin and he couldn’t stop himself from groaning in fear.
The creature whipped its face toward the sound, then slid over to inspect Matt. The boy trembled visibly but stayed where he was. His mind screamed for him to stand up and run, but nothing he could do or think made his body respond—it was locked and rigid.
“Boy,” the creature said, the sound like an ax scraping against a metal door.
Matt’s head jerked as he tried desperately to look away. From somewhere he heard the rumble of an engine, a bird whistle, a faraway laugh. He tried to concentrate on these sounds, tried to block out the creature crouching before him.
Matt tensed as it started to reach for him, then just as abruptly sat up and slavered at something behind him. “Issss better!” mouthed the phantom. It swept around Matt and jerked away.
Their muscles sagged, loose and useless, as Matt and Jacket felt the fear drop away. Another long moment, a couple of hard gasps, and they were able to turn and follow where the creature had gone.
Matt gasped. The engine sound—that had been Buddha pulling up behind them in the three-wheeler. He gave them a big-toothed smile, completely unaware of the murder taking place right next to him.
The ghost of the hitchhiker lay limp within the phantom’s clawed grip. The hitchhiker’s head lolled, facing Matt, and he locked gazes with him. The ghost’s mouth opened and static spilled out, an agonized, pathetic sound. The phantom’s head dipped hungrily in and out of the ghost’s body. Each time, there was a little less left.
“I wondered where you two got off to,” said Buddha cheerfully. He couldn’t hear the hiss of the creature’s hunger, the static whine of the dying hitchhiker ghost. Buddha was blissfully ignorant.
Matt had to do something, but what? Direct action was impossible—he could no more physically stop the creature than he could pull the ghost to safety. His interaction with the spirit world was limited to observer-only status. He was helpless.
The hitchhiker’s legs had been eaten away by the ravenous phantom. Matt watched in horror as it closed its mouth around the hitchhiker’s arm and the appendage disappeared.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Matt finally found his voice and screamed as loudly as he could. “You’re killing him!”
The phantom ignored him, but Buddha didn’t. The big man’s smile evaporated and was replaced by a wounded frown. “Buddha doesn’t kill anyone. Buddha’s a vegetarian.”
“Not you,” Jacket said tiredly.
Matt sobbed. “You’re killing him. Please, God, make him stop.”
The phantom paused in its consumption and looked around. Its gaze passed over Matt and Jacket as if it didn’t even see them, then suddenly widened. The hungry mouth shrank to a sneer.
“Black Jack McCall, you yellow-bellied rapscallion—I’ve finally found you!”
The ghost of Calamity Jane blew past them with both guns drawn as she leaped toward the phantom, firing first one gun, then the other. Each bullet left a ghostly white trail in the air.
The phantom pushed its victim to the ground and dove toward the bottom of the three-wheeler.
“Oh, no, you don’t, you scurrilous murderer!” screeched Calamity as she leveled both pistols at it. She squeezed the triggers and several bullets pierced the phantom, tearing away at its darkness. The creature’s scream was shrill and chattering, like nails rolling across a floor.
Calamity Jane closed in, never slowing in her shooting. Each bullet tore away another part of the phantom’s darkness, revealing a gray image beneath. There was no need to reload—the guns of the dead never run out of bullets. The ghostly sounds and screams rang in Matt’s head as round after round tore away more pieces of the creature, until finally the last chunk of evil dark was blown apart.
The creature beneath the façade was a frumpy blond man with a lecherous smile. Dressed in boots, pants and a torn cotton shirt, he was anything but fearsome.
“That’s right, Jack McCall. You kilt my Bill, and now I’m gonna kill you.”
The thing that had once been the phantom opened its mouth to argue, but before it could utter a single word, the cloud that had been obscuring the sun moved on. The earth was suddenly awash in brightness. Bathed in sudden light, the ghost screamed and twisted.
Calamity fired one last time, her bullet taking the ghost of Jack McCall right between the eyes. What remained of its essence shattered and fell, scattering the earth with a thousand irreparable pieces that burned as they hit the ground. A few seconds later, even the smoke was gone, whisked away by the winds that forever surged across the plains.
“There,” Calamity Jane said. She holstered her pistols, adjusted the brim of her shapeless hat, and spat on the ground. “It’s about darned time.”
XXIII
AIN’T NOTHING BADDER THAN THE BADLANDS
By the time Matt and Jacket reached the south side of Rapid City, the clock on the Western Stockman’s Savings Bank read 3:30 p.m. They had roughly three hours until twilight and the expiration of the spell that had remade Matt’s guardian spirit into a living, breathing person.
Matt’s mind was still reeling from the day’s events. Once they’d calmed Buddha down, explaining to him about the phantom, things had began to move quickly. Calamity Jane had disappeared, bent on hoofing it back to Deadwood. Now that her curse was lifted, she could finally be with her man. Matt secretly wondered if Wild Bill would be as happy.
Granny Annie was enraged at the treatment of the hitchhiker by the phantom. Whispering words only meant for the ears of the dead, she’d gently lifted the half-eaten body and returned him to the three-wheeler. Static leaked from his sad, wan smile. With Buddha at the wheel, in no time at all they were off to the cemetery to bury him and finally put him at rest. They made a solemn promise to Matt to pick up Kubla on their way back.
But the major thing was the phone call.
It was probably the most difficult thing Matt had ever done. He’d lied to his parents before, but there had never been so much at stake, and he had never felt as guilty as he had with his mother and father crying on the other end of the telephone line.
“They won’t let me go,” he’d fibbed. “I think they sell drugs too.” The words were lies, but his sobs had been all too real. Finally he’d passed the phone to Jacket.
“Come alone or the boy gets it,” Jacket had snarled. From where he’d stood beside his Guardian, Matt heard his father yelling “Don’t hurt my boy!” into the telephone.
As they drove past the Rushmore Mall, Matt couldn’t help but imagine his dad, worried sick about him. The wind brushed away Matt’s tears. He only wanted them to be together. He didn’t want them sad. He’d do anything to keep them from being sad … even if it meant divorce.
After all, just because they were getting a divorce, it didn’t mean that they’d stopped loving him.
At least that’s what he’d finally decided to tell himself. Now he just hoped he was right.
XXIV
THE PLACE WHERE LEGENDS COME TO PLAY
The Badlands were a place out of time and space where the earth spikes and furrows, creating a landscape that could have easily been a home for aliens or dinosaurs. Red earth formed ridges of rock that sloped and angled to uneven valley floors. Sometimes large enough for a person to squeeze through, sometimes large enough for a herd of velociraptors, the craggy canyons of the Badlands wound like tunnels through the land.
Unlike driving through a chain of m
ountains, to Matt, driving into the Badlands toward Red Shirt seemed like a descent into an underworld where darkness and shadow were at home. They’d passed the small, touristy city of Wall without even stopping for a drink. Matt was disappointed. The ramshackle Wild West buildings were museums to ingenuity and amusement. Each building held robotic dioramas of Wild West bandits, marauding Sioux Indians, Buffalo Bill’s Circus and much, much more. One of Matt’s memories was of him and his parents eating ice cream and watching a mock shootout on the dusty city streets.
Despite the memory, Matt knew it was just as well that they kept on going. Stopping would not only waste time, it would remind him of everything he was about to lose.
The tiny crossroads of Red Shirt was where he and Jacket were heading. Just west of Plenty Star Table, it was right on the road, and Calamity Jane had told them they couldn’t miss it. “You’ll know where to go when you get there,” she’d said with conviction.
The road was dry and dusty from traffic. A 1970s Charger was pulling a trailer in front of them. With each turn the trailer would fishtail and kick up more dust.
Jacket wore goggles across his eyes and a handkerchief across his mouth. Matt wasn’t so lucky. Trying to hold his breath yet breathe through his nose, he couldn’t help gag and cough anyway. It was a miserable ride and he couldn’t wait to stop.
Finally, Jacket steered the bike to the side of the road. “I do believe we’ve found what we’re looking for,” he said cheerfully.
Matt wiped his eyes clear of grit and stared to where Jacket gestured. A tall billboard with a sky-blue background stood just off the side of the road. On it were the words WAR SHIRTS AND EAGLE FEATHERS. Below that, Authentic Lakota Artifacts 2 Miles.
“Could it be?”
“Calamity said we’d recognize it.” Matt grinned.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Jacket started the engine and started to pull back onto the road, but Matt yelled in his ear to stop him.