Tatterdemon

by Vernon, Steve

  Thessaly’s face formed like a heat haze, high above the field.

  “Do you think you can beat me? I’ve just got started. There’s lots of life in this old field yet.”

  The old witch’s cheeks billowed like twin sails. Puffs of yellow smoke passed over the field, sinking into the earth like a toxic nightmare. The witch had spoken the truth. There was lots of life left in the field. The dead villagers were just the beginning. One by one, the old dreams, the old deaths and the old memories came streaming back.

  The dog that Maddy buried as a child.

  Owls and ravens and rats made of straw and kindlewood.

  The soldiers, fallen in the many battles fought over this terrain and the Indians that had died here.

  All of the long-dead coming back, pushing up through the sod and mulch and rock like thirty-year-old barrels being spat from a dying quicksand.

  “This is impossible,” Maddy whispered.

  The old witch shook her head.

  “No one, no land is free of memory or death,” she said. “No bit of field, no geography. Nothing is free of ghosts and haunted dreams. All that walks and breathes leave something behind in the dirt, the straw, and the field. And the field is mine.”

  Maddy thought of that scene from the movie Fantasia, where the brooms begin to multiply and little Mickey Mouse is helpless to resist their march of terror. She knew just what he’d felt like. There were things moving out there in the straw.

  In the shadows she saw the shape of something stirring. Something large and old and dangerous.

  A straw mammoth?

  A straw brontosaurus?

  Or something older than that?

  Bluedaddy danced and taunted beside her.

  “You buried me out there, Maddy. You and your mother buried me. And now I’m finally coming back.”

  But that wasn’t the worst of it all. Among all those bodies, those fragments and tatters of long dead memories, Thessaly’s body had waited for three long centuries. Now it was rising like the battle flag of Armageddon. A thing of meat and bone and sticks and straw and thistle and crabgrass. Dirt and slugs and spiders and maggots and things that were even worse to imagine.

  The witch’s spirit hovered close, waiting for the growth to accomplish itself. She was waiting for her husk to stand soulless and ready for the re-entry of her endlessly patient spirit. Her spirit began drawing the others to her as well, sucking their lesser essences into her own being. Growing, enlarging and becoming stronger.

  What could Maddy do?

  How could she get to that goddamn witch?

  An idea hit her like a blood-crazed lightning bolt.

  An idea almost crazy enough to work.

  * 2 *

  Preacher Fell hit town like a runaway dust devil, driving as best he could. Since he and Wilfred’s body left the straight road, he was having trouble steering the car.

  Finally, the inevitable happened.

  The car skidded squarely into an oak that had been planted nearly a hundred years ago. Fell had just enough time to wonder where it had come from. Then the car smashed against the trunk of the tree, snapping in two as he catapulted straight through the windshield. He hit the dirt hard and bounced. He rolled twice and stood up, his clothing tattered, blood cobwebbing down his face, grinning hot and crazy as a burning jack-o’-lantern.

  “Glory, glory,” he shouted. “There appeared a chariot of fire and horses of fire and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven. Second Book of Kings, second chapter, eleventh verse.”

  Only Fell had company -- the spirit of Wilfred, riding with him, like two men riding the same mule and Wilfred was in no mood for Bible camp.

  “Well glory hallelujah and pass the sacred arsewipe,” Wilfred said. “If you’re done preaching and destroying the town’s last squad car, maybe we ought to do something about this army of mutant haystack Calhouns.”

  It was Wilfred, which was really strange, because he was speaking out of his own mouth. Stranger still, he was answering himself. Any witnesses would have sworn that Wilfred was either stark barking crazy or else he had learned how to speak in tongues.

  “I thought you were dead,” Said Fell.

  “Not hardly.”

  “But how?”

  “Well, you were dead and you talked to me. Now I’m dead and talking to you. Like the lawyers tell you, quid pro quo. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Now get your antique ass on over to the station house parking lot. I got a hell of an idea how to fix this scarecrow’s wagon.”

  “Parking lot?”

  “I ain’t got time to explain,” Wilfred said. “Shove over, I’m driving.”

  Wilfred stepped into himself and took over. It was easy. It was kind of like stepping behind the wheel of a truck you’ve gone and sold and finding out the stick shift hasn’t forgotten the taste of your fingerprints.

  Wilfred ran into the night, ducking through the shadows, barely eluding his attackers. There were lots of them out there. He recognized some of them. Friends and people he’d helped. Neighbors and folks he knew only by face or context. The drugstore pharmacist, the teller at the bank, the little blonde whore who turned tricks at the truck stop -- all of them were out there, walking with that stiff scarecrow strut, their bodies filled with straw, dirt and madness.

  Jesus, was the whole town took?

  It didn’t matter. He kept moving forward, like the last survivor of a crazy game of tag, only this game was played for mortal stakes.

  Or maybe immortal.

  He was almost at the parking lot when he saw her.

  A woman, being terrorized by a pair of male scarecrows, and a third that looked like a prize white-tail deer.

  What could he do?

  Run or stay, Wilfred. Make up your fat mind.

  Hell, he didn’t even know her. The big deer raked its dry, branchy antlers across her chest, snagging open the fabric and tearing a couple of furrows through her flesh.

  Damn.

  What a choice.

  Run or stay.

  “It’s too late for her,” Fell said. “We have to get to the witch.”

  Fell was right, but it didn’t make things any easier.

  “Goddamn it. It isn’t even deer season.”

  One of the male scarecrows grabbed her.

  She screamed.

  Wilfred shook his head.

  There was nothing that could be done, was there?

  “Leave her,” commanded Fell.

  “Fuck yourself,” Wilfred returned. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and I’m the other ten percent. You stay here, I’m going to save her.”

  “No, you’re not,” Fell said.

  Wilfred felt his feet being moved, like somebody was picking up his boots and moving them with his feet still inside.

  “No, you don’t,” Wilfred swore, forcing his feet to turn. For an half an instant they struggled inside the same body.

  “Look,” Wilfred said. “We can stand here playing tug-of-war with my bunions, or we can go save her.”

  Wilfred felt Fell considering.

  “This is my town, and I am not turning my back on it.”

  “Very well,” Fell agreed. “Smite the Philistines hip and thigh.”

  “You’re damned tooting. And I’m going to kick their asses into their jawbones and damn near everything else in between while I’m at it.”

  Wilfred made his move.

  He stepped forward to where the scarecrows could see him.

  “Hey! Kindleshanks!”

  Two of the three scarecrows turned.

  Wilfred and Fell drew a line in the dirt with the toe of their boot, stood there and waited.

  “I believe this dance is mine.”

  * 3 *

  Maddy headed for the barn.

  The backhoe was right where she’d parked it.

  She clambered up.

  She damn near fell and broke her neck. Her body was still awkward from the transition. She wasn’t worried. Hell, s
he’d already been killed a couple of times tonight.

  Actually she wasn’t sure.

  Had she died?

  Or just nearly died?

  Fuck it.

  She ripped the door off the big digger, not bothering to fumble with the latch. The straw gave her the strength of a dozen Hulked-up Hogans.

  Damn.

  She could get used to being this strong.

  She climbed into the cab, catching her leg on a bolt and nearly taking the ass out of her tattered pants.

  She geared the backhoe up.

  Like a resurrected dinosaur, the big machine roared to life.

  CHAPTER 47

  Roland Finds a Weapon

  * 1 *

  “Damn it all to rat-shit hell.”

  Roland stumbled around where the squad car had been.

  He’d seen it drive away like a fucking hay wagon out of hell, but he’d hoped there was something yet to be found. He didn’t know what else to do. Blind instinct was driving him now.

  It was fight or flight and he was too damn tired to run.

  He found the riot gun where Fell had thrown it.

  Bent like it was, it wouldn’t be much use for anything except firing around corners.

  Then he found something else.

  Lying on the ground where it must have fallen.

  A pitchfork.

  He didn’t know it but it was the same fork Wilfred took from the hardware store. The same fork Earl threw in the back seat, figuring on returning it.

  He picked it up.

  It wasn’t much but at least it was something.

  “This’ll fix you. This will fix you good, Carmen.”

  Like a savage on a hunt, Roland stalked out into the field.

  * 2 *

  Earl rummaged through his house in a mad search, but somebody had already been here.

  He was looking for his M-16.

  It had to be in here somewhere.

  He found nothing, damn it.

  He heard a roar outside and the walls came crashing in.

  Now what?

  * 3 *

  Wilfred ran just as soon as he saw the woman was in the clear.

  She knew what to do, not waiting for any mark-set-go. She just took off on a panic-driven, bat-assed run. Maybe she’d run into something right around the corner. That was her own lookout. For now, all Wilfred could do was get his own hairy ass out of hellfire’s reach.

  He ran into a garage.

  “You have backed us into a corner,” Fell cursed.

  “No I didn’t. I know what I’m doing.”

  There were lots of things in a garage. Like gas or maybe a shotgun or even a goddamn flamethrower.

  The three pursuers paused outside, sure of the kill, but caveman-wary of the shadowed garage. One of them ran for the back of the garage just in case Wilfred tried to slip out a window.

  The other two, including the big devil-deer, came straight ahead.

  They heard a soft singing serenading from the guts of the garage.

  “Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves...”

  Then a harsh sound like gears working together, trying to catch.

  Chuda-chuda-chuda-chud.

  “...we shall come rejoicing...,”

  Inside the garage Wilfred wrapped the cord around his hand one more time.

  “...bringing in the sheaves....”

  He gave it a good hard yank.

  Chuda-chuda-chuda-chuda-chud.

  The two scarecrows got closer.

  Wilfred tried one last yank.

  Chudchudchudchudchudchud....

  The big mower roared into life. Wilfred charged out behind it. He rolled over the first scarecrow at the gallop with a loud and satisfying Rice Krispies snap-crackle-chud.

  “For they have sown the wind and they shall reap the whirlwind -- Hosea, eighth chapter, seventh verse.”

  “Shut up Reverend, I’m trying to fight.”

  There was only the buck left. Wilfred jigged to the right. The big devil-deer hop-stepped past him.

  “C’mon, Bambi! Your ass is grass.”

  He shoved forward, rolling the mower over the buck’s extended leg.

  “John Deere, meet another deer.”

  The buck crippled down like it was taking a bow. On his way past it gored Wilfred in the ribs. It tossed its head, flipping lawn mower and Wilfred ass over teakettle.

  “Damn it, deer, I’m dead already.”

  The devil-deer came straight at him.

  Wilfred rose up and caught hold of the buck. He bulldogged it into the still-whirling rotor blade of the overturned lawn mower. Bits of sawdust, straw and venison jerky flung into the air.

  It was a hell of a way to make pemmican.

  The third scarecrow charged from behind the garage.

  “Look out, Potter,” Fell yelled at himself.

  Wilfred grabbed the mower handle. He swung the whole machine like it was an Olympic hammer. It was a goddamn big mower. Wilfred felt ribs and tendons tearing from his already-gored side. Being dead and all, he figured these injuries were the last of his worries.

  He swung the mower into the third scarecrow, knocking it down and then rolling right over it.

  The gas spilled, splashing the scarecrow’s legs.

  The buck tried to stand back up.

  Wilfred fumbled the box of kitchen matches out of his hand.

  The thing stood up and fell down three times in the time it took to strike one clumsy match.

  Then the thing went up in a burst of flame.

  “Yeehaw!” Wilfred stood there, as triumphant as Samson making an ass out of the Philistines with the swing of a single jawbone. He breathed a theatrically huge inhalation and grinned.

  “There is nothing like the smell of new mown hay.”

  “All flesh is grass,” Fell agreed.

  But their victory was short lived. Wilfred heard the rampage going on in town, the sound of bodies coming out of the fields like a sea of locusts rising from the dust and headed for town.

  “I’m going to need something a hell of a lot bigger than this mower. We’re in a fire fight for sure.”

  “Fire fight?”

  “Got to fight fire with fire.”

  “The parking lot?”

  “You got it, Pontiac.”

  The two of them raced their shared body towards the police station parking lot.

  CHAPTER 48

  Built Tonka Tough

  * 1 *

  Meanwhile, Maddy had found something a little larger than a lawn mower.

  “Oh my God, what a rush!”

  She rolled the backhoe over a couple of wayward scarecrows. From this far up they looked no more dangerous than a pair of Popsicle stick sculptures.

  “Oh my God!” she shrieked, trying to turn the big bastard around.

  Too late.

  The big digger rolled like an overweight bouncer, right across Maddy’s house. The backhoe almost tipped over when the floor gave way beneath its own weight but she hair-pinned it towards safety.

  “Fuck you, Martha Stewart,” she shouted. “Maddy’s doing some redecoration.”

  The steering on this big bastard was something she was just getting used to. There were levers for forward and back and wheels for up and left and right. It looked simple but was as complicated as hell. A man built it, for certain. She glanced back at the wreckage of her house.

  So much for the housework.

  Not all the brooms in creation could sweep that mess.

  Hell. It never was her house, anyway. First it was Daddy’s house. Then it was Vic’s house.

  So what the hell?

  They can both have it, with my blessing.

  She thought she saw something moving in the wreckage, but she couldn’t spare the time to find out what it was. She steered for the hay field, rolling over her flower patch, and taking out a damned picket fence in the process.

  “Don’t fence me in,” she started to sing.

  Somewhe
re in the darkness Roy Rogers rolled over in his grave.

  * 2 *

  “We’re going to fight hellfire with hellfire, Reverend.”

  Wilfred had found his weapon. Something the scarecrows ought to truly fear. Wilfred found fire and what better place to find it than at the police station.

  “As the fire devoureth the stubble and the flame consume the chaff so their root shall be rottenness and their blossom shall go up as dust -- Isaiah, fifth chapter, twenty fourth verse.”

  “Amen and hallelujah, Reverend.”

  Wilfred was getting used to talking to himself. He wasn’t worried about what other folk might think. Hell, he was dead. Who cared about public opinion? Still, he had a few doubts about his judgment. This was definitely a one-shot deal. He’d get one kick at the can and that was it.

  How the hell could he get them all together in one place at the same time?

  “Have faith, Brother Potter. Have faith and you shall move the mountain.”

  Wilfred saw a woman running across the street. Damn it. It was the woman he’d saved. He still didn’t know who she was but one thing was for certain. She was in deep shit.

  He clambered out of the truck as fast as he could.

  There was a scarecrow right behind her. A big boy. It looked like the king of all scarecrows. He even had a crown, at least that’s what he figured those daisies waving around were for.

  “That is the Straw King. The Tatterdemon. The one you call Vic Harker.”

  “Vic? How the hell did he get himself into this mess?”

  “He got himself killed by his wife. She buried him in the field where the witch’s broom was buried.”

  “Killed? Maddy killed Vic?”

  Wilfred couldn’t believe it.

  He could get used to a bunch of undead scarecrows, but the thought of an actual homicide happening in his town kind of shocked him. He didn’t let the thought slow him down, but he still wasn’t fast enough to save the woman.

  The Tatterdemon swung out one big arm. From that distance coupled with his hellish momentum, it was like swinging a great wooden scythe that took the woman’s lower face off in mid-scream, leaving a few loose stands of mandible dangling like a couple of stringy wet snakes. Wilfred was close enough to see the hose-like remnants of her trachea, gurgling with blood as she struggled to take in one last breath.