PREDATOR IF IT BLEEDS

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  “Sumpin’s got ’em all riled,” Gator observed.

  “Likely they know who we are by now,” Cracker Jack said.

  While Goose and his men had a reputation among the Confederate ranks, it was doubtful that reputation had reached the Union, primarily because when they encountered the enemy, they killed them.

  Dead men don’t tell stories.

  “It ain’t us,” Goose said. “Listen.”

  In the silence that followed, the enemy’s panicked voices slipped out of the night.

  “I’m telling you, I looked right through ’im.”

  “His eyes glowed. The Devil himself lives in these woods.”

  “Wasn’t the Devil. And it wasn’t a beast.” This voice remained calm. “It was a man. In the dark. Now, collect yourselves.”

  Just bits and pieces of conversation, but it was enough to start building a picture—one that Stonewall did not like. Not one little bit.

  “You want us to believe a lone man slaughtered nine of our own without a single shot fired? Without a body left behind?”

  These men had encountered an enemy in the woods, and it wasn’t his men. That meant that the Union either had turncoat problems, which would be beneficial, or there was a band of lawless killers in the woods. That could be a problem, unless they joined his band of lawless killers. But the truth wouldn’t be revealed until he questioned them.

  “I want them alive,” Stonewall said to disappointed faces.

  “Damn,” Cotton said.

  “After they’ve opened their mouths, you can open their guts,” Stonewall said. The rules of war said these men should be taken captive, alive, but they’d just be three more mouths taking food from his men. He pointed at Cotton, Johnny Boy, and Cracker Jack. “Flank them. When the light flares, well, you know what to do.”

  3

  Explosive light filled the night, illuminating the surrounding forest with a suddenness that could wreak havoc with a man’s vision. Combined with the sharp shattering sound of the lantern striking the ground, it was disorienting, so much so that Stonewall’s eyes betrayed him. Despite being ready for the brilliant display, he saw a shadow dancing in the trees above, as though alive, and before the light lost its powers, he swore the shadow was looking back at him.

  Stonewall’s hand went to the revolver on his hip, but before he could drop it, a shrill scream pulled his attention back to the Union soldiers.

  “Good Lord, it’s come back for us!” Stonewall knew it was a man screaming, but it sounded closer to a coyote’s shriek. The cry was followed by a cacophony of gunshots. An angry buzz stung his cheek and something heavy tackled him to the ground.

  Remembering the living shadow, Stonewall struggled against the weight until Goose’s voice was warm in his ear. “It’s me, General.”

  A different kind of shouting followed the barrage. Men begging for mercy while others demanded submission. Stonewall noted the annoyance in Goose’s voice as his subordinate helped him up. “Trying to remind yourself that you’re not invincible?”

  “I’m fine,” Stonewall said, brushing the previous autumn’s soggy fallen leaves from his jacket.

  “You’re bleeding.” Goose poked Stonewall’s cheek, the touch eliciting a hiss of pain. “Going to need a stitch or two.”

  Any other man who spoke to Stonewall in such a manner would find himself on the frontlines of the coming day’s battle, but Goose had earned the right. In the midst of this war, he was the closest thing Stonewall had to a friend. While he commiserated with esteemed men like Robert E. Lee, he couldn’t just be himself. But Goose truly knew Stonewall. His fears about the war, his love for his wife Mary and for his newborn daughter Julia. He wanted little more than to be with them now, safe in their house, warm by a fire. It was why he fought with such ferocity. The sooner this war ended, the sooner he would return to them.

  “The scar will suit me,” Stonewall said, and then he turned his attention back to the small clearing, which had gone silent. He stepped past the fading light with Goose and Gator, the two men wary for trouble. They were miles from both Union and Confederate camps, but there was no telling who else lurked in the woods this night.

  The three Union soldiers were on their knees, bleeding from fresh wounds, no doubt inflicted by Cotton, Johnny Boy, and Cracker Jack. The men had been savaged, but Stonewall was impressed his men hadn’t killed one of them. Then again, most of their wounds appeared to be at least a few hours old, the blood dried and the bruises a deep purple.

  Only one of the three looked up at his approach. The man was young, mustached, and wearing an officer’s jacket. Their leader, and by the looks of him, a coward. His hands trembled. His eyes twitched. And then, eye contact. The man’s face showed recognition, and then something Stonewall was not expecting—relief.

  “S-Stonewall?” the man asked. “Thank God.”

  A Union soldier thanking the good Lord for the appearance of General Stonewall Jackson the night before a battle was set to be fought, or on any night for that matter, should have been unheard of. Yet here Stonewall stood, looking down at a bloodied Union man all but ready to kiss his feet, like he was Jesus Christ himself.

  “Name and rank, son,” Stonewall said.

  “Captain Jason Ames, sir.”

  Sir, Stonewall noted. The respect wasn’t just customary, it was sincere. But was that the fear talking or was it possible that his reputation as a cunning leader had earned the North’s awe? If that was true, it boded well for the morning’s confrontation. There was no weaker brew than an army steeped in fear.

  “What are you doing out here, Captain Ames?” Stonewall asked.

  Cotton drew a fist back, ready to clout the man, but Stonewall stopped him with a raised hand. He saw no resistance in the captain’s eyes.

  The captain searched the trees surrounding them. The two men with them hadn’t stopped doing the same since Stonewall first looked upon them. Stonewall followed the man’s gaze up to the branches. Where the shadows had danced. The lantern’s spilled oil still burned, but the light was fading. They had just minutes before complete darkness returned.

  “Captain Ames?” Goose prompted, keeping the conversation on track.

  “S-same as you, I suppose. Scouting the—”

  “Look at him,” the man to Ames’s right said. He was pointing at Stonewall, who hadn’t yet looked away from the trees. “He’s seen it, too.”

  Stonewall glared at the man. “Seen what?”

  “Was a demon,” the man said. “Lucifer himself.”

  The second nameless Union man added, “Bigger than the lot of you. Faster too. Glowing eyes. Killed nine men. We’re all that’s left.”

  “Ain’t no surprise there,” Johnny Boy said. “You Billy Yanks got about as much brains as you do—”

  “Johnny,” Stonewall said, silencing the man. Then, “Captain. You telling the same story?”

  “It was a man,” Ames said. “But he was alone. And big.”

  “And he killed nine of your men?” Stonewall’s raised eyebrow revealed the statement was a question rather than a repetition of facts.

  “Yes. Sir.”

  “And where are they? The bodies?”

  “Taken,” Ames said, eyes turning to the ground.

  “Where?”

  The captain turned his head upward. The trees were cloaked in darkness once more, the oil nearly burned out. Ames pointed up.

  “No way it’s jus’ one man,” Gator said. “I reckon we—”

  A sound like a woodpecker pecking on a tree trunk thumped out of the canopy overhead. Ames and his men flinched at the sound. They’d clearly heard it before, and associated it with nothing good. “That him?”

  Ames nodded. “We should leave.”

  “Only place you’re going is a Confederate prison,” Goose said.

  There were few horrors on Earth that could compare to the deplorable conditions prisoners of war faced in the South. Starvation was rampant. The only thing that stopped its slow deg
radation of a man was cannibalism. These men had to know as much. Conditions in the North couldn’t be any better. But Ames and his men seemed almost eager to meet this fate.

  When a second woodpecker beat out a rhythm just above their heads, Stonewall’s entire crew reacted, raising rifles toward the darkness above.

  “Can’t see shit,” Cotton said.

  “Ain’t notin’ up dare,” Gator added, but he kept his rifle raised.

  Goose began stomping out the last of the flames covering the ground behind them.

  “Stop,” Ames said. “All you’re doing is blinding us.”

  Goose kept stomping. “A man can’t shoot what he can’t see.”

  “He…” Ames shook his head. “…sees just fine in the dark.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a man to me,” Stonewall noted, one hand on his holstered revolver, the other on his sheathed sabre. “Goose, light another lamp.”

  “Are you taking us back?” one of the Union men asked, his voice full of hope.

  But Stonewall shook his head. “Not yet. We still have a mission to complete.”

  “We’ll tell you everything you want to know,” the second Union soldier said.

  “Ain’t no way to know if you’re telling the truth,” Goose said.

  All three men seemed to melt from the inside out.

  “Aww,” Cracker Jack said. “Maybe we can convince ol’ Johnny Boy’s mom to wet nurse ’em back to—”

  A crunch of leaves and twigs, at ground level, slipped out of the dark woods. Rifles shifted toward the sound. Stonewall’s men were putting on a good show, but he could sense they were spooked. Hell, he was spooked. But no one was leaving this forest until he knew what kind of danger awaited his army.

  “Show yourself!” Goose shouted. He raised his rifle and looked back to Stonewall, who gave a nod. “Near as I can tell you’ve done us a favor. Come out now, and we can part ways as friends. You make me wait any longer than a count of five… well… I think what’s comin’ is pretty self-explanatory.”

  Gator, Johnny Boy, and Cracker Jack stood on either side of Goose, a regular firing squad. Cotton stood behind their prisoners, no doubt hoping the men would attempt to flee.

  Stonewall counted down in his head. When he reached zero, Goose followed through on his promise, firing toward the sound’s source. The others did likewise, shooting and reloading, again and again, striking trees and brush, but failing to elicit a shout of human pain.

  “Hold,” Goose said, lowering his rifle. He turned toward Johnny Boy. “Go see.”

  To his credit, Johnny Boy snuck away, disappearing into the woods. He would soon return with news of their failure, or success.

  Stonewall flinched when something bumped into the back of his leg. He looked down to see Ames, shuffling backward, a look of abject horror carved into his face. “Cotton,” Stonewall said, about to chew the man out, but then he turned around.

  Cotton stood at an angle, dangling over one of the Union men. What looked like a harpoon jutted out from his chest, through the Union soldier’s head and into the earth. As the life leaked out of him, Cotton’s eyes met Stonewall’s, pleading.

  “Goose,” Stonewall said, drew his pistol and shot Cotton in the forehead.

  The moment his men spun around and caught sight of the horror, the harpoon withdrew, tugging the Union man’s head against Cotton’s chest.

  Goose aimed his weapon at the pair of dead men. “What in tarnation…”

  “Dare a line out da back,” Gator said. “Somebody goin’ fishin’.”

  As though to prove Gator’s point, the pair of dead men were yanked forward, and then up. Into the trees. Where the shadows danced, and where someone continued the hunt he had begun with Ames’s men.

  4

  “Bejabbers!” Cracker Jack shouted, as the skewered men flew up into the night. He spoke over the top of his raised rifle, looking for a target but finding nothing. Whatever had killed and taken the men was impossible to see, but it could be heard, crashing through the branches, moving away. “What kinda man could pull two heavy fellas up into the trees like that?”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you!” the nameless Union man shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “It’s the Devil himself, swooping down on us like a roaring lion. Eating our souls!” When he leapt to his feet and bolted, no one stopped him, and Stonewall didn’t ask them to. Ames had all the intel he needed, and the runner was clearly a coward who would be of no use in the fight that was surely to come.

  But when the man shrieked, and then gurgled in pain, all eyes turned toward him. He stumbled backward out of the dark, hands on his throat, blood oozing from between his fingers.

  Cracker Jack and Gator raised their weapons and would have opened fire had it not been for Stonewall’s raised hand and shout. “Hold!”

  A moment after the command, Johnny Boy stepped into the clearing, wiping his blade clean on the bleeding man’s arm. The Union soldier then succumbed to his slit neck, fell to his knees and then on his face. When Johnny Boy looked up, he saw the looks in his comrades’ eyes. Then he froze. “What did I miss? Where’s Cotton?”

  “Up dare,” Gator said, nodding his head up. “In dem trees.”

  “General,” Goose said, doing his best to hide his fear. “Your orders?”

  The only reason Goose would be asking for new orders was if he truly believed Stonewall’s last orders—to reconnoiter the enemy camp—to be folly. Given Cotton’s sudden demise and strange disappearance, Stonewall had come to agree with Ames. They were being hunted, but not by the Devil. By men. And men could be killed.

  Stonewall pointed to Ames. “Give him a weapon.”

  Goose looked stunned and then complied, returning the man’s belt, which held a holstered pistol and a sabre.

  “Fight with us tonight,” Stonewall said, “and if you survive, you have my word that you will be returned to your men unharmed, following the morning’s battle.”

  After Ames had tightened the belt, he accepted a rifle with a nod. “I’m with you.”

  “Actually,” Stonewall said. “We’re with you. Lead the way.”

  Ames’s eyes went wide. “T-to the Union encampment?”

  “That is why we’re here, and the cause for which my man gave his life. I intend to see it through, no matter the cost.”

  “Even if it’s your own life?” Ames asked.

  “This war is going to kill me sooner or later, and I’ll be damned if it happens while I’m running from a fight.” As he spoke the words, Stonewall’s stomach soured. He didn’t want to die. Had a wife and newborn daughter to live for. And he loved them more than a man at war could admit without going AWOL. But he wasn’t a coward, and if he died fighting the enemy, then at least his wife and child would be proud of him. He pointed north. “Now… after you.”

  Gator took the lead with Ames, holding a torch that blazed brightly in the night. If darkness didn’t hinder the men attacking them, he wasn’t about to face them blind. Goose walked beside Stonewall, while Johnny Boy and Cracker Jack brought up the rear.

  They walked just ten minutes in silence before Gator took hold of Ames and yanked him to a stop. “Smell sumpin’.” He raised his nose to the air. Sniffed. “Dead men.”

  “Is this the way you came?” Goose asked. “Where your men died?”

  Ames shook his head.

  “Proceed,” Stonewall said. “Slowly.”

  Gator crept forward just another twenty feet, Ames hanging back a few steps, and then he stopped again. “Body up ahead.”

  The group tightened and proceeded together. The details were hard to make out in the dancing firelight, but they resolved with each step closer. Two bodies hung upside down, dangling from the trees above, naked of clothing… and skin. Their heads and spines had been torn away. Fluids tapped a rhythm on the forest floor, leaking from the opened bodies.

  “Holee shee-it,” Cracker Jack said.

  “That Cotton?” Johnny Boy asked, tapping his rifle
’s muzzle against the open wound in the corpse’s chest, right where Cotton had been run through.

  Cracker Jack gave a nod. “Looks like it.”

  Stonewall knew what the others were thinking, because he had the very same questions. How could their heads and spines be ripped out? How could two men be stripped of their clothing and skin inside of ten minutes and hung, directly in their path? It didn’t seem possible.

  It didn’t seem human.

  The woodpecker returned, taunting them from the trees. Leaves shook overhead. From another direction, the voice: “Momma’s milk.” More shaking leaves. With every new sound, the group shifted their aim, waiting for a target.

  He’s playing with us, Stonewall thought. He glanced at Ames, who passed him a look that said, You should have listened to me.

  Stonewall didn’t argue.

  A sound like wood crackling in a fire was followed by a whoosh that Stonewall heard, and felt. Something sailed past him and struck Cracker Jack. The big man was lifted off the ground and slapped against Cotton’s corpse. As Cracker Jack’s voice rose up in a scream, a crisscross of lines appeared on his face, squeezing the side of his head, and then cutting into it. Blood erupted from the conjoined wounds. His clothing fell away, small squares of neatly cut fabric revealing the same crisscross wounds all over his body. He was ensnared by a tightening net, squeezing his body against Cotton’s.

  As Cracker Jack’s scream reached fever pitch, Stonewall drew his pistol once more and shot the man in the head. “I am getting tired of shootin’ my own men,” he shouted. “Show yourself, like a man. I want to know who’s killing me before I die.”

  Stonewall had no intention of dying, but he couldn’t very well fight someone he couldn’t see. He hoped the taunt would do the trick.

  It didn’t, but then Johnny Boy whispered, “See him. His eyes at least. Watchin’ us.” He raised his rifle, looking over the sights, then he turned hard left and fired. The rifle’s report was followed by an angry roar. The sound of it made Stonewall doubt his resolve once more. The roar, like the physical feats they’d seen performed that night, wasn’t nearly human.