Hope's End

by Mark Lukens

  Roscoe was breathing hard when they got back to their camp and the dead fire. He wiped at the last bits of vomit around his mouth, his breaths coming out in blasts of mist in the cold air, his eyes wide with shock.

  “Wait here,” Jed told Roscoe as he looked over at the clearing where he had chained Red Moon to the tree. Red Moon still seemed to be there, just that same dark lump against the base of the tree.

  “Where are you going?” Roscoe asked.

  “I need to check on Red Moon.”

  “Hell with that Injun.”

  “Just cover me,” Jed told him and then he ran across the clearing in the moonlight, feeling exposed out there again.

  A moment later Jed was right beside Red Moon. The Navajo was still in the same position against the tree, his knees drawn up, his hands in his lap, his head down. He was chanting softly.

  “How many of them are there?” Jed snapped at Red Moon.

  Red Moon looked up with tears in his eyes. “I do not know.”

  “What do they want? Do they want you? Do they want the bounty on your head?”

  Red Moon didn’t answer; he began chanting again, whispered words that Jed couldn’t understand.

  Rage burned inside of Jed. It took everything he had not to shake Red Moon or try to beat the answers out of him.

  “Please,” Red Moon said after he stopped chanting, looking up at Jed again. “Kill me.”

  Jed aimed his Colt .45 at the side of Red Moon’s head. “You want me to kill you?”

  Red Moon gave the slightest of nods, closing his eyes, remaining still, waiting for the bullet to enter his brain.

  Jed lowered his gun a little. He realized that Red Moon was serious—he wanted to be killed. Maybe Red Moon was telling the truth; maybe whoever was out there wasn’t trying to free him. But Jed still thought he was lying.

  “Who are they?” Jed asked with his gun still aimed at Red Moon.

  “I already told you. They are skinwalkers. You cannot stop them. Your bullets will not kill them.”

  “How do we stop them?”

  “Magic.”

  “What kind of magic?”

  “Strong magic. Shaman magic.”

  “What about you?” Jed asked. “Aren’t you a shaman? People say you’re a witch doctor.”

  Red Moon shook his head and sighed. “I am not.”

  Jed didn’t want to keep proceeding with this conversation. He didn’t believe Red Moon. Bullets could stop those men out there in the woods. Bullets could stop anything. “You don’t want to help me, then you can stay here and wait for your men.”

  Red Moon lowered his head and began to chant again.

  Jed hurried back to the camp where Roscoe waited.

  He and Roscoe decided to stay awake the rest of the night and walk out of the woods in the morning with just their guns, canteens, and anything they could carry in their pockets.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jed sipped his coffee as he stared at the campfire. David was lying down on his bedroll now, about to go to sleep. He had the photo of his family in his hands, staring at it, his eyes glassy and his expression blank.

  Jed didn’t know what to say to David, didn’t know how to comfort him. Instead, he said nothing and drank his coffee, hoping it would help him stay awake for much of the night.

  As he sat there he remembered waking up this morning in the woods and finding Roscoe gone. Roscoe’s pack was still there, his rifle, even his whiskey flask, but he was gone.

  Just like Dobbs.

  Jed had looked over at the tree and saw that Red Moon was still there. He had rushed out to the Navajo, afraid he might already be dead, his throat cut while chained to the tree. But Red Moon was still alive when Jed got to him, still whispering his chants.

  He had questioned Red Moon, threatening him, even pressing the barrel of Roscoe’s rifle against Red Moon’s drawn-up knee.

  Jed finished his coffee and threw another piece of wood on the fire. He sat back down on his bedroll again, leaning back against his pack. He remembered the conversation with Red Moon this morning, and soon he was back there in those woods again.

  *

  “Where did Roscoe go?” Jed asked Red Moon, still aiming the barrel of Roscoe’s rifle at his knee. “What did they do to him?”

  “He got up and walked into the woods,” Red Moon said.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Skinwalkers can get inside some men’s minds, make them do things. Skinwalkers can . . . can call them and they will walk to them.” It seemed like Red Moon was getting frustrated as he tried to translate what he wanted to say into English.

  Jed walked away from Red Moon, staring at the woods. “Roscoe!”

  Roscoe didn’t answer. There were no sounds from the woods except for a few birds tweeting in the early morning light.

  Jed walked back to Red Moon.

  “Please,” Red Moon said. “You are taking me to a town where the people are going to hang me. Please kill me. I am going to die anyway. I am not afraid of death and what is beyond. But the skinwalkers, they will not let me die. They will not let me pass into the next world.”

  Jed ignored Red Moon and yelled at the woods. “Roscoe! Bring him back!”

  “You do not want him back now,” Red Moon said. “You do not want to see what he has become.”

  Jed was about to ask Red Moon what he meant by that when a sudden wind shook the tree branches above them, rattling the leaves. Red Moon looked up at the tree above him. “The Darkwind,” he whispered. “It is here.”

  “What’s the Darkwind?”

  “Powerful magic,” Red Moon said, still looking up at the rattling leaves.

  Jed had to walk away from Red Moon again before he attacked him. He went back to their camp, searching the ground for Roscoe’s tracks. He saw Roscoe’s footprints leading away from the camp and into the clearing, but then the tracks ended and there was no telling which way he had walked after that.

  Roscoe was dead—Jed had to admit that now. He couldn’t wait around much longer. If he was going to get out of these woods before dark, then he would need to start walking soon.

  But what about Red Moon?

  Jed had an idea. He rummaged through all of their packs, collecting the things he would need to take with him: extra bullets, a small cloth sack of jerky, his canteen of water (which he had filled up all the way from Roscoe and Dobbs’ canteens). He already had his map, the compass, the wanted poster of Red Moon, and an extra pair of handcuffs in the pockets of his pants and coat. At the last moment he stuffed Roscoe’s metal whiskey flask into his inside coat pocket.

  After he had gathered all the supplies he could carry, he hurried over to where their horses had been tied last night. He untied a piece of rope from one of the branches—it looked about the right length for what Jed needed. He took the rope over to Red Moon and crouched down in front of him, tying the ends of the rope around each of Red Moon’s ankles, leaving a foot of rope in between so he could still walk, but not run.

  “They will not let us walk out of here,” Red Moon said.

  Jed ignored Red Moon as he unlocked the chain around the trunk of the tree. He stood Red Moon up and wrapped the chain around his waist, then he locked the chain to the handcuffs; this kept Red Moon’s wrists chained to the front of his body, not giving him too much room to lift his hands up from his waist.

  “Walk,” Jed told him.

  Red Moon just stood there. “Shoot me.”

  Jed took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. It felt like a clock was ticking in his mind, counting down each minute they stayed in these God-forsaken woods. “If those skinwalkers come after us, I promise I’ll shoot you. But I can’t shoot you right now. I can’t carry you or drag your body without a horse. I need you to walk with me as far as we can.”

  Red Moon still didn’t move.

  “You either walk with me, or I have no choice but to leave you chained to the tree. I’ll go get help and be back as quickly as I can.
You’ve got my word on that.”

  Real fear crept into Red Moon’s eyes. “I will walk with you.”

  They walked for hours, Jed checking his compass every so often to make sure they were still heading north. The trail pretty much went north, but it zigzagged a little in some places. But if the map was correct, they would be out of these woods in the next two hours or so, definitely before nightfall.

  The walking had been slow because of Red Moon’s hobbled ankles, but he shuffled along as fast as he could, never complaining, chanting quietly.

  “Is that magic you’re singing?” Jed asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it strong magic?”

  “The strongest I know.”

  They were quiet for a moment as they walked, and then Jed said: “I heard rumors that you’re a medicine man.”

  “I already told you that I am not a medicine man.”

  “But you know magic prayers.”

  “Are you able to pray?” Red Moon asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But you are not a priest.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Anyone can pray to God. You don’t have to be a priest to pray to God.”

  Red Moon said nothing, his point made.

  They were quiet for a while as they walked.

  “If these skinwalkers are real—” Jed began.

  “They are real,” Red Moon interrupted.

  “If they are real,” Jed continued, “then how could God let something like them exist?”

  “They are like demons,” Red Moon said. “Your God allows angels to exist along with demons.”

  Jed didn’t say anything else. He felt outmatched in a theological discussion with Red Moon who had obviously done a lot of studying, not only of his own religion but others as well.

  “Why’d you kill those twenty men?” Jed asked, changing the conversation.

  “They were in the way of what I wanted.”

  Jed wondered what had turned Red Moon to a life of crime in the first place, but then discovered that he really didn’t care.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes. Jed began to get the feeling that they were being followed. He didn’t hear any noises from the woods or see any movement, but he could feel their pursuers. And he was sure Red Moon could feel them, too.

  Red Moon began to chant again, the melodic prayers uttered in whispers. Jed thought about praying. He’d never been a truly religious man, and after Clara had died he had turned his back on God for a while, angry at Him for taking the love of his life away. But Jed prayed now. A foreboding feeling was blanketing him again, a hopelessness that he couldn’t shake. He’d always been a strong and capable man. He’d always been able to tough things out, stand up to anyone, solve most problems, but he felt overwhelmed by these skinwalkers. They truly seemed magical, like they floated through the forest, waiting for the right time to appear and swoop down. And if these people were magical, if this was some demonic thing like Red Moon seemed to believe, then Jed felt it wouldn’t hurt to pray right now.

  Jed felt uncomfortable praying to God. He never prayed when he confronted a wanted man. But now he was truly scared. Dobbs had been taken, but Dobbs had been a greenhorn, maybe easily tricked. Roscoe was another story—he was a seasoned bounty hunter and shouldn’t have been easily overtaken. If these skinwalkers could swoop in and take Roscoe away without a trace—or worse, cast some kind of spell on him—then Jed was no match for them. The most he could hope for was that he would be able to pick them off one by one when they finally showed themselves. He believed in God, but he also put much of his faith in guns and bullets.

  The woods had gotten thicker now, the undergrowth growing over the trail. Red Moon was having an even tougher time walking with the ropes hobbling him. Jed considered untying the ropes so they could make better time, but he still couldn’t trust Red Moon completely.

  An hour later they had made it through the thickest part of the woods. Now the trail had opened up, growing wide and easy to traverse. Even Red Moon was walking easier now.

  And then Red Moon stopped.

  The woods were darker now, the trees closer together and the brush between them thicker even though the trail was cleared in this area.

  “What is it?” Jed whispered from behind Red Moon, Roscoe’s rifle in his hands.

  “Up ahead,” Red Moon said.

  Jed stared at the trail ahead, the path disappearing around a thick stand of trees. “What’s around the bend?”

  The woods were deathly quiet.

  Red Moon still hesitated.

  “Keep walking,” Jed told Red Moon, nudging him forward with the barrel of the rifle.

  “Remember your promise,” Red Moon said. “If they come, you said you would shoot me.”

  “Get moving or I won’t waste a bullet on you.”

  Red Moon began walking towards the sharp bend in the trail.

  Jed knew there was something very bad waiting for them around that bend, but they had to get past it to get out of these woods.

  When they were a few feet closer to the bend, Jed heard whispering from the other side of the brush. At first he thought it was Red Moon chanting again, but Red Moon was silent now.

  There was another sound along with the whispering—a buzzing sound. Flies. Something had been left on the trail for them, something dead and rotting like the animal they’d seen yesterday, the one that had been turned inside out.

  Jed and Red Moon stepped around the bend, and then they both froze, staring at what waited for them on the trail.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jed sat up, nearly drifting off to sleep as he’d been thinking about what he and Red Moon had seen waiting for them on the trail. He looked over at David and saw that he was asleep on his back with the photograph of his family on his chest. He had been holding it until he fell asleep.

  Jed got up and laid a large piece of wood on the campfire. He walked over to David and picked up the photograph—he didn’t want it to blow away in the night. He went back to his bedroll and lay down, stretching out and staring at the photo. David was in the photo with his older brother and their parents. There was a speck of dried blood on the edge of the photo; Jed chipped it away with his thumbnail and then shoved the photo down into his pants pocket. He would give it back to David in the morning.

  He turned over onto his side and stared at the fire. He didn’t want to think about what he’d seen on that trail in the woods this morning, but he couldn’t help thinking about it—he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

  *

  Dobbs sat in the middle of the trail, facing north with his back to them. The red skinless flesh of Dobbs’ body glistened in the midday sunlight that shined down brighter onto this wide part of the trail. Every muscle showed on Dobbs’ body along with the small globules of yellowish fat clinging to his sides. Thick purplish-black veins crisscrossed over some of his mucus-covered, striated muscles. His skinless head was bent forward, like he was looking down at something in his lap. Jed knew Dobbs wasn’t dead because he could see the slight movement of his back as he drew in a breath and slowly exhaled.

  What was in his lap? What was he holding in his hands?

  “Jed,” a voice called out, but it wasn’t Dobbs speaking. Jed knew that voice—it was Roscoe’s voice.

  “Jed,” Roscoe said again, drawing the word out.

  “This . . . this can’t be real,” Jed whispered. He looked at Red Moon—he needed to look at the Navajo now, he needed to see something he knew was real, something to ground him in this new nightmarish world he suddenly found himself in.

  Red Moon’s dark eyes were wide, bulging from his face, his mouth drawn down into a severe frown with dried spittle at the corners of his lips. “Shoot me now,” he grunted as he tried to raise his shackled hands up as far as he could. “You promised.”

  Jed looked back at Dobbs who still hadn’t moved; he was still sitting in the middle of the trail and staring down at something in his lap, his hands there like he
was cradling something. And Jed already knew what was in Dobbs’ hands.

  “Jed,” Roscoe called out again. “They won’t let you die. They will keep you alive, and it just goes on and on and on.”

  “Shoot me!” Red Moon shouted. He was still frozen in place, not even bothering to try to run, his only hope that Jed would keep his promise.

  Jed ignored Red Moon. He turned back to Dobbs and it felt like his legs were moving on their own as he walked towards the creature that used to be Dobbs, giving him a wide berth and keeping his rifle aimed at the skinless man. He moved all the way around until he was in front of Dobbs—he had to see what he was cradling in his hands.

  “No,” Red Moon whimpered. “Do not look at it.”

  Jed had to see.

  And there it was—Roscoe’s severed head was cradled in Dobbs’ skinned hands. He held the head gently like it was a baby. Roscoe’s face stared up at the sky, his head of gray hair touching the shiny slab of Dobbs’ abdomen muscles that were sectioned off with what looked like lines of gristle. The end of Roscoe’s neck ended in a ragged stump of meat. Tattered pieces of skin and a line of vertebrae trailed out like little white knuckles, the piece of spine somehow managing to stay together. There were two large holes in the stump of his neck, one where his esophagus had been severed, and the other was his windpipe, which fluttered slightly. Roscoe’s eyes were wild, his blue eyeballs flicking back and forth, his mouth twitching every time a fly landed on his face. The stink of decaying flesh was even worse now that Jed was so close.

  . . . can’t be real can’t be real can’t be real . . .

  The strength drained out of Jed’s body. He lowered the rifle. He felt the weapon slip out of his fingers. He heard it hit the hard-packed dirt with a thud. It didn’t matter; Jed realized that the weapon was useless now. Roscoe and Dobbs couldn’t be killed. They should already be dead. Maybe they were dead.