Bitten

by K. L. Nappier

  Prepare in his makeshift sweat lodge beside the house, is what he meant. It had been built as best as he and Max could manage with the supplies and time they had. His invitation was unspoken. David had offered it aloud only once, years and years ago, on their first hunt together. He'd said:

  "You know, Max, you're welcome to join me. You won't have to sing with me. You won't have to do anything I do. The way you pray, or not pray, will be up to you. But you're always welcome to join me."

  Sometimes Max did. Sitting quietly in the squat little structure, feeling the tickle of the sweat as it snaked over his skin. The sing-song of David's chanting was trance inducing for himself and, occasionally, very nearly so for Max; very nearly letting him in on God's secret.

  But other times, Max was too tense or too angry. Sometimes so bitter with the way he had to live and kill that he couldn't even bear watching David walk toward the sweat lodges they always built together.

  He crossed his ankle over his knee and poured himself another shot of rum.

  Chapter Thirteen

  One Half Mile East of

  Luperón , República Dominicana

  Spring, 1950

  Just past Sunset. Third Quarter Moon.

  Art squatted next to the little door of the whorehouse root cellar and gave it a knock with the baton end of his flashlight. "Mezz? Can you hear me?" No answer.

  He rubbed his face and sighed. He should have killed Mezz yesterday. When he had started swinging that rum bottle, he should have kept swinging until the job was done, then got rid of the body the way he'd gotten rid of Mezz's ruck sack. That's what Art had meant to do, had been sure he must do. But once Mezz was lying unconscious at his feet, once Art had hesitated and knelt to feel for a pulse ...

  Damn it, he wasn't the killer! The Beast was. And he was the one who controlled the Beast, not the other way around. That was his talent. That was his duty.

  He knocked on the root cellar door again. "Mezz, if you can hear me, you need to say so." Still he was met with silence. "I'm not opening up until you talk to me ... I've got some water for you. So if you're still alive down there, you better--"

  "Yeah ..." Mezz's voice was weak and defiant at the same time, muffled inside the root cellar.

  "Okay," Art said, "this is how it's going to work. I'm going to slide the door back a couple of inches. You stay on your ass and scoot to the opening where I can see you. I've got a gun, Mezz. So no funny business. You understand?"

  There was a moment of silence, then a sullen, "Yeah."

  The cellar's wooden door was more of a hatch, really, set into metal slide brackets bolted into the cellar's brick frame. Once Art had emptied it, it made a reasonable hiding place to dump Mezz, with its six-foot depth and little pull-up ladder. Art rose, unsnapped the strap on his gun holster, and went to the opposite side of the cellar door. It wasn't easy to move it from that end, but he was taking no chances that Mezz might have wriggled out of his bonds and was lying in wait.

  He grabbed the door's edges and, grunting, yanked it open a couple of inches. Coming back around, he stood with one hand on the gun's grip and shined his flashlight into the slit. The beam landed in a sliver on Mezz's face, caked with grime and dried blood.

  "Okay, show me your hands."

  Mezz worked his mouth, obviously sticky with thirst. "What about the water?"

  "Let me see your hands."

  The one squinting, bloodshot eye that was illuminated by the flashlight closed, either in frustration or fatigue, and then Mezz's face vanished. After a moment of labored sounds, he turned his back and passed his hands under the beam. They looked a little swollen and the rope binding them still seemed firm.

  "Now your feet."

  "Aw, come on!"

  "Feet, Mezz."

  Mezz wriggled around until his bound ankles came into view. Satisfied, Art went back to the far end of the door and tugged it open another few inches. He returned, lit a cigarette, then squatted down and poured only a sip or two from his canteen into a tin cup.

  He tongued the Lucky into the corner of his lips. "Bring your face up as close as you can." Art dribbled the water into Mezz's open mouth. "How're you holding up?" he asked.

  Mezz swallowed and said, "Fuck you!"

  "Not too bad, then. From the looks of your eyes, though, you probably have a concussion. Hurts to raise your voice, doesn't it?"

  Tears rimmed Mezz's lashes. "How 'bout some more water, man, please ?"

  Art thought about it, drew on his cigarette, and then finally poured enough for a couple more sips. As he let the water trickle into Mezz's mouth he said, "I know it's hard to believe, but I'm really sorry about this. If you just relax and don't give me any trouble, this will be over by tomorrow night."

  Mezz swallowed. "How long have I been down here?"

  "One full day. You were out all last night and today. Or at least every time I came to check on you."

  Mezz's eyes welled again. "What's goin' on, man? Why are you doin' this to me?"

  "Just rotten luck, general. I can't let you meet up with Max and David. Not until I'm done here."

  Mezz looked perplexed. "You know them?"

  "I know them."

  "So ... you're a competitor of theirs or something?"

  Art smiled and took another drag. "Yeah."

  'What the hell are you jims into?"

  "It doesn't matter, where you're concerned."

  "So ... hey ... okay, whatever it is, it's not like I'm a partner of theirs. They just pay me. If you can beat their price, I'm on your side."

  Art smiled even more. "Thanks, but no thanks."

  "Or I can just go away, man! You can pay me to just go away!"

  Art set the tin cup down and picked up his flashlight again. "Even if I believed you, I wouldn't take the chance. Anyway, you've got a concussion, Mezz. You're too weak to help anybody or go anywhere."

  He stood and Mezz said quickly, "Hey! Hey, but ... how 'bout just a little more water, okay?"

  "Sorry. I can't have you getting any strength back. Not for the time being." Art looked up at the darkening sky. The moon, nearly full, was just cresting the trees. It was time to watch the watchers, to shadow Max and David once again. "I promise you. After tomorrow night, it'll all be over."

  * * *

  Papo Salvador steadied the trap by pressing what remained of his left arm atop the wire framework. He reached inside the chum bucket, tossed a few chunks of fish inside the trap, then waded into the cool water to set the trap next to a bulge of mossy rubble. He secured it with a wrought iron stake so the current couldn't nudge it downstream.

  He stood, arched backward to stretch his spine, then looked glumly at his handiwork beneath the crystalline water. This was the time of day he dreaded most, when the last of the traps were set, leaving him with hours of nothing but his own thoughts within the cavernous black of the mahogany forest. He stood, feeling the stream swirl and tug at his pant legs, and watched one of the first fresh water shrimps edge from beneath the rubble to begin its evening hunt. As long as his hand, it scuttled and stopped … scuttled and stopped ... following the scent of the bait into the trap. There it settled down for its feast, completely oblivious to fate, startling only when Papo moved to wade out of the stream.

  Too late for you, chico. You'll never find your way back out now. He carried the chum bucket a ways before dumping what was left onto the ground. If he dumped the bait into the stream -or even on the banks- the shrimps would come looking for it and diminish Papo's harvest.

  But, now, he couldn't put off the night any longer and carried the empty bucket back to camp.

  He heard his burro Angelita as she brayed somewhere in the gloom deepening around the camp. He liked to pretend she was letting him know that she had found the perfect undergrowth to graze on as she wandered unfettered and unneeded until the long hike homeward. Or that she was assuring him that she was never very far, just waiting for his whistle to call her back.

  He liked to pretend that R
osa was out there with her, even though that had never been. That he was young and Rosa was young, the two of them newly married, with only the promise of their children to come; because the fantasy wouldn't work if Rosa was deep in the woods, trying to keep track of their little ones. Nothing in the forest mimicked the children's laughter or their squealing or Rosa scolding them to stay near.

  There was nothing in the forest but birdsong or insects chirping or frogs calling ... or Angelita braying from time to time. So Papo built his fire, rubbed at his mustache and pulled the half-smoked cigarro from his shirt pocket, lighting it with a piece of kindling. He leaned against a tree and used his bed roll as a seat cushion, his eyes hooding as he gazed out into the woods, pretending that Rosa was just beyond his sight, out there seeing to Angelita. Out there collecting a few wild herbs or root vegetables. Out there getting just one more something before coming back to camp to join him. Both of them young. Both of them just beginning their life together. His left arm ached below his elbow where it no longer was, and - if he didn't look- that made the pretending more real.

  But once the night settled into the forest, blackening everything outside the feeble circle of his camp fire, the pretending stopped. Because Rosa would have returned by then. The night blotted out his fantasy as surely as it did all else. Once that happened, it was time to pull the goat jerky out of the supply locker that sat on the cart. That, and the rum.

  As he lifted the bottle from the locker, a glint high in the tree line caught his eye and he looked toward it suddenly, his heart in his throat as he thought hopefully, ridiculously, Rosa? Her ghost, perhaps? Perched there, looking down upon him, smiling down upon him?

  Of course not. Estúpido. It was only the moon, very nearly full, as it cleared the tree tops.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Luperón , República Dominicana

  Spring, 1950

  Sunset. First Night. Full Moon.

  The last day came and the last day went, filled with brilliant Dominican sunshine, empty of even the most futile hopes of finding Papo Salvador before he vanished and something altogether other emerged. Max and David worked side by side, without saying a word, very nearly feeling the sun's red, raw slide as it disappeared behind the western tree line.

  The shotguns were oiled and cleaned. The silver cartridges loaded. The side arms each strapped to a dark-clad thigh. The silver-lined vests were laid out on the bed, some pockets filled with local herbs and animal dung, dried over fire and crushed into a coarse powder. One of David's pockets held a blow pipe and several thin, silver darts. He picked up his vest and slipped it on, silently handing Max two more cartridges. Max pocketed them.

  With all hope gone of finding Papo Salvador, the plan was to first try turning the Beast away from Sister Veronica. That's what the silver darts were for, to get its attention, force it to charge at them instead. If they could get a clear shot at the pelvic basin -possibly saving the host- they'd take it. But the chance for that at this stage of the hunt was almost nil. And they wouldn't waste precious moments looking for it.

  If they failed to turn the Beast toward them, Max and David would go for a wound or an outright kill, whichever came first, anything to stop it from getting to the sister. With a wound, two things could happen. If they hurt it badly enough, Max and David might get close enough to try again for the belly and an honest chance at saving the host. Or the Beast might run. In which case the hunt would take on a whole other character. No amount of planning would help them then.

  They took up the shotguns and stood at the threshold, waiting until the color of twilight had nearly bled out.

  * * *

  Waves of nausea and vertigo washed over Papo Salvador. He sat quickly on the little stream's eastern bank and cursed when the chum bucket upended, spilling most of the fish parts. A sudden sweat rippled across his face and stuck his shirt to his back and armpits.

  Díos! I'm going into the fits again . Fear knotted in his belly to the point of aching. When will they stop? It's been months, now, please Dear Lamb of God, when will you heal me of these fits?

  But Jesus would not be healing Papo tonight, it seemed. He had to try to make it back to camp and prepare as best he could. He began to rise, but another wave of vertigo stopped him and this time he vomited next to the spilled chum.

  All right. Calm yourself, fool. The fits have not killed you yet, so don't panic. I will not be going anywhere until this passes. All right. But I must move away from the stream, at least, and avoid a face down tumble into it. At least I must do that.

  His legs wouldn't hold him, so he crawled away from the stream as best he could before collapsing. His stomach clenched into a series of dry heaves so violent every muscle in his body cramped. He was left spent and weeping, sucking desperately for air. Somehow he found the presence of mind to fumble inside his trouser pocket and retrieve a length of twine bound into a coil.

  He mashed it between his teeth, hoping to save his tongue, and pulled himself off his belly onto his side. His knew his breath was too fast, but he couldn't help panting like a wild animal, biting on the coil of twine. As consciousness fragmented, he glimpsed the moon, full and lustrous, ascending beyond the mahogany.

  Rosa? Rosa?

  * * *

  When he heard footsteps above the root cellar, all Mezz could think about was water! food! He hadn't thought about Max and David since ... he wasn't sure anymore. Was it yesterday when Art had told him this would all end? There was so much thirst, so much hunger ... there was the throbbing of his head and periods when he awoke with a start, aware only then that he'd blacked out ... he didn't trust his sense of time anymore.

  The cellar door slowly grated backward and Mezz struggled into position, anticipating, his mouth even watering. It was hard to sit up. His legs ached and cramped above the knees and were mostly numb below. He couldn't feel his hands at all anymore.

  To his surprise, the door slid all the way back this time, exposing the inky violet of a sky just after sunset. His heart leapt and Mezz nearly wept there and then. He's letting me go! He really is, he's letting me go!

  Art came into view, sweaty and looking sick, sucking on a cigarette. He sat heavily, dangling his legs over the edge of the root cellar, then pulled the Lucky from his lips with a shaky hand and tossed it away. Mezz wanted to hate Art, but at the moment the only thing he could feel was gratitude.

  With a sob in his throat, all he could say was, "Thanks, man. Aw, thanks, man."

  Art's speech was slurred. "Sorry it has to be this way, Mezz."

  "S'okay. No hard feelings. Thanks, man, thanks for keeping your word. And I'll keep mine, I swear. All I'm gonna do is split, soon as I get my legs back. I promise."

  Art hunched forward, clutching his belly as if he was cramped up. He raised his head and peered into the distance, looking hard at something. He said, "It's coming. It'll be up any second ... Mezz, you ever hear of ... hear of 'collateral damage'? It's a ... military term .."

  Mezz didn't know what the hell Art was talking about and he didn't care. He ignored the creeping unease in his gut and started pumping his legs as best he could within the bonds, trying to get the blood circulating. He's letting me go!

  "It'll probably take me a couple-a minutes to stand up, okay? But I swear on Mrs. Gillis's life that I'm gone, man, splitsville just as soon as I can feel my feet. I swear."

  "I'm really sorry," Art said again, the slur worsening. His arms crawled up his sweat-soaked shirt and he started yanking at it, popping buttons.

  A sickening chill filled Mezz's belly. But he didn't want to feel that. What he wanted to feel was the elation again, the gratitude. Art's letting me go, he is, he has to be letting me go! But a dread was rising to his throat, putting a tremble in his voice when he said, "No, no, man! You don't have to be sorry, I swear to God, you don't have to be sorry! You're doing the right thing, man, you're letting me go. Right? Right?!"

  With his shirt half torn, Art started fumbling at his trousers, tipping onto his
side, whimpering and kicking and yanking as if something had crawled up a pant leg. He pushed off his ankle boots with his feet. His head twisted funny and swivelled around with a nauseating crack until he was staring at Mezz. And then ... and then ...

  "Jesus!!!" Mezz pushed back, shrieking. He pushed back, he pushed back, until he collided with the wall.

  The Beast's mass was too great to fit wholly in the cellar. But it didn't need to.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Luperón , Republica Dominicana

  Spring, 1950

  First Night. Full Moon.

  Something wasn't right. More than the usual "not right." Max knew the difference between the knot in his gut that always accompanied a hunt and the twisting that forewarned of the Beast's proximity. It was the result of having once been bitten; a lingering connection that allowed a former host some minor advantage in tracking the Beast. Max looked at David and knew he felt it, too.

  David said quietly, "Maybe it's closer than we thought."

  Max nodded, and they shifted from sitting at each other's elbow into the more defensible back-to-back position. They couldn't afford much talk right now, tucked away in the scrub foliage fifty or sixty yards from the back of Luperón's little church. But Max thought to himself, That's gotta be it. We've misjudged how long we had. The Beast is moving in quicker than we figured. Yet that didn't seem quite right, either.

  Max gave himself a mental shake. If Sister Veronica was going to survive the night , then he better keep his attention in the right place. He brought his focus back to the little apartment in the northeast corner of the church and waited for a dim glow to rise in its small window. When that happened, it meant the sister was settled in for the night. The bait, then, would be in the lure.

  The night deepened, and time crawled.

  * * *

  Because the host was defective, the Beast of Luperón was lame. That this imperfect vessel was not really a Chosen, that the Beast had found itself too soon reincarnated, made it weaker than usual. A weaker incarnation only made the Beast all the more ravenous.