“How do we fight it?” Jeremy demanded.
Shadowheart shrugged.
“Wait,” Samantha said. She dove at a cabinet near the TV. Opening both doors, she began flinging DVDs about, tunneling into the cabinet like a gopher digging a burrow. Jeremy watched in bemusement as she muttered, cursed and tunneled.
“Aha,” she said, jumping out and up and tossing a DVD at him.
He looked down at an old black and white SF movie called the “The Thing.”
“And?” Jeremy asked.
“One of my writing buddies loves it and loaned it to me. Scientists attacked in the arctic by a monster carrot or something like that. They killed it with an arc of electricity.” She grabbed it out of his hand and started the TV. A quick scan brought them to the stalwart heroes rigging up an electrical booby trap and zapping a balding spaceman who did not look very carrot like.
“I have a generator,” Samantha said, “for when the power goes out in storms. Dad taught me how to do wiring. We block the windows and doors and leave one way in. The beast comes in and zap.”
Jeremy looked out the window at the setting sun. “Let’s do it.”
A two-hour race with the fading light followed. Jeremy wrestled the generator into the house as Samantha wired and hammered, setting the trap. She hung leads from the metal painting scaffold. They covered the windows with the old house’s green wooden shutters. Furniture and more boards secured all doors but the front. Duke and O. Henry were locked in her bedroom out of harm’s way.
The sun disappeared as Samantha finished hooking up the generator. Jeremy placed some old rubber stall mats, he’d found in the disused barn on the ground to protect them. Samantha stared out beyond the leads and cables of the boobytrap. Then she looked at Shadowheart. “You’re sure it’s out there hunting for me?”
Shadowheart nodded. “I sense the presence of evil.”
Samantha opened the door and strode out onto the porch facing the open expanse of lawn. “Eeeaaaat meeeeeeee,” she yelled. She walked in and grinned at Jeremy. “Always wanted to do that.”
Jeremy frowned. “Wonderful.”
Samantha, now cheerful and confident, got them both a beer, pausing for a second to look at Shadowheart, who just rolled her eyes. Jeremy gratefully accepted the beer as Samantha sat on the rocker inside the doorway in plain view. From somewhere she’d produced a revolver that lay in her lap like a cannon. “Daddy’s old .357,” she said, noting his gaze.
“I’m bait for the beast,” she added, sipping her beer. “Hope it doesn’t prefer virgins.”
Jeremy kept circling, checking the windows. He’d left the lights on, but the old house was lousy with blindspots.
“Come on Jeremy, stick close,” Samantha called. “It will be showtime soon.”
Jeremy sat near Samantha, sword resting across his knees.
“Don’t believe I thanked you for sticking by me during all this. Friends mean a lot to me,” she said. “Won’t forget it.”
“Can always use more friends,” he said.
She smiled. “Sorry that I’m not up for giving the hero the traditional rewards.”
“You’re forgiven,” he said grandly.
“Oh please,” Shadowheart grimaced.
Samantha grinned and punched his arm.
A slamming sound came from beneath him. They leapt to their feet. More noise came from below them.
Shadowheart turned to Samantha. “Does this house have a basement?”
“Yeah. But it’s cement.”
“Any of it natural dirt?”
“Only by the trapdoor.”
Shadowheart shut her eyes as if in pain. “A green man might well tunnel through dirt like you swim. This thing might do the same.”
The thumping came louder. Something was coming up the inside stairs.
“It’s inside!” Samantha yelled.
The door from the basement bulged.
“Run,” Jeremy shouted, shoving her out the front door. Shadowheart blinked out of existence.
“I can’t trigger the generator from out here,” she protested.
“We’ll die in there,” he snapped.
The door cracked as they fled into the night. Jeremy had a second to see a mass of rustling green.
They raced out to the yard, then circled, heading for the cars, but the creature followed them out and was too close to rush past. Jeremy fled the pricking of its poison on his skin. An overpowering smell of wet earth and decaying leaves bit at his nose.
Bang, sounded in his ears. Samantha’s .357 cracked again, kicking wildly in her hands. “Get off my land,” she shouted.
The bullets tore foliage but the thing came on untroubled. The prickling on his skin grew worse; all Samantha had done was fill the air with poison.
“Back up,” he said. He hefted the sword but knew cutting would only do more harm to them. Only one chance. “Get your car,” he shouted as they backed toward the barn and shed where they had parked. He reversed his sword, holding the gem at the level of his eyes and concentrated. Latin poured off his tongue. The gem began to pulse with a blood red light.
The green man stopped its rush at the edge of the light. It looked like a giant starfish but the top arm was shorter and held a horrible caricature of a face, with holes for eyes and a maw of twigs and leaves. Two thick ropy tendrils waved from its shoulders. It tried to sidle to one side or the other as Jeremy kept up his chant, feeling his strength drain bit by bit into the stone.
“Jeremy,” he heard Samantha call. “It’s done something to the tires. They’re all flat.”
“Run, Samantha,” Jeremy cried, despair striking him. “I’ll buy you time.” He advanced toward the green man, which gave ground, shaking as if in agitation or pain. If he could trap it against the house maybe he could destroy it. He ran forward, concentrating on the gem. And tripped on a tree root hidden in a harsh shadow thrown by the porch light. He caught himself as the gem winked out and the green man rustled forward, almost upon him.
Suddenly Samantha leapt in, spraying something from a can in each hand. “Eat Roundup, fucker.”
The green man convulsed in evident pain. But the chemicals wouldn’t kill even ordinary poison ivy quickly. Tendrils struck out. One knocked the can from her right hand, the other stuck her down like a whip. Samantha screamed and lost the other can.
But Jeremy gained his feet and raised the gem hilt. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he shouted, pouring out strength recklessly. The gem flamed and the green man retreated holding up two of its appendages like arms to protect its horrid face.
Samantha scrambled up. They turned and fled down the path. A stiff wind rustled the grass and brush around them.
“Where to?” Samantha called.
“We’ve got to get out of all this vegetation. It can come at us from any direction.”
“There’s a fish camp down the road,” she said. “Nice big tarmac parking lot.”
They jogged on. Jeremy kept the sword ready but he could not see the beast. Probably it was pacing them in the forest to their right. They had to keep ahead of it.
Samantha and Jeremy slowed. He trained at running, but the encumbrance of sword scabbard and weapons slowed him. Samantha was nursing a knee. “Surgery last year,” she grimaced.
“Shadowheart,” he called.
“With you,” her voice sounded in their minds.
“Where is it?”
“Near, following in the woods. Run faster.”
They jogged down the empty country road hoping to see a car. Not, he thought, that anyone is likely to stop for a young man with a sword.
A sign ahead said, ‘South Fork Fish Camp.’ They ran into the parking lot.
“Duck,” Samantha cried.
Jeremy hit a shoulder roll as a boulder sailed through the space he’d just occupied.
They reached the door. “It’s locked,” Samantha yelled. Then she pointed, her face frozen in terror. The green man was coming from the tre
e line, moving as fast as a man.
Jeremy pulled his Walther and shot the lock. They ran in.
“Brace the door,” Samantha shouted.
He shook his head. “Too many windows. The kitchen, quick.”
The entrance behind them slammed open as they raced into kitchen.
“Jeremy, I can’t run much longer,” Samantha said, grabbing her knee.
He looked about desperately. They stood next to the meat locker. Its refrigerator unit hummed and he could see three big tanks of refrigerant next to it.
The double doors of the kitchen opened and the green man stood there, as if savoring their helplessness.
Inspiration struck Jeremy. He reversed the sword and concentrated on the gem, producing a wan version of the glow he had invoked before. The creature rustled as if stung but pressed forward, encouraged by the weakness of the glow.
Shadowheart, he sent mentally, I don’t dare speak aloud. Tell Samantha to get the fire ax on the wall and knock over the liquid nitrogen tank.
He heard the sound of the tank falling.
Suddenly Jeremy raced forward and to the left, circling the creature. The sword’s gem brightened and the monster stumbled back. “Now, Samantha!”
Samantha slammed the fire ax down on the top of the tank in several desperate strikes. Freezing liquid nitrogen burst forth. A high keening sound came from the creature as it was forced away from the sacred sword into the cloud of vapor. Jeremy poured his full force into the sword’s gem to hold the monster in place. Cracking sounds filled the air.
Samantha wrestled the other tank around. Pointing at the green man, she braced it on a chair and opened the valve, blasting the green man at point blank range.
Jeremy grabbed Samantha and pulled her past the creature. They retreated from the cloud of icy gas, eyebrows and hair already stiff. In a minute the tank emptied and the room was freezing. In the middle of it, like a horrible ice statue, stood the green man.
Shadowheart appeared. “It’s not over. Jeremy, strike now.”
Jeremy leapt forward and brought the heavy Templar sword down in a two-handed blow. The green man shattered into a pile of frozen vegetation.
A sound made Jeremy look down and leap backward with a wild yell.
Something rose from the floor.
“A mandrake demon,” Shadowheart snapped.
A two-foot tall creature that seemed made of roots stood up and hissed at Jeremy. It looked like a gingerbread man gone bad, very, very bad.
The mandrake jumped forward and Jeremy leapt over it, swiping down with the bloodsword and missing.
“Don’t let it get out to open ground,” Shadowheart shouted. “It will bury itself and regenerate.”
Samantha leapt forward with a wild cry and swing of the ax that would have made any Viking proud. The mandrake rolled under her and grabbed her leg. She shook it loose with a howl. It leapt onto a table, heading for a window. Jeremy lunged forward and slammed the point of the sword into the mandrake, pinning it to the wooden window sash. It screeched and twisted, almost freeing itself.
Samantha’s ax thudded into the mandrake, neatly separating its head. The root dropped to the floor, curling and starting to smoke.
Jeremy looked at Samantha and smiled. “Nice work, Viking Princess.”
She smiled back at him then staggered over to a chair and collapsed into it, arms wrapped about her. Jeremy’s hand shook as he sheathed the bloodsword.
“Well done,” Shadowheart said. “You have banished the evil.”
“We’d better get out here before the cops arrive,” Jeremy said. He looked at his hands. They were swelling and itched. “Please tell me you have calamine lotion and Benadryl at your house?”
Samantha looked up. “I’m a country girl. Calamine lotion and Benadryl are condiments out here.” She stood shakily and looked at Shadowheart. “One question. One straight answer.”
Shadowheart smiled. “Ask.”
“Does God really love me?”
“Hell yes,” Shadowheart said and vanished.
The Last Payday of the Killibrew Mine
John M. Whalen
The wind howled through the snow-covered pine trees and a lone figure, clad in parka and high-top boots, appeared in the moonlight that shafted down through the branches. He ran down the long sloping hill that lay at the base of the mountain, as fast as his legs could carry him. He stumbled and fell in the snow and tumbled, but he never let go of the Henry Repeating Rifle that he clasped in his mittened hands. He was a man of about 50, in good physical condition, but he’d been drinking. There was a saloon halfway down from the Killibrew—the Red Bird—where he’d stopped to fortify himself. He’d needed the booze after what he’d seen. He only stayed a quarter of an hour. He warned the patrons in the bar—the miners, the hunters, the whores. He’d told them they’d better get out of there. He told them what was coming, and if they had any sense they’d run. They didn’t listen. They didn’t believe him. He’d slammed down one more shot of rye and headed out into the night.
And he was only halfway to Beaver Junction. He had to get there. He had to tell Daniel what was happening. His brother would know what to do. Damn him! It was his fault after all. He had to get there before it was too late. The full Alaskan moon, a January Wolf Moon, was too high in the sky and too bright. It threw his shadow out on the white snow ahead of him, as if it were marking him in place, no matter how hard he ran. It was all down hill but Beaver Junction was five miles away, and he knew he’d never make it.
That’s when he heard it. The music. First it was one of those Indian flutes, high pitched and floating on the night wind like the sound of a ghost bird. Then the drums, Tom-tom-TOM-tom, Tom-tom-TOM-tom, Tom-tom-TOM-tom, and then the chanting. The ancient sound of an old Tlingit shaman, the voice cracking on the high notes, sent an eerie pattern of sounds that sent a terrible chill through his veins.
“Oh, Lord,” he muttered, clutching his rifle. He thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He turned. They were there. Eight of them, but he knew there were more of them out there. A lot more. Wearing buckskin pants and no shirts. Moccasins covered their feet. They were bare headed, their black hair in braids that hung down over their shoulders, and they came down the hill toward him.
“No!” he shouted and raised the Henry. They came on. Slowly. Their movements couldn’t be described as walking. They staggered on legs that didn’t seem to work properly. Their arms were stretched out toward him. He fired. The bullet struck one in the center of his chest. The Tlingit jerked a spasm, but steadied himself and continued walking on. He fired another round and hit him in the face. The shot tore the side of the Tlingit’s face off, but the face was already a mess. There was only one eye and half of its right cheek had been eaten away by worms.
The man raised the rifle to shoot again, and he heard the sound of the drum behind him. He turned and saw the old medicine man, hair white as snow, beating on the drum in his hands. A young girl standing by his side played the wooden flute. The drum beat out the rhythm and the girl sent blood chilling notes up into the moonlit sky. He raised his rifle at the old man, but never got off a shot. They had come up behind him. All he heard were the half-bestial roars of the undead things as they pounced on him and dragged him to the ground.
“Mary, mother of Mercy,” he screamed, as they tore the gun out of his hands. He felt their blunted, rotting teeth sink into his neck and throat. He felt the flesh being torn away and felt his warm blood spurt out of his carotid artery like a scarlet geyser into the snow. He struggled to get up but couldn’t move as the things tore off his parka so they could get to his vitals.
Cassie Foster dropped the bucket down into the well and heard it when it hit the ice and cracked it. She waited until the bucket settled down under the ice and filled with water. She looked nervously at the woods that ran up the side of the mountain behind the town. It was late afternoon. They wouldn’t come until it was dark. It was all right as long as it was daylight. Sh
e needed the water to get dinner ready for her father and two brothers. Since Ma died a year ago she was the lady of the house and feeding the men folk was part of her everyday routine. Normally she’d give them their ham and eggs and oatmeal and coffee in the morning, and, full of the good things she cooked, they’d go on up to the Killibrew and not come down till nightfall. She’d pack them a good lunch too. But that was before. Things had changed.
First it was Uncle Wes. They found his body three days ago about a mile from home. Hardly anything left of him. Just some bloody bones and strips of flesh and blood all over the ground. His Henry rifle lay a few feet away. Wolves? No, it wasn’t wolves. There was no wolf spore anywhere around the body. But there were moccasin prints. Tlingit moccasins. Nobody knew what to make of it. Had the Indians gone cannibal? That might have been a possibility. Food was scarce. Only thing wrong with that theory was that there weren’t any Indians for a hundred miles around. Her father said they’d all moved out of the area some twenty-five years ago because of the lack of game.
No living Indians had killed Uncle Wes. And it wasn’t living Tlingits who killed the other two men found the next two nights in a row. And it wasn’t living Tlingits who’d attacked the town last night. They were all dead Tlingits, every one of them. They were on their feet, and they moved around, but they were all dead, rotting red men, who had crawled out of their graves. The Undead.
She heard the sound of a horse some distance behind her. She turned and saw a stranger on horseback, leading a packhorse, coming up to the barricade they’d set up at the south end of Beaver Junction’s only street. There was another barricade at the north end. The stranger was tall and thin, and he wore a poncho, and a wide-brimmed hat. Furry muffs covered his ears. A Meerschaum pipe curved out from between his clenched teeth. Ned Gates stood behind the barricade, a Winchester in his hands.
“Whada you want, mister?” she heard Ned say.
Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Page 72