Monsterland

by James Crowley

  He said that since his transformation, he preferred to be alone, present company excluded. This made the Rangers, or any group for that matter, “a tough sell” for him. He did not feel comfortable in the confines of an official pack and chose instead to wander on his own, finding his lupine cousins often better company than his fellow lycanthropes or other humanoids. He told Charlie that he, not the moon, was in control of his curse, so while still a burden, he was able to transform only when he wished to.

  He told Charlie about his journey, how the government showed up at his school and brought him to the valley; first caged in the hull of a ship, then a train, and finally to the tunnel, blindfolded in the back of a truck.

  “Were you scared when you first got here?” Charlie asked, picturing the tunnel next to Old Joe’s orchard. “I was. Still am, really . . .”

  “Of course I was frightened. Who knew what they had in store for us? But once here, I quickly adapted, and the solace of this place agrees with me. There’s a peace to be found here for those who are willing to accept it.”

  He spoke of creatures who did not adapt so easily, and of others, citing Lester Mortlock by name.

  “I find that there are some here who are difficult to understand. Hard to tell what type of creature, even. Could be a random human without affliction who just stumbled upon this place the same way you did, but for reasons known only to them, they chose to stay. I suppose it’s just their nature, the Lester Mortlocks of the world, their inclination to exploit, to wreak havoc, and I’m afraid the opportunities for those sorts of endeavors abound in these valleys.” They rode through the day, stopping here and there for Franklin to oversee their mapping duties. Late that afternoon, they passed a pack of ghouls greedily devouring the remains of a fallen elk. The ghouls were gaunt creatures. Their bluish skin dangled loosely from their long, thin arms as they pulled at the carcass with their claws and tore at the flesh with their long, pointed teeth.

  “This lot’s easy enough to understand. Pure hunger is their motivation,” Dwight York said, nodding at the desperate creatures, and to which Rohmetall added a thorough definition.

  The next day, as they entered the heart of the mountains, the road worsened and the terrain became more treacherous. The Clydesdales labored up and down narrow passes that wound through deep ravines, and Franklin had to lean back against the cart to control it down the steep slopes. The incline made their mapping duties more difficult, but Dwight York promised that they would be through this rough patch soon enough.

  “Ah, yes, the pass is just ahead, see down below, the source of the great river. I’ll have a look.”

  He left with Ringo and was gone for most of that afternoon. When he returned, Dwight York abruptly announced his departure.

  “There’s one of your Rangers in the area I wish to avoid, if you don’t mind,” he said, pulling down the brim of his wide hat. “Nice enough fellow, just a bit of a bore, to be honest—rah-rah, that sort of thing. I must admit I am not quite ready to go back just yet, and who is to say what he wants with me this time?”

  Dwight shook Franklin’s hand, said good-bye to Rohmetall, and patted Ringo on the head.

  “We will speak again, then,” Franklin said. “Continue our conversation about your studies and your duty . . .”

  “I look forward to it,” Dwight York replied with a sly grin. “Now, the trail follows the river for a few days. From there, it’s up a bit more and then the long descent to the plains.”

  Charlie noticed that Dwight was emptying the contents of his pockets and moving them to his satchel as he spoke.

  “You take care, Charlie. I hope you find what you are looking for,” he said. “And remember, we all live with some sort of a curse, some sort of burden, don’t we? I’ve always thought that it is how we handle the trouble that reflects one’s true nature.”

  Charlie nodded, sad to see him go.

  “I will find you again if you pass this way,” Dwight York continued as he wandered off between the rocks. “Till then . . .”

  “Good-bye,” Charlie said, pushing his horse forward, but Goliath refused. With his nostrils flared, the horse leapt back, startled by the straw-colored werewolf that was now perched on the rocks just above them. The creature was wearing Dwight York’s satchel across his back.

  “It’s all right,” Charlie whispered to Goliath. “He’s our friend.”

  Charlie waved. The werewolf lowered his head respectfully before turning to scramble up the steep incline. Charlie calmed the big horse and watched until Dwight York was over the ridge and out of sight. Then he spurred Goliath forward to catch up with the cart.

  — chapter 23 —

  Up in the Mountains

  THAT NIGHT THEY camped under a rock shelf until a cold rain came in, interrupting their sleep just before dawn. They broke camp early and trudged on through the mud, following the trail as it moved away from the river and up to a high mountain glen. They rode under the shelter of the trees for the day and soon found themselves in a rocky area with boulders littered about the trunks. The rain continued steadily, making it difficult to see.

  “We will push a bit farther,” Franklin shouted back, rain pouring from his hood. “See if we can find a dry spot in these rocks.”

  Franklin and Charlie rode ahead, leaving Ringo barking and Rohmetall driving the cart on through the mud. They pushed forward, skirting a series of large boulders. As they continued, Charlie thought that the tight weave of rocks might as well have been Old Joe’s Halloween maze. They rode on until, in a flash of lightning, Faust leapt sideways, almost throwing Franklin to the mud. The Monster steadied himself, calmed the horse, and turned him back around to Charlie.

  “We need to be mindful here—” the Monster began. Then stopped, raised his crossbow, and yelled, “Charlie, behind you!”

  “What? Where?” Charlie cried just as a set of long claws ripped into his shoulder.

  Goliath bucked wildly, throwing Charlie from his saddle. He hit the ground hard, and something heavy landed on top of him. Then he heard an arrow whistle past his ear and thud into the mass. Exhaling its last putrid breath, the creature collapsed, pinning Charlie to the ground under its weight and covering his face in its wet, matted hair.

  “Trolls,” Franklin said. He had dismounted and was pulling the dead creature off Charlie when the second attacked.

  Charlie fumbled as he tried to draw his sword, but there was no need. Franklin had already knocked the beast to the ground. The troll scrambled back with Franklin in pursuit and howled out as the Monster brought his heavy sword down upon it, but the blade sparked and glanced sideways as the metal struck solid stone instead.

  “Cursed creature has turned on me.” Franklin picked up the heavy, troll-shaped rock. He held it over his head and then smashed it to pieces against a large boulder.

  “Let us see you turn yourself back from that, troll,” the Monster growled, then returned to Charlie and pulled the boy from the mud.

  “It got you there, on the shoulder,” Franklin said, examining Charlie’s wound. “I told the Prime Minister this was a mistake, and here’s your proof. Can you ride?”

  “I think so,” Charlie answered, although he found it difficult to move his arm.

  Franklin carefully lifted Charlie back in his saddle and handed him a bundled piece of cloth.

  “You hold this to your shoulder. We have to keep moving. We are lucky to have stumbled upon such a small grouping, but they will be back. We will see to your injury when we have put some ground between us and this place.”

  Rohmetall came over the rise behind them and pulled the cart to a stop, Ringo barking at his side.

  “May-may I be of service?” Rohmetall asked, rusty water dripping from his rivets.

  “Hold the dog,” Franklin ordered. “We have to keep moving.”

  The metal man looked at the fallen troll on the ground a
s Franklin pulled the arrow from its carcass.

  “Trolls,” Rohmetall said. “Troll. Trodfolk. Bjergfolk. See Scandinavian folklore. Related to the Anglo-French troil, trolle. Found in isolated mountains. Danger level—”

  “Enough!” Franklin growled. “We obviously all know what a troll is . . .”

  They rode higher up into the glen, and the farther they traveled, the more difficult it became for Charlie. Every sway of the saddle worsened the pain in his shoulder, and he could feel his warm blood dripping between his skin and his cold, wet shirt. Charlie felt disoriented and thought he saw something ahead of them in the trees. It was hard to make out at first, but then he could see him clearly. It was Billy.

  “Billy?” Charlie called out, trying to keep his cousin in his sights. But the dizziness overwhelmed him and he slumped forward in the saddle, mumbling, “I’m sorry, Billy, I’m sorry . . .”

  Franklin stopped the horses and eased the boy down while Rohmetall hung a tarp. They built a small fire against the rocks, and Franklin gathered his medical supplies.

  “I will see to this. Take the dog. Have a look around,” Franklin told Rohmetall. “See if the trolls have had time to regroup.”

  Rohmetall clanked off against the rocks, and Franklin bent his head to step under the tarp.

  “I’m fine,” Charlie heard himself say. “We can keep riding.”

  “Not likely,” Franklin said, taking out his sewing kit and lighting a lantern. “I am sorry, boy. As you can easily see, my abilities are crude, but we have to stop the bleeding.”

  He cleaned Charlie’s wound with some water and threaded a needle. Without the constant movement of the saddle, Charlie felt better already. He struggled to sit up straighter.

  “Stay still now,” Franklin said, wiping the blood away from the claw marks.

  Charlie looked at the Monster’s roughly sutured wrists. They were discolored and yellow with oozing infection between the stitching.

  “Does it hurt?” Charlie asked.

  “Does what hurt?”

  “Your wounds. The stitching?”

  “Not as much as this will hurt you, I’m afraid. But yes, I feel it.”

  Franklin looked distraught as he held the needle to the lantern light.

  “Oh, these cursed digits.” The needle looked tiny and trembled in Franklin’s huge hand. “You ready?” Charlie nodded.

  Franklin pinched the skin around the wound together as he started the coarse thread through the first loop. Charlie felt the point of the hot needle pierce his skin. He tried to distract himself, listening to the rain as it beat down on the tarp.

  “There, one . . . ,” Franklin said, but then he quickly turned his head out toward the storm. ”Who is there?” the Monster bellowed.

  The rain came down in sheets, making it difficult for them to hear any response.

  “I will not call again,” Franklin grunted.

  A figure appeared from the shadows. “I wish you no harm. Just saw the firelight.”

  “Then show yourself.” Franklin left his needle and thread to step out from under the tarp. “Now!”

  Charlie leaned against the saddle blanket. From where he sat, he could barely see the back of Franklin’s legs. The rain hissed as it fell on the fire.

  “Show yourself,” the voice answered. “I am at as much a disadvantage as you.”

  “I have no time for games!” Franklin roared, moving toward the figure in the rain. When the figure reached under his cloak for his sword, Franklin did the same. Charlie craned his neck to see better and felt the one stitch pull open as he moved.

  “I am warning you,” Franklin growled.

  The man took another step, then stopped. “Ha, I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed with a laugh.

  “You think this is funny?” Franklin barked.

  “Why, it’s me, Ignacio, you old lunk!” the man said, throwing back his hood. “Ignacio Santos!”

  Franklin’s shoulders relaxed.

  “I should have known your voice, but for this driving rain,” Igancio Santos went on. “My apologies. It has been a while.”

  “Aye, it has. But no time for reunions,” Franklin said, turning back to Charlie. “And what are you up to, sneaking about in the night?”

  Ignacio followed him. “I see you haven’t changed a bit. And what do you mean, sneaking about? Why, I’m out on patrol . . .”

  They stepped under the tarp, and rain streamed down from their cloaks.

  “Patrol? Well, your patrol was little help to us,” Franklin scoffed.

  “What’s this?” Ignacio said, his eyes adjusting to the lantern light. “A boy? A real boy?” He poked Charlie with his finger as a test.

  “He is real enough to bleed,” Franklin replied, holding the lantern higher.

  “Ignacio Santos, Ranger.” The man knelt down to examine Charlie’s wound. “Looks like you’ve encountered some trolls along the way.”

  “And I am afraid these profane fingers of mine have trouble with such delicate tasks,” Franklin said.

  “Still, I see you’ve managed to keep yourself together all these years.” Ignacio turned back to the rain. “There’s a cache nearby with supplies and dry wood. I was just on my way. We’ll be more comfortable there and can see about closing that shoulder properly.”

  “I can ride,” Charlie said, trying to sound stronger than he felt.

  “There, now,” Ignacio said. “That’s the Ranger spirit!”

  — chapter 24 —

  The Ranger’s Cache

  CHARLIE’S SHOULDER THROBBED, but at least he was warm and dry, wrapped in a blanket near the fireplace of a small stone cabin. Franklin and Ignacio Santos sat at a stout wooden table with Ringo curled up at their feet. The maps were spread out under lantern light, and they ate as they spoke. Charlie recalled little of their ride to the Rangers’ post, but he remembered being in Franklin’s arms, his large hood protecting him from the rain as they rode, and then being carried in and set on the cabin table. It was Ignacio who’d stitched the gash in Charlie’s shoulder, with Franklin, he was later told, looking on attentively.

  “Let me know if you’re in need of repair as well,” Ignacio had said to his old friend. “It’ll be like back in your rangering days.”

  This was the last thing Charlie remembered them saying.

  “AH, THERE HE IS, BACK FROM THE DEAD,” IGNACIO ANNOUNCED when he saw that Charlie was awake. The Ranger picked up a flask of water and a wooden bowl from the table and brought it over to the fire. Ringo followed, resting his head in Charlie’s lap.

  “How’s that shoulder? Didn’t look too bad. But you’ll feel it for a few days to come.” Ignacio handed Charlie the wooden bowl. It was filled with a thick stew and rice. “I’m afraid with the recruitment shortage there’s been no one at this post for some time, so can’t vouch for the freshness of these stores, but did the best we could.”

  The stew was warm and Charlie was so hungry that he would have eaten the rancid stew from the tavern again. Franklin stood behind Ignacio, his head almost hitting the ceiling.

  “Your coloring’s returned,” Franklin said with an approving grunt. “I will see how Rohmetall is doing.” Franklin turned to the door and stepped out in the rain.

  “Off to check on his precious horses, more likely.” Ignacio pulled a stool up to the fire. “You’ll find he’s not the most trusting soul. Do-it-himself sort of fellow, helluva Ranger, though, helluva Ranger. But that—that was a long time ago . . .”

  “So you’re actually a Ranger?” Charlie asked with a mouthful of stew. “You went to the Ranger School?”

  “Yes, Ignacio Santos, Mountain Division, at your service. Entrusted by the Council with patrolling this land and all of its many inhabitants . . .”

  Charlie looked around the small cabin. It was indeed outfitted for a patrol. There were maps o
n the wall that indicated hot spots in red, while the other wall held a variety of weapons, and another was lined with crates of food and barrels of dried goods. There was something about it that reminded Charlie of Old Joe’s workbench back home. “HQ,” as he called it, was tucked back under the low-slung annex of the barn and also had maps and ropes and other supplies strewn about, although it wasn’t as well organized. On a rainy day, HQ was probably Charlie’s favorite place in the world, especially when Old Joe had a project going and was telling stories from his army days.

  “And Franklin, Franklin was a Ranger?”

  “Franklin?”

  “Yes, his name is Franklin now.”

  “The Monster of all Monsters has taken a name? Curious, but it has a certain ring to it. Yes, Franklin, as you say, was a Ranger. And not one to back away from a fight.”

  Charlie did not have any trouble imagining this with what he had seen of the Monster so far.

  “He was here in the beginning, trained me, actually, but that was years ago. It was rough on the big fellow back in those days, so many creatures arriving at once, unsure of themselves and their new surroundings—it was a bit of a free-for-all, really. And Franklin and the Rangers managed to establish some semblance of order, all that being relative, of course. Made some enemies along the way, I’d imagine. But did some good too.”

  “So he’s no longer a Ranger?”

  “Not for years, unfortunately, but he served his time.” Ignacio picked up a log and stoked the fire with it. “We could sure use him, though. With the budget cuts these days, there just aren’t enough of us to patrol a place this big anymore. And it’s hard to fill the soldiering ranks here with all the different wars going on out there in the world. But we do what we can.”