by Hill, Bear
Tears leaked from Hank’s eyes and he began to whimper. He dared not cry outright or call for help, lest the noise bring one of those goddamn fucking dogs his way.
Hank secretly knew this was his fault. God was punishing him. Punishing him for all the lies he’d told. For all the whiskey he’d drunk. For all the gambling he’d done. For constantly cheating on his clueless wife back in Newman City. But oh, how he wished he was with Glara now. He’d listen to any amount of pissing and moaning if he could just be tucked into bed with her ice-cold butt lying against him right at this very moment.
A howl sliced through the night. The mouth that had made it was close. Too close.
Hank picked up his pace, hobbling through the fog like a broken rocking horse, pain shooting up his leg. Where the fuck was Robby? Just like that little cocksucker to abandon him when he needed him most. Was the mission even in this direction?
Growls. Low and guttural. Directly behind him.
“Oh, Jesus! Oh, God! Please, no! Please!“
In his panic, Hank tripped and went down. He smacked the earth and the air left his lungs. He looked down and saw what he’d stumbled over—a bloody, half-chewed leg jutting out of the fog. Jimbo’s hat and a swatch of Lacey’s dress lay beside it. Hank clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle the scream in his throat. He kicked the hat away and began to crawl, dizzy and grasping for breath.
“Robby!“ he called, but instead of a yell, his words came out in a breathless hiss. “Robby!“
Hank inched along through the mist, using his hands to feel ahead of him. His fingers fumbled upon something that wasn’t sand or rock. Something hard like bone—or a claw. Hank felt up its length and began to shake with terror when the shape of a furry paw filled his palm. Hank looked up and the growls came as pools of slobber dripped into his eyes.
No! I don’t want to die like this. Alone. No one to be with me—!
With the drool curdling in his eyes, Hank never saw the clawed hand that ripped his spine out through his back.
“Come on!“ Reverend Phillips pleaded with Gertrude. She squatted, gasping for breath as the hands at the end of her locked arms rested on her immense thighs.
“I—“ Gerdie panted, “I can’t.“
The reverend stood, gazing through the thick fog in the direction the others had fled.
“Everyone has left us!“ An inhuman howl echoed through the night. “In God’s name, woman, if we stay here, we’ll die!“
“Can’t—not another—can’t—“
The reverend’s eyes went wide. His jaw dropped as he saw dark shapes moving in the fog behind Gertrude.
“I—I—“ the reverend stuttered, his terror preventing him from coherence.
The reverend began to shake as twin golden sparkles appeared among the shadows. Are those eyes or glistening fangs?
The shapes, now lupine in form, began to growl. The reverend knew they were being hunted—toyed with before the kill.
“I—I—“ the reverend continued. The shapes at last revealed themselves as the monsters from the saloon, though the reverend had never had any doubt. They were mere feet behind Gertrude—seconds away from striking.
“What—?“ Gertrude shook her in head confusion, her multiple chins swinging to and fro in the mist.
“I—I—God forgive me!“
Reverend Phillips shoved Gertrude backward into the beasts’ midst. As he’d hoped, they fell upon her, forgetting he was there at all. The reverend didn’t waste the opening. He bolted after the other townsfolk, the scream of the damned upon his lips.
The doc decided he must be dreaming. There simply was no other explanation. That’s the last time I do the laudanum, the doc thought as he scrambled through the fog. Fucking Peg Leg Saul and his shit. Worst goddamnest trip I ever had!
The doc struggled to keep pace with the wounded private. The solider ran several yards ahead of him. Wounded, or not, that son of a bitch is sprinting like a thoroughbred.
Behind him, the doc heard the last few survivors of the private’s company firing their muskets and screaming as they fell under the teeth and claws of the abominations that had attacked the saloon.
Better them, than me. I didn’t ask for this shit. I never ask for this shit! But they call, and I answer. Good ol’ Doc Howard. They always need me to clean up there messes, and this is what happens. Goddamn them!
“Hey!“ the doc said. “Wait up! I can’t see—!“
But it was too late. The fog swallowed Private Sanchez, and the doc was alone.
Goddamn them! Fucked me again. Save their fucking lives and they shit on me but good every time, the bastards. Wait until I catch up to them. Then they’ll see what ol’ Doc Howard—!
The mist parted and the doc starred directly into the dead eyes of the ancient. The doc yelled. His feet pistoned in the dust as he tried to reverse direction. The change in momentum sent him tumbling face-first into the dirt. He scrambled onto his back, and crawled away from the ancient. But the doc’s appendages failed him again, and all he did was spin-out in the sand.
Terror gripped the doc as the ancient walked toward him. No. Walk wasn’t the right word. The Indian seemed to glide through the fog.
The doc had never seen someone so old—old as sin—old as death. The ancient’s face was ugly and wrinkled beyond description. And the milky voids that were his eyes sent shivers racing up and down the doc’s spine. What did those eyes, blind to the world, truly look upon? The doc quickly decided he didn’t want to know—he was sure the answer would drive him mad.
The ancient reached into the pouch he carried at his waist.
“Please!“ Tears streamed from the doc’s eyes. “I’m not one of them! I swear to God: they threw this on me! You have to believe me! I just clean up the mess! I just clean up the mess!“
The ancient retracted his hand from the pouch and brought it up to his lips. The Indian blew and the luminous dust sprinkled over his palm clouded the air to envelope the doc.
Doc Howard grimaced, sneezed, and snorted as the substance invaded his nose, mouth, and skin. But, seconds later, the doc was shocked—and pleased—to find the irritation had vanished.
The doc starred in up at the ancient in expectant horror. Doc Howard knew when the old man realized his poison hadn’t worked, he’d call his demon-dogs down on him to finish the job.
But the call never came. The ancient simply continued to scowl at the doc. Then the old Indian receded into the fog—gliding in just as he had glided out.
The doc dared not move for several long seconds. He starred into the fog, expecting the ancient and his monsters to leap out at him at any moment. But they never appeared.
The doc listened. All was quiet. The howls and screams that had ripped through the air had fallen silent.
Where in tarnation are they? Are the bastards hiding? Toying with me? Waiting to pounce? Dear God, just get it over with!
Minutes crept by. Nothing happened. Finally, the doc rose to his feet. He braced himself anew, knowing now, at last, the death blow would come.
Silence. Just the doc and the fog swirling around him.
The doc began to humor the belief that the ancient and his coyotes-things had lost interest in him, and he just might make it out of this alive after all.
He took a step forward, the rocky dirt crunching beneath his boot. The doc flinched and peered over his shoulder. No coyote monsters. No blind, thousand-year-old Indian.
The doc took another step, hesitated, and then took another. Moments later, the doc was trotting along through the mist for the mission. He was going to make it. Everything was going to be all right. The doc was entertaining this thought when a wail—a baby’s wail—pierced the night.
The doc froze, listening. The cry came again, this time echoed by another. The doc resumed his walk, quickening his pace.
It’s just your imagination. Nothing more. Nothing to be concerned about.
The cries of infants now sounded all around the doc. He continued his trek for the miss
ion, keeping his gaze forward, not daring to turn and see what was making the flickering movements in the fog that he caught out of the corners of his eyes.
After a time, the doc realized the terrain had changed. The earth gave beneath his feet, and he heard what sounded like twigs snapping with every step he took.
Doc Howard looked down, trying to peer through the fog. As if to accommodate him, the green mist peeled away. He was walking on a pile of fetus carcasses. Doc Howard shrieked. He tried to run, but his feet sank into the rotting flesh beneath them, causing him to stumble. He felt something seize his ankle and he fell forward into the mass of dead bodies. He tried to regain his footing, but couldn’t find purchase among the pint-sized corpses. The doc went into hysterics, bawling and uttering nonsense, his mind unable to deal with the horror it was experiencing.
The last strings of the doc’s sanity came unraveled when he saw the fetuses weren’t dead at all. They began to paw at him as they squalled and cooed. The doc howled in terror as hundreds of tiny, undead hands rolled him over onto his back.
The doc peered up to see a gigantic dead baby looming over him. It babbled with glee as it hoisted the doc’s spike-ended hammer high above its head. The last thing the doc saw—ever—was that spike—already black with pig blood—plummeting toward him through the mist.
Farnsworth saw the mission’s massive wooden doors spring out of the fog just in time to keep from colliding with them head first. His reprieve was foiled as the bounty hunter slammed into his back with a grunt and mashed him up against the church’s entrance. The bounty hunter raked J.T. aside, knocking him to the earth. Farnsworth looked up and saw Pablo and the woman waiting as the bounty hunter strained to open one of the large doors. For once, rather than wasting time with verbose accusations and obtuse diatribes, the writer leapt to his feet and assisted his captor word unsaid, the pain of his burned left hand forgotten in the rush of adrenaline he was experiencing. The noise of their grunts and the clinking of Farnsworth’s severed shackle joined the horrific song of howls and screams filling the night air.
Together, they were able to push the huge door open a distance equaling the width of a man. Farnsworth decided the mission’s builders must have been the most backward of Christians, for these doors seemed bent on keeping one out rather than opening in welcome. But so much the better for when they’re shut behind me!
Farnsworth started to wiggle his way inside. He felt the bounty hunter’s hand clasp his arm and jerk him back, slinging him in the dirt once again.
“Egads, man!“ Farnsworth leapt to his feet, his severed shackle jingling. “What the hell—?“
“They go in first.“ The bounty hunter ushered Maxine and Pablo through the crack between doors. “You don’t join them until I’m in. And I’m here until the rest show up—at least what’s left of them.“
“Well, god damn you, sir!“ Farnsworth fumed. “God damn you to—!“
The bounty hunter’s revolver flew from his holster and fired in Farnsworth’s direction. Farnsworth jumped, bringing his hands up to his face. J.T. felt a side of beef slam against his back and screamed. He looked over his shoulder and saw one of the coyote-men sinking to the earth, a massive, bleeding hole between its yellow eyes.
At that moment, Sanchez and Wilson came running out of the fog, Reverend Phillips on their heels. Robby straggled in behind them all, periodically stopping to call for Hank.
“Inside!“ The bounty hunter yelled. All obeyed but Robby.
“Hank!“ Robby screamed at the fog. Tears rolled down his grimacing face.
“Get in here!“ the bounty hunter commanded.
“Hank!“
“Now, you fool!“
“Hank—“
Robby brought up his pistol and fired three quick rounds into the fog. Yellow eyes encased in darkness leapt out of the mist and crashed into him, bringing him to the ground. The attacking coyote-thing clamped its jaws over Robby’s left hand. There was a ripping sound as the beast wrenched its head back to reveal Robby’s fingers sticking out from between its teeth.
Blood spurted from the now handless stump at the end of Robby’s left arm. He howled in pain. The beast was dropping its head to close its jaws around Robby’s shoulder when the top of its head erupted in a volcano of blood and brain. Little Joe came rushing out of the fog holding his smoking scattergun at port arms.
The bounty hunter rushed to Robby’s side and took hold of his jacket and tugged, trying to bring him to his feet. Robby raised his pistol and fired without looking just as Little Joe reached him and his seized his wrist. The bullet went astray, missing the bounty hunter’s head by mere inches.
Amazed to be alive, the bounty hunter peered up at Little Joe. “I owe you!“
Little Joe nodded as he and the bounty hunter lifted Robby to his feet. Howls and barking sounded from the fog, signaling the approach of still more monsters. “Come on!“ the bounty hunter shouted.
Farnsworth took advantage of the bounty hunter’s preoccupation with Robby and bolted inside the mission. Once on the other side, he turned and began pulling the door closed. Farnsworth heard a pistol cock and turned to see Wilson’s gun not two inches from the bridge of his nose. The writer froze where he stood.
Wilson snarled as though he were one of the beasts outside. J.T. had decided he was spending his last seconds on earth when the bounty hunter’s voice rang from outside.
“Cover!“
Wilson lost all interest in Farnsworth and aimed his pistol at the space between the doors. He fired out into the night and then began flipping the hammer of his gun with his free hand, emptying it. Private Sanchez rushed to Wilson’s side and fired his musket, buying Wilson time to reload.
Seconds later, the bounty hunter and Little Joe squeezed through the doors carrying Robby between them. The sobbing drunk’s arm rained buckets of blood onto the church floor. Maxine rushed toward him, tearing off a huge length of her petticoat as she advanced. She wrapped her makeshift bandage around Robby’s arm and led him away from the doors.
Farnsworth stood watching as Wilson, Sanchez, Little Joe, and the bounty hunter thrust their backs against the open door. The door moaned and creaked in protest, but slowly gave ground under the men’s weight. Just as the doors were about to shut, a furry paw reached through the remaining gap and sank its claws into the bounty hunter’s shoulder. He yelled in pain but continued pressing the door closed.
The door shut, severing bone and flesh as it ripped the claw free of its arm. Wilson jumped from the door and took hold of the large wooden post lying in the corner next to the doors.
Dear God! Farnsworth thought. What if that cross-piece had been in place when we arrived?
Wilson yelled and strained with effort, veins popping out on the sides of his neck and at his graying temples as he lifted one end of the over-sized post and dragged it over to the door. Sanchez moved to help, leaving Phillips, Little Joe, and the bounty hunter holding the door.
The bounty hunter tried to yank the severed claw from his shoulder, but it was dug into his flesh like a giant, blood-sucking tick. He gritted his teeth and yelled as he renewed his efforts. There was an eternity-sized pause as the bounty hunter’s irresistible force strained against the immovable object of the monster’s hand. Then, with a howl of agony, the bounty hunter yanked the paw free, each of its bloody, clawed fingers releasing in succession.
The bounty hunter flung the bleeding appendage to the church floor. The abomination of a hand flopped on the ground, slinging black blood in every direction. The claw found purchase and righted itself. It targeted Pablo like a Pointer hound and then skittered across the floor toward him.
The boy cringed and let out a low moan as the paw advanced. It scurried within a few feet of him and sprung from the floor, literally leaping at the boy under the strength of its clawed fingers. Pablo screamed as the bounty hunter’s revolver spat two quick shots swatting the claw from the air. The claw spasmed once, twice, and then fell still.
; Wilson and Sanchez shoved the post through the iron brackets along the doors just in time to keep them bursting open under the coyote-mens’ onslaught. The doors shook and groaned in protest as the roaring beasts outside pounded on them.
But they held fast.
The sound of shattering glass turned Farnsworth and everyone else’s attention to the two windows along the western wall. The creatures crowded in on the windows’ other side, barking and foaming at the mouth as they tried to claw their way in. Farnsworth had a flashback to his would-be jail cell in Garrett’s office and froze with terror.
The bounty hunter’s revolver thundered and several of the monsters yelped in pain as they fell back from the windows.
“Get those benches over the windows!“ the bounty hunter shouted. “Pile everything that isn’t nailed down. I’ll cover!“
Sanchez, Wilson, Little Joe, and the reverend rushed forward and yanked up the wooden pews lining the mission’s interior. Farnsworth felt a familiar boot strike him in the ass and he fell forward. He looked up to see the bounty hunter looming over him as he picked off any beast that dared try for a window.
“Now, Professor!“
Jolted back to his senses, Farnsworth leapt from the floor. He ran over to assist the reverend, the writer’s severed shackle clanking behind him. Thank my lucky stars this is the only side with windows!
They’d finally managed to position a pew atop several others when a coyote-thing poked its head through the window and roared mere inches in front of Farnsworth’s face. It exploded under the impact of one of the bounty hunter’s bullets, showering Farnsworth with blood and bits of brain and bone.
Farnsworth become hysterical. He turned away from the pile to flee.
The bounty hunter cocked a revolver. “I’ll plug you, too, Professor. Sure as shittin’!“
Farnsworth’s instinct for survival snapped him out of his shock. He rejoined the others in piling pews against the windows.
When they’d finished, a sturdy barrier of stacked pews, chairs, and benches stood between them and the church’s shattered windows. The men retreated, their weapons swinging from the pile of furniture to the doors and back until the howls outside lessened and then finally quieted all together.