by Hill, Bear
“Where’s Jimbo and the rest?“ Little Joe asked.
Wilson shrugged. “Dead, or as good as.“
The bounty hunter looked at the reverend. “There any other way in here?“
Reverend Phillips paused as if in consideration.
“Well? Yea or nay, Preacher?“
Unable to answer, the reverend merely shook his head. The bounty hunter nodded but gave the room a final sweep with his eyes. Satisfied the room was secure, he grimaced and rubbed his shoulder, finally allowing himself to feel the pain of his wound.
“Are they gone?“ the reverend asked.
“I don’t know, Reverend,“ Farnsworth said. “Why don’t you poke your head out the door and give a look-see?“
“Shut that shit up.“ Wilson said.
“I shall take no orders from a mindless bumpkin such as yourself!“ Farnsworth said.
Wilson pointed his pistol at Farnsworth. “A what? You yellowbellied sonofa—!“
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,“ the reverend said. “I didn’t mean to bring disharmony amongst us.“
“You got nothing to do with this, Reverend,“ Wilson said.
“True enough,“ Farnsworth said. “This loathsome primate showcases the enormity of his own stupidity with his every spoken word!“
“Cut the shit!“ the bounty hunter said. “That goes for all of you. The Professor’s my prisoner. Mess with him, you mess with me.“
Wilson whirled on the bounty hunter. “That so? Well here’s what I got to say to that: I appreciate what you been doing, but you need to remember the rest of us ain’t your prisoners to order around.“
“Please, gentlemen—“ the reverend said.
“It was my orders saved your ass tonight when those haunts hit the saloon.“ The bounty hunter rotated the arm beneath his wounded shoulder.
“Here! Here!“ Farnsworth said.
The bounty whirled on Farnsworth. “I said cut the shi—!“
All fell silent as the sound of a gunshot echoed through the sanctuary. The men turned to see Private Sanchez pointing his smoking musket at the ceiling.
“All of you shut the hell up!“ Sanchez lowered his weapon and looked each of them in the eye. “Now I don’t know what those things outside are, but they ain’t gone away. They chased my company for miles, killing us all so’s I’m the only one left. So you can damn sure believe they ain’t decided to pack up and go home just because they can’t get through that door for the moment!
“Anyone left on the other side of that door is already dead, and it won’t be long before we join them! They’re coming! They’re going to get in and we are all going to die like any poor bastard that happened to be in town tonight. That’s a fact.“
In the room’s far corner, Maxine cradled Pablo to her chest.
“And if you want to spend the last few minutes we got arguing about nothing, then you might as well take your asses on outside and let them have you right now, ’cause you’re stupider than shit either way.“
The men stared at one another, speechless. Lying on the floor beside Maxine, Robby began to sob.
From the San Ramirez Gazette, November 1861…
SAN RAMIREZ WINS CONTRACT WITH SOUTHWESTERN PACIFIC
Mayor Charles Covington announced with much jubilation during last night’s general session at town hall that San Ramirez had won the bid for a station along Southwestern Pacific’s new railroad to begin construction in June of this year. “By Godfrey, we have it!“ Mayor Covington said. “Our fair city will be a lynchpin in the west to come!“
Southwestern Pacific’s new line is slated to connect the profitable freight trade markets of San Francisco and the Gulf of Mexico with the East Coast. The line is to also serve as the preferred means of travel for the elite wishing to visit the bay area and will feature the much-desired Pullman service on its trains. “We want to ensure a safe and luxurious ride for our clientele,“ Bart Strickland, member of the Southwestern Pacific board of trustees said. “Our Pullman cars will feature plush sleeping quarters, dining areas with pianos, and waiters on hand to see to our most cherished travelers’ every need. The West will be tamed, and it is Southwestern Pacific who will crack the whip!“
The new railroad is projected to bring unheralded economic growth to the struggling mining town that San Ramirez had become. “I’m already placing orders to triple my stock,“ Ben Olmos, owner of the San Ramirez Mercantile said. “When the railroad hits, I want to be ready.“
But what of the surrounding towns? What effect has Southwestern Pacific’s decision to run through San Ramirez brought to our friends and neighbors? “Perdition can rot for all I care!“ Perdition native Carl Haney said. “I pulled stakes myself last week. I’m taking my family to back to Tennessee. Perdition ain’t no proper place to raise children. There’s nothing left there these days but thieves and trash!“
…Continued on Page 9
Chapter 6
THE HORROR EXPLAINED
Wilson’s sat in silence at his wife’s bedside, holding her hand as the sun sank behind the mountains west of Perdition. Doc Howard had given her something to make her sleep, and for that, Wilson was grateful. Because in slumber, Helen was able to escape the pain and agony the consumption had ushered into her life—both their lives.
He’d brought her to Perdition with promises of big success as a general store owner. Perdition would be a place they could put down roots and make a family. But the railroad had gone through Santa Ramirez instead, leaving Perdition and their dreams of wealth and family to wither and die. Helen had gotten sick and her physical state had quickly come to mirror their dire circumstances.
As Wilson pondered these things, he began to weep. “I’m so sorry, Helen. Please forgive me. I never meant for any of this to happen. I never—!“
Wilson’s head snapped up “Helen?“ She struggled for wind, choking in her sleep. “Helen!“ Wilson shook her, but his wife refused to wake.
Or to breathe.
Finally, she quit trying. Her chest fell. Her body stilled and moved no more.
“Helen?“ Wilson cried. Sobs came and he began to shake his head as the truth of his wife’s death hit him. “No … no.“ he said. His words were soft, only a partial denial. Wilson let his head fall slowly forward until his face lay against the even now cooling cheek of his wife. He laid there until dawn, his tears draining onto her neck.
The bounty hunter eyed Robby where he lay whimpering. That wound’s going to have to be closed. Wilson thought the bandage around Robby’s arm now looked like a ripe tomato. It certainly did little to stop the outpour of blood onto the church floor.
“Right.“ Wilson turned to address the group as a whole. “Get anything that will burn.“
Little Joe and the bounty hunter began collecting discarded Bibles and hymnals and tearing out their pages and tossing them into a pile.
“What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?“ the reverend asked. “That is God’s holy word!“
“And it will be used to save another soul this day, Reverend.“ Wilson placed an arm around Phillip’s shoulder and led him away so Little Joe and the bounty hunter could do their work unhindered. “Please, Reverend. We’ll need alcohol to cleanse the wound. And then water to cool it. You got any, here?“ Reverend Phillips paused for a moment, watching as Little Joe and the bounty hunter made kindling out of his pulpit.
The reverend sighed. “I have a canteen of water and a bottle of moonshine in my study. I’ll get them.“ Wilson watched as the reverend disappeared into the rectory located to the right of the pulpit.
By the time Phillips returned, Wilson and the other men had built a small fire. Little Joe and the bounty hunter stood bare-chested in front of it, flapping their shirts so that the smoke was directed toward the stack of furniture covering the broken windows. Wilson took off his vest and used it to shield his hand as he turned the longer end of a metal cross warming in the flames.
“All right,“ Wilson said. “Hold him.“<
br />
The bounty hunter and Little Joe dropped their shirts and made their way toward Robby. He was now awake and sitting in the corner, his eyes locked on the blazing cross. The men wrapped their arms around Robby as Private Sanchez unwound the bandage from his arm. The reverend removed his belt and placed it in Robby’s mouth.
“Sterilize the wound,“ Wilson said. The reverend uncorked the bottle of moonshine he’d brought and poured its contents over Robby’s exposed arm. Robby let out a yell muffled by the reverend’s belt as he writhed in the men’s grip. They tightened their hold on him, throwing their legs across his lower body. In the corner across the room, Pablo shielded his ears as he began to rock in place beside Maxine and Farnsworth, a continuous moan on his lips.
Wilson pulled the cross from the fire. The crossed end glowed red hot. He walked over to the huddle of men and knelt before Robby. “Robby,“ Wilson said, “we’ll do this on the count of three, okay?“ Robbed nodded as his eyes bulged with terror.
“Here we go,“ Wilson said. “One—“ Wilson plunged the glowing end of the cross onto Robby’s wound. The drunk’s skin sizzled and the smell of cooking pork filled the room. Robby cried out in agony and struggled to free himself from the men’s grip. They held him fast as Wilson removed the cross from Robby’s arm. “Now,“ Wilson said. Sanchez doused the wound with water from the canteen Reverend Phillips had produced. Then it was all over.
The men got up to put out the fire, leaving Robby to cradle his arm. Wilson’s face went slack as he realized he’d branded Robby so that the shape of an inverted cross would forever rest on the end of his arm. Wilson tossed the cross onto the floor.
“Oh my God!“
Wilson turned to see the reverend lifting something off the floor. He held it up for all to see.
Farnsworth massaged his burned left hand. “What in all of creation is that?“
“It’s,“ Phillips stammered, “it’s a hand … a human hand.“
“Where the fuck did you get that, preacher?“ Wilson asked.
The reverend turned the hand so that the palm and the two bullet holes resting in it faced the men. He pointed at the bounty hunter with his free arm. “It’s the same one he shot.“
“That’s impossible,“ Farnsworth said. “That arm belonged to one of those monsters. It was covered with fur! Had claws at the end of its fingers! Are you telling us that it reverted into a human limb after being dispatched?“
Wilson turned and looked at Private Sanchez. “What the fuck have you brought into our town?“
“I said shoot her, boy!“ Captain Arrington said. “Do not make me repeat myself, again!“
Sanchez stood watching in disbelief as Captain Arrington knelt beside the bawling Navajo boy. The captain jerked the boy’s hands upward so the pistol they held pointed at the battered Navajo woman sitting before them on the ground. Even with the gun aimed at her head and her village going up in flames around her, the woman showed no hint of fear. She merely uttered soft reassurances to the boy in their native tongue.
“Captain—“ Sergeant Hernandez began.
“Hold you fucking tongue, Sergeant.“ Arrington’s eyes never left the child.
Hernandez shook his head. Behind him Sanchez and several other soldiers traded side-long glances. But none spoke, or did anything to halt the horror playing out before them.
“Now, boy,“ Arrington said, his voice almost soothing, “you pull that trigger. Put that old cunt out of her misery. Kill her so she can’t breed any more of you murdering savages, and I might just let you grow up to be one yourself, someday.“
The gun trembled wildly in the boy’s hands as he sobbed. The woman pleaded with him. It was obvious to Sanchez she was begging him to do what Arrington wanted so that he would remain safe.
“Do it!“ Arrington shouted.
The boy screamed as he whirled and pointed Arrington’s gun at the captain himself. It fired just as Arrington swatted it away with the back of his hand, the bullet going astray.
Arrington unsheathed his saber and ran the boy through to the hilt. He took the gun from the boy’s hands as he withdrew his blade. The boy’s guts came streaming out onto the ground in bloody, pink piles.
The woman screamed as she leapt to her feet and charged the captain. Arrington turned the gun over in his palm and put a bullet between her eyes. Sanchez realized this had all happened in mere seconds.
“Kill them!“ Arrington screamed. “Kill them all!“ But his words were drowned out by the cacophony of firing muskets that had already erupted around the village with the boy’s initial shot.
Sanchez stood paralyzed with horror until an old Navajo man came rushing out of the black smoke toward him. On instinct, the private shouldered his musket and fired. The bullet struck home, but the Navajo kept coming. Sanchez rushed to reloaded, but wasn’t fast enough. The old man closed in on him and locked his hands around his throat. A black ring began to form around the private’s field of vision. Just as Sanchez was about to lose consciousness, the old man’s face exploded, showering him with blood and bone.
Sanchez looked up to see Arrington looming over him, his smoking revolver held high, his beard and blond curls soaked with blood and the raging fires of the burning hogans reflecting in his eyes.
I am in hell! Sanchez thought. And Arrington is the devil!
The men gathered in a circle around the private, each looking at him, expectant expressions on their faces. Sanchez stood eyeing each man in turn. At last, the private sighed and dropped to a knee, all the energy drained out of him. He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and rolling papers from his pants pocket. He rolled a cigarette and lit it. He took a deep, long drag into his lungs, held it for a moment, and then blew the smoke out his nostrils.
“Our company had broken off from the regiment to scourge the outer territories of Navajo. Captain Arrington was known to have an ambitious streak in him. He wanted to impress Colonel Carson and rid the area of a large amount of natives in a short amount of time. We rode for days and it was hack and slash the entire way.“
Sanchez took another pull off the cigarette. “Two days ago we hit this one village. Nothing but women, children, and old men. We figured their warriors were off hunting or raiding. And that pissed Arrington off even more.“
“He lost it and things went bad. Things went to shit. Fast.
“We slaughtered them.
“To the last woman and child, we put a bullet in their hearts and then burned the village to the ground. None of us bothered to stop and ask if it was wrong. We just reacted. We just followed orders, and damned ourselves in doing it.“
“Sweet Jesus,“ Phillips said. Wilson and the bounty hunter traded uneasy glances.
Sanchez looked down to see he’d smoked the cigarette so quickly it now was a mere bud in his fingers. The men waited as he rolled a fresh one. “We were camped this side of Mesilla Valley when the monsters attacked. It was right before dawn. Or when dawn should have been. I awoke to the sound of barking and gunfire … and screams.“
Sanchez paused as tears began to leak from his eyes. After several failed attempts where the words caught in his throat, he resumed his tale.
“I got out of the rack just in time to see three of them tear the sarge’s arms and legs right off his body. I didn’t even try to shoot. I just ran. Took out for the horses.“
Sanchez lifted the cigarette to his lips to see it trembling in his hand. He grabbed his wrist, steadying himself, and then took a puff.
“I wasn’t alone. Even on horseback they picked many of us off. We made it out of the fog and prayed for the sun to rise. But it never did better than twilight no matter how long or how far we rode. We had a curse on us for what we done to that village, and it wasn’t about to let up to allow for daylight.
“Just before we hit town, they caught up to us for a bit and one of those things almost ended me, too.“
Sanchez dropped into a sitting position and ground the smoking cigarette butt out on the floor. “The r
est you know.“
The bounty hunter poured the last of the moonshine over his shoulder as he considered the private’s words. He grimaced. “That still doesn’t explain shit.“
“They’re hell spawn!“ Phillips said. “Demons from the lake of fire!“
“Dear boy,“ Farnsworth said as he rolled his eyes, “please, spare us your sermons of fire and brimstone.“
“The preacher is more right than you know.“
The men turned to face Little Joe.
“What are you talking about?“ The bounty hunter asked. “Do you know what the fuck is going on? What those things are?“
Little Joe nodded. “They are chindi … skinwalkers.“
The copper-skinned boy sat cradling his knees in the corner of his home, a decrepit wooden shed. The shed had no furniture and was empty save for a bed of straw and a bucket brimming with dung.
How long had he been sitting there? The boy did not know. It could have been minutes, it could have been days. When the door to the shed opened to reveal Garrett holding a lantern, the boy showed no surprise. The boy had come to accept this happening as inevitable and constant as the evening tide. Since saving him from starvation in the wild, Garrett had become the boy’s sun, moon, and god—the thing around which his times of darkness in the shed revolved.
“Joe,“ Garrett beckoned.
Joe stood up and wiped his dirty, matted hair out of his eyes, letting them adjust to the lantern light. Garrett moved out of the doorway to allow Joe passage. Joe joined Garrett outside under the night sky and then followed him as they approached a shoddily constructed wooden pen. The pen housed a dog which began barking furiously at their approach. Joe saw it was a mongrel even more starved than he was. How long had Garrett kept them both in their pens? Joe wondered. How long had Garrett been slowly cutting back their food until they were eating nothing at all? How long had Garrett been preparing them?