by Hill, Bear
The reverend rose to his feet and ran in the direction he thought town lay. It wasn’t long before Reverend Phillips realized he was lost. He changed direction numerous times, trying to find a familiar landmark that would lead him to shelter. But the sea of pale green mist yielded no safe harbor for him to hone in on.
The fog mocked the reverend as he charged through it. Phillips saw faces form within the mist’s depths—evil, cackling visages of bygone friends and parishioners he’d wronged during his lie of a career as a man of God.
They called to him, shouting aloud his sins for the entire world to hear.
You said you loved me! the pleading, mist-constructed face of a young girl said. I gave myself to you because you promised you’d marry me!
“I’m—I’m sorry,“ the reverend stuttered. “I didn’t mean—!“
The face of a grimacing, mustachioed man formed within the fog. Thief! Liar! You took it all! Every last bit of our church’s savings!
“No, stop,“ the reverend said. “Please.“
The mustachioed man’s face was replaced by that of disheveled old woman’s. Her sunken, blind eyes were wet with tears of despair. You let left me, Raymond. You’re all I had, and you left me, knowing I couldn’t make it without you. Why, Raymond? Why did you leave me?
“Mama—?“
The reverend’s pace slowed. He was no longer running so much as staggering through the fog, the burden of his guilt taking on physical weight that pulled at him body and soul.
The fog boiled, shifting so that Gertrude’s accusing face, as tall and large as the reverend himself, appeared within its depths. You gave me to them! You threw me to them so that you could get away!
“No,“ the reverend stuttered, “No…I…please. I didn’t mean…No more!“
You killed me! Gertrude said with lips of pale green mist. Her words now came like thunderclaps. Killed me! Killed! Kill! Kill!
Reverend Phillips shut his eyes, threw his hands over his ears, and screamed. But it did no good, for all the voices in the mist had now joined Gertrude’s. Kill! Kill! Kill!
The reverend’s eyes shot open as pain exploded in his belly. The faces in the mist had vanished, but an even worse sight met the reverend’s gaze. The ancient stood before him, a smile across his wrinkled face that fell short of his milky eyes. Agony gripped the reverend once again and he looked down to see the ancient twisting a bone-handled knife in his gut.
Phillips slid off of the knife and fell to the ground. An icy fist enclosed around the reverend’s heart as the sound of low growling reached his ears.
Two skinwalkers stalked out from behind their blind master.
“Dear God,“ the reverend whispered.
The ancient’s smile twisted into a rictus of rotted teeth. “Not God. Coyote.“
The reverend’s screams pierced the night as the skinwalkers pounced.
Maxine sprinted into the rectory and scrambled down the boards leading into the pit. Maxine had to rely on the sparse light cascading in from above to see by. Leaving a lantern burning in the armory would’ve been too risky.
“Goddamn it!“ Maxine’s hands moved over the crates in search of the pistols she’d loaded earlier in the night. “Where are they—?“ Her right hand closed over the barrel of a six-gun. Second later, its twin was gripped in her left. Something howled in the mission above—Maxine was uncertain if it was the skinwalker or Little Joe—and the pistols slipped out of her trembling hands.
Maxine cursed and then resumed her search. She found one of the weapons where she’d dropped it on top of the crate. However, its sibling seemed to have disappeared. Maxine dropped to her knees and began to feel around the edge of the crate. She froze as new roars echoed from the sanctuary. When a skinwalker failed to drop into the pit, she continued to fumble around in the dark for the missing weapon.
After what seemed like an eternity, she found it. She snatched it from the ground and rose to her feet.
Guns in hand, she ran to the trapdoor, wanting the best light possible to see by. She recognized the pistols in her hands from when she’d loaded them earlier, but checked their chambers just to be sure. Seeing both guns held full loads, Maxine clambered up the boards and out of the armory. A breath later, she was in the sanctuary, guns aimed to kill. However, it appeared she was too late. The battle was over.
Little Joe stood in the room’s center, battered and bloodied, his chest heaving. Maxine’s gaze bounced from the native to the dead skinwalker lying at his feet and back again.
“Little Joe—?“
Little Joe tensed. All semblance of humanity was gone from his eyes. His brow furrowed and his lips began to curl into a snarl. He stalked forward, stepping over the corpse at his feet.
“Little Joe.“ Maxine cocked the pistols with her thumbs. “Don’t. It’s me. Maxine.“
For a moment, it appeared the animal inside Little Joe was going to attack, even if it cost the native’s life. But then Little Joe relaxed, his shoulders slouching with exhaustion. His face was haggard and bloody, but the light of awareness shown in his eyes once more, if only dimly.
“Christ almighty, Little Joe!“ Maxine lowered her guns. Her eyes were once more on the dead skinwalker. “You killed it! With your bare fucking hands, you killed it!“
For the first time since Maxine had entered the room, Little Joe noticed the slain monster.
“Where’s the reverend?“ Maxine asked. “Did it get him?“
“Phillips,“ Little Joe said. “He went out the—“
Maxine shrieked as five skinwalkers burst in through the still-open church doors. They fell upon Little Joe before he could finish his sentence. The native went down screaming as five different sets of fangs latched onto him and twice as many claws ripped him open.
Maxine did not bother firing her guns. She turned and sprinted into the rectory, bypassing the boards to leap through the trapdoor. Maxine started to kick the boards away from the entrance, but realized it would do her no good. She had no way of closing the trapdoor.
She turned and ran to the pit’s far corner, her small height allowing her to move without crouching to miss the church subfloor. She slipped behind a stack of barrels just as the first of the skinwalkers dropped into the pit. Maxine registered the smell of gunpowder and realized firing her weapons from her hiding place would prove disastrous.
A low growl issued in the back of the skinwalker’s throat. It began to sniff the air.
It’s hunting me.
Maxine heard more skinwalkers drop into the armory, the noise of their impact eerily soft considering their size and weight. She listened as still more sniffed and growled above her as they searched the mission.
Can’t be more than five of them altogether.
But they might as well be a hundred, Max argued, her alter ego piping up again now that Dewayne was gone and danger imminent. We’re not Dewayne. I can count the number of times we’ve fired a gun on one hand.
There must be a way out of here, Maxine thought. You’re supposed to be the resourceful one. Think of something!
Behind her, Maxine heard the skinwalkers growling as they tore away the lids of crates in search of her.
The way I see it, Max thought, we might as well put the barrel of one of those pistols in our mouth and pull the trigger. Or better yet, shoot one of the barrels we’re hiding behind. Blow us to hell and take as many of them with us as we can.
Max, I guess—Maxine felt a breeze on her face. She squinted her eyes, taking a closer look at the crate positioned against the pit wall in front of her. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, Max leaned forward and felt along the edge where the crate met the wall. Without a doubt, there was a draft coming through. Max, I guess you may be half-right after all.
Maxine stuffed a pistol down the front of her corset. She clawed at the earthen wall against the crate’s edge. It fell away in soft, powdery clumps. Behind her, several more skinwalkers dropped into the pit. They advanced to her side of the cham
ber, howling in frustration at each crate they found to be vacant of their quarry. Maxine continued digging at a frantic pace, tears leaking from her eyes as she offered up silent prayers.
Within moments, she’d torn away enough earth to see that a gaping black hole stood behind the crate. It appeared to be a tunnel. Maxine renewed her efforts until she’d opened a space between the wall and the crate hopefully just wide enough for her to slide through.
She slipped her arms inside and then her head, having to turn sideways to keep from getting stuck. As she wriggled her torso through the opening, the crate caught on her hips. She kicked and shoved, and her lower body began to slide on through. Maxine had to bite her lip to stifle a scream as numerous splinters from the crate’s hard edge shredded her petticoat and lodged into her buttocks. After what seemed to Maxine like an eternity, her pelvis pushed the rest of the way inside the tunnel. It was quick work to snake her legs and feet the remainder of the way.
The tunnel’s sole illumination was the trace light drifting in from the pit. The passage was barely tall enough for her to sit up in. Maxine crawled forward on her hands and knees. She reached up every so often to feel the tunnel’s ceiling, hoping to find an opening leading upward. Her hands found only packed earth and the occasional wooden joist.
Maxine was roughly fifteen yards inside the tunnel’s mouth when she heard a crash. She looked behind her and saw the crate disappear from the tunnel entrance. The dark silhouette of a skinwalker now covered the bulk of the hole, its yellow eyes hovering in the shadow that was its head.
Maxine plucked the gun from her corset, aimed it at the tunnel mouth, and began unloading. The skinwalker yowled as a bullet struck it. But Maxine felt no sense of triumph. The beast wasn’t her target.
“Light, goddamn you!“ A searing orange fireball engulfed both the tunnel mouth and the skinwalker beyond. Maxine had hit the barrels of gunpowder.
Maxine rolled onto her stomach and covered her head with her arms as bright orange flames shot up the length of the tunnel. For a moment, the tunnel became the sun’s belly. Then the flames retreated. Maxine rolled, snuffing out the flames trying to spread across her smallclothes.
When the explosions in the armory at last fell silent, the only roaring Maxine heard was that of fire.
Lieutenant Richard P. Arrington tried to keep from smiling as he watched the sheriff of Dayton, Texas, lead Herbert Franklin Washington toward the gallows that had been constructed in the town square for this very occasion. In truth, Dayton was hardly a town at all, so much as an occasional meeting place for the owners of the surrounding ranches. Dayton just happened to consist of more than one building.
In Dayton, a hanging was considered the greatest of celebrations, ranking above even the wedding of a rich ranch owner’s daughter. The townsfolk had come out in droves. They laughed and chatted gleefully, the din of their noise growing louder the closer Washington approached.
As for Washington, it was obvious he didn’t find this whole affair amusing in the slightest. His face was stern as tears drained down the black skin of his cheeks. He searched the crowd with his eyes until he found Arrington where he stood on the gallows. A scowl of deepest hatred crossed Washington’s face. There’d been no discussion about the possibility of a hooded hangman. Washington was Lieutenant Arrington’s servant—and a black man, to boot. There’d been no question that Arrington would perform the honors while staring his former employee in the face. This was Texas, after all.
Washington reached the gallows and was steered into place above the trap door. His eyes never left Arrington’s. The local minister said a prayer over Washington, and then asked if he had anything to say for himself.
Before anyone realized what he was doing, the condemned man spat a wad of phlegm he must have been saving since he’d left the jailhouse into Lieutenant Arrington’s face. “Nothing I ain’t said already.“
Arrington couldn’t help but smile as he wiped the mucous and spittle from his face. He maneuvered his hand to conceal his expression.
“Very well,“ the preacher said and stepped back.
Judge Bordeaux read from a paper he held in his hand as he said in a booming voice, “Herbert Franklin Washington, the great state of Texas finds you guilty of murder on two counts, that of Libby Washington and her unborn child. You are sentenced to hang on this day of April 28, 1863, until you are dead, dead, dead.“
Two men pulled a hood over Washington’s face and then slipped the noose around his neck.
“Lieutenant Arrington,“ Judge Williams said, his fleshy under-chin wagging with each word, “you will now carry out the sentence of the court.“
Arrington squeezed his hand around the lever that would release the trapdoor beneath Washington’s feet. He was exultant. He was in almost as good a mood as on the day he’d strangled Libby Washington. The woman had kicked like an angry mule. Then at last, Arrington had watched transfixed as her struggles ceased and her eyes glazed over. In that moment when the light of life had exited the husk that’d been Libby Washington, Arrington came harder than he ever had in his entire life.
Arrington had almost thanked her dead body for telling him she was pregnant with his child, and so forcing him to kill her. Libby Washington’s death had unknowingly introduced Arrington to a whole new world of ecstasy. And having been introduced, there was no going back. Arrington was determined to take advantage of his new found garden of earthly delights, and would take steps to ensure that opportunities to do so, many and frequent, presented themselves—especially when it appeared he’d have so little trouble getting away with it.
“You will now carry out the sentence, Lieutenant Arrington,“ Judge Bordeaux said, his voice bringing Arrington back to the here and now.
Arrington shook himself and nodded to the Judge. He turned from the crowd to hide the erection that had formed in his trousers and then pulled the lever. Washington’s body dropped like a sack of mail. He twitched and jerked as he hung at the rope’s end. Arrington wished he could see what was going on beneath Washington’s hood. The lieutenant imagined his former servant’s eyes jutting from his face like twin boiled eggs and nearly came in his pants.
Finally, Washington’s body stilled and it was all over. Arrington felt the same loss and depression he’d experienced after he’d murdered Libby. He wasn’t sad at his actions or their loss of life—only that the experience was over so quickly. He was already beginning to need longer, more intimate sessions to satisfy his hunger. Arrington thought of his upcoming assignment to Kit Carson’s regiment and began to smile again.
“Lose the gun belt.“ Captain Arrington cocked the hammer on the revolver he pointed at the bounty hunter’s chest. Having little choice, Dewayne reached down to unbuckle his guns. “Careful!“ Arrington warned. “I got you dead to rights. If you suddenly feel the itch to pull leather, ignore it.“
Dewayne scowled as his hands closed around his belt buckle. He unfastened it and his weapons dropped to the ground with a loud thunk.
“Now walk your black ass over here.“ The bounty hunter stood, unmoving. “Right goddamn now, Nigger!“ Arrington said. “Or I’ll put a bullet in your monkey’s heart!“ Reluctantly, Dewayne walked down the hall, stepping over the bodies in his path as he entered the saloon.
“That’s plenty close enough,“ Arrington said. “Now turn around and put your hands behind your head.“ Dewayne slowly turned and placed his hands behind his head. Arrington came to stand directly behind him. “Now, get down on your knees.“
“What for?“ Dewayne asked.
“I said get on your knees, Coon!“ Arrington kicked the back of Dewayne’s knees. The bounty hunter groaned and sank to the floor, his knees slamming hard against the timbers. Dewayne felt the cold steel of Arrington’s revolver press against the back of his skull.
“When I give you an order, you obey it, Nigger,“ Arrington grunted. “You just consider me your new mas’a. You remember having a mas’a, don’t you, Nigger? He’s the white man who
told you what to do. When to get up. When to lay down. When to plow his field. When to suck his white cock. Would like to suck your new mas’a’s cock, Nigger? I bet you would. You got that look in your eye. Or maybe you want it up the ass?
“Yeah, now that’s it, ain’t, Nigger? You want me to stick my lily-white cock up your fat black ass, don’t you? You—“
“If you’re gonna shoot me,“ Dewayne said, “quit running your damn mouth and go on and do it.“
Pain exploded in the back of Dewayne’s head. He fell forward, catching himself with his hands before his face could smack the floor. Dewayne glanced over his shoulder at Arrington. The captain’s face was purple with rage.
“You don’t say a fucking word unless I tell you to!“ Arrington fumed. “You got that, Nigger? Not a fucking—!“
At that moment, an explosion sounded in the distance. Arrington whipped his head in its direction as though he could peer through the saloon wall and see what was blowing up. Taking advantage of the distraction, Dewayne kicked out his leg. His boot caught Arrington on his shin. Arrington howled, his weapons clattering to the floor as he doubled over in pain. Dewayne whirled and swung his fist. The strike missed, and his momentum sent him crashing into Arrington.
The two men tumbled to the floor. They grappled there, wallowing in blood, each trying to gain an advantage. Being the stouter of the two, Dewayne came out on top. Literally. He straddled the captain and smashed the back of his head into the blood-soaked floor.
Dewayne was about to pound Arrington’s face into hamburger when the captain’s hand closed around his sword. He brought the hilt upward and struck Dewayne hard on the temple. The room spun and bright lights swam before the bounty hunter’s eyes. He collapsed and rolled off Arrington onto his belly.
Arrington got to his knees. He closed both hands around the sword’s hilt and slashed drunkenly at the bounty hunter. The blade sliced across Dewayne’s back and a diagonal gash of bright red blood appeared its wake. The sensation of pain brought Dewayne swimming back up to reality.