Skinwalkers

by Hill, Bear

  Now staggering on his feet, Arrington swiped the sword at Dewayne again. This time the blade opened the bounty hunter’s shoulder just below the wound from the skinwalker’s hand. Dewayne rolled, dodging a stab from Arrington’s sword. With the bounty hunter out of its path, the blade sank into the wood of the bar. Arrington jerked and pulled on the sword hilt. After several moments of struggling, the captain dislodged the blade. Captain Arrington turned toward the bounty hunter. A triumphant smile rode on the captain’s blood-splattered face as he raised the sword high above his head. Arrington’s smile evaporated when he saw the pistol in Dewayne’s hand.

  “No, plea—!“ Arrington only got out the much because the bounty hunter wanted to see the look in the captain’s eyes when the realization of his imminent death struck him. Dewayne was a killer, too, after all.

  Whether his murder of his wife and unborn child had been the accidental harbinger of his ruination or simply the key unlocking his truth self, Dewayne didn’t know. God refused to take him from his misery, and he was too much of a coward to do it himself. And Dewayne was simply tired of worrying about it—tired of fighting what came so naturally to him.

  Dewayne pulled the gun’s trigger and Captain Arrington’s face exploded into a fragmented mess of blood, skin, and bone. The captain’s dead body rose into the air and then landed spread-eagle on its back, a bloody halo of gore splattering from the head.

  Dewayne struggled to his feet. Pistol still in hand, he limped out of the saloon into the fog. Fuck the skinwalkers if they came. He simply didn’t care anymore.

  From The Devil and Coyote: A Comparison by Michael Lander...

  Like Satan in the Garden of Eden, Coyote also plays a role in the creation myths of many Native American cultures. One story surrounding the creation of life upon earth has Coyote shaping a ball of mud, or in certain more graphic versions of the tale, a ball of feces, that results in the formation of the first man. Like so many other stories attributed to Coyote, his actions cannot be attributed to good will on his part, but of his desire to gain power and create havoc for the more benevolent spirits. Coyote’s behavior in this regard mirrors Satan’s temptation of Eve with the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. Akin to Coyote’s creation of sentient man, Satan’s imparting of knowledge to humanity would seem to be a blessing. But Satan realizes the misery inherent in personal awareness and also wishes to defy God while corrupting His creation.

  This role of trickster is expanded for Satan in the book of Job, bringing him closer in nature to the point of counterbalance Coyote typically maintains in mythology. In Job, Satan is not portrayed so much the deceiver as the ordained prosecutor of man in the court of God, a crucible through which humanity must pass in order reach its true potential. No doubt this is a dualistic tenant left over from the earlier polytheistic religions similar in nature to those practiced by many Native American tribes. Likewise, Coyote serves the mythic role of Prometheus in Native American folklore, bringing bountiful harvest and spiritual illumination to the tribes, even if only doing so by accident or through self-serving and irrational behaviors.

  However, despite Coyote’s role as mythology’s anti-hero, where he shares the more noble qualities attributed to Satan, he also shares his Christian counterpart’s proclivity for debasement and outright evil. The most revealing instance of this occurs when Coyote journeys to the afterlife in attempt to free his wife from death. In his failure to follow the instructions of his spirit guide, Coyote establishes the permanence of death for all of humankind. Most scholars accredit this tragedy to the usual bungling of which Coyote partakes in all his misadventures. But if one looks below the surface of the tale, a darker motive for Coyote’s actions quickly becomes apparent.

  To begin with, considering the strained relationship between Coyote and his spouse described in other stories, coupled with the trickster’s boundless appetite for infidelity, it is difficult for one to assume Coyote’s true purpose in journeying to the spirit world was to reclaim a dead wife for whom he cared extremely little. Would it not be prove more logical to think Coyote purposely ignored the advice of his spirit guide—that he knew perfectly well what he was doing and in truth wanted only to ensure death’s lasting effects in our world?

  Coyote’s limitless ego and insatiable desire to create mayhem would certainly seem to indicate he was capable of such evil for evil’s sake. Thus, once again a parallel is formed between Coyote and the biblical Satan whose pride and blinding hatred brings damnation to all…

  Chapter 11

  COYOTE

  Coyote awoke from his trance as he heard the horses of the Dine approach his cave. He’d had another name once long ago, ages before he’d killed his baby sister in sacrifice to the true Coyote—the chindi trickster who walked upon all fours. But his human name no longer held meaning for him. Now there was only Coyote in his heart.

  His sister’s murder had been the first of countless others. Each death had opened a new door for him into a world of dark powers. And power was what Coyote craved most. It was why he’d turned the white captain’s already twisted mind toward the tribe of his birth. Coyote’s strength had surged with each grandfather, woman, and child the white captain and his soldiers struck down.

  The Dine men had returned from their raids to find their homes burned, their loved ones killed. Coyote had used his medicine to fuel their warriors’ blood, pushing their rage and hatred into an insatiable lust for revenge. They could not match the soldier’s guns with their own, but it had taken Coyote little effort to make them think of him and how his yenaldooshi abilities might grant their wish for vengeance.

  The Dine would now fall unwittingly into his trap. They would give their souls to him freely, increasing Coyote’s power still more. His plan had been executed to perfection.

  Coyote heard the horses halt outside his cave. One of the warriors called to Coyote, his voice full of pain and indignation. Coyote’s lips pulled back into a grotesque parody of a smile and the ancient skinwalker rose to his feet. It was time to put into motion the final act of his ruse. It was time for corruption and death.

  It was time for Coyote.

  Coyote fell backward as the force of the mission’s explosion rocked the hillside. He heard his skinwalkers yowling in pain. Coyote watched through the eyes of the chindi not killed outright as their pelts were engulfed by bright orange flame. Coyote felt the skinwalkers’ agony as his own as they were cooked alive inside the burning church. Then the world fell into darkness and he sensed the skinwalkers no more.

  Coyote got to his feet and cursed the heavens. That had been all of them. Every last Dine he’d changed into a skinwalker. Gone in one accursed moment—one unforgivable lapse in his judgment.

  Coyote felt his power slipping away—sensed his beautifully conjured fog fading from existence. This was not fair! This was not how things were supposed to have happened. Not so soon!

  He’d wanted them all dead. Not just the soldiers. Why stop there when every murder committed by his skinwalkers added to his power? He wanted to wipe out the entire town. Kill every man, woman, and child and then continue onward. He’d never known such power in all his years as a yenaldooshi, and now it was slipping from his grasp.

  Coyote was consumed with rage. He screamed and shook his fists at the sky. He was Coyote! No one like him had ever walked the earth. How dare his plans be thwarted! How dare he be denied ultimate power! He could not go back to the way things had been before. Not now.

  Coyote abruptly quieted as he sensed a life force come into being on the hillside far below him. It was the woman. It seemed to Coyote as though she had sprouted out of the ground. If he’d had functioning eyes, Coyote thought he could’ve discerned the mystery of her appearance and pinpointed her exact location. But with the milky orbs in his head being dead as his skinwalkers, Coyote had to trust his ever-weakening spiritual powers of perception for guidance. And precision was not a skill open to them. But it mattered not.

  A low gr
owl began to rise in Coyote’s throat as his hatred of the woman rose in his heart. Coyote was not done yet. He had one last trick to play in Perdition—one last sacrifice to perform.

  Coyote rent his clothes from his body. The growl in his throat became a howl, and he began to change.

  Maxine lay face down on the tunnel’s earthen floor, stinging first-degree burns covering the back of her legs, arms, and shoulders. Smoke hung heavy in the tunnel along with the stench of singed hair and cloth. She began to tremble and, before she could stop it, bile rose in her throat and exited her mouth.

  Get it together, girl, Max chided inside her mind. You’re safe. You killed them all.

  You don’t know that, Maxine thought as she wiped her mouth. There could be more. We have no way of knowing, for sure.

  You don’t see any coyote-men crawling up the tunnel to kill you, do you? Max thought.

  Maxine raised her head and glanced back over her shoulder. Nothing other than dancing flames moved before the tunnel mouth.

  Based on what we’ve seen tonight, Max continued, if there was any of those sons of bitches left, we’d be dinner right about now.

  Maxine strained her ears, listening for any howls that might rise above the roar of the fire. She heard none. So what do we do?

  Well, going back is out of the question, Maxine’s fractured mind replied. So we crawl forward. There’s a draft in this hole. It’s got to come out somewhere.

  Maxine remembered how she’d first noticed the tunnel by the draft coming from behind the crate positioned against the pit wall. She closed her eyes and felt the same breeze sliding over her face toward the fire burning at the tunnel’s mouth.

  Come on, Max thought. Enough stalling. Get a move on.

  Maxine nodded to her imaginary alter ego and then rose to her hands and knees. She crawled forward, taking care to circumvent her vomit. The firelight issuing from the mission pit began to peter out until finally she was engulfed by darkness. She continued on, being cautious as she used her hands to guide her down the tunnel’s black throat. Maxine recoiled as she touched something alive that was wet and furry. Dear God! Maxine thought. They’re here! They’re in the tunnel!

  The rat Maxine had touched shrieked and then bolted past her, heading in the direction of the pit. Both relieved and disgusted, Maxine sighed and pressed onward. Lunatic thoughts began to parade through her head. What if this tunnel goes on forever? What if I’m really dead and already in hell, doomed to crawl in darkness on my hands and knees for all eternity? What if my life above ground was only a dream in the first place, and this is the true reality of my exis—?

  Shut that shit up, girl. Max warned. You’re crazy, but you ain’t CRAZY.

  Maxine felt her hands press down on something brittle. It cracked like an egg shell beneath her weight. Maxine felt several sets of tiny, chitinous legs scurry up her arms and screamed as she realized she was crawling through a bed of insects. Maxine’s yell was cut short as she felt a lone bug enter her mouth. Moving on instinct, she clamped her jaws shut. She felt the tiny intruder struggling between the roof of her mouth and her tongue, trying to burrow its way to the freedom it must have believed lay down her throat. Maxine spat repeatedly, trying to rid her mouth of the bug as she scrambled forward through the bed of its brothers. They crawled all over her now, their spindly legs scrambling up her hair and clothes to her unprotected face. She spat and beat at her body, feeling the bugs smash into gelatinous goo beneath her hands as she swiped them away.

  Maxine spat the bug from her mouth as she felt the insects lessen and then disappear from beneath her hands and knees. She brushed the last of the bugs from her body and scurried forward, praying her time inside the tunnel would soon be at an end. She wasn’t sure how much longer her already-cracked psyche could stand creeping through bugs and rats in the darkness.

  At last, Maxine saw a faint light spilling down into the tunnel ahead of her. Renewed hope surged within her. Maxine increased the speed of her crawl until she was almost galloping toward the promise of an exit. Maxine froze in her tracks when she saw a skinwalker sprawled on the tunnel floor beneath the mocking light.

  I was close. Tears began to leak from her eyes. I was so close. So close! Maxine’s alter ego had no response. It seemed Max shared her despair.

  Maxine held still for several minutes. The skinwalker didn’t move. Maxine couldn’t even see its chest rising and falling in order to draw breath. Maybe it doesn’t know I see him, and it’s waiting to pounce?

  Or maybe…or maybe it’s dead.

  Max chimed in. No way. We couldn’t be that lucky.

  Maxine wiped the last of the tears from her eyes as she stared at the unmoving skinwalker. Only one way to find out. Maxine began to crawl forward.

  What the hell are you doing, girl? Max thought. Are you crazy?

  Maxine huffed a laugh. I’m talking to you, ain’t I?

  Maxine crawled to within a few feet of the skinwalker and halted. Its bloody mouth was agape. A wooden board sprouted from its chest like a sapling.

  Well, I’ll be. Max thought. Skewered like a hog.

  The skinwalker moved. Maxine screamed as she scrambled backward like a crab, trying to place distance between herself and the skinwalker. Her screams halted when the skinwalker fell over onto its side to reveal Farnsworth. The writer’s squirming had caused the dead monster’s torso to shift and drop.

  Maxine saw Farnsworth was injured. Like the skinwalker, a shard of blood-soaked wood was impaled through J.T.’s body. Luckily for Farnsworth, the stake was merely lodged through the meaty part of his thigh.

  Maxine turned her gaze upward. Light cascaded in from an opening high above. A wooden ladder climbed from tunnel floor to meet the opening. Farnsworth and the skinwalker lay slumped against it. It appeared to Maxine as though both man and beast had fallen through a false floor of boards and dirt intended to serve as the tunnel’s secondary entrance.

  Maxine twisted back onto her belly and crawled forward, grimacing as she passed over the dead skinwalker to reach Farnsworth.

  “Farnsworth,“ Maxine said. “It’s me. Maxine.“

  Farnsworth moaned unintelligibly.

  “You’re hurt,“ Maxine continued. “But I think you’ll be okay. I—!“ Maxine heard wet, fleshy sounds behind her and terror’s cold fist seized her heart. She whirled, ready to see the gaping jaws of the skinwalker bulleting through the air toward her. What she actually saw was the corpse of the monster changing, reverting to the dead Navajo it truly was.

  She exhaled in relief and turned back to Farnsworth. The writer was in a delirium, only half awake and mumbling incoherently.

  “Don’t try to talk,“ Maxine said. “Just rest. I think we’re safe now. I’ve got to leave. I’m going to try to get help. Do you understand me?“ A pause, then, “Nod if you understand me.“

  Farnsworth swallowed hard and gave a slight nod.

  “Good,“ Maxine said. “Okay. I’ll be back as quick as I can.“

  Maxine rose to her feet and began scaling the ladder leading to the tunnel exit. She reached the top and screamed as a huge black silhouette appeared above her. She lost her grip and began to fall. Before she could plummet to her death, Dewayne caught her by the wrist from where he stood crouched above the opening.

  “Dewayne! Thank God!

  “You scared the shit out of me!“ Maxine said, the relief in her voice outweighing the agitation.

  “You gave me quite a fright there yourself.“ Dewayne smiled and took her other hand in his. “Welcome back to the land of the living.“

  Dewayne heaved Maxine out of the tunnel and onto the ground beside him. Maxine squinted, the predawn twilight too much for her eyes to bear so soon out of the tunnel. She caught the scent of smoke on the wind and glanced over her shoulder to see that the mission was ablaze.

  Maxine turned to the bounty hunter. “Farnsworth’s in the hole. He’s hurt. He’ll need a tourniquet and a crutch. Maybe a splint.“

  “Anybody e
lse?“

  Maxine shook her head, and Dewayne nodded in understanding.

  “What about Pablo?“ Maxine asked, hopeful. “And Wilson?“

  Dewayne sighed, his massive body deflating with the sound. “No sign of your boy, but we came across Arrington back in town. The bastard killed Wilson. Almost killed me before I could do him in.

  “But I’ll keep looking. If Pablo’s out here and alive, I’ll find him.

  “But right now, let’s head into town and see if can’t find some stuff for a tourniquet. You look like you could use some ointment for those burns, yourself.“

  Her eyes finally adjusting to the light of the coming sun, Maxine looked at the small blisters that had formed along the back of her arms and legs. She was filthy and bloodied from head to toe. The realization of the shape she was in brought all the night’s pain flooding back to her anew.

  “It should be safe,“ Dewayne said. “I ain’t seen hide nor hair of them things since we left the church.“

  “I think they’re gone.“ Maxine gestured toward the blazing mission. “I’ll bet the last of them are cooking as we speak.“

  “Good,“ Dewayne said, his voice even. “Damn good.“

  The two of them began to stroll down the hill, their movements slow and laboring, each exhausted from the night of horrors.

  “Even before the fog began to clear up,“ Dewayne said, “I could see the mission burning. I’d lost hope of ever seeing any of you again.“ Dewayne dropped his gaze. “Hell, I’d lost hope of anything.“

  Dewayne straightened. “But here you are. Maybe we can find Pablo, too. Maybe my luck’s changing?“

  Maxine smiled and winked at Dewayne. “Maybe luck’s changing for both—!“ Maxine’s eyes grew wide in terror as a bloody claw burst out of Dewayne’s chest. In the last fleeting moments of his life, Dewayne looked down, blooding pouring from his mouth, to see his still-beating heart clenched tight within the clawed fist of a skinwalker.