The folks from Campbell’s wagon train proved eager enough to make up for that lack, happy families grateful to have arrived. It didn’t take long for them to set up their camps, making fires, sending children to fill water-buckets. Everything was lively, noisy activity as they went about preparing for their dinner.
The cooking was done by the Capriones, an Italian husband and wife who’d had themselves a fine restaurant back in Italy. Somehow, out of the goodness of their generous hearts, they’d become burdened with a useless nephew who claimed he was just about the heir of Dante in terms of poetry. He could be a bother, so they sent him out searching for mushrooms and other edibles to get him out from underfoot.
The McAllisters opened up their stash of Scotch, under the disapproving eye of Hugh Campbell … until, that was, he winked at them and asked for a double. Arthur Connolly pulled out his fiddle, his young wife Alice singing along, while Michael and Sarah Thompson danced as they hadn’t since their wedding day. Horst, the stern and serious German, spun yarns for the children of ancient castles, snowy mountains, and ghostly lords who led packs of wolves.
It was a good night, a night none of them would forget. Their first night in their new home … and their last night of happiness.
* * *
Deep in the lake, something stirred, its slumber broken by the sounds of celebration. It glided through the water until its snout broke the surface and drew in the scents.
Black, dead eyes reflected the burning fires. A long tongue licked around a mouth full of yellow fangs. A cold heart beat faster in excitement.
Two-legs! With their soft skin and tender meat!
How long? Too long.
Too long, but here they were. To stalk, to catch, to rip limb from limb and finally devour.
But, not yet! First the meat must be ripened, ripened by fear. Then, only then, the feast could begin.
* * *
Cries of horror and discovery woke the rest of the camp to find some of their oxen messily slaughtered.
A horde of black flies lifted from the cooling bodies and the blood stained grass as Verner knelt. He waved them away, trying to ignore the stench of blood and ruptured intestines, and examined the wounds. The throats had been ripped open, the bellies slit to spill entrails over the ground. The throats must have gone first, otherwise the screaming of the beasts would have woken the settlers.
That, Verner thought, was worrying. It suggested intelligence. And it wasn’t the only worrying thing. Verner leaned in closer, using his hunting knife to lift flaps of ragged skin.
“Good God,” Hugh Campbell said. “What did this? A bear? Wolves?”
Grimacing at his complaining knees, Verner stood up and shook his head. “Ain’t been eaten on. Near as I can tell, whatever did this just butchered the poor beast and left it to rot. Only creature I know that kills like that is man.”
Campbell wiped his anxious brow. “Indians, then? You said you hadn’t seen any sign of them before.”
“If it’s an Indian, then it’s a damn big one.” Verner pointed at the ground. “Look there at those tracks.”
“Looks like … foot-prints and hand-prints,” Campbell said. “But the size! That hand-span is twice mine!”
“And whoever he is, he runs on all fours.” He followed the trail of reddish-brown smears with his gaze, unsurprised to see that they led inexorably toward the lake. “I’ll take Horst and Connolly. We’ll circle around, see if we can find where the bastard’s hiding. Meanwhile, keep everyone else close to camp. Stay on watch. The son of a bitch might not be alone.”
Horst and Connolly, having come to trust Verner on the long journey, had no problems with the plan. The other settlers were frightened, but agreed it had to be done.
In fact, the only one who took issue with it was Albert Caprione, who felt insulted at being left behind with the women and children. He pouted behind his sparse greasy beard, wiped a strand of lank hair from his eyes, and started in whining as his aunt and uncle sat in embarrassed silence.
“Why aren’t I going with you fuckers? Not only am I a poet of some fame, I learnt to shoot from Davy Crockett! I can kill an Injun dead at 100 yards!”
Verner just stared at the podgy, callow youth. At first, Albert tried to look away, but his eyes were constantly drawn back to the older man’s. Then he began to sweat, his lips trembling. Not until it looked as though he was about to faint did Verner speak.
“Son, you’re full of shit. You can’t rhyme for shit and you sure as hell can’t shoot for it either. I saw you when the Indians attacked. You just cowered up behind a wagon and cried like a baby. So I’m gonna to tell you what’s gonna to happen here. You’re gonna stay with the camp, and if you give anyone any problems, I’m gonna take you out back and whip you like the cowardly dog you are. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Albert squeaked. He scurried away as Verner climbed into the saddle.
Small as it was, that confrontation proved to be the only success he was to have that day. He, Horst and Connolly circled the entire lake but failed to find any further tracks or any sign of Indians. Far as they could tell, the entire valley was uninhabited.
* * *
It watched from beneath the surface as the two-legs rode around the lake on the four-legs.
They were looking for it, just like the others in the past, but they would never think to look here. That’s why it deserved to eat them. Such weak and silly creatures could only ever be prey, after all.
It had planned to leave them be for another night, to let the fear build. But now, it could no longer resist the temptation.
Tonight the feast would begin.
* * *
All they could do that night was keep watch and hope for the best. Men walked patrol, shouldering guns. Nervous women kept the fires burning. They were all unsure whether they hoped their attacker would return so they could put an end to it, or that whomever – whatever – it was had fled far away.
Albert Caprione tossed and turned in his bedroll, hidden beneath his uncle’s wagon. He clutched a pistol and prayed that if the Indians came back, they would overlook him for more obvious targets.
The longer the night went on, the greater a stroke of genius his plan seemed. He began to imagine, even look forward to, the attack. The Indians killing the watchmen, only for him to then emerge from his hiding place and shoot them dead like the hero he was.
After all, what did that broken down old trail boss know? He was Albert Fucking Caprione! The greatest epic poet since Dante or Homer! Sure, he might have exaggerated a little when he said Davy Crockett taught him to shoot, but he’d read a story with Crockett in it once, and that was enough for a genius like him to grasp the basics.
It was at that point Albert felt huge hands seize his lower legs, sharp things like knives or claws digging into his calf muscles and hamstrings.
Before he could gasp in a breath to scream, he was dragged bedroll and all out from under the wagon. Dangling upside-down, gazing into a maw of yellowed and impossibly sharp fangs, all he could think was what a great poem this would make.
* * *
A wide red blood trail led from the Capriones’ wagon to the edge of the lake, flanked by more of the same large tracks.
They found Albert’s body floating, half devoured, his skull crushed, one eye gone and the other dangling on his cheek. His ribcage had been ripped open and most of his organs were missing. All that remained of his genitals was a bloody, indiscriminate mess that couldn’t have been identified as either male or female.
Some of the searchers, unable to contain themselves, were violently sick off to the side. Others held back Matteo Caprione, who would have otherwise plunged into the water to cradle the grisly remains. His wife wept and wailed and babbled in Italian. Unpleasant, burdensome and bothersome though Albert may have been, he was still their nephew, and no one deserved an end such as this.
Verner stared at the corpse, a cold rage bubbling inside him.
He’d le
d these people here, through storm and fire, past Indians and bandits, to a place where they should be safe. Now they were in danger of dying at the hands of some beast, for he couldn’t imagine any man capable of such brutality.
No, he wasn’t going to stand for this. He swore that no more of his charges would die here. Tonight, there would be a reckoning.
“Hugh,” he called.
The pastor came over, his face pale. “What is it, Verner?”
“Need you to take everyone out of the valley. Today, while it’s still light. Leave the wagons and livestock. Camp up at the top of the hills, but don’t light any fires. That murderin’ devil is bound to come back again, but this time I’ll be the only one here. And I’ll be waiting.”
Campbell appeared ready to dispute this course of action, how there was no way one aging trail boss could stand against such a beast, but then he must have seen that cold rage in Verner’s eyes and known it was pointless to argue. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Soon as we bury his body. Albert might have been a worthless little shit, but he was our worthless little shit and we take care of our own.”
The service was quiet. Few tears were shed besides those of Matteo and his wife. Most of the settlers were more concerned with which of them might be next. Still, Hugh Campbell gave a good sermon before telling them the plan. A few of the men immediately volunteered to stay, but Verner talked them down. This was his fight.
Once they were gone, he started making his preparations.
* * *
Within the lake, it turned and writhed, stomach a roiling pit of agony.
The runty two-legs had seemed plump and juicy, but the meat must have been bad, tainted with dirt and sickness.
It considered leaving the other two-legs be for that night, but it needed something to take the foul taste from its mouth. If the next one proved as vile as the last, though, it would just slaughter them all and leave them for the crows.
Powerful arms and legs propelled it shoreward, skimming beneath the surface with the speed of a loosed arrow. Cautiously raising its head, it sniffed at the air.
Alarm gripped it upon finding its prey had seemingly vanished, the two-legs gone from the valley while leaving their four-legs behind. Then it detected a single two-legs still there, by the burning fire. The two-legs smelt old and tired, not the best meal, but it would have to do.
It crept from the water, staying low in the grass, closing in on the circle of wagons and the fire where its prey sat unaware. It lurked for long moments, watching. The old two-legs seemed to be dozing.
Splashes of steaming drool hit the ground as it ran its tongue over its fangs. Its muscles tensed, pushing it forward in a great leap. A mighty arm struck at the unsuspecting back.
The beast let out a confused snarl as its clawed hand smashed through a coat and hat draped over a bundle of sticks shaped like a two-legs. The snarl changed to a scream as a wire snare hidden among the sticks snapped tight, cutting deep into slimy flesh. The other end of the snare was affixed to one of the wheeled contraptions the two-legs used, so heavy that even with all its strength the creature could barely budge it.
As it shrieked, as it roared its pain and fury into the night, something that smelled of the manure of four-legs appeared.
* * *
Eugene Verner thought he was ready for what he’d face when, covered in ox-shit, he rolled out from under the wagon with a gun in each fist. Some kind of deranged cannibal giant, perhaps.
And, struggling against the snare was a giant, yes. Ten feet tall at least, and with the basic form of a man … but there the similarities ended.
Its spine was twisted and misshapen, more suited for running on all fours than standing straight. Its skin, glistening in the firelight, alternated between patches of scales and sodden fur. Each toe and finger was capped with a razor sharp claw. On its neck, gills flared in gulping anxiety. Two batlike ears poked through the strands of a long, tangled mane.
The face was almost human, almost. Beneath a wide flat nose, the bellowing mouth bulged into a snout. A snake-tongue flicked through rows of yellow fangs
The eyes, though, the eyes were the worst. They were not the eyes of a mere animal, but contained a baleful intelligence, a cold cunning, and a hatred of everything that walked, swam, flew, or crawled beneath the great blue sky.
Verner froze at the sight of those eyes, the blood draining from his face. A heavy tightness clenched his chest. His arms lost their strength, the gun barrels tipping down.
The monster lunged toward him with such force that the wagon wheels skidded sideways across the ground. The snare cut deeper into its trapped arm, thin blood flowing. Its deadly jaws snapped the air. Its claws flailed just short of Verner’s stunned flesh.
It uttered garbled sounds that, though barely recognisable as words, were some dialect of the Indian tribes. Hearing that, hearing this abomination trying to speak, Verner jerked from his stupor. Fighting the hot ache in his chest, he put forth a Herculean effort to raise his leaden arms.
The guns rang out again and again, each shot hammering home into the monster’s chest. Flowers of blood bloomed on its skin, though the impact barely seemed to slow or affect it.
All too soon, Verner’s guns were empty. Still the beast stood, hauling itself and the wagon ever closer. Resigned to this final struggle, Verner let the guns drop. He clung to the side of another wagon, supporting himself with one hand while drawing his hunting knife from his belt with the other.
The beast lunged again. Verner leaped to meet it, despite the protesting creak of his joints. He caught hold of its ropy mane and swung himself up onto its broad, scaly back. He locked his legs around its ribs. It bucked and thrashed, trying to shake him loose, but he’d broken more than a few wild broncos in his days.
He stabbed the sturdy blade into the side of its thick neck. Yanking it out, he slammed it in again and again, perforating its hide.
Eventually, between man, snare and beast, something had to give. Surprisingly, it was the beast, as the snare’s sharp wire sawed through bone and its arm hit the ground with a sickening thump. Voicing an ear-piercing screech, it pitched over backwards.
Its full weight smashed down atop Verner. He felt his ribcage crush, felt a snap and the loss of sensation in his legs. He couldn’t even hitch in a breath to cry out. On the brighter side, his other aches and pains were no longer a bother.
He waited for the end, for the beast to finish him off. But that end was slow in coming. Agonized and disoriented, wanting only escape, it blundered haphazardly away into the night.
Verner hitched himself up enough to lean against a wagon wheel and shut his eyes.
* * *
That was how they found him in the morning, when Hugh Campbell came with a small group of men into camp, guns at the ready.
After the ruckus they’d heard the night before, they weren’t expecting it to be pretty. Nor was it. They found a large, scaled arm lying in a pool of blood, with a generous blood trail leading towards the lake. Then they found Eugene Verner, slumped against a wagon wheel, his face pale, half his chest caved in.
Hugh Campbell edged forward, his hand reaching out respectfully to the dead man, only to start as Eugene’s eyes flickered open. Though they were clouded, he peered at the men. His face contorted into a grimace of effort as he inhaled.
“That you, Hugh?”
“Yeah, it’s me, Verner,” Hugh said, tone solemn. “Bad night, then?”
“I’ve had worse.” Verner said, the last of his breath seeping out in a rattling chuckle, and then he died.
ROAD KILL ANGEL
Dana Wright
“God, I hate this damn road.”
Jessica slapped on her blinkers and jerked the car door open, slamming it closed with a huff as she got out. She stalked down the darkened street, lit only by the steady stream of her car’s headlights, and stifled an oath.
Another dog lay by the side of the road, hit by a speeding motorist. This was the
third one this week.
Fossil Lake. Yeah, right. It was more like a fucking graveyard. Fake scenic wonders, fake transplanted trees, and now a nice nifty hole in the earth that they tried to pass off as the stock name for the new subdivision.
The area used to be a nice patch of woods with a real lake, years ago, but the drought had taken care of that. Now the developers had decided it was time to recreate one of nature’s wonders.
Fossil Lake, version 2.0. What a crock.
The main road was turning into a drag strip, and Jess despised it. The builders promised speed bumps and street lights, but so far none of it had happened. All the new construction had gotten her was an unfortunate new hobby, and it was starting to get on her nerves.
The little furry body lay there, twisted. Jess peered closer. This one was some kind of beagle mix. She leaned in and checked for tags on the collar under the blood-matted fur.
“Why do those assholes have to aim for every animal they see?”
This was somebody’s misplaced baby. Cute as hell too, or at least it would have been if it wasn’t covered in blood and viscera. And dead.
Jess closed her eyes and sent a prayer over the critter, as she always did. She had grown weary of burying dead things, but there was no one else to do it. She went to the back of her car and hit the button on her key fob, opening the hatchback.
She would carefully tuck this one into the earth just like she had all the others. It made her happy to at least do that. Well, maybe happy wasn’t the right word. It just felt right. Jess knew it made her a freak but she didn’t much care. Rifling through the equipment, she unearthed a tarp and shovel. Dragging the equipment from the vehicle, she set it on the ground next to the animal.
Movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention. An engine roared. Headlights cut the gloom with white hot menace.
Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant Page 3