Banshee Screams

by Clay Griffith

  Her face, serene and unmarred, glowed with health despite the fact that she was only hours from the grave. A slight blush colored her cheeks like a subtle splash of rouge. Had the mortician applied any before her internment?

  Ross sickened at the morbid thought. His Peacemaker lay in his lap, well within easy reach of his hand should she wake.

  Exhaustion was beating at Ross and he was barely holding it off. Terror and uncertainty gave him the willpower, but they had been slowly waning now that dawn was breaking over the horizon. Life would once again begin in Temptation as it did every day. But today was like no other suddenly. Ross had no idea what to do.

  He rubbed his face hard with his icy hand. He leaned his head back for a second wishing he could ease the throbbing inside his skull. The headaches had returned with a vengeance. Stress maybe, or the fact that being so close the undead was beginning to affect him once more. A legacy of that bastard Quantrill.

  Ross's eyes slipped closed. His eyes were burning and he needed to rest them. Just for a second, he thought. His internal clock was as good as his word and damn lucky it was because Debbi stirred upon the mattress, her eyes flickering open, green and bright as if death had never clouded them. They stared at the ceiling as if surprised to find it so high above her. Her slim hand reached up as if expecting to touch satin lining only inches from her face.

  She turned her head and Ross held his breath as she looked at him. She smiled, breathtaking and animate. He had never seen anything so beautiful. He gained his feet shakily and approached her.

  "It's all right," he assured her. "You're all right."

  She nodded, trying to speak, but struggled with difficulty.

  "Here," Ross offered, pouring her a glass of water from the night table. She reached for it eagerly as he bent down over her. Her hair was thick and full as the day she had died. His hand buried within it as he lifted her gently up to the glass.

  She gulped at it eagerly, but it was as if it couldn't get past her throat. It spilled everywhere and she choked.

  "Easy, easy," he told her, worry seeping in. He should have brought her to Doc Dazy, someone who could help her. He held her, bracing her as she coughed, stroking her hair and soothing her as best he could.

  Suddenly a clump of her hair came out in his hand. He gasped and dropped the dusty, red strands on the bed. "D-Debbi," he faltered.

  A cackle burst from her lips, a sound all too reminiscent of the one that came from Mrs. Womble that night long ago in the basement. Debbi reared back in his arms, and he got a glimpse of her face, now twisted and decaying like the true undead.

  Ross fell back from her, falling hard onto the floor. His hand scrambled for his Peacemaker but it was gone. Maybe it had slid under the bed. He fumbled for it frantically, just as Debbi's now milk white eyes swiveled to him. She leapt for his throat.

  "NO!"

  He came up out of the nightmare with a rasping scream and jerked in the chair, his weapon falling to the floor at his feet with a heavy thud. He had fallen asleep, and the dream had come, unbidden and dark.

  Ross moaned. The first time he had ever dreamed of Debbi and he woke up screaming. He bent forward, sick and chilled. His low sob still managed to echo within the small room.

  Sweat drenched his face and he kept his head between his knees as he fought off the waves of nausea. His limbs trembled, but he continued to take in deep breaths. Slow and easy, he chanted, trying to curb his flailing emotions.

  It took several minutes and finally he felt he had control once more. He eased back in the chair. And then Ross noticed her Debbi's eyes were wide open and staring at him.

  Stew strode down the windy, rain-flecked street, watching only the tops of his boots. He knew where he was going and he didn't look up or to the side. He dare not let himself be distracted or he wouldn't make it.

  He was on his way to have it out with Ross.

  The larger than life image of his captain reared up in his head, threatening to dampen the fire he'd carefully stoked all night. The pressure-filled conversation with Lithia. Every form he filled out. Every complaint he fielded from townsfolk. Every gripe he heard from his fellow Rangers as if he had inherited the power to fix problems just because he was suddenly in charge. With each small jab at his legendary patience, he stored the anger for his discussion with Ross.

  Stew had spent all night and into the morning watching Ross's Stallion in the equipment yard behind the office. On the one hand, he hoped to catch Ross loading it up for his return to the Sanitarium so he could get it over with. On the other hand, he wanted to put it off as long possible. Ross never showed and as soon as Curtiz had stepped through the door for the shift change, Stew stood up without a word, slid on his long coat and put on his wide-brimmed black hat, cinching the latigo so tightly under his chin it pinched. He'd use that too. He stalked out into the pale, cold sunlight and steered toward Ross's room.

  Stew felt the heavy Dragoon slapping against his thigh and the rustling of his coat in the wind. The chill had already begun to drain his resolve. He considered turning for home. Or for Mo's. Ross probably wasn't home. He was likely at the cemetery with Debbi.

  Besides, it had only been a few months. Grief had a way of working itself out differently with every person. Give it time.

  But Stew knew better. He knew Ross. The man would drive himself into the ground and the hell with everything else around him. No, it was now or never. Stew had to do this, make peace with his own anger and frustration, before he let Ross disappear into the void. His stride stiffened with resolve and his head bowed into the wind.

  Ross froze in fear and surprise, pinned by Debbi's green brilliant eyes questing and pleading as they centered on him.

  He couldn't breathe. He couldn't tell if this was dream or reality anymore. Maybe it was all still some nightmarish, wonderful, hellish dream, from which his damaged psyche couldn't decide which reality suited him better. He had gone insane and he hadn't even noticed.

  She sat up.

  Ross flung himself out of the chair, away from her.

  "Ross?"

  Gasping, he crouched behind the chair. She spoke!

  "Ross?" she repeated, swinging her legs easily over the edge of the cot.

  Ross's hand fumbled for his holster only to find it missing, just like in the other dream. Any minute now she was going to attack, skin decaying, teeth flashing. He saw the gun on the floor, just out of reach. To get it he would have to move closer to her. His eyes snapped up to meet hers again. They held only confusion, not hunger, not hate.

  Debbi turned away from him to take in the room. She didn't recognize it, nor should she since she had never been here. It only made her confusion more rampant as she turned again toward him.

  Indecision tore through Ross like a knife. He had two choices; one he ran away from her, away from the person he just helped resurrect; or two he find his backbone, suck it up and speak to her. Take the risk. If she turned, oh God, if she turned, he'd shoot her then.

  He stepped toward her and gingerly knelt to pick up the gun, his gaze never wavering from her.

  Her head cocked slightly as she watched him, her red hair shifting off her shoulders. An eyebrow rose and Debbi crossed her arms. "You look like death warmed over."

  Ross laughed; he couldn't help it. It was louder than necessary and far more desperate. He must look like a mad man. Maybe he was.

  "What the hell is wrong with you?" She stood up.

  His gun dangled at his fingertips. He knew he should raise it and aim it at her, just to be sure, but it was as if his muscles had lost all strength.

  "Y-you...you're ..." He couldn't bring himself to say it. He stumbled a step towards her, his hand reaching out with hesitant fingers to touch her face.

  Confusion still reigned on Debbi's angelic face, but there was also some anger building at his inability to talk. She wanted answers.

  Ross had no idea how to tell her. How could he? What did she remember? Anything? How would she react if
he told her the truth?

  His hand merely cupped her cheek, the warmth of it surging through his skin. It drove away all his fears. She leaned into it, smiling at his sudden, unexpected tenderness. He grabbed her to him, crushing her against his chest, not caring what happened next. To feel her, touch her, alive once more even for just a few seconds was worth the price.

  Her arms reflexively curled around him. "Ross, are you alright?"

  "Y-yes," he stammered. "I'm fine. Just fine."

  "Yeah, right." It was then that she felt the cold air hit her exposed back. Her left arm snaked behind her and she felt the long slit in the back of her jacket and shirt. A mortician's slit.

  "R-Ross?" For the first time, her voice held a trace of fear. "What's going on?"

  "You don't remember?"

  "Remember what?"

  "You ... you.?"

  "I died." It hit her suddenly, like a wave crashing in on itself. The memories. The battle. Quantrill.

  "But you're alive now. You're back with us."

  She pulled free from his embrace. "How long? How long has it been?"

  "Just three months," he said softly.

  She nodded, almost nonchalantly, though her eyes had widened to huge orbs. "How?" she demanded.

  "I don't know. I don't know. Maybe Doc Dazy can explain it. Me? I couldn't tell you. Maybe the soil. Maybe that anouk shaman of yours had something to do with it. All I know is that your alive, you're warm and whole. God, Debbi." He gathered her in his arms again, desperate to feel her touch once more.

  She could feel the wet stains of his tears on her neck. It was so unlike Ross. It made this moment even more surreal.

  "I'm all right, Ross." And it was true. Physically, she felt fine. There didn't seem to be any after effects of her . internment. None that she could tell anyway. She felt as good as the day after the battle at Castle Rock. No, in fact, she felt better, better than she had ever felt, even better than when she had first come to Banshee. How strange.

  Her nose crinkled and she finally realized that Ross was a mess. What the hell was covering him? Mud? It reeked. Some of it was even on her.

  "Ross, what happened to you...to us?"

  "Nothing, it's raining...was raining."

  "Well, we need to clean up. Come on. Get this thing off."

  At first, he didn't resist her as she pulled at his muddy shirt. Then he shook his head. "You go use the sink in the bathroom. I'll take care of this." There was a bowl and a pitcher on the nightstand. It would do for him.

  She hesitated, but he steered her gently toward the bathroom. To his relief, she complied. Once he heard the water pounding into the sink in the noisy rattling way it did, he distracted himself by cleaning up his own sorry state, changing into fresh clothes, and removing as much of the cemetery mud as he could from his skin. It was enough for now. Performing such mundane tasks seemed to settle him. He gathered some clothes that Debbi might be able to wear. They would be too big for her, but the shirt and jacket could be adjusted some. Pants were another matter. He set them just inside the doorway so she would find them when she finished scrubbing herself in the sink.

  A knock on the door startled him. He jerked around toward it, angry and anxious. It wasn't time yet. He hadn't made a decision on how to handle the situation.

  A knock came again, harder and more insistent. Any louder and Debbi would hear. Irritated, Ross strode to the door and snarled, "Who is it?"

  "Ross, it's Stew. Open up. We have to talk."

  "Not now."

  Stew shouted uncharacteristically, "Ross, I'm not going away! We have to talk about Ranger business!"

  Ross opened the door a few inches and peered out. The shock on Stew's face reflected how Ross must've looked: red-eyed and weary, hair greasy, matted, and slightly damp. "Stew, I don't give a damn about Ranger business. Just take care of it."

  "That's the point. There are things I can't take care of! Let me in!"

  When Ross began to close the door, Stew dropped his shoulder and slammed into it. Ross never expected the quiet former priest to act so recklessly. He was forced back as Stew muscled in.

  Stew said in a sharp, but quiet tone, "I've had enough of your damn dismissive attitude. We're discussing business and we're going to do it right now."

  Ross's irritation flared brighter for a second, but then subsided as he realized Stew was an excellent means to determine his sanity. "Fine. Get in here." He shoved the door closed.

  Stew took in the chaotic room, complete with muddy clothes on the floor and the stained quilt on the bed. What the hell had Ross been doing in here?

  It was then Stew saw the light and the steam drifting out of the bathroom. The sound of water running full blast from the faucet within indicated there was someone else in the room. It's not that he didn't begrudge Ross female companionship, but hell, he had thought Ross's grief over Debbi wouldn't permit it. Stew couldn't help it, he angered. After all, it was Ross who had finally won Debbi's affection.

  Stew couldn't resist a bitter comment. "It hasn't even been four months yet, and you've already forgotten her."

  Ross had the audacity to laugh, dark eyes bright and wild. "Forgotten her? Stew, she's here. In this room. I brought her back."

  Horror seeped into the younger Ranger. What was Ross saying? He again regarded the dirt and mud strewn about the room. The barest impression of a muddy body could be seen on the bed. His gut rolled. He dug her up? The utterly inconceivable tableau before him overwhelmed what was left of his reason. His vision swam and in a rush all feelings were violently replaced by outrage.

  He flew at Ross, seized his shirt collar, and rammed him back into the wall, his elbow jammed across Ross's throat. The veteran Ranger was again surprised by the action and his hurried, shocked words were lost in a rush of breath.

  "My God!" Stew shouted at the older man who grimaced in pain. "You are insane!"

  Ross struggled to break the grip. Stew's face turned purplish red with rage. His words were a harsh string of guttural screams with a rain of spittle. "You dug her up! You dug her up! You crazy bastard!"

  "Stew wait—" Ross's gasp was cut off as Stew's forearm clamped harder against his windpipe.

  Stew watched Ross's eyes roll up. It would be so easy to kill him now.

  "Please.," Ross mouthed, unsure if words emerged.

  Stew had never heard that word from Ross before. The simple cry for understanding cut through the fury. The young Ranger relaxed the pressure on Ross's throat. He stepped away.

  Ross coughed roughly, rubbing his throat. "It's not what you think."

  Stew scowled. Just then he heard the sound of footsteps behind him and a door swing open slightly. A familiar voice sounded.

  "What the hell is going on out here?"

  Stew turned and froze at the sight of Debbi's form outlined in the doorway. She was in shadow, but unmistakable, even outfitted in a baggy shirt. No sound uttered from his lips though he knew they were moving. His throat had seized; his heart had seized.

  Terror abruptly drilled at his chest. The image of his undead father shambling toward him with clawed hands outstretched and black mouth gaping surfaced again. He took a step back and bumped into Ross. The older Ranger gripped his arm so hard it hurt.

  "She's alive, Stew!" Ross's voice was near breaking, barely a strained hiss, but still thick with emotion.

  "Can't be," Stew gasped. "She's."

  Debbi came into the room, moving easily and fluidly, without the shuttering, jerking motion of a reanimated corpse. "Oh for Pete's sake! Knock it off! I'm not some freakin' zombie!" Caught in the rising sun, her damp hair flashed a brilliant red hue. It was not a color that could be emulated by a cadaver.

  Stew swayed and almost slid to the ground, his knees unable to support him. Ross barely held him upright.

  Debbi was having a hard time adjusting to the stunned faces of her friends. To her, no time had passed. Castle Rock seemed like only yesterday. Ross and Stew were creeping her out, looking at her as if
she was some sort of stupid messiah, raised from the tomb.

  "Look, both of you, I'm not going to eat you; I'm not going to pluck out your eyes with my nails; I'm just going to go home and get some decent clothes. Sorry, Ross, but this just won't do." She tugged at the oversized shirt that hardly covered her; the neck opening alone came down below her chest level. She had to use a hand to keep it closed, the buttons spaced too far apart to afford her any modesty. Her own pants were still drenched in foul smelling mud. However, the instant she took a step toward the door, both men blocked it bodily.

  "No," they shouted in unison.

  Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

  "D-Debbi, y-you can't just go strolling along the streets right now," Ross stuttered.

  "Why not?"

  "You were .... You were.." Stew couldn't get out the words.

  "Dead," she finished for him. "Yeah, and now I'm alive. And starting to get in a really pissy mood if I don't get some decent clothes." She held up her other shirt, the one with the rip in the back. "This one is ruined." The thought of going home had become primary in her mind. She needed that sense of familiarity now more than ever. Nothing was going to stop her.

  "What if someone sees you?" Ross snapped. "Everyone knows you're dead."

  "Was dead. And so what? It's not like there are gifts to return because I'm not dead."

  "We need to do this easy," Stew insisted. "Jesus, Debbi. This is .biblical. You just can't go wandering around. People wouldn't understand."

  "I think the only people having trouble are you two." She stood now before them. Ross just leaned against the door as if it was the only thing keeping him vertical. Stew got his first good look at her. She was alive, beautiful and radiant. There wasn't a mark of death on her: no scars, no decay, nothing. She smelled..Lord, she smelled good. Freshly scrubbed and rosy skin rinsed clean. She couldn't be dead. It looked like she had never been dead.

  Stew's hand reached out to touch her. She didn't flinch from his touch, only let loose a gentle, encouraging smile.

  "It's not a dream," Ross whispered to the ex-priest. He finally believed it. No dream of his had ever been this vivid. Never would he have been able to get Debbi's cadence and rhythm down so perfectly. And if it was madness instead that gripped him, then he welcomed it and prayed he'd stay insane forever.