The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 2003, Volume 14

by Stephen Jones

  Jackworth scratched his head, pulling out a louse which he briefly inspected before squashing between thumb and forefinger. “Ed-and-burg,” he repeated. “That up Nebraska way?”

  Stevenson coughed again, but this time to disguise a laugh. The blond man might be stupid – might be? – but he looked like the type who wouldn’t take kindly to being mocked. And he was watching Stevenson very closely.

  “Edinburgh’s a city in Scotland.”

  Jackworth just frowned.

  “Scotland. It’s a country.”

  Nothing. A blank stare.

  “It’s a part of Great Britain. England?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Across the Atlantic Ocean.”

  Jackworth’s eyes lit up. “I heard of that,” he yelled, slapping his hat against his thigh. “Never seed it though. Seed Wichita once. Big old town.” He leaned forward – bringing his smell with him – and held a hand up to his cheek to confer on Stevenson a conspiratorial whisper. “Got me some fine cunny there, tight as a baby sheep. Ain’t never forgot it.”

  Appalled, Stevenson nonetheless smiled and nodded, then turned toward the window for a taste of clean air and the hope of an end to the conversation.

  “Where’s abouts—”

  The question was interrupted by a monstrous lurch of the stagecoach. The sleeping woman rolled on top of Stevenson and both fell to the far side of the compartment. Jackworth was quick – very quick – and grabbed hold of the door handle, but the old man and his wife tumbled to the floor, like a pair of coupling crows in flight. The man’s stovepipe hat zipped right out the window. The wheels on the right side of the coach lifted off the ground, and for a very long second Stevenson felt certain that the vehicle was going to flip over. But with a gut– (and lung–) shuddering thud, followed by a loud crunch from the undercarriage, the coach righted itself. The driver shouted a stream of curses as he tried to bring the horses to rein. Stevenson couldn’t see much with the no-longer-sleeping woman sprawled on top of him, but he could hear the horses shriek and whinny as they went down and the rear axle of the coach was ripped out from underneath. The carriage hit the dirt trail hard, and Stevenson smacked his jaw against the wooden bench, biting into his upper lip as he did so. His mouth filled with the too-familiar taste of blood.

  There was another jerk, and then everything came to a blessed stop.

  Jackworth was out of the coach before Stevenson could even right himself. The woman had rolled back off of him with the coach’s final lurch and spilled into the old man and woman. Stevenson pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and, examining the volume of blood, decided that the cut wasn’t too bad. He got to his feet as best he could – at better than six feet tall, he couldn’t stand up straight – and offered a hand to help untangle his fellow passengers. The young woman appeared dazed, but had no visible injuries. Stevenson lifted her up and sat her down on the bench, where she rubbed her stomach. The old man had gotten to his knees and now fussed over his wife who sat whimpering on the floor. The man had a long gash across his forehead, and had torn his undertaker’s suit, but the woman was hurt much worse. Her black skirt had ridden up and Stevenson saw that her leg was badly broken. An ivory cane of bone poked out through a bloody tear in her left thigh. The woman touched the bone with her finger, unable, it seemed, to recognize it for what it was. She’d gone very pale indeed, and started to cry out with the pain, but her husband, studying Stevenson’s gaze, seemed more concerned with drawing the hem of her skirt back over the exposed expanse of her ghost-white thigh. The man’s lips drew back in a snarl, but before Stevenson could say anything, two shots sounded from outside. Another pair swiftly followed.

  Stevenson leaped out the open door, misjudged the distance and took a face-first fall into the dirt. More embarrassed than hurt, he scrambled to his feet. He came around to the front of the coach just in time to see the driver put a final bullet into the head of a dying horse. A second dead animal lay beside it.

  “There’s my job,” the driver said, and spat onto the corpse. The pair of horses that had survived the accident danced and whinnied nervously a dozen yards up the road.

  “The old woman is hurt quite badly,” Stevenson announced. “She’s broken her leg clear through the skin.”

  The driver turned to Jackworth who was dancing excitedly between the dead animals. “What in hell’d he say?”

  “He ain’t from here,” Jackworth reported. “Come from ’cross the ocean. Atlantic, you know it?”

  “The old woman inside the carriage is badly injured,” Stevenson repeated, slowly. “Her leg is broken.”

  “Shee-it,” the driver said and spat again. “Ain’t that just the fly on the turd.”

  “You a doc there, Ed-and-burg?” Jackworth asked. He practically leaped from leg to leg, like a man desperate to urinate. What was he so bloody excited about, Stevenson wondered.

  “Nae . . . no. But ye can see bone through the flesh. There’s not a lot of doubt as to what’s wrong.”

  “Hot damn! Got to get me a looky-loo at that.” And Jackworth jumped back into the coach.

  A moment later the younger woman leaned out, still rubbing at her belly, but looking less dazed. Stevenson went to help her out, and together they studied the wreck of the stagecoach. The rear axle had snapped in two and lay a dozen yards up the road, near the two-foot-deep gully in the trail that had caused the crash. The front axle was still attached, but it, too, was as broken as the old woman’s leg. It was clear that they wouldn’t be going any farther in this coach, though looking at the damage, Stevenson felt lucky to be alive and essentially uninjured.

  “What do we do now?” Stevenson asked the driver.

  The man picked his nose and spat. He looked aggrieved to have to answer the question. Or perhaps just scared about the consequences of the crash, Stevenson considered.

  “We’s caught what you’d call ’twixt and ’tween and halfway to neither. Too far to the company post, especially with the womenfolk and such. There is a old way station not too far from here. Five, maybe seven miles, best I reckon. Don’t generally like to stop there, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Company don’t like it. Had some trouble there a while back. ’Sall I know.”

  “Will there be a doctor there?” Stevenson asked.

  The driver chuckled. “Barely a there there, friend. But I reckon she’ll have to do us. Feller runs things there knows some doctoring. Claims to, anyway, what I hear. Queer feller, I thought; makes your blood run like the wrong way.”

  Stevenson didn’t much care for the sound of that. “Is there nae a better destination for us?”

  “Not to make before nightfall. We put the old lady on the one horse, and the ma’am here on t’other, should make it right enough. Not too bad a hike, these things go. Bit uphill. Not that I sees much choice in the matter.”

  And thus did Robert Louis Stevenson, late of Edinburgh, Scotland (across the Atlantic Ocean, of which many people have heard), set out on the road to Hides.

  * * *

  The old woman screamed something fierce as they dragged her out of the remains of the coach, but mercifully she passed out as they settled her onto the horse, making the task that much easier. Jackworth continued to marvel at the length of bone protruding through her thigh, though to his credit he did the lion’s share of carrying her without complaint. Her husband, who’d reluctantly introduced himself as Mr Anderson Balfour – he stressed the Mister – looked on disapprovingly, constantly tugging her dress down over her exposed leg, and proving himself to be of little help. The driver – Grey, he called himself, though if that was his first name or last, or merely an encapsulation of his life, Stevenson never learned – was only slightly more helpful, utterly preoccupied, it seemed, by the wreckage of his stagecoach and his livelihood. Little Jackworth was a ball of energy, though, and while Stevenson felt that there was something odd about the fellow (not just his smell), he decided Jackworth’s primary offense was
that of being somewhat juvenile. Indeed, as he studied the blond man, Stevenson guessed that Jackworth couldn’t be much more than nineteen or twenty years old. Though he did wear a pair of guns on his belt.

  The other woman, who eventually introduced herself as Mrs Timothy Reilly, continued to clutch at her belly, while denying any specific discomfort or injury. She showed some initial reluctance at mounting the remaining horse, and in the end would only ride side-saddle. Stevenson might have assumed that she was fearful of the steed, but she seemed confident enough once in place.

  Grey led the way, taking the reins of the horse bearing the unconscious old woman, along with the lockbox from the stagecoach; the other bags would have to be left behind with the wreckage, though the driver secreted the passengers’ belongings in the woods off the trail to be safe, then covered his tracks. Balfour followed directly behind Grey, eyes glued to his wife’s leg, then came Mrs Reilly on her horse. Stevenson, already feeling the effects of the strain on his lungs, brought up the rear. Much to his chagrin, Jackworth fell into place beside him, swinging his arms back and forth as he walked, like a kid in a holiday parade. A light breeze from the north brought with it just a hint of storm; Stevenson took advantage of it to position himself upwind of the man.

  “So, Ed, what’s yer business?” Jackworth asked.

  Stevenson didn’t much want to talk – he was finding it difficult enough just walking and breathing – but neither did he like to be rude.

  “I’ve trained and toiled as both a lawyer and an engineer, though neither vocation proved much to my liking. I do a wee bit of writing now, and am told I’ve a flair for it. And most people call me Louis.” Except for one who calls me Robbie, he thought.

  “No fooling. Sorry ’bout that, Lou. Well, gee. I always did want to learn to read, you know. Got a cousin who knows his ABCs right through, mostly. Smart as a whip and hung like a bear. Beat that if you can! What ya write?”

  “Stories about my travels, mostly. People and things I’ve seen, and places I’ve visited. France and Germany most recently. And about my home in Scotland, of course.”

  “Hooo-weee! You been all them places? I heard of France, you know. That ’cross the Atlantic, too?”

  Stevenson merely nodded. “My health compels me to travel. The climate back home is particularly unsuitable to my condition. More’s the pity, because I do love it so.”

  “So what brings yer hell and gone out here? You fixing to write another story?”

  Stevenson hesitated. He didn’t much care to discuss his life and plans with this stranger. And he couldn’t talk about Fanny to anyone. She was . . . hard to explain.

  “In fact, I’m just now thinking about something entirely different: a work of pure fiction. A pirate story, I ken. I find that my imagination grows keener than my powers of observation with each passing year.” Stevenson offered himself a slight chuckle.

  “Don’t know no pirates, so I can’t help you there, Lou. Plenty good tales ’round these parts though.”

  “Is that right?”

  “You must know ’bout the Donners,” Jackworth whispered.

  “Not to my recollection.”

  Jackworth took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh. He grinned so wide, Stevenson could see all his missing back teeth. “You ain’t heard of the Donner party?” he practically yelled.

  The others all turned around and the driver, Grey, offered a particularly disgusted look. Jackworth slapped his hand over his mouth.

  “What was the Donner party?” Stevenson asked.

  When it was clear that the others were again facing front, Jackworth continued, determinedly sotto voce: “Cannibals.”

  Stevenson assumed that he misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”

  Jackworth nodded his head feverishly. “They was cannibals. I mean, not to start, but that’s how it come out in the end.”

  “I don’t think I follow ye.”

  “Thirty years or so back. Donners and Reeds was travelling west. Two big families. Got trapped up in the Sierra, just a piece aways from here, by the winter snows. Damn fools, but ain’t no shortage of them. Supplies run out, animals run out, luck run out, mostly. Nothing left for it but to chomp each other. Told folks after that they only et the ones what was already dead, but there’s them what say elsewise. Some claim they drew lots and slaughtered the losers like sows. Others that the families set up camps and went at each other like in a war and et their enemies what they captured. Eighty odd went into that pass in winter, forty odd come out the other end in spring. Others all got et.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “Yessir. There’s folks ’round who still remember, can tell you the gruesome details if you can stand to hear ’em. It’s a wonder, ain’t it? Imagine how’d it be like to end your days getting et.”

  “And you’re certain that this is true?”

  A darkness crossed Jackworth’s face. “You calling me a liar?”

  “Nae, certainly not.” Stevenson had learned that, in this part of the world, short of stealing a man’s horse there was no offense worse than questioning his word. “I just wondered if this is not, perhaps, some wee tall tale that is told in the region. I have heard a few others. Some nonsense about a giant lumberjack for one. And it reminds me of the stories told of old Sawney Bean in and around Ballantrae.”

  Jackworth nodded, seemingly appeased. “Well, this ain’t no tall tale, that’s for sure. It’s a damn historical fact. They even started to call the old canyon trail where it happened Donner Pass.”

  “Remarkable,” Stevenson mused. “How could anyone do that?”

  “How’s you mean?”

  Stevenson found himself intrigued and repelled by the story in equal measure. “Imagine eating human flesh. Not just eating it, but slaughtering it yourself. A friend, a cousin, a brother. Even if they were already dead the things ye’d have to do. Draining the blood. Cutting the muscle from the bone. Carving the organs from their cavities. Cooking the meat, putting the morsels in your mouth. Chewing. Swallowing.” He shuddered. “Doesn’t seem possible.”

  “I could do it.”

  Stevenson studied the young man. Jackworth stared ahead with an intense, very serious expression, nodding to himself. “Ye couldn’t.”

  Jackworth looked up at the writer. “Oh, yeah. I been hungry. I done things. I seen things.”

  “Not like that, surely.”

  “Naw, not exactly. But then I ain’t never been stuck in no mountain pass in no blizzard with nothing to eat but a third cousin twice removed. I seen men kilt, though, and it were for less than not starving to death. People is funny animals, Lou. My daddy used to say never turn your back on a animal ’cause you never can tell what it’s likely to do. Well, I turned my back on lots of critters and I ain’t never suffered no harm. Okay, mebbe a bite on the ankle. But turn your back on a man, and you’re likely as not to take a bullet in the ass. Or worser. People is just animals when day turns to night, you gotta know that. And you can’t never be surprised by the things they’s prone to do. Aw, hell, I got to take a piss something fierce. Burns like hell when I do it, too. Don’t know what that’s about.”

  As Jackworth dashed off into the trees, unbuttoning his fly, Stevenson increased his stride. He thought he could do with some different company for a while.

  They stopped after an hour of mostly uphill walking. It was Mrs Reilly who asked if they could rest, and though Grey glanced up at the darkening skies with a frown, he nodded his assent. Stevenson went over to help the woman down from the horse, but a fresh coughing fit overcame him, and ultimately she had to help him to sit on an outcropping of rock above a gurgling stream. He waved her away, nodding his thanks, and hawked up a bloody wad of phlegm against the white stone. He lay flat on the rocks and reached down to scoop up handfuls of clear water. It was so cold that it sent a spike of pain up through his head, but after a few swallows, the coughing once again subsided. He rolled over, breathing slowly, enjoying the dim rays of late-afternoon su
n that penetrated the growing overcast.

  Balfour stood guard beside his wife, still out cold. With Grey’s help, they’d lowered her off the horse, to give the animal a chance to rest and drink from the stream. Jackworth kept an excited eye on the enterprise, eager it seemed, to catch another glance at the woman’s protruding leg bone. Mrs Reilly had wandered off behind the trees, to answer nature’s call, no doubt. She returned a few minutes later, still rubbing her stomach, a dyspeptic expression distorting her otherwise pleasant features. She went over to see if she could be of help with Mrs Balfour. The four of them stood in a circle around the old woman, none of them quite knowing what to do. Jackworth saw Stevenson studying the tableau and grinned at the writer. Stevenson groaned to himself as the blond man came over to his spot on the rock. Jackworth leaned over and whispered into Stevenson’s ear: “You’re trying to figure which of us you’d eat, ain’t ya?”

  Stevenson had been thinking no such thing. Before he could say so, Jackworth added: “Well, I got dibs on the Irish cunny, hear?” and he licked his lips lasciviously. To Stevenson’s relief, Jackworth stood up and wandered back toward the trail.

  Mrs Reilly was gesticulating forcefully at the old woman. Mr Balfour crossed his arms over his chest and firmly shook his head from side to side. She then pointed at the driver, but he raised his hands in a “No, sir, not me” gesture and walked away, back to the horses. Mrs Reilly again made a pleading gesture at the old man, but he just turned his back on her. Exasperated, she walked away and sat down beside Stevenson.

  “She’s going to lose that leg,” Mrs Reilly informed him. “He’s tied a sash around the top to stem the bleeding, but it’s fastened too tight and the leg’s gone all blue. The blasted man won’t listen to a word I say.”

  “He looks a stubborn old mule.”

  “Impossible. I told him she’ll lose the leg and he just insists that ‘The Lord will provide.’ And beggars will ride, I say.”

  Stevenson raised an eyebrow. “Not one for providence, then?”

  “I didn’t mean to shock you. I understood you to be a writer of tales. I always heard writers were open-minded, liberal types.”