by Damon Novak
He raised the rifle, peering through the small scope. Seeing something on the arm of the first female he sighted, he had a thought. Moving to the next one – a male – he saw the same thing.
The crescent-shaped indicators of a bite, surrounded by more heavily rotted skin, as though it had become immediately infected. One on the wrist, another on the inside forearm. He suspected he would see the same on all of them.
Perhaps Wattana had been right, and the curse was limited to non-native Americans. The bites are what had turned them into skinwalkers.
He realized the name was not truly what they were; the term skinwalker was borrowed from the Navajo people long ago. The Henomawi people had used it to describe any human possessed by a demon, or otherwise transformed by evil forces.
Silver Bolt trained his sights on a creature milling about closest to the garage door. When its head was centered in his scope, he pulled the trigger.
As the explosion cracked the silence of the day, the female’s knees folded beneath her, and for a moment, she landed on them and teetered there, as though offering a macabre prayer to an unseen god. Then, gravity overcoming the balancing act, she finally fell forward, arms at her sides.
The others ignored her death, having all turned toward the house at the sound of the gunshot. Silver Bolt slid the window quickly down and closed the blinds again.
Moving back into the other room, he looked through the window again, waiting for further confirmation of his short-memory theory.
Without any other noise or visual stimulation, they never even made it to the window before again drifting apart and wandering aimlessly.
They did not return to the garage door, so Silver Bolt ran there. The remote on his keychain in his hand, he crouched down just inside the garage door and pushed the button. The door lifted.
As he saw the feet of the motionless skinwalker, he hit the remote, stopping the door. He reached out and took the dead monster by its ankles and dragged it inside, immediately pressing the remote again once the head and arms were clear.
Turning to look at his wheelbarrow, sitting full of dirt and now dead weeds he had pulled from his garden several weeks earlier, he was glad he was a procrastinator; now he wouldn’t have to go outside.
Pulling out his phone, he brought up his messages. There was a new one he hadn’t seen. It was a group text, to both him and to Chief Climbing Fox.
His heart began to race. It was from Anjeni Dancing Rain.
His Anji.
I AM COMING TO CHECK ON YOU MUNDUNUGU. MAGI, THAT IS WHERE I WILL BE.
Magi Silver Bolt stared at the words. Mundunugu had said he did not know where Anji was.
Perhaps she had never made it there, thought Magi. If the note scrawled in the book was true, no time could be wasted.
He stared down at the skinwalker he had killed, dreading the steps to come. It was barbaric, and it was horrifying, but if it would allow him passage among the monsters, that would ensure that he could search for Anji without fear.
Hurrying to the cabinet beside the door leading into the house, he first removed a box of thick latex gloves. After snapping a pair on, he next removed a 5-foot long box from the lower section of the cabinet, placing it on the floor. He knelt down and removed the pieces from it and began assembling it.
When he was done, a 9-foot high tripod stood in the empty side of the two-car garage, beside his Fathom Blue, 1970 Chevy El Camino. The car had been a gift from his grandfather when he graduated from high school; he had bought it new, and it only had about 47,000 miles on it.
The classic car with unpitted, bright chrome trim looked like it just rolled off the assembly line, thanks to maybe a hundred coats of Meguiar’s Wax and lots of Armor All.
It was covered. No worries about getting anything on it.
Magi stared absent-mindedly at the corpse on the floor, lowering the game gambrel to the floor. Then, Silver Bolt took two short bungee cords from his toolbox drawer and placed them on the concrete floor.
He didn’t think he would have it in him to poke the gambrel through the ankles of his kill. Not yet. Best secure it with the bungees.
Preparations were done. It was time to hoist the skinwalker. He moved toward the dead woman and lifted her feet. With multiple grunts, he dragged her until her feet were in front of the gambrel.
He removed her blood-coated tennis shoes, again thankful that he did not know the woman in her former life. Using the bungee cords, he secured her ankles to the game gambrel, making sure each was tight.
He stood, walking around to the hand crank. With a ratcheting noise, he cranked the handle at a steady speed. As the cable tightened, the gambrel began to lift from the floor, bringing the skinwalker’s ankles with it. When the gambrel reached the top, he stopped.
The sight almost sickened him; it was a woman hanging from the very piece of equipment he used out in the field when deer hunting. Only now, it looked like some medieval torture device. She was just over five feet tall, though, so even extended as her arms were, her fingertips did not touch the floor.
Closing his eyes for a long moment, his mind immediately going to Dancing Rain, he regained his resolve. She was out there now, and she might need him.
Using a box cutter, he sliced the clothing from the gently swinging form, pulling it down and allowing the pieces to fall into a nasty pile just beneath it. When she was entirely nude, he got a lawn and leaf bag and scooped up the clothing. When it was inside the garbage bag, he tied it closed and tossed it to the side.
Moving to the rack where he stored his hunting gear, he pulled out a hard, plastic case and rested it on his worktable. Popping the tabs, he opened it, turning to examine the skinwalker.
He’d never done this before – not on a human being. The mere thought that he had to learn – and learn fast – was sending his stomach into fluttering fits.
Taking a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds, then releasing the air from his lungs, he lifted the SB-10 Skinner from the case of knives.
He walked over and held up the knife. Steadying the body, Silver Bolt cut around each ankle, meeting his first cut as he rounded it. Pointing the knife tip downward into the slit, he pulled it outward, cutting down at the same time.
The skin peeled down about three-quarters of an inch, and he continued tugging on it as he sliced with small, yet precise cuts. Soon, the meat was stripped below the knee, and sliding down the thigh.
Finding he was holding his breath, Magi worked, beginning to believe that he was only field dressing a deer, or an elk. Meat was meat when you looked at it, and if he didn’t become obsessed with the pile of hairless skin he was accumulating, he could continue lying to himself.
Magi Silver Bolt worked fast; he did not want to drag it out. When the last hollow tube of skin pulled down from the female’s left hand, he cut it away, dropping the knife on the floor.
The smell was putrid. He had not noticed until it was all over with, probably because the entire idea of what he had to do was so repulsive, the smell was the last thing on his mind.
Removing his gloves and snapping on a fresh pair, he put the pile of skin into a 13-gallon trash bag and carried it to the kitchen.
He stared at the blender, the bag resting on the tiled countertop. “I could never prepare food in here again,” he said aloud.
With a sigh, he went to the blender and yanked the plug from the receptacle on the wall, carrying it back out to the garage.
As it was, the blender would be going in the trash. No sense in causing the need for a kitchen remodel.
The ancient text had detailed how to make a mud of sorts. This mud, when spread across the skin of an uninfected person, would prevent a reaction from the skinwalkers.
Their skin was the key. It must be finely ground, then mixed with native soil until it was a paste. Magi plugged in the blender and set it to puree.
Reaching into the bag, he took handfuls of the skin tissue and dropped it with a splat! into the blender. When it was hal
f full, he put the lid on and hit the button.
The whirring of the blender filled the garage as the skin was finely chopped. The noise helped to distract him, but when it was done, and he hit the OFF button, he immediately heard the sounds of the skinwalkers pressing against the garage door, scratching to get in.
They had clearly been drawn by the sound.
It took seven blender loads to get through all the skin. When he was done, it had the consistency of protein shake as he poured it into an Igloo ice chest.
When that was complete, he sifted the soil, which had been rife with roots, grass, and sticks, through a spare window screen, atop the pulverized skin. He continued it until the cooler was about half full.
Magi ran into the house and got a gallon of water. He poured it slowly atop the mixture, stirring it with a wooden spoon from the kitchen. It became more difficult to stir as the concoction became thicker.
Satisfied, he stared down at the contents of the cooler. He closed the lid, turning his face to the skinless girl hanging from his gambrel.
Magi removed his clothing, chanting a prayer in Henomawan as he did so. When he was fully nude, he reached into the Igloo and took a scoop of the skin-dirt paste, spreading it on his ears, cheeks, face, and the back of his neck. He then continued this until his entire body was covered with a thin layer.
Oddly enough, the odor that had been so strong while cutting the hide from the skinwalker was minimal; it now smelled like musty earth, nothing more. Perhaps with time, as the skin fragments began to deteriorate further, it would begin to reek. For now, Magi was thankful it did not.
As it dried, he felt it tighten. When it was no longer tacky, he went into the house to retrieve a pair of deerhide trousers and a long-sleeved tunic. He had made both, using the hide of a fourteen-point buck he’d taken in a previous hunt.
He strapped on shoes made from the same animal and returned to the garage to get his .30-30. Putting his head through the strap, he allowed it to hang from his body. In a pouch that hung around his neck, he put a box of rounds for the weapon.
He bent down to close the lid of the cooler and picked it up as well.
Having second thoughts, he put the gun and cooler back down, picking up a tool belt and clipping it around his waist. In it, he put several of the longer-bladed knives.
This was all still a mystery to him, and at the moment, he was operating on blind faith. He must be prepared for any encounter with the skinwalkers.
A full-length mirror that had fallen from the door of the spare bathroom leaned against the garage wall, still not re-installed due to his tendency to procrastinate.
He stood before that mirror now, his haunted white eyes staring out of the dirt-colored coating.
“I am coming, Anjeni Dancing Rain,” he muttered, picking up the Igloo.
He pushed the button on the wall and the door rose.
The skinwalkers looked at him. He looked back. They moved toward him as he stepped toward them.
One of them – a male, about two inches taller than Magi, moved toward him, stopping just inches away.
Its mouth opened, and the nostrils flared. Magi remained very still, his hand clutching the grip of the knife at his side. He could smell it now; it was the ghastly aroma of death and decay, as though emanating from a deteriorated corpse whose grave had been unearthed days or weeks after its burial.
Magi needed to know if there were any vulnerabilities associated with the skin paste. He steeled his nerves and his spine as he exhaled, allowing the released breath to drift into the skinwalker’s face. Involuntarily, his fingers squeezed the knife handle tighter.
Nothing.
There was no change in the creature’s movements or demeanor. The strange, dead eyes, coated with the thick, opaque liquid, seemed to see him only as an obstacle to be navigated around.
In confirmation of Magi’s assumption, its head rotated away from Silver Bolt, and it took a step past him. The dead thing brushed against Magi as it passed, and he felt his skin pucker with gooseflesh beneath the biological mud. Afraid to turn his head, he followed it with his eyes, releasing his breath and finally breathing normally.
Satisfied, Magi busied himself, placing the cooler in the driveway and reaching for two of the legs of the tripod. With substantial effort, he dragged it through the open door and into the driveway. The body swung wildly within the three stanchions as he cleared the garage and released it.
Walking back into the garage, he pulled a 1-gallon gas can from the shelf, dousing the skinless, dangling walker with fuel. He pulled out a Bic lighter and held it close to her, and with a quick whoomph!, she burst into flame.
Magi Silver Bolt went back inside and herded the five skinwalkers from the garage, then pressed the remote control. As the door slid down behind him, and the pockets of burning fat and tissue crackled, Magi walked toward the home of his love, Anjeni.
He would retrace her steps to the home of Climbing Fox Wattana.
Dancing Rain needed him.
Ω
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was late. I ain’t sure what time, exactly. When I heard Rode’s voice come over Pa’s ham radio, I stared at it for a long while before I kicked Danny, who’d fallen asleep maybe half an hour before.
He shook his head and blinked his eyes at me. His belly, like mine, was stuffed with fresh grouper, cooked in oil on the stove, and like any man, he needed a good snooze after a big meal.
And several shots of Jack.
“Rode,” I said. “Just heard him.”
“Rode what?” he mumbled, then his eyes went wide. As he scooted up into a more suitable sittin’ position. “Oh, hell. The DJ?”
We figured we had a right to tie one on with some Jack Daniel’s. Bravin’ the streets for supplies, wranglin’ a couple of crazy crooks from a boat wreck, shootin’ a zombie gator, landin’ a huge grouper, killin’ one said zombie criminal, and cleanin’ up the mess, all added up to us deservin’ to tie one on.
So, we did. Georgie held her own with us as long as she could, but now she was curled up on the big bed in our cabin, snorin’ so soft and cute I could stand there and listen to her for hours.
“The good news is, we made it to Lebanon,” said Rode. “Sign that greeted us said the population was 218.”
“Podunk town,” said Danny.
“Just Po,” I said. “No room for the dunk.”
Rode continued: “There has to be a lot of the changed people inside the houses, but you can drive around the entire town in about 2.4 miles. The Nebraska border’s less than a hundred miles north of us, so if we needed to expand out, I guess there’s services on that northern route.
“It was just getting dark when we pulled into Lebanon, past the sign that said we were at the geographic center of the U.S., and we encountered about sixteen of the shufflers on our first run through town. Comin’ back south a different way, we hit right around seven more, took ‘em all out.
“When we got here, everyone was exhausted. We came straight up Main Street on our final trip north, and at the end, there’s a school. It’s brick, and there are some fences around, so it seemed like our best choice for now. Can’t say we won’t move, but we’re settled in for the night, at least.
“If you’re nearby and you show up in town tonight, just head up Main Street to the very end, and you’ll see the auditorium on the left side. Please, please announce yourself verbally when you get here. We shoot at stuff that makes noise but doesn’t talk.”
There was a pause, then we heard Micky say, “The what? Oh, yeah. Hell yeah. Hey folks,” he said into the microphone again. “We’ve gotten reports about alligators, crocodiles, and some caymans. You know. Turning into the same thing the people are.
“I didn’t see any when we were leaving Florida, but maybe that was pure luck. If you’re in the southeastern United States, just be watchful. Gators with this affliction can’t be good news, and I imagine they’d be hard to kill, particularly if the shot to the brain is the on
ly way.
“Okay, now to wrap up, we don’t have a count of our people yet. They’re sleeping on the big cushions the wrestlers and gymnasts use. So, that translates to no survivor numbers right now. We’ll try to get a good count in the morning, so you know how many of us you’ll have to contend with when you arrive.
“As for weapons, you’re completely welcome to carry your own in, just so long as you know how to handle them. If you don’t, expect them to be taken from you very quickly. Our weapons policy is loosey goosey until somebody fucks up and we have to change it.
“I don’t have a security detail; I’m just like you guys are. Every man, woman and child here is their own person with their own freewill. I’m not in charge, either, but if you’re coming here, you know what my plan is, and I assume you’re joining us to carry it out, for whatever it’s worth.
“It’s just that – my plan. It may be a colossal waste of time. If you have a different idea, we’ll be happy to listen, but most everyone who’s had some other ideas about how to tackle this thing had personal reasons; relatives lost somewhere, friends they wanted to rescue.
“I say go ahead and find your friends or relatives, then come on back here if you want. Once we have a force of a couple hundred people here, we’re starting on weapons training. Immediately after, we’re moving on to Northern California. Have a good night. Watch for the zombiegators and zombicrocs. Godspeed to you.”
I looked at Danny. “At least he found out about the gators.”
“And crocs.”
“Hate those fuckers,” I said.
“Town sounds small and boring,” said Danny.
“Welcome to Kansas.”
“All of it?”
I closed my eyes and nodded. “Can’t blame the folks. Most of ‘em never left the place from when they were kids.”
“Like you and Florida?” His eyes twinkled in the moonlight as he laughed.
“Shit, at least what I did was kinda excitin’,” I said. “Better’n watchin’ ‘em roll haybales.”
Danny laughed and lifted the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the table, taking a swig. He passed it to me. “Okay, CB, here’s a fictional scenario. You come to a crossroads. On one road’s a zombie gator. On the other’s a haybale. Which one you choose?”