The medicine man was elated. His spell had worked. Only he knew the location of the witch’s tree. He visited the clearing often to insure his spells were working and to strengthen them as much as possible.
On what would turn out to be his last visit, the old man decided to bring his apprentice. The young man was learning the ways of the shaman quickly and would make an excellent replacement when it came time for the medicine man to join his ancestors guarding the tree. Today would be the understudy’s final and most important lesson: strengthening the cloaking spell protecting the tree from unwary travelers.
Standing on the edge of the clearing, the medicine man began his incantations, his hands raised to the sky, eyes closed. The apprentice stood behind his mentor, watching every move. The young man was tuned to every syllable, recalling his lessons that led up to this important moment, when his teacher groaned in pain, clasped his hands to his bony chest and toppled like an ancient oak in a storm, face first onto the sacred white sand.
Stunned, the student watched helpless as his teacher gasped for air, inhaled the sand, coughed once, and was still.
Dead from a failing heart.
The young man rolled his teacher onto his back; white sand coated the shaman’s face and lips. The old man stared through him, the once wise and kind eyes now lifeless.
The student closed the sightless eyes and sat down at his teacher’s feet. He cradled his sorrow-laden head in his hands, and wept for his teacher. He stayed this way, tears leaking through his fingers, his quiet sobs the only sound in the woods, until a rustling caught his attention. The student lifted his head, wiped the tears blurring his vision, and cried out in fright at what he saw.
The old man was sitting up.
The kind eyes were replaced with the wild, frenzied eyes of a demon, the once gentle, wise face, now a snarling grin of pure malevolence.
Time seemed to slow for the young man as he locked eyes with the creature, once his mentor and friend. The beast released a feral growl and lunged forward, hands formed into claws. The student scooted away, the creature’s raking fingernails peeling skin from his cheeks.
His face stinging, the student crawled backward, the blood hot as it flowed down his face and neck. The old man pitched forward to his belly and crawled toward his apprentice on all fours like a hungry panther.
The student’s right hand fell on something large and solid. He instinctively latched onto the object, stood, and raised the large rock above his head with both hands as the teacher-turned-creature reached his scurrying feet. The young man smashed the heavy rock down onto his teacher’s head with all his might. The rock shattered into several pieces as the old man flattened to the ground.
Gasping for air, the tears flowing once again, the young man looked to the sky and closed his eyes, begging forgiveness from the Great Spirit. After a few seconds, his breathing slowed to normal.
The student yelped when a hand grabbed his ankle with brutal force. He fell to the forest floor again, kicking his legs as the man he once loved tried to rise, still gripping his ankle, somehow alive. The apprentice flailed blindly for another weapon, his hand falling on a shard of the broken stone. He clutched the fragment, turned, and swung it in a sideways arc, connecting with the old man’s soft temple. The crunching grip released his leg, as the old man dropped to the ground again.
The young man stood, rock in hand, and watched in horror as the old man/creature tried to rise again; the student cried out in anger and sorrow as he brought the rock down on the shaman’s skull once more. Blood and brains splashed across the young man’s screaming face as he hammered the stone down, a staccato beat, slowing like a dying heart, until finally stopping.
The old man lie still, his skull shattered like a dropped egg.
The pupil stood above the dead man and dropped the hair and gore-caked rock to the dirt next to the ruined head.
The young man understood, knowing the witch’s power, and turned to curse the evil tree, the source of the calamity. He froze when he saw the leaf. A single bright green leaf had grown on the bare tree. While he watched, the leaf fell from the branch without a sound, floated like a feather to the white sand, and withered away before his eyes.
Upon his return to the village, the young man told his terrible story. He asked for help to bring the body of his mentor back to the village for proper burial. He and his aids searched for the tree, but the spell proved too strong, not even he could find it again, and after days of searching he gave up and did the only thing he could think of to keep his people safe.
“The tribe moved, abandoning these woods that hold so much evil, praying their ancestors would rest and protect others from the tree,” Chitto said, finishing his tale.
Chitto stared at Titus, shame obvious on his dark face. “My leader believed the barrier spell has weakened over the years. He was correct. We found the tree. I knew as soon as I saw it, that what we planned was wrong.”
Chitto's face hardened, so Titus asked, “What did you do?”
“I tried to stop them. To tell them the evil could not be controlled. I was beaten, knocked unconscious. When I awoke, my brothers were killing each other. It was too late. Many of my men were dead. The others ran, carried me with them. Days later the witch and her puppets found us. Only I escaped.”
“That was the massacre my men found?” Titus asked.
“Yes. Now her army has grown even larger. We must stop her.”
Titus wasn't sure if he remained in shock from everything that had transpired during this nightmare of a day, but he believed the Indian's story with all his soul. How could he not? With his own eyes he had witnessed his brothers feasting on fresh corpses, men eating the flesh of other men. That was all he needed to see. Titus stood and paced the small space for several moments without saying a word, digesting the Indian's tale, trying his best to find a reason not to believe the unbelievable story.
Finally, Titus stopped pacing and faced Chitto. “So. We need to kill the first man that was … turned?”
Chitto nodded, a brief look of gratitude washing over his stern face. “Yes. She is them, they are her. But it is hard to kill that which is already dead.”
Titus shrugged. “Not exactly. I stopped two back there with headshots. Kill the head and they die. Just like the old shaman.”
“Yes,” Chitto said. “This is why I need your help. With my stealth and speed, and your guns, I think we can defeat her.”
Titus nodded and released a heavy sigh. “What's the plan?”
18
To Titus, the plan seemed simple, but insane. He stood outside in the fresh air, the day waning, Chitto standing next to him. “You’re going to use yourself as bait, lure them down this trail right here, and I'm going to shoot him … her … in the head.”
“Yes,” Chitto said, pointing up a nearby tree. “Climb this tree. Use your rifle. It should allow you the best shot.”
“And how will I know which one to shoot?” Titus asked, looking up, scoping the perfect niche for his rifle.
“We only know the first is one of my men, a Seminole,” Chitto said. “She should stay at the back of the group, letting her others fight for her. She must protect her vessel.”
“Should?” Titus didn't like the uncertainty of the word. “Great. What if I miss?”
Chitto offered a smile. “Do not.”
With a single nod of his head, Chitto turned and fled down the trail.
Here we go, thought Titus as he slung his Hall Rifle over his shoulder. He loaded his martial pistol, as well as the other he had retrieved during the ambush, storing them securely—one in his holster, the other in his right boot. If he missed with the rifle, the pistols would give him two more chances, but only at close range. He doubted if he would have time to reload.
He climbed the dead elm tree bordering the trail, straight to the perfect spot he had spied from the ground; it stood higher than he realized, roughly twenty feet from the forest floor, but the view of the trail was perfect
. He set the rifle in the crook of the branch and waited.
He didn't have to wait as long as planned—Chitto was quite fast on his feet—which was good. Time was not something they had much of. The sun dipped toward the horizon; night would be here soon.
In the distance, Titus could hear faint screams and growls swelling in volume with every passing second. A thought came to him, what if all of the creatures chase Chitto back here and she's not with them? Then what? We'll be overrun.
Titus forced the negative thought from his mind. If that happened, then they would deal with it. He took a deep breath and sighted the mouth of the trail, at the point where it turned onto the straight path leading underneath his sniper's nest. He had a clear view for a perfect shot. He readied himself as the animal sounds drew closer.
First, Chitto came into view, sweat shining on his determined face as he negotiated the turn, nearly stumbling, running straight toward Titus.
Then they came.
Filthy, covered in dried gore, smelling of the grave and rancid meat even from this distance, they chased his new friend like a swarm of escapees from a sanatorium. Some ran normal; others lurched and stumbled from their injuries. Some were missing arms, or dragging entrails. They ran unorganized, bumping into one another, allowing Chitto a safe distance in front.
Titus stopped counting after ten. The group was too jumbled to get an accurate count. He had to assume they were all following and that his target would be with them. Indian and white man filled the ranks of the reanimated, men Titus recognized, good men that were once his friends, now crazed and murderous fiends.
When no more of the snarling predators entered the trail in pursuit, Titus sighted the forehead of rearmost one—an Indian, uninjured, grinning with demonic pleasure.
That's her, that's the one … I hope.
Titus inhaled, held the breath, steadied the rifle, and squeezed the trigger as he exhaled.
Smoke billowed as the long rifle boomed, exposing his perch. The intended target stumbled to the dirt, half of his head flying away in large chunks and a fine mist.
Chitto sprinted past the tree.
The crazed men still followed.
You shot the wrong one, Titus chided himself.
Most of the madmen followed Chitto, but the last four creatures broke off from the group and clambered up the tree, clawing at the crumbling bark, and each other, to reach their next meal. Titus climbed as high as he could, the brittle branches threatening to crack under his weight. When he could go no higher, he looked down just as the lead beast—a fellow white soldier—grabbed his boot. Titus smashed the butt of the rifle on the creature's skull repeatedly until it released his foot and fell to the ground in a useless heap thirty feet below.
The dead soldier was immediately replaced with another one from Titus's unit. He dropped the rifle, freed his pistol from its holster and fired down at the lead demon. The shot bored a hole in the man's forehead, just above the left eye; the contents of the man's head showered the two remaining creatures beneath him. Titus watched in sadness as the demonic gleam faded from the young man's eyes, turning him into a normal human once again, a human he’d known well. The dead soldier released the tree and fell, taking one of the two rabid climbers with him as he did.
Smoke filled the air around Titus. The dead tree shook, threatening to dislodge him as the fourth and last climber came within reach, an excited sneer spread across his dark features. Titus launched the spent pistol at the Seminole and watched the heavy weapon careen off the man's face, fracturing several teeth; the smile never wavered.
Titus reached down, off balance, to retrieve the other pistol from his boot. He was too slow. The Seminole latched onto his wrist and pulled with surprising strength, dislodging Titus from the tree with ease.
It felt to Titus as if he hit every branch of the tree on his long journey to the ground. Painful as this was, it slowed his descent enough so the fall didn't kill him or render him unconscious. He hit the forest floor with a resounding thud, landing on his back, every ounce of air knocked from his lungs in one giant, painful cough.
Dazed, the copper taste of blood on his tongue, Titus reached out with sluggish muscles for the pistol, sliding his boot up to meet his hand. The ground had knocked the energy from his body along with his breath. He could feel the sting of grating bones in his side. From above him, high in the tree, came a fierce growl, and Titus remembered why he was trying to retrieve the gun. Looking up toward the sound, he saw the Seminole leap from the tree. Titus felt the firm wood of the weapon caress his palm. He slid the pistol free, raised it, and squeezed the trigger in one fluid motion.
The face of the falling man vanished in mid-air, replaced with an exploding spray of crimson. Brains, hair, and bone ejected from the back of the falling man's skull. A split-second later the body crash-landed onto Titus, followed by bits of the Indian's destroyed head, dropping like viscous, fetid rain around him.
Titus heaved the limp body of the Seminole from his chest, flipping the leaking corpse to the side. Covered in gore and the overwhelming stench of blood, Titus remained on his back, listening to the now quiet woods, too tired and in too much pain to fight any longer.
After several seconds, the silence of the woods was broken. Someone approached, laughing softly as they shuffled closer. Titus recalled the beast that had been knocked from the tree. He mustered the strength to lift his head. He wanted to look into the eyes of his enemy even if he lacked the energy to fight him.
Chitto appeared, alone, pushing his way through the brush, stumbling toward Titus, a huge grin on his shining face.
A nice, normal, friendly smile.
Wide-eyed, Titus turned his head, and stared at the faceless Seminole sprawled on the ground next to him. “Got you,” he whispered, then let his head drop back to the ground. Grinning, he gazed at the blazing red sky as the sun sank past the horizon. Chitto flopped to the ground beside him and exhaled a tired chuckle, admiring the fiery glow as well.
Surrounded by malodorous carnage and the scent of spent gunpowder, Titus closed his eyes and laughed along with his new friend.
Mr. Boyd paused, pulled himself up from the recliner with a deep groan, and disappeared into the kitchen. Pop. Hiss. He returned with another open beer, plopped back down in the chair with another groan and gulped half the can down, the liquid sloshing down his pulsating throat. He belched, released a contented sigh, and looked at the boys perched on the edge of the sofa.
“Story-tellin' sure does make a man thirsty,” Mr. Boyd said, sipping some more of the cold beverage and leaning back in his chair.
When the silence became unbearable, Clinton asked, “Well? What happened next?”
“Oh. Well, the next day they burned the bodies of their friends and parted ways. Sadly, Titus never saw Chitto again. Another unit scouting the area investigated the smoke and found Titus. He had two broken ribs and was covered in blood and bruises. He tried to explain what happened to his men, but they assumed he was suffering from heat stroke or shock. Or was just plain out of his gourd. Once rested, Titus decided the best thing to do was to keep it all to himself, and concocted a story of your garden-variety Indian ambush. He realized everyone would either think him nuts, or if they did believe him—which was a slim chance—they may want to use her the same way the Indians had.”
“Native Americans,” Lewis murmured.
“Huh?” Clinton and the old man chorused, staring at Lewis as if he’d just spoke in tongues.
“Native Americans. Indians are from India,” Lewis said.
“Well.” Mr. Boyd leaned forward. “Whatever you call 'em, they stayed away from them woods. These woods. Titus searched for the tree for years, he had it in his head that he could destroy the thing, but he never did find it.”
The old man stood and stretched, his bones popping like brittle twigs. “No matter. You can't destroy the damn thing. Trust me, I've tried.”
“You've tried?” Lewis asked. “So you know where it is?”
“Of course. That's the only reason I moved out here to the damn sticks. Sold my folks' place in town to buy this dump. Been keeping an eye on things since those idiots built this neighborhood smack dab in the middle of the evil bitch's backyard.”
“Why didn't you tell anyone?” Clinton asked.
“Same reasons Titus had for clammin' up. They would've called the men in white coats. I didn't want anyone to think I was crazy,” he said, twirling his index finger around his ear.
Lewis and Clinton exchanged glances, the irony of the comment not lost on either.
“Found the damn thing in my late teens on a huntin' trip,” he continued. “Had been looking for it for years, was starting to think the story was just that—a story. Stumbled on it by complete accident while chasing quail through the brush. Was concentrating so hard on that bird I guess I went right through the protective spell without even noticing.”
Mr. Boyd stared at the dirty carpet, his eyes lost, glazing over with the memory. “I knew right away that it was the tree my dad had told me about. The one from Titus's story. It scared the pants off me. Got so scared I dropped my shotgun and ran.”
“How did you try to destroy it?” Lewis asked.
“Didn't at first. Told my folks about it. My mom said not to believe the crazy story and my dad made me promise to never go there again. But I had to get my shotgun. I waited a few days and finally mustered up the guts to get my gun. Decided, what the hell? I'll bring an ax, some matches, see what happens.”
He finished off the beer, let loose a tremendous belch and crushed the can. “The second time I definitely felt the spell. Almost turned back home, but I loved that gun. They don't make 'em like that anymore. Anyways, the stupid ax flattened like a pancake on that tree, and every time I put matches to it, the damned thing would suck the flame up and fire would sprout up some place at the edge of the clearing, like it was trying to trap me inside the circle, just like the story I told ya. One little match touched to the bark would cause a fire ten, twenty times bigger. Nearly burned down the whole stinkin' woods. Tossed sand on the flames until it went out, then stopped when I realized what I'd been touching. That sand … the sand that turns you. Trust me, I haven't touched that stuff with my hands since.”
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