Darkest Minds

by Bacon, Stephen

  “Oh, God, Stan,” murmured Mary. “Why don’t you just go to bed now, eh, love? I’ll make these two some coffee.”

  There was another little moan:

  “My hand,” I could hear him say.

  Then he came back into the little dining room, holding his hands out. It took me a while to realise what was wrong with them. I couldn’t quite see in the dim light. But Jodie was screaming, and Mary had clamped a hand over her mouth to stop doing the same. It was only when he placed his left hand palm-down over his right, and I saw the thumb of the left covering the thumb of the right, that I realised: that was what the two left gloves had foretold.

  Stan was laughing now, though tears were streaming from his eyes.

  “I’ve heard of two left feet,” he said. “But two left hands…!”

  Shortly afterwards, Jodie and I left Mary to console her husband. And that was the last I saw of Stan for a while. Soon afterwards, I moved in with Jodie and her daughter. I was surprised that she agreed to it. Maybe that whole episode had changed our relationship. But I’d changed jobs by then. I’d had enough of stiff collecting. I wanted to spend my time with the living, and I didn’t like the way the job made me think of everyone as meat, including Jodie. I think I’ve got the smell of the dead out of my skin now, but I don’t think it’ll never be out of my memory.

  The last time I saw Stan—well, thought I saw him anyway—was when I decided to take a slow drive down his road. The hanged woman’s house was still empty. The steel doors and shutters were still up. An “eyesore”, as Stan had said. Then I noticed that workmen were attaching the same security fittings to Stan’s house, turning it into an exact mirror image of its opposite neighbour. It must be empty, I thought.

  But then I saw what looked like Stan hammering silently on the front bedroom window with his two left hands, as if to say to them: I’m still here! But the workmen carried on as if nothing was happening. I think one of them even glanced up to where I was sure I could see Stan’s angry, contorted face. But he just went on with his work as if all he’d seen was the window pane’s blank, glassy surface.

  Tom Johnstone’s fiction has appeared in various publications, including the Ninth and Tenth Black Books of Horror (Mortbury Press), Brighton – The Graphic Novel (Queenspark Books), Supernatural Tales, #27, Wicked Women (Fox Spirit Books) and Shroud Magazine, #15. He also co-edited the anthology Horror Uncut: Tales of Social Insecurity and Economic Unease with the late Joel Lane, published September 2014, by Gray Friar Press. The tale he has contributed to this anthology is another take on the subject of austerity (more specifically, the ‘bedroom tax’) that provided the theme of Horror Uncut. Find out more about Tom’s fiction at: tomjohnstone.wordpress.com.

  Going South to Meet the Devil

  Benedict. J. Jones

  Whitey Donner started the engine of his pick-up truck and turned the radio on. As he descended the dirt track to the lower pasture the sounds of Butch Hancock accompanied him and Whitey whistled along. By the time he reached the little creek another hand-rolled cigarette burned in the corner of Whitey’s mouth. Four men stood around a half-dozen cattle carcasses. Whitey was out of the pick-up and moving before the wheels had even stopped rolling.

  “What in hell’s been happening?”

  Andy Cobb had turned when the pick-up had rolled in and drew himself up to his full six foot four adjusting the burgundy A&M Aggies cap on his head.

  “Same thing as last time, Whitey, except the bastards took down six prime head.”

  “Chewed ‘em up?”

  “Nope, just like before - bites to the throats and the blood drained out of them.”

  Whitey stood staring at the waste of good meat that lay on the ground, straw cowboy hat pushed back on his head and his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans.

  “What should we do, Whitey?”

  “Now shit, Andy, you’re meant to be the foreman. What do you think we should do?”

  Andy Cobb looked down at the toes of his boots; he had graduated out of the Agricultural and Mining University in the top percentile of his class but he still preferred to defer to Whitey’s experience when he could. The other three men, all experienced cowhands, looked on, unwilling to offer opinions of their own.

  “We should go after the pack and make sure this is the last time they touch the stock.”

  Whitey nodded and smiled.

  “That’s the long and the short of it, college boy.”

  “Senor Donner?” Ignacio, one of the cowboys put in.

  “Si, Ignacio, que es lo?”

  “I saw a man, Senor Donner.”

  “Donde? Where?”

  Ignacio pointed to a low rise alongside the creek.

  “He watch.”

  “Watched what?”

  “He watch the animals die.”

  Whitey’s face clouded over and his cheeks coloured like they’d been slapped.

  “And why isn’t this man here now?”

  “We shout, Senor, we show him our rifles but he just walk away. We follow but when we get to the top he not there.”

  Ignacio looked down.

  “You did right, Ignacio. Just don’t like the idea of some stranger taking a stroll across the ranch and especially not when there’s a pack of wild dogs on the loose. Watching the steers die you say?”

  “Si, Senor.”

  Whitey shook his head.

  “Well you’d better get those carcasses cleared away.”

  “Then we go after them?” asked Andy.

  “Nope, just me.”

  “But, Whitey…”

  “Andy, who in the hell will run the ranch if you aren’t here?”

  The young man looked confused.

  “It won’t take me but a day or two to track them down. Be like a little vacation for me. Take my horse and my rifle and do me a little hunting.”

  Charlie Terrell and John Kellar, the other two cowboys, moved to speak but Whitey cut them off.

  “It’s a few mangy strays. Probably got loose from them fancy homes for the bankers back in Fort Worth or Dallas, maybe a coyote mixed up with them. Nothing my 30-30 won’t knock down.”

  “Senor Donner, please don’t go alone. I go with you.”

  “Shit!” Whitey spat into the dirt “guess none of you old maids will be happy less’n one of you come with me. Well, okay, I’ll take ‘Nacio with me and we’ll get rid of these dogs once and for all.”

  #

  Ignacio was waiting by the creek when Whitey returned. All that remained of the fallen steers were a few patches blood faded to the colour of rust on the green of the grass. Whitey sat in the saddle of a fifteen hand sorrel and led a grullo on a long lead rope.

  “Good horse there, boy. One of mine so take care of her.”

  Ignacio grinned.

  “She is beautiful, Senor Donner.”

  “Enough of that Senor Donner shit as well. You’ve known me two years and you’re a good hand ‘Nacio so you just call me Whitey like all the others.”

  “Si Senor” replied the Mexican as he swung into the saddle.

  “What’s that you’re carrying?”

  “A Ruger, Mini-14. Is a good gun.”

  “You any good with it?”

  “As good as any of the others.”

  “Well, that’ll do me. I’ve stowed us plenty of food so let’s move out and try and pick up these tracks.”

  “Which way do you think they’ll go?”

  “How in the hell would I know? I ain’t a dog” Whitey laughed and swayed slightly in his saddle “We’ll pick up their trail and see where it leads us. You ever tracked anything before?”

  “No, but I’ve searched for stray steers.”

  Whitey shrugged.

  “Just look out for sign – paw prints and such and I’ll do the rest. Don’t think we’ll run across ‘em ‘til tomorrow anyhow.”

  Ignacio stayed silent and the two men began to put some miles beneath the hooves of their mounts. They raced the dark but
were forced to accept defeat and camp for the night. Whitey had packed sleeping bags and they bedded down in the grass on which the cattle would graze one day.

  “You worry about when we catch up with the dogs?”

  “Why?” replied Whitey.

  “Those dogs are vicious. I heard story from a man who crossed the border…”

  “Take it he didn’t come through an official checkpoint?” Whitey winked and sat up in his sleeping bag. Ignacio smiled and continued.

  “He came over with maybe ten others. They cross through the desert, where it is so hot you don’t even sweat.”

  Whitey nodded and reached into his saddle bag.

  “The coyote who brought them had left, he pointed them north and went back. The dogs found them after that. My friend he ran and got clear but one man he not so lucky. Dogs pulled him down and took him into pieces.”

  Whitey offered a bottle of Wild Turkey to Ignacio who took a deep bite.

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada, ‘Nacio. You hear and see some rotten shit down here on the border. Always have. Always will I guess. Never seen anywhere so beautiful as this place but no matter how hot it gets she can be a cold bitch.”

  Ignacio nodded and passed the bottle back. Whitey took a drink and continued.

  “Got it in mind I’m gonna chase those dogs down. Take one piece of ugly off the earth before I go.”

  “You are not going anywhere, Senor Whitey.”

  “No? You’re right, son. Just everyone else who goes away, guess I’ll always be here. Best we turn in now, got an early start.”

  Whitey stowed the bottle, tossed another branch on the fire and then rolled onto his side and was snoring before Ignacio even had a chance to lie back.

  #

  Whitey and Ignacio rode out ahead of the dawn, bellies full of strong coffee and biscuits. When the eastern sky began to redden they had already been moving for the better part of an hour. Ignacio watched Whitey; it was as though the man were half asleep in the saddle but occasionally he would turn his mount and press on in a new direction. Ignacio looked at the ground but could see nothing of the sign that Whitey followed.

  “Are we still in Texas?” asked Ignacio.

  “Just about. Looks like the bastards are heading south.”

  “Like they know we follow?”

  “Doubt that, less’n they caught our scent. No I think they’re on the move looking for more meat.”

  “We follow them into Chihuahua?”

  “Border ain’t never been anything but a line on some man’s map round here, you know that.”

  Ignacio nodded.

  “Si, senor. It has always been the way.”

  The green pasture land had given way to dry scrub and the sun began to drag itself up the sky. They had dismounted and Ignacio swigged from his canteen while Whitey rolled another cigarette. Whitey looked at the ground and away to some high rocky ground to the south. Without a word he checked the revolver strapped to his hip.

  “Might be you wanna check that rifle you carrying. Don’t reckon it’ll be too long to we come across what we’re looking for.”

  Ignacio looked at the ground.

  “Are those tyre tracks?”

  “Buggy or some such I reckon.”

  “Border patrol maybe?”

  “Boundary boys stay more to the west. Send their drones out to check this stretch – probably vigilantes looking for illegals” Whitey spat into the dirt.

  Ignacio looked away across the desert to the land where he was born.

  #

  When they picked up the trail of the pack again even Ignacio could follow it.

  “We’ve crossed over now for sure, boy.”

  “We’re in Mexico?”

  “How long since you’ve been back here?”

  Ignacio shrugged.

  “Maybe ten years.”

  “Shit, long time to be away from your peoples.”

  “You have family, Whitey?”

  “Did have – the cancer took my Lorrie six years back, then my boy got himself killed in Afghan. Did my own time in ‘Nam and my daddy fought the Chinese in Korea. Both made it back home, thought the boy would do the same. Ain’t much I got left now ‘cept for working on the ranch and my horses.”

  “I am sorry, senor.”

  “Why? It’s all any of us have coming. You either die first or you get left behind. That’s the way of it, always has been as far as I can see.”

  Whitey looked up at the clouds that were blowing in.

  “Could be a storm brewing up on us.”

  Ignacio studied the clouds.

  “Maybe it’ll pass.”

  “Doubtful ‘Nacio, doubtful.”

  Tracks led into a canyon of shadows and shade. Whitey stood up in his stirrups and scanned the terrain.

  “Shit!” he muttered and threw a grin at Ignacio.

  “What is it?”

  “Horse Shoe Canyon!”

  Ignacio looked on uncomprehending.

  “Called that because it’s a horse shoe shape – one way in, one way out and it takes a hell of a lot longer going through it than it does to ride around to the exit. Stupid mutts, sides of that canyon are too steep for them to climb. Come on, ‘Nacio, it’s time to see what a Donner horse can do.”

  With that Whitey turned his horse and lit out across the desert skirting the edge of the canyon. Ignacio followed. After a ten minute gallop Whitey pulled up his horse.

  “We’ll tie the horses to this mesquite bush with long tethers and then set up in the rocks. Best bring your canteen.”

  “How long will it take them?”

  “If they were running at full pelt we’d still have another fifteen minutes, as it is I reckon we might have a half hour till we see them.”

  Ignacio climbed into the rocks on the left hand side of the canyon and got himself a good elevated position covering the killing ground. Whitey took the right and Ignacio could barely see the older man once he clambered amongst the rocks. The sun beat down hot enough to fry eggs along with a side of bacon on some of the stones. Ignacio took a gulp from his canteen and checked his weapon – he had two additional five round clips as well as the one already loaded in the carbine. He sighted on a rock that lay in the killing ground and swept the weapon around in short arcs until he felt that he knew the ground.

  Below Ignacio Whitey lit a cigarette and worked the lever on his Marlin 336. The plan was simple – as soon the dogs appeared and moved through the kill zone they would start firing and drop as many as they could. The surviving animals would then retreat back up the canyon where after a short ride Whitey and Ignacio would be waiting for them to give them more of the same. Whitey checked his watch took a drink from his bottle of Wild Turkey and laid the Marlin on the rock in front of him. He took a glance at the storm clouds but they still seemed a way off.

  The time passed slowly and with each minute the sun seemed to grow hotter and brighter. Ignacio squinted and looked down into the shaded canyon. A sudden thought hit him, what if the dogs were sleeping in the canyon waiting for the heat of the day to pass? He panicked for a moment and then realised that he and Whitey would simply sit till the dogs reappeared and if they didn’t then they would soon pick the trail up again. Movement in the canyon pulled Ignacio back into the present and he lifted the Ruger to his shoulder.

  The dogs moved slowly, as though wary and Whitey eyeballed them over the sights of his Marlin.

  “Come on you bastards” He muttered under his breath.

  There were twelve dogs in all; almost furless with blue-black skin, long heads with large black eyes and over-sized bat-like ears. They were bigger than Whitey had thought they would be; he had been expecting half-starved strays afflicted with mange and skin rot.

  When the pack reached the centre of the killing ground Whitey sighted himself on the body of the lead dog, hoping to hit the heart. He took a breath, released it and squeezed the trigger. The 30-30 slug punched through flesh and bone and dropped th
e dog in the dust. A second after Whitey fired Ignacio opened up with the Ruger and fired twice in quick succession – his first round kicked up dust but the second fell true and smashed the skull of a second dog. The pack froze for a moment. Whitey worked another round into the chamber, stood, aimed and fired. His shot tore a groove of flesh from a dog that was already on the turn. The Ruger fired again. Whitey chambered another round and dropped the animal he had already wounded. The pack headed back into the canyon. Ignacio fired off the last two shots in his clip and was rewarded with a pained yelp and a dog flopped in the dirt. Whitey clambered up the rocks and emptied the remaining four bullets from his rifle, working the lever again and again.

  “Get to the horses” shouted Whitey “we got these bastards on the run now!”

  Whitey skipped across the rocks like a man half his age as Ignacio slid down through the dirt to follow him. Ignacio looked at the four carcasses on the ground and saw one of them move. The dog was trying to drag itself out of the dust. Whitey was already at the horses. Ignacio looked back to the dog and walked towards it, swapping the clips on his Ruger as he did.

  Ignacio had the M14 at his hip. He stepped in behind the animal meaning to put a shot through its head and put it out of its misery. Something flashed in the rocks above him and Ignacio was blinded. He stepped back throwing a hand up his eyes. He heard a shrill whistle and then a growl. The light moved from his eyes and Ignacio caught sight of a dark figure moving in the rocks above him the moment before the wounded dog leapt up and bit deep into his thigh. Ignacio screamed and battered at the dog’s head with the stock of his carbine but the dog refused to let go. There was a tearing sound that Ignacio hoped was the denim of his jeans and then he heard the patter of paws across the dirt of the canyon floor.

  The screaming made Whitey turn his horse back. Where the hell was ‘Nacio? He thought as he rode back. The floor of the canyon was chaos; Ignacio had managed to throw the dog clear of his thigh but the rest of the pack had closed in. His hands and arms were a mess of torn flesh and dark blood. The Ruger M14 lay impotently in the dust amongst the jumping dogs. Ignacio managed to pull the knife from his belt and swung it as he tried to reach the rocks but every time one of the pack drew a swing from the knife the dog would duck back and another would blind side Ignacio and take a chunk from his legs or buttocks.