Fantastic Tales of Terror

by Eugene Johnson

  “You are assuming that you are smart.” Avonaco deadpanned.

  Climbing into the saddle, Roosevelt laughed for the second time as he remembered Avonaco’s joke.

  Roosevelt had never cared for humorless men. Much of man’s limited time in the world was spent in hardship and misery. Working barren soil, fighting wars in places even God himself had abandoned, and living with sickness and loss were routine for most men. Some chose to embrace that bitter truth and allowed it to shape their outlook on the world.

  In Roosevelt’s opinion, those men went on to become bankers, evangelical pastors and mean drunks. However, those who chose to reject those truths with laughter and love, whether it be for family, an animal, their country, or God, not only saw the world as a place to be relished, they saw it as a place to be bettered. And despite Avonaco’s stoic demeanor, he was one of the latter.

  Roosevelt knew that the man had suffered much, and still, despite the fact that he medicated his pain with alcohol, he saw the world as something worth protecting. Perhaps it was his spiritual upbringing, or perhaps it was as elementary as the Native needing something to champion, some purpose in life, but regardless, the results were the same.

  He was a warrior, and he would stand with Roosevelt no matter the outcome.

  Roosevelt trotted his horse over to the others. They were both mounted and waiting.

  “Are we ready, boys?” he asked.

  Avonaco nodded.

  “I’m not sure about ready, sir,” Jake said with a wry smile, “but I’m willing. I don’t know what’s about to happen or how it ends, but it’s going to make a helluva story.”

  “I hope we live to tell it, son.”

  “Forget about telling it,” Jake said as his smile broadened, “I just hope I can find someone who will believe it.”

  Bloated, dark clouds hung like a shroud over the slush covered plains as they urged their steeds onward. It was a difficult ride exacerbated by the uneven ground and frigid winds. A deep chill had settled into Jake’s bones, and he was so famished his stomach was threatening to devour itself. However, their pace showed no sign of slowing, and there was no discussion about stopping for a meal. Or even a piss, for that matter.

  As desperately as Jake needed a variety of reliefs, he understood their urgency. They had to be inside the canyon hours before sunset. If they missed that deadline, they would have to camp on the open plain. It would be an indefensible position that would make them short work for the pack. Or as Jake put it to himself . . .

  Suicide.

  Before departing camp, Jake had loaded both his guns with the newly minted silver ammunition. In addition, he had stocked his belt and pouch with the expensive rounds. He wondered how drastically changing the composition of the projectile would influence its trajectory, but quickly dismissed the thought. It changed nothing. These were the rounds he had to use, and he would have to compensate for any irregularities in the moment.

  Ahead, Avonaco was increasing the pace. Jake clucked, cueing his horse into a faster gallop. He had no doubt they would make the canyon before nightfall.

  It was what happened once they did that caused his empty stomach to lose its appetite.

  The canyon was near. Even though Avonaco was certain that they would reach their destination with daylight to spare, he did not relent in their furious pace. He was in agreement with his colleague’s plan, but he had spotted something in the distance that led him to believe that they had less time than Roosevelt had predicted.

  A lone wolf.

  The sliver of a silhouette had dipped beneath the horizon before the others had noticed it. Avonaco had considered slowing long enough to inform them, but opted against doing so. Roosevelt had been correct. Though the pack had laid their trap at the river, they had left a sentinel behind. Now that lone sentry was beyond their reach, however, it would return. And when it did . . .

  It would not be alone.

  The craggy walls of the canyon cast long, heavy shadows as the sun receded beyond sight. Outcroppings, boulders and the remains of broken trees once swept along by flash floods had created a maze of minor obstacles that slowed their progress. As they rounded each bend, Roosevelt studied the terrain, searching for the ideal site to stage their ambush.

  The lack of suitable locations was proving worrisome.

  For his plan to succeed, he needed to position Jake on higher ground in a spot that offered an unobstructed view of the canyon floor. Not only could the kid hit a target on the move at a distance further than most men could see, he could do it quickly and repeatedly. However, none of that mattered if Jake could not see the targets.

  In addition, the ground below needed to have multiple covered positions. Boulders, tree trunks, basically anything that would force the wolves to redirect their attacks. He and Avonaco on open ground would be run down in a matter of minutes. They needed to divide the pack’s ranks and give Jake as much time as they could afford.

  Avonaco had informed Roosevelt and Jake about the lone wolf as soon as they had reached the mouth of the canyon. Roosevelt had only nodded and checked his pocket watch. It had come as no surprise to Roosevelt, as he had suspected the pack would have left a lookout.

  He also suspected that the wolves would approach cautiously. He had no way of knowing how much of their human mind they retained in their lupine form, but even the boldest of wolves rarely charged recklessly. They were pack animals, and their tactics reflected that mentality. However once the shooting began, chaos would ensue. Whatever happened, it would be over quickly.

  As they rounded another bend, Avonaco’s voice broke the silence.

  “There.”

  Roosevelt twisted in his saddle to see his friend’s outstretched arm pointing toward the canyon the wall. In the distance ahead, a narrow ledge near the lip of the canyon widened into a rocky platform. It was big enough to accommodate two men.

  Roosevelt scanned the ground beneath the outcropping. Several large rocks and a few boulders were strewn along the canyon floor. He had hoped for a narrower passage, but he doubted the terrain beyond that stretch would be any more favorable. He looked upward and saw the clouds had parted; the twinkle of stars emerging with the twilight. He reined in his horse as he consulted his watch.

  They were out of time.

  “This is it, boys,” Roosevelt proclaimed. “Are we ready?”

  “Am I ready for the three of us to go to war against a pack of magical man-wolves?” Jake clarified, “I’ll never be ready for that, sir.”

  Avonaco turned his head toward Jake. He wore a queer expression Roosevelt had never seen before, more inscrutable than his usual poker face. After a moment, he turned and addressed Roosevelt.

  “What he said,” Avonaco announced.

  For a split second, both Roosevelt and Jake looked at one another incredulously. Then without warning, they both erupted into laughter. Even Avonaco allowed himself an inkling of a smile.

  “Regardless of the outcome, gentlemen,” Roosevelt said as his laughter subsided, “it has been a privilege knowing you.”

  Jake’s mirth evaporated as quickly as Avonaco’s.

  “I think I speak for us both, sir,” Jake presumed, “when I say that the privilege is ours.”

  He looked to Avonaco, who nodded his approval. Roosevelt smiled at them both.

  “You know what to do, men,” he assured, “We finish this tonight, my friends, and we sleep in our own beds before the week’s end. That is our pact. Agreed?”

  Both men nodded as the first rays of moonlight penetrated the canyon walls.

  “Then let’s get to work.”

  The moon was near its apex and almost full. The shadows within the canyon had shrunk beneath its silver rays and the stars shone brightly above. In addition, the winds had subsided significantly. For Jake, the conditions were as close to optimal as he could expect given the circumstances.

  Nothing about the situation was precisely ideal. A daylight confrontation in a more controlled environm
ent would have shifted the advantage to him and his companions, but so would a Gatling gun and a dozen of Roosevelt’s fabled Rough Riders. Jake had lost too much money playing poker to learn a simple lesson; you do not play the cards you want, you play the cards you are dealt.

  The climb to the ledge had been strenuous but not difficult. Roosevelt had been anxious to get Jake onto his perch as soon as possible, but Jake had a few adjustments to their plan he wanted to implement before he effectively stranded himself. Roosevelt had begrudgingly agreed.

  The three men had moved quickly and efficiently as they staged the battleground. Roosevelt and Avonaco had focused their energies on building pyres at the edges of the makeshift arena, and Jake had employed his skills as a trapper to better safeguard the men he would soon leave behind. They were nearing completion when the wind carried the first faint howl from the plains into the canyon.

  As Jake situated himself, he watched Avonaco move from pyre to pyre. As the tracker lit each bundle of deadwood and detritus, the illumination inside the canyon rose. Flickering flames licked at the sky and shadows ebbed and flowed across the stony surfaces of the canyon walls. From Jake’s position, it was a mesmerizing sight. On any other occasion, it would have instilled a sense of serenity and wonder. Tonight, it only served to accentuate the surreal nature of their circumstances.

  Another howlechoed along the canyon walls. Moments later, another joined it. Then another. Soon, it became a chorus. The pack was close. Despite the chilly air, Jake wiped sweat from his brow.

  It won’t be long, now, Jake thought.

  Jake was not a particularly spiritual man, but he said a simple prayer all the same. Not for himself or for the men below. He prayed for his mother. Her health, her safety and her happiness.

  Just in case.

  Avonaco listened as the skin-walkers’ howling dwindled. The pack would be upon them within the hour. He had lit all twelve pyres and for the moment, the blazes were brilliant. The orange flames and fierce warmth reminded him of an earlier, happier time.

  A time when his people would celebrate a successful hunt or a victory against a neighboring tribe. A time when the braves moved from fire to fire, feasting and laughing. It had been an exhilarating time for him and his brothers. A time of triumph. A time of joy.

  Now, those times lived only in memory. His brothers and sisters were long dead. Their songs, once offered to the Great Spirit, had fallen silent. Their bones were now dust. He himself had been a ghost for many years, wasting the days until the spirits determined it was finally his time to join his ancestors.

  He tossed the torch onto the tinder collected in the center of the makeshift ring. Avonaco and Roosevelt had spent the better part of an hour constructing the central bonfire. The torch vanished inside the crude tower of rotten, desiccated wood and moments later the base began to glow. Soon, it would become a raging conflagration.

  Another howloverpowered the pops and sizzlesof the emerging inferno. The pack was nearly upon them. As Avonaco retreated to the cover of a boulder, he wondered if tonight would be the night he was reunited with his ancestors. If that was his fate, he had made peace with it. Because if he died tonight, he would not die a drunken, empty shell . . .

  He would die a warrior.

  Roosevelt watched as Avonaco settled against the side of the half-buried boulder. There was roughly forty feet between the two friends; thirty feet to the canyon walls on either side of them. Considering their current circumstances, it felt as if there were an ocean between them.

  Another round of howlingechoed around the bend in the canyon. It was now a matter of minutes. Roosevelt’s finger curled around the trigger of his Winchester rifle. He had been on the verge of battle many times in his life and one thing never failed to surprise him. When it happened, it happened fast.

  When he recounted the events in the years to follow, he would swear he could hear the smacking of lips and the gnashing of teeth as the pack approached, but that would only be the embellishment of memory. In that moment, he could only hear one thing. Roosevelt had led men into to battle many times, had heard everything from battle cries to quiet sobs, but there was one thing that he never failed to hear.

  The beating of his own heart.

  Pounding in his chest; blood rushing in his ears. The sound of raw fear. Every nerve in his body thrummed. His spine tingled. Every instinct he had told him to flee. His mind screamed at him to run as fast and as far as he could away from the perverse folly he had orchestrated.

  Roosevelt crouched and raised his rifle. A beating heart and a healthy fear of death told him all he needed to know. He was alive.

  And he planned to stay that way.

  At first, the skin-walkers were indiscernible. Vague shades among the shadows beyond the firelight. Their movements were agitated, but careful. An occasional tentative step accompanied by a snap or snarl.

  From his vantage point Jake could see Roosevelt and Avonaco nestled against their respective rocks. Although Avonaco was sighting down his rifle, Jake noticed the tracker had kept his shotgun within arm’s reach. Jake had little use for such an inaccurate firearm, but he suspected Avonaco was quite proficient with the thunderous weapon.

  On the other hand, Roosevelt held his rifle less like a marksman and more like a gunslinger. Jake had seen the stance before. It was preferred by men who valued speed over accuracy. It was not Jake’s tactic of choice, but the man had taken both Kettle Hill and San Juan Hill, so it was also not his place to argue.

  Instead, he returned his attention to the wolves.

  The skin-walkers were still under the cover of darkness. The ambush was obvious, and even if the fires had not alerted the pack, the men had taken no precautions when it came to their scent. The pack knew what awaited them, and Jake suspected the beasts were simply working up their courage.

  As if the creatures’ mystical powers extended to mind reading, one of the wolves stretched its snout into the firelight. Jake relaxed his shoulders and gingerly placed the tip of his finger against the trigger of his rifle.

  This is it, he thought.

  The wolf withdrew its snout. Jake slowly inhaled as he curled his trigger finger. A single bead of sweat ran along his temple onto his cheek.

  The moment stretched into an eternity.

  Jake’s muscles were as tight as a hangman’s rope. The wind was drying his eyes and his mouth felt as if it was made of cotton. Holding his position had escalated from a struggle into a battle against his aching body.

  The wolf extended its snout, again. Moments later, it took a cautious step into the firelight.

  Jake began to exhale.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The night exploded into a maelstrom of bristling fur, gnashing teeth, deafening gunfire and howls of rage. The bullet from Jake’s rifle shattered the wolf’s head as if it were an egg. Blood, brain matter and chunks of bone blossomed in the firelight as the corpse of the now headless wolf pitched forward into the dirt.

  The remaining members of the pack wailed as they charged forward. In the firelight, their wide eyes looked utterly demonic. Tendrils of drool whipped in the air around rows of razor sharp teeth as the unnatural creatures sped toward Roosevelt and Avonaco. It was impossible to count how many of the hurtling dark shapes there were, but to Roosevelt it looked as if the gates of Hell had been thrown open and the devil himself was vomiting forth the worst of his charges.

  He rose slightly as he fired the rifle. The shot was rewarded with a squeal, but he had no time to confirm the kill. He cocked the lever and fired again. The muzzle flashed. Roosevelt worked the lever and snapped off another shot. That time the crack of the rifle was followed by a nasty yelp, and Roosevelt glimpsed one of the marauding wolves tumble end over end.

  The pack was splintering as they closed the distance with frightening speed. Roosevelt changed stances as he tracked the two skin-walkers speeding toward the outer edge of the canyon. They would attempt to flank him from the shadows, and he had no intention
of making it easy for them.

  Avonaco’s first shot had gone wild. He adjusted and fired again. This time the bullet found its mark. The wolf’s chest collapsed inward as its momentum caused it to flip unceremoniously into the central fire. A shower of sparks burst skyward as the wolf yowledand thrashed. Avonaco saw none of this; he was already acquiring another target.

  It was a large wolf. A male with a shimmering coat of silver and black fur. Avonaco drew a bead as the wicked abomination raced toward him. He had only a few seconds to fire. As Avonaco pulled the trigger, he knew it was a bad shot. The bullet nicked the wolf’s hip, but the animal did not take notice. It was less than ten feet from its prey and moving at an unholy speed.

  Avonaco attempted to chamber another round, but he knew it was futile. He gripped the rifle with both hands as the skin-walker leaped and—

  The bullet whinedas it sped over Avonaco’s head.

  The massive predator pinwheeled in the air as Jake’s shot ripped through fur, muscle and bone. A geyser of blood fanned through the night air as the skin-walker’s corpse smacked against the boulder and flopped to the ground.

  Avonaco wasted no time. He dropped the rifle, snatched the shotgun and turned to face the remaining wolves. Only one remained in the firelight.

  The rest had moved into the shadows.

  By Jake’s estimation, there had been thirteen wolves. Roosevelt had killed one and hobbled another. Avonaco had killed one. Jake had killed five.

  Jake tracked the last wolf still near the fire as it raced toward Roosevelt’s position. He exhaled and caressed the trigger. Gunfire flared. The skin-walker left a bloody streak across the canyon floor as it tumbled to a stop.

  Eight down, five to go, he thought.

  Jake rolled onto his side as he re-positioned himself. His eyes searched the pockets of darkness below him as he sought a target. A brief, brilliant light accompanied by an ear-bursting boom, flashed beneath him as Avonaco discharged his shotgun. Jake pivoted toward Roosevelt. He could see that the larger man was on the move. His thick frame moved with remarkable speed as he sprinted toward the next boulder.