by Alex Bledsoe
He hung up. Mandalay gazed at her phone, pondering once again how such a weak, sniveling loser could have ended up in the place of the monumentally cruel Rockhouse Hicks. Was she being too hard on him? she wondered. Or was there more at play here than she knew, things and plots going on behind the scenes? Rockhouse, whatever else Mandalay might have thought about him, was all on the surface. He wanted power, and respect, and fear; he had no interest in outmaneuvering anyone. If he came after you, he came at your face.
Junior, though, was different. Mandalay had honestly expected him to implode by now, to give up his position and return to his miserable life with his unpleasant family. But he’d hung on, and his people seemed satisfied with his leadership. He deferred to Mandalay whenever she insisted on it, but each time, he did it with less and less alacrity. Soon he might actually stand up to her. Then what?
If he was building to something, she’d have to watch for it. As unlikely as it seemed, she’d hate to be caught off guard, especially if it was due to her own overconfidence.
A noise made her turn suddenly, but there was nothing behind her. It had sounded like a laugh. No, like a particular laugh. The laugh of a cruel old man.
She’d done all she could to ensure that Rockhouse Hicks stayed buried. His blood had been drained and disposed of separately, and every song she knew that would keep the dead where they belonged had been sung over his grave. So he couldn’t come back, not as a Tufa, not as a haint.
Then why, she wondered, did she keep imagining she heard the bark of his cold, cruel, malicious laughter? And what if it wasn’t her imagination?
* * *
After sundown, Jack Cates, Bronwyn Hyatt, and Dolph Pettit sat around the old table on the Rogerses’ back porch. It had once been in their dining room, but Sam had built a new one when this one began to wobble. An old romance paperback titled Wickedly Dangerous was stuck beneath one leg, providing stability if no one leaned on it too hard. The chairs had all-weather seat cushions.
Fireflies dotted the yard and the trees that surrounded it. Inside the house, the Rogerses still visited with Bronwyn’s parents, the Hyatts, as the soft music of fiddle, guitar, and mandolin drifted out. Playing music together was how the Tufa dealt with everything, and death was no different.
The night was cool and humid, and the mist grew thick in the forest. Jack’s laptop screen glowed in the darkness, and he swiped at the insects drawn to its light. On-screen, in the grainy black-and-white of night vision, they watched the trap they’d set up earlier in the day, positioned on the relatively flat area of the trail downslope from Recliner Rock.
It was a small corral about thirty feet across, with a six-foot-tall grain feeder on four legs in the center. Corn formed a trail from the pile beneath the feeder through the gate, which could be dropped remotely.
Although they couldn’t see him, Max McMaynus sat in a tree about ten yards away, with a clear view of the area around the trap’s gate. He was fifteen feet off the ground, his back against a trunk big enough to block the edges of his silhouette. He was practiced enough to have the necessary patience for this sort of hunting.
He had the 300 Blackout across his lap. It was not, as they say, a “sport” weapon; it was a killing rifle, made by the sporting division of a national defense contractor, but there was no sport to it. A silencer made the rifle quiet enough that, if needed, he could hopefully get off a second shot before the monster had even registered the first.
The clip was loaded with .300 Barnes TAC-TX cartridges that, if he got the right shot, should pierce the hog’s hide and tear mercilessly through its organs. It was a problematic shot in the best of situations, and at night, from a tree stand, it would be especially tricky. The area around the trap was lit with red light invisible to the hogs, but hopefully it provided enough illumination for Max’s aim through his night-vision scope. He wanted to put this fucker away with the first slug.
The watchers drank iced tea provided by the Rogerses; old Dolph had spiked his, but only lightly. The other two were wide awake and stone-cold sober.
The music paused, and a muted sob came from inside the house. Bronwyn glanced up and saw, through the window, her mother, Chloe, with her arms around Brenda Rogers. The women were bound by the shared pain of losing a child, and for Bronwyn, a relatively new parent, it sent a jolt of terror and despair through her. She could imagine nothing worse; even losing her big brother, Kell—the worst thing that had happened to her so far—would pale beside it. “How long you reckon this might take?” she asked softly.
“I guess it depends on how hungry they are,” Jack said. “The corral and feeder might spook ’em, like Dolph said. I’m hoping since they ate something here already, they’ll be more amenable to finding more food.”
They fell silent. The old dog Quigley walked to the edge of the yard and stood gazing up into the dark woods. He gave no sign that he smelled or heard anything; he just remained there with his head raised. To Jack, it was a little spooky.
After another few minutes of nothing, Dolph said, “Y’all ever heard of a barghest?”
“Sure,” Jack said dryly. “I’m a bar guest any chance I get.”
“I have,” Bronwyn said. “It’s a British thing, I think.” She knew exactly what he meant, but also knew better than to claim that, because more questions would inevitably follow, and the answers were not for non-Tufa ears.
“That’s right,” Dolph said.
“No need to sound so surprised,” Bronwyn said dryly.
“My apologies.”
“Well, I haven’t,” Jack said. “What is it?”
“It’s an animal that acts as an omen of death,” Dolph said.
“We’ve got plenty of those,” Bronwyn said, thinking of the owl that heralded her brother’s passing.
“It’s usually a big black ghost dog, like the Hound of the Baskervilles,” Dolph continued. “But sometimes it can be a pig.”
“You think this an evil ghost pig?” Jack said dubiously.
“I’m just passing on something I read.” To Bronwyn, he said, “Has anyone mentioned seeing this thing before it attacked that girl?”
“I asked around,” she said. “Nobody has.”
“That’s not exactly evidence,” Jack said skeptically.
“And I ain’t exactly a lawyer,” Dolph said. “I’m just sayin’.”
“Hey,” Jack said suddenly. “Look.”
On the screen, a single hog now stood at the entrance to the corral, nosing at the ground and rooting up the fallen corn. In the unseen infrared illumination, its eyes glowed white and vaguely demonic. Using the gate as a scale, it was no bigger than a normal pig, certainly not the monster they sought. It might even be someone’s livestock, broken free and wandering. It betrayed no hesitation about the metal pen, as if it knew exactly what it was and where it came from.
As they watched, two more joined it, along with a half-dozen piglets. One of the babies followed the corn trail into the pen.
Jack had spent many tedious nights watching this sort of thing, waiting for the right moment to drop the gate. Yet this time, his hands were damp with nervous sweat.
Four adult hogs were in the pen now, and another three foraged outside. None of them was larger than average, nor did any of them show the slightest hesitation about the trap. If they were wild, they were first-generation feral.
“Maybe it’s a different bunch,” Dolph said. “Are you going to trap them?”
The automatic dispenser whirred, dropping fresh corn from the feeder. The hogs scurried away, some outside the pen, some up against the fence.
“Shit,” Jack muttered.
Once the corn finished dispensing, though, the pigs resumed feeding as if nothing had happened. Many of them had no doubt encountered feeders before, especially if they had escaped from farms before going wild.
Now eight were inside. Jack moved the cursor over the button that would drop the gate. Even though this herd didn’t include the one they sought, these an
imals needed to be taken out of circulation.
“Dolph,” he said quietly, “text Max and tell him I’m about to let ’er rip. We can get a few more hogs out of circulation, at least.”
“Got it,” Dolph said, and pulled out his phone.
Jack was about to click the button when Bronwyn gasped, “Wait! Look.”
Something moved out of the darkness. At first Jack didn’t even realize it was an animal; he thought it was just a shadow artifact from the video camera, a pixilation of the image due to the light source. Then he caught the glint of one eye blazing infrared-white in the darkness.
“Jesus Christ,” Dolph whispered.
“Jesus didn’t have teeth like that,” Jack said.
The hog was enormous, easily three times as big as the others. It moved across the camera’s field of vision the way a distant mountain moves when you’re driving fast on the interstate. The smaller pigs ignored its presence and continued to root at the spilled corn.
“Looks like something from The Late Late Show,” Dolph said.
“More like the SyFy Channel,” Bronwyn said. “‘Mega-Pig.’ Don’t suppose that size is a trick of the lens?”
“Nope,” Jack said. “It’s really that big.”
She looked back inside the house. She’d hate for Brenda or Sam to emerge and catch sight of the monster that killed and ate their daughter. She moved to the side to block any accidental glimpse.
The huge hog strode slowly back and forth in front of the pen’s gate, momentarily scattering its smaller brethren. Jack had to zoom out to get the whole creature in the image. He’d never seen anything like it, or even imagined he would; and the knowledge that it was now his responsibility filled him with a level of fear he’d never experienced at this job. Bears, poisonous snakes, mountain lions … they were all dangerous, and all part of his work. He had respect for them, but didn’t fear them. This animal, though, terrified him.
When it presented its rear to them, they saw its huge testicles. “Well, hello, handsome,” Bronwyn said.
“Why isn’t it eating?” Jack asked.
“Maybe he isn’t hungry,” Bronwyn said.
“Never saw a hog that wasn’t hungry,” Dolph muttered.
The animal finally tipped its huge snout down to the corn and nosed up a mouthful. By then even more of the others had moved into the pen, leaving only dregs on the ground. The monster tried to follow them, but it was too broad to get through the gate. Apparently oblivious, it pushed until the metal began to bend, and the whole pen started to wrench up from the ground.
“Holy shit,” Dolph whispered.
“We drove those posts down two feet,” Bronwyn said.
“So much for that plan,” Jack said. “I hope Max takes his shot soon.”
The claustrophobic sense of being trapped made the monster hog panic, and it tossed its head, wrenching the chain-link sides of the pen from their posts. Although there was no sound, it was easy for the watchers to imagine the great squealing panic, and the T.rex–like vibrations of the giant hog’s feet.
Then it bounced in place as if stung, and they all saw a puff of dust rise from the hide near the top of its shoulder, followed by a tiny trickle of black blood. Max had taken his shot, and the soft-tipped bullet failed to penetrate the thick cartilage shield that lurked just under the skin. The only thing damaged was the animal’s temper.
The other hogs scurried around inside and outside the pen. A group of them bumped up against one of the feeder’s tripod legs and knocked it to the ground. They rooted through the spilled corn, then ran in a circle again, then rooted some more.
The giant hog, unable to free itself, at last panicked, lurching to one side and then the other. It popped free of the gate and ran off into the woods, followed by the others. In moments, all that remained on-screen were the ruins of the trap.
Jack dialed Max’s number. “I know, I blew it,” Max said as he answered. “I just couldn’t get the right angle once he got stuck.”
“That’s all right, Max. You did the best you could. We’re on our way to get you.” He ended the call, then looked at the other two. “We go after it again at first light. And we don’t stop until it’s dead.”
“Should we maybe bring in Gamera?” Bronwyn said.
“Who’s that?” Dolph asked.
“A giant Japanese monster turtle. Who eats fire.”
“Bring in anyone you think will help,” Jack said. And he was serious. He stood, and started to close the laptop.
“Look!” Dolph almost yelled.
Once again, they couldn’t make out anything at first. They saw the two pinpoints of reflecting eyes deep in the forest, too high off the ground to be one of the smaller pigs. The lights grew larger, and brighter, and the bulky shadow separated from the surrounding gloom.
It walked slowly, deliberately, right up to the tree where the camera was mounted. The head grew sharply defined, until the porcine face took on almost human proportions. When it got too close, the head disappeared beyond the bottom of the frame, and they were treated to a view of its high, bristly back.
The image shuddered. Then it shifted slightly, tilting off the horizontal. The animal’s back moved out of frame, and again, all was silent.
“He moved the tree,” Dolph said in wonder. “That tree was two feet around. We couldn’t move it with a damn backhoe.”
“He was sending a message,” Bronwyn said.
Jack called Max again. “Are you all right?”
“Holy shit,” Max said, his breath quick and panicky. “Holy shit. It almost uprooted the tree with the camera. I couldn’t get a shot, either; it’s like it knew exactly how to stay out of my range. That is pure ADR.”
“ADR?”
“Something we use at my clinic: ‘Ain’t Doin’ Right.’”
“We saw. Just sit tight—we’re on our way.”
“Be careful. I mean, be really careful.”
“We will.”
When Jack hung up, Dolph leaned close and said softly, “You still want to go after it tomorrow?”
Jack had to swallow once before speaking. “Yes.” He hoped he didn’t sound nearly so apprehensive as he really was.
9
The next morning, a Saturday, the sun rose on a clear, warm day over the mountains around the Needsville valley. Even the notorious mist that gave the Smoky Mountains their name was conspicuously absent. The dregs of the night wind tickled the treetops. Birds twittered, rabbits returned to their dens, and two groups of hunters, unaware of each other, prepared to seek out a monster.
Across the valley, in her family’s trailer home, Mandalay Harris stood at the kitchen sink. Still in her T-shirt and pajama pants, she looked out the little window at the morning. Something intangible was in the air. She couldn’t discern anything more detailed, and that bothered her the most. She’d had this feeling before, and about half the time, it amounted to nothing. The other half, though, it turned out to be something awful.
She knew her sort-of boyfriend, Luke Somerville, would be awake now as well, so she called his house. Luke didn’t have his own cell phone, so his father, perpetually cranky and tense, answered the house line. “Yeah?”
“It’s Mandalay,” she said, letting her authority shade her voice for the sake of expediency. “I’m calling for Luke.”
“Hold on.” Luke and his family were part of Junior’s group, and ordinarily would have had nothing to do with Mandalay. But their budding romance had forced both sides to new tolerance, something Mandalay appreciated and wanted to cultivate. The accumulated wisdom of generations of Tufa women ran through her head, but her emotions were all her own, and she often wondered if she was doing the right thing with Luke.
But all those doubts melted away as soon as his voice came over the phone. He was so clearly glad to hear from her, she could practically see his grin when he said, “Hey.”
“You have got to get your own phone,” Mandalay said.
“Daddy says we can’t afford i
t.”
“Well, he always sounds angry when he finds out it’s me on the phone.”
“He always sounds angry, period.” There was a pause; then he said, “What’s wrong?”
“I got that feeling again. The one that says there might be trouble brewing.”
“Better than the one that says there is trouble brewing.”
She closed her eyes and let the relief of his presence settle on her. He was always so supportive, even when he was teasing her. “Yeah, true enough,” she said. “You haven’t overheard anything from your people about anything on the horizon, have you?”
“All anybody’s talked about is that Rogers girl being killed. Do you think it has anything to do with that?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll keep my ears open for anything else.”
“Thanks.”
“So we’re doing one-word answers?”
She smiled, and knew he did, too. “Yes.”
“Okay, I can play that. Want to hang out at the Pair-A-Dice later?”
She was glad he couldn’t see how happy this made her. She loved playing with him, harmonizing and jamming until her fingers cramped and her voice grew raw. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
“That’s four words.”
“I’m feeling epic.”
“See you there around eleven. We can play and have lunch.”
“Okay.” Then, with no forethought, she added, “You care if Janet Harper comes along?”
“I guess not,” he said after a moment, his disappointment obvious. “She’s so much better than us, though, it’s hard to really enjoy it.”
“You don’t get better if you don’t play with better players. And…”
“What?”
“I promise we’ll go for a walk, just the two of us.”
She felt his excitement return. “That’ll be nice. But what will Janet do?”
“Play. That’s all she ever does anyway. She doesn’t need us around for that.”
They said their good-byes, and Mandalay again looked out the window. That uneasy feeling did not lessen, but now she had a new problem. How would she invite Janet to come along without either sounding weird or making it an order?