by Gregory Kay
Taking a deep breath, he yelled, “What the hell was that? Quick, somebody get some help over here!” Miners were already spilling out their doors barefoot and half-dressed, and Sid grabbed the closest one.
“What happened?” he shouted in the startled man's face, “What blew up?”
“I don't know! It came from over there, though!” He pointed a finger in the direction of the Jenkins' cabin, and Sid nodded.
“Lets go find out!” The man turned and the mine guard did his best to conceal his smile as he followed his perfect alibi.
Sid knew at once the half-keg had been more than enough; as the thick cloud of white smoke dissipated, he saw the blast had effectively split the cabin in two, blowing the floor planks up through the inside. The roof was in pieces everywhere, three walls had been blown outward, coming apart in the process. Only the front wall remained more or less intact, and it had fallen in on the wreckage and lay there smoldering.
“There's someone!” a miner shouted, and a moment later he dragged Katie Jenkins' naked body from the wreckage, as limp as a too-loosely-stuffed rag doll, and blood pouring from every orifice.
Elizabeth was next; her thighs had been pinned together with a long splinter of wood, and a stone from one of the pillars beneath the cabin had crushed one side of her skull to a pulp.
One of Susie's breasts had been torn away by the same floor board that had been driven upward beneath her chin and through her skull. That all three were dead was never in question.
Sid's only reaction was to ask, “Where's Jenkins?” If he'd gone through all that risk and effort and still missed his intended target, he was not going to be a happy man.
He needn't have worried; they found the girls' father when a dozen men heaving together lifted the cabin's fallen front wall. Furthest from the blast, he was the only one still alive, but it was obvious to even the most optimistic man there that he wouldn't be for long. Blood gushed from his mouth, ears, and nose, both his legs were broken, the bone-ends pointing ivory through the mangled flesh of his thighs, and his fiddle bow had driven through his side. Sid had to fight a grin when he saw that last wound.
Let's see you fiddle up some of your damned wasps now!
“Somebody get the doctor, and get that damned preacher over here, right quick!”
Jenkins turned his red eyes up at the men gathered around him, and painfully shook his head.
“Don't want...no...doctor or no p-preacher. Where's...Sid? Want to...talk t-to...Sid.”
A murmur went through the crowd, but it parted in a direct path to where he stood, and, with everyone looking at him, Sid decided he had to come forward in order to maintain a semblance of innocence, or at least unprovable guilt. Bedsides, he figured it would give him an excuse to get close enough to really appreciate the damage he'd done.
Looking down at the broken body at his feet, he wanted to gloat, but all he could think of to say, with everyone watching and listening, was, “What happened, Jenkins?”
Slowly the fiddle player raised his right hand and beckoned to him, the gesture made all the more poignant by the index finger he was crooking having had its last joint torn off.
With all eyes on him, Sid knelt to one knee and leaned over.
“Yeah?”
Before he could react, Jenkins' mutilated hand moved like a striking rattler and locked on his tie.
“Hey, just a minute – ”
“I know it was you, you son of a bitch!” he rasped, “and I'll get you! I'll come back from Hell and bring my little girls with me, and we'll drag you down there ourselves. Damn you!” He was screaming now, spraying blood all over Sid, and over the nearest members of the crowd. “Damn every last one of you bastards! Damn Red Creek Coal and everybody who works for them! We'll drag all of Red Creek down into Hell!” He paused, gasped, choked as his body went into a paroxysm, and, in his final act, spat a stream of blood right in Sid's face. Jenkins' eyes set, but his body remained rigid, and Sid had to pry his hand loose from its grip on his tie.
Rising to his feet, he looked around only to see the miners edging away from him, like he was a dangerous and possibly rabid dog. Normally he liked to see the fear in their eyes, but this time their sheer, obvious terror unnerved him.
Chapter 18
“He died, cussing and spitting blood, and the company said he was some kind of union terrorist, and had been storing stolen explosives he was planning to use to sabotage their operation. Everybody knew that was a bare-faced lie, but the company word was law, and even if it wasn't, they were the ones with the guns. So they buried him and his family in the camp graveyard and the company rebuilt the house and put another miner and his family in it.”
The preacher was speaking from his seat behind Frank, yelling over of the engine’s roar as they bounced and slid up the icy clay and shale of the red-dog road, part of an ATV caravan of searchers that included Tim Donald, the Sheriff and two of his deputies. All of them had been briefed, but none of them could make themselves fully believe what they'd been told, even if it had come from a preacher. Since his son was affected, however, Frank had demanded the details.
“He had some kind of witch powers, they say, but I suspect it was mostly hate. Hate is a strong emotion, especially when it's based on love; he loved his daughters, and he hated the ones who killed them every bit as strongly as he loved them. His hatred and need for revenge was so strong it cursed him and even his own children into becoming what they did.
“Three days later, that whole family – both parents and two children – were found dead in their beds, their throats bitten and not a drop of blood in their bodies; bled white as bone. They were just the first. Pretty soon someone was dying almost every night, often as not more than one.
“Before long, the deaths even started happening in the day time, only down in the mines, in the dark. Men would be found bled clear out, sometimes torn limb from limb like an angry child ripping apart a doll in a fit of rage, or sometimes they'd just disappear. The company tried to hush it up, but you can’t hide something like that. They brought in more mine guards and detectives, and they died just like the rest. Nothing could stop it.
“Within six months, half the town was dead. The miners had had enough, and they all packed up and left, and then so did the company. A forest fire swept through the area back in ’58 and burnt the whole place I reckon. Nobody’s been there since as far as I know, until last night.”
Two hours later, armed to the teeth, they left their ATVs and crossed Red Creek on foot, and Frank Estep immediately stooped down and pointed at a barely-visible rag of bloodstained plaid cloth, half under the snow on the frozen ground. He had to pull it hard before the ice finally let it go.
“Look here; it’s part of Jake’s shirt, just like he said.”
Tim swore violently despite the Reverend’s presence, who was far too much of a practical man to blame him anyway. With that much at least being true, the rest of the men shivered while wondering how much else was too, and eyes darted all directions while hands massaged rifle and shotgun stocks.
Sheriff Tate asked, “Which way do we look first?”
“The coal camp would be that way,” the preacher told him, pointing up the holler with his rifle barrel.
“Alright; everybody spread out in a search line, but do not get out of sight of the man next to you under any circumstances. Keep your guns ready but the safeties on; we don't know exactly what we're dealing with here, and we damned sure don't want to shoot the boys we're coming to rescue, or shoot each other by mistake!”
“They won't be out in daytime,” Reverend McDonald said, and the Sheriff fixed him with a hard look.
“How do you know that?”
“That's what the pastors here are told – ”
“Then you're not a hundred percent sure.”
“No, I guess I'm not.”
Tate nodded curtly, just once, and his thin mustache twitched with irritation.
“Then I'm not going to take any chances
.” Raising his voice again, he called, “Lets move out. Be careful.”
Fanning out and following the overgrown road while carefully keeping close to each other, they saw the slight, ice-covered humps of the fallen stones of the cemetery, and one of the men suddenly called out. Gathering where he pointed, they saw the massive, gutted buck lying frozen to the ground where the boys had left it, mute testimony that yet another part of the story was true.
They went on, soon seeing lines of stacked rocks regularly-spaced and peeking up through the snow and ice, some with the crumbling ruins of chimneys jutting still higher. The spaces they marked were almost invisible unless someone was looking for them, filled with fallen branches, small, bare trees and underbrush bending under the weight of the ice, along with dead leaves and grass. “Foundation pillars; the cabins sat on those, I reckon,” the preacher said.
“Now wait a minute,” Tim said suddenly, “Jake said they fell out the door but there’s no house here to have a door on it, just these old foundations.”
Meanwhile, Frank was squinting up the holler; something had caught his eye, an unnaturally straight vertical line showing through the trees as white-on-white against the snow. It took a few seconds of intense staring to make out that it was the corner of a wooden building.
Gesturing with his rifle barrel, he instinctively kept his voice low, despite the noise the others had been making, and said, “There it is.”
That got their undivided attention, and after a moment, all of them saw it.
“Okay,” the Sheriff said with another decisive nod, unconsciously reaching up with a black-gloved hand to set the toboggan with the gold star in front more firmly on his head, “Here's how we'll play it. We'll move up quiet and surround the place; I want everyone not less than twenty-five yards away from the building. Reverend, you take the rear; Frank, you work around the upper side, and Tim, you cover this side. We don't know for sure what they hell we're dealing with here, so if you have to shoot, do it, but you make damned sure of what you're shooting at, because we have no idea who or what might come out of that cabin. And for God's sakes, don't shoot into it, because we'll be inside. Steward, Robinson,” he nodded at the two deputies, “You're with me. We're going in the front door, forced entry, no-knock, on my signal. Steward, you go in first and cover the center; we'll come in right behind you, Robinson to the right and me to the left.” Both deputies nodded; they'd raided meth labs and served dangerous warrants and the like, but this was something completely beyond the ordinary, and their pale faces and tight lips showed it all too well. “Alright, boys,” he paused to adjust his toboggan again, “Lets do this!”
They moved up slowly and carefully, using the cover of the trees, and covering one another at the same time, their rifle barrels pointed at the silent house.
As he was assigned the upper side, the rest were already in position when Frank eased behind the scaly, mottled trunk of a sycamore, nodded at the waiting Tate, and pointed his rifle in the direction of the cabin's eaves. He didn't aim for anything in particular, since there was only a blank wall and the back of a stone chimney facing him, and no window on his side. He didn't reckon anything was likely to come straight through the wall, so he wanted to be ready to fire either direction, front or back as needed.
The cops gingerly stepped up onto the porch, setting their boots down gently in an effort to avoid creaking planks announcing their presence to anyone who might be inside. From his vantage point, Frank saw Steward, a Catholic, quickly cross himself in short, tight, jerky motions. It was obvious that all three of them, even Tate, who was trying hard not to show it, were scared shitless, and he didn't blame them one little bit.
You're in good company, boys. Ain't none of us ever gone hunting for anything we knew couldn't be real, but knew it could kill us all just the same. We don't even know for sure what can kill these damned things!
He swallowed hard, taking a firmer grip on his rifle.
The trio gathered at the right side of the door – The right side of the door opening, I reckon, Frank thought, because the door is torn off and laying halfway across the porch just like Jake said. – and Tate halted them with an upraised hand, and motioned them to line up on that side so no one would become a target by crossing that open portal. He started silently counting, raising a finger each time for the others to see; One...two...THREE!
The Sheriff slapped his deputy on the shoulder, and Steward charged inside, shotgun at the ready, with Tate and his fellow deputy following right on his ass. Shouts of “Freeze! Sheriff's Department! Nobody move!” echoed from inside for a total about about three seconds, and then there was silence, with the exception of footsteps, for about ten more.
The Sheriff's voice was tight and quivering when he called out, “All clear.” There was no explanation point on the signal, just a sick resignation.
Tim was the first one in, and Frank heard him sobbing by the time he followed him.
“They were here,” Tate pointed out needlessly.
The Reverend entered while he was still speaking, and silently they gathered and stared at the rifles, one of them with the stock shattered and splintered into two pieces, lying, with the empty .30-30 cartridges scattered on the rough wooden floor. Over by the still-warm chimney were three coats and three pair of boots, and a pair of unbroken pair of mason jars lay on the ground nearby. Frank picked one up and sniffed.
“Whiskey.” He held it up and the light shone clear through the dregs in the bottom. “Moonshine whiskey.”
“And blood,” Deputy Robinson said, gesturing at various spots in the room, “On the floor, here, here, and over there. Holy Christ!”
Tim Donald turned his head so the others couldn’t see his tears, and Frank suddenly turned on the preacher.
“This doesn't make any damned sense!” he shouted, unable to contain his anger and grief any more. His son lay badly wounded, and two other boys he loved almost as much were...he didn't know where they were, or else couldn't admit it, not even to himself. “You're the one that knows about these damned things, so explain it!”
“I can't,” Reverend McDermitt whispered, his head hanging, “And nothing about it makes sense or will ever make sense, because we're not dealing with natural creatures here. These things are supernatural. I'm sorry, but I just don't know.”
Hopelessly, they searched the ruined mining camp for the rest of the day, while men constantly glanced over their shoulders and jumped at every sound, but there was nothing to find beyond the overgrown wreckage of the past. Finally, after Tate whispered in the preacher's ear, Reverend McDermitt put his hand on Tim’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Donald, but it’s time to go. It’s getting dark, and it won’t do to be here then.”
Scott's father just nodded numbly; there was nothing left to say, except for the briefing Sheriff Tate delivered along the way.
“We've got to get our stories straight, understand? Those boys took shelter from the storm in that old mine shaft we passed on the way down the mountain; the floor caved in and they fell in that hole, and part of the ceiling caved in on them. It's too dangerous to get into, and the cave-in is still going on. We ran cameras down it on ropes, but there was no way to see the bodies; they were buried under tons of rock. We know they're there, because that's where we found their rifles and gear, alright? I'll send some people out with DANGER: HAZARDOUS AREA signs and post this whole mountain, then spread the word it's honeycombed with rotten shafts. Simple story, easy to stick to, and one people around here will believe.”
“It's a lie, though,” Tim said, his voice as empty as his soul was feeling, and the Sheriff shrugged.
“Yeah it is, but do you want to tell them the truth? You do that, and it's like the preacher warned us; everybody and his damned brother will come over here poking around, and more people will die. I don't know about you, but I'd sooner have a lie on my conscience than that.”
The last man splashed across Red Creek just as the sun disappeared behind the mo
untain, and Frank asked Reverend McDermitt a question that had been bothering him.
“Why didn’t they follow Jake over here?”
“I've heard their kind can’t cross running water. There's a spring up on the mountain, that splits off with branches on either side of this holler: Red Creek and Coal Run. They join up with Cantor's Creek about half a mile down, forming a triangle around this place, and they run all year.”
“Good thing,” Frank muttered, and then suddenly stopped as he glanced behind them.
“We’ve got company.”
Susie stood there on the opposite bank, looking at them with longing. Elizabeth, Katie and their father were with her, and beside them stood Joe Bob MacKenzie and Scott Donald on the icy ground, still in their socks and shirts and apparently indifferent to the cold.
“Scott!” Tim shouted and started for him, but Frank grabbed him.
“No!”
“Hold him!” Tate yelled, “Get hold of him, damn it!” Startled into action, the deputies moved, but they were too far away and it took them too long.
“Daddy!” Scott called out, stretching his arms towards them, and, in a desperate fury, Tim punched Frank in he jaw hard enough to knock him down on his knees before he broke away and plunged back toward the stream.
“Don't go over there!” the preacher yelled, and the Sheriff was reduced to screaming, “Stop!” when the man's boots hit the water, and he splashed his way across, emerging on the opposite bank and running to his son.
“Scotty! Oh God, Scotty, you're alive!” he yelled and threw his arms around the boy. From across the creek they saw Scott’s eyes glow in the gathering darkness, and he opened his mouth to show his teeth, just before he sank them into his father’s throat. Tim jerked back his head in panic and the others moved in quickly, grabbing him and opening their own mouths.
There was the deafening crack of a single gunshot and Tim Donald collapsed, his skull split wide open by the high-powered rifle bullet, dead before he hit the ground. Reverend McDermitt stood there without expression, the faintest wisp of smoke still curling from his muzzle as he lowered it, and the cries of rage echoed from across the creek.