Jean’s mouth dropped as it rose before them.
No, he thought. It cannot be. The beast from my dreams. The chief was right. This is no monster at all, but definitely an evil creature of flesh.
He could not take his eyes away from it. The monster was the length of at least four men, with rough, leathery greenish brown skin and gigantic wings like sails. Its eyes were focused on them as it opened its long beak—showing its rows of sharp, fanged teeth.
Its claws had long talons and one of the warriors cried out upon seeing it, gaining the beast’s attention. The piasa’s wings started to beat the air, holding it in place as it contemplated attack. Jean was entranced. The beast was both magnificent and horrible.
One of the warriors stirred in the underbrush, and the piasa swooped toward him with its mouth open, faster than what Jean thought such a large beast could manage. The warrior tried to duck, but misjudged. The piasa ripped off his head with a single bite. Blood spurted from the severed neck.
The warriors regrouped and tried to stay as still as possible. What are they waiting for? Jean thought.
It was then that Chief Wataga did what Jean feared most: He called it to them instead.
The piasa rose high, and then suddenly swooped down upon the two of them. They rolled out of the way, avoiding the beast’s deadly teeth. The warriors’ arrows whizzed through the air, but bounced harmlessly off the creature’s tough hide.
“Underneath!” Chief Wataga cried out. “I saw its vulnerability as I rolled. There are soft parts underneath!”
Another warrior stood up from his hiding place, trying to get a better angle on the creature, but it was too fast for him: It flew down upon him and tore his body into two pieces—one piece in each claw, his shriek echoing through the air.
Jean recovered and watched the creature rise again, poised to strike. With trembling hands, he raised his bow and fitted an arrow. He let the arrow fly, and it struck the piasa, startling the creature, but not wounding it. The piasa dropped the dead warrior’s body parts over the edge of the bluff, and as it started to come down upon them again, the chief stood instead of rolling. The piasa pierced him with one of its claws, trying to sweep him up and take him away.
“No!” Jean yelled. He fitted another arrow and let it fly—taking care to avoid the chief. The arrow hit a tender spot under the monster’s wing. The monster recoiled, but held fast to the chief. Jean leaped, tried to grab on to Chief Wataga’s body and hold him down. They were trapped underneath as the creature thrashed about, alternately trying to claw at them and tear at them with its teeth. As Jean and the chief tried to dodge the creature’s attacks, Jean’s skin was becoming damp with not only the chief ’s blood, but his own. It did not matter. He was not going to let him go—this man who had spared him.
A life for a life.
Jean had never been so terrified in his entire life. Not during the boat ride that brought him to Martinique from his village—when those around him died left and right as the dysentery dripped and pooled around him. Not when the others were killed in his missionary party or even when he escaped the Seneca by leaping into the dangerous rapids. This was a fear that no one could even dare imagine.
This was also a fear that Jean refused to let take him—or his leader—and as he looked over, he realized the chief had not flinched once.
Jean struck at the piasa’s reptilian claws with his short dagger. Chief Wataga started to sing, and Jean knew it was the song of preparing for death. They locked eyes, and the chief never stopped singing, his voice becoming ever louder, stronger, and clearer.
The other warriors fired arrow after arrow, in a barrage. Chief Wataga staunchly continued singing as Jean tried to strike the creature again and again, while trying to avoid the powerful wings and the sharp beak.
Arrow after arrow struck the piasa, yet it kept its hold on Chief Wataga and started to pull him—and Jean—closer and closer to the edge of the bluffs.
Jean cried out as they reached the edge, but refused to let Chief Wataga go. He was close enough now that he could look over and see the water, fifty feet below. This was one fall into the water that he knew he would not survive.
Creator, protect us, he prayed. All around him was the whizzing of arrows as the skilled warriors plunged one after another deep into the monster’s underbelly. The piasa lifted its wings again. Keemoraniah stepped clearly into view, pulled his arrow as far back as he possibly could—and released it, striking a vulnerable section of the piasa’s underside.
The piasa screeched, and finally released Chief Wataga. The chief collapsed on the ground, rolling onto Jean.
With one last, piercing shriek, the piasa dropped into the water below.
Jean started to drag Chief Wataga toward the edge of the woods. The other warriors stood guard at the bluff’s edge, in case the beast returned.
“Sit me upright for when they come to me,” Chief Wataga said. Jean did as he was told.
“I have only one question for you,” Jean asked. “And that is, why?”
Chief Wataga slowly opened his eyes.
“If anyone should know, it would be you,” he said softly. “I just wanted you to see it for yourself. This new life you’ve been given didn’t start when we found you, or when we adopted you as one of our own. This new life of yours has always been more than just yours. I hope you understand that better now.”
He closed his eyes again. Jean felt Chief Wataga slipping away as the rest of the warriors surrounded them.
The death song began anew.
A life for a life.
Hadley Shimmerhorn: American Icon
Michael Boatman
Nobody inside Deke’s Valhalla Stop-n-Drop felt much like eating. They were watching the walking dead people on the flat-screen television over the counter.
Hadley Shimmerhorn, nineteen years old and pretty as a dream, was staring at the Dukes of Hazard clock over the door, and quietly mouthing the words to “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” She favored “Mountain” as an audition piece because it demonstrated both her vocal range and her flair for drama.
Only twenty-five hours to go, she thought. Twenty-five hours until the producers of “America’s Favorite Reality Show” would learn that Hadley Shimmerhorn had what it took to become the next American Icon.
The sound of snapping bones snatched Hadley back into three-dimensional reality. She glanced up at the television, and for the first time in her nineteen years, horror silenced the angry blackbird in her head.
On-screen, a dead man was eating Katie Cleric.
Cleric was the perky hostess of Rise n’ Shine, Hadley’s favorite morning show. As the dead man rifled through Cleric’s entrails, the camera zoomed in on the expression of startled wonder that had flash-frozen itself onto her face. Hadley could see flecks of blood between Cleric’s perfect white teeth.
Cleric’s cohost, a lovable black weatherman type, uttered a gobbling croak, stumbled, and crashed through the wall-sized window behind the stage. Two dozen deceased midwesterners swarmed through the broken window, fell upon the lovable black weatherman, and tore him limb from limb.
Holy crap, Hadley thought. It’s really happening.
Then the screen went black.
Emmet Pearson, the one-legged mailman, spoke first: “What the fuck was that?”
Clovis Holyfield, the only female driver for National Cargo, grunted through a mouthful of tuna on rye. “They were rabid.”
“Bullshit,” Emmet snapped. “They was terrorists.”
Clovis shook her head. “Those motherfuckers were crazier than a shit house full of red monkeys.”
Joe Swanson, owner of Swanson Quality Used Cars and Trucks, reached over the counter and pinched Ruby Ling, the only waitress who’d bothered to show up for work.
“Hey, Pocahontas, any sign of my goddamn pancakes?”
Ruby Ling’s jaw dropped, and then she burst into tears.
“Why you always gotta be such a dick, Swanson?” Clovis said.
“Wonderful,” Swanson grumbled. “Black Butch speaks.”
Swanson’s dealership sat on the other side of Route 45, directly across from the Stop-n-Drop. Every morning at seven-thirty sharp he dodged rush-hour traffic to come over and hassle the waitresses.
“That asshole would crawl through hell wearin’ gasoline panties for cheap hash browns,” Deke always said.
Friedrich Jackson raised his hand. “What’s happening on the other channels?”
Friedrich was Hadley’s favorite busboy. Hadley was pretty sure that Friedrich liked her back, even though he was black and she was biracial: half black and half white.
Emmet fidgeted on his wooden leg. “Try CNN, damn it.”
Nestor Mendoza, the grill man and most senior employee at the Stop-n-Drop, turned up the volume as Hadley eased around the cash register and stood behind Friedrich.
“—in downtown Chicago. I’m standing on the roof of the Burger World across the street from the Rise n’ Shine television studios, where this tragedy seems to have begun. We don’t have much information, but this much is known. Katie Cleric and Ben Stoker, two of America’s most popular on-camera personalities, are dead—devoured, apparently, on national television.”
“Oh, fer Christ’s sake,” Swanson grumbled.
“Saudi operatives,” Emmet said. “Goddamn A-rabs are takin’ terror to the next level.”
Clovis made barking noises.
“Quiet, please,” Mendoza said.
Hadley leaned forward and placed her hands lightly on Friedrich’s shoulders. She felt him shiver at the contact.
“—where hundreds of these terrorists have descended on Michigan Avenue, attacking innocent shoppers, pulling people out of cars—Donnie, get a shot of the street.”
The camera operator panned down to Michigan Avenue.
“Holyyy shit,” Friedrich said. He flinched. “Sorry.”
Hadley smiled. “No problem.”
Chicago’s premier shopping drag was choked with screaming tourists. They were being run down and slaughtered by people like the one that ate Katie Cleric.
Some of the attackers moved with a stiff, jerky gait; they reminded Hadley of the time she’d gone to visit her grandpa Roosevelt after his seventh stroke. She’d found him doing the Lindy Hop with twelve other stroke victims as part of a rehabilitation program called “Swing Dancing for the Senior Spastic.”
A lot of the people on Michigan Avenue moved like Grandpa’s friends at the convalescent home. Many of them had been mutilated. Hadley saw one man with half a face fighting to drag a little old lady through a locked revolving door. When he couldn’t get her through the door, the half-faced man sat on the old lady’s chest and banged her head against the sidewalk until she stopped kicking.
But some of the attackers acted like normal people. The camera tracked one woman, a redhead wearing a black blazer, skirt, and white sneakers. A smallish man wearing a pink suit ran toward the redhead, with five stroke victims in hot pursuit. As Pink Suit passed the redhead, she stuck out her right foot and tripped him.
The five strokers fell upon the pink-suited man. But as the redhead approached, the attackers pulled back. One of them was chewing the pink-suited man’s toupee.
The redhead dragged Pink Suit into an abandoned taxi and slammed the door. The taxi began to rock violently on its wheels. One of Pink Suit’s hands clutched the steering wheel and jerked it, hard, to the right. A second later, a jet of blood splattered the front windshield.
The seven people in the Stop-n-Drop stared at the screen. Then Ruby Ling vomited all over the Dirty Harry jukebox. Mendoza thumbed the channel scan button on the remote.
“—movable slaughterhouse—”
Click.
“—people being devoured in broad daylight—”
Click.
“—shit, shit, shitting shit!”
Click.
“—walking corpses, although at this time that has not been confirmed.”
“Freeze it,” Hadley snapped.
“What’s happening?” Friedrich whispered.
Hadley stared at the television, her heart thumping a heavy backbeat through her veins.
Because she knew what was happening.
Just like she knew what was going to happen next.
Mendoza increased the volume.
“If you’re just joining us—Terror in the streets. America is under attack by what can only be described as a ravaging army of cannibal terrorists.”
“Saint Theresa,” Emmet whispered.
“—reports are flooding in claiming that these cannibals are the recently dead, returned to life. But those reports are being dismissed by authorities.”
“Rabies,” Clovis snorted.
“Quiet, Butch,” Emmet snapped.
“—earlier today, the president was airlifted to an undisclosed location following an attack at a corporate fund-raiser in Houston. He was unavailable for comment. I repeat, this nation is under attack by an army—”
As the people in the Stop-n-Drop began to shout, Hadley walked over to the big picture window that faced the empty highway and looked out over the flat suburban landscape.
To the north, Chicago beckoned like a waiting wanton, her famous skyline visible even from Valhalla, thirty-five miles to the south. Hadley’s eyes wandered over the landscaped greenery that extended into the horizon on every side: a verdant circle punctuated by little dots of white and gray, like the stone teeth of a gargoyle. She shuddered as the cold hand of irony made a fist around her heart.
I always knew this would happen.
Music burning in her head, Hadley spoke quietly. “Everybody shut the fuck up.”
Five pairs of eyes swiveled toward her.
“Friedrich,” she said. “You and Oscar go get some boards, hammers, and nails, we’ve gotta cover the windows. Clovis, I’m gonna need the sat-telephone out of your rig.”
“What the hell for?” Clovis said.
Hadley kept her voice level. They don’t know.
“The landlines are probably jammed already,” she said. “Without a way to communicate, we’re ass-slammed.”
Ruby Ling wiped her chin and belched softly. Friedrich ogled Hadley as if she’d just sprouted wings.
“What’s the Tragic Mulatto goin’ on about?” Swanson said.
“Mr. Swanson, you’d better go get your people and bring them over here,” Hadley said. “There’s way too many windows in your store. Your employees are sitting ducks.”
“Now, wait one goddamn minute,” Swanson said.
“What makes you think the police can’t handle this thing? They’ve probably got it under control already.”
“Gee, you think?” Hadley snapped.
“Yes, I think,” Swanson shot back. “Hell, this whole thing is probably some kind of publicity stunt. They said it started in a TV studio, for Christ’s sake. There’s no reason for us to fly off the handle here.”
The scream from the kitchen stopped the argument.
“What the hell—” Mendoza said. “Eduardo?”
Mendoza went into the kitchen. “Eduardo, que paso?”
Hadley and the others went through the double doors.
The back door to the restaurant was wide open.
“Eduardo?” Mendoza said.
Eduardo screamed again: “Dios mio, ayuda me!”
“Parking lot,” Emmet hissed.
Outside, Eduardo Corona, one of the busboys, was fighting with two dead men. One of the strokers, a black man with his hair in cornrows and a butcher knife stuck in his throat, grabbed Eduardo from behind. The other corpse, a bone-thin white man with a purple Mohawk, grabbed Eduardo’s right hand and crammed it into his mouth. Eduardo shrieked. Then the black stroker bit him on the back of the neck.
Eduardo’s sneakers drummed on the cement like a man dancing on an electrified cattle grate, and his fingers came away in Mohawk’s mouth.
Ruby Ling screamed, “They’re killing him!”
“My God,” Clovis said. “Look.”
Across the parking lot, a man was staring into the morning sun.
“Hey,” Swanson said. “Hey, that’s Pete Garrison!”
The sun gazer’s head turned toward them.
“Jesus Lord in heaven,” Emmet said.
The sun gazer held out his arms and staggered toward the four humans.
“It’s ol’ Pete Garrison,” Swanson drawled. “He owns the Dippin’ Donuts over at the mall.”
Hadley stared. Garrison’s eyes gleamed with a thick, white glaze. His hair stuck up in wet, brown cowlicks all over his head. His lower jaw worked soundlessly, as if he were trying to chew something too big for his mouth. A tatty green bathrobe hung off Garrison’s shoulders. It flapped open on the right side, revealing a sagging belly and a nest of gray pubic hair. The left side was plastered to his body by a swath of dried blood that extended from his upper torso to his outer thigh.
“Hey, Pete,” Swanson said. “Time to make the donuts?”
Swanson laughed. Garrison lurched.
“Pete, it’s me, Joe Swanson.”
“He’s dead,” Hadley said.
“That man is not dead,” Swanson snarled. “He’s president of the PTA, for Christ’s sake.”
Over by the Dumpster, Eduardo’s prayers had faded to a litany of startled gasps, snatched between the strokers’ bites.
“I don’t know, Joe,” Emmet said. “He looks dead to me.”
“Next person uses the D word is gonna get knocked on his keester,” Swanson said. “In case you geniuses hadn’t noticed, he can’t be dead . . . because he’s walking around.”
“He’s walking around butt naked,” Emmet mumbled.
Swanson scowled and turned as Garrison reached him.
“Listen, Pete,” he began. “Tell these idiots you’re as right as rain.”
Garrison grabbed Swanson, pulled him close, and bit a hunk out of his right cheek.
“Jesus God!” Swanson cried. He fell to his knees, his face spouting red.
Whispers in the Night Page 18