Solom

by Scott Nicholson

  Sue didn’t pay much attention to the doings in the center of the clearing. She was too intent on getting Sarah to safety and then making a beeline down the mountain. But as Odus Hampton and the creepy woman sped hell-bent toward one another, Sue couldn’t help but look. So did the goats, and Sue noted that the woman was dead, sickly pale, rotted, the skin drawn tight around her skull. Sue clambered onto the hood, the pick-ax in her fist. Hearing the thrump of metal, the goats turned again and leaped up onto the Jeep, trying to get a foothold on the dew-slick front bumper.

  “About time you came to the rescue,” Sarah said. “I thought I’d hooked up with the wrong spunky sidekick for a second there.”

  “I haven’t rescued either of us yet,” she said, digging the point of the pick-ax into the Jeep’s soft-top. The vinyl-coated fabric ripped and she pulled back on the climbing tool, working the gap wider. A new top would cost her $500, but she was sure she’d find a way to write the expense off on her taxes. Surely there was a category for supernatural casualty.

  A goat gained enough traction to leap forward and nip her shoe. Sarah stomped on the animal’s head, bouncing it like a coconut and with about as much effect. Sue peeled the top back. “Get in,” she said, and as she helped Sarah work her knobby limbs over the windshield and into the Jeep, a siren scream of twin whinnies slit the night.

  ***

  Odus figured the tool would be given, the sword put in his hand at the moment of truth. High philosophy had never been his strong point. He was more comfortable with the kind of mental ramblings brought on by the bottom of a whiskey pint, and his truths were those of nature: trout bit better just before a storm, wild turkeys were smart enough to walk around in a hunter’s tracks, marigolds and onions kept bugs out of the garden.

  Now he faced a truth that was nature, grown wild with the night, legs flailing, tail twitching, neck hunched low as she charged. Odus wasn’t sure if he’d guided Sister Mary or if the horse had propelled itself through some inner command. Either way, the paint pony had enough giddy-up to break both their necks. As the distance narrowed, he got a good look at the thing riding Old Saint. He’d worked for the Smiths before Rebecca had been killed, and had always thought her the sweetest of ladies. Plus she cooked up a mean parsnip pie.

  But now she looked to be serving up a different kind of meanness, one brought by the anger of the grave.

  Odus wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but the showdown felt right. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to take down Harmon Smith after all. Maybe Odus was just supposed to knock the preacher’s legs out from under him in the form of his horse.

  But Old Saint looked massive and solid, not two hundred years dead. Twice the weight of Sister Mary, the horse was liable to knock them into next week, skipping Sunday on the way.

  Odus was close enough to see the steamy breath pluming from Old Saint’s nostrils and to look into the cruel caves in Rebecca's skull where her eyes had once perched.

  Fourteen hundred pounds of horse flesh met and the forest shuddered.

  ***

  Alex had used up the rounds in the Colt Python, but the goats still circled below him. A couple had fallen, those whose limbs had been clipped by bullets, but none of them had died, despite shots that landed between the eyes or dead-on in the heart. Sure, the wounds slowed them down a little, but it also made them angrier, like a hive of bees that had been smoked. The marijuana they’d munched must have made them ornery instead of mellowing them out.

  Alex adjusted his position in the branches and fumbled the AKR submachine gun into his lap. He kicked back the lever and surveyed the clearing. Weird Dude Walking and the scarecrow creep were going at it like a Republican and a Democrat fighting over a defense contract. The little neighbor girl, the Goth with the dyed-black bangs, stood alone in the clearing as the two horses smacked into each other.

  The thunder of slapping meat was like an artillery blast in the September night.

  The horses collided, and for one long second, they merged. The spotted horse and the giant black horse were a tangle of knotted knees, forelegs, hooves, and stringy hair. They appeared to be one quivering mass of flesh, and the fellow who worked on the Smith farm was thrown clear, rolling toward the Goth girl. Rebecca, or the rickety rack of skin and dry bone that wore her features, became part of the orgiastic wad of insane magic.

  To Alex, it wasn’t supernatural magic or illusion, just another test run for the government. No doubt he’d have to be de-programmed (if they took him alive, that was, and he hadn’t made that decision yet) after it was all over. But for now, he had a pouch full of ammunition and enough goats on hand to just about repay the property loss he’d suffered.

  He locked down on the trigger and the Russian-made submachine gun kicked out its sweet staccato song.

  ***

  Katy tugged away from Gordon, but his fingers were hooked into her hair. She screamed at Jett when the horses slammed into each other, but Jett had already jumped back.

  “I take back what is mine,” the Circuit Rider said.

  “It’s not yours anymore,” Gordon said, sweeping the sickle down toward Katy. She felt the tension of his muscles more than she saw the descending blow, and she twisted away, the back of her skull on fire where the roots of her hair gave way. She cringed, anticipating the cold slice of steel, but the Circuit Rider reached out and caught Gordon’s wrist like a frog’s tongue snatching a mosquito out of the air.

  “I take back what is mine,” the Circuit Rider said.

  Gordon released Katy as he and his unnatural ancestor struggled. A metallic hail rained down on the night, and Katy recognized it as automatic gunfire. Slugs whined through the night air, thwacking into trees, pinging off rocks, and ripping into vehicles.

  “Get down, Jett,” Katy yelled.

  The Circuit Rider forced the sickle to Gordon’s face, dragging the tip down so that it cut into the scarecrow mask, dissecting the black stitched lips. Blood appeared around the tear, darkening the coarse sackcloth.

  “Show your face,” the Circuit Rider said.

  Gordon used his superior height and weight to bend the Circuit Rider back, grunting with effort. Katy realized she was pulling for the dead preacher. Despite his reputation, he seemed the lesser of two evils at the moment.

  She knelt over Ray Tester and yanked the arrow out of his back, and the tip emerged with a wet sloosh. She gripped the blood-slick arrow in both hands and spun, ramming it up into Gordon’s gut. He jerked in a spasm of pain, and in that motion, the sickle swept into the Circuit Rider’s neck. The pale, waxy flesh tore like paper, and a black powdery substance spilled out. Except it wasn’t powder: the tiny specks were alive and crawling.

  Katy jumped down as Gordon lurched across the stone, conducting a crazy scarecrow waltz that might have mimicked those sacrificial harvest celebrations of long ago. He tottered and fell, planting the arrow more deeply inside him.

  The Circuit Rider stood, his hands spread wide, the black scrabbling creatures leaking from his wound.

  He smiled at Katy, as grim and dark an expression, but also as peaceful, as she’d ever seen. “You are the light of the world,” he said.

  Then he was gone.

  ***

  “Get this jalopy in gear,” Sarah said, as Sue started the Jeep.

  Sue punched the accelerator and popped the clutch, parting the goats that were climbing up the bumper. The Jeep’s knobby tires gave a satisfying bump as they rolled over one of the creatures. Most of the people, at least those who weren’t being eaten by goats, had fled into the woods.

  “I’ve always hated them damned critters,” Sarah said. “Never could trust something with eyes that looked twenty ways at once.”

  Sue wasn’t sure where the gunfire was coming from, but she figured moving fast and crazy was the best course of action. A man fell to his knees, clutching his belly, and goats converged on him. Sue figured it was too late to save the man, but not the others. She guided the Jeep toward the red-headed woman on the
rock just as the Circuit Rider and Gordon tangled, and Gordon performed his St. Vitus dance of death.

  “Did you see that?” Sarah asked.

  “No, and neither did you. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days in therapy.”

  “You ain’t crazy. I guess you’ve just been officially welcomed to Solom.”

  Sue brought the Jeep to a halt beside the girl and Odus, who was woozy but appeared to be in no danger of sudden death. Unless one of those stray bullets caught him. Sarah opened the door and crawled into the back, leaving room for the girl to help Odus into the Jeep.

  “Where’s my horse?” Odus said, as groggy as if he were on a two-pint drunk.

  “Went up in smoke along with Harmon Smith,” Sarah said.

  The driver’s side mirror took a bullet and shattered. The gun fell silent, and Sue figured the shooter was reloading.

  “Hurry, Mom!” the girl yelled, and the redhead jumped off the stone and pushed the girl into the Jeep. Clinging to the roll bar, half of her body hanging out with the door flapping against her, Katy said, “Roll!”

  Sue did.

  ***

  Alex had a terrible dream. In the dream, he’d been brought to a secret bunker in Roswell, New Mexico. He was escorted by two men in blue uniforms, each wearing enough brass and doo-dads to win an “Unsung Heroes” contest. They led him down a long concrete tunnel, whose recessed lights threw off a smoky blue color. The air was stale, as if it had been recycled for weeks. A set of double metal doors slid open and Alex was escorted into an office.

  An oval office.

  The president sat behind a large cherry desk, the wood surface so polished that the president’s shit-eating, frat-boy grin and pointy chin were reflected.

  “Welcome, Agent Eakins,’ the president said in a Texas drawl as he stood. “The United States owes you a great debt of gratitude, or a date regret of attitude, dude, or something like that.”

  The president reached over the desk to shake Alex’s hand. There was only one thing to say. So Alex said it.

  “Vote Libertarian, you weasel-eyed fuckface.”

  He jerked awake from the nightmare to find himself in the tree, his arms wrapped around a branch, the AKR cold at his side. The sun was just now dragging its lazy orange ass over the horizon. Blue jays squawked and wrens twittered in the trees. The forest was otherwise quiet, besides the soft rustle of wind in the last of the dying leaves.

  Weird Dude was gone, and the scarecrow creep was lying in a puddle of blood in the center of the granite stone. A couple of vehicles were still parked at the edge of the clearing, their headlights faded to a weak pumpkin glow.

  Below him were the white-and-brown lumps of dead goats. Somewhere during the spree, the goats’ protective powers must have worn off, proving that even the almighty government was fallible.

  Also scattered on the churned-up ground were a dozen or so people, laying still in the dawn, their clothes moist with dew. A few of them had visible wounds in their bodies, but Alex couldn’t tell if they’d taken friendly fire or had been chomped by mutant goats. For all he knew, the Feds had pulled a Ruby Ridge and taken down some innocents, then slipped back to Washington without apology, leaving someone else to clean up the mess.

  Strangely, the sight was a calming one. This was reality. He could handle it. Just don’t ever put him in a government bunker and he could deal.

  He reached into his pocket and worked up a joint, then fired it with his Bic. As he bathed in the luxuriant blue smoke, he considered the old saying that revenge was a dish best served cold.

  Alex decided he liked the taste either way.

  ***

  “Told you we’d get through it together,” Katy said.

  “Yeah, but now what?” Jett applied a crumbly smear of purple lipstick. She decided she didn’t need eye shadow today; the weary pouches were offensive and startling enough. Mom had let her skip school. They decided to regroup at the Smith House, where Sue had dropped them off.

  “Well, first off, I guess we better tell your dad.”

  “Cool. Are you guys getting back together?”

  “Honey, if I ever teach you anything, it’s not to repeat your mistakes.”

  “Well, look at the asswipe you married the second time around.”

  “Watch your language. I’ll be sure not to ever marry another psychotic, wife-killing maniac who likes to dress up like a scarecrow. How’s that?”

  “It will do, for starters.”

  They sat on the porch, though the morning was cool. Katy didn’t feel like going in the house, though she was sure Rebecca would never be back. Rebecca had followed the rest of them into the netherland where the Circuit Rider’s flock grazed for all eternity. Gordon might be there, too, for all she knew. The future wasn’t fixed. It was, if anything, a great crippled wheel, dipping here and there, throwing off those who didn’t cling tightly enough.

  A merry-go-round broke down.

  “Sure is peaceful without all those goats around,” Katy said.

  “Yeah. Almost makes me want to check out the barn, just to be sure none of them are lurking around. You know how in the cheesy horror movies, the end is never really the end.”

  “We’re staying out of the barn, little lady.” Katy swept Jett’s bangs from her forehead and planted a kiss. “Tell you what. You put on some music, and I’ll make us a bite to eat.”

  “No Smith family recipes?”

  “Promise.”

  As Katy prowled the fridge between the butter and the olives, the biting riff of a Replacements tune blasted from the shell of Jett’s room: “Merry Go Round.”

  Maybe the crazy carnival ride still had a few turns on it after all.

  ***

  Arvel Ward opened his cellar door. He’d spent a sleepless night downstairs, the bare bulb burning, the air ripe from the earthen floor’s odor, jars of jelly and pickled okra lining the shelves. As morning’s first light leaked through the narrow, high-set windows, the warmth of joy replaced the autumnal chill in his heart.

  He’d survived.

  The Circuit Rider may have walked up the stairs and taken Betsy, just as the preacher had taken his brother Zeke all those years ago, but Arvel had made it. Arvel was safe until the next round of the circuit, and with any luck and by the grace of God he’d find a natural grave before then. There was comfort in the sleep of dirt and worms, but until then he would get along as best he could, living right and keeping his tools clean.

  Arvel went into the living room. When he’d gone into hiding the night before, he’d forgotten his chewing tobacco, and the ache was on him strong. He opened the foil pouch with trembling fingers and stuffed a wad of shredded leaves inside his cheek. The nicotine bit sweet and hard.

  He almost swallowed the wad when he turned and saw the Circuit Rider sitting on the couch. Betsy had draped an oversize knitted doily over the back of it, and somehow the preacher seemed even more of an intrusion, sitting there among the tidy pillows.

  “Not expecting company?” the Circuit Rider said, thumbing the wide brim of his black hat. The preacher smelled of spoiled meat and rotted cloth, and his fingernails were dark with dirt, as if he’d clawed his way up from the grave. Up close, Arvel could see the holes in the Circuit Rider’s wool suit. There was no flesh behind them, only an emptiness that stretched as long as every nightmare road ever traveled.

  Arvel spat out the tobacco, but his involuntary swallow sent a slug’s length of bitter juice down his throat.

  “It ain’t my turn,” Arvel said. “Take Betsy. She’s upstairs, helpless as a cut kitten, and she ain’t going to put up much of a struggle.”

  “Neither will you.”

  Arvel backed away, wondering if he could reach the fireplace poker and if the steel bar would do any good against a creature that seemed to be built of nothing. “You can’t take me,” Arvel said, nearly giggling in relief. “The sun done come up.”

  The Circuit Rider stood, seven feet tall and gangly. “I don’t make the ru
les, Arvel,” he said.

  “But you’ve already claimed a soul for this trip around.”

  “I’ve claimed nothing. Solom has.”

  “It ain’t my turn.” The tears were hot and wet on his cheeks, the living room blurred, and Arvel took in the familiar surroundings of his house, a place that he knew he’d never see again. At least, not from this side of the border between dead and alive.

  “Hush, now, or you’ll wake Betsy. She needs her rest.” The Circuit Rider gave a tired, benevolent smile and reached his long, waxy fingers toward Arvel.

  ***

  Harmon Smith unhitched Old Saint from the lilac bush. Harmon considered letting the horse munch on the fading, frost-browned flower bed a little longer, but Betsy had suffered enough already. She’d need the busy work to distract her from the loss of her husband, whose body lay cooling on the kitchen floor, near where the goat had attacked Betsy. If the authorities were summoned, they might rule it a heart attack, or they might say it was an accidental fall. Most likely, they’d say, “That’s Solom.”

  Calling them “authorities” was a silly, mortal concept anyway. Only one authority existed, and Its hand had set the wheel in motion. But such things didn’t trouble the Circuit Rider. His duty was given, and he was a good servant. He hauled himself up into the familiar cup of Old Saint’s saddle.

  “Come on, Saint, we’ve got places to be,” he said, giving a gentle lift to the reins. He didn’t have to point toward a destination. The horse, fat on souls and shrubs, knew the route as intimately as Harmon did.

  Narrow is the gate and hard the road that leads to life and light, truth and heaven, but all other roads are open and endless. And on these trails, the Circuit Rider travels alone.

  THE END

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