The Devourer Below

by Charlotte Llewelyn-Wells

  Leo returned a tepid smile. He’d come out of his time with the 104th unscathed apart from a fleck of German ordnance in his thigh, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be reminded of those days.

  “Jerries thought they had us pinned down, but we showed ’em, didn’t we?”

  Leo’s nod was more of a wince, but Donny never could take a hint. Some men moved on, others dragged the past wherever they went.

  They crossed the Vermont border and jogged east along an overgrown county road. Leo let Donny rattle on, the occasional nod enough to keep the other man happy. He’d forgotten how much Donny talked. Back in the war, nothing short of a gas attack had seemed able to shut the man up. Still, it was better than the alternative. Donny would go for hours, sometimes days. Then it would be like someone had shut off a spigot, and he’d turn all sharp and angry. The rest of the squad knew to leave well enough alone when Donny was in one of his “moods”, and woe befall any German who crossed his path.

  Leo focused on driving. The roads were clear as a summer sky, and a breeze cut the lingering humidity. A bit of off-roading took them over a pasture and onto an old logging road that snaked up into Canada. Although not the smoothest of rides, it had the benefit of avoiding border checkpoints. Apart from a brief stop to stretch their legs and answer nature’s call, they made good time.

  Coaticook was a town of a few hundred souls, settled by British loyalists fleeing New England in the decades after American independence. It was far enough off the beaten track for the locals to comment on strangers, so Leo gave it a wide berth, interrupting Donny’s monologue to get directions.

  The route led into low hills, the road tapering off into little more than a rutted track as it wound around the edge of a marshy lake. Leo wasn’t willing to risk bogging his car down in the mud, so they had to hoof the last mile.

  There was something about the place that made the skin between Leo’s shoulder blades prickle. Like when they had cleared the Jerry machine guns out of Epieds, but weren’t quite sure they’d gotten the last of the snipers. Try as he might, Leo couldn’t shake the suspicion someone lay hidden, just waiting for him to blunder into their field of fire.

  “Leave the shotgun,” Donny said. “Old Enoch can be a bit jumpy.”

  Heading into the woods with just his Colt left a sour taste in Leo’s mouth, but it was better than catching a bullet from a nervous bootlegger.

  “Harrow,” Donny said, as they squelched along the edge of the lake.

  “Come again?”

  “It’s what this town used to be called.” Donny gestured at the water.

  “I don’t see any town.”

  “Whole place flooded just after the Revolution. Over a hundred settlers up from just north of Arkham.” Donny snapped his fingers. “Gone just like that.”

  Leo whistled, looking out over the lake. Leaves rustled overhead, stirred by a gentle breeze. The lake’s surface stayed flat as a sheet of tempered glass, undisturbed by even the smallest ripple.

  “People say it was God’s punishment on account of the settlers being witches or somesuch. Story goes they got up to all sort of strange malarkey – moonlight rituals, great pits dug into the earth. Some folks say they even snatched babies from the local Abenaki, if you can believe it.”

  “Sounds like a load of bunk to me.”

  “Can’t say for sure, but I’ve been out with Enoch when the silt settles. If the water is clear enough you can even see the church steeple, and what’s on top ain’t a cross. Sometimes a body even comes loose and floats up from the muck.” Donny’s grin was almost predatory in the light of the setting sun.

  Leo glanced at the lake, unsettled despite himself. He’d seen more than his share of corpses over in France, but the thought of a whole town of bodies bobbing up through the churning murk set the hair rising on the back of his neck.

  A rifle shot echoed through the deepening shadows. Leo reached for his Colt, but Donny laid a hand on his arm.

  “Don’t mind that.” He nodded at a ragged copse of pine down the bank. “Just Enoch saying hello.”

  Donny raised both hands, walking slowly forward. He glanced back when Leo didn’t follow.

  “Don’t tell me the Louisiana Lion’s afraid of some old coot with a .22.”

  “Biloxi, actually.”

  “What’s that now?”

  “I’m from Mississippi. Louisiana just sounded better,” Leo muttered as he sloshed into ankle-deep mud. The muck seemed to swallow Leo’s footfalls, the evening breeze cool on his sweat-streaked skin. Unease twisted in his gut. It was a feeling that had saved Leo’s life more than once, and he found his hand creeping to his Colt despite Donny’s smiling assurances.

  They ducked beneath the spreading pines, limbs sketching long shadows in the last light of day. The sharp tang of sap filled Leo’s nose, undercut by a strange sickly odor.

  “Enoch must be cooking.” Donny sniffed the air. “Smells like a million bucks, eh?”

  Leo wrinkled his nose. He’d worked enough stills to recognize the syrupy tang of corn mash or the rich malty aroma of barley. This was more like stink that had wafted from the medical tents when the wind changed direction. Leo swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.

  Whatever Enoch was cooking, it wasn’t grain.

  The pine cleared to reveal a ramshackle structure – old boards and bits of corrugated steel hammered into something approximately cabin-shaped. Behind it was the strangest still Leo had ever seen.

  Low fires burned beneath half a dozen long copper boxes. About the size of a bathtub, they were each capped by a curving metal bowl, a nest of tangled piping above leading to an oddly shaped condenser. Roughly cylindrical, its outline rippled like frozen flame, eight fluted tubes curling out like tendrils from a hothouse vine. The condenser seemed almost to shift and roil in the shadows. Leo realized the whole thing was made of glass, the apparent movement caused by the steady drip, drip of the thick, tarlike distillation through its twining innards.

  A high, rasping gurgle rose above the crackle of pine logs. Leo thought it was steam escaping the boilers until a tall figure rounded the still. Clad in a ragged work shirt and overalls, the man cradled a crate of empty bottles in his knobby arms. Donny had said Enoch was old, but the moonshiner’s face was smooth as a boiled egg, nary a bit of stubble to be seen on his cheeks or head. His eyes were large and pale, almost luminous in the evening light, his nose little more than two black slashes. From Enoch’s mouth came a sound like someone trying to talk through a slit throat.

  Leo had his Colt halfway from its shoulder holster before he realized the man was singing.

  “Enoch, old pal!” Donny swaggered into the clearing, arms spread wide.

  Enoch turned his rheumy gaze upon the two of them, his song tapering into a low hiss.

  “Brought some more of that jerky you like.” Donny fished a wax-paper bag from his pocket.

  Enoch set the crate down and took the bag, his eyes never leaving Leo.

  “Oh, Leo? He’s a peach,” Donny chuckled. “We were over in France together.”

  Enoch slipped a ragged strip of jerky into his mouth, chewing loudly.

  “Don’t be like that,” Donny said. “Everything’s copacetic. We’ll settle up later.”

  The moonshiner’s eyes narrowed to slits, lips drawn back from teeth the yellow of old newsprint. He extended one long finger toward a ratty tarp tented against the cabin’s side wall.

  Donny grinned at Leo. “I think he likes you.”

  Leo followed Donny toward the cabin, taking care to give the old moonshiner a wide berth. There were two crates under the tarp, each big enough to hold a dozen bottles. Leo bent to heft one, and found it surprisingly heavy.

  Donny nudged him. “Careful, this stuff’s worth its weight in gold.”

  Enoch gnawed on his jerky, watching the two men stump back t
oward the treeline. Leo’s shoe caught an exposed root, and he lurched forward with a rattle of glass, almost stumbling into one of the low fires.

  “Watch the flames.” Donny nodded at the crate of night whiskey. “One spark and that stuff goes up like a Molotov.”

  Leo steadied himself. He glanced back just before they entered the pines and found the old moonshiner still staring.

  “Your friend doesn’t say much,” Leo said, as they squelched back toward the car.

  “Give him time to warm up,” Donny said. “He’ll talk your ear off.”

  As if to echo Donny’s reply, Enoch’s rough warbling cut through the evening like a church bell, the whine of cicadas seeming to rise in tuneless accompaniment.

  It might have been an echo, but Leo swore he heard an answering song from across the lake.

  He squinted across the water, but the shadowed trees on the far side appeared empty. The lap of waves on Leo’s shoes caused him to look down. Ripples spread across the lake as if something large had momentarily broken the dark surface to regard the two interlopers on the bank.

  With a shiver, Leo quickened his step.

  Donny matched his pace without a word.

  •••

  They were just driving around a bend in the wood when the Model T hit them with the brights. It straddled the road ahead, trees rising on either side. The top was up, so Leo couldn’t see inside.

  “What do we do?” Donny asked.

  With a tight smile, Leo dropped the Studebaker into second gear, flicking the wheel left before spinning it hard to the right. The rear wheels kicked up a shower of dirt as the car spun in a quick half-circle. A moment, and they were facing the opposite direction.

  From behind, Leo heard gravel popping under tires as the strange car gave chase.

  He flicked off the headlamps, driving by the light of the thin streamer of stars visible through the branches overhead. The car crested a hill and went airborne for a second. Leo relaxed, flexing like a leaf spring as they hit dirt. Donny had followed his instincts and gone rigid. The only thing that kept the impact from jouncing him from his seat was Leo’s outflung arm.

  Leo turned onto a side path, wending alongside some farmer’s orchard before doubling back along an old tractor trail. Back on the main road Leo opened up the throttle, letting the car shoot the curves.

  After twenty miles without seeing headlamps, Leo finally let up on the gas.

  “That was some pretty slick driving,” Donny said.

  “No one outruns me on my roads.” Leo shook his head. He’d mapped every track, trail, and country lane from Arkham to Montreal; it would take more than slick driving to get the drop on him.

  A hundred yards up the road, a pair of headlamps clicked on. The sudden brilliance made Leo squint, but not so much he couldn’t catch the flash of green paint behind the light.

  Donny swore.

  Leo expected to feel anger at being outplayed, but instead a strange lightness filled his chest. It was the same feeling he got staring across the poker table at a canny player, a sense of jittery excitement as Leo decided whether to fold or double down.

  His lips drew back in an expression that was part grin, part snarl. Leo wasn’t folding, not when he held all the cards.

  He sent them careening down the embankment into an old cattle field. Unbelievably, the Model T followed. They jounced across uneven grass for the better part of ten minutes, their pursuer’s headlamps flickering in the side mirrors.

  “What are you doing?” Donny shouted as they shot across a tiny stream and along a low ridge.

  “I can’t shake him on the backtrails, but the county road should be just beyond this field,” Leo replied. “He’ll never be able to catch us on the straightaway.”

  They crashed through a tangle of branches and out onto an expanse of paved road. Leo threw the car into high gear, smiling as their pursuer’s headlamps grew distant.

  He had just about started to breathe easy again when he saw the prohis.

  They had pulled a truck across the road, two other cars idling off on the shoulder. Leo’s first thought was that their pursuer had herded them into a trap, until he saw the Model T’s lights flicker and head the other way.

  “Of all the rotten luck.” Scowling, Donny reached for his rifle, but Leo laid a hand on his arm.

  “Wait.”

  Donny cocked his head. “Wait for what?”

  “To see if they start shooting.”

  The crack of gunfire told him all he needed to know.

  “They’re in Johnny V’s pocket.” Leo switched gears, accelerating toward the blockade.

  The prohis’ shots kicked up plumes of dust. Leo kept the car straight, partly to make for a smaller target, and partly to shield the night whiskey. It was packed tight in hidden compartments below the back seat, but if the stuff was as flammable as Donny said, he didn’t want a stray shot setting it off.

  “How’d you know they’re Johnny V’s?” Donny hunched behind the dash.

  “Only the crooked ones shoot first,” Leo said, as they bore down on the roadblock. “See if you can return the favor.”

  “With pleasure.” Donny snatched up his rifle. “Just keep her steady.”

  They took a couple more shots as Leo bore down on them, muzzle flashes bright as lightning against the darkened trees. One bullet clipped Leo’s right mirror, showering him with broken glass.

  Whooping, Donny fired back. One of the prohis tumbled from the truck, clutching a bleeding hand. The others scrambled back, heads low.

  Leo jerked the wheel to send the Studebaker skidding along the stony left shoulder. Branches shrieked across the car as they edged by the truck and back onto the road. Leo glanced back to see a prohis staring at them from where he crouched behind the hood, mouth open, pistol held in front of him like a shield.

  Then Leo was off into the night. Brakes squealed farther back as the agents ran afoul of their own blockade.

  The smell of scorched rubber thick in his nose, Leo straightened the car and sped down the road. Now the initial rush of nerves had faded, he was left with anger and questions. He’d known Johnny V’s pet prohis were leaning on his operation, but he hadn’t figured they’d copped to his routes.

  Johnny must’ve given them everything. Suddenly, the reason for the missing whiskey shipment became clear. It was probably getting cut right now in some Boston warehouse.

  Leo broke into a savage grin. These G-men might know this run, but he’d bet his Studebaker they didn’t know all his routes.

  “Stay low,” he nodded to Donny. Dim light flickered in his remaining side mirror as the prohis got moving again. Leo kept up a good clip, fast enough to keep out of view, but not so quick he would spin out on a turn.

  About three miles down the winding road they passed a row of jagged boulders, and Leo slowed down to scan the shadowed ridge.

  “Geez, you want them to nab us?” Donny glanced back.

  “Get out.”

  “What?”

  “There’s an old wagon trail here, mostly overgrown, but wide enough for a car if we’re careful.” Leo thrust his chin at the barest break in the tree cover. “When I pull in, I need you to move the brush back into place.”

  Donny regarded him for a moment, frowning.

  “If I wanted to leave you for the G-men,” Leo pointed out, “I’d have pushed you out as we drove by.”

  The rumble of engines from back up the road seemed to make up Donny’s mind, and he slid out of the car with a nod.

  Leo turned off the road, threading the Studebaker’s long body through the tiny gap in the woods. Although he could hear the prohis coming up, he moved slow, careful not to break any of the hanging branches. Donny stepped in behind to straighten the crushed grass and move the limbs back into place.

  The car rattled another dozen yard
s down the furrowed path, then Leo shut off the engine. Hunkering down in his seat, he felt around in the back for his shotgun. Leo had no qualms about getting pinched, but these weren’t normal prohis. The only thing Leo could look forward to if they nabbed him was a bullet in the skull.

  Leo sighted on the distant road. In the dim moonlight, he could see Donny crouched behind a rock outcrop a little way back, rifle in hand. He didn’t worry the other man would give them away – these punk G-men were a far cry from German snipers.

  Two cars shot by, leaves fluttering in the wind of their passing. The truck came behind, slower. Leo could see the shadow of three men inside, one driver and two in the flatbed with handheld spotlights. They scanned the forest to either side.

  The truck pulled abreast of the trail entrance, and stopped.

  Leo glanced toward Donny, who nodded at the man in the bed of the truck. Leo sighted on the other one with a lamp.

  Searchlights stabbed amidst the trees. Leo shut his eyes against the glare, finger tight on the trigger of his shotgun.

  One of the prohis muttered something.

  Leo almost shot him right there, but a moment later the other two men laughed, and the truck rumbled on down the road.

  Leo ran a hand through his sweat-slicked hair, daring to breathe again.

  “That was a tight one.” Donny hopped into the passenger seat. “Almost as bad as when those Jerries had us pinned down in that old barn north of Epieds.”

  Leo grinned despite himself. “This place smells better.”

  “So, where we headed?” Donny asked.

  “Same as before.” Leo started the car. “Only the ride is going to be far less comfortable.”

  •••

  Leo let out a sigh as his headlamps fell across a stretch of gravel road up ahead. They’d spent the better part of three hours jouncing over backcountry trails and his back felt like a chain gang had been hammering on it.

  “Those prohis will never catch us now,” Leo said as they pulled onto the road. “Unless they can drive through mountains.”

  Donny nodded, mouth pressed into a tight line. He’d been mostly quiet during their cross-country jaunt.