As if heavy, the two files were plopped atop his nearby desk, freeing up both hands to firmly hold the final folder. Inside, there was only one small piece of paper, and it seemed to slice at the sheriff’s soul, no matter how delicately it was held. This time Cullin’s lips didn’t move. This time he read silently, his eyes quivering. This time no date was written at the top of the paper:
Received early morning visit. Report of a break-in at the General Store. Female states intoxicated Indian male inside. States male is no threat. Means no harm. Just very upset.
Will investigate.
In slow motion, Cullin closed the folder, placed it at the very back of the cabinet, and gripped the handle of the drawer firmly. He pushed and pulled the drawer in and out, as if trying to soothe some unforeseen infant sleeping inside. In and out, he pushed and pulled. In and out.
He thought deeper about his police work. Before 1942 he spent much of his time on the streets of Westcreek. Whether waving to folks randomly throughout the day, bullshitting with miners and lumberjacks, answering calls, or rattling doors of stores at night to make sure they were locked, he loved the routine of being a peace officer. After 1942 he spent much of his time inside his office, avoided people when walking around town, and cut corners when it came to filing complaints or following up on crimes. The difference, to him, was obvious: The man who left for war in the Pacific was not the same man who returned.
Cullin suddenly held the drawer still. Words spoken by Mayor Pike earlier rattled in his head: Get rid of your conscience, my friend. It doesn’t fit a man with your past.
14. The War
14.1 Calm before the Storm
July 21st, 1945, Midnight
A calm fell over the valley. Above Westcreek, the skies curiously appeared brighter. The often black, circling clouds turned grayer and slowed, allowing moonlight and starlight to sift through the wispiness. Phantom arms, legs, and unearthly talons, once wreaking havoc in the area, pulled upward and disappeared. And boisterous thunder and blinding lightning just seemed to lose interest, moving onward.
Around Westcreek, nature also returned to normal. Previously bullied by high gusts of air, hundreds of jack pine stood straight and tall. Shrews, moles, and mice searched the ground quietly for insects and worms. Owls and red-tailed hawks rode soothing and playful air in joy, while keeping an eye open for unsuspecting prey below. And crickets, before out of tune and competitive, chirped away in perfect harmony.
Finally, within Westcreek, old homes and buildings settled, a sudden increase in barometric pressure shifting foundations, wood plank fractures, and window frames comfortably back into place. Even the gravel on Main Street no longer jiggled or succumbed to mini tornadoes. And electric lights, previously timid or unable to glow during the perverse weather, flickered now or even shined bright, sometimes waking folks who forgot switches were left in the upright position during the power outage.
Then came Steven.
14.2 Fire March
12:05 a.m.
Emerging from a loose wall of thickets near the west end, the young guardian of ancient spirits in a blood-soaked robe marched forcefully into town, his eyes focused on the distant town cemetery.
ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, he stomped into the earth. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR.
His muscles were tight. He dragged Decoreous’s staff in the dirt, creating a rut in which a thousand ants rose up and raced about. Each ant took on a mission. Mandibles pinching, the insects acted as if starving and in desperate need of food for themselves or their colony. A pinch here, a pinch there, and eventually they’d find breadcrumbs and morsels of spoiled meat in front of the Westcreek Café. But until that point, some often ate each other to satisfy hunger pangs.
Head slumped and mouth tense, the young guardian poked at the right side of the web. Marching single file behind, ten earies galloped like hairless monkeys to the southern buildings, their fists beating the streets like a drum on half beats to Steven’s march.
One–and–two–and–three–and–four, they moved. One–and–two–and–three–and–four.
Steven poked at the left side of the web, and ten more earies pranced to the northern buildings. Chortling—carrying on in subhumanoid babble, the creatures rambled across the boardwalk and scaled the vertical posts supporting the town’s canopy. Pawing at the dangling lanterns—grasping them—they tossed many into nearby storefronts. Fire immediately blazed, splashing across entryways and igniting anything wood. The broken glass and angry flames seemed to act like a catalyst for fun, many of the creatures advancing inward in hopes of greater mayhem. The General Store became particularly alluring.
Six earies ransacked the interior. Chanting, “We yearn, we yearn . . . to burn, to burn,” each hurried from aisle to aisle, vaulted from shelf to shelf, and bounced from floor to dangling fluorescent light above. They kicked cans of sauerkraut, string beans, and diced pears soccer-style into walls with little people feet, each container clinking into empty metal coolers, plywood walls, or onto the hard floor. Toilet plungers, small wooden trellises, and coat racks toppled like pieces in a giant game of pickup sticks. Last, they roughly squeezed milk and orange juice containers between earie palms, white and orange fluid splashing onto nearby endcaps or the ceiling like mini fountains.
Not everything in the General Store, though, was mistreated.
One item became treasured. Near the rear, on a bottom shelf long and narrow, the earies blissfully found cans of candied yams. The discovery created a sort of intermission to destruction. Five sat cross-legged in front of the shelf and waited.
“Must come, must come,” they gurgled. “For yum, for yum.”
Bleak, the largest of earies sporting a mohawk, jumped in front of the others and hissed, ready to strike, his floppy ears retracted. The dominant creature dared any challenge to his leadership, and after a few moments of group whimpering, none smaller spoke. Rather, each of the five extended submissive paws, hoping for just a taste or two.
Grabbing for a nearby can, the hairs on his mohawk bristling, Bleak sliced into the metal top with a long, sharp fingernail, not stopping until he had navigated around the full circumference. Tossing the jagged top aside, he extracted five fingers of orange gooiness and sucked loudly. The sounds accompanying his feeding were like that of a starving hog suddenly allowed full access to a trough full of slop.
But not all the creatures would continue to watch.
Grave, the smallest and with a gimpy ear, inched his backside and still-crossed legs closer to Bleak. With the help of his knuckles, he scooted across the floor. Little by little, he moved. Little by little, and at one point he opened his mouth and extended his tongue. He just wanted a nibble.
“Awk! Awk!” Bleak barked and then slashed at Grave’s tongue with one of his nails, drawing blood.
The little earie withdrew, grabbed his mouth, cried, and assumed the fetal position.
A pecking order was reinforced.
Outside the General Store, a crowd gathered. From nearby homes, the Westcreek Café, and other downtown businesses, people spilled onto Main Street, alarmed by the flames and growing commotion. Women, mostly old and wearing simple gray dresses and small bonnets, huddled near the men and called for small children in tow to do the same. All screeched, each expression of fear paralleling the intensity and size of fire shooting out of storefronts and upper-level windows. Periodic explosions ignited by hot propane tanks in the back of buildings propelled geysers of fire through rooftops, as if to briefly kiss the sky.
The citizenry pushed even closer together.
What’s happening? many wondered with fright. Who could’ve done this? Who will save us?
Mayor Pike pushed his way to the middle of the group. Slapping at several ants that bit his cheeks, trying to keep his own bewilderment in check, he searched for key players needed to save his town. Turning in a complete circle, he located some lumberjacks approaching from the west.
“You there—you four!” he shouted, pointing with
his index finger. “Gather as many men as you can. Head for the city works building. Ready the fire engine. Tell the boys to get a bucket line started at the water well. Douse the structures that haven’t been burned yet.”
“Understood!” one of them replied, prompting all four to sprint back the other direction.
Pike grabbed the shoulder of Edgar Johannson, standing only inches away. “Find Doc Baker. Make sure all the stores are empty. Help anyone inside.”
Edgar hesitated, unsure where to find the physician.
“Go, go—now!” the mayor ordered.
Alarmed by Pike’s voice, his stout belly jiggling, the General Store owner with the long beard headed for the physician’s home.
“What the hell is happening?” a stunned voice called out from the south side of the street.
Pike reluctantly turned.
In a state of confusion, Sheriff Cullin exited his office. Taking just a few steps off the boardwalk, he visually scanned the damage. “What the hell is going on?”
Grinding his teeth, focusing his eyes to the east, Pike could faintly make out the silhouette of someone near Our Savior’s Lutheran Church. “We’ve got an arsonist on our hands, Brewster. Just before the fire started, folks said they saw a young Redskin in a robe holding a staff. Marched around town like he owned the place. It’s got to be some renegade off the reservation a little too eager to take over the valley.”
The response surprised Cullin. An Indian? he reflected. In a robe? Holding a staff? Replaying in his mind the moment Pike shot Decoreous, the sheriff could hear a boy’s scream.
There was somebody out in those woods, he surmised.
“Brewster, he’s got those ‘things’ with him,” Pike added. “A lot more.”
“I’ll get my gun. We’ll go after him,” Cullin said, heading back to his office.
“No!” Pike objected, forcing his way through the crowd so the two could stand face-to-face. “You’re needed here. Call the county and tell ‘em what’s happening. Then evacuate the valley.”
“What are you gonna do?”
Both twisted their torsos toward the sound of a calamity coming from a nearby alley on the south side. Blaine Thompson, Tommy Riggs, Beckett, Alfred Wright, Paul Porter, and ninety-year-old Will Nelson approached, carrying shotguns, rifles, and ammunition belts. Once close, Beckett tossed Pike a rifle, and the mayor confidently cocked the handle, ensuring a bullet was ready to fire.
Pike lifted his chin. “We’re chasing down an enemy, Brewster. I think the boys would respond better to my leadership.” He nodded to the sheriff’s waist. “Keep your walkie-talkie on. We’ll be in touch.”
Pike addressed his men. “Blaine, Beckett—you’re with me. We’ll head to the church.” He whooshed his hand through the air. “The rest of you canvass the town. Shoot anything that ain’t human. Will meet up later.”
Pike and the men scattered.
For an agonizing moment, Cullin watched. He jerked forward, like he wanted to say something, wanted to challenge his imposed role and Pike’s sense of authority. But the moment passed.
He followed orders.
/////
Using the wooden staff for support, Steven knelt before his father’s black-and-white headstone in the town cemetery. He acted as if the backdrop of fire and chaos didn’t exist; it was just a conversation between two.
“The story of bear and badger,” he began. “Do you remember? Day after day, during a stormy spring, bear chased badger through the forest. To bear, it was play; to badger, survival. Then one day, near the edge of a rocky cliff in which badger couldn’t escape, badger fought back. He growled, clawed, and bit bear, causing him to run off. From that day forward, the two animals shared the forest as equals.”
“Forgive me, father,” he continued, staring up at the sky, “but I, too, choose to fight. You and grandfather always spoke of peace between people. To pursue harmony and understanding—to never place a spear, hatchet, or edged word in the place of a handshake. But you spoke of peace between equals. It doesn’t fit this town. Not now. Not ever.”
Steven carefully touched the grave in sorrow. “Until we chase the white deer together . . .”
Suddenly the stone sparked. Accompanied by a high-pitched TWANG, bits of yellow and orange fire ricocheted off the rock and then disappeared; then two more sparks, and Steven realized he’d been found.
Standing, the young guardian turned to his pursuers. He saw three faceless men reloading their guns by the southwest corner of the church. He felt he had only moments to react.
With the swiftness of a gray wolf, he hurdled the cemetery fence and headed for the northern forest, not only to escape danger but to hopefully be followed. He had a plan. In his wake, earies inflated and flapped their ears in an effort to launch an aerial attack, arms and legs flailing. Nostrils even flared for extra lift.
The attack would be countered by Pike and his group.
Three shots rang out simultaneously, each having disastrous effects. One busted an earie belly, spewing blood, stomach tissue, and greenish intestines—felling the creature to the ground, lifeless. A second shot lanced an earie forehead, and the creature flopped atop a tall gravestone without a name, date of birth, or death. And a third shot severed an earie leg at the knee. The creature yelped out in pain, blubbered, and attempted to crawl away. But it got only a few feet before Blaine fired a fatal bullet into the heart. When it struggled not, Blaine felt invigorated. He cocked his rifle roughly.
Chasing after their master, the rest of Steven’s brood fled the cemetery, cheeks and stomachs deflated and saggy. The earies chattered back and forth, as if appalled by the loss of friends or maybe just unnerved by their overall reception in Westcreek. Gunfire accompanied their retreat, lead whizzing overhead.
Meanwhile, Bleak and company weren’t faring much better.
Inside the General Store, snack time came to an abrupt halt. Tommy, Alfred, Paul, and Will stood near the front entrance like fairgoers at a shooting gallery. They loaded and reloaded their guns at will, for the only entry into the store was also the only exit. Face red, eyes shifting back and forth as if not entirely sure these “earies” were real, Tommy picked off two near an upright meat freezer, shattering the glass behind. With forced courage, Alfred and Paul locked onto a similar creature, tracking it while it jumped from aisle to aisle, the thing spilling boxes of pancake mix and Cheerios and containers of salt and baking powder. The earie’s pattern of running and leaping had no distinct pattern, and both men became frustrated, letting off with a salvo of shots that missed the mark. Will had more patience, though. He aimed at the same beast, breathed deeply, and pulled back both triggers of his double-barrel shotgun. Belches of fire and smoke propelled two half-inch metal chunks into the earie’s abdomen. Dead, it face-planted into a ripped bag of wild rice on the floor.
With a mucous-filled laugh, a smile wide but short on teeth, Will looked at both Alfred and Paul with delight, as if he had just won a prize.
But the shooters themselves would come under assault.
Bleak chattered his teeth, and all remaining earies in the General Store spread out. Snatching jars of olives, pickled pig’s feet, and marmalade, they hurled projectiles at Pike and his men in rapid-fire fashion. Two jars thumped Will in the right ankle, causing him to fall to one knee. Another smacked Tommy in the right eye, sending him reeling into the broken doorframe. And three—apiece—struck Alfred and Paul in the upper torso, producing “oofs!” and “aaws!”
The result pleased Bleak, and he saw an opportunity. Hissing—raising his mohawk its highest—sensing the hoard was outnumbered and outgunned—he led a grand escape, speed and violence becoming critical. Bleak and the others bull-rushed the humans. Running like greyhounds, they shouldered into thighs, bit palms, and scaled human frames to rake nails across foreheads and eyes. Pike’s troops either stepped aside or cowered, and at least initially, the assault worked. Once past the front entrance, the earies either climbed the canopy or raised dus
t on the gravel road, hoping to reach the nearest alleyway before the enemy could regroup. But new danger loomed.
“There’s more of those things!” Beckett yelled from the east, closing in. “Just like at the cemetery. Kill ‘em!”
Beckett fired his rifle, grazing Grave’s shoulder; Alfred and Paul, fighting through their injuries, added more shots, none making contact; Bleak, seeing Grave fall behind, backtracked and grabbed the little earie by his torn ear, refusing to leave any creature behind; and townspeople screamed from farther down Main Street, reacting to more sporadic gunshots from Pike and the others, at least one round deflecting off of metal.
Crack! and a final bullet from Pike’s long-barreled pistol barely missed Grave’s dragging body as it disappeared around a corner, a chunk of wood on the town hall feeling the brunt of the mayor’s fury.
The battle was over.
For now.
“Damn it!” Pike snapped, carefully replacing his weapon into its long holster. “We let ‘em get away!”
He motioned for the other six men to draw near. “Now listen,” he said in a low tone. “We’re going into the hills. We’ll stay with the same teams.” Impassioned, he pointed with his fist. “Tommy, take your men into the alley and head straight north to the Dawson Mine. Kill those things—every goddamn one of ‘em.” Pike glanced at Blaine and Beckett. “We’ll double back to the cemetery, head for the ol’ Krebs place. With any luck we’ll cut the Indian off. Any questions?”
None.
“Then grab a lantern or flashlight. The night’ll be darker than hell in the forest. Darker than usual. But remember: it is for him, too.” He smirked. “I like our chances a hell of a lot better.”
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 14