“Where is that old fool?” she muttered to herself. “What trouble has he got into this time?”
Will hurried to her side. “I’m here, my pet!” he announced. “But something’s wrong. I don’t feel myself.”
“All the meals I’ve cooked for him,” she said, unnoticing. “All the meals gone to waste.”
“I’ll never be late again.”
“Drinking . . . so much, every day.”
“I’ll never take another sip.”
“This was supposed to be our retirement. Spent together. Instead he hangs around with the good ol’ boys.”
“We were all going to be rich,” he tried to explain. “Rich beyond our wildest dreams.” Will kneeled. He rolled the insides of his lips over his gums in worry. “Please, my pet, forgive me.”
Still feeling out of body, Will flung his arms around his wife, only to discover that each passed through as if she wasn’t there. Catching himself on an edge of the table with his fingers before tumbling to the floor, he struggled to understand.
The clock on the wall struck two a.m. Accompanied by a gong sound, a small red rooster on a little wooden tongue spit out two times, saying Cuckoo! And in that short period, Will’s wife transformed.
“Too late, too late,” she whispered. “Your fate, your fate.”
Her body shrank; her face became that of a little old man; her ears became large, growing out and folding over; her skin darkened; and her fingernails elongated and shined black.
Hissing, the earie clawed Will, causing him to wince and throw up his frail arms to protect his body. But it didn’t matter. The needle-like tips contacted his skin, and in an instant Will vaporized, leaving only droplets of spirit in the air.
Picking up the spoon, adding just a touch more milk, the earie continued stirring the coffee, eventually taking a loud sip.
Back in the forest, cheeks glowing redder and redder, Tommy refused to accept his friend’s death. Standing over Will’s body, he held a rifle next to his hip in one hand and a six-shooter in the other like there was still hope. With the rifle, he approximated sight and blasted anything that reached over the hill, cocking the handle with a 365-degree flip like an Old West gunslinger. With the six-shooter he targeted farther out, hoping to dislodge the bows and arrows or newly found hatchets from skeletal fingers. When the pistol was out of bullets, he tossed it aside, making use of just the rifle.
Tommy scolded the remaining two group members for not mirroring his rage. “C’mon, come alive! Step up and kill these things!” he demanded. “For Will! For Will!”
In fact, Paul and Alfred had been hesitant in their fighting. A few feet behind the portly young man—dumbfounded by the notion that dead people could move—they frequently dodged arrows and only infrequently shot their weapons, weighing privately when a good time might be to retreat. But Tommy’s battle cry inspired a sense of brotherhood.
“For Will!” they both shouted, glancing at each other. “For Will!”
Moving forward, the two rejoined the battle, and for a time the constant push of skeletons from the south slowed, giving the men ample opportunities to reload or swap out guns.
New winds, though, would change everything.
Originating from the southeast, the air was focused and forceful, occasionally fluttering eyes. Rubbing the affected areas did not decrease the discomfort, and eventually moisture from tear ducts was needed to wash away soot. Even then, vision was murky. Even then, Tommy, Paul, and Alfred had to squint. Even then, steady blinking would be required to get a clearer picture, for what drew near seemed unimaginable.
“It can’t be . . . ,” Alfred stammered.
From afar, Steven massaged the web, and four white-tailed deer rode the winds. Floating six feet above the ground and moving toward the group, the animals carried earie pilots, who manipulated several onboard controls. For lift and stability, the earies carefully flapped their ears, inflated, or deflated. To steer, they pulled either right or left on a doe or buck’s scruff. And for speed, they either kicked at ribs or slapped furry butts, causing deer legs to run faster atop nothing. Such control over speed seemed fool-hearted, for unpredictable air bursts determined the squadron’s true flight path. As such, the assault became careless. Any earie misjudgment triggered a break in formation, with pairs either tumbling end-over-end or swaying sideways, irreversibly. One deer struck the ground face-first with a SMACK!, shattered its neck, and ejected its pilot a short distance ahead; one landed on its rear hooves but then planted hard on its right front leg, causing the deer to limp; and the last two flew over the men’s heads, landing sideways on a large, soft bush.
“Alfred!” Tommy yelled. “Take out the front two. Paul and I’ll get the ones to the rear.”
Feeling more confident, Alfred brought the sights of his rifle up to eye level with a smirk and fell the earie on the ground with little effort. The other wouldn’t be as easy. Stuck on an injured mount, the pilot took evasive action, filling with air to capacity and earing its way—with deer—straight up, hoping to hide in the upper tree limbs. Alfred took his time, letting the barrel of his gun follow the duo’s slow ascent. When the moment felt right—when the pair was far, far above, he fired, penetrating the intestines of each. Earie and deer plummeted to the earth, lifeless.
“Done!” Alfred announced, talking over his shoulder.
Tommy and Paul also made headway. Though the remaining two attackers weren’t hurt, they languished in the brush, finding it difficult to gain footing. This created an opportunity. With Paul holding a flashlight, Tommy took his time shooting the earies, and neither creature could organize an effective defense. They simply huddled together, whimpered, and wiggled their lower lips in fear. Tommy’s gun stilled them both. But the deer would be spared, allowed to run off into the woods.
“Done!” Tommy said loudly. “Now let’s shatter more bone.”
But before they could refocus their energies on the skeletons, the wind shifted yet again, this time coming from the west. Led by Bleak, Grave close on his right side, seven more earies on deeries raced for the men. Flying seemed smoother for the new squadron, and they zeroed in on legs. Playing kamikaze, three pairs—one at time—dove into Tommy. Then Alfred. Then Paul. As Bleak and Grave observed, guns and ammunition spilled across the forest floor. A brawl broke out. On their stomachs, Alfred and Paul slithered through the dirt to get control of a weapon. But when one of their hands palmed a shotgun, a deer stomped on the knuckles; when either tried to touch a pistol, an earie swatted it away; and when Alfred and Paul thought about lunging for a long knife, two of the pilots hissed.
Tommy took a different approach. With an earie suddenly leering down from its mount, the young miner screamed with resistance, rolled his big frame to a stand, and tackled the creature, bringing it to the ground. After a brief fight, he worked his hands around the earie’s neck and squeezed. Its dark skin turned lighter, its eyes bulged, and its breathing strained.
The rest of the squadron responded. Rushing to or floating down to their captured brethren, the remaining six offered aid, pulling at Tommy. Tommy refused to relinquish his grip, incurring bites, kicks, and scratches across his face and back. Bleak would shift the balance of power.
Whispering, he commanded the others to roll—not pull—the enemy off. This brought Tommy to one side. And when the moment was right, Bleak spit acid into his eyes, forcing the miner to release the near-dead earie and tend physically to his own wounds. Spasming and squealing, Tommy flipped to his back and patted his eyeballs sensitively. From below ground, four skeletal hands wiggled up and clung to his shoulders and knees, trying to keep him in place. Tommy flexed each muscle in his body to break the hold, but instead, the hands gripped even tighter. The more he tried to break free, the more he was held down. Gradually he relaxed unwillingly, a scared moan following one long exhale. Eyes feeling like they were on fire, he closed each, only to find that his lids acted like a sheath of gasoline. Opening them wide lowered the pain to terrible
.
“God, get these things off me!” the young miner ordered the others. “Shoot ‘em! Shoot ‘em!”
Watching as if their friend’s predicament were some unbelievable news story on television, Alfred and Paul were reluctant to intervene. They froze with fear, thinking they, too, would be trapped.
Bleak hopped onto Tommy’s jelly-like belly, frequently shifting his stance in order to remain upright. Once stable, Bleak leaned over. “No friends, no friends,” he said softly. “To fend, to fend.”
Callously, the earie leader plunged five claws into Tommy’s chest. Each knife-like appendage snaked around the young man’s ribs, planting firmly into the upper and lower chambers of his heart. Rapidly bleeding out, Tommy quieted. Near the end of his life, his eyes, deep red, searched for heaven. It was unclear if he ever found it. And if someone could have watched closely enough, could have watched his mouth carefully enough, they would’ve seen a heavy mist squirt into the air. The deer nipped at the phenomena, as if it were angel moss floating free from tall grasses.
Alfred and Paul finally found their legs. Aghast over Tommy’s demise, they fled the scene and headed straight east to anywhere but there, Alfred grabbing a rifle off the forest floor in case he might need it later. Neither looked back.
And Bleak observed. Pulling out his claws from Tommy, he watched and listened with interest as the two bumbled through the forest. An eerie, playful smile stretched across his face.
But he didn’t pursue. Not yet.
“Done!” he sneered to the other creatures.
/////
“Keep up, keep up!” Alfred chastised, running as fast as possible. “They’ll soon be on us!”
“I’m trying,” Paul answered, faltering in his steps. “I’m tired, though. I need to rest.”
“Rest if you want to die! Otherwise, keep moving!”
From behind, Alfred heard a sharp SNAP! followed by a jarring human bellow. The former wrestler paused in his steps, calling backward, “Paul? Friend? What’s wrong?”
“I fell. I think my leg is broke.”
Rubbing his scraggly beard in nervousness, Alfred turned. Barely able to see Paul, he didn’t move forward. “Goddamn it, try to get up! Those things could be anywhere!”
No reply. Only wailing.
Alfred begrudgingly moved to his friend. He took a small flashlight from his pocket and swept through the forest but saw nothing. Then he examined Paul. The sight made him gasp.
Face to the sky, arms and one leg spread outward, Paul resembled a wayward starfish wiggling for water. Alfred wasn’t concerned about the odd movements, though—he wasn’t concerned about the sprawling nature of Paul’s three limbs; rather, the fourth barely seen.
Alfred focused the flashlight on Paul’s right leg. Stuck in a collapsed groundhog den, it was bent 90 degrees just below the kneecap. Coarse bone stuck through the skin and a pair of cotton pants. Blood pooled around the exposed tissue.
“Is it bad, friend?” Paul asked sheepishly.
“Yes, it’s bad. I need to set both bones back into place.” Leaning his gun against a nearby rock—scanning the forest one last time for any possible threat—Alfred gingerly helped Paul to a one-legged stand, gently pulled him from the hole as Paul howled in pain, and helped him hobble behind a large stump. There, he eased the injured man into a sitting position, carefully leaning his quivering head against a dangling fir branch for comfort. Then Alfred positioned his light source on the ground so it shined on the exposed bones. Ripping a plaid sleeve from his big arm, twisting it into a tight cord, he prepared a splint, complete with two small but strong sticks found nearby. “Now, hold still.”
“No!” Paul protested. “Let me get ready. I can’t stand the hurt.” Making a face, he wiggled his backside closer to the fir tree and pushed his head hard against the branch. “Okay . . .”
Alfred delicately placed a stick above and below the break, parallel with the leg, and attached the twisted sleeve. He tied a loose knot. “I’ll count to three. One . . . two . . . three!” Overemphasizing three, he cinched up on the sleeve and made a tighter knot. Each bone cracked haphazardly into place. Retrieving a cloth from his pocket, Alfred also tried to slow the bleeding.
“OH, JESUS!” Paul screamed, his teeth shivering, his Churchill-like jowls jiggling. He pounded a fist into the ground when he didn’t know what else to do with the pain.
“Shut up!” Alfred blared with restraint, placing a hand over his friend’s mouth. “You want them to find us?”
Paul fought the hold, slapping Alfred’s arm away. Then he grabbed the sides of Alfred’s head. “Tell me about our resort. The one on Gull Lake. The one we were gonna build together.” As suddenly as he grabbed the burly man’s head, he released it, drained of energy.
“What?”
“Just tell me!”
After ripping off his other shirt sleeve, folding it twice and placing it carefully over the wound for even more absorption, Alfred scooted shoulder to shoulder with Paul. “You know the story.”
“Tell me again. Please? I don’t want to think about my leg.”
“Okay, friend.” Alfred agreed, staring up at the dark sky. “It would’ve been made of solid pine logs. Best in the land. At least two stories, with a large open foyer in the front, maybe with a deer-antler chandelier. Past the front doors on the right would’ve been a fireplace. On the left, a mahogany desk with an always-smiling girl ready to offer a room or two to our many, many guests. Maybe Gloria would’ve been our hostess. She’s so pretty.” He paused, imagining her in a pink dress inside the Westcreek Café. “Beyond the foyer, a small restaurant and large bar. The bar would’ve always been open.”
“What about guide services?” Paul inquired like a little kid, sweat dripping down his cheeks. “Tell me about fishing and hunting.”
“We’d send out boats at least twice a day. Fill ‘em with as many people as possible. Charge a fair price and take folks to the best fishing holes. Guarantee big northern pike.” Alfred arched his neck, rubbing against the fir branch like the behavior might loosen his muscles and lessen the seriousness of the moment. “In the fall we’d welcome hunters. Equip ‘em with the best gear and show ‘em where to shoot grouse, deer, moose—maybe even wolves.” He closed his eyes. “We would’ve been a major resort for outdoorsmen from all over Minnesota, the country—maybe the world.” He beamed. “We would’ve had a lot of money. So much that we’d bathe in champagne every night. Just ‘cause we could.”
After a short chuckle over the visual, Paul eased back into his misery. “God, I feel cold. Freezing cold.”
“It’s shock, friend,” Alfred said. “Let me get closer.” Sliding hip to hip tightly, wrapping both arms around Paul, he roughly massaged Paul’s skinny shoulders and arms, trying to better circulate the blood.
“Thank you,” Paul said. Then he wrinkled his face in thought. “Maybe Rolly was wrong. About the Ojibwa. Maybe they’re not the enemy. Maybe the tribe would’ve let us build on their land. We could’ve struck a deal. Hell, share our profits. I bet they make good guides. They know the area so well.” He shuddered, feeling intense pain. “It could’ve been like old times, when there wasn’t red land or white land. Just land.”
“Save your breath,” Alfred urged, ever vigilant for skeletons or earies. “Brewster will be here soon. He and the others will check on us. Wonder what happened.” As if trying to convince himself, he nodded. “All we have to do is keep quiet.”
“Now I feel warm,” Paul said. “Really, really warm.”
“I told you, fool!” Alfred scolded. “It’s shock! You’re gonna feel hot, cold, and hot again. Now just pipe down.” He retrieved his flashlight, taking another sweep of the forest.
“No—no!” Paul insisted. “I feel very warm, like a little stove blowing on me.” Trying to locate the source, he strained his head to the left, around the branch. “Shine your light over here. Please? Maybe it’s Brewster and the others. Maybe they brought a kerosene heater. To warm me.
Just see who it is.”
“Aw, you’re delusional. There’s nothing there.” Out to prove his friend wrong, he illuminated a spot behind Paul.
“It’s a cute baby deer!” Paul exclaimed, attempting to curb his glee. “Imagine that. Out here, in the middle of all this death.” He tilted his head inquisitively. “I think he’s scared. Like me. Just wants a place to hide.” He patted the animal’s head.
Meanwhile, Paul panned the flashlight upward. Grave, the smallest of earies, stared back. On top of the fawn, leaning forward, he shielded his eyes from the light and retracted his ears in discomfort. Then the two men heard a submissive whine.
“Jesus, get up—it’s one of them!” Alfred said, scrambling to his feet, seeking out his gun.
“No, I think he’s a good guy,” Paul said. “Like us.” He felt woozy.
Alfred located the rock where he left his rifle but discovered a problem: the gun was missing. Searching madly and blindly on his hands and knees in the rough brush, he couldn’t find it anywhere. Someone or some things had taken it, and at about the same time, a breeze coming from three sides tingled his skin and messed his black hair and scraggly beard. Feeling a sense of terror, Alfred reluctantly sought out the reason. Three creatures on deeries hovered near his face. He could faintly see the fluttering of their eerie ears. He could hear air being sucked in and out, corresponding to the presumed rising and falling of each pilot and mount. And he could smell the curious odor of yams on each exhaled breath. Heart racing, Alfred tried to escape. Immediately he was countered.
Led by Bleak, the trio bare-backed bucks, each with six-point antlers. The deer chomped and latched onto Alfred’s shoulders and midsection. With cheeks and stomachs inflating to capacity, auricles flapping madly, the three raised the big man off his feet like crude, animated cranes seeking to place a load of waste onto a sort of tree branch shelf far, far away. Story by story, the group rose. Story by story, and at about thirty feet, progress stalled. Alfred’s weight became taxing.
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 17