Judgement

by Eric A. Shelman

  “Yeah, I guess. I mean, you’re really beyond your childbearing years, so –”

  “So it’s a good question,” she finished for him.

  “I thought so.”

  “Yes,” she said. “The answer is yes. I’ve not gotten pregnant, but that’s been by design. As long as my father had his plans, and I had my suspicions about those plans, it wasn’t something I was interested in pursuing. Now I see I was right. Sadly.”

  “Were you ever married?” Tommy asked, turning and putting the poker back in its stand.

  She shook her head. “No, which was a subject of gossip in the reservation. Talk of my sexual preferences, you know.”

  Magi leaned forward. “Tala, look at you. I’m sure you were in lots of guys’ sights. Didn’t they notice you weren’t getting older? I’m sure a bunch of guys who used to hit on you ended up with beer bellies and bald heads while you stayed the same.”

  She laughed. “It’s very true. I suspect my father forbade any discussion of it, under penalty of something far worse than death.”

  “Most women would enjoy being referred to as someone who never aged.”

  “I didn’t say I had a problem with it. As my father is looked upon as a sort of god, I imagine they viewed me similarly. You don’t want to piss off us gods, you know.”

  Magi nodded and stared into the flickering flame. “Risking that, I have one more related question.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Oh, I know what it is,” said Tommy, turning toward Magi.

  “You think so?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, turning to Tala. “Can I ask her?”

  “Don’t embarrass me,” said Magi.

  “Really?” Tommy looked worried.

  “Jesus, Tommy. Go ahead.”

  He again looked at Tala. “When you dated, did you date men who were in their mid-twenties? Or did you date men your real age?”

  “Exactly what I was going to ask,” said Magi.

  “Proving you men are all the same,” Tala responded. “Anyway, you have to know that even women my real age don’t want to date men in their sixties,” said Tala, with a laugh. “Needing little blue pills and the like. Of course I took advantage of my looks.”

  Magi laughed, then caught himself in the middle of the chuckle. It died in his throat, but for a moment, it had been nice. Here they were, just chit-chatting in the middle of a world dominated by skinwalkers.

  “You’re thinking it’s time to get serious,” said Tala.

  “I am.”

  “You want to know what I believe?”

  “About your father’s plans? Yes.”

  “You and Wattana,” she began. “Why did you come to us?”

  “You know why. To fight the very group we wait for now.”

  “You stumbled upon the wrong reservation,” she said. “He had not organized yet. Qaletaqa takes his time; a man of his years sees no reason to hurry. It was his idea to let the skinwalkers dominate the earth for a time. They will not reproduce; they will eventually break.”

  “In the meantime, they’ll take out more and more survivors.”

  “Ah, the many survivors. We have seen them. Many are white men.”

  “What?”

  “You know, right? Only those with Native American blood survived the black rain.”

  “I did not at first, but yes, I learned eventually,” said Magi, leaning forward. “

  “Yes. Anyone immune to the rain has blood of the land in their veins.”

  “But how much? How much does it take? The ceremonial text was unclear.”

  “That is just it,” said Tala. “The curse was flawed. It did not achieve what Qaletaqa intended for it lacked specificity. Over the many years since our domination by the Europeans who came here, our bloodlines have been diluted.”

  Magi closed his eyes. As Tala and Tommy looked on, he whispered, “After the moon and the sun cross the sky three times, an inky blackness will rain down over all creatures of the world. Only those with the blood of our land in their veins shall live; the others shall walk the earth, forever hungry, forever dead.”

  “You remembered the words,” she whispered. “I watched my father copy them from high up on the wall of the cavern.”

  Magi opened his eyes and leaned forward quickly. “Do you believe you saw all of what was written there? Could there be other things you didn’t see that night that might be able to … I don’t know, undo this?”

  The look on Tala’s face told Magi the answer. “What has been done cannot be undone. It may possibly be … modified.”

  “How?”

  “It has always been my intention to return there. For years I have considered it.” Now it was her turn to lean forward. “Magi, Tommy. I was a child when I was taken there. I was scared and under the control of my father. I was not to explore, but to obey. So I did not. But I can now.”

  “Do you think your dad will go there?” asked Tommy.

  Magi nodded. It was a good question.

  “I have considered it. If there is something of which he is aware that might threaten his plan –”

  “Which you still haven’t shared,” Magi interrupted.

  “Long before he had the book planted in Standing Rock’s home, and many years before he had your chief murdered, I was allowed to go through that old text,” she said. “It is in large part how I learned to read the ancient Henomawan. My father treasures it. I remember watching him turn each page as though it were a holy book. To him, I’m sure that is what it is.”

  Tommy waved a hand toward the window. “With what is out there roaming around, I wouldn’t call it holy,” he said.

  “Magical, then,” said Tala. “White and black magic. My father focused on the darkness, because he felt it would achieve his dream of the world being returned to his people and others original to this land.”

  “So there it is,” breathed Magi. “That’s what he wanted.” His face changed. He could feel the new expression chase away the old one, and he asked, “But why kill us? We are native to this land.”

  “You, coming from the Henomawi Tribe, might have ultimately figured it out on your own. Wattana used the book. You knew of it. I believe it was always my father’s intention to sacrifice your people. Our people. The old adage, three can keep a secret if two are dead comes to mind.”

  “I was going to say something similar,” said Magi. “So how did it go wrong?”

  “Sitting here, I believe I’ve figured it out. I’ve had nobody to speak with this about, you understand. Often, words spoken aloud make things clearer.”

  “So what is it?”

  She sighed and drained the last of her coffee. “Understand, the text was written long before the Europeans came to this land. Nobody knows who scrawled most of the words in that cave. Perhaps what was written of that incantation was in anticipation of the arrival of the white man, but there was one thing they clearly did not foresee.”

  “What?” asked Tommy, mesmerized.

  “They didn’t expect us to intermingle. To have sex, get pregnant and bear their children. If you know history, then you know it was the ancients’ way that if they attacked another tribe, they would kill them all; men, women and children. They never foresaw a world of half-breeds and quarter-breeds, even eighth-breeds. It was always to be the white man against those who first occupied this land.”

  “Your father never put it together, either.”

  “Not until it was too late,” she said. “I believe he has now. That is what I meant when I said the incantation Climbing Fox used in his ceremony was not specific enough. It did not indicate the percentage of native blood, either in an abstract way or a specific way.”

  “Your father is up against an army of survivors who may not share his desire to kill the white man.”

  “No,” she said, her expression grim. “Because they believe they are white men.”

  “Holy shit,” said Tommy.

  Tala and Magi turned to stare at him, surpris
e on their faces.

  “We need to get to that cave.”

  “It is a short journey from here, but an arduous one,” said Tala. “We cannot make it until the others arrive. Then a small contingency of their people will accompany us.”

  Magi shook his head. “This is a switch. I expected to be fighting them.”

  “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,” said Tala. “If Shakespeare is to be believed.”

  “I believe him now,” said Magi. “But isn’t that what thwarted Qaletaqa’s plans? The bedfellows?”

  Tala smiled. “For a time,” she said. “But he is powerful, and he is hindered, not defeated. Let’s try the radio again to check their progress. I’m feeling a greater sense of urgency.”

  Ω

  Garland Hunter swung the Toyota into the parking lot.

  “What’s this place?” one of his passengers asked.

  “Looks clear,” said the scooter girl, now at the window, but her head on a swivel. “Where’d they take my sister? And why are we here?”

  “What’s your name?” asked Garland.

  “Patsy,” she said. “My sister is Pauline. She goes by Pauly. I’m really Patricia.”

  “Well, ain’t that dandy. You can join these guys. We gotta make a little stop before we hook up with our main group again and reconnect you with your sis.”

  “I could use a new shirt or two,” said one young man. “Where can I find that?”

  “Gift shop for one,” said Garland. “If y’all want any taffy or tee shirts or anything else too, get shoppin’. Watch for the dead, but I need one of y’all to find me a machine shop around here somewhere. Just in case.”

  “A machine shop?” the young Nacogdoche asked. His name was Albert Jennings, and Garland didn’t think he was any older than sixteen, but he was a damned good shot with his .22 Henry and he was glad the kid was along.

  “Yeah, just drive around the area and look for a hardware store or somethin’, like a Tractor Supply or a Northern Tool. Don’t go too far and stay on the radio.”

  “I mighta seen one or the other on the way here,” he said. “Rings a bell.”

  “Cool. Then go back the way we came and see if you can spot it. I’ll radio you if I don’t find what I want here.”

  “I’ll go with,” said Patsy. “I need more ballbearings.”

  “Ballbearings? For what?” asked Garland.

  She pulled a wrist rocket-type slingshot from her back pocket. “I use this when I need to kill quiet. So does Pauly.”

  “Cool,” said Albert. Patsy wasn’t half bad looking, and the kid nodded, trying to look nonchalant. Still, his smile was obvious as she joined him.

  She was maybe seventeen or eighteen years old, and she was cute, in a tomboyish sort of way. She and Albert got in the truck with one of the other guys.

  After the pickup drove off, Garland pointed to two others. “Y’all wait here or come in and help me clear the place if we need to.”

  Both men, whose names Garland did not know, opted to come inside. One was a burly guy who never spoke, but who carried an AR-15 like it was an extension of his body. He had a solid, brick-like body with thick, piston-like arms and fists the size of cantaloupes.

  The other guy was almost his opposite; he looked like he was on heroin right up to the day the apocalypse hit. His arms were bone thin, tattoos covered him from wrist to neck, and his skin was pallid and pocked.

  Like his thicker counterpart, he would nod or shake his head rather than talk, but he’d never given anyone any trouble, so when he’d raised his hand to volunteer for the posse going after Climbing Fox Wattana, nobody had blinked an eye.

  Garland slung a Cold M4 Carbine over his shoulder, but carried a Sig Sauer 1911 in his right hand as he pushed through the door of what the sign said was called Adventureland Reptile Emporium & Alligator Preserve.

  “What we doin’ here?” asked the skinny guy. They were the first words Garland ever recalled hearing him speak.

  “It’s tied to why I sent Albert and them off to find a hardware store. If my dream comes true, we’re gonna come out of here with a nice weapon.”

  “What are these?” asked the bigger guy, also breaking his silence. He was holding up his gun.

  “Let me know when you can just release that gun and have it do the killin’ for you,” said Garland. “Tee shirts and taffy are over there,” he said, pointing to the store aisles inside.

  Toward the back, he saw glass doors leading to an outside area. As he turned right, something snagged his ankle, and he screamed, kicking out at it.

  The half-body was alive and … well, not exactly kicking, since it had no feet. The face was gray, the eyes that looked up at him were black, and the same colored goop was pouring out of its rotting ears, leaving smears on the linoleum.

  “Fucker,” said Garland, and pressed his .45 to its head. He fired once and a black spatter pattern decorated the floor, splashing his shoe.

  “Goddamnit!” cursed Garland.

  “You alright back there?” called the burly guy.

  “Yeah, yeah. Keep an eye out for zombies!” returned Garland.

  The rest of the aisle appeared clear, but Garland kept his head on a swivel anyway as he approached the back door and saw his prize.

  It was a fifteen-footer if it was an inch. He didn’t have to go far to find it, either. It was at the door, facing him with its mouth open wide – at least a two-foot jaw spread, with beautiful, angry teeth.

  Dead bodies in various stages of decay lay in pieces all around the dried-up pools, where smaller reptiles once lay while people milled around the caged creatures and shot photographs with their smart phones and cameras.

  Garland didn’t care about any of them. He hurried back inside the shop to find the beach towels. They were folded and stacked on glass shelves to the right of the doors, so he ran over and grabbed four of the largest ones he could find.

  On his way back, he found a selection of two-foot-long wind-up plastic alligators. Dropping the stack of towels, he picked one up and twisted the key on its back.

  Placing it on the floor, it began to walk its mechanical walk forward, bellowing out a recording of what a real gator sounded like, and Garland actually smiled. He took two of them, switched them to the off position and wound both of them up.

  Sitting on the floor, he tied the towels together. When he was done, he moved back over to the window where the huge gator, its red eyes tracking his every move, waited outside.

  Behind the big boy, Garland saw the cage around the largest pool had been thrashed and ripped from its base, now twisted and bent, with an arched cave-like exit created from sheer, brute strength.

  Zombiegator strength. Crazy, deadly strength.

  His radio crackled to life on his belt. “Garland, it’s Albert. I found a Tractor Supply. What are you looking for?”

  “Acetylene torch kit and a small, portable welder. Also a little generator that’ll run the stuff. Hurry, too. I’ll be ready here real quick.”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  “Yeah. We’re gonna need a lightweight trailer. Flatbed’ll do. Fifteen feet or more.”

  “What’s all this for?”

  “Just get it here. If you see a hand pump, just grab that for the trailer tires in case they’re flat. And you’re still gonna need to find a car outside to siphon gas for the generator. Don’t worry, there’s a sure method to my madness.”

  “Okay, Garland. What kinda weight does the trailer need to handle?”

  Garland looked at the big boy behind the glass, then said, “I’m guessin’ around a thousand pounds.”

  “No sweat.”

  “Make sure it has side rails.”

  “Check. Hey, Patsy found a whole bunch of ballbearings.”

  “Yeah? And you’re tellin’ me because?”

  “Just … I don’t know. She was happy about it.”

  “Uh huh,” said Garland. “Keep it in your pants, kid. See you in a bit.”


  Garland clipped the radio back on his belt and flipped the switch on the animatronic gators. They spun in place once and then moved forward, slamming against the reinforced glass, croaking their electronic best to match the ferocious creatures after which they were designed.

  The fifteen-footer’s eyes watched them move, surging forward to strike the invisible barrier that kept it from attacking the taunting toy gators.

  Garland slipped away and walked out the side door into the containment area, towels in hand.

  He moved behind the gator, stretched the towels apart in his hands like a killer with a piano wire, and lunged for the distracted beast.

  Ω

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The freeway was jammed solid near the airport. Once we saw it, Micky radioed, and told us they’d found an alternate route down some side streets.

  If it were only as easy as going to a football game, and just paying some dude to park in their front yard.

  We went through a lot of ammo on that little jaunt. Deadheads everywhere. We lost one of the Toyotas, too. It had slammed into one too many of the dead folks, and eventually the radiator got jammed up against the cooling fan.

  Didn’t take long after that. In what must’ve looked like a goddamned Chinese Fire Drill, we all jumped out, swarmed the pickup and moved all the supplies over to other vehicles. Then we tucked an extra person into each one.

  We’d need to replace it. We might be warriors for the moment, but we were still creatures of comfort.

  Speaking of creatures, the things were now operating in snowy conditions – not bad enough to really hurt us with our snow tires, but enough to stiffen their joints a bit. Slower, for sure. That was just fine by all of us.

  We worked our way onto a four-lane running east/west called the 500 S. It ducked through an industrial area, so while we were passing through, we kept an eye out for – and found – a good replacement vehicle. This one wasn’t a Toyota, but it was a nice, newer Chevy quad cab parked at a place called Thermo Fluids, Inc – with a slogan that read: The Responsible Solution.

  Kinda creeped me out, if you want to know the truth. Reminded me of that old movie with Charlton Heston, Soylent Green. Not sure why.