The bird was face down on the earth—alive—with its wings fanned out. It’s eating something, I thought. I remember that. We looked further. I drew my gun. There were six other birds like that. Face down. Wings out. Raking their beaks into the earth to eat something.
Old Mah asked, “What is it?”
Ned made a joke: “Even the birds are praying now.”
One of the birds turned its head to look up at us. A calligraphy of light—pure blue fire—erupted from between its eyes as it rose into the air and spun.
What we had witnessed was over, but something cold flashed through me: Summoners.
They were calling something forward.
All seven birds exploded into flight.
Uncle Ned shouted, “We need to leave this place—now!”
I looked over at our group: Norma, wearing special gloves, was holding the porcupine. She was pulling a quill out. Sarah was beside her, holding out a bag for her mom.
Then it sprang back to life. The porcupine just came back to life in her hands. It wasn’t dead at all. Or maybe it was, and this was a spell. Either way, it was a trap.
Its eyes. They looked like eggs boiled to death.
The porcupine grabbed Norma’s ears with its paws and tore her face apart in front of all of us.
I saw the faces around me: pure horror.
The porcupine hissed at us with pure hatred.
I heard a click from Uncle’s gun behind me. Then another. And another. Ned pushed me forward and yelled, “Shoot that thing! My gun’s jammed!” But I couldn’t. Norma’s shawl hung open. Her belly. The baby. I couldn’t locate the target with all the blood that was flying. I did not want to hit Sarah or that baby inside Norma. Save the baby, I kept thinking. Save Sarah and the baby. I’m sorry, Yellow Hand. It’s too late for your wife.
“Save the children!” someone yelled. “Back to the Outpost!”
“Norma, you fight it,” Uncle Ned shouted. “Think of Sarah and your little one on the way. Fight it, so Sarah can run to us. Somebody, shoot that creature!”
The porcupine hissed again. Blood streamed down Norma’s arms, her neck. It was a blur of ripping, quills, tearing. Her hair flew. Chunks of it. Norma’s spine snapped as she bent backwards. Now we knew the Wheetago spirit had her.
Ned shoved me again. “Shoot it, goddamn you. She’s Wheetago now. Kill her and that thing before it gets all of us.” His pistol was by his feet. He’d tossed it there after it wouldn’t fire. He’d drawn his rifle but it dry-fired, and he tossed that too.
The problem with kids is that, as many drills as we go through with them, they all run off in different directions. Who can blame them? We were all terrified. I heard the safety going off on my rifle as I aimed to fire.
I heard Sarah yell, “Mom?”
Click—
My rifle jammed.
Click—
I kept pulling the trigger. What should have been two skull shots was nothing instead.
Ned yelled for Sarah to come. She bolted towards him. “Uncle!”
I dropped my rifle and pulled out my pistol. Click—
Again. Nothing was working. The other guards were all in shock: none of our guns were firing.
Norma shot back upright but crooked, looking at all of us. The only way I can describe it? It’s like it came from behind her. Her face started to boil. She had left, and something else had come back. Something else bore through her. She had turned Wheetago. She advanced towards us, all hunched up, taking a huge breath …
“Shit!” I yelled. “Silencers! Do not let her scream.” I dropped my pistol, ducked into my Silencers and pulled out my flare gun. I decided to aim for her mouth before she could bite us or let out one of their Hell cries.
But then she did the strangest thing. She found the sharpest rock jutting upwards and slammed her face on it over and over, splitting her jaw in half, breaking her teeth into a maw of fangs.
I couldn’t risk looking behind me. I used my shoulder to prop my Silencer open. “Who has the children?”
“Got ’em!” one of the sister guards yelled.
“Get them back to the Outpost and send help!”
As I brought my shoulder up, my right Silencer flipped open. I could not get it back down.
Sarah, who had been with Uncle Ned, darted back towards her mother.
I could hear that Ned was frantic. “Sarah, put on your Silencers! Stay away from your mother! She’s not herself anymore!”
Norma and the porcupine spotted Sarah at the same time. We had never seen anyone Turn with a baby still inside them. Norma’s face was a bleeding skull watching her daughter, and I could tell she was getting ready to bite. The porcupine lunged.
Somebody yelled. A yell of fear. I looked and saw that three of the guards were under attack. What had them had come from above. A rope of guts sprayed out from one of the sisters. Aggie, her name was. That rope was as long as her braids. This Wheetago looked like a new kind: a Reaper, I believe they call it. With the beak.
The porcupine was mid-air when an arrow nailed its head to a tree. The arrow had been fired by Dove, the Shifter, who was by luck returning with two jugs of fresh water just then.
Dove’s Silencers were still around Dove’s throat. I remember that.
Norma charged towards Dove.
Dove flipped a Decapitator and caught Norma perfectly by the throat. She was immobilized for now, clawing the air. And she could not scream.
The way Dove caught her was amazing.
I pulled my machete out and headed for Norma. This had to be quick.
And that was when we were hit with the grenade.
It tore Ned in half and knocked me out. Dove too.
I must have been out for a good five minutes. When I woke up, I was covered in what was left of Ned. The sisters and Stanley had been pulled in half and eaten. Splitters had gotten to them. If you don’t know … it’s a horrible thing to witness. They’d been skinned and gutted. Some Wheetago choke on moose fat. We’ve yet to see if this works on Splitters. Oracles? Yes. We’ve seen them gag on moose fat and drop. So far, none have resurrected themselves.
The children were gone too. Even Norma’s baby. They’d taken the children and the one who was wanting to be born. They were all gone.
Oh. My theory? They say that Earth had seven billion humans before the Wheetago returned, right? I think that was the Wheetago’s magic number. Men warmed the world and the Wheetago unthawed themselves from whatever Hell they were in. I think seven billion was the magic number for the amount of meat they’d need to make the world maggoty with them and their kind.
Maybe the Wheetago Turned God too. Who knows?
Sure. Fuck. I could eat a bullet. Millions have. But I think of this as a game now. Something’s happening. Something bigger than all of us. Even them. It’s an awakening. I think if I make it, I’m gonna witness an answer to all our prayers.
Are four horsemen gonna come racing across the sky?
Are we gonna hear the trumpets over their screams?
Or was the world always theirs? Have we been praying to the wrong God all this time?
As sure as something made all of us, I want to see what’s gonna happen next. Because who do they worship? Do you ever think of that? When they’re swaying together there under the moon like stalks of wheat, who are they praying to?
Those birds were Summoners. They or an Oracle called a spell on that porcupine to trick us. And the Wheetago can freeze guns. It’s happened before, but not in the numbers that happened to us. Their power is growing. They’re problem-solving, and now they can sense electricity. If they’re using their magic, what do we have? We have Old Man and Iris, his wife. We have Dove. I have to believe that the magic the Wheetago have, that reciprocal magic or medicine, I have to believe that some of it’s coming our way. Because otherwise, how do
you explain what the Old Man and Iris can do? You can’t. And we have Dove. I am here to nominate Dove for the Mark of the Butterfly. You bet your ass I am. Dove goddamned saved me. I pray they wake up soon from that coma. But the Wheetago won’t be forgetting Dove.
Why do the Wheetago want our children? It ain’t killing. It’s something more. Something … for their rituals. We’ve seen their altars out there on the land. Some of our scouts have seen them smudging with human hair. Are they calling on something through our children? What if there is something bigger coming?
I’ve only seen a few kinds of them: Hair Eaters, Shark Mouths, Boiled Faces. Yellow Hand saw one that could fly. I have seen Shovel Heads. They’re slow, but they ain’t stupid, and it takes a lot of stabbing to take one of them down, never mind a herd of them. They eat everything in their path. But an Oracle? One of their wizards? No. We’ve heard reports of the flames above them when they walk. I saw that fire over the porcupine’s head, and the magpie’s. I don’t know what to think of that.
But what if they want our children … like … to make them? We know from reports that their Mother births more Wheetago from her mouth. That’s how Wheetago are made. Unless you’re bitten. Then it’s all over. You’re Turned.
But one of them kids: Shane. He was my godson. I have to walk by his grandmother every day now. I would have gladly given my life for his, but when there are no bodies there’s no peace.
So where are they? Where are those kids? What if they’re raising them as their own?
I sit here before you to say that I will lead any excursion back to the Outpost. You need a scout? I’m your man. We must preserve everything there to maintain what we have left. Because we have to take back our kingdom. But first things first: we have to find our children.
That grenade? It could have been thrown by a human working for the Wheetago. Yes, I’ve heard of the farms in the South. I can’t think of anyone in our camp who would have something like that. And where are my Silencers and the Silencers of Uncle Ned and Dove? Those Silencers were gone when we woke up. Also, some of our magazines. The Wheetago don’t use our weapons. I don’t think they know how. But if it was humans helping them ...
I recognized Shane’s armband on the grass beside me when I woke up. I was there when it was given to him in ceremony, and I carry it with me now. I took it to Old Man. He prayed on it. He said Shane’s still alive, and I believe it. I had given Shane a knife just that morning. One I made. I have to believe that boy is alive. I need to believe it. Earth ain’t ours anymore. I can feel it every day since the Three Day War. That’s all it took: three days to claim a God and a planet?
Maybe we had it coming.
But whatever time I got left on this planet, I’m gonna use it to get those kids back for their families, for our larger family. Count me in.
Mahsi.
The Promise
The wedding was going as planned. The food was great. Most everyone had made it to the hall. A few people got lost but, well, they showed up for the smorg. It hadn’t snowed, as we’d worried. It was our night. Finally, husband and wife. Finally!
We were at the head table. Gifts, despite us saying we didn’t want any, kept piling up around us. We smiled and shook our heads. After about ten requests, Carly and I kissed and danced. Then we started making our rounds, thanking as many people as possible.
It was when I made it back to the head table first that my buddy Hank came up, shook my hand, leaned in and whispered, “Remember the promise.”
He smiled, patted my shoulder and waded his way back to the smorg.
The promise: Lord, I have never forgotten.
I closed my eyes and let this ditty of a doozy roll back into my psyche full throttle.
* * *
It was a Pro-D Day in Fort Smith, 1986. Halley’s Comet had returned from her seventy-six-year orbit. Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings” was playing on CBC. I had told Hank that we had the new Intellivision game B-17 Bomber at our place, but we didn’t. He showed up all ready to rock and spend the day eating hoagies and Fig Newtons (our fave) and drinking Jolt Colas, but it was a trick. I had none of these. What I did have was some work gloves, my dad’s coveralls and two pairs of steel-toed boots. “Get to work,” I instructed him.
“Where’s the new game?” he asked, worried, with frog eyes. “And the grub? This is our day!”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Soon, Dog Brother. Soon.”
He looked at me lopsided. “This better not be a trick.”
“Me? Naw,” I said. “Let’s go.”
So we worked. Well, actually, I monitored while Hank worked. I vied for an Academy Award by making a show of how heavy the snow in the driveway was. After shovelling, Hank hauled and poured load after load of wood into our woodbox, so excited about the new Intellivision game.
“Crom, count the dead!” I roared as I pulled out my daddy’s jumbo axe and started splitting the monster stumps.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him. Wally’s Drugs was sold out of B-17s, and I had been too lazy the night before to zip to Kelly’s to buy the goodies that were supposed to get us through the day.
Man, I worked him. After the woodbox and the shovelling, it was vacuuming, doing dishes, washing walls, scrubbing toilets.
Hank and I were both only children, so we’d adopted each other as brothers. We mostly got along, but every once in a while I pulled the elder card. Today was one of those days. My mom had given me a list of all the chores I had to finish by the time she got home. I’d been on a lazy streak the past month. Maybe I was growing too fast. Maybe I was obsessed with the way the blonde—definitely not Michelle Pfeiffer—shimmied on the screen in Grease 2. Who knows?
Either way, once the chores were done, Hank was devastated to learn all of the things I’d promised were pure fibs.
“Fuck sakes,” he guppied.
“Sorry,” I said and opened my palms. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Are you serious?” he mewled. “We don’t have B-17 Bomber?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“And you don’t got hoagies?”
Shook my head again.
“Jolt?”
I shrugged and shot him the best line out of Fast Times at Ridgemont High: “Can’t give you what I don’t have.”
I actually saw his eye sockets bulge. “How bone. This is the worst day ever.”
I smiled. “It’s the best. Look at my house. It’s clean and the chores are done.”
I got the giggles, and my feet started to sweat. I almost had to bite my palm to stop from braying like a donkey’d hyena.
“This fuckin’ sucks,” Hank said. “I trusted you.”
“Dude,” I said. “I’m the victim here. How do you think I feel?”
He looked at me. “I’m going home. This coulda been the greatest.”
He was reaching for his Edmonton Journal sidesack when I looked at the clock. My mom wouldn’t be home for another fifteen minutes.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “How about we play rock, paper, scissors—best out of three—and, whoever wins gets to do the ultimate WWF move on the other guy and then the loser has to submit and then we flip it, so everyone gets a turn.”
He put his bag down. “No illegal moves?”
I shook my head. “No illegal moves. Are you kidding me? They’re, like, illegal.”
He looked at me. I sensed some good-hearted vengeance in him.
“Let’s go.”
I got my hand ready for rock, paper, scissors, and we went for it. I won the first time, the second time, the third time. It made no sense. Some things can’t be explained.
“Shit!” Hank said and pointed at me. “No illegal moves.”
“As if,” I shrugged. “She never crossed my mind.”
He got into a wrestler’s stance. “Okay, what’s your move?”
Hank had the gene where he could go Berzerker, so I had to watch it. He’d nailed me a few times in
the past, kicked me so hard in the grapes that the good lord above waved his holy hands and played the hokey-pokey below my soles as my body flew yonder.
I shook my hand and pointed. “On your tummy,” I said. “Arms out. Pretend you’re Jesus.”
He got down and did as I instructed. “Frick sakes,” he said.
I got the jitters then. This was going to be poly-mygorphix. I could see his big brown toe poking out of his sock. We used to be altar boys together, Hank and me. He was wearing an old belt his dad had given him before walking out on his family. I had a moment of pity, but I knelt down and hiked one of his arms over my leg. This had to happen. I had to secure my day as the victor.
“This isn’t the Camel Clutch, is it?” he asked me, lookin’ back.
“Naw,” I said. “That’s illegal. Plus, it’s panzy ass.”
I hiked his other arm over my leg and tried not to laugh.
“This feels like the Camel Clutch,” he said.
“Nope,” I said and knelt down. “It’s a new move I just invented called—the Camel Clutch!!”
Holy fuck, boy! I grabbed his neck and pulled back and his little hands started flapping until they turned purple. He bucked as I rode him into the sunset of my dreams. “Oh yeah!” I did my best Macho Man Randy Savage impression and Hopalong Cassidy’d Hank across the carpet. It was so rad! I was a fuck barnacle. I felt great. This was the best day ever.
Until I felt hot soup running down the back of my hands.
“Oh, shit,” I said. “Dude, are you drooling on me?”
I looked, and they were tears. Hank was crying. He couldn’t breathe. His Adam’s apple was seizing. I dropped him fast.
“Fuck!” I said. “Hank, I am so sorry. So so sorry. Shit, dude!”
Hank took the biggest breath of his life and let out a huge soul cry. He cried and cried and cried as I curled up to him like a ref. Like a paramedic. I had only minutes left before my mom came home.
“Hank, Hank. Hank! I am so sorry. Hank. I thought you could breathe.”
Moccasin Square Gardens Page 5