A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West (16 page)

The wolf shook with pumping rage as it then went completely berserk with the blood lust and threw itself amidst the demonic rabble with a blood curdling roar; Billy began to grin, began to feel safe he knew his grandfather would come, he knew it.

Tearing skin from flesh, the wolf worked its way through the demon pack, arms and legs flew from sockets, organs splattered against the ground like horseshit. Their screams of pain ripped through the night like a siren, till all that was left was a scattering of broken, steaming bones. Billy watched with glee as the wolf prowled around sniffing and snorting, making sure its victory was complete.

Then, from behind him, his grandfather burst through the bush, the wolf instantly moved its large powerful head towards him and gave a growling bark.

“Grandfather.” Billy screamed, he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. He wasn’t the wolf?

His grandfather rushed over to him and pulled him to the floor as the wolf slowly approached. “Don’t move stay very still.” he said as he tried to catch his wheezing breath.

The creature came closer and began to circle them, the hairs on its back started to stand on end. It was readying itself for the kill, yet its eyes gave away a guarded emotion that it was fighting with something deep within its heart. Billy and his grandfather squirmed with fear as the great beast circled them closer and closer, its eyes burned up with wild emotion; as its hot breath lapped against their shivering skin.

Then as the wolf almost nuzzled Billy’s cheek he saw something loom out of its blood thirsty eyes, a flickering shadow of a face twirling and twisting like a corpse within the deep watery darkness of the beast’s pupils, a face he had almost forgotten, a face much like his own an in a flash everything fell into place inside his head.

“Momma!” he called out with all his might; he tried to jump up as the urge to hug the wolf over took him, but his grandfather caught his arm and shouted in his ear. “It’s just her rage that’s here, not her love Billy.”

The wolf jumped back, its eyes still fighting with the blood lust, still fighting a fragile primal thought that it knew these people. Then, with a fiery glare, its eyes snapped back into a wolf again. The rage and fury had won, black demon blood still dripped from its long tiger-like teeth, as it opened its mouth and sucked in the night time air like a back draft and howled a terrible unearthly scream at them both.

His grandfather held Billy firm as he spoke towards the wolf. Billy couldn’t hear him above the raw of the howl, he could only see his grandfather’s lips slowly moving, saying something old, saying something that was a part of the beast and somehow apart of his mother.

Thunder clapped above their heads like two great hands and the moment they were in, all those terrible moments that lead to this point was suddenly gone, two worlds had folded back into one and it was over. All that was left was the two of them on the floor as slowly the sounds of the woods crept back in; it too knew that something dark and terrible had finally passed.

In the days that followed they each adjusted to what had happened to them in their own quiet way. Something changed too with Billy’s father; he never laid a hand on him again, Billy knew his father sensed the beginning of manhood in him, sensed he was marked out as a brave. His grandfather also knew this too and so started teaching Billy the Indian ways to life and living. He told him about how his people, many years before, had hung the white men in the woods, after they had turned themselves into those cursed demons with their violence and greed; told him how there were many different kinds of beasts living secretly inside the hearts of everyone, not just demons or wolves, and how it was the duty of every man and woman to keep them in check with bravery and love.

As for Billy, sometimes he would go back into the woods alone and sit, thinking about the long gone demons and about the ancient invocation his grandfather had done to save him. He would think about his mother who had somehow answered the mystery’s call but, more often than not, he would just think about cowboys and gunfights, while fishing in the lake.

ROOTS

Kevin G. Bufton

The worst day of Thomas Wilson’s life started with a scream.

He had been sitting in his chair at the head of the table, filling his mouth with homemade skillet bread, washed down with hot, sweet coffee. The first lazy rays of morning sun were working their way through the small window, flooding the kitchen with their warmth. His eldest son, Jonah, sat to his left, rapidly demolishing a plateful of bread at least as large as his father’s. Zacariah sat opposite him, listlessly pushing his food around his plate and making no attempt to stifle his yawns as he ate. He was ten years younger than his brother, but there was no denying their kinship. Thomas had not been able to afford a photograph of Jonah when he was growing up, but he only needed to look at the boy’s brother to be reminded.

Thomas had been listing chores for the day. Zacariah had the fireplace to sweep out and lay for the evening, followed by washing the breakfast things and feeding the animals. If he finished that, then he could spend the rest of the morning doing as he pleased until lunch time. Jonah’s work would be more arduous, as was only fitting. He would be helping his father dig holes for the new fence posts they had been making for the last three weeks. The Wilson farmstead may not have been much, little more than a smallholding in the old country, but it belonged to nobody but Thomas Wilson – Thomas Wilson and his two fine boys.

Thomas drained his cup of the last of its coffee. He had barely set it down when the screaming began. Zacariah was startled from his habitual morning daze and looked towards his brother for an answer. Jonah was looking at his dad in the same way, but Thomas had nothing to give them in return. He stood up from the table, the heavy wooden chair scraping across the floor, and ran to the back door.

The screaming was terrible, like nothing he had ever heard before and, for a moment, he hesitated. He looked back at his sons and that was enough. He had promised their mother on her deathbed, as the light faded from her eyes, that he would protect them from anything that life could raise against them and if that meant facing a horde of howling demons on his own soil, then so be it. He picked up his rifle from behind the door and motioned to the boys with his free hand.

“You boys stay inside now,” he said, raising his voice above the din. “I’m just gonna take a peek outside, see what all this commotion’s about. Jonah, you mind your brother there, you hear?”

“Yessir,” he replied.

Thomas nodded – that was all he needed to hear. He flung the door open and stepped out of the farmhouse. The screaming was coming from the patch of dusty scrubland that served as a paddock for Bessie. She was getting on in years, just like Thomas, but she could still put in a good day’s work. Something was wrong with her now, terribly wrong.

He ran to her and instantly saw the problem. Her rear legs had got tangled up in a tumbleweed. He nearly laughed with relief. From the noise she’d been making, he thought that a wild dog had got into the farmstead. He stroked her firmly down the length of her nose in an effort to get her calmed down. The thick roots of the weed had snared good and tight around her and the sharp thorns had dug deep into the flesh of her legs. The barbs looked nasty; bigger and more jagged than he was used to seeing in these parts.

He called for Jonah to bring him his gloves. By the time he had come out, Bessie’s screams had subsided to a whimper and she was trembling under his touch. Thomas donned the gloves and reached around a likely part of the plant with both hands, pulling it away from the ruined flesh beneath. Bessie cried out again, flinching as the thorns tore at her. The more Thomas pulled, the more the gnarled roots tightened around her legs.

“Don’t just stand there,” he shouted at his son, who was staring dumbstruck at the blood smeared all over his father’s gloves. “Go get my knife!”

Jonah turned and ran back to the house, without a word. Thomas held onto the root, pulling with all his might as it cinched tighter and tighter against Bessie’s leg. Thomas could feel his fingers becoming dumb beneath the plant’s vicelike grip by the time Jonah had returned to his side.

“Cut it!” he snapped at his son. Jonah stood there, staring, as his father grappled with the giant weed. “Damn it, Jonah,” he snapped. “It’s caught my fingers! Just cut the goddamn thing!”

Jonah shook himself and leaned forward. He put one hand on his father’s wrist and, with the other, he brought the sharp edge of the knife underneath and pulled, sawing the blade in a rocking motion. Soon he had severed the root and, with the pressure released, Thomas fell back into the dirt. A thick green sap pumped out the ragged piece of vine, coating Jonah’s bare hands.

“Shit!” he shouted, pulling back. Thomas had already got to his feet.

“What’s the matter, boy?” he asked.

“This stuff,” Jonah said, “from the tumbleweed. It…it’s burning.”

“Damn it, son,” Thomas said, “go and wash it off!” Jonah hesitated. “Now!” Thomas shouted.

Jonah ran, hands held out in front of him, the thick green goo dripping from his fingertips. He pushed past Zacariah, who had come out to see what all the commotion was about, knocking him to the floor. He reached the water butt and pulled open the spigot on the front, washing his hands desperately beneath the flow of tepid water. The slime came off easily enough, but it had left its mark on him. His skin had come up in bright red blotches, raw and angry, where the sap had mad contact with his hands.

Bessie had not fared so well. The remaining roots of the tumbleweed had retracted almost immediately, so she was no longer ensnared, but sap had got into her open wound. The thick liquid steamed on contact with the blood, causing her to scream again, even in the depths of her exhaustion. Thomas tried to wipe the area clean but the flesh beneath his gloved hand had already begun to putrefy and sloughed off the bones. The sensation made him gag as his fingers pushed through the rotting meat. Bessie shrieked in pain and fear and tried to kick his hand away. There was no strength left in her back legs; indeed, there was scarcely any leg left at all.

Thomas gave up on his clumsy ministrations and stepped back. Both of Bessie’s legs lay in utter ruination. One was stripped down to the bone whilst the other had been torn to pieces by the tumbleweed’s thick barbs. She lay screaming, her body drenched in sweat, bucking and trembling as each new wave of pain washed through her. Thomas bent to pick up his rifle and saw Zacariah stood in front of the farmhouse, his hands over his ears as he tried to block the screeching out of his head.

Shaking his head, Thomas cocked the rifle and held it at the horse’s head.

“Daddy, no!” Zacariah shouted.

Thomas closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

***

Hours later, Thomas sat in his chair, in front of a crackling fire, starting in his seat whenever a particularly dry piece of kindling popped. He was on edge, they all were. The door creaked open and he jumped again, his heart pounding in his chest. It was only Jonah.

“You scared me,” Thomas said.

“Sorry, Pa.”

“How’s your brother?”

“He’s okay,” Jonah said. “He’s sleepin’.”

Thomas nodded and settled back into his chair. The fire hissed and crackled in the grate; a comforting sound, he thought. It was the second fire of the day. The first had been to dispose of Bessie’s body. After putting her out of her misery and checking on the boys, Thomas had set to work on the carcass. He had left the remains of the tumbleweed wrapped around her legs as there had seemed little point in removing them. They couldn’t hurt the poor old girl anymore and he’d rather have them where he could see them. She was a mess. The flesh on her right rear leg had melted away and congealed beneath it in a pool of lumpy slurry. The other had fared only slightly better, thick gashes torn into the meat of the thigh. The tumbleweed’s barbs had dug deep but, as the sap had poured from the body of the plant, what was left of it had fallen still.

Thomas had broken off one of the thorns between his thumb and forefinger. It came away easily and he held it in front of his face. Tumbleweeds were common in this part of the world. There wasn’t a lot of naturally fertile soil, so these dried up husks would bound across the dry ground, depositing their seeds in whatever small cracks in the earth the wind took them to. He’d never seen one like this before. It was bigger than any specimen he has encountered and the sap was something of a mystery too. Tumbleweeds were usually little more than dried up husks, travelling on the breeze but this one had pulsed with life, the sap spewing from it like an artery. He examined the barb closely. He was no botanist, but he knew that there would be a seed inside it somewhere, a tiny spark of life waiting to lodge itself anywhere that would provide sufficient nutrients to grow into another plant, a new life.

Just holding it made Thomas feel uneasy, the thought of so much potential in his hand. He had dropped it, watching it land in the pool of rotten flesh at this feet with a barely audible plop. It burst open before his eyes, a fresh green shoot struggling out of its dark case and unfurling, reaching out and twisting. The blood and liquefied meat shrank away as the sapling grew bigger, as if it were being sucked up a straw and Thomas realised how it could get so big. It had no need to rely on the vagaries of the wind and the vague prospect of finding fertile soil. It created its own mulch from anything it managed to take down, a ideal mix of minerals to ensure its survival in the desert.