Skinwalkers (20 page)

Dewayne exhaled, readying himself. Then he leapt from his hiding place and leveled his gun on the man with the rifle.

“Drop your guns!“

The two in the pen froze with their hands on their pistol grips. The one standing watch held his rifle at port arms, his mouth working, his body a coiled spring.

“I said drop your guns
goddamnit
! Get your hands up!“

Reality slowed as the lookout brought his rifle up to bear against his shoulder. Dewayne squeezed the trigger of his revolver, the action seeming to take eons. The gunshot echoed in his ears, deep and drawn out as though he’d fired his weapon underwater. Blood reached out of the lookout's chest like red hand. The other two men began to draw their pistols, their movements graceful and dreamlike.

Dewayne turned in slow motion and flipped the hammer of his revolver. His strokes were deliberate and they appeared to him like movements more akin to spreading butter than firing a gun. The bullets struck home and the hog thieves convulsed and jerked in a sluggish ballet of death until they sank backward into the mud.

Dewayne heard someone behind him and reality shot forward like a racing comet. He whirled and fired his gun just as he realized it was his Sonny who’d been approaching. Dewayne screamed. Sonny’s chest exploded with a spray of blood and gore as she fell to the earth.

He slung his gun to the ground and rushed to her side. He dropped to his knees and took her in his arms. Sonny’s eyes were blank and glossy and her breath had stopped. “No, Sonny
. No
!“ Dewayne’s body began to shake with sobs as the reality of what he’d done hit him. “I told you to stay inside! I told you to stay inside! Oh, God, please, no!“

Dewayne threw back his head and
howled at
the
blood
-
red
sky.

T
he bounty hunter emerged from the armory with four new six-shooters and a restocked gun
belt. He holstered two of the pistols and then stuffed the other two down his gun
belt
—
one in front and one in back. He hoped at least one of the weapons worked. He judged his chances were good based on the Gatling gun’s performance.

That’s a bet you better win, Dewayne, because the stakes are your life
.

He entered the sanctuary to find the others staring in disgust as Little Joe used the knife he’d carried in his belt to hack off an arm from the corpse of a dead Navajo. When he’d finished, the big native wiped the knife clean with the hair of the corpse and then held the severed limb out to Farnsworth.

J.T. stared at the arm as though it were a cobra about to strike him. “Please, Little Joe, for the moment I’m fine with letting the appendage rest upon the floor.“

Little Joe shrugged and dropped the bleeding arm
onto
the ground.

“You still sure you want to do this?“ the bounty hunter asked.

“Your use of the word
still
implies that, at some point in the past, I had fully resigned myself to this course of action,“ J.T. said.

The bounty hunter eyed him with a confused expression.

“What I mean to say is,“ Farnsworth said, “only a fool would willingly run out amongst those monsters waving a bloody arm.“ Farnsworth winked at the man. “However, considering the speed of foot I’ve obtained sprinting away from cuckolded husbands and determined lawmen such as yourself, I may be the only one present able to provide you with a diversion who
could still
hope to
flee to safety’s breast once
the
endeavor reaches conclusion.“

“You
ain’t
half the sack of shit I took you for, Professor.“

“Oh, begging your pardon, dear man, I am positively overflowing with shit
.
So much so that it threatens to gush out of my ears while forcing my eyeballs from my head
.“
Farnsworth extended his hand to the man. “But let me say that my own first impression of you was also unwarranted and ill deserved.“ The men shook hands as Wilson exited the rectory
,
loading a pair of pistols
as he approached
.

The bounty hunter frowned. “Where do you think
—?“

“I don’t want to hear it,“ Wilson said. “If, miracle of miracles, you actually manage to get back into town, it would be better if you had someone with you who knows his way around.

“And don’t give me any horseshit about my dying, either.“ Wilson sighed and he hung his head. “Mister
,
I died a long time ago.“

The bounty hunter eyed Wilson for a time and then nodded. He turned and faced Sanchez where he stood beside the Gatling gun. The weapon was now positioned only a few yards out from the mission doors.

“When that door opens,“ the bounty hunter said, “be ready for anything.“

Sanchez nodded and wiped sweat from his forehead. His face had turned as red as Arizona clay and perspiration was dropping from him in buckets.

“Can you do this, Private?“ the bounty hunter asked. Sanchez nodded. Not having any alternative if the
private
was too sick to operate the Gatling gun, the bounty hunter nodded in return. “All right then.“

He’d started for
Wilson and Sanchez when Maxine rushed into his arms and pressed her mouth to his. He took her willingly, enfolding her in his arms.

“Thank you,“ Maxine said as she drew back. Her voice was barely audible. The bounty hunter smiled and caressed her delicate, bronze face
.
He lingered a moment and then rejoined Wilson and Farnsworth. The latter now held the bloody, severed arm in one hand.

“I should say a prayer over you men,“ the reverend said. “And one for the boy’s safe return.“ The three men looked at one another.

“Reverend,“ the bounty hunter said, “we’re all prayed out.“

F
arnsworth had been running his entire life for all the wrong reasons. He’d run from his fears of the bridge troll as a boy. When he’d become a teenager, he’d run from his family, his home. As a man, he’d run across country looking to make it rich, high-tailing from one state to the next as one scam after another blew up in his face. Most of all, he’d
run
when someone tried to get close to him, leaving at least one broken-hearted woman in every city, town, and settlement he’d passed through. This had finally culminated in his running away from the woman pregnant with his child whose name he
couldn’t
even remember. But all these things were superficial
—
external symptoms of an internal problem. What J.T. had truly been running away from all these years was himself.

Jonathan Tiberius Farnsworth had spent his life in one diversion after another
—
books, gambling, drink, women
—
in utter fear of what he might find should he turn his keen intellect inward and take inventory of what he found. In doing so, Farnsworth created a vicious cycle of self-fulfilling prophesy
. He’d
become the very thing he so desperately dreaded
:
a troll. Not one armed with fang and claw, but a troll with the far deadlier weapons of lies and deceit in its arsenal. But here, in this church at the end of the world, so close to death, Farnsworth was about to change all that. Now he would be running to save life, rather than to deny it.

The bounty hunter handed J.T. a pistol. “Too dangerous to test it downstairs. Like the reverend said, this place might go up in smoke. And we don’t want to shoot it off up here, neither. Don’t want to draw their attention to the church right now. The whole point of sending you out is to get them interested elsewhere.“

Farnsworth flexed his burned hand.
“’To be, or not to be: that is the question.’“
He took the pistol and
stuffed
it
down
the front of
his pants.

“Give us five minutes,“ the bounty hunter said. “Circle out for two and a half and then circle back in. Don’t waste no shots trying to get their attention. Just wave that arm and shoot off nonsense from that big mouth of yours like you do.“

“Everyone’s a critic.“ Farnsworth gave a crooked smile. “Now let’s do this before my courage gives way to saner lines of thinking.“

The bounty hunter turned toward Sanchez. “Be ready.“ Then he turned to Little Joe and nodded. “Open it up.“ Little Joe shoved the post barring the doors to one side and began pulling them open.

“Wait!“ Farnsworth cried. All turned to look at him. “Like Jesus on the cross, if I’m going to die so that you might live, I would at least appreciate you telling me your name.“

“Dewayne,“ the man said. “Dewayne Jefferson.“

Farnsworth nodded. “See you in hell, Dewayne Jefferson.“

A moment of silence. “Yeah.“

Dewayne drew one of his pistols and
nodded
to Little Joe. Little Joe resumed
his labors,
tugging at the door until a
proper
gap presented itself. Without another word, Farnsworth slipped through to meet whatever fate awaited him in the fog-enshrouded night.

F
arnsworth sprinted through the mist away from town for the hills beyond the church, waving the bloody, severed arm high in the air above him as he went. He spared a brief backward glance to ensure the mission steeple rose above the fog where he could see it. Satisfied, J.T. quickened his pace and began to scream at the top of his lungs.

“Come forth you sons of bearded dogs! Come forth and suck my tremendous and legendary cock! I fucked your bitch mothers and made that fucking troll father of yours watch and hold my hat and coat as I performed! I
—!“

Howls rose into the night sky behind Farnsworth, loud and furious.

Maybe ten left by the sound of it
.
Small comfort
.

Fifty yards out from the church, Farnsworth heard the
skinwalkers
snarling as they bounded up the hill behind him. Farnsworth was seized with fresh terror and the last of his adrenaline
drained away
.

Idon’twanttodieIdon’twanttodieIdon’twanttodie
!

A
skinwalker
roared and Farnsworth turned just in time to seeing it leaping for him through the fog. Somehow, the gun found its way into J.T.’s hand in enough time for the writer to fire a shot. It struck the monster in its chest, sending it tumbling backward. Two more
skinwalkers
appeared out of the fog to leap over their fallen
brother
in pursuit of Farnsworth. J.T. slung the severed arm to their right. Luck smiled upon the writer and the two coyote-men swerved away from him to chase after the discarded limb.

J.T. changed direction. He
backtracked
across the hillside in a wide arc that would eventually
bring
him
to
the mission.
I’ve given you all the time I can spare, Dewayne.

A roaring
skinwalker
flew out of the fog at Farnsworth. They
crashed
, their bodies tangling in a mass of flesh and fur. They hit the earth and it gave way beneath them. In the back of his mind, Farnsworth registered the fact that he heard the sound of boards splintering. They were in freefall for a moment and then all was black and silent.

T
he solider
—
Dewayne Jefferson
—
awoke to stare into the glazed, dead eyes of his commanding officer, Colonel Robert Gould Shaw. The dead Colonel’s face was mere inches above Dewayne’s own. His mouth was open in a strangely intimate way. It was as though Shaw was trying to give his subordinate a tongued kiss from beyond the grave. Dewayne screamed and tried to pull away. He was horrified to find he couldn’t move. It was only then that Dewayne felt the crushing weight of the dead bodies piled on top of him.

Dewayne squirmed, desperately trying to free himself. “Help
! Help
!“
He
felt something crawling along his torso and looked down to see two beady-eyed rats worming their heads out of the gap between his body and the corpses.

Be still
,
their twin gazes seemed to say
. We’ll get to you soon enough
.

Dewayne shrieked, his voice cracking at the end of his wail.

“Scream all you want,
Nigger
,“ Colonel Shaw said
. His
voice was that of the man who’d owned Dewayne as a slave back in Tennessee. Dewayne new that was impossible. He knew neither the colonel nor the slave owner were talking to him
anymore
than the rats had been. But that didn’t make the horror of what he was experiencing seem any less real. “Bawl your goddamn porch monkey eyes out,“ the corpse continued. “You
ain’t
under no rotted cow no more
.“

Dewayne’s screams continued long after they’d brought several federal soldiers running to dig him out of the pile of his dead friends.