Zombies: More Recent Dead (35 page)

The men chuckled. A light dusting of snow in the earliest hours of the morning powdered Nikolas’s clothes.

Nikolas shook his head, brushing off the snow with his hands.

“This is good. Snow helps us track moose now,” Alex said. “Today I don’t hunt,” Nikolas said. “It was foolish of me to fall asleep outside. I couldn’t shoot straight today. I’d spoil your hunt. Go without me. Maybe River will help me get some ducks or geese.”

“Geese are good eatin’, too,” Martin offered.

“You get us some geese, Nikolas,” Alex said. “We stay with our plan. I go up the east side of the lake with Freddie. Martin and Peter can take the west shore.”

Freddie and Alex climbed into their canoe. The pair paddled into fog. Martin and Peter followed in the second canoe. They drew abreast of Uncle Alex’s canoe.

“We will return with meat,” Peter whispered.

“We’ll get two moose apiece,” Martin whispered just as Peter had done. Prey could hear a hunter’s plans and so they must keep their voices low. The two canoes separated and headed to opposite sides of the lake.

Nikolas sat by the fire and watched the sun dissipate the fog. The sound of geese honking low overhead brought him to his feet. River jumped up, whining and wagging his tail.

“Stragglers heading to the far end of the lake,” he told his Labrador. “They’re tired. Let’s go get us some geese, River.” The excitement of a hunt pushed the fears of the night from Nikolas’s mind. He slid the canoe into the water and River jumped in. He paddled in the direction the geese had flown. Nikolas pushed his leather hat with all its trinkets and totems firmly on his head and bent into his paddling, propelling the canoe forward.

Peter and Martin paddled the shoreline. No tracks were visible from the shore into the bush. They stopped paddling and let the canoe drift. They searched the willow thickets near a bend. Peter made a sudden hissing sound and pointed to the thick brush near a flat point of beach jutting into the water. The hunter made another sign for “listen” and cupped his hand to his ear. Martin did the same.

Both heard the sound of breaking twigs as something moved quickly away from their canoe. Martin pulled towards the thicket on the shoreline. A louder crashing followed as the something took off running at top speed through the brush.

“Moose,” whispered Martin, and beached the prow on the sand. Peter grabbed his rifle and leapt onto the shore. He made signs telling Martin to go upwind and frighten the moose back where he would be waiting. Martin understood and back-paddled. He moved the canoe forward in silence some two hundred meters up the shoreline, jumped from the beached canoe and started inland, making noise to scare the moose back towards Peter.

Taller hemlocks among the spindly spruce created a thick canopy of interlocking branches. There were no tracks. Peter could hear the snapping of branches and crackling of twigs. He thought more than one animal hurried away. Suddenly the sounds stopped. Peter stopped, dropped to one knee and pointed his rifle in the direction where he had last heard sounds. Peter listened. The sounds he heard were like whispers children make. Over the whisperings came a series of short, low whistles.

Martin checked the rifle he had slung over his shoulder. He released the safety and began to walk towards his hunting partner. He saw or heard nothing as he sneaked through the thick brush and deadfalls.

Peter held his rifle at the ready for some time. The animals in front of him had not changed position. He had heard no sounds of movement, just murmurs. The muscles in his left forearm twitched with the strain of holding the heavy weapon. He lowered the rifle to relax his arm.

There was a snap of a twig behind him. Before he could turn something hard and heavy struck the back of his head and he pitched forward, unconscious.

When the hunter came to his senses he was being carried by the grasping hands of many strong creatures that moved at great speed. The creatures held him by the arms and legs and made whispered, lisping sounds and murmurs. As they ran, they called to each other with low whistles.

Martin heard the sounds of running animals directly ahead. They seemed to be going away from him. He heard murmurs, soft burbling sounds and whistles and could not imagine why, or how, any running moose could make such noises.

Alex sat on a fallen log and wondered why he had failed to spot any moose.

“The moose is hidin’ from me,” he told Freddie. “I’m wonderin’ where they went, Uncle Alex.”

“Freddie, walk along the shore and see if you can find any tracks. I’ll sit here and wait for you.”

Minutes passed and Freddie came back. He stood in front of Alex and shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t figure it out. I saw moose tracks and they all led up to that bog—the one with the big sinkhole in the middle. Didn’t see any moose, though. I did see lots of moose bones and three sets of skulls and antlers all bleached out white.”

“Was the tines on the antlers all chewed up by porcupines eatin’ on ’em? Was the bones scattered like bears and wolves had got to them?”

“Nothin’ like that. They was all stacked up neat-like. The leg bones in one pile, the skulls in another and the ribs in another pile.”

“Why’d anybody stack up moose bones like that?”

“Beats me,” Freddie said.

At that moment two shots from a twelve-gauge shotgun rang out.

Martin stopped in his tracks. The sound of the gunshots echoed. It was Nikolas’s shotgun. He pushed his way through the willows towards the gunshots. Martin heard a muffled scream. The tangled branches pulled at his clothing, as if trying to prevent him from reaching Peter.

Peter could not scream again. One of the creatures pried open his mouth with insistent claws and forced a chunk of lichen-moss into his open mouth. The creatures scurried through the willow and aspen growth towards the bog. Peter’s eyes bulged in fear and panic. The choking moss barred the air from his lungs.

Peter heard the whistles grow in volume and the lisping sounds increased to an excited pitch as the creatures dragged Peter into the water. He felt the cold splash against his legs and back as the creatures propelled him feet first into the sinkhole.

The grasping creatures swarmed over his body, forcing him upright in the icy water until only his head remained above surface. Suddenly the whistles reached a crescendo and the things that held him pulled his head under the water. Peter gulped in a last breath of air and choked on the lichen and brackish bog water that rushed in. The grasping claws pulled him down, down . . .

Martin pushed on through old deadfalls to the border of Rabbit Lake. He stopped and listened for sounds that might direct him. He heard a sudden series of whistles from the direction of the bog. The whistling rose in volume and then stopped abruptly.

Loons? Could it be loons so late in the season?

He moved down a slope towards the far end of the lake. The water here was dark and looked deep. Martin experienced a brief jolt of unexplainable fear. The water’s surface was still and placid. No loons swam there to disturb the black-mirror surface.

Nikolas heard the gabbling of geese at the far end of Rabbit Lake. He used his canoe paddle to test the depth of the water and found it less than half a meter deep. He pumped the paddle up and down; solid rock was beneath the canoe. He gave his dog a signal to stay.

Nikolas pulled his favorite hat down tight on his head and tied the thongs beneath his chin in a double knot. He did not want to lose the hat when he pushed through brush.

The cackling and the gabbling of the geese lessened. Nikolas crouched low, held aside dangling willow branches and peered through the peephole in the leaves. Nikolas’s jaw muscles tightened at what he saw.

A sunken ring of earth, edged with a circle of rock ledges and moss-covered gravel, held a round, dark expanse of water several meters in diameter. A circle of water stared back at him like a giant cycloptic black eye. On the surface, six geese circled in a small bunched flock of frightened birds.

What the hell happened to the rest of the flock? They couldn’t have flown away! I would have seen them.
He raised his shotgun to fire as he pushed through the willows.

When the remaining birds flapped across the water in rising flight, he fired two shots. Both shots hit the targets and two geese fell into the dark water of the sinkhole.

Nikolas whistled to the waiting dog. River came bounding through the willows and leapt into the water to retrieve the geese. Nikolas watched River swimming at his top speed towards one of the birds.

Now what in the hell happened to the other one? The damned bird is gone. Geese don’t sink when you hit them, not right away anyhow.
Before Nikolas could concoct an answer, he saw River falter in the middle of the sinkhole. The dog let the bird fall from his mouth and gave a terrified yelp before he was pulled under the surface.

“River!” Nikolas shouted. “River! Hold on, boy!”

The man dropped his gun and slid down the mossy incline across the wet gravel and fell into the water. He swam only three strokes towards where the dog had gone down when something clutched at his ankles. The swimming man was held fast in the water. More and more clutching hands tugged at his legs and lower body.

“Oh God!” he cried out just before he was yanked under the black surface.

When Martin heard yelping and sounds of splashing, he turned to his right towards the sounds. He ran up a slight incline and skidded to a stop. Below him yawned the “death hole.” He scanned the area in all directions.

The first thing he saw was Nikolas’s hat floating two meters from the pool’s edge. Then he saw the dog cowering in a stand of willows. The animal quivered with fright and gave out a keening wail.

Martin hurried around the rim of the sinkhole to the dog. “Hey there, boy. Where’s your boss?”

The dog raised itself on its bleeding forepaws and bared its teeth in a menacing snarl.

“River. What’s got into you? What chewed you up like this?”

The Labrador dropped on his belly and did a wiggling crawl backwards through the willows. Martin pushed through the brush and saw the dog, tail between his legs, howling and running as fast as his wounded legs could carry him down the trail to the camp.

He moved back to the sinkhole. Nikolas’s hat had floated to the very edge. Martin knelt down to retrieve it. It felt heavy in his hand, as if snagged on something. He set down his rifle and used both hands to pull the leather hat from the water.

The hat gave way suddenly, and Martin fell on his backside onto the slick moss and gravel. Nikolas’s severed head, the hat still firmly tied to it, fell into his lap. Martin scrabbled sideways away from the horrible object.

He raised his head and yelled as loud as he could. “Peter! Goddammit, Peter, get over here! Quick!”

Martin moved backwards through the willows just as the dog had done and ran as fast as he could down the same trail.

Fifteen minutes later, Freddie and Alex knelt looking at moose tracks leading to the edge of the circle of black water.

“Uncle Alex. This is what I wanted to show you.”

The old man looked down at the mud. Freddie pointed. Alex saw three sets of tracks; one set made by a big bull.

“That’s a big moose. See how deep he sinks into the mud?” Alex said. “That other set of tracks is a cow moose. Her hooves ain’t as pointy as the bull’s.” He moved a few feet to his left. “Look here, Freddie, the cow had a yearling with her, too.”

Freddie studied the bull’s tracks. His mouth felt dry and he moistened his lips with his tongue. “Somethin’ ain’t right here. Come and look at this.”

Alex looked where Freddie touched the slurred tracks with a willow stick.

“These tracks are real deep and messed up. See how they are bunched up close together with the dew-claws showin’ in the prints?”

“I see that.” Alex said. “What does that tell you?”

“It tells me it was a damn big bull moose, and that he was pullin’ backwards trying to get away.”

“Trying to get away from what?”

“From whatever was tryin’ to pull him into the sinkhole.”

“Whatever was pulling him in had to be monstrous big,” Freddie said.

“Maybe it was several things all pullin’ together,” Alex replied.

“What?” Freddie scratched his head at the thought.

Alex studied the other tracks. “Something pulled the cow and the yearling calf into the water. Look around, you won’t see no tracks comin’ out!”

“What do you think happened?”

“I think somethin’ got the three moose we been huntin’ before we did.”

“Whaaat?” Freddie dragged out his question.

“And now I think we best get away from this place fast as we can.”

“What about the canoe?”

“Forget about the canoe. What killed them moose will kill us, too. Let’s go. Rose knew what she was talkin’ about!”

Old Alex started down the trail away from the bog at a wobbly trot.

“What are you talkin’ about, Uncle Alex?”

“I’ll tell you when we get back to camp. You’d better get a move on if you want to keep livin’.”

Martin heard the padding of feet behind him. When he turned, he saw the willows were shaking. He cocked his rifle and held it at waist level, the barrel aimed at the spot where the willows moved.

Alex and Freddie came through the willows and stopped in their tracks when they saw Martin in the trail with his rifle pointed at them.

“Martin! Don’t shoot!” Freddie yelled.

Alex saw the fear Martin struggled to hide. “So you know about the bog things?” Uncle Alex said.

“Something killed Nikolas—in the death hole place.”

“Let’s get as far away from here as we can. Come on. It’s a long way to run.”

“What about Peter, we can’t go off and leave him up there.”

“Pretty sure the things got Peter, too.”

“Why would you think that? We gotta look for him!” Martin said.

“Old Rose said two people would die on this hunt. It’s too late to save Peter. He’s gone. Them dead, flesh-eatin’ things—those damned creatures took him or we’d have heard from him by now.”

“Martin. Let’s go! I wanna get outta here.” Freddie ran down the trail.