Westward Weird (InCryptid), page 22
As the wheel spun ever faster, the beam widened and reached out farther. They cleared the train, the grass, the high desert plants. Then, carefully mounting the machine on the train itself, making sure they didn’t divert too much steam from the device, they got the engine going and chugged slowly toward Willcox.
They had almost reached the station when the machine began to vibrate. Its whistle had gone from loud to piercing and most of the way to deafening. “Thing’s spinnin’ too fast,” Charlie said. By this time, the beam had spread even more, blocking evening’s dusk from reaching the landscape. Above, the sky was dark, but daylight washed the earth. “Think we can slow ’er down?”
Evan had been afraid to touch it for some time. “Might cut off the steam.”
“But the town. That stuff’s …”
Charlie was right. They had to clear Willcox or all their efforts would have been wasted. “Speed up the train,” Evan said. “Let’s hurry.”
The machine wouldn’t wait. It coughed and shuddered and barked and then it flew apart in a blast of steam that seared the skin of Evan’s face. Pieces flew this way and that, and the light—before it extinguished itself for good—flooded the plain and the town and the desert beyond in a blinding flash, as if that captive sun had broken free and for just an instant, unleashed its full fury on the landscape.
The men sat on hard wooden benches inside the train station, speaking little, sipping from a flask once in a while. They waited until morning before they entered the empty town. In the sun’s first glow, they saw no traces of the mold. Bodies were scattered everywhere, human and animal alike. The only living people they found were those who had holed up inside the blood-streaked vault, and it took some convincing before they would emerge.
“You men did this?” Franklin’s father asked when they led him, blinking against the light, into the street.
“If you mean stopping what your boy started,” Evan said, “then yes.”
Tears slid from the man’s narrowed eyes. “But … this town …”
“You can start over,” Evan said. “Sometimes a man’s got to reconsider things.”
He had been doing some reconsidering of his own.
When the hunt began, he had been planning to kill Charlie. But things changed. Sometimes they changed faster and more dramatically than a man could account for. He and Charlie had been thrown together in a new and different world than they had started in. After what they had gone through, he couldn’t just put a gun to the man’s head.
As for Lucinda, she was a fine wife, and he would miss her something fierce. But things being what they were, he thought the choice should be left up to her.
He started to say something else, to try to soothe the sobbing man and the other people who slowly stepped into the light, but his attention was caught by a dove, descending from the sky and coming to an awkward, fluttering landing on a balcony rail across the street.
He couldn’t have said for sure, not from this distance, but it appeared there might have been a black patch on the bird’s breast, where the shadow should not have been so dark. Maybe a little something around its eyes, as well. He felt a chill on his neck, as if someone had draped a wet string over it and then yanked it away.
He watched the dove for a minute, but he didn’t say anything. Pointing it out would only upset the survivors. And Evan wasn’t a man who put much stock in words anyway, in talking just for the sake of it.
Not when there was nothing left to say.
LONE WOLF
Jody Lynn Nye
“Ayoooooooo!”
The cry chilled Duncan Hopkin’s blood, but he kept on walking behind Carson McCreary and cranking the dynamo hanging around his neck on a strap. The pair of them was heading right for the sound, instead of going back home to their warm beds in their nice, safe houses on the edge of Kansas City. Couldn’t blame Carson, really. Josephine had been the girl he wanted to marry. And she was Duncan’s kid sister, which is why he was out under the moon in the middle of the night on the prairie. The grass hissed beneath his heavy work boots. He wished he had on a suit of armor instead of work pants and his heavy canvas coat.
“I will kill that damned wolf if it takes the rest of my life,” Carson had vowed. Duncan, his true friend from childhood, knew he meant what he said. It had been nearly a month since Josie had gotten dragged out of the farmhouse in the dead of night. At least that was the tale the marks on the ground had told—that and the inexplicable behavior of their hound dog. Nelson had been found in the morning hiding underneath the chicken coop, shaking like he had been dipped in an icy river. He had been no use as a guard dog ever since. Little noises made him jump to the sky, and a howl set him running in the opposite direction. Duncan might have shot Nelson for failing to do his job, but he felt so sorry for him he just couldn’t do that. The dog had a bite mark on the back of his neck from a much bigger animal with long, sharp teeth. A wolf. He’d be all right, but his ma’s poodle had taken over protecting the family.
Duncan stumbled on a stone and heard the scrabbling of claws as small animals fled the noise. At least they had a full moon to see by. That set them and this wolf on an even basis—sightwise, that was. The world was all silver and black, with the moist, rich scent of the earth rising around him. It would have been a pretty nice night for a walk, if it wasn’t for the reason.
For a thriving city, Kansas City was still troubled by wild things roaming around. Shawnee Indians came and went as they damned well pleased as if it was all still their territory. Duncan had a friend who was a famous hunter and tracker who also worked for his family’s mineral springs business. Owl Feather sometimes turned up at five in the morning sitting next to the fire in the Hopkin family kitchen, scaring Duncan’s ma half to death when she came in to get breakfast going. Deer ate the hen feed. The biggest problem was varmints. They had to lock up the hens and lambs at night so they had any in the morning.
Owl Feather ought to have been out there with them hunting this wolf. Carson and Duncan had asked him, but he gave them a flat no.
“Ain’t no wolf,” he said. “You’re looking for two critters with one soul. And they don’t want to be found.”
Carson scorned Owl’s advice. No one had ever been able to tell him what to do. On the other hand, he was plenty good at convincing other people. So, every night for three weeks, Duncan had accompanied him, and every day after he finished his job in Argentine for the railway, he had been in his workshop laboring away at his wolf-detector. It took him two solid weeks and almost seven dollars worth of new parts, but he did it. If tracks weren’t going to lead them to the wolf, this would.
Duncan had what his granddaddy called a mechanical bent. Pieces of wire and horsehair and old bits of glass turned into useful devices in his hands. He made a pin-collector for his ma so she didn’t lose no more straight pins down between the floor boards. You wound up the little clockwork gizmo that looked like a cross between a spider and a pillbox and let it go. Saved her a lot of money when she made clothes. His best invention had been inspired from when he saw lightning strike a tree and split it in half. He was currently waiting for word from the United States Patent Office on the Duncan Hopkin Log Chopper. It could turn out a cord of wood in twenty minutes. Some people laughed at his inventions, but his ma and pa were proud of him. They hoped he would find Jo’s body, but they didn’t hold out much hope for it. They had already mourned her.
The wolf detector worked by sniffing out the scent of the tufts of long gray fur that had been left in Jo’s bedroom and on the window-sash. It drew air in with a miniature bellows and weighed it for similarities with the samples. At least that was how it was supposed to work. They hadn’t had much luck with it the first few nights. Tonight, though, it was going like wildfire. The gauge, made out of an old part from the engine of a locomotive, whistled softly and more insistently than usual.
“We’re on the trail now!” Carson said hoarsely. He carried the detector. The dynamo that powered it was kind of fragile and touchy. Duncan didn’t trust him with it. Carson broke almost everything. Jo had sent him home a dozen times because he was too rough in his courting. She had several other beaus, including Tim Pettigrew, whose family lived in a huge mansion in the fashionable neighborhood near the river and who had been to Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Duncan wished he could afford to go to college. He felt wasted in Kansas City. Maybe once he became a famous inventor, like Mr. Thomas Edison, he could move to a big city on the east coast.
“Ayoooooo!”
The howl came so close that Duncan jumped halfway to the moon. He stopped cranking. The detector’s whistle died away. Carson rounded on him angrily, his face a pale blob in the moonlight.
“Start ’er up! Do you want us to lose him?”
Duncan seized the handle and wound it up. The whistle rose from a murmur to a shriek. They must be almost on top of the wolf. He leaned his head toward the comforting length of his rifle barrel. The gun hung over his shoulder on top of the dynamo strap.
The detector shrilled like a frantic train. A dark figure not ten yards ahead of them shot across the silverlit landscape. It made for a thicket of jumbled shade. Neither of them could miss the long, shaggy brush wagging behind the fourlegged shape.
“There it goes!” Carson bellowed. He dropped the detector. Whipping his rifle off his shoulder, he pounded after the figure. Duncan slung the dynamo out of his way. He fumbled for his own gun and followed. They crashed into the brush, thrusting branches and twigs out of their way.
In the daylight, the thicket was an ordinary blackberry patch. At night, with moonlight lancing through the tangles, it was a nightmare of clawed hands tearing at his face and clothes. Thorns clutched at his trouser legs.
“Carson, I can’t see nothing,” Duncan whispered. His friend was a hunched black silhouette ahead of him.
“It’s here,” Carson said. “Right there!” He leveled the gun. Duncan blinked his eyes and squinted. A long-tailed shadow flitted across a pool of light.
Then the smell hit them. His eyes watered at the sour muskiness.
“Ayooooooo!”
The cry was right under their noses. Carson swung the barrel toward the noise. A pair of glowing orange eyes were inches from the two men. Duncan got a glimpse of shaggy gray fur and two tall ears. How could it move that fast?
BLAM!
Duncan almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of the shot. The eyes faded for a second then lit up again, stronger than before. A growl erupted, low and menacing. Duncan froze. Carson cocked the gun and pulled the trigger again. The smoke went right between the golden lights. The eyes didn’t even close.
“That ain’t natural!” Duncan gasped.
The beast bared long white teeth in a growl. It sprang at Carson. The young man swung the rifle like a bat. It hit the creature right in the jaw. It reached up a paw and grasped the gun around the barrel. It had hands like a man!
He had no more time to analyze the problem. He threw himself on the beast’s back and put an arm around its throat, trying to pull it off Carson. Its muscles rippled under the coarse fur, hard as iron. Carson kicked and punched at the beast. Its teeth snapped at his neck.
“Get it off me! Get it off me!”
Duncan hung on its back, flopping around like an opera cloak. He kicked at it with both feet, hoping to hit a kidney or some other sensitive spot. The beast howled. It gave a mighty heave, and Duncan went flying off. He landed hard in the grass and lay stunned for a moment. His hip hurt, but he rolled over and felt for his gun. He managed to cock it, closed his eyes and fired.
KER-POW!
“Yaller-bellied sows, Duncan, you almost hit me!” Carson shouted.
Duncan opened his eyes. Carson stood alone in the moonlight. His right sleeve was torn off, and he was holding his pants up with one hand.
“Where’s the wolf?” Duncan asked.
“Gone,” Carson said. “Shoved me off and ran away. Damn it to hell.”
Duncan got up and brushed himself off. “I think it might’ve been from hell, Carson. That wasn’t a natural creature. You hit it square with two bullets, and it didn’t even stop.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in hell,” Carson said, sourly.
“I believe in science,” Duncan said. “And physics says when you hit a solid object with another solid object you’re going to get a reaction. Nothing happened. And it had a man’s hands. That’s not a normal wolf.”
“That’s against God and nature,” Carson agreed. He was too mad to be scared, like a sensible man. “Got to be some kind of enchantment. Let’s go find Owl Feather.”
“It’s got to be three in the morning!”
“Then he’ll be easy to find.”
Duncan sat blearily next to the fireplace in Owl Feather’s small two-room house, listening to the same set of questions and answers over and over again. He knew he’d hear them in his sleep. Carson jabbed his forefinger into his other palm.
“I shot it twice, point blank range! Why didn’t it fall down and die?”
“You can’t kill one body without killing the other,” Owl Feather said. He sat on his bed wrapped up in a blanket. With his long black braids framing his hawk-nosed face he looked a lot more like one of his ancestors than the respectable businessman who wore a suit to work at the mineral springs. “They can only walk under the full moon’s light because they’re two bodies with one soul. Divide one from the other, and both may die.”
“That don’t mean anything, Owl,” Carson complained. “I need an answer that will help me kill that goddamned wolf!”
“That is the only answer,” Owl said, imperturbably. “Now why don’t you go home and let me sleep? Some of us got jobs to go to.” He glanced at the window. The moon had set, and the sky was lightening to denim blue. “In about an hour.” He cocked his head at Duncan. “Your ma’s making buttermilk biscuits. She bakes better than anyone else in town.”
“I know,” Duncan said, summoning up his manners from somewhere. “Come on over and have some. I know she makes enough for the entire United States Army.”
“Thank you, my brother. I will.”
“You act like my betrothed wasn’t important enough to care about,” Carson said, lowering brows that were as black as Owl’s.
“I have sung songs to ensure her spirit is at peace,” Owl said. “Now I must deal with the living. So must you.”
“That wolf’s living! It ought to be dead!”
“Okay,” Duncan said, rousing himself in hopes of getting an hour of sleep before he had to go back to the train yard. Owl never lied or even stretched the truth. No matter how much like a story by Mr. H.G. Wells the whole thing sounded, if Owl said it was true, then it was true. Duncan never argued with facts. “What do we need to do to divide that wolf in two?”
Owl studied him for a moment. His dark eyes seemed to have no pupils at all. Then he reached over to the table next to his bed and picked up the collection of necklaces he wore every day. He selected one and handed it to Duncan.
“This has virtues to bring things back to the way they started. And don’t forget, silver puts them under your power. It’s the only thing that will.” Owl looked out the window at the paling sky and sighed. “No time to sleep. Better eat and welcome the day.”
Ma was baking, as Owl had said. Though he lived over two miles away, he always knew what she was making. Her round, plump face was red as usual, but it was from crying instead of exertion. She dabbed tears away with her flour-dusted sleeve and forced a smile for the guests.
“Hey, there, Owl, Carson. Sit down. I’ll pour you some coffee.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Hopkin,” Owl said, sliding into a chair at the kitchen table. “Blessings on this house.”
Ma turned away toward the stove. Duncan came up and whispered in her ear.
“Ma, why are you crying? What’s wrong?”
She turned fierce blue eyes on him.
“You are never to mention Nancy Bellamy to me again for the rest of my life. She is as dead to me as… as my poor Josephine!”
“Why? Aunt Nan was your best childhood friend.”
She took a folded paper out of the pocket of her big white apron and shook it at Duncan. He opened it and read it.
Saw your Jo at Mr. Meyer’s jewelry store looking at engagement rings with that handsome Pettigrew boy. Couldn’t miss him with that head of gray hair. She looked so happy! So glad to know I heard wrong. Let me know when I can congratulate you.
The letter was dated only two days before. He was a little shaken by it, but handed it back.
“Well, come on, Ma, Aunt Nan is mistaken. She must have seen Tim Pettigrew. All the Pettigrews turn gray as soon as they reach their majority. He was with some other girl that he is going to marry, that’s all.”
Ma was adamant. “No. She’s tormenting me with lies! I never want to hear that woman’s name again!”
The three men ate their breakfast in silence. Owl took a few biscuits wrapped up in a napkin for later. Carson growled over his food. When he left, he glared at Duncan.
“Just find me a way to kill that wolf,” he said, and stalked out.
Duncan sat for a while, thinking hard. What Owl said stuck in his mind. Separate the souls, and the bodies were vulnerable.
He kissed Ma on the cheek and went out to his workshop.
It took a wheelbarrow to manage the heavy, cylindrical black case with its curved silver arms, but he managed to carry the Log Splitter to work with him to the train yard. Over his lunch hour, he adapted it to take in Owl’s beads. His fellow mechanics were glad to help, though they didn’t properly understand what he was doing. The beads looked pretty mystical. Some were made of a strange gray stone that was shiny as metal. A few were garnets as big as grapes. The rest were carved buffalo horn that gave him a little shock as he handled each one. They had to go in between the emitter and the lenses in the arms that focused the power. Since none of them were shaped the same, it was tricky. He wasn’t sure but that it might blow up when he used it.
