Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

The ground was as dry as the air, which is to say most of the folks in the area would be getting their water from wells, or from the barrels a few enterprising people were bringing with them. It was a commodity. The Verde River was a few hours ride from the area, and he had already seen a group of men at the edge of town working on figuring the best way to get the water from there to here. What they lacked in equipment they seemed to make up for with enthusiasm.

He could see that Lucas Slate was tense. Slate, who seldom seemed bothered by much of anything since he’d begun changing. Slate, who calmly and methodically followed through with some very grisly work, was currently as taut as a bowstring.

“We have traveled through Indian territories and been shot at several times, Mister Slate. Who do you think is most likely to be of assistance to us in this situation?”

The two of them were still at the edge of the crowded area. Someone, somewhere, had claimed they found silver in the area. A week later the first building seemed old. Now? Now the crowds kept coming and the buildings kept popping up like mushrooms after a rainstorm.

Slate looked slowly over the area and then finally shook his head. “I’m sure I have no idea.”

Crowley smiled. “Look around us, Mister Slate, and tell me what’s different about the people here?”

“Nothing that I can see.” He spoke even as he once more scanned the crowds. “Ah. I see it now.”

“What do you see, Mister Slate?”

“The Indians. They’re more afraid of me than they are of you .”

Crowley chuckled. “Well now, don’t you think that deserves a bit of investigation?”

Slate took off his hat for a moment and ran long, pallid fingers through his long, thin, white hair. “Indeed I do, Mister Crowley. Indeed I do.”

They rode forward at a leisurely pace, two men who scared most people without even trying.

Silver Springs wasn’t old enough to be on any maps. The town had been hastily assembled and that tended to make navigating the structures challenging. There were no rules, really, except the ones people managed to force on each other. Most of the folks who saw the strangers eyed them warily, rather like one might contemplate a substantial rattlesnake that was minding its own affairs but was looking at you with one ophidian eye.

To be fair they struck quite a few notes that qualified them as unusual. The gaunt man rode on a pale grey horse that didn’t seem to breathe. It did not snort, nor did it whinny. The beast seemed oblivious to most of the other animals in the area, though the same was not true in reverse. A good number of dogs made it a point to be elsewhere when the horse got too close, and they made certain to bark their dissatisfaction just as soon as they were far enough away to assure the great horse could not easily get to them.

The man riding with him seemed of particularly good humor, with an eager smile that did not sit well. More than a few of the faithful crossed themselves when they saw his broad, even teeth. When Crowley was not smiling he was hardly remarkable, but there was something inherently wrong with his grin. There was something about the way he moved, the way he looked at folks, that left them a mite worried that he could just possibly take note of them. His horse was only remarkable in that it did not run from the larger grey beast the gaunt man rode.

Both men sported weapons, but that was hardly unusual in this area. The gaunt man had a long rifle draped across his saddle, held in place by the weight of his hands. A shotgun rested near his leg, and a careful eye would make out the two Colt Navy revolvers tucked into saddle holsters. There was a knife hilt at the top of each boot and at least one large blade strapped to his hip. He carried enough weapons to promise mayhem, even if his deathlike face and grim pallor hadn’t already advertised a penchant for destruction.

Crowley slipped off his horse with an unsettling grace. He didn’t bother stretching or adjusting his posture as so many did. Instead, he seemed perfectly relaxed and comfortable. Lucas Slate dropped down with substantially more difficulty and looked around the area with hooded eyes.

“You’re not feeling well, Mister Slate?”

“Something’s wrong. I don’t quite know what, or why, but I’m feeling decidedly ill at ease.”

Jonathan Crowley adjusted his wide brimmed gambler’s hat and looked around carefully. “In the time I’ve known you I’ve run across remarkably little that put you under the weather.”

“Indeed, sir. It is a rarity.” Slate’s soft southern drawl was more pronounced. “And one I daresay I do not enjoy.”

“Close your eyes, Mister Slate.”

The man did as Crowley suggested.

“Now, tell me what you feel both in your body and outside it.”

To most, the conversation would have seemed foolishness, but Lucas Slate knew better. He was changing and his changes included some very devilish alterations to his senses. He could often see past the lies that presented themselves to most people, and he could occasionally feel much more than he should have been able to consider.

“Well now…”

Crowley said nothing, but he watched the man very carefully.

Slate turned his head slowly to the left and tilted his ear higher, as if trying to catch a sound. “Well now,” he repeated. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“What might that be, Mister Slate?”

“I can hear something. Sounds almost like music, but nothing that makes sense.”

Crowley nodded slowly. All around them people were going on about their business and giving a wide berth to the two of them. “Then I might suggest you investigate. Shall I come with you?” He made the offer already knowing the answer.

“Not at this time, Mister Crowley. Though perhaps I could count on you to remain within shouting distance.”

Crowley nodded again. “I expect I can make myself available to you, should the need arise.”

Crowley turned his horse away and started on a parallel course. The smile dropped from his face as he merged with the people moving about the bustling area.

Crowley knew that if you sit long enough, people tell the most amazing stories. It wasn’t hard to find a place that was selling food, but finding one where the food wasn’t dubious was more of a task. Still, Crowley managed well enough.

There was a tent not far from the first stable that had slices of roast beef, a thin gravy, and potatoes for a few pennies. A single penny bought a plate of beans from a pot that looked diseased. The establishment also had a bar, and that almost always guaranteed conversation. Crowley bought his food and settled in to listen.

Most of the people were talking of only two noteworthy things. The first was the silver in the area — amazing how many wanted it and how desperately they were willing to search for instant wealth. The other major topic of conversation was the ongoing Indian wars.

War might have seemed too harsh a word for some, but Crowley didn’t think so. There were soldiers moving through the area, and they were there for the main purpose of pushing any red men they saw onto the reservations they had set aside.

Crowley had no idea why. Until a little over a year earlier he’d made a very strong point to stay well away from human beings in general, and while he was once again obligated to deal with people, he had no desire to get involved in their politics. One thing hadn’t changed in his time on the planet: people got together and made messy political situations and then other people came along and tried to fix them. In the process there was normally a great deal of bloodshed. He didn’t worry about politics. He worried about the things that tried to break into the world and take it for themselves.