Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

“And the soldiers? How do you feel about them being here, Mister Crowley?”

“I’ve never much taken to soldiers. Been one before, fought in my share of wars and followed orders, but I’ve never liked it. Soldiers are expected to follow orders, no matter how foolish those orders might be.”

Crowley paused a moment and then asked, “And you? Do you side with the Indians?”

“No sir, I do not. I side with the people on the streets who are getting caught up in this conflict. I knew what those men intended when it came to the squaws.” He shook his head. “I do not believe that women should be misused.”

Crowley nodded.

“And you, Mister Crowley? Do you side with either group?”

“The Indians were minding their own business. The army was sent by someone. They do not, as a rule come without orders. They are summoned. So one is doing what they have always done and the other is following orders from elsewhere. I can’t say as I much care either way.”

“You keep saying that sort of thing, and yet, here you are, grinning and wading into conflicts.”

Crowley’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “My pale companion has gotten himself into trouble and asked for my help. What is a man to do?” His plain face looked around the shop for a moment and then back to Slate. “How does the suit feel?”

“Like proper clothing, and I thank you for it, Mister Crowley.” Slate ducked his head briefly for a moment, feeling an unaccustomed flash of shame. “I fear I cannot possibly pay you back any time soon.”

Crowley waved it aside. “I have the money to spare and you have lost all you owned before we met. As we are traveling together for the present time, I can hardly expect you to settle into life as an undertaker again, though I imagine you could have made fair compensation this particular day.”

“Just the same.”

“Should I decide you owe me, Mister Slate, you may rest assured you’ll be informed of such debts. Until then, merely accept that under our current circumstances I do not mind investing in your clothes.” He snorted. “Besides which, you were beginning to look too much like an Indian and I need to not confuse you for any other white-skinned Indians we might encounter.”

“Do you suppose that’s a strong likelihood?”

“You’ve run across one already and I am fairly certain you are looking forward to a second encounter.”

“What makes you say that, Mister Crowley?”

“Because you have a need to understand your place in the universe, Mister Slate.”

“And you don’t?”

“I have known my place in the universe for a very long time, Mister Slate. And we are still looking into your position.”

Neither spoke of what might happen when that position was known.

Finding rooms proved challenging, but not impossible. Apparently having a giant albino looming over your shoulder made people more willing to find space for a man in a negotiating mood. The rooms were comfortable enough, and as an added bonus seemed bug free.

In the morning, Crowley looked at the growth on his face, and trimmed the hairs down to manageable levels rather than shaving them away completely. He knew it wouldn’t last but for the next few days at least he had a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache to fight off the cold.

When he came downstairs, Slate was already waiting for him, and the small gathering of tables were all filled except for the one where the albino waited. His hat had been mended and looked mostly like it had in the past. Crowley chose not to feed into his obsession and ignored the thing completely. Within twenty minutes they’d eaten and after ten minutes more they were on their way.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Crowley asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I’m off to find the other one like me. You are along to keep me out of trouble.”

Crowley nodded. “I seem to remember something about that.”

“As it was your idea, I should hope so, sir.”

Despite the violence of the day, before the crowds were moving about, many of them looking to buy wares and others looking to sell. It was distinctly possible that there were even more wretches moving into the town.

There were soldiers everywhere they looked, though for the moment none of them seemed to be causing too much trouble. Crowley had no doubt that would change soon enough.

Folsom had made clear his intention to clean the Indians from the area for the safety of all involved, regardless of how the people felt about that. As it had been Indians starting the shooting the day before — excluding what Slate had accomplished all by himself — it seemed perfectly reasonable to expect the captain and his men to be as prepared as possible.

A pickpocket tried to steal from Crowley. He stopped the attempt without causing a scene. It was a bad time to be a thief and a worse time to be a child. He decided to let someone else deal with handling the young boy with the grabby hands. The things they’d been bothered by the day before were far more worrisome. Besides which, Crowley kept most of his money hidden where it would never be found. A moment later he changed his mind, and contemplated going after the kid and teaching him a lesson, but it was too late. The would-be thief was long gone.

He watched the other Skinwalker from a distance, and noted the man who walked with him. They were both powerful, as was expected of any Skinwalker, but the one with him, the smiling man, he was a different sort of powerful. He carried himself with confidence and he smiled at almost everything. Not a pleasant smile but a baring of teeth, a warning that the man was deadly beyond most people’s reckoning. Where they walked, people scattered away from them, perhaps without even being aware of it.

The Skinwalker was aware, of course. That was why he was following them. They were dangerous and they could well be dangerous enough to cause him harm. He would find out soon enough.

The wind blew and whispered its secrets and he listened as he had learned to long ago. The stories of the wind were all about the Indians coming toward the town. There had been a great deal of blood spilled and the Apache in the area wanted to settle the matter. They did not wish to talk any longer. There is a point where anyone can lose hope of a simple resolution and that time had come and passed.

All around him people moved and milled and sought desperately for what would make their lives complete. An urchin moved toward him, furtive and worried. He bumped into a man in front of the Skinwalker and plucked a few coins from his victim’s pocket. A moment later he was bumping into a young woman and apologizing even as he lifted a small item from her bag. And then he bumped into the Skinwalker, mumbled an apology and continued on with a small silver nugget the Skinwalker had been carrying for the last three days.

The silver meant nothing to him. He had taken it from a dead man he found on his way to the town. The corpse had been torn open by what at first glance appeared to be wolves, but the Skinwalker knew better. He could smell shapechangers and found the notion amusing.

The fact that the boy took it merely meant that he had managed to catch the old sorcerer’s attention. That was enough.

A whispered word as he crouched and grabbed at the soil. The arid earth crumbled in his hand and he spat into it, rubbed it between his fingers and his palm until it became a doughy mass. He stood just long enough to throw that simple lump at the thief, striking him on the back of his neck. The boy reached reflexively for what hit him and the old man smiled and continued on his way. Only a few seconds later the screams started as the boy fell to the ground, swelling and choking and trying to breathe. It was not the first time he’d spread a sickness and it would not be the last. This was a minor one and would only kill a few, but it would leave them all afraid.