Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to help me or not.” Slate’s voice was more raspy than usual.

Crowley did not answer. To his left he saw the thin man getting to his feet.

“Mister Crowley!” Slate’s eyes grew wide.

The thin man was looking hard at him and he was scowling. His face, already long and thin, grew longer still as he opened his mouth to speak. What he said meant nothing at all to Crowley. It was just gibberish. Just the same he felt his body hurled backward and did his best to prepare himself for impact.

The good news was that he landed on a canvas surface. The bad news was that a cast iron stove was under that canvas. He felt his ribs break on impact, and his right arm snapped in three places. He did not black out. He was not that fortunate.

The Skinwalker looked at his prey and smiled again. The wounds hurt, but he would heal. He would take from the younger, weaker Skinwalker and he would feed on the essence as had been done for as long as there had been Skinwalkers. Each was born, each created their seeds, each offered the seeds to worthy humans and then left. Later, after the seeds had a chance to grow, they came back and harvested their children. This one was not one of his, but that did not matter. He would feed and he would feed well. If the one who created this one took offense, he would feed on the progenitor as well.

The young Skinwalker stood, shivered. His chest was an angry red mass. The bruising was no doubt painful. The seed was deep inside this one’s chest, near his heart. That was why he’d grabbed him there. Most Skinwalker’s chose to place the seeds in the forehead. It made it easier for their children to see with their new senses and it also made harvesting them easier.

“I will kill you now. If you stay still I will try to make your death simple.” It was a mercy he was willing to offer.

The young one nodded and said, “Fuck yourself.” The shotgun rose and both barrels of the weapons fired.

The Skinwalker had been alive for a very long time and he was familiar with European weapons. Familiarity, however, did not prepare him for the pain. A hundred tiny pellets rammed through his flesh and burned into muscles, into bone. One of the tiny shots tore open his right eye and the agony was greater than he had felt in lifetimes.

He yowled and fell back, clutching at his face. He had planned to be merciful. That plan was finished.

He looked through his good eye in time to see the young one breach the shotgun and pull out the hot shells. As he watched two more were inserted and the gaunt man came closer, scowling down at him.

He raised one arm and sang. His right arm was ruined and hadn’t had time to mend, but his left worked well enough. His fingers clenched the air and he pulled with his song, with his mind, willing the seed deep in the other to come to him, to tear free of its moorings and come to him.

Lucas Slate dropped the shotgun and clutched at his chest. Was this a heart attack? He had no idea, had never felt one before. The pain grew larger and he fell to his knees, crying out.

Had any pain ever been this large? His hands held tight to the front of his chest, and under the palm that touched his pallid skin he felt something moving, twisting. He remembered the day he’d swallowed the oddly carved pebble he’d been given as a gift. It was a memory he’d done his best to forget, a fevered dream he never wanted to recall.

Much like the pain tearing him in half.

Lucas Slate screamed, something he hadn’t done since his transformation had started. The sound was not remotely human.

For three seconds Crowley had a fantasy about Molly. Her body was next to his and she whispered in his ear, a warm breath that tickled pleasantly. Then the pain kicked in and took him from his reverie.

There was magic about and while he often hated that notion, Jonathan Crowley was healed by the presence of the supernatural. His skin ached and his bones shrieked a symphony of pain, then the agony faded into a deep fiery itch as they pulled themselves to where they belonged and healed within him.

Crowley opened his eyes and stared at Slate and the thin man. Both of them were on their knees, straining and bleeding and locked in some sort of silent struggle. Slate did not seem to be winning. He would rather Molly whispering in his ear, but she was dead and the past offered him little solace.

“All right then,” he moaned. It took only a moment for him to stand.

The sounds of gunfire grew closer, drowning out the cries of the dead pickpocket and the unsettling scream coming from Slate.

Crowley started walking, heading for the two of them.

The first of the Indians came into view and almost immediately reined in their horses. They stared at the thin man and Lucas Slate with expressions of dread that were nearly comical, and grew almost as pale as the two of them.

He had no idea why the Apache were so afraid of the pale men and he did not care. What mattered at that moment was that the whole marauding lot of them watched for all of five seconds, and then their leader let out a command that had them turning tail and leaving the area at high speed.

As Crowley had witnessed, the Indians in the town had been scared of Lucas Slate. Apparently two of his kind in the area was a bit too much for them to stand. Crowley smiled at the notion, even as he looked back to Slate and the thin man.

Slate screamed again and blood spilled from between the fingers clamped over his chest. His eyes were wide and his mouth moved like a trout out of water seeking a gasp of proper breath.

“Move your hands, Mister Slate!” Crowley bellowed the words and the thin man ignored him.

Slate looked at him and managed a puzzled expression. “I am… I can’t. What do you need?”

“I need to see what he’s reaching for inside of you.”

Slate stared at him for a moment and slowly, carefully let his hands fall away. The lump that was revealed was the size of an apple. That Slate’s chest had not exploded was something of a miracle in Crowley’s opinion. Heavy lines of red stained a great deal of his body and in addition to the heavy lump trying to tear free of him, there were other lines, other things moving under his skin. All of them seemed connected and all seemed determined to come out.

Crowley looked away from Slate for only a moment to assess the thin man. He’d been beat down a good bit. Four holes from the bullets Crowley himself fired and more still from a shotgun blast or two. Only one eye remained and it stared only at Slate.

The bastard was smiling.

Crowley hated when other people had a reason to smile. Well, at least when they were enemies of his. He walked closer, scrutinizing the thin man’s face.

One eye was gone. One remained. Centered above them was a small opening in his head, and that at least was something Crowley was familiar with.

He had seen similar stones in Carson’s Point. They had caused him no end of troubles.

Two fast steps had him picking up his pistol. Three more strides and the barrel was one inch from the center of the thin man’s forehead.

As he cocked the hammer back, the bastard finally noticed him and his one remaining eye opened wide. Crowley pulled the trigger and ripped the top of the thin man’s head away with one shot.

The thin man launched backward and slammed his ruined head into the frozen ground. Deep within his skull a collection of grey things wriggled. They all seemed to be seeking something that was no longer there.

Crowley looked at the body for a moment and then checked the remaining portion of the skull. The bullet had managed to destroy that damned stone, whatever it might be, and though he couldn’t be sure, he suspected that was a mighty fine thing, indeed.