Kealan Burke - Kin

“I killed a buck one time that was damn near big as myself,” he said.

Beau stared back at him for a long time. Then he raised his eyebrows. “That’s one big motherfuckin’ deer, man. Venison for a year.”

Krall nodded, and the faintest trace of a smile began to creep through the undergrowth of his beard.

Standing in the flameless epicenter of an inferno as the buildings burned around her, Claire heard the cell phone chirp over the splintering crack of the Merrill House caving in on itself. During the melee inside the room with the sagging bed, the phone’s display had cracked and now showed nothing but inky blotches against the gray screen, veined with milky fissures. She couldn’t see the caller I.D, but answered and held the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Claire?”

“Who’s this?”

“My name’s Beau. I’m…I was a friend of Finch’s.”

“Was? Is he…?”

“Yeah. They got him. But he went down fightin’. Took out a couple of ’em on the way too.”

Tears welled in Claire’s eyes. Pete approached and stopped before her, head tilted questioningly. She swallowed and tried to offer him a smile. “Are they dead?”

“Yes,” Beau told her. “They’re all dead. It’s over.”

The tears came freely, sobs pummeling her chest as she shut the phone and let Pete embrace her.

It’s over .

The acrid smell of the smoke and the heat from the flames soon forced them out of the ring of fire, toward the road, where the truck was waiting.

As quietly as the woods would allow, Isaac led Papa-In-Gray through the night. The moon was high in the sky and Papa frequently raised his face to it, as if it was nothing short of God’s light, drawing them to their destiny. The need for a sign was great within him now that he had lost so many of his kin, but he resisted the urge to beg. Once they were clear of the killing ground, clear of their hunters, he would have endless time to disseminate the events that had set them running. Was this truly what God had intended for them? That his children should be sacrificed? He shook his head, forcing away the questions. The pain in his knee was making it difficult to walk and he slowed, watching as Isaac pulled ahead.

It weren’t ever supposed to be this hard.

“Son,” he said, breathlessly, and the boy stopped, glanced back. “We should rest up some.” With great effort, he sat himself down on a rough moss-covered rock that protruded from the forest floor like a boil.

The look on Isaac’s face made it clear he did not think this was wise, but he acquiesced, pacing restlessly and jerking his head toward the small clearing they could see through the pine trees ahead. His knife was out and while he stalked, he jabbed at the air and twisted the blade, his young face bejeweled with sweat.

He senses the injustice of it too , Papa thought. The failure. He ain’t satisfied to leave this unfinished . Nor was Papa, but their options were limited. Without knowing the extent of the threat, only a fool would go back. McKindrey had told them there were only two men on their trail, but who knew how many were elsewhere, waiting for the call to arms? That the Sheriff hadn’t seen them did not mean they were not there. It was best to err on the side of caution. There was time. In the coming days, months, however long it took, they would regroup, and plan a strategy. Over time, they would rebuild their ranks. He would find a woman, spiritually vacant, awaiting his love and his knowledge, awaiting God, and she would have sons and daughters he could lead. They would rise again. And perhaps in their new town, the local law would be just as sympathetic to their cause as McKindrey had been. Such minions were hard to find, and McKindrey had proven invaluable. The call Papa had made to him from a payphone on their way here had confirmed that the Men of the World were on their way, allowing them the time to prepare. It had also allowed Papa to perpetuate the belief that he held congress with the angels, bolstering his children’s faith in him. With a smile, he nodded and turned to Isaac, who might be sated, however briefly, by Papa’s new resolve.

The boy was no longer pacing. Now he was standing still and facing the clearing, his body rigid, the hand holding the knife trembling violently.

“Isaac,” Papa whispered, slowly rising from the rock. “What is it?”

Isaac was silent, but something held him in thrall.

Papa limped toward him. “What do you hear?”

Since Papa had taken the child’s tongue for some violation he could hardly recall, the boy had not spoken except for cluttered mumbles, and even these were rare. He employed them now however as his stump of a tongue tried to tell Papa something.

As he came abreast of him, Isaac reached out a finger, pointing in the direction of the clearing. Then, he turned his body sideways, which Papa knew was done to make himself less of a target, just as he had taught all his children. Despite not seeing or hearing whatever had alarmed the boy, he started to do the same himself, at the same time reaching into the lining of his coat for Doctor Wellman’s gun.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “We’ll get ’em.”

A swishing sound reached their ears, and instinctively, Papa stepped back, dropping to a crouch that made his leg feel as if the jaws of a bear trap had snapped shut on it. Grimacing, he scanned the trees ahead. The moonlight revealed nothing, but the strange swishing sound continued.

Isaac started to head for the clearing, the twigs snapping underfoot, his urgency forcing him to betray his location.

For whoever was watching them, it was enough.

A rope sailed out into the dark toward them, the end coiled into a noose that moved through the air like a bubble, the loop wobbling.

“Isaac,” Papa yelled, and the boy raised his head, then his arms, hands splayed as the noose came down and was jerked tight, the rope cinching around the boy’s wrists instead of his neck.

Papa rose and hobbled toward Isaac. “No!”

The boy was jerked off his feet so fast and hard his head snapped back and his legs kicked straight out behind him as he was pulled with impossible speed into the trees.

Cursing, Papa was momentarily paralyzed by indecision. Follow and try to save the boy, or seek cover? It was a trap, he knew. Going after Isaac was just what the coyotes wanted. They would draw him in among them where he would be outnumbered and they would kill him.

From the trees, a muffled moan.

“Isaac,” he whispered.

He had to hide.

He heard a dull thumping sound that changed as he listened, became wet, like someone smacking a rubber glove against a fencepost. Slowly, Papa began to back away, stopping when the sound did. He removed the gun from his coat and readied it, his ears attuned to the slightest of movements from the trees.

The cessation of that sound told him that Isaac was lost. He was alone now, except for Krall and Luke, neither of whom had been seen since the coyotes showed up. For all Papa knew, they might have fallen.

He had to get away from here. The corrupted were encroaching on him from every side. He could sense them now, thought that he could even see them as fleeting shadows between the trees. And he could smell them, the musky putrid scent of poisoned flesh. It was growing stronger and now he turned full circle, catching faint glimpses of their burning ember eyes watching him in amusement from wherever the dark was deepest.

He had to get away, but there was nowhere to go.

“Papa,” a voice said, and startled, he spun, aiming the gun at the trees. A shadow detached from the phalanx of pines. “It’s me.”