David Morrell - The Totem

He moved as silently as he was able. Then he settled back against the trunk and swallowed a Benny, staring toward his cattle. He checked his rifle and made sure that he hadn't lost the extra rounds that he'd put in his pocket, and he knew that he was ready. Even with his jacket, he was cold, but that was just because he couldn't warm himself by moving. He ignored the cramps in his legs and scowled toward the cattle as the moon rose higher and higher.

The cattle were nervous, but he saw no sign of anything coming toward them. Soon he swallowed another Benny. Abruptly he saw shadows moving and aimed his rifle, only to realize that the shadows were only in his imagination. Shit, this idea had been wonderful when he had planned it. Being here was something different, and he almost climbed down, going to his house, when what seemed several hours later, they were out there.

First he heard them baying at the moon. He tensed. Then he saw a silhouette to one side, next another just behind it. As he blinked, he saw the darkness filled with them. He couldn't wait until they came so close that they would see the tethers on the cattle, dimly sensing they were ambushed. He quickly aimed, but he couldn't chance a poor shot that would scare them off and make this agony of waiting worthless. He would have to do this properly, and breath held, he was thinking of his wife, his son, the prison guard, his former friends, imagining that they were swarming out there. He was easing his finger onto the trigger as one silhouette became distinct, and when he fired, the recoil knocked him hard against the tree trunk. He worked the rifle's bolt and fired again, but they were gone now, although he saw a huddled figure out there by the sagebrush. It was still and silent, and he smiled to think that he had dropped one, maybe more if he kept waiting, and he shivered from excitement, from the Bennies and the cold, but he didn't see further movement in the shadows. He just heard them howling somewhere in the distance. Then the howling stopped when the moon went down.

He waited even longer. Once he thought he saw something, but it darted so fast that he didn't know what it was, and he wanted to go down and see what he had shot, but he'd stuck things out this long, he might as well stay put a little longer. For a change, he'd see a project to the finish. But his legs were sore and twisted, and the darkness was turning gray, the sun about to rise. At last, he climbed down the tree and hobbled toward the figure.

From the distance, it had seemed like a wolf, but now as he came closer, it looked more like a bobcat, smaller, with long hind legs and a face that wasn't pointed but flat. The fur was draped around it more than growing on it. The fur was ragged, torn in places, and some sections of the skin were bare. There wasn't any tail, and coming closer, Wheeler was frowning, thinking that this was his imagination, trying hard to calm himself. But then he stopped and saw the feet and hands and nose, and what he felt was like a replay of that instant twenty-three years ago. God, he'd shot somebody! Not a man! A boy! The kid looked maybe twelve. But why was this kid dressed in ragged pelts the way he was? Had children from the town come out to scare the cattle? Had some campers…? But Wheeler knew the answer even as he asked those useless questions. That long hair below the shoulders. Christ, he'd shot another hippie.

He pivoted, scowling around him. Had another bunch come through here? Was that first bunch still up in the mountains? He had heard that they had left, but if they hadn't, this might be one of their kids. That big hole in its back from where the bullet had burst out. That motionless, silent body. He was nudging at it with his boot, but nothing happened. He breathed, shaking. How could he explain this? First one, now another, and the town would act the way it had the first time. No one would believe him when he said it was an accident. They'd send him back to prison, and he knew he couldn't bear that. Not that guard again. He couldn't stand it. Just because these god-damned hippies came down here to take things out on him. He started digging with his rifle butt, but all he did was chip the wood because the ground out here was hard, and he needed tools, a pick and shovel. Quick before somebody found this. He stumbled from the figure, bumping against the tree, and lurching toward his ranchhouse. Then he started running. Have to hurry, get that pick and shovel, make the hole deep, make sure scavengers don't dig up the body, sprinkle it with quicklime. He ran harder. His fear had changed to a frenzy, his speed now almost manic as he saw the ranchhouse in the distance while, his stomach churning, he kept charging toward it.

Slaughter stood before the glass partition, numbed by what he saw. Cody who had found the boy inside the mansion last night and been bitten was now snarling, writhing to escape the straps that bound him to the bed. His throat was bandaged, and the damage there might help explain the hoarse inhuman sounds he made, but Slaughter didn't think so. No, the virus was at work. The man was like a lunatic, and Slaughter thought again about the medical examiner's remark, about the madness from the moon. "It's just a guess," he told the orderly beside him. "Turn his room lights off, and maybe that will calm him. God, I wish he'd pass out."

Even with the window as a buffer, Slaughter felt the snarling touch him. He was nauseated by the foam that drooled from Cody's mouth. The snarling and writhing became more extreme. Cody tried to twist his head to bite the nearest strap around him.

"I can't watch this."

Swallowing, Slaughter glanced at where Marge waited at the far end of the hallway. She was peering through another window. Slaughter knew that the mother of the dead boy was inside there, and he took one final look at Cody before walking slowly toward Marge.

"I just hit her," Marge said, not turning to him. 'There was nothing else I could do. I didn't mean to hit her so hard. She was-"

"You can't go on like this."

"But she's got a fractured skull."

"You'd rather that she'd killed her husband?"

"No, I…" Marge faced him.

"Then take it easy. You did what you thought was necessary. As it is, she's going to live. That's all that really counts, although I don't know what they're going to do with her. There isn't any way they know to cure her."

He peered through the window at the mother who was strapped unconscious to her bed, bandages around her skull, an intravenous bottle draining toward a needle in her arm.

"We know this much," Slaughter said. "She shouldn't be sedated, so the fact that she's unconscious from the blow you gave her might turn out to be the best thing, all considered. If she were awake, she'd be hysterical like Cody up the hall."

Even here, Slaughter heard the snarling from the other room.

Marge leaned against the wall.

"Hey, why not go home?" Slaughter suggested. "There isn't anything that you can do here. You'll be told whatever happens."

"What about yourself?"

"Oh, don't you know? I'm trying for a record. How long I can go without sleep."

He hoped that would make her smile, but she only stared.

"Marge, I know that what you did was hard."

She studied him.

"I know that if there'd been another way you would have chosen it. I think that you did fine. I wish you wouldn't feel so bad."

"You'd feel the same."

"Of course, I would. But then I'd need a friend like you to say what I just said to you. I mean it. You did fine. I don't want you to worry."

"Thanks." Marge bit her lip. "But it doesn't help."

"All the same, go home. I'll get word to you."

She nodded. Even so, she lingered.

"Come on. Let me walk you down."