Christopher Buehlman - Those Across the River

Standing half-erect sometimes like apes might.

My heart beat so loud and fast I thought it might break the shelf of my chest. My breathing was so hard I was sure they would hear. I fought to keep still but shuddered anyway. I sighted down the pistol but didn’t draw the hammer; I was too far away for a good shot and I knew I could not make my legs move closer. She was clearly dead but even if she wasn’t… Not towards them.

I backed away from my tree, keeping an eye on them. Trying to control my shaking. Crouching low, I made my way to the Noble house again and saw that the front door was shut. Sadie cried out but her cry was stifled. I went to open the door but as soon as I touched the handle I heard a loud clap and something stung my face and something else passed by my head.

Am I shot?

I ducked to the side and shouted, “It’s Frank Nichols!” But another shot tore a chunk out of the door and would have hit me had I not moved.

Light came from the hole in the door.

Sadie cried now that her father’s hands were busy.

The noise will bring them back.

It was then that I remembered my wife alone in our house and I ran. I sprinted through the night air bare of chest and foot with the pistol tight in my hand.

I only survived because I looked over my shoulder.

It was closing in at a full run, not ten yards away.

Its eyes like dim green lamps, its teeth bared, its wild pelt rippling. This could be my death. Now.

I thumbed the hammer back and pointed the pistol behind me, still running. The monster dodged right, meaning to flank me, but exposed its own flank for just that second.

Please.

The big .45 jumped hard in my hand and banged loud. An instant of bright flame and then smoke. It was powerful. It was good magic. The thing’s hindquarters bucked sideways when the slug caught it and it spun out, giving a bark of pain and surprise. It stopped to lick its badly injured haunch and I might have sunk one in its chest had I been willing to stop running and take a steady shot, but I kept running and shot again and missed.

I saw motion behind it, farther off but coming. How many of them? I had only seen one other but there was no way to tell if maybe half a dozen were threading their way towards the noise of my gun. I thought they could probably smell my fear, that it would smell bright.

As I ran I saw my bedroom window as a square of light bobbing past the branches of the young trees along the road and I moved so fast now it seemed the balls of my feet barely nipped the ground. One was moving in the trees beside me. I glimpsed its shoulders as it ran. It was bigger than the other one and darker, maybe black, but it darted back into the brush when I raised my weapon and kept pace with me, just too far off for a good shot. I wanted to make sure one was not gaining on my other side but feared to take my eyes from this one. They were quick.

As I got to the porch I put my back to the wall and tried the door with my left hand. Open. I had forgotten to tell Dora to lock the door behind me. I got it open and leapt inside and saw my wife in the kitchen wide-eyed and small, holding a knife.

“Get upstairs and shut the door! Lock it!” I said, and I bolted the front door and dragged the heavy sofa and two packed, taped boxes in front of it.

Something moved past the window.

Please please please.

I ran into my kitchen, which was wild with the shadows of branches swaying on the floor. I grabbed Dora’s silverware from the drawer. Some of it fell and clattered to the floor as I took the stairs two at a time, moving past the shut bedroom door and into my study. The front door downstairs began to rattle as something strong tried to force its way in. Then three hard raps came.

Is it knocking?

They came again.

“Frank?” Dora yelled.

“Stay in there! No matter what you hear!”

I took the small cannon from its place in the corner of the study and poured powder in it, but the powder went everywhere. Now I perched it on its carriage. This was taking so long. If my hands weren’t shaking. If I had a little time. Tore one pocket out of my pants for wadding. Quarters and nickels from my pocket—I remember how ridiculous it was to see a buffalo going down the hole—but not dimes; dimes were too light. Only butter knives and those delicate forks fit in the narrow aperture of the weapon. This was taking too long! Now the other pocket so the load didn’t fall out when I pointed it down. More like a large shotgun than a small cannon, made to shred horses and men.

Why is it so quiet?

When I had it loaded I moved it to the hallway and pointed it down the staircase so that nothing could get up them without facing it. I had choked off the upper floor.

Or so I thought.

They’re planning something, too.

I laid the pistol next to me.

Glass broke in the kitchen.

“Frank?”

“I’m alright, love. Be still.”

I poured the priming.

It walked into the living room below.

Not the black one. Reddish. I saw it through the railing at a hairpin angle from the stairs. When I saw it my hands began to shake so badly that I could not light my lighter. I felt my testicles turn to ice and crawl up inside me.

It came around the corner with its yellowed teeth bare and its tongue hanging. Teeth like Turkish knives. It saw me and reared up to consider me, its ears nearly brushing the ceiling. It was not impressed. Back down on all fours and started its run up the stairs. Its smell coming hot before it, my skin tingling, anticipating the grab of those awful teeth.

It happened fast, I know that, but it seemed very slow.

Jesus God please please I’ll do anything so sorry heartfully just let it THERE yes THERE please you GOD!

The lighter caught and I touched it to the priming, which issued a short sst and then a hard and final BANG that rattled every joint in the house and broke out a downstairs window.

At the last moment, when it saw the flame of the lighter and understood that it was going to be hit, it half turned away and caught the brunt of it through the ribs and middle. The effect was appalling. It was almost sawn in half. It panted hard twice through what was left of its lungs, blowing an awful bubble, then shuddered, caved in and died.

The recoil of the gun knocked me from a squatting position and onto my back; the carriage had slammed across my shin, laying it open and all but breaking it. It was some time before I felt this. Or my badly burned hand.

My wife screamed my name.

I picked up the pistol.

I ran to the door and when I found it locked, I laid my shoulder into it and it gave.

The monster, the black one, was attacking Eudora where she had backed herself into the closet, kicking at it. It looked up at me as I burst into the room, and even as I raised the pistol it leapt on the bed and broke it and jumped out the window. My shot hit the headboard. I turned to see my wife. She was sitting on the floor of the closet holding her wounded foot aloft. It had bitten deeply into the meat of her heel and her blood ran and dripped.

“Frankie oh Frank help me it got me but I think I’m alright I just need help getting up oh my God what was it what the hell was that?”

“Just sit here and let me see it.”

I stopped her bleeding with the top sheet of the bed. My hands were still shaking.

“That was the cannon.”

“Yes. We’ll have to clean this out.”

“Oh God, we should have left. Why didn’t we leave?”

“We’ll leave now.”

“It hurts. I’m sorry I jerked my leg. You’re just trying to help and I can’t stay still.”

“I think you’ll be alright. It’s not as bad as it looks.”