Robert Duperre - The Gate 2 - 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair

The woman shrugged. “Don’t know. Some folks say they’re wolves, but bigger’n the ones you see in books. The Sickness changed ’em, they say. Made ’em huge, gave ’em a taste for human blood. They been wandering the borders since this place was repopulated four years ago, killing livestock. Not many folks’ve seen ’em and lived, but those that have swear they’re giant demons that’ll haunt them ’till the day they die.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “That so? Who was the last one to see them?”

The old woman laughed. “Ernest Batchell, actually. Left town soon after. Said they were stalking his farm.” Her beady eyes narrowed. “Guess that’d be your farm, now.”

“Oh.”

“Ah, don’t worry none.” She placed her calloused hand on Abigail’s. “You’ll be fine. Old Ernest was batshit crazy, that’s what he was. But maybe you should go get yourself a man. That’d help matters, wouldn’t it? A man to protect you at night?”

Abigail grabbed the bag of feed, threw it over her shoulder, spun around, and exited the shop without the courtesy of answering her.

She grabbed her mule by its bit and led the animal through what passed for Westworth’s town center—a collection of dilapidated barns and sheds with hand-painted signs propped against their dry and dusty walls. There were few people out and about, but those who did brave the heat of late morning cast her suspicious glances from beneath their hats. Eyes stared at her like spotlights from the center of soiled faces. All were male, and there was an aura of danger about each of them. A shiver ran up her spine.

But maybe you should get yourself a man.

No. Wasn’t going to happen. Abigail didn’t trust men. Not anymore.

Abigail marched down the road. Draped over the mule lagging behind her were the butchered remains of one of her cattle. It had taken her nearly two weeks to build up the nerve to slaughter the poor thing, but her feed bins were running low, as were her supplies. She needed to trade the meat in. Old Man Hollis had promised that a properly butchered cow would fetch a pretty penny in the town proper, whether the meat was low-grade and diseased or not. She hoped he was right.

The sounds of people shouting came to her from over the dune to her right. In her state of exhaustion—the damn Howlers seemed to get louder and louder every night, keeping her awake and scared—she assumed it was her head playing tricks on her. But then it came again, a human bellow followed by what sounded like the screeching of a cat. She looked around, her heart picking up pace. She was near the Mullin farm, the only other cattle wrangler in town. The Mullins were comprised of three brothers and their father, who ran the farm. She’d met them all once, at the market, and didn’t walk away impressed. She was about to ignore it, but then the sound came again, and this time she made out a loud thwacking noise. Just ignore it , her better judgment warned her. Keep on walking.

Abigail didn’t listen.

Grabbing her rifle from its pouch on the mule’s saddlebag, she stormed across the sand, kicking up clouds of dust. The screams came once more, then again. She heard three distinct, frantic voices, other than whatever animal was screeching. Probably the brothers. Probably in trouble.

As she crested the hill, Abigail realized she was wrong. The Mullin brothers weren’t in trouble. The three boys stood in a triangular formation, each holding a plank of wood. They took turns raising the planks over their heads, bringing them down hard as they could on whatever lay between them.

She inched closer, and her mouth dropped open. In the center of the human triangle, crouching and bawling, with its arms raised over its head while blood poured from the wounds covering its body, was her monster. It squealed in pain as another plank smacked against it, drawing a cut across the back of its hand.

Rage filled her. She raised her rifle to the sky and fired off a single shot. In the aftermath, all movement ceased.

The three Mullin boys stared at her as she trudged down the rise. They kept passing suspicious glances back and forth. She stopped a few feet away and pointed the barrel at them.

David Mullin, the oldest boy, probably in his mid-twenties, grinned. Most of his teeth were missing and his gums bled, obvious signs of Sickness. “Well what we got here?” he said, his voice cackling. “How’re you, pretty lady?”

Abigail didn’t reply. She shrugged her rifle to the side instead, letting it speak for her. The boys complied, moving away from the poor, wailing creature.

“Aw, someone’s got a soft spot for the freak,” said Barry, the youngest.

“Shut your mouth before I put a hole through it,” snapped Abigail. He obeyed.

When the boys were far enough away, she approached her tiny monster. It shivered while it lay crumpled in a ball, but at least it’d stopped screaming. It rolled over and raised its white eyes to her. The mirage of a grin formed on its thin, frayed lips. Streaks ran down its cheeks. The beast had been crying.

“It’s okay now,” Abigail whispered.

“Like hell it is.”

A shadow flashed behind her and she was knocked sideways. Her elbow struck hard sand when she fell, causing pain to flash up her forearm. Billy Mullin, the middle brother, ran past her, weapon in hand. The vulnerable creature yelped, its eyes bulging, as Billy brought the plank down once more, this time hitting it square in the face. A couple of sharp teeth flew from the thing’s mouth, accompanied by a stream of blood.

Billy swiveled his head and stared at her, his expression gripped with rage. “This thing killed one of our horses!” he screamed. “And we ain’t gonna take that from some mutie!”

Abigail’s eyes shifted from Billy to the creature and back again. In her mind she saw Mitchell standing over her dead son, a look of perverse satisfaction painted on his face. She gritted her teeth, squeezed the shaft of her gun as her own rage took over, and rose to her feet. Billy’s expression went from royally pissed off to rather concerned as she stumbled to get her footing and then charged full-bore at him, leading with the butt of her rifle. He must not have expected her to carry through with the assault, for he simply stood there, gawking. The ass end of the rifle slammed into his nose, and she heard an audible crack as the cartilage smashed. Billy careened away from her, wailing and holding his face. Blood seeped between his fingers.

She heard movement and spun around, swinging her rifle like a bat. Its stock caught David in the jaw. His head snapped back and he cried out in pain. Abigail bounced on her heels, holding the rifle upright, daring someone to make a move. The two injured boys stumbled about, not daring to approach her, while Barry stood as if frozen, his jaw hanging open.

Finally, Abigail swung the rifle around and shouldered it. She aimed it at each brother, one at a time, and said, “Now go away.”

The boys turned tail, stumbling over the dune to their rear. David, holding his cheek (which was already purple and swelling), turned back to her. He spat a tooth out on the dirt and glared.

“Pa’s gonna hear about this,” he said, and then disappeared from sight.

Abigail stayed as she was, gun in hand, nerves on edge, for some time afterward. She feared the boys would circle around and attack her from behind, but after a while that worry evaporated. She threw the rifle over her shoulder and looked to the spot where the wounded creature lay.

It wasn’t there.

Her head shot from side to side, but it was no use. She could see nothing but sand beneath a light blue horizon. Shrugging her shoulders and breathing deeply, she trudged back the way she came, hoping the mule hadn’t taken off in her absence—especially since it still had a hundred pounds of valuable beef strapped to its back.