Authors: Seth Skorkowsky
Spencer loosened his grip on the rag to his chest.
No blood surged out. Carefully, he lifted the red-soaked wad to see purple skin, like a fresh scar, where the hole had been. Sliding his fingers to his shoulder, he felt no wound. Was he becoming a monster? A wendigo, the man called it?
“
You’re not a wendigo,” Clay said, reading Spencer’s obvious panic. “That fire, you see, is its soul burnin’ up. Only happens when the demon itself dies. If I’d just killed the body, it’d transform back into the corpse of whomever it possessed. But now it’s burnin’ up. In half an hour or so, it’ll change back to the host. Thing is, Spencer, if the demon’s dead, why are you healing?”
“
I...I...don’t know,” Spencer mumbled, shaking his head.
Clay
loaded another bullet. “How do you feel? Physically, I mean.”
“
Fine... I guess.”
The old man nodded, as if to himself.
“I owe you an apology. See, I’ve been followin’ this pack up the Appalachians for the last month. Thought I had ‘em in Warren couple days ago, but they got away. My mistake. They’d been posing as an Indian family. Four of ‘em. Parents and two teenage kids, but they transferred into a group of college students. Made it past me. Just didn’t get here in time.”
Spencer r
emembered the beaded necklace. He’d seen it on a pretty brunette girl that day out on the lake. She and her friends said they’d rented a summer cabin a mile or so up the road from theirs.
“
You hungry?” Clay asked while loading a last bullet and snapping the little latch closed. There felt more to the question than just idle chat.
“
No.”
Pursing his lips, the old man seemed to study Spencer.
Ponder him like one might ponder one of those puzzle questions his teacher Mrs. Metcalf asked every Friday, like, ‘Is stealing in order to save yourself wrong?’ or, ‘Would you rather be blind or deaf?’
“
Close your eyes, Spencer.”
“
Why?”
“
Humor me.”
Spencer did as he was asked.
He heard Clay shuffling, maybe digging in his bag. A sharp pain shot up his arm as the broken bone fully crunched itself back into place.
“
You all right?” the old man asked.
“
Yeah.” He nodded, his eyes scrunched from the now fading pain. “My arm.” Letting out a breath, he rubbed it. A warm knot melted below the skin.
“
Still hurtin’?”
He shook his head.
“Just a bit. But it’s going away.” He realized his mistake as he said it. The mere fact his arm was healing was why there was a man holding a gun on him. Not that it was somehow weirder than his other mending wounds.
“
Do you know any other languages, Spence?” His voice sounded a bit muffled, like when the phone would sometimes pick up an echo or other conversation in the background. “French, Latin, any of that?”
“
No.”
“
Nothing in school?”
“
No. I’ll be taking Spanish in high school.” The sudden thought that he probably wouldn’t go back to school again flickered in his mind. It didn’t seem real. An hour ago, he was eating with his family and bickering with his sister. Now they were gone. Eaten by monsters. Demons.
Something soft hi
t his chest, snapping him back to the present. He touched his skin and it felt gritty like sand. Rubbing it between his fingers, he sniffed the coarse powder. It smelled spicy, like his dad’s roasted game hen. “What is this?”
No answer.
Spencer touched his finger to his tongue. It tasted more like salty dirt than anything.
He heard Clay
’s grunt. “Aren’t you a mystery. Got a third-ounce blessed silver in you. Powder doesn’t do anything, but you heal like one of ‘em and speak French.”
“
What?” Spencer’s eyes opened catching the last bit.
Clay’s hand tensed on the gun.
He scrunched his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I...I...didn’t mean to...”
“
It’s all right. Go ahead and open ‘em.”
Slowly, Spencer
did so. The scruffy man sat in the chair watching him, the bladed revolver still trained on him, but somehow relaxed.
“
What did you mean I speak French?”
“
I mean you understand it,” Clay said, his voice again muddled. “You didn’t even notice I wasn’t speaking English.” His lips moved out of sync with the words, like in a Kung Fu movie. Instead, they mouthed the voice in the background, which Spencer now recognized as another language.
The old man grinned, seemingly amused at Spencer
’s obvious bewilderment.
“
How?”
Clay shrugged.
“Demons aren’t hindered by human languages.”
He glanced to the dead wendigo now blanketed in ghostly flames.
“Are you going to kill me?”
The question hung in the air.
“Don’t know,” Clay said, finally. He lifted the revolver up. Its gold etching glinted. “This is Dämoren. She’s going to tell me.” Opening the latch, he pushed out a single shell and held it up. Tiny swirls and writing covered the silver bullet and golden brown casing. “She holds seven rounds.” He slid the shell into one of the empty loops on his belt.
Keeping his gaze on Spencer, Clay lowered the hammer slightly, then spun the gun
’s cylinder. It whirred with rapid little clicks.
“
What are you doing?”
The clicks slowed then stopped.
Clay cocked the hammer back. “If Dämoren thinks you’re safe, she won’t fire.” His brow rose, finishing the explanation.
“
No! No, please.” Spencer held out his hands, as if he could somehow push the barrel away with mind-power. “Don’t kill me.”
“
It’s not up to me, son,” his voice regretful.
“
Please!”
Clay raised the gun and pulled the trigger.
Present Day:
Blue hands glided across the polished wood box, rubbing a cloth disk around the seam. The officer looked at the swab in his hand and lifted the box lid. The fluorescents gleamed off the nameplate as it swung open. ‘Dämoren’ etched in brass.
A long low breath escaped the border agent
’s lips, like he’d tried to whistle, but maybe didn’t know how. The other CBSA officer beside him looked down from his clipboard at the elaborate black and gilt gun resting inside amongst an assortment of intricate tools. The man in blue gloves removed a new swab from a plastic jar and ran it over the barrel. Tiny red gemstones glistened as the moist disk passed over them.
“
That isn’t going to hurt the finish, is it?” Matt asked from the other side of the table.
“
No sir,” Blue Hands answered without looking up.
“
It’s not going to leave any residue or anything?”
“
No sir. It evaporates very quickly.”
“
What is it you’re looking for?”
“
It’s a standard check for explosives and other chemicals,” Blue Hands replied patiently.
“
Explosives?” Matt said. “That pistol hasn’t been fired in at least fifty years.”
The officer holding the clipboard gave a short cough.
His nametag read, ‘M. Johnston.’ “We need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Hollis.”
“
Sure.”
“
Your name is Matthew Aaron Hollis?”
“
Yes.” It wasn’t a lie. Not anymore. He’d lived longer as Matt Hollis than he ever had as Spencer Mallory.
Johnston
’s pen ticked the clipboard. “Country of origin?”
“
United States.”
Another tick.
“And what is your destination?”
“
Calgary. There’s an antique showing there and I’m hoping to exhibit some of my goods.”
“
Are you aware of the laws about bringing guns, specifically handguns, into Canada, Mr. Hollis?”
Matt nodded.
“Yes, I am. And this piece falls into the category of antique firearm.”
Officer Johnston looked down from his clipboard to
Dämoren resting in its case. He flipped to another page. “Year of manufacture?”
“
1873, by Dumonthier of Paris.”
“
Black powder or cartridge-fired?”
“
It’s a black powder cartridge,” Matt answered. “One of the first. Just a few months younger than Colt’s Single Action. Mechanically, they’re very similar, but notice the loading gate is on the left side. Very unusual.”
The officer gave no more than a moment
’s glance. “Caliber?”
“
Eleven millimeter, but the only shells made for it, you see, are those in the box.” He motioned to the two triangular wedges set in the case’s front corners. Gold-lined holes dotted the wedges, fifteen per side. Etched bronze disks, with brass centers, covered a little over half the holes. “Out of the thirty, those are the last eighteen shells in the world that can fit in it.”
Blue Hands wedged his gloved thumbnail in
to one of the tiny grooves below the disks and drew out a long, empty bronze casing. He slid it back in and drew another, then another.
“
They’re not loaded, I assure you,” Matt said calmly.
Officer Johnston
’s brow creased. “So they made a gun with only thirty shots?” the official tone to his voice waning into conversational.
“
Those other tools,” motioning to the little clamps and rods nestled in their velvet-lined compartments, all etched with intricate scrollwork and foreign words, “are for molding bullets and reloading.”
The officer jotted something on his sheet.
Matt glanced out the window to the little parking lot behind the building.
He couldn’t see his car but knew it was out there somewhere. Probably getting a good once-over by more CBSA agents. Not that they’d find anything. He’d made sure of that.
“
It is a very unusual pistol, Mr. Hollis,” Officer Johnston said as his partner lifted Dämoren from its niche. Decades of gun oil had stained the velvet beneath to near black. “The blade under the barrel... Very different.”
“
It was a sword blade,” Matt said, trying to hide his discomfort as the agent handled the revolver.
“
A sword?”
“
Thirteenth Century from what’s modern-day Switzerland. The blade was broken and the owner had a gunsmith craft it into this.” Matt pointed to the straight handle angling down from behind the trigger. A bronze knob, resembling a two-headed wolf, capped the end. “That’s the original ivory sword handle.”
“
What’s it worth?” Johnston asked.
“
Oh, I’ve no intention of selling it. I just use it to draw people to my other goods.”
“
No.” He tapped the clipboard with his pen. “The value?”
“
Ah,” Matt said with a chuckle. “It’s appraised at eighty-four thousand. I, um, already put all that on the forms, sir. This won’t be its first trip up here for one of these shows.” He smiled, running his fingers through his sandy hair. “I’m getting used to the drill.”
The officer smiled back.
“Routine questions. I just have a few more.”
The agent ran down his list, asking Matt each question, which Matt answered.
Blue Hands placed Dämoren back into her box and closed the lid before moving his attention to the two sets of Victorian-era silverware, various jewelry, a dozen gold coins, and a yellowed diary once belonging to a Lieutenant James Whitmore of the North-West Mounted Police.
A door opened and a blonde woman stepped inside the small Customs office.
The sharp creases of her dark uniform were so pronounced, Matt wondered if she did anything in her off-time but iron. She handed Johnston a pair of forms and a passport, gave Matt an emotionless glance, turned, and left. Through the open door, Matt caught a glimpse of a TV in the other room. A picture of a teenage girl smiling with her family. The name beneath it read, ‘Rachel Fidell.’ The fourth victim. Next, a grainy picture from a parking lot camera showed an old woman talking to Rachel. Then an artist’s rendition of the woman: high forehead, round cheeks, gray-white hair. Matt only saw it for a moment before the pneumatics silently pinched the door closed. It didn’t matter. The face meant nothing. The old woman was a mask. He knew the face under the mask, under the flesh.
“
These are yours, sir,” Johnston said, offering Matt his passport and a laminated blue card. “Welcome to Canada, Mr. Hollis.”
Matt took them.
The picture staring at him from the open passport was his, although the hair was noticeably shorter and it was taken during one of Matt’s occasional, and always unsuccessful attempts, at growing facial hair. He closed it and slid them both into his shirt pocket. “Thank you.” He followed the officer out of the office and toward the door.
“
One last thing,” Officer Johnston said.
“
Yes?”
“
That card you gave us, the one saying you have a bullet in you.”
Matt nodded.
“It sets off metal detectors sometimes.”
Johnston gave an understanding smile.
“How did that happen?”
“
Hunting accident when I was a kid.” He touched his lower chest, just right of his sternum. “Doctors said it’d be worse to cut it out than to leave it in.”
“
But the lead?” He looked like he was about to say more, but thought better of it.
“
Copper jacketed. Doctors said I’m safe.” Like his name, the lie had been told so many times it might as well be true. Unlike his name, however, the silver slug was never forgotten.
The officer bid him goodbye and Matt carefully loaded his belongings back into his car.
Once in the driver seat, he pulled out his phone and sent a text to a number from memory, “
On my way.
”
#
Twenty-three miles later, he pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned grocery store. Circling around back, Matt steered the car past bits of trash and dingy potholes to where a powder blue box truck sat in an old loading dock. A dark Hispanic man stood near the rear, smoking a cigarette.
Matt
scanned the area. A cinderblock wall ran down one side of the alley, the building blocked the other. A subtle bend in the lot gave the benefit of being able to see a ways either direction, but not be seen from anyone on the street. There was no one around. He pulled his car up beside the truck and stepped out.
The man sucked a hard drag,
and then flicked the butt into a grease-sheened puddle. “I was beginning to wonder. Everything go all right?”
“
Fine, Cesar. You?”
Cesar grinned, flashing golden teeth.
“Just waitin’ on your slow ass.” He laughed and motioned Matt around to the rear of the truck.
There, the Colombian removed a battered disk-shaped padlock
from the latch and pulled the door open. Matt climbed in behind him and, after adjusting a mountain of shipping crates, cardboard boxes, and other debris, they withdrew a gray plastic footlocker and hauled it out.
Matt looked around, making sure they were still alone, then drew a key from his pocket and unlocked it.
Cracking the lid, he saw an old army blanket. He pulled it aside, unleashing a waft of leather and oil. He spied the black steel of his Ingram machine pistol, a half-dozen 30-round magazines loaded with silver, one mag of gold, a gallon jug of grayish powder, and a wide array of various jars, tools, hooks, books, blades, and other trinkets. It was all there. He closed the lid. “Good.”
“
I said you got nothing to worry about, my friend.” Cesar lit another cigarette.
Matt opened his trunk and heaved the awkward box inside.
They needed to go before someone saw them. “I know I can always count on you, man.” He pulled a thick fold of bills from his jacket and offered it out. “Three grand.”
“
I said you ain’t gotta pay me,” he said, taking the money. “Least not this much. Not after...” His gaze averted. “You know.”
“
Yeah, but I want to keep this strictly business. I don’t want to be burning any favors because sometime I might really need one. And that’s when I’ll call you.”
The Colombian grinned.
“You better.”
The men gave their farewells and left;
Cesar, west toward Vancouver, and Matt, north.
#
Thick trees grew along the winding road, hanging overhead and forming
a tunnel through the forest. Matt, wanting to enjoy the cool air, rolled down the window and cocked his elbow out as he drove. Hours passed, and the number of little towns began to dwindle. Intersecting roads became fewer and fewer and less paved. His GPS showed him as a cartoon blue convertible ticking along a red line over a green background of nothingness.
Red and orange streaked the sky as he pulled into the little town of Milton Hill.
A sign outside of town boasted it as the Winner of the Red Leaf Award, whatever that was. He wondered if maybe little towns like this made up these awards just to put them on their signs. Milton Hill consisted of maybe six intersections, three blocks of quaint storefronts, two working gas stations, another that had been converted to a used car lot, a pizza joint that claimed to serve real Italian sausage, and a school. On the far side of town, Matt pulled into a gravel drive motel and rented a unit under the name Walter Franks.
A few more of the cinderblock units were also occupied.
One looked like vacationers, with kayaks and bikes strapped to their truck like escape pods. Two units over sat a gray Range Rover, its rear door open. A man with bushy, brown hair stood at the back of the SUV, his eyes seeming to study Matt. Matt looked at him, and the man’s gaze instantly fell away as he removed a flat, black case from the vehicle and closed the door. Matt’s attention moved to the black, and very obvious, unmarked police car sitting in front of another unit. Probably RCMP investigators for little Rachel Fidell and the high-foreheaded woman pictured with her not twenty miles from here. Hopefully, Matt would be done with his business, and Rachel and all the other victims avenged, before the Mounties even noticed he was there.
Once in his room, it was straight to work.
He flipped on the TV and his computer to see if the news had any updates on the investigation. Her family had announced that Rachel had been three months pregnant at the time of her death, a fact Matt had already guessed. Victims One and Three had been pregnant as well, although Victim Three, Anna Kurner, was the only one showing it. Of course, in none of the cases was the baby’s body recovered. Those were assumed to have been eaten by whatever scavengers had torn apart the bodies before their discovery. Same ones that ate their livers.