Cotton Crossing

  The…the man, the sick man, the patient kept twitching, arms and legs jerking randomly. His jeans were wet to the thigh, and the ruins of a camo hunting jacket under the orange vest were stiff and filthy. Traveller darted for a flailing, flopping hand, and Ginny hissed a No that made the ruined mass of the head jerk. It was still trying to hear her. Its hand grabbed a fistful of snow, the arm bent, and it tried to jam the snow where its mouth should be. Instead, there was just an open hole with broken teeth, that strange discolored blood, and string-flaps of muscle working to open and close, open and close.

  Traveller darted in again. If he got a mouthful of that—

  “No!” Ginny lost the battle with her stomach. She leaned sideways; steaming, tea-colored and pancake-scented vomit burst free. It stung her nose and made her eyes water, and if not for Traveller’s sharp bark of warning she might not have looked down to see the thing fish-flopping in the snow, trying to work its way nearer to her.

  A sick man. A patient.

  She’d assaulted a patient.

  Oh, God, no. She snapped glance at the trees on the far side of the road. The long expanse of white that was Lee’s front yard, broken only by a humped shape that was probably a busted car up on blocks, was probably safe enough. But those trees…anything could be in there. Hiding. Watching.

  Traveller sniffed a few times. His lip lifted, and he growled again. Thankfully, he didn’t seem too interested in biting it now. Instead, he edged for the steaming splotch of Ginny’s puke. She stood, unsteadily, trying to think. There was probably a way out of this situation. She could probably come up with one. If she could just get in some air that wasn’t full of the smell of this thing, the burning of stomach juice in her nose and throat, the high rushing sound in her ears.

  The thing on the ground kept making that dry, awful noise. Just like Harry, and Amy. Boys tried to protect their mama, Lee’s voice, quiet and sure, floated inside her head.

  If she ran for the house, and got Traveller inside, she would have to watch out the front room as this thing…what? Would it fish-flop after them, or would it just lie there and twitch?

  The shovel’s curved head dripped thin brackish fluid onto the churned snow. Traveller looked at her, ears perked, head slightly tilted, as if he expected her to figure this out posthaste. She was the human, after all.

  Ginny raised the shovel again. Crunch.

  And again. Crunch.

  Finally, the thing stopped moving. Her arms ached, a savage, dull trembling. She let go of the shovel, now stuck in…in the thing, and backed up a few paces, staring at the thing’s shattered head. It reminded her of anatomy class. Pictures of trauma, only there was nothing sterile or surgical about this. Her stomach cramped again, but there was nothing to throw up. Her tongue hurt, too.

  The dog whined, softly. At least there was something that would shut him up.

  “Come on, Traveller.” She didn’t know if he would. She’d just killed someone.

  Or—and this was the terrifying thing—had he already been clinically dead?

  Amazingly, the dog didn’t run away howling. He trotted behind her while she tried to look everywhere at once, edging for the house. The barn door was wide open and the snow shovel stood up in the corpse, right in the middle of the driveway, but the further she got from the…the body, the less she could even contemplate going back to clean up, close the door, put the shovel away.

  No. A big old serving of NOPE, as Flo would say.

  Ginny made it to the house. Shut and locked Lee Quartine’s front door, and sagged against it while Traveller, apparently forgetting his new human had just murdered someone with a snow shovel, nosed at her wet jeans and began to yip-croon and talk to her again.

  Ice In Its Belly

  “I dunno.” Juju’s jaw was set as he climbed sideways up the concrete steps, covering their six. “This really don’t seem like a good idea, Lee.”

  Neither of them had drawn yet, though in Lee’s case it was a damn close thing. “You can wait in the car.” Lee examined the swinging glass doors. They were probably locked. He tugged at one, it opened smoothly. Go figure.

  This heavy brick building had held the police station since the thirties, and the cells in the basement were movie-worthy boxes with iron-bar fronts. Percy’s wife Cindy used to cook for the prisoners, but after the divorce they were dependent on whatever the Tasty Freez had leftover at the end of a day. Margie had, once or twice, offered to cook for “the jail,” but Percy’s inherent cheapness—the Blotzers would never pay full price if they could steal, the saying went—offended her business sensibilities.

  Lee wondered how Margie and Rooster had made out. The little Navy man was tough, and it was an article of town faith that no moss grew on Margie herself, but neither of them were spring chickens.

  Inside, worn blue-flecked linoleum older than either of them glowed dully, and the high narrow desk for the duty sergeant—most likely Grant Howison, since his nose was always so far up Percy’s ass it was a wonder he could breathe—sat empty. Papers scattered on the floor, and that was a bad sign. Someone had been in here when the world went haywire, and had left in such a hurry they hadn’t bothered to lock up.

  Or hadn’t left at all.

  “We’re clear.” Juju exhaled sharply. A cheap brass bell on the door chimed morbidly as it closed. “They’ll shoot me sittin’ in my car out there, if they can. Shoot me if they see me in here.”

  “Ain’t nobody in here.” Still, he didn’t blame the man. Blotzer wouldn’t even drink his coffee black.

  “And what if it ain’t a somebody but one of them things?” Juju followed him into the dampish, chilly cave of the station, automatically covering.

  “Well, I don’t think any of the critters know how to work a gun.” It was damn good to work with someone who knew what the hell he was doing. Meant Lee could forget about his six and concentrate on what was in front of him. “Although…you might get your chance to beat the shit out of Sheriff Percy.”

  The prospect was enough to cheer both of them up. Juju’s small sound of amusement bounced off the dusty ceiling tiles. “Now there’s an idea. Huh.”

  “What?” Lee lifted his Maglite. A few moments later, Juju’s clicked on as well, and the white flashlight beams played over linoleum, scattered paper, a sheet of rippled glass held in a door with Cotton Crossing Police Dept written in a curve, gold leaf glinting. Through that door and back was dispatch, upstairs was Percy’s office and “evidence rooms.” Downstairs were the cells, and the shower. He could almost hear his grandfather’s voice, on one of the old man’s regular visits to shoot the shit with Pat Huntington, whose heart attack had brought an end to the old style of policing in the Crossing.

  “Power’s out on Main, and on the west side, but not out at your place.” Juju sounded thoughtful.

  “Blown transformers, maybe.” He didn’t know if the station had a genny, and given Blotzer’s penny-pinching ways, it probably didn’t.

  “Or the Army cut lines. You saw ’em in the street, shootin crazy.”

  “Could be.”

  Juju paused. “Gonna pick yourself up Percy’s cruiser?” When he was satisfied nothing was behind them he moved again, which meant Lee could.

  “We’ll take another four-by if we find it. Mostly I want ammo. And a good rifle or two.” Grenades would be mighty welcome, too. “Some of that SWAT gear. Maybe go near the base, see if we can get our hands on somethin there.”

  Juju considered this. “Bad idea.”

  “How you figger?”

  “Survivors gonna be thinking the same thing. If’n there’s a CO there, we could both be dragged into yessir-nosir, all passes canceled.”

  Wellnow, there was something he hadn’t thought of. And then what would happen to Ginny, all alone? She’d find the spare keys for his truck, of that he was sure. Say she ran across a roadblock and protested at something or another? Depending on how widespread this thing was—and he did not like his suspicions in that quarter—she could
get in a hell of a lot of trouble once she crossed the county line.

  Or before.

  “You’re right.” I shoulda thought of that. “It’d be nice to get some real firepower, though.”

  “Could turn your truck into a technical. Goodbye traffic jams.”

  “That’ll keep the back end down, too.” Lee was about to remark further on the advisability of maybe putting a winch on the front end of the pickup when a low, chilling growl drifted through the darkened doorway in front of stairs.

  Going down. To the cells.

  “Shit,” Juju breathed.

  Lee agreed heartily. “Don’t suppose we could just leave it there.” His hand dropped to his gun, and he heard the soft sliding motion of Juju drawing, too.

  “Have it come up the stairs behind us.” A tight, unhappy whisper. “Sure.”

  Stepping into the wet blackness of the stairwell was unpleasant enough. Going down, his heart settling into a high fast gallop and every hair on him standing straight up, was doubly so. Christ, he hated this sort of thing. It wasn’t any comfort that he was all right at it, really. Why couldn’t he have been good at something else? Music, maybe. Trick riding horses. Sewing. Now wouldn’t that be a sight, him hunched over Nonna’s old Singer.

  Wooden, linoleum-covered steps turned to stained bare concrete for the last half-dozen, and the floor was concrete as well. The walls drew away, and there was a heavy splorching sound as the thing in one of the cells heaved itself against the bars, beginning to make that dry, rasping noise too. Thin blades of flashlight glow played over the empty tiled shower-cubicle on the left, cut across two cells at the other end of the narrow high-ceilinged space, and splashed up the longer row of cells to the right. The officer’s desk to their immediate right had been smashed all to fuck, and there was a tangled, hideous shape caught in its splinters. A badge gleamed, but it was impossible to tell which of the Crossing’s fine officers of the law was there. The head was a mess; the body had already bloated in the relative warmth of an insulated basement. When it burst, there was going to be an even worse stench.

  The thing making that low, nasty noise crouched in front of the second cell on the right. Another sharp glitter was a set of handcuffs, one half clipped to the door and the other to its meaty wrist. The only reason it was still trapped was because of the size of said wrist.

  It had already gnawed mostly at it, the way a coyote will eat its own paw off to escape a trap. It was big, slump-shouldered, and in a familiar blue uniform. It had Percy Blotzer’s aggressive high-and-tight, but half its face was gone and its mouth was cracking as the corners as it chewed at its own wrist, its feet in their spit-shined and muck-spattered shoes leaving black heelmarks on the smooth concrete floor as they worked.

  “Oh, fuck,” Lee heard himself say.

  The thing’s filmed eyes rolled. Lee lifted his gun, the morning’s coffee boiling high up behind his breastbone.

  “Godsake.” Juju, almost breathless with revulsion. “Oh, Lord have mercy.”

  The shot deafened both of them, muzzleflash painting the walls with brief white and Lee’s flashlight beam bucking wildly.

  * * *

  Thickening clouds turned iron-colored; there was a howler coming in. It was likely to have some ice in its belly, too, and Lee decided it was better to get home before daylight failed completely. Juju was silent, his mouth pulled tight and his hands gripping the wheel. They’d made a good haul—bulletproof vests, plenty of ammo and various other assorted bits from the police station, canned and dry food from the deserted Landy’s, a bigger bag of Purina and some of the fruit and root veggies that hadn’t spoiled, all the first-aid they could lay their hands on. They didn’t see a soul the entire time except the thing in the station basement, and that was probably best.

  Still, there were prints and other marks in the snow. Not so many tire tracks, but a fair amount of foot traffic. Some of the marks were strange, long sideways drags, and Lee was busy thinking this over while Juju took the turn into his driveway. He’d just about figured out that it was someone on all fours, pushing themselves sideways, when Juju hit the brakes despite the snow and the four-by began to slide a bit.

  “Lee?” Juju corrected almost immediately, the chained tires biting again. “Aw, shit.”

  Lee’s head jerked up. There was something in his driveway. A flash of crimson, and his heart lodged in his throat with a jump that jolted his entire body. For a second he thought the red blotch was blood, but it was his old snow shovel, its handle sticking up at an angle because the blade was buried in a mess of something hunter-orange. A human-sized mess, and for a moment the entire world turned gray before adrenaline hit his palate with its familiar, padded metal hammer.

  “Lee for God’s sake,” Juju yelled, but he’d already hit his seatbelt, the little dealie that retracted nylon and buckle whirring. Not only that, but he’d grabbed the door handle and the cold outside hit cheeks, hands, and all through him. He was goddamn lucky he didn’t break his fool legs, bailing out of a moving vehicle, even if it was creeping at barely a walk.

  Big gut. Hunter’s orange vest. Crushed head—the snow shovel had been applied several times. There was a mess of footsteps, small soles with a distinctive tread pattern, light on the heel, and dog paws. The four-by’s engine purred as Juju aimed it for parking, obviously deciding Lee wasn’t in his right mind at the moment, and Lee’s gaze snagged on the open barn door.

  Oh, Christ. Had she been driven in there to look for a weapon? Where were the other two critters he’d seen last night? One of them had been small. Child-sized. Ginny was decent, she’d hesitate when it came time to bash a kid-sized head in. Hesitation was exactly what you couldn’t afford, dealing with these things. They were fast.

  So she’d let Traveler out, or maybe seen the small critter and thought it was a child in trouble?

  “Lee?” Juju cut the four-by’s engine, hanging out the driver’s door. He was a good sort, ready to back a man up. “Lee, the barn—”

  “On it,” Lee barked, and headed that way with long strides. The failing iron-colored light meant it would be a black cave full of shrouded shapes; was the power still on? His house windows were blank, too, no golden electric glow.

  Somehow, he had his gun drawn. Juju slammed the four-by’s door, and at least the other man was thinking—he had his Maglite, the beam weak in dying daylight but pretty damn useful inside. The motion-sensor floodlight above the big barn door ticked on, and while that was comforting—it meant he could flip the switch inside the barn—it also wasn’t, because goddammit, there was no light on inside his house.

  Ginny. Where was she? Was she in the barn, chewed to flinders? Was he going to have to put a round in her pretty head, just to make sure she didn’t sit up and start making that awful dry growling noise?

  Juju flicked the lights on, glancing nervously at Lee as if he expected some kind of reprimand. Nothing hiding in there, everything where it should be except for the empty space where the snow shovel should hang.

  Sonny Jesus, Lee kept thinking. Sonny Jesus, I am a sinner, and I know it, but please, Nonna will tell you I mean well. Please let her be all right. Please.

  “Nothin’ in here,” Juju said, softly. “Lee?”

  “No sign of the dog, either.” That didn’t mean much. Traveller could be in the woods, following his damn nose like the hound he was. “House’s all dark.”

  “Maybe she…” Juju shook his head. He was chalky under his blue knit cap, mouth drawn tight and shoulders tense. “Christ.”

  The sound pulled both of them around in a tight circle. For a moment, Lee couldn’t understand what he was hearing.

  Then he realized it was barking and yodeling, a bluetick hound’s welcome-home cry, and his heart pounded in his ears so hard he thought he might pass out in here right next to the trailer. Juju got to the door first, because Lee froze, gun down in ready and the cold in his bones retreating under a scalding wash of irrational relief and fresh fear. Just because the dog wa
s here didn’t mean she was all right, or even still…

  Still alive.

  Lee made it to the door, creaky-stiff like an old man, and habitually flicked the lights off as he stepped out. It hit him down low, right in the belly, and his shoulder hit one side of the doorframe because he flat-out staggered.

  Now his porch light was on, and Ginny stood at the top of the wooden steps in her fancy hiking coat, deadly pale, hugging herself. Traveller was already leaping at Juju’s knees, telling all about whatever had happened while they were gone, but Lee could not have cared less. Her hair was mussed, a single braid down the back pulled loose, curls framing her face, and the look she wore about stopped his heart and made it try to break out of his ribs at the same time. He’d seen that stare before, on soldiers after combat and civilians after the bombing. A thousand-yard faraway, the person inside a body retreated to some far mental corner and only a watchful, shock-stunned animal part of them left to look out on the physical.

  It was wrong. She shouldn’t look that way. Of all the people in the world, she shouldn’t look like the survivor of a three-day carpet blitz.

  Lee wanted to run across the yard, snow be damned, and grab her. Shake her. Find out if she was all right. If she’d been bit. What had happened, for Chrissake. Instead, he just stood there like an idiot, because his legs wouldn’t work. It was Juju who got there first, and began to get the first halting words out of her.

  Lee, his heart thundering in his ears and wrists and ankles, was left to lock up the barn, unload the food and gear, and get Traveller herded inside. The dog showed little interest in the big slumping body, and a few flakes of snow were already on their way down. By morning it might well be covered. Lee left the snow shovel there, too, even though prying it out of a frozen corpse in the morning was going to be a job.

  All the time, all he could think was thank you.

  Thank you, God. Thank you, sonny Jesus. Don’t deserve this, will never deserve this, thank you.