Thinning the Herd (6 page)

9

ON THE TRAIL

Hal stayed close to the left hand tunnel wall. Moisture seeped through the dirt walls in places and puddled on the floor. Not surprising, considering how close the tunnel was to the river. And considering this was Oregon.

The dank air smelled of mold and mud. But underneath that, Hal smelled Desdemona's smoky incense-and-cloves scent lacing uneasily with the darker, earthier odors from the tunnel.

Sounds carried—the scrape of their shoes against the dirt floor; their voices, no matter how soft; the tap of his catch pole against the ground; the creak of leather and rustle of lace.

A pungent odor filled the tunnel, growing stronger the farther in they traveled. Pot. Ganja. Good ol' Mary Jane. Hal'd never toked up, but he lived in Eugene, Oregon, so the smell was
everywhere
. Okay, he actually lived in Springfield—home of twenty-four-hour adult stores and meth labs—but Eugene
was
right next door.

Hal breathed deeply. Not a bad smell, really. Not compared to the lovely pulp mill smell pervading the air in Springfield. The aspirin was finally working, because his mind felt clearer, more focused. His stomach growled. Plus his appetite was returning.

Hal's flashlight revealed graffiti on the tunnel wall. KESEY WAS HERE and STILL IS. As he stepped closer to investigate, he tripped over something and stumbled forward, catching himself with his catch pole.

Hal swung his flashlight down. The circle of light revealed a bearded face, mouth open wide. Dreads starred out from the head like tentacles. The neck looked as though the head had been
wrenched
from the body.

Hal sucked in a breath. “Christ on a stick,” he breathed. “Found one of the missing hippies.
Part
of one, actually.”

Galahad crouched down beside the head. Wrinkled his nose. “Not very fresh, either,” he murmured.

“Gross,” Desdemona said.

Hal glanced at her, surprised by what he thought he'd heard in her voice—fascination. She stared at the hippie head, a half smile on her lips.

“Gross,” she repeated, her voice a near whisper.

“Well,” Nick said, “we're on the right trail, anyway.”

“Ah,” Galahad said, getting to his feet, “the obvious, boldly stated.”

“What're you saying?”

A mischievous smile curled Galahad's lips. “Why, nothing, Nick. Nothing at all.”

Hal resumed walking. A few yards in, his catch pole tapped against something in front of him. Muscles coiled, pole ready, Hal trained the flashlight on the object. A body. Sans head. Tie-dye tunic, hemp necklace, ratty jeans, and dirty bare feet.

“Found the rest of him,” he called over his shoulder.

“Goody,” Galahad replied.

Desdemona stopped beside Hal. She trained her flashlight on the corpse. “Gross.”

Hal nodded. He poked the body with his catch pole. “Gross,” he agreed. “You wanna?” he asked, offering her the catch pole.

“Noooo. Absolutely not, jerkwad.” Desdemona flicked her flashlight up, aimed it down the tunnel, and stepped over the body.

Grinning, Hal hurried after Desdemona, passing her in two long-legged
Mother, may I?
strides. “If you change your mind . . .” he said as he passed.

“I won't. Don't worry.”

The smell of ganja permeated the air, puffing up from the ground with each step, filling his lungs with each breath. Hal felt giddy. Giddy. With a capital
G
. And hungry. With a big ol' capital
H
. He stumbled over something, barely catching himself with his catch pole. He aimed the flashlight down. Another body. In two halves.

“'Nother one!” he called.

Galahad, Nick, and Desdemona caught up with Hal, their flashlights trained on the corpse halves. “Yuck,” Desdemona said.

Hal offered her the pole again. She shook her head but wrapped her fingers around the staff. A hot jolt of joy shot down the length of Hal's spine. He was sure he glowed incandescent, his happiness stealing the darkness from the tunnel.

Murmuring, “Gross. Yuck,” Desdemona poked first one half and then the other half with the pole. She said, “Gross. Yuck,” every time she poked the Indian-tunic-wearing halves. But the way she said the words suggested
cool
and
wow
instead. She poked the halves
many
times.

Hal nodded. He knew how she felt. He remembered the first time he'd poked a dead thing. Admittedly, it had been a roadkill critter and not a dismembered human being, but still. After a few moments she handed the pole back to Hal, their fingers brushing in the dark.

Nick giggled. A disconcerting sound, considering Nick never giggled.

“What's so funny, Nick?” Hal asked, stepping with grace between the halves but catching his heel against another unseen object. He fell. On his ass. Whatever he landed on, cushioning his head from another blow, farted.

“That wasn't me,” he called out hastily.

Laughter echoed throughout the tunnel. Hysterical, knee-slapping, can't-breathe laughter. Hal poled himself upright, then angled his flashlight down.
Another
freakin' body. This one was intact, however. One Birkenstock, the other foot bare.

“Ah! Found the other Birkenstock!”

A fresh gale of gasping, helpless laughter. Smack. Smack. Smack. Someone
was
slapping their knee. Hal swung his flashlight around. Galahad, Nick, and Desdemona clung to one another, laughing, tears glistening on their faces.

“What's so funny?”

“You didn't even mention the body,” Galahad gasped. “Just the stupid Birkenstock.”

“Not true,” Nick said, struggling to keep a straight face. “He pinned the blame for the fart on the body, so he
did
mention it—in a roundabout way.”

Hal chuckled. Okay. A little funny. “It really wasn't me.”

Everyone howled with fresh laughter—except Desdemona. Wiping tears from her face with the back of a pale hand, she edged past the corpse with its one bare foot. “C'mon. We've got to find Louis.” The laughter trailed off.

Hal heard Desdemona's light tread as she raced on ahead. He hurried after her, lengthening his stride. But he tripped, then stumbled. As he caught himself, he looked down.

“Another one,” he said, shifting the light away and back down the tunnel. A rank smell cut through the heady ganja odor. He nearly gagged. “Hippie again.”

Desdemona halted, then turned around. Bright light dazzled Hal's eyes as she aimed her flashlight his way, then down.

“Don't look,” he said. “It's very ripe.”

“I can handle . . .” Desdemona's voice trailed away. “Gross,” she whispered, meaning it this time.

Hal felt Galahad and Nick behind him, felt their tension like connected live wires, almost heard it buzzing around them. No one laughed. Hal stepped past the remains and continued on down the tunnel. This time Desdemona let him take the lead.

The smell of ganja faded, buried beneath an ever-increasing fetid stink, the ripe-sweet smell of death, of decay and putrefaction. Hal tried to breathe only through his mouth. When he glanced back, Desdemona held a hand over her mouth and nose. Nick and Galahad looked unperturbed. All part of the natural cycle for them, Hal supposed. He shrugged. Animals really seemed to dig stinky things.

With each new body they discovered—some clearly hippies, others clearly not—they went through a quick checklist.

“Body,” Nick announced.

Slowing to a stop, Hal glanced at Desdemona. She held herself very still, listening, her features tense. Hal hated to ask the next question. “Louis?”

“Nah.”

“Tarot card?”

“Nah squared.”

Hal held Desdemona's gaze for a moment, then continued to lead the group onward. So far they hadn't found a single tarot card, nibbled on or otherwise, and Hal was beginning to think the cards had been the killer's enigmatic signature after all, and not clues.

The body count continued. After a while, they quit mentioning it when they tripped, stumbled, or walked over another body. Unless it belonged to Louis, there was no point. They were getting damned hard to look at this far in, and the smell was thick and greasy. Easy to imagine it clinging to skin, coating the insides of nostrils. Hal swallowed hard. His headache had returned, although not as bad as before. The aspirin had helped a little.

His flashlight caught a flicker of color and his pulse picked up speed as he realized it was a tarot card. Going over to it, Hal bent and picked it up out of the dirt. Whole. No bloodstains. One of the Major Arcana. Temperance, in fact.

Desdemona rushed to his side. When he flipped the card over to reveal the back design—an angel kneeling beneath the spreading branches of an oak tree—she gasped, then gagged. Her hand flew back to her face, resumed covering her mouth and nose. Her complexion took on a greenish tinge. She breathed in little shallow gulps. “That's from Louis's deck,” she said, her palm muffling her voice.

“You sure?”

She nodded.

Hal glanced at Galahad and Nick. “Looks like we're on the right trail, boys.”

“Unfortunately, that
does
seem to be the case,” said an unfamiliar voice from the darkness ahead of them, followed by the heart-stopping sound of a round being chambered.

10

UNNATURALLY LONG CLAWS

A shot
ka-rack
ed through the air. Dirt from the tunnel wall peppered Hal's face.

“Get down!” he yelled. Dropping his flashlight, Hal grabbed Desdemona, yanking her down to the ground with him. He heard soft thuds behind him as Nick and Galahad took his advice.

Another shot thundered through the tunnel. Dirt sprayed into Hal's face again—but from the floor this time. Close. Too close. Releasing Desdemona, Hal rushed forward, aiming for the figure he'd seen for a split second in the flash from the gun.

But before Hal reached the figure, another form, slim and fast, darted past him just as the gun fired a third time—capturing a moment in flash fire; a moment etched forever in Hal's mind: Galahad grabbing the man's wrist with one hand while ramming the heel of his other into the shooter's chin. The gun fired. Into Galahad. A faint
ching
rang into the air.

“Gally!” Hal screamed, a scream echoed by Nick.

Hal swung his catch pole around, spinning it up and over. It caught the shooter mid-temple, knocking him backwards. Hal twirled the other end around and smashed it against the shooter's other temple—two hits and the man hadn't even crumpled to the ground. Yet.

Something huge loomed up behind the shooter—something that seemed to unfurl from the darkness like a poisonous night flower—and grabbed him, skewering him with claws. Unnaturally long claws.

Hal stared as the thing straightened, the shooter shish-kebabbed on its claws. Blood glistened. A suffocating musky smell cut through the stench of rot. Wolf-man. Galahad's word circled through Hal's mind:
abomination
.

“Run!” Hal yelled, never taking his eyes off the creature.

Nick had thrown Galahad over his shoulder. Hal met his gleaming yellow gaze. “Get him out of here,” Hal said. “Get them both out.”

The wolf-man yanked its claws free of the shooter's limp body. The body thudded bonelessly to the ground. The beast's hellfire eyes locked on Hal.

“I'll run,” Nick said. “As soon as you do.”

The monster opened its muzzle, saliva drooled from a mouthful of fangs.

“Okay, then,” Hal said. “Let's go!”

Nick darted down the tunnel, flashlight beam bobbing. Hal spun and ran after him. He grabbed Desdemona's hand as he flashed by, pulling her with him. Several corridors suddenly branched out from the tunnel and Hal swerved into the left hand one almost on instinct. Even with his burden, Nick loped past Hal. A moment later the corridor dead-ended.

Hal stopped, shoving Desdemona behind him and ignoring her “Hands off, fruitcake!” endearment, and whirled to face the monstrosity stalking them.

Silence except for his own rapid breathing. And Nick's panting. Hal waited, muscles knotted, quivering with adrenaline, catch pole in both hands. Another long moment passed.

“Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“Still got your flashlight?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.” Hal paused. “You're sure outta breath for a wolf.”

“
You're
the one panting, not me.”

“Oh, fuck,” Desdemona whispered. She aimed her flashlight down the corridor.

The wolf-man hunched a yard from them, down on all fours, panting, eyes burning. Desdemona swung the flashlight away.

“Didn't really want to see that,” she said, her voice surprisingly level, given the circumstances.

“Aim it again,” Hal said, resolve burning through him. Time for the hero to stop running.

Without a word, Desdemona did so. The narrow beam illuminated the wolf-man monstrosity. It rose in a half crouch, jaws opening. A card fluttered to the ground. Desdemona's gasp told Hal it was from Louis's angel and oak tree deck.

Hal stepped forward. “Name is Rupert,” he said. “Hal Rupert. Remember it.”

The beast hesitated. Hal thought he saw recognition flash within its hell-spawn eyes. He nodded, the smile on his face a hero's grim acceptance.

Behind him, he heard Desdemona breathe, “Loon.”

Fire flared within Hal as he took another step forward. Sucked down a deep breath of air. And leapt, catch pole whirling. He hit the creature hard two, three times, dancing up, onto it, then over, smacking and jabbing it with alternating ends of the catch pole.

Squirrel attack. He'd learned something from his enemy.

The wolf-man howled and roared and swung its clawed hands at Hal, air whistling as the claws swiped above him or beside him—missing. Hal danced away, then launched himself again. His pole smacked against the beast's skull. A sharp crack echoed through the corridor and the wolf-man staggered. It hit the wall shoulder-first.

Something clicked.

Hal and the monster both fell as the floor opened beneath them. Someone screamed his name—he was pretty sure it was Nick. Time didn't slow. Time refused to stretch or distort in any way, shape, or form. Before Hal had time to think anything beyond
Crap,
he slammed into the ground with breath-stealing force.

The ground shuddered as the monster plowed into the floor like a boulder. Its howl stopped abruptly. Hal struggled for air, willing his body to get up and move, willing his fingers to lock around the catch pole. A catch pole he no longer held.

The wolf-man grunted.

Move!
If it got up first, Hal would become another piece in the body trail. If it got up first, Desdemona would also become a piece of the body trail. That cold thought kicked Hal over onto his side, kicked him up to his knees, and kicked him onto his feet again.

Hal groped around in the dark for his catch pole, the monster's grunts and shuffles trailing an icy finger along his spine. Sweat beaded his forehead. A waterfall of dirt and gravel cascaded over him from above. He sneezed.

“Hal?” Nick whispered. “That you? You alive?”

The creature roared and the sound of its rage echoed throughout the pit, spurring Hal to search faster for his catch pole. He felt a ground-shaking
thump-thump
as the creature gained its feet. Hal's heart pounded in time with each step.

Animal musk snaked through the air. Animal musk and blood stink.

Hal's fingers finally slid across wood; his fingers clenched around the catch pole. He swung it up, then forced himself to hold still. Forced his quivering muscles to wait. Focused on the rasp of the beast's breathing, the stench of its breath. Focused on the tiny hellfire flames floating in the air above him.

Hal slid his right foot forward, his boot scraping across dirt. The flames shifted. Hal tucked the pole alongside his left arm, lowered it to his side. Drew in a deep breath. The flames shifted again. Drew nearer.

Hal listened to the measured beat of his heart. Lifted the pole overhead in both hands, stood poised, like a samurai facing a demon. Stared into the darkness. Picked out a darker outline. Waited. One heartbeat. Two. The flames suddenly dropped, and Hal twisted the pole down in an air-whistling blow to the head.

The creature roared again and its hot breath baked Hal's face. Hal pivoted smoothly past its bulk and stepped behind it. As it turned to face him again, he swung the pole, smacking it across the neck.
KRRAAACK!
The wolf-man dropped to its knees. The flames dimmed. It crumpled and the flames went out. Hal stood beside the black bulk, heart pounding, his fingers tight around the catch pole.

But the pole's weight felt wrong. Hal traced the fingers of his right hand along the smooth shaft to an abrupt and jagged end. He felt sick.

A hero without a catch pole. Eugene without a hero.

“Hal?”

“Here,” Hal said, surprised at the calm in his voice. “Shine a light.”

A narrow beam of light jiggled across the dirt floor. Hal stepped past the dead wolf-man and stood in the flashlight's beam. He lifted his catch pole into the light. Half of it was gone. Hal swallowed hard. He lowered the pole to his side.

Nick whistled. “Fucking hell! What happened to your catch pole?”

“Broke it when I killed the beast,” Hal replied, voice still level. “Any way to pull me out of here?” The lip was a good fifteen feet above him.

Nick shook his head. “Didn't bring rope. How about we join you?”

“How's Gally?”

“Behind you!” Nick yelled.

Hal whirled, ducking low at the same time, bringing up the half pole as he did. Something whooshed over his head. Something that shone like metal in the light of Nick's flashlight. Something that looked suspiciously like a pitchfork.

But Hal couldn't see who or what wielded the damned thing. The wolf-man was still dead on the floor and it sure as hell wasn't a squirrel—insane or otherwise. It'd have to be a pretty small pitchfork in that case. Or a cocktail fork.

Catching peripheral motion, Hal dove to the floor, landing on his shoulder and rolling up to his knees. He'd felt something as he'd rolled—something wood-smooth and slender—and had grabbed it. He now held half of the pole in each hand.

“Light! On me!” he shouted.

The flashlight angled over to him, backlighting a goggled man rushing forward with the pitchfork.

“It's for MEDICAL UUUUUSSSSSSE!” the man screamed.

Something small and dark hurtled from the pit's edge above, hitting the back of Goggles's head.
CHIIING!
He stumbled to a stop, the pitchfork falling from his hands. He wobbled. “Medical ushh,” he slurred.

Hal stepped forward and poked the marijuana farmer in the chest with one of the pole halves. Pushed. The man tumbled to the floor.

“Looks like he's gonna need some of that medical ganja when he comes to,” Hal murmured. He glanced up. “Good shot, Gally!”

“And
you
didn't want me to have that bell,” Gally replied. “It saved my ass
and
yours.”

The smugness in the feline's voice told Hal he was going to hear about this episode for a long time to come. And each telling would be more extravagant than the last.

Hal grinned. “It's still stealing, Gally. But, for once, I'm glad that you didn't listen to me.”

“Blah, blah, blah, whatever,” Gally said. “We're coming down.”

Fierce fire burned through Hal's veins. A man couldn't ask for better friends. He remembered Nick's words:
How about we join you?
Even if he'd insisted, they'd have never left him. And he'd never abandon them. Never.

Nick tossed down a knotted makeshift rescue rope made from Galahad's silk button-down, Nick's long-sleeved dress shirt, and Desdemona's purple-striped tights. Pole halves tucked through his belt, Hal grasped the rope and tugged.

“Feels secure,” he said. “C'mon on down.”

Desdemona shimmied down first, her bare legs crossed around the rope, a flashlight held in one hand. Her black lace skirt clung to her thighs. Hal reached for her, his gaze skipping from her skirt to her bare legs. Toned. As pale as her face.

As she slipped lower, Hal locked his arms around her slender waist and lowered her to the ground. Once her booted feet touched the dirt, Desdemona swiveled within his embrace. The faint fragrance of cloves curled into the air. She lifted the flashlight.

“You're staring, creep.”

“Memorizing,” Hal clarified, looking into Desdemona's dirt-smudged face. He tapped a finger against his temple. “Every pore.”

“You're certifiable, you know.”

“So I've been told.” Unknotting her tights, Hal handed them to her. “Milady.”

A smile flickered across Desdemona's lips as she accepted the wad of purple and black. “For a loon, you're not so bad.”

Pleased, Hal turned away as she tugged off her boots and pulled on her tights.

“Hey!” Nick exclaimed from above. “Why'd you shorten the rope?”

Hal shook his head, amused. Hadn't even realized. Caught in Desdemona's spell. “C'mon down as far as you can,” he said. “And I'll help you the rest of the way.”

“I'll jump,” Galahad said, a note of disdain in his voice.

“Okay, but that's a
human
body, Galahad.”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

The
y
ō
kai
sprang from the edge of the pit, swanned into the air for a brief moment, then tucked into a ball and somersaulted to the ground. Landing in a half crouch on his feet, Galahad smoothed a hand through his orange-gold mane. He purred as he straightened.

“See?” he said, stepping back and sweeping his arms open. “No—”

“Gally, look!”

Nick, limbs splayed like the deranged squirrel's, vaulted into the air, then plummeted like a bare-chested fifty-ton boulder to the ground. He belly-flopped. Hard. Dirt sprayed everywhere.

Sucking in a lungful of dirt-dusted air, Hal ran to Nick's motionless body. Coughing, he dropped to his knees and grabbed Nick's shoulder. The
y
ō
kai
groaned. Mumbled words Hal couldn't make out.

“Nick?” he said.

Nick lifted his head. Dirt covered his face, coated his lips, and filled his nostrils. “What went wrong?” he repeated. He sneezed.

“You weren't born a cat,” Galahad said, arching an eyebrow. “Let's start there.”

“Huh?” Nick's gaze shifted from Galahad to Hal. “What's he talking about?”

“Never mind,” Hal said, helping Nick up to his feet. “He's jealous of your muscles.”

Galahad's mouth dropped open. “Am not!”

“I think the gentleman doth protest too much,” Hal said, winking at Desdemona.

Galahad's mouth dropped open again. “Doth not!”

Desdemona trained her flashlight on the shirtless
y
ō
kai
. A smile dimpled her creamy cheeks. Galahad winked at her. Chuckling, Hal shook his head. Such a flirt, that Galahad. No doubt trying to cheer Desdemona up. And it looked like he had a few muscles after all.