Where the Dead Talk (18 page)

"Oh well, in that case," he said, that smarmy tone back in his voice.

"Please, Major Pomeroy," she said, "don’t lose focus."

He looked over at her, face lit by the lantern.

"You sound like an officer in the King’s Own."

"It would be nice if you sounded a little more like one, Major."

The door was halfway open, leaving more than half the room in blackness.

"Shall I charge in?" he said.

"Please, this isn’t the time for –"

"There’s no jest in there. I could kick the door open and rush in, as long as you’re right in back of me with that."

Carolyn looked quickly at him. He was quite serious. She nodded.

"Be careful," she said.

"Yes, well, careful yourself."

He stepped forward, looking into the room.

"And try not to shoot me in the back of the head."

He took a trio of short breaths and then sprang forward, kicking the door wide open with his right foot. Carolyn came up behind him. The Major barreled into the room, spinning around, fire-poker raised.

"I don’t –" he started.

Carolyn saw it before he did. A shadow shot a few yards across the ceiling then dropped on him. He went down in a heap. The lantern cracked and rolled off to the side, still burning. He screamed, his voice muffled underneath the figure. The smell was repulsive, right in her face. It was worse than the wharves in Salem, where rotting piles of fish heads would swelter in the sun and in the green water around the piers; it was worse than the smell of the dead rat that she’d had in her room once, trapped behind the boards. She tried to see if it was Jonathon. All she could see was a filthy cloak and the bottoms of leather boots. A dirty head showed a corner, hair matted and muddy. The Major screamed again. The fire-poker knocked several times on the floor, but he wasn’t able to lift his hand high enough to do anything with it. It was all movement and cloak and shadow. The Major screamed again, his voice smothered.

"Shoot!"

She wasn’t going to pull the trigger until she was sure. She stepped sideways. The skin of the face was pale, a faint beard showing. The hair was longer than Jonathon’s, the nose was larger. She saw insignia on the coat, and knew that it wasn’t him.

"Help, oh God…" the Major yelled.

Carolyn aimed at the back of it, near where she thought its top was. Oh god, where? For a desperate second, she completely froze. The end of the barrel moved back and forth, aiming at bits of shadow, bits of clothing.

Shoot it – it’s not him.

She clamped her eyes shut and pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped down with a tick and a spark and the room went bright yellow. The shot kicked her shoulder back as though someone had grabbed the weapon and shoved it rudely. Through the smoke, a spray of tattered fabric and blood splashed the wooden floor. The figure was still moving, though the cloak was torn. It rose up for a second, craning to see her. Beneath it, the Major grunted and tried to flip it, getting his knees up underneath.

She threw the musket down as the Major tried to scramble out. She skirted their thrashing limbs. Why wasn’t it dead? She wasn’t sure where the shot had hit it, but it had certainly hit it. It hadn’t even appeared to slow it down. The fire-poker was a black line in the shadows. She reached down and picked it up, wrapping her fingers tight about the cast iron handle. She spun around. The Major was on his side, covering his head with an arm. From this side, Carolyn could see the thing’s face. The skin was gray and marbled with black. White dots of fungus – like daisy petals – clumped together near the nostrils and by the ears. The lips were black and shriveled, dead worms in hot summer sun. The eyes were swimming points of quicksilver.

Carolyn let out a yell of disgust and brought the fire-poker down in a swinging arc right onto its head, using both her arms. The hooked end of the poker connected with a muffled crack. She managed to hang on firm. She brought it down again, even harder. It connected and sunk in. With a sudden horror, she realized that the poker went right into the head, which had gone soft. It reminded her of the previous autumn, when she and Jonathon had used an old walking stick to knock apart rotting pumpkins.

The figure reared up, reaching both hands to the fire-poker. It wrenched it out of her grip and tossed it clanging to the floor. The eyes didn’t leave her, shining out from the mottled face. With an unnatural jerk – limbs, elbows, and shoulders all a little off – the figure scampered to its feet and came at her. She stepped backwards until she smacked into the corner of a dressing table. It reached out for her.

Carolyn yelled and pushed forward with both her hands, hitting it hard in the chest. It didn’t even budge, remaining upright with a sinewy strength. It pulled her in, its hands clamped on her wrists. The flesh that held her was cold and repulsive, smooth as leather but shifting as though it might come apart. The heavy stink of rotten meat blew right at her. Black liquid covered its chin, hanging in thin strands. She screamed and fought to pull away, yanking her arms and swinging her waist. The hands pulled her in, as though she possessed no more weight than a paper doll.

Its head swung forward with a sudden thud. It jerked to the left, and spun around.

The Major stood behind it, his hands wrapped around the barrel of the musket. He swung again, and connected the stock of the musket square into the thing's face. His face tightened and the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunched up as he swung. He pulled it back – raising it almost to his shoulder – and let it swing again. This time, it hit with a solid smack and took the figure’s jaw off. The jaw landed across the room teeth side down and skidded to the wall.

Carolyn backed off, wedging herself next to the dressing table. The figure stayed on its feet, bits of flesh hanging from the side of its face where the jaw had ripped off. It sprang forward at the Major, who hadn’t had time to pull the musket back yet. She shot her right leg out. The figure tangled its ankle on her own and she swept hers up. It spilled to the floor. The Major raised the butt of the musket to the ceiling, then swung it down in a brutal arc. It smashed fully into the back of the figure’s head. Before anything else could happen, he raised it up again and smashed it down even harder. Carolyn pressed back against the wall, unable to look away. Each time the Major swung the butt down, it went further into the back of the thing’s head – and Carolyn couldn’t stop thinking about pumpkins. Thud, thud, thud, each hit punctuated with a grunt from the Major. Wet bits of gore flew up from the musket in a spatter, hitting the ceiling and the wall. The figure finally stopped thrashing. The Major was panting, his eyes wide. He stilled the musket, leaning on it for support.

"Are you alright?" he said, his eyes not leaving the sprawled figure in front of him.

It took a second to find her voice.

"Yes, I think so," she said finally, "Is it –"

"I don’t know," he said.

It's head was now a pile of sundered bone, hair, and flesh, all spread out in an irregular puddle of black liquid.

"It’s not moving," he said. "It’s the head, I think. Get rid of that, it’ll stop."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and spit onto the floor. There were smeared streaks of dark liquid on his face. He hawked up and spit again, wiping his tongue.

"It tried to put its mouth on mine," he said.

She stepped out from the corner of the dressing table, keeping a good distance away from the thing on the floor. The Major dropped the musket. He stepped to the figure and leaned over. With both hands, he reached underneath it and flipped it over. The body rolled, one arm spinning out like a swimmer frolicking in a pond.

"Oh god – " Carolyn said, putting a hand to her mouth.

Parts of the head rolled with the body; others didn’t. The Major stood back, looking down.

"Hutchison," he said.

"What?" she said, looking at him.

The Major shook his head. Then, he pointed at the feet. They were jumping, ever so slightly, thudding quietly on the floorboards.

"The hands," Carolyn said.

They were twitching, fingers closing and opening like the legs of a half crushed spider. The Major leaned over and grabbed the fire-poker.

"You won’t want to look," he said.

She turned and cringed at the thudding and tearing sounds that erupted, iron smacking into wood, into bone, into flesh. After what seemed much longer than the minute that it was, the fire-poker clattered to the floor.

"There we are," he said, "not bloody moving now. As I thought – the head must come clean off."

He turned and picked up the lantern. He was limping. She looked down and saw blood on the bottom of his leg, all around the thick part of his calf.

"Major, you’re hurt," she said.

"I know," he said, limping to the door. "You shot me."

He stepped out of the room. Carolyn didn’t bother glancing down at the body, but quickly followed the Major. Neither one of them noticed the pale face that watched them from the shadows next to the broken window.

Pomeroy tried not to shout; his eyes squeezed shut and tears poked out of the corners. The woman took his hand, and he clamped down on hers.

"That’s right," she said, quietly.

He sat in a chair in front of the fire, his wounded leg out in front. Elizabeth huddled over it, looking at the wound after having cut away the lower part of the leg of his breeches. It was a bloody mess. Carolyn returned from the other room with an armful of cloth. She pulled some of it out and dropped it on the floor underneath his outstretched leg; red bloomed on the cloth where it soaked up beads of blood.

"I don’t think the ball is in there," Elizabeth said.

She was squatting, trying to get a good look underneath.

"Miss Bucknell," she said, "you might see if you can find bottle of whiskey, please. And probably a bucket of water, too."

Carolyn nodded and headed off. Her face was neutral, but she wouldn’t meet his eye. Elizabeth was very intent on what she was doing, eyes sharp, voice soft. Her hand was gentle on his calf, trying to wipe away some of the blood. Pomeroy drew a quick breath in, his hand tightening on her own.

"Sorry, Major," she said.

Carolyn returned, taking stuttered steps so as not to spill the heavy wooden bucket of water, a clear bottle in her other hand. She put the bucket down next to them – it thudded down, a lick of water shooting up from the middle and then dropping back.

"I’ll just wash some of this blood off," Elizabeth said.

She pulled a long-armed ladle from the bucket and poured a slow cupful of water over the leg. The water drove the blood off in a pink stream. Carolyn put a hand to her lip. The hole was large, as if someone big had poked their thumb through the side of his calf. The fatty white layer below the skin showed for a moment.

"I see the other hole," Elizabeth said. "Went straight through the thickest part."

"Lovely," he said.

"At least it missed the bone."

"Indeed."

"I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt," Elizabeth said, holding the bottle of whiskey. She pulled the cork out, the golden bronze liquid sliding around. Pomeroy nodded and closed his eyes. She poured the whiskey over the wound, getting the stream straight into the hole. Though he was fighting not to, Pomeroy let out a yell and jerked his leg. Elizabeth tipped the bottle back.

"It’s alright," she whispered.

She poured some more. This time, the cords stood out on the back of his neck, but he bit back on his scream.

"Good God, that’s worse than the shot itself," he said, his voice trembling.

Elizabeth handed him the bottle.

"Might do you good to take a sip or two," she said.

Pomeroy nodded a thanks to her and took a long swallow. He grimaced and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then took another pull from the bottle. He blew out a long exhale and handed the bottle back to her. She shook her head.

"You might need some more," she said. "Careful, though. It smells strong."

He cradled the bottle in the nook of his elbow.

"Have no fear," he said, "I have a passing familiarity with the finer qualities of such spirits."

She began to wrap his leg.

Five minutes later, he looked around the warm common room. The stones of the fireplace were hung with colored fishing buoys. A painted wooden gull hung on the wall. Brewster kept the place neat with interesting things to look at – just the sort of tavern that Pomeroy most enjoyed.

"Do you know, Miss Bucknell," Pomeroy said, "that if it weren’t for the throbbing agony of my lower leg - not to mention the horrors that appear to have infested your lovely village - I’d almost be enjoying myself."

He flashed her a smile, and took another pull from the bottle. The fire was warm and snapping cheerfully. The rest of the large common room was dim with flickering shadows.

"How interesting," Carolyn said, just before turning her attention back to the window.

"No, really. Seated comfortably beside a crackling fire, provided a delightful distillation –" he held out the bottle, admiring the deep amber liquid in the firelight "—and sharing company with an even more delightful young woman who is, among other things, semi-good with a musket."

She flashed him a disapproving look.

"You’re getting drunk, Major Pomeroy," she said.

"Now that’s simply an offensive suggestion, Miss Bucknell," he said. He had to navigate all those s’s with some care so as not to slur them. He waved the bottle.

"Purely medicinal. Quite necessary to attenuate the pain of my wound – which is rather excruciating, I’m afraid," he finished. He nodded towards the bandages wrapped thick around his calf. They were dotted with a pair of coin-sized spots of blood.

"Major, I’m very sorry that I shot you," she said, "and you know that. I did the best that I could."

God, she was attractive. He’d noticed before, of course, but in the firelight with that earnest defensiveness on her face, it was suddenly all he could think about.

"Yes, yes," he said, "and don’t think I’m not grateful. After all, it was hardly your intention to put a ball right through my leg. Clearly, you’re not terribly fond of me –" he threw in a shrug " – but I certainly don’t think that you’d actually want to injure me."