Withered + Sere (Immemorial Year Book 1) (5 page)

A light glimpsed through the leaves.

The man pulled his dog tighter still.

“Who was it, ya think?” a high, reedy voice asked. “Tripped that net?”

“Lucky sumbitch,” a response came, deeper in timbre. “Net ain’t cut. Got out somehow.”

Movements, no more than shadows, seen past the doe. Her head was turned in such a way that her dead eye stared at man and dog.

“You think it long?” a woman asked. “Footprints looked fresh.”

“That they did,” the deep-voiced man said. A glint of metal.

“Town or traveler?” Footsteps, nearby.

“Couldn’t say. You’d think the good folk of Cottonwood would have learned by now. But maybe they need a reminder.”

“We need to tell Patrick. He needs to know.”

“And we will. You two, go check the other trap ahead. Make sure nothing caught there.” Footsteps, trailing away.

Bad Dog wiggled against the man briefly.
Almost done? Gone?

Cavalo shook his head. Bad Dog didn’t respond.

A moment of silence. Then the woman, “You really think it’s the town?”

The deep voice: “I don’t know. Merchants, maybe. One of the trade caravans.”

“All the way out here? They don’t follow the broken road. Especially not through our country. But….”

“Spit it out.”

“What if it’s the government? Like Patrick warned us?”

The deep-voiced man snorted. “Too soon for them. They’re still crawling on their hands and knees back east. It’ll be years before they find their way out here. By then, it won’t matter. We’ll control all of this.”

“We?”

“You know what I mean. Patrick will provide.”

“May he walk forever,” the woman said reverently.

“He will,” the deep-voiced man said, and Cavalo felt ice in his heart. “We’ve—”

“Quiet,” the woman said. “Listen.”

They fell silent. Sweat dripped from Cavalo’s brow.
Government
, he thought dizzily.
Patrick. Cottonwood. Reminder.
It was like a storm.

Footsteps approached. “Where the hell have you been?” the deep-voiced man asked.

Nothing was said in response. Cavalo could see movement, barely visible, as if hands were waving. Motioning.

Deep-voice wasn’t moved. “I don’t care what the fuck you were doing. You’re supposed to be checking lines.”

More motion.

“Stupid retard,” the woman muttered. She sounded unsure. “Why does Patrick keep him around?”

“Because he’s a goddamn psycho. You’re new, so you don’t know shit. Found him in the woods sucking on his dead momma’s titties when he was nothing but a babe. Raised him since. Pet. Fucking bulldog.”

“You ain’t scared of him?”

“Nah,” he said, but it sounded like a lie. “He don’t do nothing till Patrick tells him to. He learned the hard way when he tried to think on his own. Didn’t ya, boy?”

No motion, no movement.

“Ah, go fuck ya’self.”

The woman: “You see that?”

“What?”

She crouched near the entrance of the thicket. Cavalo could see her more clearly now through the darkening gloom. Bright red hair spiked up one side, head shaved down other. Skin smudged with dirt. A bruise on her lower jaw, days old. Black gloves, spikes on the end. Tight black fabric across small breasts. Exposed skin. Cargo pants. Camo. Greens and browns and blacks.

Cavalo hadn’t seen camo in years, not since he’d stumbled across an abandoned military compound, deserted except for razor-thin coyotes with engorged tumors growing along their bodies. He was twenty-three then. A coyote had almost taken his head off. There must have been power somewhere in that old place because he’d stumbled into a wall, pressing a button, and a panel lit up and a voice began to screech “—IS NOT A DRILL. REPEAT: WE ARE AT DEFCON 1. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. WE—” He’d run then, from that haunted place where the radiated coyotes nested, the mechanical voice shrieking after him that they were at DEFCON 1. That was right before he found
her
and—

“What is it?” the deep-voiced man asked, and he too came into view. Massive, muscles bunched and bulging. Black man, dark. Growth on his neck from too much time spent in the Deadlands. It would have to be excised soon. Most likely it would grow back, Cavalo knew, but it would take time. His head was shaved, and there were pit scars like burns across his scalp, pink along with the dark of his skin. Cavalo couldn’t see his eyes but knew they’d be narrowed.

Blood. They’d seen the blood trail.

“Looks dried,” the woman said. “Been here a while.”

“Don’t mean it didn’t come from whoever tripped that wire,” the black man muttered. He raised his head to look into the thicket, and Cavalo closed his eyes, knowing the man would see the whites. Bad Dog’s skin rippled, but otherwise he was still. For a moment nothing happened.

Then: “Well, well, well. Look what we have here.”

Fight
, Cavalo thought.
Pull down on hand, break fingers. Slam up face, break nose. Dog out, attack. Rifle up. Man head shot. Cock rifle. Woman head shot. Drop rifle. Third person. Pull bow. Two arrows. Nock them both. Spread. First into stomach. Second into groin.

They were cold, these thoughts. Calculating. Mechanical. A metallic taste coated his tongue. He opened his eyes in slits. Dark. Grainy. There was movement, and Bad Dog began to coil in his arms, ready to lash out, teeth and claws. Cavalo dug his fingers into his friend’s fur, telling him
not yet
,
not yet.

He opened his eyes a little wider and saw the top of the black man’s head inside the thicket, the pink scars in geometric patterns, as if carved there on purpose. Any moment he expected the man to reach for him, for Bad Dog. Cavalo thought it’d be the last thing this big man ever did.

But the black man didn’t look farther back into the bushes. His attention was focused on the doe. He pulled on her haunches. Her head bounced as she moved, her tongue dragging in the dirt. A dead leaf stuck to one of her eyes. The shrubs parted over her fat belly and mutated fifth leg and then closed as she was pulled completely out.

“Food,” the woman breathed.

“Hasn’t been dead long,” the big man said. “Body hasn’t started to bloat yet.”

“From the trap?” She sounded unsure.

“No. Look. What do you see?”

Silence. Then, “I don’t know. It looks dead.”

“Dumb bitch,” the black man muttered. “We could just ask the pet here.”

More silence, then the woman: “What’s he pointing at? The dirt?”

“Yeah. It’s a kill shot. Been patched to stop the blood from leaking. Meaning whoever shot it was going to move it.”

“Shot? With
bullets
? Patrick said they—”

“No. Arrow.”

“Why didn’t they take it?”

The bushes rattled and Cavalo closed his eyes again. “Don’t know,” the black man said. “Don’t care. It’s ours now. Whoever killed it is long gone.”

Yes
, Cavalo thought.
Gone. Long gone. Leave.
The muscles in his arms trembled.

A voice called off in the distance.

“Yeah?” the big man yelled. “Nothing?”

Unintelligible response.

“Head back around!” Then, quieter, “Let’s go.” He hoisted the deer up easily and slung it over his neck.

“What about whoever tripped the line?” the woman asked. Her voice grated on Cavalo.

“Fuck ’em. We got food. That’ll be enough. We have to get back.”

And then they moved away, toward the Deadlands. Cavalo heard their voices fade. Still, he waited. In his mind, he could see them hiding behind the trees, waiting for him to show himself. He knew who they were. What they were. What they were capable of. He’d seen their kind before, those pockets spread out along the border between the Deadlands and the East.

But Patrick. That name was new.

His head hurt, the blood now crusted on his face. He felt covered in grime. He ached. He thought of a boy named Jamie.

Bad Dog thumped his tail.
Gone?
he whispered.

“Think so,” Cavalo whispered back.

Why are we waiting? You want to hug me some more?

“Shut up.”

You can hug me harder if you’re scared. I won’t break.

“I’m not scared.”

Oh.
Bad Dog huffed.
I was.

A beat. “Me too.”

It’s okay, MasterBossLord.

“We should go.”

Okay.

And yet they waited minutes more.

Finally, as full dark approached, Cavalo rolled over Bad Dog until he loomed over him. Bad Dog put a paw on the man’s shoulder. Cavalo gripped his snout gently with one hand as he unfastened the pack. “Stay here,” he whispered, looking his friend in the eye. “Let me look first.”

I can go too!

“No. Stay. Here.” Each word was punctuated with a soft shake of the snout. Bad Dog glared up at him but said nothing.

Cavalo moved over the dog and the pack, laying his bow on the ground behind him. He pulled the rifle off his shoulder and rose to his knees, then his feet, crouched low among the branches. He tucked the stock of the rifle under his arm. A brief whine came from behind him, and he turned only once, catching the eyes of his friend before turning back. The man did not shake. The barrel of the rifle did not tremble.

Not today
, he thought.

And then he stepped out of the thicket.

fucking psycho bulldog

THE FOREST
was dark. The birds had quieted. Nothing moved.

He stood upright. Took a step. And then another. And then another.

He didn’t even hear the footsteps behind him. Didn’t sense anyone approaching. At first there was nothing, and then a large, heavy blade was at his throat, the heat of a body pressing up against him from behind. Cavalo glanced down and saw a thin, bony hand holding the knife steady. He could feel the breath through his pulled-back hair. The reach and the breath meant the man was shorter, but not by much. Another hand appeared from his left and tapped the gun once, twice, then motioned for Cavalo to hand it over.

Seconds passed. No words said. The blade pressed against his skin and there was a brief sting, but Cavalo was beyond it. His vision had tunneled down to tiny points. His skin felt heated. His head pounded. His hands gripped the rifle so tightly he thought either metal or bone would break. For the first time in a very long time, Cavalo was angry.

Not the underlying anger he typically felt at life’s injustices. At that swarm of bees that buzzed angrily in the back of his mind, whispering things like
It’s your fault they’re gone
and
daddy, daddy, daddy.
That was always there, and there were times the man thought it always would be.

No, this anger was different. It was blinding. White hot. It was fury. Not at the person behind him, not completely, but more at
himself
that he
allowed
this to happen. That he had
allowed
himself to get caught.
Getting old
, he thought.
Getting too old for this shit.

But there was no way he was going to die in this dead forest on the wrong side of the divide, so close to the Deadlands. He wouldn’t let it happen.

The knife pressed harder into his skin. The other hand tapped on the rifle again, turned over, fingers motioned.
Hand it over
, those fingers said.
Do it now
, the hand holding the knife said.
Do it now before I cut your throat.

Yeah
, Cavalo thought, watching as the fingers raised to tap the rifle again.
Now. Now.

Almost quicker than the eye could follow, Cavalo brought the butt of the rifle down and back, past his left side. He felt it connect with something solid, and there was a rush of air near his ear, a heavy exhalation. Without stopping he brought the rifle back up, close to his body, thrusting his arms up. He felt a head press against the back of his shoulder as the person behind him gasped for air. The sight of the rifle scraped against the side of Cavalo’s face, tearing the skin, but he felt nothing. All that mattered was the barrel of the rifle was now between his face and the hand with the knife. With all the force he could muster, he brought the barrel down against the forearm around his neck. The hand was knocked away, the knife dangerously close to cutting his throat open before the blade left his skin.

Cavalo stepped forward, flipping the rifle in the air, grabbing the barrel as he spun in a circle, swinging the butt of the rifle out in a wide arc. It struck out through empty air. The force of his swing kept his body spinning and as he turned, Cavalo saw a flash of silver and jerked his head back in time to avoid the blade, more machete than knife.

Before he could correct himself, a foot lashed out, and the rifle was knocked from his hands, landing in the shadows. The machete pointed at his throat, inches away. Cavalo’s eyes followed the blade, flat and pockmarked with rust. It was held by a hand wrapped in black material, fingers exposed. The hand led to an arm, the skin covered in the sleeve of an old jacket. The arm was connected to a lithe body, all in black, intersected with red wraps around the waist and thighs. A black band around the bicep. Around the eyes were smudges of what looked like charcoal, thick and cracked, creating a mask.