Withered + Sere (Immemorial Year Book 1) (7 page)

“I wonder what would happen if I told him to bite your balls.”

The smile faltered briefly. Then, if anything, it grew bigger. The boy took a step back, and another, and another, never taking his eyes from Cavalo, and in them, the man saw murder. His feet shuffled through the leaves, and it sounded like wind over old bones. He reached the tree and pressed his back to it. His hands came out in front of him, palms pressed together.

And he waited.

Cavalo was sweating. The night seemed darker on this side of the divide, this close to the Deadlands. If he was going to do this, he needed to do it now.

And why do you need to do this?

He didn’t know the answer to that.

“Guard,” he told Bad Dog.

No shit
, he replied, crouched low and ready to spring should it be necessary.
I don’t know why you don’t just shoot him with the boomstick.

“I don’t know either,” Cavalo said honestly.

Bad news. This is bad news.

“Focus.”

Bad Dog focused.

Cavalo slung the rifle back onto his shoulder, positioning it so it could slide down easily into his hands. He eyed the boy warily. His head hurt. He was tired. His bones ached. And he still had a ways to go. He couldn’t go home. Not tonight. Not with what he’d heard. He had to head into town, as much as he didn’t want to.

Psycho
, he thought as the boy’s smile never faded.
He is psycho.
The rope felt woefully inadequate. How could he—

Ah. From that burnt-out ghost town to the north. The only standing building. It had felt haunted. The whole place had felt haunted. It was as far as he’d strayed in some time, the wanderlust coming over him until he couldn’t stand it anymore. At first he’d thought it to be the remains of a church, but the broken metal sign out front had read
WA OWA
UNT SE IFF BA RA KS
. Wallowa County Sheriff Barracks. In what had used to be northern Oregon in the Time Before. He’d gone inside, scavenging. He’d found only the remnants of Before, with curled posters on the walls saying things like
ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT FOREST FIRES
and
ANNUAL CHARITY BAKE SALE 5/31/19
. He’d found only dust. And memories. At one point, he swore he heard voices coming from the floor above him, laughing, crying. He thought he heard children, their little feet running along the floor. On his way out, his skin chilled and clammy, his heart racing, he’d stumbled onto a bulletin board, half propped against a wall. An old, yellowed picture showed grinning men and women in uniform. Next to the photo were a pair of partially rusted handcuffs, key dangling from the connecting chain, a note above them saying
LOSE SOMETHING, CHARLIE?

He’d grabbed the cuffs and key and fled that dark place. He stayed away from Wallowa County after that.

Those would be better, he thought now.
Safer.

“Cuffs,” he said. “Pack.”

Bad Dog pulled up from his guard position and went back to the pack, rooting further. Cavalo fingered the rope in his hands and watched the boy.

Psycho still smiled.
Lose something, Charlie?
that smile said.

Yes
, Cavalo thought.
So many things. And I wake up every day despite that. Despite her. And Jamie. And despite the world with the way it is, with people who want more of me than I can give. With the Deadlands. With people like this boy who eat of the flesh of man. They take them, then roast them above their fires until the skin splits from the heat and cracks like fissures form and they scream and they scream and they—

Cold and metal pressed against his hand. He shook himself from his own mind and looked down. Bad Dog pressed the rusted cuffs into his hand.
Where’d you go, MasterBossLord?
he asked.
You stay here. Stay here with Bad Dog. Don’t go Faraway.

Yes. He had to. He needed to focus. He needed to stay away from Faraway.

Cavalo took the cuffs, and the dog resumed guarding without needing to be told. Cavalo unhooked the key and pocketed it. “You know what these are?” he asked Psycho. He held them up for him to see in the dark.

The boy nodded.
Yes. Yes.

“You know what they’re used for.”

His eyes narrowed.
You stupid man, yes.

“You’re going to put these on.”

The smile faded.
You should have killed me.

“You’re going to do it quickly.”

Psycho’s mouth twisted into a sneer.
I will break out of them and eat your skin.

“You’re going to do it now.”

Psycho was the bear in that forgotten cave, all fangs and claws.
You have forfeited your life.

Cavalo tossed the cuffs at the boy. They were snatched out of the air. He rubbed his fingers over them, bringing them up close to his face. He touched the keyhole and frowned.

“Now,” the man snapped.

Psycho scowled. He fit the cuff over his right wrist and snapped it closed. He started to do the same with the left.

“No. Behind your back.”

Psycho ground his teeth. He took a step away from the tree. Bad Dog snarled. Cavalo raised the rifle, the rope dangling from his hands. Psycho stopped and waited. They stood still, that triangle, each waiting for the next thing to happen. Then Psycho reached his arms behind him and fumbled with the cuffs until they clicked together.

“Turn around,” Cavalo said.

He did. The cuffs were loose on his wrists.

“Nice try. Tighter.”

His shoulders tensed, but he reached each hand over the other, squeezing the circlets until the metal bit his skin. It was awkward, the angle, but he got it done with minimal effort. He turned back around and stared defiantly at Cavalo.

But Cavalo was done. Done with this day, done with this forest. Done with being this close to the Deadlands. And most of all, done with this boy in front of him. His dirty, callused hands quickly fashioned a noose out of the rope. Psycho didn’t have time to move as Cavalo threw it around his head and over his neck. It hit the ugly scar there, and for a moment, Cavalo was sure he saw a flare of panic, of real fear crossing his face. But then it was gone, and all that was left was murder. Cavalo cinched the noose up tight, his hands against the Psycho’s neck. He knew it bit into the sensitive scar tissue and did not care.

Up close, faces inches apart, Bad Dog growling in warning, the man named Cavalo saw only one thing in the Psycho’s monstrous eyes.

Himself, reflected back.

the minds of men

I DON’T
know why we had to bring him along
, Bad Dog said hours later. Light was beginning to brighten ahead of them in the east, and they were near the outskirts of what used to be the town of Cottonwood, Idaho in the time of Before. Now, in the After, it was just Cottonwood. Remnants of some of the old farmhouses still stood, their bare bones exposed, burned black and charred. Many had fallen years before and lay in piles on their foundations, but there were stubborn ones that had yet to crumble.

“It don’t matter none,” Cavalo said tiredly. His eyes were starting to burn, his head pounding something fierce. “We get to Cottonwood. We get Hank and Warren and let them deal with him.” His worn boots scuffed the old dirt road.

You should have just killed him. I would have. Bad Dog don’t get scared.

“I wasn’t scared,” he snapped.

Bad Dog had enough common sense to look chagrinned, in that way that only dogs can do.
Well, fine. But you were
something
, otherwise he wouldn’t still be alive. He smells of death.

“And what do I smell like?” Cavalo asked despite himself.

Bad Dog huffed.
You smell like MasterBossLord.

“And that’s different how? I’ve killed before.”

There are many kinds of death.

Cavalo knew there was no hope in arguing with him when he got like that, so he let it go. The boy walked behind the man and dog, the noose around his neck tight, the rope giving no slack. The boy had made no attempts to flee. He hadn’t fought the rope. There’d been no telltale signs of fiddling with the cuffs. He’d followed begrudgingly, eyes shuttered in the black mask, face schooled bland and slack. Even when they’d reached particularly rough terrain near Cottonwood Butte, the boy had nimbly hopped from rock to rock, never stumbling. He had the mien of the bear from the cave, Cavalo knew, but the grace of a snake. It only took getting bit once to know you didn’t turn your back on a snake.

“You been to Cottonwood?” he asked, jerking the rope a little so Psycho (because that is how Cavalo thought of him now) would know he was being addressed.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t even acknowledge he’d heard Cavalo, though the man knew he had.

“No, I don’t suppose you have. Your kind isn’t welcome there.”

Psycho flexed his fingers.

“Can’t promise they won’t tear you apart once they find out who you are.”

Psycho looked toward the brightening sky.

“Can’t say I won’t stop them from doing that.”

Psycho arched his back, stretching.

“You eat anybody this week?” Cavalo asked.

Psycho tensed.

“Oh, that does it for you, huh? Talking about spit roasting people and peeling their skin off when it starts to plump? When the fat starts to sizzle? When their screams have melted in their throats?”

Psycho did not look back.

“Yeah, I know all about your kind. You’re monsters. You’re the reason people don’t sleep at night. You’re the reason places like Cottonwood exist.”

Nothing.

Cavalo snapped the rope, hard. It jerked his prisoner, causing him to fall onto his back, on top of his hands. Cavalo heard the exhalation of air in place of a grunt or shout of pain.

Bad Dog immediately rushed to his side, growling in his ear.
Try and get up
, the dog said.
I double Bad Dog dare you.

Before Psycho could move, Cavalo was atop him, hand gripping his face, fingers indenting the skin. The eyes were narrowed underneath the painted-on mask. There was no fear there. Psycho fucking bulldog.

Cavalo’s fury grew. “You’re the reason people are scared,” he spat. “You’re the reason they cower. You and your kind. You take from them. You took from m—”

Daddy!
the bees said, sounding like Jamie.

Cavalo stopped himself. Spittle hung from his lips and glistened on the face of the boy.

I should just shoot him now. Or smash his head in with a stone. Either way. End this.

At that moment, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the lead clouds in the east parted and a brief sliver of morning sunlight shown through, weak and trembling. Cavalo felt it hit his face. He looked toward it. In the distance, he could see the walls ahead that surrounded Cottonwood, barriers against the outside world, constructed entirely of junked cars, stacked one on top of another, nine or ten high.

He looked back at his prisoner. Sun lit his face, and Psycho had turned toward it, soaking it in before it disappeared. The lines around his eyes and mouth had smoothed and he looked younger. If not for the mask and the clothes, he could have been from a town like Cottonwood, or Grangeville, which was fifteen miles to the south and even bigger. If not for that look in his eyes, he’d be someone Cavalo could know. Could like. Could—

But he’s not
, the bees said.
He’s not. He’s death. Let others who are paid to handle such things make up their mind. If he’s important, they may give coin.

Cavalo let go of Psycho’s face and curled his fingers under the cinched noose around his neck. He felt the raised scar on the back of his knuckles. Psycho bared his teeth in a wordless snarl. Cavalo ignored it and pulled Psycho up by the rope, not caring if it pulled tighter.

They moved toward town.

HE DIDN’T
expect to make it within thirty feet of the gate, and he wasn’t disappointed.

“Stop!” a clear voice rang out. “You take another step I’ll shoot you right between the eyes.”

“Oh good Lord. You’re not
that
good of an aim” came a reply.

“Better’n you!”

“
Please
. You’re not even supposed to
have
a gun. Father said.”

“What are you going to do, tell on me? Such a girl thing to do!”

“You’re so ridiculous sometimes. I can’t even stand it. This
girl
kicks your ass most days, so don’t you forget it.”

“
I’m
ridiculous? Do you even listen to yourself? You take that back!”

Jesus Christ
, Bad Dog groaned.

“Yeah,” Cavalo muttered. He raised his voice: “Are you two about done?”

Silence.

Then: “Who wants to know?”

“Someone who will kick both your asses if you don’t open the damn gate.”

Silence.

Then, uncertain: “Cavalo? That you?”

“Holy shit! It
is
him. Deke, open the gate!” the girl said to her brother.

We should have gone home
, Bad Dog said, looking back at the way they’d come.
They’re going to touch me all over and make me chase things like I’m a dog.

“You
are
a dog,” Cavalo reminded him.

He looked insulted as he huffed.
No. I’m Bad Dog. There’s a difference.

“They’ll probably have meat,” the man said as the gates started to part. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the onslaught that was to come.

They’d better
, Bad Dog said.
Especially if they’re going to tell me how pretty I look. I don’t look pretty. I look ferocious.

“You do,” the man said, starting to walk again toward the gate.

As soon as the opening between the gates was wide enough, two lanky forms hurtled themselves out, dust kicking up behind them. The boy prisoner looked startled for a moment, before bending down into a defensive stance, teeth bared, eyes flashing. But the two ignored him, running up and slamming into Cavalo, the girl wrapping her arms around Cavalo’s waist, the new boy dropping his hand down on Cavalo’s shoulder. Both wore dusty jeans and green coats, the unofficial uniform of the Patrol, the group in charge of monitoring the walls around Cottonwood. They hadn’t been in the Patrol when he’d been here last. They were still too young, even now.