24 Declassified: Head Shot (2009) (5 page)

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 A.M. AND 5 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME

Red Notch, Colorado

The shaggy man wore a flannel shirt, overalls, and work boots. He lay facedown in the dirt. Neal stood on one knee beside him, holding the muzzle of the .357 against the back of his skull. He said, “Keep still.”

The other grunted something that could have been an affirmative.
He remained motionless while Neal’s free hand gave him a pat-down frisk, searching him for weapons, finding none.

Jack’s gun hand hung along his side. He held the knife that he’d picked up in his free hand. The ball of his foot still throbbed from where he’d delivered the front snap kick to disarm the shaggy man. The knife had deer antler plates inset in the grip, a hilt to keep
the hand from slipping, and a long, sharp-pointed blade. He held it up to the moonlight, turning it so that moonbeams glimmered off the steel.

Neal rose, saying, “He’s clean. Of weapons, that is. He smells like he hasn’t had a bath in a long time. No wallet, keys, or identification of any kind.” He nudged the shaggy man in the ribs with the toe of his shoe, none too gently. “Get up. And no tricks. Try anything funny and I’ll shoot you in the knee.”

He said to Jack, “I don’t like guys with knives.”

Jack said, “I don’t blame you. That’s some knife, too. A real pigsticker.”

Neal’s shoe toe prodded the shaggy man’s ribs again, harder. “Come on, get up.”

The shaggy man got on his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it. Neal had him covered with the .357, so Jack holstered his pistol, fitting it into the shoulder sling. He still held the knife.

The shaggy man groaned, rubbing the back of his head where Neal had clipped him with the gun barrel. He rose unsteadily to his feet, swaying. Neal came up alongside him and put the arm on him cop-style, using his free hand, the one not holding his gun, to grip the other firmly just above the elbow, steadying and steering him.

Jack flanked the shaggy man’s left side but otherwise let Neal handle the play. He was a visitor, a guest, while this was Neal’s home territory. Let Neal have the credit, if any, for bagging a suspect, if the shaggy man should prove to be one. Neal was right about one thing, though; the man was no Zealot. The Zealots’ dress code ran to jackets and ties for the men, obedient to their guru Prewitt’s admonition that they should always be mindful of making a positive appearance of neatness and cleanliness on the public at large. The shaggy man looked like a tramp, a hobo.

Neal said, “Come into the light and let’s see what we’ve got.” He and Jack hustled the shaggy man around the corner of the mess hall, across the north face, and around to the front of the mess hall.
The captive lurched forward with a shambling, shuffling gait.

A wooden platform something like a plank sidewalk made a kind of apron along the east face, serving as a kind of unroofed front porch. A lamp mounted over the front door shed a yellow cone of light.

Neal sat the shaggy man down on the platform under the light. The shaggy man rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. His long hair fell over the front of his face like a curtain. It was the color and texture of a steel wool scouring pad.

Jack eyed the hunting knife under the light. Its finish was dulled with dark patches, not of dried blood but of rust. He pointed it out to Neal, quietly and out of the hearing of the shaggy man.

Neal nodded. Then he went to work on the captive. “Look up when I’m talking to you.”

The shaggy man lifted his head up out of his hands. His raggedy iron-gray beard reached down to his collarbone. It had the texture of a bird’s nest. He didn’t show much skin between the hair on his head and his face, and what did show was seamed, weathered. Bloodshot watery gray eyes were tucked into baggy pouches between a wide, flat-bridged nose. A threadbare flannel shirt was so grimy that its original red-and-black-checked pattern could barely be made out. A pair of denim bib overalls hung in place by a single shoulder strap; the other was broken.

Neal said, “Who are you? What’s your name?”

The shaggy man said, “Lobo . . .”

“Lobo? What kind of a name is that? Lobo what?

What Lobo?”

“Just—Lobo. That’s what everybody calls me. That’s been my name for as long as I can remember.” A confused look came over his face. “Which ain’t all that long . . .”

Lobo rubbed his face with his hands like he was scrubbing it, trying to rub some feeling into it. Fear stamped his features. He looked up at Jack, Neal, said, “Don’t! Don’t kill me!”

Jack and Neal exchanged glances. Neal said, “What’s all this talk of killing? Nobody mentioned killing but you.”

Jack chimed in, “You’re the one with the knife.”

Lobo said, “I was scared, I didn’t know what I was doing!” He rubbed and chafed his right wrist and forearm. “You like to busted my wrist when you kicked it, mister. It hurts awful bad.”

Neal was unsympathetic. “You’re lucky you didn’t get shot pulling a stunt like that. Anyway, the hand’s still working. I don’t see that anything’s broken.”

Jack said, “You pulled that knife quick enough.”

Lobo said, “To defend myself. I thought you were some of Them.” The way he said “Them,” you could practically hear it being capitalized.

Jack said, “Them?”

“The devil men!”

Neal scoffed, “That crazy talk won’t buy you anything. You’re sane enough, so talk sense. And make it quick.”

A shift came over Lobo’s features, firming them with stubbornness.
He looked down, not looking Jack or Neal in the face. He muttered, “I know what I saw . . .”

Jack said, “What did you see?”

Lobo looked up now, staring Jack in the face, studying him. He blinked repeatedly, his watery eyes glimmering. He came to a decision. “Nope. You ain’t one of Them.”

Jack pressed, “One of who?”

Lobo stared Neal in the face, coming to a quick conclusion. “And I know you ain’t one of Them. You got a mean face, but not as mean as they got.”

Neal said, “Who’s Them? Damn it, man, speak out plain!”

Lobo said, “Them devil men.”
Tension fled from his face, his expression sliding into slack- jawed relief.
“Huh! Maybe you ain’t going to kill me after all?”

Jack said, “We’re not killers.”

Lobo pointed out, “You got guns.”

“To defend ourselves. Like you with your knife. You’re not a killer. You just wanted to protect yourself. Against the devil men.”

Lobo grinned, bobbing his head in agreement. “That’s right! Now you got it. So can I have my knife back?”

Neal said, “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Jack said, “You don’t need a knife, Lobo. We’ll protect you against the devil men.”

“So you say. But it’s easier said than done. They got Satan’s power working for them.”

“Remember the Psalm, Lobo: ‘I will fear no evil.’”

“You would if you seen what I saw. That’s why they want to kill me.”

“What did you see?”

Lobo shook his head, sadly. “Can’t tell.”

“Why not?”

“If I do, they’ll have to kill you, too. Nobody is safe who knows the truth.”

Neal, fighting down impatience, said, “We’ll take our chances.”

Jack said, “They’ll want to kill us anyway for siding with you, Lobo. So you might as well tell us. The more we know, the better we’ll be able to help.”

Lobo tilted his head to the side, as if listening to unheard voices. “You may just have something there . . .’Course, bad as they are, the devil men ain’t the worst. Oh no.” He leaned forward, with an air of one about to impart some great truth. “It’s those hog-faced demons you really got to worry about!”

Neal, dangerously calm and soft-spoken, said, “Hog- faced demons, is that right?”

Lobo nodded vigorously. “The gospel truth. The devil men, they look just like us. Like anybody, only more mean- faced. That’s how they can walk among us. Two of Them have been dogging me all day, back in the hills. That’s where I live, all by myself, in a little hidey- hole I got fixed back up there.” He gestured toward the sandstone formations. “Ain’t nobody can find me in the rocks if’n’ I don’t want ’em to, devil men included.

“But I got hungry. I ain’t had nothing to eat for two days. There’s a hole under the fence that I slip right through sometimes at night. I sneak up in back of the kitchen here and raid them Dumpsters for what I can find. Lawd! The food that these here camp folk throw away would feed an army! Perfectly good food, meat, taters, bread, vegetables, sometimes even cake!” He smacked his lips at the conclusion of the recital.

Jack prompted, “Camp folk? You mean the folks living here in the compound?”

Lobo nodded. “The very same. It’s like a church camp, an old-time revival meeting, the way they’re always getting together and listening to that ol’ preacher of theirs. He’d come on the loudspeaker and jaw to ’em for hours at a time and they’d just be a-setting there in the campground, taking it all in. Hoo-whee, how that man could talk! ’Course, it was way over my head, I couldn’t make no never mind of it. But they seemed like decent enough folks, what I seen of them.”

His face fell, becoming despondent. “Not that it did ’em any good in the end, though, not when those hog-faced demons came to drag ’em all off to hell last night.”

Jack said, “It happened last night, you say?”

“Yes, sir! As I live and breathe. It was only by the purest luck they didn’t get me, too! I come sneaking around when the moon was low, like I always do when I plan to do me some Dumpster diving. I was up in the rocks when I seen it, a green fog coming out of nowhere and covering the whole camp.”

“Green fog?”

“Green as pea soup, sonny! Damnedest thing I ever seen. Right off I knew it wasn’t natural, wasn’t nothing that comes from God’s good earth. It rose up out of the east and in less time than it takes to tell, it grew into a great big green cloud that rolled right over the whole danged camp and just set on it. Like to froze me in my tracks at the sight of it! I stayed up in the hills to marvel at it and a good thing, too. Else it would have got me, along with the

rest of them poor souls.”

“The camp folks, the people in the compound.”

“None other. They was all sleeping, I reckon,

tucked up tight in their bunks when the green cloud come up on ’em. Like a thief in the night, just like the Good Book says. That’s when them hog-faced demons showed. Lawd, they must’ve been vomited up straight out of the gates of hell! You never seen nothing like it, nobody ever did—and pray that you never do!

“Hog faces they had, big ol’ long snouts sticking out and big bug eyes a-goggling and staring! Hog faces and the bodies of men! And here’s something for you to think on: they didn’t come a-riding Satan’s lizards or flying in on bat wings, no sir. They drove up in cars! Cars, mind you, just like normal everyday folks out for a moonlight drive! Now, don’t that beat all?

“Then all hell broke loose. Them hog-faced demons fell on those poor folks like badgers on a warren of baby rabbits. It was something awful. They just waltzed right into their cabins and houses and carried ’em away. There was screaming and shouting and shooting and all kinds of unholy racket going on. I’m surprised they didn’t hear it over to the next county.”

Neal said, “You saw all this?”

Lobo’s expression was patronizing, almost pitying. “I’m telling it, ain’t I?
The green cloud covered most of it at first, which was a mercy, but it thinned out and broke up pretty quick, so I seen most of it.
The worst of it, sure, when the demons dragged those poor souls out into the open, herding them like cattle to the slaughterhouse. Some they killed straight off, gunned ’em down—seems funny, don’t it, Satan’s minions using firearms to do the Devil’s work here on earth? Guns and cars? Makes sense when you think about it, though. Who better than Lucifer to make use of the modern ways of destruction? No back number him, he’s up-to-date!

“The demons loaded every last one of ’em, man and woman, onto that blue bus. A blue bus! Them hog-faces got back in their cars and the blue bus and they all drove off straight to hell! Not before they almost got me, though. Like I said, that green cloud lifted mighty quick and I got antsy to see what was happening. I got a mite careless and showed myself up on the rocks and one of them hog-faces sees me and starts taking potshots at me! Came mighty close, too, but my guardian angel must’ve been working overtime and the demon missed.

“After that I faded back into the hills and made myself scarce. ’Course, Satan don’t give up that easy. That’s why he sent two devil men into the hills today to ferret me out. I reckon those hog-faces can’t walk around in the daylight. The devil men, though, they look like anybody else, only meaner than most, like I said. That pair was a couple of two-legged rattlesnakes in tandem. Not that it done ’em any good. Trying to track me down in my own hills! Shoot, I seen ’em coming from a country mile away. They were combing the rocks all day until they got tired and went away.”