Less Than Human (34 page)

The figure stopped and Steven saw it was an Indian dressed in ragged gray buckskins and a funny stovepipe hat. The broad copper face regarded him without expression. In the distance, the dark stain had drawn close enough for Steven to see it was a herd of buffalo, but what a herd it was, an ocean of heaving flesh stretching farther than the eye could see, rippling and swelling as though torn by a storm.

On and on they came, and the world became filled with distant thunder.

Steven could feel the rumbling deep in his bones. Soon they were near enough for him to see that every animal was soaked in blood. It dripped from their straining flanks, it spilled from their gasping mouths, turning the ground red. He caught their smell, the stench of sweat and dust and blood, and worst of all—the smell of fear.

Steven fell to his knees, unable to stand upon the trembling ground. "What does all this mean?" His voice was drowned by the growing thunder. "Why have you brought me here?"

The skeletal figure said nothing, and the buffalo kept on spilling across the prairie, drawing nearer, and the dust they kicked up blotted out the sun. Steven waited in the gathering darkness.

Just when it seemed they would be crushed in the stampede, the Indian doffed his hat and everything changed.

The charging herd disappeared in the wink of an eye and Steven saw desolation beyond knowing: skeletons by the hundreds of thousands glistening pale white beneath the sun, buffalo skeletons, dried and polished by the sun and wind, and among the bones, Steven saw entire tribes wandering aimlessly. They moved through the carnage, their gaunt faces bearing the specter of hunger. Their sorrow was a great cry that rose like the carrion birds on the wind. Then it was swept away. Never to be heard again.

Steven looked across the plains and saw things that defied understanding. He saw warriors sitting by darkened fires, heard the lament of the women as they tried to console hungry children. The red men prayed to the old gods, calling upon them to stop the slaughter, but their prayers fell upon deaf ears.

The old gods were powerless before the advance of the white man who rode upon the iron horse, sweeping everything before him.

Some things Steven witnessed he didn't understand at all. He saw Indians dressed in white-man clothes, living in white-man houses that seemed to be made of metal. There was no pride in their faces. Many were lying drunken on the street in the shadow of buildings so tall they blocked the sun. Others climbed from strange looking wagons that moved without horses and went into places that colored the night with all manner of bright lights. When they came out, the smell of whiskey was upon them, their steps were drunken.

Stranger sights awaited. He saw many of them cross great oceans to die in battles in places he had never seen, using weapons that cut men down like wheat in the field, fighting the white man's wars, and their names were not spoken with honor even though their blood was spilled just as often. Their numbers, like the buffalo, dwindled to a few and they no longer prayed to the old gods.

They now lifted their voices to the white god.

All this Steven witnessed and more. How long he stood there watching, he had no way of knowing. One by one the strange sights disappeared, until only he and the medicine man were left on the vast plain. The wind blew and it was a high keening that sounded as lonely as dying.

The medicine man began to chant and, somehow, without ever being told, Steven knew it was a death chant he heard; there were no words, really, only a wavering anguished cry that rose and fell. Mourning a people who wandered a world that no longer held a place for them, speaking a farewell to a way of life that had been lost forever, lamenting a people who had even forsaken their gods.

The sad, wavering voice rose and fell for a moment longer. Then, turning his back to Steven, the medicine man placed his hat back upon his head and began walking away, each step covering an incredible distance until; finally, he was gone from sight.

At that instant the buffalo returned, and when the first horn pierced Steven Adler through, he learned that a god, even a dying god, can still thirst for vengeance.

I
n the spring the thing that had taken over Steven Adler left the cave. By summer it had moved into Arizona, feeding and killing as it went. There it found a group of Army deserters.

A week later every man, woman, and child in Crowder Flats, except one, was killed. The one survivor, a Navajo boy who would become Amos Black Eagle's grandfather, said the killers were dressed in blue.

Chapter 19

Jake's Place, 3:00 A.M.

T
he sign was off, the parking lot deserted.

Except for an old Jeep Cherokee.

Oil spots decorated the gravel. In the moonlight, they looked like fresh blood.

John Warrick sat alone at the long bar in the dark, sipping a Lone Star, waiting, trying to hold on to his anger. Anything to keep from running. The trouble was, he hadn't been able to hang on to anything—not love, not hate, not anger. Not even his life. It had all slipped away somehow. One night at a time. He was tired way down deep in his soul and he wasn't sure of what he would do tonight.

He didn't know if he would even survive the night.

The beer was clammy in his hands and, when he took a sip, it tasted bitter. Like fear.

That was the only emotion he could hang on to.

The odors of spilled booze, too many unfiltered cigarettes, and cheap perfume clung to the room, bringing back memories of all the nights he had spent here when he was young. Elvis, the Stones, Ray Charles on the jukebox, on the radio, loud laughter, girls trying to be women, boys trying to be men. Nobody knowing how. They had fumbled toward adulthood in the dusty seats of old pickup trucks out there in the dark, sure that once they were grown, they would have the answers.

Instead, all they had were more questions.

He and Thomas Black Eagle and Martin Strickland had hung out in Jake's back room, playing pool every chance they got, each boasting to anyone who would listen that he was the best.

But never putting it to the test. Afraid that if they did, they might not be friends anymore.

Friendship was more important to them back then.

They believed in it.

In those days, they were young and their dreams lay spread out in front of them like the shimmering highways that led out of Crowder Flats.

The years had chipped away at their dreams, wearing them down to the bare bone, until finally there was nothing left to believe in. Thomas Black Eagle had been the lucky one, he had died young. Before he had seen all his dreams die, before he had become one of the walking dead.

Now there really was nothing left. Martin and Thomas were dead. Leon, too.

That didn't seem fair, because John knew he was the one to blame for what had happened.

He should be the one who was dead.

John had Steven Adler's cue stick lying in front of him on the bar, and he tried not to look at it, but his eyes were drawn time and again to its seductive yellow length. He felt dirty whenever he looked at the cue. Like he had been violated. Like something had been stolen from him. Moonlight, the color of old dimes, spilled through the window, caught the emerald eyes of the serpent and turned them into fire. The red feathered serpent lay coiled around the handle, watching his every move, as though waiting for a chance to strike. He resisted the urge to move his hands away.

John was scared of the cue that had almost killed him twice. He was more scared of the man who owned it. His stomach bore the marks of what he had gone through at Amos's, two jagged wounds where he had been gored in his dream.

The wounds had been seeping blood earlier, but Louise had put bandages on them.

In the quiet John relived his peyote vision, and again saw the herd of buffalo, heard the distant thunder of their hooves as they made their endless trek across the plains. He felt the fear, the revulsion of Matt Thomas as he was invaded and taken over in the lonely cave, the pain of Steven Adler, who had tried to end his friend's pain. John felt the searing agony of the buffalo horns tearing into his stomach, but more than anything else, he felt the horror of Steven Adler, who had once been human, and was no longer. At the end of the vision, John had heard Steven's voice crying out and knew there was still a man in there who begged for release. A man who couldn't even kill himself to be free.

What could it be like to live with something alien inside of you for 120 years, making you torture and kill?

Never being able to escape?

The lean pool hustler again looked out the window, anxious for this meeting to be over. He was here to make the trade, one cue stick for one five-year-old, and then he was out of here for good. Headed someplace far away. Maybe he could convince Louise to come with him. Crowder Flats held nothing but sadness for the both of them. Maybe it wasn't too late to start again. He'd give anything for a fresh start.

He looked out the window again, saw shadows on the moon.

The waiting was eating away at his nerves, filling him with doubt. His hand touched the gleaming wood beneath his beer bottle, sought out the slight darkness there, the darkness that was Thomas Black Eagle's blood.

This was the first time John had been in the bar since the night Thomas had been killed. He wished Steven Adler had chosen another place to meet. Any other place. Sitting here in the dark, surrounded by the tired ghosts of his life, made him think, and that wasn't something he liked to do. Thinking made him feel old and used up. The past followed him around like an insistent panhandler, one who was never satisfied no matter how much money was laid in his greasy palm.

There was movement in the back parking lot, lights flashing across the window, the sound of tires crunching on gravel, and John was almost grateful that the meet was under way. At least he would be doing something, instead of waiting. Anything beat that. He moved over to the window and watched as Leon's old red Caddy pulled in. The sight filled John with anger.

And fear.

The car sat there idling, then went silent. After a bit, the driver's door swung open and a blond man stepped out into the night. This time he wasn't wearing a sweat shirt and jeans and high-tops, this time he was dressed like an Old West gunfighter. Or at least the Hollywood version of one. Everything was black, from the flat-brimmed Stetson on his head, to the vest, to the duster that whipped in the wind, to the boots on his feet. He should have looked laughable in such a getup. But he didn't. He looked scary as hell.

John tried to see if anyone else was in the car. The Caddy looked empty. Where was the blond man's partner? Where was Timmy Cates?

This was supposed to be a straight trade. John felt panic, forced himself to be calm.

Even though there were five windows facing the back parking lot and the bar was dark, the blond man's gaze found the window John watched from. He smiled an easy smile and winked, as though the two of them were sharing a private joke.

John backed away from the window.

This was the man who had stuffed Leon Wilson in a freezer before Leon was even dead.

Man was the wrong word, but John couldn't force himself to think of Steven Adler in any other terms. If he did, he might not be able to go through with this.

According to what Elliot Cates had said, the thing inside Bobby Roberts was at least five hundred years old, maybe more, and it was afraid of this man who stood so easily in the parking lot.

What could cause such fear?

John watched Steven Adler approach the bar. The blond man moved casually, unhurriedly, and yet his head was raised and his eyes seemed aware of everything around him. His shoulder-length hair flowed out behind him, a golden mane rippling in the wind, as he moved across the parking lot. There was something animal-like about the way he walked, and John felt as if he were watching a sleek jungle cat closing in on its prey.

In this case, John knew he was the prey. Sweat trickled down his back as he waited.

The door to the bar opened and Steven Adler was inside. He was just there. It was like some kind of magic trick. His eyes probed the shadows while he sniffed the air, and John was again reminded of a huge cat testing the wind for enemies. He turned to John, seemingly satisfied that they were alone.

Steven reached behind the bar, grabbed a cold beer, took a sip. "Well, Mr. John Warrick, you've led me a merry chase."

His eyes settled on the cue stick, but he made no move toward it. "I don't think we've been formally introduced. My name is Steven Adler and I think you have something that belongs to me."

John had the absurd feeling the man was going to offer to shake hands. He didn't.

They studied each other, one fair and young, the other dark and middle-aged.

"Where's the boy?" John asked.

"He'll be along in a minute. If you've held up your end of the bargain." Steven hefted the cue stick, undid the handle and checked the contents. He seemed satisfied. "You're staring. Don't you like my clothes? I'm trying to fit into the spirit of your Frontier Days."

John tried hard to keep his face neutral, but Steven saw something there. The blond man held John's gaze. "I've become pretty good at reading people's expressions. Had a lot of practice over the years." The easy grin faltered. "You know something, John, what is it?"

"I don't know anything. I don't want to know anything. Just give me Timmy Cates, take your cue stick, and we'll call it a night."

"You're not much of a liar, John. You saw the note in Leon's basement, so you know I killed him. You know I killed Martin, too. That's why you're here. No, it's not just hate or my clothes, it's something else. When I walked through the door, you looked at me like I wasn't… human." Without warning, he reached out and grabbed hold of John's hand.

John tried to resist.

His effort was useless. Steven Adler held him easily.

There was a burning sensation, and when John snatched his hand away, he saw his skin had been broken where Steven had scratched him with a knife. It wasn't much of a wound, just a tiny prick. Several drops of blood had welled up.