Sentinels (28 page)

He heard the confused shouts of the men behind him—for they could also see this twenty-foot-tall symbol of crucifixion slant toward the heavens to anchor itself in the pit with an earthshaking thud.

A shriveled old scarecrow—so skinny it couldn't be distinguished from the weather-beaten wood—hung like Christ. Its stuffed leather sack of a head dangled so low that Hughes could see the ridge of its back right before his eyes. Hughes reached up and tugged on the floppy field hat adorning its head and found it had been stitched in place. He released the hat so the head would loll back in place.

But the head craned upward.

Hughes's insides fluttered and he stumbled backward as the scarecrow drew itself up on the cross so its outstretched arms and body formed a perfect T. Its torso expanded, as if it deeply inhaled. The blue suspenders it wore widened as its girth emerged. But Hughes saw it did not draw breath. He looked at its arms—no rope tethered its wrists to the horizontal beam. Its fingers were pressed into well-worn grooves, somehow keeping the scarecrow level. One by one its fingers—with straw for fingernails—lifted from grooves formed by unnatural strength that pressed into wood. Its untied feet—leathery, deformed things that ended in twisty points of hay—appeared somewhat human.

The shriveled head expanded to reveal recognizable things: ragged, chapped lips that appeared sewn shut, red eyes. Perhaps they were bloodshot, Hughes thought as he cocked both guns. He knew otherwise, though, figuring malice and rage brewed the crimson.

The thing dropped to the ground and stood level with Hughes, who fired both guns at its chest, knocking it against the vertical beam. The thing straightened itself. Its chest and arms took a sinewy, muscular form. Hughes realized he wasn't looking at a leather dummy, but a thing of skin. It moved not for Hughes, but for the two-handled scythe that hung hidden on hooks strategically wedged into the back of the cross. And the scarecrow advanced on Hughes.

He ran for his life, blindly firing behind him, and burst through the corn.

“Wait! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” Hughes sprinted toward the wagon and out of the men's range.

“Now! Shoot!”

They fired into the field. Twenty seconds passed and they stopped to reload. Hughes took up a perch in the wagon bed and saw stalks flicking from side to side.

“It's still coming!” He looked around and froze. “Oh. My. God!”

“What do you see?!” Diggs, cocking his Derringer, climbed into the bed. He and Hughes, their backs to each other, turned in a circle, and saw spread across the cornfields five more colossal crosses methodically catapulting into place while inexplicably gaining mass. Five more times the ground quaked in succession, signaling the imminent release of vengeance. Diggs didn't need a telescope to spot spindly figures dropping to the ground. The cornstalks wavered. They approached.

“Franklin, get your ass down here!” Lyle screamed. Franklin lifted his head, shrugged his shoulders and, almost appearing bored, picked up the shotgun and Noah's Winchester that rested at his feet. He climbed down and joined the circle of confused men facing outward to cover all directions.

“Christ, why don't we make their jobs easier?” Hughes ran for cover into the barn. Deputy Richard Ellison and Sheriff Clement joined him. The three surviving railroad men made for the house, leaving Lyle, Brendan, Franklin and Diggs by the wagon.

“Where's Chandler?” It was Brendan.

Lyle aimed his LeMat and fired at the man hobbling toward a tall pine tree closer to the road. Noah, his hands still bound, ducked behind the trunk as the bullets whizzed by him.

“Leave him! If you wish to stay, be my guest.” Diggs scrambled for the horses' reins. Franklin stood his ground, waiting to catch his first glimpse of the attackers. He kept the guns pointed to the ground. Lyle expressed no interest in fleeing and fired what he perceived to be precise shots into the maize.

“Here, let me.” Brendan disregarded his leg pain, pushed aside Diggs and climbed onto the perch, seized the bridles and released the brake. The crescent-mooned blade of a hand sickle slit through Brendan's diaphragm. He gasped, slouched forward and grabbed the handle with both hands. A pitchfork skimmed over the horses' heads and pierced the wooden seatback between Brendan and Diggs.

“To hell with this!” Diggs fled the perch and cowered behind the wheels. Brendan's injury precluded him from controlling the terrified horses that thundered past the house and into the cornfield, carving a path of trampled stalks into the horizon.

One of the creatures, armed with a long, three-pronged hayfork, scuttled across the path into the stalks, moving closer to the rear yard.

Noah, from his hiding spot, poked his head around the trunk to see Diggs scampering into the house. Lyle, realizing the odds against him, holstered his LeMat and grabbed the white-hot branding iron from the fire. His hands flinched from the heat a few times before he snatched the dry end of a flaming log and joined the lawmen in the barn. Franklin declined to join Diggs and Lyle, and instead, eyed Noah. Rather than aim and fire to keep him pinned, Franklin lumbered toward the tree. Noah, not knowing if moving from his crouch would expose him to any number of sharp blades, stayed, deciding on whether to bowl Franklin over or attempt to reason with him.

Franklin loomed over the huddling Noah and propped both long guns against the spruce.

“Let me see your hands.” His voice carried no hostility, and Noah whirled to do it. Franklin fished a small hunting knife from his belt and cut the ropes. He then let slip the bandolier of Noah's bullets he'd kept slung over his shoulder.

“I've had enough. If they take me, they take me.” Franklin sat similar to Noah, but on the opposite side of the tree so that he could view the show, and his potential demise. He made no move for the two guns leaning against the tree. “I'm so tired. I won't be a part of killing no woman or baby.”

Noah fitted the bandolier diagonally across his chest and loaded the lever-action rifle to its capacity with thirteen bullets.

“I think it might be best to stay here with you,” he said to Franklin, who embraced his forelegs and propped his head on his knees like a child would.

“Or you could help them.”

“Your boss and the bastard who killed
my
boss?”

“No. Go help
them
.” Franklin nodded toward the barn.

One creature, wearing a white Klansman's hood, laid its hayfork at its feet and with catlike grace scurried up the exterior wall to the closed hayloft door. It slid its fingers into a groove and ripped one of the double-doors off its hinges, letting it crash to the ground. It hopped into the loft to be met by gunfire. Noah and Franklin saw holes pop from the back of its tattered brown shirt. It mattered little to the thing. It looked down to one of its companions, a scarecrow similarly attired in ragged clothing but this one wearing a Confederate soldier's cap. It grabbed the pitchfork and lobbed it to its brethren, who swiped it midair while pulling a sickle from its belt. It then strode into the barn to do its work.

The thing wearing the Confederate cap spotted Franklin, along with Noah popping in and out of view from the tree's side. It cocked its head long and hard at Franklin and marched toward him.

It held a rusty machete at its side and brought back the blade to swing. Noah chambered a bullet and aimed.

“Don't.” Franklin handed Noah the shotgun and let his body go limp, extending his legs before him and clasping his hands on his belly. “It ain't here for you. I'd move along if I was you.”

Noah took the advice of a man preparing to die and ran past the fast-approaching scarecrow that focused on Franklin. Noah charged the barn and glanced a final time over his shoulder, seeing the thing swing the blade at Franklin. He turned away and shuddered when imagining the blood geyser being hacked from that mountain of flesh.

He stood with his back to a closed barn door, with the door next to it creaking open a tad. He braced himself against the frame and kicked the swinging door wide open to let in sunlight.

Noah prepared to turn and scan the interior but oncoming footsteps kept him pinned. Deputy Hughes, revolvers in each of his hands, sprinted out of the barn. He hadn't seen Noah because Hughes was on fire—his right shirtsleeve ablaze. He dropped both guns and rolled on the ground to suffocate the flames. Hughes retrieved the weapons and stood, pointing the revolvers into the barn. He glanced left to see Noah aiming both the cocked shotgun and Winchester at him. He never had the chance to pivot and fire as Noah blasted the shotgun at Hughes' chest, laying him dead on his back. Noah tossed the spent shotgun and pulled his Colt from Hughes's hand. He loaded it with bullets from his gun belt before holstering it.

The blasts continued from within the barn. Noah peeked inside and saw Lyle and Clement hiding behind overturned worktables opposite the seemingly empty stalls. Toby's wagon served as an added barrier in the middle of the barn. Clement and Lyle shot at one closed stall in particular. Hay fell from above the pen and Noah saw why: Deputy Ellison had snuck up the ladder leading to the loft while Lyle and Clement kept the creature at bay with gunfire. He kicked clumps of hay down and into the stable, and Noah understood the purpose when he saw Lyle holding the flaming log from the fire pit. Straw littered almost every part of the barn, and the enormity of the situation hit Noah as the log's falling embers gave life to wisps of flame across the floor. Noah, standing outside with his view unobstructed, aimed his Winchester at Ellison and shot him in the gut. The deputy grunted and lost balance, plummeting from the loft into the stall where they'd cornered the thing. Clement turned and fired at Noah, who ducked out of sight. Ellison screamed. Noah turned and fired at Clement and Lyle, and out of the corner of his eye saw a sickle-wielding, clawed hand rising and falling from behind the stall door—relentlessly chopping the life out of Ellison.

Lyle, holding the burning log and branding iron, wriggled himself to the side of the table and hid behind one of the barn's support beams. Clement timed his shots toward the entrance to keep Noah hidden. Lyle charged and unlatched the stall door, which swung both directions, and pushed with all his might to pin the thing against the stall's side wall. Lyle repeatedly jammed both flaming objects into the trapped creature.

The flames grew and Lyle retreated as the thing shrieked and flailed its arms ablaze with fire.

“Got you, you bastard!” Lyle screamed as he ran for cover next to Clement.

Both rejoiced as the howling conflagration fled the barn, past Hughes's body, almost making it to the water well before collapsing and burning to cinders.

The men's smiles turned downward when the scarecrow wearing the Confederate cap appeared in the doorway wielding its machete in one hand and the pitchfork that killed Edward in the other.

“Take this.” Lyle passed the branding iron to Clement. The thing slid around the side of the wagon, compelling Lyle and Clement to slink backward. Both prepared to leap or duck, expecting the thing to hurl its tools. Their rearward progress halted when both backed into the ladder leading to the hayloft. The thing launched the pitchfork at Clement, who rolled sideways to avoid it. Lyle, log still in hand, took that opportunity to climb the ladder. The creature sent the machete circling toward Lyle, whose foot made it over the final rung a second before the machete split it in two. The thing reached behind its back to grasp a second machete it had tucked in his belt.

Clement took refuge behind the ladder and fired his revolver between the slats. The thing turned its attention to the sheriff and marched forward, unaffected by the bullets penetrating its body. Clement coughed and grew wary of the burning straw snaking throughout the barn. It was only a matter of time before they licked the support structures.

“Lyle! Do something!” Clement shuffled backward, conserving his bullets, thinking about how to escape if Lyle didn't help him.

The tip of Noah's rifle slid into view from the side of the barn door and pointed up. He rested his finger on the trigger, waiting for Lyle to play groundhog.

Show your face; you can't hide up there forever.

Shattering glass broke his concentration and he turned to the farmhouse. Max, one of the men who shoved Noah before the branding iron, broke through a top-floor window, dangled by his fingertips from the sill and dropped to the ground. He braced himself so the fall wouldn't break his legs. He rose and sprinted toward the road, seeing and ignoring both Noah to his right and Franklin's body slouched against the tree up the path. He glanced back to make certain none of the things chased him, and began panting after hitting the half-mile mark, with only one small hill to go before escaping Toby's property.

Max thought of Charon, the ferryman of the dead, when the gnarled thing wearing tattered burlap rags blocked his exit to the road. A floppy sombrero hid most of its skeletal face—but not the red eyes beaming underneath the brim that stopped Max cold. The thing had wedged in the ground the butt of a hefty six-foot-long, two-handled scythe, and hunched against it, lazily waiting for its prey to arrive.

Max quick-drew and fired, but the gun was empty. He focused not on the creature but on the long curved blade arching over its head.

You're not leaving,
Noah thought. He ignored the Mexican Grim Reaper and knew it completed its job when Max's desperate scream cut short. Gunshots and sounds of crashing furniture continued from within the farmhouse. Noah wanted to finish what had started in the barn.

Clement, standing near the ladder, fended off the creature with the branding iron. The thing blocked his view of the sheriff, so Noah blasted his rifle into the loft. Lyle sprang to return fire, and in the process dropped the log on the hayloft floor, spreading flames around him. Noah kept shooting to confine Lyle, who reloaded, stood and fired at Noah while kicking mounds of burning hay from the loft, raining them down on the creature below.