The Cutthroat Cannibals (9 page)

He held up one of the can tops from around his neck. “Got these fresh—can you believe it?—four crates of beer, just floating
along. We get everything from the river. Floods upstream have brought a treasure trove of materials over the years. Chairs,
tables, TV sets—not that we can do anything with them. Boxes filled with all kinds of junk, bodies, clothes, plywood. And
one day, about two years ago, a flood of tires. The whole village was out there plucking tires out of the river for three
days. As you can see we built a whole village with the booty. Strong, aren’t they?” He pounded his fist against one of the
walls with pride.

“I see,” Stone said, starting to get at least a glimmering of the picture. “And you?” he asked, for the blue-faced son of
a bitch didn’t fit even into the madness of the junk-collecting tribe.

“I… I am half indian,” the magic man said, “born into a blackfoot tribe about three hundred miles from here. I was lucky—or
unlucky, depending on how you look at it. When I was fourteen the federal government decided to throw a few bucks the Indians’
way and they set up this super accelerated tutorial program to help get some of the braves of my tribe into college, so we
could return later and help our own. Good idea. It lasted of course only about six years, actually helped maybe three of us
before the politicians decided to put the money into some new weapons system or something. But in that time I was able to
get into college and then with a special scholarship into medical school.” Stone looked at the graffiti-covered witch man
with incredulity.

“That’s right, Stone—I’m a doctor. A real doctor. All this”—he waved the rattle for a second—“is bull. It’s what
they
want to see, and I know how to give it to them. After medical school I
did
return to my own tribal reservation determined to set up a practice and help my people get real medical treatment for the
first time in their lives. Only thing was, I was on my way home when a nuke just happened to come down about twenty miles
from the reservation. By the time I arrived there wasn’t a hell of a lot left to treat. They were already all dead or dying
from radiation poisoning. Teeth coming out like spilled marbles, hair—the strength of an Indian—falling out like scythed hay.
Bald, bleeding Indians. Quite a sight to see. So when the last one croaked—a baby, only three, who fell apart in my hands,
its destroyed cells actually turning to an ooze that dripped down and burned my arms…. But anyway, when it died there was
no reason to stay anymore. And having not a hell of a lot to live for I just sort of walked around in a daze for nearly a
week, not eating or sleeping or anything. It was like I had gone over the edge of madness. When I came to the river about
a hundred miles upstream I dove in. I wanted to die but, god knows how, somehow I became entangled in a tree. I fell in and
out of consciousness for what seemed like months. When I came to, I was here. And being an Indian, they let me live unlike
the others they’ve fished out. And being the smart cookie that I am, and having medical skills, I soon saw that if I played
the whole thing right I could become a real power in the village. And though my people were dead, at least I could be aiding
my race, my blood.”

The man took a deep breath and Stone realized that he had told his entire life history in one great blast of air and words.
The fellow was definitely on something.

“And the dog?” Stone asked, pointing over at Excaliber, who didn’t seem interested in the witch man’s rap and had turned completely
over in the other direction, his nose buried as deeply as possible into the narrow opening between two tires as he sucked
in the outside air. He seemed to hate the rubbery scent even more than Stone. But then his nostrils were ten thousand times
more sensitive.

“Your mutt there—a pit bull if I remember my interspecies anatomy, happens to resemble Myhwhanka, the Hawk Dog, the most powerful
of the tribe’s gods. The Hawk Dog runs the whole fucking show. They’re scared shit of your animal. They’re not really sure
what to do about it. I don’t think the chief really believes it is Myhwhanka, but on the off chance that it is, he has to
be extremely careful. For the Hawk Dog is the bringer of death, total destruction, when he bares his fangs. I really don’t
know what’s going to happen to you, Stone, I swear. I’ll do what I can, but it’s not much. Though I’m a medicine man I’m just
one of five here, and the lowest on the totem pole so to speak. They let me perform certain ceremonial functions and help
a few kids who get sick, but I can’t do much. The reason they sent me in here to investigate the supernatural potential of
the situation is because it was beneath the rest of the witch boys’ stations to come. They got a strong union. Also I’m the
most expendable in case something goes wrong.” The purple lips stopped moving for the first time in a minute and smiled, again
showing those filed-down vampirelike stumps that Stone had a hard time looking at.

“Just one more question,” Stone said, sitting up and rubbing his leg, which had begun throbbing painfully, sending rivers
of fire up and down his nervous system. “Why the hell should
you
help me, pal? You’re one of them, I’m a paleface. What’s in it for you?”

“Believe it or not I still try to follow the Hippocratic Oath—you know, that corny old thing about helping others. Once I
get everyone out of whatever rubber teepee I’ve been called to I always ask to be left alone with the patient. Then after
I do my rattle bull I go to this.” He pulled a black leather medical satchel from beneath his rotting fur robes and threw
it to the ground next to Stone’s leg. “This too came floating down one day. I managed to barter it away from the finder with
some rather potent hallucinogenic mushrooms I find very useful as exchange around here, since these fellows love to commune
with the gods. Anyway why the hell,
shouldn’t
I help you?” he asked. “Whether I look like a psychotic savage to you is irrelevant. I assure you, Stone, I do know what
I’m doing. Top of my class—Boston Med.”

He took a glistening scalpel from the bag and leaned down again toward Stone’s leg. Excaliber looked over suddenly, sensing
the drawing of a cutting implement. The dog started to rise until Stone motioned it down.

“Relax, dog, he’s a vet.” The animal closed its eyes and harrumphed disgustedly, snorting air out through its nose like a
whale clearing its breathing tubes. “All right, doc…” Stone faltered on the words, again looking into that nightmarish face.
But he went with his instincts. “Do your thing, doc… whatever that is,” Stone said, lying back and gritting his teeth.

The witch man lifted the rattle and shook it loudly at the door, letting loose with a few war cries just so it didn’t get
too quiet inside. “Love this job,” he said, as he sliced the blood-soaked pants all around the fractured leg so he could get
a better look.

“But listen, Stone, there is a price for my medical talents: tell me what the hell’s going on out there. A number of times
I’ve thought about leaving. It’s, uh, interesting here but not exactly the peak of intellectual or social stimulation.” He
cut the pants open and peeled back both already hardening pieces of material to see just what the avalanche had wrought on
breakable flesh.

“Well, as far as I’ve seen,” Stone replied, resting his arms back behind his head against one of the tires, “you’re just as
smart to stay here until hell freezes over. It’s bad out there. It’s horrible. A place that should only exist in nightmares
and grade C horror movies. If I were you I’d stay put. You got a good job, security. Probably grow old and become top witch
man, maybe even run the show.”

“That’s about what I figured,” Nanhanke said as he stood back from his close inspection of the wound. “You could see from
a lot of the stuff that floated downriver—especially the bodies—that the world had taken a decided turn for the worse in the
last few years. Just wanted to confirm it, I guess.”

“Well, consider it confirmed,” Stone said. “As bad as you visualize it, it’s worse.”

“All right, Stone, I’ve got good news and bad news,” the medicine man said, shaking the rattle about five times and then dropping
it down. “The good news is that your leg is healing nicely.”

“And the bad?” Stone asked, fearing the worst.

“The bad is that it’s healing improperly, at an angle. Once the bone re-fuses with itself you’ll walk with a pronounced limp,
maybe won’t even be able to run or anything. Not exactly a survival trait in the outside, I would imagine.”

“So what’s the treatment?” Stone asked nervously, knowing that whatever it was, it was going to hurt like hell.

“There’s only one thing I can do: try to force the damned thing back into a straight alignment. But it’s already started healing…
so… so”

“So, spit it out man. Christ, your bedside manners leave something to be desired.”

“So I’m going to have to rebreak it, maybe slam the living shit out of it to get the bone back into place.”

“You’re kidding,” Stone whispered, his face growing white.

“No joke about it, gringo,” Nanhanke said with a grin, trying but failing to lighten the tense mood. “Either I do my best
or it’s cripple time for the Stone man.”

“Go ahead then,” Stone said, getting a sinking and dark feeling in his guts. He wasn’t afraid of dying, but there was something
about being torn to pieces bit by broken bit that he wasn’t looking forward to at all.

“Better warn your dog there to cool it if you start screaming or something. Because I can promise you only one thing—it will
hurt.”

“Excaliber,” Stone yelled, cupping one hand over his mouth. “Shut up!” He figured if he prewarned the dog it would listen.
But the canine was already fast asleep and in much too pleasant a dream to pay Stone’s admonitions from the real world the
slightest heed.

“Go ahead man, do your fucking thing,” Stone said, gritting his teeth.

The Indian moved fast as if he wanted to get it over with quickly. He grabbed hold of the inner rim of a tire about six feet
up and getting a good grip, suddenly jumped up in the air and came down with both feet right on the broken bone. Stone let
out a scream that surprised even him. And Nanhanke rattled madly at the door while he let his patient settle down. Once Stone’s
mouthings had dropped to dull hisses of torture, the witch man got down on his knees and examined the wound.

“Good, good, I did it—or very close. Now we’ll just—” He reached out without giving Stone any warning, and grabbing at the
leg with both hands slammed the two pieces against one another with all the strength of his 230-pound, well-muscled body.
He was, after all, an Indian. This time Stone actually managed to keep the scream to a long whistling trainlike sound that
went on for a full minute. For though it hurt like a bitch, he could suddenly sense that the bone
did
fit properly now. It was as if his whole leg suddenly felt straight, as it should be.

“I think you… you actually fixed it,” Stone said, reaching down to touch the wounded area.

“Uh-uh,” Nanhanke said, slapping down at Stone’s hands. “Don’t touchee now,” he mocked him as if addressing a child. “Infection,
that’s going to be your biggest worry now. I’ll squirt some of this Indian goo on. It really works, has antibiotic properties.”
He inundated the still-oozing split skin that stretched half way around the leg with a greenish substance that felt both cool
and instantly soothing on Stone’s torn flesh. “And then we’ll just throw some white man’s bandages on here.” He wrapped some
sterile gauze around the wound and tied it all down with thin threads of buffalo intestine.

“Jesus Christ,” Stone blurted out in sheer amazement as the witch doctor stood back and surveyed his work.

“No—Nanhanke,” the medicine man chuckled, his broken teeth reflecting the light that flowed in from outside. “Wish I had a
business card to give you.” He patted at his animal hides and fox-jaw necklaces as if he might have somehow misplaced one
somewhere inside. “Well anyway, that’s all I can do. God help you, Stone, Indian and gringo gods alike. It’s out of my hands
now. Just keep in close proximity to your bird dog there, he’s your ace in the hole.”

“Thanks, Dr. Linderstein,” Stone said half mockingly, addressing the man with his other alias. “I won’t forget it.”

“Don’t mention, don’t mention,” Nanhanke said, starting toward the door. He began waving his rattle again, dancing up and
down as he chanted deep guttural sounds like a dying man clearing his throat. He screamed at the tires and the braves quickly
pulled them back, letting him exit. They loaded in some food—two big bowls, each holding a good gallon of steaming stuff.
Since the chief felt he had to be hospitable to the possible dog god, they were both given a stew of the tenderest venison.

Excaliber’s eyes lifted from out of deep sleep at the scents suddenly wafting over his nose, which were even stronger than
the wretched rubbery smell. He was at his bowl and slobbering up a virtual eruption of the steaming food before Stone had
a chance to lift his fork. Yea, though we walketh into the shadow of the Valley of Death—let’s eat first.

S
TONE had to admit that the Atsana treated him pretty well—for a man who was most likely headed for the grave, that is. For
he had no illusions about the future of things. They were still unsure of just what the hell to do with him and his crazy
dog and held endless meetings on the subject. But at least they treated him as if they were following the Geneva convention
on POW treatment—plenty of food, care for his wound, and shelter. Only problem was he couldn’t go anywhere, just stayed locked
inside the tire prison with shifts of braves waiting out front in case he got any funny gringo ideas.

But at least he could see out the slits and cracks between the tires. From the moment he awoke the next morning, after a heaping
breakfast of corn gruel and nuts, he spent the rest of the morning and afternoon glued to the openings in the igloo of black
rubber trying to find out everything he could about the Indian village, its beliefs, its people. Any information he could
pick up might mean the difference between life and death. Stone remembered being out in the mountains with his father, the
major. He was only six and they were coming down a mountain path when Clayton Stone stopped in his tracks and put his hand
on his son’s shoulder to stop him, putting his fingers to his lips at the same time. He pointed down at some tracks in the
inch or so of freshly fallen snow.