The Cutthroat Cannibals Page 12
The sound rose again, and this time it made the hairs on the back of Stone’s neck rise up like little quills and stay there. The sound was unearthly. He had never heard anything even remotely like it. Excaliber too had now risen up onto all fours, pointing toward the sound. The dog didn’t like it either: its fur bristled and its jaws seemed to grind against one another as if sharpening the teeth within for trouble ahead.
The men tried to go back to sleep, to ignore it, and the dog as well, once it saw that they weren’t heading out. The three of them lay there trying to count sheep, count wampum, count bones, whatever. But it was a joke. How could you sleep when the choirs of hell were practicing right down the fucking road. As he lay still, Stone started distinguishing between different wails within the cacophonous siren of sound. After half an hour with not the slightest diminishing of noise he sat up again. The Indian was already up, kneeling as if in meditation, listening hard.
“Let’s go check it out,” Stone said, looking firmly at the brave. “I’d rather see whatever the hell is out there before it sees us. If we’re in danger perhaps we can plan some countermeasures.”
“Yes,” Cracking Elk replied opening his eyes. “We must see.” With that he rose up from his crouch and smacked the dirt off his buckskin pants and jacket. Stone rose with somewhat more difficulty, cursing to himself. He hated being crippled. It made a hard world a hell of a lot harder. Stone glanced over to the other side of the smoldering fire, just a few orange coals glowing beneath the dark gray ash. The dog was sound asleep. Having seen that the human crew wasn’t about to check things out earlier, it had assumed that that was it for the night and had gone into heavy hibernation. Just as well, Stone thought as he hobbled off behind the Indian. They didn’t need the damned dog charging into some pack of whatever the hell was out there and setting the demonic crew on them all.
Stone followed Cracking Elk in the near darkness, lit with only a dim, dark purplish light that trickled down from above as night hung on and dawn struggled to make even a dent of light in the eastern sky. It was rough over the rocks along the shore but at least no brambles which had torn Stone’s arm and chest to shreds the day before. The Indian went at near full speed, and Stone had to hobble along like a one-legged maniac with his ass on fire to keep up.
The screams and howls grew louder and louder, until it was deafening, taking up their entire senses like the roar of a jet or the passage of a screaming subway train. Only these were not things made of steel but living beings, a chorus of madness in rising crescendo that seemed as if it was trying to wake the very dead. The Indian came to a stop along the shore and made a sharp right, heading toward the solid mountain wall that rose up a thousand feet, about a hundred feet away. But as Stone followed, once again going through bramble bushes so his just-beginning-to-heal rips and tears from the day before were again torn asunder, he saw that there was a much lower ridge about a hundred feet up. The angle was easy enough for even Stone to ascend with the aid of his walking stick.
Halfway up he nearly tripped over something: bones! And in the minimal starlight from the billion galaxies burning dimly above, he could see that there were bones everywhere along the hill. It was a fucking graveyard, or a garbage dump. The brave moved slower and slower as he reached the top of the rise. Whatever the hell was on the other side, the last thing he wanted was for it to spot them. Stone, with much the same thoughts in mind, winced as he climbed, for the choruses of yowling were actually causing pain to his ears, making them ache as if icepicks were being slammed inside. Both men reached the top, a rocky ledge about twenty feet wide, slid across it on their stomachs—and looked down onto the other side. Looked down onto the living hell unfolding a hundred feet below them in a small valley bounded on each side by rocky cliffs several hundred feet high. Looked down and prayed silently to their respective gods to protect them from the dark goings-on.
Dogs, hundreds of them, jumping and leaping about in the grayness, throwing themselves with abandon into the air and then crashing down, smashing into one another with loud thuds. They spun wildly about, launching themselves every which way, all howling and yapping, barking and snarling at once. The center of the mad dance appeared to be a tree that had been struck by lightning and was burning brightly in the center of the valley floor. With its outstretched branches it formed a sort of triangular cross around which the dogs raced and jumped in total madness.
As Stone settled down even further, pressing his face against the edge of the plateau, he could see that though some were just leaping around, others were fighting, clawing and biting furiously at one another. Many already had huge chunks of their flesh ripped out, their pelts splattered with bright red. Others’ jaws were blood soaked, bits of dog flesh hanging out in jagged pieces. And yet not one seemed to mind. Those that were bitten yowled out in mortal pain, but they didn’t run off or try to hide. Far from it, they seemed to wear their bloody holes as patches of honor, parading them, joining in the insane frenzied death of the hundreds of dogs.
There were many large dogs, and these seemed to prey on the smaller ones like sharks on fish. They leaped about high in the air—dobermans, shepherds, even a few mastiffs here and there, jumping back and forth wildly like African dancers acting out a Busby Berkley routine. They attacked the smaller dogs, the collies and dachshunds, the poodles and miniatures, knocking them down like bowling pins, grabbing them in their teeth and throwing them high in the air like bloody beachballs so the animals tumbled back to earth with high-pitched squeals of terror. Yet again, when they touched down—if they were still alive—they joined in the racing circle again around the blazing tree like some sort of canine Mecca.
As the narrow sky above started turning a dark shade of purple, Stone could see even deeper into the bloody spectacle. In front of the blazing tree stood three dogs, side by side like kings, rulers, emperors of the fur. They were immense animals, each a worthy example of its breed. A doberman, a labrador—and one of Excaliber’s own—a pit bull, with a back that a table could be rested on. The three dogs, in sharp contrast to the rest of the maddened bloodthirsty animals, seemed completely possessed of their faculties and watched coldly as the procession circled around them. From time to time they turned to one another, and though Stone couldn’t hear anything above the deafening din of the snarling and screaming animals, he swore they were “discussing” the situation. That, more even than the horrors he saw evolving below, gave Stone chills that only a corpse should have to endure.
As his eyes roamed the blood party he saw behind a tree one final piece of the canine ritual that his eyes had missed thus far: a wading pond of blood. The smaller dogs that had been decimated, annihilated and ground up into burger had been thrown back here. And after dozens had been deposited the ground had become saturated with a pool of thick blood, nearly fifteen feet in diameter, bubbling away like a little volcano. As the concentric spinning circles of creatures came around the back of the tree they rushed to the red lake and lapped it up, drank in great gulps of the thick liquid. Many ran through the red stuff, played in it, rolled around and around so that when they emerged they were coated, painted in the color of life—and death. They were monstrous dripping mops of red fur as they rushed back out and rejoining their racing comrades.
Stone and the Indian turned and looked at one another with expressions of pure horror on their faces. Stone saw real fear on the brave’s face now. Even Indians have their breaking point. Cracking Elk put his lips to Stone’s ear. “There is also the opposite of the Hawk Dog, the Vulture Dog. Like those below. We must leave—now. This is an evil, evil place. If they find us they’ll—they’ll—.” The Indian didn’t have to convince Stone. He was ready to dive back in the fucking river to get away from this crew.
But they had barely pulled back a foot down the slope when they heard a loud barking coming from just feet away. Both men’s heads turned as one and in the now violet rays of the new morning they could see a dog six yards to the right, perched on the very edg
e of the precipice that looked down over the demonic scene of canine sacrifice and blood worship. It was Excaliber.
“Shit,” Stone groaned to himself. If the worst thing that could possibly happen were to happen, this was it. And even as they watched, the pit bull let loose with a howling challenge to the massess below. Its head rose up to the slowly lightening sky so it formed a perfect silhouette, as did the two men still perched on their elbows at the very edge.
And that was enough. For suddenly one of the three giant dogs in the center of the bloody scene saw the shapes on the rise above them. It rose up on its hind paws, a terrifying vision nearly seven feet high with the burning branches of the tree behind it, and let out with its own screaming howl of pure authority. The entire dance of death stopped in its tracks and every single dog was instantly silent, even those bleeding from gaping wounds in their sides. They all feared The Three even more than pain or death itself. And as Stone’s heart fell right down into his stomach, where it proceeded to boil itself in digestive fluids, the three leaders pointed with their heads up at the intruders and let out with a combined howl of challenge that echoed back and forth along the valley walls like thunder. And then every fucking dog that could still move came in one great mass of teeth, paws, and burning bloodthirsty eyes straight toward Martin Stone and his favorite animal.
CHAPTER
Fifteen
HAVING two hundred snarling, snapping, salivating dogs lunging up at you with a hatred that only crunching your bones in half will release was not exactly the way Martin Stone felt like starting the day. The only good thing was that as hard as they tried, as hard as they flung themselves against the mountain slope a hundred feet below the men and their errant dog, the dog pack just couldn’t get up the thing more than twenty or thirty feet at most before tumbling back to earth with painful yelps as they bounced along the rocks below them.
The dogs had come into the valley from the far side, nearly two miles around to get back to the river’s edge. But as the three leaders joined in a howl in unison they got the entire pack to stop its useless scramblings at the wall and led them at full speed off in the opposite direction. The migration, barking and howling away like a locomotive made of fur, exited through the woods.
“Damn dog!” Stone snarled over at the pit bull as the three of them shot down the hill they had just climbed. “Why couldn’t you have stayed back in camp chewing on your fucking bat or something?” But Stone could see, as he looked at the dog with its front legs straight and stiff as it slid on its ass right down the sandy hill, that the pit bull looked a little green around the gills too, realizing—after the fact—that perhaps it hadn’t done the cleverest thing back up there. Not that repentance was going to help matters.
They all hit the bottom of the slope at just about the same time, and with the dust still rising around them they took off down the shoreline, one Indian, one crutch-swinging cripple, and one overmacho dog shooting along the sand like gazelles in full flight. The image of those wild dogs with fangs glistening in the dawn light was all that any of them needed to fuel their strides.
It was rough going. Either they had to run along the rocks near the tree line, or by the river on the sand that was so soft that their feet kept sinking down two or three inches as if into snow. The three of them hopped back and forth from one to another as they got alternately exasperated with each mode of travel. As they ran the dawn fell fully from the sky with a sudden explosion of vibrant color. Off in the distance they could hear the barking and howling of the blood-maddened pack, and though it wasn’t yet close it sure as hell wasn’t moving off.
The pain was agonizing every time Stone put any weight on the broken leg. But finally figuring out the use of the crutch after a few days practice, he was able to get his leg and the branch in some sort of synchronization with one another so that he was galloping right along like a bionic racehorse, nearly keeping up with the Indian. The pit bull took up the rear, running just behind Stone, stopping every few minutes to check out just what the hell was happening behind them. Its ears pivoted as it sniffed suspiciously at the wind, checking out the surroundings for danger.
Thus it was the dog that caught the forward squad of attackers coming in at twelve o’clock. The pit bull had just slowed to make a danger check, turned to take a look over its shoulder, and nearly busted a gut. For shooting along like rocket cars rather than something made of muscle and blood were just under half a dozen greyhounds. They were thin, all bone and legs, but huge, and tearing like a pack of cheetahs. The animals were the fastest dogs yet bred, and they flew in with such speed that even Excaliber, which considered itself something of a quick draw, had only a chance to let off with a single warning bark to the men ahead before it turned to face the first comer.
Usually the pit bull’s tactics were to charge into the enemy, but it had barely gotten its front legs in gear when one of the suckers came flying right into it like a defensive back trying to take it out. The pit bull, seeing that it couldn’t charge, froze its body solid as a rock as it saw the mass of flying fur, the jaws open wide waiting for contact. Setting its front legs and aiming its head down, the dog made an almost immovable object as the lead greyhound soon found. It ran right into the solid wall of fur and snapped down hard with its jaws, only to find itself munching empty space. Then it was flying through the air right over the pit bull, soaring past with its scrawny long legs pumping the air like a swimmer who doesn’t know how to swim.
Stone and Cracking Elk heard the pit bull’s warning bark and stopped in their tracks, both men’s eyes opening wide as the band of greyhounds came flying along the beach, their long legs taking bounding leaps a good ten to twelve feet at a time. If the rest of the pack was right behind them, then Stone and his crew were all dead. But if it was just a forward scouting party—and the greyhounds were probably twice as fast as the rest—then they might have a chance. Might! For already two of the magnificent animals were wading into Excaliber, the rest tearing ass toward the two men. And the huge black-faced son of a bitch in the lead was coming straight at Stone, looking at his face like it was the King-Sized Super Greyhound Meat Treat, the canine’s favorite.
“Not tonight, you bastard,” Stone screamed, letting his own voice challenge the howls and barks of the attackers. He swung his branch around just as the greyhound leaped, its jaws opened like a bear trap. Only Stone’s stick hit the center of its face first. The whole nose and jaw of the animal just sort of disintegrated in a mucky mess of blood, fur, and teeth. Stone let the animal fly past him, slamming into the ground with a horrible wet thud, without even a second glance. The dead were the ants’ problem, the living were his.
Cracking Elk had run forward to help Stone, but found two of the overtoothed attackers doing their airborne thing toward him. But the Indian was tough, very tough—he had killed many animals and a few men in his life. He moved with an equal lightning speed, ducking under the lead dog as it came at him. He slammed the machete straight up so it ripped right into the stomach of the animal, slicing it from chest to crotch as the flying dog’s own motion did the cutting. Organs, intestines, all kinds of slurping and throbbing pieces of meat came flying out over Cracking Elk, covering his head and shoulders. When the dog came down on the ground ten feet past him, the jarring landing ripped out whatever the hell else was left inside—lungs, pancreas, heart. The dog slapped down into the dirt with a sickening wet splat like a pancake thrown from a skyscraper.
But the brave didn’t have time to admire his handiwork. The second greyhound was at him, its jaws coming right at the Indian’s neck. It was only by lifting his shoulder fast at the last instant that the Indian was able to take the blow in his upper arm rather than his throat. Not that that felt too great either. The teeth sank deep into the muscle and the bone, the greyhound setting there like a snapping turtle around a fish. Cracking Elk fell to the ground in a tumble of fur and blood. Suddenly his knife was knocked from his hand and he knew that the jig was close to up. He tried to
push the creature off but it was too strong, too wild. Suddenly it loosened its grip on his shoulder for an instant, turned, and came down right toward his face, the snapping jaws gushing with saliva and his own blood as they came toward him.
But at the very instant the brave was preparing to go to the Not-So-Happy Hunting Grounds he heard a loud thwack, felt a shuddering, and suddenly the dog was dead weight on top of him. As he slid it off, the brave saw Stone, the stick hefted in his hands, turning away again to meet the next crazed canine that was coming in like he was on a kamikaze mission. Whatever spell the three lead dogs had over these animals was unreal. They were willing to do anything, including giving up their lives, to carry out the orders of the pack’s top brass. Was this how it was going to be: mutant dogs with super intelligence? Stone prayed it wouldn’t be, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it all as yet another pair of thrashing jaws was heading for his nose.
Excaliber meanwhile had his teeth full. It wasn’t that on a one-on-one he couldn’t have taken on these dudes all fucking day, but the bastards didn’t want to fight fair. The first one came at him and he disposed of it quickly with two sharp bites to the throat artery, leaving it lying in a pool of its own hot blood. Then the next two came in together, one from each side, both of their jaws open to the max like anacondas preparing to swallow a whole cow. But the dog had plans of his own. He charged at the one on his left, then slipped down to the ground so he slid under it as the flying brick wall of fur came at him. It was the oldest trick in the book, but it worked every fucking time. Dogs weren’t prepared for strategy, for flanking, for slipping punches. But that was the only way Excaliber knew how to play the game—with no rules.
The two attackers met head on, their jaws closing on each other’s faces. And as the pit bull stood back with a most satisfied look, they bit away at one another for a good four or five seconds before the bloody animals realized what they were doing. By the time they swung their attention back to the pit bull, he was the hunter and they the hunted. He rushed around them in a circle trying to tie up their feet, make them dizzy. In a flash like a rattler striking, he lunged in and slammed his teeth around one of their front paws. With a single bite the bone cracked like a piece of balsa wood and the pit bull spat it out, jumping backward before the second dog could make a move.