Tooth & Nail

14

As the reapers marched away into the hills, Brother Marty found himself unable to stop thinking about the big man Saint John had killed. The one who must have said something that had ignited fear in the saint’s eyes — a thing Marty did not think was possible.

Who was Iron Mike Sweeney?

There was something about the man.

Something very wrong.

Something weirdly wrong.

Although Marty had accepted the path of the darkness and the way of the knife, part of him was still an ordinary man. A pre — First Night man. He’d been raised in a Jewish household, but not a strict one, and over the years agnosticism had drawn him away from his faith and his traditions. He was, however, always a very superstitious man, though he ascribed that to working in Hollywood. The movie business seemed to swing between the poles of very good or very bad luck. The superstitions that became part of him were in no way tied to his previous faith — or any faith. Luck was luck, and the world was always a little weird to him. The angels he sometimes prayed to never appeared in anyone’s holy books. Then or now.

As the reaper army marched on, he sat on his quad and rumbled down the center of the road behind Saint John, who was flanked by his personal guard, the Red Brotherhood.

Marty tried to shake his weird feeling and simply could not.

Finally he peeled off from the procession and signaled for four of the Red Brothers, and with them in tow he made a U-turn and headed back down the road to the place where the trade wagon had been ambushed. They reached the spot in less than thirty minutes. Marty pulled to a stop in the woods where he had a good view of the scene of slaughter. Most of the dead had risen and wandered off. A few — those with traumatic head wounds — lay where they’d fallen. The wagon stood there. Saint John had ordered the quartermasters of his army to take the uninjured horses and to slaughter the rest. The massive Percheron lay sprawled and dead beneath a crowd of vultures. Up the slope loomed the place where Iron Mike Sweeney had been executed by Saint John.

The two trees that had held him stood as silent as mourners. Ragged ends of rope hung from each, flapping weakly in the breeze.

But the man was gone.

Brother Marty sat immobile for a long moment. Then he signaled to one of the Red Brothers.

“Come on, guys. I want to know who cut him down and what happened to his body.”

The four Red Brothers dismounted and followed Marty up the slope. They stayed off the path to prevent any useful footprints from being obscured by their own shoes. When they reached the two trees, one of them — Brother Zeke — crept forward, knees bent, body bowed low to read the tale of the ground. Brother Marty followed close behind.

Zeke suddenly stopped, and from his posture it was clear there was something puzzling about the scene. He squatted down and poked at the ground, then picked up the pieces of rope that had been used to tie Mike Sweeney to the tree. Frowning, he turned to Marty.

“What is it?”

“Something’s weird about this, boss,” said Zeke.

“Don’t talk to me about weird,” said Marty. “We don’t want weird. We don’t like weird. This Iron Mike fellow is dead, and either he’s dead dead and some maniac body-snatched him, or he’s walking around dead-ish looking for a hot meal. That’s ordinary, that’s what I want to hear. So, tell me what I want to hear.”

The reaper’s expression was difficult to read beneath the flaring red of the hand tattooed across his face, but even so the lift of his eyebrow and the tilt of his head conveyed plenty of meaning. He held out the ropes. They were torn apart, shredded. It was clear even to Marty that it hadn’t been done with a knife, either.

The rope ends looked gnawed.

Zeke squatted down and touched the dirt at the base of the trees, where deep marks were cut into the ground. Footprints.

But they were not made by human feet.

Each print was huge, bare of shoes, with wide-splayed toes. The tip of each toe print was gouged deep into the dirt as if by a savage claw. The reaper placed one palm over the clearest of the prints. It was bigger than his whole hand.

“That ain’t no dog,” muttered Zeke. He looked genuinely frightened. Sweat beaded on the red ink tattooed across his face. “And it’s too big to be a wolf. Or… at least not any kind of wolf I ever want to see. Except…”

“What?” asked Brother Marty.

“I don’t know. Something my granddad told me once. Some old legends from the deep woods in Canada where I grew up.” He half smiled, then shook his head. “No, that’s stupid stuff. That’s fairy-tale crap. Forget I said anything.”

“No, I want you to tell me,” insisted Brother Marty. “What exactly are you saying here?”

Zeke looked at him for a long five count, then down at the prints, then off into the woods. Finally he shook his head.

“I’m not saying anything, brother,” he said in a wooden voice.

“Where’s the body? Who took it? What’d they do with it?”

“It’s gone.”

“I can see that it’s gone, genius. I’m asking you to tell me what you’re suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, brother,” said Zeke. He paused, and in a more confidential tone said, “Look, Marty, all kidding aside here, you know me. I can track pretty much anything. My dad and granddad took me hunting soon as I could walk. They taught me how to track like a pro. I can read signs. I can do that like you read a book. But I got to tell you, man, I don’t want no part of this. No sir. Tell on me to the Honored One if you got to, but I’ve said all I’m going to say.” He got to his feet and pointed into the woods. “And I will not go looking for whatever made those tracks. Not for anything.”

Brother Marty glared at him, but Zeke shook his head. He dropped the pieces of chewed rope and backed away from the paw prints. Then he turned and stalked back to his quad, muttering, “This is too weird for me, man. This is way too weird for me.”

Then he stopped and came back to Marty. “I’m just a grunt, brother,” he said quietly, “and you’re on the Council of Sorrows, so my opinion doesn’t mean either jack or squat. But we’ve been friends ever since we got scooped up by the Night Church. I thought we could, you know, talk to each other.”

“Say what you want to say, Zeke,” said Marty irritably.

Zeke pointed to the place of execution. “I think we should bug the heck out of here and not tell anyone about this. Not Saint John, not the Council… not anyone.”

“Why?”

“Because this spooks me, man.” The big reaper actually shivered. “Whatever this is… it’s wrong. Wrong in ways I can’t put into words. It’s creeping me out. I say we bug out and write this off.”

Marty studied him. Before he knelt to kiss the knife, Brother Zeke had been an enforcer for a group of road pirates working the Dakota badlands. Before that he’d run with a biker gang. He was not an imaginative or fanciful person. He was also not stupid. If he was scared — and that was evident from the man’s tight face, nervous glances, and twitchy eyes — then Marty did not want to stick around to try to prove that this was all nonsense.

Not for one second longer.

“Okay. We’re out of here right now,” Marty told the reaper. They exchanged a look that was equal parts understanding and agreement and moved quickly down the slope to their quads.

They fired up the quads and roared away at full speed.

It was a very large, very strange world, and not all of that strangeness belonged to the plague. Marty wondered if they had just cruised the edge of something older and less defined even than the dead rising to eat the living.

They never once looked back.

Marty was afraid that something would be watching them go.