The Weight of What Returns

I didn't know I wanted Jim Ulrich dead till I shot him in the face.

It was a clean wound to the head—about a quarter-sized hole.

A short spray of crimson and he went down, kinda like a steer in the slaughterhouse.

It was a sudden twitch of my finger on the trigger.

Just one of those momentary itches you get after holding something too hard for too

long.

Then I just stared at him curled up on the dirt.

He didn't whimper none.

Just gone.

I kicked aside the cell phone in his hand. He was fixin’ to film me. I think the word is

dox or docs or some foolish thing.

Old days you just hashed things out and that was it. Maybe a few black eyes or a

bloody nose, but nothin’ serious.

Now everybody wants to erase each other from existence—cept they’re too much of

cowards to do the rubbing.

I rub.

I’ll have to do some digging now. Can’t have this coming back to me.

Not yet. Not until this business is done.

A horrible business at that.

One day, maybe if I live through this, when my teeth fall out and they’ve got me in one

of those old folks’ homes, I’ll let it slip over a bowl of strawberry Jell-O.

Till then I’ll wear my badge, chaps, and boots, and get on with it.

* * *

Game Warden Clay Rager wiped the sweat from his forehead as he looked over the

shallow grave, newly formed. It would have to do. The towering oaks that surrounded

the spot would soon shed their leaves in the fall breeze, blanketing it for a season—

hopefully.

He strode to his gelding and strapped the shovel to the side of the saddle.

“What do you think, Mr. Ed? Ready for chow?”

The horse nickered, and Clay rubbed his chin.

“Yeah, me too, boy. It’s getting dark anyway. I’m not much of a night hunter.”

Clay hoisted himself into the saddle and took up the reins, leading the horse out from

the thick grove onto a fern-filled hillside that led down to the tiny town of Warren

Creek.

He paused as he looked out over the twenty-odd homes in the valley below. The

Maverick Truck Stop had a few idling big rigs. The Baum Shelter Diner’s A/C

condenser groaned under the summer heat. Other than that, it was silent.

No kids on bikes or folks sitting on porches.

Just the silence.

Fear has a way of driving people indoors.

Maybe that was a good thing.

* * *

Clay walked up to the diner doorway and came face to face with Sheriff Tom Cotton

just leaving. The sheriff eyed him warily.

“Hey, Clay. How’s work? Run any poachers off lately?”

"A few." Clay smiled. "Your boys patrolling out here today?"

“No, just me. Been following up on some missing persons reports around town. In

fact, I’d like to have you drop by the station in McCall when you get a chance. Get

your insights on some things. You might’ve crossed paths with some of ’em. If you’ve

got time—”

“Been a long day, Sheriff. But a fair number of ’em were the outdoor type. I can take

you to the trailhead tomorrow. About a half mile up the hill from here. Shouldn’t take

long.”

Cotton studied him for a long moment, weighing something behind his eyes.

“Fine. That’ll be fine.”

He walked off and Clay let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Inside, he claimed a stool and spotted Harry Driscoll at the counter. Harry hauled

freight up and down the Bitterroot Wilderness Highway and spent enough time in

Warren Creek to qualify as local. A Cherry Coke appeared in front of Clay. Harry

jabbed a fork toward the television.

"Goddamn it, catch the ball."

"Got money on this one?"

“Every time I put a little down on the Rooks, they bring in some rookie who can’t field

worth a shit. Never fails.”

“That so? When’s the last time you won a bet?”

“Hell if I know.” Harry sighed, stirring his hash browns. “Years, maybe.”

He looked up at Clay with a blank stare—the kind a deer gives in headlights. The kind

asking to be put down.

Clay’s hand drifted toward his service revolver.

“Wait,” Harry said, tapping his fingers on the bar, counting under his breath. “’95.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. The Rooks had a streak between ’89 and ’96. Championships

every year. Over 120 wins a season. Who could forget a record like that?”

Clay exhaled and nodded. “You said it.”

He brought his hand back to the bar and took a sip from his Coke.

“Speaking of records, this place used to be packed. Now it’s as dead as Lazarus. What

gives?”

Clay looked around the empty diner. Harry wasn’t wrong.

“People move on, I guess.”

“Ain’t that the truth. How’s that daughter of yours? Sandy?”

“Sally. She’s… away. College.”

“I knew she was a smart one. Must’ve gotten that from Lisa.” Harry laughed.

Clay nodded with a slight smile he didn’t feel.

A stranger walked up to the bar and signaled the waitress. Sandy blond hair partially

covered his face. His jean jacket was frayed at the shoulders, and he wore driving

gloves that looked out of place.

“One drink, please.”

“What would you like, hon?” the waitress asked.

“Oh uh…” He glanced at Clay’s Coke. “Soda. Like that.”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

She walked off.

The kid peeled off his gloves.

Clay immediately spotted the swollen veins beneath the skin.

Harry swiveled on his stool. “Time to drain the lizard.”

He headed for the bathroom, while the kid stared at the countertop.

Clay’s eyes stayed locked on the kid. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“I’m new.”

“Passing through?”

“Yeah.”

“What you drive?”

“A car.”

“What kind?” Clay asked turning in his seat to face him.

“I… I need to go.”

The kid stood abruptly and left.

The waitress returned.

“Where’d my new favorite customer go?”

“He had to run,” Clay said, sliding a hundred onto the counter. “You still serve Pabst?”

“Only beer we got on tap.”

“Harry drink it?”

“He loves it. Can’t get enough.”

“Good. This should keep him here a while.” He laid a hundred dollar bill down.

“Clay, that’s way too much.”

“Just keep him here. Call him a cab when he’s done.”

“You could give him a ride.”

“Can’t. Got business.”

Outside, Clay moved through the dark parking lot, listening—watching.

Keys scraped gravel behind the diner.

He moved fast.

The kid was at an old Chevy pickup, fumbling with the lock. He looked over his

shoulder.

“I… I have car. No… please.”

Clay pressed the pistol to the back of his head and fired.

The kid collapsed. A faint hiss escaped him. Then nothing.

* * *

Memory is a funny thing…

Most folks say they only remember good times. Happy moments. But it’s the bad that

sticks with you like a scar that never heals.

When I was a kid I had a retriever. Duke…

Big golden monster that’d lick my face 'til I had to towel off. That old boy used to

follow me everywhere, good days, bad days, didn’t matter. He loved me. Even when I

was mean to him.

He just plain loved me.

Then he got into some fox hole. Got bit. Got rabies.

Started howling at all hours. Foam hanging from his mouth.

Daddy told me it was time to man up cause we didn’t have money for a vet.

He handed me his shotgun and told me to take care of business. Said if I loved him, I'd

set him free.

Old bastard tied him to a tree and left me to do it alone.

I stood there a long time with that shotgun pointed at Duke's head.

Then I shot the rope.

I just couldn’t bring myself to take him out. Too many good memories. Too much love.

But I seen him after that. Every once in a while. Mostly at night. Wandering. Howling.

Losing patches of fur, red-eyed and wild.

One day I found him in a field. His ribs showing. Barely able to walk.

I didn’t do him no favors letting him go on like that.

Didn’t see him again after that.

But sometimes at night, I swear I still hear him.

Still whimpering beyond the tall grass.

I'd like to think I could pull the trigger now.

Truth is, I still don't know.

* * *

Sheriff Cotton followed Clay to the trailhead. It was a professional courtesy—one Clay

hoped would hold until he could get the sheriff to the den. There was no other way to

prove it.

“So I’m hearing Jim Ulrich, Tyler Bentley, Tina Hastledum, and Libby Schultz all went

missing around the same time—you think they came this way?”

“As best I can tell. They were hunters—hikers, folks who regularly moved up and down

the mountain.”

"You planning on sharing this information anytime soon? People talk. If you've got

evidence—"

Clay stopped and turned.

"Evidence is worth seeing in person, Sheriff. Took me weeks to track this down. Just

trust me. Cave's about a mile in."

“A cave? What are we talking about here, Clay? Weapons, bodies, what?”

“Just trust me, Tom. And keep your voice down. I think they sleep during the day, but

I’m not sure.”

The two walked in silence for a time until they came to a cavern opening set low into

the side of a granite hillside. Clay pulled his flashlight from his service belt and

motioned for the sheriff to follow.

Darkness swallowed them almost immediately.

The passage narrowed, twisted, then opened into a larger chamber. Their footsteps

echoed through the black.

"Can't see a damn thing," Cotton muttered.

“Steel yourself,” Clay said, flicking on his light and bringing his pistol up on the sheriff.

“Geez! Hey now!” Cotton immediately raised his hands. “What are you doing?”

“Get down!” Clay hissed.

Cotton dropped to the ground.

Clay fired a shot into the naked woman standing behind him.

Cotton spun around, grabbing his firearm from the holster. “What the hell!”

“Hush,” Clay whispered again as he drew closer to the body. “It woke up. Didn’t think

they could do that during the day.”

Cotton slowly stood and peered down. The body writhed and gasped at his feet. Black

fluid pooled around her head. She hissed—then went still.

“What the Sam Hill is going on here, Clay? What is that?”

"Not human."

The sheriff swallowed hard.

"That ain't blood."

"No. It’s not."

Clay swept the flashlight across the chamber.

Cotton's breath caught. “Dear God.”

Dozens of bodies lined the walls. Men, women, and children, all suspended in the

same black glistening substance.

“They’re sleeping,” Clay said. “And forming into something...new.”

The beam shifted, resting on a half-formed body—semi-translucent, suspended in an

opaque cocoon of slime.

“Shoot ’em—all of them.”

Clay shook his head. “Tried that once. Bullets don’t seem to do much till they’re fully

formed.”

“Formed from what, Warden?”

Clay shone the light down to a pile of emaciated corpses.

A low hiss rose—then every figure on the wall opened its eyes at once.

“We need to leave, Tom.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Cotton replied, backing toward the passageway, his hand shaking as he

held his gun up, ready to fire.

* * *

Clay sat next to Tom in a booth at the diner. Another game played on the TV, but save

for the waitress and the cook, no one else was present.

“We need to call the feds. There’s no other way to handle whatever the hell these

things are.”

Clay nodded. “Yeah. I’d like to pass it up the chain, but by the time they get here, you,

me, what’s left of this town—it’s toast.”

“If you think I’m going back there guns blazing, you’re a fool.”

“Not blazing, Tom. Just sharpshooting. One at a time. It’s worked well enough so far.”

Tom shook his head. “I knew it. You stupid sonofabitch. People said you weren’t right

in the head, but if you’d just told me—”

“You’d have five deputies busting down my door to take me away, Tom. And these skin

walkers left to feed and grow.”

Tom sighed. “Yeah, maybe. Hell of a thing to see in person. How’d you find out?”

Clay closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memory rise.

“First one I took was Lisa. Month ago. She came back from some retreat up the

mountain… came back wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“Her memory was off. Forgot names. Forgot routines. Forgot me.”

“And?”

“One night I found her standing over Sally while she slept.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t rightly know.”

“Then why’d you shoot her?”

“Because whatever was standing over my daughter wasn’t Lisa.”

Tom shook his head. “Was Sally okay?”

Clay looked at him. “Worst part, Tom… she didn’t see none of it. Just her daddy

standing over her momma with a gun in his hand. I tried talking her down, but she

wouldn’t listen. She screamed at me, cursed me, ran off. I guess I would’ve too.”

Tom sighed. “You’ll get her back, Clay. There’s time for that after. But what I saw—

that’s something plain evil. We’ve gotta focus on dealing with it first.”

“Well, as far as I can tell, they’re mousy. Don’t put up much of a fight. So maybe if we

camp out by the cave and waited—”

Suddenly the lights in the diner flickered, then went out.

“Hell. Sorry, folks. Probably the breaker again,” the waitress called, heading into the

kitchen.

Clay slowly stood and peered out the window. The sun had nearly set, and silhouettes

of ten naked figures stood in the deep shadows of the parking lot, staring at them.

“Still got a spare clip, Tom?” Clay asked.

“Got three.”

“Good. You’ll need ’em.”

Clay drew his pistol.

The waitress screamed from the kitchen, and Clay and Tom rushed to the doorway. A

naked man stood over the cook, his mouth vomiting black mucus across the cook’s

face, engulfing him.

Clay fired over and over until the skin walker collapsed onto its victim.

The waitress screamed again and bolted for the back door—only to be tackled by two

figures pulling her into the dark.

A window shattered in the dining room.

Clay and Tom spun and fired, both emptying round after round as the creatures

rushed them—nude, rabid, insane.

Then there was silence.

Sheriff Cotton quickly reloaded his Glock as Clay fed more bullets into his pistol. The

scurrying of feet and hissing echoed from all sides of the building.

Then the attack came again.

And again they fired, driving the creatures back.

Then once more the skin walkers came, and Clay shot them down until his pistol ran

hot in his hands.

Cotton slowly stood from his crouch and glanced out the shattered window. Bodies

twitched and hissed on the ground, but none of them rose again. He turned to Clay.

“I think we—”

A shape burst through the broken glass and hit Tom hard, driving him to the floor.

Teeth, half-formed, clamped into his shoulder.

Clay fired.

Click.

The chamber was empty.

He dropped the gun and lunged, ripping the creature off Cotton. Then he grabbed a

shard of glass and drove it into its throat.

The skin walker convulsed, hissed, and died.

Clay turned back to Cotton. The sheriff slowly stood, then nearly collapsed again as

blood poured from the wound.

“Let me get some pressure on that, Tom. Let me get a rag.”

Clay moved into the kitchen and returned within a minute with cloth pressed against

the wound.

As Tom held it to his shoulder, Clay picked up his service pistol and waited.

Watched.

And waited.

* * *

That night was the longest of my life. But by dawn I was sure those things were dead.

And so was Tom.

Tom said he could feel his mind fogging up—like something was chipping away at him

from the inside, making something horrible and...new.

I couldn’t say no. Couldn’t stop him when he put his gun to his mouth. Didn’t have no

answers for him. I said a prayer after though, hoping God would understand.

Walking out from that mess, I saw Warren Creek was as I’d feared—stone dead. Those

things had picked off every last soul. Only Mr. Ed seemed untouched, which was a

mercy.

Folks say new is better. Progressive. Maybe so—but if it has to destroy the past, erase

what came before, all the lessons learned, all those lives… I’m not so sure.

Sally’s all that matters now. All that makes sense. If I can find some piece of the past in

her—our family—then maybe it’ll be alright.

* * *

Clay woke up in his motel room bed, already dressed, and stowed the last of his

toiletries into his duffle bag. Word of the Warren Creek Massacre had just hit the

airwaves, but no suspects had been named—at least not yet. He had a day, maybe two,

before his face was plastered across every broadcast across the country.

He headed for his rental car when he saw her crossing the parking lot, eyes locked on

her phone like the world was still ordinary. He dropped his bag immediately and ran

to her, stopping just short of colliding with her.

“Sally, honey. It’s me. Now hold up. Don’t run. You have to listen to me. Please,” Clay

said, his voice broke on the edge of it. There was too much behind it. Too much blood

and silence.

“I loved your mother. You gotta believe that. And I swear, honey, if I could bring her

back I would. I’d change everything back to what it was but…”

Sally smiled at him with a dull, vacant look. “Sorry… have we met before?”

Clay’s hand drifted to his pistol and lifted it once more. Sally took a step back—like a

doe caught in headlights.

He stood there, finger on the trigger.

Holding back something too hard…

For just a little longer.