“But the video,” started Mike.
The sheriff held up his hand and walked away from the researchers. He sent over a different deputy who directed them to pack their things and leave.
Back in the van, Mike was furious. “Next time we’re getting the press at the site before we do anything.”
CHAPTER NINE
Crooked Tree
HE WOKE SEVERAL TIMES after sunset, but didn’t leave his cave until the moon rose above the tree line. Between naps he imagined himself absorbing the power of his father and brother. Then, he extended his aspirations and tapped the strength of all his dead relatives.
Pulling with his intact arm, he crested the lip of the cave and paused to survey the bodies of his family. At first, he thought they had all been carried away by scavengers: he only saw jagged rocks. By the time his one good eye came completely into focus, he had already guessed his mistake. What he took for jagged rocks were the pale remains and split bones of his kin.
Crooked Tree bent his head to respect the dead. When his eye closed, his perception narrowed to a pinpoint, until he was able to sense only one thing: a deep hunger. His eye flew open and he realized that his disobedient body had already started to pull towards the corpses smashed apart on the rocks.
The first sticky-wet body he reached belonged to a child. Crooked Tree tried to not recognize the young flesh, but couldn’t help but picture this child’s last few moments as he was flung from the cliff by his loving mother.
He reached for the boy’s pulpy brain, but drew his hand away. He knew he must reject thinking and become an animal once again.
An animal uses its paw to run or to kill, he thought. Not to feed.
Crooked Tree slid himself over the boy’s sprawled corpse and buried his mouth into the split in the boy’s lifeless skull. He pulled chunks of brain and swallowed them along with several of his own teeth, half-fractured in his mouth. The hunger intensified and rang through his body, stronger than ever.
Pulling back from his feeding, he paused and regarded the dead boy’s placid face. Only the mouth showed any emotion. The corner twisted. Crooked Tree remembered another time when this boy, Red Feather, generally called Little Feather, had held his mouth that same way.
Crooked Tree had taken Little Feather and several of his friends down to the river to show them how to catch fish from the small pool beyond the falls. With his long, fast arms, Crooked Tree was considered an expert at grabbing the fat autumn fish from the cool stream. He began by instructing the boys how to coat their hands and forearms in sandy mud and letting them dry in the sun. When everyone had a thin layer of sand baked on his hand, ideal for gripping slippery fish, Crooked Tree amazed the youngsters by darting his hand into the water and pulling out a shiny fish. None of the boys could master the skill, but this boy, Little Feather, had tried until the red sun had set. Crooked Tree remembered this boy’s little face turned up to him, his giant cousin, with that same twisted-corner mouth.
The boy’s eyes, half open, were barely visible in the moonlight. Crooked Tree leaned in to get his face as close as possible to Little Feather’s features and turned his head so he could bite at the boy’s juicy eyes. He sucked the fluid from the sockets until he felt his own dead eye begin to itch. The world began to sparkle for Crooked Tree as his once-punctured eye flickered back into operation.
Before he had finished with the boy, Crooked Tree’s good eye and new eye wandered across the rocks to spot his next nourishment. He sniffed the wind and slid himself over Little Feather until he could reach the boy’s sister, Snow Rabbit. Her arm had twisted and split when she crashed to the ground. Crooked Tree sniffed at her wrist and then bit into her biceps, gnawing through the raw muscle.
Even with the blood, gore, and feces in the air, Crooked Tree could identify his cousin’s familiar scent. She always had a funny story to tell, she would offer entertainment to lighten the mood as the family went without food or warmth during a long winter.
One time she had told a story about the foolish squirrels: “One crisp fall the acorns were scarce, so the squirrels got together and convinced the bravest black squirrel to talk to the bees. The squirrel climbed the tall maple to the bees nest and asked ‘Pardon me, but is it going to be a cold winter?’ The bees swirled around the black squirrel and buzzed an answer ‘Yes, it will be cold.’
“The black squirrel returned to the others and told them the bad news. They redoubled their efforts, but after a few days became discouraged. They begged the black squirrel to confirm. Returning to the hive, he asked ‘Are you sure it’s going to be cold?’ The bees responded immediately—‘Yes, we’re sure it’s going to be cold.’
“Finally, when the first frost came, the squirrels were exhausted, but still desperately hunting nuts. They convinced the black squirrel to check one more time so they could know how hard to keep hoarding. ‘I’m sorry to bother you again,’ said the black squirrel, ‘but are you positive it will be a cold winter?’ he asked. ‘Are you joking?’ asked the bees. ‘Of course it’s going to be a cold winter. Have you seen how hard those squirrels are collecting nuts?’”
Crooked Tree smiled at the memory of the joke, and wiped the blood from his mouth with his good arm. His injured arm tingled as the bones straightened and the muscles reconnected to his healing tendons.
He pulled in the power and substance of his tribe, collecting their memories and skills from their brains and muscles. Each time he consumed the flesh of an individual, he was visited with a memory or thought of them and he said his final goodbye. At the far side of the rocks, near the edge of the trees, Crooked Tree found his muscular brother—Running Deer. He stood over Running Deer’s broken form, Crooked Tree’s own body nearly complete; healed through his cannibalism.
Crooked Tree knelt before his brother, examining his injuries. Running Deer had always been the swifter, stronger, and more brave, but Crooked Tree didn’t know how to take that power from him. Running Deer’s arms and legs bulged with firm muscle, but Crooked Tree had bolstered his own strength and eclipsed his brother’s abilities. Thinking of courage, Crooked Tree sniffed his brother’s chest to find his heart, but the organ had been destroyed on impact. A long, jagged branch jutted from Running Deer’s chest.
He stepped past his brother’s body, finding nothing to absorb and saw one final body. He found Talking Bird just beyond his brother, lying on his side. Crooked Tree rolled Talking Bird onto his back and jerked back. Talking Bird opened his eyes.
“You have become all of us,” breathed Talking Bird, his eyes widening.
“I can’t find my father,” said Crooked Tree.
“You won’t,” said Talking Bird. “You’re not meant to.”
“Maybe he’s alive,” said Crooked Tree. “I lived, and you’re alive.”
“No,” said Talking Bird. “Neither of us should be considered alive. You’re a roaming spirit, and I am long dead.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Crooked Tree. “When I found myself down here I thought I was a roaming spirit. But I have eaten and grown whole again. How can a spirit grow and eat?”
“That’s all spirits do,” said Talking Bird. “You’re not just any spirit, you’re the spirit that infected our family, and now that you’ve been released, you’ve chosen Crooked Tree’s form and memories.”
“Am I to infect another family now?” asked Crooked Tree. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”