Then he had Sherri by the arm.
He looked beyond her. Nobody was in pursuit.
“You all right?”
She answered with a whimper.
Holding her arm, he pulled her through the trampled mesh.
“Shut your eyes,” he said.
He looked back to make sure they were shut. Then he pulled her forward again. He told her to hold on to his belt. When he reached the first upright cross, he kicked it aside. The head flew off, but he didn’t watch. Another cross stood in his way. Cursing, he used his rifle butt to knock it away. He moved fast, smashing the barriers down.
“Neala, keep your eyes shut. We’re coming up behind you.”
He slammed the sticks out of his way. They crashed into others, heads flying.
When he was close to Neala, he uprooted three of the crosses and flung them to the sides. He stepped past her. “Grab on to Sherri. Keep your eyes shut and hang on.”
“Johnny, what…?”
“I’m getting us to that cabin.”
He shot his foot forward, kicking down a frail stick. It took down the one in front of it, and that one tore down another. As they fell, he plowed ahead and knocked down more. He swung his rifle.
The butt smashed through one cross after another. He swung high and it clubbed a head. He swept low. The pikes scattered. Then there were no more in front of him. The cabin door was yards away.
Robbins turned, and saw the path he’d battered through the barrier. The passage was bordered by half-fallen crosses that teetered at strange angles.
“It’s all right,” he said.
The women stood and looked back. Sherri covered her mouth. Neala quickly turned away.
Robbins walked to the cabin door. It had no knob. A leather thong hung out. He pulled it, and heard a squeak of wood inside as the latch lifted. He pushed the door. It swung open.
“Hello?” he called into the darkness.
No answer came.
He stepped through the doorway. The air smelled gamey. It felt warm and damp. He peered through the darkness. He could see nothing.
Reaching into his pants pocket, he found his book of matches. He flipped open the cover, tore a match loose, and struck it. The head flared. He squinted against the sudden brightness, and turned in a full circle. Satisfied no one was lurking in the small room, he shook out the match and returned to the door.
“It’s okay. Come on in.”
Neala and Sherri entered. Robbins pulled the door shut, cutting off the moonlight from outside. The wooden latch dropped into place.
“Well, here we are,” he said.
He struck another match. In its fluttering light, he quickly searched for a lamp. He found a candle in a holder protruding from a wall, and lit it. Each wall had a candle. He lit them all. Their tips guttered, filling the room with shadows.
“Must be a bed,” Sherri muttered, looking down at a nest of fur pelts. She sat on it, rubbed her hands cautiously over the top, then lay back and sighed.
Neala stood in the center of the room. She turned slowly. Her eyes moved up to Robbins’s face.
“I think we should get out of here,” she said.
“We need the rest,” Robbins said.
Sherri raised her head. “I’m not going out there again.”
“This place…” Neala said. “Whoever lives here, he must be the one who put up the heads.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” Sherri said.
“What if he comes back.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Lander, perched high in a tree, heard the chatter of voices. They weren’t far away. Near the stream, probably. The words made no sense, but some sounded excited, some angry. A woman’s voice made a comment that caused general laughter.
Someone spoke with a commanding voice. There was a short discussion. Then all the talking stopped.
He heard the leafy sounds of people moving through the woods. He heard them far to the left, far to the right. They had spread out.
They’re looking for me, he realized.
Shit oh shit.
He hugged the thick branch tightly, and squeezed it with his thighs as his bowels cramped with fear.
On the ground below his tree, three figures appeared. One woman, two men. Armed with spears and knives.
Lander began to tremble.
Calm down, he told himself.
I can take them, if I have to.
I’ve already killed… how many? Plenty.
And I’ll kill plenty more.
They think they’re hunting me. They’re wrong.
I’m the dangerous one. Danger knows full well that Caesar is more dangerous than he.
Fucking right.
We are two lions littered in one day, and I the elder and more terrible.
Fucking—A right!
But look what they did to Caesar.
Fuck it.
Let them just try to get me. Let them just try.
The three were moving on. They vanished into the trees. He heard their feet crushing twigs and dead leaves.
Quickly, he climbed down from his tree. He stood motionless, listening. He could barely hear them, now. Perhaps he should hunt them down, sneak up behind them, one at a time, and cut their throats.
Show them just how dangerous Caesar can be.
No no no, he would be at a disadvantage stalking them in the forest. Bad strategy.
So he turned away from them, and went to the stream. He waded in, swam, and climbed ashore.
The wet vest clung to him like a second skin. It is, it is, he thought, and laughed.
Get hold of yourself!
He grabbed his cock.
That’s not funny, he thought.
Nothing, goddamn it, is funny.
I’ve got to keep calm, keep cool, keep my head. Or surely I’ll lose it.
Soon, he found himself at the edge of the village. He worked his way to the left, staying among the trees, until he could see the place where he’d found Ruth.
Ruth.
Dead.
But that’s okay, I’m dead myself, am I not?
Mr. Kurtz, be dead.
Lander Dills, he dead.
Not quite yet, he’s not.
He angled away from the village, looking for the place where he’d left Ruth’s body, but not really expecting to find it there. After searching the area for a few minutes, he gave up.
He returned to the village. He crouched beside a hut. From there, he saw a dozen figures lying near the embers of campfires, and maybe twenty busy near the main fire. The twenty seemed subdued, as if they didn’t want to disturb the sleepers.
Standing, he slipped the knife and hatchet under his vest, and walked directly toward the group. His heart thundered and he had trouble breathing, but he continued to walk, slightly hunched and limping.
A woman glanced at him. Casually looked away.
He came to the rear of the group and peered into their midst. Several, kneeling, were busy with knives. Cutting arms and legs off bodies. The body of the man he’d killed by the stream. The woman who’d worn her knife in front The man he’d taken the hatchet from. The one who’d speared Ruth. And Ruth herself.
One arm already off.
As he watched, a woman finished severing Ruth’s other arm, and tossed it onto a stack of bloody limbs near the fire.
Two men were cutting her legs.
Lander staggered backward. He turned, head spinning, afraid he might throw up or faint. Breathing deeply, he walked through the middle of the village.
Two women and a man were asleep in front of the farthest hut. The man’s head rested on the flat belly of the younger one. A fat, older woman slept on her side, her breasts drooping sideways. Bones lay scattered about.