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CHAPTER 20

Miles stood at the edge of the settlement for hours, staring into the woods until his eyes went vacant and glassy. What he told nobody was that he was listening as the woods talked to him. Not a single person questioned the strange behavior. Miles had done the same thing nearly every day for seven years, ever since he had arrived here with Alyson.

Nearly everyone paid no mind to Miles because of the circumstances which had brought him here—the brutal death of his family and the four dozen members of their traveling party. Nonetheless it did not prevent most others in the settlement to consider Miles to be a bit strange. When called upon, Miles was a hard worker, often toiling in the vegetable fields for hours without a single complaint, but it was when they were in his company that many spoke in hushed voices that there was something about him that essentially gave them the creeps.

One man remarked to his wife that Miles had cried once for his slain parents, the day he arrived, but never did again afterwards.

In fact Miles had shunned closeness with anyone at the settlement, including Father Henri who made every attempt to be a surrogate father to the boy. Miles, however, chose to be distant, even refusing to learn the native language of his hosts. In this way he ensured that the only ones there who could communicate with him were Father Henri and his now nearly eight year-old sister Alyson.

And now that Miles had reached the age of seventeen, he had grown into a strapping young man and when he chose to go off into the woods for days by himself, nobody stopped him.

On these occasions, Father Henri would sit at night, sipping wine with a watchful eye to the woods for Miles’ return. Though he was unsure what the boy was doing, he was concerned. He had imagined on several occasions that Miles had been journeying back through the woods to the scene of the massacre. And though he himself had not ever gone, it was the day after Miles arrived that a small party of the men from the settlement made the trek to the spot Miles described in an attempt to find any other survivors.

What they had found were bodies torn to bits and a field full of four-legged and winged scavengers eager to fill their bellies with the flesh of the dead.

The clouds of blowflies that had accumulated and the decay of the corpses had made it difficult in some cases to tell man from woman. As they went from wagon to wagon the results were the same, appearing just as Miles had described.

They had even found the single victim who had died not by animal attack but by his own hand. Maggots crawled from the self-inflicted head wound and wriggled through the empty eye sockets in his skull.

Between them, the men could not decide if this one man had been lucky to take his own life or a coward for not trying to save the others.

Later they returned to the settlement and reported their findings to Father Henri. The priest asked the three men to never speak of what they had seen, certainly not to Miles. They all agreed it best be left to fade into memory.

But fade it did not, Father Henri feared. The strange boy he had partially raised was returning time and again to somehow commune with the spirits that the priest suspected haunted the boy to this day.

And even if he had known he had been even partially right, Father Henri still would not have been able to do anything to stop what was about to happen.

Once again, Miles stepped through the thicket and walked across the overgrown grass to the remains of his parents’ wagon. The seasons had ravaged it until all that remained was a rusted and rotted hulk sitting in the tall weeds.

There was no illusion in Miles’ mind. He looked out at the skeletal remains of the other wagons in the Majestyk’s party and did not see the vibrant faces that rode them when they were almost new. He saw the wrecks for what they were, splintered remnants of the past that would continue to fade with time until they were nothing but dust.

There was no nostalgia for this place, none whatsoever, for it was not the memories that brought Miles here, but the blood in the ground that had given it power. The bones of the dead had long since been dragged away, the flesh consumed but the blood of the innocent that had been spilled here in sacrifice acted like a magnet to Miles’ soul.

And over the years, as he grew older, that pull to this land grew stronger until it became the ever-consuming force of his life.

The face he wore around Father Henri and the others was a mask. They had proven very useful during a period of time when he had needed the food and shelter they could provide, but that time was soon coming to an end. He had chosen early on to not develop close relationships with those who he was certain would not live long enough to warrant the necessity.

And as dusk began to set, he stood in the field and could only imagine the thousands of lives before his family’s that had been taken here going back hundreds of years. People who had been held down onto the ground while their still beating hearts were carved out of their chests by high priests wielding razor sharp obsidian knives. Those who had been buried and burned alive, including children. The young were especially valued as sacrifices because they were thought to be pure and unspoiled and it was thought that the more they cried and wailed during their slow torturous death, the better the omen.

From his pocket he took his father’s kerchief, now slightly yellowed and wrinkled from age. What he had kept inside however, seemed as pristine as the day he’d obtained it. Gently, he picked up the single eye of his father, the one he had kept. He had given the second one to Alyson, who had shunned it for reasons Miles still did not understand.

He gazed into the eye, willing his mind to enter into the same visual pathways enchanted in the orb, to see that which his father had seen during the years preceding the journey to the new world—the same visions, Miles was convinced, contained the keys to unlock not only his destiny but that of every man, woman and child in the mortal world.

But hard as he tried, he could not bring forth the visions from the long-dead eye. The images his father had seen, that he knew his sister Alyson had seen as well, were eluding him now as they had his entire life. Frustrated, he wrapped his fingers around the eye and took a deep breath. Again he pulled every ounce of inner strength from within his body until his arms shook and his legs caved under him. Miles fell, the eye slipping from his hands onto the ground just inches away from where he lay, breathing heavily, his heart pounding with furious intensity inside his chest.

And it was there that he sobbed in the grass. The draw of this land was so great, like a giant magnet pulling upon every cell inside his body but the one thing that he felt lay behind destiny’s door continued to elude him. Inside his father’s eye was the portent of what was to come, the very thing he sacrificed his family and the families of those he brought with him on the Majestyk.

With the knife he had used all those years ago to remove those eyes from his dead father’s skull, the same knife that his father had used on him to slit the palm of his hand, Miles drew a pentagram in the dirt and placed himself inside. Again he focused his mind on the orb until the ache in his brain pounded so hard it forced him to his knees. There he stayed with his head hung low.

There had never been a moment in Miles; life quite like this, one where the feeling of utter failure washed over him with such totality.

“I’ve failed you,” he spoke out loud. Cupped in his hands, the eye rolled to its side so that only the veiny backside pointed toward Miles.

“Why do you cry?” the voice asked, startling Miles. He looked up. Silhouetted against the setting sun was the figure of what appeared to be a man coming toward him.

In the woods, Alyson carried a basket of freshly washed laundry as she walked the path back from the creek toward the settlement. Behind her rose the tuneful voice of Odile, the French girl who had found both her and Miles seven years ago in the woods. Over the years Alyson and Odile had become close friends. It was Odile who had taught Alyson her native language, though Miles did his best to make sure she learned her fair share of English, and it was Alyson whom Odile had grown to confide in and visa versa.

From Odile’s mouth came an old folk song, one about the plight of a washerwoman who ran off with a man who didn’t love her and Alyson began to laugh.

But no sooner did she start than her chuckle caught in her throat.

Miles is in danger! Go! Now! A voice in her head told her.

Before she could give it any thought she let the basket of clean wash fall to the ground and was running into the woods.

“Alyson!” Odile called after her, a little bit confused and very much concerned.

As the figure approached, Miles felt a sense of utter fear in the pit of his stomach unlike anything else he’d felt since that night his father dragged him away from the camp and into the woods.

The night of his trancendence, he often thought of it in his mind. He had never forgotten the feeling of being trapped inside the pentagram while his father chanted.

But now he again faced the unknown.

In the last seven years the voices, the ones that spoke to him from the woods, always seemed to guide him, to assure him that he would soon take his place in the changing of the world.

And as he remained frozen, on his knees, those very same voices seemed to all at once abandon him.

As did his breath for the air around him suddenly turned dry and hot, pushing toward him as if a furnace door had just been opened in his face. Each attempt Miles made to inhale seemed to burn his throat and nostrils, and it became quickly apparent that with each step the darkened figure took, the heated air Miles was breathing in was radiating from the dark figure’s body.

Miles tried to get up but his legs felt weak and useless. And suddenly, his hands began to shake as the dark figure stood over him, blocking out all the light from the sky.

“Do you kneel before me out of respect? Or do you kneel out of fear?” The figure spoke as it reached down for Miles.

Alyson ran as hard as she could until it felt as if her heart would explode. The path toward the field she had left behind as a baby seemed to open up for her guiding her way. Though she had only ventured back here once in the intervening years, it was as if something were pulling her to her brother’s side.

And as she broke through the woods into the clearing, she could see the overgrown patches of weeds that now mostly hid the skeletal remains of the rotting wooden wagons that had been left behind. But as her eyes darted back and forth, Miles was nowhere to be seen.

But she could sense him. He was here. She pushed through the weeds, feeling his presence stronger and stronger until she found him, lying bleeding and badly hurt on the ground.

“Miles!” she cried out as she went to him, pulling him to her chest to comfort him. “Who did this?”

It was hard for Miles to answer for at first he could not speak and when he finally could what came out of his mouth was a warning.

“He’s here,” Miles revealed. “The Wolf.”

Previous chapters of Badlands can be found here

CHAPTER 16

Hovering barely a foot above the ground the two yellow beads came swiftly toward Galen and for the second time that day, he reached for one of the Colts. The thin quality of the moonlight angling through the tops of the trees lining the road was playing tricks on Galen’s eyes, causing a strobing effect as the yellow beads vanished then reappeared, but this time closer still.

Galen cocked back the hammer on the gun. His heart raced thinking that the loud report of a single gunshot could bring God knows what else from the woods. His finger tensed on the trigger.

And as he squinted to see, the shape of the four-legged creature became clear to him in the shadow. He raised the pistol and aimed it dead between its eyes and steadied his hand. But something, a bit of instinct, told him to hold off a second until it came closer.

Because as the animal trotted into the light of the moon he could see it clearly and watched as it padded toward him without even glancing in his direction. He chuckled to himself it was nothing more than a vagabond mutt walking down the road, carrying a bone.

But as it passed, a chill ran down Galen’s spine because he could now see that what was in the dog’s mouth was not a bone, but instead a severed human hand.

Galen rubbed his eyes. Can’t be, he thought. The little voice in his head told him to turn around and avoid the camp ahead but it was so close, and to do so would be like signing Maria’s death warrant.

He pushed the horses forward to the end of road, which opened into an acre-wide clearing. Galen could see dozens of tents all facing a single cabin placed on the rise of a small hill. He headed in the direction of a campfire around which he could see several men standing. Quickly he gained their attention because as the wagon drew closer, the men broke from the fire and came toward him. One of them, the closest to him, raised a hand for Galen to stop.

“Who are you?” the man asked. His pock-marked face carefully examining the stranger before him.

Instead of answering his question, Galen went into a quickly worded explanation of Maria’s condition.

“Is there a doctor in camp?” Galen asked.

“Nena!” the man called out over his shoulder.

Moments later, Galen could see the front door of the cabin open. Briefly silhouetted in the light coming from inside was the figure of a woman. She shut the door and came down the hill toward the wagon. But even as she drew closer, Galen could not see her face. It was not until she approached that he realized she was wearing a hooded cloak.

“This fella says he has a dying woman in the back,” the man told her.

Not even glancing at Galen, the hooded Nena went to the back of the wagon and looked inside. She then turned back to the man who had summoned her and whispered something in his ear.

Suddenly, he drew his pistol and pointed it at Galen. The other men who had accompanied him from the fire did the same, raising their guns.

“Get out of the wagon, Mister.” His voice was deadly serious.

“What’s going on here?” Galen demanded, raising his hands.

But instead of an answer, the man with the pock-marked face grabbed Galen by his arm and yanked him out of the driver’s seat and onto the ground. “Don’t you move!” he yelled.

And as Galen looked up, he could see the outline of Nena’s face as she pulled the hood from her head.

She pointed to the back of the wagon and the unconscious Maria lying there. “This woman…” she shouted. “Is a witch!”

“What are you talking about?” screamed Galen as the men pulled open the rear gate of the wagon, but instead of an answer what he received was the butt of a rifle delivered to his skull with stunning force. Instantly his head filled with stars and he felt his arms grow rubbery and weak. As they gave out under him he fell face first into the ground.

Through the ringing now braying in his ears, Galen could hear the men as they dragged Maria out of the wagon. He tried to get up, to help her, but was too woozy to even move.

With all the strength he could muster he tried again to get to his feet but his body was unresponsive to the desires of his mind.

“Stop,” he shouted but it only came out of his mouth as a whisper. His head felt as if stuffed with cotton.

Two more men yanked him to his feet, holding him up under his arms. Weakly, Galen lifted his head to find himself staring right into the face of Nena, her dark, handsome eyes gazing directly into his dilating pupils. She reached out with a finger and ran a nail along his cheek down to his chin and cocked her head as she examined his face.

“Restrain him,” she said to the men holding Galen up.

“What about her?” the man with the pock-marked face shouted as he and another man held up the unconscious Maria.

“Burn her,” Nena said coldly. She turned to Galen who was fading into unconsciousness. “And make sure he sees everything.”

The splash of water in his face brought him around. His vision was hazy at first. The blow to his head still rung in his skull as he took a moment to resurface to consciousness.

Immediately, Galen was aware of the crippling pain in his neck and back and that he was locked in a bent over position. As the fog in his brain cleared even more he realized his hands were immobilized and as he tried to turn his head he could now sense the block of wood locking him in place by his neck and wrists.

“Quit fighting, yer not going anywhere,” the beady-eyed boy said as he threw another bucket of water into Galen’s face. As Galen struggled to see what kind of infernal contraption they had locked him into it occurred to him what they had done to him. He’d heard that the pilgrims had used the pillory to restrain and punish criminals and now could fully understand why. From here there was no chance of escape. Bent at the waist like that, it was difficult for Galen to breathe and when the boy threw another bucket in his face he coughed until it felt like his ribs would snap. As his lungs stopped seizing and he caught his breath, the bucket boy grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head up where he could see.

Ahead, no more than a hundred feet away, Maria had been tied to a stake atop a large mound of wood and dried bramble. At the nod of Nena’s head the man with the pock-marked face touched the tip of a flaming torch to the bramble causing it to ignite like kindling. Within mere seconds the fire spread to the whole pile.

“No!” Galen tried to call out but the compression of his lungs caused the words to only spill out of his mouth. And even as the smoke began to rise, to his horror, Galen could see that not only was she still alive but indeed fully conscious as well. She struggled against the ropes that bound her to the pyre, her mouth silently crying out for help or mercy to no avail.

“Witch!” bellowed Nena. “Dost thou ask for His forgiveness? We can spare you the agony of a slow death in the flame.” She nodded to a man a few feet away who raised his rifle and took aim at Maria’s head.

Galen tried to open his mouth to tell the bucket boy but when he did was instead greeted by another onslaught of dirty water.

The wood under Maria’s feet had ignited. Through the choking smoke Galen could see Maria’s head thrash around wildly as the fire consumed her legs.

“Witch, hear me,” Nena bellowed again. “I can release you but you must ask for His forgiveness.”

Again Galen tried to speak and forced his cracking voice out as loud as he could. “She cannot talk! She has no tongue!” But even so, the roar of the fire drowned out his plea, for no one heard it.

Maria’s mouth opened again as the flames now rose to her waist, licking at her chest and back. Her thick black hair began to curl and ball up on the ends from the heat.

And when no cries of forgiveness were heard, Nena motioned the man with the rifle to lower his gun. “Suit yourself,” she said.

From his location, Galen could see Nena’s face was placid as she watched the flames.

Maria’s head whipped back again as the fire rose to face level. Her mouth drew open as she struggled for breath inside the burning ring of superheated air. Tears streamed down Galen’s cheeks and he lowered his eyes as to not watch but the boy with the bucket grabbed his hair once more and yanked his head up, forcing him to see everything. Maria tried to turn her face away from the orange monster consuming her, roasting her flesh, and as she did her eyes met his, if only briefly, and Galen could see they were full of hate. The contempt she felt for him was more than apparent on her charred and blistering visage as it vanished moments later in the growing wall of smoke and flame.

And as Galen tried once more to avert his eyes, he saw them reveling in a small circle by the fire, their naked bodies swaying to a rhythm only audible in their minds. A circle of undressed men, their hands joined, chanted in low voices as they watched the ritual taking place inside the ring. There crouched Nena in the nude, up on all fours as if she were imitating the attack stance of an animal. Behind her stood a man holding her by the hips, thrusting into her as the other men watched and continued to chant.

By this time they were oblivious to the pyre, whose flames had entirely consumed their witch. Its greedy orange fingers reaching ten feet into the sky. The bucket boy refused to let Galen look away so he watched, and he wept.

The nearly primitive ritual went on for what seemed like hours as each naked man in the circle had his way with Nena, though not once did it ever seem as if she were submitting to them. It ended as the flames died, the fire leaving behind what was left of the slumped and roasted figure still lashed to the pole, its mouth still open in a never-ending cry of unspeakable pain. The boy finally let Galen’s head drop down as he picked up his bucket and walked away.

Hours later as a group of men cleared the pyre, and Maria’s charred bones along with it, Galen was surprised by a visitor. It was Nena, once again dressed in her red cloak, she reached down and raised Galen’s head by using just her fingertips to lift his chin.

Galen could not even bear to look at her.

“She had no tongue!” he screamed. “How could she have asked for mercy with no ability to speak?”

She ran a finger along his cheek and asked how he knew such a thing and Galen told an abbreviated version of how he’d come upon Maria in the woods, leaving out the part about his death and resurrection.

Before he could go on, Nena stopped him. “Why do you think they cut her tongue out?” she asked. “A witch cannot cast a spell if she cannot speak.”

“You’re crazy,” Galen told her, his voice full of contempt. Though now something in her words bothered him. “Where am I?” he demanded.

“You’re in the camp of the Magus. This is our settlement and you intruded. And I will decide what will be done with you.”

“Lady, I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. I mean, what state are we in? Arkansas? Tennessee?”

Nena looked at him, her dark eyes examining him closely.  Then suddenly she broke out into a braying laugh. “What makes you think, dear stranger, that you are still in the mortal world?”

Previous chapters of BADLANDS can be found here

CHAPTER 15

Galen lay on the ground staring up into the morning sky as he replayed the scene in his head. It hadn’t been a dream, this much was certain. Dreams were wispy and hollow memories whose details faded quickly like ripples in a pond. What he’d seen was a dormant memory, as fragment unearthed in the shifting sands of his mind as if dug up by an archaeologist. Over and over he was able to replay every moment of his incarceration, every sleepless night in that stuffy cell, every beating he’d been given at the hands of Kentuck and the fat sheriff. All of it leading up to his trip to the gallows and his short five-foot drop and slow, agonizing strangle. As it did each time, the memory of Sagebrush ended moments after he had seen the man with the charred wings and the dire warning had been delivered. Galen remembered the pain he felt, the unrelenting pressure of asphyxiation exploding behind his eyes each time that trapdoor fell open beneath his feet.

What it truly meant though was the fine folks of Sagebrush had indeed made good on their promise to execute him.

The day I woke up in the cell… he wondered as it hit him. It had to have not been the day of his hanging as he originally thought but a day or more later. Though he had no memory of it Galen reckoned they must have taken his dead body back to the jail while the entire town celebrated. Just waiting until there was someone sober enough to bury him. He did remember what he’d seen though as he walked alone through the town’s deserted streets—the mangled and bloodied bodies of every adult and child who had been freshly slaughtered.

Whoever had done this had come in a large pack, he thought.

Who or what?

The thought bothered him greatly because, in the recesses of his mind, this memory was somehow connected to… something he was not able to see. A mist still beyond his grasp.

There was one thing he was certain of though. His stopping to help Maria was a detour he’d consciously taken in order to purposely delay his progress.

However it was clear to Galen that there had to be more than just procrastination involved here. This woman had been put in his path for a reason, he reckoned. He’d been given the choice to intervene or walk away and he chose the former at his own peril. Whether it was a test or not, he now believed that ensuring this Mexican woman’s survival was key to his journey and the end result therein.

Is it selfish to offer up a selfless act for this reason? He wondered. Is it too late to buy my salvation?

Suddenly, with a loud crash Galen’s mind was torn away from this train of thought when the wooden gate on the wagon fell open. Maria had awoken in the back, disoriented and in tremendous pain. Her foot finding the door. After looking up, Galen ran toward the wagon and at first the woman he had begun calling Maria looked at him with an expression of relief but as she began to realize the approaching man was not her husband but another man dressed in the clothes of her husband, her expression turned to one of complete horror. It was at that moment her recollection of the recent past came crashing back with terrible brutality and she began trying to emit a hysterical scream from her butchered mouth. She remembered how the hillbillies had ambushed them. She remembered how they had dragged her husband from the wagon and how two of them held him down on the dirt by his shoulders while the third cut his throat with a large dirty knife.

Galen came to her and first she shoved him away, punching at him. He did not try to block her hysterical swinging blows but instead drew her closer until she finally fell sobbing into his arms.

It was when he put his cheek against her forehead that he could feel the intense fever that was burning her up.

Galen made the decision quickly. Once she had calmed down and expelled all of her strength and energy, she laid down and sobbed herself back into unconsciousness. He harnessed up the two horses with the intention of heading out and looking for a town of some kind. Hopefully one that had a doctor. He climbed into the driver’s seat and picked up the reins when the absence of the burro came to mind.

Blue, he thought. But the deaf and mostly blind creature was nowhere in sight. Galen reckoned the old thing most likely wandered off and passed away in its sleep. In a way it really was a relief, mostly because Galen realized he would have had to leave old Blue behind on account of how he’d been slowing them down. If Maria indeed had some kind of infection, every minute would count.

He took the reins and nervously pointed the cart eastward for they still had not picked up the trailhead and there had been no indication they were headed in the direction of one. In truth, Galen had no idea what state or territory they were in or how far away the next town would be.

As Galen pushed forward the woods began to thin and the ground began to rise until there was nothing above his head other than sun and air. The forest had opened up into a half-mile wide corridor lined with trees. And though the woods seemed to thicken on either side of him, what lay ahead appeared to be a clear path.

For the next two hours he pushed the horses up the hill noticing the rise was growing steeper and steeper until he found himself at the top of a fairly large gorge.

He dared bring the wagon only so close to the edge before dismounting. Below him another forest spread as far as the eye could see, the leafy green canopy headed all the way to the horizon. From his many travels Galen knew the country had been carpeted with these thick ancient woods everywhere.

But it was off to the north just a bit that Galen spotted it.

A thin plume of smoke miles off in the distance. He squinted and looked again. This time his eyes caught it, the grey wisps of at least two other smoky plumes. Telltale indications of some kind of settlement or town. Galen’s eyes darted back and forth, scanning the woods until he saw it—a thin break in the treeline headed directly toward where those fires were burning.

The trail, Galen thought.

But where was the way down into those woods several hundred feet below? It had to be here somewhere.

He kept looking from the rim of the gorge into the basin where the forest started anew. Nowhere in sight was there a way down. Galen scratched his head. Suddenly, from his right he heard a noise and fast as the single beat of his heart he had drawn one of Colts and turned, pointing the barrel of one of the heavy dragoons in the direction of the noise. The rustling of feet came again and Galen quietly drew the second gun, thumbing back both of the revolvers’ hammers at the same time. He took a breath and held it to keep his aim steady. The moment whoever it was coming toward him stepped out where he could be seen, Galen was going to let the twin Colts make short work of him. The rustling grew closer still and as Galen tensed his fingers on the triggers ready to fire, out from the brush stepped…

Blue? Galen asked, quite stunned to see the animal he’d thought dead.

The burro’s aged and scarred face along with the deeply bowed spine had given it away immediately. Blue stepped right up to Galen and licked his hand, the typical Blue indication that he wanted jerky.

“Sorry old pal, I don’t have any,” Galen spoke then noticed the spot from the underbrush where he’d seen Blue emerge from.

There was the trailhead.

Galen took another look at the burro. Given the pace in which Blue walked the old fleabag had to have left camp last night to get here.

“Blue!” Galen shouted right into the burro’s ear. And when the beast didn’t startle or even respond, Galen was certain it was indeed the same deaf creature he’d been dragging with him since leaving Sagebrush. He reached down and scratched the burro between the ears and shook his head in disbelief before tying Blue’s lead to the back of the wagon. Maria was still asleep and as Galen reached over to put a hand on her forehead, her fingers shot out and wrapped around his wrist like a steel trap. Instantly, her eyes opened wide, full of hate and anger. Her mouth, still encrusted with the dried blood and mucus on her chin, parted and from untold depths within her throat came a hiss.

A hiss that evaporated into a deep growling whisper. “We shall live in His house. We shall live in His name. We shall live in His house. We shall live…” the whisper from Maria’s throat faded away, as did her grip on his arm. Slowly, her eyes closed and her body relaxed, resuming the same heavy unconscious breathing as before.

Galen watched her chest rise up and down to make sure she was indeed alive. “…in His name.” Galen said to himself. “In His name.”

Galen spent most of the remaining daylight navigating the two-horse wagon down the serpentine path cut into the woods by the gorge, through brush that appeared dense from afar but then seemingly vanished as he got closer. After one sharp turn he spied what looked like trouble ahead—a thick deadfall obstructing the way down.

With the path so narrow there would be no way to turn the wagon around and Galen cursed himself for not walking the trail first to make sure he wasn’t going to get himself into trouble by taking the wagon down here.

There was a heavy sense of foreboding coming from the woods for though there was nothing he could hear, Galen was almost sure something lurked out there and whatever it was, was most likely watching him.

For the first time, Galen felt the horses become scattered in their focus. He was not the only one getting spooked by this dark and uneasy trail. With the reins, he pushed them ahead to get a closer look at the deadfall and again as he got near, what at first seemed to be an impassable juncture was indeed navigable, if just barely. Galen drove through the opening carefully as its edges brushed lightly against the side of the wagon. To Galen’s surprise the breach was exactly the same width as the wagon itself and he heard the branches rattle through the spokes of his wheels as he passed.

And yet, moments after he had gone through the opening in the deadfall, he turned to look back and again it appeared to be an unbreachable wall of forest debris.

Just a trick of the light, Galen thought to himself. That’s all.

As he reached the bottom of the basin the woods gave way to a clear-cut path that was obviously some kind of road.

Galen held his hand to the sky. The sun was exactly four fingers width above the horizon. He knew that meant he had, at best, another hour of daylight. He pushed onward knowing it would be tough on Blue, but Galen aimed to get to that settlement tonight. A clear moon would keep the road in view.

Though will the dark keep away that which you may find out here? He wondered.

As he had first seen from the rim of the gorge, the road was a straight shot and as he neared the settlement he could feel a bit of unease creep into his body. Galen suddenly realized the last time he’d been around a lot of people, he ended up dangling from a noose and they ended up brutally slaughtered.

If Maria hadn’t been in such dire need of medical attention, he would have turned the wagon back, even risking climbing up the gorge path. But the fact was she was dying and would most likely not live out the next few days unless he did something.

She was most likely to die anyway, he thought. But at the very least he had to try.

The closer he got, the more evidence was visible that there were indeed a number of people ahead. As the night slipped in all around him, he could see the dim firelight of their camps glowing, first as pinpricks in the distance.

As he got within a half mile, he could even hear their voices, laughs and rowdy shouts punctuating the otherwise silent night.

And then in the shadow he saw it and blinked to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. But again there it was, the two eyes glowing in the moonlight coming toward him.

Previous chapters of BADLANDS can be found here

CHAPTER 13

The jolting of the heavy vehicle over the roughening road notwithstanding, they had been riding in silence, Galen and Maria, for that’s what he had taken to calling her though he had no idea what her name really was.

Regardless, she had not been able to make any indication to the contrary. In fact, the very last noise she had made came moments after Galen had returned to her after sending those hillbillies to their deserved reward. She had been quite near death and in her delirium appeared a specter in bloody and torn clothing walking toward her. With the sun to his back, he indeed appeared to be ringed with a bright halo of light; an angel come to take her to heaven. Even in her state, she knew she was dying and had come to accept her fate with little of the fight that had kept her alive this long.

But instead of ascending with her up into the sky, the specter knelt down on the ground and forced her mouth open with one hand as he emptied the contents of a paper cartridge into it with the other. The black powder burned her mouth setting all of her nerve endings afire. Her body bucked uncontrollably as if afflicted with the most violent of seizures but Galen kept a hand sturdily clamped over her lips to prevent her from spitting out what he had put in there, at least not yet.

“This is gonna prevent infection,” he told her over and over, not even knowing if she could even understand him, or if his words were getting through her ears given the heavily traumatized state she had plunged into. His energy had been sapped but he fought to keep his grip on her mouth until he finally let her spit out the hastily concocted preventative. There was no further fight. Mercifully, within minutes she passed out completely from the pain.

Unsure if he had inadvertently pushed her over the threshold of death, Galen put his ear to her breast and listened for a heartbeat. As he brought his face up against her chest and found her shallow pulse, he noticed how warm she felt.

He waited for her to awaken though it didn’t come, finally lifting her up in his arms and carrying back to the wagon. Galen marveled at how light she felt, her body as slack as a rag doll. As he made it to the wagon he was grateful for the foresight to have dragged the hillbilly, what was left of him, into the woods along with the body of the Mexican man the hillbillies had slain, the man Galen had reckoned was Maria’s husband. The last thing Galen wanted was for her to wake up and see either of those things.

He laid the unconscious woman in the back of the wagon while he hitched up the remaining horse. At first the creature seemed afraid of him but Galen put his hand out and let the nag sniff it. To his surprise, he gained the horse’s trust immediately. Galen reckoned it was due to the fact that, given what it had seen, the animal wanted out of there as soon as possible. It wasn’t stupid.

With both horses harnessed and Blue tethered to the wagon’s back, Galen took the reins and, after checking the sun, headed east. The pace they kept was slow partly due to the old burro Galen refused to leave behind, but mostly because if the trailhead reappeared, he didn’t want to miss it. Even if his speed was barely faster than walking, Galen’s feet were quite happy for the respite no matter how short it may be.

During the first few hours he stopped several times to check on Maria to make sure she was still breathing and though she was, she remained comatose. For this, Galen was grateful because she was bound to be in a world of hurt once she did awaken.

As night began to fall, Galen found a clearing where he could safely build a fire and pulled over to make camp. In the back of the wagon he found a blanket to put over the still unconscious Maria. He also found clothing and food—and what had to have been the extent of Maria and her husband’s worldly possessions. Where they were headed when they were waylaid by the hillbillies was anybody’s guess, though Galen reckoned it was off to find a new life somewhere.

Among the clothes, Galen found a shirt, one that must have belonged to her husband. He agonized over the decision but chose to put it on given the shabby state of his now torn and blood-stained clothes. Briefly, he thought of Maria’s husband and how he had left his body behind when they set off. The hillbilly had still been alive though. Left paralyzed and mute, he had attempted to crawl into the woods to presumably die. Galen had found Harley pulling his useless legs behind him with just his arms, and placed Maria’s husband directly in the hillbilly’s path, giving the dying man full view of the Mexican man he and his brothers had murdered in cold blood.

Now, as he buttoned the dead man’s shirt, Galen considered the rest of his attire and found a pair of pants that fit him as well. Luckily, he had lost some weight since beginning his journey.

Galen fed the horses with handfuls of oats from a sack found in the back of the wagon but when he tried to give some to Blue the burro rejected the offering. Galen reckoned the old beast had grown used to a diet of jerky, a sorry development as such since he’d recently just run out. He tied the horses up for the night and left Blue to wander knowing the poor old thing wouldn’t stray too far. Galen was unsure if it wouldn’t just be for the best if he woke up to find Blue dead or missing considering the animal’s obviously deteriorating condition.

After making a small fire, Galen finally sat and immediately he could feel the exhaustion closing in. He’d been much more peaked today than usual and reckoned it had everything to do with his body still dealing with what he’d been through earlier. In truth, he wasn’t sure how many times he could go through that again.

But if his past were any indication, today wouldn’t be the last time.

When was the last time? He thought to himself.

What Galen was just beginning to understand was that each return from the darkness resulted in his memory becoming slightly altered from its previous living state. Some things would be forgotten, others revealed from the dark-clouded uncertainty of the past. Almost like a puzzle rearranged, though mostly still hidden.

As his eyelids grew heavier watching the fire he could feel himself falling into the twilight of sleep. Gladly, he accepted what he figured would be slumber’s warm embrace.

What he received, however, was anything but.

It was the metal clang that woke him up. A jarring noise one could never forget, for what it signified, or more precisely what it signified about one’s immediate situation, was that it was severely fucked. And that is why the moment Galen heard the unmistakable sound of his jail cell door closing he sat bolt upright as if a shot of electricity had run through his body.

For when he opened his eyes Galen found himself once again in the stuffy jail cell back in Sagebrush, Texas, disturbed from slumber in the middle of the night.

And standing before him, visible in the thin light of the moon shining through the barred window of his cell, was a tall man whose face remained in shadow save for his penetrating stare. A gaze that was both cold yet as clear as a star on a winter night.

“You the undertaker?” Galen said from his haze. “’Cuz some other man already come and measure me for-”

Galen stopped in mid-sentence. He was suddenly aware the man standing just a foot away was asking him a question, though he had not even spoken to Galen nor had he even uttered a sound.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just…” Galen said, his voice trailing off as the man interrupted. Though he didn’t speak Galen could hear the man’s heavily countrified voice in his head.

“I don’t underst-…Yes, I know what day tomorrow is. I’m ready to go to the gallows,” Galen answered. “I’m so very tired.”

The man gave no reaction. His unwavering gaze continued to fall upon Galen.

“Do I know you?” Galen finally asked, all of a sudden starting to feel a sense of dread welling up in his belly.

“I don’t understand what you’re asking,” Galen responded to the voice he was hearing in his head.

The question came to Galen once more.

“Of course I know who I am. But you still haven’t told me who you a-” he answered though cut off again.

“I don’t understand what you’re say-” Galen responded.

“I’m Galen Altos!” he finally shouted. And though he put his hands over his ears he could not block out the endlessly inquiring voice he was hearing in his mind.

“I don’t understand! I told you I am Galen Altos!”

“What do you mean before that? Before what?”

Galen shook his head. “I’ve always been Galen Altos!” he cried. “I don’t understand! Before what?”

With that the man’s mouth opened slightly, his thin lips breaking into a cruel grin.

If I could only place why this man seems so familiar, Galen thought to himself.

But somehow the real truth eluded Galen’s mind, which had become invaded by the man’s voice, the smooth timbre of which had begun to have somewhat of a hypnotic effect on Galen.

If you only knew who I was, you’d realize how very mistaken you are, he heard the voice whisper in his mind.

The man with the penetrating stare’s mouth opened and from the depths of his throat came a chuckle. One Galen could very much hear with his own ears.

Feeling the stab of anger in his heart, Galen lurched off the bed at his tormentor only to wrap his arms around nothing but air, for the man who had come to visit him in his cell had vanished like a wisp of smoke.

Galen opened his eyes to find the sun shining through the bars of his window. He sat up, puzzled for what he’d imagined had been another in a series of nightmares. From outside came the sound of a public gathering, a rare occurrence he knew, given his experience sitting in this cell for three weeks. And it wasn’t until he peered out through the bars that he realized the gathering was at the foot of the gallows.

No sooner had he turned away from the window when the front door of the Sheriff’s office opened. Entering behind the stone-faced Sheriff Overton was the grinning rail thin Deputy Kentuck holding a pair of old manacles.

“Time to go,” growled Overton.

As they led him out to the gallows, Galen kept his head low for he was too tired to stare back into the eyes of a group of townsfolk who’d come to watch him hang just for sport. The crowd parted and Galen was very aware of the murmurs along with the hissing coming from nearby. The family of the man he’d accidentally killed had obviously come to pay their last respects to the condemned.

Galen climbed the steps very slowly. Not out of fear but because Overton held him back by his cuffed hands to milk every last second of the spectacle. Once up on the platform, Overton made a big show of reading the sentence that had been imposed. Today on the twenty-third of June, the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty meting out this punishment of an eye for an eye was the way God had justified in the Bible. The Sheriff’s words were met with nodding heads and unspoken assent.

No blindfold was offered, nor was the opportunity for last words, instead the ten-strand hemp noose was placed around Galen’s neck. Galen looked up. His worst fears were confirmed. The rope was indeed short. There would definitely be no quick neck break for him. He was going to dangle and dance for the crowd’s delight. He promised himself to let loose and give them a good show.

Overton nodded to Kentuck who put his hand on the lever for the trapdoor under Galen’s feet. It was not until this moment that Galen finally looked at those folks staring so intently back at him. Men, women, children, some who he imagined had traveled to town for this very occasion, their faces hungry for the excitement they’d been promised.

And it was there among these people, that Galen saw him, the man who had come to visit like a wraith in the dead of night.

Suddenly Galen realized where he had seen that face. His chest tightened for the man standing before him, the man who spoke in the accent of a southern gentleman was the very same man who had appeared in Galen’s new nightmare of the burning church—the very same man who, in the midst of the flames and those dying around them, addressed him not as Galen but as someone named…

Brother Thomas.

With a whoosh the world passed before his eyes as he plummeted downward just until the rope pulled taut. Galen’s head jerked upwards and the weight of his body began cutting off his air. The muscles in his neck tensed and burned like fire. Galen squeezed his eyes shut but then he could hear the man’s voice again. Galen’s legs kicked uselessly under him as his body refused to give up without a fight. With every last bit of effort, he forced his lids to open though the pressure in his head made his eyes feel like they would explode. Again he saw the man, this time draped in a halo of light.

But visible only to Galen were the mangled and burned vestiges of what appeared to be wings coming from the man’s back.

And this time as the man spoke without uttering a sound, what Galen heard in his mind was a very distinct warning. “The Coyote is coming for us, Galen. Today I flee, but tomorrow you must find me before it’s too late.”