Harlan County Horrors (13 page)

A
wet slithering echoed from behind him, dragging itself toward him.
The shadows coalesced into a malformed image. Indistinct, ruined
features. A head lolled to the side, its neck too thin to support
its weight. An aperture of some sort, not quite a proboscis, but
more like a sucker in the center of what passed for its face. The
affect of a snail, scraping along the wall of the dead, the hole in
its face opening and closing. The rest of its body swollen, a
shapeless mass pulled along by its awkward gait. In the bleak
light, it produced a slobbering noise as it slithered more than
crawled.

Instinct overtook Ernest; he piled the bodies of the dead
about him. An arm draped across him. His skin ached where their
cold flesh touched his. Their blood soaked into his clothes. He
interlocked his legs with his father’s and lay awkward and stiff, a
disjointed crook to his neck, within a chrysalis of corpses. His
eyes wide open, he waited for the creature to pass, though he knew
there were more where it came from.

“
Momma?”

The
creature let loose a sputtering mewl. He knew two smaller creatures
would one day crawl toward them and join in the chorus. Its lonely,
pathetic cries reminded of the stirrings in his own heart.
Unnamable. Unknowable. The call of home.

Ernest joined in its strange song.

Minnie rocked back and forth in her chair. Her fingers combed
through the soft curls of her little girl’s hair. One day she would
know the call of the caves, the secret of the hills. Her mind was
gripped by dreams not her own, lost in the swirl of grey fog. For
the longest time she stared across the hollow they called home.
With their cold and grey eyes.

“
Spirit Fire”

Robby Sparks

Originally from the beautiful hills of Southeastern Kentucky
where his father worked as a coal miner in Harlan County, Robby now
resides in the Sunshine State. An electrical engineer by day, he
moonlights as a writer and filmmaker by night. His short fiction
has appeared in
Apex Digest
and the
Harvest Hill
anthology,
available by Graveside Tales. His films, produced under Sour Orange
Productions, have been shown at various festivals, including a VIP
screening at the Melbourne Independent Filmmakers Festival. Robby
would like to express his thanks to Misty, his wife, for her aid in
his creative endeavors. You can contact Robby and catch
his occasional ramblings at robbysparks.blogspot.com.

P
J was
exhausted. Even as the mantrip rolled through the mine, jerking and
jostling along the iron tracks, its diesel engine clacking like the
barrels of a Gatlin gun, he could hardly keep himself awake. He had
just finished a ten-hour shift in a section that stood four feet at
its highest point. Drained, he lay back, squeezed between the
shoulders of two other men. In his lap, along with a lunch box and
battery pack, sat a strange and peculiar relic.

Another mile of darkness passed before the boxy railcar
shimmied out from the Kentucky mountainside. It squealed to a halt
in the middle of a wide clearing, surrounded by a plethora of oaks
and pines. Everywhere, heavy machinery lumbered about. Scooping
coal. Hauling coal. Dumping coal. Pushing coal. All to the backdrop
of the rolling green hills of Appalachia. Harlan County.

As
PJ rose out of the transport, his joints popped. His back ached
from having to hunch all day, while the cracking of his knees
sounded like the seal breaking on a new bottle of Jim Beam. He
wished he had some Jim right now. He usually poured a little into
his thermos before he left for work, but this morning he had
forgotten. His mind had been too clouded from all the drinking the
night before, and probably the night before that, too. He wasn’t
sure. His mind was always clouded these days.

Walking toward the parking area, PJ noticed five miners
approaching from the supply shed. Filthy and soiled, they looked as
if they’d been rolling with swine.

“Wha’chya got thar, PJ?” one of the men called out. It was
Randy Hoskins, or “Slick,” as some of the other guys called him.
The nickname was etched out with reflective tape across his hard
hat.
“Di’ja hyer me, ol’ timer? I said
wha’chya got.”

PJ
glanced down at the object dangling from his calloused hand–an old
lantern of sorts that he had found while digging. It resembled the
ones used in mining years before, but with unusual wire coils
wrapped around its stained red glass and foreign markings carved
upon its base.

“
None of yer damn business what I got,” PJ snapped.

Slick grinned, a wad of tobacco pooching his bottom lip out
like a tumor. “Cum’on. Y’gonna let yer ol’ buddy Slick see wha’chya
got, ain’chya?”

Before PJ could reply, the big-bellied man snatched the
lantern and started studying the item with a distasteful
scowl.

“
Looks like a stupid antique to me,” he huffed. “Kinda like
you, huh, PJ? A worthless, good fer nuthin’ antique.” And he
laughed. His buddies–Flea, Beanpole, Tennessee, and Hawk–all joined
in, their white teeth gleaming like pearls against their blackened
cheeks.

“
Give it back!” PJ fumed, reaching for the lantern.

Slick held the relic away. “Whoa, now. I’m still lookin’ at
it.”

PJ
persisted. “Give it back, I said!”

“
What fer? It ain’t no count.”

“
Cause it’s mine! Now give it!”

Slick puffed out his chest, inflating his body like a
blowfish. “Why don’chew make me? Cum’on. I know y’wont
to.”

There was no denying, PJ did want to, for Slick had been
tormenting him for years–from stealing his tools to sabotaging his
battery pack to carving obscenities into what good paint was left
on his truck. Once, Slick had replaced the contents of PJ’s
lunchbox with dog feces, though he never owned up to it. PJ knew he
had done it. No one else would have had the nerve. At this point,
PJ had just about all he could take from the arrogant, two-bit
slob, and the open invitation to give him a good ass-whipping was
one he was willing to take.

“
Don’t say y’didn’ ask fer it!” he said, clenching his fists.
But as he cocked his arm to swing, the muscles in his lower back
froze, seizing him with a horrible spasm. PJ grabbed his side.
Cramped in pain, he stumbled awkwardly and, without even throwing a
punch, fell face-first into the dirt.

Slick doubled over, wheezing from laughter. Meanwhile, PJ
coughed up the dust he had swallowed.

“
Wha’sa matter?” Slick jeered. “Y’got the black lung? Maybe
y’should retar.”

Flea squeaked in, “He cain’t retar, Slick. He’s gotta have
money to buy his liquor.”

“
And pay that alimony,” piped Tennessee. “I hyer it’s a
doozy.”

“
But di’ja hyer the latest?” said Hawk, hovering behind the
other men. “His ex-wife’s been datin’ that preacher over on Big
Creek.”

The
miners produced a succession of hoots, hollers, and whistles. One
shouted, “Amen!”

“
I
bet I know wer all that alimony’s goin’,” Beanpole said.

“
In the offering plate?”

“
Nuh-uh,” grinned Slick. “Probably towards a new wedding
dress.” His fat belly rolled as he laughed. “In fact, I bet her and
that preacher are smoochin’ right now.”

With puckered lips, the other men started making kissing
sounds
.

PJ
wobbled to his feet. “Yuns shut up! Just shut up! Yuns don’t know
nothin’! Y’hyer me! Nothin’!”

Unfazed, the miners kept taunting, even as PJ stewed on the
verge of tears. He’d loved Arlene. He still did. But his drinking
had caused complications, especially with her being a devout
Pentacostal.

“
It’s purty bad when ya woman trades y’in fer a preacher,”
Slick gibed. “Purty bad.”

Satisfied with getting PJ riled, the large man relinquished
his hold on the lantern, tossing it harshly onto the ground.
“Hyer’s yer stupid antique,” he said. But then, adding injury to
insult, he sloshed his jaws about and squirted a glob of tobacco
juice that dinged the lantern’s chimney.

“
Bullseye!” yelped one of the cronies.

As
the gang proudly sauntered away, PJ picked up the lamp and wiped
off the brown spit. Between adrenaline and nerves, his body
quivered. Slowly, he hobbled to the parking lot and pitched his
gear onto the bench seat of his battered truck. He then sat down on
the torn vinyl, glowering through bloodshot eyes as the other men
drove away.

“
Yuns’re gonna git it,” he growled, wringing the contours of
his faded steering wheel. “I swar, by all that’s in me, thar’ll be
a reckonin’!”

“Dispatch to
SO4
,” the radio crackled.

Boo
Jenkins took another bite of his burger.

“
See,” he mumbled to the officer sitting on the stool beside
him. “This happens every time I try to eat.”

The
deputy chuckled in agreement.

The radio squawked again. “
Repeat,
dispatch to SO4
.
You copy?
”

Boo
plopped the sandwich down and squeezed the transceiver clipped onto
the shoulder strap of his shirt. “SO4 to dispatch. Go
ahead.”

“SO4, are you
10-6?
” Was he busy?

Boo
looked down at his plate. “You could say that. I’m Signal 5,” which
meant he was eating. Everything over the police radio was one big
code.

“When you’re finished, can
you respond to a disturbance down on Couch’s Branch? Second house
from the mouth of the holler. Neighbors say thar’s a party going
on. Complaining about the noise
.”

Boo
rolled his eyes. He’d just been out there for the same thing the
week before. Ended up arresting two men for possession of
marijuana. Another for meth. Probably have to take somebody in this
time, too. “On my way in fifteen.”

“Copy
that,
” replied dispatch, and the radio
went silent.

Boo
fumbled again with his burger, repacking a pickle that had fallen
loose from the fold. “Anyway, like I was saying, I saw some strange
stuff during Desert Storm.”

“
Like what?” asked the deputy, chomping on his own
food.

“
Like this one night, our squad ran into a group of Iraqi
Republican Guard; this was right after they lit up all those oil
fields, too. Anyway, as we sneaked up on ‘em, we realized they were
all sitting around a fire from an uncapped oil well, doing some
sort of séance or something.”

“
That’s weird.”

“You ain’t heard the half of it. Just as we were closing in,
one of the guards steps into the fire. I mean, he walks right on in
and stands there, like it’s nothing!
Then
the rest of ‘em get up real slow, like they’re in a trance, and
start shooting at each other.
At each
othe
r!
Some even
shot themselves!
It was mass chaos, like
the whole bunch went off their rockers. But the strangest thing…the
strangest thing was their shadows.”

“
Wha’dya mean?”

“
Well, they didn’t look human, s’all I can say. They looked
evil. Like the guards were possessed or something. I’d never seen
anything like it. I thought it might’ve been a trick of the light
at first, y’know, with all the oil fields burning behind us, but
the other guys in the unit said they saw it, too. It freaked me
out. It freaked us all out.”

The
deputy had stopped eating, fascinated by the account. “So wha’chuns
do?”

“
We high-tailed it outta there, that’s what,” Boo answered.
“People, we can handle. Demons and Alibaba-type stuff…nothin’s
gonna help with that, no matter how big’a gun y’got.”

“
Who’s Alibaba?”

“
You know…the Forty Thieves?”

“
Phfft!” the deputy scoffed, squaring his shoulders and
squinting coyly. “Sounds to me like Alibaba lacked proper law
enforcement. Too bad he didn’t have you and me around to straighten
thangs out.”

Amused, Boo shook his head, stuffing the last bit of burger
into his mouth.

“
Yeah, too bad.” He swallowed. “He would’ve never kept us
fed.”

Swiping his hat off the counter, Boo strolled out of Pat’s
Diner and, a moment later, was cruising down US-421, past the flood
walls of Harlan.

PJ
drove fast around the winding mountain road, hanging curves
recklessly and skimming the guard rails. He was angry, embarrassed,
and nearly in convulsions from going all day without a
drink.

Screeching up to his two-tone, single-wide trailer, he cursed.
“Dammit! Not again!”

In
front of his home and all down the dirt road beside it was a line
of cars. Next door, people were gathered on the front porch,
drinking and laughing and smoking.

Sliding out of his truck, PJ stared down the carousers.
“Cain’chya give it a rest!” he yelled, his voice echoing off the
surrounding hillsides.

As
usual, the people on the porch ignored him.