Where the Dead Talk (30 page)

The fires – the fires at the mill, the church. Even that didn’t stop them.

Among the marching corpses were a few that didn’t appear to have come from the fires – including one in a soiled British uniform, holding aloft a broken musket with a bloodied shirt tied to it, a hellish banner. Others had muskets, the bayonets catching the light from the lake on their wicked edges. At the head of the line, a pair of skeletal figures lurched, their eyes burning, the very air around them darkened with something not of this world; their skin shone like leather, their long black hair draped their shoulders. Anything near them – trees, plants, the very ground itself – appeared to shrivel and die. Even the dead behind them gave them distance. Pomeroy realized that they didn’t stand a chance, not even with their cannons – and once they were done for here, the ghastly army of the dead would sweep a merciless path through the surrounding countryside, growing ever larger and more deadly.

"This is bloody ridiculous," he said, "we’re all going to die."

He turned and ran harder than he’d ever run before, ignoring the searing pain in his leg. He splashed out into the water, keeping his pistol up. He rushed forward, legs slowed by the water and muck. A musket shot and then another whizzed by him, from the army at his back – the dead were shooting at him.

Where were the cannon shot?

"Carolyn," he yelled out. Even over the sound of the freezing wind, she heard him and turned to look. He came up behind her. As he did, he saw that the water was starting to crust over with a thin layer of ice in some places. The wind stung his face and eyes and seemed to suck the air from his lungs. He grabbed her.

"We have to run," he said, "now."

She shook her head and held on tightly to the man. The man was chanting something, or singing, his voice nearly lost on the wind. Silver eyes in a shadowed form suddenly leaped up in front of them. Pomeroy didn’t pause, but lifted the pistol he held and pulled hard on the trigger. The ball caught the thing right in the face – it spun around to the right and fell down into the water like a child who spins in a circle too long and falls down dizzy. Another sprung forward, nearly leaping clear of the water and hitting Carolyn from the side, sending them all crashing into the water. Pomeroy tossed his other pistol to Thomas, who caught it before it hit the water.

"Shoot anything that gets close," he yelled, then dove forward. His hands found purchase on a wet cloak, filthy with mud. He yanked as hard as he could, but the fabric tore. He kept working his hands forward, pumping his legs through the mud and water. The smell of the tomb filled his nose, but he didn’t stop; he just grabbed more fiercely. His head slipped beneath the water for a second, but he finally got his arms around the waist of the thrashing figure and pivoted on his heels, lifting it up clean out of the water. He yelled in fury.

He tossed it sideways, went down with it. Wiry, cold hands worked across his ribs, trying to spin him and hold him underneath the surface. In a panic, he thrashed as hard as he could, pulling himself away and getting back up to the air. He came up and took in a huge breath that was part air and part water. Coughs racked him as he tried to get a breath in. His throat pinched tight.

"Major, here..." Carolyn said.

She pulled him backwards by the collar of his cloak. He couldn’t do much more than cough and struggle to get his feet beneath him. His boots kept slipping on the slick stones and fine mud of the lake bottom. Finally, she pulled hard enough to right him. The water was up to their thighs. The wind screamed and the light from out in the lake flared a blinding white-yellow as the wind knocked down trees, snapping them clean back. He struggled in the shallow water before a group of clawing bodies. Behind them, the army of the dead took up positions at the shore.

"We should have run," he yelled, "we should absolutely have run."

In front of him, the Indian slipped down. Carolyn and the boy couldn’t hold him up. Pomeroy pushed forward and helped them pull him up from below the water, yanking hard on the man’s arm. The man couldn’t support himself. Pomeroy pointed back to the shore but Thomas shook his head.

"We’ll die here!" Pomeroy yelled. A crowd of bodies in the water was no more than twenty paces off, and the ones on the shore began firing muskets. Water kicked up from the nearby shots. Carolyn put a hand on his back.

"Just help Thomas," she yelled.

Something pushed through the gate.

Even in his near faint, Nashoonon felt it. Even with the voices of the dead surrounding him and drowning out all else, he felt it. It came through from a distant place. Nashoonon couldn’t stand, couldn’t speak – he couldn’t even tell if he was moving his mouth or not. He was about to sink into the dark water and be done with it. It would be a fitting end – sink and drown. He had bungled the ceremony and couldn’t continue. The talk of the dead suddenly died off, reduced to whispers and mindless chatter. The shadow was on the lake – not a small one, but a major one.

Do it now. Summon the bloodfire, share it with the boy. You are of the people, it is their power, your power.

Pannalancet. Nashoonon didn’t even know who was holding him. Didn’t know where the voices in his ears were coming from, or why the talk of the dead had died off. Only the arms squeezing his ribs kept him up.

O’otah. Tannewenta. Pannalancet. The people. They filled his mind.

"Wana’ten’tah ah tok’wa."

He heard the words, rising and falling below the howling of the wind. It was the boy who had suddenly reached out and grabbed tightly to his hand. The words – Thomas had read his lips, not deafened by the howling winds like everyone else.

"Wana’ten’tah ah tok’wa," Nashoonon said, along with the boy.

It came up his arm, the power. The bloodfire. They chanted the words together and the bloodfire grew. A weight grew behind him, like a mountain. A weight grew in front of him, like the moon. And he hung in the balance.

Wana’ten’tah ah tok’wa. Wana’ten’tah ah tok’wa. Wana’ten’tah ah tok’wa. The strength of the people. He opened his eyes and was surrounded by the swirling glow of the power, shining out on the water, shining down his arm, shining all around the boy. The boy who had brought these people who were holding him up, these men who had kept the dead at bay. The men with their guns and urgency – the power of their people. Nashoonon looked up, across the water lit by the energy of the gate. At the shadow that had crossed over. It was tall, and its shape was foul: appendages that stretched and coiled, skin like armor, long mouths, dozens of eyes that shone with colors never seen under this sun. It wasn’t entirely through yet. Long sub-limbs covered in pinchers that opened and closed dragged behind it, larger than the tallest oaks he’d ever seen. The bloodfire let him see into the veil of shadow that wrapped it – and it saw him.

Now. Nashoonon focused all of the energy that surrounded them.

"YOU WILL NOT STOP THIS!"

The voices boomed out across the water. Nashoonon spun his head and saw them, the Cursed Sachems. On the shore, half a dozen of them, an army of the dead behind them. Their skin was mummified, their eyes blazed a dazzling darkness, the slices of the necks gaped wide. Their hair twisted around their heads on the frigid winds, their blackened teeth shone from hollow mouths. They raised their hands, one in front stepping into the water, coming towards them. From the water, the bodies of the animals rose – a moose, coyote, a pair of bears, deer; their fur dripped thick ropes of water, their eyes shone silver, catching the glint of the light from the other side of the water. They began pushing through the water towards them. Trees began to break, huge branches flying toward the water. Bodies of the dead converged. The wild water all around them boomed with impacts from the branches, the bodies, stones the size of heads. Nashoonon ducked as a fist-sized stone tore through the air next to him.

"YOU WILL BE THE FIRST TO FEED THE SPIRITS," the voices said.

"Ash’ta o’tah an’ta’qua!" Nashoonon yelled.

The words came to him. The boy shouted them too. A wide wave of faint, red light spread out from them, shooting across the lake, through the air, into the darkness in the sky. It hit the edges of the shadow. Veins of bright red and orange filled the air. The eyes focused on them and alien mouths howled a shriek that shook the bottom of the lake and rose up over the hills and trees. The arms holding him almost let him go. The Cursed Sachems screamed. Energy exploded, meeting head-on. The sky filled with a blinding mix of jagged lines, blood and lightning, comet streaks above the lake. And it pushed back – pushed back stronger than he had imagined. Nashoonon was pulled taught, the boy too. It was going to crush them. It moved forward, its revolting form poisoning the wind and the water. The air around the lake crackled.

The Guns Thundered

The men were at the edge of the trees, dug in and firing. In the growing light from the lake, the scene around the cannons was terrible to behold as the dead fought to protect the big guns. They’d managed to turn the one gun off to the direction that the Major had gone, and a handful more were turning a second to the ridge. Jude ducked as a shot went over their heads. One of the dead had a musket and went about reloading it – his uniform shone a deep maroon in the glowering light, the uniform of a British soldier, torn and scuffed with dirt. Several more staggered or twitched on the ground, ghastly head wounds clear.

"They get that cannon turned, we’re through," Jude yelled. As he counted it, there were six or seven left, and more coming from the lake itself, still a ways off.

"We charge them?" Morrill said.

"Got to," Jude said.

As they fought, the dead yelled back and forth to one another, their harsh language filling the air. Jude aimed at the reloading soldier and got him right in the teeth, cracking his head back and dropping him. Even still, the soldier struggled to get up, trailing a flow of dark blood and teeth. Jude slid down and reloaded the gun.

"Volley, then bayonets," he yelled. They were down to just under twelve men. Two of their original survivors having been killed by stealthy corpses who’d slid along the ground and took them; another had taken a shot to the head, killed by a dead man. Jude waited until they were all ready, then he gave the signal. The guns sounded as one, covering the ridge with powder smoke. And with that, they went up and forward, leaping over logs and trampling down underbrush, yelling as they did. Like that, they swarmed the remaining dead at the cannons and fought them with blade and gunstock, always going for the mercury eyes.

"Cut the heads off, cut ‘em off even when they’re down," Jude yelled.

He hacked off the head of the British soldier, glad to see the light snuff from the yellowed eyes. Then, it was gore and grunting and slicing and pulping until they all stood breathing hard, leaning on their weapons over the headless torsos that covered the ground. The wind ripped leaves off of branches. Out over the lake, the light was unearthly bright. Jude staggered to the edge and searched. Bodies – dozens of them – slouched toward the shore. Some came toward them, others went off to where he spotted the Major and the others, standing in the water near the edge.

"Turn the cannons back," he yelled, motioning, "right to the center, right into that light."

"There’s more of them at the shore, firing on the Major," Morrill said.

"The Major’s gonna have to handle it himself until we get a round off. You feel it?"

Morrill nodded. He turned and helped the men with the guns. Jude did, too. After a scramble of turning, shouting, and loading, all four cannons were pointed out over the lake. Bodies were coming up the incline, swarming around the outcropping, their eyes trained on them, their faces in the dark shadow cast by the glare. The soldier lighting the fuse sticks had trouble – his hands shook fiercely.

"You’ll want to hurry with that," Jude said, trying to keep his voice calm.

The soldier didn’t even act as though he’d heard him, just kept his face grim and set about his work, shaking hands or no. In a moment, he had it lit, and used that to light the other three. They sprinted behind the guns, ready. Jude held his hand in front of his eyes, keeping out the blinding glare. He looked over at the artillery teams. In the shifting brilliance coming over the lake, he saw them all clearly. Their faces were blackened with powder, their eyes wide in terror.

"Say the word, Colonel," shouted the man nearest him.

"Light ‘em boys," Jude yelled, "let’s take a shot right into hell, see if we can’t do it."

He straightened up and bellowed at the top of his lungs.

"FIRE!"

The guns thundered in unison.

To Lose Everything

The cannons boomed again, the balls shrieked through the air. Right to where the thing was moving. Right to where the prism eyes glittered. Nashoonon squeezed his hand. Now – push hard now! They shouted the words in unison and pushed the power forward. The foul being coming through the opening was suddenly struck from an unexpected direction, the balls connecting with its heavy mass, sending it reeling in surprise.

Now. Thomas forced all of the strange energy forward.

All of it.

They both pushed, and more came through them. For a moment, there was a perfect balance. They had no more to give, but reached beyond. It was so bright up in the center of the column that he couldn’t even look directly at it. Shadows and bits of tumbling darkness shot out into the water. Thomas felt the strange power pour from him, up his arms and back and neck, into Nashoonon's arm. It was the air before a lighting storm, the powder in a musket, the fire in the hearth at home, the starlight falling in his own bedroom window. The horrid shape before them pushed back.

Thomas wrenched his gaze away – and his heart froze. Coming toward him through the water, not ten feet away, nearly lost in the shadows cast by the blinding light. A torn cloak, hair askew, a hand outstretched.

"Jonathon!" he yelled.