Read Online Deathlands 122: Forbidden Trespass by James Axler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Axler
Tags: Science-Fiction
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I’m a feeling mite peckish. What do you say we go to one of my campsites and chow down while we do it.”
“Won’t say no,” Ryan said, but he had a wary furrow to his brow as he said it.
He was wondering what was in it for the strange man they’d run into. And they all had learned a hundred times over, in the Deathlands, if you didn’t know what somebody had coming out of a given interaction, that usually meant it was coming straight out of your hide.
* * *
“F OLKS’RE SCARED, HEREABOUTS ,” Abe said. “They don’t rightly know of what—shadows dimly seen at dusk, strange cries in the dark. Rumors of people disappearin’out in the woods in the dark of the night. But I reckon I do know.”
“Suppose you tell us why you think we’re hunting these coamers of yours?” Ryan asked as he seated himself next to Krysty, where she hunkered down across from a small, nearly invisible dry brush fire from their peculiar host.
“I know hunters when I clap eyes on ’em, I reckon you’ll allow,” Abe said. “But you show no interest in the wildlife, other than to keep eyes skinned for ones as might be dangerous. You’re huntin’ man or mutie, or something close to one or the other.”
Abe’s camp was nestled in a bare-dirt hollow among sandstone boulders at the crest of a low rise, surrounded by brush and stunted trees. Krysty thought it a sweet spot, giving the option of surveilling the surrounding area from a height without spotlighting the fact you were there. It was already cool here, or cool for the Pennyrile, shaded at this spot from the low sun’s slanting rays. The smell of a brace of ruffed grouse roasting on sticks over the little fire was tantalizing.
“So what are these coamers, anyway?” Mildred asked. “Man or mutie?”
“Ghosts,” he said, and laughed at their expressions. “I don’t mean the spirits of chills. I mean they appear and disappear sudden-like, and seem to leave no traces at all, as if they had no more substance than smoke. But they got substance, right enough. They eat, they bleed, they die. And they chill , with their long white claws and those double-big jaws of theirs, more like a dog’s than a person’s.”
“Or a baboon’s,” Mildred suggested.
“That sounds consistent with the description, yes,”Doc agreed. Mildred seemed surprised; usually the two would argue over whether the sun was coming up or going down at high noon on a cloudless day. “I have heard the term ‘dog ape’ in connection with the beasts.”
The hermit shook his head. “Dunno nothin’ about those. But I seen ’em. Just glimpses, mind, over the years. But I seen the bones they’ve cracked in those jaws and the carcasses of beasts they chilled for meat.”
“They known to eat humans?” Ryan asked.
“Other than dead ones,” Mildred added.
Abe shrugged. “Mostly I hear tell of them digging up chills and eatin’ those. Prefer ’em fresh-buried. But they ain’t what you’d call picky.”
He sighed and dropped his gaze to the flames. His hand reached out to turn over first one, then the other plump game-bird carcass on their willow-wand spits. It looked to Krysty as if he did that by pure muscle memory, no conscious thought or intention involved.
“But like I say, there’s…stories,” Abe said. “Tales of folks out wanderin’ the woods at night by they lonesome, who never come back, and are never heard from anymore. The Pennyrile’s a big, wild place, with plenty of dense brush and caves and sinkholes. Lotta ways for a body to go missin’, if you catch my drift.”
“I don’t,” Mildred said. “Does anybody?”
“Ever hear of them attacking a camp or house?” Krysty asked.
“No. But they been getting’ pretty bold this season.”
“Why didn’t the people in Stenson’s Creek gaudy think to blame them first,” Ricky began, “instead of—”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, just emphatically enough to shut off the youth from blurting any more. “Never heard
“Won’t say no,” Ryan said, but he had a wary furrow to his brow as he said it.
He was wondering what was in it for the strange man they’d run into. And they all had learned a hundred times over, in the Deathlands, if you didn’t know what somebody had coming out of a given interaction, that usually meant it was coming straight out of your hide.
* * *
“F OLKS’RE SCARED, HEREABOUTS ,” Abe said. “They don’t rightly know of what—shadows dimly seen at dusk, strange cries in the dark. Rumors of people disappearin’out in the woods in the dark of the night. But I reckon I do know.”
“Suppose you tell us why you think we’re hunting these coamers of yours?” Ryan asked as he seated himself next to Krysty, where she hunkered down across from a small, nearly invisible dry brush fire from their peculiar host.
“I know hunters when I clap eyes on ’em, I reckon you’ll allow,” Abe said. “But you show no interest in the wildlife, other than to keep eyes skinned for ones as might be dangerous. You’re huntin’ man or mutie, or something close to one or the other.”
Abe’s camp was nestled in a bare-dirt hollow among sandstone boulders at the crest of a low rise, surrounded by brush and stunted trees. Krysty thought it a sweet spot, giving the option of surveilling the surrounding area from a height without spotlighting the fact you were there. It was already cool here, or cool for the Pennyrile, shaded at this spot from the low sun’s slanting rays. The smell of a brace of ruffed grouse roasting on sticks over the little fire was tantalizing.
“So what are these coamers, anyway?” Mildred asked. “Man or mutie?”
“Ghosts,” he said, and laughed at their expressions. “I don’t mean the spirits of chills. I mean they appear and disappear sudden-like, and seem to leave no traces at all, as if they had no more substance than smoke. But they got substance, right enough. They eat, they bleed, they die. And they chill , with their long white claws and those double-big jaws of theirs, more like a dog’s than a person’s.”
“Or a baboon’s,” Mildred suggested.
“That sounds consistent with the description, yes,”Doc agreed. Mildred seemed surprised; usually the two would argue over whether the sun was coming up or going down at high noon on a cloudless day. “I have heard the term ‘dog ape’ in connection with the beasts.”
The hermit shook his head. “Dunno nothin’ about those. But I seen ’em. Just glimpses, mind, over the years. But I seen the bones they’ve cracked in those jaws and the carcasses of beasts they chilled for meat.”
“They known to eat humans?” Ryan asked.
“Other than dead ones,” Mildred added.
Abe shrugged. “Mostly I hear tell of them digging up chills and eatin’ those. Prefer ’em fresh-buried. But they ain’t what you’d call picky.”
He sighed and dropped his gaze to the flames. His hand reached out to turn over first one, then the other plump game-bird carcass on their willow-wand spits. It looked to Krysty as if he did that by pure muscle memory, no conscious thought or intention involved.
“But like I say, there’s…stories,” Abe said. “Tales of folks out wanderin’ the woods at night by they lonesome, who never come back, and are never heard from anymore. The Pennyrile’s a big, wild place, with plenty of dense brush and caves and sinkholes. Lotta ways for a body to go missin’, if you catch my drift.”
“I don’t,” Mildred said. “Does anybody?”
“Ever hear of them attacking a camp or house?” Krysty asked.
“No. But they been getting’ pretty bold this season.”
“Why didn’t the people in Stenson’s Creek gaudy think to blame them first,” Ricky began, “instead of—”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, just emphatically enough to shut off the youth from blurting any more. “Never heard
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