Chapter Nine

 

 

THE SUN WAS low in the desert sky by the time they finished putting up the small tent they’d picked up at a Dick’s Sporting Goods in town. Inside it were the two cavalry sabers, the miniature flame thrower, and enough food and water to last them until morning. No sleeping bags, though—on this trip, falling asleep could well prove fatal.

“We best gather up all the dead branches and stuff we can find,” Quincey Morris said. “Come sundown, we want us a nice, big campfire.”

“I hear ya,” Dan Sturbridge said. “Hot as it is around here during the day, the temperature drops like a rock after dark.”

“True, but that’s not what I had in mind,” Morris said. “I want to make it easy for the ghouls to find us.”

Sturbridge gave a nervous laugh. “Now that’s something I never thought I’d ever hear somebody say. You figure the fucking things might have some difficulty? Hell, we’re camped no more than a quarter-mile from where they killed the last poor bastard.”

“Yeah, I know. But there’s not a lot written about ghouls in the literature, and some of what I found contradicts other stuff. Nobody knows for sure whether ghouls hunt by sight, or by smell, or what. Besides, a big fire gives us lots of light to fight by.”

“I thought that’s what your fancy flashlights were for.”

“Uh-uh. They illuminate only a small area, although very intensely. Besides, flashlights can be dropped, or knocked out of your hands. We don’t want to be fighting blind, because one of the other things nobody is sure about is whether the fucking ghouls can see in the dark.”

The worried look on Sturbridge’s face deepened. “So if the—what do you call it? The literature?—isn’t all that reliable, how come you’re so sure the swords and that flamethrower are gonna do the job?”

“Because I’ve seen for myself that they work. This ain’t my first rodeo, you know. I’ve fought ghouls before.”

“Yeah? How many times?”

“Once. That was enough.”

Sturbridge looked at Morris, then looked away. “Maybe we should’ve brought some more help,” he muttered.

“Like who?” Morris asked. “Can you see yourself asking any of your deputies to volunteer for a ghoul hunt? Once they figured out you weren’t kidding, they’d start drafting a letter to your boss, asking to have you committed.”

Sturbridge was silent for a few seconds. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Besides,” Morris told him, “with the right equipment, you and me can handle a couple of ghouls—maybe three at the most.”

“How can you be sure it’s only two or three?”

“Because of the bite marks on the body, Dan.” Morris spoke slowly, as if explaining things to a small child. “There were only two distinct sets of markings, with some others that weren’t clear enough to ID. That makes no more than three, right?”

“Yeah, okay, but what if there was some who didn’t get at the guy’s body? You see that with coyotes sometimes. If food’s limited, the alphas of the pack get to eat, while the rest are left sucking hind tit.”

“Nothing like that has ever been reported in the literature about ghouls. For one thing, they either work solo or in small groups—there’s no ‘pack’ for us to worry about.”

“But you said yourself the literature wasn’t always accurate. What if it’s wrong this time?”

Morris tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but didn’t entirely succeed. “Then I guess we’re just fucked, aren’t we?” He took in a big breath, let it out, and then said in a gentler tone, “Come on, podner, let’s get on that firewood.”

An hour later it was full dark, with about a million stars visible through the clear, dry air. Their campfire provided some welcome warmth in the rapidly cooling night. More important, it illuminated the area around it to a circumference of perhaps fifteen feet.

Morris and Sturbridge sat a few feet apart on a dead log that they’d dragged to the campsite. “I know you’ve practiced putting on the flamethrower and getting it ready for action,” Morris said. “If something happens, don’t try to rush—let your muscle memory tell you what to do. I’ll keep them at bay long enough for you to get set properly. After that... well, it’s barbequed ghoul for dinner, I reckon.”

“Why don’t I just strap it on now, and be ready?” Sturbridge asked.

“We don’t want to scare ’em off, remember? Long as we look harmless, they should come right at us. By the time they figure out what they’ve walked into, it’ll be too late for them to run.”

“Too late for us, too.”

“We’re not here to run, Dan. Exterminators don’t run from the bugs—they kill them.”

The two men sat there for almost an hour, feeding the fire as needed and sometimes making quiet conversation about the Texas Longhorns’ chances of a national championship this season.

Sturbridge was saying, “I think if they can beat Notre Dame in the fourth week, they’ve got a half-decent...”

Then Morris put a hand on the Sheriff’s knee, gripping hard. “Sshhh.”

A few seconds later they both heard something that was midway between a growl and hiss—a sound that seemed to come not from one source, but several all at once.

The two men sprang to their feet and turned at once toward the source of the strange noise. They had visitors, all right—and as the gray shapes moved slowly into the range of the campfire’s illumination, Quincey Morris realized just how wrong the literature on ghouls had been. They were looking not at two of the horrific creatures, or even three. Morris counted seven of the things, and at that moment realized that what he had mockingly said to Sturbridge earlier had actually come to pass. They were fucked, all right—big time.