Sheriff Bill Lauters had a little farm outside Wolf Creek. And as the storm picked up its intensity, the eldest of his three sons-Chauncey-was sent out into the cold. As the eldest, he was considered man of the house when his father was away, which was often. More often than not, Chauncey, with the assistance of his brothers, pretty much took care of the place. They milked the cows, fed the chickens and slaughtered them, slopped the hogs, tended the grounds-everything. When their father was around, which was seldom, he was often too drunk to do more than sit on the porch or collapse in bed.
Tonight, Chauncey braved the elements to drive the hogs into the barn where they'd be safe from the cold. His brothers were supposed to do it when they got loose and do it before sundown, but as usual they'd forgotten.
"Git!" Chauncey cried, kicking the sows towards the barn, snow hitting him in the face like granules of sand. "Get a move on, will ya? If you think I like being out in this cold, yer damn wrong!"
The barn door was open, swinging back and forth in the wind. Another thing his brothers had forgotten to do. No surprise there. Chauncey wrestled the hogs through the door, knowing they'd be paid in full for their treachery once slaughter-time rolled around.
"And I'll enjoy it this time," he promised them.
The last time he hadn't. It was hard to care for an animal for years and then kill it, particularly when the animal in question didn't die easy. But fought and screeched till the bitter end.
The hogs safely in their pen, Chauncey froze. There was a stink in the barn. A viscid, rotten odor of spoiled meat. It hung high and hot in the air despite the chill. Swallowing, Chauncey lit the lantern that hung on the wall and checked the horses on the other end. They were silent. They usually started snorting when someone came, thinking it was feeding time, hungry for attention.
"Old Joe?" he called. "Blue Boy?"
The first thing Chauncey's brain took notice of was that their stables were broken open, the wood shattered as if by an ax and cast about. The next thing it took notice of brought him to his knees and stopped his heart.
Oh, God, no…
The horses had been killed; more so, butchered. There was blood everywhere, the straw red with it. They'd been taken apart like dolls a child has grown tired of-bits of them scattered everywhere. They'd been gutted, decapitated, stripped to the bone. The head of Old Joe was impaled atop a corral post. Blue Boy had been skinned, his hide driven into the wall with spikes. The wet, still steaming intestines of both were strung like Christmas garland through the stable fencing and up into the rafters.
Chauncey went down on his knees, vomiting, his head spinning. This couldn't be, this just couldn't be. Nothing could do this…nothing. No beast was this savage, no man this deranged. When the dry heaves had subsided, Chauncey looked upon the atrocities once more, tears in eyes, bile on his chin.
Something wet struck him in the back of the head.
Chauncey turned. There was a clump of damp warmth in his hair. With a cry he pulled it free. A piece of bloody meat…no much worse: a tentacle of flesh connected to a single swollen eye. Blue Boy's. Chauncey threw it aside, his guts churning. Another object came whirling out of the darkness, flipping end over end. It came to rest against a stack of hay bales. The remains of Blue Boy's head…skull cracked like an egg, brains scooped out, tongue chewed free, eyes licked from their orbits.
Chauncey screamed.
Something else whistled from above: A femur stained red, shattered, a hunk of bloody meat and white ligament trailing from the knob of bone like a pennant. He ducked and it missed him.
Chauncey went red with anger, gray with fear. He glared up at the hayloft. "Who's up there?" he croaked. "Who the hell's up there? I've got a gun…"
A lie, but it gave him strength.
There was a low growling sound, then a wet ripping followed by chewing. Nothing more. A segment of vertebrae was dropped into the hay. It had been sucked clean.
Chauncey's brain was telling him to run; anything that could take apart two draft horses with such ease would make a nasty mess of him. But he couldn't run. He wanted to see this thing, look it in the eye and make it feel his raw hate.
There was a groan from up in the loft and a blur of motion.
No time to run now.
The beast landed about seven feet away. Chauncey stared at it, drinking in every hideous detail. Chauncey was nearly six feet tall, but this thing dwarfed him. Its flesh was scarred and raw. And that face, lewd and colorless and revolting.
The beast took a step forward. Its huge, misshapen head quivered with grotesque musculature, scant, threadbare tufts of fur bristled. Its jaw was thrust out, almost like a snout, its eyes red as spilled blood and slitted, covered with a shiny transparent membrane.
Chauncey turned to run and promptly slipped on the horses' entrails, stumbling forward and catching a coil of intestine across the neck that put him promptly on his back.
The beast had him by then, one huge hand locked in his hair, bending him back over the bony ridge of its knee. Chauncey opened his eyes and saw the mouth opening, the shaft of the black throat. Crooked teeth jutted from discolored gums which were pitted with wormholes. Chauncey smelled the charnel odor of its breath, saw the flickering lantern light gleam off those needled teeth and then they were in his throat, buried to the hilt. When they came away, he had no throat, just a bleeding flap of flesh. The pigs began to squeal.
Skullhead moaned low in his throat, the taste of hot human blood an ecstasy of no slight intoxication. It filled his being with a sense of roaring omnipotence that was almost too much for even him. The horses had been amusing, sweet tidbits to torture then kill, but they were gamy things, they lacked the satisfying richness of the boy. Skullhead ate him slowly, savoring every honeyed clot of marrow, every hot sip of blood, every sweet nibble of gray matter.
And then it occurred to him and he couldn't understand why it hadn't before: He was a god. A king. A lord. Nothing less. And the people, those that had called him and those that opposed him, were his servants, his cattle. He could picture it in the hazy, red confines of his brain. Picking out the tasty ones, killing the others for sport; slaughtering the old ones to relieve boredom, dining on the young ones. It was their destiny-to fill his belly. He'd eat women and boys, pull apart the men like fragile flowers, snack on the heads of infants like candies.
Yes, that was how it had been in the Dark Days and would be again.
Skullhead, caked with dried blood, Chauncey's spine lying across his swelling belly, thought about these things. He knew there was a reason he was brought forth from the boiling firmament of the grave. It wasn't merely to kill the white men, it was to kill everyone. Appetite was his destiny and it was enough. What more could he want?
A poet might have said: He ate to live and lived to eat.
It was so childishly simple. Skullhead closed his eyes, belched, and waited for necessity or mere boredom to force him into the house, the dining hall. There were others there…he could smell their parts-hot, secret, wanting. Skullhead dreamed as the wind blew cold and the lantern went out. He dreamed of a fine tanned smock knitted from the soft hides of children. Warm and toasty, covering his innumerable bare spots.
He waited for carnage. It was all he knew.