Devil's Vortex

Mariah took the canteen and drank thirstily, her eyes squeezed shut. Krysty noticed that she didn’t spill a drop.

After a moment Mildred eased the canteen back from the girl’s lips. “Not too much at a time, or you’ll just throw it back up again. Breathe.”

For a moment Mariah clutched at the bottle like a nursing baby at the breast. Then she dropped her hand to her lap. Her eyes focused, first on Mildred, then Krysty again. Then they swept over Ryan, J.B., Ricky and Doc, looking in from the doorway.

Jak’s friends had put themselves in position to counter whatever threats may have lurked in the toolshed. He, of course, had moved on. His business now was to secure the rest of the small farm settlement and report back to the rest.

Mariah appeared to become more in control of herself. Some color was coming back to her cheeks. Krysty still reckoned she likely was as naturally pale as the redhead was herself.

“I’m Mariah,” she said again. “What do you want from me?”

“That’s a good question,” J.B. said, scratching his neck. Evidently deciding the scared child—she looked now to Krysty to be in her early teens—offered little immediate threat, he had tipped the barrel of his combat shotgun toward the slanted roof. “I can’t really think of a thing.”

“Information,” Ryan rasped. “What happened here? And who did it to whom?”

“What do you mean?” the girl asked.

“That’s Ryan,” Krysty said. “He’s the leader of this crew. Tact isn’t his strong suit.” She and Mildred hastily introduced the others. Mariah seemed to listen attentively, nodding shyly at each in turn.

“What our fearless leader was asking was two questions at once,” Mildred explained.

Krysty saw Ryan frown a bit at that, and she flashed him a grin.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened first?” Mildred asked.

Mariah moistened her lips, then she looked down at her hands, lying in her lap like crippled white birds.

“Stickies attacked us before dawn,” she said. “The, uh, Baylah family lived here. Actually, a few families did. They were all related to one another somehow, I reckon. I never did get it straight, and no one bothered explaining it to me. Paw and Maw Baylah owned the ’stead, though, and ran the show.

“Just all at once I woke up and there was screaming everywhere. Screams of people and animals in pain. And that awful screeching the muties make.”

“Ones with mouths anyway,” J.B. said, nodding.

“You were sleeping in your dress?” Mildred asked.

“I do a lot,” the girl explained. “In case somebody decides to rouse me out in the middle of the night to do chores.”

Krysty watched her closely. If those chores included the sort of sexual favors that were sometimes demanded as the price of boarding—even of children—she wasn’t giving the fact away in her face and manner any more than in her words.

If that sort of abuse had happened, the guilty had more than likely paid by now. For what that might be worth.

“You got away?” Ryan asked.

“I was sleeping in the pantry,” she said. “They didn’t find me. At first. But when I looked out the door to see what was happening, they spotted me. They were...feasting already and across the kitchen. I ran out the door and hid in the first place I hit.”

“This shed,” Krysty said.

She nodded. “I shut the door. They started hammering on it. Dust flew all off it—I could just see by dawn light seeping in through the little window. I hoped they would get tired and go away. But they knew I was there and didn’t give up. Then the door sprang open, and I curled up in a ball like the way that you found me, closed my eyes tight and started to scream.”

From the doorway, Ricky made a strangled sound.

“Relax, kid,” Mildred told him without looking around. “We know the stickies didn’t eat her.”

“Why not?” Ryan asked.

“Ryan,” Krysty said.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “What? It’s a fair question.”

Mariah just shook her head. She still didn’t look up.

“What happened to the stickies?” Ryan asked carefully, his lone blue eye on Krysty.

Mariah shook his head.

“I don’t know. The door burst open. The wind was howling. A big bunch of snow and dust blew in. And the stink—the stickie stink, and fresh blood. And worse—”

Worse likely meaning the reek of torn-open guts, Krysty knew. She was double glad the cold wind tended to carry off the charnel smell and deadened such scent as remained.

“But the stickies didn’t come in. I waited and waited to feel their...those awful sucker fingers on me. And those teeth. But it never happened. I still didn’t open my eyes because I didn’t want to see the world anymore.”

“Hard to blame you there,” Mildred said.

“Any idea what happened to the muties?” J.B. asked.

“Why?” Mariah sounded confused. “What did? I wondered if something scared them off.”

“Something chilled them,” Ryan said. “More than that—it was like they all got blown up or chopped to pieces.”

“Never seen anything like it,” J.B. added.

“And from this outlandish collection of humankind,” Doc remarked, “that is a remarkable statement indeed.”

Mariah continued to shake her head in what Krysty took for incomprehension.

“We found a man with an ax outside,” Mildred said. “We, uh, chilled him. We had to. He thought we were stickies and came rushing at us. We found stickie blood on his ax and stickie wounds on his body after we took him down.”

“That’d be Elias,” Mariah said. “He always did have a temper on him.”

“Enough to chill an entire pack of stickies?” Mildred asked. “Enough to wipe out the whole rest of the farm?”

Mariah just shook her head. “He was big and strong. And you know how men can get when the anger comes upon them.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said.

Jak called softly from the doorway, “All chills inside. Wind dying.” No one had heard him approach. His friend Ricky started at his sudden speech, banging his head on the top of the door frame.

Ryan had been hunkered down beside Mariah, his weapons sheathed or slung, hands on the thighs of his sun-faded jeans. Now he nodded decisively and stood.