Don't Go to Cary's Creek

Chapter 1

Cary’s Creek, TX
Wednesday
May 27, 1874

The human mind houses galaxies. Thoughts swirl, star-like, around the brain’s inescapable gravity.

Within this space, mankind’s knowledge of the physical universe begins: I think; therefore, I am.

Between the gaps where our knowledge doesn’t reach lie gods or cosmic horrors.

Maybe both.

Everything else can be conquered by swearing.

‘What in the fuck?’ William Walters rasped around his cigar.

Conductor on the International & Great Northern Railroad’s line from Houston to Palestine, he pulls into the depot at Cary’s Creek.

The town is gone.

‘What in the fuck!’ Walters yanked the cigar from his mouth. ‘Frederick! Hector!’

Frederick Henry, boilerman, and Hector Smith, brakeman, hurried into the conductor’s cabin. Sweat sparkled like silver threads on their black skin.

‘Look! Look, I tell you! The town is gone.’

Gone, he says, but obliterated is more like it. A crater marks where the main town stood. It ends just yards short of the railroad depot.

The crater is a mouth. Gaping jaws, broken teeth. Slabs of earth pile upon each other. Houses and structures mash together. The namesake creek dribbles into the crater like flowing drool. Fumes exhale from the fissures.

‘What in the fuck?’ Walters grabs his revolver from the cabin; the train crew steps out. Drifting dust stings eyes.

From far below comes slow deep grinding like earth shifting tectonic plates. Something that vibrates through their feet and knees, not ears.

No sound stirs auditory nerves. No bird, no breeze. No voice, no machine. It’s all dead space.

Walters exhales from his cigar, his mouth a smokestack. ‘There were two thousand people here yesterday. Half wanted on the train.’

‘Here’s one!’ A lone figure lies on the edge of the crater. His left leg is shattered. Foot gone.

His arms cradle a typewriter. A small cat, gray striped, green eyed, huddles upon his back, fur matted and dirty.

‘Hello, kitty!’ Walters lifted the cat. Her body trembled; her ears locked backward. ‘What scared you?’

Hector and Frederick pulled the dead man away from the edge. ‘Foot blown clean off,’ Walters muttered. ‘Seen injuries like this in the war. Did the Yanks come back and shell this town?’

‘He was typing something,’ said Frederick.

Walters spun the typewriter knob. ‘Three words. Beware the Sludge.’

‘Sludge?’

‘That’s what it says. Check his pockets.’

Hector pulled a card from the man’s chest pocket. ‘What’s that say?’

‘Telegraph and Texas Register. Houston. Brock Dailey, reporter. Reporter? What’s he doing out here?’ Walters crumpled the card. ‘What the fuck happened?’

The ground trembles. Through fissures a creature rises. Bird-like.

Traveling the railroad has acquainted them with Texas wildlife. This thing, however, is all wrong. Blurry. It stains the air as it flies, leaving a dirty streak.

‘That’s a devil’s bird,’ said Hector. ‘I’ve heard stories. Steals kids at night.’

‘You afraid of a little bird?’ The cat mewed and shrank. ‘Guess that makes two scaredy-cats.’ Walters set the cat down. She compacted herself at his ankles.

The bird looped lazily. At no distance or angle could they discern its full shape or form. Sometimes it flew on three wings, sometimes four.

The bird swooped low over them. Walters points his revolver. The gunshot is suppressed in the heavy air, more squeak than roar. The bullet appears to pass through the bird. The creature flies on. Unscratched. ‘What the hell?’

‘I’m getting back to the train,’ said Hector. ‘Ain’t get no coal here.’

Walters scratched his head. ‘But what happened to Cary’s Creek?’

‘Look!’ Hector’s voice shook like a train piston.

Up through the fissures dozens of flying creatures ascend. Sunlight withers around the growing swarm; they darken earth and sky.

‘Damn it!’ Walters throws his cigar and picks up the cat. ‘Get aboard.’

Hector and Frederick prime the firebox. Their shovels clash. The train inches forward.

The swarming birds align with the train. Pacing it. Targeting it.

As the train pulls away, bird-things hurl themselves at it. The carriage rocks. The cat screeches and hides under Walter’s seat. Windows pop. Hector and Frederick dive out of the boiler room.

It ends.

The train rattles northward. They look out broken windows.

The sky is clear. No flying creatures. Muddy stains splatter the train. There’s no other trace of the crazed birds. No feather, no bone, no tendon, no blood.

‘What the fuck!’ Walters peered at the cat. ‘You got any secrets you want to tell us, kitty?’

‘Don’t come back this way,’ said Hector hoarsely. ‘Something happened at Cary’s Creek. Something real bad.’

‘At least we got us a cat!’ Walters reached under his chair. The cat backed away.

‘What did that paper say again?’

‘Beware the Sludge. Y’all know what a Sludge is?’

‘Damned if I know,’ said Frederick.

‘Saints preserve us!’ Hector answered. ‘I ain’t want to know.’

Chapter 2

Thursday, May 14
Cary’s Creek

The rattling stagecoach snapped a passenger out of his nap. ‘You’re finally awake! Brock Dailey, right?’

‘That’s right.’ Brock dug through his sleep-thick memory. ‘Johnson, wasn’t it?’

‘Randall Johnson, Mayor of Cary’s Creek.’ Mayor Johnson smiled, his round face a full moon. ‘Let me tell you, I’m thrilled you’re bringing a newspaper to Cary’s Creek.’

‘Just writing reports for the Telegraph & Texas Register. City people can’t get enough of stories on frontier towns.’

‘We’re hardly a frontier town anymore. Pushing three thousand. Started with the coal mine; now we got a refinery, post office, barbershop, church, you name it.’

The mayor spoke with the politician’s unique confidence that he had nothing better to do than talk.

‘And get this! International & Great Northern is fixing to expand the depot. We’ll get the big trains rolling in. Day trips to Houston. Imagine that!’

‘Assuming there’s no engine trouble like today.’

‘Trains are getting more reliable. We might be the last people who take a stagecoach to Cary’s Creek. We’re going to boom. And you’ll be around for the railroad auction!’

‘Auction?’ Brock grabbed his pocket notebook and pencil.

‘Ol’ Cary Richards, she had a church built before the railroad ever came. The depot ended up next to it, but now the expansion means the church building gots to go.

‘That’s ain’t fair to the preacher and congregation, so me, being mayor, I made this plan. The church property goes up for auction! Church gets the proceeds to fund a new building. Whoever wins the auction gets to collect a regular stipend from the railroad.’

‘I expect Northern would rather buy it outright.’

‘I wouldn’t say we advertised the auction to them. Small towns must make the most of small leverage.’

The stagecoach, traveling north, veered sharply. The passengers slid sideways as the stagecoach came to a halt.

The coach driver hollered for them. ‘We’re coming,’ said the mayor, struggling to sit up, for once struggling to speak.

The trail runs parallel beside the creek flowing down from the low hills ahead north. Barely a trickle here, the creek still attracts clusters of river birch and laurel trees. Kneeling on the bank they cup gnarly root-hands to drink. The water must be toxic; disease stunts the trees. Their buds refuse to take.

East side of the road runs into overgrown passages where monarchs flutter like orange-feathered fairies through milkweed and waxy myrtle.

‘I don’t mean to hit him!’ The driver pulls Brock with him. ‘He come out of nowhere. I don’t mean to do it.’

Forty yards behind a small figure lies. The driver dashes toward it. Brock and the mayor follow. Born with a club foot, Brock doesn’t run, but he can manage a rapid hobbling gait.

‘Hey buddy! Buddy, can you hear me?’ The driver kneels beside the limp figure.

It’s a young boy, finely dressed. They roll him over. ‘Dead,’ the mayor pronounced.

‘Damn it. I swear he just appeared from nowhere. I can’t stop quick.’

Brock took out his notebook.

The dead boy was five or six years old. Wearing vest and bow tie. Mud stained and dust coated.

‘Skin’s cold. Dead at least a day or two, I reckon,’ the mayor concluded. ‘I was a medic in the war. Seen my share of the dead.’

‘Strange nothing’s touched him,’ said Brock.

‘Reckon a wolf or hawk finds him soon.’

‘Not just scavengers,’ said Brock. ‘There’s no flies or ants. Doesn’t even stink.’

The driver shook the boy by the shoulders. ‘Buddy! You there? Wake up.’

The mouth twitched.

Twitched from the shaking.

No answer.

‘We still two or three miles from Cary’s Creek,’ said the driver. ‘What’s he doing out here? You’re the mayor, right? You recognize him?’

‘I don’t. I been in Houston for my mother’s funeral, so if something happened in the last few days, I ain’t heard. Maybe his parents put out notice.’

‘I don’t see an injury.’ Brock pocketed his notebook. ‘No bullet, no stab, no bite.’

‘Dr. Bacon can look him over. Let’s get him into town. He can ride in the coach. I’ll sit up front.’

And so Brock Dailey got to share the stagecoach with a second citizen of Cary’s Creek, only this one was dead.

Quieter too, so it wasn’t all bad.

Chapter 3

Thursday, May 14
Cary’s Creek

The boy took Mayor Johnson’s place opposite Brock. Brock decided to call him Dusty.

The swaying coach rattled Dusty off the bench. Brock would have left him on the floor, except the fall jarred the eyelids open.

No matter how he rotated Dusty to face away from him, each time the next bump sent the eyes back his way.

He pulled Dusty up on his bench. ‘I’m a reporter,’ he said, to break the ice between them. ‘What happened to you? What can you tell me?’

The clothing around the waist stretched unevenly; pants were worn threadbare on his backside. Had he been dragged from home?

The clothes weren’t what a young boy would wear out to play. Collar, buttons, bowtie. Sunday best. Had he been on his way to church?

Brock reached for his notebook.

A whisper tickles his ears.

Help me~

The words split into recursive echoes. His right arm tangles with the boy’s. Who held who? Dusty’s mouth springs open, the tongue flaps with each carriage jolt.

Help me~

The boy pitched to the floor, nearly breaking Brock’s arm. The whisper vanished.

Stagecoach ground to a halt. Mayor Johnson clambered down. ‘You hear someone calling for help?’

‘No.’ Brock wasn’t a liar. As a reporter, he held it vital to his integrity to only report what he had verified. And he couldn’t verify this.

‘It’s our last mile to Cary’s Creek. Try to save his face from getting smashed, would you? Hope someone can identify him.’

‘Sure.’ Brock pulled Dusty back up on the bench. Eyes and mouth were closed again.

The last mile passed quietly, but Brock’s companion could not sit still.

The stagecoach rolls over the railroad tracks into town. Cary’s Creek lay in a broad flattened hollow. To the northwest on shaggy hills the creek originated; it came down with one swoop south and ran on for several miles. The town rose up either side of it.

Business on the north side: bank, post office, hotel, and saloon, all near the town square. Cross the bridge over the creek to the south side to find residential housing.

The main road on business side cut a broad stroke from west end to east end. At northeast end, near the tracks, was the church; right against it, the railroad depot station.

On the southeast side of the main road stood a square modern building. Two smoke stacks exhaled fumy halitosis. The town’s small coal refinery, working through its daily payload.

Several hundred yards beyond the north edge of town stood an elegant manor, its house large and indulgent, unlike the simple wood and brick structures in town. The late afternoon sun turned its windows into fiery pupils.

After the mayor’s earlier advertisements, Brock expected to see busy streets. Roadside commerce. Miners returning. Boys swimming in the creek.

The streets were empty.

Only one person occupied the town square. A gardener, tending a bed of cultivated bluebonnets and arguing with interloping bastard cabbage. The gardener would remove the weed, as he always did, and it would return, as it always did.

Growing things are inevitable.

Mayor Johnson greeted the gardener. He pulled more than helped Brock out and quickly closed the stagecoach door. ‘Brock, this is Gideon Green. Gideon, this is Brock. New to town. Reporter, actually!’

‘Pleasure,’ said Gideon.

‘Where is everybody?’ said the mayor.

‘I was just about to say something.’ Gideon tilted his hat back. ‘We had some strange incidents while you were away.’

‘Indians? Flood? No one’s out.’

‘Town’s hiding. Folk say there was an incident at the church on Sunday.’

‘Out with it, Gideon, out with it!’

‘Parson Larsen was shot.’

‘Shot! By the congregation or what?’

‘Nobody knows! Sheriff Lawrence still investigating. But that wasn’t all.’ Gideon turned his eyes away. ‘Kids went missing.’

‘Not your Jack?’

‘Jack is missing. Jillian too. Sheriff’s investigating. But he got nothing to say yet. So all I can tell you is some kids are missing.’

‘I went looking every day since Sunday,’ Gideon added. ‘Climbed the hills, checked the creek. Nothing. My wife said she seen…’

‘Seen what?’ Brock reached for his notebook.

‘A heavenly vision.’ Gideon corrected his hat. ‘That’s all I can say. Came to tidy up town square to get my mind off it all.’

‘I’ll head to the sheriff’s right now,’ said Mayor Johnson. The stagecoach driver finished unloading their luggage. ‘Reckon you both should come with me to the sheriff’s office for a quick statement.’

‘I’ll meet you there,’ said Brock. He carried his luggage to the hotel and checked in with the clerk. Room 18.

His boss had promised to have a typewriter delivered. Tomorrow he’d check the post office.

Chapter 4

Thursday, May 14
Sheriff’s Office

‘All I know is,’ the driver was saying when Brock entered the sheriff’s office, ‘he ain’t there at first, then suddenly, he was. That’s all I saw.’

‘Here’s Brock Dailey,’ said Mayor Johnson. ‘Brock, meet Abraham Lawrence. Sheriff.’

Sheriff Lawrence had a face as stern as a teacher’s chalkboard. A pepper-haired walrus mustache that could cover half of Texas, should it ever escape his face, flared at the edges when he spoke. ‘Pleased, Mr. Dailey.’

‘Call me Brock. Reporter with the Telegraph & Register.’

‘Can I go?’ the driver asked.

‘You’re free to go.’ Sheriff Lawrence studied Brock. ‘Reporter? Maybe you can help me.’

‘If it doesn’t interfere with my work. I’m here to write weekly reports on Cary’s Creek.’

‘Might give you more to write about. Have a seat.’

The sheriff’s station took two sides around a partitioning wall. This side - a flat desk with several rickety chairs, a bookshelf, and a window that eyed town square.

Sheriff Lawrence had covered one chair with a blanket. Dusty sat beneath, shoes sticking out. ‘Been a hell of a week.’

‘We spoke with Gideon Green just now,’ said the mayor. ‘Who shot Parson Larsen? What’s with the missing children?’

‘I got no answers yet. No doubt this boy was one of the missing. Dressed in his Sunday best. He was at church. They all were. He’s the first anyone’s recovered. The rest, gone without a trace.’

‘Someone taking children in my town?’ The mayor shook his head.

‘Has anyone received ransom notes?’ Brock reached for his notebook. ‘Could there be a big outlaw gang around?’

‘Church had a mess of tracks outside. Weren’t no horse or man that left them.’

‘Coyotes?’

‘Tracks were nothing I’ve seen before.’

‘Bears?’ said the mayor. ‘Snakes? Indians?’

‘Nothing I’ve seen before, I tell you! Nothing I’ve seen before. I’m not sure they were even tracks of this earth.’

‘What’s that mean?’ The town bell called out the time. Five chimes. 5:00 p.m.

‘Help me~’

Sheriff Lawrence snatched the blanket off the chair. Dusty sat beneath. Eyes closed, mouth shut. ‘Could’ve sworn he said something. Damn bell got my ears ringing.’

‘What did you mean about the tracks?’ Brock asked when they were settled again.

‘Near everyone who was at the church that day, folk who saw the kids get snatched - their memories are jumbled. Gideon Green’s wife, Jennifer, she been adamant that she knows what she saw. That she knows what happened to the kids. She say angels took them.’