As evidence of how much I enjoyed this story, this is technically my fourth draft, compared to the paltry two that the others got. It was also the one I was willing to put in front of the whole class for critique.
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The priest heard the wood crackle as the city burned around him. He knew that fire was believed to be a deterrent to the monsters, but, while some monsters would shy away from fire, the Swarm Jackals would not be deterred. He also knew that people would quickly lose control of the fire as they fled or died.
Despite his insistence, this poor parishioner had insisted on getting the Anointing rather than having the doctor cut off the Parasite. God's will, the priest thought, that he should be in the chapel tending to one hysterical villager while the rest burned down their homes in a futile defense. He said the prayers, but he could not focus on God with the Parasite's many eyes staring at him. Distracted by its quizzical stare, when he came to the Laying on of Hands, the priest touched the disgusting creature instead of the parishioner. Its flesh was... muddy, a combination of the creature's moist skin and the dusty atmosphere in the Oklahoma Territory.
You never get the details right when you're remembering that night, a voice in his head pointed out when he touched the Parasite. The time is all jumbled. It wasn't simultaneous like that.
The Preacher sat up and stared at the Parasite, wrapped around his right hand. “Shut up and let...” He noticed that the Sun was coming up. He would not be getting back to sleep. “Forget it.”
The Parasite tended to be in the way of simple tasks like changing shirts or anything else requiring dextrous use of both hands, so the Preacher had worn the same dusty black shirt with its sweat-stained Roman collar ever since it had taken attached itself.
He washed his face in a little creek, then used it as a mirror to hack his graying beard as close to his face as he could. Afterward, he let his hand hang in the creek so the Parasite could recover some of its lost moisture without needing to leech it from him. That's enough for now, it announced after a couple minutes. By my estimation, we can make it to Parker's Passing today. You'd never let me live it down if we didn't make it because I was still soaking.
* * *
The sunset was just starting when the Preacher and his Parasite arrived in Parker's Passing. The town was named for the narrow pathway through the Rockies that ended right where their Main Street began. In better years, the town might have been described as simply growing out of the mountains. That was unlikely now. The buildings nearest the mountains were trampled, little more than frames sticking out of the ground. Broken fences in the surrounding plains cordoned off the overgrown pastures of abandoned ranches.
The few remaining citizens stopped their daily business to stare as the Preacher entered the small town. Some found things to whisper about, but most simply stared, mouths open but politely covered, at the Parasite. The Preacher took a few moments to get his bearings time which the Parasite used to become antsy about all the eyes on it. It flailed its tentacles and demanded, They're staring at me. Hurry up. You know I hate being stared at.
Every so often, the Preacher liked to let the Parasite squirm, a minor revenge for the creature impairing his use of his right hand. He took his time entering the Sheriff's office and getting the creature out of the public eye. Thanks for that. I'm probably the subject of gossip now.
“Only way to solve that problem is to give them something else to talk about,” the Preacher said after locating the sole monster among the human Wanted posters in the Sheriff's office.
“Give who something else to talk about?” asked the Sheriff.
The Preacher did not answer. He simply read the Wanted poster. The monster was ugly, like a shark on four short, hoofed legs. It had thick gray skin like it was made of rock. Beneath the drawing, the Behemoth was charged with crimes of wanton property destruction, abduction of livestock, and several counts of murder. A $200 reward was offered, but at the bottom of the poster came the warning “Bulletproof.”
The Preacher turned around and began questioning the Sheriff. “I need more information if I'm going to kill your monster.”
“Well I'd be happy to help, but unless you've got the Army, or at least a couple cannon with you, you're only writing your own tombstone. Dozen men more intimidating than you have tried, and their bullets just bounced off.”
“I assure you, I'll get rid of it, but your poster doesn't tell me what I need to know to hunt it. Where does it go when it leaves? Back into the mountains?”
“Yeah, back up the path. Don't know any more than that; no one's dumb enough to follow it.”
“How much does it eat when it's here? More or less than it ate back when it was stealing sheep and cattle?”
“You mean does it eat more people than it did sheep or cattle? How dare...”
“I mean, does it take bigger risks when it's here, or does it try to ration what's left of its food supply. I'm not trying to insult the dead.
“I've dealt with man-eaters before, and they've got patterns. If it tries to eat more at a time, it's probably got a long walk back to its den. If it rations, it's probably pretty close.”
The Sheriff was disgusted at how easily the Preacher could think of people as simply monster food. “Been doing this a while, padre?”
The Preacher nodded. “Every time I run into a monster problem from Oklahoma to here.”
“Well,” the Sheriff's eyes widened, and his lip quivered. Wherever civilization was sparse, people had problems with monsters. Putting even a small dent in the population of man-eating beasts would be an impressive feat. “I suppose, it's been more careful since people started running away. Hasn't crushed any houses lately, not when there could be folks inside. Sniffs around then nabs anyone not smart enough to be inside. Usually leaves after two or three if he can get any. You might be onto something 'bout it living close by.”
“Into the Pass, short walk for a giant beast,” the Preacher muttered. “How often?”
“Couple times a week. Been a couple days, it'll probably be here tomorrow. Day after at the latest.”
“It'll be dead before then.” The Preacher left before the Sheriff could make another pessimistic joke.
He stared into the Pass, trying to judge just how easily a giant monster could hide in those mountains. You're not actually planning to go into the mountains tonight, the Parasite demanded. Are you?
“It'll kill someone tomorrow. We have to go tonight.”
Odds of finding it in the mountains are slim enough in broad daylight. We're not going to find it in the dark.
“You may have a point,” he replied, “but if we camp further up the path and sleep lightly, we can be the first line of defense.”
We can also be trampled in our sleep without putting up any fight at all.
* * *
Ultimately, the Parasite lost the argument, and the two of them spent the night about a mile up the trail into the mountains. In the moonlight, they set up camp on a ridge several feet above the path. “Well, I think that addresses the trampling concerns.” He laid out his bedroll and quickly fell asleep.
Since the previous evening's nightmare, the city had begun to smolder, and the priest sat against a rock miles away. He sobbed into his left hand, but he was afraid to touch his right where the Parasite now resided. As every other night that he had this part of the dream, he entered the smoldering ruins. At first, he looked for survivors, but before long, he simply tried to bury the dead. No matter how many times he dreamed it, he never managed to overcome the horror of seeing what the Swarm Jackals had done to his congregation. Every body he buried was stripped to the bone, flesh and clothes consumed by the millions of locusts living in the mouths of the jackals.
He drove his spade into the dirt, and suddenly the ground below him began to shake violently.
The Preacher awoke and noticed the quaking was not simply in his dream. The monster was on its way. He made sure his revolver was loaded and scrambled to the edge of the ridge.
A cloud of dirt rolled out of the mountains. When it got close enough, the Preacher recognized the Behemoth from the drawing on the poster. It was bigger than he was expecting. It was hard to believe something so big could be satisfied only eating a couple people every two or three days.
So it'll be desperate. Wonderful.
“If it's starving, it'll probably make mistakes.”
You mean it'll be even more unpredictable while we're fighting it? The giant monster that could trample us without even realizing it had been in a fight? If we survive, you can explain how that's meant to be a reassurance.
When the monster got close enough, the Preacher leaped onto its back. He caught a handhold between the calluses and began climbing towards the head.
The Preacher was insignificant to the massive monster. It failed to notice him climbing its back. It only sensed something was amiss when the Parasite latched onto its forehead and invaded its mind.
The Behemoth thrashed about wildly to try and dislodge the Parasite, but its suction cups held. The Preacher was caught off guard and found himself flailing in the air, firmly attached by a now-dislocated right arm to the monstrosity.
He was prepared and held on tight when the second round of thrashing began. “Got anything?”
You can't rush this sort of thing.
The monster's next attempt to dislodge them involved scraping its head along the walls of the Pass. The Preacher clambered out of the way, grateful that it could not reach the spot where the Parasite anchored his right hand to its skull. During one dodge, he discovered that he could just barely get his gun in position, and he fired a shot right into its eye.
The Behemoth stopped its charge suddenly and howled in pain. The unexpected halt caused the Preacher to flip, still pivoting around the Parasite. He smashed, back-first into the monster's head, the wind knocked out of him.
While struggling to recover, he looked up and noticed that they were almost out of the mountains and about to enter the ruined outskirts of Parker's Passing. “Hurry,” he gasped to the Parasite.
Belly's weak, the Parasite announced, So's the neck.
“Let go!” The Parasite released and the Preacher leaped to the ground in front of the Behemoth. He turned to face it.
Behind him, the Preacher heard shutters clacking open. Hiding villagers wanted to watch, but did not want to leave the relative safety of their homes in case the Preacher lost.
The Behemoth stared at him with its good eye.
The Preacher stared back.
The Parasite constricted the Preacher's hand tighter.
The Behemoth snorted.
The Preacher tightened his grip on his revolver.
The Behemoth stamped its foot twice, each time sweeping it back, kicking clouds of dust and gravel behind it.
Then it put its head down and charged. The Preacher sidestepped the charge. He reached up, and the Parasite's suckers latched onto the Behemoth's jaw. He swung underneath and shoved his revolver into its throat. He fired, five deafening explosions followed by loud click. The Parasite dislodged; they fell to the ground as the monster staggered a couple more wounded steps and collapsed.
The Preacher stood up and walked over to the beast. He made a quick sign of the Cross over the dying Behemoth and left through the pass before anyone from the town emerged to heap any accolades on him.
