The Devoured and the Dead

By Kristopher Rufty

Three families traveling through the mountains of North Carolina to claim their share of the gold rush become stranded deep in the forest, overwhelmed by the unrelenting snow and frigid temperatures. It doesn't take long for the food supply to run out, for desperation and harmful intentions to set in. When one of their own dies, they commit a depraved act to survive, a depraved act that unleashes a curse that will not stop until every one of them is either devoured...or dead!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Death's Head Press
• Release date: Nov 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781639510092

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Death’s Head Press

an imprint of Stygian Sky Media

Houston, Texas

www.DeathsHeadPress.com

Copyright © 2021 Kristopher Rufty

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 9781639510092

First Edition

The story included in this publication is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Cover Art: Justin T. Coons

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Book Layout: Lori Michelle

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BOOK 12

For Tod Clark

1

They ate the baby.

Even all these years later, I am still haunted by the crunchy smacking sounds their mouths made as they gobbled the cooked flesh. And how the huffs that sputtered through their noses turned to fog in the cold air.

I probably shouldn’t begin the narrative there. What an awful way to start. That’s where my mind always goes first whenever I allow it to remember what happened. Sure, there is more story to tell leading up that moment, but it hardly seems important to the story that follows.

That’s where it really began for me.

Maybe some brief backstory would suffice? I’ve only recounted the story a few times before, all details intact. But those early sections are greying. Soon, they will be black. My mind does that now, it seems. Shuts down for periods of time, and when it comes back there are these blank spaces where a memory used to be.

But the smell of the baby’s meat roasting over the fire, blending with the frozen scent of the ice and snow-drenched forest around us, remains a vivid nightmare that I cannot seem to lose in those dark spaces my mind creates.

I remember the snow. I remember the blood. I remember the death.

I remember the feeding.

Perhaps that’s not where this recollection should begin for you. I’m not an author. I have read books and have enjoyed them while trying to learn the craft. Maybe there is no craft. Maybe there is only the story and how it’s told.

How should I tell this one?

Maybe you want to know who all was there before the story unfolds. That would most likely be crucial to your understanding the details of the rest. A story should introduce you to the people in it. This story should be no different. How else will you appreciate the calamity of those affected if you don’t first know who they are?

My name is William Billy Coburn, and it was the dead of winter in 1884. I was eleven years old when we were stranded deep in the dead heart of Mountain Rock, a scarcely populated and traveled precipitous area. There were four families: mine, the Coburns, which consisted of Mama (Claire) and Daddy (Abe), myself, and my sister, Lenora. She was sixteen and helped Mama run the house. At times, it felt as if I had two mothers always nagging me.

Two of the other families were the Shumakers and McCrays, and just like us, they’d sold off their farms to relocate to a place called Harvest Hill. It had been an antiquated mountain town until somebody struck gold. Daddy had learned about it in the paper. Lots of folks were planning to go out there that spring and stake their claim.

And our families wanted their fair share.

The Shumakers were the largest of the families, with three kids—the twins Jonathan and Janey were the same age as my sister. We all just sort of expected Jonathan and Lenora would marry at some point. Our families had been grooming them for it since birth, and Jonathan seemed just fine with a predestined life with my sister. Lenora, though she liked Jonathan, didn’t seem keen on settling down with anybody.

Lenora was more than a sister to me. Looking back on it, I see she had branded herself my guardian. Something different than Mama and Daddy. Someone I was even closer to than them. She knew I would need her, but I don’t think even she realized just how much I would need her over those long days when we were trying to stay alive.

 I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Jumping around. I get that way. I know I promised to tell it, and I will. But I need to tell it the accurate way. If I go too fast, I will leave out too much. But if I don’t hurry up and get to it, I will find myself unable to carry on.

Where was I?

I started to tell you about the Shumakers. I guess that’s a good place to continue. The twin sister, Janey, kept to the house, mostly doing chores and assisting Mrs. Shumaker with all her duties. Everything that boys liked about my sister was lost on poor Janey. She wasn’t ugly by any means, but where Lenora seemed to cast a brightness that outshined sunlight whenever she smiled, Janey’s face was plain and dull, with large teeth that caused her lips to bulge. Her body was flat all around, long arms and legs that had little meat on them. But Lenora was lean, tough, and beautiful. More than once I found myself ready to pound on a boy for the way he looked at my sister.

I doubted Janey’s brothers ever had to worry about that.

Though she and Jonathan were twins, they looked nothing alike. Seemed as if all the good genes were mugged by Jonathan in their mama’s womb. He came out an unflawed creation. And Janey came out a tedious imitation, devoid of even a nuance of personality. To be honest, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she honked like an ass instead of speaking a human language.

As bad as Janey was, she was nowhere near as awful as James. He was fourteen and plump. His flat hair draped his forehead above his eyebrows. There were times when his mass would rip right through the fabric in pasty bulges. I despised everything about him from his disgusting eating preferences to his annoying voice that always seemed to be a whiny squeal no matter the mood he was in.

And yet, he was the only friend I had.

But we weren’t really friends. Our age difference made it hard to have much in common. However, we settled for existing without trying to kill each other. It was just easier that way.

Then there were the McCrays, the most hated family in town. They were also the wealthiest and didn’t mind telling you about it whenever they got the chance. Even when they didn’t have the chance, they still managed to brag about it in some manner. It was a natural gift that Jack and Mary McCray possessed.

At the time, I wasn’t able to come up with one logical reason for their wanting to scratch off the life they’d built and go elsewhere. Maybe they realized, rich or not, living in a town and  being hated by everyone was just too dangerous. It could have been their way of fleeing without it looking as if they were running away.  

As much as I despised them, I couldn’t ignore their greatest quality: Ellie. She was their daughter. Two years older than me, she was everything her parents were not. Lovely to look at, with hair the color of a brushfire. She had a spill of freckles that covered her cheeks and connected at the bridge of her nose. How she was the offspring of a couple of cruel pricks like the McCrays never made any sense to me.

We knew each other a little, and I was eager to spend several weeks traveling with her, even if we were going to be doing so in the heart of the winter on separate carriages.

The travel arrangements were Jack McCray’s idea. If we wanted to get there before the rush piled in, we needed to travel when nobody else would be. That would be our advantage, he’d said.

And everyone agreed, including Daddy.

I didn’t know much about traveling conditions and how the weather affected it. I did know that going such a long distance and not knowing what we would have to face was not a smart decision. I didn’t say that, though. I never went against anything Daddy decided. It wasn’t as if he would beat me for having an opinion. I just figured if Daddy was all for it, then everything would somehow be just fine.

It was Daddy’s idea to hire us an Indian guide—Ahote. Tall and muscular, he could have been carved from obsidian stone. Everything about his appearance seemed to declare strength and agility. He wanted to relocate as well with his wife and baby. He was happy to accept the job, so long as his family could come, and they could live in Harvest Hill with all of us. Plus, he’d done a lot of work for Daddy on the farm and we’d gotten to know them pretty well.

Chenona was Ahote’s bride. They looked more like brother and sister than husband and wife. When I saw Chenona for the first time, my mouth went dry. My heart began to pound into my throat. I had never known such beauty in a woman could be real. Her skin was somehow dark and creamy all at once. Her hair, the color of a starless night, was shiny and sleek and hung far down her back. I noticed how all the men, including Daddy, looked at her when they didn’t know anyone was watching them. As an old man now, I understand what must have been going through their minds.  

So there’s the four families, all joined together with one obstacle ahead of us. I wasn’t too worried about things, but I also wasn’t very excited about it.

2

Detail is something that I tend to dwell in. I’ve been accused of dragging out a story longer than it is needed to be. However, for this telling, I am not sure how much I should share. I could fill pages about the unnatural cold and heavy, never-ending snow alone. Years later, the winter we set out on our journey would be recorded as historical. So far, in my lifetime, only one winter has topped it in almost sixty years.

There was no way we could have known the bleak winter that awaited us.

There are so many areas I could elaborate in. I could do a complete account of every day we were out there. It’s not necessary for this. I believe guiding this tale right to where it really began would be the best choice. There’s no point in lingering or taking my time. All I would be doing is delaying matters, so I can avoid returning there in my mind. But, you see, I’m always there, even when I’m asleep. The screams, the blood, the tearing chomps of teeth and meat.

The copper odor of cold blood.  

It haunts me.

God, help me through this.

Mr. McCray suggested we take the Broken Moon Path. That route, though not ideal, would shave off several days of travel time. The plan was to ride into Harvest Hill as quickly as possible and hopefully ahead of any winter storms.  

But we were hit by snow two days into the travel. It wasn’t a bad fall, but it made the path harder to handle for our horses. There were three carriages. Ahote and Chenona had put their scant belongings on ours. Chenona rode under the cloth with Mama, Lenora, and myself. Mama even helped with the baby at times so Chenona could rest.

Ahote rode up front with Daddy, assisting him with navigating the horses. Since Ahote knew the way through Broken Moon Path, our wagon was the leader.

After a full day of travel, we finally got ahead of the snow. Things went fine for a while, but when we entered the mountains, another storm struck. The towering trees protected us from a lot of the downfall, but we still had trouble making any real progress. Our breaks were longer this time because the trek seemed to be hard on the horses.  

That was when Chenona began all her talk about how we shouldn’t have gone this route. Apparently, we should have followed where the trail branched to the left. Ahote had guided us straight.

The snow, he’d said, will not be as harsh here.

What is she talking about? Daddy asked. Are we in danger?

No.

Chenona began to speak, but Ahote looked over his shoulder. His hard gaze silenced her. Then he faced forward again. I couldn’t hear what he was saying to Daddy but could make out fragments over the squeaky roll of the wheels and the howling wind to put it all together.

He assured it might not be an easy trek, but it would be the safest one.  

Chenona shook her head. She began to speak softly in her native tongue. Even in her panic, I thought it was beautiful, like everything else about her. She caught me watching her and heat spread through my cheeks.

She forced herself to smile. It will be okay, handsome.

That made my cheeks feel as if a match had been set to my skin. I nodded, then looked at Lenora, who was trying not to laugh at me.

Then Lenora suddenly shot off her bench and landed at my feet when the wagon rolled over a deep rut.

It was my turn to laugh.

Mama snapped her fingers at me. Enough. Help me with your sister.

I grabbed Lenora’s arm and pulled while Mama reached under her and lifted. Lenora dropped onto the bench with a grunt. That smarts, she said.

The ride went on like that. Sometimes, I would be knocked out of my seat. Once, Mama landed on her side at my feet. But none of us got hurt other than minor bruises and some cuts here and there. It seemed like Ahote was right, since nothing really harmful happened.  

Then a couple days later, the first horse dropped dead. It was one of the Shumakers’ three that pulled their wagon. Nothing had seemed to be wrong with the mount before it happened. It just dropped and didn’t get up.

Mr. McCray chalked it up to exhaustion and nobody disputed the idea since it seemed the most likely reason. We moved on, leaving the dead horse behind.

I thought that would be the worst of it.

Over the course of several days, we lost all the horses. First it was the Shumakers, who had to abandon most of their belongings with their wagon. We all took in what we could, including the Shumakers themselves. They hitched with the McCrays, except for Jonathan, of course. He rode with us, sitting awfully close to Lenora while sharing a blanket.

It happened with the McCrays right after. Their first horse dropped without any warning. None of us knew what to do as we stood around the dead animal. It looked as if it had simply fallen asleep while walking and collapsed.

We were deep in the wilderness at this point, surrounded by immense trees, devoid of all their leaves. The branches above us seemed to intertwine, tangling to form larger monstrous limbs.  

I was staring up at those gnarly branches when Chenona tried to warn us again. This time, nobody was so quick to dismiss what she had to say.

This land has seen much death, she said. Our people said it’s forsaken. Too many of our kind was slaughtered here. We keep going, it will be our deaths as well. They are warning us to leave this cursed place.

Who is? Mama asked.

The evil ones.

McCray spat. The tobacco juice made a brown line on the snow. Evil ones, bullshit! We’ve gone too far to head back, woman. It’d be our deaths for sure.

Ahote stepped in front of his wife. We will continue forward. We are couple weeks’ ride away from the pass. The travel will be much simpler and shorter from there.

McCray stared at Ahote. You sure about that?

Ahote nodded.

Daddy patted the tall man’s shoulder. I trust you, Ahote. You’ll do right by what you said.

It is my word, said Ahote.

Chenona’s chin trembled. She turned away, carrying their baby back to the wagon.

But by the end of the next day, we had abandoned everything but what food supplies, guns, blankets, and garments we could carry. The McCrays and Shumakers were all stuffed inside our wagon. Our poor horses moved slower than time, but they did move.

At least, for a while.

We’d been traveling for eleven days when we set up camp for the night. We had three horses left. The snow had hardened to a crust. But the night was warmer than others had been, so we only kept a moderate fire going through the night. Daddy figured the snow would melt off in a couple days, and we would set back out when it was safer.

The sleeping arrangements were simple. The kids and women slept in the wagon with Chenona and the baby. Ahote stayed outside with the other men, sleeping alone by the fire while Daddy, McCray, and Floyd Shumaker slept in crudely constructed tents they made of old blankets and sticks. Low to the ground, they were like small, crooked dens a fox might shelter in. A tattered curtain hung over the entrance, flapping in the wind. Whenever somebody needed inside, they had to crawl to enter.

Before I drifted off to sleep, I heard Ahote telling Daddy that if things wemt as well as they did today, we’d be in Harvest Hill in thirteen days. Then darkness spilled