Page 82 of Badlands

Nora started at a jog toward the base of a small, rocky covered hill rising above a grove of cottonwoods, Corrie following. They kept to the darker twilight under the cottonwood trees. They soon reached the bottom of the hill and began to climb, keeping low among the scattered boulders. In a few minutes Nora reached the top, crawling to the summit on her belly. Corrie came up next to her.

The view from the top was unobstructed, and the sky was still light enough to see clearly. Nora slipped off her daypack and removed the binoculars, then scanned the canyon to the south—slowly, methodically—then turned and glassed to the north. Corrie now had her own binoculars out and was searching.

“There are people over there,” said Nora.

Corrie trained her binocs in the same direction. “Oh Jesus.”

Perhaps a thousand yards distant, Nora could make out a group of about a dozen people on a peculiar-looking mesa top. Ithad a gradual, south-facing slope that rose to a flat top, ending in a towering cliff on the north end. Two tall tripods were sticking into the sky, one with something hanging from it. It was hard to make out much detail, but it seemed the people were dressed in red, or maybe painted red, and wearing headdresses. Several of them were parading around while bearing something on a litter.

And off to one side, Nora could see a figure dressed in normal clothes—a green shirt, jeans—sitting on the ground with his hands tied behind his back and watched over by a guard. While his face was not visible, she knew right away it was Skip.

Her hands trembled and the image got shaky, then steadied as she forced her breath to stay under control.

“You see what’s hanging from that pole?” Corrie muttered.

Nora moved her field of vision from Skip to the poles. The base of one pole was piled with wood—apparently, the makings of a bonfire. But what was that hanging from the pole, ready to be burned? Nora squinted, trying to make it out.

A carcass of some kind, skinned and hanging upside down. But, she realized, not just a carcass—a body. A human body.

As she stared, hands trembling again, she felt a lick of wind, and another, and then a gust. The body began to sway a little in the approaching storm. And the wind brought to her, faintly, the whisper of chanting.

She turned to Corrie. “You still think we go for backup? Nash’s dead already—and my brother’s next.”

Corrie said nothing for a moment, then spoke. “Point made. We’ve got a gun. We’ve got a knife. Now we need a plan.”

49

SKIP, FROZEN WITHhorror, stared at the litter. When the blanket was whisked off, he saw, with shock, that it wasn’t the leader of the cult after all. In fact, it wasn’t even a person—at least, not one still alive. It was a desiccated body, sitting cross-legged in a lotus position, hands pressed together as if in prayer—and grotesquely mummified, the skin pale as dust and as wrinkled as a dried apple, the wizened lips drawn back from a gleaming row of perfect white teeth. Most bizarrely of all, the figure wore a pair of thick glasses, the shriveled-raisin eyes behind them disgustingly magnified.

At the unveiling, a murmur of veneration rose from the group. The sound grew in volume until it became a thrumming chant. One by one, each in turn bowed down to the figure—in a pantomime of worship. Skip’s handler dragged him to his feet and, when the bowing reached their position in the line, forced him to genuflect like the others.

The handler then pulled Skip back to his feet and half-dragged, half-jerked him along. For a terrible moment he thought he was headed toward the second tripod and the agonythat would follow, but then it became clear he was being pushed in the direction of the kiva entrance. He could see the rough ladder poking out of the hole.

Without warning, the guards shoved him into the hole and he tumbled down the ladder, landing hard on the dirt floor.

As he lay in the dirt, half-dazed from the impact, needles of agony shot through the shoulder he’d landed on, the pain driving away his anger and replacing it with fear. He couldn’t get the grotesque vision of Edison out of his head: skinned, hanging upside down like a butchered cow. He’d seen the second tripod—they were going to do the same to him.

One of the guards descended the ladder and busied himself in a corner of the kiva, picking up torches, lighting them, and placing them in holders around the interior. For the first time, Skip got a clear look at the kiva. It was stunning. The walls were covered with an ancient mural, cracked and faded, of a giant snake, its body seemingly made of feathers and smoke. It coiled around the circular space, mouth open, fangs spouting fiery venom. In a series of niches carved into the walls of the kiva, Skip could see a number of prehistoric treasures displayed: golden micaceous pots; glittering obsidian spearpoints and knife blades; bones flutes; carved fetishes of mountain lions and bears; painted kachina masks with grimacing visages; a bow and arrow set and some clubs. And finally, in one niche, stood a large bowl filled with emerald-green lightning stones.

Beside it, in a throne made out of sandstone slabs, sat a figure in white.

In his haze of fear, Skip had forgotten about the leader. He hadn’t seen him since the procession that brought up the wizened corpse. How, or when, this figure had gone into the kiva, Skip wasn’t sure. But now—as the guard dragged Skip over andthrew him down at the man’s feet—it was clear he was about to be given an audience.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Blustering and cursing at the man who’d presided over the skinning of his friend was not, he thought, a good idea. He stared at the white figure; at the black handprints that covered him like leopard spots. Through the eyeholes carved into the mask, he could see a pair of eyes staring back at him—glittering in the firelight, bloodshot, pupils contracted into points.

“Why…,” Skip began, tasting blood in his mouth. “Why are you doing this to us?”

No response.

“You killed my friend. Why? You skinned him alive! Are you crazy?” Skip realized he was starting to babble—but he also realized he was fighting to save his own life. “We didn’t mean any harm. Let me go. Let me go, and I’ll never come back… I swear.”

The figure in white stirred, and then—at last—spoke. “You don’t understand.”

Through his haze of dread, Skip was shocked to hear a smooth, educated voice.

“What don’t I understand?” If this masked person was cultured, maybe he could reason with him. Skip had to keep the conversation going, look for an opening—anyopening.

“You think coming here was a mistake,” the figure said. “It was not. You weresummoned.”

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