Free Deathlands 122: Forbidden Trespass by James Axler

Signs somethin’ bad happened to the former occupant. Mebbe done by a bear or a painter. But mebbe not.”
    After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Ryan said, “So you know these woods.”
    “They’re my home.”
    “You managed to catch any of these coamers? And why ‘coamers,’ anyway?”
    “Second question first,” Abe said. “Dunno. People just allus call them that, when they speak of them, which as I think I indicated, is mostly in whispers.
    “As for your first question—nope. No luck there, either.”
    “Not track?” Jak asked. He seemed to be studying the stocky man intently. The albino tended to be dismissive of everybody else’s talents in the woods, and compared to him, most humans were as clumsy and oblivious as drunken bears. Even Ryan and his strong right hand, J.B., both of whom were adept woodsmen by most mortal standards.
    But the younger man’s red eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. Krysty thought to see at least a glimmer of respect for the self-proclaimed mountain man. She wasn’t sure what Jak was basing his judgment on; he put less stock in words than J. B. Dix, and that was saying plenty. But whatever he saw in this man, it looked genuine to him. Or so she sized it up.
    “They don’t leave much sign,” Abe said. “Not even scat. And that looks just like a normal person’s, if tendin’ to be runnier than most. I don’t reckon they get much roughage in their diet. But they’re elusive as puffs of wind, and only rarely much easier to see.”
    “Ever chill one?” J.B. asked.
    “Had to fire ’em up a couple times. Just in the last month. They never plagued me before, other than I suspect them of raidin’ my snares for squirrels and rabbits and the like. Hit a couple, too, judgin’ by the squallin’ I heard and the blood I found on the leaves nearby. But I couldn’t prove it. I never found a carcass. It seems they take their chills with them as well as wounded.”
    “To eat later?” Ricky asked in a tone of eager horror.
    The mountain man shrugged. “Seems likely.”
    “So even you can’t track them, is what you’re saying?” Mildred said.
    Krysty felt a moment’s apprehension that her friend’s usual bluntness—or tactlessness, more closely—might annoy their host, which would be a pity just as the grouse were smelling done. But the man just nodded.
    “Not far, anyway. After a few steps it’s like they vanish off the face of the Earth.”
    Krysty looked around. Her friends seemed as distressed by the revelation as she was.
    “How do you reckon they do that?” Ryan asked. “I doubt they fly. Or use magic.”
    “Oh, no,” Abe said, grinning. “They go to ground, like foxes.”
    “What do you mean?” Mildred asked.
    “I mean when they vanish, I usually find some kind of hole in the ground nearby. No more than a coyote burrow would have for an entrance, commonly. But they’re built on the slim side, and don’t seem like they’d need much room to wiggle through.”
    Jak frowned at the revelation. Krysty guessed it was because he himself had not yet spotted the fact.
    “They have dens?” Ryan asked.
    “Mebbe. But remember this district is peppered with sinkholes like a plank shot with buckshot, and honeycombed by caves beneath. They could have a whole underground empire with roads and villes, for all we know.”
    That struck Krysty as fanciful. It surprised her in someone as practical and…earthy as Abe seemed to be. All the same, he seemed pretty sharp, and his kind of life would offer plenty of time for flights of fancy.
    “Ever checked?” J.B. asked.
    “Do I look like I got a death wish, friend? Also, you’ll notice I’m built more for endurance than agility. If I could fit myself down one of them rabbit holes, I shudder to think what might be waitin’ for me on the other side.”
    Krysty’s mind filled with a vision of Blinda’s face—or the raw red concavity where it had been—and she shuddered too.
    “Anyhoo,” Abe said, reaching for a