The Book of Masks (Vol. 4)

Party of Five, Chapter 7

Previously: "Party of Five, Chapter 6" 

THE GIRL WAS HEFTY AND HAD SOME MUSCLES, so it was a struggle getting her off the road and into the brush. Mickey was badly tempted when Randall suggested hitting her with a rock to quiet her down. But instead he pulled off his denim shirt and swaddled the girl's head with it like a bag while Randall held her. That at least meant they could use four hands to carry her, by the shoulders and knees, up the hillside. That was slow work still, even after Finn joined them and they could take turns hauling her ass back up to the caves.

"A girl?" Killer growled when, after what felt like an hour, they had hauled her into the cavern where the well was. "You brought back a girl? You want to—?"

"The fuck's it matter?' Randall growled. He was hot, exhausted, and angry, just like the other two, but he still had the strength to pinion the weeping girl from behind in a headlock. "What's worse, spending the rest of your life in Woodson, or spending it as a girl?"

"At least you'd have tits," Ironeyes said. He was staring hard at their prisoner's heaving bosoms.

"So how do we decide this?" Mickey asked. His eyes darted nervously about the group. "Draw lots?"

"I'm in charge," Killer growled. "Randall, you take her over—"

"I think we should draw lots," Micky insisted. His heart was pounding in his chest and in his throat.

A fell light blazed in Killer's eyes.

"I'm in charge," he sputtered, "and I'm not—! I'm saying—!"

"So we draw lots," Mickey said, indicating Ironeyes and Randall. "The three of us. You and—"

He had never been able to put a name to the ... last member of their gang. Not since they had they used the well.

It had given Mickey a bad turn, and he had nearly let out a yell. There was something wrong about the water in the well, and Mickey had shuddered all over as it lapped over his wrists and forearms as he held the struggling Skunk beneath its surface. The water had clung and pulled at him like a liquid, living thing, and he had the terrible impression it was trying to leech the flesh and muscles off his bones. He had scrambled back with relief when Finn pushed him aside to kneel over Skunk.

And he had backed farther off after Finn had laid aside the knife to disrobe. He had watched from the back of the cave, sick with dread, as Finn stepped over the lip of the well, falling straight in and vanishing under the surface. The water hadn't even splashed. For a lingering moment the pool had rippled and gurgled, and not a bubble showed on its surface.

Then with a gasp, a head had erupted to break the surface. It had been impossible, by the flickering torchlight, to make out his face. But as he grasped the edge of the pool and pulled himself up, Mickey recognized Skunk by his long, sleek hair.

The man had pulled himself up and onto his feet and stood there awkwardly, the water streaming off, as he stared down at the ground. Killer had stepped forward and seized him by the chin, wrenching his face up. He had muttered something, and after a ghastly moment, Skunk had muttered something back. Then Killer stepped back and turned a triumphant eye onto the other three. "It works, boys," he'd said.

And then Skunk, as though remembering where he was, had begun to dress.

He'd told them more about the well, afterward, as they sat or hunched on the rocky floor in the next chamber over. His voice was guttural, like Skunk's, as he spoke of his grandfather and great-grandfather, who had been shamans, and from whom he had learned the lore of the well. It was the place where the skinwalkers, the yee naaldlooshii, drank, and by some transference some of their magic had passed into its waters. It was an evil place, to be used only in dire need, as when an important fugitive needed a new skin to hide from the soldiers or the police.

But though he looked like Skunk and spoke like Skunk, he also spoke like Finn, and knew what Finn had known, and he assured the others that he was, in his soul, Finn. "It'll be the same with you, too," he'd said as he absently touched and scratched at himself. "In your new skins."

And now it was Mickey's chance at a new skin.

Killer accepted the suggested compromise, and the other two played rock-scissors-paper, with the first to lose outright taking the girl's skin. On the third try, Mickey's scissors were crushed by the rocks of Randall and Ironeyes.

He tried not to show his relief.

For he was sick of the caverns, and of the company of the others, and the "creep" it gave him when Skunk-who-was-not-Skunk looked at him with his dark, probing eyes. To get back out into the sunlight and air, he would be content with almost any skin, probably. Even that of a girl.

Or even, he admitted to himself, especially of this girl. Her bosoms were enormous.

He followed Skunk as he shuffled the struggling girl over to the pool. She was underdressed in sandals, short-shorts, a t-shirt and a bra, so it was quick if messy work to strip her. Then Mickey took over and pushed her into the water. She fell in feet first, and when her head bobbed back to the surface, he knelt to push her back under with one hand while with the other he took the knife that the grinning Killer held out.

Motherfucker is laughing that I'm turning myself into a girl. Mickey distracted himself with the thought, and with his secret pleasure at the same, as he put the knife into the water and felt for the girl's throat. It surprised him that she wasn't thrashing more. But neither had Skunk thrashed so much. Maybe it was the water. It was pulling at his skin again, like a blind, toothless animal gumming at him, trying to eat him.

The edge of the blade found the girl's chin, and then her throat. Mickey drew it fast and deep across her neck. It bit deep, much deeper than he had intended.

The top of her head collapsed under his hand. He grabbed at her hair, and it was like grabbing at a loose bag onto which fringes had been sown. He yanked his hands out in alarm, only just managed to keep hold of the knife.

"What's wrong?" Randall asked, but Killer said, "Just finish it. Get undressed and finish it." Mickey shook as he peeled off his jeans and shirt, as he remembered the sensation of everything but the scalp and hair of the girl vanishing from within his grip.

Then Skunk caught his eye as he was taking off his underwear, and he felt the thought flash between them.

Finn knew what had happened. The same thing had happened when he slit open Skunk's throat.

Whatever spirit was in the water had sucked out and swallowed the guts and bones and muscles of the girl, leaving only her skin.

"You waiting for a push?" Killer said, and Mickey realized he was hesitating. Fuck you, he thought, and as Finn had done, he stepped to the edge of the pool, put one foot over it, and tipped himself in toes first.

The water closed over him. Eagerly, it felt like.

Mickey felt his skin leeching away, boiling off, and he opened his eyes and mouth to scream. The water pushed in, filling his lungs and stomach and arms and legs, like he was a hollow thing. It pushed his eyes back into his skull and brain, and he reeled, briefly into unconsciousness.

And then he was at the surface, gasping for breath and putting his hand out to grab the pool's edge. He was coughing, and he felt limp all over as strong hands lifted him out and hefted him onto his weak and wobbling legs. He bent double, bracing his hands on his knees.

He reached up to push the long, streaming hair from his face.

And he paused.

His hair. His long, streaming hair.

He gripped it, squeezing the water from it, and he straightened up. A rippling strength ran through his arms and legs, and he felt himself whole again.

He felt himself more than whole. He felt strong enough for two.

"You got titties now," Killer growled. He openly smirked.

Something went "click" in Mickey's head.

"And they're real, too. Real nice," he said. His voice sounded strange in his ears—throaty and scratchy. He smiled an open-mouthed smile at Killer as he lifted a boob and pointed it at him. "Wanna touch it to make sure it feels real?"

Killer's smile soured, and he took a step back.

"Oh, come on, guys!" Mickey laughed as he turned toward the others, who stood frozen nearby. "Don't you wanna have some fun? Randall?" he said, turning to the scrawny prisoner that Ironeyes had protected back at Woodson in exchange for blow jobs. "I know you wanted these more than I did," he said as he lifted both boobs and offered them. "But I can get you some almost as good.

"Get skins good enough for all of us," he went on, his eye roving over the other four. "I know where there's exactly enough to go 'round!"

* * * * *

You wake late (it's Saturday, so it's okay) and find that you went to sleep still wearing the metal band. Maybe that's why it takes you twice as long to clear your head.

After showering and dressing, you check stories.com and are excited to see a longish note on Chapter 7 from TheSoulWringer, one of the more thoughtful commenters in that forum:

Interesting mechanic and way it ties in with skinwalker myth. Were is story set? Island name sounds like Michigan or thereabouts, so Navajo myth seems out of place. But whatever, will be tracking story to see where it goes.

You reply with a nervous Lol didn't think about that. Since you've got the rest of the day free, you buckle down to write a couple of more chapters.

Next: "Party of Five, Chapter 8" 

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 4)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 4)"