THE
TRIBE
By
Daniel Skye
The wind ushered in a cacophony of cries from the
encompassing wildlife. The forest was teeming with feral, undomesticated
animals that had yet to be acclimated to the harsh winter temperatures.
The boys all huddled around the fire pit that Roland
Everett had dug and filled with dry leaves and fallen branches, rubbing their
tiny hands together for warmth. Three hours had passed since Roland and the
boys had sought shelter in Greenkill National Forest.
Roland had banged his knee up something awful in the
accident, but he always prepared for the worst. Stashed in the back of his
wrecked Volkswagen van was an emergency kitbag with medical supplies, flares,
flashlights, batteries, bottled water, and dried fruit. The bag also came
equipped with two pop-up tents and ponchos in case they found themselves caught
in the rain.
And there was an assortment of tools Roland kept
handy–wrenches, screwdrivers, ratchets, pliers–that were utterly useless in
this situation. No wrench was going to repair the damage to the front end.
The bag wasn’t something Roland had packed specifically
for the trip. He always kept supplies in the back of his van. Better safe than
sorry was Roland’s motto. The van was a second generation Volkswagen model from
the seventies. One of those big blue-and-white numbers about the size of a
miniature school bus. It was constantly breaking down on Roland and giving him
grief. Hence the supplies. He never knew when or where he’d end up stranded when
he was driving around in that heap.
But this time around, Roland wasn’t so lucky. Instead of
stalling or breaking down on him, the brakes on the van failed and Roland lost
control of the vehicle and crashed into a utility pole.
None of the boys were harmed in the accident. Kenny
Fisher had spilled his Dr. Pepper all over the backseat and Jamie Strode was a
little shaken up over it, but none of them were hurt. Just Roland. But he used
an Ace bandage he took from the kitbag to wrap his knee as best as he could. And
then he examined the map, discovering that Greenkill was just a quarter mile
east from the crash site.
“That’ll be a good place to hold up for the night,”
Roland told the boys with the darkness approaching rapidly. “I can set up the
tents and get a fire going. At least we’ll be warm and dry for the evening. And
in the morning, I’ll walk to the nearest town and get help.”
“Why don’t you just call for help?” Jamie Strode had
asked.
Roland was embarrassed to admit he didn’t have minutes on
his cell phone. He had one of those prepaid jobs and he spent his last few
hundred on the concert tickets because he wanted to show his brother a good
time. So he had neglected to buy minutes for his phone.
“Does anyone else have a cell phone?” Roland asked and
was astonished when none of the boys came forward. All Jamie said in response
was, “I don’t have a phone.”
“Yeah, his parents didn’t feel like wasting the money on
him,” Tim Johnstone laughed.
These boys were Roland’s responsibility, and with no way
to call for help, he just needed to keep them warm and safe for the night and
then this nightmare would be over.
“Alright,” Roland said, getting out of the van. “Let’s
get moving. It’s getting late.” He tried not to show any signs of pain, but his
knee was throbbing and he could barely put any weight on it.
“What
if someone drives by and sees the van here?” Roland’s brother, Robert, had asked.
“Shouldn’t we leave a note?”
Rob
was always thinking. At an age where the boys were maturing and were interested
more in girls and sports than academics, Rob was the egghead of the group.
He
flourished in all his classes, and scored brownie points with the teachers here
and there by bringing them gifts and doing extra work that wasn’t even assigned
to him. An attendee of the seventh grade, Rob was already reading at a tenth
grade level and often surprised his brother with bits of knowledge even Roland
failed to possess.
“This
area is pretty deserted, pal,” Roland told his brother. “But you’re right; I’ll
leave a note just in case someone passes through and sees the wreckage.”
Roland
scribbled a note on a blank page from one of Rob’s notebooks and pinned it down
with the windshield wiper. Even on a trip upstate to see his first rock
concert, Rob had brought his books along to work on his weekend homework
assignments.
If
his parents found out what had happened, they’d probably be mortified. So on
their quarter mile walk to the forest, Roland begged them not to say anything.
“Promise me you’ll tell your parents we made it to the concert and everything
was all right.”
“What
do we get if we cover for you?” Tim Johnstone asked. He was a gutsy little punk
that Roland loved to hate. “Will you let us have some of your beer?”
“In
your dreams, puke-face.”
“Fine,
I’ll tell my parents you gave us beer anyway,” Tim threatened.
“This
is going to be a long night,” Roland muttered. He let the boys walk ahead of
him a bit as he hobbled along. His leg wasn’t broken, but he found it difficult
to bend his knee or put his full weight on it. And the kitbag only slowed him
down further.
With
no car, no phone, and no help for miles in either direction, they’d surely miss
the concert. But that wasn’t Roland’s primary concern. His concern was being
stuck with these hell raisers for the night.
* *
*
Greenkill Forest stretched on for miles and miles, but
with Roland’s bad knee, they didn’t stray too far from the main road.
“I’m hungry,” Tim moaned, already getting on Roland’s
nerves.
“Me
too,” Kenny joined in. “Where’s the nearest McDonald’s?”
“Not
close enough,” Roland said as he opened the kitbag and tossed Tim a Ziploc bag.
“What
the heck are these?” Tim asked.
“Apricots,”
Roland told him.
“They
look like dried up scraps of puke,” Tim said, sticking out his tongue to
accentuate his disgust.
“Well,
it’s all I got so you’ll have to share.”
Once
Roland dug the pit (he dug it by hand) and got the fire going, he gathered
around with the four boys and asked them, “Who wants to hear an old campfire story
my grandfather used to tell me?” This was Roland’s grand scheme to get the boys
off his back. He was going to scare the wits out of them and he wouldn’t hear a
peep for the rest of the night.
“Is
it scary?” Jamie Strode asked, his timidity showing.
“Scaredy-cat,”
Tim teased Jamie.
“Am
not!” Jamie said defiantly.
“Are
too!” Tim fired back. Roland remembered this escalating game from when he was a
kid. And listening to the two boys bicker back and forth, he realized then just
how annoying this so-called game could be.
“Knock
it off you two and listen to my story,” Roland told them, his scruffy face
illuminated behind orange flames. Roland was twenty-three and though he was
only ten years older than most of them, the boys usually listened to him. Maybe
it was his size or his tattoos that intimidated them. Or maybe it was the fact
that he was–as Robert often boasted–cool.
Roland
had that aura about him. That innate coolness that some people are just born
with. It was one thing to have that quality when he was in high school, but it
didn’t do much for him in the real world except impress his brother and his
little friends.
Roland
continued with his story until he was interrupted again. “The Grukins were an
ancient tribe of nomadic creatures who used–”
“Nomadic?”
Jamie repeated the word.
“It
means they moved around, never stayed in one place,” Rob explained.
“That’s
right,” Roland said. “The Grukins were bred by an ancient, mysterious race for
one purpose and one purpose only–To hunt. And the Grukins used to prowl through
the forests, hunting and stalking their prey. What did the Grukins hunt, you
ask?
“Why
humans, of course. You see, Grukins, like vampires, survive on the blood of the
living. They engulf their prey and drain them of their essence, their energy,
their life-force, and leave you as a hollow, empty shell devoid of any blood,
bones, or organs. They especially love the blood of children. They can smell
your fear from a mile away.”
These
alleged facts sent shivers down Jamie’s spine. Even Kenny Fisher was looking a
little pale. And Kenny was the only one of the group who seemed to have any
backbone at his age. Tim talked tough, but Roland could see he was no different
than the others.
“What
did the Grukins look like?” Jamie couldn’t help but ask.
“Nobody
knows for sure,” Roland told them beside the fire. “Nobody ever lived to speak
of their encounters. But the legends vary. Some claims the Grukins are as tall
as a house. Other people say they’re smaller, predatory creatures with the skin
of lizards of snakes. Some say they’ve been around since the dinosaurs roamed
the Earth. One thing’s for sure…they only come out to hunt when it’s dark.”
“Bull
crap,” Tim Johnstone called him out. “You probably just made that story up on
the spot.”
“Fine,
don’t believe the legends,” Roland said. “Find out for yourself. Go wander the
forest and see if you make it back in one piece.”
Tim
gulped. “I think I’ll pass.”
“That’s
what I thought, smart ass” Roland grinned.
* *
*
With
that chilling tale, Roland let the fire burn out and pitched their tents. With only
two tents at their disposal, Roland let the boys share one and took the other,
smaller tent for himself. He insisted he wanted to give them their space to
talk, joke, play games. But really it was just an excuse to be alone in his
tent and smoke pot and drink cheap malt liquor he had originally bought for the
concert.
An
hour passed before Roland heard the scratching on his tent. He opened it up to
see Jamie Strode standing there with a frightened glint in his eyes.
“I’m
scared and the boys keep making fun of me,” Jamie told him. “Can I sleep in
here with you, please?”
“All
right,” Roland sighed. Jamie got in and Roland sealed the tent again.
* * *
“My brother is the coolest,” Rob boasted in the boys’
separate tent. “I know we didn’t get to go to the concert, but at least we got
to hang out with him and hear his stories. Isn’t he awesome?” Tim and Kenny had
grown weary of Rob’s vaunting, but they were too exhausted to demur.
As they dozed off, Rob decided to let sleeping dogs lie
and abandoned them to join Jamie in his brother’s tent.
Roland unzipped the tent when he heard Robert’s calls and
closed it up again once Rob was inside with them.
“Great,” Roland muttered. “What did I do to these kids
with that story?”
“What’s that smell in here?” Rob inquired as he tried to
make himself comfortable in the cramped tent.
“It’s incenses,” Roland lied to cover up for the odor of
pot.
“It smells like marijuana,” Jamie pointed out. “My
brother got caught smoking it in our garage last year. I know what it smells
like.”
“I’ll give you both five bucks if you promise not to
tell,” Roland said, biting his upper lip.
“Make it ten,” Rob said.
Roland and Robert Everett: The egghead and the pothead.
“Why you little–” Roland’s sentence was cut off by a
strange din that emanated from beyond their tent.
“What was that?” Jamie asked.
“Nothing,” Roland assured him. “Probably just Tim and
Kenny messing with us. Either that or the wind.”
“Maybe it’s a Grukin,” Jamie said, shuddering.
“It’s not a Grukin!” Roland said emphatically.
As the din grew louder, Roland and the boys heard the
unmistakable screams. First it was just Tim, but then Kenny’s voice could be
heard wailing over his. The screams were enough curdle the blood, and they were
masked by an even more terrifying sound. The spine-chilling shriek of a Grukin.
The tribe had lived on…and the survivors were extremely
famished.
“You two stay put,” Roland said, unzipping the tent. “When
I’m gone, you close this tent back up and no matter what you hear, you don’t come
until I say so. Got it?”
“Got it,” Rob and Jamie said in unison. Rob zipped the
tent back up when Roland climbed out and glanced at Jamie, twitching.
Roland had taken one of the flashlights from his bag and
the light beamed across the tent that housed Kenny and Tim. But the tent was
ripped open and Tim and Kenny were gone. Not a trace of them remained.
Roland heard movement in the brush and as he spun around,
the flashlight spotted a pair of yellow eyes staring back at him from the
brush. Then there was another set of piercing yellow eyes. Then another, and
another.
They lurched forward, one at a time.
Short and stout, these creatures were similar in both size and feature to
gargoyles. But these were not the architectural gargoyles seen perched on
rooftops. These were not carved out of stone. These grotesque figures were flesh
and blood…and claws and fangs.
Their grey lifeless texture seemed
to deflect the moonlight as they crept forward, always clinging to the shadows.
They were everywhere, and they had him surrounded.
The last thing Roland Everett heard
was the sound of his own screams.
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