Led to the Slaughter Read online

  LED TO THE SLAUGHTER

  The Donner Party Werewolves

  By

  Duncan McGeary

  “Duncan McGeary is an accomplished writer who knows how to tell a great story. Led to the Slaughter is a riveting tale sure to please the most discerning reader.” ~ Mike Richardson, Emmy award winning producer and founder of Dark Horse Comics

  - BOOKS of the DEAD -

  Smashwords Edition

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  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of reprinted excerpts for the purpose of reviews.

  LED TO THE SLAUGHTER

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  Copyright 2013 by Duncan McGeary

  Edited by Lara Milton

  Cover Design by Andy Zeigert

  For more information, contact: [email protected]

  Visit us at: Booksofthedeadpress.com

  * * *

  Dedicated to my wife, Linda, who I met in writer’s group and who has always understood my need to write. She has been my amused, bemused muse from the beginning.

  FOREWORD

  Virginia Reed Gerard, New York City, 1919

  I have compiled this account of the first great adventure of my life from my own memories and my companions’ recollections, fragments of my diaries, and rediscovered journals and reports of those who were part of the ill-fated Donner Party. It was the first time, though not the last, I was to encounter events that could not be easily explained or believed. Here, at the end of a long, eventful life, I feel that I can finally tell the true story of what happened in the Sierra Nevada in the terrible winter of 1846. I will begin with a story my father told me…

  CHAPTER 1

  James Reed, Sierra Nevada, November 1846

  They had been led to this place, led to the slaughter. James Reed could see that now. He’d been a fool, always looking for shortcuts, manipulated and coerced into bad decision after bad decision, until they had ended up here, on the side of a mountain, unable to go forward or go back, without food, frozen and abandoned.

  By now, he’d left hunger behind, buried beneath the snowdrifts. Starvation had hollowed him out, leaving nothing but the determination to move forward, foot by foot. Fear froze over him like a sheet of ice, but inside, he was burning. His family was still behind him, in the company of monsters.

  The dry snow squeaked like a needle going through leather. His frozen, bunched-up coat and his poncho, hastily constructed from a blanket, moved separately from him, chafing his shoulders and thighs.

  Beneath the frozen shell of clothing, Reed was a dying husk of skin and bone. He ducked under the poncho as the wind blasted his face, and in the diffused light, his jutting collarbones and sticklike arms horrified him. When he poked his head out again, the glare of the snow was blinding.

  Through slitted eyes, he tried to make out the path, but was forced to close his eyes and move forward blindly, holding his arms up defensively. He walked into branches, and the snow fell onto his head and flowed like water into the cracks of his shell. He told himself he mustn’t become snow blind, or he would flounder and sink into the drifts like a drowning sailor, never to come up for air again. His heart pounded and his chest heaved as he gasped for breath.

  In the morning, the slope had seemed like nothing more than a slight incline, but as the hours passed, the hill grew ever steeper, until it was as though he was clinging beneath an overhang, in danger of falling backward. Yet still he shoved his legs through the snow, slowly digging his way forward.

  Reed tripped and fell to his knees. He had an overwhelming urge to simply fall over into the comforting bed of white and go to sleep. Let them find me in the spring, he thought; I have done my best.

  If he had been alone, he might have given up. But Walter Herron was keeping up with him, step by frozen step. They lent each other what little strength they had, even if it was only their strength of will. They were proud men, neither wanting to admit defeat before the other. They took turns breaking trail. They’d been the strongest of the company, and if they couldn’t make it, no one could.

  Reed looked back at Herron, and it was as if he was staring at a doppelganger. They were both animate scarecrows, with black button eyes in gaunt white faces, patchy black beards, and emaciated bodies.

  I will survive, Reed vowed. He felt as if he was almost gone, as if all that endured was an open flame, melting the path before him, as if he was nothing but spirit and raw will, his body burned away so that nothing physical––not the snow nor the slopes of the mountain––could stop him.

  Only those… creatures… could stop him now. He could feel them watching him, could feel their flames burning to match his.

  The huge cliff loomed above him. He stared tiredly up at the broken, reddish rock and the splintered remains of small trees shattered by the winds.

  Reed felt Herron’s hand on his shoulder, and it steadied him. The other man pointed to the left, and there, barely noticeable in the gathering dark, was a small deer trail. They trudged toward it and began climbing––no, crawling––upward, sliding back a foot for every slippery yard they managed to gain, grabbing hold of each other when one of them started to slide backward. The nearness of the summit gave them the will to go on, here at the last of their strength.

  Looking west, Reed saw that there was still some light left in the sky. Below the cliff, it had been nearly dark; on top of the cliff, the day’s last rays of sunlight struck him with the force of hope.

  But the fading light also revealed the dark shape of the creature looming above them––a wolf that was not a wolf, a man who was not a man. The monster was taller than any human Reed had ever seen, with gangly arms and legs and a wiry trunk, and was covered in reddish, stringy fur matted with blood and gore. It had a long muzzle with razor-sharp teeth that jutted out, and huge red eyes. Its body appeared to waver and dance like a candle’s flame even when it was standing still, and when it moved, it was so quick that it became a dreamlike blur.

  Half man and half wolf, yet more than the sum of both.

  It stood waiting for them, but made no move to attack. Retreat, it seemed to be saying. Go back.

  The monster was terrifying. What chance did Reed have against such a creature? Just the sight of it drained the strength from his limbs, and they had thrown away their rifles before beginning this final climb, useless dead weight, the gunpowder completely soaked.

  Still, every ounce of Reed’s spirit rebelled against defeat. He pushed upward, drawing his Bowie knife. He couldn’t feel his fingers, and had to look down to be certain he was still grasping the knife’s handle.

  It didn’t matter. He would die if he turned back. His whole family would die. Someone had to get out. Someone had to bring help.

  He raised the knife, knowing the creature could be on him before he had the chance to use it. In his mind’s eye, he saw the thing rush at him, slap the knife out of his hand, push him over the cliff, and land on top of him, then start ripping great shreds of flesh from his bones and eating his steaming insides while he yet lived and screamed.

  Herron faltered behind him, slipping backward with a cry. Reed crawled upward until the creature’s legs were within striking distance. He stabbed out, but his target wasn’t there anymore: instead, those filthy, gore-encrusted legs were straddling him. The sharp points of claws dug into his sides.

  The monster loomed over him, staring down with balef
ul eyes that gleamed with malevolent intelligence. There was something familiar in that gaze, as if he’d met this creature before, somehow, somewhere. Its claws came slicing down on his arm, and Reed felt a slashing pain even through the numbing cold. He dropped his Bowie knife with a cry. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Herron cowering below him, too terrified to either help or run away.

  James Reed waited for death. A strange sense of peace settled over him. He had done his best, and at least it would put an end to his suffering. His thoughts went to his family––his wife, his two young boys, and his daughters, precious Patty and brave, resourceful Virginia, his stepdaughter and yet his favorite. She would fight to the end to save his family, he knew. She had his spirit and more.

  The creature bent over him, and the gunge from its fangs dripped onto his face. The wolfman’s foul breath smelled of death and carnage. The slime seemed to burn where it oozed onto Reed’s cheek. He retched, and his body tried to vomit up food he hadn’t eaten in days. It was a dry heave, for there was naught but bile left in his disintegrating body.

  The abomination reached down with exaggerated slowness and picked him up by his neck, raising him into the air while it made huffing sounds. Below, Herron was screaming, whether from fear or pain, Reed couldn’t tell. His mind tried to reject the thought that came to him: that the sound the creature was uttering was laughter––gloating, scoffing laughter, that the last thing he would ever hear was mockery.

  Closing his eyes, Reed roared out his defiance, a wordless shout that contained everything left of his human spirit. The world went dark as his scream rent the air.

  Then there was an awful silence. There was no sound except for the wind blowing through the trees and the creak of branches shifting. Strangely, Reed felt as though the earth was moving slowly toward him; then he realized he was being lowered down, until he was resting on his back on the ground. It was almost a gentle motion, but Reed sensed it was a show of strength, and of disdain.

  He lay there waiting for the creature to rend his flesh and devour him alive. He couldn’t breathe, though he heard his throat rasping with the effort. It seemed as if this one awful moment was frozen in time. Reed was aware, but his mind couldn’t form coherent thoughts. He felt the wind blowing across the snow, the pellets of ice striking his face.

  “Ja… James?” he heard Herron’s stuttering voice say, breaking the silence. “He… that thing… is gone.”

  Finally, Reed opened his eyes and turned his head. He stared at the jutting, muscled back of the beast as it moved away and disappeared into the trees. A gust of wind blew snow over its strange tracks, and then it was as if the creature had never been. Why had it let him go?

  Reed stared up into the sky and started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Herron asked.

  Reed couldn’t answer. He simply lay there, chuckling mirthlessly as panic and adrenaline washed over him. He recalled how he’d fished with his father on the humid summer banks of the Mississippi, and how his father had unhooked the small fish and thrown them back into the swirling waters. And as this thought became clear in his mind, so did the words his father used to say.

  In unison, James Reed and the ghost of his father said, “Throw ‘em back; they’re too scrawny.”

  #

  The monster watched the two pathetic humans tumble down the gentler western slopes on the other side of the mountain. They looked back at him with a fear that was palpable. Feeding on their terror was all he would do on this day.

  Let them go, he decided at the last moment. It was going to be a long winter. Let them bring others…

  CHAPTER 2

  The Reed family, Independence, Missouri, May 18, 1846

  Our time in Independence, Missouri, reminded me of the last afternoon of the county fair––my favorite time, when the merchants were relaxed and inclined to lighten their loads on the way home by offering good deals to the locals. It was so vibrant, so different from stodgy old Springfield.

  “Don’t wander too far, Virginia,” my mother shouted after me as I joined the flow of the crowd.

  I pretended not to hear her. She treated me like a little girl, but I was thirteen, old enough, I had heard, to be courted in the West. Springfield was in our past, old and staid. Our future was going to be a journey into the new and undiscovered.

  The town was built to cater to this season-long fair, this festival, this leave-taking and ongoing farewell party for those headed west. Reputable merchants were practiced in helping the wayfarers; disreputable merchants who fleeced travelers had mostly been run out of town by this late in the season. The laborers were well trained, the preparations for the journey to the West by now routine. The residents were starting to relax, flush from a successful spring.

  For me, it was the beginning of an exciting adventure. There was anticipation and elation in the air, reflected in my fellow travelers’ eyes and in the freshness of everything, the newly painted wagon wheels, the clean whiteness of the wagons’ canvas tops, the smell of recently planed wood. Many of the wagons bore the family names of their proud owners in bright colors along their sides. Some of them also included their destination. “Willimete,” one said in spelling that was only guesswork. “Oregon,” said most of them; “California,” said a few. Their owners were beginning an ambitious and dangerous venture––and most of them had only a vague notion of their destination.

  All in all, it seemed a grand event.

  Over the past few days, I’d explored all the little shops that served the travelers. Now I wandered into one that was filled with glass cabinets of all shapes and sizes piled on top of each other, each filled with bulk goods and scoops. The merchant eyed me suspiciously at first.

  “We owned a store just like this back in Springfield,” I announced. Our store had been a pale shadow of this well-stocked shop, but I couldn’t help but try to make it bigger in my memory. The shopkeeper seemed to find something reassuring in my claim. He nodded and smiled, and went back to counting nails in a box. Along the walls hung hardware and wheels, and watching over all of it was the head of an antelope. It was to be many years before I’d again see a shop so filled with merchandise.

  I left the bustling store and rejoined the flow of the crowd, letting it take me where it would. I looked up at the bluffs above the river and felt a pang of nostalgia.

  Those of us still preparing to leave had been enviously watching the wagon trains that left before us, miles of wagons, their white canvas glowing in the sun. We’d sit on top of the bluffs and imagine we were going with them. At night, campfires lined the Missouri River, glittering like a fairy city, miles and miles of sparkling lights, as if the entire country was moving westward. Lately, there had been fewer of the campfires. It was getting late in the season.

  “Why, I think perhaps the Indians are going to believe you are a princess,” I heard a voice say. I might have thought the comment was friendly, even flirtatious, but it dripped with disdain.

  I turned in surprise. The speaker was Bayliss, the young man Father had hired to drive our third wagon. He was leaning against the wheel of that wagon, a bale of flour at his feet. He was little more than a boy in appearance, but the knowing look on his face made him seem years and years older than me. He was tall and slender, with shaggy black hair and the beginnings of a beard. He had high cheekbones and wide eyes, and––I hated to admit it––I thought him handsome, when he wasn’t scowling.

  I looked down at my fine primrose dress. Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best––that is, those of us who owned Sunday best. Bayliss’s clothes were worn and muddy. His hat was battered and torn, and there was a thick smudge on his face, axle grease he’d smeared across his cheek and forehead.

  Whatever he might have thought, I do not believe I looked down on him. Father had told me that most worthy men start at a low station, and that here in America, any man could rise through hard work.

  I smiled at Bayliss uncertainly, unsure if he was mocking me. I’d only
been introduced to him once back in Springfield and I couldn’t remember having seen him since, though he must have been present during all those miles we had already traveled away from home. Before leaving, Father had given me a small pony, whom I called Paint, and I had ridden him most of the way, no doubt looking as if I was lording it over everyone else.

  I blushed a little, realizing I’d probably been ignoring Bayliss the whole trip. I pretended not to understand that his words might have been mocking, and curtsied prettily. “Why, thank you, kind sir!”

  His hard grin didn’t soften. He was mocking me. I couldn’t help it: I turned up my nose and sniffed, knowing as I did so that I was coming across as a prig. “Some of us are excited to be on our way,” I said loftily.

  “Oh, and what do you know? Do you have any idea what is ahead of us?”

  “I have read all the books there are to read,” I proclaimed. In truth, I had read one of the accounts of westward migration, but I suspected it was more than this boy had. “Do you have any idea what’s ahead of us?”

  A cloud passed over his face. “My uncle Frank left last season. He was going to send for me when he was established in Oregon. He had great plans for my family.” Bayliss shook his head. “We have not heard from him since. Mother has sent me to find him.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling vaguely ashamed of my pert response.

  “Sure you are,” Bayliss muttered. He pushed off from the wagon and walked away, his face stiff with anger.