Chapter 3 #2
The farmhand grunts. His breath is so putrid as to make Otto’s eyes water and his stomach contract violently.
Vomit rises up his throat. He swallows it down.
There’s no time to be sick, not when the farmhand doesn’t buckle, even though Otto is certain he swung the pail with enough force to bash in his skull.
Wiederg?nger, he thinks. A revenant.
The farmhand grabs him by the throat. His hands are much rotted and feel cool and horribly gelatinous. The bones are still strong, though, strong enough to clench his windpipe shut.
In a reflex, Otto grips the farmhand’s wrists and tries to pull his hands away. His skin has the texture of wet paper. It splits, then comes away altogether, dangling from his arms in marbled strips.
The farmhand opens his mouth to laugh as he chokes Otto.
Perhaps a vestige of who he used to be remains, and he remembers how Otto used a hammer to break his legs as his comrades egged him on.
He certainly seems to relish this moment, opening his mouth wider and wider until his cheeks rip and his tongue protrudes from between his teeth. It’s dark and swollen like a slug.
Think! Otto screams at himself. There’s not much time. Dark spots swarm his vision like flies. His eyes feel ready to plop from their sockets, and the pain in his throat is atrocious.
The way to kill a Wiederg?nger is by beheading them or setting them on fire, preferably both. Only Otto has no sword, no dagger, not even a spade. He doesn’t have anything on him to start a fire, either, though even if he did, the farmhand is too wet to burn anyway.
What he does have is the pail, still held in his shaking fist.
He clasps it in both hands, begins to raise it. It feels as if it’s filled with lead. His arms soon shake from the effort.
Oh God don’t let me drop it please don’t let me drop it if I drop it I’m done for…
He doesn’t drop it.
The lip of the pail connects with the farmhand’s chin, causing his mouth to snap shut. His tongue gets caught between his teeth. Instinctively, he lets go of Otto’s throat to touch his mouth.
Gasping and choking, Otto staggers out of reach. Every breath is both bliss and agony.
Accompanied by the strange man’s laughter, the farmhand comes at Otto again with outstretched hands.
This time, Otto is ready. He smashes the bottom of the pail against the farmhand’s face.
The stink that bursts forth is so overwhelming, he can’t stop himself from vomiting after all.
He opens his mouth and lets it pour out, splattering on his shoes and getting stuck in his beard.
Through streaming eyes, he clobbers the farmhand, whose shattered legs can’t hold him.
When he goes down, Otto sits down next to him and slams the pail against his face until all that’s left is a mass of slimy meat dotted with bone shards.
And still the fucker tries to rise.
Otto realizes he’s sobbing. The sound of it mixes with the goat’s terrified bleating.
Why is it that bleating sounds so much like humans screaming?
The Wiederg?nger only grows still once Otto manages to tear off his head.
When it’s done, Otto bends over, vomits again, then wipes the sick from his chin, the skin burning from the acid. He sobs, then stops; it makes his throat feel flayed.
All the while, the man with the goat eyes has been laughing, shaking as one with the falling sickness might when brought low by an attack.
“Why do you laugh?” Otto rasps, every word like a piece of glass he has to cough up.
The man—but he is no man he is a necromancer he’s a witch one who consorts with demons and devils and Satan himself—straightens, wipes the tears from his cheeks with the heel of his hand, and says, “Did you not think that amusing? You just killed the same man twice.”
“What do you want?”
“You have something of mine, Otto Donatus Kreuzler. I want it back.”
How does he know my name? Otto thinks wildly.
A shudder tears through him with such violence, his teeth clack together.
A piece of cheek gets caught, filling his eyes with tears and his mouth with blood.
He digs into his pocket, then holds out the golden chain with the crucifix he had intended for Frieda.
“I’m sorry. I know stealing is a sin. Please forgive me,” he groans.
For a moment, the necromancer’s yellow eyes widen in surprise. “Whatever makes you think I care about your sins or your silly little necklace?”
Otto folds his hands, the small cross held firmly between his fingers, as if the sliver of gold can protect him. “What is it you’re looking for, then?”
“A skull.”
Otto’s stomach feels as if the bottom has just dropped out of it. “A skull? One with hair as red as the devil’s and glass eyes?”
The man is still smiling that horrible wolfish smile. “That’s the very one.”
Now it is Otto who wants to laugh. He has to swallow it down; if he begins now, he thinks he might never stop. “You have the wrong man. I never had your skull. That would be Gottfried.”
“And where is this Gottfried?”
“Inside the farm. But he doesn’t have it anymore. He lost it in a game of dice.”
The man sighs and rubs his face. His hands are like pale spiders, thin and with long fingers. “How unfortunate. I had hoped this would be quick and easy. Oh well. Come along, you.”
Otto stays where he is.
At the door, the necromancer turns around, frowns when he sees Otto has not followed him. Then, his death mask of a face splits apart as he laughs again. “Oh dear. I forgot you aren’t dead yet.”
In one fluid motion, he takes a knife from his belt and flings it at Otto. It all happens so fast, there’s no time for Otto to even raise his hands. The knife catches him right in his bruised throat.
There is no pain, not at first. There’s only a sense of disbelief. He swallows, causing the weapon to move under his hand. The pain arrives then, hot and mean, radiating out so that the wound feels much bigger than it is.
Otto swallows again. He doesn’t mean to, but his brain knows there is something lodged inside his throat and wants it out. Blood trickles from the cut, warm and soft as a woman’s caress.
Frieda, Otto thinks. He wraps his fingers around the hilt, then tugs the knife out. A fountain of blood bursts from his ruined throat, coming so thick and fast that it overpowers the scent of shit and rot.
Otto sways. He feels cold and weak. It’s as if a rock has fallen on top of him, pressing him down, down, down, and he needs all his strength to keep standing, but it’s not enough, he’s so weak, and so cold, and the blood keeps coming, and—