Gray Soil
by Robert Dunbar
They advanced and receded like the eternal tides, Turk and Cossack, Hun and Mongolian. Wave after wave, they starved and shivered and struggled with their crude weapons, until their blood soaked this ground between so many hungry empires. Sons dropped where fathers had fallen, where grandfathers had squirmed their last. Through generations, they burned and slaughtered across the frozen earth until the terrain became a bleak and twisted wasteland.
Yet things inhabited this landscape, things suited to it. Armies of rodents sometimes carpeted the low hills; hordes of crows could settle like oily smoke. 
And other things scavenged here as well. 
"Hurry now." A cramp clawed at Mara's side, and only fear kept her numbed feet moving over the frozen ground. 
They could make little speed across this field of bones, but her oldest daughter scampered to stay close behind her, the simple dress and the scarf around her head making her look like some slim doppelganger of her mother. The infant in the girl's arms never cried, might have been a mere bundle of cloth. Usually, the rats scurried at their approach, though sometimes they clapped their hands to drive away the boldest, those that rose on gray haunches and bared filth-smeared fangs. Only rarely did they have to throw stones or bits of bone.
"Hurry, child. It's getting closer." Her breath misted before her. "Is the baby too heavy?" Her gaze strayed from her daughter to scan the landscape in nervous swoops. 
Winter sunlight fell bleakly, providing neither warmth nor comfort. In places the earth retained a ruddy stain, and corrupt flesh squelched underfoot. Always, the time just after a battle offered the best yield, and today's had proved a successful foray. They were laden with booty now, making it hard to move quickly. 
This latest battle had been fought on the scene of an earlier fray, and while many of the bodies had already moldered into mere heaps, the fresher ones retained agonized contortions. As always, stripping the clothes from the corpses had proved arduous. Often the bodies came apart along with the garments, and seldom was any of this cloth usable. Even in this chill, the corpses exuded a fetid stench that seemed to hover about them. Maritsa had long ago learned to mimic her mother by wrapping her scarf about her lower face when they stooped to probe recesses. (Valuables might be secreted anywhere, though usually the corpses had already been plundered by surviving comrades.) They'd been lucky recently. Just the previous week, they'd retrieved a relatively undamaged sword from the gut of a fresh kill, and only that dawn, there'd been a rare find on a body whose ruined armor seemed better than the others, an officer perhaps: a few copper coins, stamped with some imperial visage. The sword alone might bring enough to buy milk and bread when they took it to town for market day. 
But now-disaster. The creature had scented them hours ago, and they could not shake it. Again, Mara's gaze raked the horizon. Even without such a beast invading the area, things had been bad this season, food scarce, the nights frigid. Slowly, her children starved, and true winter drew ever closer. She hurried, the cold seeping into her bones, her throat raw.
They were still so far from home.
If they broke into a run, the thing would only charge and catch them in the open. No, they had but one chance-to convince it they were not worth the effort of stalking, that they were too vigorous, could offer too much of a struggle, and since first they'd glimpsed it, they'd marched as energetically as possible, swinging their arms and stomping their feet, Mara calling encouragement to her daughter all the while. But the creature would not be dissuaded. Possibly, it too starved. 
The world grayed further, the pallid sun melting toward the horizon. 
Mara chewed her lower lip. Under no circumstances could she allow the thing to overtake them after dark; under no circumstances must it follow them back to the hut where the other children waited.
"Momma, I think I saw it coming over that last hill." Maritsa held the baby tightly. "It lay flat to the ground like a stoat."
"Hush." Mara nodded. "I saw it too, child." She'd spotted the creature as it scuttled over the rise, a pile of rags somehow animate. This was what she'd always feared, that such a monster should come upon them when she had one or more of the children with her. By herself, she might outrun it, even Maritsa with her long legs might make it as far as the ridge. But with the infant...
Maritsa clutched at her skirt. "Mama, the hut is near-"
"Patience. Keep moving."
"The water is gone, Mama. We'll be thirsty soon."
"Our thirst is nothing." All her life, Mara had heard tales of such things. In her childhood, the people of the village had spoken of how these creatures could transform themselves into swarms of insects or fetid mists, but even then she'd been skeptical, and her own mother-a highly sensible woman-had answered all her questions. No, they did not shift their forms, she'd told her. How could they? And although they, like most beasts of prey, preferred the dark, daylight held no magic powers to destroy them. Once Mara had actually glimpsed several of them, sliding like shadows through a dusky field, before her mother had pulled her in and bolted the door. Not long afterwards, soldiers had descended upon the villagers, desperate for their meager supplies, and Mara had hidden herself in the fields. When she'd dared to venture back, driven more by hunger than hope, she'd found her village had ceased to exist. And she'd begun to scavenge.
She dared another look behind them. Nothing seemed to move in all the dismal expanse. Or did the cluster of reeds atop the far incline rustle slightly? She turned away. The thing must not know they guessed its presence. So long as it stalked them slowly, some chance remained.
This far from the battleground lay only a few carcasses, some of the wounded having staggered an impressive distance. Many of these already appeared to have been tugged apart by beasts. Gradually, the flat terrain gave way to rockier earth, mottled boulders jutting like knobs of bone. 
"Momma, this passage through the rocks-no place to dodge. If it catches us here..."
Lines of stone ribbed the broken ground, until some of the larger rocks loomed above their heads.
"Hush, child, do as I say. Just nod to show you're listening."
The girl's mouth quivered, but she lifted her chin bravely. 
"When I tell you, I want you to take the baby and run as fast as you can. Straight through the pass. Don't look left or right, and don't stop. No matter what you hear. No matter how tired you become. Do you understand?"
Again, the child nodded solemnly, but this time her eyes glistened. A wisp of hair had worked loose from the babushka-fair like her father's had been. 
Mara almost smiled. He'd been a handsome man, Maritsa's father, and the girl had inherited his Prussian features. An officer, he'd kept the other men away from Mara, and she still felt a certain gratitude. She touched the child lightly, tucking the wisp of hair away. Her daughter would reach home safely. Mara would see to it. 
She scanned the horizon. The creature must lurk behind the nearest hillock-there was no other cover. 
"Go now. Quickly!"
Without hesitation, Maritsa obeyed her, dashing through the pass with the infant, though Mara could tell from the set of the child's shoulders how much she ached to look back. "She is a good girl," she whispered to herself. She waited until her daughter rounded the first turn of the passage, until the first outcroppings of boulders all but obscured her from sight, then her fingers strayed to the short dagger beneath her cloak. The cold had deepened, and clouds roiled across the murky sky. 
She moaned softly; loud enough, she hoped, for the thing in the reeds. Slowly, she limped away from the mouth of the passage. After a few yards, she groaned again, louder. Stiffening her left leg, she dragged it, leaving a wide mark in the loose soil, and she hunched her shoulders like a crippled hag and sobbed to herself. Twenty paces later, she peered back. 
No weeds rustled. If she moved any further from the path-and the thing should charge after the children-she'd have no chance to throw herself between them. It must follow her.
Drawing the dagger, she drew it sharply across the flesh of her forearm. Instantly, the blood sprang, dappling the ground, and she moaned loudly now. 
The fringe of grass vibrated. 
Dead reeds parted. 
Something emerged. 
As it crawled across the ground, she actually glimpsed it. 
Gray. Soiled. Drooling. 
Turning quickly, she limped toward the large boulders just ahead. The hissing wind carried a dry slither to her ears, but she dared not look. Just a little further, she told herself, then she could run. She clutched the dagger more tightly, holding it out of sight.
Though she knew it couldn't really be that near, she imagined she heard the rattle of its breath. An outcrop of boulders blocked the path, and the instant she edged behind it, she dashed a dozen paces, then slowed to a limp again, flailing her arms with each step. 
Would it take the bait? She glanced back toward the rocks. 
The thing stood almost upright, staring.
She'd seen plague victims. This was worse. Much worse. Rotted rags still clung to the wasted frame, but gray flesh showed through wide swathes where the cloth had gone, and in places fat-colored bone protruded. Desperately fighting her instincts to flee, she limped on, but with broad strides now, a rapid stiff-legged gait. Quaking, she looked back again. It had vanished, but a tiny hillock now possessed a suspiciously deep shadow. She drew an agonized breath.
She'd been moving since before dawn, and the muscles in her legs throbbed. If the thing caught her, drained her, it might have strength enough to survive the season, possibly even strength enough to search out the children. She clutched the dagger more tightly. If she sliced it across her own throat hard enough, she might be dead before the thing reached her—but she doubted that would prevent its feeding.
Rapidly, she lurched over the rough ground, picking her way through dead grasses and patches of frost, her breath coming in ragged gasps now, her side aching like a gash. The cut on her forearm had stopped bleeding, but she guessed the thing was close enough to smell it still, and she hoped only that—by the time it charged—she wouldn't be too worn out to escape. Her ruse had bought time for the children, but what good would it do if she were lost? How would they get through the winter? Stephan, the oldest boy, was strong enough to plow their meager field, but the few potatoes would never feed them long. They had some things to sell, but would he be able to get all the long, dangerous way to town and back by himself? And would it bring enough to see them through the cold months? 
Never. It would never be enough. Without her, they would starve in their hut. The baby first. Then little Ludmilla. Then—
She must survive. She must make it back to them.
There had to be a way. 
The creature dropped to all fours again, sniffing. The scent drove it to a slathering frenzy; froth slicked its neck and chest. Pushing its face to the dark spot on the dirt, it drew in the smell, licked at the sandy soil. It peered over the hump of earth. 
The woman lay on the ground, her body hunched over a tuft of grass. A slight wind moved her cloak, but the shawl stayed tightly wound about her head. Nothing else moved.
The smell of blood diminished, and the thing whimpered—the woman had died. It would have to move quickly: it had lost prey to wolves before, even to rats. It scrambled toward the lifeless woman. 
It threw itself upon her, sank its teeth into her shoulder.
Something crunched. Violently shaking its head, it leapt up and spat bits of tooth on the ground. Senseless eyes veering wildly, it clawed at the corpse, and the bloody dress came away in sections. Beneath the cloth lay moldering branches for arms, a lump of stone for a head. 
* * *
From her hiding place behind the dead tree, Mara lunged, bringing the knife down hard in the center of the creature's back. 
It fell forward like a dead tree. In the dirt, it twisted its head and glared at her with rheumy eyes. Under the mottled filth, nothing human lay in the expression, only the dumb cunning of a weasel, something that prowled the woodpile for mice. 
It hissed.
She yanked at the knife, but the blade stuck, then tore free, releasing a putrid stench. She brought it down again. It felt as though she stabbed a pile of bedding.
In a blur of movement, the creature turned, eyes rolling, and stiffened limbs flailed with animal fury. Teeth fastened on her bared forearm, and pain clamped down on her, almost paralyzing her. Almost. 
With all her strength, she brought the dagger down on the thing's face. It growled now, clawed at her with skeletal fingers. She raked the blade back and forth, slicing away bloodless flesh, exposing broken teeth. 
It drooled watery blood but would not let go. Thorny fingers stung at her chest, her shoulders.
She raised the dagger high and struck again. At the throat. At the side of the neck. Sawing and hacking. Aiming for the hard, dead muscles. 
With one last sinewy snap, the blade sliced straight through the neck, but the head kept biting, and the body did not fall. Instead, for a moment she struggled against two adversaries. Then the body stumbled away from her frantic blows and toppled, thrashing in the brush. 
She struck again and again at the head. She swung it against the ground, until the face became a caul of draining fluid, a mask of tissue and mucous. At last, her dagger found the hinge of the jaw and levered. 
The obscene mess dropped away. It rolled.
Finally, she sat on the ground, gazed up at the sky and sobbed convulsively. Clouds congealed.
Stumbling up, she staggered a few paces, then sat heavily in the dirt again. Filth-smeared skirts bunched up around her legs, resisting her efforts to smooth them down. She felt ashamed for having cried out. Ashamed and stupid. If other such creatures lurked nearby, her cries would only draw them. There might even be wolves; yet she lacked the strength to rise. 
The chill...the twilight...
She knew she should retrieve her cloak and begin the long walk home, but her resolve seemed to seep away into the hard, frigid ground. She gritted her teeth. Her legs kicked spasmodically as she wrestled herself onto her side, scrambled slowly onto her feet. Her arm ached with a numbing burn, like cold fire in her veins.
The children...
She forced trembling limbs to obey her. Liquid and gray, the landscape wavered, swirling in her vision. She made it as far as the next tree before she had to sit again. 
The pain had stopped. All sensation had stopped. 
She gazed at the bitten arm—the blood had ceased to ooze, and she prodded the torn flesh but still felt nothing. She considered the children and the warmth of the fire. Surely that warmth would bring feeling back into her frozen feet and hands. Surely.
Her thoughts churned apart, random fragments floating to the surface. The children. Stephan, eyes as black as the Cossack who had sired him and already nearly as tall. Maritsa, little mother to the others. She thought of the infant Mikhail, coughing already as his first winter approached...so fragile...his sweet breath on her face--.
Her hands clawed into the earth. 
She knew what she had become. Was becoming. Could feel the venom coursing within her, drawing ever closer to her breast. By full nightfall, she'd be one of them. 
And she would go home. 
She clawed at her face, tore hair from her head in great clumps, trying to feel some pain that would help her cling to lucidity. 
She knew what she must do. Now. While some strength of will remained.
Only with great effort did the sash at her waist come away, the knot battling her stiffened fingers and her numbing brain, but finally the length of it dangled from her hand. Wrapping it several times around her throat, she twisted it tight.
Again the children's faces swam through her brain. 
She climbed the stunted tree: an ordeal, the bark hard and thorny on her palms and knees; yet she seemed not really to feel it, to be distant from the places where flesh scraped away. 
"Maritsa, they're yours now." At last, she neared the top and inched her way along a sturdy limb. "Bar the door." Cold and viscous tears filled her eyes as she struggled to tie the sash around a branch. "Care for them." 
She didn't jump so much as merely allow herself to fall.
* * *
"She will be home soon." Maritsa clutched at her brother. "You must not go out there until she returns."
Stephan tried to push past her through the open door. "But—"
"Put down the ax," she insisted. "You cannot help her."
"But Mama is—"
"Think of the little ones. If the beast comes here, we will need you to fight it." She let one hand drop to her smaller sister's shoulder. Little Ludmilla blinked up at her brother, her thumb rooted firmly in her mouth.
The breath sighed out of him. "Close the shutter and latch it," he said. "Then help me pull Mama's bed against the door." Stephan stared at the gathering shadows. "It is getting dark."
* * *
A dim cinder, the sun faded on the horizon. Darkness spread like smoke along the ground.
Hanging from the end of the sash, the corpse quivered. 
It twitched again.
The first gleam of moonlight brought convulsions. The body kicked. Hands clawed; arms windmilled. Hissing coughs gargled in the throat. At last, the sash gave way, and the flailing carcass plummeted.
Heaving herself up, she pitched forward, fell, scrambled on all fours. All around her, moonlight glowed on the ground, impossibly bright, blinding.
Images of the children swam in what remained of her mind, nothing so definite as a thought, more the tatters of a dream. Even these fragments disintegrated further as she lurched over broken earth, clawing past boulders, their shadows merging with the night. It grew colder, but no breath misted at her face. It grew darker, but she stumbled less. 
The heath diminished to a path, and her feet drew her to it, carried her along it. 
It seemed the cottage came to her. The only possible destination, it floated in the night. 
At last, she reached for the front door: it failed to open. She pushed again. Her mouth opened to cry for them to let her in, but only a hissing moan emerged. Her nails scrabbled. Her fists beat at the door, leaving a smear of flesh on the wood.
She could smell them within. Her children. Growling with need, she launched herself against the wood.
"It'll get in!"
"Help me prop the door with this!" They pulled rough boards from their beds and banged them down as best they could with their hands, wedging them tightly. 
"The window!"
"It's bolted!"
"Help me hold it!" The thing clawed at the rough shutters, pounded along the walls.
"Ssh. Listen." Maritsa clutched a hand to her mouth, and they all fell silent. "It's on the roof," she whispered. 
Just above their heads, it clambered, scrabbling, as the baby began to cry. >From the timbers of the low ceiling, dirt dribbled down.
"The chimney!"
"It'll get in!"
Soot and gravel cascaded onto the fire, hissed into the soup pot.
"It's coming!" Ludmilla screamed. "Mama!"
"Help us!"
But no monster crawled out of the chimney. Only a thin yowling noise emerged.
"It's stuck!" Stephan grabbed the stew pot and howled in burning pain. "Look out!" He heaved the pot to the ground, the thin, scalding liquid flooding the dirt floor. "Wood! More wood!"
Behind him, something crashed. He whirled to find Maritsa breaking one of the rough chairs by striking it repeatedly against the floor. 
"Throw it on! Quick! Get the little table! Another chair!"
The children scrambled, smashing up their meager belongings, throwing bits of wood onto the fire, even pieces of cloth, anything that would burn. Soon they could scarcely see, as smoke cascaded into the room. Ludmilla coughed and choked. 
From the chimney came a grunting squeal.
"Burn it! Burn it up!"
"Break up the bed! Wood! More wood!"
* * *
That night the snow began, and throughout the morning, it came down steadily. Though they were still afraid to open the door, Maritsa could see beneath the crack to where the day swirled white. "Hush, now, Mikhail, hush," she cooed, jiggling the baby on her lap as he wailed hungrily. "I wish we hadn't spilled the stew."
Stephan looked away.
"And it's so cold." She huddled the baby closer.
"We can't light the fire," he told her again. "The smoke—that thing is clogging the chimney."
Hours passed with even Ludmilla unnaturally silent. An icy glow seeped through the cracks in the walls. The chill seeped into their bones. 
"No, we can't!"
"We have to try."
"What if it's still out there?" But after a whispered conference, the children cautiously began to pull away their feeble barricade, and while the infant whimpered wetly, Stephan stood ready with the axe.
Hard snow crusted the world. Already, it had mounded against the door, but Stephan smashed it away. All around them, the tiny hillocks now hulked, and the few trees twisted, encased. 
"Mama's not ever coming back, is she?"
"You mustn't say such things, Stephan."
"But—"
"The little ones." She clutched the baby. "They'll hear you."
Throughout the morning, it kept coming down. By noon, when they checked again, they could barely get the door open, and soon they all huddled on the remaining cot, shivering. 
"The thing," said Maritsa. "It's dead." 
Ludmilla's teeth chattered, and the baby began to cough again. 
"It has to be dead," agreed Stephan. 
"We must have a fire," Maritsa told him solemnly. "Stephan, we must."
A moment later, he crouched in the cold ashes, reaching up. 
"Be careful," whispered Maritsa. 
Ludmilla squeezed her hand. "What if it grabs Stephan?"
"Hush, 'Milla."
"I think I feel it," Stephan grunted. "Hand me the axe."
* * *
The moon gleamed almost blindingly along the path.
Ice still pocked the earth along the path to town, and the children marched close together with a quick strong tread, their few possessions bundled on their backs. Stephan took the lead with the armor and other trinkets they hoped to sell or trade, and Maritsa followed closely, the baby in her arms making little contented sounds. Ludmilla skipped along behind. 
The thing in the chimney had come out in sections, hacked and blackened. No hair, the face burnt away, cut away, scraped away against the chimney stones. At first, they'd thrown the pieces out into the blizzard, but it hadn't taken many days before Maritsa had sent Stephan to retrieve them—and to get more wood to cook with.
Grateful for the full moon, they moved throughout the night, untiring, town still days away.
"We'll probably meet other travelers along the road," Stephan assured them. 
Shifting the baby to her other arm, Maritsa nodded, hoping he was right. They were all so thirsty.