Authors: Michael P. Spradlin
He turned his horse and Chee followed, wondering how it was that the major was able to keep his fear in check.
“A
in’t much of a city,” Hollister said. They sat on the hillside above Torson City, studying the small deserted camp below them. There were approximately ten buildings and a few tents, most of them having partially fallen down in the weeks since the attack, the canvas flapping and making a snapping noise in the breeze. Chee sat astride Smoke, not paying attention to the ground below them, instead studying the surrounding woods and mountains.
“They around?” Hollister asked.
“Yes, sir, no more than two miles back,” Chee said. “The same group.”
“Where’s Dog?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Chee said quietly. “Still hunting I expect.”
“I hope whoever is following us didn’t catch him or shoot him or something. I’m starting to grow fond of the critter,” Hollister said.
Chee shook his head as if such a thing was impossible. Dog would not be caught by Slater and his men or by any Utes or Arapahoes. Had it been Comanches or Kiowas, Chee might have had a moment of concern. Comanches and Kiowas were crafty and not likely to let a mutt sneak around and spy on them. But he wasn’t worried about the others.
“Hmm. Well. Whoever is following us knows where we’re headed. No reason for us not to check it out,” Hollister spurred his horse and loped down the small rise, entering what would have been the main street if it had been a real town. They rode slowly, Hollister felt jumpy, like something might spring from one of these buildings and grab him. They tied off the horses in front of the general store and walked inside.
There were small patches of dried blood that had soaked the wood floor. The stains had turned a dark brown but Hollister had seen enough of it in his day to recognize it. He didn’t know why, but he kept his hands on his pistol. The town was empty, he was sure of it, but instinct told him to be ready for trouble. They moved from the store to the saloon and each of the buildings in turn. There were kicked-over tables and chairs, and supplies and canned goods knocked about, indicating a struggle. But only a few bloodstains—not enough blood for the number of men who had been killed.
“Chee, when these things attacked us in Wyoming . . .” Hollister started to say.
“Yes, sir, you said they drank the blood of your men. It would appear that is what happened here. For a dozen men to be killed, in this small area, there would be more blood. It should be everywhere. Yet it is not,” he said.
Chee stepped off the board porch in front of the saloon, studying the ground in front of the general store.
“What is it?” Hollister asked.
“Something. Tracks. A few days, a week old at most. They are mixed in with the hoofprints and footprints of the miners. It must not have rained here in a while. But someone was here, after the first attack by the creatures. Those tracks are too fresh. It was three, maybe four men,” he said. He didn’t mention the small footprints in the ground. Those, he was sure, belonged to the woman who had been following them. He lowered himself to the ground, peering at the marks, determining that the smaller footprints got heavier and trailed around the side of the building. Whoever had walked this path was carrying something heavy.
He followed the tracks to where they led to a small shed behind the store. Someone had made several trips back and forth from the front of the store to the shed. Maybe for firewood? Could this be where the miners kept their gold dust? He doubted that. It wasn’t the most secure place. For a reason he could not yet fathom, someone had returned to the scene and used the shed for something. He knew Declan had sent Slater to check out his son’s story, but he did not see Slater’s tracks anywhere. In town he had taken notice of the boots Slater wore and he saw no matching tracks. Slater would have been careful not to leave sign behind. He likely rode his horse along the shallow stream until he reached the camp, and then stayed on the wooden walkways, where he would leave no evidence of his having been there. It is how Chee would have done it if he had been asked by Hollister to perform a similar task.
The shed had a broken padlock.
“Major, over here,” he said.
Hollister felt compelled to draw his Colt. “What are you looking for, Chee?” he asked.
Chee didn’t answer, but threw away the padlock and pulled open the door on the small windowless building. He recognized the stench right away and jumped back a bit as the first body fell forward, landing in the dirt at his feet.
“Holy shit!” Hollister said, startled and taking a step back himself.
Two other bodies lay inside the shed. Chee looked at the major, wondering what he should do.
“Let’s get them out here, so we can have a look at them,” Hollister said, pulling his bandana over his mouth and nose to block out the smell.
Together they laid the corpses side by side on the ground. They had been dead a few days and were starting to decay, but the shed had saved them from the harshest elements. One of the men was badly burned, another had a large stab wound in the middle of his chest, and the third man had a broken neck.
“You don’t think these are miners, do you, sir?” Chee asked.
Hollister shook his head. “If we go by what young Mr. Declan told us, he’s the only one who survived that night. And these aren’t . . . I don’t think they’re . . . they don’t look like . . .”
“I don’t think they’re Deathwalkers either, sir,” Chee said.
Hollister felt an enormous surge of relief. “The question is, what and who are they?” he said. “And furthermore, how did they end up dead here?”
“And why hide them? If they came to loot the place, or surprised other looters, why would someone go to the trouble to hide their bodies?” Chee asked.
“Good question,” Hollister said. And he had no answer. At least not one that made sense.
Hollister stood, straightening his back. He looked up at the mine shaft, which was dug into the side of the hill to the west of the camp, about three hundred yards away.
“Let’s see if we can find some torches around here,” he said. “We might as well check out the mine.”
“Really, sir?” Chee asked. He didn’t like closed-in spaces. The thought of venturing into the dark mine gave him an uncomfortable feeling.
“Sure,” Hollister said. “Why wouldn’t we? We need to be thorough. Then he noticed. “What’s wrong, Chee?” he said.
“Nothing . . . sir . . .” Chee said. “It’s just I . . . would it be all right if I waited outside while you inspected it?”
Hollister tried hard not to chuckle. “Really, Chee? You’ll take on a thug like McAfee. Deathwalkers don’t seem to give you pause at all. But you don’t like the dark?”
“It’s not that . . . I . . . no, sir. I don’t like being closed in like that.”
“Well, we’ll try not to go too far in. But I’m afraid you need to come with me. I might need you to shoot something.”
“Yes, sir,” Chee said, the reluctance dripping from his voice.
They found two torches in the general store and Hollister retrieved the Ass-Kicker from his saddle. Since Winchester had left it, Monkey Pete had tinkered with it a bit, affixing a sling to the barrel and the stock. It hung at precisely the right position so Hollister could work the action and have one hand free. In truth he would have liked to use his Colt for the other hand, but they needed light. He would have to use his free hand to hold a torch, which they lit once they reached the entrance of the mine. Chee removed the ten-gauge shotgun he had strapped to his back and held his torch in the other hand.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Hollister asked.
“Unlikely, sir,” Chee answered, the sweat appearing on his forehead and dripping down the sides of his face. He held the torch out in front of him, brandishing it like a sword. The thumb on his other hand nervously worked over the trigger on the shotgun, ready to cock it and fire at a moment’s notice.
About fifty feet inside they saw the first signs that the killing hadn’t been confined to the town below. Here there were more dark brown stains scattered on the walls and in the dirt floor and on some of the timbers holding up the roof of the shaft. It was everywhere. Hollister thought this meant the first killings must have taken place here—which meant the creatures might have hidden in the mine to avoid the sun and waited for the miners to venture inside it before striking.
“Dear God,” Hollister whispered.
“Yes, sir,” Chee murmured.
“Chee, why do you think there is so much blood here and not in the buildings?” Hollister asked, working his torch over the sides and ceiling of the shaft looking for anything that might provide a clue.
“They were hungry,” Chee said.
“Hungry?”
“Yes, sir. Deathwalkers need to feed on blood. They were waiting here for the miners to arrive. And they were consumed with blood lust. They killed the men in here and fed enough to get themselves under control. Then they attacked the town. By then they were more in control, able to kill the men in the camp more quickly and efficiently and with less waste. A hungry man, someone who hasn’t eaten in days, is going to eat his first meal much more eagerly. Once his hunger is sated, he’ll be less crude at his next meal. A little neater. A little less of a savage. I think that’s what happened here.”
Hollister nodded his head in admiration for the young man’s intuition. “I think you’re right, Chee. I think that’s exactly what happened.”
A loud thump came from somewhere up ahead of them. Hollister raised the Ass-Kicker, thumbing back the hammer, hearing a reassuring hiss as steam filled the firing chamber.
“Sergeant, be ready,” he said.
Chee needed no other instruction. Although he wished that Hollister would suspend his examination of the mine and return to the outdoors. What more could they possibly discover here?
Hollister took the lead, the Ass-Kicker resting on his hip, his other hand holding the torch. The thumping noise sounded again, closer this time, and to Chee it very much felt like something was coming toward them. More noises filled the chamber, and try as he might, Chee could not determine what they were. He had grown up mostly in Louisiana, in swamp and bayou country, and hadn’t spent a lot of time in mines or caves. The whole environment felt foreign to him.
The individual thumps merged, like a drumbeat, then came a rushing sound, and all Chee could think of was a flock of birds; perhaps some starlings or sparrows had gotten shut up in the mine somehow.
The bats hit them full on. There were hundreds of them.
“Look out!” Hollister tried to shout but the flying creatures hitting his face and chest muffled the rest of his words. He dropped the torch and the Ass-Kicker and fell to the ground, the bats flying over and around him, wanting nothing but to reach the entrance of the mine and fly off into the open air.
To Chee it felt like hundreds of them were striking his face, chest, and arms, and he shouted, waving the torch back and forth trying to keep them off. Hollister was on his hands and knees, his hat lying in the dirt and Winchester’s special gun hissing on the ground beside him.
As quickly as the bats were upon them they were gone, rushing past and exiting the mine shaft to their rear, their squeals dying out as they flew away.
Hollister stayed on the ground, breathing hard. He looked at Chee. The young man had restored the usual tranquil look to his face.
“Good Christ,” Hollister said, retrieving his hat and using it to fan the embers on the torch and get it burning again. He finally stood up, smacking the grit from his duster and pants. He picked up the Ass-Kicker, which on examination looked none the worse for wear.
“I don’t know about you Chee, but I could use a little sunshine right about now,” Hollister said.
Chee tried hard to keep the happiness out of his voice. “Yes, sir,” he said.
They strode quickly back to the entrance, and were relieved to step out into the fresh air, the sun warm on their faces even in the cool mountain breeze. Both men were quiet for a few minutes, the sun creeping slowly across the sky as they made their way cautiously back down to the shed where the three bodies lay. Each tried to piece together a situation that got more curious by the day. As Hollister was about to inform Chee of his overwhelming desire to be away from the mine before the bats returned, their thoughts were interrupted by a bark as Dog loped into the town, coming from the north. He ran up to Chee and pushed his head into the young man’s hand briefly before going to the bodies on the ground and working them over with his nose.
“Good boy,” Chee said.
“Not so sure about that,” Hollister said, pointing to the mountain ridge to the north and above the town that Dog had just returned from.
A ridge that was now lined with nearly forty Ute warriors. All on horseback and looking mightily pissed off.
“Well, shit,” Hollister said. “I suddenly got the feeling we should have stayed on the train.”
T
o the east on the mountainside just above the mine shaft and well hidden in the trees, Shaniah sat astride Demeter, watching the scene below and cursing her bad luck. Her plan had been to follow Chee and Hollister and see if they had a plan for finding Malachi. In her mind, she hoped the witch-man Chee would be able to conjure some clue from the scene of the rogue Archaics’ last massacre. Any indication that would tell him where they had gone. It was her only hope. The trail had gone cold and Malachi’s time was drawing ever near. At the age of fifteen hundred years he would become an Eternal. Virtually unable to die unless killed in battle by another Eternal, and she would need to wait more than a hundred years before she herself became Eternal. By then it would be far too late. His plan to wreak havoc on humankind was foolish and would only succeed in destroying her people.
For now, Archaics lived in the shadows. Hidden high in the mountains. There were nothing but whispers and legends, scary stories told to children to keep them afraid of the night things. Malachi was ruining all of that. If they were revealed, if humans learned of their actual existence, they would use their technology, armies, and superior numbers, and her people would cease to exist, all because of Malachi’s vanity. She could not allow this.
She should have hidden the looters’ bodies more carefully. Killing the three men had been easy, but she had been careless and in a hurry to find Malachi. In her haste, she had almost forgotten the bodies were still there. And Chee had found them in a matter of minutes. It was becoming clearer to her by the minute that she would need to kill Chee before he discovered who she was and stopped her.
The Indians’ arrival gave her pause. She wondered what Hollister would do. Would he try to fight his way out? Or talk? Should she help them if it came to a fight?
The next few minutes would prove interesting, at least.
S
later and his men stayed well back in the trees. The mining camp was in a small valley near the river, and from the rise to the south they could see everything unfolding before them quite clearly. He was certain Hollister and the breed knew they were being followed. And in fact, Slater and his men had made no real effort to conceal themselves other than staying far enough back so as not to be visible to the naked eye. Seven men on horseback weren’t easy to hide, and besides, he knew Hollister and Chee were experienced enough to know they would be coming.
He had not counted on running into forty mounted and armed Utes, however.
One of his six men, Baker, a heavyset, slow-witted thug, nudged his horse forward until he was next to Slater.
“What we gonna do, Boss? Should we help ’em out?” he asked.
Slater shook his head. “Not my orders. Mr. Declan wanted them followed, he didn’t say anything about fightin’ Utes.” But he was conflicted. At first, Senator Declan had wanted this whole affair swept under the rug. Let everyone think his son was a coward, a drunk who had run away from an Indian massacre. Eventually all the excitement would die down and things would go back to normal, and the Torson City killings would become just another ghost story.
It might have worked, but Slater had visited the camp and seen signs for himself. This wasn’t something that was going away. It hadn’t. People were talking, gossip was spreading. A few farmers and ranchers had already picked up and left. Whether they believed what had happened at Torson City had been because of monsters or Indians didn’t really matter. People leaving the territory was bad for business and bad for the senator.
And since his own fortunes rose and fell with those of Declan, he needed to make sure this was handled. The only way to do that was to let Hollister and Chee find these creatures and kill them. Then Slater would step in.
Down below, the two men stood rooted to their spots, neither they nor the Utes moving. It was an uncomfortable standoff. Slater had momentarily forgotten his interest in the three bodies they had pulled out of the shed. He was waiting to see what happened next and wishing he could hear what they were saying.