Authors: Michael P. Spradlin
H
ollister emptied the Fire Shooter and then shrugged the other one onto his back, twisted the knob, and pulled the trigger. Fire shot out of the barrel and more Archaics screamed and died. In Absolution, Shaniah had said that fire would not kill an Archaic. He had to consider the possibility that she was lying or withholding something in case she needed some tactical advantage later. Because to Hollister it looked like the Fire Shooter took the flesh right off their bones. He wondered if they were able to regrow skin. Maybe they could come back to life as skeletons or something. Or maybe Monkey Pete had put something in his “mixture” to give it a little extra kick. Holy water, maybe? Whatever it was, the Archaics sure looked dead.
The ground between the two buildings and the mine shaft was littered with bodies. By Hollister’s count there were maybe only sixty Archaics left alive. It was almost over. If they killed the rest of them, he could go after Malachi. He checked the gauge on the Fire Shooter and it now was about a quarter of a tank full.
He was swinging the barrel back and forth, the fire knocking down Archaics like bowling pins. Up near the mine entrance he saw Malachi still standing on the crates. It was like he was glued to the spot, forced by someone to watch his army crumble before his eyes. Suddenly Malachi broke for the mine shaft, and Hollister thought for sure he saw someone in a dark coat and flash of blond hair following him. Shaniah. Going into the mine after Malachi. A bad idea. Really bad idea. He couldn’t let her do it alone. She had taken a part of him. His heart, his soul. He just knew he couldn’t let her face Malachi alone.
He glanced across at Chee in the shed, still working the Gatling.
“CHEE!” he hollered, hoping he could be heard over the sound of the gun. The sergeant looked in his direction.
“I’m going after Malachi. You clean up the rest!”
“Major! I don’t think—”
“Shaniah is in there with him!”
“Sir! Please don’t, she will be able to . . .”
But Hollister was no longer paying attention. He slung the Ass-Kicker over his shoulder. For good measure, he put a couple of bundles of dynamite in the pockets of his duster. He grabbed the Henry with one hand and kept the barrel of the almost empty Fire Shooter in his other. He glanced out the open wall. He had a clear path most of the way to the mine. Chee was still working the Gatling and Hollister reminded himself to thank Monkey Pete for packing so much additional ammo.
Hollister broke through the door frame and cut to his left around the building. There weren’t any Archaics closer than thirty yards away, so he sprinted toward the mine. Five or six noticed he was out in the open and came his way. He pulled the trigger on the Fire Shooter. And as often happens in dangerous or combat situations, a strange and silly thought entered his mind. He really didn’t like the name “Fire Shooter” for Pete’s weapon. He made a mental note to work on a new name for it.
The fire shot out of the barrel and drove the advancing Archaics back, giving him time to run toward the mine shaft. And he would have made it just fine if he hadn’t tripped and fallen face-first into the dirt. He wasn’t hurt—mostly embarrassed, and afraid he was going to die like a fool, letting six Archaics jump on him and tear him apart. When he got to his knees though, he saw how close he was to serious trouble and his embarrassment disappeared. An Archaic had seen him tumble and lunged in his direction. Hollister swore they could cover twenty yards in a single bound. It would be on him in an instant. He dropped the Fire Shooter and tried to bring his Henry up so he could shoot, but the slings and belts were all tangled up from the fall. Only ten yards left, he pulled his Colt and was raising it to fire when Dog knocked the Archaic flat on its ass.
The creature had once been a young boy, and though he possessed newfound strength and agility with his new Archaic abilities, he was no match for the massive, enraged animal. There was no question Dog had developed a passionate hatred for Archaics. He wasted no time, grabbing the throat and shaking the creature as easily as he might shake a rabbit. Hollister staggered to his feet, raised the Henry, and shot the Archaic in the heart. It exploded into a cloud of dust. If it was possible for a canine to look disappointed, Dog did.
“Sorry to ruin your fun, boy. I appreciate you saving me and all, but I’m in a rush,” he said.
He checked the Henry and both pistols. The dynamite remained in the pockets of his duster. But the barrel of Fire Shooter was now clogged with dirt. He knocked it on his boot trying to clear it, and some of it came loose but it was still plugged, deep in the barrel. He shrugged out of the apparatus and left it there. He didn’t have time to try to fix it and it was almost out of fuel. The Ass-Kicker was probably a better choice anyway. He slung the Henry on his back and pulled the Ass-Kicker around to his waist. He worked the action, heard the small hiss of steam as the round chambered and locked in place. He was ready to go. All of his preparations had taken place while Chee continued firing the Gatling, keeping the remaining Archaics at bay.
“Thanks again, Dog,” Hollister said. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
He ran toward the mine shaft, surprised to find Dog loping along beside him.
The Archaics had been whittled down to a few clusters scattered between the shed and the mine shaft. Hollister ran as fast as he could while shooting with some level of accuracy. Dog worked like an anti-sheepdog; when an Archaic approached, he chased it away, never getting too far away from Hollister.
Finally he reached the entrance. It was dark inside, and he wished he’d thought to bring a torch. He glanced quickly around, but there was nothing serviceable nearby. Luckily he had Dog.
“All right boy, let’s find Shaniah,” he said. He tried to think of how Chee addressed the animal, compelling it to do what the sergeant commanded. He remembered something Chee always said to the giant animal.
“Dog! Hunt!” he said.
A
s Malachi ran deeper into the mine, he could hear Shaniah following behind him. The Old Ones had sent her to kill him. He assumed they would just let him go, figuring that a human with a new weapon or an elemental would eventually kill him. Yet, here she was. Impressive. The Council had decided he was too dangerous. If he succeeded with any part of his plan, he would bring human wrath down on the Archaics. From tonight’s events it looked as if he had miscalculated and the Council of Elders had been right to be concerned about the advancement of the human race.
The mine was played out long ago and no more gold remained, but the structure of it and its darkness made it ideal for Archaics to use. And he and his followers had made some modifications. Up ahead they had dug a wider, more open space. A chamber most often used when they brought captured humans here for feeding. It was perhaps forty feet by forty feet and well lit by torches.
Shaniah was getting closer. The blade was at his belt. Where the shaft widened into the larger, open space he stopped and stood to the side of the entrance. It was an old trick, but she had been tracking him for years, and hopefully, her exuberance would make her foolhardy. When she ran through the entrance he would kill her. Poor Shaniah. The Council had sent her, but she had accepted her assignment and her fate was her responsibility. He gripped the blade.
He waited. The sound of her running had stopped. She was being cautious. He could smell her, but . . .
Shaniah exploded into the room. She came in low, rolling through the door, and his mighty swing of the blade hit nothing but air until it caught in the wood beam that supported the doorway. He worked to pull it loose, but as quick as a cat, she was on her feet and staggered him with a kick to his midsection. He regained his footing and she crouched as they faced each other, circling slowly like two rams about to charge.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.
“Yes, you did,” Shaniah replied.
He lunged at her, swinging his blade, but she dodged easily away, pulling her blade from her boot.
“We don’t need to fight,” he said. “We both want the same thing.”
“No we don’t, Malachi. We never have. I want our people to survive. What you want leads only to their destruction.”
“You couldn’t be more—” He slightly lowered his weapon as he spoke, giving her the opening she had been waiting for and she swung her blade with all of her might. But he ducked it easily.
“As I was saying,” he said, backing farther away from her. “You couldn’t be more wrong. The Council is full of weak and ancient fools. They ask us to live like cattle.”
“What they ask is that we survive.” They continued to circle each other.
“Survive.” He spat out the word as if it tasted bitter. “We are Archaics, a race far older and stronger than humans. We conquer. We do not succumb.”
“No, Malachi, you are wrong. We are dinosaurs.”
“Dinosaurs? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the term,” he said. Shaniah lunged at him, swinging her blade, but he blocked it again easily, pushing her violently into the wall of the chamber. His strength was incredible. It was the
Huma Sangra
. It had restored him. She scrambled to her hands and knees, trying to stand, but she had hit the wall solidly and it had stunned her. Before she could move again or react, he was behind her, his hand grabbing her hair and pulling her head back exposing her throat. He held the blade close to her, wanting her to be afraid as the steel kissed her skin.
“Do you feel it, Shaniah?” He yanked her by the hair, pulled her head back so far she felt the muscles of her neck strain to the point where she was afraid they were going to snap.
“It is the power of the
Huma Sangra
, Shaniah.” He tightened the grip on her hair and with the hand holding the blade he held his wrist close to her nose. “The
Huma Sangra
flows through my veins. You can smell it, Shaniah . . . taste it . . . go ahead. You can feel it.”
And the truth of it was, she
could
feel it. And part of her wanted it. She knew it was wrong, she had resisted it for centuries, but now . . . so close . . . so near Malachi and his power. It was overwhelming her.
“No . . . I . . . will . . . not,” she said. Her free hand went to his wrist holding her hair in a twisted mass. She tried hard to break his grip but it was like iron. She twisted and struggled and clawed at his hand, but found she was loosing her strength.
There was a loud explosion. Suddenly Malachi’s grip was broken and he flew through the air, hitting the far wall with a hard thump.
Hollister and the Ass-Kicker had arrived.
C
hee had watched as Hollister and Dog disappeared inside the mine. The major was following Malachi and Shaniah. Unless Chee acted, and soon, Jonas Hollister was going to die. He pulled back the slide on the Gatling and loaded a new belt of wooden bullets. Hollister had found an opening in the Archaic line and made it to the entrance. But there were another twenty or thirty Archaics still standing, and they needed to be dealt with first.
He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. This was not good. He pulled the slide open and immediately saw the problem. One of the wooden bullets had fractured into several pieces and jammed the action on the gun. He tried clearing the splinters but there were too many. The gun was momentarily useless.
The Archaics realized the shooting had stopped and slowly they ventured closer to the shed. Chee tried desperately to free the action of the gun. No time. With the butt of the Henry, he knocked open the crate of dynamite left on the cart. He removed two sticks of dynamite and lit them. There were howls and shouts coming from outside as the Archaics grew bolder. The fuses on the dynamite hissed as he stepped back to the window and was shocked to see how close they had gotten. He tossed the dynamite through the window.
The Archaics were hit full-on from twenty yards by the concussion wave of the explosion. A few of them tried to turn and run when they saw the sticks spinning through the air, but they had ventured too close to the shed and they were blown down like dead stalks of wheat. Chee poured it on, keeping the flame working over them until there was nothing left but piles of charred flesh.
Looking out through the opening in the shed wall, he could not see an Archaic standing anywhere. He picked up one of the Henry rifles and hung it on his shoulder. Monkey Pete had designed the Gatling to be released from the cart by untwisting a large screw. He took the sling from the spare Henry and fastened it to the Gatling gun so it hung at his waist. Looping a belt of ammunition around his shoulders, he left the building. He worked his way through the mass of destruction and dead bodies that lined the ground between the buildings and the mine.
At the entrance he looked behind him, making sure there were no signs of life among the bodies on the ground. Archaics could heal quickly, and he wanted to make sure no one was left alive to attack from the rear. The Archaics in the field lay still. Their weapons had reaped mass destruction on these creatures. He and Major Hollister had brought killing machines to this fight. And they had won. At least this battle.
He heard noise up ahead, coming from deep inside the mine shaft. It sounded like a fight.
H
ollister was never happier in his life than when he saw Shaniah still alive. If he could rush to her right at this moment and hold her in his arms he would. But that would get them both killed.
Malachi should be dead. Or at least unconscious. But after receiving a direct hit from the Ass-Kicker, Malachi was climbing to his feet. Shaniah was crawling around on the ground looking for the blade she carried.
“Holy shit,” Hollister muttered as he watched Malachi, now standing.
Malachi had changed. His jaw was elongated, the fangs had descended, and his eyes had turned red. He charged at Hollister, who barely had time to work the action and shoot before Malachi was upon him.
Dog came to his rescue again and charged at Malachi. Malachi laughed at the thought of the hound attempting to stop him, and when Dog leapt for his throat, he backhanded him across the head. Dog spun through the air, hitting the chamber wall with a loud yelp and fell silently to the ground.
Hollister fired the Ass-Kicker a second time and Malachi tumbled backward, the shell catching him square in the chest and knocking him down. He had to be dead now, the shot should have felled a bull elephant. Malachi lay on his back, not moving.
Shaniah rose, the blade now in her hand.
“I think that did it,” Hollister said.
“No, it is not finished. Not yet,” she said. Holding the blade in both hands, she walked toward Malachi. Hollister remembered what Van Helsing had said. Decapitation was the surest way to kill an Archaic.
Standing over him, she raised the blade over her head and brought it down in a vicious whistling arc.
An inch before the blade reached his neck, Malachi caught it with both hands. He leapt to his feet, twisting the blade from her grasp.
“How the hell do you kill this bastard?” Hollister shouted.
Malachi laughed.
“I remember you now. You’re the bug I nearly squashed on the plains of Wyoming almost—when was it now, four years ago?”
“Yeah, but I’m still here, aren’t I, you piece of shit,” he said. “And this bug bites back.”
Hollister worked the action on the Ass-Kicker but he couldn’t shoot because Shaniah was in the way. He dropped it on the ground. It only had two shots left and it wasn’t having any effect anyway. He drew one of his Colts, knowing those shots wouldn’t kill him but they might distract him like a bee sting. Long enough to get Shaniah away.
“Shaniah, watch out . . .” he cried. But he was too late. Malachi threw Shaniah against the rock wall of the chamber and Hollister knew she was hurt now. But he had a clearer shot and he fired the Colt, hitting Malachi in the shoulder. There was no reaction. He shot again, this time hitting him in the side. Still no response. He fired a third time.
Malachi turned toward him.
“Ow. Stop,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
He leapt across the chamber to where Shaniah lay in a crumpled heap and grabbed her by the throat, raising her up and slamming her into the chamber wall. Jonas fired again, hitting him in the arm. The bullet had barely entered his flesh before it popped out again. Whatever had happened to him since their first encounter in Wyoming, he was much stronger now.
“You are only wasting bullets,” Malachi said. “If you are smart you will put one of those bullets in your head. Do it now and I promise to kill Shaniah quickly.”
Shaniah was conscious now and clawing at Malachi’s hand at her throat.
“Fuck you. I’ve got plenty of bullets,” Hollister said. He raised both Colts, firing at Malachi until both guns clicked on empty chambers.
“I almost killed you too, you fucking bastard, but you were too afraid of the sun to keep going,” Hollister said as he slapped two new speed loaders into the Colts.
Malachi laughed. “You almost killed me? You are humorous, human. What is your name? I wish to know it before I drain you of your blood.” He casually threw Shaniah aside like she was someone’s doll. “I will kill you first,” he said. “You are suddenly more interesting to me than Shaniah. I can always find another wife.”
The words hit Hollister like a punch in the gut. A wife? Malachi was her husband? Well, this was news. He tried hard not to let his face show anything, but failed. And Malachi noticed.
“You . . . are you . . . ? Incredible. She has taken a human as a lover? You? A puny, pitiful man? And she never told you?” He threw back his head and laughed. “We have been lovers for centuries. Longer than you can ever imagine, and now you think . . .”
Hollister had heard enough. His first Colt empty, he raised the Colts again and fired, point-blank, trying to hit Malachi’s heart, but the bullets could not penetrate far enough. Hollister emptied the gun, making a nearly perfect circle of bullet holes in the Archaic’s chest. Malachi looked down at his chest, then up at Hollister.
“I give you humans points for ingenuity.” A bullet was working its way out of his skin and he removed it, holding it up to examine it.
“Silver on the tip, projectile made of wood, and judging by how much they burn, I’m guessing you dipped them in holy water?”
“Go to hell,” Hollister muttered. Malachi was less than an arm’s length away.
“Oh, we will all go to hell,” Malachi said. “That is no question. Except for me of course, as I am about to become immortal.”
His hand was closing around Hollister’s neck when there was a loud explosion and Malachi flew sideways, hitting the wall. Chee stood in center of the chamber holding the Ass-Kicker. Malachi shook his head, rolled on his back, then got to his hands and knees and looked at Chee.
“We
may
all go to hell, but I think we’ll send you first,” Chee said.