Dieselpunk: An Anthology (24 page)

“
Oh come on, Tabby,” Harry said as he reached out to her, “I know I should have told you, but I thought what we had was great. I didn’t want to ruin something special.” He put his hand on her upper arm. Tabitha, quick as a snake, grabbed both of his shoulders and racked him hard in the groin, following through with her knee like she was trying to crack his sternum. Harry’s eyes and mouth were bigger and rounder than a full moon over the Iowa prairie as Tabitha’s knee lifted him three inches off the ground. Tabitha released his shoulders and let him slip and tumble into the alley-slush.

“
Fuck the State Department and fuck you. If I see you again, cocksucker, I’ll shoot you. Plain and fucking simple. Ya hear?”

Harry only moaned and whimpered in reply. Tabitha spat on the ground, turned, and finished the short walk back to her hotel.

The bathwater was blessedly warm. Tabitha hadn’t had a good soak in what felt like weeks, not since her ship had made port in Bodo, Norway, and given her shore leave for a few days while they took on additional cargo before braving the Barents Sea around the north of Europe. Even with the captain’s recommendations, it had been hard to find a good enough hotel to have a bath. And the British blockade of Germany saw to it that there wasn’t enough food on hand for any kind of decent meal other than seal or fish, at least not without making Tabitha feel like she was taking the food right out of a starving child’s mouth.

And then they’d made the icy-cold trip through the Barents. There were German U-Boats in the waters here, making war on any ship heading for Severodvinsk, Russia, the northernmost port in the country. No lights at night, no talking. Just cold around the clock.

The ship had left her there and Tabitha had hopped a train headed to Petrograd. She’d watched the devastation of the sparse land as she rode through it, the thinness of the peasants in the countryside. With no trade coming through the German’s Eastern Front, the aristocrats were raping the land for all it was worth, leaving nothing for anyone else.

Tabitha hadn’t realized it before she’d arrived, but the war was making things tough all over Europe. Back in America, people only mentioned the war in Europe in relation to not wanting to fight in it. Here, though, Limeys, Krauts, Frogs, and Cossacks were cutting each other to shreds with machine guns, bayonets, and barbed wire. Machine guns were the epitome of cowardice. One man could cut down hundreds of men without ever having looked them in the eye. She reckoned bayonets were alright, though. After all, she favored her sword. Tabitha scrubbed her legs and rinsed them. She’d always thought barbed wire was great for keeping cattle where they were supposed to be. Leave it to the military to re-purpose it for war. Then there was the chemical weapons: mustard, tear, and chlorine gasses. People who used them didn’t even deserve a bullet. They should just have a good, long dance at the end of a rawhide rope.

Tabitha leaned back in the water and enjoyed it while it was still warm. Might be her last bath for a while.

She thought about the ship-ride to Russia. That had been awful. Seemed like the Germans were torpedoing anything crossing the Atlantic. Sailing up the coast of Africa before going to Europe, and always changing flags at each port. If the Krauts thought your destination was acceptable, then it likely wasn’t in the Limey’s minds. So you hauled down your colors at each new place and changed ‘em to a different one, hoping your ship’s deck wouldn’t be blown out from beneath you for just carrying some cargo.

Finally, she’d arrived in Russia. There were millions of dead Russians on the Eastern Front, through all the successive pushes and retreats. The horror of war was numbing, Tabitha thought, but that was war. Like Tecumseh had said, it was Hell.

The Templar stood and grabbed her towel from where she’d tossed it over the back of a chair. She dried and wrapped herself in it, thankful that the fire was stoked high. It might not be much colder than it was back home, but back home was still too cold to be walking around naked as a jaybird and soaked through. She stepped out of the tub, dried her legs, and made herself a pipe. She’d get dressed after she was finished smoking.

There was a gentle rapping at her door.

“
Yeah?” asked Tabitha. Way things were going, she’d half-expected to be bothered two more times before bed.

“
Miss Piotrowski? I’d like to discuss something with you,” answered a woman with a French accent from the other side of the door.

“
Ain’t presentable at the moment.”

“
I’ll wait.”

Tabitha got up and pulled on her undergarments, worn jeans, and work shirt. She strapped on her gunbelt and sword. It may sound like a woman at the door, but that didn’t mean anything. She decided against slipping on her boots, just because they’d be so damned tedious to get off when she went to bed in just a few minutes. The Templar got up and opened the door. The French woman had waited, just like she’d said.

She was pretty in that never-having-ridden-in-the-wilds kind of way. Her thick, black hair was pinned up beneath a stylish, brimmed hat which was adorned by a bouquet of silk flowers. Her thin, high cheekboned face was a picture of beauty. Her eyebrows were perfectly crafted, thin and dark, her blue eyes almond-shaped. The woman’s nose was narrow and perfectly straight, and her bright-red lips full and well-shaped. She wore a dress, belted around the waist, that, Tabitha assumed, was in fashion somewhere in the world.

“
Who the fuck are you?” Tabitha asked.

The woman beat her eyelashes fervently, but didn’t remark on Tabitha’s crassness. “I,” she said, “am here on behalf of some interested parties.”

“Can’t wait till the morning can it?”

“
I apologize, but it cannot.”

“
Fine. I got dressed already, might as well stay this way awhile,” said Tabitha, walking away from the door and sitting on the bed. She put her hands on her thighs and looked up at the woman.

The other woman stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “Do you mind if I sit?” she asked.

“Suit yourself, but don’t get comfortable. Got an early morning tomorrow.”

The woman nodded and walked across to the chair. She sat primly and properly on the edge of her seat, her hands folded on her lap.

“What’s your name?” Tabitha asked.

“
Mademoiselle Rousseau,” the woman replied.

“
Alright, Rousseau, don’t tell me you’re from some secret society or government agency. Had two of them pains in the ass tonight, and I ain’t dealing with a third before bed.”

The woman laughed and said, “No, Miss Piotrowski, I do not represent either of those groups. Instead, I am contracted with the Pinkerton Detective Agency from your United States of America.”

“Oh really? Like independent work?”

“
Oui
,” Rousseau replied, nodding. “Le Pinkertons have asked that I obtain—”

“—
A certain artifact. Yeah, you and every tourist in Petrograd right now.”

The French woman nodded. “
Oui
.”

“
So, why does the agency want it?”

She shook her head. “We are working on behalf of a Mr. John D. Rockefeller. He feels the Phallus of Osiris could be a powerful new source of energy. I thought it best, in my official capacity to inform you that I was in the city. They told me of your work in the States.”

“Oh? Mr. Rockefeller wants it, too? Probably so he can use it to give the poor and huddled masses free energy, right? Well, that’s fine and dandy. I appreciate your coming and letting me know. You seem nice enough, so I’ll try and not shoot you when we get down to the finale. Now, since you’re clearly staying in the same hotel, reckon I’ll see you for breakfast.” Rousseau looked down at herself and realized she wasn’t wearing a coat. Of course she was staying in the same hotel. The woman looked up at Tabitha. Tabitha made a “hurry up” motion with her hands. “Anything else?” she asked.

“
Just that I believe we could be of some help to each other,” said Rousseau.

“
Yep. That’s what they all fucking say,” said Tabitha. “You can fucking go now.”

Rousseau nodded, stood, and offered her hand. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Sure it was,” Tabitha replied as she stood and shook the woman’s hand. The Templar crossed the room and opened the door.

That’s when the bomb broke through the window, sending tinkling fragments of glass all over the room. The bomb flew right past Rousseau’s face, nearly hitting her in the head. Rousseau stepped back, shocked, as the bomb continued its parabola over the bathtub, hitting the baseboard of the far wall. Tabitha looked at the French woman, then circled around the tub and looked down at the object. It was metal and round, and had the dimensions of an oversized baseball. But it wasn’t a baseball anymore than this was Wrigley Field.

“What is it?” Rousseau asked stepping closer to Tabitha. The object began to hiss and spring a leak of greenish gas.

“
Chlorine gas,” Tabitha snapped, spinning the French woman and shoving her hard towards the door. “Don’t breathe any of it,” Tabitha said, heading for the bed to grab her boots and coat.

There was a heavy thud at the door behind Tabitha as she grabbed her buffalo coat from the bed. She spun around in time to see the door flying open in a hail of splinters accompanied by a loud crash that resounded through the small room. Framed by the doorway were two men wearing gasmasks and holding Browning A-5 semi-automatic shotguns. The Templar thought two thoughts, one after the other. First:
I wish I’d brought mine.
Second:
Rousseau’s fucked.

She leaped to her right and out of the direct path of the men, buffalo coat pulled in front of her to use as a makeshift air filter, just as the shotgunners opened up.

The first booming volley of lead-shot ripped open Rousseau’s right side, misting blood and bits of fabric into the air. The French woman stumbled back a step, shock on her face. Rousseau ran her hand down where a once-shapely curve had been turned into raw meat and exposed kidney. With a surprised look, she raised her gore-covered hand in front of her face. The shooters’ second volley ripped her left shoulder down to pulpy bone and marrow, and reduced the left side of her head to reddish-grey brain matter. Her once lovely, dainty ears disintegrated and her pearl earring ricocheted across the room, blown free of its place by a pellet of shot. Her stylish hat, though, stayed on her head, simply being knocked cockeyed by the blast. Rousseau stayed upright and took a step forward.

The confused shooters looked at each other. The one on the left shook his head, and the one on the right nodded. They turned back to the French woman and raised their shotguns to finish the woman off. The still prone Tabitha drew her Colt 1911 from her holster and aimed at the two men. Before they could fire their final volley and finish off Rousseau, Tabitha shot the right one through his left eye, shattering the small eye window of his mask and spraying blood and bone from the back of his head. He dropped to his knees, the shotgun tumbling from his hands, as the one on the left took a step back and turned towards her. She fired four times, grouping the bullets in the upper chest near his heart. He stumbled back into the hallway, tripping over his feet. Out of the corner of her eye, Tabitha saw Rousseau finally collapse to the floor, her legs twisting below her, her ankle snapping under the strain. The woman, to Tabitha’s surprise, produced a ragged and raspy moan.

Tabitha, still holding the pistol in her right hand and holding the coat to her mouth with her left, jumped up and scrambled across the splinter-covered rug towards the shooters. She winced as a large splinter stabbed into the heel of one of her leathery bare feet. She stepped over the body of the man she’d shot through the eye and stopped above the one she’d shot in the chest. He was still alive, but only barely. He was trying to grab something from the front pocket of his shirt, but Tabitha deftly kicked his hand away and stomped down on the wrist. He moaned weakly. She reached down and wrenched the gasmask off his face.

“
Alright, cocksucker. Who do you work for?” she said, baring her teeth inches from his face and pressing the pistol beneath his chin.

“
No,” he replied in an American accent, turning his head to one side. He tried to lift the shotgun one final time, but the effort was too much. He died.

Tabitha sighed and stood, pulling the gasmask on as she did so. As an afterthought, she crouched down and checked the front shirt pocket the shooter had been going for just before he died. Inside was a small black capsule. “Cyanide probably,” Tabitha said and went back into the room. The room was quickly filling with the green chlorine gas, and there wouldn’t be much time before it began wafting into the corridor. Tabitha needed to get her boots and leave soon. She crouched next to Rousseau and checked her right eye, the left one having been removed by a pellet of shot. It flickered around, and rolled up to look at Tabitha. “Just breathe deep, Rousseau,” Tabitha said, stroking her hair. God, why wasn’t she dead yet? The shotgun blasts must not have hit anything vital. The Templar almost gave her the cyanide pill, but decided against it. Suicide was a mortal sin. The chlorine gas and blood loss would give her release soon. “I’m so sorry,” Tabitha said. It was a case of right room, wrong time. The Pinkertons never should have contracted someone who couldn’t take care of herself. Tabitha decided to stay with the French woman till the end.