Jesse screamed in annoyance. He grasped the loose body by the shoulders and pulled it up through the hatch, heaving it off the roof. His hands were covered in gore, further fueling his rage as he recovered his pistol.
“Hey, Doc!” Jesse grinned as he spat out the title he knew Carpathian hated. “Don’t get your back up, but I think you’re out’a hired hands!” He jumped down into the darkened interior of the wagon.
Jesse bent his legs to take his weight as he plummeted to the iron deck of the compartment beneath. There was a loud, surprised shout as someone fell away, but a dry hiss clearly announced the presence of another animation. Jesse brought the pistol up and fired into the corpse’s face, splashing the entire head against the bulkhead beyond. The body slumped back onto the floor and Jesse brought the pistol around towards the muffled shout.
The muzzle of the hyper-velocity pistol came to rest pointing at its creator as he lay on his back on the iron floor, legs bunched up before him. Before Jesse could say anything, however, Carpathian’s augmented legs came pistonning up, catching the outlaw in the arm and chest. The pistol went spinning away and Jesse was driven against the forward wall. His arms flailed wildly to keep his balance as he stumbled over the headless corpse.
Jesse brought his fists up before him, nose wrinkling once again at the familiar smell. He pushed off the wall with his elbows. Carpathian had risen and had assumed a fighting stance of his own, fists floating back and forth before him in a practiced formal boxer’s form. Jesse was annoyed to see the old man was smiling.
“I’ll never be out of hired hands, Mr. James. Something you might want to consider as you move forward in this brave new phase of independence you’ve embarked upon.” One fist lashed out and wove past Jesse’s defenses to strike the outlaw in the jaw. His head snapped back and then came down quickly as he moved around trying to put some space between his adversary and himself.
“As you can see, Mr. James, I may not be the helpless old man you expected when you dropped in unannounced.” He moved forward, sending a rapid series of jabs flashing out to test Jesse’s reactions. “Another rudeness I intend to take up with you, I might add.” Another jab snapped out, followed quickly by a flashing hook that caught Jesse’s mechanical arm on the elbow, knocking it aside. Feedback buzzed in Jesse’s mind as internal damage was reported.
The outlaw came around again, still trying to keep his distance. His own jabs were repeatedly beaten aside with a negligence that would have been frightening if it was not for Carpathian’s goading smile. Jesse reminded himself that Carpathian’s arms and legs were at least as advanced as his own augmented arms. Probably more so, given it was the doctor who had invented the technology.
Jesse watched his opponent’s fists warily, their speed and strength distracting him from the basic rules of fighting. And so, when the doctor shifted back and brought his foot up again, mechanisms whining and hissing, Jesse was out of position to block or avoid the kick. The heavy boot caught him in the side and battered him against the wall where he staggered, his hands tangling up with equipment hanging there, a knee fetching up painfully against a metal bench.
“I do apologize for the confining space, of course.” Carpathian remarked calmly as he lashed out with two jabs and a cross that sent Jesse reeling back onto the bench as he tried to rise. “But then, mendicants must not be discriminating, as they say.” His weighted foot came crashing cruelly down onto Jesse’s instep.
Blood was dribbling from Jesse’s mouth as he looked up at the doctor standing over him, a youthful smile out of place amidst the wrinkles and white whiskers. Jesse knew, with an infuriating twist in his gut, that Carpathian was letting him catch his breath before going at him again. It was that condescension, more than the pain or the fear or the frustration, which drove Jesse back to his feet. He roared at the doctor as his arms lashed in one after the other, landing body blow after body blow as the doctor tried to bring his elbows down to defend himself.
Jesse was beyond words, and so merely grunted as he lashed out, his arms moving with cold strength and mechanical precision. Carpathian staggered back into the equipment on the other side of the compartment, his arms pulled close as he tried to protect himself from the enraged attacks. Finally, Carpathian managed to get a foot up, planted on Jesse’s thigh, and pushed him back for just a moment. In that temporary reprieve, the doctor reached down for a small dark box that was lying abandoned on the floor.
A fist lashed out and caught the doctor on the chin, sending him back against the wall. If Carpathian wanted the box, Jesse did not want him to have it. He brought a metal elbow down on the back of the old man’s head and stepped aside to avoid the falling body. The mechanical hands reached down and pulled both hyper-velocity pistols from their holsters. As he lifted them up to brandish in the doctor’s face, however, his eyes went round to realize that Carpathian was smiling gleefully, one hand wrapped around the little box.
“Drop the box, Doc, and I might leave you with your head.” Jesse flicked the switches on his pistols with his thumbs and the power chambers burst into crimson life, glowing with a bloody illumination as a lacework of energy arced between them.
“Oh, Mr. James, I do find you so amusing. I hope we can continue to do business together in the future.” And Carpathian’s thumb came down on a small button in the middle of the box.
Jesse was about to open his arms and bring the pistol butts down on either side of Carpathian’s head. Instead, his arms gave a sharp, painful jerk. A sudden snap of agony scorched down the feedback pathways to his brain. He gasped despite himself. A brutal, excruciating weight began to pull his shoulders down and he realized he could no longer feel anything from the feedback pads. The arms dropped like iron weights and he staggered back. His eyes rose in horror to Carpathian’s vicious grin.
“Oh, Mr. James. As I said, you amuse me so.” He slowly and methodically placed one boot on Jesse’s chest and pushed him backward onto the bench. “Have a seat, do?”
Jesse tried to rise but could do nothing against the weight of the old man’s boot. Tears of frustrated rage streaked his dirty cheeks.
“I can only assume you are coming after that little artifact your youthful compatriot stumbled upon in the wastelands?” The doctor shook his head. “Amusing as it might be to allow you primitives to run around the world for a time with such power, it does not, unfortunately, coincide with my long term plans. I would let you see it, however, I would hate for you to have gone through such exertions for nothing.” He pursed his lips in a sad, disappointed frown. “Except I have already had my minions secure it for travel.” He nodded to a niche in one armored wall where a wooden strongbox was secured to the bulkhead.
Jesse shook his head, barely able to form words around the storm of anger and frustration raging in his mind. “My friends—“
Carpathian threw back his head with a genuine laugh. “Your friends, Mr. James! Was it not trust in your friends that led you here? Was it not you friend William Bonney that left you for dead on that battlefield in the north, lying amongst your vilest enemies? Was it not your friends the Youngers that abandoned you in the very midst of that self-same battle? You have singularly bad luck with friends, Mr. James. But then, what might one expect, when one entrusts themselves to the honor of outlaws?” He leaned in close to Jesse, a look of pity in his eyes. “Among you who disparage the very concept of honor, what honor can there truly be?”
“You – won’t – I will come for you.” Jesse’s voice sounded plaintive, even to himself, but his pride demanded he speak in the face of those words.
“Oh, please, Mr. James. Don’t you realize yet that we’re all puppets, dancing to a tune we can’t even begin to understand? Well… at least, that is what our fiery-eyed friends would like to think.” He pulled a small pistol from his belt and casually pointed it at Jesse as he sat back against the far wall. “But only one man can ever be the smartest man in the room, is that not right, Mr. James?” He gestured with the pistol, smiling a
t Jesse’s impotent rage. “And what, please tell me, are the chances that that man is you?”
Carpathian reached back and rapped twice against the forward bulkhead. Jesse could feel the rumbling movement of the wagon slow down and then subside as they came to a stop.
“Unfortunately, Mr. James, I have pressing business elsewhere, and I will have to now cut our pleasant discourse short.” Carpathian stood and stepped aside as a large hatch swung open. Jesse could not keep his eyes from widening at the appearance of the animation that came crouching into the chamber. The thing was enormous, dead muscles bulging, rough stitching marking where large pieces had been added, bulking the creature up even further. Its face was nearly blank, as most animations, but a strange, hungry light illuminated its foggy eyes. A slight snarl twisted its slack features.
“Please see our guest out the back door, could you?” Carpathian gestured with his pistol towards the hatch in the rear bulkhead.
The animation lumbered ahead, crouching in the confines of the compartment, and grabbed Jesse by the shoulders.
“Carpathian, you best kill me if you don’t mean for me to come back and end you!” Jesse’s voice was shrill as he felt himself lifted off the seat and dragged backward. “If you leave me alive, I swear, you’ll never survive my return!”
“Mr. James, I fully expect you to return.” The doctor looked kindly as he peered around the shoulder of the giant animated corpse. “And I trust that your time in the desert will provide ample opportunity to reflect upon your place in the world, and your attitude towards your betters.”
With a final nod from Carpathian, the monsters unlatched the rear hatch, swung it wide, and heaved the outlaw into the heat of the open desert.
Jesse grunted with the impact as he landed on his back in the burning sand, rocks digging through his jacket.
“Oh, have some water, my boy, in case you ventured out here unprepared!” Something struck the sand by Jesse’s head and the metallic slosh of water in a canteen was audible over the growl of the great wagon.
“I trust we will meet again, Mr. James, in the not so distant future.” Carpathian was resting an arm against the combing of the hatch as if chatting with a neighbor through a kitchen window. He waved the little black box in a gesture of farewell. “Good luck with the vultures!”
The old man’s cruel laughter echoed from within the chamber as the hatch clanged shut. The wagon rumbled into motion once again. It began to crawl away, picking up speed with each passing moment.
Jesse rolled onto his stomach and struggled to rise to his knees. All coherent thought had fled from the rage rising within the hollow of his chest. A mad hatred surged through his burning throat and flared behind his burning eyes. Words failed him as he screamed formless curses at the retreating wagon, tilting his head farther and farther back until he was howling his fury up into the empty sky.
*****
Jesse would never be able to say how much time had passed as he lay on his back in the desert. His mind wandered along sharp and jagged paths of isolation and despair as his body succumbed to exhaustion, dehydration, and the loss of hope. Slumped into the dust and sand of the deep desert, Jesse James lapsed into unconsciousness, his pain the last tangible connection to the world around him as everything faded from a flashing bright heat into blackness.
Jesse’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of a raucous barking sound not far away. He could see nothing.
He knew he must have fallen off his horse. The wound must have opened while he was riding. God alone knew how much blood he must have lost, slumped in his saddle, before losing his seat. He could not hear the horse nearby, and his sightless eyes rolled at the realization that he had to add a lost mount to his list of current difficulties.
Images rose up out of the darkness to swim before his twitching eyes, then went sinking once more from sight. He could make no sense of them. He saw his brother Frank, but as an old man, face wrinkled and eyes cold. He saw a woman he did not recognize in a dancehall costume, honey-brown hair flaring out around a sweet face as she flashed through the moves of a kick line dance, green eyes smiling at him the whole time. He saw a mysterious beauty, another woman, dark eyes flashing in a smile that threatened to stop his heart. He could feel, as if far away, a smile tugging at the flesh of his face.
Jesse tried to push himself upright in the darkness, but his body refused to respond. A dull, throbbing ache pulsated through his being. It was a pain that was not isolated to one part of his body, but rather radiated out through ever limb and nerve. His breath shortened, coming in shallow gasps, but everything still seemed terribly distant and vague. He felt himself easing back against the cool ground.
Another image rose before him, an old man, strange ironmongery attached to his face in some sort of nightmare combination of man and machine. He had long white cheek whiskers and one eye was covered in a block of metal, a wide red lens flashing in the socket. Jesse’s distant body tingled with cold sweat, but he could not have said why. He did not remember the strange old man.
The hoarse call sounded again, a hissing noise moving closer, but still Jesse’s mind refused to focus upon it. He was lost in the swirl of images that raced around him. Cole Younger’s face rose up, and a dull, brooding anger and vague sense of betrayal accompanied the image. Younger, too, seemed to have aged more than he should have, and an unpleasant pressure began to build within Jesse’s mind.
With the anger, the images began to flash faster. A strangers face swam up before him, distorted as if staring blankly at him from shallow water. The face blurred and was gone. He saw Frank, fear widening his eyes; the pretty dancehall girl, tears and blood mingling on her pale cheeks; the old man, laughing a silent laugh; a strange young man whose eyes flashed with an unnatural crimson glow. As this last face disappeared, disintegrating into the darkness with a cruel, savage smile, Jesse felt his eyes snap open again, but still only blackness met his gaze.
A face emerged then from the darkness that he did not know, although he felt he should. Another young man, about his own age, with a mischievous gleam in his laughing eyes. Despite his confusion, Jesse felt another surge of anger bubble up within him. His tortured mind refused to sit idly for further blows, and he heaved up, reaching for the unseen sky… with arms that did not move.
Jesse collapsed back to the gritty earth with a hoarse groan of pain that was answered by an indignant hissing grunt. What was wrong with him? Had he hurt himself further when he fell off the horse? He had a sudden image of a line of Union cavalrymen watching him fall. The blue-belly bastards! Had they done something to him? Tied him up, or worse, shot him again?
The young man’s head jerked from side to side, fearing now that he had been blindfolded and hogtied by the hated traitors that had stood between him and his home. The parade of faces behind his eyes was forgotten as he wrenched at his body, trying to free himself from bonds he could not feel.
Finally, Jesse stopped struggling, his breath continuing to shake his body with its short, convulsive heaves. The angry hissing grunt sounded farther away, but his mind was completely submerged in a surge of fear and confusion that threatened to drown his distant body.
With a desperate heave, Jesse sat up, his arms awkward, useless weight. The first vague hint of movement came into focus nearby, and soon a sky full of stars swam into clarity above him. It was night, the cool of the nocturnal desert caressing his heated flesh. An outraged flutter nearby caught his attention and he whipped his head around to find an enormous black vulture sidling closer. It’s head bobbed as it stalked towards him, staring at him from the corner of its vicious little eye.
With a cry, Jesse tried to scuttle away, only to fall abruptly onto his side as his arms refused to move. He hit the cold sand hard, squinting against the abrasive spray. He opened his eyes wide to stare at the inert hand lying before him, as unfeeling as if it belonged to another man. It was strange, that hand so close to his face. It was as if he could see through the flesh to the bones beneath
, except there was no flesh, only the hard lines of dull iron, and the bones beneath seemed to be made of the same material. Where veins, tendons, and muscles should have been were strange dark tubes, wires, small, sleek barrels holding gleaming silver rods that slid in and out, and countless tiny wheels whose teeth fit together, spinning each other in a tiny, coordinated dance as the hand rocked slightly from his fall.
A cold spike of certainty and despair plunged into Jesse’s mind. The wounded boy on that far away road in the distant past was instantly replaced by the seasoned, lawless rebel whose name had risen to dark prominence throughout the Wild West. In that moment, the memory of his traitorous arms came slashing back as well. His face twisted into a snarl of maddened rage as his sanity tottered once more on the brink.
Jesse grunted and growled like an animal as he tried to rise. His throat was raw, a pink foam flecking his lips as the memory of Carpathian’s laughter squeezed the breath from his lungs. Jesse struggled back to his knees, warning the vulture away with a savage bark. He stared down at his motionless arms. He laughed with a bitter, twisted croaking. He was the big bug of the Wild West; the curly wolf every man envied and ever woman wanted. And he was reduced to a helpless, disfigured, pathetic wretch left to die alone in the middle of the desert wastes.
A long line of victims and dead companions rose up around him. Mute, haunted eyes stared down accusingly, mocking his helplessness with their cold, lifeless glares. He could not meet their illusory faces and bowed his head in defeat. When he looked up, the images were gone. He was truly alone, with the single, strange bird crouching nearby. All the visions and apparitions vanished in the cool desert night.
The Jessie James Archives Page 35