by Tim Marquitz
“This way!” Greta hollered from the front, leading them toward the back of the house. Buck tossed a hall table in the deaduns’ path, then he and Red overturned a bureau to further halt their progress. Rugs and drapes were starting to alight, and the stench of roasting-hot flesh and sinew seared Nina’s nostrils.
Jasmine was having trouble, so Nina and Rachel put her between them and helped her along. Nina caught flashes of family portraits, old, washed-out photographs with frowning people in them—one in particular struck her, a daguerreotype of a younger Jonathan Ramdohr in a dark coat and necktie, a well-dressed girl and a dapper little boy in his lap, one to each knee, and a light-haired woman in a fine dress standing next to them. The woman, who she reckoned to be Greta’s ma, had a wistful, far-off aspect. For reasons unknown even to herself, Nina took it off the wall and tucked it beneath her arm.
Red Thunder put down a flaming deadun behind them as the rest made haste into the large kitchen. As if on cue, Strobridge flung open the back door. He looked at the haggard group and the fire-clothed deaduns behind them and smiled his shitty grin. “Wagon’s loaded and leaving the station, and none too soon by the looks of it. Whoo—whooo!”
“Lead the way,” Manning said, having no patience for the boss man.
Unlike the hallway, the kitchen still smelled like boiled cabbage and potatoes, and a cherry pie sat cooling in the center of the table. Strobridge had been eating well, it seemed.
They poured out onto the back porch, and Nina saw the wagon. It looked like a boat, wide and long with tall sides and an expansive, covered top. It had been pulled alongside the house, the tail thrown open. Greta grabbed up a small box of goods from the porch and went down the back steps, tossing it in the wagon.
“Forget loadin’ up!” George said. “Let’s go.”
Greta lowered her brow at him. “Daddy brought that from Pennsylvania, called it his Conestoga Lady.” And indeed, Conestoga Lady was painted across its side in bold, golden letters.
Nina and Rachel assisted Jasmine into the back of the wagon while Cato, still bare-chested, and Father Mathias, grabbed a couple more crates and conveyed them to the back of the wagon. Rachel climbed up and pulled the crates inside, while George and Mason stood there panting, covered in bloodstains and soot and combing the surrounds with their eyes. Manning stood guard, as well, while Buck and Red Thunder were evidently still in the kitchen creating more obstructions with the furnishings judging from the racket.
Pa clutched Nina’s arm. “Nina, I don't think I can…”
She saw his face alight in the lantern's glow. He was losing it. His eyes had a blank look about them. His hands shook. “Take it easy, Pa. Just climb in.”
“No, Nina. You don't understand. I'm tired...damn tired. And what you talked about the other day in the fort about your ma. I believe she's watching over us. I believe she wants me to come to her. I think you all should leave me behind…” he peered upward. “Let me lay in yonder patch of wild thyme and look up at that beautiful full moon through the trees.”
Nina grabbed Pa by his coat collar with one hand and slapped him across the face with the other, and none too lightly. “Don't you do this! Don’t you tell me what I see! Or make your own goddamn accounts of my dreams. Mine! Truth be told, throughout this whole world-gone-mad shitstorm, I ain't heard a damn peep from Ma. She ain't appeared, she ain't whispered, she ain’t even banged a fuckin’ drum...”
Pa held his hand to his cheek. “What?”
Nina shook her head. “Pa, you givin' up ain't gonna happen. I know you're tired. I know you think we're doomed—and maybe we are—but you ain't givin' up on me. On us. I will throw your butt up into this wagon, and George can laugh his ass off while I do it. You want that?”
Indeed, she was quite aware that George and Mason had both stopped looking around and were watching this little drama play out. “Hell, I’ll help toss him up in there,” said Mason.
The old man smiled weakly, glanced over at the Daggetts, then back at Nina. “No,” he said, his voice soft with calm. Then said it again, real low. It reminded Nina of how Clara Buell had sounded once she’d resolved to die. But at least he was cooperating.
“We need to scoot,” Mason said as Cato came up and put another crate in the wagon.
The big man nodded. “That’d be it.”
The horses up front were shifting in their traces, plainly disquieted by deaduns wandering toward the wagon from other parts of the yard. At the same time, Buck and Red came out the back door, blood on top of blood, looking like they'd been at the butcher block.
“All right! Let’s go,” Manning called out, and for the first time Nina noticed a man standing in the driver’s seat.
“Where’s Mister Ramdohr?” the man asked.
“He's dead,” George said. “Now take hold of them reins and let’s vamoose.”
The man leveled his shotgun at them.
“You gotta be jokin’. Look around, shithead.”
Greta edged George aside and fixed the man a stern look. “Rory, Daddy's dead, and there's things coming I can't explain that want to do us harm. You see them coming upon us now. Look around. There's about a hundred—”
“More like a thousand,” Nina added.
“—a thousand coming from the north. A whole mob is in the house right now, Rory.”
The driver looked rattled. He shifted position, steadying himself on the seat. “You come up, Greta. You too, Mister Strobridge.”
Manning put his hands on his hips. “Look, time's running out. So, like George said, either get us going or I'll pull you down myself and leave your ass here. Make your choice, because we're leaving.”
Rory growled and aimed his barrel at Manning. “No. Greta, you climb up. We're leaving. I swore to your daddy to take care of you, and that didn't include nobody else. Now, you and Mister Strobridge, come on! The rest of you—”
“You're making a mistake.” Manning got that hard look in his eyes, the same one he'd gotten with Woodie before he beat the living hell out of him.
“You might want to listen to him,” Strobridge advised. “Or shoot now.”
Nina pulled her knife loose. “You shoot him, I’ll kill you.”
A pair of deaduns drew within ten yards, catching Nina’s attention, but Cato hefted his hook-spear, and trotted toward them. “I got this. Just don't leave me.”
Nina nodded, turned back to the situation, just as the horses spooked hard and the reins were pulled from Rory's hand. He bent to retrieve them, and that's when the Daggetts were on him.
Quick as a snake, Mason grabbed the barrel and yanked the shotgun away. Strobridge leaned back as George pulled Rory down off the seat. The man slipped as he came down, landing stomach first on the rail, his breath leaving his lungs in a violent whoosh.
Buck was there, grabbing Rory up by the back of his trousers and tossing him onto the porch. George ran up after him and kicked the man twice in the ribs.
“Stop it!” Greta yelled. Rachel was leaning out the back of the wagon, yelling “please stop!” and Mathias was shaking his head, murmuring, “Good Lord.”
Manning grabbed George’s arm before he could land a third kick. “Let him be. Let’s just go.”
George laughed. “Ye're a stupid bastard, Manning. Idiot was gonna blow your brains out.”
“No need for him to die. He was just protecting—” Manning clutched his stomach and removed Rory's knife from it, the man on his knees trying to drive the blade back in.
Nina gasped at seeing blood color James Manning’s shirt, a deeper black against the gore already there. Her heart thumped inside her throat.
Manning twisted the knife out of Rory's hand, eliciting a yelp from the man. He threw it down, pulled one of his dragoons from his hip, and blew a half-dollar sized hole through Rory’s chest. The man pitched backward, dead as a door nail.
Nina ran to James, putting her hand over his stomach, felt warm, wet blood. She glanced at the dead driver, his sightless blue eyes star
ing at her.
And then a familiar shriek came from the sky.
CATO STOOD AMIDST A PILE OF DEADUNS, looking up into the dark sky, while Nina wondered how long it would be before all of Liao Xu's minions arrived.
“One of those flying things again!” the big man hollered, jogging back to the wagon. “My God, you all killed Rory?”
“The man wouldn’t listen to reason,” Strobridge said, up on the driver’s bench seat, his eyes roving the sky. “What was that infernal howling noise?”
“Get me to the wagon,” Manning told Nina, and he leaned on her. Pa and Buck helped him up and they all piled in on top of the crates, all except for Greta Ramdohr, who leaned over Rory on the porch and put her hand over the hole in his chest.
Suddenly arms crashed through the Ramdohr's back door, splintering wood, and tearing the frame to pieces. A mass of crispy deaduns belched forth. Greta fell back on her ass, narrowly missed by the tumbling corpses. One of them snatched at Rory’s still-warm body and fell upon it, biting as it burned.
Mason hopped out of the wagon bed as Greta screamed. A smoldering deadun crawled at her, but Mason sprinted up the steps and kicked it away. “Come on!” he yelled, swiping a few licks of flame off his trousers. He offered his hand.
Greta snatched up her ax and took Mason’s hand, and together they ran to the front of the wagon while more biters and long, hungry curlicues of flickering fire continued to pour out of the Ramdohr homestead. George and Strobridge made room for Mason and Greta in the front, and with a ya-yah-giddyap the wagon lurched and began trundling off down the dirt lane.
A smoking deadun caught up to them and grabbed the back of the wagon, but Cato used his long weapon to push it away. The biter was a weakened, blackened mess, so it just fell and laid there reaching for them, working its jaws and gurgling.
Manning rested between Nina’s legs, his head on her chest. She kept her hand over the wound but it wouldn't quit bleeding. Buck tossed her his shirt, which he'd never been able to get on. She thanked him and held the cloth against the spot. Nina was skeptical about having tears left to cry, but they came.
Nina glanced over to find Rachel Buell sitting beside her on a crate, watching as she worried over Manning. The girl had a blank look on her face, but something in there was trying to get out, trying to make sense of all this shit.
“I miss my ma,” Rachel said flatly, and laid her head on Jasmine’s shoulder as moans of frustration—or at least Nina imagined it so—hounded them until the wagon turned a bend and the burning homestead crawling with deaduns faded from view.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HOT ANGER WELLED UP IN NINA'S brain. She could have done more back there at the mill. All she felt like she’d done was stand around on that porch while the men did most of the fighting. Hell, Mason had shoved tearful Greta Ramdohr into Nina’s arms as if she were some damn Mama Hen or something.
And then she let poor James get stabbed!
She peered at the top of Father Mathias’ dark-haired head as he bent over James Manning. The priest had one hand on James’ stomach, the other clutching his beaded rosary. Mathias’ lips moved in silent prayer, and James, in his somewhat senseless state, moved his head to the side and grimaced.
James was drenched in sweat, and his color had not looked good before, but it seemed to be returning a little as Mathias dispensed his priestly healing. Nina wiped his clammy brow and wondered if the man she was falling for was going to die this very night.
“That should hold him a while,” Father Mathias said, putting his rosary away. “The blood flow has slowed significantly, but unfortunately it’s all I can do. I’m sorry.”
“Is he gonna die?”
“He is a strong man, very grounded in this world…” Mathias was in the process of scooting back when the wagon bounced over a rut or a rock causing the priest to plunk right into Buck.
The roughrider grabbed Mathias’ shoulder and helped him sit up straight. “You okay, Father?”
“I’m fine, my friend. Thank you.” But he didn’t look fine, even in the dim light beneath the wagon cover.
Rachel offered him a canteen. Mathias thanked her and took a modest swallow, then gave it back. Rachel turned to Nina. “Here, Nina.”
Nina didn't want a blasted drink, was perfectly fine feeling pitiful and sore. But one look into Rachel's well-meaning eyes and she relented, took a long draw, thanked the girl, and went to hand the canteen back.
“What about Mister Manning?” Rachel had taken it upon herself to ensure everyone got some water. It was her way of doing something, anything, to keep her mind occupied—proving her worth, as it were, if only to herself, Nina reckoned. The girl had even crawled through the front flap to water the drivers, men she'd been terrified of just a few days ago.
Nina put the metal lip of the canteen on James’ lips and slowly tipped it up. Even just a capful would be helpful. Most the water dribbled out the side of his mouth, though. Hopefully he’d get some of it down.
She lifted the shirt away, taking off the pressure she’d been putting on the stab wound, and checked it. The priest had done good work. It seeped, but was no longer leaking like it was ten minutes ago.
“Sorry about your shirt, Buck,” she said. It was saturated with Manning’s blood.
“Least somebody got some use out of it.” The roughrider was still bare-chested, as was Cato, who sat by Greta at the back of the wagon.
Strobridge could be heard jawing up front, mostly to himself. Nina half expected one of the Daggetts to put a bullet in the man just to shut his hole—but then, they were almost out of bullets. Even so, the boss man seemed to be the only one in a talky mood. Nina did her best to ignore the man’s unrelenting palaver.
She gazed at Greta, who stared out behind them in slack disbelief, likely thinking of how her entire life had just pretty much been throttled to death. Cato sat beside her, displaying the same stupefied gape. Nina reckoned they both had the selfsame expression that’d been on her mug not so long ago. A big blank stare, her mind trying to work out how dead folks were up and ambling about, attacking the living on sight, and later pondering what was left of the person inside. It was hard enough dealing with death...but undeath?
Pa occupied a spot in the corner atop a thin blanket, curled up like an old dog. He’d passed out before they'd hit the south road to Carson City. Good. He needed it. They all did, but Nina hoped a little shuteye would help bring back some of her father’s fire.
Red Thunder slept as well, leaning against the front wall of the wagon, just beneath the flap. Even a great warrior needed sleep now and again. Red had woken only long enough to give Rachel use of his shoulder as a stepping stool while she offered water to the drivers.
Nina looked down at Jasmine, passed out on the floor next to Manning. The woman’s face twitched, her hands jerking as she worked out whatever nightmare had come to cloud her troubled sleep. The wound on her neck, now cleaned and blessed by Father Mathias, wasn’t as messy, but there was a swelling beneath the scar, the bruise boldly showing in the dim moonlight on her dark skin. Even that much was a miracle, though.
Finally, she peered across at Father Mathias. He sat with his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands. He seemed small, his good humor beaten down to a fraction of its former self.
“Why don't you sleep, Father?”
Mathias drew his hands down across his face, gave Nina a wan smile. “The same reason you don't. You're racking your brain to understand all this, to think of a way to beat Liao Xu, to save the people you love; yet, you're too tired to think, too tired to work it all out…”
Nina sighed, weariness making it easy to agree, even if his explanation was far from the truth. “That about sums it up, I guess.” Her voice sounded rough, tired, like claws had raked her throat on the inside. “I do have a question.”
“Go on.”
“What is alignalghi?”
Mathias steepled his hands in front of his lips for a moment, then said, “It
means ‘he or she who knows.’ It is an ancient word for one who can travel between the world of the fleshly body and that of the spirits.”
“Like a shaman.”
“Of a kind, yes. But there is much to it, and I know just enough to likely lead you astray rather than be of actual service.”
Nina furrowed her brow. Then why the hell bring it up? “Do you know anyone else who…”
“Liao.”
She scoffed. “Sure. I’ll just waltz up to the sonofabitch and ask him to share some of his ‘heavenly’ mysteries before I put a bullet in his ass.”
“It will take much more than getting shot in the backside to stop—”
“I know, I know. So how are we going to stop him?”
“I'm still trying to understand how he caught back up so quickly. Pursuing the rails was a logical course, but knowing we'd travel across the wilderness and then point his undead to the very location of our respite…They couldn't have found us unless Liao sent them ahead, almost as if he was sure of our direction.”
“Maybe he just scattered the deaduns from Reno in every direction and got lucky.”
“I suppose.” His voice lowered, eyes narrowing. “But is it too farfetched to suggest someone is dropping crumbs?”
The thought had never occurred. Nina was skeptical. Someone among their own guiding Liao Xu to them? That was wild charge, yet… “Who?”
Mathias's eyes widened, glanced to the front of the wagon. He didn't have to say it. She knew he meant Strobridge, and it wouldn't surprise Nina in the least.
“How can we know for sure?”
Mathias held out his hands and shrugged. “The knowledge escapes me. I can only believe the Lord will reveal the answer to me at some point. When? I don't know.”
Nina tried not to sound angry, but this conversation was maddening. “Blind faith? How can you live like that? Hoping for the best, for some damn miracle all the time.”
“Therein lies the adventure, my dear.”
“Horseshit.”
Mathias tilted his head. “Horseshit? Are you not responsible for a few miracles yourself over the last couple of days? Or would you say that was just pulling it out your ass?”