Precipice

by Thomas Webb

  Smythe chuckled softly. “And who will become president after me, Robert? You?” Smythe laughed aloud at the statement. “Do you think that simply because you were a general, because you were some sort of ‘national hero’,” Smythe dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand, “that you possess the cold, calculating nature it takes to run this country? You have many talents, Robert, but politics is not one of them.”

  “I was afraid you’d be like this,” Lee said. He turned to leave then looked back over his shoulder at Smythe. “This could have gone easier for you, James. Looks like we’ll have to do it the hard way.”

  Smythe gave a nod, and Wagstaff stepped between Senator Lee and the door.

  Lee looked up at the mountain of man towering above him. “May I ask you to step aside, Mr. Wagstaff?"

  Wagstaff shook his massive head. “Afraid I can’t do that, General.”

  "Don't go this route, son,” Lee said. “I know about your record with the Georgia 17th Infantry. You were one hell of a soldier. You’re a man of honor and a credit to your country. We need men like you, now more than ever. Don’t throw in with the likes of this scum.” He jerked a thumb at Smythe. “This isn't you."

  Wagstaff’s pistol appeared once again from underneath a good three yards of waistcoat material. "The country I served is gone, sir. I’ve made my choice."

  The sound of airship engines directly overhead rumbled through the Confederate White House.

  Primm leaned down next to Smythe’s ear. “Time for us to go, sir.”

  Smythe stood and collected what few things he wanted from his desk. He took a look around the office and sighed. “It was good while it lasted, I suppose.”

  Lee turned to face Smythe. “You’ll not get away with this, James. We’ll find you.”

  Smythe kept walking but stopped on his way out the door leading to the roof. He turned to look back at Lee. “Your kind will never understand, Robert. All that ‘honor’ nonsense,” Smythe shook his head, “it means nothing. Don’t you see that? It’s power, Robert. Power is all that matters. Power is a means to an end, and the end justifies any and all means required to achieve it.”

  "They’re waiting for us, sir,” Primm said. “An airship hovering above the Whitehouse won’t go unnoticed for long, and our window to slip through the Richmond sky patrols is limited."

  Smythe nodded. "Very good, Primm.” Smythe headed for the stairs.

  “Sir,” Wagstaff called from the office door, “what about the general?”

  “Kill him," Smythe said, not bothering to turn. “Then come along. We’ll wait for you, but as Mr. Primm quite righty stated, we haven’t very long.”

  Smythe was walking up the winding staircase to the roof when he heard the shot from his office. A moment later, he was lifted up onto the deck of the waiting airship. Seconds after that, the tremendous bulk of Wagstaff came thundering across the roof, one hand holding his hat to his head. A spray of blood stained his gray waistcoat and white shirt.

  “Is it done?” Smythe asked.

  Wagstaff nodded. “It’s done, sir. The troops General Lee brought along weren’t able to override the clockwerks without an executive order. Had to stay a few seconds and bar the door just in case.”

  Smythe nodded his approval. “Fine work, Mr. Wagstaff. Fine work indeed.”

  Smythe breathed a sigh of relief as the vessel rose. All wasn’t exactly right with the world, but given the situation, things could have been a hell of a lot worse.

  Smythe stood next to the railing, safe on the deck of the airship. He watched the city of Richmond grow small beneath him, finally receding in the distance as he made his escape.

  30 A Cabin, Dakota Territory

  A frigid wind screamed down from the north, battering the worn, wooden walls of the ramshackle cabin. It seeped its way in, finding a path through every nook, cranny, and crack. Snow, driven to mad gusts by a tempest wind, buffeted the cabin, turning the world outside into a white wasteland. His own shivering woke Montclair from his stupor. Eyes glued shut with crust refused to budge open. He pulled the greasy, stinking bearskin tighter around his shoulders. Somewhere in the distant Dakota hills, a wolf howled into the stormy blizzard night, and its pack answered.

  Montclair prayed they would come for him.

  He groaned, forcing his sealed eyes to open. The stench of the ill-tanned skin and his own body clung to his nostrils and throat, repulsive. He disgusted himself. He didn’t care.

  A weak fire sputtered in a rough stone fireplace, each gust of wind threatening to extinguish its feeble light. Montclair crawled along the dirty floor planks and held his hands in front of the fireplace’s weak warmth. Outside, the blizzard raged on, deep into the night.

  Half-frozen, Montclair drug himself over to a crooked, handmade table. One of the table’s four legs stood shorter than the other three. He rose up and grabbed the table’s edge but lost his grip and fell hard onto the floor. He pulled himself up and tried again. This time, Montclair grasped what he needed before falling again. The bottle, cold and thick and round, the glass smooth to the touch, felt good, felt right, in his hand. He looked at the contents of the bottle and frowned.

  “Almost gone,” he muttered.

  The brown liquid inside barely came a quarter of the way up. He turned it up and took a deep swallow, denting it even further. On wobbling legs, Montclair staggered to the crude mantle above the fire. He caught sight of himself in the grime-covered mirror and gasped. The creature looking back at him was a study in misery. Eyes, bloodshot and rheumy, sunken deep into his skull. A ragged beard streaked with puke. He sneered at the miserable wretch inside the mirror, and it sneered right back.

  “Hunh,” Montclair grunted.

  It had been hours since his last drink late this afternoon, and his numbed senses slowly began to return, the pain coming right along with them. Breathtaking pain like a stab to the heart over and over and over. Images rushed to the front of his mind in a torrent. Dinner at his brother’s. Randall knowing, even then, that it was all a lie.

  Pain, excruciating and unimaginable.

  The happiness he’d allowed himself to feel, thinking — believing — he could be reunited with his brother, his family, again. The sight of little Randall and Phineas. His niece’s eyes. The beauty his brother had married and loved.

  Then Montclair saw his brother’s widow’s eyes when he had killed him.

  He relived Randall dying in his arms. He imagined what his friends would have said when they discovered him gone. He pictured Greg and Ueda ashamed of his actions. Thoughts of how he’d abandoned his duty and gone AWOL haunted him. Thoughts of his airship, his crew, and what they would think of him all burned in his mind.

  He pictured Ayita, and the pain he would cause her transformed into his own.

  Montclair shook his head as if the motion itself could shake away the evil thoughts brewing inside his head.

  If he didn’t get a grip on himself, those thoughts would come back. Montclair glanced over at the pistol on the table. He clutched his temples and growled, low and primal. Hero of the Potomac, elite Union soldier, one of the best in the nation… too cowardly to do what needed to be done. Too cowardly to put himself down like the sick dog he was, to end the pain, once and for all.

  “No,” he muttered. He knew what would make the thoughts disappear, what would take the hurt away.

  He craned his neck back and opened his mouth like a hatchling waiting to be fed. He raised the bottle again and… nothing. He willed his eyes into focus. The bottle was empty.

  The cabin shook with Montclair’s roar, the rage inside him at being deprived his numbing medicinal drink erupting. Livid that he no longer had the means to keep the hurt at bay, he hurled the empty bottle with such force he stumbled. The sound of glass smashing against stone surprised him as he hit the floorboards.

  He landed with a crash, hard, on his jaw. It immediately began to throb. Montclair lay there and wept, small at first, little more than a whimper. With ea
ch passing moment, the sound grew, building to a grieving, keening crescendo until tears rolled down his face and sobs wracked his body.

  Montclair cried out, for help, for his friends, his love, for the Healer… for it all to end. The only response was the fierce northern winds screaming in the night and the snows piling fast against the walls outside. Somewhere, the wolf howled again. How he wished they would just come for him.

  31 Behind the Writer’s Desk, Richmond Virginia, September 2018

  Wow. Here I am again. I have to say that this feels surreal, this doing what you love every day. It probably shouldn’t, but such is the world we live in. But even if doing what you love every day does feel surreal at first, I strongly suggest you do it anyway.

  My eternal thanks, always, to my wife and my kids. Thank you for being there when the office/writing room door opens. And know that if you need me, you have only to open it (unless I’m in the middle of a writing sprint, of course. Then you must all WAIT!). I love y'all so much.

  To Cobble Publishing: another one written! Thanks for your incredible insight. And for everything else.

  So… what did y’all think of Precipice? If you enjoyed it, then please leave me a review on Amazon. And afterwards, go check out my website www.thomaswebbbooks.com. You can find links there to Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One, as well as a FREE download of the prequel to the entire series, a smokin’ little steampunk thriller that I like to call Command.

  While you’re there, you can sign up for my newsletter. It’s a great way to hear about contests and giveaways, what's going on in pop culture, awesome authors, other general coolness, and, of course, my new releases (of which there will be a-plenty, don't you worry).

  You can also hit me up on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ThomasWebbbooks. I love meeting and talking to new people, and I do my level-best to get back to everyone who comments, messages, or emails. So don't be shy!

  And now, a couple of questions:

  1. If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?

  2. If I write a book and hide the manuscript under my bed so that no one reads it, is there an actual story?

  I pose these existential questions only to say (in a roundabout way, I admit) this one, monumentally important thing:

  THANK YOU.

  Without you (the reader), I (the writer) would not exist.

  Hope you enjoyed this latest book, and that you’re as excited as I am about Book 3! As I mentioned last time we met here, I created Montclair’s world. But a part of it now belongs to you.

  I hope you find something within it that resonates.

  Until next time, my friends.

  Wishing you all the very best of everything,

  -Thomas Webb