by Kin S. Law
Hargreaves dashed after the attendant, who was trying to lock and bolt the heavy, riveted door. She jammed her boot into the gap. Inside, Hargreaves could just make out a second worker, a rail-thin cashier who had been stocking tea sandwiches. Now these were all over the floor, their paraffin paper wrapping wounded and leaking. The cashier was standing there like a lump of wood, her knobby fingers knit together, lip trembling.
“What’s going on?” Hargreaves asked.
“Get out, get out!” said the attendant, trying to pull the door closed. He wasn’t very fit, but he was absolutely terrified, and it lent him strength.
“Tell me!”
“You don’t want to be on the streets when Commander Scream calls a raid!”
“Scream?” Hargreaves asked. But just then a lock of gold hair slipped out of her cap, and the blood drained from the attendant’s cap.
“Wilhelm Scream,” he said in a quivering voice. “Now get!”
The attendant was not very strong, a rather corpulent young man with just the beginnings of a beard. The man gave a wheezing shove, looking like he would cough up a lung. Hargreaves let the door go, which promptly slammed shut. There was a metallic groan as a deadbolt was ground heavily into place. The entire depot was armored in heavy bars, the machinery in the lot caged in. She got the hint, and hurried back to her own lorry, with its precious cargo in the back.
She put her hand on the pressure throttle and all the needles buried themselves in the ground. Hargreaves nearly kicked herself—she had let the boiler go cold.
“Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks!”
Precious minutes crawled by as she sat willing the little red needle in the gauge to climb, listening to the alarum sound and the noise of something approaching from the west. A klaxon? A machine howl. She hadn’t liked the sound of the name: Wilhelm Scream. It sounded like something from the black forests of the Old World that didn’t belong in the wilds of America.
When the gearing finally caught, lurching the vehicle to life, she chortled an exclamation of triumph.
“Yes! Oh, you brilliant bucket of bolts!”
She pulled into the main road just as the street before her lit up orange, as if the sun had set early. In her mirror, a plume of black smoke rose over the town’s hall.
This was no business of hers. Hargreaves had no jurisdiction here, and the last thing she wanted was to become more visible to her pursuers. Besides, she was one woman, towing along a great big lump all the forces in the world wanted to get their hands on. What did it matter if the idyllic, oddball people of Montana succumbed to some bandit raid? The road was invitingly empty as she pulled onto the fork leading out of town.
Something clutched at her mind, the precision cogs there caught on some niggling piece of motivation. Instilled by years of service and the Queen’s favor, where someone needed help, Hargreaves had always been the first to appear. If she passed someone drowning, she would dive in without removing her corsetry. Her stomach clenched, and it wasn’t even her time of the month.
“Bloody Nora,” she spat, and spun the lorry’s wheel violently.
Hargreaves managed to run the lorry under a concealing ridge. The tires bit into the gravel at the side of the road, chewing them into a gray plume. There was a terrible clunking noise, but she was satisfied the bend completely hid the lorry from view. For a brief, mad moment she thought of ripping the cover off of Alphonse and heading back to town encased in an iron titan. But if anything happened to her, Alphonse and the Cook box would be left to whatever sickness had gripped this place…these people. This…Wilhelm Scream. Formless but oppressive, the shape of the malady escaped her. But she saw it in the eyes, and the ridiculous preparations at the fuel depot. No, better to leave her charges under the ridge for the next strong rain to bury in the American wilds.
It took her only a few minutes to return on foot, but by that time two more plumes of black smoke had sprung up in the midst of town. Her man’s clothes did little to keep her own body from working against her, and she had to stop and button the thin coat tightly around her front. For once in her life, she wished for some sort of supportive undergarment to hold down her assets.
Hargreaves had nearly run back into the town proper, and was only one alley away from the smoke and din when in the darkness two black pupils blinked open. Startled, Hargreaves’s heels scraped to a halt, and her hand instinctively reached for her gun. She, could not believe she hadn’t seen the woman hiding in a corner of the alley where the brick met a wide wooden facade. She would have run right past her if not for the whites of her eyes. An arm appeared with a torn-off board in it, and the fingers that gripped the splintery wood were pale beneath skin as dark as the encroaching night.
“Oh!” said the voice. There was a pause, and then, “You’re a woman, aren’t you?”
“Where the devil did you come from?” said Hargreaves. She could hear the heavy footfalls of suited militiamen in the street. Why hadn’t the woman gone to them for help?
“Hush. They’re right around the corner. Lord knows what they’ll do to you if they find you in man’s clothes.”
Her eyes began to adjust, and Hargreaves took her hand from her Tranter’s grip. Even from an outline, she could see the woman hiding in the partially boarded up alley was unarmed and clearly unused to violence. Her clothes were old and restrictive, the heavy, the durable linen cumbersome around her ankles. Her long, bundled hair was partially hidden under a shawl. She seemed to have shrunk into herself, a pose that did not suit the regal form of her wide shoulders or her high, clear forehead. It was now furrowed in impatience, and the woman gestured with one hand.
“Come, come!” said the beckoning fingers. Hargreaves slipped into the shadow, which was quite spacious enough to press in next to the woman. To her surprise, there was a small, dark child about four or five years old hiding behind the black woman’s skirts.
“Never mind, Emory. It’s you, noisy white woman, that should worry,” said her nook mate.
“Pardon?” said Hargreaves, her accent leaking through.
“Oh, and English too. They’d get rowdy, those Screamers,” concluded the other woman as she pressed her eye to the splintery surface of the boards once more. “So hush!”
For want of understanding, Hargreaves hushed, and peered through one of the cracks in the wooden facade before her. Two of the militiamen were visible, standing clustered around the Fred Hornby’s. A clockwork horse stood calmly nearby. As Hargreaves’ eye stoppered the light in the frame of the board, a third man stepped out of the cafe, his steps landing heavily into the street. He clomped slowly into view, so at first Hargreaves didn’t see the rope he was leading with one armored hand. With a shock, Hargreaves saw the shape of a terrible hound come into view as he turned and the back of his garish red coat swept into view. The hound man let the rope drop to the street and struck one of the other militiamen’s greaves with his own, striking bright sparks in the twilight that was falling. As he did, the odd man out gave the horse’s flank a hard slap, and the horse began to trot forward.
The rope grew taut, accompanied by the worst caterwauling Hargreaves had ever heard. And soon, even in the dim light, Hargreaves could see the dark-skinned man who was dragged screaming out of the cafe.
“No!” hissed the other woman, though her grief was touched by a clear desire not to alarm the child. Hargreaves stepped back into her alley, covering her mouth to keep from screaming. Her second, more noble instinct almost took over, and she had taken one step into the light when the black hand clutched her wrist.
“What are you, slow? Scream’s gang will do unspeakable things to a woman on her own!” the woman whispered.
“Wilhelm Scream is no highwayman,” said Hargreaves. “He is a keeper of the law, a sheriff. Are you saying he condones this travesty? This…barbarism? I don’t care what that man has done, this is not law!” The militiamen would have caught her right then and there for the outburst, if not for the continued screaming. Now a second voice
joined the first as another dark-skinned man joined the first, who had been tied up in a bundle in the street.
“We shouldn’t talk. We’re like two black tails before the coyote. It’s not safe here,” hissed her companion. Seeing Hargreaves continue to bristle, she added, “I’m Constance. Constance Lamb. Who are you?”
“Vanessa Hargreaves,” said Hargreaves.
“Now see here,” said Constance, “Miss Vanessa. If you’d be coming along with me in a moment after those boys lead away that infernal hay burner, we can be getting away and I can explain everything over a nice cuppa tea.”
“Really?” said Hargreaves, raising her eyebrow. Constance grinned, a black sort of humor in several ways at once. But there was a sudden, different kind of uproar from behind the alley facade. It was the sound of a steel horse rearing and snorting embers, ready to gallop. Constance whipped her face back and forth, then shoved Hargreaves hard.
“Quick, in the borrow pit!” said Constance. “Boy, you get in with her!”
“The what?” cried Hargreaves, but allowed herself to be shoved, suddenly finding herself in the ditch just under the alley facade. The bulge of two warm bodies crammed in next to her, followed almost immediately by the thunder of hooves striking sparks from the stones in the alley. The heavy tread struck deep gouges almost right where Hargreaves had been standing. Then a second and a third horse followed, the last dragging its screaming, horrible burden after it. Hargreaves reached out at the last second, bringing little Emory’s leg the rest of the way into the ditch before it could be crippled by those biting hooves. She heard the sharp gasp from Constance as she did.
When the dust settled, Constance dragged herself out of the pit, followed by Hargreaves. They both helped Emory up, who seemed upset, but not about to scream. Constance hugged the child close.
“You did good, Em. You did really good,” said Constance, in the practical way of someone terrified herself.
“Who are they?” asked Hargreaves.
“Montana shoeshine is what they are,” said Constance, and spat. “It should be safe enough now.”
They walked together into the Fred Hornby’s. Hargreaves braced herself, not knowing what to expect. She had just been in there earlier in the day. But as she walked in, the worst thing was the sameness of it. All the rail station cafes looked the same, from their high, painted ceiling arches to their patterned tile floors. A sign told customers “Everything Will Be All Right!” in cheerful copperplate. This one was in a state of some chaos, the usually neat, clean tables cast aside in a clear and dreary pattern of abduction. The restaurant was deserted, but it still carried the comfort of Fred Hornby’s that was now monstrous and alien. How could anything ever be all right after what she had seen?
Constance reached over the counter and retrieved a bottle of milk from the thrumming cold closet. She handed it to Emory and fetched two coffee cups, filling them from two boilers along the wall. Then she turned them off, pulling the heavy levers between them to set the valves grinding closed.
“It’d just go to waste,” said Constance sheepishly. “Somebody ratted out the Cormac boys who were running the place. Not going to leave the rigs to boil away until Seamus comes back. That’s Roger Seamus, the regional manager.”
“You work here?” said Hargreaves from where she had sat Emory down at the counter.
“I was just starting my shift when I saw the smoke. That’s the other black folk, fighting back. A signal telling the others to let her buck. Town’s no good for us,” Constance managed before slamming back the cup of coffee. “Wish I had something stronger. Once we meet the others we’ll catch the next train or woolly bear coming through. Some of us may even have found a place on the morning train by now.”
“There are more places like this?” gaped Hargreaves.
“Too many,” sighed Constance. “William Cormac said this state wasn’t friendly to us. But a cousin of mine went through Shelby and said it was all right.”
“I’m sorry about your friends,” said Hargreaves. “I met Frederick. He seemed a decent sort.”
“Brothers,” said Constance, and Hargreaves knew she didn’t mean family. “You get used to losing them. But the freemen will find our place. Plenty of land in America.”
“Shelby’s near the Blackfoot territory,” said Hargreaves, who had studied up. Right in the corner of this restaurant, actually. “They probably demand respect with spears and arrows. You ready to defend what’s yours?” Constance gave her a long, hard look.
“You’re pretty sharp,” she said finally.
“For a white woman?” asked Hargreaves.
“For a copper,” said Constance, but she was smiling. Hargreaves smiled too.
“Not anymore.”
Hargreaves would have said more, but just then the plate glass of the Fred Hornby’s shattered into a million pieces. Constance screamed, a banshee howl that resolved into a storm of expletives. A split second later, the coffee urns burst in a tattoo of droplets as the second brick struck. Only it wasn’t any brick, but a bottle full of fuel oil that spread in an eerie blue wave as the flames danced over the wet tile.
Hargreaves turned toward the open window now pouring the cold of the street into the warmth of the restaurant. The Tranter was in her hand. Instinct took over, and she let fly blind through the window, pop-pop-pop. But then she saw the woman’s leg, twisted at a sick angle where the third brick struck her ankle.
“Constance!” said Hargreaves.
“Go! Just go!” cried Constance. She thrust Emory at her. “Take him!”
Sight and sound ran together. Hargreaves picked up the child and thrust her .22 into Constance’s hands. The woman, now befouled with ash, looked up and shook her head once. In that moment Hargreaves understood: a gun was just another excuse for those brutes to give no quarter. Hargreaves nodded and, thrusting the Tranter into its holster under her vest, turned and tumbled over the flames and through the back door. Emory reached for his mother, but was smart enough to stay mute, save a squeal or two. Had he no words?
Furious for a reason she could not name, Hargreaves burst onto a narrow field bordered on one side with gravel and clinker. She was on the tracks when the first cries of capture came over the singed breeze. Emory cried out once, and Hargreaves clutched him to her bosom.
“God have mercy, you’ll see her again,” she said, and began to run. She hadn’t gone fifty yards before she heard a cry from further up on the tracks. Hargreaves saw a dark hand come groping out of the shadows of a boxcar further up, along the platform of the station. What had Constance said? That some of the freemen might already have found the morning train?
“Miss! White miss! Here! Bring the boy!” cried a voice. Hargreaves felt the brush of her hair against her shoulders. Her golden mane had come loose from her cap. But now wasn’t the time for it, and the boxcar before her spelled salvation of a sort. At least it was a place to hide. Hargreaves thought.
That was the last thing Hargreaves knew before a sharp pain flowered in the side of her head. She was still Yard enough to avoid the worst of the blow, and she caught sight of the ruffian emerging from the darkness between boxcars. Then came the false night of a burlap bag, descending over her face, though not before she counted three of them, one smeared in furnace soot all over his arms and face. She felt Emory wrenched, screaming at last, from her arms. For that reason alone, she let her limbs fall limp. Hargreaves feigned unconsciousness, even when she felt the ropes bind around her wrists. For a brief moment she thought she saw an aquiline profile and tan skin through a tear in the burlap. A red man amongst these militiamen? Only a fleeting dream, a false hope.
Hargreaves stayed perfectly still. She felt her thespian’s instincts descend upon her, and tried to convey the limpness and helplessness of a recently dead corpse. The brutes had no interest in her face, though they certainly pawed about everywhere else. Amongst the fools was someone with a sound head on his shoulders, however. They damn well made sure to check her for a g
un before they hefted her onto someone’s armored shoulders like a bag of potatoes. But they didn’t find the razor-sharp pin tucked in her hair.
By and by Hargreaves managed to get her eye to the rip in the burlap, she saw mostly the backside of the militiaman who was carrying her. She smelled the machine oil and felt more than heard the hiss of pressure shifting the riveted plates under the leather coat. Moments passed into minutes, and her soft parts grew sore. It felt like they walked for about ten minutes, though of course the suited man who carried her felt no fatigue. The other two men exchanged jibes about her raised backside in the first few minutes.
“Say, Hayworth, can’t we just drop by the saloon a spell? Wouldn’t even need a bed. Stable’s good enough for the filly,” said one of them. She felt a brushing sensation as someone touched her hair.
“Second that,” said the other voice. It sounded familiar, somehow, but Hargreaves couldn’t place it.
“She’s not some negro speed goat you can rut in the back of a barn. We take her to Scream,” said the one carrying her, Hayworth, and that was that. Whoever Wilhelm Scream was, he was fine and terrible motivation.
Soon enough the trio reached wherever they had been going, and Hargreaves felt herself being dumped through into a cooler space and down onto something soft and musty, like a coach seat. She waited until the din of the men subsided to a dull roar before peering out of the rip in the burlap. Only a dark, somewhat dusty buckwheat cushion filled her vision, and from the angle of the quivering firelight, it seemed she was in a coach with the doors shut. She slipped the burlap loose only to find her wrists bound with rope, not cuffs. Blast. The pin would be little use.