Hellfire

by Jeff Provine

  Kemp swallowed visibly.

  Blake patted Kemp on the good shoulder. The fireman’s job was on the line, perhaps even his life if the rumors about the Rail Agency were true. “I’ll talk to them.”

  Kemp didn’t reply. Blake walked past him toward the open ground nearer to the river. Husk trotted after him.

  Blake said in a hushed voice, “Don’t write anything about the engineer.”

  Husk blinked. “Why not?”

  “We don’t know anything yet,” Blake said. “He’s only missing.”

  “In an explosion like that,” Husk jerked a thumb back toward the wrecked locomotive, “clearly he’s no longer with us.”

  “Maybe so, but we don’t know for certain until we find a body.”

  Husk made a single grunt of a laugh. “It’s pretty obvious what happened to him. The man talked about a monster getting him. Sound like the Madness to you?”

  Blake glared. “Don’t write anything until we know for sure.”

  “The First Amendment—”

  “I could close off this whole area as judicial business. Quarantine it for potential danger.”

  Husk made a disgusted sigh and then cleared his throat. “Right, just what we know for sure.”

  Rhythmic pounding like thunder rang as the airship came close enough for its engines to drown out any chance of conversation.

  Chapter Four

  Blake was always impressed at how big airships were. It seemed something like that shouldn’t be able to float in the air, yet it did. An enclosed ark of red cedar and aluminum hung beneath its huge silk balloon. Two tubes rested on hinges on either side of the ark, hammering as the screws inside spun and spat out black smoke.

  One engine went quiet, and the airship changed direction, spinning until it came to a stop. The balloon let out a loud belch and went slack. Steadily, the airship sank downward.

  Blake wrinkled his nose. People talked about airships as the most majestic of man’s creations. He couldn’t imagine anything spewing out so much gas as being majestic.

  A trapdoor sprung open, and a hooked weight dropped out on an iron chain. It slammed into the ground with a heavy thud. Spooked horses whinnied and pulled. One of Blake’s deputies grabbed the lead horse’s bridle and patted its neck. Husk’s horse by the tree stomped against its roots.

  At the back of the ark, a door opened over the little balcony. Ropes fell, and three men slid down on hooks. They landed with thuds in the soft earth near the bayou.

  One of the men was dressed in a three-piece suit with a long coat and broad-brimmed hat, all in black. He wore his mustache in the fashion of men back East who had time to wax their faces and didn’t worry about dusty roads.

  The other two were Hunchbacks, one about seven feet tall, the other a little more than four. Their faces were covered in leather masks with dark glass over the eyes and a bulb over their mouths. Wide-brimmed hats hid everything behind the masks, and long oilskin coats over thick boots and heavy leather gloves covered the rest. The small one had wide stripes of sheer fabric along the sides of this coat. Huge lumps arched on the giant’s shoulders.

  Blake had not seen many Hunchbacks up close before, but he had heard the stories about them, stories that the Rail Agency collected them out of orphanages and trained them up as enforcers without an inkling of humanity in them.

  The man in black stepped forward and swung open his coat to reveal a silver five-pointed star. “I’m Rail Marshal William Ticks. Who’s in charge here?”

  Everyone looked at Blake. He nodded, tight-lipped and showed his own badge. “Sheriff Clancy Blake, out of Bastrop.”

  Ticks made a thin smile under his mustache. His teeth were polished white. “You’ll forgive us if we don’t settle down our airship.” He rolled his eyes around the riverbed. “Not much of a dock here in the wilderness.”

  “Nope,” Blake agreed. He left it at that.

  Ticks turned toward the wrecked locomotive. Blake followed his eyes as they scanned the water, the half-standing engine, the dangling tender, and the damaged rails above. The track made a gradual turn so that it came over the water squarely at its side, but now the rail laid bent under the weight and force of a speeding train.

  Without looking up, Ticks called, “And who’s responsible for this?

  “It was an accident,” Blake said. “Locomotive became a runaway, but the fireman was able to get off with the rest of the cars.”

  Ticks looked back. “He’s alive? Any word on the engineer?”

  Blake shook his head. “No sign of him. I suppose he was thrown when the locomotive wrecked. We could form up a search party and—”

  “We’ll search from the air,” Ticks said quickly. “No need to worry yourself, sheriff.”

  “I still need to make sure he’s found,” Blake replied.

  “We’ll let you know,” Ticks said, waving a hand. “Where’s this fireman who saved the mail?”

  Blake pointed a thumb back at the wagon. Kemp sat there with wide, brown eyes. He held his wounded arm with his good one.

  Ticks marched toward him. Blake jumped into a trot to follow.

  Kemp visibly shrank back as they approached. His eyes were wide, staring at the hunchbacks that looked over the ruined engine.

  “You’ve already questioned him?” Ticks asked.

  “I have,” Blake said.

  “May I?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Ticks smiled thinly again. “If you will oblige me, I feel it best to interview him alone, to refrain from any crossover influence in the questioning.”

  Blake cocked an eyebrow. “No, I should listen in. It might be useful in my investigation.”

  Ticks cleared his throat loudly and called, “Parvis!”

  The shorter of the two hunchbacks ran forward. His striped coat flapped around his stocky legs. His arms looked too long for his squat body, leading to gloved hands that dug into deep coat pockets and returned with a folded document. He held it out to Ticks at arm’s length. The short hunchback stank of sulfur. Blake tried to be polite and not sneer.

  Ticks took the paper and unfolded it. It was covered in the careful print of a press and signatures alongside an embossed stamp. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Railroad Act, which reads, ‘In matters of investigation, marshals shall have primary jurisdiction…’”

  Blake held up a hand to stop him. “I’m aware.”

  Ticks folded the paper up again. “Then I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding.”

  Without a word, Blake stepped back toward Husk, who waited with his notepad at ready. Ticks turned to the fireman. Kemp sat frozen, staring at the short hunchback and murmuring.

  “Sorry to see that happen, sheriff,” Husk mumbled.

  Blake nodded. He hated to step away when work was to be done, but the men from Washington had say over the railroads, commerce, and all that.

  “You know this is the third one this month in Gloriana,” Husk said.

  Blake looked up. “Third what?”

  “Runaway locomotive. One was last week up at Shreveport, and then there was one a week before in Faber’s Bluff.”

  “Is that usual?”

  Husk shook his head. “I’d need to read more on it, but I don’t think so. Maybe we should ask—”

  There was a loud whack, and Kemp fell sprawling into the back of the wagon. Ticks had his hand up, still wide from the slap.

  Blake ran forward. “Hold it, Ticks!”

  The man in black turned with a wearied expression. “What now?”

  “You can’t just strike a man like that!” Blake shouted. He threw himself between Ticks and Kemp. Looking down at the man in the wagon, he asked, “Are you all right?”

  The fireman didn’t reply.

  “His memory needed some jogging,” Ticks said.

  Blake held up a finger into Ticks’s waxed face. “You may have precedence on railroad matters, but I will not stand by while a man is assaulted in my jurisdiction.”

  Ti
cks squeezed a hand into a fist.

  Blake leaned forward and narrowed his eyes.

  Muscles twitched under Ticks’s thin cheeks. He turned away. “My interrogation will need to continue under the supervision of a physician to judge Mr. Kemp’s mental wellbeing. What I see here is a classic case of Stoker’s Madness. The boy inhaled too much smoke, went nutty, and crashed the train. Probably killed the engineer, too.”

  Blake gritted his teeth. Through them, he made himself growl out, “We don’t know that.”

  “We’ll find out for you,” Ticks said a mock-gentle voice.

  Blake lowered his hand. “I’m not through—”

  “No, you are,” Ticks said. “Biggs!”

  The monstrous hunchback still standing by the ropes from the airship by came forward with long strides. His huge hands held up a pair of shackles.

  Chapter Five

  Nate’s face hurt. His vision was dim outside of flashing stars. His ears roared.

  He’d been in fights before, plenty of them growing up. Not all of them went his way, but he’d always sent the other boys home looking worse than he did. When his father died, he made himself settle down. Fighting wasn’t as important as taking care of Ma and Ann.

  Nate blinked until the stars faded away. They weren’t from getting hit; they were real. The first stars of the evening were starting to come out. They were beautiful.

  The roaring in his ears was real. Men were shouting back and forth. Nate rolled his head over to look at them.

  One was the sheriff from Bastrop. Nate had seen him a few times before, bringing in wanted posters or sitting with a prisoner at the station. He was a hard man, a serious man who was willing to work. Nate liked him.

  The other man had a waxed mustache and a suit that cost more than a month of Nate’s pay. He had asked about the monsters. Then he had hit Nate.

  There was also the little man in the leather mask. He was one of the misshapen hires of the Rail Agency; “hunchbacks” everyone called them. He wasn’t yelling. He just stood there, stinking of sin, like something that came out of the wrong end of the pig.

  Nate wasn’t sure what it was, but the short man made his stomach open like a pit. Nate stared, even if he couldn’t see anything under that wide-brimmed hat.

  The short man suddenly started forward. Nate took in a ragged gasp and tried to crawl away, but Parvis grabbed Nate with a heavy, gloved hand.

  “Easy there! He’s injured!” the sheriff called.

  Nate squeezed his eyes shut. His right arm felt bloated and dull. His fingers didn’t seem to want to move. Somehow, Nate had forgotten all about it.

  “We won’t hurt him,” the man with the waxed mustache said, his voice breathy with exasperation. “We’ll get him the help he needs.”

  Nate opened his eyes. “What help? Where are you taking me?”

  From behind his mask, the short hunchback said with a voice that sounded like the buzzing of flies, “You are unwell. We will take you to a doctor.”

  Nate had heard that voice before. It had spoken to him out of the fire.

  Something welled up in the pit of Nate’s stomach and escaped his mouth as a scream. He screamed as long and loud as he possibly could. The thing from the firebox danced in front of his eyes.

  When his lungs ran out of air, he stopped and sucked in fresh twilight air. It was tainted with the putrid stink of the hunchback.

  Nate was done sitting and staring. He kicked with both legs, planting his boots squarely on the chest of the little hunchback. The hunchback made a spitting belch and flew backward, tripping over his long coat and falling to the ground.

  Before anyone else could act, Nate threw himself over the edge of the wagon. As soon as his boots touched the ground, he broke into a run. His second step planted firmly on the chest of the short hunchback again, making him gurgle.

  Shouting broke out all around him. The sheriff and the man with the waxed mustache both charged after him.

  Nate had to get out of there, and he had to be fast about it. He stomped through the bayou. Mud threatened to swallow up his boots with every step. He forced his feet on, fighting to the tree where the slim man who asked too many questions had tied his horse.

  She puffed air through her lips at him.

  “Help me get away,” Nate told the horse.

  She watched him with a huge brown eye.

  A hand grabbed Nate’s right arm. Stabbing pain burst through his shoulder. He’d gotten stitches there, he remembered. The lady with the lemonade had given them to him.

  Nate turned. It was one of the sheriff’s deputies.

  “Steady there,” the deputy told him.

  Nate threw his head forward, butting the man squarely in the nose.

  The deputy screamed and let go. His hands wrapped around his face. Already the blood flowed.

  Nate shook off his daze and pulled the horse’s reins free from the tree. He drew his steed back away and threw himself up onto the saddle. A wave of pain bit at the stitches in his shoulder, but Nate had to press on.

  He righted himself just in time to see the other deputy lunge at him. Nate threw up his boot and caught him with the sole between the neck and shoulder. He pushed. The deputy flew backward with a huge muddy clump stuck to his collar.

  The man with the waxed mustache screamed something. Nate stabbed the horse with his heels. It neighed and shot forward. He’d have to run down the road until he found a place to cross the bayou. Then he’d go cross country back to Lake Providence.

  The sheriff stepped out in front of the horse and stopped, blocking the path up to the road. His dark eyes were fierce. His name was Blake, Nate remembered that.

  Nate’s hand tightened on the reins. He pulled the horse right, but Blake jumped into the path again. Nate would have to run him down to escape. He glared at the sheriff’s dark eyes, firm as wrought iron.

  Nate couldn’t do it. He pulled back on the rein. The horse struggled, stamped sideways, and lurched to a halt.

  A huge hand settled around the back of Nate’s neck. He could feel a thumb poking into his skull while fingers tightened around his throat. They jerked him off the horse and let go, dropping him to the ground. Nate went limp and rolled through the mud.

  When he stopped, he was at the feet of the man with the waxed mustache. Nate couldn’t remember his name. Had he even said it?

  The mustachioed man put a sleek black boot on Nate’s wounded shoulder. Nate hissed at the weight on his stitches. The man then pressed, and Nate screamed.

  He let off Nate. “Are you finished?”

  Nate panted for air. His teeth were gritted against the pain.

  “No?” the man asked. He pressed again.

  Nate squeezed his eyes tight and tried not to scream.

  The pain suddenly went away. Nate opened his eyes to see the sheriff standing over him. His hands were up where he must have shoved the man with the waxed mustache away.

  “Stop it!” the sheriff shouted. “The fight’s out of him already.”

  The mustachioed man stood several feet back. His eyes were narrow, and his hand brushed dust off his coat.

  The sheriff bent down over Nate and extended a hand. Nate coughed a little and then took it with his good arm. The sheriff pulled him up.

  As soon as he was on his feet, the little hunchback clapped shackles around his wrists.

  “What?” was all Nate could ask.

  “You’re not well in the head,” Blake said. “These men are going to take you to get some help.”

  Nate looked up at him. He let his eyes dart back to the dark glass in the leather mask of the hunchback next to him.

  Nate wasn’t entirely sure he was the crazy one here. Couldn’t the sheriff see there was something wrong with those deformed men?

  He flitted his eyes around the edge of the bayou. The hunchbacks had him surrounded from one direction, and the sheriff and the mustachioed man from the other. The deputies were closer to the water. The one Nate had butted in t
he nose had his handkerchief pressed on his face. His other hand held a revolver. They weren’t going to let him get away again.

  Nate bit his lip. How could he have gotten into a situation where two sets of lawmen were trying to fence him in? Maybe he did need help. He was a stoker, after all. He had been fighting the madness like anyone else. Nate had seen better men than him lose their heads. Maybe the madness really had finally gotten the better of him, and maybe he had wrecked the train.

  Maybe he had done something to Jones. Nate hung his head at the thought. All those miles together, and it took just a twinge of Stoker’s Madness to make him disappear. “All right.”

  The sheriff let out a long breath as if he’d been holding it. “Good choice, son. Is there anyone I should pass along word to?”

  Nate winced. Pass along word that he might be off his rocker? That he had crashed the train and would probably end up fired from the railroad?

  “Any family?” the sheriff asked.

  Nate felt his eyes go wide. Ma and Ann were at home, probably getting his supper ready right now. He didn’t have time to be arrested or carted off to the loony bin outside of town. He needed to get home.

  Nate turned away to break into a run again. Going up the road hadn’t gotten him anywhere, but if he could make it into the bayou—

  A huge hand caught him by his bad shoulder. It threw him to the ground again. Nate winced at the pain flaring through him and tried to squirm back to his feet.

  “All of the fight out of him, eh?” he heard the man with the mustache call.

  The sheriff bent over him, offering his hand again. He whispered, “Give it up, son. I know some good lawyers, and I can send a telegram to—”

  “Cut the jabber,” the mustachioed man said. His black boots appeared next to Nate’s head.