Vacant Graves

by Christopher Beats

  A more decent sort might’ve done something about that. Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t the decent sort. I was the surviving sort.

  I cautiously approached the town. The ramshackle shanties and quarter-brothels along the road had been demolished and burned. It was impossible to know if the unionists had done it or the hardheads. The poor wretches who lived in them were the saddest folk around. Fired from the factories or the mines because of injuries or illness, they lacked enough greenbacks to leave the county. Now they didn’t even have shacks to keep the snow off their backs.

  The Akronite slumbered on the track, windows dark and cold. The town was alive, though. Every window in the place was ablaze with light. Lanterns bobbed back and forth in the streets.

  Confident that no one would notice me, I stepped out of the wood line and started into town. As I passed the steamcoach station—a sign said No Service—I felt a strange buzz around me.

  For one surreal moment, the entire town froze. People in the streets stopped dead in their tracks and looked up at the sick red sky. A spotlight swept over the muddy streets like the merciless eye of God.

  People cried out and made for the buildings, as if they were about to be attacked.

  It wasn’t a hostile dirigible, though. It was a Pennsy aerostat, come to examine the damage. After surveying the train and platform, the roving white glare followed the track west toward the river.

  I wondered what would happen when the rail barons found out MacCallard’s union was blocking their tracks. Liutt’s troubles were just that—Liutt’s troubles. By blocking the rail, though, MacCallard was expanding the crisis to include one of the most powerful industries in the country. I doubted he could take on Harriman’s grunts, but I suppose he had a fighting chance. The railroad detectives were another story.

  MacCallard was intelligent enough to know the railway company wouldn’t sit this out. He might’ve claimed this was about lost shifts and missing bodies, but now I knew it wasn’t. He didn’t have a problem with Liutt. He had a problem with the Magnocracy. A good commander would’ve left the rails out of it, kept the argument local. MacCallard had legitimate concerns about scabs and reinforcements from Harriman. But that shouldn’t have outweighed the possibility of drawing Pennsy into the conflict. Pennsylvania Rail was no second-rate corporation. Those fuckers could probably buy a hundred Liutts without denting their bank account.

  The airship and its leering spotlight passed out of sight. People started coming into the streets again. The stranded peregrines like myself were in full panic. Some stood in the streets with their suitcases and argued heatedly over the best course of action. Others stared longingly at the slumbering black Akronite.

  Almost everyone had come to the decision that Juniper Junction was no longer tenable. The steamcoach still hadn’t returned from Pittsburgh, though it was due back hours ago. MacCallard was squeezing the whole region like a British naval blockade.

  Problem was, that tactic only works if you have the biggest boats.

  I grew heartened. If everyone was getting desperate enough to leave on foot, I could simply ride the tide of humanity and slip by my numerous enemies unnoticed. MacCallard surely wouldn’t keep these poor bastards locked up here—he’d have to let them go or risk hurting them in the crossfire, which would make him appear bloodthirsty in the press.

  I slipped into the milling crowd around the steamcoach depot.

  “They’re not coming back,” I called out. “Union’s probably stopped ‘em.”

  There were murmurs of panic.

  “There’s fighting down in Liuttsburg and the fire’s spread to the mines. There’s no time for discussion. We gotta exeunt and fast, friends.”

  A tall man in a navy-blue topper nodded. “He’s right. I saw armed men burn those shanties over there.”

  Somewhere, a woman started crying.

  I looked around in wonder. I’d never spoken to a crowd like this before, so I was a little surprised at how pliable they were. Suddenly I understood politicians better.

  “We could walk out,” I suggested loudly. “If there’s enough of us together, the union should leave us alone.”

  “I seen ‘em, though, with guns on the road.”

  “We’re American citizens,” I shouted. “The union can’t keep us here!”

  “What about our tickets?” someone asked. “What about Akron?”

  Before I could speak, the tall fellow in the top hat answered for me. “The bridge fell. We’re not crossing the river anytime soon.”

  I stepped near the worried traveler. “We can all file claims with Pennsy when we get to civilization. We can’t afford to stay in a hotel until they pay us.” I didn’t say it very loud, since I was just trying to calm one person, but other people heard me and nodded in agreement.

  “There’s nothing more to discuss,” the man in the blue topper said. “I’m leaving!”

  There were grunts of approval. The crowd started away, gathering more bodies with each step. I kept to the middle of the pack, coughing to hide my exultant grin.

  I was finally leaving. With this thick crowd around me, there was very little chance of Stanny’s guys or anyone else catching me. What’s more, my fear of freezing was gone. The press of bodies around me more than made up for the thin coat I was wearing.

  We were halfway up Main Street when a firm hand caught me roughly from behind. A jolt of adrenaline shot through me. I drew my sixer and spun around to face my assailant.

  It was Roy. He had an archaic fowling piece leveled at my chest.

  “Put ’er away,” he said, lowering his own weapon. “I ain’t here to trade bullets.”

  I slid the .22 back under my jacket. “What are you here for then?”

  He licked his lips and spat. “To help you.”

  I rubbed my ears, wondering if one of the unionist shotgun blasts had damaged my hearing. “To what?”

  “It’s Phoebe,” he said, forgetting our awkwardness. “They snatched her.”

  For a moment, the noise of the town vanished. The crowd surged past me, but I didn’t notice them. All I could hear was the blood pumping in my skull. He didn’t have to tell me who caught her, because it didn’t matter. No matter who set the snare, my charge was dead.

  The hardheads were getting shot at. The gloves were off now for sure. If they caught a spy, they’d milk information out of her with pliers and hot coals if necessary. Meanwhile, if Stanny caught her, there’d be torture as well, just not for information.

  “You just gonna stand there with your gob open?”

  I blinked and turned to rejoin the fleeing travelers. “I’m sorry to hear that, Roy.” I wanted to punch him in the jaw. Why the hell had he told me this shit? The whole misadventure had left a bad taste in my mouth. Now that I knew Phoebe was dead, the memory would haunt me for years.

  “Ain’tcha gonna do something?” He grabbed my arm again.

  “Like what?” I snapped. “Call in the cavalry?”

  He shook his head and let go, as if disgusted to touch me. “You yellow-bellied piece of shit.”

  “You hillbilly motherfucker,” I said, turning to face him.

  People noticed our heated words. More importantly, they noticed Roy’s shotgun. The street emptied around us.

  “She ain’t in the ground yet.”

  “She will be soon.”

  “The Harrimen got her in the factory right now. They caught her when she tried to go in. They knew her for a plant
right away.”

  “So they’ll torture her, so what?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Somebody recognized her.” Kober. “They sent guys to find that pimp in the black steamer. That’s how we know. Only the only person they’ll be giving messages to now is Saint Peter.”

  I worked my jaw and said nothing.

  “She ain’t dead yet,” he repeated. “But that Stanny bastard will find out soon enough. We can’t catch every detective out there.” He punched my arm lightly, as if to wake me from a trance. “You could save her when they make the switch. She’s only being guarded by a couple of guys.”

  My heart started pounding. “Shit.” I turned and paced for a moment in the mud. “Shit.”

  Roy watched me silently.

  “I should leave,” I told him. “She went into that nest on her own. This isn’t on my head.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “But how old is she?”

  Before I knew it, my pacing had turned to a brisk walk toward Liuttsburg. The unionist fell in beside me.

  My mob—that beautiful crowd I had molded—was going in the opposite direction.

  “What the fuck is MacCallard doing about this?” I asked. “Did he send you? Will we have help getting her out?”

  “Hell, no. He’s already written her off as another casualty of war.”

  He’s probably right.

  “There’s no rescue party,” Roy explained. “Just me.”

  “So why’re you here?”

  “Because it was wrong. It’s cowardly to send a girl into that pit of rattlers and then just leave her.”

  It felt weird, agreeing with Roy. I liked MacCallard better. He was a thinking man. Whatever his mistakes were, he had a clear goal and the beliefs to get him there. Men like that were rare. Unfortunately, leaders with big vision often had little consciences.

  “I never would’ve expected help from you,” I told him bluntly. “Guess there’s some honor in Dixie after all.”

  “Dixie, nothing,” he spat. “I fought for the Federals.”

  “Shit. I figured you for a Virginian but you must be from the Ohio side, eh?” Ohio had its fair share of Appalachian primitives, after all.

  “Nah, I’m from West Virginia. We voted for secession, alright—secession out of the Confederacy and into the United States.”

  I chuckled. “I was wrong about you, Roy—you aren’t a disloyal hillbilly, just a stupid one. You picked the wrong side, same as me.”

  “Sure did. I even joined the Green Mountain Boys.”

  “So what you’re telling me,” I said, “is that you hid in the woods like a coward and shot Confederates in the back?”

  His face hardened.

  I laughed. “Good for you.” I clapped his shoulder. “I hope you drilled a dozen of those bastards.”

  Roy grinned. “Scores,” he assured me. “Scores.”

  I didn’t doubt him.

  The Green Mountain Boys had quite a reputation during the war. They were volunteers out of Appalachia, taking their name from the Revolutionary War soldiers under Ethan Allen. Folks in Appalachia learned how to shoot before they could walk, so they were natural warriors. As independent troops without sanction or uniform, though, the draconian terms of the Halifax Conference made them war criminals. I never could figure it out, since the CSA was, in my opinion, a bunch of unsanctioned rebels as well. It just goes to show—the only real defense against war crimes is victory.

  The Green Mountain Boys weren’t the only rebels-within-the-rebellion, either. Lots of people south of the Mason-Dixon had Union sympathies—from the swamps of Florida to the hills of Tennessee. Most thought secession was treason, which it was. Others just didn’t fancy dying for the right of planters to own human beings. Whatever their reason, though, the CSA won. Their only reward was a trip to the gallows for sedition. This was a hot issue in the North. There were plenty of folks, myself included, who felt that we owed something to our southern allies. The Magnocracy occasionally made overtures to take the dissidents so they could live with us Yankees. Northern factories were always glad for more hands, after all. Richmond would have none of it, though. For a rebel government, they were surprisingly intolerant of revolt.

  It was obvious now why Roy was in Pennsylvania. There was a noose waiting for him in Virginia. It also explained why he never mentioned a surname.

  “So what’s our plan?” I asked.

  “Don’t have one,” he said. “I just knew I had to grab you. Now that MacCallard’s given up on your girl, he’s getting ready to attack.”

  “You’re missing the battle to save Phoebe?”

  “I was hoping to do both, actually. We gotta extract her before the bullets start flyin’.”

  He was right, of course. With the unionists pounding on their gates, the hardheads wouldn’t like keeping a hostage. It would be easier to put a hole in her head and just give Stanislaus the body.

  It wasn’t just a race against Stanny, but MacCallard as well.

  “You were in the war,” I panted. “You ever see a steam fort in action?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head. “But I seen that one drill us in the quadrangle.”

  I nodded. “So do you think MacCallard can take it out? You think your boys have a chance in hell against that thing?”

  “MacCallard might be heartless, but he’s ain’t dumb. He’s got all manner of book-learning ’bout machines and such.”

  I was getting too winded to talk, so I mulled this over. I was hard-pressed to keep up with this two-legged coyote. Asking Roy to slow down wasn’t an option. We didn’t dare take it slow, not with Phoebe caught in the snare and Stanny sharpening his knife.

  “You look like a quarter horse on a fox hunt,” he observed genially.

  I didn’t answer. My lungs burned, but I kept going. I thought of the blue anthracite. I just used a vial when I was in Liuttsville. That wasn’t very long ago. How close together could I take them? The physical exertion seemed to use up the effects sooner. But that didn’t mean my kidneys could handle them closely together.

  The town was dark beneath the red sky. For a moment, I thought the fumes had overtaken everyone, choking them to death in their beds.

  Roy pointed at several lanterns on the main avenue. “They’s hardheads for sure. Everyone else is under MacCallard’s blackout.”

  So the wily unionist had dimmed all his lights before the attack. In the grim twilight of the alleys, any torch or lantern would glow like a beacon. MacCallard could watch every enemy movement with impunity while his own troops were screened by darkness.

  We left the hillside and started through the teetering brick warrens, avoiding any alley where we saw a lantern.

  After four blocks, I stopped. Purple spots danced across my vision.

  Roy halted beside me. “You alright? This too much running for a city boy?”

  I leaned against a brick wall and held my aching sides.

  “Maybe if you ask nice, they’ll run an omnibus for you city boys,” he said. “So folks don’t come to battle tired.”

  I did plenty of walking in the city, but not even the New York factories made smoke this thick. I suspected that, were it not for Lichfield’s tonic, I would’ve collapsed by now. Some unwholesome thoughts began to enter my head. When an engine made bad noises, an astute engineer turned it off. Was my body making those noises? Were Lichfield’s chemicals letting me ignore them? What if every step I took was ripping my innards apart like an over-wound
clock?

  I coughed into my hand and checked for blood. There wasn’t any, but I was hardly reassured.

  Before Roy could offer any more quips, I stood up and nodded us forward. I could’ve explained about getting gassed in the war, but that would’ve taken more breath than I had. I could put up with his country jibes.

  “River’s a block away.” Roy stopped and took off his kerchief to wipe sweat from his brow.

  “Longest case of arson in history.” I wiped my brow with my sleeve.

  “It ain’t my fire,” he insisted. “Or MacCallard’s. The union didn’t do this.”

  “Whoever started it, the damn thing’s still burning. How many days has it been?”

  He didn’t answer, probably because he didn’t know.

  I didn’t either. The past few days had been murky-gray and the nights eerie red. It was as if all the laws of nature had been suspended. Light and darkness were no more. The work of God’s first day was completely undone.

  The factory loomed above us, hellish chimneys limned in red. I felt like Dante staring at the iron-walled towers of Dis. The walls of Dis had been guarded by fallen angels and Furies.

  I think I would’ve preferred them to sharpshooters.

  “How do I get in?” It was at least twenty feet to the top.

  For a moment, he didn’t answer.

  Gunshots cracked whiplike in the distance. We held our breaths and listened. The air went still again.

  “Battle ain’t started yet.”

  I agreed with a weary nod. Given MacCallard’s plan for the dynamite, we would hear more than a few gunshots when the real battle commenced.

  “Over here,” he said, pointing. “The roofs almost touch the wall.”

  The factory was solid stone construction. The adjacent buildings, however, were slapdash tenements typical of company housing. One of these tenements leaned over the alley like a drunk about to vomit.

  “Fucking hell,” I said. “It looks like it’ll collapse if I slam a door too hard.”