Guns of Seneca 6 (Chamber 1 of the Guns of Seneca 6 Saga)

by Bernard Schaffer

  “Claire’s husband Frank wanted to come, but I told him he needed to stay and protect her. I think he’s patrolling the front yard with a shotgun as we speak.”

  “Christ, we’re gonna get crushed,” Bart said.

  “Jem and I have been through this type of thing before, young Bart, so look on the bright side,” Halladay said. “You will probably be the first to go.”

  They set out into the wasteland. Halladay inventoried the ammunition in his belt and checked the spare battery packs in his vest. He removed the rifle from his saddle and worked the action several times then inspected both of his pistols by spinning the cylinders to make sure there was a bullet in each chamber. Halladay had a small Mantis revolver tucked into the front of his waistband, and when he showed it to Jem, Jem nodded approvingly and showed him the one hidden under his shirt.

  Halladay drew a knife from his shoulder holster that was the length of his forearm and he held it up in the sunlight to inspect the edge. Jem shook his head at the sight of the weapon and said, “Guess we’re covered in case a sword fight breaks out, then.”

  “I am a practitioner of the surgical arts, young man. One never knows when he will encounter a tumor that needs to be removed.”

  Both men looked over at Bart Masters. Bart confidently patted the mining laser’s barrel lying across his lap.

  “Is that really all you brought?” Halladay said.

  “Just wait and see, old man. Just wait and see.”

  Halladay laughed out loud. “This is quite a crew indeed. A sick old man, a miner with a homemade space laser, and an outlaw with eyes as blue as the oceans of Luatica.”

  “Can’t you be serious for just one moment?” Jem said. “There’s at least four men down in that canyon aiming to kill us, one of who has some sort of unholy weapon powerful enough to make us shoot ourselves before we even get there.”

  “Forgive me, Jem,” Halladay said. “I will try summon the appropriate dread at our imminent demise.”

  “Whatever,” Jem said. “Just forget it.”

  They rode across the grey flatland in silence. The long row of mountains ahead seemed to reach high enough to scrape the sun. The first trail up the mountain was blockaded. “What the hell?” Bart said. “It was fine last week.”

  “Expect all of the other paths to be blocked off as well, save for the one at the far end of the canyon. It makes perfect sense to force us up that hill,” Halladay said.

  Bart Masters rode ahead of them and Royce Halladay waved for Jem to wait for a moment. “I do apologize if my attitude is distracting you.”

  “It’s nothing, Doc. I’m just wired pretty tight right now. I don’t like these odds.”

  “I have been a dead man walking this planet ever since that awful night so many years ago. Not a single day passes that I do not ask myself why the hell I’m still alive. This is my twenty-second year with a fatal disease, Jem. It is like God prefers to see me suffer.” Halladay leaned close to Jem and said, “So forgive me if I do not pay much attention to the odds. And perhaps, as I ruminate on it a bit, I come to wonder if the Lord kept me alive all this time just so I could be at your side at this particular moment.”

  “That’s a long way to come just to be outnumbered and outgunned, Doc.”

  Royce Halladay’s eyebrows raised. “Pardon my correction, sir, but while there have been many occasions when I have been outnumbered, I have never once been outgunned.”

  ***

  Hank Raddiger lifted his binoculars to check the path, but all it did was give him a sharper view of the thick brush he was hidden under. He propped up on his elbows, keeping the assault rifle steady in one hand and the wireless remote device in his other.

  He was alone on the overlook, the sole guardian of the beaten up wagon that the Customs Officers left in the center of the path. It was the only access road to the canyon that hadn’t been blockaded, and whoever tried to get close around that wagon was in for a hell of a surprise, Hank though. The assault rifle was for whoever survived.

  Except for Jem Clayton.

  Clayton was not to be harmed under any circumstances. If Hank’s first round hit Jem Clayton, the second round was going into his own mouth, Hank thought. To hell with trying to explain a screw-up to Elijah or Little Willy or whoever the hell he thought he was.

  Hank heard something and froze, seeing a lone figure come walking up the path. The man was unarmed except for a large industrial device strapped over his shoulders with a long hose connected to it. Was it a flamethrower? Hank wondered. It looked like something farmers used to spray down their crops.

  Bart Masters paused to look over the wagon and the rocky cliffs on either side of it. He even looked in the area where Hank was hidden, but gave no notice of seeing him. Hank raised the wireless remote and held his breath, counting the number of steps the man would have to take before he pressed the detonation button.

  Bart flipped a switch on his backpack and it came alive with a growling, vibrating noise like an engine. He aimed down the length of the hose at the wagon and squeezed a trigger underneath it. There was a high-pitched whine and a red circle of light appeared on the surface of the carriage.

  “What the hell?” Hank whispered. The red circle started to smoke and the side of the carriage melted and caught flame. The light painted the interior of the carriage, directly over the stacks of plastic explosives hidden within.

  The explosive’s sticky linings turned to ash and the fuses and wires connecting them sizzled as they melted. Hank tried to slam the button on the remote in time but nothing happened. He cursed and threw the remote aside, lifting the rifle to aim at the head of the idiot with the backpack. He was about to pull the trigger when the sole of a boot crushed his hand against the ground.

  Hank lifted his head to scream but a large blade flashed in the sunlight and all he saw was a lean, ghostly looking man holding the knife. The ghost smiled cruelly and plunged the knife in as he whispered, “Ave atque vale.”

  ***

  Jimmy McParlan could not tell if it was dusk or if the clouds had just rolled over the sun momentarily. He wondered if his eyesight had weakened to the point that he could no longer tell day from night. He could only take small, shallow breaths and felt excruciating pressure on his chest from his suspended shoulders. Both shoulders had already popped out of their sockets, and his arms were numb to the point that he no longer felt the pain of the steel bolts driven through his wrists.

  The steel bolts in his feet still hurt, especially when he moved and they ground against his bones. The buzzards had returned. Jimmy McParlan panted like a dog and waited for death. Death was slow in coming.

  Something burned brightly, high above him. He managed to lift his head enough to see flames lighting the mountainside. Whatever was on fire creaked as it rocked back and forth until finally it tumbled over the side of the cliff and smashed against the rocky walls. It fell like a dead phoenix to the desert floor.

  There were figures high above on the overlook, standing where the wagon had fallen from. McParlan grunted unintelligibly and closed his eyes, worried that now he was hallucinating.

  ***

  The Customs Officer sprayed the edge of the cliff with bullets, and Bart Masters dove behind the ledge. He swung the laser barrel around and charged it, about to fire over the ledge when Jem shouted for him to wait.

  “They’ve got McParlan down there, nailed to a goddamn cross or something. Hold your fire. That ship down there is full of fuel. If it ignites, you’ll burn everything in that valley.”

  Bullets struck the cliff again and Halladay lifted his hand to shield his face from the rock spray. “What do you propose, then? Shall we hurl stones at them?”

  A voice called out from the canyon below, “Jem Clayton! Can you hear me?”

  Jem laid flat and inched close to the side enough to peer over. In the light of the burning carriage, Jem could see Little Willy Harpe standing next to a large metal contraption with McParlan crucified in the center of it.
“You son of a bitch!” Jem shouted.

  Harpe shrugged and said, “Don’t be like that, Jem. I just want to talk to you.”

  “Send up the Marshal and you and me can talk all night.”

  “Well, I would but he doesn’t seem to want to do much more than hang around down here. How about you come to me and we’ll see what we can do?”

  Jem tried to make out where the Customs Officers were firing from, but they were hidden in the shadows and smoke. “Set McParlan free and I’ll come down.”

  “COME TO ME NOW!” Harpe’s voice boomed.

  Jem squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself, waiting to fight the irresistible command. Nothing happened. Jem opened his eyes and saw Bart Masters stand up and head down the path into the valley below. “Bart! What the hell are you doing?”

  Masters ignored him and quickly began navigating the winding trail until Jem lost sight of him. “He’s the next one going on the cross, Jem,” Harpe said. “Unless you walk down here on your own like a man.”

  Royce Halladay stood up and started to follow Bart Masters. “Doc! Don’t listen to him. Try and fight it.”

  Halladay stopped and turned around. “That is exactly what I intend to do,” he said. “Now are you coming with me or not?”

  They walked down into the canyon together, past the wagon’s burning embers, past the rifles of the Customs Officers. As they got closer, Jem could see Jimmy McParlan’s head hanging against his chest. The Marshal’s head was hanging down so low that his hair covered his one eye. Firelight cast shadows across his naked, battered form, and Jem could not tell if the old man was breathing or not.

  Bart Masters was standing next to Harpe with his arms stiff at his side, like a military man waiting to be inspected by a superior officer. Harpe waved for Jem and Halladay to keep coming closer.

  Jem stopped in front of Harpe and said, “You must be the famous Little Willy.”

  “You think so?” Harpe said with a grin.

  “Maybe there’s something we can do to work this out?” Jem said.

  “I don’t think so--”

  Jem pulled his pistol out so quickly that he nearly fired off a shot point blank at Little Willy’s face before he could say, “STOP!” Jem’s gun fired, but his hand stiffened around the gun’s handle just as he pulled the trigger and bullet went wide, tearing Little Willy’s left ear in half. Royce Halladay was frozen at Jem’s side, his gun half-raised.

  Harpe grimaced and pressed his hand to his ruined ear. He inspected the blood on his palm and looked at the stiffened faces of Jem and Doctor Halladay. “You are unbelievably fast, boy. That almost got me. Who do you two want to shoot first? The Marshal?”

  Jem felt himself turning to aim his Defeater at McParlan’s chest. “What about the one with the laser?” Harpe said. Jem tried to stop himself from drawing his second pistol but it was beyond his control. He raised his second gun and aimed it at the face of Bart Masters, who stood defenseless.

  Harpe turned to Halladay. “How about you? Wouldn’t you like to kill this moody little prick yet?”

  Halladay stuck his gun against Jem’s chest. Harpe rubbed his hands together and admired his handiwork. He pointed at Bart Masters and said, “Point that ray gun at the old man.” Once Masters had done so, he said, “Oh my, but don’t you boys look cinematic!”

  Harpe circled around them, going from one man to the next. “I know you’re all in there. I can feel you. I’d let you speak, but it would just be you talking tough or begging for mercy, and I simply don’t have the patience for it.” He stopped at Jem. “You know? I had all sorts of plans for you. We were going to have ourselves a little party after what you did to me. But since I’ve come back I’ve gained a whole new perspective and realized I have much bigger things on my plate. So, on the count of three, you’re all going to fire and I will get on with the business of recreating the universe in my image. Ready?”

  Harpe started to count. “One…two….what the hell?” He looked up and saw a figure standing high above them on the cliff. It was an old man, wearing a long robe with fringe dangling from the sleeves. His white hair blew in the swirl of wind that rose around him. The old man looked down at Harpe and clapped his hands together with such force that it echoed throughout the canyon.

  Mahpiya of the Beothuk chanted into the winds and aimed his staff at the creature tucked beneath Harpe’s arm. Clouds filled the sky and turned black as winds whipped through the trees overlooking the canyon, sending leaves and branches into the air. Mahpiya drew circles in the air with his staff and suddenly yanked back like he was dragging a fish from the sea with a rod and reel.

  One of the creature’s long tendrils ripped itself out of Harpe’s belly. Its tendrils dripped blood as it shriveled. A second one ripped free of Harpe’s neck and he gasped and clutched the open wound left there.

  Mahpiya’s chant filled the valley as two riders on destriers raced down into the canyon. Hooves beat the ground as the animal’s enormous legs pivoted each impossible twist of the path. Bug was in the lead, using his knees to steer as he lifted his bow and sent an arrow sailing into Little Willy’s leg.

  One of the Customs Officers opened fire on Bug as the boy flew past. Bullets riddled the back of his destrier, sending blood and fur into the air. Haienwa’tha’s destrier leapt from the trail onto the ground and the young warrior hurled an axe at the Officer. The Officer stared at the axe’s long handle sticking out of his face before falling down dead.

  Bug’s destrier fell over mid-sprint, sending him skidding across the ground. The second Customs Officer tracked Bug’s rolling form with his weapon, about to fire when an arrow whistled through the air at him from high above the canyon. Osceola watched his arrow puncture the Officer’s right temple and raced across the dark ledge to get to Mahpiya’s side.

  The medicine man reached into the satchel around his waist for a handful of fluorescent powder. It crackled when he blew it from his palm, carrying through the air and raining on Harpe. Another tentacle unseated from Harpe and he dropped to one knee, screaming in pain.

  Harpe reached up and snatched one of the creature’s free tentacles and started to pull. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

  “Give me back my body, you thief!” It was Little Willy’s voice that came from his mouth. “Go back to the grave where you belong, Elijah!”

  “Let me finish my work!” Elijah roared back. Little Willy had pulled the creature away so that it was only connected to him by its head. The head was sunk deep in his armpit with foot-long fangs, drinking from his heart endlessly.

  Osceola drew his finest arrow and notched it in his bow, aiming at Harpe while he was bent over and wrestling to keep himself from ripping the creature off.

  Mahpiya waved a fan of feathers in front of Osceola’s arrow and stepped back, raising his hands to shout the last incantation. Osceola’s arrow punctured the creature’s bulbous head, making jets of green filth spew out of it. Harpe lifted his head back and gasped for breath. His hold on the men lessened for a moment, and Royce Halladay forced his pistol away from Jem’s chest, straining to turn the weapon on Harpe.

  Harpe hollered in outrage at Halladay, “No! No! Stop! I COMMAND YOU!”

  Halladay’s face turned purple and blood spilled out of his mouth. He started to cough but managed to take another step forward. Harpe shouted, “SUFFER! SUFFER!” making Halladay hunch over in pain, but still he took another step.

  “Suffer,” Harpe panted.

  “Been doing that for as long as I can remember,” Halladay said. He grabbed Harpe around the waist and spun him around to face Jem, shouting, “Shoot him!”

  The creature made terrified high-pitched noises and was trying to re-attach itself to Harpe. Jem tried to turn and get one of his guns centered on the creature while Harpe struggled with Halladay even as the creature’s tentacles lashed both of their faces. “Get the hell out of the way, Doc!” Jem shouted. “I don’t have a clear shot!”

  “If I let go, we’re done fo
r. Shoot now.” Halladay looked at him and said, “As a friend, I am asking you, Jem. Shoot.”

  Jem cocked back the hammer of his Defeater and fired into the center of creature’s head. The bullet passed through the creature’s large mouth and punched through Little Willy’s heart.

  Royce Halladay let Harpe slide out of his hands and smiled at Jem, “Nice shot.” Something burned in his chest and put his hand up to it just as a warm rush of blood spilled out of the hole from Jem’s bullet. He looked at Jem and said, “Oh dear” before collapsing to the ground.

  Jem ran to him and pressed both of his hands over the hole, trying to keep the blood inside. “Bart!” he shouted.

  Bart Masters was bent over on his hands and knees, retching into the sand.

  “Bart! We need help!”

  Halladay coughed forcefully. “That truly was an admirable shot, Jem. Sam would be proud. I intend to discuss it with him in the next minute or so.”

  “Stop that. You aren’t going to die. I’ll get Anna and she’ll fix you up. Just lay still.”

  Halladay coughed again, more fiercely this time and blood pumped into Jem’s hands. “I have been dying for twenty years, my friend. I just needed the proper motivation to get it over with.” Halladay’s eyes searched the night sky above, peering at the limitless stars. He smiled gently and tears streamed down the sides of his face. He took one deep, final breath, and when he let it out he said, “There’s my girl.”

  20. No Snakes Alive

  Anna Willow stood waiting by the front gate with her medical bag ready. People had begun to crowd the town square as word about the rescue party spread. Bart’s wife, Emma Masters, stood wrapped in a blanket. Her face was like a flood of full-blown despair held back by the last stitches of a torn suture. Emma’s sister, Janet Walters, was at her side, and somehow, Janet managed to look even worse than Emma.

  Adam Wells rocked back and forth, nervously touching the tip of each finger to his thumb over and over. Frank Miller sat in his wheelchair holding hands with his wife, drumming on the twelve-gauge shotgun sitting on his lap. Claire stood staring at the road beyond the security gate and did not look away.