Those Poor, Poor Bastards (Dead West Book 1)

Home > Other > Those Poor, Poor Bastards (Dead West Book 1) > Page 15
Those Poor, Poor Bastards (Dead West Book 1) Page 15

by Tim Marquitz


  Strobridge scratched at his beard. “I’ll pay every one of you for protection.”

  Father Mathias frowned, but it was Nina who spoke first. “None of us want your filthy fucking money.”

  “Nina,” Pa admonished.

  Strobridge went silent a moment, then his eyes grew fierce again. “Suit yourselves then. Me and my boys will race you to the top and leave you to rot with those walking corpses. Let’s go.”

  George and Mason looked at one another, but didn’t move, each waiting for the other to take the initial step, Nina reckoned.

  Manning spoke up, “You think these Daggett boys are gonna help you at the first sign of wolves or a bear?”

  George Daggett scratched at the scruff on his face. “Mase, you seen any bears out here?”

  Mason gazed stonily at Manning. “Not yet.”

  “Black bears aplenty in these mountains, you idiots,” said Pa.

  Strobridge’s brow sprouted sweat, his eyes passing between vicious and worried, finally coming to a decision on which tact to take. “Look, we were wrong. We admit it. But if you had that crazy Chinese bastard after you, you’d have wanted to get out, too. He knows I have the Taiping Jing, so not like I had much choice. Maybe we acted out of sorts—”

  “That’s a fucking understatement,” Buck said.

  “We could have used you to fight Liao,” Manning said. “Because he didn’t go after you, he came after us. Had we stuck together, maybe we’d have had a chance to keep Miss Buell and the marshal from getting killed.”

  Father Mathias cut in. “Tell you what. Hand over the Taiping Jing, and we’ll help you get to your train.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  Mathias shared a long look with Manning before shrugging. “No alternative.”

  “Jesus H. Christ! Fine. You can have the goddamn thing. Just get me the fuck to my train.”

  “Which direction?” Manning said.

  Strobridge looked up into the sky and all around, eyes dropping to follow Maples Creek where it twisted out of view amongst the rocky outcrops and towering conifers. “We follow the creek east and then south…”

  Pa’s brow furrowed as he remembered. “I know some trails down to Coburn that should be easy enough to traverse.”

  “Good. Like I said, east and then south until we hit the tracks. Then follow them west back down into Truckee where our glorious train awaits.” Strobridge peered south, taking in the stark, snow-blanketed peaks jutting up like teeth on a serrated blade. “I hope y’all are ready for a climb.”

  Nina noticed Woodie sitting alone on a rock down by the creek. His shoulders jerked as he sobbed, his hand slowly moving from the water to his face.

  In a way, Nina could see how the guy had been recruited by Strobridge, lied to, taken advantage of, and who knew what else? Her own people had been hard on him, too, especially Manning, worse than Strobridge in some ways.

  She went over, squatting next to him on a rock. “Hey, you okay?”

  Woodie raised his head. Nina gasped. Both eyes were nearly swollen shut, both lips puffed out and creased with cuts. His cheeks were bruised and split, and a piece of flesh hung from his brow where Manning’s knuckle must have connected good. Judging from the blood coming out of his mouth, he was missing several teeth, too.

  “Duh it loo’ li’ mm uh-hay?” He splashed a handful of water on his face, let a line of bloody drool hang from his lips.

  “Is there anything I can do? Red Thunder has—”

  “Lee me tha fuhg uh-wone. Din ath you people fo’nuthin. Din ath fo’elp, din ath tuh be pard uh thith. Juth lee me uh-wone.” He glared at Strobridge. “Tha goeth fo’ him, too.”

  Nina nodded and raised her hands. “Look, it’s been hard these past few days. On all of us. I just want to apologize. Probably doesn’t mean shit to you. I get it. But I’m sorry. I mean…you didn’t deserve this.” She gestured to his face.

  Woodie nodded, sputtering more bloody water, but the uneasy look in his eyes told her he didn’t buy a damn word of it.

  Nina held his shoulder for a moment, gave it a reassuring squeeze, stood and walked away.

  The click of a cocking revolver froze her. A gunshot cracked the sky, jerking her shoulders together in fright. Birds took flight from the trees as something heavy fell over behind her.

  She turned to see Woodie lying dead, her own Colt Navy limp in his hand. Nina grasped at her empty holster as the waters of Maples Creek ran over Woodie’s boots. The top of his head was a grizzly mess of twisted skull and bloody hair.

  “Shit.”

  Epilogue

  Nina's lips stripped the delicious beans from her spoon, the sugary, baked-in taste like nectar. The utensil then dove—seemingly of its own volition—into a can of peaches, delivering a drippy-sweet slice to her mouth.

  They dined. That was the best way to put it. A grand oak table smack in the middle of the dining car, built for Strobridge by some fellow named Crocker, now perfectly suitable for an orphan, a whore, a half-breed Injun, and a wounded old man.

  Mathias was there, too, sitting on the leather window couch reading from a Bible he'd found in one of the desk drawers, sipping on a 'particularly spectacular and not unreliable' brand of whiskey from a snifter. No matter what, the priest was the picture of calm. Even now he lounged in his black robes, one leg thrown over his knee, his head tossed back as he read through wire-framed spectacles perched on his nose. In his lap rested this cryptic Taiping Jing; what amounted to an ornamental, golden key, as far as Nina could tell.

  How he hadn't gorged on vittles by now was beyond her.

  She caught Jasmine’s eye across the table, warmed by the woman’s beaming smile. After a few mouthfuls, Jasmine sat by the window and sung, her voice strong and resonant, hopeful. Yet her despondent words came from some dark distant place Nina suspected was far south. Rachel sat next to her, listening. The girl had refused food, despite the fact she had to be starving. Pa worked on a can of carrots, his face all contented bliss, his ankle wrapped and forgotten for the moment.

  Empty cans had been piled in the middle, ten or twelve of them, victims all.

  They relaxed to the slow chug of the steam engine, the chu-chu, chu-chu as the cranks churned, the iron beast coming alive all around them. But this was their beast, and at the moment, they were safe and happy.

  Occasionally, a deadun thumped against the carriage, but this car was well-armored, Strobridge’s idea to thwart Indians and raiders as he traveled back and forth down the line between San Francisco and some place called Reno, the latter being their current destination.

  Nina went to where the whiskey crates were stacked and pulled out a bottle; brand spanking new. The entire right side of the car had cupboards full of food and other pleasantries, jugs full of various liquors, and even a lavatory to wash in.

  Nina opened the cabin door and watched the ground pass slowly beneath her. She stepped across the threshold to the tender car, climbing the ladder to the top and walking its full, rumbling length before dropping down the other side and into the cab of Engine 141, the Magpie—leastways that’s what it said on the side of the steel beast.

  Buck and Strobridge went over a series of levers and controls while Manning and Mason threw shovels of coal into the belly of the beast. Strobridge had turned out to be more than just a piece of shit railroad boss. He knew the train like the back of his hand. Sleeves rolled up, he’d oiled her intricate parts up and down her sides, checking lines and making sure she was ready to run.

  James looked like a mountain god with his shirt off, covered in sweat and coal dust. Mason wasn't half bad himself, except he was a Daggett. Between turns, James gave her that lopsided smile of his. For a second, Nina saw a childish side of him, or rather, what he might have been like as a child. Good-natured, probably. Hair lighter blond then, thin and tall early on but broadening out later. He’d probably loved his mama. She’d have to ask him later.

  Nina gave him a wave, set the bottle of whiskey
inside the door, and went back to car three. By this time, Jasmine and Rachel had joined Father Mathias on the leather couch as the priest read aloud from his book. Pa watched and listened from the table. He smiled at her and nodded. He looked beat.

  Nina returned her pa’s smile, then plucked out two more bottles and headed for the last car, an armored behemoth meant to dismantle anyone who had the balls to hijack them. George Daggett stood up in the turret, messing with the small cannon perched there. When he heard Nina come in, he gave her a curt nod, a large bruise had formed on his cheekbone where Manning had clocked him with the Spencer. She held up the bottle of whiskey, and a smile lit his face.

  “Truce?”

  He reached down for the bottle. “Why not?”

  Red Thunder was sorting through the stockpile of munitions Strobridge had outfitted prior to all hell breaking loose. He seemed glad to see her, which was a step better than the grunt of admonishment he normally produced.

  “You see here?” Red Thunder ran his hand along the side of the ironclad car, putting his hands into slits. “Loop holes to shoot from. And we have guns, and more ammunition than we can use. We are well prepared.”

  Nina sat down on a box of supplies while he worked. U.S. ARMY was stenciled on many of the containers and she suppressed her deep-seated emotions upon seeing those words.

  “Can I share something with you, brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “I felt it. The spirit of my people. Well, moments here and there.” She told him about the dream she had, her talk with the boha gande and what he’d said about her mother watching over her. She related the times she’d heard the drums, and how they’d helped her be strong.

  “That is good, Ninataku. But...” The Indian hesitated, putting his hand on her shoulder as if he could transfer understanding through touch alone.

  “What?”

  “You are still resisting, afraid of the power. You are fearful of failing.”

  Nina shook her head, confused and little annoyed. “What’s that mean? We were just trying to survive, me and Pa. All of us.”

  “Surviving is not enough, Ninataku. Not now. Let the spirits of your people in, and you will see. Perhaps you have yet to bond with your weyekin. I don’t know.”

  “Tell me how to find it.”

  “You will not find it. It will find you. Young warriors go into the forest or mountains to find theirs, searching sometimes for days, some of them never returning. You only need to have an open heart when the time comes.”

  Nina’s spirit took flight. “You think I can be a warrior?” Not only was Red Thunder’s insinuation flattering, but it was unheard of for a woman to be given such status in the tribe.

  “You are already a warrior, Ninataku.” Then he chuckled, as if amused at some inside joke. “A warrior with no spirit guide.”

  She frowned and left the car, sliding the heavy compartment door open to stand on the observation deck of the train. The station receded into the distance as Coburn/Truckee faded behind a copse of trees just north of the tracks. It was a dead town now, still smoldering in sooty streaks, which drifted into the sky. She hoped it stayed buried.

  Nina opened the other bottle of whiskey, lifted it, and took a long chug. It burned her throat on the way down, but she welcomed the cleansing heat. She held up the bottle and took another drink, this one for Woodie.

  While she didn’t regret the things she’d done over the past few days to survive, she knew the deaths of Grover and Clara Buell, Marshal Oden, and Woodie Woodruff would stick with her for a bit. All had been good people at heart…well, the Buells and the marshal, at least. She was less certain of Woodie, yet she chose to believe he was good on the inside, just tormented. His passing was made even darker by its cause. But she couldn’t blame Manning. Couldn’t blame anyone. Men were just bad, or good, in varying degrees, depending on one’s point of view.

  Nina would have to be very careful in the coming days, but she felt stronger now than she’d ever felt.

  The compartment door slid open, and James Manning came to stand next to her. She passed him the bottle. Together they watched the world roll by, the train cutting through a swath of trees, and then up along a clear ridge whose sides plunged straight down fifty feet. The base was sparsely populated by deaduns.

  One decomposing fellow raised his arms and stumbled toward them, trying to climb the grade to reach the train. Nina waved back. Manning’s confused expression made her snort.

  “What?” he said.

  “Sorry, just trying to lighten up after all the hell we been through.”

  Manning’s grin shone through his coal-covered face. “Nothing wrong with that.” He leaned over the rail and spat.

  As they gained speed, the trails of coal smoke and steam exhaust billowed out behind them, making fat plumes in the sky.

  “We agreed not to go too fast. Never know what kinds of surprises Liao has ahead. Would hate to hit a piece of track with no rails. Wouldn’t be hard to sabotage us.”

  “Let’s hope not.” Nina leaned on the rail, too, so that their elbows touched. If Manning noticed, he didn’t let on.

  “Can you believe this train? Even got a shitter.”

  “It’s incredible. My first time on one.”

  “I’ve been on them plenty, but never part of a rail team. There’s a lot to learn. We’d have never made it out without Strobridge, much as I hate to admit. He seems to know this train like he’s lived in one his whole life. Guess I should say thanks for not shooting him.”

  “You’re welcome.” After a pause, she added, “Wonder what’s waiting for us in Reno?”

  Manning gave her more than a quick glance, his eyes lingering, burning against her skin. Nina started to meet his gaze, but he’d already looked away.

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. As long as I can get in a good long sleep between here and there. Strobridge says first thing we get there he’ll telegraph his people and we should do the same, warn whoever we can, then go as far east as possible.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Nina grinned, unable to stop herself from wrapping her hand under Manning’s arm and putting her cheek against his shoulder. Nervous as an apple thief, her pulse raced and her gut somersaulted. What was he thinking?

  It didn’t take long for her to find out. He stood up. “I’ve got something I want to ask you.”

  Nina faced him, taking in his dirty face, the scabs and the scruff, and the eager look in his eyes. Their bodies thrummed with energy as their arms intertwined. “Yes?”

  James leaned into her, arms wrapping her up and pulling her tight against him. His lips descended, and she rose to meet him as the train rolled on, and on, and on.

  About the Authors

  Tim Marquitz

  Raised on a diet of Heavy Metal and bad intentions, Tim Marquitz writes a mix of the dark perverse, the horrific, and the tragic, tinged with sarcasm and biting humor. A former grave digger, bouncer, and dedicated metalhead, he is a huge fan of Mixed Martial Arts, and fighting in general. His urban fantasy series called Demon Squad is a fan favorite and he is also the Editor-In-Chief of Ragnarok Publications. He lives in El Paso, Texas, with his beautiful wife and daughter. His website is www.tmarquitz.com.

  J.M. Martin

  J.M. Martin has been a teacher, an occupational therapist, a managing editor, and a graphic designer. He has written comic books and role-playing games, as well as several short stories for Fantasist Enterprises, Rogue Blades Entertainment, Pill Hill Press, and Angelic Knight Press. He recently co-founded Ragnarok Publications with Tim Marquitz and is the company’s Creative Director. J.M. (Joe) lives in Crestview Hills, Kentucky, with his kick-ass, red-headed, black belt wife and three spirited wee folk he swears are pixies. You can visit www.nineworldsmedia.com to find out more.

  Kenny Soward

  Kenny Soward grew up in Crescent Park, Kentucky, a small suburb just south of Cincinnati, Ohio, listening to AC/DC, Quiet Riot, and Iron Maiden. In those quiet 1970's streets, he jumped b
ikes, played Nerf football, and acquired many a childhood scar. At the age of sixteen, he learned to play drums and bashed skins for many groups over the next twenty years. By day, Kenny works as a Unix professional, and at night he writes and sips bourbon. His fantasy series GnomeSaga is published by Ragnarok Publications. He lives in Independence, Kentucky, with two cats and a gal who thinks she's a cat. Visit him online at www.kennysoward.com.

  ~

  For more information about the Dead West series, go to www.ragnarokpub.com.

 

 

 


‹ Prev