by RW Krpoun
“I have no idea.” From the look on his face, I believed him.
Releasing the engineer, I shook my head. “Let’s go.”
At the north end of the ridge we swept down to the road at a trot. I was glad to see that Sister Celeste could ride well-perhaps she had been of a wealthy family before entering the convent.
“We ought to be seeing them in a couple of minutes,” Captain jerked his chin south. “We could trim ‘em a bit.” He patted his rifle’s stock.
“Maybe.” I had returned my sap and tool roll to my saddlebags, and was strapping Sibley’s rig to my saddle-at this point I felt the need for more firepower. Mac got the ammunition from the engineer’s saddlebags and moved forward to put the shotgun shells and a box of .45 Long Colt in my saddlebags, having appropriated the Browning and its ammunition for himself.
The money went into a cotton sack which I tossed to Captain. “Hang onto that.” After cutting out the lining and driving the blade of my case knife through the bottom and sides to ensure there were no secret compartments, I discarded the carpet bag.
“Where the blazes are they?” Captain had his Remington cradled across his chest.
“Dunno,” I got the partial magazine out of my shirt and topped it off. “Sibley, tell me everything you know.”
“I don’t know much,” the engineer shrugged, his wrist irons jingling at the movement. “We, I, kept a low profile. Four days ago the maid and the cook were upset over what they called a ‘witch’ being in the area. The next day they did not come to work, and we heard shouting, so I closed up the house. That night several buildings burned down and a few shots were fired. The next day, and ever since, the town has been deathly quiet. I decided it was time to leave…and you know how that ultimately ended.”
“Yeah. Mac?” He was leaned towards Sister Celeste, who was clearly explaining something.
The big man straightened. “Sister Celeste is part of an orphanage to the east, and came here yesterday with a cart and couple of workers to pick up some supplies. They were taken captive at the town entrance by a group of people…like we saw, led by a filthy little man who was…not affected. They were locked up in a barn with a number of other townsfolk. The little man removed townsfolk in ones and twos during the night, and none returned. She managed to get a couple other captives to help lever open a window, and they all fled. They scattered, and she ran into us.”
“Did all the captives get out?”
“What was left of them, yeah.”
“Huh.” I thought about it. “How did she know to shoot them in the head? What is wrong with them?”
Mac rubbed his jaw. “She says they are Cadauer Ambulantum.”
“What?”
She was explaining, low-voiced and urgent. Mac shook his head a couple times, but she jabbed a finger at him and imperiously gestured towards me, obviously demanding that he report. “She says…it’s Latin. It means corpses that walk. She says they are dead, which is why you have to pierce the skull or shatter the spine.”
“Dead people don’t walk.”
“These do.” He listened some more. “She says they are not people, they are…puppets, like. Things that are made.”
That made no sense at all, but neither had what we had just seen. “I’m guessing Green Coat made them?”
“She doesn’t know.”
I looked at Captain, who shrugged. “Normal people don’t take nine to the chest and one to the knee without bleeding a lot, hoss. They usually make some noise during the process, too, at least in my experience.”
A valid point. “All right. How do they make them?”
“Dark arts. From what she’s describing it’s like those snake oil salesmen, mixing stuff up. Its real complicated, and she only has a little idea about the whole business.”
“Why does she know anything? I’ve been a Catholic my entire life and I never heard of anything like this. She’s not even a real nun yet, no offense intended.”
“She works with a monk at her orphanage. He had her and a couple others watching for sign. She thought he was crazy until yesterday.”
“I can understand that.” The road was still empty. “How far is her place?”
“Twelve miles.”
“Let’s find out why Green Coat and company haven’t shown up, and then we’ll get her home.” I tested the heft and feel of Sibley’s weapons, finding both to be new and well-maintained. “Then we’re going to see how fast we can get to the Rio Grande.” I caught Captain’s look. “After we chop Green Coat.”
Chapter Four
Sinaloa looked completely deserted as we approached; the mob and the wagon were gone. Where they had gone wasn’t a big mystery: the rain-softened surface of the road heading east was clearly marked by many feet and the rims of wagon wheels. Sister Celeste immediately began clamoring at the sight of the trail, but I waved her to silence.
“We’ll cut around the mob and get there first.”
“We could drop a few along the way,” Captain offered hopefully.
“Later-we’ve got Sibley and the mules slowing us down. Scout ahead, Captain, and keep us from running into company. Well drop off the Sister and see what’s what.”
“I would like a shot at Green Coat,” Captain insisted.
“Before we leave,” I nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the town. It might have just been the ghosts, but I swore we were being watched. “I believe we will make time for that.”
I studied the old presidio through my field glasses. It was square, about two hundred yards on a side, built of local stone and plastered, then whitewashed; about half the plaster had been freshly replaced, giving the place a very mottled look. It was a box of buildings surrounding a parade field, the buildings lacking windows on the outside and their flat roofs fitted with chest-high extensions on the outer side, complete with shooter’s notches. A wall of equal height with a catwalk connected the buildings, and four square towers rose from the box’s corners, each a dozen feet wide and a half-story taller than the walls, set out from the wall so riflemen could cover the face of each wall in cross-fire.
The gate was centered in the north wall and the south side was what had been the large administration building which apparently had been converted into a church at some point in the past. There were signs of fresh stonework, the gate was new timbers, unpainted and unweathered, and men with muzzle-loading rifles stood watch in the corner towers.
To the south and east the ground in front of the walls had been cleared for four hundred yards and fenced for gardens; ditches and adobe irrigation flows had been built for this purpose. To the west and north Indian children were laboring to clear the brush back. Brightly painted posts were set at fifty, seventy-five, one hundred, one-fifty, two hundred, three hundred, and four hundred yard increments from the walls on each side, each range increment marked with different colors.
The flagstaff rising from the center of the parade field was straight and freshly painted, and the ropes servicing the truck were clean and new. A flag vertically split into white and gold fields with a coat of arms upon the gold flew from its height, the Church’s own flag.
“It looks all right-I can’t imagine bandits would fly a flag, much less that of the Vatican, but I’ll go ahead and made contact to make sure,” I reported to the group.
As I approached a bugle sounded inside the presidio, followed a minute later by the rapid rattle of a drum. By the time I reached the gate, alertly watched by the tower guards, there were a pair of monks waiting. One was a giant, easily a half foot over six feet, tow-headed and blue-eyed, in his thirties. The other was a slender man whose authority was not diminished by his simple brown robes. His hair was gray around his shaved pate, but his aristocratic features were unlined.
“Good afternoon, my friend,” the older monk executed a minimal bow, hands folded, his English slightly accented. “Are you well?”
“Well enough,” I lifted a hand in salute. The monk’s eyes were slate gray and hard-I would have expected t
o see them over the barrel of a pistol, not a crucifix. “None of us have what is going around.”
“None are bitten or wounded by the mad men?”
“No, Brother.”
“Good. I am Brother Andrew, and this is Brother Lars. We are the keepers of this establishment, the Presidio of Hope, an orphanage.”
I gestured over my shoulder. “You don’t usually see an orphanage with range stakes, Brother.”
The monk’s smile did not reach his eyes. “These are unsettled times, and Brother Lars and I…are monks of a different origin than most. I apologize for my lack of manners in keeping you in the sun, but I recognize you and your comrades as men of violence and uncertain motives, and as such I must inquire as to your intentions before you are allowed within our humble abode.”
“Doesn’t look so humble,” I eyed the gate. “Looks like you fellows have been trying to put it to rights.”
“Brother Lars and I were sent here two years ago to establish this orphanage. As a matter of habit, we…prefer a military approach.”
“Kind of a hazardous place for men of God.”
Brother Andrew smiled, and this time it was real. “God makes tools for every task, and from very common materials, I would add. Your business, sir?”
“I am Seth Peak, the senior of three Pinkerton agents. We took a suspect into custody in Sinaloa and along the way rescued Sister Celeste from a pack of…strange locals. We’re here to return her and warn you a sizeable group of locals are on their way here.”
“Twelve miles,” Brother Andrew said thoughtfully. He nodded to Brother Lars who turned without a word and headed into the fort. “They draw close. We shall hold Mass for the souls lost in Sinaloa.” He sighed and reflexively scanned the horizons as he made the Sign of the Cross.
“You don’t often see armed men guarding an orphanage,” I glanced at the walls and lowered my voice, careful not to change my posture. “Are you truly in charge here, Brother, or is someone holding a pistol to a child’s head inside?”
Brother Andrew smiled. “I am the first amongst the equals of our Order here, and so yes, I am in charge. You think the military preparations signify others are using me as a front? Or perhaps I am an imposter?”
“I figure you for a monk, Brother: your tonsure is tanned-a fresh shave wouldn’t be. But monks don’t usually clear fields of fire.”
Brother Andrew nodded. “I am Swiss-before I found my way, I served amongst the Vatican Guard, as my countrymen have for centuries. Thereafter in Asia as part of France’s Légion étrangère. Brother Lars served in several private conflicts in the African colonies. We have found our way, but a man is a collection of memories and while we have sworn no violence to any man, I believe we shall be forgiven for unearthing…lessons from a different school. The Mother Church is practical in many ways.” The monk gestured to the road. “One of Celeste’s companions reached us an hour ago. We have summoned the locals to safety, and are preparing as best we are able. There are some weapons and as you can see we have fortifications, albeit rather old works.”
“What about supplies?”
“We have water enough to share, and can spare some food.” The monk’s eyes turned apprising. “We can give you a safe place to spend the night. Or perhaps you would care to assist us? We are but simple monks and a few righteous souls tending our young flock-the services of a group which is both war-like and clever would be of great use to our cause.”
“What makes you think we’re war-like and clever?”
“You are a soldier, my son, or were one long enough to leave its mark on you. A man who wasn’t clever would have died in Sinaloa.”
“Speaking of Sinaloa, what exactly is going on? The locals have gone insane, a Novitiate is saying some very strange things, and you don’t seem very surprised at it all.”
Brother Andrew nodded thoughtfully. “I said the Church is very practical. Brother Lars and I were sent here because we understand the sort of environment the troubled politics of Mexico has created, and because we both have seen…shall we say ‘outbreaks’ of the sort we now face.”
“Outbreaks of what? What exactly is going on?” I was getting exasperated.
“Exactly, Mr. Peak? Well, to be precise, the dead walk and attack the living.”
“Why?” I was fed up with dancing around issues.
“Ah. The why-that is a dangerous region. Let me move to the ‘how’: a scholar who has devoted a lifetime of study to various arcane remnants of an old, dark time brews a mixture which he then applies to a fresh corpse. The corpse then walks and behaves as you have seen. It decays much more slowly than dead tissue should, is difficult to kill, and is largely mindless. If bitten by such a subject, a person will be stricken and soon become another of these mindless horrors.”
I stared at him for a long moment, struggling with the import of his words. Then the image of Green Coat leapt to mind. “So they’re just…poisoned? Some sort of snake oil business?”
“No, the scholar, what we call a necromancer, creates a mixture of potion and plague, a bastard mating of science, alchemy, and blood ritual. It is extremely difficult and dangerous to attempt, and nearly all who attempt it are killed in the effort.”
“Why do it, then?”
Brother Andrew grinned crookedly. “Power. According to the dark lore that predates the written word, this is but the first great step in a path to unimaginable power.”
That meant little, so I plunged on. “You have seen this before?”
“Yes. This has been attempted before in the darker corners of the world, or within the chaos of great wars. The necromancer needs access to a sizeable number of relatively fresh bodies and an absence of central authority to launch his undertaking. You see, only those who are infected by the necromancer’s substance can pass on the disease. He must continually raise new ‘carriers’, as we call them.”
“Wait a minute-why haven’t I heard about this if it has happened before?”
“Where do you think the legends of ‘zombies’ have come from?” Brother Andrew shrugged. “Most outbreaks were dealt with quickly, before they got too far. The rest…well, there are ruins in the jungles west of Tokin China and your own mound builders in Ohio, the remains of civilizations which did not stop them in time.”
“So you expected this to happen?”
“The Church has been aware there was a necromancer who was nearly ready, and conditions in Mexico are at present very favorable for an outbreak. This is hardly the only diocese which has been alerted, and Brother Lars and I are hardly the only members of the clergy to know what to watch for in these matters. This is one reason why you have never heard of these affairs, Mr. Peak: because those who do know work diligently to ensure that the outbreaks do not get very far.”
That made sense: if they knew there was a madman getting ready, then they could easily alert every parish in the trouble spots. “Why don’t they attack the necromancer? The…zombies, I mean.”
“This is not entirely explainable in the conventional sense, Mr. Peak. There are forces involved which defy rational thinking.”
“And he’s on his way here to get more bodies.”
“Not so much, Mr. Peak. Only fully developed bodies can be…changed into his servants. He uses children…needs children, in the obscene rites which create his substance.” His eyes were as hard as the walls behind him. “The children do not survive this usage.”
I let that slide as there was too much to think about. “So you want us to kill this necromancer?”
“Hmmm? No, the necromancer will be safely hidden, and a far more complex business to eliminate than you would expect. What I need from you is a simple task, if a bit risky. What I need of you is to escort a craftsman and his assistants to safety. It will take less than a day but will involve some risk, as I have reason to believe that the necromancer sent carriers into the area yesterday.”
“I’ll talk to my men.”
“A meal while you decide? We feed the childre
n in shifts, and a meal is about to begin.”
Sister Celeste departed after heart-felt thanks; Captain, ever the soft touch for a pretty girl, had told her to keep the horse. I sketched out what Brother Andrew had told me as we led our horses to the gate, moving on foot to buy time to talk without the danger of being overheard.
“Damn, look at that,” Mac interrupted me in mid-sentence.
Up on the wall they had mounted a long pole on a swivel arrangement. A boy of around eight was strapped to the end of the pole with a half dozen boys manning the other end. The kid on the pole gripped a stick between his teeth and clutched a loaf-sized chunk of wood to his chest with one hand as he waved with the other; the latter gestures were apparently directions as the pole came jerkily to a stop, and the boy, after hefting the wood near his face, tossed the chunk down, hitting a yard-wide circle drawn in the dirt.
The crew handling the pole cheered and swiveled the pole around to issue the rider another chunk of wood.
I shook my head. “Clever. I expect girls are raking gravel and cooking adobe pots.”
“Pots?” Mac frowned.
“Grenades. Black powder, gravel, thin brittle pots. The kid on the pole has a punk in his teeth, lights the grenade and drops it. Boom.”
“Damn.” Captain was impressed. “Where are they getting the powder?”
“See those things that look like stone kilns out in that field? They’re burning the wood from the brush-clearing in there.”
“Charcoal,” Mac nodded. “They’re mixing their own.”
“Yeah.”
Brother Andrew and a couple other monks were waiting at the gate, smiling. “I’m surprised your kids still have hair,” I jerked a thumb towards the pole crew.
Brother Andrew raised an eyebrow. “We have both goats and sheep, and the manes and tails of numerous horses. The Lord provides.”
“No doubt.” Oily hair for fuses-I had seen that done in China.
“They’re hanging kids over the wall to drop home-made grenades?” Mac shook his head. “I say help them.”