Sunstone

by RW Krpoun

  “Because of the revolution.”

  “As I told you, chaos benefits these dark endeavors. Brother Lars has expressed a concern that the timing of these conflicts are not coincidence, and that behind every would-be practitioner of the dark arts is a cabal working to further his dark visions.”

  “Still, the odds seem rather long.”

  The monk smiled, his teeth flashing in the lantern’s yellowish light. “When you defend a position there are certain places the enemy is most likely to assault, yes? Gates, a place with dead ground in front of it, a visibly weakened wall. This area is akin to that: an obvious place for this sort of…event to occur. There are a limited number of good options for this sort of undertaking, and Brother Lars and myself are hardly the Church’s only experienced assets.”

  “No offense, but a couple of companies of infantry would have worked better.”

  “Perhaps, but it is also an option that the Church lacks. Although I understand that there is pressure being exerted in Washington for an expeditionary force to restore order.”

  “Invade Mexico? Never happen. It took years to clean up the mess that followed the war with Spain. Americans are fed up with wars-the eighteen hundreds were a constant running fight with the British, all sort of Indians, Mexicans, and the Spanish, not to mention the Civil War. This century is going to be different.”

  “Peace is a precious thing,” Brother Andrew conceded with an elegant nod.

  “One more thing: what do you know about a bunch of Indios moving a sledge loaded with blocks of salt up from the south, with something under the salt? I don’t know what was under the salt.”

  “When? How did you hear this?” the monk’s voice was taut with surprise and urgency.

  “I don’t remember when they did it, but I got it from a pretty reliable source. He thought the Indios were trying to bring back the old ways, like the Ghost Dance stuff in the Nineties.”

  “Not so much the old ways, but the old arts,” the monk shook his head, clearly upset. “The old arts do not work well in proximity with certain things, wheels being one of them. That is one reason the wheel never was developed in this portion of the the New World. Things of a potent occult nature could not be moved by wagon, for example, without losing effectiveness. The salt would act as…well, think of it as ice on fresh meat. Do you have any details as to destination?”

  “That’s all I know, that and a rumor of plague.”

  “Yes, I expect that Sinaloa was not the first place to feel the scourge”

  “So what do think they had under the salt?”

  “Nothing that is of benefit to the greater good, but beyond that I cannot speculate as my knowledge of the practical mechanics of the art itself are minimal. What I do know is that the best time to stop a plague is in its early days, gentlemen.”

  “We can hope. If we encounter things of an occult nature is there any particular way to deal with them?”

  “Avoid touching them. Fire is the best method as I understand it; if they are of a substance that will not burn damage the item as best you can and then commit it to as hot and lengthy a fire as you can manage.”

  “We’ll remember that.”

  “Would you care to join me in a prayer for the success of our endeavors?”

  The five of us stood in the duty parade field, heads bowed as the glow to the east grew incrementally stronger, and asked for strength to face the day. There have been few times in my life I have felt the power of prayer as strongly as I did at that moment.

  Chapter Six

  You didn’t need to be Natty Bumpo to track Green Coat’s expedition, even in the vague pre-dawn light. A herd of shambling feet and a loaded wagon being dragged by main force left a trail a blind man could follow. Literally.

  “So what’s our plan?” Captain asked as the sun peeked over the horizon.

  Our bundles had contained round barley loaves the size of a grapefruit, still warm from the oven, and burritos whose centers were still sizzling, so I had to finish chewing before I could answer.

  “Trail the herd until either you can get a clear shot at Green Coat or he ventures to a point where we can grab him and carry him away for a discussion. Either way, we put down the crazies like buffalo: shooting from a distance. Ideally I would prefer to lay hands on someone with a better idea of what is going on-if we had a better idea of the mechanics of how this thing is done to the…hell, the zombies, then we could be a lot more effective.”

  “Good enough,” Captain selected a burrito from his bundle. “Can’t fault the rations in this outfit.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. I’ve worked harder for less money and worse food.”

  The trail swung from southwest to due south after ten miles and I motioned Tobias forward. “What is in this direction?” I noticed he had a pair of fat pigeons on a cage strapped to his saddle.

  He shrugged. “Not much, mister. Some soldiers have a place barely two miles that way.”

  “And beyond?”

  “Some farms, mister. Lots of nothing.”

  “Great.”

  Tobias’ ‘place’ was a small Mexican cavalry outpost encircled by a chest-high wall long since crumbled to waist-high by time and neglect. Inside the wall were three connected buildings in a U shape, the left wing a barracks, the right holding a kitchen, dining hall and supply room, while the center held officers’ quarters, offices, and a telegraph station.

  Behind the base of the U was a stables and several corrals where a dozen horses wandered restlessly. Several bodies were scattered across the parade field in the center of the U, and an old woman in black crouched against the barracks wall, wailing.

  “From the tracks,” Mac advised. “The crazies moved on after the fight.” He jerked a thumb towards the southwest.

  “Looks like the troopers heard them coming,” I gestured towards the bodies. “They must have known about the head-shot business.” I dismounted, drawing the M1911. “You guys keep a sharp eye out while I check the buildings.”

  Nhi followed me as I moved up and I thought I heard Mac snicker, but chose to ignore it.

  The bodies littering the parade field were a mix of peons, townsfolk, and a couple who I guessed were bandits, all head-shot, and more than one sporting other bullet wounds as well. I looked at each one, and on several I noted that sweet perfume-like smell I had noticed in Sinaloa. Other than the smell, those particular bodies looked no different than any of the others. All were adults, but otherwise there didn’t seem to be much to learn from them.

  The doors to the barracks had been breached by brute force, and there were several bodies with sundered skulls piled just inside as the hard cases amongst the cavalry sold their lives dearly. I lit a lantern that was hanging on the wall as every building’s shutters were closed, and eased into the barracks, pistol ready in case one or more crazies had loitered.

  The barracks was the same as the world over: bunks, footlockers, a few tables, and a racks for sabers and rifles. A couple inert crazies lay here and there, along with a couple of troopers who had been ripped apart, but there weren’t many cavalry bodies so apparently they were now serving in Green Coat’s regiment.

  The floor was littered with expended brass and dropped weapons and the aforementioned bodies, but little else. I motioned for Nhi to open the shutters as the stench of gun smoke and violent death was too thick to take for long.

  From the looks of things Green Coat’s crew must have attacked last night-the bunks were still made up and cards were scattered everywhere, which indicated the troopers had seen the trouble and had time to close their windows, not to mention having enough light for accurate shooting.

  The officer’s quarters had gone the same route-the three lieutenants and the captain had rallied in a central sitting room and sold their lives dearly, piling a good number of crazies before they went under. One had shot himself, and another had his skull split by a machete (I knew the rank composition from the uniforms hanging in the quarters, but the two bodies
were in their shirtsleeves so I had no idea who these two were).

  A civilian who I initially guessed was the post contract surgeon had made a stand in the telegraph office using a Smith and Wesson Safety Hammerless revolver, the little one they called the Lemon Squeezer for the grip safety. He had shot himself in the head with the last of the five in his weapon after dropping two crazies with the other four rounds, not bad shooting given the circumstances.

  The telegraph machine had been smashed, it looked as if it had had an axe taken to it. I dug in the wreckage until I came up with a spool of paper tape, which I pocketed.

  Picking up the little revolver from the dead man’s hand, I retraced my steps, discarding the lantern as Nhi had gotten all the windows open. The civilian had been bunking in a seldom-used room, his goods still in travel cases, or at least they had been before someone had ransacked his luggage. The surgical tools and patent medicines were scattered about but the book-box was empty and not a scrap of paper remained in the room.

  I confiscated the shoulder holster and a couple boxes of cartridges for the Smith & Wesson and wandered thoughtfully around the room, using the toe of my boot to sift through the sawbones’ belongings. Noticing a well-worn chess set in a leather case amongst the scattered goods, I held it to the light from the window get a good look. Keeping it, I headed back outside.

  A surgeon at such a small outpost bothered me-the US Army wouldn’t have one at this small an outpost, and I doubted the Mexican Army was that much better funded. The man had been caught asleep-the Smith & Wesson had been hanging in its shoulder holster from a chair before the attack. The doctor had made his way to the tiny telegraph station in his night shirt and had bagged two crazies when the door to the office gave away. A tough customer for a sawbones.

  Emerging into the sunlight I saw that Mac was watering the cavalry mounts and opening the corrals while Captain stood watch.

  “Find anything, hoss?” Captain asked.

  “Maybe. You know Morse code?”

  “Some.”

  I handed him the spool. “They wrecked the telegraph but left this. The key marks the paper as messages are sent, so maybe we can see what was talked about.”

  “You think they got a message off?” Captain pulled a notebook from his coat pocket.

  “Seems likely. They had a sawbones make a stand at the machine.”

  “A surgeon here? Kind of a small post.”

  “That’s how I see it. Someone tossed his goods, too, but no one else’s. He was staying in a room that doesn’t see regular use so I figure he was just passing through.” I examined the chess set carefully, and after some prodding with my pocket knife I figured out how the thick chess board came apart.

  “What that?” Mac asked as he came up from the corral.

  “A chess set with ink spots on the carrying case,” I folded my knife one-handed as I discarded the board. “More importantly, this.” I held up the notebook that had been hidden inside the board. “A surgeon who carries a hideout gun, drops a pair of crazies with a little belly-gun, and carries a notebook hidden in a chess board sounds like an interesting fella.”

  “The message is in Spanish,” Captain warned, looking up from the strip of tape he was decoding.

  “One problem at a time. Mac, see what the old woman has to say. I’m going to check the rest of the place.”

  Sweating a bit under so many eyes Tobias dragged a grimy finger along the page. “Post…under…attack…walking…dead…led…by…something…stop…breaching doors…can’t…hold… end.” The boy looked up and shrugged. “I don’t know what that word is, mister.”

  “Not bad,” I conceded. “Its likely a code word. We’re lucky it wasn’t all in code. Here, but if Brother Andrew catches you, tell him you stole it.” I passed him the surgeon’s hideout gun and the shoulder holster.

  Mac and Captain had finished loading the cavalry’s arms and ammunition onto two Mexican mules. “That ought to help them hold the orphanage,” Captain said with some satisfaction. The Mexicans’ weapons were single-shot Remington rolling block carbines and cheap copies of the S&W Russian revolver, but there was plenty of ammunition, and they had added a bundle of sabers to round out the load. I noticed Captain had strapped a saber to his saddle.

  “Why did you take a wrist-breaker?”

  “Might run out of bullets.”

  “Good point,” I conceded. “Which brings me to the next item of business: where are they going now?” I gestured to the trampled trail. “It looks like they’re returning to their same route.”

  Tobias shrugged. “Nothing much out there, mister. Some villages.”

  “You would think they would want a town, get more bodies,” Captain observed. “Any of those villages of a size?”

  “No, mister, they are just little. Sinaloa is much bigger.”

  “What about rebels-are there many out there?”

  “Maybe, mister, but not lots.”

  “Brother Andrew says the jasper who started this wants power,” Captain shook his head. “These crazies aren’t all that tough, mostly; hard to kill, but that’s about it. So he’ll need lots. And this bunch is marching out into a lonesome place.”

  “I expect he showed a loss taking this place, numbers-wise,” I gestured at the outpost. “Which means Green Coat is either real dumb, or he had a reason. Same thing applies to where he’s headed: either real dumb or he knows something we don’t.” I turned back to Tobias. “So there’s not many people, fine, what else is out there?”

  “Nothing, mister.”

  Shaking my head I turned to Mac. “Any luck with the old woman?”

  “Nothing. Her son was part of garrison, she showed up after the fight.”

  “So we have a visiting medical man who gets to the telegraph and sends a message referring to walking dead. This is also a fella who has got a fair amount of sand and skill with a firearm. Interestingly, they smash the telegraph and search the sawbones’ belongings but no one else’s.” A thought struck me. “Nhi, did you see any maps in the place?”

  She shook her head.

  “Go back and look again.”

  “So you think this sawbones knew some of the score?” Captain asked.

  “Seems likely-he had a code word in place, and he moved pretty damn quick to get to that telegraph. Being able to use a telegraph ain’t exactly common knowledge, either.”

  “I can’t,” Mac agreed.

  “I can read Morse, but I can’t run a key,” Captain nodded.

  “No maps,” Nhi trotted back.

  “OK, that’s another thing they took, although that makes sense.”

  “What is in the journal you found?” Captain asked.

  “Not much,” I admitted, passing it over. “Its done in shorthand. Unless one of you birds knows how to read that, we’re stalled. The only thing of interest is a strip map and a few sketches. This one kind of looks like a long fan, this one seems to be a decorated flat oval, and these three are similar but I have absolutely no idea what they could be. Coral, maybe? I saw some of that for sale in the Islands”

  “A celt,” Mac, looking over Captain’s shoulder, indicated the oval.

  “A Celt? You mean like an Irishman? Look, you can blame a lot of stuff on the bog-trotters…”

  “No, that’s what they call it, but I don’t know why. It means a hoe or adze or other tool, primitive people make…whaddya call it when something is made but not practical?”

  “Anything for a woman.” Nhi rolled her eyes at my observation.

  “No, its made like…damn it, what is the word?”

  “Symbolic?” Captain offered.

  “Yeah! These people make a symbolic hoe or adze head, all decorated up, and use ‘em for ceremonies or fancy official dress. That’s a celt.”

  I thought about that. “OK, Brother Andrew says the key of all this, the core of it, is real old, thousands of years old, so that makes sense. Ceremonial objects, old ones, that makes sense. By the way, how the hell did you know
about them?”

  “A display at the World Fair,” the big man shrugged. “Went to it in ’04, in Saint Louis. Had a professor talking about those things. Learned a lot while I was there, saw a pygmy, got a look at old Geronimo, went to a whiskey contest, even heard a deaf girl give a speech.”

  “How can a deaf person talk?”

  “Special teacher. She was blind, too, but went to college.”

  “Deaf, blind, and still went to college,” I shook my head. “Modern times.”

  “What did she lecture about?” Captain asked.

  “Some nonsense about the rights of the worker. Typical anarchist labor claptrap.” Mac shook his head with the finality of a veteran union-buster. “Speaking of which, we really need to go back to union work on our next job.”

  “As fascinating as your experiences were,” I dragged the topic back around. “And useful, we still have the fan and the weird things.”

  “That could be the working bits of a squeeze box, you know the little accordions?”

  “Given the celts, I’m betting it is something old. That would seem to tie it all in together.”

  “They’re eccentric flints,” announced Tobias, who had gotten a look at the journal, which Captain had let drop to his leg while we had learned of the wonders of the World Fair, circa 1904.

  “What are?” Captain and I said in unison.

  “Those three pictures, mister.”

  “First, how do you know what they are, and second, what the blazes is an ‘eccentric flint’.”

  “Brother Paul has one. He used to be down south, way south, mister, not in Mexico. He dug around old places and knew lots of professors and admirals that dug at old places.”

  “Admirals?” Mac frowned.

  “Never mind,” I waved it away.

  “So these flints come from old ruins, they’re old things?”

  “Yeah, mister.”