Midnight Riders

by Pete Clark

  “This is Guyasuta,” Marchand introduced them. “He is our lead scientist in the field of uh-”

  “Creepy shit,” offered the surprisingly articulate Guyasuta.

  “Of course,” Marion said. “We have a similar division but it is not my area of expertise. I wonder, Guyasuta, if you would be kind enough to explain what it is you do.”

  “Let me start you off, Francis,” Marchand said. Uh, Francis; he hated that name. “You, meaning the British, may have noticed as we did when we arrived in this new world that there were a few things different here than back in Europe.”

  “I suppose,” said Grant. “But what do you mean specifically?”

  “Specifically I guess you could say all of the fucking monsters,” said Marchand. “Werewolves, zombies, succubae, vampires-”

  “Wait a minute; I’ve never seen any vampires,” said an incredulous Marion.

  “Well, I haven’t either, but let’s be honest-”

  “Now now, Frenchie,” said Grant. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’m pretty sure vampires are just made up.”

  “Didn’t you think wyverns were made up?”

  “Yeah but then one ate my horse so I know they’re real. But I’ve never seen a vampire and I don’t know anyone who has.”

  “Fine,” Marchand conceded. “No vampires. But still plenty of weird things, that, let’s face it, we just don’t have across the pond.”

  “So your point?”

  “Well, since we didn’t want to just accept this as a regular thing, we decided to do some research. And, as it turns out, Guyasuta has been working on this for quite some time now. He has discovered a number of interesting facts. Guyasuta, if you don’t mind.”

  “Gentlemen. As the good general made clear, these beasts seem exclusive to North America. Now being a native to North America-”

  “See,” said Grant.

  “Shhh,” Marion cut in.

  “I can tell you with great confidence that these beasts have only been around for the last 200 years.”

  “You have records that go back two hundred years,” asked Marion.

  “Of course. We’re not savages.”

  Marion had to admit this guy seemed to have it together. He also spoke flawless English and probably French as well. To top it off, he had remarkably good posture.

  “Over the past two hundred years, the number of beasts and their levels of aggression have increased. In fact, they seem drawn to conflict. Wars bring them out in droves. That is why there are so many. We are still trying to figure out where they came from and how to get rid of them, but it seems as if this beast,” he indicated the huge white hairy monster on the table, “may somehow be a sort of leader. Or a catalyst. He may, in a way, spawn the creatures.”

  “So he, like, gives birth to them?” Grant started to turn an unpleasant mauve.

  “Not exactly. It’s more as if, when he wants creatures, they appear. It has to do with some kind of mystical energy that is within him. Or at least that is our best guess. It’s possible that he is just another random monster.”

  “How did you capture it? And if you think he is producing monsters, no matter how he is doing it, why don’t you kill him?” Marion asked.

  “He attacked a large war party all by himself. We were lucky enough to be equipped with a large amount of poisoned arrows. After three to four hundred hits, he went down. He killed about eighty of us first, though.”

  “What now?”

  “He’s a lot stronger than any of the other creatures we’ve encountered. I mean, a lot stronger. Like a kabillion times.”

  Kabillion, wondered Marion. This guy’s speech patterns were out of whack.

  “As to why we don’t kill him, we hope to study him. Learn from him. Uncover the mystery of these beasts.” Guyasuta paused. “Also we can’t. We have mangled the hell out of this guy and he just keeps healing himself. We burned him, poisoned him, and chopped him into dozens of small pieces. He just heals himself. It’s pretty annoying.”

  “So how do you keep him sedated?” Marion was the only one paying attention now. Grant had become distracted by a tube that was producing bubbles and Marchand and de Lavoir had moved to the windows and seemed all twitter-pated about something.

  “We’ve been pumping poison into him nonstop. The funny thing is, even if your army wasn’t coming, we were going to have to do something. Because we’re about out of poison. I guess we were just going to have to drop him off somewhere in the woods and run before he woke up. Now I think we’ll leave him here. Maybe when we blow up the fort, he’ll get trapped in the debris and won’t get out. But probably not.”

  “Who exactly are these guys,” de Lavoir asked, pointing out the window.

  “I’m not sure but it looks like they want to shoot somebody,” said Marchand.

  “We should pack up our notes,” said Guyasuta.

  “We need to give the order to retreat,” said Marchand.

  “Grrrr,” said the big white hairy monster.

  “Shit,” said everybody.

  ****

  “You see, this kind of thing is not cool,” Boone said. He was referring to the number of Scottish heads that had been placed on spikes, which were lining the outside of the walls of Fort Duquesne.

  “Oh no,” squealed Revere. “Do you think it’s vampires?”

  “No,” sighed Boone. “It’s probably just the Indians who killed them and put them here as a warning.”

  “I don’t know. I heard that Vlad Tepes guy did this sort of thing and he was a vampire.”

  “He was not a vampire,” Fraser stepped in. “That is just part of the legend.” He nodded toward the heads on sticks.

  “I’m not buying it. There are vampires around. What the hell, man? George Washington promised me there were no vampires! I thought he couldn’t lie.”

  “You need to stop believing all these crazy fairy tales. Vampires aren’t real; Washington can lie. These stories you hear as a kid aren’t true. You should know that. Oops, heads up. Zombie.” Boone quickly dispatched it with a sword thrust. There did not appear to be any more.

  The British force was in luck. Although here they sat, directly in the sights of Fort Duquesne’s cannons, it was clear that they were unmanned. In fact, the fort seemed pretty much deserted. It was quite possible that they had decided to abandon it, fearing that they could not defend it. It was odd, though, that they would leave it intact.

  “I feel like this may be a trap,” said Washington. “I want the main force to move back from the fort. There is a good chance it is rigged to explode. Bouquet-”

  “The Swiss guy,” asked soldier number 248.

  “Yes, the Swiss guy,” continued Washington. “He wants a small team of six men to enter the fort and see if there is anything that can be salvaged, or if there is a giant pile of explosives about to go off, or perhaps a huge army waiting to kill us. So who volunteers?”

  “I do, sir.” Fraser, of course.

  “Kiss ass,” said Boone. Sadly, this was mistaken for him volunteering.

  The rest of the party was rounded out by soldier number 248, some guy named Dave, and two others whom we care nothing about.

  “Go with God, gentlemen, and remember that your sacrifice here today may mean that you saved the lives of hundreds. That you helped capture a key fort in our charge for victory and that you shall be remembered as heroes.” So spoke George Washington.

  “He seems pretty convinced we’re going to die,” Boone said.

  “Aren’t you?” Fraser asked.

  “Yeah, but damn it; why do I have to die with you?”

  ****

  Marion could tell that the monster did not seem at all pleased to have been lying poisoned on a table for the past several months. Seeing no opportunity to discuss this rationally, though, they all ran like hell down the stairs.

  “Wendigo,” shouted the huge monster as it obliterated a pile of equipment.

  “Well, at least we know its name,” said Mario
n.

  “Maybe that’s its war cry,” Grant said.

  The five of them made their way to the bottom of the stairs and sprinted across the small alcove, on their way through the double doors that led out of what would have been the castle keep if this was Europe. But there weren’t castles in America, only forts.

  A large chunk of wall sailed over Marion’s head to confirm that the Wendigo was still in pursuit. As they went running hard around the outer wall, Marion caught some movement, and for a second he thought it was a few British soldiers creeping silently along the eastern wall. Nah, no one was that stupid.

  “Hang a hard left,” shouted Marchand. “There is an exit between the two guard towers at nine o’clock.”

  Marion could not remember ever having run this hard before. Probably because he had not. After a few moments of lung-tearing running and listening to panic-filled screams, he reached the door. Locked. Obviously. As he turned to explain this development, Grant ran into him and they both smashed into the door. Marion peered out from beneath Grant and saw the Wendigo moving toward them. It seemed partially distracted with destroying bits of the fort. This was slowing it down.

  “Make it follow us to the munitions room,” shouted Marchand who, for some reason, was waving his sword around as if directing cavalry. He took off and Marion and the others followed him. Just ahead of them, Marion saw half a dozen Redcoats duck into a building. The same building that it appeared they were heading for.

  Indeed, as a massive plank of wood bounced past their feet, they reached the very same door. Marion looked behind him.

  “Wendigo,” declared the Wendigo.

  “He needs to expand his vocabulary,” Grant contributed.

  “He also needs to not be getting so close so fast. Why exactly are we bringing the giant monster to the room full of explosive materials?” Marion wanted to know.

  “The munitions room has very thick walls and is located beneath several other floors,” said Marchand.

  “So it makes for a good place to get killed?” Grant asked.

  “Perhaps, but it also makes for a good chance to trap the Wendigo, and blow him up, and cover him with large heavy objects,” said Guyasuta.

  “Have you not noticed how we will also be inside? And we will not reassemble after we explode,” pointed out Grant.

  “Fine,” said Marchand. “You stay out here.” He ripped open the door and zipped inside. Grant glanced at the approaching creature and decided he might as well blow up. They all headed inside and closed the door.

  As soon as Grant entered, he became aware of six guns pointed at him. There were also two guns being pointed back at the other six. For some reason, he was still standing next to the French guys.

  “Major Grant?” Boone asked. “I see you’re alive. And apparently captured by the French.”

  “They had Indians with them,” said Grant.

  “Native Americans,” said Marchand.

  “We’re not doing that yet-”

  “Shut up,” said Fraser. “Drop your weapons; you’re outnumbered.”

  “True,” said Marchand. “But we all need to be more concerned with the giant monster outside that is probably about to smash through the wall. Also we’re surrounded by explosives.”

  “Just so I’m clear,” said soldier 248. “A large monster is about to smash into a room full of explosives that we are in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, and maybe I’m oversimplifying here, we should get the hell out.”

  “Why don’t one of you guys poke your head out and see if it’s safe?” de Lavoir asked.

  ‘Why don’t you,” retorted Boone.

  “I am French. I run away; I don’t poke. Here, have that nameless guy do it.”

  “I’m not nameless. I’m Dave,” said Dave.

  “Okay, that guy.” de Lavoir pointed to one of the nameless guys. The man shrugged, knowing his fate. He strolled over to the door, slowly pulled it open a crack, and leaned his face ever so slightly toward the opening.

  The speed at which the Wendigo’s fist punched through the soldier’s face could not be calculated by the day’s technology. Suffice it to say he was killed real good. The door was then freed of its hinges and the Wendigo smashed its way into the munitions room.

  Predictably, the Wendigo said, “Wendigo.”

  “Quick,” said Marion. “Let’s go out the back and blow this thing.”

  “There is no back,” said Marchand.

  “What? You lured it in here and there is no rear exit? You guys don’t know shit about setting a trap.” Marion’s eyes darted around the room. There was nothing but barrels of gunpowder and concrete walls. And also the Wendigo.

  “I got it,” Fraser said. He grabbed the other nameless soldier and shoved him at the Wendigo. The Wendigo happily grabbed him and began pulling his limbs off one at a time. Fraser ran at the Wendigo and slid beneath the shower of blood and limbs, right between the monster’s legs and out the door.

  “That bastard,” said Boone. This drew the beast’s attention and it ran at Boone. Marion had expected this. He grabbed soldier 248’s musket and shot the Wendigo in the back of the knee as it was moving. The blast knocked the creature off balance. Marchand, seeing the chance, slashed the other leg and the Wendigo dropped. It was only down for a second, but that was long enough for everyone to run out the door.

  “That’s how you set a trap,” said Marion.

  “Yeah, but we still have to blow the room and he isn’t going to be in there much longer,” said Grant.

  “Not a problem,” said Fraser. He pulled out a small torch and lit the end. “It’s time for you to make the ultimate sacrifice.” He handed the torch to Dave.

  “Me?” Dave asked. “But I have a name. I’m Dave.”

  “Yes. But what is your last name?”

  “Shit,” said Dave.

  As everyone else ran for the exit, Dave ran into the munitions room with the lit torch. Why didn’t he just throw it in and improve his chances, you ask? Well, Dave wasn’t so bright. But he did explode with much fanfare. The shockwave caused Dave and the Wendigo to burst into many little bits. The walls gave in and a few tons of concrete and assorted junk buried the two piles of goo.

  Out in the courtyard, the shockwave sent the eight escapees face first into the ground. Boone hit hard and lost his breath. He then nearly lost his head as a leg-sized chunk of concrete landed next to his skull. Bits and pieces of Fort Duquesne rained down among them, but luck was with them; they were unhurt.

  As the fort burned beside them, they faced off again.

  “Listen,” said Marchand. “We did not escape that chaos in order to kill each other, did we?”

  “I suppose not,” said Boone.

  “We can’t just let them go,” said Fraser.

  “We can and we will,” said Grant. “I’m the commanding officer here and these men, however French and Indian they may be, have helped us in several ways. Both against the Wendigo and in learning about him.”

  “Oh hell. That’s right; we told you all about our research,” said Guyasuta.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Marchand. “We’ve lost Fort Duquesne. The corridor into the northern territories for the British army is open, most of our Indian allies are on the verge of abandoning us, and we are French. This war is all but over. We are about to head back to our own country and leave this monster-infested land to them anyway.”

  “Very well. Farewell and perhaps we will meet again sometime,” said Marion.

  “Yes maybe. If you ever happen to start fighting each other, we will come back and help somebody,” chuckled Marchand.

  “Sure,” said Fraser. “We’ll call you if we ever need help retreating.”

  CHAPTER THREE:

  The Tale of Samuel Prescott

  March, 1772.

  The Urologist’s Hand Job: A tavern in Massachusetts.

  Not much was known about Samuel Prescott. He was a quiet man, skilled in the art of medicine. He
did carry a bit of a reputation as one of the most talented horsemen of his time. Those who knew him spoke little of him and he had a dark and ominous presence that would set even the hardest man at ill ease. It was rumored that he was some kind of monster killer, a bounty hunter of sorts. Some laughed at these rumors, but those who knew about the seedy side of the early colonies didn’t laugh. For they knew that these rumors were true.

  The Urologist’s Hand Job was a nest of cutthroats, thieves, and hired killers. It was also the place to go if you needed something. Not your average something like a new hat or a grilled cheese, but the kind of something that you didn’t tell your mother about. The kind of something that could get you, or ideally the other guy, killed.

  It was into this tavern that Prescott walked on a late March afternoon. Another secret that Prescott carried was his friendship with famed silversmith Paul Revere. Prescott used his ingenuity and Revere’s talents as an engineer to construct some of the more unique weapons of his concealed arsenal. At each hip, Prescott had a pistol. Not the standard matchlock, but a nifty four-barreled monster that could fire off four bullets from the rotating barrels in under twenty seconds. His sabre was pure silver and soaked in holy water. He had a number of small cylinders concealed about his person. In each was a bit of gunpowder and a mystery item. The items were odd, but came in handy at the right time. Prescott wore his hat low and said little. As usual, he was hunting.

  Business was steady but unspectacular. Prescott was too young to have taken advantage of the big monster days of the French and Indian War when random creatures roamed the earth at every corner. With the war over for a decade, the number of creatures of all shapes and sizes had been diminishing. But there were always a few and Prescott was often called upon to take care of the most vicious and deadly of the lot.

  He was here to meet William Dawes. Dawes supposedly had a lead on a particularly nasty creature; however, the specifics were unknown. One had to be careful. It was an uneasy time. The memory of the Boston Massacre was still in the minds of the colonists and a steady growth of animosity between them and the government that ruled mostly from across the sea was reaching a fierce boil. Prescott knew it would only be a matter of time before the actions led to war. War meant more trouble, more death, and, if history was correct, far more monsters.