Midnight Riders

by Pete Clark

  The witch emerged from the dank swirl of the swamp and came toward him. She wanted to look like she was walking on the water, but Boone knew she was floating. He hated that shit.

  “Just float if you’re going to float,” Boone suggested.

  “What is that, my dear? I’m just walking along a tree trunk here.” She smiled. It wasn’t very convincing since she only had three teeth and two of them were green.

  “Tree trunk, huh? Very believable,” Boone said.

  Witches were stupid. They thought that if they talked in a sweet voice and made you nice promises then they could trick you into their lair or into letting your guard down. But the thing is, witches were obscenely ugly. Who would be tricked by a few quick promises when they were all gangly as hell? And frequently, they did really strange things that gave them away. To prove his point, the witch pulled a small toad from her pocket and stuffed it into her mouth. She smiled afterward, so I guess she figured she got away with it.

  “Did you just stuff a live toad into your mouth?” Boone had no patience for this.

  “Oh no, dearie.” She twittered a lyrical laugh that could have been sweet if she didn’t wheeze out some orangish snot and toad bits when she did it. “That was merely a bit of candy.”

  “You have some weird ass candy around here.” Boone dragged through more of the gooey muck until he reached the sandy strip. Luckily, it was pretty solid.

  “I can help you find who you’re looking for,” the witch promised as she fake-walked but actually floated toward Boone.

  “Well gee, that sure would be great, except the door to what I’m looking for is right here. See?” He pointed. The door was indeed a mere twenty feet away.

  “Oh, there?” The witch said this with that mocking, ha ha ha, I know something you don’t know crap. “You can’t get in there.” She laughed again; a bit of webbed foot shot out this time. “You need to know the secret way to get in there.”

  Boone was about ready to stuff his boot into her toad-gobbling throat. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me the secret way unless I agree to do something for you.”

  “Oh no, I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you the secret way unless you did something for me. Wait? What?”

  “Yeah, yeah, what is it?”

  “How did you know I would ask a favor?”

  “Because you’re a fucking witch.” Maybe he should just stab her.

  “Oh, but I am not. I’m just a lonely young woman in search of a friend.”

  “Young, huh? Not a lot of mirrors around here, hmmm?”

  “Oh, you joker. Hee hee hee.”

  “No really, you’re crazy old. How are you even alive, looking like you do? Oh wait, that’s right. Because you are a witch.” Boone approached the door and tried to pull it open. Of course, it didn’t open and there was no visible lock. “Damn it.”

  “I told you that you needed to learn the secret way.”

  “Fine; what is the secret way?”

  “I will only-”

  “Ahhh. I hate witches. Fine; what is the favor?”

  “I want you to swear that, after you accomplish your goal, you will marry me and spend your life in this dewy meadow.”

  “It isn’t a meadow; it is a stanky ass swamp.” He expected her to make a comment about his hat, but she didn’t.

  “Just swear it and then I will tell you the secret way. And I can’t lie during a bargain.”

  “Fine, great, I swear.”

  There was a puff of electric smoke and a stench of brimstone. Which was impressive since it was already sort of rank in the swamp.

  “Here is the secret way. Beyond this door is truly what you seek. But to enter you cannot enter alone. You need a group of heroes and they must come from at least three different lands and have at least three different jobs.”

  “Jobs doesn’t sound like a very witch-like word.”

  “Let me finish,” said the witch. “Now where was I? Five people, three lands, three jobs, and that will only get you through the door. Within the door is the maze of persecution. A series of puzzles, traps, and beasts so ferocious and insidious that you will not survive. I mean, it’s possible, but really tough. At the end of this maze, those of you who survive shall find the prize you seek.”

  “Is the prize Hannah Windstorm?”

  “The prize is what you seek.”

  “I seek Hannah Windstorm.”

  “I guess it’s her then, isn’t it? But it doesn’t matter, because you swore to marry me.”

  “I don’t want to marry her. By the way, are you one of those witches that, once you’re married, it is revealed that you are a young beautiful woman?”

  “No. I look like this.”

  “Figures.” Boone started to walk off. Now he had to go all the way back and try to find four guys who were dumb enough to come with him. That could be a chore.

  “Don’t forget,” said the witch. “You have sworn and you must uphold your oath. If you break your oath, then a dark plague of black magic will follow you forever and you shall never know peace.”

  Boone shot her in the face. He was never one for superstition.

  ****

  As Dawes surged into the fray and his initial adrenaline burst subsided, he realized just how stupid he was. He was riding into a swarm of enemy gunfire, gargoyles, werewolves, and a Wendigo. He dodged flying British corpses and darted among his confused enemies; yet another concern crept into Dawes’ mind. He had no plan. A werewolf reared up in front of him and roared. Dawes yanked back so hard on the reins that he nearly dislocated his wrists. The monster bared its teeth and was struck twice in the chest by gunfire. It shook and dropped.

  “Always load silver,” said Arnold as he and Prescott rode up beside him.

  “Deus ex machina,” said Dawes.

  All around them the British forces were being decimated. It was gruesome. Percy was attempting to organize a retreat, but the colonial gunfire was cutting them apart. At least the Wendigo seemed happy. It was ripping off Redcoat heads and appeared to be drinking from them like jiggling beer bottles.

  “I suppose I have to get his attention again.” Without waiting for an answer, Prescott rode up to the Wendigo and slashed it across the arm. He then bolted through the crowd with the Wendigo after him. It occasionally paused to squish whatever happened to be nearby. Arnold and Dawes followed as best as they could.

  Prescott cut in a circle in order to force the Wendigo to make sharp turns, which slowed it down. The powder wagon was uncovered as a Redcoat was standing amid the powder kegs refilling his horn. Prescott rode up to him. The soldier looked confused and then went pale and frozen as he saw the massive Wendigo charging straight at him.

  “Don’t worry,” said Prescott as he lit the torch. “Hold this. They won’t attack anything holding fire; they hate fire. And they are attracted to movement. Don’t move and hold this.”

  “Hey,” asked the soldier. “Are you that monster hunter? Samuel Prescott?”

  “What the hell? How do you know who- You know what? Forget it. Yes, I am.” How did this random jackass know who he was?

  “Can I have your autograph?”

  “Sure, just as soon as we trick this Wendigo. Remember, wait here.” He winked. “You can trust me.”

  The soldier mindlessly took the burning torch and stood among the powder. He was so terrified of the Wendigo and excited to meet Prescott that he didn’t stop to think about his situation. Of course, Prescott correctly guessed that the Wendigo actually loved fire and was attracted to its glow. The Redcoat would figure it out eventually, but he only needed him to stand there a moment longer.

  As Prescott reached the road’s edge and deemed himself far enough out of range, he turned. The idiot soldier was still standing there holding a burning torch amid a pile of gunpowder. Man, this guy was dumb. No big loss then. As predicted, the Wendigo saw the torch and headed straight for it. It may have even smiled as it bent over to get a good look. Prescott shot the Redcoat in th
e leg causing him to drop the torch. You may or may not be skilled in the laws of chemistry, but trust me when I say that fire and gunpowder are not an ideal mix if you wish to have a nice quiet picnic. However, if you want to blow up a Wendigo, it’s great. Wendigo have notoriously bad memories. If they were better skilled in the art of remembrance, then he likely would not have stood right next to the pile of gunpowder. Seeing as how it had blown him into a red mist a few decades in the past. Sadly, for Mr. Wendigo, he forgot. Maybe he wouldn’t fall for it a third time?

  The torch fell, lit the wagon of gunpowder and, in a very predictable conclusion, it exploded. The blast again liquefied the Wendigo, the werewolves, most of the gargoyles, and several dozen of the British. A solid kaboom if ever there was one.

  The smoky discharge caused such confusion that the remnants of Percy’s army managed to retreat and eventually made it to the harbor. But not before they suffered tremendous casualties and clearly lost the first battle of the war. This would instill a greater belief in the cause and garner the attention of the world.

  CHAPTER EIGHT:

  Exposition and the Motherfucking Swamp Fox

  November, 1775

  The famed Battle of Bunker Hill, which took place on Breed’s Hill because names are confusing, went down as a British victory, despite the fact that they lost five times the men that the colonists lost. It was heard that several British said that many more victories like this and they would lose the war.

  At Bunker Hill, there were no rippers. It must have been some kind of national holiday for rippers as none of them could be bothered to show up. So, what the history books say about Bunker Hill is pretty much accurate. Except the name.

  In the following months, the Colonial Army, led by George Washington, would essentially run around and try to avoid capture. At one moment, a delaying tactic, which was planned, executed, and led virtually single-handedly by Benedict Arnold, at the Battle of Valcour Bay saved the army. Without Arnold’s self-initiated tactic, the Colonial Army would have been captured and the war would have been lost in its first year. So suck it, you anti-Arnold historians.

  While this was going on, a collection of men were starting to realize that they were all working for the same cause and gathered their information together in order to solve the problem of the rippers. Speaking of the rippers, with the exception of the apparent holiday during Bunker Hill, they were increasing exponentially and, if they remained unchecked, it seemed clear that they would overrun the entire continent within the next few years.

  Boone had made his way back to Boston from New York. He managed to track down and fill in Prescott on all that had happened. They had also had some correspondence with Morgan and Marion, who were still in the south working with General Nathaniel Greene, in Morgan’s case, and with local militia that he was organizing, in the case of Marion. As was his custom, Prescott was in a tavern in the early evening. This tavern was known as the Nocturnal Discharge. With him were Boone, Dawes, and Revere. They sat quietly. News had been passed to Prescott that someone who knew a great deal about the rippers was going to meet them here. While they waited, Revere was slurping his stew in a most nerve-agitating manner.

  “Can’t you just eat stew?” Dawes asked. “Why do you have to make love to it?”

  Prescott, as usual, was not interested in their banter and he tuned it out. He did not know who was going to meet them, but the fact that somebody knew how to contact them, and that this person was in on this ripper thing, made him very uneasy. Then again, Prescott was a walking arsenal and that often made him feel safe.

  It turns out the secret guest was Ben Franklin and he wasn’t alone. An Indian, now introduced as Guyasuta, and a French guy named Marchand, whom Boone seemed to know, were with him.

  “Now is the time when we must work together. Indeed, we must all hang together or we will surely hang separately.” Franklin really liked to start meetings with a catch phrase if he could. “Gentlemen, it is time that we share information. For too long, we have been working toward the same goal, but along different paths. Now is the time to hitch our wagons together, for the unified wheel is a powerful wheel.”

  “That one isn’t any good,” said Dawes.

  “And the others have been?” Boone asked.

  “He’s right,” Prescott interjected.

  “Yeah, all his lines are stupid,” Dawes nodded.

  Prescott flicked his eyes at Dawes to silence him. “I generally like to keep a low profile-”

  “Everyone knows who you are,” said Marchand. “You are the famous Samuel Prescott.”

  “First of all, I don’t know you and I have no idea how everyone knows who I am. But it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we come together and solve this problem. The rippers are getting out of control.”

  “And now many of them appear to be organized by a vampire,” said Marchand.

  “de Lavoir,” Prescott snarled.

  “Yes. He is actually a former soldier of mine.” Marchand registered the comically shocked reactions from several of his tablemates and continued. “At the time, I did not know he was a vampire. You see, vampires are very rare, virtually nonexistent, in the rest of the world, but we do have quite a few in France.”

  “Why are they in France?” Boone asked.

  “Vampires are fairly arrogant, they hide in the shadows, and they have a heightened sense of style and a deep thirst for the refined life, such as art and fine foods and such.”

  “So they fit right in with the French?”

  “Well, yes. Now back to de Lavoir. He was always a very violent and aggressive soldier. Which is not very French. So, he stood out. He was also a charismatic leader and a solid tactician. In short, he will make for a dangerous enemy.”

  “Not to mention the fact that he kicked the shit out of Arnold, Prescott, and me,” Dawes said, as he dodged another of Prescott’s heat vision glares.

  “Fine. He’s dangerous, but where is he and what is he up to?” Boone asked.

  Guyasuta spoke up. “We do not know where he is. But I am confident that he is trying to turn the rippers into an army in order to take control of the continent. If he manages to do this, he would be virtually unbeatable as, for each battle that is fought, his reinforcements come seemingly from thin air. The more fighting there is, the more their numbers grow. So, conventional fighting cannot defeat them.”

  “Great; so what do we do?” Prescott asked.

  “We know it has something to do with the Croatoan spell and we, okay mostly me-” Boone stopped to actually pat himself on the back. Everyone stared at him as if to whisper “douche.” “Fine; Marion and Morgan helped. We also uncovered whom we believe to be the only living descendant of the Roanoke colony and we know we need her. We just don’t know why.”

  “Ah, but as I said, when one man falls, another steps forward and uses his corpse as a bridge,” Franklin said. “Hmmm, even I don’t like that one. Anyway, Guyasuta can tell us. Right?”

  “I have been spending my life on this very research. As I have been living here with these rippers forever, it has been a never ending fascination for me.”

  “Get to the point,” Revere finally contributed around his stew.

  Ignoring him, Guyasuta went on. “We do need the last Roanoker. Hmm, Roanokee? Roanokian? The girl that you found, Boone. We need her. Actually, what we really need is her blood. You see, her blood still contains a strain of magic that was used when creating the spell. As such, only her blood can reverse the spell.”

  “How do we use it?” Marchand asked. “Do we all drink it? Splash it on the ground at Roanoke? We don’t have to sacrifice her, do we?”

  “Not directly,” said Guyasuta.

  “What do you mean, ‘not directly?’ I would prefer to avoid killing innocent people if possible,” said Prescott.

  “We don’t need to kill her. Although she is probably not that innocent if she has the Croatoan magic in her blood. I have no doubt she is a ferocious warrior. That will be ve
ry useful as we need her blood to be mixed with the spell’s spawning point. The place from whence all rippers spawn.”

  “Gee, I sure do love how vague you are.” Boone paused. “That’s called sarcasm.”

  “We need to inject her blood into the Wendigo.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard. Oh wait; isn’t the Wendigo dead?” Dawes asked.

  “No. It can’t die. You may have destroyed it, but it will always reform and return. With a full war raging, his return will be soon. So we need to find the girl, get her blood, and inject it into the Wendigo.” Guyasuta nodded, happy with his exposition.

  “What then?” Marchand asked.

  “That should stop production of the rippers forever. It will cancel the spell and no more rippers will spawn - no matter how many wars there are.”

  “What about all the rippers that are still around?” Dawes wanted to know.

  “We’ll still have to deal with them. But it shouldn’t be so bad once they stop producing. There generally are not that many rippers at one given time.”

  “And de Lavoir? Do you think he knows about this? Will he try to kill Hannah Windstorm so that the spell can’t be broken?” Prescott asked.

  “Well, he was not really involved in our research,” said Marchand.

  “True,” Guyasuta interrupted. “But he could find a more intelligent ripper. I don’t know what they might be aware of, but there is a chance he could find out. If so, then I am sure he would put killing her at the top of his list.”

  “I don’t think she’s dead yet, so he might not know,” said Boone.

  “Yes, but he could find out. Either way, we need to remain secretive. Loose lips sink ships,” said Franklin.

  “That’s not physically possible,” said Dawes.

  “I found out where I think she may be living,” said Boone.

  “Since you’re so sure...,” mocked Dawes.

  “It’s a place to start. And since it seems to be guarded by a funky magic door and stuff, it could be right. Some witch told me that we needed at least five men, with at least three careers, from three different backgrounds. So, countries, I guess?”