Storming: A Dieselpunk Adventure

by K. M. Weiland

  Finally, he turned to Hitch and jabbed a finger at him. A pulse beat in his temple, and his jowls quivered. “I’ll bury you for this!”

  Hitch stood up. Blood from his shoulder wet the crevices of his fingers, but he left the arm straight at his side. The time for showing weaknesses was over.

  Campbell grabbed his arm—the good one, thankfully—and leaned into his face. “You’re going to wish you’d died in that crash, you hear me?”

  “Stand down, Sheriff. I just did you the biggest favor of your life in saving your people from that thing.”

  “You arrogant flyboy! You think you can return here a hero? After what you pulled last night!”

  “I think if you try even one single thing, I will bring this whole town down on your scurvy head.”

  “You try it, son.”

  Hitch shrugged out from under Campbell’s grip. He turned and he walked away. Campbell’d never stand for that, especially not now. But let him make the first move. Better that way this time. The whole town would see their sheriff, and the whole town could draw their own conclusions about him.

  Hitch made it two steps before Campbell’s paw slammed down, this time right on his wounded shoulder.

  Pain sliced through his vision. He staggered sideways and fell to his hands and knees. He tried once to get up, then caught himself on his good hand and shook his head woozily.

  Around the corners of his blurred vision, he could see the crowd shifting. Their attention moved from the fire, toward him. Some of them muttered protests.

  “Stay down,” Campbell said.

  Hitch raised himself onto his knees and faced the crowd. “He’s going to arrest me. But before he does, you all need to know this man’s got no business being your sheriff. He’s been crooked for years!”

  They started murmuring amongst themselves.

  “Don’t go there,” Campbell growled, low and deep. “You can’t win.” He grabbed Hitch’s good arm and twisted it up behind his back.

  New pain exploded in his arm socket, and he groaned.

  “That’s enough!” a woman shouted.

  The crowd closed in around them, some of them just curious, some of them repeating the dissent.

  “How do you know this?” a man yelled at Hitch.

  He raised his chin. “I know this because I’ve let him make me a part of it.”

  Jael clasped her hands and shook her head.

  Hitch kept on going. “I’ve smuggled stolen goods and bootleg liquor for him, and when we downed Schturming the other day, I turned control of it over to him. I shouldn’t have. But I did it because he’s threatened my family time and again.”

  Brows started to lower. Mouths started to frown. At least they weren’t dismissing him out of hand.

  Campbell hauled him to his feet. “Not true, and you all know it. This here boy ain’t the hero you want to make him out.” But his hand on Hitch’s wrist was starting to sweat a little.

  The crowd’s murmurs grew into an outright hubbub. A ripple moved up through the people, and they parted to let three men through: Griff, Matthew, and J.W.

  Griff’s nose was swollen, and dark bruises welled under each eye. He looked tousled and exhausted, but at least he wasn’t in jail. Judging from the shotguns propped on the Berringers’ hips and the smug determination on their faces, they had to be the reason.

  Griff gripped a revolver as he crossed the distance. “What my brother says is true. William Campbell, you are under arrest for malfeasance.”

  “Call it skullduggery and be done,” J.W. said.

  Campbell’s jowls quivered. “Escaping after a lawful arrest, you think that’s going to get you anywhere, Deputy?” He glowered at the Berringers. “Or your friends?”

  “You can say what you want.” Griff walked up to Campbell, handcuffs in hand. “We both know where this is going to end.”

  “You make any kind of case that I’m guilty, then your brother has to be complicit. You don’t want that.” With surprising speed, he snatched Griff’s revolver away from him. His voice went deadly calm. “You don’t run this town, boys. I do. And that isn’t changin’.”

  Behind them, a second explosion erupted.

  Hitch ducked. Specks of hot debris spattered against his back, and he twisted a look over his shoulder.

  Campbell’s green sedan had flipped all the way over and flattened the picket fence. The fire must have gotten to it. Campbell’s big house and Campbell’s big car—all in one fell swoop. Not bad for a day’s work. But it wouldn’t mean a thing if they couldn’t get Campbell himself.

  Hitch gathered his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to hurl himself against Campbell—and probably break his other arm in the process.

  Like the rest of them, Campbell had jerked around at the sound of the explosion. Already, he was turning back. His eyes found Griff. The revolver rose.

  From behind Campbell, a board from his own house smacked him right in the back of the head. A look of utter surprise dropped his mouth. Then his eyes rolled up, and he thudded to his knees. He stayed upright for one second longer, then toppled sideways into the mud.

  Behind him, Jael held the board cocked over one shoulder, ready for another go. Right in front of all the town’s ladies, she spat at Campbell’s body. “Eto pravosudie.” Then she raised her fierce gaze to Hitch. The set of her mouth looked extremely satisfied.

  Hitch’s breath fizzled from his body, and he gave her a grateful nod.

  Griff turned to the crowd. “C’mon, let’s have four men to carry him to a car!” He turned his head, not quite looking at Hitch. “Campbell’s right. I’m going to have to put you under arrest too. If I ask you to come along, will you do it?”

  The adrenaline filtered out of Hitch. Everything started to hurt. He cradled his bad arm against his stomach. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

  Jael frowned. “What is this? Wait—” She clenched the board harder.

  Hitch touched her arm. “It’s all right. Take care of Walter. Make sure he gets back to Nan.”

  She knit her eyebrows hard. “Hitch—”

  He found he could smile, in spite of everything—or maybe because of everything. “It’s all right, kiddo.”

  He turned to follow Griff.

  Townspeople rushed on every side. The thirty-member volunteer fire department had arrived. People with buckets started to form lines, all the way down the street to Campbell’s home. Maybe they’d even put out the fire before it could spread to any other houses.

  He squinted upward. The clouds were drawing up higher into the sky. Here and there, a rim of gold edged a crack, and, on the brink of the horizon, the warm, red line of the summer sunrise reached out for him.

  Fifty

  AFTER TWO WEEKS cooped up in that dad-blasted cell, waiting on a hearing, the sun felt mighty good. Hitch stepped out of the courthouse into the late August heat. Under a sky of perfect blue, the waning morning stretched as far as he could see, golden and dusty. Two weeks was plenty of time for Nebraska soil to suck up even a cataclysmic storm’s moisture.

  He paused on the steps to roll his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. Then he slung his jacket over his stitched-up shoulder. It was still stiff, but the doc said it’d mend fine in another couple of weeks.

  He looked down the street on one side, then the other. Automobiles rumbled and honked along. Farmers in overalls and straw hats strolled the sidewalks, alongside women with their handbags over their arms and their shopping lists in hand.

  Everything looked back to normal: back to boring farm-town life. And it all looked about as beautiful as anything he’d ever seen. It was good to be home. If he had said that when he’d first flown in here, nearly a month ago, he might have been lying. But right now, it was the gospel truth.

  Of course, a little part of that might be the fact he was free to walk out here into the sun, rather than stay locked up in jail for the good Lord knew how long. His insides jittered at the thought of it, and he started down the steps.

 
Campbell was still stuck in there, eating jail food, railing about burying everybody in sight, and waiting for a trial that was sure to put him away for a good long while. Folks Hitch hadn’t even known about were coming out of the woodwork, wanting to testify against him for everything from doctoring finances to extortion to criminal connections with his bootlegging buddies in Cheyenne and beyond.

  Hitch got off easy. The judge let him go due to “considerations.” After all, he had more or less saved the valley. And he had confessed and ratted on Campbell. Plus, it appeared the new sheriff had put in a surprisingly good word on his account.

  A black Chevrolet, the top folded back, puttered up to the curb.

  From under his fedora’s brim, Griff peered up at him. “You’re out then?” Against his suspenders, his new badge glinted.

  Hitch sauntered down the steps. “Looks like.”

  Griff wet his lip. “Want a ride to camp?”

  He lowered himself into the car and slammed the door. “Thanks.”

  Griff checked traffic and pulled into the street. He watched the road.

  Hitch only pretended to watch it. Mostly, he watched his brother out of the corner of his eye.

  What were you supposed to say in a situation like this? Seemed like the two of them had made up, more or less. But it’d be nice to know for sure. He couldn’t just come out and ask, even though the answer mattered now more than ever, what with his new plans.

  They passed the cleared lot where Campbell’s house had once stood. The captured residents of Schturming had been released after their own hearings had proven they’d more or less been Zlo’s hostages. Now, they rooted amongst the charred rubble, salvaging whatever they could of their belongings.

  “Lot of folks without homes,” Hitch said. “What happens to them now?”

  “The town’s doing what they can for them. Some of them want to stay, buy farms. Some of them want to rebuild their ship.”

  “And the town’s going to let them?”

  Griff shrugged. “They were cleared. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re not the only ones around here who try to build one of those things.” He glanced sideways at Hitch. “Might be we’ll have a whole fleet of them before we’re done.”

  “No weather machine though?”

  “No, that went up in the fire. Reckon we’ll leave the weather to God. For now at least.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  As they left the city limits, Griff cleared his throat. “So... what now?”

  Hitch shrugged. “I don’t have it all worked out. But I do know there’s some things I’ve got to do yet. First thing is finding a job hereabouts.”

  Griff kept his eyes on the folded-down windshield. “Nothing glamorous around here. Right now, the only available jobs are on the farms or in the sugar-beet factory. You realize that?”

  “I realize it. But I reckon we both know that’s what needs to happen. At this point, staying and working a lousy job is a small price to pay. You were right.” He waited until Griff looked him full in the face. “It would be a mighty poor idea to drag that kid all over the country in a plane—no matter how much we might both love it at first.” He made himself say the words he’d been thinking ever since it had looked like there might be a chance he’d get out of Schturming alive. “It’s time for me to stop roaming. Time to root. If I’m ever going to have a chance at a family, this is it.”

  Griff watched him for a second, seeming to digest the words. Then he faced the road again. He might even have dipped his chin in a small nod. “What’s the second thing?”

  Hitch laughed. “Don’t you reckon that’s enough for now?”

  As a matter of fact, the second thing was somehow talking Jael into sticking around too. She had nowhere left to go, and she’d been wanting to stay before. But things had changed. Asking her to reconsider was another set of words he’d had stuck in his throat ever since Schturming’s crash.

  They drove in silence for several miles more. Griff took the turn into the erstwhile airfield—shorn now of all but two planes: a red one and a red-white-and-blue one. Half a dozen automobiles filled in the gaps. Blankets had been spread on the ground and pinned down with picnic baskets.

  Beside the biggest basket, Nan and Molly knelt, doling out potato salad and fried chicken—and swatting away the twins whenever they tried to stick their fists into the pitcher of lemonade.

  Lilla, wearing a tremendously wide-brimmed yellow hat, swept in and grabbed a twin’s waist in either arm. She looked up at the oncoming motorcar and released one of the girls long enough to raise a hand and wave. No Rick in sight. Last Hitch heard, Rick had skedaddled out of the state with Lilla swinging a broom at his backside. Good riddance.

  The menfolk—Byron and the Berringers and a few others—stood back a ways with a handful of youngsters. Judging from the bats and worn leather gloves, they were getting ready for a ball game.

  Griff bumped the auto across the field toward the crowd.

  “What’s all this?” Hitch asked.

  “Celebration. Hopefully, it’ll end a little better than the last one.”

  “No kidding.”

  Griff parked at the end of the row of motorcars and shut off the engine.

  For a moment, they both just sat there. In front of them, the hot cylinders ticked. A meadowlark sang from atop a fencepost. The men’s raised voices drifted across the field.

  “Now, now,” Matthew said, “why can’t you let these boys play it how they want to?”

  “They want to play it right or not?” J.W. jammed his hand into a glove and held out the other for Matthew’s ball. “If they want to play it right, I reckon they better listen to the rules first.”

  Matthew passed over the ball. “The thing I can’t figure is how you keep forgetting the right way and your way are not the same thing.”

  “And I s’pose your way is?”

  “In this case—yes.”

  Hitch laughed. “Old buzzards.”

  Griff tilted the corner of his mouth. “They’ll go to their graves arguing about something.”

  A stout older woman with a mop of frizzy red curls piled atop her head sashayed over to the Berringers. Whatever she said wasn’t audible, but it sure did a number on them. In unison, they clammed up. Eyes got big. Matthew’s face went beet red.

  She laughed—no, giggled was more like it—then twirled her fringed parasol over her shoulder and flounced off, ample hips swaying.

  “Who’s that?” Hitch asked.

  Griff let a grin slip. “Ginny Lou Thatcher.”

  “Wha-at? That’s the girl they been fighting over all these years? And they’re still fighting over her?”

  “Not exactly. Anymore, I think they just fight ’cause it’s easier than fixing things up.” Griff’s grin faded. “You know, everything that’s gone under the bridge here lately...” He shook his head. “You’re not the only one who’s got things to be sorry for.”

  “You don’t have to say that to me.”

  “Yeah, I do. You wanted me to forgive you, and I wouldn’t.”

  “I don’t blame you for that.” Lord knew, he probably wouldn’t have forgiven himself either. “I hurt you bad. I see that now, where I didn’t before.”

  “That’s the point. You always were a clueless lug.” Griff studied the steering wheel. “I felt like you needed to be punished.”

  “I probably did.”

  “Well, it wasn’t mine to do.” He looked over. “I’m glad you’re staying.”

  “Me too.”

  Griff smiled. “Yeah, well.” He cleared his throat. “Shall we join the party?”

  Hitch climbed out slowly and looked around.

  On the far side of the baseball players, his Jenny burned red against the gold of the cropped grass. From the sound of things, she’d gotten pretty banged up in that last landing. Her skin was ripped in places and in need of mending. But she looked all of a piece. Earl must have been patching her up around the clock.

&nb
sp; Next to the open engine cowling, Jael crouched. Walter hunkered beside her, watching intently as she fiddled with the carburetor.

  Hitch shoved his hands in his pockets and started toward them.

  Jael looked back and flashed him a grin. The sun glinted against the smudge of grease across one cheek. She was back in breeches and boots—with a red kerchief over her silver-streaked hair.

  She looked like she belonged here. No more the bedraggled, wild-eyed ragamuffin who’d parachuted in front of his Jenny. She now looked about like a woman who had taken on pirates should look.

  She was the reason for all of this. If it hadn’t been for her, he’d have been on the far side of the country by now. He’d have left town without ever knowing about Walter, without ever making things right with Griff.

  He smiled back at her. Someday he’d tell her that. And thank her for it. Maybe today, as a matter of fact. He lengthened his stride.

  “Captain Hitchcock.”

  Livingstone. He winced and slowed up enough to look over his shoulder.

  Still in his white suit and Stetson, Livingstone propped his walking stick across his lap and used both arms to wheel his chair toward Hitch. His bandaged legs stuck straight out in front of him on the chair’s wicker leg rests.

  That explained the other plane.

  Hitch faced him. “Still here, are you?”

  “Couldn’t rightly leave the vicinity without laying eyes on our own true-blue hero, now could I?” Livingstone scanned Hitch from top wing to landing gear. He almost looked impressed.

  “This isn’t about the bet, is it?” Hitch asked. “’Cause it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to take that management position after all.”

  “Is that a fact?” Livingstone pursed his lips. “Well, then, might it be our purposes are coinciding without our even realizing it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean simply this.” Livingstone wheeled a little closer and lowered his voice. “As you may know, the Extravagant Flying Circus has met with a rather tragic demise.”

  “Ah, yes.” After Zlo’s escape, all Livingstone’s pilots had winged it out of the valley, intent on saving their planes while they still could.