by Tim Marquitz
The Ten Thousand Things
Dead West, Book Two
By Tim Marquitz, J.M. Martin, and Kenny Soward
Text copyright © 2014 Tim Marquitz, Joseph Martin, and Kenny Soward.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Book Design: J.M. Martin
Photography: Allen Freeman
Models: Meagan Shea Dameron, Kinsey Renshaw, Dean Homsher
Worldwide Rights
Created in the United States of America
Published by Ragnarok Publications | www.ragnarokpub.com
Editor-In-Chief: Tim Marquitz | Creative Director: J.M. Martin
The Ten Thousand Things
Dead West, Book Two
by
Marquitz, Martin & Soward
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About the Authors
CHAPTER ONE
NINA WEAVER DREAMED IN A TURBULENT, half sleep. The sounds of gunshots and groans reached her ears, the smells of blood and death smacked her in the face. The steady thrum of anxiety resounded as deaduns reached out of the hellish firelight, their skinless arms glistening wet and sinewy, their maws of sharp, ivory-thick teeth snapping.
Shoshone drums echoed in the empty spaces between the undead moans and hisses. The percussive thunder drove Nina's heartbeat, bold and steady. She spun in a delicate, deadly dance, gun in one hand, hunting knife in the other. Deaduns fell, head-shot or eye-popped. Their skulls became nothing but puzzles of holes and soft spots, places to invade with lead and steel.
She weren't afraid here in the dream, knowing she and her friends had taken on the Devil himself and kicked his teeth in. In fact, there was a prevailing sense of comfort, an assuredness, in what they'd done, and a grim determination to see their way through whatever else Hell had to offer.
Beneath it all, in her dreamy, fatigue-blanketed haze, hummed the unbroken, locomotive composition of vibration and sound, the song of the iron horse, the low chug and high chitter of the Magpie on her wheels of steel. They swayed on the tracks of innovation, huffing and coursing through the Sierras in the pale moonlight.
Her only fear now was losing what she'd gained in such a short period of time: her first and only lover, the mysteriously exhilarating James Manning; her first female friend, a black prostitute named Jasmine; the orphaned Rachel Buell—who, at barely thirteen, had lost both her parents and her entire world—the Christianized Nez Perce tribesman called Red Thunder; and, of course, her pa, Lincoln.
Chick, chick...scratch...
Nina opened her eyes, lids still heavy with sleep.
Chick…chick…
What was that? A buffet of wind and pebble against the glass? The sound of a rodent rummaging through the nearby crates?
Nina took a deep breath through her nose. She was warm, but not uncomfortably so. Her stomach was fuller than it had been in a long time, and James Manning snuggled behind her, his tall, strong form eclipsing hers, his arm laid protectively over her waist. Nina smiled and reached out to touch her Colt 1861 Navy where it rested just inches away.
Hard iron in front, an iron-hard man behind. She was covered.
They rested on the window couch, which had been pulled out to make a bed. There were three such fold-down bunks in the train car and enough bedrolls and mats that everyone had a place to kick off their boots for a spell.
...chick, chick, chick...
Nina backed into Manning and nestled against his chest, stealing more of his warmth. She covered his arm with hers, running her fingers along the back of his hand, tracing her fingertips along the veins and scabbed knuckles. In the quiet half-sleep, Nina was learning the pleasures of a man's companionship, scratching the surface of love, lust, or whatever lay in between, she supposed.
They’d all come to agreeable terms for the first night on the train, hoping to be in more ‘civilized’ territory come morning. Even Mean George Daggett had shown some sensibilities as a human being once the train was underway, volunteering to take watch in the turret. His brother, Mason, on the other hand, snored mightily at the moment on the floor, despite Strobridge's attempts to pay him to man the engine.
Thoughts of J.H. Strobridge made Nina frown. She’d spied the revolting bastard passing some bills to Jasmine in exchange for time alone on the back deck of the gun car. The railroad boss seemed gratified to know someone still found his money worthwhile, and Jasmine, despite Strobridge having struck her not so long ago, had been unable to shed her cocotte’s corset, taking the man’s money obviously figuring it was worth the loss of another tooth.
Nina wondered if Strobridge had hidden caches of money all over the train. Probably had a wad stuffed up his shithole, too. She supposed she trusted the animals, provided they were regularly fed and watered.
...chick, chick...scratch...
The sound had become an annoyance, and she didn't think it was coming from inside the cabin. All the same, she couldn't see a damn thing through the glass, despite the pane not twelve inches from her face. It was dark inside and the muted light of the shuttered lantern swinging from the ceiling only made it more difficult. It painted the glass with faintly moving reflections.
She reckoned she could sit up and remove the shutter, take a look outside...
“You all right?” Manning whispered near her ear, his breath on her neck causing a pleasant ripple across her shoulders.
“Yeah,” Nina whispered. “Just a noise.” She noticed his hardness against her backside and gave a slight wiggle.
Manning's sleepy chuckle tickled her ear. “Keep that up and we're going to have issues.”
The implication excited her. “I think I can deal with issues.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I've noti—”
Bam!
Something slammed against the window. Nina's heart leapt. She jerked up, fully awake, causing Manning to tumble off the narrow bed. She snatched her Colt, cocked it, and pointed the barrel at the square of black glass. Manning got to one knee and grabbed his pistol belt with its holstered dragoons from the bench next to the fold-out.
Mason Daggett spoke up from over near the crates of whiskey. “Hey! How’s about you lovebirds give it—”
“Shhh,” Manning silenced him. “Something out there.”
Mason came up quick as a shot. “What the Sam Hill you talkin’ about?”
“Something just thumped the window,” Nina said.
“Sure it wasn’t the back of your head? The way you two—”
“Just fetch the lantern, would you?” Manning interrupted, his voice gone cold.
Mason grumbled under his breath but got up, while Jasmine and Nina shuffled over from the ass-end of the car, huddled together beneath a shared woolen blanket. Mason edged past them, handing over the lantern. Manning took it, removed the shutter, and turned the knob on the side, producing a bright orange glow.
“What is it?” Rachel asked. She looked small and quivering with the voluptuous, long-legged, dark-
skinned Jasmine alongside her, the whore’s arm draped around the girl’s bony shoulders.
Nina looked to James. “Hold it up,” she said, and he came forward to direct the light on the window. She frowned, noticing a dark splotch and a feather pasted against the glass.
Jasmine tiptoed up. “That scratchin' at the window’s been going on a while.”
Mason snorted. “All o’ ya’ll just gone and cracked. Scratchin’? Just a goddamn bird with rotten lu—”
BAM!
They all jumped—Mason included—as something struck the glass again, this time creating a tiny hole and a spiderweb of cracks. Wind licked at the breach, train sounds leaking in.
Bam! Flap, flap! Thump! Thump!
“A whole flock slammin' into us!” Jasmine's voice rose with the increase of muffled thumps as more things pelted the windows.
A flutter of feathers alighted near the spot of the break, clawed feet finding purchase on the lip below the window. Wings fluttered to keep it affixed. A dark beak started pecking out small pieces of glass.
“That ain’t normal,” Manning said.
“What the blazes is normal since this shit started?” Mason pulled his blood-crusted trousers up over his grimy underclothes.
“They’s crows,” Jasmine said.
The bird pecking at the glass then stuck its head through the hole, its eyes bulging like black bubbles. Nina knew those eyes. This weren’t no normal bird at all. Those were the same dark orbs she'd seen more than once in the hungry visages of certain deaduns, in the eyes of Rachel’s father, Grover, when he was possessed by the yellow hooded devil, Liao Xu. It was the foul sorcerous gaze of the orchestrator of the world's end, the self-proclaimed master of Hell’s own demons. It was as if Liao was looking right at them.
The bird stopped its frantic twisting, gaze flitting between those in the car. Nina gaped as the crow's beak stretched impossibly into a smile.
Yep. She was dad gum right. The devil had found them.
“As I thought,” the bird croaked, its voice an amalgam of crow and Liao Xu. “Cowards running on the tracks, running on the line, running from death, caw, caw!”
“Get the priest,” Nina said over her shoulder, unable to pull her gaze from the grotesque crow-thing. Jasmine nodded and hustled toward the back.
The pummeling of flying creatures against glass and side panels along the car increased to a thunderous level. How many of those awful things were outside the car? She pictured the train covered in hundreds of the wicked creatures, cawing and flapping and pecking. Pecking at anything—at anyone.
Rachel Buell screamed and covered her ears.
Nina turned and held up her hand. “Jasmine, wait!”
“I found you out, found you out, caw, caw!” the bird crowed.
“To hell with this.” Manning came forward, grabbed the crow's head, and yanked it right off the creature’s body. He turned to say something else, but at that moment, an explosion came from the gun car.
Mason cussed. “Georgie’s in the damn turret.”
“He’s firing the cannon?” Nina asked.
“Well it sure as shit sounds like it, don’t it?” Mason replied, snatching up his rifle.
“We gotta get to the gun car.” Manning said.
“Us, too?” Jasmine grabbed Rachel's arm and pulled her close.
Nina nodded. “These devil crows are gonna break through any second.”
“The gun car’s armored. It’s our best bet.” Manning snatched a cover off their makeshift bed. “Find some blankets, throw them over your heads. Be careful crossing. One misstep and you'll end up under the train instead of on it.”
“What about all those birds?” Rachel asked, breathing heavy, clinging to Jasmine, her big scared eyes even wider in the lantern’s light.
Jasmine pulled her even closer. “It’s gonna be all right. We’ll help each other across. Okay?”
They took what they could—Mason looked at the whiskey crate, grabbed a bottle and tucked it in a leather satchel, then another, and put the satchel over his shoulder—then they formed up at the back of the car.
Crows pelted the windows, leaving bloody smears on the glass. Thump, thump, thump, the rhythm of wet meat slapping against the train grew frantic. Suddenly a window shattered and a frenzy of black shadows poured in.
“Now!” Nina shouted, anxious to be away from the maniacal crows, pushing the others forward as panic gnawed at her edges.
Manning slid the cabin door open and leapt across the dark divide. He made it across, took a second to position himself, then threw open the door to the gun car. Mason hung the lantern on an outside hook and followed Manning over, then the two men stood on either side of brink, arms out, waiting to receive Rachel, who held her dingy gray blanket over her head, hesitated, looked at Jasmine and then at Nina.
“C’mon!” Mason hollered, the bouncing lantern light twisting his features.
“Jump, Rachel,” yelled Manning over the wind and the coming tide of deranged crows. “We got you. Look at me! Jump right across to us!”
Vague shadows emerged from the night as the girl cried out and leapt, beaks and claws grabbing at her coverlet. Mason batted at them as Manning pulled the girl to safety. Rachel clutched onto him and buried her face in his chest, the crows in a tumult all around. No time for coddling, Manning pushed the girl inside the gun car.
Nina ducked as a flurry of feathers blew by from behind, flying out of the train car from within. One rammed her shoulder, and she gave a backhanded swing with her knife. The bird-thing shrieked more than cawed.
Nina fought every instinct to shove Jasmine out of her way, but the woman stood at the precipice, struggling to get the cover over her head, the wind and cawing creatures whipping and pulling at it. Already leaning into her jump, Jasmine likely couldn’t see a blamed thing.
Nina yelled at her, heart thumping in her chest, picturing her friend tumbling through the gap to an awful demise. Instead Jasmine let go of the cowl, surrendering it to the crows, yelled something that was lost in the sounds of engine and wind and beast, and leapt. She barely made it across, her already-torn dress snagging on the swaying coupler pin between the cars. Mason grabbed her flailing arm and pulled her away from the edge, leaving a long strip of petticoat fluttering from the connector.
Another solid mass of feathers and claws dug through the back of Nina’s shirt. A sharp pain jabbed between her shoulder blades. She cried out and spun, throwing herself against the car wall. The thing clutched harder, shrieking.
Nina took two steps forward, then leapt backwards, feeling the bird’s hollow bones crackle beneath her weight. It squawked as she smashed it repeatedly, yet still the broken thing scratched its way up her shoulders, pecked at her head, its beak piercing flesh and thudding against the bone of her skull.
“Ow!” Nina reached back, grabbed hold of its neck, throttling it. She beat the bedamned devil crow ‘gainst the train over and over. More of them flapped and cawed wildly around her.
“Nina!”
The shout seemed to come from miles away, little more than a whisper. Her eyes fixed on a beast of a bird as it came, wings thrown wide, head jerking around, needle beak seeking her flesh. Another swooped across the cabin and banked in her direction.
Infernal no-good goddamn peck of trouble, Nina thought with a flash of sardonic macabre, then turned, took a couple running steps, and leapt. The gun car rushed to meet her during a long moment of weightlessness, then she fell into Manning’s arms. Mason reached out to steady them both.
“Thanks,” she said to Manning, then to Mason. “You, too.”
Mason backed toward the gun car’s open doorway. “I know ya’ll think I'm some no-count tinhorn shitlicker, but we Alabama boys got guts, and we don’t leave our own…” he turned to duck inside the gun car, then looked at Manning and Nina both, “…even if you’re a high falutin’ Blue Belly and one of your heathen fuckin’ kind.”
Nina appreciated his conviction, but frowned at being
called a heathen. She was about to toss something back, but Manning spoke first, saying, “I told you before, I’m not a Yankee.”
“Ya are to me,” Mason said over his shoulder, ducking inside the gun car.
Manning had his arm around Nina’s shoulders. “Why does he keep calling me a Yankee?”
“Maybe it’s your mustache,” she said, and pulled him inside along behind her.
“What?” He slid the door shut behind them.
Nina didn’t answer, instead she started checking herself for wounds.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I dunno. My hat…” She’d left it behind. The thought vexed her.
Manning nodded. A man like him understood the importance of a good Stetson. “Well, least we're breathing. Hat or not, we still got that much.”
“I just ain’t so sure I like this new haircut.” A crooked smile stretched her lips at the thought of her butchered hair. Hell of a time to worry about that. She’d been around James Manning two days and was already feeling vain about her looks.
Manning brushed a short lock behind her ear. “Look more than fine to me, Nina girl. Now what did you mean about my mustache?”
“What in Tarnation is going on?” said Pa from one of the bunks, his hair still wild from sleep. “George up top seems to have finally cracked his nut.”
Strobridge was in the bunk next to Pa’s, mumbling and pulling on his boots. Jasmine and Rachel were cleaving to one another again, while Father Mathias, as alert as someone could be just shook awake by cannon fire, hung a lantern from a ceiling hook.
“Hey, Injun, don't touch my brother,” Mason said, making his way to the turret. “Go on. Get.”
Red Thunder had been beneath the turret, gazing up at George. The Indian turned his head and gave Mason a dark look. He refused to move, and Pa hobbled between them, still in his long undergarments. “Now ain’t the time to crawl humps, fellas,” he said, facing Mason, his back to Red Thunder—Nina noticed his placement with a tiny spate of pride.
At the same time, she touched the surge of pain at the base of her neck, drew her fingers back wet with blood. “Crows attacked our car, came in through the windows—”