Defeated, Tim plopped back onto the cot. He put his elbows on his knees and head in his hands.
“Mr. Travis, give into the fear. Do not try to stop it. You can die in here like a trapped rabbit. Or you can live and fight.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“Then live.” Stone stepped to the cell bars. “The abuse you suffered by your father prevented you from fulfilling your destiny, setting a course for failure.”
“How did you…?”
“The bullies harassed you. The girls denied you then the women. Your so-called friends tolerate, but do not truly accept you for a man. Your father cursed you with his actions. That is no abundant life.”
The shame Tim kept inside bubbled out into tears.
“Your poor excuse for an existence is not your fault, Mr. Travis. You were forced to make bad decisions. But I can change that.”
“How?” Was there freedom from the humiliation?
“Live through my power. It is the only way.” Daniel Stone’s eyes were black as the coal he controlled.
“What do I have to do?”
“Accept the fact you are what you are, a wounded man susceptible to the darkness that has been a part of this world since the beginning. The darkness is not evil, but a new way to life. An abundant life, where you will have dominion over others.”
“I can have that?”
“Yes.”
“I want it.” Tim would be whole like the others. No. He’d be better than those who taunted him.
Two lanterns on the wall flickered but weren’t extinguished.
“Can you feel it, Mr. Travis?”
Goosebumps riddled his skin as all warmth in the air evaporated. The room grew dark as unnatural shadows moved without the direction of light, flowing over the contour of the walls and bars.
“Embrace the power.”
Travis fell to his knees and leaned over as the shadows circled the room. His lungs burned. His heart rate doubled. Fear converted to revelry.
“You will fear no man.”
Kneeling, Tim extended his hands in the air and leaned his head back to embrace the darkness.
“Relish your new supremacy.”
The circle of shadows tightened around him, moving faster.
“I give you authority in this kingdom.”
The dark flurry absorbed all light as it enveloped Tim’s form, caressing his skin.
“You are becoming like a god.”
The deafening cry of thousands of lost souls shrieking overtook all sound The formless shadows grew to silhouettes then became one. Tim bellowed an unholy scream.
Chapter Six
Manifestation
In front of the window, Jonathan Blair sat in the wooden chair he’d grown to bear. The sky was clear, and the moon was absent, letting millions of stars shine bright. Instead of the celestial scene, his mind focused on the bottle of whiskey sitting on the windowsill.
If asked, he would say he didn’t know why he bought it. But that would be a lie. It would help numb the pain. The liquor drowned those memories before. Now they’d resurfaced—the good, sweet memories as well as the dreadful. For they always travel together. A whiskey-drunk slumber might also stop the nightmares or at least help him forget. But nightmares did not come on this night, nor did any sleep.
Tears filled his eyes. The images he purposely buried with his family were vivid again. His anger with God remained strong, but not as vile. He questioned his own decision to run from humanity. But now he understood that pain causes emotional retreat. His recoil led him to a life of self-loathing and debauchery. Will Johnson found him stewing in his spiritual cesspool and helped build the fortress around his soul.
Blair ran so far from the iniquity he blamed for ruining his life, he ran right to it, open armed and eager. Unknowingly, he’d embraced that evil both figuratively and physically.
The bottle remained unopened. Blair twisted the cork out. He lifted the bottle to his lips and breathed in, long and slow, through his nose. He tilted the bottle, letting the whiskey chug through the neck and out the window.
* * *
Startled, Deputy Jarod dropped the cup of coffee that hung so delicately in his limp fingers. The clang of the tin cup finished waking him from his deep sleep. The chair dropped back on all four legs. He shivered, shook his head, and rubbed his eyes. Blinking repeatedly, he peered into the cell. Tim Travis knelt on the ground in the shadows. The lanterns did not give off enough light to see his face.
“How you doing in there, son?”
“Leave me alone.” Travis’s voice was deeper.
“Sounds like your throat hurts. Want some whiskey?”
“Leave me alone.”
Jarod got up, his old body creaking. Standing in front of the cell, moving his shoulders and leaning from back to front and side to side, he stretched his back. “I’m just trying to be nice.”
Travis leaped from his crouching position. His gray fingers wrapped around Jarod’s left arm. Still half asleep, Jarod’s mind couldn’t comprehend the actions. Instinct told him to pull his arm back and step away. But Tim’s strength overpowered him. Tim slammed him against the cell as he wrenched him between the bars. Jarod yanked back. His bones snapped and cracked as Tim twisted his wrist. The sounds that tortured Jarod’s ears. Bone splinters pierced his muscles. He cried in pain.
Tim laughed.
Jarod kept his cool and reached for his pistol. He fired three shots into the cell. Tim let go of his arm, causing him to lose balance and fall on the floor. Jarod, working on adrenaline, scrambled away from the cell and fired two more shots into the shadows.
Tim laughed again. The tone summoned horror from the depths of Jarod’s soul. Whatever kept him from panicking left instantly. He screamed for help.
Tim jumped onto the cell bars. His pale skin shined in the dim lantern light as he shoved his head to the cage, trying to force it between the flat cell bars. His face was distorted with protruding teeth. Bony, elongated fingers wrapped the bars and shook the structure. The motion vibrated the small building, jarring Jarod from his horrified trance. The deputy fired his last shot. His hand shook so badly the bullet entered the ceiling. “Shit.”
A hard knock came from the door. “What’s going on in there?”
“Help me!”
“Unlock the door.”
Jarod groaned in pain as he struggled to his feet. He held his broken, twisted arm to his stomach. The cell rattled, dust filled the air. Bolts loosened. The iron cell wall slammed to the floor. Tim tiptoed onto the fallen bars and crept toward Jarod. He moved as slowly as a cat stalking a wounded mouse.
Jarod reached for the lock on the jail’s front door. As soon as the latch moved, two men kicked the front door open. Sunlight flooded the building. The covered window and door had kept the building dark, closed off to the bright dawn.
Tim jerked his head away from the light and shielded his face with his arms and hands. The two men opened fire, emptying four pistols into his body. The vampire screeched. The force of the bullets drove him back into the bar-less cell. He folded over and crashed onto the cot.
“Help me reload,” Jarod said to one of the men. “Quick.”
The man did as asked and handed the revolver back to Jarod. The other shooter reloaded his own pistol to cover the vampire. Both men wore the dirty, tattered clothes of miners, but Jarod hadn’t seen them before.
Tim Travis’s face wasn’t his own. Bulging gums, protruding teeth and black eyes dominated his grotesque appearance.
Jarod scooted on his butt, putting his back against the stone wall. He held out his pistol at the creature that was once Tim Travis. If he, if it, moved again he’d unload all six cylinders.
“Are you done shooting?” a voice with a thick Hungarian accent asked from the door.
“I think so,” the man standing closest to Travis’s body said.
Péter and János Kovách stepped inside. After checking Travis, they moved toward Deputy Jarod. He lifted
his gun.
“I’ll drop you where you stand,” the deputy said. “I don’t have a bite or scratch from that thing. The doc can verify that.”
“Go get him,” Péter, the older brother, said to one of the men who gathered outside the door.
“I’m already here.” Doc Parker came in followed by Professor Worthington and Pastor Jones.
“Check him out, Doc.” Péter Kovách pointed at Jarod. “If his blood is tainted, we need to know.”
Doc Parker knelt next the deputy and tore open his shirt sleeve.
“Don’t let them get me,” Jarod whispered between his clenched teeth. The Hungarians carried axes. Jarod understood their purpose and kept his pistol ready. They were more of a threat than Travis was now.
The doctor gave him a clean bill of health, except for his mangled arm. “I need to get you back to my office to see what I can do for you.”
“We’ll be watching,” János Kovách said.
The Hungarians allowed the doctor to help Deputy Jarod leave before stepping toward Travis.
“Please wait a moment,” Worthington said. “I want to inspect the body, and then you may continue.”
The brothers hesitated, eyed each other and then agreed.
Excited, Worthington examined Travis. His distorted face and body had returned to normal.
“He wasn’t like that when he died,” one of the shooters said. “He had fangs like the guy from last night.”
Worthington counted the bullet holes in Travis’s body. He did his best to poke and prod without touching the blood. “At least twenty hits, but only three bullets might have hit vital organs.”
“I am pretty sure Deputy Jarod hit him a few times,” one of the shooters said.
“Before or after he knocked down the iron bars?” The professor ran his fingers along the wall where the left side of the cell bars were once bolted.
“We heard gunfire then heard it fall right before we got the door open,” one of the shooters said. “The door swung open, and he acted like the light hurt him. He covered his face and stepped backward. So we started plugging him.”
“What are you thinking?” Pastor Jones asked Worthington.
“Superhuman strength, endurance, even with bullet wounds,” he said. “He didn’t like the sunlight either.”
“Sounds like everything I ever heard,” Jones said.
The professor snickered.
“What?” Jones asked.
“Heard about what? Vampires?” Worthington raised his eyebrow at him then stepped outside. He would bring the pastor along kicking and screaming, but he’d make him believe.
“I’ll see to the burial,” Jones told the men standing around then followed Worthington. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m trying to figure out what you really believe,” the Professor said.
“Because I have heard about something, doesn’t mean I agree with it,” Jones said.
“I already know that,” Worthington said. “You have trouble with your own Bible.”
The sound of the ax slamming though bone and flesh then into the wood floor reverberated through the open door of the jail. One of the shooters stepped through the threshold with a sick expression. The Hungarians followed him onto the small front porch then headed to the doctor’s office. The brothers stopped and talked to three other miners. They were each armed with a gun and an ax. One carried a large wooden mallet and a leather sack, overloaded with sharp, carved stakes of pine.
“Their vigilante numbers are increasing,” the professor said. “Anarchy will surely follow.”
The group of men moved from the jail one block up the street to the doctor’s office. People came and went with the story of Tim Travis and Deputy Jarod. Worthington waited on the boardwalk in front of Doc Parker’s office and peeked through the window. Doc Parker felt and manipulated the deputy’s arm. Jarod writhed in pain with every touch. Parker wrapped the arm against Jarod’s stomach, immobilizing it. From his medicine cabinet he took a vessel and handed it to the deputy. Jarod uncorked the small bottle with his teeth then spit it on the table. He took two sips and grimaced.
The doctor stuck his head out of the office door. “When does the next train leave for Gunnison?”
“In about an hour,” someone answered.
“I’m taking him to Gunni. I think we might have to amputate his arm if the hospital can’t help. I’m going over to the telegraph office to send word to the Sheriff about his deputy.”
“No luck on that one,” a miner in a brown coat said. “I’ve been trying since last night to send a message. Nothing’s come in either. So it’s got to be the telegraph lines are down.”
“I don’t suppose you know anything about this?” Doc Parker asked Péter and János.
They both shook their heads. “Nem.”
Worthington didn’t understand Hungarian, but a lie was a lie. One he wouldn’t address now.
“I’ll need help getting the deputy to the train,” the doctor said. “He’ll be doped up on laudanum by then. Any takers?” He glanced at the Hungarian brothers. “Not you.”
Two miners offered their assistance and promised to be back after they helped Pastor Jones with Travis’s body and a coffin.
The professor pictured a place in the church waiting next to the four dead men from last night. Death and mining. But these weren’t mining accidents. Nor were they murders. Word would spread of Tommy’s transformation, continuing the lies of vampires. A lie within a truth. The professor needed to move quickly to stop this, but he needed help. The doctor went inside to care for Jarod. Péter and János Kovách and their three recruits disappeared toward the stables.
“Where is Blair?” Worthington asked under his breath to no one.
* * *
Jonathan Blair sat on the trunk of a downed pine tree overlooking the waterfalls on Copper Creek. The crashing water descended the narrow rock channel toward Gothic. Across the valley to the west, beyond the mining settlement, Gothic Mountain had captured his thoughts since he rode into town.
The early morning ride was intended to clear his mind of the dreams and memories. It worked. It worked, not because the trek opened his thoughts, but because his thoughts disappeared. He didn’t know if the sunrise faded them away or if it happened on the trail.
What Blair did know was he couldn’t remember the stress that caused him to lose sleep and take the predawn ride. Everything seemed normal for such a ride, except for the reason he took it. He reassured himself he didn’t drink the whiskey, that he didn’t black out.
He heard the gunfire from the jail far below, but the sound didn’t register in his mind. The stallion moved back and forth, stomping its hooves. Blair sat motionless. The horse grunted and neighed until it attracted his attention.
Blair startled, as if the cracks of gunfire from the last few minutes had slowed in time then instantly played in his head. He strained to make out the action in Gothic.
Blair glanced at the stallion. “Are we a part of what’s going on, or do we need to get JP and get the hell out of town?”
* * *
There was no passenger car on the narrow-gauge train. Doc Parker and Deputy Jarod rode in a half-empty box car. Coal occupied the train’s remaining fifteen cars. Jarod lay on the floor, in and out of consciousness. The deputy had tipped the bottle of laudanum a few more times than he had told him to. The steam engine drove the wheels into motion, ever so slowly. The repetition grew faster as the train rode the tracks east into the river valley.
A short time into the trip the Doc and the deputy slammed into the boxes they rested against. Jarod screamed in pain. The wail of metal grinding metal faded from his ears as the train came to rest.
Doc helped Jarod to a sitting position. Tears filled the deputy’s eyes. He clutched his broken arm and clenched his teeth. His breaths were filled with grunts and moans until he passed out again. Parker took a moment to gain his equilibrium. There was nothing else he could do for the deputy. He already had to
o much medicine and Doc didn’t want to chance an overdose.
The cargo door slid open with a clatter.
“What happened?” Doc asked.
It wasn’t Sam, the old engineer, who opened the door. A man in a long, black coat stared at him through the holes of a burlap sack worn as a mask.
“Shut up and get out of the way.”
Another man in a deer-hide coat said, “Move it.”
Both men pointed double-barreled shotguns.
Doc stood up. There wasn’t any pay roll or mail in the car. He was as confused as those men must have been. “What’s going on? There’s no money in here.”
“We’re not here for money,” Black said.
“Get out of the way, Doc,” Deer-Hide said.
“Shut up,” Black said. “Get in there.”
“Move, Doc. We got business to take care of,” Deer-Hide said as he climbed into the car.
“We’re not here for you Doc, just the deputy,” Black said. “Get out of the way.”
Deputy Jarod laid in the floor unconscious. “Why? What did he do?”
The two men checked with each other, their expressions hidden. The man in the deer-hide leaned over to the first man and they whispered.
Deer-Hide lifted his shotgun and pointed it at Doc’s chest, then waved him away with the barrel. “You heard him. Now, get out of the way, or you can join him.”
Doc had patched up gunshot wounds. He understood the damage and the death. He wanted to live and crouched out of the way. The men unloaded their shotguns into Jarod. He covered his ears with his hands, tucked his head and blocked the view with his elbows.
The two killers dragged Deputy Jarod’s body out of the car. He flopped on the ground belly down. Black went at the back of Jarod’s neck with an ax. Four chops. The head rolled into the grass. The second man placed the tip of a wooden stake on Jarod’s back with his left hand. With his right he swung a mallet.
Doc crawled to the door, crying. “Why are you doing this?”
“Bye, Doc,” said the man in the black coat. He stepped over Deputy Jarod’s body and reached for his horse’s reins.
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