The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  Blair debated whether to help the Hungarians or to continue on to the church to meet the professor. He could help. But those crew members fired guns in every direction, taking out anyone who came near, both possessed and, well, human. That wasn’t right. They were all human. Footsteps behind him interrupted his semantic internal dialogue.

  He swung around to see a human form moving in the shadows coming toward him.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot. Stop.”

  It kept walking. Blair fired two rounds from the shotgun. The form fell over from the force of the blow, but kept moving. He tossed the empty weapon. Time to go.

  * * *

  Jeremiah Pruitt and two of his gunmen, George and Manuel, hid behind the bar at the Buck Snort. They took turns reloading and firing into the crowd. The saloon was full when the attack moved inside. The guard at the door died first. The seven vampires that entered the saloon were down to five. The human-like creatures killed without hesitation, ripping at throats with their teeth. Several of the men fought back with anything they could grab—chairs, whiskey bottles and guns. Others cowered in the corners too scared to move.

  Gun battles were something Pruitt was used to. This was different. His adrenaline rush didn’t come from excitement, but from uncertainty. These attackers didn’t cower, didn’t run. They had no fear.

  A vampire jumped over a card table and landed on the back of a miner. It quickly drove its teeth into the man’s neck, taking in a gulp of blood. The man collapsed to his knees. The vampire picked him up and tossed him through a window.

  Jerry, the one-armed owner, and Macky, the barkeep, bunkered down with two pistols behind three overturned tables. The cook reloaded while Jerry took sharp aim at the vampire, knocking the creature down.

  “That was Billy Simpson with them gnarly teeth.” Jerry shot him again. “Bastard owes me twenty dollars.”

  “You’ll never see it now,” Macky said.

  “I’ll check his pockets later.” Jerry fired at another creature then ducked as a bullet hit the top edge of his table barricade. “Watch what you’re aiming at,” he yelled.

  “Shut up.” Manuel dropped behind the bar. He reloaded his two pistols, moved to his knees, then emptied both cylinders into a vampire on the other side of the bar. “Señor Phillips. Señor Phillips.”

  “What!” Pruitt fired at the same creature, killing it.

  “We need to go to the church.”

  “Why?”

  “These things cannot enter the church. It’s holy ground.”

  Pruitt sat down with his back against the bar. He wanted out of here. He’d fight, but on his terms. He used the bar mirror to watch the room. Four men beat on a vampire with table legs. The creature seized one of the men and tore off his arm. The other men ran, but the vampire pinned one to the wall and bit his neck. Only one vampire blocked Pruitt’s path to the exit.

  “Reload. George, take the lead and use the shotgun to kill the one by the door. We’ll be right behind you. Manuel, fire at anything that comes toward us. I’ll take out anything on the boardwalk. Then run to the church.”

  The men reloaded and moved to the end of the bar. Pruitt wanted George and Manuel in front of him for his own safety—not a fear of the vampires, but of his own men shooting him in the back on accident.

  “Ready?” George asked.

  “Si.”

  “Go.”

  George bolted toward the exit. He fired two shells of buckshot into the chest of the vampire chewing on a drunken miner. The blasts knocked the creature to the ground. Manuel fired at the other vampires. Pruitt kept his head down and goaded Manuel behind George.

  The boardwalk was empty in front of the Buck Snort. Pruitt leaned against the wall of the building to see what they’d be up against once they moved into the street. Manuel reloaded.

  “Last one there’s dead.” Pruitt grinned at his guys.

  A vampire leaped from the roof, landing in front of them. Growling, it bared protruding teeth. George froze. Manuel couldn’t shoot with him in the way. Pruitt shoved his hesitant hired gunman into the arms of the creature. George screamed as evil embraced him with brutality.

  The church sat a block away. They leaped off the boardwalk. Manuel lost his footing when he landed. Pruitt didn’t hesitate and kept moving. Manuel scrambled to his feet and pumped his legs. He was faster than his boss. Pruitt glanced back to see his hired gunman gaining on him with a vampire close behind.

  Pruitt’s legs burned and his stomach cramped. Manuel came alongside him. Pruitt heard the footsteps of the gaining creature. Manuel took the lead. Pruitt’s endurance faded. He reached out and nudged Manuel enough for him to lose his balance and trip over his own feet. He landed in a puff of dust and rolled to a stop. He flipped over to get back up, but the vampire crashed into him before he got to his knees. Manuel fired two shots, then let out an eerie moan.

  “Come on!” One of the four armed men standing in front of the church called out to Pruitt. “You can make it.” The men stood guard with rifles as people ran to the church.

  Pruitt skipped the three porch steps and dove into the sanctuary. He didn’t know which hurt more, his legs, stomach, or heart. Sweat poured from his brow. He laughed because he beat the Devil, thanks to Manuel. A man helped him to a pew. He caught his breath and checked out his holy ground. Nearly one hundred people crowded into the church, more than any Sunday. Men with shotguns and pistols guarded the windows. Pruitt welcomed the comfort of being inside, safe. He let out a deep sigh and slouched in the pew. He jerked with the people next to him as an explosion rocked the church.

  “The Buck Snort blew up,” one of the window guards said.

  More gunfire came from the porch.

  The guards out front were yelling. “Come on, mister. Almost there. We’re shutting the doors.”

  * * *

  Jonathan Blair sought safety in the shadows. People ran from the faster possessed men, only to be brought down from behind. This situation was more dangerous than any he had been in before. Though no one was shooting at him, stray bullets from every direction flew and ricocheted all around him. That concerned him more than the possessed.

  He moved cautiously toward the church—taking cover behind barrels, broken mine carts and posts. He had to cross the street at some point. If he could work his way along the boardwalk to get directly across from the church, it would be a shorter sprint.

  Total chaos was the only way for Blair to describe what played out in front of his eyes. There was no organized assault by the people or the possessed, except for the Hungarians. They worked in a small area, piling up the dead.

  Blair rested a couple shops down from the Buck Snort. Two dead bodies lay in front of its open doors. He could hear gunfire and screams from inside. He slid into the street to move past the saloon. A ball of fire erupted from the Buck Snort, knocking him down. It took Blair a moment to gather his composure. The whiskey that once brought in the business now chewed at the burning building. A man, or demon, ran from the saloon, blazing from head to toe.

  The fire quickly spread from the Buck Snort to the dentist’s office next door. This whole side is going to burn. The dry, wood structures were ready fuel for the flames.

  The light from the fire melted all the shadows, depriving Blair of concealment. He couldn’t continue on this side unless he moved through the flames. The other side of the street offered no shelter.

  A diagonal sprint to the church became his only option, an option he didn’t like. Backtracking and taking an alley around the back could work, but that would put him several blocks away.

  He studied his path to the church. One vampire between here and there, and the creature struggled with a victim. Blair took off. He hadn’t run in a long time. The exertion was going to wear him out. Trying to conserve energy he kept a steady pace, but not at full speed. Adrenaline pumped through his system.

  He got within ten feet of the vampire chewing on a Hispanic man and started firing. The creature fell. Blair hu
rdled the two dead bodies and kept moving.

  Four riflemen waved him on to the church.

  They fired at him. He nearly shot back, but they missed. At that range, he knew better. Something chased him. The riflemen fired again. They weren’t hitting it, because they kept shooting. A possessed miner was only steps behind him.

  Blair dove and spun around, landing on his back. His shoulders hit first. He slid in the dirt. The riflemen hit the possessed man in the stomach and leg. Blair aimed and let loose, putting four bullets in the creature’s heart. It fell to its chest. Blair could see the demon trying to escape from its host. The shadow struggled to separate, but Blair’s aim was exact. The man died before the demon could release itself. The creature screeched as the dark form wilted.

  “Come on, mister,” one of the riflemen called to Blair. “Almost there. We’re shutting the doors.”

  Blair crawled to his feet and scrambled to the front porch. The four men pushed him inside and slammed the doors behind them.

  * * *

  Frederick Worthington stood up from his hiding place behind the pulpit of the church. “Jonathan. Jonathan.”

  “Professor.” Jonathan Blair breathed fast and heavy. The six lanterns in the sanctuary gave off enough light to see from one end to the other.

  “You made it.” Worthington rushed over to shake his hand. “I was worried.”

  Duane struggled out of his mother’s grip to stand and wave. Blair smiled back. He was glad to see the boy.

  Blair studied the people—miners, businessmen, shop owners, families—huddled together. Some cried, others seemed to be in shock. Pastor Jones worked the crowd saying prayers and offering what comfort he could. He gave no explanation to relieve their fears.

  The pastor wasn’t paying attention to whom he prayed for and put his hand on Blair’s shoulder. “Can I pray for you?”

  “No.”

  Jones came out of his daze. “I…I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Blair gave him an expressionless stare.

  “This.”

  “You knew what was happening.”

  “What does he mean?” a woman asked Jones. “You knew?”

  “No. No. I didn’t know.” The pastor backed away.

  “Mister?” The woman glanced at Blair.

  Tears filled Jones’ eyes. He fell to his knees. “I’m sorry.”

  “He knew.” She pointed at the pastor.

  “What’s she talking about?” someone asked.

  “It’s his fault,” she said.

  The crowd turned on the pastor.

  “He let this happen.”

  “He knew the vampires were coming.”

  Jones kept repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “The pastor didn’t tell anyone.”

  The crowd circled him. Cussed him. Shoved him.

  “Toss him outside.” A few cheers followed.

  Several men grabbed hold of the pastor and dragged him to the doors. Blair stepped out of the way.

  * * *

  A gun went off at the front of the church. Two bullets whizzed through the air and hit the top of the door frame. The crowd hushed. “The first person to open that door will be the first to die.” Worthington pointed Leonard’s pistol at the group of men.

  “You can’t stop us all,” one of them said.

  “Yeah, drop your gun, mister.” A window guard, standing next to Blair, pointed his rifle at the professor. “Drop it.” The bounty hunter grabbed the rifle with his left hand, pushing it upward. With his right hand, Blair drove the handle of his pistol into the man’s mouth, knocking out three teeth.

  “That’s enough,” Blair shouted. “You open that door and every one of you will be outside fighting for your lives.”

  Worthington had one hand on the pulpit and one in the air holding Leonard’s pistol. “I should have carried one of these back in my preaching days,” he whispered to Duane.

  He lowered the gun. “Leave Pastor Jones alone. He didn’t know. At least he didn’t believe it could happen. Most of you would not have either. Would you?”

  No one responded.

  “Show him some grace.”

  The men released Jones.

  “What’s going on out there?” a man asked.

  “The pulpit’s yours, Professor,” Blair said.

  Worthington holstered the pistol and stepped behind the pulpit where his friend, Bolton, had led this church. Now, Worthington would guide them through the town’s darkest time. He said a private prayer.

  “This is what I know. What I believe.”

  Frederick Worthington spoke for several minutes about the demonic siege overtaking Gothic. The people bombarded him with questions. He answered all that he could.

  “Are we safe here in the church?” Duane asked. All noise in the building stopped, as everyone waited for the answer.

  “I don’t know for sure.” Worthington sighed. “Pastor, can you lead us in prayer? That might be our only defense against this principality… if it’s not too late.”

  Jones composed himself and stood to his feet. “Thank you, Professor. Please forgive me.”

  “Always, my friend.”

  The crowd had their eyes on Jones. He took a step toward the pulpit, leaving his space void with Jonathan Blair and Jeremiah Pruitt staring at each other, from opposite sides of the church. Both men pulled pistols.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Out in the Open

  Jonathan Blair surprised himself by the speed he drew and aimed his pistols. Pruitt had hesitated for a moment.

  Pastor Jones jumped back between the killers. “Not in here. Not in here.”

  Blair and Pruitt didn’t move. They each held two guns aiming directly at each other. Pruitt would have two quick shots before he dropped one pistol to work the hammer action on the other. Blair held his Remingtons out straight—eyeballing Pruitt’s heart, aligning it with the pistol’s filed-down sights. He would keep both guns and work the hammers with his thumbs.

  “You’re dead.” Pruitt sounded surprised.

  “I thought you were smarter than that.”

  “You’re dead. I saw you die.”

  “Must have been someone else.”

  Pruitt grunted, “It was you.”

  “Put your guns away. There is too much death outside these walls. I won’t allow it in here.” Jones stretched out his arms like he was trying to hold the men apart. “Put them away.”

  “That ain’t going to happen,” Pruitt said. “He needs to die.”

  Blair kept silent, concentrating on Pruitt’s every movement, twitch, and muscle flex. He counted the cadence of JP’s breathing. He could see the rhythmic motion in Pruitt’s outstretched arms as they bobbed slightly to the beat of his heart. His heart rate was fast. Pruitt was scared.

  “Please, gentlemen. Mr. Blair, please put down your guns.” Jones got no reply. No one else spoke up.

  Jones moved toward Blair. He tilted a bit to keep Pruitt in view behind the pastor. “Jones, you’re in the middle of something you don’t want to be part of.”

  “Jonathan. Not in here. All these people are going to need your guns if something happens.”

  An older man guarding a window, pointed his shotgun at Pruitt. Pruitt returned a barrel. He aimed one of his pistols at the older man and kept one on Blair.

  “Come on, son,” Mitch said. “Put your guns away. I got grandkids in here. We don’t want to fight each other. Not now. You too, mister,” he said to Blair.

  Jones turned to Pruitt. “Mr. Phillips, we’ll need everyone who can shoot. Mitch, put down the shotgun.”

  “You people are so scared,” Pruitt said. “But you don’t know which is worse, to have me inside with you or to go out there with those vampires.”

  “JP. It ends here,” Blair said.

  “No, Jonathan.” Jones stepped closer.

  The window abandoned by Mitch shattered, spraying glass on the people nearby. A demon howled as it landed in a pew.

 
; * * *

  Mitch pulled the trigger on the shotgun, blasting the man-creature in the side. Another person fired at the false vampire.

  “Cover that window,” Mitch ordered. “Grab a pew.” He shot the vampire again. It struggled to its feet, before a barrage of bullets killed it.

  Pruitt ducked into the chaos out of Blair’s sight. The Gothic church resembled a disrupted anthill. The people seeking shelter moved about, but didn’t know where to go. Outside wasn’t an option, but they didn’t want to be near the bleeding vampire or the gunmen.

  Blair hadn’t moved, though he lost sight of Jeremiah Pruitt. He scanned the dimly lit sanctuary. Mitch held on to his shotgun and directed three men as they lodged a wooden pew in the broken window frame. Pastor Jones was as frazzled as the rest of the refugees. Frederick Worthington remained in front with Susanne, Mary, and Duane.

  Blair kept his back to the wall and moved toward the back of the church, careful not to cross his footsteps and lose balance. Pruitt must be hiding on the ground behind a pew or waiting in a huddled group.

  “We’re good,” Mitch said. “Window’s secure. That was my fault. I’m sorry.” He looked to his son’s family sitting on the floor in a circle in the front corner. “You men keep an eye on those windows.”

  “Can we cover the other windows?” Duane asked him.

  “Pastor Jones?” Mitch asked.

  Jones nodded. “There is a hammer and nails on the back table. From the...the coffins.”

  “What about him?” Duane pointed at the dead man Mitch shot. Several people stared at the miner, who only moments ago jumped through the glass, bearing fangs.

  “Do we need to cut off his head?” a man asked.

  “What about staking his heart?” another asked.

  Blair sidestepped to the back wall without a sign of Pruitt. “Professor, is it…is he dead?”

  Worthington held his dagger and slowly moved to the miner’s body.

  Blair reversed his direction along the wall. He scanned the other side of the church for Pruitt. Where did he go? He has to be here.

  The same three men who covered the first window, worked on the middle one on the same side of the building. Pruitt was over there, somewhere.