Lightfall Four: Risk, Rise, Rebel (Lightfall, Book 4)

by Taylor, Jordan

  Ivy turns to Grip. “Did you know this was here?”

  He nods.

  Rosalía rolls her eyes.

  “Could have noted,” Melchior says. “Us parched, wondering what to do about the horses, too much dust in our ears to hear straight—”

  “Then telling you would have made no difference,” Grip says, looking across at all the banks.

  “—sand painting my tongue—”

  “Because it is always flapping.” He seems satisfied with his investigation and turns.

  “—no lick of common—”

  “Melchior, why don’t you go on,” Ivy says. “Rose and I will be second.”

  Melchior looks around at Rosalía. “He dip a toe?” Jerking his head after Grip, limping down the slope.

  “Stranger things have taken place,” she says with a shrug.

  “Aiming to swim?” Melchior calls after him.

  “Your sense of humor grows odder by the day, Mr. L’Heureux.” Grip keeps walking.

  Melchior looks at Sam, who has remained silent on the ridge beside him. “Shinning?”

  “Pardon me?” Sam looks at him, eyes shifting into focus.

  “What do you reckon?” Melchior asks impatiently.

  “I wish I were a painter,” Sam says, looking again across the lake. “Or poet at the very least.”

  Melchior frowns at that, then turns back to Ivy. “We’ll go first.”

  “Right. We will lead the string around to a level bank.” Ivy points west. “Then make camp and get supper on.”

  He narrows his eyes and Ivy wonders what she said wrong, but he turns, slapping Sam on the back, then starting down steep rocks to the lake’s edge.

  “What was that?” Ivy asks Rosalía as they follow Grip down the trail to waiting horses.

  Rosalía glances over her shoulder. “I expect Cabeza Hueca was taken aback you called a bunch of horses a ‘string’ and used ‘supper’ rather than ‘dinner,’ which is still your preference.”

  “A new language rubs off on you if you hear it enough. Even if that is not your intention.”

  At their camp site, Grip leads the first group of horses west to a level bank to drink while Ivy and Rosalía make camp. With their horse feed all but gone, they have been able to pack along wood for tiny cooking fires. Rosalía prepares this and lays out antelope meat and the last of the coffee for their pot and skillet. Ivy strips the horses Grip left behind.

  More precious than firewood, she makes a fast search through her saddlebags to withdraw a tiny bar of lye soap. She beams as she displays this to Rosalía, only to find Rosalía is holding one out to show her.

  Both are laughing when Grip returns with Chucklehead, Elsewhere, Little Bird, and Two Pair. He leaves them with Ivy to strip and hobble in silence, then limps away with Correcaminos, El Cohete, Volar, and Sombra.

  Ivy watches him as she strokes the pack horses. “Has he been ... even more unhappy than usual lately?” she asks after a moment.

  Rosalía looks up from her fire to watch retreating horses. “Only because of me.”

  Ivy looks at her. “You cannot take credit for everything.”

  Rosalía shakes her head. “I’m sure it’s me. He may be upset that he’s gone so long without trailing Everette, but I expect I’m the biggest thorn in his side this trip. He cannot tolerate me riding with him.”

  “That’s absurd. I am here. I know he didn’t want me along in the first place, but he has never said anything about having a woman in company since. My cousin is the misogynist. Grip knows you are capable. You do your share. More than your share. If you wanted to come along—”

  “It’s none of that, Ivy.” Her voice is soft, gaze downturned to her skillet. “It’s the danger of what we’re doing out here. He already lost the brother who rode with him.”

  She glances up to meet Ivy’s eyes before Ivy gazes again after Grip, saying nothing.

  They are eating, the sun noticeably sinking toward the horizon, before Grip returns from his long walk to the lake’s level edge.

  Rosalía calls out to ask if he filled empty bottles.

  He shakes his head. “Fill them when you bathe. Or throw them over the ridge to the others. Edge water is unsafe.”

  “All lake water can be unsafe,” Ivy says. “We will boil it. What is that?”

  After dropping the horse’s reins, he has pulled a rust-colored object from amid the rolled cigarettes in his breast pocket. Grip rubs it between thumb and forefinger, then hands it to Ivy as she walks up with the rest of their rawhide hobbles.

  She trades him and studies the red rock shard in her hand. An unnaturally smooth, beautifully carved flint arrowhead. He must have found it in lake shore sand. It reminds Ivy of beach pebbles and glass rolled smooth on one hundred, or one thousand years of waves. How extraordinarily old must this arrowhead be? Thinking of more than one friend of her father’s who would trade a moon rock for the thing, Ivy returns to Rosalía at the fire as she dishes up strips of seared meat, sans accompaniment, on their tin plates.

  “What is it?” Rosalía holds out her hand and Ivy passes her the arrowhead. “Ancient.” She turns it over a few times before handing it back. “How come he gives you gifts?” She does not sound resentful, but honestly confused.

  “I don’t think it was a gift.”

  Rosalía shakes her head. “He wouldn’t have given it to you if it wasn’t.”

  “Right....” Ivy says slowly, trying to decide if this makes sense. “I only asked about it.”

  “Maybe your birthday gift—since he cannot be persuaded to come to parties.” She looks past Ivy as Grip walks up to them, then holds out a plate.

  He takes it wordlessly and retreats to sit on a rock.

  Pocketing the arrowhead, Ivy pours a handful of grain for each nosebag.

  “¡No hagas eso!”

  Ivy jumps and looks around. Does Grip not want her to feed one for some reason? No, if he was speaking to her, he would use English.

  “He’s got to eat. Meat’s one provision we do have,” Rosalía says and Ivy sees the big cur chomping something just behind her.

  “He can hunt for himself,” Grip snaps. He stands up to face the dog. “¡Fuera de aquí!”

  Yap-Rat slinks away, still gulping on the chunk of antelope Rosalía gave him.

  “Won’t ruin him to feed him once in a while,” Rosalía says, glaring at her skillet as she starts another steak.

  This reminds Ivy she has never discovered why that flea-bitten, aloof animal is important to Grip. Another poor time to ask.

  Ivy eats, daydreaming about her upcoming bath while pondering aloud with Rosalía what they will do if both horse and human food runs out before Monument.

  “Not making camp in the middle of the day would speed the journey and save the travelers,” Grip says irritably from his spot some distance from them.

  “You thought we’d pass up a whole lake?” Rosalía asks.

  “No,” Grip says to his empty plate. “Yet my personal expectations do nothing to minimize time lost.”

  “We’ll get up early,” Rosalía says and turns back to Ivy.

  Frustrated by the little in his nosebag, Chucklehead paws dirt with his hobbled forefoot. Two Pair shuffles over for a closer look, as if the stallion points something out for him. Chucklehead shrieks and attempts to bite Two Pair’s neck, instead hammering with his muzzle. The shocked pinto tries to spin away, tripped by hobbles, and crashes to the ground on his side. Even with the binding, he manages to struggle to his feet in a few seconds and staggers away.

  “¿Por qué es ese caballo tan estúpido?” Grip asks under his breath.

  “I am not sure he’s exactly ‘stupid,’” Ivy says. “He is only ... friendly.”

  Grip stares at her. She suspects he is about to tell her they are synonymous when he looks around. Ivy and Rosalía hear at the same time and Ivy stands uneasily, looking toward the ridge. Someone shouting, calling for them.

  Melchior appears at the top of the red ro
ck, waving his arms. Still soaked, he has pulled on trousers, but nothing else. Outside medical illustrations, or risers, which often lose their clothing to reveal gray, decaying flesh and distorted bodies, Ivy has never before seen a shirtless man.

  Melchior is waving his arms to get their attention. “The rifles! Bring rifles!”

  Grip is already off and Rosalía has her carbine in her hand to follow before Ivy snatches the stock of the Henry repeating rifle from Sam’s saddle. She races after them, amazed by how easily this is managed. Rosalía could outstrip her as if she walked when she had to contend with skirts. Now, even hauling the heavy weapon, she almost catches Rosalía on the slope and races to the top with little effort.

  Melchior jumps back into the water twenty feet below as Ivy reaches the ridge. He holds two revolvers over his head, shouting, “Stay out there!”

  But Sam is swimming to meet him, telling Melchior to go back, not bring the guns out.

  “Can get them from these rocks—heap closer than bank.”

  Sunlight reflections and whitewater spray catching light makes looking toward them nearly blinding. Ivy jerks the sungoggles off her hat as Melchior reaches Sam alongside one of the little rock islands, handing him a gun.

  “We shall never hit them from here with these,” Sam says, breathless.

  They both grab the rocks for support, squinting east.

  “You superintend. Reckon I can.” Melchior spits water, shifting his hold to rest an elbow across the dry edge of a boulder, otherwise submerged besides head and shoulders.

  “Ivy,” Sam calls as she replaces her hat and hefts the rifle, looking across the drop and water to the two men. “You are at ... more than one hundred yards from up there. Your higher ground will help adjust for distance.”

  Beside Ivy, Rosalía kneels, sighting down her carbine. Grip has lifted his own revolver, but is shaking his head.

  From the island, Melchior fires.

  Far off to the eastern bank, over a dozen dark figures scramble across rock formations at the lake’s edge. Several more are in the water, heads bobbing from sight as they attempt to run forward. More appear at the top of the distant ridge, staggering as the full impact of sinking sun batters their black eyes.

  How ... bizarre. Ivy’s ears are ringing. Her stomach flops over. This does not make sense. They are not supposed to be here. Who even lived out here to catch the sickness?

  Melchior shoots again and Grip calls, “Do not throw away bullets, Mr. L’Heureux.”

  “Can get them from here. We’re closer.”

  “He is correct, Mel,” Sam says.

  “Can they swim?” Melchior shouts.

  It takes Ivy a second to realize he addresses her.

  “They do not need to,” Ivy says, but her voice is hollow, breathless, and she has to clear her throat and repeat the words at a shout for them to hear. “They do not breathe. They will reach you eventually by trying to run at you and floating along.”

  “Save your rounds for closing,” Grip says and looks at Ivy. “Aspiring to shoot that weapon or are you otherwise engaged?”

  Flushed, Ivy looks east once more and shakes her head. “I cannot hit anything at this distance. I’ve never attempted it.”

  She glances around at him. Is he grinding his teeth?

  Ivy kneels as well, bracing her raised knee against a rock. “However, I can try.” She lifts the rifle to her shoulder. The figures look tiny, moving constantly, glare off the water still half-blinding her.

  Rosalía, who has been tracking one, finally pulls the trigger. She shifts her aim, resettles the weapon on her shoulder, and tracks for several more seconds before firing again. This time, a far-off figure stops its scrambling trek along the rocks and topples into the lake.

  And their heads. Not just hitting at all. Hitting their brains.

  Ivy swallows, mouth dry.

  Melchior has stopped firing, only waiting beside Sam, both holding onto their revolvers and rocks.

  Sam again calls to her, “Do not overcompensate. You are on much higher ground.”

  Then can she aim at a head? Not above it? Not below? What of it always moving? But that is why Rosalía tracks for seconds. Predicting the pattern, shooting where the head should be a moment later.

  “What have you done?” Grip murmurs behind her.

  Ivy squints, face against the stock, hands stilled by weight of the rifle, her breaths now slow. They move steadily, quickly, sliding down rocks, up, across.

  “Already hit,” Ivy whispers. She squeezes the trigger.

  The report slams her shoulder. An acrid puff washes over her face, the sound deafening. And, far away, a single riser topples into the lake.

  Rosalía looks around at Ivy. “Nice shooting.” She appears startled.

  “Thank you.” Ivy jerks the lever down and back, then sights.

  “Christ—” Melchior from the water. “Didn’t know she could hit anything.”

  Sam tells her that was magnificent.

  Behind her, Grip says nothing.

  Rosalía tracks. “Far left.”

  “Center,” Ivy says.

  Informing each other where they aim, the two of them pick off four, six, ten risers, rarely missing or striking a torso. Soon, only a handful remain descending into water or scrambling along the bank after them.

  By now, six or seven have crossed a considerable distance of open lake toward Melchior and Sam. Both open fire with revolvers, striking skulls as they bob up from the gleaming surface.

  Ivy shoots a final time, sending a dark figure cartwheeling down red rocks to crash across a boulder, and finds the chamber empty. Rosalía reloads, but Ivy has nothing for the Henry. Two more plunge into the water after Melchior and Sam. Rosalía catches the last three along rocks and shifts to the ones in water. But they are up, down, in and out of sight, moving at a difficult angle, hidden by reflections and murky water. She fires twice without success, then stands, shaking her head.

  Ivy’s heart is pounding again as she also stands up. “Do they have enough rounds? How many are in the water with them?”

  “They would have if Cabeza Hueca hadn’t been firing out of range,” Rosalía says.

  Grip moves past them, starting carefully down rocks.

  A dark head bursts from water twenty feet from Melchior and Sam. They fire at the same time, hitting, but losing another bullet.

  “Get out of the water!” Ivy shouts.

  Grip crouches on a boulder above the lapping edge of the lake.

  They kick backward from the island, moving toward the bank where they left their clothes: one neatly folded stack and one dusty mound minus trousers. Their progress is slow as they will not turn their backs on approaching dark shapes.

  More shots from Grip and Sam, the last of Melchior’s, then following heads and thrashing arms vanish. The surface of the lake ripples in a deadly hush.

  Yet Ivy’s heart beats faster than ever. “Get out! We’re breaking camp.”

  Rosalía rushes up the ridge. Grip starts to follow.

  Ivy turns to go with him as he reaches the top beside her. Both whip back around, Grip drawing, when they hear Melchior shout curses.

  “Snails and damnation! The frig kind of—”

  “Forget it!” Sam catches his arm in the water, trying to drag Melchior with him as he swims.

  “Like hell!”

  “Mel, do not—”

  Melchior rips his elbow from Sam’s hand, swimming back out.

  “Melchior!” Ivy shouts. “Get out of there! What happened?”

  “Dropped his gun,” Grip says.

  “He what?”

  “It can be replaced!” Sam goes after him. “Mel, we cannot—”

  But Melchior has taken a breath and dived, disappearing in a spray of whitewater and bubbles.

  Sam slams his palm against the surface as Grip swears in Spanish.

  Ivy jumps down rocks, descending to their clothing heaps. “Sam! Get out of the water! Leave him if he wants it!” She
turns to look up at Grip. “Break camp. We must leave the lake.”

  He holsters his revolver, still scanning the surface. “If you see more, use the derringer. Do not shoot that accursed maker’s gun into water with them in it.”

  “I am not stupid. Only in a hurry. Get the horses packed.”

  Grip continues up the rocks.

  In an explosion of whitewater, Melchior’s head shatters the surface. He gasps, fighting for air, choking up water, shaking his head.

  “No—” Shoving Sam away. “Can get it.”

  “Mel—”

  “Already lost one—” Gulping down deep breaths, he twists away Sam’s hand and dives again.

  “Sam, please,” Ivy calls from the bank.

  Something moves just below the surface, dark, sharklike, ripples spreading above it without bubbles.

  “Sam!” Ivy screams as the riser emerges in brilliant light, clawing forward, mouth wide, ten feet from Sam, who is still twenty from the steep bank.

  He whirls the MAS revolver to face it, but the gun has been soaked in his struggle with Melchior and it clicks feebly in his hand.

  Dropping the rifle on rocks where she crouches, Ivy yanks the Tinestel from the inside of her duster and fires.

  The dark head is knocked back, eyes wide, slipping below the surface to drift away. Ivy stuffs the two-rounded derringer back in her coat and pulls the duster off. She has started at the laces of her boots when Melchior bursts once more from water, waving the Colt at Sam, choking and gagging as he gestures below, unable to speak.

  Sam has scarcely begun dragging him toward Ivy, both kicking, handicapped by revolvers and Melchior’s minimal ability to assist, when Ivy sees the dark figure below the surface, following Melchior upward.

  Not possible—Sam’s and Melchior’s skulls are between her and their pursuer. Half an inch separates striking one or the other.

  Even as she snatches her derringer back in both hands, on her knees above the water’s edge, she knows she can never shoot into those three possible targets.

  “Duck!” Ivy shouts. “Get your heads down!”

  A slick, almost hairless, gray-black mottled head surfaces beside them. A large, crushing hand catches Melchior’s arm, mouth wide, lake water flowing in.

  “Down!”