Banshee Screams

by Clay Griffith

  Holt watched Ross's hunched shape disappear into the gloom like a lost soul in search of a body. The Ranger Captain was on the edge of deep precipice. It was only a matter of time before he fell in.

  Debbi Dallas had been a breed apart. Her sense of duty didn't just entail watching over the citizens of Temptation, but everyone, including the Nightwatch and the town militia. The town militia wasn't looked upon too favorably at times. They had a terrible tendency to break and run at the first sign of serious trouble. The Nightwatch was a cut above them being the best and brightest of that militia. But still they weren't given the credit even when it was due.

  Except by Dallas. She had risked her life for one of their own, brought him safely out of a zombie infested church at great risk to herself when everyone else had written the poor slob off as dead. And she did it for no other reason than he needed her help.

  The Nightwatch hadn't forgotten that.

  And if Debbi's death had affected the militia badly, then it was ten times that for the Rangers. Debbi had been all that stood between disaster and salvation at times when Temptation had been hit by plague after plague. Somehow, she had stood her ground and managed to keep the town together, bearing a united front against all comers, creatures, Reapers, and the Undead Legion.

  But of course there had been no fanfare when Ross and the Rangers had returned carrying the body of Dallas. They had been all but forgotten by a town that was at least temporarily safe. What was one Ranger, more or less, to the people of Temptation, as long as they were there when needed?

  Actually, Holt thought, this was Ross's first night home in a while. The Ranger had been out hunting.

  Quantrill was still out there. Rumors filtered in from all over Banshee placing the undead General here or there, from the Glass Wastes to the Toxic Jungle. Temptation's Colonial Rangers jumped in their Hosses on a moment's notice and raced anywhere to pursue the chance of finding the man that killed their beloved colleague. Holt had volunteered to go several times himself, but the Rangers needed him in town to keep the militia in line.

  However, the Temptation Rangers searched the planet without their leader. Ross refused to go along. He spent day after day after week after week hunched alone in a small camp outside the Lupinz Sanitarium. He ignored the hot winds and the frigid winds, the blistering days and the icy nights. Soon the snows would come, but that wouldn't matter. Ross would stay there, squatting amid the brush, staring through binoculars at the creaking asylum behind its razor wire fence. He believed Quantrill was inside. And he knew eventually the General would come out.

  And Ross would be there to kill him.

  No one else believed. They all said that it would have been stupid for Quantrill to hole up in a place so obvious and indefensible. They didn't think the remnants of the Legion could be stashed in the Sanitarium.

  Holt knew that Ross wouldn't rest till the monster had paid for what he had done. But Holt also knew there was no way an ordinary human was going to fight a legion of zombie sykers. No, Captain Dave Ross was fighting a losing battle on a great many fronts.

  The poor, dumb bastard.

  The ice cold wind blew hard against Ross as he walked through the darkness. His arms were crossed against it.

  He hated the wind.

  He hated the ache it brought to his weary bones; hated the way it caressed his body, not like a lover, but like death's cold hand; hated the way it never tarried but went along on its business as if nothing was wrong.

  Debbi had loved the wind though, and so he tried to forgive it all its shortcomings. He tried to appreciate it as she had. She swore it spoke to her. Every so often Ross thought he could hear Debbi's mournful voice in the incessant wind. It eased his hate to hear it sometimes.

  He walked on, not fully aware of what he was doing. His thoughts were elsewhere, but he knew where he would end up. The same place he always ended up.

  Debbi's grave.

  Ross never really knew why. At first, it was hope that Temptation's soil would revive her like it had every other damn thing. Then that hope turned to horror. What if it did resurrect her as one of the living dead? He couldn't let that happen. Debbi wouldn't want that, not under any circumstances.

  He thought briefly of Stew who had once shot his own undead father when the Temptation cemetery had first risen in force. It had almost broken the younger man. Ross knew it would it be tenfold to shoot Debbi that way.

  But the months had passed since her death and Ross thanked God every day that Debbi had not risen from the ground. Now, he came to the cemetery out of sheer habit. Sometimes he would talk to her as if she stood beside him.

  Tonight, the cemetery was still except for the Banshee wind rattling the ramshackle metal gate. Ross passed through their groaning wings and entered. He strode straight for Debbi's grave. The first thing he did, to his disgust, was look for disturbed soil. Much to his relief, the dark earth was firm and unblemished. There were only some fresh flowers that had toppled over in the breeze.

  Ross knelt and straightened them. They were probably from Ringo.

  The young Ranger always managed to collect wildflowers every few days and bring them out to the cemetery. Ross rarely saw him because Ringo never came to the cemetery at night.

  Ross's fingers brushed lightly over her name on the tombstone, etched in simple block letters. Below it was the motto that Ross had attached to her. It was an old one but accurate nonetheless.

  She maintained the right.

  Ross took great pains to trace the engraving of each letter in her name and bowed his head to the stone. It was cold and rough, but he stayed there pressed against its surface. He felt the same way inside. His gut hadn't stopped hurting since that day. He had felt such despair once before and he had hoped he would never feel it again. He should have known better. It wasn't going to fade for a long time. It would stay with him and remind him of what he had had and then lost. Ross wasn't looking forward to the next few years.

  There was only one thing that he wanted now. There was only one thing that would make the ache bearable and that was for the Legion to be wiped from the planet and Quantrill's bones to be scattered by Debbi's winds to the outer reaches of the atmosphere. Ross was determined that there would be nothing left of Quantrill's body to even bury in the sands of Banshee. The General would never rise again.

  Stepping back, Ross sank against a gnarled old tree that stood before Debbi's marker. He had chosen the spot so Debbi could see her precious wind move and animate the limbs of the old tree. The wind whistling through the branches made a sweet sound that he knew she would love to hear.

  The sun was just about to rise over the distant horizon and Ross stared at it dully. He would linger only another day in Temptation. He was eager to get back to his camp near the Sanitarium.

  Ross's frustration at his inability to bring to justice Debbi's killer had driven the Ranger into a deeper depression. It had been Sharif's sanity and tranquility that kept Ross from trying a foolhardy maneuver like an outright attack on the Sanitarium. Looking back at it all now, Ross knew that Sharif was right to stop him. Without their black guns, it would likely have been a wasted effort and a lot more Colonial Rangers would have been killed. No, Quantrill was the key and his killing him was something Ross had to do without endangering anyone else.

  The rush of the wind eased and gently ruffled Ross's duster, its soft breath caressing him for a change instead of battering him. His head slumped against the rough bark of the tree and his eyes slipped closed. He could almost feel the warm early rays of the sun creeping up his legs.

  Exhaustion beckoned him deeper and he slipped without notice into a restless slumber.

  Chapter 2

  Mo's saloon was a sight of pandemonium at the noon hour. It hadn't seen this much business even during the entire previous caravan season because Temptation had been avoided like the plague. By comparison, the bar was jammed now, even though it was winter. The clamor was almost deafening. It didn't hurt that Hellstromme
Industries was back in town and beginning to build, which attracted a lot of attention.

  Mo worked behind the bar. He was exhausted, but he didn't care. He was making money.

  Yes, life was good again.

  Then the door opened and in walked four Colonial Rangers. They looked bedraggled, unshaven, and were dusty from the trail. No doubt, just returning from running down another false lead on General Quantrill.

  Mo's sense of success suddenly plummeted. He looked quickly to where the Rangers' attention was located. Their eyes were locked with irritation at the group of four caravaneers who had commandeered the corner table that Temptation's Rangers normally claimed. Those teamsters were a quarrelsome lot who had come in from the ravaged town of Ghost Rock City in the south looking for work. They had been hired by Hellstromme to run short loads and they were full of themselves thanks to steady work and steady pay. The boss was smart, but the others, a tall woman, a wild-eyed teenager, and a short slab of steel with a scar across his face were all as bitter as mandrake root. And just as dangerous.

  Damn, Mo thought, why hadn't he made more of an effort to get the teamsters to sit elsewhere. Now all hell would break loose and all the money he had just made would go to repairing the place.

  Mo threw his towel on the floor in disgust.

  Miller, flanked by Ringo, with Fitz and Chennault crowding behind them, stood in the center of the room. He cast his gaze coldly across the room with disgust. Mo's had turned into a hangout for overwintering caravan grunts.

  A cold, dark expression was slowly filling Ringo's face too. It was not one that normally belonged there. Whereas once the young man had been someone who relished life and all experiences, now they embittered him.

  The Rangers had had enough of squatters in Temptation!

  Miller, as if reading Ringo's mind, strode to the four teamsters at their table, the rest of the Rangers flying out behind him.

  The teamster boss, a lean, black man, didn't bother glancing up, but continued his conversation with a willowy blonde woman who looked as much out of place in a teamster gang as Miller did in a Ranger outfit. The other two caravaneers at the table, a short hunk with a scar and a grimy teenager with a ponytail glanced up darkly from their drinks.

  "You're sitting at our table," Fitz pointed out.

  "I thought we talked about this," Chennault chided, arms folded and standing close to the teamster boss in an imposing way, despite her short stature.

  The Boss slowly raised his head to regard the Rangers, his eyes calmly regarding Chennault's proximity with a bored expression. "Oh, is that what you were chattering on about the other day?"

  "Oh yeah," offered the blonde woman, leaning forward over her thin but muscular arms, her loose hair falling over her cheeks. "We thought you meant the little checker game barrel outside on the boardwalk." She smiled falsely.

  Ringo snarled, stepping forward. "Lucky for you, that game barrel is still free."

  The teamsters made no effort to leave. Their boss reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette and lit it, blowing a lazy curl of smoke into the air. "We ain't moving."

  "Maybe you boys should grab the barrel before some else does," said Scarface.

  "Checkers seems to be more your speed. It's a quick game, just in case you panty-waisted girls need to run for it again like you did in Ghost Rock City." Chennault sneered.

  Scarface stood up so fast his chair clattered to the floor behind him. "Maybe we'd feel safer if you Rangers fought against anouks instead of with them."

  The Boss reached in his pocket and pulled out a couple of Hellstromme coins. "Here ya go, buy yourself some drinks. It must be thirsty work protecting all those anouks so they can kill normal folk."

  Fitz said evenly, "I'd shut up if I were you, mister."

  "I ain't allowed to speak my mind in Temptation?" the Boss asked sarcastically. "Is it because I'm not purple?"

  Miller's hands were shaking with rage as he pointed at the Boss. "Get out! And stay out!"

  "I reckon we'll stay."

  Miller balled his fists. "Listen, you stupid dung eater—"

  "Anouk lover!" shouted the Boss.

  The place flew apart. Mo wailed as the fight broke out. Beer and glass rained down as the four Rangers collided with the four teamsters. One of his beautiful new chairs shattered over the back of Fitz, heaved at him by the massive Scarface. Fitz shook off the pieces like a big dog and slammed his meaty fist straight into the teamster's nose.

  The blonde had Miller's head under her left arm and was pounding her dainty but extremely solid fist into his smarmy face. Miller flailed wildly.

  Chennault battled with the Boss. All five foot of her was in his face and attacking mercilessly. There was power in every blow. She effectively blocked every street-fighting move he tried. Surprise was etched on his face right before Chennault's booted foot arched through the air beside him. The Boss turned aside at the last moment but the foot still caught a glancing blow that brought him to his knees. He barely had time for a thought much less anything else before he glimpsed her rushing forward to push her advantage.

  Ringo had his hands full with the nasty little teenager with the ponytail. The kid was fast and had power despite a pallid complexion and cadaverous thinness. But Ringo was wiry and dodged most of the punk's attacks. Ringo darted in under a missed blow and laid one across the caravaneer's jaw. It rocked him back and Ringo smiled. He relished a fight. It was chance to let go some of his pent up anger and he had plenty to spare. There was nothing wrong with a good, old-fashioned knuckle brawl. They were relatively non-life-threatening and yet still purely satisfying. He let another fist fly.

  Stew had just come on watch after a long night of tossing and turning in his small room above the boarding house. Sleep was a thing of luxury these days. He gave up wishing for it a long time ago. Even though the sun was almost near its zenith, it held little warmth so Stew tightened his threadbare green jacket and lifted the collar higher against his bare neck.

  He saw Ngoma trudging back to his quarters, silently relinquishing his command over to Stew for the day. Things were running smoothly for a change, despite the crowds of overwintering caravaneers and laborers streaming in.

  Stew had heard that Ross was back in Temptation. Even though he had not seen the man personally, Ngoma mentioned that their captain had stopped by headquarters briefly yesterday to grab some ammunition.

  It's nice to see the man retaining some interest in how this town is run, thought Stew bitterly as he stepped up onto the sidewalk outside Ranger headquarters. He was actually looking forward to a day of distractions. Any work was better than being left alone with his own depressing thoughts. He missed Debbi so much sometimes he felt physically sick. There was no doubt in his mind that he loved her. But she hadn't loved him. Not like he did at any rate. At least he had been beside her through most everything. Even the bad. Even at the end.

  Although Stew thought he was prepared for the sharp ache of the memory of her, it still hurt like hell. Scowling against it, he pushed through the door of headquarters. He cast his gaze about, but only Tsukino was there to lift a hand to acknowledge him.

  Stew lifted a silent hand back. Sighing, he moved to his desk. There was new glass in the windows that Debbi had broken, which Stew appreciated since winter was here. He sighed again. So much of this place held her stamp. There would be no escaping it so long as he remained here in Temptation. Maybe that was another reason Ross stayed out of town so much. In fact, Stew wouldn't be surprised if one day Ross just never returned.

  Ross's office door was open, which wasn't unusual. It was clean, but totally empty except for the chair and the desk. Most of the paperwork was now routed through Stew as acting commander. A huge pile of it awaited him on his own desk. He stared at it in dismay.

  Tsukino smiled at him. "I went through half of it already. That's what's left."

  "Doesn't this ever end?" groaned Stew.

  "There are a lot of requests from the Hellstromm
e rep for clearances. And she's a real stickler for paperwork."

  "I'd be happy to show her where she can stick her paperwork." Stew slumped into his chair.

  The outer door swung open and a small, blond boy darted inside.

  "Hiya, Stephen," Stew greeted. "What's up?"

  Stephen still proudly bore a Ranger badge on his dusty shirt, the same badge Ross had given him during the scuffle with the zombies at the Ecumenical Church. The kid had taken his honorary Ranger status to heart. His face scowled and he apocalyptically announced, "Trouble!"

  Laying his elbows on the desk, Stew leaned on his clasped hands. "Where?" Stew wasn't overly concerned. Usually Stephen's pronouncements of doom weren't too critical.

  "Ranger Miller's gettin' beat up by a girl!"

  "What? Where?" Tsukino rose to his feet more excited than surprised.

  "Mo's," the kid squeaked, bouncing on his toes in excitement. "There's a huge fight."

  "Aw hell," Stew stood slowly and wearily grabbed his hat. To Tsukino, he added, "You stay here and hold the fort."

  "No way. This I have to see." Tsukino followed him out.

  Stew didn't bother trying to discourage him. "Well, I guess it's official. Mo's is open for business."

  "Yeah, I bet he's ecstatic."

  The two Rangers slipped out the door. Stew slapped his hat on his head as they ran down the street toward Mo's. He could hear the commotion. Glass breaking. People shouting. It sounded like a hell of a lot more than just Miller getting his clock cleaned. In fact, it sounded like the whole town was involved. Suddenly he was grateful to have Tsukino by his side.

  Stew's eyes caught sight of a long, black duster on the other side of the street walking in the opposite direction. He recognized it immediately.

  "Hey, Ross! Trouble at Mo's!"

  Ross would handle this dust up with ease, thought Stew. He had done so numerous times in the past, and he'd chastise Miller to boot for causing trouble. It would be worth the show.

  Ross just looked at Stew with dark, hooded eyes. "Handle it," he said and kept on walking.