by Barry Reese
“No.” Brass tapped his weapon where it rested on his hip. The generator buzzed softly. It still wasn't fully charged. And from the drone of Amaro's voice, he wasn't done yet either, more was the pity. “The bullets, and the curse that goes with them, are now the sole property of the United States of America. As I stated, you will be taken into custody and—”
Anderson's lips curled, and his teeth looked longer and sharper than they had before. His hand flashed to one of his pistols. Brass lunged with inhuman swiftness, driving a gleaming fist into Anderson's face with piston-like precision. Bone crunched and Anderson staggered. Brass jerked the remaining pistol from Anderson's sash and fired at one of the shapes that suddenly surged towards him. The creature squealed as the bullet split its skull. Even as it fell, Brass was tracking the next. They were balloon-muscled monstrosities with outsize heads and jaws, like Egyptian hieroglyphics brought to life. They whooped and squalled as they bounded forward, their claws tearing gouges in the adobe.
Brass emptied the pistol and tossed it aside. Anderson crashed into him a moment later, his skull bulging like an overripe fruit as his bones reshaped themselves beneath his skin. “Kill you!” Anderson growled.
“Someone beat you to it, I'm afraid,” Brass said, driving his elbow into the man-beast's jaw. It shattered and then reformed as wolf-Anderson shook his shaggy head. Brass scrambled to his feet. More of them lunged out of the shadows. They had forgotten the church entirely. Claws drew sparks as they slashed down through his clothing and broke on his metal body. Brass grabbed a snapping snout and crushed it.
Hairy fists crashed down on his shoulder joint, bending the metal. He stumbled and claws tore through the pressure hoses of one of his legs. The limb went dead and Brass spun, punching the beast in the chest. Bone splintered and the werewolf collapsed into a ball. Hands fastened on his head a moment later, and Brass felt his neck-joint begin to buckle as Anderson tried to rip his head off. Brass reached for him, but found his arms pinned. There were too many of them. A flare of something that might have been panic went through him, followed by disappointment. Perhaps he wasn't immortal after all.
The bullet took the wolf on his left arm in the head, splattered Brass with bone chips and blood. The body, rather than healing instead slumped to the ground, twitching. The pressure on his other limb and neck slackened as his captors turned in surprise.
Frank James stepped out of the church, face pale. He raised the smoking revolver. “The padre finished. And I was out of bullets, so I had to make do.”
“Judas!” Anderson snarled, the word mangled by his malformed jaws. “Red-Legged Judas!”
“You're one to talk,” James said, taking aim.
Anderson hesitated and glanced at the body of the dead wolf. No, the dead man, his sightless eyes staring up at the moon. Brass pushed himself up. “The Devil's Teeth have been exorcised, Mr. Anderson. And now, it seems, that rather than spreading your curse they can end it. Permanently.”
“That ain't possible!” Anderson growled, flexing his talons.
“Go on Bill. Go take the boys and go on home. The war is over and I'm damn tired,” James said, stepping forward. “I don't want to kill you, but—”
“Mr. James!” Brass snapped, pushing himself to his feet even as a snarling shape dropped from the chapel roof onto James, tearing at him. Blood sprayed into the night air as man and monster fell in a tangle. The pistol snapped and the wolf reeled, howling piteously. The other wolves started forward eagerly. Brass cannonballed into them, propelling himself on his one good leg. He flung them aside and scooped up the revolver out of James' bloody fingers. Brass struck the wall of the church and turned, fanning the hammer of the revolver.
Hairy shapes did a jittery dance as the bullets cut into them. With a despairing howl the survivors scrambled away, running for their horses, leaving four new bodies on the street. Brass looked down at James, who had rolled onto his belly.
“Mr. James? Rest easy. I'll fetch help,” Brass said, dropping awkwardly to one knee.
“You've helped me enough,” James said weakly. Eyes glassy, he stretched red-stained fingers towards the wolf that had jumped on him. It lay huddled against the church, its lupine aspect fading as Brass watched. “Ah hell. Jesse...” Frank James said and then, with a cough, died. Jesse James said nothing, his clouded gaze fixed on his brother accusingly.
Brass stood and gazed at the two brothers. A thrill of something that might have been envy ran through his core, then faded as quickly as it had come. He looked down at the pistol in his hand. The bodies on the street had become men again. None of them were Anderson, Brass noted.
“Miles to go before I sleep,” he said softly. Then, with a creak of gears, Brass went into the church to get the other bullets, and left Frank James and his brother laying together in the moonlight.
THUNDER PURSUED
Revealing the Origin of the Amazing Dr. Elias Thunder and His Thunder Riders
by Thomas Deja
Our lives changed with an angry hissing in the night, a rattling noise that sounded like the devil himself sliding through our little town of Hunter's Notch while being chased out of Eden.
I sat up in my bed, pulled back my quilt, and ran to my window. The hissing became a deafening, calamitous roar. Through the enormous billows of white smoke, I caught sight of little flames from the lamps of my fellow townspeople, all awakened, all eager to see what was going on.
A tremendous crash completed the shattering of our quiet night. It sounded like whatever was making this horrible clatter had slammed right into pa's shed. I was scared it had been wrecked. We had just begun to carve a life for ourselves, what with ma dying of pneumonia and dad losing his job with the G & S line; having his tools and forge broken to pieces would kill us.
“Daniel, boy,” I heard my father call out. “You stay inside, hear?”
I did stay inside for a little bit... but I loved my dad. He was the only person I had left in the world. I needed to protect him. So obedience gave way to courage, and I followed him out.
The rest of the town was slowly emerging from their houses. I recognized Mr. Landon the barber and Mrs. Wallingford the schoolmarm, stumbling closer to the source of all the commotion. Mr. Neimann and his wife kept to the door of the tailor shop, with young Julia Neimann taking up the rear, protesting she was old enough to see whatever horror had tore into Hunter's Notch.
And dang wasn't what I saw was the most peculiar thing ever. It settled there on its side in a pool of slowly spreading water and oil. It looked sort of like a bicycle – the front wheel was bigger than the back, but not as big as one of those silly things we saw when we all went to St. Louis when I was small. The wheels themselves were thicker than I ever seen, and had grooves carved in them. The seat was long and thickly cushioned. But the strangest thing was the machinery that went from underneath the seat to the left of the wheel to the long, cylinder thing that looked like a fat organ pipe. The pedals weren't attached to the front wheel, but were bolted low to either side of that contraption – the left one attached to some sort of piston attached to a belt that threaded towards the axle of the back wheel, the right one attached to the big cylinder by a flattened pipe.
I saw something, and crouched down to pick up what looked like a shallow bucket. Scattered around it were tiny lumps of coal.
“I think he's alive,” Mr. Burgo, who worked in the general store, said. He had joined my pa and Mr. Landon near the shed.
“If it is a he,” Mr. Landon added. “I ain't never seen any man dressed like that.”
“He looks like one 'a them mummies,” offered Julia Neimann, her pretty face still puffy from sleep.
I carried the bucket with me and slowly, carefully came up behind them.
It was a night of oddities, and the man pa was standing over was no exception. His long brown leather duster was stained and burnt in patches. His whole body underneath was wrapped in heavy cloth; only his eyes, which were obscured by a pair of goggles, and his re
d hair, exposed because the leather helmet he was wearing had come off, were visible.
“Man's hurt, most likely,” my pa told his friends.
“Maybe he deserves to be hurt,” Mr. Landon suggested. “A man dressed like that, who knows what he's been up to?”
“Won't learn if he isn't patched up,” said my pa.
The trio was joined by the Reverend Chatterton. “We need to call in the Marshall, see if he knows anything about this one.”
“I can have Willie ride up to Tulsa and cable him in the morning,” Mr. Burgo offered.
My pa nodded. “Until then, I'll take him in.”
“But Horace,” Landon protested. “You have a young child to care for.”
“Danny's a good boy, strong and smart. He can handle whatever this fella can throw him.”
I couldn't help but feel a swell of pride hearing my father say that. But I slunk off back to the house, not wanting to be caught disobeying him.
I was up most of the night, helping pa get the stranger out of his wrapping and into bed. His body was badly bruised, his hands tough and calloused. Underneath the scarves and hat was a rough-hewn face. He had a wild mane of red hair, complete with a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache. Every once in a while I heard the man muttering to himself about trains and steam and fortunes.
He slept until sundown the next day. Our neighbors kept clear of us, not sure what the stranger was going to do when he was thinking clearly. Pa dragged that weird contraption into his workshop and got to work on fixing it. Most people didn't know how smart Pa was; he used to work on the engines for the railroads, and could do wonders to make all the trains run faster and smoother than ever.
I was with the stranger when he woke. He groaned and got up slowly, and I was there with some water. “You need to rest, mister. I'm gonna get my pa.”
“I can't rest,” he said. He moved slowly, like every part of his body ached something fierce. I hesitated, worried that my very touch would cause him even more hurt – but I knew he could hurt himself more if he got out of that bed.
Sure enough, he winced when I pushed him gently down. “You're hurt, mister.” I put a small glass and a pitcher of water on the nightstand beside him. “I'll bring you an apple when I get back. You rest up, hear?”
The man poured out some water. I could see him trying to conceal how much he ached. “Thank you, son.”
He brought the glass to his lips. It was like watching a turtle trying to do, well, most anything. “Before you go – may I ask where I am?”
I crinkled my nose. “You didn't know where you were going?”
“I was going rather fast.”
“You in Hunter's Notch, mister.”
“Hunter's Notch... where?”
I swear, my mouth must've hung open. I thought he had to be tetched in the head. “Hunter's Notch, Oklahoma.”
“Thank you. You should get your father now. I shall be right here.”
I ran out to pa's work shed. He was trying to smooth out some of the dents in that pipe organ looking thing in the back. Once I told him our guest was up, he put down his tools and followed me into the house.
My father was fearless. No matter what he met up with, he never blinked; it was something I tried to emulate all my life. He walked right up to this man who roared into our lives, literally, and extended his hand.
“Horace Wilde, sir. You've already met my son, Daniel.”
The man extended his hand. I could see his face tighten with pain, but he did his best not to show how much. “Dr. Elias Thunder, at your service.”
“You're a doctor?” I blurted out.
He laughed softly. “Yes, son... but not the kind of doctor you might think.”
“Scientist, I'd guess,” my pa offered, his eyes glinting with mirth.
“Of a sort,” Dr. Thunder admitted. He adjusted himself so he sat up straighter. “How did you know?”
“That device out in my shed. I figure it's some form of one person, steam-powered carriage.”
Thunder's eyes grew wide. “The Thunder Steamer – is it all right?”
“It's messed up. I've been working on fixing the damage... but there are some mechanics I can't make sense out of.”
“Understandable... I made some improvements on the Roper and Guiseppi prototypes that might be unfamiliar to the layman. If you'll allow me to get dressed, we can take a look at the Steamer together.”
I could barely understand half of what they were talking about while we were in the workshop, but they seemed right at home with each other. It seemed my dad, who had spent so much time ever since the railroads disgraced him alone here with me, was making a friend.
“The problem with the previous attempts at a steam-powered bicycle,” Doc told my pa, “is the tendency for the engine to burn so hot, it endangered the rider.”
“That's why you were all wrapped up!” I exclaimed.
Doc looked over at me and smiled. “That's true. The Guiseppi Steamer actually set the rider on fire. Since I decided to use coal instead of wood – more efficient energy conversion rate, you know – I needed to think a little differently. I maximized the wagon size to distribute the individual stages evenly across the Steamer's carriage. Not only does it minimize the danger from combustion, the wagon is capable of much faster speeds and greater control through the addition of a throttle. It was all about thinking of it not as a self-powered bicycle – assuredly what Guiseppi and Roper were thinking of in their designs – but of a personal, one-man train engine.”
“Mighty fine work there,” my father admitted.
The Doc puffed with pride. “Thank you, Mr. Wilde. Pity Conrad Grenley didn't agree.”
Pa's face grew hard, his mouth a hard, thin line. “I don't cotton too much to the man.”
“My pa used to work for Mr. Grenley, Mr. Thunder.”
“Used to?”
I saw my pa look to me briefly, and I could tell he was plenty mad at me... but not in a way that warranted him punishing me. “I was one of the engineers in Mr. Grenley's Tulsa yards. He didn't care much for my comments about how his engines were built, and I was let go. Been here doing handiwork and smithing ever since.”
The doctor stroked his beard, nodded. “At least he didn't try to kill you.”
“Can't say he did,” my dad commented. If he was as surprised as I was, he didn't show it.
“I came all the way out to his offices with the intention of using his patronage to mass produce the Thunder Steamer,” the inventor told us. “This little thing could allow the common man to traverse great distances faster and safer for both rider and horse. He laughed at my vision, told me how useless it was, how people didn't want to ride such a dangerous contraption when they can just rely on the train.”
My pa shrugged. “Just proves he's a loco as I thought when he threw me out on my ear.”
“So I was back on the street. I was preparing to return to Boston, planned on riding the Steamer back in hopes of generating some publicity—”
“And attention from some other patrons, I reckon.”
The good doctor nodded. “I didn't get very far from the city limits when I got ambushed. Seemed that Mr. Grenley would rather no one develops this innovation any further, and since I wouldn't have the decency to be set on fire, he needed to help me along in shuffling off the mortal coil. Luckily for me, the Steamer doesn't tire, and at its maximum efficiency it could outrun the regulators' horses... but I must have lost control of the device and ended up here.”
“Mr. Grenley doesn’t hire lazy help,” my pa said. “They’ll be coming after you.”
The doctor nodded and smacked his hands together. “Well, then, I guess we need to get this device running so I will be out of your way soon enough, eh Mr. Wilde?”
The next three days of my life was spent going to school, returning home and getting dad and Doc Thunder tools, food, water, whatever they needed. They worked on fixing up that contraption – and dad's workplace – from dawn to dusk, only sl
eeping when their bodies needed it.
Not that there wasn't time for fun. It turned out Doctor Thunder loved a good joke, so I always brought the latest jesting from the schoolroom. He had a big, booming laugh like his namesake, and took time to explain what he and pa were doing.
We still got visitors during that time – Reverend Chatterton kept lurking around. His words were all friendly-like, but he had that look in his eyes like he thought the devil was running up to grab him. Mrs. Wallingford and her husband would show up to make sure I wasn't feeling ignored and was well-fed with plenty of cold chicken and stew.
At one point, my dad came out before the Wallingfords came by with an envelope. He pressed it in my hand and told me, “Ask Jed to run this into Tulsa for me.”
I nodded. Mr. Wallingford was a lawyer, and made it a habit of riding into Tulsa twice a week; more if he had a client.
The banging and clanging and noises of men hard at work kept coming from the shed. I saw Doc Thunder helping pa mend the wall that had been broken up by his Steamer driving right into it. Doc waved at me. As the date of the accident moved further away he seemed more robust, stronger... even bigger. I started noticing how he towered over my father, and my father was not a small man.
One time I caught sight of Doc talking to Julia Neimann when she was coming back from the store. He smiled a lot when he was speaking to her, but it wasn't the same kind of smile he had when talking to me or pa. She smiled a different way, too, clutching her basket to her chest and averting her eyes.
But if there's one thing I learned from being on this Earth the short time I had been up to that point, it's that things changed. And change they did...
Everyone knew who they were the minute they rode into town. It wasn't necessarily their dress, or their overall appearance. Sure, there was a shiftiness in their eyes, a sneer on their lips, those things that make clear that these people cared nothing about people like me and you because they spilled blood and liked how purty it appeared as it sank into the sand.