How the West Was Weird, Vol. 2

by Barry Reese

  Billy Boy waited until Jill was gone and then picked himself off the floor. He pulled the crossbow from his chest, thinking the wound was probably fatal. Rodrigo gasped from the bench next to him, his hands trying to keep his slashed throat together. Billy picked up the shotgun and pointed it at the Mexican. “It was you who sold the secret of trapping moonlight,” the bellhop said. “You're a disgrace to your heritage, Rodrigo. The Colony bids you adieu.”

  He fired, and then limped forward. This was a train that needed stopping. There was no one else who could …

  Billy Boy’s body gave up the ghost.

  Jill was more than willing to let Bellingham enter the caboose first. When she didn't hear an outbreak of gunfire, she entered behind him, drawing two electric shooters. Jill's bracelet was on her wrist and she thought about taking it off, but didn't. She wanted Hanna to see that she'd retrieved it.

  Entering the luxurious caboose, thankful the heavy shocks kept the car relatively stable, Jill could see why there hadn't been any gunfire – everyone had their guns pointed at each other, the whole car dancing on the edge of bloodshed as flames lapped at the walls and ceiling.

  Bellingham was in front of her and to the near right. Hanna stood off to the far right. The little kid she'd thought was dead back in the kitchen car stood on the lap of a fat woman in the center. And off to the left was—

  “Of course,” she groaned.

  “Hello, darling,” Dotson Winters smiled at his fiancé. “We've been waiting for you.”

  “Hope I didn't keep you too long,” she said, her blood temperature rising.

  Dotson grinned, running his hands over his expensive black suit. “Actually, you didn't. We were really waiting for Bellingham, but he was kind enough to tell us you were waiting outside. I don't think you know our honored guest, do you?” he asked.

  “No clue,” Jill said to the frightened woman. “Sorry.”

  “Her name is Mary,” Dotson smiled as a ball of flame burst into the room at the rear of the car. “Mary Todd Lincoln. The dead President's wife.”

  Jill understood. “She got your letter and you got hers.”

  “And she wants to sell it!” Dotson laughed. “Can you believe it? Mrs. Lincoln is holding us all hostage because she's broke and the country that her President just led won't give her any money! How rich is that? The dead President's wife is holding us hostage for a lousy $100,000. Well,” Dotson added, “she was until my cute little associate there threatened to rip her throat out in his teeth and turn her into a vampire. Nasty business, really.”

  Hanna jumped into the conversation. “Your parents are Colony, Dotson! How can you do this?”

  “Oh Hanna,” Dotson smiled smugly, “you want as little to do with the Colony as me.”

  “Doesn't mean I want them all dead.”

  “Well, then, that's where we're different.”

  “You've got no play,” Bellingham said to Dotson, noting that the flames were now advancing across the walls and ceiling. “Hanna and I might want that letter for different reasons, but we're sure as bloody hell not going to let you have it.”

  “I don't understand you, Bellingham,” Dotson admitted. “You work for the Queen. The Queen sent me that letter so I'd protect her interests. Why don't you want me to have it?”

  “I'll tell you when this is over.”

  Jill scoffed. “Don't believe him, Dotson. He says that to all the girls.”

  Dotson looked at his fiancé with disgust. “You are the most worthless one here.”

  “Aw, sweetie, thanks. That's what every bride wants to hear from her husband-to-be.”

  “I'm going to kill you just for being here,” Dotson sneered, the train starting to jump as it neared maximum velocity, “and then I'm going to go back to Boston and marry your hot little sister. I only wanted you because I couldn't have you.”

  “Then you must really want me now.”

  “Ha ha! Maybe I'll have my associate bite you instead and keep you as a pet,” Dotson exalted, clapping his hands. “It was my willingness to marry into your falling family that led Victoria to trust me. Of course, she doesn't think I'm going to kill all of the Colony agents, but I doubt she'll care once I have her deposed.”

  Jill pointed both of her guns at Dotson. “I'm going to shoot this piece of garbage,” she announced as Dotson raised a gun to point back at her. “I don't care who the rest of you shoot.”

  Bellingham dropped one of his guns to the floor and took another from his belt. “Exploding plasma bullets,” he said. “Pretty good way to kill a vamp.”

  “Old fashioned bullets,” Hanna announced, moving her guns to Bellingham. “Pretty good way to kill a Haverton.”

  “Oh, goodie,” Dotson laughed. “This will be fun.”

  “Don't be stupid, Hanna,” Jill snapped at her friend. “You don't still care about that letter, do you?”

  Hanna looked past Bellingham to take in the woman she loved. “I was doing it for you, at first,” Hanna admitted. “The Colony promised me all the money your dad would need to save his business. Which means you didn't have to marry Dotson.”

  Jill looked to Hanna and softened. “Oh, Hanna,” she said softly, as if finally realizing the depth of her friend’s affec-tion for her. “You do know I will never love you like that, don't you? I mean, I'll always love you, just not the way you love me.”

  Hanna nodded through watering eyes. “Yeah, that's why now I want the letter for me. To hell with you. To hell with the Colony. I'm gonna take their money and get as far away from you as I can. You might as well just turn around and leave now.”

  The room stilled as everyone took their aim, waiting for the match to be lit to ignite the gunfire. The careening train made none of it easier and made all of it more given to chance. Whose shot would get knocked off course by a bump at exactly the wrong time?

  “You're all crazy!” Mrs. Lincoln yelled, lighting the match.

  Everyone fired.

  Jill sent two bolts of electricity at Dotson. One of them sizzled past his head but the other connected with his neck, causing his body to seize.

  Dotson fired a frag shooter at Jill and her body was hit by multiple pieces of small, hot metal. She stumbled back against the wall and slid to the ground, feeling as if she was being stung by a hundred hot mosquitoes. Her hand went to her neck, where a big mosquito had bit deep.

  Bellingham fired three silver bullets at the child vampire. One found its target, slamming into the kid's head, but the other two missed their mark thanks to the jostling train.

  Hanna fired at Bellingham and two bullets ripped through his duster to bury themselves in his upper body. The Haverton special agent fell to the floor.

  There were only two people in the room not hit – Hanna and Mrs. Lincoln. Hanna walked straight towards the former First Lady. The kid vampire, his head missing a large chunk of skull, roared at her, but he didn't stop the Korean's advance. She grabbed him by the blond hair on the side of his head that was still attached, lifted him off Mrs. Lincoln, and tossed him to the back of the caboose, where the roaring flames enveloped him. She looked down at Mrs. Lincoln and pressed her gun to the older woman's head.

  “The letter.”

  Mrs. Lincoln reached into her purse and pulled out the reason they were all here.

  From the ground, Bellingham fired his silver shooter at Hanna, clipping her leg and dropping the woman to one knee.

  In response, both Jill (from her ass) and Hanna (from her knee) turned and fired at the Haverton agent. The former connected with lightning and the latter with a classic bullet, and Bellingham's world went black.

  Dotson laughed, kneeing Hanna in the face and snatched the letter from Mrs. Lincoln. He turned to the room. “It's been fun. Have fun catching fire!”

  Jill fired her last blast at him, but she was too woozy and the train was too unbalanced and her shot went wide of the mark. Dotson practically skipped to the back of the train and opened the rear door. Knowing the high price of a good
ally, he stopped to pick up the kid vampire.

  “That was a mistake,” Hanna said, rising to her feet.

  Dotson smiled. “Oh, Hanna, I did so enjoy listening to you and my fiancé while I was finishing the preparations of kidnapping myself! You can point that gun at me all you want, but you won't get the letter back!” Dotson held the vampire between them. “You've got, what, one bullet left? Maybe two?”

  “Who cares how many bullets I have?” she sneered. “I'm gonna jump off this train after you and track you down, Dotson.”

  “No,” he shook his head, “you're not. Bellingham's down and that means only you can do what needs to be done!”

  “You don't think I can stop you?” she asked above the thunderous noise.

  “Not me!” Dotson grinned. “The woman you love! My frag gun got lucky and clipped her throat! Look at her,” he dared. “She's dying! That means you can stop me or save Jill and despite all your tough talk, we both know what you're gonna do!”

  “Damn you,” Hanna whispered and pulled the trigger. A bullet tore through the vampire's leg and ripped through Dotson's side. The villain groaned and leaned back against the wall. Dropping the vampire, he stumbled through the rear door.

  Hanna pulled the trigger to fire again, but all that happened was an empty click.

  She was out of bullets.

  Dotson laughed. “Come and get me, Hanna!” he dared and jumped off the train.

  By the time he hit the ground Hanna was already at Jill's side.

  “Bad… choice,” Jill grunted. “Dotson, Havertons, the Queen, and… the Colony will all be… after you… now.”

  “I'll get over it,” Hanna snapped as the train hit its maximum velocity. “I'm gonna steal my bracelet back from you when you pass out. Alien tech. Should fetch a good price.”

  Jill raised a bloody hand to touch Hanna's cheek. “You don't have to be so nice to me, you know.”

  “I don't have to be a bitch, either,” Hanna said, ripping Jill's blouse to make a bandage. “Not your fault you don't see how good I am for you.”

  Jill coughed blood. “It's exactly my fault.”

  “Yeah,” Hanna admitted, “it is. Now shut up and don't die.”

  Jill smiled, and closed her eyes.

  The train jumped its tracks.

  THE WITCH HOLE

  by Matthew P. Mayo

  “Mak u.”

  By the time I first opened my eyes, I’d heard those words about a hundred times already. I wish I hadn’t opened my eyes.

  I do nothing but breathe and talk and think here in this pool of water. It laps up onto my chin but never really gets in my mouth. I can’t move my head, only my eyes and my mouth, and it’s dark enough I can’t see my body. I don’t rightly know how long I’ve been down here, but I’ll tell you, it gets odder every day. As I said, it’s mostly dark but for a glow from the damn water that’s a cross between spring moss green and moonlight.

  Except when he comes around, then he brings his own sort of glow. I can see his white eyes, hear his feet dragging and slapping on the rock floor, then he crouches down like a coyote and laps at the water in my little pool, eyeing me once in a while. As he drinks, I swear that glow off him gets brighter, then he says, “Mak u.”

  Lordy, but I wish I hadn’t opened my eyes. I’d give anything to be back on the farm in Dacotah Territory with Pap and even Aunt Ruthie and them twin half-sisters of mine, pesky as they were. But for Aunt Ruthie trying to make me a suitable husband for that odd Lorna Tinker from up the road, I expect I would still be there.

  You’d never know Aunt Ruthie was my Mama’s sister, that different they are. Course, Mama’s been gone for some years now. I ever forget how long, I look at the twins. They were born two years after Mama up and disappeared.

  Pap don’t say boo about it, but Aunt Ruthie will bring up now and again what happened to Mama. See, they went out for a picnic when me and Pap were gone for nearly a week trying to sell the furs we’d trapped all winter so we could buy spring seeds and whatnot.

  We got back and Aunt Ruthie was all distressed. Said Mama went in that damn cave and a bear got her. I never seen Pap move so fast. I tried to keep up, but he had Ruthie, who was younger than I am now, by the arm and fairly dragged her along until she pointed out the spot. She howled as much as he did – though I guess for different reasons. Didn’t matter. Mama was gone, never did come back. But neither did we ever find her – or sign of a bear. Just a musty old cave. And I am certain Mama would never have gone in that cave. No sir. At least not willingly. Now I’m not saying Aunt Ruthie was lying about the bear, but I am saying that something happened to my Mama, and maybe it was in that cave, maybe it wasn’t.

  See, my Mama knew of that cave all along. She’d told me whilst I was growing up that it was not a place I should ever set foot. Said it was a devilish grotto that led straight to hell. I guess her threats worked on this little boy, ’cause I always found something else to occupy my time. I don’t think them threats worked on Aunt Ruthie, though, for I heard Mama telling her once that if she ever found out she’d been in that cave again, she’d send her back East, back to the cousins in Ohio.

  Anyways, after a year or so, Aunt Ruthie and Pap up and got married, had the twins, and life ain’t never been the same. I reckon that was Aunt Ruthie’s plan all along. Every once in a while she’d bring up the bear story again, almost as a way to keep Pap from forgetting, like a threat. I didn’t like hearing that business come up time and again, and one day I as much as told her so. But she’d give me one of them looks and say something about how I was too much like my mother, and look what it got her. Then she’d go back to doting on the twins.

  She spent more time with what she called their “lessons” than she did tending the house and Pap. It was always “the girls” this and “the girls” that. And “my little sprites” or “lovely nymphs.” I swear, no one ever talked like that in our family. It’s like Aunt Ruthie was from some other branch of the tree.

  Despite all that, if I’d known this was to be the sad outcome of my short travels, I would have stayed to home, taken Pap’s advice and kept my mouth shut, become a husband to Lorna Tinker, and been glad of it. But then again, like Pap said after Mama disappeared, the only things worth knowing come to us too late to be of use.

  And I expect that’s why I sit here festerin’ in this pool of warm water what feels like miles and miles below ground, listening to that pasty little half-naked fellow say things I don’t hardly understand a lick of. Don’t matter what I know or don’t know, cause it ain’t no use to me now.

  I’d heard enough of the Lakota lingo to know sort of what he’s saying. Least it sounds Lakota. Something like “Give it” or “Give me.” Other than Indians, the only person I’d ever heard yammering strange words like that was Aunt Ruthie. But she’s as white as me or Pap. I’d heard the Sioux using that phrase when they come riding up bold as brass and pointed at something like they wanted it.

  First time that happened was more than a year before I left. Pap and me had come in for noon meal and was out front at the wash stand when four Sioux rode up. One was the leader, rode out front of the others. He stared a long time at us, then at the house, bent low and tried to look in the door, which was open a bit. I fancy he sniffed the air, too, like a dog will do, his nostrils flexing on a scent. Then he rested his eyes on the leather belt and sheath knife Pap had taken off when he’d shucked his shirt to wash.

  “Mak u.”

  Pap sort of squinted at him. The Indian repeated what he said and pointed again at the knife, then at his own chest.

  “He wants your knife, Pap. Don’t give it.”

  “Son,” said Pap to me. “Ain’t much I can do. Them other three have rifles at hand and I don’t. A knife’s an easy enough thing to replace.” Then he looked at me and as he reached for the knife, he said, “A life ain’t.”

  He’d been talking more like that every year since Mama disappeared. Like he wanted everything to mean some-thing. An
yway, that Sioux got the knife, then it wasn’t long before others came around and started in with their “Mak u! Mak u!” pointing and demanding things from us. Before you knew it we were like a regular trading post. And Pap, he went along with it, said after all we were the ones took their land. Which makes a certain bit of sense. But enough’s enough. And all that time, cheap and grabby as she is, by God if Aunt Ruthie didn’t go along with him. I never.

  I thought sure as day follows night that them Sioux would try to make off with Aunt Ruthie or the twins, especially considering she made no effort, like any normal woman in the Territory, to keep her and the girls from sight when the Indians were about the place.

  But the only notice they gave Aunt Ruthie and the girls was a sort of squinty look and a couple of times one or two of them would back up their horses, like she was something they recognized and didn’t want to be near. Like when you’re out hunting and you get a whiff of skunk and change your course. That should have told me something right there, ’cause a Sioux ain’t afraid of nothing, near as I can tell.

  If Ruthie noticed, it didn’t slow her down none. Kept right on lecturing them girls about herbs and how to make tinctures and whatnot. Lorna Tinker’d come down, too, most days, and they’d take long walks collecting weeds without a care in the world given to the riled-up natives. Then they’d all gabble around the table indoors, yammering over them recipes and who knows what else. Lord, but it’s like women speak a different language.

  There ain’t no day or night down here, just time, time to think, and then think some more. I’ve gotten a good bit of head-scratching in, as Pap would call it, and I reckon I’ve solved a good many problems I didn’t even know I had. Trouble is, I can’t tell anyone about ’em.

  That little white-skinned fellow must be a person, though he don’t much resemble one. He’s no bigger than one of the twins, but a whole lot thinner, and with stringy hair like wet moss and that pale body looking like tendons you’d peel out of a deer carcass. Even if I don’t understand much of his language, he chatters up a storm. I hear him sometimes coughing up growly noises from his throat, other times making squeaky, whistling noises, or saying some sort of Indian-sounding words, talking away with himself.