“Shh. I want to listen to the dirigible man.”
“Buddy went nuts. He got into the flour you left on the floor and tracked it all over the store.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not like him, you know,” Ben said. “Dogs can sense better than people when something’s wrong. I read that once.”
“He doesn’t like the commotion, is all. Come on.”
Andy reached out to help Ben down, but Ben didn’t go.
“I promise I’ll clean it up, but could you pretend to look for me a little longer? I want to watch –” He trailed off at Andy’s frown. “Please, Andy? It’s a real airship, and he’s got this snake oil stuff. I’ll do your chores tomorrow.”
“Uh-uh. Do them for the whole week.”
“Come on. A whole week?” But Andy raised an eyebrow, and Ben knew his brother had him against the rails. “OK, deal.”
“Great. I’ll look for you on the other side of the street. Should take awhile, through this crowd.” He winked. “Besides, I see Emma Pullman in front of the saloon.”
Andy left, and with no sign of Tommy or his boys, Ben could again give full attention to the dirigible. It had stopped blowing steam but not before muddying the dirt beneath the valves, and a propeller spun lazily in the wind.
Ben bet inside the light deck was even better, that it had all manner of levers and dials and buttons, and when you used them in the right order, the ship would lift off. The townsfolk would get smaller and smaller until they shrunk into ants, and you could fly with the birds or into the clouds.
Out in the street, folks mobbed Stanley, eager to exchange their money for the miracle cure-all. The stuff was going fast, but Stanley assured the crowd: “Don’t worry, folks, don’t worry. There’s plenty for everyone.”
In his own pocket, Ben found only lint and couple rusty nails. Not that he minded. He didn’t want a bottle of Clark Stanley’s one-of-a-kind Snake Oil Elixir. No, what Ben wanted was a ride in the dirigible.
That night, while Mother cleared away the dinner plates, Andy asked whether he could buy the elixir.
“Absolutely not,” Father said. He took his pipe from his pocket and tapped it clean on the rough wood table. “Under no circumstance will anyone in this family buy a drop of what that man is selling.”
Light from gas lamps flickered across Father’s stern face, accentuating lines around his eyes and mouth, turning him from merely intimidating to downright scary. Ben sat across from Andy. He slipped chicken scraps under the table to Buddy and tried to make himself invisible. It was a talent he had; being so small, people often overlooked him.
“The elixir works,” Andy said. “Mrs. Hopper came into the store after she drank just one spoonful, and she was walking without a cane for the first time in years. Imagine what it could do for a healthy person. How much stronger I’d be.”
Father stuffed tobacco into his pipe, struck a match and set it alight. “No.”
“But, Father -”
“Enough, boy. My word is final.”
Andy slumped. “Yes, Sir.”
The lines around Father’s mouth softened. “I don’t trust that Clark Stanley. He doesn’t know us or how we live. Besides, there’s been bad news this week. Cowboys rode in by way of Tinmath and Caldwell, and they say everyone’s gone. Not a soul left in town or on the farms or the ranches.”
Ben looked up. “What?”
“Where did they go?” Andy said.
Mother wiped her hands on her apron and joined them at the table. “The river doesn’t run through there. If the creeks dried up, and with no rain.”
Father shook his head. Pipe smoke rose to the rafters to swirl around bundles of lavender and mint Mother had tacked there to dry. “It wasn’t an orderly leaving. The livestock is still there, and all their belongings. Clothes, tools, food. In some cases, dinner was left uneaten on tables.”
Ben shivered and told himself it was a night breeze, come through the window, that raised the bumps on his arms. He scratched Buddy, and a warm, rough tongue licked his palm.
“Maybe it was Indians,” Andy said anxiously.
“Indians would have taken the horses.”
“You think Clark Stanley did it?”
“I don’t know,” Father said. “What I do know is with Tinmath and Caldwell abandoned, Severance is the only town for 25 miles in any direction. Something bad is happening out there. We need to look out for one another and treat any outsider with caution.” He puffed, and smoke coiled snakelike around his head. “There will be no elixir in this house.”
Midnight. Crickets chirped, punctuated by the distant, tuneless call of a coyote. Closer by, the dirigible creaked, and its loose ends of rope snapped in the wind.
Ben slipped from the bed he shared with Andy and went to the window of their bedroom above the store. In the street was Clark Stanley’s marvelous airship, portholes dark, standing sentry over the town.
Buddy padded over and nudged at Ben’s hand.
“I don’t have any chicken,” Ben said.
Buddy thumped his tail on the floorboards.
In the bed, Andy groaned and rolled over. “Your mutt has a tail like a crowbar.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” His arms went up in a luxurious stretch, then back behind his head as he settled onto his pillow. “I guess it’s not a night for sleeping.”
“Guess not.” Ben gave a weak smile. He was glad Andy was awake. Maybe some talk would stop his mind from racing. “I wish Father hadn’t told us about Tinmath and Caldwell. What do you think happened?”
“Indians.”
“Father said -”
“I know what Father said, but I think the Indians left the horses and such behind because they wanted to fool everyone into thinking it was something else, to scare us out of town. They made it look like ghosts.”
Ben shivered. “Maybe it was ghosts. Or monsters.”
“No such thing.” Andy said. “Can you keep a secret?”
A secret. Oh, boy, could he ever. Ben took a flying leap onto the bed and leaned in conspiratorially. “You kissed Emma Pullman today, didn’t you?”
“No. I mean, yeah, I did.” He could not help but smile. “But that’s not the secret. You’ve got to promise not to tell anyone, especially not Father.”
“I promise.” Ben burned with curiosity. Neither of them were saints, but they knew the stupidity of going against Father. They had both felt his paddle more than once.
Andy rolled off the bed, knelt and ran his hands over the floorboards. He worked his fingers around a loose one, lifted it and reached into the hole. What he came out with made Ben stare: a bottle with a brown paper label.
“Shit, Andy.”
“I know, I know. I bought it this afternoon, before Father said all those things. How was I supposed to know he would be so dead set against it?”
“You don’t need it,” Ben said. Already Andy could beat every boy in town at arm wrestling and plenty of the men, too. “Have you drunk any yet?”
“No.”
“Are you gonna?”
“Of course I am. I just got to do it when Father can’t see. In fact -” He took on a look of intense concentration as he worked at the cork; it came out with a faint pop. “Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Isn’t that what Father always says? Bottoms up.” He took a swig and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his nightshirt.
Ben watched for several beats of his pounding heart. “Do you feel stronger?”
“Don’t know. Here, try it.”
Ben took the offered bottle, strangely warm in the cool night. And heavy. Heavier than any medicinal they stocked in the store, as though it were more there than those other, mundane things. That made Ben anxious. He had thought he wanted a taste, but now, with the bottle in hand, he hesitated.
He held the elixir down to dog level. “What do you think, boy?” Buddy sniffed and cowered, tail tucked. Ben smelled
it himself: minty. “It’s all right. See?”
Buddy curled up in the corner.
Ben handed back the bottle.
“You always say you want to be stronger,” Andy said. “Now you’re going to let your dumb dog stop you?”
“He’s not dumb. He’ll eat anything, even stuff that’s not food, but he won’t come near that?”
Cowed into silence, Andy re-hid the bottle. He looked a little worried as they both returned to bed.
Ben struggled through the next day. He miscounted chicken-feed bags for Mr. Applewhite and would have been 5 cents short on the till if Mrs. Shane hadn’t noticed the extra change and corrected his mistake. He watched with envy as Andy whistled through the morning, hauling feed sacks and farm tools as though they were half their weight.
Even Andy had faded by dinnertime, and they both retired to bed early. Ben fell asleep as soon as he hit the pillow.
What felt like minutes later, he woke.
Through the window came moonlight and coyote calls. Andy sat on the edge of the bed with his back to Ben.
“Hey, you all right?” Ben asked.
No answer. From the corner, Buddy whined.
“Quiet,” Ben told the dog, then jabbed his brother. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.” Still no response, so he yanked on Andy’s shoulders to force him backward onto the sheets, but Andy might as well have been made of stone. “Wake up, you big dummy. Are you playing a joke? Are you trying to scare me? It’s not gonna work.”
Ben yanked again but recoiled when Andy rose to his feet. The movement was stiff, unnatural, like a puppeteer had drawn up Andy’s strings and was leading him toward the bedroom door.
Ben touched his shoulder.
Andy whirled and hissed. His eyes were milk white.
Ben tripped back over a loose floorboard and landed on his bottom. It hurt – both his bottom and his feelings – but he had no time for tears because Andy had headed out the door with strange, shuffling steps. Ben pulled on boots and followed. He stayed a cautious distance behind, past their parents’ room, down the stairs to the store and into the night.
Ever since Ben could remember, folks in these parts lived with the sun. They rose at first light, labored and sweated the day through, and retired soon after the last red-orange rays faded to twilight over the distant mountains in the west. Even the saloon closed at 10 o’clock sharp. No rowdy cowboy town here; order and routine were prized above all else.
Not tonight.
Because out of the pitch black came a horde.
They shambled up Main Street, a hundred or more. Men, women and children with vacant, milk-white stares and clothes soiled and torn. A few wore boots, but most limped on bare feet. One man’s jaw hung unhinged from his face. Another was missing fingers, but someone had done some rudimentary treatment and bandaged the hand.
From the doorways and side streets of Severance emerged more folks to join them. Ben ducked onto the porch and watched: Mr. and Mrs. Applewhite and their children; Sheriff McCoy and his deputies; the blacksmith Mr. Grant, who always had candy for the kids. Men and boys in nightshirts, women and girls in high-necked sleeping gowns with hair braided in plaits over their shoulders.
Ben knew them all, but not like this.
Old Mrs. Hopper took several teetering steps without her cane and fell. Her leg twisted with a snap, yet she made not a sound. She stood on her contorted leg, took a step and crumpled, then tried again.
Watching, Ben shoved a fist into his mouth to muffle a cry. He thought he might throw up.
A rider reined in beside her, one of several herding the legion through town. He wore a black hat and a wool coat with the collar turned up against the night chill.
“What’s happening here?” he said. Ben knew that voice: Horace Blackburn, patriarch of the most powerful ranching family in these parts.
Horace’s oldest son, Karl, dismounted and knelt beside Mrs. Hopper. “Her leg’s broken, Pa.”
“Get rid of her then.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Ben had just enough time to speculate on what Horace meant by “get rid of her” before Karl drew his gun, cocked the hammer and fired. Mrs. Hopper jerked and lay still, while folks walked on without even a glance. One stepped on her neck. Karl grabbed the dead woman’s feet and dragged her clear, trailing blood behind them.
Now Ben did throw up. Afterward, he mustered the courage to peek out again.
Andy was easy enough to spot, mute and slack-jawed behind pretty Emma Pullman. Ben almost called out but snapped shut his mouth before any damning words could escape. Such an action would draw unwanted attention and Andy would not respond, anyway. For once, he was the one who needed rescue.
Ben would not let his brother down.
Only, he would have to be clever.
With his best imitation of the shuffling step and vacant stare, he descended from the porch and joined the march.
Beside him shambled a woman whose drool pooled in her mouth until it spilled down her chin. A boy tipped his head back and moaned; Ben saw the stump of a tongue.
Bile rose again, and he managed to swallow it down. Barely. He fixed his eyes straight ahead.
A rider reined in beside him.
“Hey, runt,” said Tommy Blackburn.
Ben stiffened. Had his ruse been so easily pierced? Or was Tommy taking advantage of what he thought was Ben’s debilitated state? Ignore him, he thought. Keep walking.
“Hey, pipsqueak, guess what?” Tommy said. “I can do anything to you now, and no one’s gonna save you. You won’t even save yourself, you little shit. I can do this.” He kicked, and Ben managed not cry out from the sudden, sharp pain in his shoulder. “And this.” Again, and a spur grazed Ben’s arm; blood spurted. “What you gonna do, runt? Not so tough without your big brother to come to save you. Know what, I can do the same thing to him -”
“Tommy!” Horace Blackburn rode up. “Damage the merchandise and I’ll have you down there with them. They do enough hurt to themselves without your help.”
Tommy ducked his head. “Yes, Sir.”
“Damn crazies,” Horace went on. “Chewing off their own body parts. How can they work the mines when there won’t be a thing left of them when they get there?”
Ben walked on, but his arm hurt like hell and his legs shook so they might give out at any second.
“Jesus, look what you did,” Horace said. “Look at his arm. You better take him to the doctor.”
“Witch doctor, more like,” Tommy muttered.
Horace cuffed Tommy across the jaw. “That man is making us rich. Show some respect, boy.”
“Yes, Sir.” He dismounted and clamped his hand around Ben’s neck. “Come on, runt.”
Ben had no choice but to go.
The dirigible loomed ahead, light emanating from portholes. Tommy knocked on the hatch. It eased open, a crack of light that grew wider and wider until the door stood open with a shadow man outlined against the brightness.
“Come in,” said the man.
Inside, Ben’s eyes took a moment to adjust. When they did, he bumbled back until he hit the wall.
Snakes. So many the deck itself seemed to slither. Some thin as pencils, others as thick as a man’s bicep. Most were in enclosures, stacked atop one another, but a few wound around the keel that ran the length of the ceiling. One stretched grandly across a panel of dials, buttons and levers, and another coiled around the spokes of a large steering wheel.
Like any boy his age, Ben had killed his share of snakes, especially ones that sought out the cool under the Feed-and-Farm porch, and he knew the local species well enough to avoid the poisonous ones. One snake did not frighten him. Here, he would have bolted in a second, if only he could.
At the center of this nightmare stood Clark Stanley, who had shed his suit and hat and had rolled up his shirt sleeves to his shoulders. Behind him stood an open cabinet, crammed with jars and bottles. Several bore the familiar brown paper label. Others had no label at all. Ben fixa
ted on one, marked with a single word in big, unmistakable type.
Anti-elixir, it said.
Stanley smiled icily. “Well, what have we here?”
Ben wrenched his gaze from the cabinet, back to the man. A huge snake, bigger than any he had ever seen, was coiled up one of Stanley’s arms and down the other.
“Oh, shit,” Ben said.
The choking grip returned to his neck. “Don’t be rude to the doctor,” Tommy said.
“He’s just scared.” Stanley petted his pet’s head. “I have just the elixir to fix that.”
A forked tongue flicked out, tasting scents on the air.
Ben knew: The snake was tasting his blood.
“No!” he yelled and aimed a kick at Tommy’s crotch.
Tommy hollered. He released Ben’s neck.
Ben ran.
He did not make himself easy prey. Like a mouse stealing across a floor for a pinch of food, he kept quiet and put his small size to use. He darted behind a horse cart here, a barrel there, low in the darkness and trusting it to hide him.
“Get the kid back here now!” came Horace Blackburn’s yell from somewhere behind him.
Hooves thundered through town.
Ben laid low until the riders had passed before he crossed the last stretch to the Feed-and-Farm. Up the porch steps he went, inside, and eased the door shut. He turned the lock into place with a soft click.
He had done it, slipped through their fingers.
By the moon’s low position, he figured morning was not far off. Soon the sun would rise from the eastern fields, so big and brilliant it might set the wheat on fire. The horde would have to be long gone from Severance when that happened. They would need to avoid towns and farmsteads and the well-traveled roads because no one with a gun and half a brain would let them anywhere near civilization. One look, and any self-respecting town would send out a posse, for sure.
The folks of Severance would have done the same, if only they had known.
For Ben, that meant he must stay hidden for an hour at most before Stanley and the Blackburns would be forced to give up their hunt and move on.
He crouched under a window. While he waited, someone padded down from the family’s living quarters. A long, furry muzzle and lolling tongue came out of the darkness.
Six Guns Straight From Hell - Tales Of Horror And Dark Fantasy From The Weird Weird West Page 21