by Guy Adams
Forset remained on the rear carriage, working between packing crates so as to be protected against the wind. Brother William remained with him, ostensibly to provide a second pair of hands but also to keep a lookout for the return of the creatures that had attacked them. He perched on one of the packing crates, rifle in his lap, gazing out across the plain.
“You are a very unusual monk,” Forset commented, while attempting to unbolt a shoulder section from the rider he was working on. “I never thought I’d see a man of the cloth fire a rifle.”
“I dare say I will have a similar conversation with Father Martin once I return to the fold,” William admitted. “I am by no means sure I haven’t broken the rules of the order. In which case you won’t have to worry, as I won’t be a monk anymore.”
“Well, you won’t get any complaint from me. I appreciate the tenets of your fellows, but we needed all the help we could get. I am not a violent man, but I will do what needs to be done to protect the lives of those I love.”
The monk nodded. “An acceptable compromise, I think, though don’t take that view as doctrine. I rather think the others would be of the belief that if we die, we die.”
Forset got the shoulder free, the whole left arm coming away in a splatter of blood and engine oil. He frowned in disgust at the messy wound thus revealed.
“It really is half mechanical, half natural,” he said. “Even the bone contains metallic elements.”
“Men or machines?” Brother William wondered aloud.
“Both, it would seem.”
Brother William glanced down at the body as Forset moved on to the head. “A shame, as destroying the latter would certainly not threaten my immortal soul.”
“Who is to say what state any of our souls will be in by the time this journey is over?” Forset replied.
THAT WAS A concern that was uppermost in Father Martin’s mind. Two of his number had met violent deaths, and a third, the young novice he had been so determined to embrace into the fold, seemed to be following a path away from righteousness. Or was he? Father Martin was no longer sure he could even discern what path that might be. The certainty with which he had begun this journey seemed more like childish naivety with every passing hour.
It had been decided that, for now at least, they should all travel together in the dining car. Several of the monks were at the windows, keeping a watch on the land around them in case of a fresh attack.
Quartershaft was pacing, his ever-present nerves even closer to the surface than normal. Father Martin supposed this was because he wasn’t drinking. The man had obviously decided that, as much as he relished the numbing effect of the alcohol, he would rather keep his wits sharp in case he needed them. Abstinence was clearly taking its toll. After a few minutes, Father Martin began to wish the man would just have a drink and calm down.
“Are you alright, Father?”
He looked up to see Elisabeth, the very epitome of the divided nature of this journey. Here was this young, unmarried woman, so aggressive and with a rifle in her hand. He really could not begin to know what he felt about that.
“Not really, my dear,” he replied, “but I dare say I will find my spirits again shortly.”
“It’s understandable, you know,” she said.
“What is?”
“Regret. You wish you had never come. You know that if you had simply stayed at home, Brothers Samuel and Jonah would still have been alive.”
“Probably they would, but you don’t understand me as much as you think. I don’t regret coming, and that is precisely why I am feeling out of sorts. It’s more important to me to pursue this journey, with a goal that I cannot even reconcile with my beliefs. A journey that has killed two men and will no doubt kill more. If we could turn around now, I am by no means sure I would. And I am wondering precisely what sort of man that makes me.”
THE RIDERS DID not return, but that was not to say the day passed uneventfully.
Billy tried to get as much speed out of the engine as he could. This made the journey rough, but he was determined to pass through the area as quickly as possible, in the hope that the riders’ territory could be put behind them.
The world seemed to fight back, the sky filling with a storm that raged throughout the middle of the day. There was no rain, but lightning strafed around them in a manner that couldn’t fail to put Father Martin in mind of the wrath of God. Rocks shattered, the earth was scorched, but the Land Carriage pulled through unscathed. The air around them was filled with a static charge that forced Billy’s red hair straight up from his head as he kept the engine pushing forward.
As they passed into afternoon, a fog descended that caused much greater problems, It became so thick that it was difficult to navigate more than a few feet ahead. After a while, Elisabeth took to the skies in the Forset Thunderpack, making brief trips above the fog in the hope of seeing how far it extended. It was an arduous business, always mindful of the fact that the pack might explode if allowed to ignite for too long. Throughout, goggles in place, Forset worked on.
When the fog finally cleared, it was late afternoon and they were forced to decide about how to pass the night. Some were convinced that they should keep moving, terrified of the idea of turning themselves into a stationary target. Others—Billy the most vocal among them—insisted that it would be suicidal to try and navigate in the dark. The Land Carriage had lights, but their effect was limited and, besides, wouldn’t they make even more of a target as a roaring beacon that could be seen for miles around?
The latter argument won out and it was a nervous party that settled down to eat on their second night aboard.
“To think,” said Forset, gazing out of the window into the growing darkness, “we are only a matter of hours away from Wormwood.” He was gathering together a plate of food, having insisted on working for a few more hours by the light of oil lanterns.
“They could be long hours,” Billy replied. They had fallen behind schedule due to the conditions, and he wasn’t naive enough to think the rest of their journey would be any easier. What seemed like a few hours on the map could be a day’s travel or more, depending on what they might face. “What have you discovered about the Indians?”
The peer sighed, looking down at his plate of cold meat and bread. “I’m an engineer, not a doctor. That said, so much of their physical make-up was machinery I probably had as much chance of understanding them as someone with medical training. I suspect it’s pointless trying to decide how their modified bodies are scientifically possible; we’re dealing with miracles, not biology.”
“The only thing we really need to know,” said Quartershaft, “is can you stop them if they attack again?”
Forset nodded. “That’s what I’m working on. As fascinating as they are, now is not the time for satisfying curiosity.”
Father Martin was becoming visibly uncomfortable. “I can’t say I relish our discussing how to slaughter living beings.”
“I think, Father,” said Brother William, “they have already proven that our choice in the matter is limited. Either we kill them or they will kill us.”
“And where does that leave higher concerns?” Father Martin asked. “A man can lose much more than just his life.”
Nobody could answer him on that.
LATER, ELISABETH MADE her way to the rear of the Land Carriage to visit her father. He had stretched a large section of tarpaulin over the packing crates surrounding him, creating a makeshift tent.
Three of the deconstructed bodies lay before him, reduced to their component parts.
“I think Father Martin is suffering a crisis of morality,” she said. Looking at the butcher’s shop display in front of her, she wondered if the monk might have a point.
“I can’t say I relish my current work,” her father admitted, “but I have the advantage over our clerical friend in that I consider our position more clear-cut. Either we defend ourselves or we die. I am not willing to accept the latter, so I must work to ensu
re the former.”
“And what have you come up with?”
“Something terrible,” he replied.
FATHER MARTIN WAS in his compartment watching the faceless monk pacing in the moonlight beyond the window. It almost appeared like it was dancing, moving to and fro in the dust.
“Was it me that made you?” Father Martin wondered aloud. “Are you the manifestation of a diseased conscience? Or a reminder of what will become of us unless I forego some of my beliefs?”
The figure stopped moving, turned to face the window and slowly walked towards the Land Carriage.
“O God,” Father Martin whispered as it pressed its wet face up against the glass. “What do You want from me?”
FATHER MARTIN’S CRISIS of conscience was not shared by either Quartershaft or Billy. The two men were stood in the cab of the engine, a large brandy each, keeping a watch on the plain. Thankfully the moon was nearly full, and cast a reasonable light on the landscape. If something did try and advance on them, they should have reasonable warning.
“Do you think they’ll come back for more?” Quartershaft asked.
“Normally, I’d doubt it; there must be easier pickings out here,” said the engineer. “But if what Father Martin says is true—that these things are direct challenges to us—then we’re bound to face them, or something even worse, soon enough.”
“You’re starting to believe in the town, then?”
“With everything I’ve seen over the past day or so, I’d be stupid to dismiss it. I’ll still wait for the evidence of my own eyes before I become a fully signed-up member of the Wormwood society, though.”
Quartershaft smiled and took a big mouthful of his brandy.
“I’ll be honest,” he said. “I was far from convinced myself. It sounded a good story, but, well, a bit...” He tapped at his temple with a finger.
“Just a little,” Billy agreed. “Though I’d have thought you’d be used to that, from what I’ve heard of your expeditions.”
Quartershaft sighed and decided to break the habit of a lifetime by telling the truth. “Don’t believe everything you read,” he said. “This is the first time I’ve left England. The rest of it was all made up, a plot hatched between me and my publisher.”
Billy stared at him for a moment and then started laughing. Quartershaft wasn’t quite sure how he should take that. “I’m glad it amuses you.”
“Oh, it does,” said Billy. “It sure does.” He patted Quartershaft on the shoulder. “Don’t take me wrong, I’m not laughing at you... well, maybe a little... but not in a bad way.”
“Oh, good,” Quartershaft replied. “Because I do so enjoy being laughed at in a good way.”
Billy laughed again. “I guess it’s just... well, what a party, you know? A mad inventor and his daughter, a bunch of monks and a fake.” He held up his hand as Quartershaft’s face fell even further. “No... not a fake, because you know what? You’ve told the truth, and I respect the hell out of you for it.” He patted him on the arm again. “You’re a good man, Quartershaft.”
“That’s not even my real name.”
“Oh, Christ...”
“My real name’s Patrick Irish.”
Billy raised his glass. “Good to meet you, Patrick.”
“You won’t tell the others?”
“No. But you should probably tell them yourself. Life’s too short—especially on this trip—to be anyone but yourself.”
Quartershaft nodded. “You may be right.”
“Sure I am.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“’Course you can.”
Quartershaft thought about it for a moment, summoning up the courage to ask. “Are you scared?”
“Of those things that attacked us yesterday? Of course I am. Only an idiot wouldn’t be.”
“Not just them. Everything. I seem...” Quartershaft took a drink, not quite believing how honest he was being. “I’m just terrified all the time.”
“Fear is what keeps us safe,” said Billy. “The trick is to only be afraid of the things that are real. The stuff that’s around you. If you spend all your time being scared of things that might happen, you’ll never draw breath.”
“You’re right, of course,” Quartershaft admitted. “I just wish this country of yours didn’t seem so blasted lethal.”
“It’s not so bad. It’s not killed me yet.”
“Don’t speak too soon.”
THE NIGHT PASSED uneventfully. The whole party took it in turns to maintain a watch. The sun rose on Brothers Luke and Conrad, both of whom were fighting to stay awake.
“I think we’ve seen the last of them,” Brother Conrad announced at breakfast.
“Don’t believe it for a moment,” Billy replied. “At a steady pace, we’re all of four hours away from Wormwood.”
“So expect the worst in about four hours’ time?” asked Elisabeth.
“You got it.”
“Father will be ready,” she said. “He worked most of the night.”
An effort that had clearly taken its toll on the man, by the time he appeared. He was exhausted and more than a little anxious. “Before we get under way,” he said, rubbing at his eyes, “I’m going to need some help.”
“You know I’m only too happy to lend a hand,” said Elisabeth.
“I know, my dear, but, at the risk of upsetting your noble insistence on equality, this is more a job for Billy and Roderick.”
IT TOOK THEM nearly an hour to complete Forset’s plans, but finally they were under way, the Land Carriage setting forth on the final leg of its outbound journey.
The flat landscape that had surrounded them thus far began to change as they drew closer to Wormwood, rising to either side of them. They were soon cutting their way through a mountain pass.
Forset and Billy were riding in the engine cab together, their eyes scanning the high ground on either side of them.
“This is where they’ll try,” said Billy. “Where the cover gives them the advantage.”
“And where we can’t easily double back on ourselves,” Forset agreed. “If this pass gets any narrower, it will be all we can do to keep moving forward.”
“According to the map, it should carry on like this for another few miles before opening out again.”
“At which point we’ve arrived.”
Billy kept the speed steady, expecting the worst at each turn.
The land itself began to shift around them, the sides of the mountains rippling and cracking. Twice, they had a narrow escape from rocks breaking loose from above them and rolling down towards the Land Carriage. The first narrowly missed their tail end, the second was only avoided at the front by Billy applying the brakes and steering out of its way. There was a terrible grinding sound as they grazed its jagged surface as they passed.
“Another of those and we’ll be beyond worrying about the riders,” said Billy. “It wouldn’t take much of a rockfall to block our way.”
But it wasn’t rocks that proved to be the obstruction, in the end. They turned past the foot of one of the mountains to find themselves face to face with a large army of the riders.
“Do they think we won’t just drive straight through them?” Billy asked.
“Maybe they plan on ensuring there’s not enough left of us to try,” Forset replied. “Given their firepower, I’m sure they could succeed, too. But they don’t know we have a few tricks of our own. Bring us to a stop; we’ll want to charge at them, but I need to get into position first.”
He turned and began to climb onto the roof of the dining carriage.
“Oh, God!”
Forset turned at the sound of Billy’s voice, looking ahead. The riders had parted to reveal a tall wooden cross, nailed to which was the dead body of Brother Samuel. He would hardly have been recognisable were it not for his grey cassock and a single plume of white hair that erupted from the crushed ruin of his skull.
“They think we won’t hit him,” said Billy.
He moved across the roof of the carriage, taking his position behind a construction covered in tarpaulin. It was this that they had spent an hour bolting into place earlier. Reaching down, he clipped his belt to a pair of chains they had fixed to either side.
“Ready?” shouted Billy. “It looks like they are.”
The riders were shifting restlessly, the clatter of their metal parts echoing along the pass as they prepared to charge.
“I’m ready,” Forset replied, leaning back against the pull of the chains and reaching for the tarpaulin. “Full steam ahead.”
The tarpaulin fell away to reveal a grotesque mockery of a gatling gun, its fat barrel constructed from the severed arms of the fallen riders. Other recognisable sections of skull and limb had gone into constructing the frame, a large tank at its summit filled with all the viable munitions Forset had been able to gather: nails, screws, shrapnel of any kind.
As the Land Carriage surged forward, Forset pressed the trigger and, keeping his aim low, peppered the advancing riders.
Forset shook with the force of the gun, the chains at his belt pulling taut as he leaned on them.
Shrapnel cut through the air, scything into horses and riders alike. The air filled with ricocheting metal, animal screams and the hot spray of blood.