by Devon Monk
She quickly bent and picked up the poor little thing and brought him safely into her home, closing the door behind them and setting the lock.
Elbert clung to her like a burr, his head on her shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around her neck. He took a shaking, sniffling breath. He was cold as the night itself. Too cold. She needed to get him wrapped and warm, before he took to his death from exposure.
Mae rested the gun against her table, releasing the lever and stopping the motion of the gears. The hard green light in the vials drained away. She carried Elbert over to the hearth and eased him down into a chair.
“There, now,” she said, working to get his arms off from around her neck. “You’re going to be just fine now. Where have you been, little one? Your mama and pa have been looking high and low for you.”
He let go of her neck, but didn’t speak, just shivered and shook as he tried to wipe away his tears with the back of his dirty hand.
She pulled a thick, soft blanket out of the basket at the foot of her loom and wrapped it around his slight shoulders, tucking it tight beneath his chin.
“Do you want some water? Some milk?”
He sniffed and nodded.
Mae walked over to the cupboard, and drew out a jug of milk. She poured half the jug into a cup.
“Some nice milk will make you feel better,” she said. “Drink it up and then we’ll see if we can clean some of the grime off you so you can sleep. When morning comes round, I’ll take you home to your folks.”
She handed him the cup of milk, which he took in both hands and drank greedily. He licked his lips, and held the cup out for more.
She poured more milk, and again, until the jug was empty.
“Are you still hungry?”
The boy nodded.
Mae fetched him some bread and the last of the cheese. He ate both down quick as if he’d never eaten in all his days.
He held out his palms, fingers clutching air, begging for more food. Poor thing had been frightened dumb. She’d heard of children who never regained their voice after a hard scare. She hoped the boy was young enough to forget all this, and to grow up strong.
Mae dug through the cupboards, pulling out two apples. She gave one to the boy. He gnawed on it from the top down, core and all.
“Your mama and daddy will be so happy to see you in the morning. Let’s wash your face and get you in a clean shirt.” She walked off to the bedroom—really not much more than a bed tucked behind the privacy of the wall. The bed she had shared with Jeb. The bed that would always be too cold now.
She took a breath to steel herself. One of Jeb’s shirts would be a good bit cleaner and warmer than that tattered thing Elbert was wearing. She opened the chest of drawers, and drew out a cotton shirt. She’d not cry. She’d not let her thoughts linger on her sorrow, on her heart keening with the knowledge that she’d never touch her husband again, never kiss him again, never say good-bye.
She shook the shirt, trying to dislodge the melancholy and hold tight to her anger. At least there was strength in anger.
The child started crying again, his snivel rising into a lusty wail.
“Hush, now, hush,” she said, walking out into the room.
But the boy stood at the door on tiptoe, his fingers turning the latch.
“No, Elbert. Don’t open that door.” She ran across the room to stop him. But he was uncannily quick. He threw open the door, the hinges she’d repaired squalling at the force behind the swing.
Elbert glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide with fear and tears. Then he bolted out into the night.
Mae paused on her doorstep, every nerve of her body telling her not to go into the darkness. “Elbert!” she called. “Come back! Elbert!”
He was still crying, his plaintive voice carrying on the cold air to her. And just as likely carrying for any beast or Strange creature tripping the dark. She scanned the night for him. There—just the slightest blur of his white shirt in the darkness, like a dim lantern bobbing off across the field toward the forest. The forest where the Strange man had first appeared.
Mae grabbed up her shawl, her holster and Colt, and the Madders’ gun. The child would be eaten alive, torn apart by Strange like that man, if she didn’t catch him in time.
Loath to leave the safety of her cottage, she could not abide by letting the boy run to his death. She whispered a prayer, and ran out into the night. “Elbert,” she called, loud enough surely the child could hear her. “Come on back now, Elbert. It’s not safe out here in the dark.”
From the sound of his crying, he was ahead of her, a bit to the left, and running fast to the forest.
He should be too tired to run so fast, should be too scared to do much more than curl up and hide. But the boy had gone senseless. Fear was probably the only thing that had kept him alive these two nights on his own. And it looked like it was going to be the thing that got him killed.
Mae could catch him faster on the mule, but if she took the time to run to Prudence, the boy would be lost for good. Again.
She wouldn’t let that happen.
Something stirred ahead, toward the forest, then was silent. Mae recited a spell of protection, kept the shotgun high, and hurried that way.
She found Elbert just inside the forest. He was lying facedown in the sparse grass. Not so much hiding as just lying very, very still. She knelt beside him and gently touched his back.
“Elbert,” she whispered. “We need to go now.”
The boy did not move. He was so still, so stiff, it was as if he were carved from wood. She didn’t know if he was breathing. Had he fallen? Had he hurt himself?
Moonlight slipped loose from the clouds, revealing a dark red stain matting the hair on the back of his head.
“No,” she said. Mae brushed her hand over his head. He was bleeding. He was also still breathing, shallow and hitching, but enough. He still lived. But this wound would be more than she could tend on her own. He needed the doctor in town. Quickly.
She set the shotgun down to pick up the child.
“Witch,” the wind whispered.
A hard chill ran down her spine. The voice sounded like the Strange. The same Strange she had shot. The same Strange she thought she had killed.
“I am the one who killed your man,” the voice said. “And now I will kill you.”
A beast growled from between the trees. Mae saw a flash of fang and claw in the moonlight. A wolf! She scrabbled for the gun and fired, sending one more precious bullet and an orb of gold light that bent the trees like a hurricane force.
In the split-second aftermath of the shot, the Strange screamed and a wolf snarled in pain as if that single shot had struck both creatures.
Mae did not wait for her eyes, half-blind from the gunshot, to clear. She snatched up the boy and the gun and ran.
No time to reload. No hands to reload now that both were full of boy. Her heart pounded hard, fast. Her house was just ahead. If she could make the house, she could set the boy down, load the gun, fire the Colt.
The boy whimpered and grew even heavier in her arms.
Mae bent under the sudden increase in weight and nearly lost her balance. She scrambled to keep hold of the gun, hold of the boy, and hold of her feet beneath her. The child cried out, even though he was fainted away. Mae caught herself on one hand and one knee, then shifted the shotgun for a better hold to lay tight across the boy’s back.
The child startled away from the touch of the Madders’ gun, yelling for all his worth, his voice a shot of pain bursting up through the night.
And beyond his voice, she heard a wolf growl.
If she turned, the wolf would be on her, would strike her, hitting the child in her arms first, killing him. Then her.
Run, run, run. Faster. The door was just a few yards, a few feet, a few steps.
The boy stopped struggling, most likely fainted again from his wounds, boneless and heavy as an ox. Mae’s blouse was wet with blood, her arms aching and shaking. The gun
slipped from palm to curve of finger to fingertips in her sweaty hands. She was losing her grip on it.
The wind picked up, the Strange voice riding the air. “Glory be. The witch is free. Now I shall take what I see.”
Steam blasted across her back as a hand slammed her into the door, nearly crushing the child, and knocking the wind out of her. Mae gasped to get air in her lungs, her ears ringing from the blow.
Hands, fingers, hard and cold and sharp as blades, tore the back of her dress, tore her flesh, tugging at the gun, her hair, the child.
Mae yelled and yelled and somehow pushed into the house. She lost hold of the gun, but kept the child safe in her arms. She ran to the bedroom, unminding the open door. She lowered the boy quickly into the bed, groaning at the pain across her back. He woke and clung to her, holding her down by the neck like a rock on a rope, a pain-rigor smile on his face, his eyes wide and glossy, bloody spittle on his lips.
“Let go,” Mae said. “Elbert, let go. I’ll be back. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
It took some force to pry the boy’s hands from around her neck. He was holding tight. Too tight. She was sure she left bruises on his little wrists, but she finally unlatched his grip, though his fingernails scratched a necklace of blood around her neck.
She turned, dizzy with pain and fear. She had to get the boy to a doctor. He was wailing in agony even now. But she had to kill that Strange first, and the wolf. Mae drew her fully loaded Colt and crossed to the door.
No Strange in the doorway. No wolf.
She was sure it was the same Strange as before, even though she knew that could not be possible. What sort of living thing put itself back together when it had been blown to bits?
She stood a yard or so away from the doorway. The Madders’ gun was out there, beyond the wooden step. Jeb’s trinkets along the wall hummed, perhaps lending what protection they could. Such a small hope against the hulking weight of the night that breathed and shifted, a living, brooding thing just beyond her door. Creatures waited for her out there. For the taste of her blood.
Mae whispered a spell, a protection, a blessing of magic and light to surround her home and all within it. The child’s wail grew louder.
She kicked a stool in front of the door so it couldn’t slam shut behind her; then Mae Lindson fired her Colt into the shadows beyond the door, and rushed forward. She bent, and grabbed for the shotgun.
From the screaming in the night, she reckoned the bullets had found a target.
She moved the stool and slammed the door. Mae threw the lock and reloaded both guns, her hands shaking, blood streaming down her back and neck. The Strange pounded the door, hinges she had just repaired already groaning under the assault.
The Madders’ gun was charging, but its gears worked slower than last time.
The house wouldn’t stand long. No, if she was to get the child to a doctor, to his family, she’d have to run now, before the roof came down and buried them both.
Mae rushed to Elbert, who was still as death, his eyes glossy red and staring at the rafters. Gone out of his head with fear.
Something slammed onto the roof and rolled like a boulder down the shingles. The windows rattled, and claws scraped against glass and pane.
“We need to go, Elbert.” She wrapped him up in the blanket, tucking it tight around him as if he were a babe instead of a small boy. “I’m going to take you home to your mama and pa now.”
He stirred to that, blinked, and started crying again.
“There, now, bear up just a bit longer.” Mae gathered useful things into her satchel and pockets. Her tatting shuttle, an extra blanket, water, flint and steel. Around her waist she strapped one of Jeb’s work belts, buckled with pockets of leather that held tools. She slid her skinning knife onto that, then fastened her bonnet tight under her chin. She took a kerchief and folded it over the child’s head, trying to stanch the bleeding.
His head wound was grim. Over the kerchief, she tied a woolen hat she had knit. It was too big for the boy, but it would help absorb the blood and keep his head warm from the night.
The wind and the Strange pushed, rested, then shoved at the house so hard, she threw her arms out to the side as the foundation shifted.
Mae scooped up the boy, and, thank the heavens, he wrapped his arms around her neck and held on. The shotgun was ready, no longer humming, the needle on the gauge cocked hard to the right. Mae opened the back door, quiet as could be. The Strange was still out front, rattling the shutters. Mae ran to where Prudence was sheltered beneath the eave of the shed, her eyes rolling with fear.
Mae set the boy on the shed floor, took up the saddle, and geared Prudence as quickly as her shaking hands could manage. She ran back to the boy, Prudence in tow, and hoisted Elbert up onto the mule, swinging up behind him. She tucked him tight against her, one arm over his chest to hold him close, and still let her reach rein and stirrup. Mae rested the rifle across the saddle horn.
She pressed her heels to old Prudence’s side. “Get up now.”
Prudence didn’t need urging. From round the back of the shed, Mae set her off at a gallop toward town, up the rise in the hill, then down the drop of the tree-filled gully. Once through that edge of forest, she’d go straightway to Hallelujah.
She didn’t want to enter that forest again, but the boy didn’t have any time to spare. He was fever hot, as if coals lay beneath his skin.
Prudence shied at the edge of the forest.
“Go on, get,” Mae said, putting her heels to her again.
Prudence locked her legs and refused to take even a step forward into the shifting shadows.
The boy whimpered, squirmed with pain.
Mae turned Prudence in a circle, and the mule, thinking she was headed back to the shed, finally lifted her feet. Then Mae dug her heels in again, spurring Prudence into a trot, straight into the forest.
The wind howled, wailed. She heard the crack of a treetop breaking high above her. Old Prudence ran as if ghosts and goblins were on her heels. It was all that Mae could do to keep her on the trail to the town.
Trees flew by as Prudence galloped. Mae held tight to the boy, sparing a glance down at him just once.
He smiled, his small white teeth sharp and feral, his eyes too wide, too dark, too hungry in a face that was no longer sweet.
Then he attacked.
Mae screamed as he sprang up and bit her shoulder. She shoved at him, but he clung tight, fingers digging at her eyes, tearing her hair. He kicked the gun off the saddle and laughed. Even with all her strength, Mae Lindson could not hold him off as he sank his teeth deep into her neck.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jeb Lindson knew how to fight. He had lived by wits first and fists second for most all his life. He knew how to tamp his temper too, when a fight weren’t never going to go his way. And he knew when the odds were against a man, sometimes that was when the mettle of a man was made.
Jeb wasn’t the sort of man to give up easily. Jeb wasn’t the sort of man to give up at all.
But even an undead man with inhuman strength could see when he was outnumbered.
The tickers had surrounded him. Instead of attacking all at once like he thought they’d do, they’d taken their turn, deciding which monstrous metal beast would strike him. The small, fast matics had done him the most damage.
Matics, tickers, did not have the brains or reasoning of a man. But these tickers, these devil toys, carried vials of glim in their heads. Glim gave things power and unholy strength. And Jeb was sure it was that which made these matics clever.
They wanted him dead—he knew the truth of that. But they seemed to have put some consideration into how to kill him. Near as Jeb could figure, they wanted to kill him slowly, wear him down, then chop him up for good.
He still had the boulder at his back. The ground round in front of him was littered with scrap metal.
Jeb swung the scythelike arm of the first matic he’d taken down. The blade was strong and sharp. St
rong enough and sharp enough to cleave through six metal torsos of six metal monsters. Strong enough and sharp enough to smash through skull casings and pop rivets, so Jeb could suck out the sweet glim in their brains.
But they had done damage to him; that was plain sure. Jeb didn’t so much hurt, even though he had cuts and gouges and hunks of missing flesh. He was wearing down, picked apart, broke apart. Soon he wouldn’t be much left but a bag of bones.
A new ticker faced off in front of him. It was near the size of a man, body and head made of mahogany casing over brass and iron. Water filled what looked like a wooden keg on its back, and brass pipes fitted around from that pack into its belly. From the smell of it, it was powered by wood, not coal. Its four legs were all piston and spring. When it bent, it launched up and bounced from boulder top to boulder top, grappling hold with two retractable clamps at the ends of arms.
Jeb watched it bounce back and forth between the rocks, puzzling out how it might be strung so he’d know how to unstring it. It finally landed in front of him with the strangled-siren sound of pistons thunking and pumping.
Every ticker that had come at him had a way to be unmade, a weakness. There was a pile of twisted, dead matics behind him. He’d figured the jugular of every one of them. Cut through pipes, torn off valves, jammed vents, and ripped appendages and torsos apart. Didn’t matter to him how to take one apart, just so much as he got it done.
This one, with the springs where legs and joints should be, was the hardest yet. Quick and wicked, it was near enough height to Jeb, but when it landed on its feet, rocks crushed to dust.
Heavy, then. Like a steam hammer.
Jeb watched it squat, the cow-sized head swiveling up to pour green light in his face. He didn’t know how many more tickers waited to attack back in the scrub. Maybe two. Maybe two dozen. There was still steam in the night, rising in wisps of clouds like thin lines of campfires, stovepipes, chimneys, rising in a wide half circle in front of him. Were there less tickers now? Were there less glowing green eyes, burning orange furnaces, glints of copper, silver, and steel in the night?