Strange Dominion

by Lyons, Amanda M.

  “So help me.”

  ***

  Bernard nodded, and Mikey-boy pressed his shoulder against the door, barely making an impression. The rest of the dead had moved aside, knowing they were in the presence of their superiors. They could sense the life force burning just beyond the wood.

  Will and Val slowly moved in the darkness, unblinking, staring at Lynn’s chest as though they could see his heart beating through his skin.

  Lynn checked his shooter. There was just one bullet left, glistening in the chamber.

  One bullet for me…just in case-

  Lynn shrugged off the thought, refusing to contemplate the coward’s way out. Instead he surveyed the confines of the church, trying to think of a way out, and his thoughts were almost as scrambled as they had been earlier when he wanted to pray. He searched the ceiling once more-

  Yes, of course!

  Almost thirty years had passed since he’d last climbed the stairs to the belfry, but the well- somewhat narrower, he thought, sucking in a breath- was still intact. The timber balustrade spiralled upwards, leading through the complete umbra of St. Catherine’s; a never ending ascent into darkness. Lynn felt a slab of ice settle in his stomach, his feet purchasing the stairs two at a time. Twice he stumbled, falling heavily on his knees, sharp pain lancing through his arthritic legs. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Val poke what was left of his face around the corner; peering up into the impenetrable shadows. Will spurred him onwards, trying to reach Lynn first. He pushed him aside, but Val regained composure, ramming an elbow into the other dead man’s stomach.

  Lynn wasn’t waiting around for death by any means, he made it to the top of the stairs and froze, confronted by three doors. He quickly kicked each one open, relieved that there was one leading to the roof.

  Of course, he’d helped clean the eves of dirt one winter and had straightened out a few crooked slates after the hurricane of 1792. The room looked just the way it had back then, he thought, bypassing the large chest of clothing and the child’s doll house as he headed for the narrow window. After three deep breaths he kicked at the window with all his might, hoping to break the glass without much trouble. He stood at the sill, and as he looked down at the burning county, he stifled the tears. Houses crumbled, devoured by flames and black smoke that rose to the star filled heavens. Tiny shapes moved through the darkness, screaming silently, shaking their arms at the sky, before falling to their knees. Then they got back up and headed for the church like the others.

  He carefully crept over the glass shards sticking out of the frame, and climbed onto the roof.

  ***

  Val and Will stood in the room, the window in pieces. Glass shards crunched beneath their feet as they approached; suddenly they looked up at the ceiling. Something moved up there. It moved with infinite slowness, and they followed its path, heading for the window.

  ***

  Lynn almost lost his footing on the slippery tiles, wobbling uncertainly, his arms outstretched to regain his balance. His heartbeat punched in his chest, and white blotches pulsated before his eyes. Behind him was a small ledge, a drainpipe led down that side of the building. He had no idea if it was safe, but he didn’t care. He took a quick look over the eves, down at the gathering bodies before the church doors. They were pushing with all their might. Pretty soon the-

  A hand grabbed his shoulder. Lynn tried to scream, but the air was caught in his throat like a chicken bone. Val sneered, blood and saliva poured from his mouth as Will lay in a heap behind him, nursing his ruptured throat.

  My God, they’re turning on each other!

  The shaking, ice cold hands didn’t have the chance to tighten on his throat. Lynn pushed Val away, then grabbed the top of the drainpipe and began his descent. His feet slipped down the stone wall, but after a few seconds he got his footing. Down the pipe he moved, looking up at the eves for movement. There was none, and that worried him.

  He hit the ground, biting his tongue, tasting the coppery blood in his mouth. As he looked up, there were just stars. The shifting sky looked down, and all was silent.

  The wall separated him from the dead. All he needed to do was get away from here as quickly as possible. So he ran as fast as he could, his feet kicking up small clouds of dust.

  ***

  The dead broke down the doors, falling upon each other; feet crushed skulls as they made their way through. Christ looked down upon His new congregation, just a wooden sculpture, as powerless as rock. The altar fell with the force of the burgeoning corpses, but four bodies suddenly broke away from the pack. They made their way out of the church, and pulled the broken doors closed behind them, shutting the dead in the church. There they stood, a breeze brushing over their rancid bodies. Rumbles like thunder came from the church behind them as fists beat against the timber and stone.

  ***

  Lynn pulled himself up into the saddle of one of few surviving mares and headed for the county gates. He wanted to let the place fall apart.

  Let the fuckers turn on each other…

  But what next, huh? The dead shuffle on over to Drack? What happens then, eh? You keep runnin’ from the bastards of hell?

  He sat on his horse, staring through the bars of the Monaghan County gates, his heart beating harder than a drum. He looked over his shoulder, at the horizon.

  It’s easy, old man. Just head for the sun. Keep your head down and forget this night ever happened-

  “No,” he said, going back through the gates.

  What the fuck are you doin’, you idiot! Get the hell out of there!

  ***

  The Reeves family moved slowly through the county, looking for the one remaining soul. His energy shone through, brighter than an exploding star. Drack had been so easy to commandeer. The youth especially joined their ranks, swayed by the pull of their hearts. But now their hearts were no more, they were curious with this one. He had the world beyond the gates but he wished to stay and risk his life.

  ***

  God, please don’t fail me now... there must be some way of keeping this shit in line..some way I can harness-

  Lynn almost fell from his saddle. He knew what to do.

  “God, I knew you’d return in my hour of need,” he said to the sky.

  He headed for his barn. It was a way past the church, but if he was quick enough he’d make it. He shook from head to toe, knowing that it could work. If it failed, well, he would simply join the ranks of the dead. Nothing could be simpler.

  But that’s not going to happen, pastor…believe me, it’s not!

  He carried the ten litre oil drum, almost dropping it as he made off on the horse. He reached a small plot of grass in front of the school house. A small ragdoll lay in a ball on its side. That’s when he realised that it wasn’t a toy after all.

  The night fuckin’ ends now!

  He quickly unscrewed the cap of the drum and got to work.

  ***

  The Reeves family stood near the gates, waiting. The damned man of the church was here somewhere, they thought, surveying the darkness. They were alone. The gates were open and the world was theirs-

  “Stop right there!”

  They about turned. Lynn stood holding a torch, the darkness about him shifted. His face was a blur of shadows and light, but they could sense the intent in its soul. And they wanted it. God, how they craved it!

  “You want me, boys,” said Lynn, “then come get me.”

  Bernard sneered, sending shivers through Lynn’s body; treading through the county, his sons slowly followed.

  Lynn took a step back, and another, but Bernard was quickly narrowing the gap between them, his face a dark rictus of hatred and anger.

  “Keep comin’,” he whispered. “Keep comin’.”

  That’s when Lynn started to laugh. It cut through the silence like a razorblade. He dropped the torch.

  Fire rose in a large circle about the family, and a pentagram seemed to appear as if from nowhere in the dirt. The scent of oi
l rose and the fire crackled loudly as the five pointed star came to life around them.

  Bernard froze, staring down at the shape in the dirt, his eyes wide with the realisation of what was happening. He tried to step over the circle but he fell back, screaming. One of his sons tried the same, but it was futile. They touched the edge of the circle, quickly pulling their hands back as though a thousand bolts of lightning had passed through them. They were penned in like their cattle in Drack. The sigil was holding them inside, and they were powerless.

  ***

  Suddenly St. Catherine’s went silent. The dead stopped in their tracks, like effigies. Shapes made from the living. Together they fell. Faces hit rock and dashed open, bones met bones, and flesh and skulls joined in the dirt. They knew no more as the wave of death finally washed over them. A charnel house was born.

  ***

  Lynn watched the Reeves family try to step over the flame, and he couldn’t have been happier. He knew that the fuckers ‘d be trapped until…they turned to friggin’ dust. He knew the sigil, they’d used it in Drack! Now they were captives.

  He turned around and made his way to the gates.

  “LYNN!”

  He turned around, a smile on his face.

  It was Bernard. His eyes were wide and staring. Through the fire he watched the last soul disappear.

  Lynn pulled himself up into the saddle, his steed shaking. He gently patted the side of its head, whispering gentle nothings in its ear.

  “It’s over, boy…it’s over,” he said, looking over at Bernard before delivering a one fingered salute. It would be hard leaving Monaghan, he thought, kicking the gate shut behind him. The gates clanged loudly, and he couldn’t remember a sweeter sound as he left the husk of a county. He couldn’t wait to put as much distance between himself and the dead there, unsure if he would ever shake off the stench of the burning damned.

  The Ghosts of Amen Corners

  Juan J. Gutiérrez

  "It is not that I cannot create anything good, but that I will not."

  I. The Last Conquistador

  The red dusk reflected in the meditating eyes of the silent vaquero. Orange sands whirled over darkened hills, as low winds blew south; he cared not for the wind. Coyote howls resonated beyond the hills and the rattler of a western diamondback slipped behind some dry brush. Mounted on his gray mustang, he glared at the fading, crimson glow of the sun, one hand resting on the stock of his revolver.

  The laughter of children caught the vaquero’s attention. A group of them stood at the edge of the border town staring at him, but ran off once seen. He thought of their carefree ways. You will know the pain of life. Those thoughts quickly departed as he heard the gallops of approaching horses. Two sinister silhouettes slowly slithered into view as they stepped into the bleak sunlight. The first was a bearded Spaniard dressed in a black long coat smoking a crooked cigar, and the second was a quiet Native American wearing the pelt of a coyote with his head down. The hollowed, black pits which once held the eyes of the coyote, glared at the waiting vaquero. Both men had come to the outskirts of Pueblo Oñate, to do dealings with a mercenary.

  Silent, hazel eyes greeted the two outlanders.

  The Spaniard grinned, revealing his freshly lit cigar clenched between his teeth. He clutched the twisted, smoking cigar with his right hand and continued to grin, gesturing to ask the mercenary if he wanted one for his own. The mercenary slowly shook his head.

  “You do not smoke? Esta bien, let us speak of the business at hand,” the Spaniard forced a smile. “You are an hombre with quite an epithet, ‘el Ultimo Conquistador’? You … you are no Español, but your reputation merits such a title. I did learn, however, that you answer to another name, ‘Mestizo’. Do you know of a dead pueblo north of here, señor?”

  The mercenary nodded.

  “Good. The task is simple; in that pueblo is an insignificant treasure which I need. It isn’t worth much to an hombre such as yourself, but the payment for its retrieval is more than generous. Go to that pueblo and bring it to me. Such simple a task, and yet it isn’t. You are not the first hombre I ask to do this, but of course, you already know this. Before you, there was another. He did not return.”

  “No one returns from there, señor.”

  “Ah, he speaks. The hombre I sent before also said such things and, like you, accepted the job. Please, call me el Conde.”

  “The hombre you sent before was no good, señor. We are not the only ones that say such things about that pueblo. It is a graveyard. Then again, people say strange things about me as well, and yet you are here … hiring me. I accept the job. I will retrieve this treasure, I can assure you; tell me what I must bring … and I will.”

  Placing the cigar back to his lips, el Conde inhaled leisurely, staring deep into the unblinking hazel eyes that stared back at him. He looked away. “A pendant,” he said exhaling the smoke. “A kind of necklace made of silver with a locket. Where it is specifically, I do not know, but I assure you it is there.” El Conde turned to his partner and whispered something in a language the vaquero could not understand.

  The Native American and his roan trotted forward. He looked different from others of his kind. Though he was young, his eyes were bloodshot, his long hair was graying, and scars and blemishes covered his face. On his forehead was a strange red mark. Once near the mercenary he growled suddenly and sniffed the air. He whispered again to el Conde in the unknown language. The Spaniard laughed.

  “He says you are an hombre of good fortune. He can smell it on you. Mą’ii has a nose for these things. I like to think that I posses the gift of sight. I see you and see a Man with No Destiny. You go through these lands searching aimlessly for the next trail of fortune. Don’t you want more? Don’t you seek more in this life?”

  The mercenary began to nod but hesitated. El Conde stared suddenly into the eyes of the mercenary and grinned.

  “Deep within us, we all do, Mestizo. No matter how deep that desire lays buried, one who digs deep enough can find it, whether in affirmation or desperation. My time here has ended. The job is yours. One piece of advice, and I truly hope you listen well, my silent friend, do not eat or drink anything from the pueblo. We will see you mañana with my treasure.”

  El Conde trotted over to Mestizo and extended his left hand for a handshake. The vaquero smiled.

  “My word is good enough, señor.”

  The Spaniard’s false smile faded as Mestizo’s horse took several steps back. El Conde chuckled as he bit down on his cigar.

  “Let us hope your good fortune guides you well!”

  Mestizo stared at the fading silhouettes and relaxed his hand off his revolver. The Spaniard’s words dug deep into him, but not deep enough. He wondered what kind of man he was becoming by dealing with men like them. Those thoughts faded as did the smell of cigar smoke. His eyes turned to a barren trail north of Pueblo Oñate. He dug his spurs swiftly into the mustang. The horse stormed towards their destination, disappearing into the wind and dust.

  II. Ritual

  At last, the dust had settled and the horned-moon remained, brooding above the desert landscape. Nocturnal light gleamed on olden bones and worm-eaten wood, while a ghastly mist bloomed about the premises. Before the silent vaquero were the remnants of a bygone settlement whose rot was left in cold arcane. Shunned by nearby tribes and avoided by native beasts, the forgotten pueblo of Amen Corners was now a discarded corpse lost in the nigh infinite wastelands of southwestern Texas. The remaining structures were not unlike the carrion flesh which clings from the bones of the gnarled dead. To the left of the town was the largest cottonwood tree the vaquero’s eyes had ever looked upon. It loomed above two of the dwellings, obscuring most of the starry night. Mottled shadows lurked upon its hoary bark, casting shapes in the semblance of hellish maws and eyes.

  He came off his mustang and took in the sight that lay before him.

  Mestizo bit his lower lip, building ooze and phlegm, snorted loudly, and spat into the
mist-veiled dirt. He did not care if any man had ever returned from the bowels of the ghost town; all that mattered was that he was capable of staring into the grim majesty of Hell and walking away, sanity intact.

  His Mexican heritage was evident in his attire, yet his countenance exhibited the bearings of a Spanish conquistador. In his right hand, he held not the hilt of a sword, but the crisp walnut stock of his Model 3 Schofield revolver. Fleshed with a vine style engraving, the charcoal blue finish shone slickly ‘neath the faint moonlight. In his left hand, he held a stark lantern aglow with a dying flame. His graying sombrero hid his raven-hued mane as would a Spanish helmet, shadowing his brow and cold, hazel eyes. A strong gale wisped his black poncho and he stepped forward, his presence provoking the ghost town’s bitter silence. However, the silence teeming within the shunned pueblo mirrored his, and it was this that made him nervous, for dead silence was more terrifying than unknown stirrings. The gaunt buildings and hushed cottonwood stood there unmoving, lurching above him, growing ever larger at every tread. His facial expressions hid behind his mighty beard, but it was clear he remained determined.

  Abruptly, the noiseless foreboding in the night was shattered.

  An owl somewhere within the tree sung its portentous melody, and though Mestizo was not a superstitious man, he motioned his revolver in the holy trinity to sanctify his expedition. Looking around, he found no broken glass or damaged timber, only withered, lifeless buildings touched by the impartial applications of time and decay.

  He moved over the unperturbed sands, jadedly, and beheld the dismal form of one of the buildings ‘neath the cottonwood. One weatherworn boot stepped on a stair and the other followed. The Schofield’s seven-inch barrel pointed towards the heavens, one tense index finger on the trigger. With his left shoulder, he leaned upon the wooden ingress and, slowly, he stepped in. Hinges moaning, the lantern-light illumined the den of the building. Shadows swelled and thinned on the swaying shelf-covered walls.