The Ghoul King

by Guy Haley

  After we’d jumped back over the lift shaft, the outer door closed and locked with a clunk, having survived the explosion unharmed. We were alone in the city. We hurried to the shaft and began to climb immediately the moment we got there. We got fifty feet further up before the sky overhead patterned itself with red.

  “We’ll not make it before the ghouls come back,” he said. “We’re going to have to hide.”

  That time, when Quinn hunted around the torn innards of the shaft looking for somewhere for us to—perhaps—survive the hordes of ghouls returning to the city from the night, was the time I was most scared in all of the adventure. I could do nothing but watch and curse myself for sleeping while he clambered around. I should have come myself while he worked. Perhaps I should have just left.

  “Here!” he called, from a ledge of broken concrete some ten yards around and seven feet up from my position. Unroped, I climbed over to join him. I glanced up. The sky was turning silver.

  He guided me into a small space with only one entrance. Sheets of metal had fallen into it from somewhere before the floor above had shifted and closed it in.

  “That’ll stop the door,” he said. “But we need to be inconspicuous.”

  He started smearing himself all over with the tarry shit off the shaft walls. I balked at it, but he put it liberally all over himself. A screech sounded from the top of the shaft, and a rushing, rustling noise that was all too familiar, and I hurried to follow his example. The ghouls were returning to their lairs. Quinn moved a sheet of metal over the gap leading into our hiding place, and put himself against the wall, his thumb engaging the hammer of his gun.

  With a twittering rush the ghouls poured down into the city. They gibbered and chirruped as they came, noisy as bats coming back to their roost. They covered ground that would have taken us nigh on an hour in minutes, nimble, flexible feet propelling them down the walls headfirst. They flooded past in the hundreds, their feet banging on the metal barrier as they ran over it and down. I couldn’t help but lean forward and look out of the chink at the top. Ghouls rushed by, wafting their fetor into the space we hid in, their cabled muscles rippling under ghostly skin.

  For a full minute they came; then their diabolical chatter receded. A few stragglers raced down, braver ones, perhaps, less frightened of the sun. I reached for the sheet. Quinn held up his hand. One last ghoul came down, and stopped right outside. Its yellow eyes narrowed and its face leaned into the space at the top, nose snuffling. Quinn leveled his pistol.

  A cry from the deeps caught its attention. It screeched back a reply and was gone, its lonely footsteps echoing around the shaft.

  The ghouls had passed.

  We elected to climb out then and there. I pleaded with Quinn to stay in the hole until full daylight, but he said no, that the ghoul king might come up here, and that he would not be fooled by so transparent a camouflage as a sheet of steel.

  I guess he was right. We climbed out without incident into the frigid dawn. From the depths of the city, packs of ghouls called to one another, but none reemerged onto the surface. We ran for cover, finding a cellar or a bunker that had survived, and blockading the door with the detritus within. There we waited out the freezing hours of early morning without a fire, neither of us sleeping until the sun was high in the sky. When we were sure we were safe, we left, both stiff-limbed and reeking. We had come out east of the falls, and when we proceeded downhill we came across one of the creeks that fed into it. We were eager to wash the ghouls’ dung off ourselves and so we did, damn the cold and damn the radiation.

  * * *

  Getting back to our camp was not as easy as the journey in had been. The ground to the east of the city was very broken, with scattered swamps and deep, stinking pools that appeared from nowhere to block our path. Signs of the ghouls were everywhere. It was well past noon by the time we got back. We were both cold. Both of us had kept possession of our coats, but our clothes were tattered and somewhat wet. I almost sobbed with relief when the camp building appeared, solid looking in the westering sun.

  Quinn held his hand up to stop me, and broke into a crouching run toward the building where we had left Robyn and the horses. He aimed his gun inside, then beckoned me over.

  The camp was in disarray. Robyn had gone. One of the horses was dead, its belly ripped open and much of the flesh around the wound torn away.

  “Ghouls got in here,” said Quinn. He pointed to a pile of four white corpses heaped in the corner. “Your girl is pretty handy. Looks like she got out.” He went to his own gear, that which he had left behind, and checked it over. He said, “My stuff’s still here.” He picked up saddlebags and packs. “We’re going to have to walk, and we need to be as far away as we can get before the sun goes down.”

  I looked around in a daze. Everything had been scattered about, the bags and blankets shredded. My own things had not survived so well as Quinn’s. There was little I could salvage.

  “I’m going to have to leave a lot of this,” he said. “Help me hide it.” We concealed it under piles of grass, but he would not leave his saddle. He hoisted that onto one shoulder, and rested it on his newly stuffed knapsack. “You not taking anything?”

  “I’ve nothing left. It’s all ruined,” I said.

  Quinn nodded in sympathy. “That’s the way it goes. At least you’re alive.”

  There was a snort outside, the jingle of harness.

  “Hello?” said a trembling voice. A gun mechanism clicked.

  “Robyn!” I said, and nothing would stop me rushing out.

  She was there on her horse, gun pointed at the door. I think she nearly shot me.

  “Jaxon?” Her left coat arm was ripped and stiff with blood.

  “Quinn’s here too.”

  “What about the others?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did you get anything?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “They died for nothing.”

  Quinn joined us.

  “You got the rest of the horses?” he asked.

  She pointed her gun at him.

  “Jaxon, did he do it? Did he kill them?”

  “Lady, if it weren’t for me, he’d be dead too,” said Quinn. “Lower your weapon.”

  “He’s telling the truth. That, that thing Rachel had in the box. It did something to her. It was responsible. And, and she was too.”

  Her gun lowered. “The artifact?” she said in disbelief. “It promised to protect us.”

  “Never, ever trust the promises of angels,” said Quinn.

  She had the horses alright, way out on the plain beyond the city. She’d taken them out there when the second night fell and a pack of ghouls had attacked her. She’d fought them off, but hadn’t wanted to take any chances. We made it to the other camp before evening and rounded up the horses right away. Quinn took the two he’d ridden before, the rangy skewbald and the horse he’d used to haul his gear.

  “Ride on through the night,” he said to us. “Do not go back to Newtown. I’d advise you to split up and head out in different directions. You’ll be safer that way.”

  Robyn and I looked at each other. I don’t think either of us wanted to leave the other, but we did. I said goodbye to her days before you found me. I hope she got away.

  “And you, Robyn,” he said. “You need to get as far away from Columbus as you can. Never come back.”

  “What about you?” I said.

  “Still got to do what I have to do,” he said.

  “Changing the world.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Can we come with you?” asked Robyn.

  “No,” he said. “Where I’m going makes what you’ve been through there look easy. And first I’m going back for the rest of my stuff.” He spurred his horse forward, passing between us.

  “We can help!” I said.

  He reined his horse in sharply and turned it back toward us. “Son,” he said, “I haven’t needed anybody’s help in a long time.”

&
nbsp; The Angel of Pittsburgh

  LIGHT SHIFTED. Jaxon’s vision blurred. He blinked and came back to the present. The quiet bustle of Newtown sharpened the silence of the room.

  “Where, where am I?” he asked. The man sitting opposite him said nothing. His head lolled back, trickles of blood drying beneath each nostril, his cigar a tower of ash balanced precariously on his lips.

  “You are in the presence of an angel,” said the statue. Jaxon started as it addressed him, momentarily terrified. Then he remembered where he was, and what it was.

  “Where is Quinn?” said the angel’s oracle.

  “Did I tell you everything that happened?” said Jaxon.

  “Everything.”

  “Then you know that I do not know,” said Jaxon.

  The angel statue’s eyes flared. It took two steps closer to Jaxon, the metal plates rasping over each other. It looked up at him. Something so small ought not induce such a feeling of dread.

  “You killed the sheriff,” Jaxon said.

  “He heard everything you said. You spoke blasphemy about the angels of our Lord, Jaxon. Killing him was a mercy. We saved his immortal soul from the blackness of your lies.”

  “You were in my head. I couldn’t lie.” Jaxon’s eyes pricked. “You killed him because he heard what you really are. You are men, and machines.” He leaned in and whispered furiously. “You are monsters.”

  The statue stared at him unblinkingly.

  “Deputy!” it called.

  Presently, the door opened, and Twohills came in, shaking like a leaf and gray as the rain.

  “Y-y-your holiness?” he stammered.

  “Sheriff Huares has suffered an unfortunate medical emergency and has expired. We are promoting you to take his place until such time as the town might hold a new election for a permanent replacement.”

  Twohills swallowed repeatedly and bobbed his head, putting Jaxon in mind of a turkey. “Th-thank you.”

  “See to Huares’s body. He was a good servant of Pittsburgh. Pass on our condolences to his widow. Assure her that he dwells now in heaven, at the right hand of Jesus Christ, our Lord.”

  “What about him?” said Twohills.

  “A grave matter. The sinner Jaxon has revealed much of disturbing import. There are elements abroad in this area which bring disrepute to the good people of Ohio. These sins upset the balance heaven decrees for the Earth, and must be redressed.”

  What little color remained in Twohill’s face drained clean away.

  “What, what are you going to do?”

  “We require compensation, to the number of twenty. Bring them to the gathering grounds in three months’ time,” said the oracle. “All are to be hale, beautiful, intelligent, and below the age of seventeen. Ten girls and ten boys. Give us your best, and Newtown shall know mercy. Give us your dregs, and we shall smite this place to ashes and sow the ground with salt.”

  “T-twenty? From one town?” he spluttered. “But you already took a dozen back in May! Two tithes in one year, that’s near a whole generation of children!”

  Jaxon felt for him. Twohills had a daughter of exactly that age.

  “Your people have angered the angels of Pittsburgh by allowing the blight of technophilia to grow in your midst. Bring us our tithe, expiate your sin with flesh and blood, or you shall bear witness to suffering undreamed of.”

  “And him?”

  “He must come with me. Prepare him for transport to Pittsburgh. I shall send one of our servants to carry him thence where he will undergo further interrogation.”

  Jaxon’s eyes met Twohills’s, for a fraction of a second, there was a flicker of sympathy in them, then Twohills’s hand went to his gun.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” he said.

  Jaxon smiled sadly. “I am afraid I already have.”

  * * *

  “Damn trading ground is too quiet this time of year,” said Molo. He spat into the frosted grass. “Who the hell would come out here to freeze their balls off? No one trades in November.”

  Fine snowflakes circled down from above, every twist of the air perturbing them. The broad circle of beaten earth at the camp’s heart was empty. The bone-white wooden skeletons of four tipis skulked near the trees hugging the creek. The cabins of the eastern men were shuttered up.

  “Fucking deserted,” said Molo.

  “Come and help with this, damn horse is acting up again,” said Torrison. Angeheles and he were being dragged back and forth across the hard ground as it tossed its neck. “I want it calm before we eat. Don’t want to be jumping up every two minutes in case it gets loose.”

  The big white snorted and reared, pawing at the air with its hooves. The men thought it was because of the blood. They did not know Parsifal.

  “Dinner’s ready soon,” said Molo. He grabbed at a third lead line dangling from the horse’s bridle and leaned back. “Easy, easy!” he said.

  “They better come,” said Angeheles. “I don’t want to lead this thing back, it’s got murder in its heart.”

  Molo wrestled his lead down and wrapped it round the hitching post. The horse yanked back hard, making it creak. Molo chuckled. “Damn, he’s strong!”

  “He’s still going to get loose,” said Angeheles warily.

  “He won’t, and the Shawnee’ll be here. Jons sent word on to Chiksika, he’ll want a horse like this, you can be sure of it.”

  “I hope he knows what he’s buying. This thing’s going to toss him right off his back.”

  “They got ways, them Indians. They’ll tame him.”

  The horse whickered twice, and calmed snorting noisily, then quietened.

  “There, there! Look! That’s better,” said Molo. “See? He ain’t so bad.” With smiles of relief they smoothed his coat and patted his shuddering neck.

  “Hey, you hear that?” said Angeheles. They were his last words. A pop no louder than the breaking of a twig, and the first bullet shattered his head. Bits of skull flopped outward, a gory flower blooming, and he dropped straight down, sure as if a trapdoor had been opened under him.

  “Shit!” shouted Molo. The knight was advancing on them out of the snow. Molo dived to the floor as another round hissed past his back, his hat falling from his head and rolling free.

  Torrison went for his own pistol. He was proud of that gun, a real revolver, ancient as time and so proscribed the angels would skin him alive just for looking at it. He got it halfway out of its holster. A second round drilled a hole right through his heart. Fifty paces, with a pistol. Molo disregarded resisting as soon as he thought of it and held up his hands. He didn’t get up.

  “You got me, mister!” he said. He was facing the sky and had to blink snow out of his eyes. “I don’t want no trouble.”

  The knight pointed his gun at Molo’s face and thumbed back the hammer. Molo thought of his own gun at his belt, more primitive than Torrison’s, just as forbidden. He looked at the knight’s gleaming six-gun and put up his hands. Jons had taken that weapon to be his own before they’d parted. That meant Jons was dead.

  “You got trouble, more than you can manage. It’s not your fault, not entirely. An angel set you up.”

  Molo grinned nervously. “Ain’t that the strangest thing.”

  “Get away from my horse.” Quinn jerked his gun over. Molo wriggled away. The ground was freezing, the wet of melting frost seeped into his buckskin. “Where’s the other?”

  Molo’s eyes flicked over to their campfire. What was left of the packhorse was roasting on a spit.

  Quinn sighed through his teeth. “You cooked Clemente? Jackass.”

  He put a bullet through Molo’s head. Parsifal snorted. Quinn let his horse nuzzle his hand in greeting as he scanned the environs of the trading ground. “Nobody here,” he said.

  Quinn broke into a cabin, then went through the bandits’ belongings, taking what he deemed useful, and piling up that he did not. As he worked, he caught sight of Molo’s broad-brimmed, black hat on the ground. He plucked it
up, bashed the dust off on his thigh and set it on his head.

  “What do you think?”

  Parsifal whickered in reply.

  “Well, I think I’ll keep it.”

  After a moment’s thought, he sat himself down by the fire and ate some of Clemente’s horsemeat.

  When morning came, snow lay thick all about. Low skies promised more. He took the skewbald as his new packhorse and turned the rest loose. Well before the sun reached its apex, Quinn rode out from the camp toward the plains, away from the east and into the west. He finally had what he needed.

  Far away, on the other side of the Great Plains, the Dreaming City of The Forest awaited him.

  About the Author

  GUY HALEY is the former deputy editor of SFX magazine and the former editor of Death Ray and Games Workshop’s White Dwarf. He lives in Yorkshire, with his wife and son, where he now spends his time writing novels full-time.

  Visit him at guyhaley.wordpress.com.

  You can sign up for email updates here.

  Also by Guy Haley

  The Emperor’s Railroad

  THE RICHARDS & KLEIN BOOKS

  Reality 36

  Omega Point

  Champion of Mars

  Crash

  WARHAMMER NOVELS

  Baneblade

  Skarsnik

  The Death of Integrity

  Valedor

  The End Times: The Rise of the Horned Rat

  The Beast Arises: Throneworld

  Horus Heresy: Pharos

  NONFICTION

  Sci-Fi Chronicles

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