Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel

by Edward M. Erdelac

  No, he didn’t care to do it that way. He didn’t want a fool like Johnny Behan arresting him.

  He took the glasses off and put them away. He watched Lepsy’s dinner dwindle, and wondered how long it would be before Kabede and Faustus returned.

  Then the teamster came outside with a bottle of whiskey, got a plate of beans, and took his seat next to the possessed man, setting the bottle down between them.

  They talked lowly to each other, and again the Rider wished he could somehow get close enough to hear.

  Then he heard a bang that drew his attention to the slamming door of one of the wood outhouses.

  “Dick,” the Rider said quietly, rising. “Wait here and keep an eye on them.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Can’t you hold it?” Belden muttered as the Rider walked off towards the jakes.

  The Rider closed the door and settled down, trying to ignore the stench, to calm himself. He closed his eyes, gripping the knife beneath his coat and muttering his prayers. He had the protection of his talismans if anything went wrong.

  He slipped into the murky colors of the Yenne Velt and moved through the outhouse door, back to the purple lights of the beer garden where the angry red infant crouched inside the man and the teamster (what was he? One of Adon’s students surely) conversed.

  The Rider crept along slowly, the patrons moving through him unawares.

  As he got closer, he heard the demon say through the lips of the man Lepsy;

  “I tell you the chinks are onto us. When the last barrels are loaded, you head out with what we got. We dynamite the hole tonight.”

  “Adon wants the hole emptied,” said the teamster.

  “Don’t worry about what Adon wants,” the demon snarled, uncorking the bottle of whiskey. “I’m losing ten a day down there and I can’t keep the inspectors out much longer. They’ve got their ass hairs up about the water table and seepage. What does Adon expect me to do? Pretty soon the law’s gonna come sniffing around. We’ve been lucky with that whole Earp fiasco keepin’ the Sheriff busy. Somebody’s gonna get loose, or file a complaint and then we’re up shit’s creek. We can barely keep those things down there under control as it is.”

  The Rider drew the knife. He could end this, whatever it was, right here. Send this thing to Lucifer to deal with. He probably couldn’t possess the teamster with what he had on hand, but he could get back to his body and likely overpower the man with Belden’s help.

  Then he heard a commotion behind him. Turning, he was aghast to see a miner shaking the door to his privy and shouting.

  “Hey buster! You fall in?”

  When he looked back, he was staring into the beady eyes of the demon.

  “Change of plans,” the demon said.

  The Rider rushed back to his body, leaping through the man kicking the outhouse door and back into his own form.

  He gasped and blinked, peering through the spaces between the wood.

  “I’m in here,” he shouted, affecting annoyance. “I’m coming out.”

  He fumbled with the door handle and pushed open the door, but a hand caught it mid-swing.

  Lepsy was standing there, and the teamster was behind him, shoving the complaining miner away.

  “No, Rider,” he said, grinning behind his thick beard. “Have a seat.”

  He kicked the Rider in the chest as he rose, nearly sending him splashing through the shitter hole.

  Then, from the hand poised on the door frame of the outhouse, fire burst forth, seeming to spring from under Lepsy’s fingertips. It shot up the side of the dry wood and spread across the wall and ceiling of the outhouse like water.

  Lepsy cackled, a high, girlish laugh that was strange coming from his filthy, hairy face. The fire danced in his crazed eyes and he slammed the door shut.

  The Rider fought to unwedge himself from the privy hole as fire filled the outhouse.

  Outside, men were beginning to shout, and Belden was among them.

  The Rider kicked out and found Lepsy had wedged the door shut somehow. He couldn’t get the leverage to force it open. With a huge effort, he grunted and freed himself, then began to batter against the door. The whole structure shook, and weakened by the flames, presently cracked apart and gave way.

  The Rider fell out on his hands and knees and rolled to put out the flames that had dripped from the roof onto his shoulders.

  Smoking, he rose, pulling the knife.

  Belden had tackled the teamster and with both hands full of his hair, was beating his face against the ground.

  The men were running to the flaming outhouse and trying to beat out the flames with their coats. Lepsy walked through them chuckling. He put out a hand and randomly touched some of them, and wherever his fingers idly fell a man burst into flames and screamed.

  The flames leapt into the air and quickly caught the canvas roof, eating it ravenously away, climbing onto the roof of Tivoli’s and the little kitchen, springing like a live thing, riding the fluttering, blackening canvas as it parted, riding it onto the adjoining buildings, racing with glee up their sides.

  Lepsy reached the table and scooped up his whiskey bottle. He took a grand swig and went back through the crowd, past the jakes, towards the digging. For good measure, the bottle left his lips and a jet of fire erupted across the yard, catching a clothesline behind a laundry and dancing along all the linens.

  The Rider glanced at Belden, saw him raise the head of the dead or unconscious teamster, spit once in his bloody face, and drop him contemptuously. They saw each other and the Rider nodded and went after Lepsy.

  Through the back lot he ran, toward the Fire King shaft. The canvas there was already ablaze, and the skinny laborer they had seen clumsily carrying barrels was wheeling about on fire, screaming.

  The Rider tried to reach him, but he fell back into the collapsing pavilion and by the dwindling of his echoing yell, he had fallen into the hole, taking the remains of the burning canvas trailing the whipping lines and stakes with him.

  The Rider saw Lepsy climbing into the driver’s seat of the wagon.

  “Lepsy!” he hollered.

  Lepsy looked over his shoulder and laughed.

  “Xaphan’s the name, Rider. Xaphan. No time to chat. This town’s about to go to Hell and whalp, I already been there.”

  Xaphan. He had heard the name at least. The Fallen angel who had set fire to Paradise when he had seen Lucifer’s Rebellion was about to fail.

  Lepsy/Xaphan turned then and snapped the reins. The already terrified horses bolted down the alley and he lifted a hand in a parting salute and sent another jet of fire belching into the night sky. It came down like a rain on another building and torched the roof almost instantly.

  Somewhere close by a fire bell began to clang.

  The Rider was about to give chase when Belden caught him by the coat.

  “Not that way,” he shouted. “This way.”

  They ran down an adjoining alley which emptied out onto Fifth and south to the corner.

  They spied Lepsy and the wagon about to cross Fifth when he nearly collided with the fire wagon galloping desperately down from the fire house at the opposite end of the street.

  “Get that goddamn rig out of the way you damn fool,” screamed a bug eyed volunteer.

  Lepsy cursed and jumped down from the wagon, leaving the irate firefighters to sort out the tangled horses as he ran back down the alley, the Rider and Belden on his heels.

  He threw plumes of fire back in their direction, but they flung themselves to the ground and renewed their chase when the flaming clouds had passed.

  They found themselves back at the Fire King shaft, now smoking and eliciting a strange, pervading hiss.

  “Iron…” the Rider said, looking frantically around.

  “What?” said Belden.

  “Iron! Iron. Find me some iron.” It was possible he could draw Xaphan out and trap him for a time in iron. He had
done it once before, to Lix Tetrax.

  But what could he use?

  Belden scooped up something from the dirt and tossed it to the Rider.

  He caught it. A pick axe. Was the head iron? Probably…

  “Shit,” Lepsy yelled, when he saw where he was. He spun and leered at them. “Ah hell, you go on and take this body, Rider. I’ll find another…”

  He opened his arms and grinned. His eyes began to roll up. He was leaving Lepsy behind.

  “Hold on, Xaphan!” the Rider yelled. “By the treachery of Ornias and by the Pentalpha Seal granted unto…”

  Just then something arced down from the smoky sky and transfixed Lepsy from behind the right collarbone to just above his left hip. He wheeled drunkenly in shock and tried to scream, but instead vomited blood.

  “That’ll work, too,” Belden remarked.

  The red lanterns had exploded when the fire crept up the fence and sign, so the Rider wrenched out his spectacles and put them over his eyes.

  In the body of Lepsy, the Rod of Aaron had spitted the demonic child too. It wailed terribly as blue-white light spilled from its terrible wound. It dissipated, and when it was gone, Lepsy fell, his mortal soul departed already.

  The Rider took off the spectacles and saw Kabede come running with the Elder Sign Henry rifle in his hand and his own Volcanic in his pants pocket. His hat was gone and he was blinking at the ash in the air.

  Belden took the Henry and the Rider took his pistol.

  “Nice toss, partner,” Belden said admiringly.

  Kabede went to Lepsy’s corpse and put his boot to the side of his head, wrenching the Rod of Aaron free in increments.

  “Where’s the old man?” Belden called, as somewhere on Fourth Street a tremendous explosion sent a shudder through the ground beneath their feet and pieces of flaming wood blew a hundred feet into the air.

  The explosion was quickly followed by a rapid series of erratic shots of every caliber. The powder in the gun store had exploded and the fire was setting off cartridges. It was like the Fourth of July and the Battle of Glorieta Pass rolled into one.

  “The whole city’s burning,” Kabede shouted above the din. “The Chinese quarter’s burning too. He’s driving the wagon north out of town.”

  “I thought he said no force on Earth could hurt that rig?”

  “Not so the animals,” Kabede shouted back, freeing the Rod of Aaron at last and wrinkling his nose at the blood and gore that dripped down its length.

  “Well, let’s get the hell out of here, too.”

  “Wait,” said the Rider. “The barrels.”

  They rushed back down the alley to where Lepsy had abandoned the wagon. It was still there, but the fire brigade had cut the horses loose in their rush to disentangle their engine.

  The fire was blazing in the heart of Tombstone, and though Russ House was in flames, the miner’s shanties on the south side of Toughnut were untouched, so they were relatively safe.

  The Rider went cautiously to the tailgate and pulled it down.

  “What are they?” Kabede asked.

  “Don’t know,” the Rider answered.

  “We knocked on one, and somethin’ knocked back,” said Belden.

  Hundun, China Mary had said. What did the word mean?

  He reached in and gingerly touched the barrel. It seemed normal. This was the one that had popped a rivet when the skinny laborer had plunked it down. One of the iron bands was loose.

  “Hey,” shouted an angry voice from behind them.

  They all turned to see a suited deputy sheriff come marching toward them, his revolver in his hand. The man was soot streaked and at his wit’s end, his smudged paper collar half sprung from his neck.

  “Looks like I got some looters,” he said when he was within a few feet. He cocked his revolver and pointed. “Armed too. You boys rob the gunsmith before it went?”

  “You got it wrong, deputy,” Belden said.

  “Just you throw that rifle down, mister,” the deputy commanded.

  Belden did as he was told.

  “And you boy,” he said to Kabede. “Drop that stick.”

  Kabede did.

  The deputy, young for the job, hiding it with a prodigious mustache and beard, came close and kicked the rifle away. Too close.

  The Rider lunged to grab his revolver.

  The younger man was quicker and retained it, saw the glitter of the Volcanic at his waist and tried to grab that too.

  In the scuffle the Rider fell against the wagon, and the barrel in back tipped back.

  “Watch it,” Belden yelled.

  Both men leapt away from each other, and the heavy barrel fell between them, smashing to planks in the street.

  Something tumbled, or rather splattered out.

  It was entirely black, and viscous like jelly. The flickering fire from Russ House reflected crazily in the stuff. There was enough of it to fill the barrel. It was thick, and before their eyes, it seemed to thicken, coalescing into a bulky shape.

  “What the hell?” the deputy managed, and then it was on him.

  Tendrils sprang from the shapeless mass, forming and lashing out at the speed of thought. Dozens of them. They enveloped the deputy, pulling him in, no, pulling its greater bulk over him, mummifying him as it came, burning his flesh with every touch.

  The Rider scrambled backwards on his hands and Belden ran to retrieve his rifle as the muffled screams of the deputy were drowned out by a vicious crackling noise as the thing physically subsumed him.

  The Rider reached the curb as the black thing flowed off of the mangled, smoking deputy and began to slide towards him. Even as it did, it took on a new shape, vaguely humanoid, the size of a child. It grew a faceless head with ear buds, but the head was the wrong way around. It rose up on hands and feet, thin arms and legs, but it was without orifice or detail, and its locomotion was strange, scuttling, like a monkey or a spider. The Rider realized it was aping his clumsy backwards crawl.

  The thing loped towards him, gaining speed as it grew surer of the new means of movement.

  Belden began to lever and fire the Henry into the thing. At first the bullets rocked it and flung it aside, but then it began to anticipate the shots, and wherever the bullets sought to penetrate, a perfect hole would open, allowing the projectiles to pass harmlessly through its body and ricochet off the street.

  Kabede had retrieved the Rod of Aaron, and he lunged at it with the pointed end, skewering it through the head, driving it, and pinning it to the hub of the wagon wheel. Instantly it was changing again, the limbs bending backwards to remove the offending staff, but wherever it touched, it bubbled and hissed. The point where the Rod had gone in changed to a greenish color, and the green bubbled and spread swiftly down the length of the thing, as its limbs became tentacles and whipped madly out, reaching for Kabede, finding the staff, recoiling from its touch. The legs flowed across the ground and a mass of bulges appeared, which then bloomed into dozens of black toad-like eyes that bulged and looked all about, settled on Kabede.

  A mouth opened lengthwise in what had been the torso. A mouth of black teeth and tongue that screamed in a perfect replication of the dead deputy, and as the scream rose in pitch, several smaller mouths split open all around the first and took up the cry, in effect creating a chorus of death screams.

  Knee joints, bones, elongated fingers, toes, genitalia, all began to form in rapid succession and strove to touch Kabede. Then the green glow reached the end of the thing and the screaming died out. The improvised features lost their shape and fell back into the sizzling protoplasmic mass. Soon, what was left dripped off the staff and pooled on the ground, then quickly dried into a smoking, noxious smelling stain.

  Belden stood over the black stain with his Henry aimed down at it.

  Kabede and the Rider rose slowly and joined him, panting.

  “What was that thing?” Kabede asked.

  “Hundun,” the Rider murmured. He crouched and prodded at the shattered bar
rel that had contained it. He picked up the iron barrel hoop and showed it to them. In the light of the fire, they saw that the inner surface was etched with the Elder Sign, over and over again. “Something to do with the Old Ones.”

  They all looked at the wagon in unison. There were eleven such barrels in the bed.

  It took the efforts of all three and the better part of thirty minutes to drag the wagon back down the alley between the burning, crumbling buildings to the lip of the Fire King mineshaft, and another twenty to dump the barrels in.

  They heard the barrels shatter with tremendous noise at the dark bottom, followed by a cacophony of hissing and strange sounds. The sounds were almost like speech, but the words made no sense.

  “Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

  They waited with the Rod of Aaron, but nothing came up. Whatever method Lepsy/Xaphan had employed to keep the things from rising out of the shaft was holding.

  “Now what?” Belden asked.

  They were all of them exhausted and blackened, coughing from the smoke of the burning town around them.

  Somewhere on the north side of the city they began to hear explosions.

  “They’re dynamiting the untouched buildings,” Belden observed. “To stop the fire.”

  Tombstone was doomed.

  The bullets were still popping off now and again.

  “Sounds like a war,” the Rider observed.

  “It is not the sound of victory,” said Kabede, staring at the staff. “Nor the sound of defeat.”

  The words Moses had used, coming down from Sinai with the stone tablets bearing the Law.

  They stared at him, as with sudden purpose, he lifted the staff over his head and brought the point down hard on the lip of the shaft with both hands.

  There was a tremendous quaking beneath their feet, and before their eyes, the walls of the shaft that were visible cracked and crumbled, and the whole affair collapsed in on itself.

  They stood for a while over the shallow pit of rubble that remained, but they couldn’t hear the sounds anymore.

  At dawn they walked through a smoldering city, the rising sun blotted out by the clouds of ash smoke, their noses filled with the rich burning smell, so much that they forgot the putrid stench of the burning hundun.