Darcy was still trying to decipher her words when she turned and disappeared.
***
The hands could always feel the ranch before they saw it.
Sometime, ages past, the rock floor of a little valley had been spit open by a groundshaker. It left a high, thin crevasse with a flat bottom sunk below the natural floor of the valley. The owners of the ranch had spent a great deal of time and money roofing the split with thick planks, spreading sand and dirt over that, even planting a few trees. The tunnel-like entrance faced east into a clump of weedy poplars clinging to life on the banks of a muddy stream.
Once inside, no daylight could penetrate. Night reigned eternal; smothering warm drafts blew continuously from the depths of the crevasse.
To Darcy, it always seemed like walking down the gullet of some huge, foul-throated beast.
But it was more than just the stifling breeze that called to the hands, drew them on their drive more accurately than any map. This was the Birthing Place, where they were killed, created, served up their souls to one more year of unlife...reborn from death, the chosen amongst the cattle of one drive would go forth with the next: most of the women as wranglers, most of the men as hands. One to Rope and one to drive.
On this drive, Darcy knew who those chosen would be and the thought brought a thickness to the back of his. If he had still been human, he would have called it nausea. Or fear.
By this time in any drive, the cattle were so resigned, exhausted, they entered the ranch with barely a balk. Darcy was at the head of the herd as they pushed through the entrance tunnel, winding and twisting downwards towards the body of the ranch itself.
The wranglers were waiting at the entrance to the ranch proper, a gaggle of bright smiles and hard eyes. Darcy dismounted and led his horse into the stables; behind, he heard a few exclamations of shock and dismay from the cattle. They never seemed to remember the pretty face and swirling skirts leading them from a crowd into a shadowed place, alone.
A man's voice, rich and smooth as expensive leather, cut through the giggles and gasps. Darcy stepped back out, throat going tight.
"Where did you get that one? Who brought her in?" The Prime strode on black boots out of the ranch's twilight. He stalked up to the cattle-the last of the herd was just being shoved through the last gate—and plucked China Sue from the crowd. She stumbled a little in his rough grip, then settled to a serene passivity. He shook her at the wranglers, saw their surprise and denial and turned to Mason as he re-barred the gate behind the last hand. "Well?"
Mason snatched his hat off his head and his cigarette from his mouth. "Sir," his voice respectful and meek, "it were Darcy found her, along the Trail."
The Prime turned. "Is this true?"
Darcy felt his knees go weak, his innards try to hide behind his spine. The sheer force of presence in that black gaze...
"Yes, sir. Her and a man. Wild cattle." Some perversion prompted him to add: "They got Jimmy, sir."
"Humph. No loss-and a great gain."
"What have we gained?" That was a woman's voice, a smooth, silky counterpart to the man's.
"New members for our little flock, my dear."
"Aahhh..." The woman who emerged from the gloom carried the same weight of ancient darkness as the man holding China Sue. Her patrician nose flared a little. "I can smell it from here. An excellent vintage. And Darcy brought her in? Commendations, my good man." She ghosted forward, the expensive silk and linen of her dress making a perfumed rustle in the dank air. "And I've already thought of a proper reward. Excellent, excellent."
The Lady held out her hand to the Prime, who released China Sue and took it in both of his. "I hunger, my love," she said affectionately, stroking a finger down his stark white cheek. It left a trail of thick black.
"As I, as I. And never before has so fitting an addition to our little family been driven here. Let us wait not even a little longer." At her smile, the Prime gestured to the hands. "Bring the cattle. A dual purpose to serve: a new servant and an object lesson." He turned away, paused, turned back to Darcy. "Her companion?"
"Him." He gestured at Jamison. "Agent, I think."
The Lady burst into a peal of laughter. "Oh, joke of jokes, comedy of comedies." Her laughter rang out again; inside the stable, the horses reared and kicked in sudden panic.
The Prime grinned savagely, with his own milk-curdling chuckle. "Then bring him close as well. Let him see his woman die before he joins her in our service."
Jamison laughed.
Everyone, human and abomination alike, froze in utter disbelief.
His laughter ended on a derisive snort, contempt dripping from his dagger tongue. "My woman? Mine? I'm her partner, bloodsucker. Not her owner." Jamison's smile turned as feral as the Prime's own. "And I will not serve you."
The Prime moved in a blur. Jamison was pinned against a rock wall with enough force to wring out a cry of pain. The abomination leaned his face lover-close to the human. "Your will is nothing. And your blood is mine already." He stepped back and slapped the tall man to the ground. "Prepare them both."
Darcy reached Jamison before any of the others, seizing China Sue as he passed. Dragging her by the hand, he grabbed the human's shoulder as he lay prone, facedown, and hauled him to-then off-his feet. He seemed dazed and a thin trickle of blood snaked from his nose. Darcy gulped. His fangs came out involuntarily, tongue lapping obscenely at the scent. "Walk." He set the human down roughly. Jamison stumbled for a few feet.
"That was very foolish, Jamison." China Sue's tone admonished, but gently.
"Wasn foolis..." The tall man was walking well, but his voice was drunk-slurred. "Was assertive..."
Darcy felt rather then saw China Sue's rueful grin.
He also knew when her smile faded.
The shaker that had formed the crevasse had finally been balked by a seam of granite amongst the softer stone. The end wall reared up high and straight, glittering in the light of the hundreds of lanterns. Arcane symbols etched into its depths soaked the light in without release. Below, the surface of the granite boulder serving as the altar was polished to glass smoothness and stained red down to the bedrock. Inset on the corners were leather and metal manacles and a trough ran down the length, emptying into a graceful crystal pitcher.
Darcy all but threw his prisoners at the altar, desperation and hunger rising swirling out of the pools of his mind. He wanted to press his fingers into his head until he held his own brain in his hands, until he could squeeze the need out of his thoughts. The drive was over. Now he had choices to make.
The rustling murmurs of the cattle, the cruel mocking laughter of the other hands, the whisper of silk and creak of leather, drew him back into himself. He knew the words were coming before he heard them.
"Darcy, my good man," the Prime called out in a jovial, hungry voice, "do the honors if you would."
Dully, he watched Mason grab Jamison as Brin chained China Sue to the altar. A thin film of ice passed over him, numbing his thoughts and body both. He walked to the altar on legs encased in molten steel. Brin backed off as he approached, her cold snake eyes gleaming with pleasure.
He stopped to look down at the little form, so small only the hand manacles could fit her. She looked relaxed and peaceful, like she was sleeping.
It would take so little time, be over almost before it began: as his fangs touched her skin the hunger would overtake him. Biting deep, blood spurting and spilling onto polished rock, splashing into the pitcher. She would gasp, writhe in pain for a few moments, screaming soundlessly without a throat. Drained dry, until white skin turned waxy and cold. Then the Prime would come forward with the black liquid, mix it with a little of her own blood, pour it into the gaping wounds on her neck—and she would awake into memory-less horror.
From death to unlife, like him—into a cold world without color; to the drive; to the endless hunger.
He bent forward. Just in his line of sight, Jamison stood perfectly still, watching Dar
cy begin to kill.
China Sue's eyes opened. Almost touching her skin, Darcy froze, transfixed. Only he heard her when she spoke:
"Your name is Darcy O'Conner. And you were a priest."
He remembered...
They had been traveling to his new parish, a little Colorado mountain town called Settler's Rest. A pretty place, the retiring Reverend's letter said; a gentle town and a faithful flock. It seemed like a wonderful place to raise a family, Ella had thought. She trusted him, knew he would never bring her into danger or privation. After all, he loved her.
The crash, the whole stagecoach rolling once, twice; coming to rest on its side. He had calmed the other passengers, certain it was something routine, easily remedied. A bad accident, of a certain, but accidents happened. He helped the others climb out. Ella went first, trusting him, knowing he could never be wrong. Then the screaming started.
They stumbled along on that drive for endless days, watching people die like cattle: of exhaustion, hunger, thirst-or the knife. Still, she trusted, knew, believed: he would never let anything happen to her.
She loved him even as he rose from the altar red-eyed into a colorless world; loved him, trusted him, believed him her saviour as his fangs sank into her skin and his hands flashed out to snap her neck like a rabbit.
He had never known why he'd killed that particular cattle so quickly.
Darcy rose, catching Jamison's eye on the way up with a quick nod. He stepped around the end of the altar, grabbed Brin by the hair and smashed her head like an egg against the nearest wall. Plucking her Bowie knife from her belt, he tossed it to the human. The leather and metal hilt smacked into his palm; with one smooth movement he spun and slammed the blade into Mason's left eye. The cigarette lit the hand's shirt on fire as he collapsed into the dirt, thick blackness pouring from the fatal wound.
China Sue cried out in a tongue Darcy didn't understand and lifted her hands free of the still closed fetters. She rolled to her feet sketching symbols before her that burned to his othervision like fireworks. Her light flared bright as the sun, burning his face, causing cries of pain from the others. The rifle, Jamison's rifle, came out of the holster almost unbidden and into Darcy's hands. Slap and the stock caressed his palm at the end of the lever's spin. He fired in the same motion. The back of Jose's head turned into a cloud of bone and liquid.
"Get behind me." China cried at the other humans. "Get behind me." In a stumbling, screaming rush they obeyed, clustering behind the altar. She crouched at one end, her glow turning white as she knelt before them, praying. Jamison used the other side of the altar as cover. With Mason's pistol, he was sniping at Darcy's former companions.
Darcy spun the rifle, hearing the satisfying thunk as a new round hit the chamber. He fired again, and one of the wranglers lost half her head. A pistol bullet spanged off a rock wall just past the Prime's ear. The utter shock on his handsome, evil face was almost worth the years of pain. But some of the others were gathering their scattered wits, surrounded by scattered brains.
More firepower, Darcy thought.
He dropped down next to Jamison. "I think this belongs to you." From underneath his long duster, the Gatling pistol was suddenly proffered.
Jamison's lean features lit up with fierce joy. He ripped the gun from Darcy's hand, laying down the other pistol. One of the cattle, a young man, crawled over to grab the discarded Colt. Gatling in hand, Jamison inched forward and peered around the edge of the altar. He sighted carefully, down and left. Darcy nodded in approval. The recoil would walk the rapid-fire burst of the gun up and across his targets.
The distinctive whhhirrr-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang of the Gatling pistol rebounded off the walls like the trumpets of the angels. Three dying screams wove sudden harmonies under the sound.
Laughing, the Reverend Darcy O'Conner rose to his feet and went forth to do the work of the Lord.
***
Darcy and China Sue stood quietly together at the entrance to the ranch, listening to Jamison finish preparing the charges. The Prime and the Lady had been neither the last to go nor the most difficult to kill; both seemed almost fatally confused.
To the east, false dawn cast a rose and gold curtain over the far mountain ranges. He could see the colors now; they had been coming back to him slowly over the last hours.
Just outside, near the river, the rest of the humans milled and jostled. They had with them the horses from the ranch and enough material to improvise small carts for those who could not ride. The ranch had more than enough to supply them for the days it would take to reach a town; after all, the cattle had to be kept alive while the herd was culled and healthy cattle are tasty cattle.
There had even been explosives in the stores—the same ones Jamison was rigging right now.
The tall man appeared out of the flickering gloom trailing a fuse-line.
"Done," he said in a weary but satisfied voice. "The canyon roof should collapse in on itself. Just rubble when it's all over." He squeezed China's shoulder gently.
She placed a hand over his and looked up at Darcy. "My friend, what will you do now? Perhaps I was not granted the grace to save you from your condition, but that is my failing— not yours. God and the Golden One have surely not abandoned you." She sounded contrite and pleading both: she had attempted to heal him with the power of her faith, as she had healed the wounds Jamison received during the fight.
Over her head, Jamison's gaze grew steely and focused.
Darcy stared at them both, weighing the only decision he could have come to.
"China...this sounds so cheap...thank you. It was your faith that brought me back to myself. Without you, I'd still be one of those things in my heart as well as my body." He looked down, really seeing himself for the first time in...how many years?
Long lean body; work boots and jeans; fingers ending in dark talons; gray leathery skin. He filled in the face from what he's seen on the others: gaunt flesh stretched tight over prominent bones, eyes a crimson gleam from deep sockets.
"But what could I do? Look at me...I was the oldest one here, *cept for Mason. How many years? How many did I kill? How many cattle lead to the slaughter?" His voice rose in a grating snarl with distress. Behind him, one of the horses reared, screaming. He gestured at it. "See? Do you see what I mean?"
China reached a tiny hand up to him. "You must try, at least. Your soul was given back to you. That is grace beyond grace; you cannot just throw it away now."
Darcy actually laughed. "If I was graced, little lady, it had nothing to do with me. It was you He wanted to save."
"He works in mysterious ways," she said firmly, lips pursed.
"Even your suffering had a purpose. And you are not to blame-"
"China," Jamison interrupted, gently swinging her around to face him. "You can't win somebody else's salvation."
Her shoulders sagged. "But...but...I can feel it, Jamison. He is graced, graced and favored. It cannot be denied."
"I'm not denying it." He wasn't-he could feel the same glow in himself that flared from her with every breath. Darcy was surprise by the calm of his voice. It seemed to spread from his ears to his heart and down through his body. A soft, gentle ringing sounded and he somehow knew he was the only one who heard it. At that instant, he knew he was doing the right thing. "I'm just saying it's too late."
She stared at him now, her distress and pity and frustration writ clear on her plain and beautiful face. It cleared a little, only a little, and she nodded. "Perhaps in this life."
She brought her hands together in the attitude of prayer, then spread them out palm up and pinkies touching. "May we meet again in our next incarnations. Go with God."
Jamison stretched out a hand. His grip was solid; his eyes reflected his respect. "We'll light the fuse when that bunch is a safe distance. Good luck."
The eastern sky was light blue and gold by now. He turned towards it, running one hand over his face. The tips of his fangs seemed smaller somehow. That ringing
noise changed pitch, rising to a high sweet trumpet call that vibrated the very air against his skin.
Darcy opened his arms wide, exultation on his face, transforming it for an instant into something more than even the human he had once been.
The sun rose, bathing him in golden light.
LET THE RIVER OF DEATH WASH OVER ME
Richard E. Dansky
There were no more wounded at Chickamauga. The lucky few whom the hospital crews and ambulance drivers had found had long since been evacuated and carried off to the relative safety of field hospitals. The rest had been left to die, to drown in their own blood or the muddy, reddish water of Chickamauga Creek, to bleed to death or die of thirst, to succumb to disease or shock or merciful bullets from those fleeing the field. Here and there in the woods corpses lay, bloated with decay or gnawed by wild animals, mute testimony to the savage unpredictability of war.
It had not been all that long ago that Rosecrans' Army of the Cumberland had descended upon this place in detail, all full of pride and power at having driven the Rebels out of Tennessee. It had not been that much later that a series of simple communiques gone astray had led to the creation of a gap in the center of the Union line, a gap that the relentless Longstreet had driven ten thousand men through. The right half of the Federal position had collapsed, fleeing back to Chattanooga with Old Rosey himself. The rest fell back to Snodgrass Hill, a teardrop-shaped outcropping that they defended as fiercely as tigers. For a time, it looked as if those troops, gathered from all regiments and states in a jumble, just might hold until sunset. If they could repel the Rebels that long, they could retreat in good order back toward Tennessee and the rest of their army. If they didn't, then they would be swallowed at one gulp, Rosecrans would be destroyed shortly thereafter, and the entire western theater of the war would explode into flame and fury. The men and officers on both sides knew this, and fought with redoubled courage as the fate of the war hung in the balance.
A Fist Full O' Dead Guys Page 13