“So if all these gods and spirits and haints are real and can do something, then why don’t they?” Jim asked. His face was getting red. “All the terrible things that go on in this world, all the suffering and wrongness, why don’t they do something about it? Why did my God let my pa get murdered? Why did He let my sister catch a bullet, when, when she hadn’t ever done nothing to nobody? It don’t make no damned sense!”
He started to rise, but Ch’eng stopped him with a gentle gesture of his hand. Jim sat down.
“The sheriff, he gave you that star, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“He sent you to me alone, yes?”
“You know he did, what are you driving at?”
“Are you not too young to have such responsibilities?”
“Mister,” Jim said, “I had to shoot a mess of people dead tonight. I’ve had to decide to take my last drink of water or give it to my poor horse when we were dying in the desert, like all those other poor souls out there before us had. I’ve had to make a lot of hard choices in my life and I ain’t no child, no more.”
“No,” Ch’eng Huang said. The ghost of a smile had returned. “You most certainly are not. None of you are, Jim. This is a world made for mortals. It has rules, restrictions upon the divine and spiritual. Creation is a beautiful tapestry, a gift and a guide from the ineffable to the mortal, but in the end, it is man’s world and men alone must decide their fate and the world’s. They decide it through their behavior, their choices, their deeds and their discipline. The gods, the spirits, can only advise, provide counsel and offer indirect aide. The soul of man is what gives the gods their power—the drive, the will, it is the most powerful and terrible thing in the entire universe.”
“Faith can move mountains…,” Jim muttered the words Ma had said so many times as he stared into his father’s eye. “So this thing in the mountain, it’s going to tear the world up if it gets loose, right?”
“It is know to us as Chilong—the demon dragon at the heart of all mountains. It was bound long ago when Pangu’s bones and body were first laid to rest to form the Earth. It was chained by the August Personage of Jade and his divine court, by chains of celestial fire. If it breaks free, it will rend all of creation. Only the primal chaos and eternal night shall remain.”
“Bick thought the eye might be able to help keep this dragon chained up,” Jim said. “How does it work? What does it do?”
Ch’eng shook his head in amazement. “Oh—ho! You don’t ask for any small thing, do you, boy? The eye was stolen from Chang’e, the Goddess of the Moon, by Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, and given back to man. The eye has power over the dominion of the moon, the twilight worlds, the dream kingdoms—it can be a bridge between worlds and powers. The eye allows one to traffic with the souls of the dead, to speak to them, to entreat them to do your bidding. So much more than that! It is one of the fundamental underpinnings of all creation. It is one of the most powerful artifacts to exist within the middle kingdom. A skilled sorcerer, a master in the disciplines, could use the eye to do almost anything, anything! That is why it was hidden by the monks who gave it to your father, to keep it from the evil and the power-hungry.
“Your father must have been a remarkable man to have been selected by the monks to secure such a treasure. That he was able to endure the burden of the eye’s power and not go mad, or die, is a true testament to his honor. You should be very proud of him, Jim.”
Jim swallowed. He thought about all the years Pa wrestled with the pain and the dizziness, mostly in silence. “I already was.
“So,” he said, “you can show me how to use it, right?”
“Are you a trained sorcerer, master of the esoteric disciplines?” Ch’eng asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then, no.”
“But I’ve made the dang thing work for me before!”
“Yes, you have some aptitude; I can see that. That is nothing compared to what the eye is capable of doing.”
“Then you use it to lock this dragon thing up and then give it back to me!”
“I can’t, Jim. It is not allowed.”
“What the hell does that mean? We need your help, or everyone is going to die!”
“I can offer you advice, try to help you figure it out for yourself, but I cannot take an active role in this.”
“You said it was up to us to save the world; you said we could.”
“Not us, Jim, you. You have the power to save the world, you and your friends. My authority ends at the edge of Johnny Town, at the borders of the communities my people have carved out in this new land.”
Jim looked at the old man and shook his head. He looked back down at the eye in his palm.
“All this power, all this wisdom, and I don’t even know what to do with it.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. Human beings are remarkable,” Ch’eng Huang said. “You possess limitless ambition, near-infinite determination. The same drive that sends you out into this dangerous wilderness in search of new lives, new opportunities, can be harnessed, chained if you will, to accomplish anything.”
Jim snorted. “Well, all them pretty words and will ain’t helping us right now with…” He blinked and looked at the old man again. “What? What did you just say?”
Ch’eng Huang stared at him placidly, silently, for a moment, then replied, “You heard me.”
Jim jumped to his feet. “I got to go! Now! I ain’t got much time!”
“I understand,” Ch’eng said, rising smoothly, almost as if he floated to his feet.
“Thanks for the tea! Thank you for everything!”
“May you meet your destiny with calm understanding and dignity, Master Negrey,” Ch’eng said as the golden door drifted open silently behind Jim. “Good-bye.”
Jim ran down the hall of the Celestial Palace, past Ringo and the tong warriors and into the endless night.
It didn’t take long to reach Clay’s livery at a full-tilt run. Jim didn’t encounter any of the Stained along the way, but he passed a few bodies, still in the street. The infected townsfolk seemed to have raided Golgotha, abducted as many as they could to swell their ranks and now returned to Argent Mountain to call forth the thing that would end the world.
He threw open the barn doors and found the horses nervous, shuffling and occasionally whinnying wildly. He went to Promise and stroked her nose.
“Hey, girl. I hope you got a good rest, ’cause we’ve got one more ride to make, and it’s a humdinger!”
The boy and his horse exploded out of the barn like a comet. Promise’s hooves struck the ground quickly, lightly. They made it to the end of Druffer in no time flat and Jim turned them onto the Old Stone Road. Sparks danced as the little horse flew across the old cobblestones. The horse slowed slightly as the road faded into cold sand, ash and dirt. Jim urged her on gently with a squeeze of his legs.
“I know, girl, I know where we’re going too, but we have to. Just one more time. Don’t be afraid; I’ll be right there with you.”
Promise snorted and began to gallop even faster than before. Jim rubbed her neck and hunched forward in the saddle as they rode into the dark oblivion of the 40-Mile.
The Knight of Cups
Auggie led Gillian by the hand through the chaos. People who minutes ago were dancing, gossiping and laughing were now a mob, rushing away from the hissing swarm of their infected brethren. Fear swirled around them like toxic gas. He clutched a broken table leg in his free hand, the only weapon he could find in the middle of the screaming, shouting and shooting.
“Auggie!” Gillian shouted behind him. He spun to see Kenneth Burel, one his regular customers, tugging on Gillian’s arms and screaming for her to come with him. Burel wasn’t infected by the malady of the weeping blackness, but he was in the throes of another dangerous affliction—panic. Auggie turned, pulling Gillian out of Burel’s grasp and behind him. He brandished his makeshift club at Burel and the man bolted back into the current of frightened, running hu
manity.
“This way,” Auggie said. He led Gillian between two row houses that were neighbors of Dale McKinnon’s homestead. Pratt Road was to their west, as was the Baptist church. Auggie figured they could get their wits about them inside the church for a moment and then figure out how to get Gillian out of this madhouse of a town. He knew he needed to get back to the store, to protect it from looters and to make sure Gerta was safe as well. The thought of one of these strange creatures ransacking their home and hurting her made the knot in his gut tighten.
“I am sorry I could not get you to the wagons in time,” he said as he and Gillian walked hand in hand again, Auggie leading.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I wouldn’t have gone anyway.”
Auggie stopped and turned. “It is too dangerous here, Gillian! We have to get you out of here.”
“This is my home too, Augustus,” she said. “I have a responsibility to my boarders and my friends. Besides, we both have to stay to make sure your store is safe.”
He shook his head. “You are very strong. Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of course I am; only a fool wouldn’t be! Aren’t you?”
“Ja.” He smiled and nodded. “Terrified. Come on; let’s get to the sanctuary and off the street.”
When they turned back toward Pratt Road, they saw the church was burning. A hulking figure stood between the end of the alleyway and the flames.
“Figured I’d find you eventually, bitch,” the shape said as it lumbered toward Auggie and Gillian. “Ain’t that big a town and I knew you’d be at your little party tonight, Gilly-girl.”
The creature that had been Otis Haglund, the butcher, Stained with the infection and wearing a necklace of severed human hands over its leather apron, advanced toward them, its eyes tunnels of night.
“Run!” Auggie bellowed to Gillian as he charged Otis, raising the table leg to strike. Auggie was a big man; he was used to having about half a foot and at least a hundred pounds on most of the men in Golgotha. Otis was one of the few exceptions. The butcher caught his club as it descended to strike and drove a crushing right into Auggie’s gut. The shopkeeper gasped and stumbled backward. Gillian screamed and charged Haglund.
“Gillian, no!” Auggie wheezed.
Otis backhanded her. Her glasses exploded as they flew off her face and she smashed against the wall of the row house and slid down into the dirt. Auggie roared and drove his whole mass into Haglund, tackling him at the waist. The butcher staggered backward but stayed on its feet. It grabbed Auggie by the throat and slammed him against the other wall of the alley, holding him there.
“I’m gonna have a good time with old Gill, there, Shultz,” Haglund said, its face moving closer to Auggie’s. Something black and wet vibrated in its mouth. “But first I’m going to bring you over to God and then we can take turns with her; won’t that be fun? Open wide, fatso.”
Haglund suddenly stiffened, convulsed and released its grip on Auggie’s throat. A row of slender metal spikes poked through its chest and thick black ooze spread out from them, soaking its apron. Over the butcher’s shoulder, Auggie saw Clay jam the pitchfork deeper into Otis’s back. Haglund groaned and its eyes fluttered shut for an instant; then they snapped open again, wide and black. The impaled butcher began to turn toward Clay. Auggie knelt, grabbed the fallen table leg and struck Otis’s head with all his might. There was a hollow crunch. Haglund collapsed and finally lay still.
“Thank you, Clay,” Auggie said, gasping. Clay nodded, dropped the pitchfork and pushed his wild halo of hair out of his eyes.
“It’s lucky you came by,” Auggie said.
“My wagon is around the corner. I ran home to fetch it when the commotion started. I saw you struggling with Otis as I passed.”
Gillan was up and hugging Auggie. “Thank you, Clayton,” she said.
“I didn’t do it for you,” he said as he turned Otis over and examined the black goo still leaking out of its chest. “I did it for Auggie.”
Clay lifted the apron. “This is fascinating. Impaling his heart and lungs didn’t kill him or, to be more specific, didn’t kill the thing inside of him. Look here.”
He opened Otis’s mouth wide. Something was still squirming inside. The thing shivered, slowed and then was still.
“Trauma to the head seems to be the most efficient way to dispatch it,” he continued.
“Clay…,” Auggie said.
“… His blood seems to have been converted into the same fluid that was used to poison Arthur Stapleton,” Clay continued. “I would hazard that eventually the toxicity of the substance accounts for Stapleton’s internal organs liquefying and—”
“Clay,” Auggie repeated. “We have to go now, before more of them come. We have to get Gillian out of here.”
“I told you, I’m not leaving without you,” Gillian said.
Clay stood. He recovered the pitchfork. “I agree. We all need to leave town as soon as possible. The rate at which this has spread is remarkable. I doubt there are too many uninfected people still alive in Golgotha. This is going to get much worse before it gets better.”
“We need to go to the store before we head out of town,” Auggie said. Clay nodded.
“Why?” Gillian said. “Augustus, if we aren’t going to stay and protect it, why risk going all the way across town?”
Clay’s eyes burned into Auggie. Auggie sighed. “Gillian, there are … things. Precious things … They belonged to Gerta. I can’t just leave them to those creatures.”
Gillian took his hand. “Then let’s go get them,” she said.
Clay drove the wagon down Pratt Road and crossed over onto Dry Well Road. Over the buildings they could see the glow of fires. The streets were silent, save for an occasional scream that cut the cold night like a knife. They passed Gillian’s boardinghouse. It was dark and quiet.
Clay pulled the horses over at the old stone well at the end of the road. The town legend claimed two lovers had met their end in the depths of the well and that their ghosts stood sentinel over it. If the legend was true, and most townsfolk swore it was, the spectral couple thought better than to be out tonight
“We’ll cut through here,” Clay said softly. “The store’s back door is just one street over.”
They moved through the brush quietly. Auggie scanned both ways. The alley appeared vacant. He slid the key out of his trouser pocket.
“Now, go!” he hissed. They crossed the open space quickly, three shades fluttering loose from the darkness for an instant, then swallowed up by the gloom of the building’s shadow.
Auggie clutched the door handle with one hand and fitted the key into the lock with the other. Clay stood ready with an unlit lantern and match while Gillian scanned the street for any signs of activity. The door clicked open. They hurried inside and closed the door behind them.
Clay struck the match and lit the lantern. He placed it on top of a wooden crate, one of many in the cluttered storeroom. The open door leading to the stairs to the overhead apartment was yawning darkness.
“Gillian,” Auggie said, taking her hand “why don’t you get us some provisions from the storefront for the trip? Fill some canteens and grab whatever food you can. Stay away from the windows and keep down, ja?”
She nodded and squeezed his hand. She opened the door a crack and slid inside, shutting it behind her.
“Nice way to distract the ‘other woman,’” Clay said with a rasp that passed for a chuckle from him.
“Be quiet,” Auggie said, ascending the stairs. “Come on.”
The light from the lantern below was a feeble comfort. The apartment was dark and the window blinds were drawn. Auggie moved as quietly as he could, quickly lifting a framed photograph off the end table—the only photo ever taken of Gerta. He used his free hand to grab the old family Bible they had brought with them on the crossing from Germany. It had been in Gerta’s family for six generations and it contained the only record of their son’s birth and death.
“After we get out of here, after they are both safe. Then, I’ll do it,” Auggie said. “I’m sorry for what I said to you at the dance.”
They entered the bedroom. Auggie pulled a large carpetbag from under the bed. He snapped it open and dropped the photo and Bible into it.
“Don’t be,” Clay said. “She seems like a decent enough female. No Gerta, mind you, but acceptable. Come on; let’s get Gertie’s case. I brought her repair kit; it’s in the wagon already.”
There was a crash below them, a scream; it was Gillian. Auggie dashed toward the stairs. He heard glass shattering, angry voices. He reached the storeroom in time to see Gillian struggling in the doorway with Doc Tumblety, Stained and snarling.
“Come here, you little whore!” Tumblety bellowed. “You’ll change your tune soon enough, bitch! Let me get my mouth on you!”
Gillian scratched at the doctor’s face. Clearly she was frightened, but she also looked angry.
“Get your filthy drunkard hands off of me, damn you!”
The creature that had been Tumbelty winced and reached for its torn face, releasing Gillian.
She spun, bumped into Auggie and fell into his arms. “They were outside the store, all over Main Street,” she said, gasping. “ They saw me; I’m sorry!”
Auggie hurled a punch at Tumblety as the infected doctor lunged again at Gillian. The doctor flew backward into the store. Auggie saw other figures in his store, Gerta’s store, climbing through the shattered front windows, knocking over shelves, breaking things. He felt the tears welling up in him, the anger and the sadness. He remembered holding Gerta here, on this patch of desert before all of this had existed. The shadows crept closer. Tumblety was scrambling to its feet, laughing. There was more crashing, more breaking.
The Six-Gun Tarot Page 35