by Tonia Brown
Our procession mounted a flight of stone stairs and filed into what I thought was a house of worship. While the building we entered may have looked like a church on the outside, the inside was laid out more like a court of law. The pews were still in place, yet instead of an altar or a podium from which the preacher could deliver the word of God, there sat at the far end a large desk and a single chair. The desk was covered in a variety of books and papers, some neatly stacked while others lay in jumbled piles. To the left and right of the desk awaited a pair of sentries, each man armed with a wide blade, a set of pistols, and a rifle slung across his back.
Clint led his personal guard and his prisoners down the aisle, our collective steps echoing across the empty vastness of the great hall. Just as he brought us to a stop at the end of the pews, another man appeared from some half-hidden room at the back. As he came forward, I saw he stood no taller than I, and was very lean in build and dressed simply in slacks and a beige button-down shirt. No tie, bow or otherwise. He also kept himself clean shaven. Or perhaps couldn’t grow facial hair at all? This boyish appearance placed him as young as twenty, but his thick mop of graying hair suggested he was far older.
“Clinton!” the man shouted.
“Dillon,” Clint said as he gave a curt nod.
Dillon? This little man was the grand leader of whom everyone seemed so afraid? This was the same man who could inspire Mr. Theo to sell me into slavery rather than deal with him directly? As Dillon came into the light, I caught a sight that forced my heart into my throat. His eyes. A thin hint of blue peeked out from a hazy layer that coated each iris.
He had the same frosted eyed as Mr. Theo.
The man rushed forward and grabbed Clint’s hand, shaking it roughly. “I’m so glad you’re back. It’s always marvelous to see you and the boys come home again. Did you get a good haul?”
“Yes, sir,” Clint said. “We managed to salvage quite a bit on this run.”
“Splendid. I can always trust you and your men to bring back the goods.” The man clapped his hands together and rubbed them in a sinister way as he eyed the scientist and me. “Speaking of which, I see you brought some friends with you.”
“Yes, sir. I think you’ll be pleased too, because I brought you-”
“Where is he?” Dillon asked over the man.
His proud presentation derailed, Clint fell into a stammer of incomprehensible sounds.
“Clinton?” Dillon asked. “Where is he?”
“Well, sir, it’s like this …” Clint started, but his words trailed off, as if he realized no amount of excuses would win the argument.
“I see.” All at once, Dillon lost the touch of humor and easygoing smile. A strange darkness came upon him, turning his boyish face hard and mean. He crossed the room and hoisted his slight frame onto the desk until he perched on the edge. There he sat, legs crossed and lips pursed tight, staring at us for a few moments. “Clinton, my old friend, I sent you on a simple task. One thing. I asked you to do one thing for me. And I asked you not to return until you completed the task. One thing. What was it?”
Clint stumbled with excuses. “Sir, if you’ll just give me a chance to explain-”
Dillon slammed his closed fist on the desk beneath him, sending a bang ricocheting through the church, clear as a gunshot, cutting the man’s plea short. Everyone cringed at the sound save for Clint, who snapped upright at the noise, his eyes font and center, his attention focused on some faraway goal.
“I asked for one thing!” Dillon cried. He drew a deep breath, and in a calmer voice asked, “What did I ask for?”
“Theophilus Jackson,” Clint said, never shifting his gaze from that far-off point.
“Then you understood me. Or maybe you didn’t. Did you know what I meant when I asked you to go and fetch Theophilus and not to come back without him?”
Clint grimaced. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, then.” Dillon crossed his arms with a huff. “It seems we are at an impasse. Because you have returned, and I don’t see what I sent you after. Have you failed me?”
Clint said nothing to this.
“I asked you a question,” Dillon said. He tapped the desk with a forefinger as he spoke again, each word a sentence unto itself. “Have. You. Failed. Me.”
“No,” Clint said. He broke his distant stare to turn his eyes upon his master. “I didn’t fail you, sir. I renegotiated. Jackson offered me a new deal, and I took it. You would’ve done the same thing if you had been there.”
Dillon raised his eyebrows at the explanation. He then lifted a finger, motioning his man forward. “Come.”
Clint advanced, hesitantly, until he was face to face with his master.
“Is Jackson here?” Dillon asked.
“If you will just let me-” Clint said.
“Is Jackson here?” Dillon repeated over him.
“No. Sir.”
Dillon leaned in close, and said, softly, “Then you have failed me.”
Clint went quiet again.
I thought I heard him swallow hard.
Dillon pulled back and added, “But I’ve always been fond of you, Clinton. You know that.”
“Yes, sir?” Clint half-asked, half-said.
“We’ve seen some tough times, you and me. We’ve been through a lot. So I’m going to give you a second chance to track him down. A second chance to bring him back. Would you like a second chance?”
Relief washed over Clint, and he relaxed his stance. “Yes, sir. I won’t let you down again.”
“No. I don’t suppose you will.” Dillon snapped his fingers at the sentry to his right.
The guard moved forward and grabbed Clint by the arm. Clint tensed again, that relief vanishing as quickly as it arrived.
Dillon smiled as he said, “Take him to the stockyard.”
“You son of a bitch!” Clint yelled. He lunged for Dillon.
The guard yanked Clint’s arm, twisting it behind the man as he drew a pistol and pressed it to Clint’s jaw line.
“Tyler? Kent?” Clint begged in desperation to his men behind him. “Help me!”
The pair ignored him, developing a sudden quiet interest in the floor.
During the whole struggle, Dillon never flinched. “I want him infected and made into a tracker before the next full moon. Let’s see if he can do the job any better as a revenant, because he was sorely lacking as a man.”
“You son of a bitch!” Clint roared as the guard shoved him toward the door. “I swear you better just put me down, because if I get out of this, I’ll kill you. Do you hear me? Undead or not, I’ll find you and I’ll kill you!”
And just like that, Dillon watched the guard lead his demoted right-hand man to the exit, listening with mild interest as Clint cursed the very day Dillon was born.
“Such a shame,” Dillon said with a sigh. “I was always fond of him. But as they say, no good deed goes unpunished.” The man looked back to Mortimer and me, rubbing his hands once more. “Now, who do we have here? I wasn’t expecting company. Aside from Theo, that is.”
Mortimer glanced at me, and I at him.
Neither of us spoke.
“No introductions?” Dillon asked.
One of Clint’s ruffians pushed Mortimer forward and demanded, “Tell him who you are.”
“I-I-I’m Mortimer P-P-P. Tinsd-d-dale,” Mortimer stammered.
Dillon nodded. “Well met, Mr. Tinsdale. What brings you to our little town?”
“What brings me …” Mortimer gave a short laugh. “That madman is what brought me here. And I have to say that I’ve never been treated so shamefully in all of my life. Why, when I get back, there will be letters and-”
Dillon raised his hand, which had a curious effect on Mortimer.
He stopped talking.
“I understand you’re capable of creating a cure,” Dillon said.
Mortimer gave a childlike gasp. “How do know that?”
“I make it my business to know what goes on in my t
own.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“I’m glad you agree. Is it true? Can you make a cure?”
“Well, given the right equipment, I might be able to-”
“Can you produce a cure or not? Simple question.”
“I’ve been working on number of solutions … that is to say, I might have some definite answers … I think there is possibly … um … yes?”
“Don’t do it,” I snapped.
“Why not?” Mortimer asked.
“Yes, why not?” Dillon asked.
I took Mortimer by the arm, as best I could, considering we were still chained together. “Don’t give it to them. They’ll just use it for ill. Think about where you are. Who these men are. Don’t do it.”
Mortimer furrowed his brow at me in confusion.
“Please,” I begged. “Think of the folks back home. Don’t let these madmen win.”
His face softened, and he nodded. “You’re right, of course.” Mortimer cleared his throat and addressed Dillon again. “I don’t think I’ll be making anything for you. Not today. Not ever.”
“Are you certain about that?” Dillon asked.
“Yes, I rather think so. I’m tired of being pushed about for something I may or may not know. I’m not even supposed to be here. I demand to speak to a lawyer or, at the very least, someone who can get a message for me back across the border.”
I had to give it to the man; he was brave. Stupid, but brave.
“Mortimer … may I call you Mortimer?” Dillon asked.
Mortimer nodded.
“Mortimer,” Dillon started again, “I assume you’ve worked very closely with the infected in your search for this cure, yes?”
“Yes. Yes, very closely.”
“Then I’m sure you know the cycle of infection. How it breaks down a body. How it works. Yes?”
Mortimer grew visibly excited to talk about such matters. “Why, yes, I do! It’s fascinating, really. First the victim suffers from a general malaise, which can last anywhere from eight to eighteen hours before it progresses into abdominal cramping. This is quickly followed by severe abdominal pain, accompanied by a loss of appetite and violent fits of vomiting and, well, other expulsions. Around this time, the victim often develops tremors or, in some cases, total-body seizures, as well as blurred vision or loss of hearing. The last phase occurs when the patient slips into a lethargic state, suffering from respiratory distress, tachycardia, and often total catatonia. And then …”
Dillon, who listened to the terrible description with the most attention I had seen him apply so far, asked, “And then?”
“And then death, I’m afraid.”
Dillon leaned forward to waggle his eyebrows in a most inappropriate way as he asked, “And then?”
“And then the corpse is reanimated. Well, it appears to undergo reanimation. In reality, I don’t think the victims die at all. I think they lose conscious control of their bodies and cease breathing and other functions for a few brief moments before the infection takes over. Sort of an ‘out with the old’ kind of thing. You see, it’s my theory that it has something to do with the central nervous system. I believe the infection-”
“Mortimer?” Dillon asked over the muttering scientist.
“Yes?”
“Has anyone close to you suffered the infection?”
“No. Why?”
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to suffer the infection yourself?”
Narrowing his eyes to suspicious slits, Mortimer asked, “Are you threatening me, sir?”
“Do I need to threaten you?”
Mortimer huffed and grumbled. “I really don’t know what to say to that.”
“Say you’ll create a cure for me. Or at the very least try. I will provide you with everything you require. You’ll have access to as much help as you need. And, of course, you’ll be granted a certain comfort of living not found anywhere else in the Badlands. Food. Water. Wine.” Dillon paused here to smirk again. “Women?”
“W-w-women?” The scientist took on a desperate look of desire.
For Pete’s sake! It was just like a man to be swayed by the promise of sex.
“Mortimer,” I warned.
Mortimer shook his head as if he could dislodge the lustful images surely floating about his tired mind. “Yes, of course. I can’t. I just can’t. I need to get back east. The American people deserve this cure, not just a handful of ruffians and ne’er-do-wells. No offense meant.”
“None taken,” Dillon said. “So it’s a no then, is it?”
“No. I mean yes, it’s a no.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes?”
Dillon nodded to one of the men behind us, who undid Mortimer’s cuffs, unchaining him from me.
Mortimer rubbed at his wrists. “Thank you so much. I was just wondering … hey now!”
This cry of alarm came when the same man who’d just freed Mortimer grabbed him up by the collar.
“Take him to the stockyard,” Dillon said.
“Where are you taking me?” Mortimer asked as Kent began to drag him away.
“Let him spend a night in the cell with the converts, but don’t infect him. Yet.”
“What?” Mortimer cried.
“If he doesn’t change his mind by first light tomorrow, toss him to the revenants. Maybe they can stomach his self-righteousness better than we ruffians and ne’er-do-wells.”
“Wait! I’ve changed my mind! I’ll make your cure. I promise. Don’t hurt me! I’m a pacifist! A pacifist, I tell you!” Mortimer’s pleas echoed through the hall long after he was gone.
Dillon watched with that same detached amusement. I had never seen a man so indifferent to those around him. My stomach sank to my knees when he turned those frosted eyes on me.
“And then there was one,” he said. Dillon chuckled as he took his seat at the desk. For a moment, he seemed to ignore me in favor of shuffling his papers about, looking very busy while doing so. After a minute or two of this, he lifted his face and asked, “What’s your story?”
“I don’t have one,” I said.
“I think you do.”
I shrugged.
“Turn about,” Dillon commanded.
I raised the shackles. “That’s kind of hard to do.”
The despot gave one of his men the most imperceptible of nods, at which the grunt stumbled forward to unchain me. I massaged my raw wrists, amazed at how much discomfort the metal caused in so little time. Dillon cleared his throat, then circled his finger in the air, requesting once more that I turn about. I did, taking care not to sway my hips or appear any more feminine than I was sure he already knew me to be.
“Very good,” he said. “Very nice. You’re a fine specimen.”
I snorted. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Meow!” Dillon laughed. “So feisty. But that’s good. I like feisty.” He hopped up from his seat and approached me until we stood very close together.
I looked to the ceiling rather than into those frozen eyes.
The distinct sounds of deliberate breaths rose from him as he inhaled deeply. He brought his lips to my ear and said, very low, “You stink of travel. And the dead. But I can smell you under there. I can smell the real you.”
I kept my eyes to the ceiling and my thoughts to myself.
Dillon breathed deep once more before backing off. As he moved away, he gave a little shudder and grinned wide at me. “Take her to Jessie.”
“Yes sir,” the remaining man behind me said as he pulled me to him by the arm.
I was led (dragged is more the word!) out the back of the church and toward a large two-story house behind the impressive cathedral. A parochial house, perhaps? It didn’t matter what purpose the house used to serve, because I could guess who owned the thing now. The interior was modestly adorned; a few religious artifacts still lingered here and there, but most of the fixtures were a mix of various fashions, with no particular style at the for
efront. There wasn’t much time to ogle the décor, however, for once we entered the home, I was hustled down a long hallway and into a sparsely furnished anteroom.
The fellow manhandling me shoved me inside and commanded that I wait quietly.
Then he left me alone to imagine my torrid fate.
I thought about ignoring his orders and launching into a temper tantrum, screaming and ranting and raving, but I just didn’t have it in me. I ached from the uneven keel of the wagon, and the few tense moments in front of Dillon. Too tired to disobey, I followed the man’s orders, took to a small settee and reviewed the last few hours in silence. And I didn’t like the conclusions I drew.
No matter how I sliced the affairs, I was back to square one.
After so much effort, risk, and hard work, I was back where I’d started. Only instead of the relative comfort of Mrs. Fathom’s whorehouse, with a room all my own and a bevy of handmaidens to see to my every whim, I was alone in the middle of the Badlands, with a maniacal despot as my master and God only knew what for his sexual tastes. I was at the end of my tether. The last of my endurance.
I couldn’t go back to what I was, not after what I had become. At the same time, I was tired of fighting. My time at the boys’ workhouse, my travels on the open road, even that brief and frightening sojourn with Boudreaux … everything I’d gone through shaped me, molded me, changed me. And yet here I was back to the same old same old. Mr. Theo introduced me to a whole new life, where I was my own master with a useful trade, and …
And he also sold me to the highest bidder just to save his own hide.
I sank into an utter blackness, drawn down into that darkest of depths by both the betrayal of my mentor and the finality of my fate. So absorbed was I in my suffering that I failed to notice when a woman took me by the hand and started to lead me from the room as she spoke softly.
“Honey?” she asked. “Are you here?”
“Yes,” I said as I snapped back into the moment.
I started as I laid eyes on the woman. She wasn’t quite what I expected. She was full figured and soft, with auburn hair in ringlets about her face, framing her high cheekbones and brown eyes and plump lips.