Blood Riders

by Michael P. Spradlin

  “They do that every night. Get up on the roof and stomp around,” she said.

  “Why?” Hollister asked.

  “Don’t know. They ain’t tried to break through the roof. Lucinda said it was like they enjoyed hearing us get scared.”

  The stomping on the roof continued, then stopped suddenly. Chee was motionless at the window, his rifle up and ready. Hollister went to the iron door and peered through the window. The cell-block was empty.

  “Sally? A word please,” he said.

  She lowered the child to the floor, patting her on the head and telling her she would be right back.

  The young woman approached him at the doorway. The flickering lantern light inside the office made the sudden quiet more menacing somehow. In the dimness he could see the hard years in the lines of Sally’s young face. Hollister was willing to bet life had not gone the way Sally had planned.

  “Got a question for you,” he said to her. “This jail, not that I’m not happy about it right this instant, but for such a small town I got to wonder . . . four cells with iron bars and a reinforced door to the cell block . . . a shooters’ port on the front door and window. I mean, it seems like a little bit of overkill. This isn’t a cow town, so you don’t have cowboys to worry about. I suppose the miners might get a little rowdy on payday, but why all the fuss for a small-town jail?”

  Sally glanced over her shoulder at Rebecca.

  “The sheriff . . . Rebecca’s husband . . . he is . . . well . . . was . . . a hard man. And ambitious. He liked to keep the order. What he said all the time anyway.”

  “I see,” Hollister said. “I guess we owe him some thanks. Why does Mrs. Sheriff have such an intense dislike for you?”

  “I’m a whore.”

  Hollister shrugged. “Seems personal though.”

  “The sheriff was also my pimp and my best customer, Marshal.”

  “Ah.” He had no further reply.

  “How we going to get out of this?” she asked.

  “Don’t know yet. But I’m working on it.”

  “We been in here four days, Marshal. I hope you come up with something quick,” she said, stepping back to the group and picking up the young girl again. “Your deputy there. He keeps calling you Major. Were you in the army together?”

  “Something like that,” he answered.

  “Major!” Chee said from the window, as if on cue. Hollister rejoined Chee at the window.

  “What is it?”

  “Our friend is back.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Where there had previously stood three vampires in the street, now there were only piles of ash, slowly blowing away in the gathering breeze.

  “Where is she now?” Hollister asked.

  “I don’t know,” Chee said. “It happened so fast, I almost missed it. She had a big knife of some kind. She didn’t . . . they weren’t . . .” Chee looked over his shoulder. He wanted to keep his voice down, fearing news of the woman’s appearance would needlessly alarm the women and children. He leaned in close to Hollister.

  “What I’m saying is, she didn’t cut off their heads or anything. She just stabbed them and they turned to dust. It happened so fast they didn’t have time to react. She ran up on the roof. It’s quiet up there now. I bet she got the two up there as well.”

  Hollister thought for a moment, trying to recall anything about stabbing vampires like regular folks that he might have read in Van Helsing’s journals. Nothing came to him.

  “We’ll have to figure it out later. Maybe we can exchange notes if we ever get a chance to ask her—”

  He was interrupted by a shout.

  “Billy, no!” One of the women screamed. Spinning around, Hollister saw that one of the boys, maybe eight or ten years old, had worked his way close to the door while no one was paying attention. Now he was throwing up the wooden latch and tearing it open.

  Hollister was about six feet away and leapt after him, but the kid was small and quick and had the door open. He dashed through it into the darkened street.

  “Get back here, kid!” Hollister yelled after him. The boy was fast and he ran across the walkway in front of the jail and down the street. He was about to run after him when from directly above him the man who had jumped on the roof, still wearing his ridiculous top hat, landed on the ground in front of him. Apparently, the mystery woman had missed one of the creatures on the roof. Or she had been killed herself. The thought gave him momentary pause as he tried to scramble backward into the jail, but the creature’s hands shot out and grabbed him around the neck.

  He couldn’t breathe. It felt like his neck had been clapped in irons. His feet started to leave the ground as the creature lifted him up in the air. Hollister was only vaguely aware of the shouts and screams of the women and children in the open doorway behind him. He tried to choke out words, but he could not get any air in his lungs.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Shaniah had slowly worked her way into the town and spent time on the rooftops of the main street across from the Archaics who stood outside the jail and hid in the shadows of the buildings below her. They did not catch her scent, whether it was because of the stillness of the air, or her position downwind of them. More likely it was because they were still initiates, recently turned and not fully familiar with their newfound senses and powers. Her scent blended with the cacophony of smells they were processing at the moment. Experienced Archaics would have known she was there.

  Malachi or his minions had been busy. There were dozens of Archaics in the town. The humans sequestered in the jail were going to die. It was only a matter of time, unless someone came for them in daylight. Then they might have a chance. She had eyed Hollister’s train on her way into town. It might be their only hope.

  It had been smart of the humans to hole up in the jail. She had learned humans were excellent at building jails and prisons, and it was probably the most secure building in the entire town. They could make it through another night. The humans inside did not yet understand the Archaics besieging them. The Archaics were consumed by hunger and were using their strength and viciousness to feed. Being recently turned, planning and plotting eluded them in most cases. Now, watching the jail, she knew there were likely no living humans left in the town. The Archaics were gathering where the food was.

  She needed Hollister and the man-witch to find Malachi, but for now, it was time to even the odds. The three Archaics in the street died quickly.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  When he turned around, it was Top Hat Man who held his neck. The man’s face changed, his eyes went red, and his jaw grew. Hollister watched as the fangs descended from his mouth. Without warning, Jonas was dropped to the ground as there was a loud explosion and the vampire went flying sideways. Chee had shot the man in the head with the Henry and he catapulted off the porch, landing in the street. Of course the bullet didn’t kill him, but he screamed in agony, clutching at his head as he rose to his feet, charging at Hollister.

  Hollister drew his Colt and started shooting. Hitting a moving target in the heart is not easy. It requires some luck, but the fourth bullet took the creature in the right spot and he moaned in pain again as he staggered backward and collapsed in a heap of dust, the top hat rolling in the dirt.

  Jonas staggered back into the office and slammed the door shut. “Jesus Christ!” he said, trying to calm his breath and keep his heart from slamming out of his chest. He reloaded the Colt, nearly dropping the bullets as his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  “Please, mister,” he heard a voice behind him, and turned to find Billy’s mother standing there, tears streaming down her face. “You got to help him.”

  Hollister didn’t know what to do. His training and instinct told him he needed to go find the boy, but his encounter with Top Hat had left him shaken.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “Dowding. Joann Dowding. Please. You got to fetch my Billy,” she said.

  “Why d
id he run away?”

  “I don’t know . . . he . . .” she stammered, unable or unwilling to get the words out.

  “Because he’s a damn retard,” Rebecca interrupted the woman.

  “He is not . . . you leave my Billy be!” The woman started crying again and Hollister didn’t know what to do to make her stop.

  “Your stupid retard is going to get us all killed,” Rebecca went on. She was still in her corner, leaning against it. Her eyes were wild and unfocused and Hollister was pretty sure she had lost whatever command of her faculties she might have once possessed. He had seen it happen to soldiers in combat many times. The tense, uncertain atmosphere drove them over the edge.

  “If you go after that retard . . . we all . . .” She was cut off by the appearance of Sally, who stepped in front of her, pointing the big Colt at her head.

  “Rebecca, you need to shut your hole. You call that boy a name again . . . you open your mouth at all and I’ll shoot you myself,” Sally said.

  “You whore! Don’t you point a gun . . .” Rebecca stood up, and while Chee kept his post at the port in the window, Hollister moved to step in. Just as he was about to put himself between them the Colt went off with a loud bang, and the wall next to Rebecca’s head exploded, with wood chips flying everywhere. Rebecca and several of the others screamed. Then it was silent a moment as the smoke cleared. Rebecca stared at Sally and the barrel of the gun, which hadn’t moved, a stunned expression on her face. But the sheriff’s wife was finally quiet.

  “I have had enough of you and your mouth,” Sally said. “You’re a bitch and a bully. We are through listening to you. This woman is worried for her child and you’ll not say another word about it. Is that clear?”

  “You filthy whore . . .” Rebecca spat, the shock from the gunshot fading.

  “That’s right, I’m a whore. I ain’t filthy, but I’m a whore. And I think you know your husband was my best customer. I expect every one of us that has been shut up in this jail with you for the last four days can see why. But I ain’t like you, so I been too polite to mention it. But you say another word about anything, and I’ll go upside your head with this Colt. Do you understand?”

  Rebecca had nowhere to go. She was pinned into the corner by Sally. Looking in vain around the room, she tried to find an escape and saw none. Finally she turned and faced the wall, her shoulders slumped, sobbing. Sally lowered the weapon and returned to her spot on the floor, a couple of the younger children scrambling to sit next to her. Hollister decided he liked the fact they had Sally on their side.

  He returned to Chee, still at the window, apparently not having noticed the entire episode. Or not caring. Hollister couldn’t decide.

  “What are we going to do?” Chee asked.

  “I’m going after the kid,” Hollister said.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Hollister shook his head. “No. You’ve got to stay here and protect these people. If Billy hadn’t run off, I think we probably could have lasted here until sunrise. Either way, you should be able to hole up here. Once the sun comes up, you double-time it to the train.”

  Hollister checked the loads in his pistol. Chee handed him one of his ammo belts.

  “All forty-five caliber, so they’ll fit your gun. Those are the bullets loaded with silver and holy water. It will slow them down until you can finish them with wood,” Chee said.

  “I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Hollister said, wrapping the belt around his shoulder.

  “Yes, sir,” Chee said.

  “All right, you have your orders. Try to keep everyone alive. If I don’t come back, send a wire to Pinkerton and have him order the army back here.”

  “Sir. You really should let me go with you, I . . .”

  Hollister held up his hand.

  “Don’t worry Sergeant,” he said. “I think I’ve got some help out there already.”

  “You think she can be trusted?” Chee asked. He could not believe the major would be so willing to put his life in the hands of someone he didn’t know. Especially one who was . . . supernatural at the very least.

  “She helped us with the Utes, she killed at least three of those critters, and maybe more by now. Something tells me she needs or wants something from us. I don’t know what it is, but if she wanted us dead she would have killed us in Torson City.”

  Chee could not argue the point.

  Hollister was ready to go, he pulled both of the Colts. He looked at the door a moment, then at Chee.

  “One thing, Sergeant. When I come back, if I do come back, you use your coin. First thing. And if I don’t have my coin or if I don’t want to switch ’em with you . . . and I’m not . . . if I’m no longer me, you shoot me down. No hesitation. Do you understand?”

  Chee was staring out the port, keeping his eyes on the street. Finally he glanced at the major.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I understand.”

  And with that, Hollister disappeared into the night.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Billy was nowhere to be seen. Hollister had debated bringing one of the lanterns with him, but there was no sense in giving himself away with a light—although he suspected the vampires already knew he was there. He remembered Top Hat and his leap to the roof, so once he heard Chee lock the door behind him, he turned around and backed into the street with both Colts pointed at the top of the building. When he cleared the roof over the walkway, he tensed, but no one appeared there.

  He had no idea what to do. These things were so fast he didn’t know where to look first. The moon lighted the street, but there were shadows everywhere and it took every ounce of self-control not to start firing at every flickering image he saw in the corner of his eye.

  Where would the kid go? What had possessed him to run in the first place? Maybe he had a father he thought was still out here. Once he was out of the jail, he might have wanted to try and find him. Maybe he wanted to get away from that bitch Rebecca. Kids do all kinds of reckless things.

  He slowly moved south along the street, heading toward the saloon. A door slammed and he nearly jumped out of his boots. It had come from up ahead. Could have been the wind, but he doubted it.

  He was certain they were watching him now. No way to tell how many, but certainly more than one. There was an alley between the bank and the saloon and he thought he saw movement at the end of it, but he held his fire, reminding himself not to shoot until he had something to aim at. No sense wasting bullets on shadows. Especially when he didn’t know how many of these creatures were out there.

  Van Helsing had written that these things turned regular humans into vampires by drinking their victims’ blood, then making the victims drink the blood of the vampires. According to his journal, no one had been able to quite figure out how it worked, but something in the human soul was lost in the transformation. Van Helsing didn’t necessarily believe they were evil by nature, although they had been cursed, it seemed, but rather they were simply made into predators. They hunted and killed, just like a lion or a wild dog.

  Reading through Van Helsing’s journal the last few days and having been one of the few humans who had survived an encounter with these creatures, Hollister didn’t believe any of it. They were evil. End of story.

  Hollister was not a religious man, though he had grown up in a house run by very devout parents. There was nothing beyond chores and church in the Hollister household when he was a boy. They worked the farm six days a week and Sunday was spent at chapel. His mother and father tolerated nothing else. He remembered the countless hours sitting in the pews of the Presbyterian church in Tecumseh, Michigan, pulling at the starched collar of his shirt. Usually wearing one of his brother’s hand-me-downs, always so tight around his neck he thought he would suffocate.

  He’d spent nearly every hour of his days in the house of God daydreaming. Hoping to leave the farm. He wanted to join the army and fight. So he’d never paid much attention to the sermons or the teachings of the
good reverend Forsythe who was so old when Hollister was a boy, he and his brothers had wondered if the man might die on the pulpit right in front of them.

  He’d been required to attend services at the Point and he’d done his duty. He’d chuckled to himself a few times then, when he’d caught himself pulling at the collar of the dress grays they were required to wear, mimicking the same thing he’d done as a kid.

  The truth of it was, none of the religious teachings had stuck with Hollister much, except for one: the existence of evil in the world.

  He had seen enough of it firsthand. Men who were born without souls the way some poor child might be born without a hand. They were nothing more than animals, and during the war, Hollister had put down a few. In Leavenworth he’d found even more: men with a gaping emptiness inside where their soul, the human part of them, should be.

  That is what these vampires were. Cursed or not, they were evil. Whatever they represented, they would kill as many human beings as they could. And it was his job to stop them.

  He stood in the street, the saloon on his left directly in front of him. Going back in was suicide, he told himself. He didn’t know why, but they were in there. At least some of them. And they either had Billy with them or knew where he was. He would keep killing them until Jonas himself was dead, or he found the kid.

  Where was the woman? he thought. Wouldn’t they be trying to draw her out as well? The guns felt suddenly heavy in his hands and he realized he was very tired. Nothing he could do about it though.

  He moved slowly forward, the saloon door coming closer. He held the Colt in his left hand straight out in front of him and his right hand was cocked at an angle at his waist. Holy water and silver to slow them down, Chee had said. Wood to kill them. Hollister almost laughed. Chee reduced everything to its simplest terms.

  The swinging doors were right in front of him. He couldn’t see inside the saloon—it was too dark and not much of the moonlight penetrated the interior. He could sense the vampires inside now, waiting for him. Slowly he reached out with the Colt, pushing on the saloon door. It creaked on its hinges, sounding as loud as a cannon shot in the quiet night.