The Hound of Hell

by Rory Nelson

  “But we have no proof,” cautions Merlin. “He’s already received his orders. There is no one else I can send in his place.”

  “Ai. Then we pray his allegiance holds true a little while longer,” says Renault with doleful eyes.

  “In the meantime, report to me if his resolve should waver. Only then will I give the order. You ken, brother? I’m counting on you to hold us together. I fear you’re the only one that can.”

  Renault smiles and places his hand on Merlin’s. “Set watch and warrant it, I am your true brother.”

  Chapter 4: Reluctant Meeting

  Renault reluctantly meets his contact and fellow brother, Whalen Jeffries, in the only halfway respectable saloon in Fallsgate. This medium-sized town owes much of its prosperity to specializing in selling ripe flesh.

  Since Whalen is a partner, he samples the wares whenever he so chooses. This lanky, wrinkled, disheveled, and lecherous gent stands almost seven feet tall. His constant hunched-over posture masks his true height and he appears decrepit to the point a man could knock him down by blowing on him. But, as with the brethren, looks are deceiving. One punch from Whalen’s considerable reach could knock a man unconscious or kill him outright-whichever he chooses.

  Although lethal with his knifes, Whalen is more so with guns, which he keeps loaded at his hips. The man is as gifted as Renault with his hand cannons and fast on the draw — a seasoned killer who looks anything but.

  When Renault struggles to read his innermost thoughts, he picks up only the most cursory ones. The elusive ones remain hidden.

  As Whalen saunters into Mugger’s Saloon, his tattered and wrinkled shirt endures the passages of his journey. The nasty semen stain on the crotch shows how filthy his pants are-most likely the results of a hurried fucking session with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. His hair is long, stringy, unwashed, oily and smells pungent. From a bad case of youth acne, his face is pockmarked, and his skin has the pallor of death. His only attractive feature are his unusual violet eyes, which radiate warmth and humor. But nothing could be further from the truth.

  Renault’s long hair reflects a fine sheen. When pulled back into a braided ponytail, the outline of his cheekbones frames Renault’s clean-shaven face. A masculine tonic of high Carinthe aftershave delights the senses like a fresh sown wheat field. Though his clothing imitates a rancher or tradesmen, Renault’s clothes appear brand new. His boots shine with a polished glow. And, his shirt, jacket and pants looks as if they were just pressed.

  When Whalen approaches Renault, Whalen wears an insidious expression. He sits down before Renault has a chance at a greeting. Renault looks up from his game of sole spades and nods perfunctorily. “Well to see you brother,” says Renault.

  Whalen smirks. “Ai. Likewise. Good thing my interest extends far in this town because you stick out like tits on a boar.”

  “I’m merely passing through, brother. Not trying to absorb the essence of this shithole and wear it like a fine cologne. That’s to your liking.”

  Whalen snickers. “You always were a pretentious fuck. Weren’t you?” Whalen scowls and imagines a vault to keep Renault out of his head. “Stop it you fuck! I ain’t fucking letting you in. I feel you trying to sneak in like some fuckin’ mole.”

  Renault shrugs. “Oh, I am trying to get in and go deeper, but I picked up on a few thoughts when you were walking to the table just now. And I saw that filthy cock of yours rubbing painfully against your pants, reliving the taste of that little virgin you just recently plucked.”

  Whalen smiles. “Oh sure, brother. I’ll let you in for a little taste of that. Hell, for a hundred gold pence, you can have her. For 250, you can do whatever you want to her. You ken?”

  Renault glares and says nothing. With a twist of a wrist, he unbuttons his jacket and reveals the many daggers reflecting in the tavern’s candlelight. They bear his infamous moniker, The Hound of Hell.

  Whalen laughs in derision. “Always did favor those pussy fucking knives of yours.” He brandishes his 12-shooter. “But you have no idea how fast I am with this.”

  They remain stalwart for several seconds until Whalen averts his eyes. “We have business, brother. Let’s see to it.”

  “Ai. I’d be happy to relieve myself of your company. And should Merlin regain reason and give the order, on a more permanent basis.”

  “Well until then,” says Whalen. “We have business to conduct.”

  “That we do. And I’m all business.”

  Whalen removes several pieces of papers from his billfold and hands them to Renault. “This is the schematic of the train.” With experience, Renault peruses it, noting the weak point at which they could penetrate the doors.

  “You know it?” questions Whalen.

  “I’m somewhat familiar with the Filmore Express,” answers Renault matter of fact.

  “It’s the fastest train line in all the West Indies and probably the world. I’ve heard rumors it has a top speed of 85 knots. There’s a 3:00 and 4:00 o’clock stop on the Northern and Southern lines. The Sene-Gauls are commandeering the Southern Line completely for their trip. Nobody on it but soldiers and our illustrious General Crixus between Bixby and Sene-Gaul City.”

  “Are you sure there’s no one else?” asks Renault. “No civilians?’

  Whalen shakes his head with vigor. “No, that was one thing Mason was clear on.”

  “How many soldiers?” questions Renault.

  “35 - 40. Heavy infantry. At least ten sharpshooters in the bunch. The rest are just a bunch of enlistees not worth a bucket of horse piss. But their numbers could overwhelm if things go Sorry Sam.”

  “What else?”

  Whalen points to the schematic at several locations. “Three Gatling guns. Two at the end of the 26-car line. One in the middle. Make no mistake. They’ll be on high alert.”

  “Clearly expecting an air assault from the Sandanistas,” states Renault matter of fact.

  Whalen gives him a facetious smirk. He reveals dirty tobacco-stained teeth that look as if they’ll fall out any second. “No fucking shit.” He pauses. “Most likely they’ll be keeping the general in a cargo hull located near the front of the line here.” Whalen notes as he points near the front of the train.

  “Close to the Gatling gun, of course,” remarks Renault with measured deflation.

  “That’s the idea,” says Whalen. “Like I said, they’re on high alert. Not taking any chances. They’ve done well at keeping this quiet Quincy.”

  “Fortunately, not too well,” says Renault.

  “Wasn’t easy.”

  “Nothing in this line of work is.”

  “I’ve personally surveyed the line. Our only shot is to mount the rescue between Sene-Gaul City and Bixby. After Bixby, the terrain is mostly cliffs and then Pontrachain Bridge. He’s as good as dead if we don’t get him before Bixby.” Whalen sighs and lights up a cigar. “Helluva lot of trouble for one fucking man. Why’s he so important?”

  “I don’t know,” says Renault.

  “Always the same with that tight-lipped prick. Sure would be nice to know what the fuck we fighting for, wouldn’t it?”

  “I know what I’m fighting for.” Renault pauses and lights his cigar. “As for you, I ken that you’ll fight what you’ve always fought for.”

  “And what’s that?” asks Whalen.

  “Yourself.”

  Whalen rolls his eyes. “You think you know me so well, don’t you, you self-righteous cutthroat fuck? You’ve paved a fine road to hell with all the people you tortured and killed. And most of the brethren agree with me you’re a liability.”

  Renault smiles, “Noted.”

  Whalen and Renault stare at each other. Renault gleans a few more minor details from his mind. Blood dribbles from his nose. He wipes it away while Whalen feels the pounding assault of a migraine seep into his brain. Renault looks away.

  “Let’s stop this fucking staring match and get back to business.”

  Renault nod
s. “Ai.”

  “I assume you’ll be running counterpoint on this assignment?”

  Renault hesitates. He never intended to divulge any more information to Whalen than necessary. With his long pause, Whalen determines it for himself and smiles.

  “Of course, you are brother. Who else would be? Since we’re down one man, that makes me your point man. I’ll be lookout scout.” Whalen pauses, enjoying Renault’s discomfort. “Relax, brother. I don’t need to know any more details. There’s no other choice. You’ll be sneaking onto the Southern Line from the Northern Line. You can’t do it without a looksee, can you?”

  Renault sighs. As much as he hates the man, he can’t argue with his logic. Why does he feel like the man just dropped a vat of acid into his stomach? Renault nods. “Ai. It’s a good measure. Be there at 2:45 in Sene-Gaul City. Don’t be late.”

  Whalen nods back and extends his forearm for a brotherly hug. With reluctance, Renault reciprocates. His throat tightens to restrain a close gag reflex from Whalen’s putrid scent.

  Before Renault can leave, Whalen speaks. “I’ve offered you that recently de-flowered little lady, brother. Care to wet your dingy in ‘er?” questions Whalen with a lecherous grin.

  “I’m a married man,” Renault sneers.

  “But your wife ain’t here. She’ll never know,” rebuts Whalen as he grabs Renault’s arm.

  Renault eyes him with disgust and considers breaking Whalen’s hand, but stops himself. He would be out of commission for the assignment. Instead, Renault pulls his arm away forcefully. “But I would.”

  Whalen shrugs then shakes his head in bewilderment. He flings Renault one of his business cards. Renault catches it. “Just in case you should regain a working cock, brother.”

  Chapter 5: Renault Negotiates

  With ease, Renault retraces Whalen’s steps from Pleasure Point, his brothel. A beautiful lacquered mahogany staircase ascends inside a stalwart brick structure. This piece may have cost more than the county courthouse.

  A voluptuous clad courtesan greets Whalen at the top of the staircase. Her tailored brassiere fits her bosom so tight they look as if they’ll fall out. The snug lambskin skirt accentuates her slim waist and the bare midriff completes the ensemble. Such an enticement provokes a rise in his genitals.

  “Welcome to Pleasure Point, Sai,” the courtesan says as she extends her hand.

  “Thankee,” says Renault. He bows, takes her hand, and kisses it.

  She points to the front, and he walks through a foyer just as resplendent. Polished hardwood floors and a chandelier with dozens of tiny candelabra decorate the reception hall.

  The gruff looking gent at the front is a rotund man with a disheveled appearance. His prodigious belly extends well over his belt. Tiny burst capillaries crisscross his nose, showing an affinity for the bottle. His eyes are rheumy and bloodshot.

  “Can I help you, Sai?” asks whom Renault assumes is the proprietor.

  Renault smiles and hands him Whalen’s business card. “My good friend referred me here. Recommended I sample some of your fresher wares. My name is Renault.” He extends his hand. The gent shakes it.

  “Blakesly,” responds the man.

  With caution and curiosity, Renault eyes this establishment.

  “If we had such wares, Sai, no doubt that would cost you some hard coin,” Blakesly continues.

  Renault removes a sack full of gold pence and removes a few of the coins. Blakesly’s eyelids raise with covetousness and he nods. “Come with me, Sai.”

  The men travel through the extensive hallway and reach a large oak door almost eight feet tall. At least seven different locks stand as a sentry to the intimidating room. With his key ring, Blakesly unlocks several of the locks and enters the room. A set of black oak drawers camouflages two medium-sized wall safes. One of the drawers is open and has a mountain of cash inside- Gilleon Visi-Galian, Ostra-Galian paper currency and universal gold pence piles high.

  Three gruff-looking muscular ruffians over six feet tall stare at Renault. On their hips dangle long knife pouches. Renault nods with respect. Two other men standing shorter but no less stout also glare at him down. Speed shooters hang from their hips.

  Blakesley locks several of the locks on the door and motions to the man in the middle. Renault quips, “Is that really necessary? You’ll all be defenseless in here with me.”

  The men, stupefied at the statement, look at Renault and laugh. He laughs also, diffusing the situation. “This is Renault,” replies Blakesly, his eyes pointing at Renault. “The man in the middle is Harrington and the other brute is Coy. The three giants are Sil, Burd, and Kent, the butcher.”

  “A butcher?” asks Renault. “I’m in the market for some good venison. Do you have any in your shop?”

  The men chuckle in the background. “He’s called the butcher for other reasons,” says Harrington.

  “Besides, he’s the muscle around here. And, shall we say a good dose of discouragement as word spreads fast in these parts? You could say his family is the law. Brother Hegmut’s shariff in these parts, so you’d be wise to leave your Tom Fuckery outside. You ken?”

  Renault nods. “Ai. Wouldn’t dare to think of it, I assure you.”

  “You’re an amusing gent, Sai, but we’re busy. State your purpose. Blakesly wouldn’t have brought you back here without proof of hard coin.”

  “I believe you’ve recently acquired a young girl, ashen hair. Her delicate curves and a face would rival an angel’s.”

  Harrington nods. “Ah,” he says as if reminiscing. “That we do. That beautiful young little vixen was a bit of roughshod when we acquired her. But Whalen seems to have broken her in proper.” He looks at the other men who nod in agreement and snicker. “I think you’ll find she’s quite amenable now- to whatever your desire is.” He pauses. “Provided, Sai, that you have adequate coin.”

  Renault removes a sack full of gold pence. As he tosses it to Harrington, Harrington catches the money and eyes it with greed. “We’ll keep it and book you a time sometime tomorrow night. As you can imagine, a girl this delectable is in high demand. 100 gold pence for an hour. 250 for a dip in the stink.” He glances at the coins again. “Obviously, you have more than that here.”

  Renault looks at Harrington with certainty. “I cry pardon Sai. You may have mistaken intent. I’m not looking to purchase a session with her. I’m looking to purchase her outright.”

  Harrington looks back at him as if he had gone mad. The other men wear stupefied looks of disbelief. Once again, they burst out into laughter. Renault joins their mockery with a rueful glare and piercing eyes. Their laughter screeches to a halt.

  “Get out!” demands Harrington. Sid, Bert and Kent move closer to Renault, who doesn’t waiver in the least. “The only way that little vixen is leaving here is over our dead fucking bodies!”

  Renault smiles while unclasping the button on his lapel, hinting at the sharp daggers inside his vest. “Well, Harrington, that’s good to hear. It just so happens that I’m agreeable to your offer.”

  For several seconds, indecision grips the men. They are nonplussed. By the time Sil, Burd and Kent attack Renault, two daggers fly across the room at Blakesly and Harrington. Renault’s impeccable precision finds a home in Blakesly’s chest. He yells from the sight of the dagger and the pain piercing his lungs. The taste of blood dribbles from his lips. As Blakesly grips the knife, more blood seeps along the wound.

  The other dagger penetrates Harrington’s throat, spurting blood from the wound. He chokes and sputters, trying in vain to breathe. Blood drains into his lungs. Once more Harrington gasps for air but collapses from suffocation.

  In the same instant, Sid and Bert, reach out for Renault with one hand while reaching for their daggers. Renault counters with a violent twist of Sid’s wrist, breaking it. As Sid cries out, Renault launches a crippling kick to his shin. Sid hears the sickening break of his bone and grabs his lower leg. While the broken bone penetrates through his skin, he
screams in torment.

  Bert swings down on Renault with his knife, but Renault sidesteps and swipes his knife in an arc. Bert’s jugular opens up, emitting a spurting of crimson. He chokes, sputters and falls as the blood pools around him. Sid moves toward him on his good leg and throws his knife. Renault brings up his forearm in defense and the knife penetrates. Renault winces, pivots and pulls one of his daggers and hurls it at Sid. The throw finds home in his eye socket six inches deep, penetrating into his tender brain. Sid drops to the floor, convulsing in a pile of his blood.

  Kent dives for Harrington’s gun and attempts to fire, but he is too slow for Renault. With two simultaneous throws, Renault’s dagger penetrates his chest and breaks the breast plate. Blood seeps from the wound. When Renault retracts the dagger, he unplugs the hole from Kent’s chest. Kent buckles and sees bright crimson on his fingers and hands.

  In shock, Kent does not notice the other dagger ripping into his forehead. He only feels an immobilizing hot and cold sensation flooding his system. Again, Renault retracts the dagger with some brain matter from Kent’s temples. In glorious victory, Renault watches the blood ooze. And with mercy, he twists Kent’s neck, ending his agony for good.

  Observing his forearm, he sees a small amount of blood seep. He grabs his money and a set of keys from Blakesly. While sifting through a set of ledgers and columned pages, Renault reads a set of notes: New Acquisitions. Eva. Room 57.

  With a playful smirk, Renault surveys the blood bath of men. “Nice doing business with you chums.” He laughs in derision and walks out.

  (2)

  Sene-Gaulian Lieutenant Tillip Ginsmore looks at the breathtaking girl before him. She is enchanting—thick, black hair and delicate features, dark green almost luminescent eyes and full, sensuous lips which give her a pouty look. Her breasts are small and perky. Tillip knows they may grow in time. After all, she is still a child herself. He doubts she is fifteen.