Ghosts, Gears, and Grimoires

by Unknown

  Only then, as a hospital orderly ran up, summoned by a guard, did she finally allow herself to sag. If Durand came asking her for any further assistance, he would definitely regret it. She was determined to have a good long sleep—then spend a week in her apartment.

  Resting.

  A Few Days in Kansas, 1881

  Jim Reader

  They tore out his tongue, because cattle don’t talk.

  He looks to be about ten, maybe. Been a long time since I had much experience with children. Skinny, damn near naked, shivering, scratching bug bites on his arms, spindly-looking.

  He popped up out of the prairie grass, tried to run. Still-Waters ran out and got him while I ordered our Trojans to stand down. Out here in “Bloody Kansas” if a human doesn’t attack you on sight, they’re probably not some fanged bastard’s slave.

  Still-Waters and I check him out, just the same, head to toe, looking for bite marks. Can’t be too careful.

  Works this way—if one of those demons bites you, you die. Oh, your body still lives on, but you’re a puppet for whoever bit you. They can see through your eyes, hear through your ears, and control every damn thing you do. We’re pretty sure there’s enough intelligence left you’ll follow instructions without direct supervision, mostly because I don’t want to believe any monster is capable of controlling hundreds of slaves every hour of every day, but it ain’t like I’ve never been wrong before.

  So, no signs the bloodsuckers fed on the boy. Just bug bites.

  Still-Waters wraps him in a blanket once we’re through going over him, puts him up on one of our mechanical pack mules, gives him a canteen and some johnnie-cake, and we move on.

  “Caleb, you could ride on a mule, too,” Still says.

  I’m marching along on knees that figure they did all the marching they were gonna do sixteen years before, when me and the 7th Vermont whupped Rebel butt across Louisiana, Florida, and Alabama.

  “You know, every time you say that, it just makes my pride decide I’m gonna march on a little further,” I reply.

  “You and your pride are stupid, or just plain crazy.”

  I want to stop and stare at him, but I’m afraid if I stop, my knees won’t want to start again, so I keep walking.

  “Stupid and crazy are marching across Kansas with a company of mechanical soldiers, hunting for night demons. Which one are you?”

  Still-Waters ponders that a moment.

  “I am crazy, you are stupid. You keep on marching, and when we’re attacked—”

  “If we’re attacked.”

  “When we’re attacked, your legs will slow you down, and you will die. I, being crazy but not stupid, will decide whether to run away as fast as my young, strong legs will take me, or to stay and fight.”

  A few minutes later, I’m sitting on a pad of blankets strapped onto another of our mules. I’ve got to have the padding, or bouncing along on a metal back irritates my piles something fierce.

  * * *

  We camp mid-afternoon, surrounded by the Trojans, and after supper the boy takes an interest as Still and I check over the Trojans, one by one, to see if we need to fix any of them. I’m no engineer, neither is Still-Waters, but we’re both jacks-of-all-trades, and the Trojans were designed to be simple to maintain in the field. Then it’s the mules’ turn, and we find some joint-tightening to do on Number Four.

  Keeping our company up and running means we don’t cover as much distance every day as I’d like, and my stubborn insistence on marching don’t help neither, but I don’t have near as many ineffective troops as other companies, where the captain prefers speed.

  I talk, for the boy’s sake, the entire time, telling him how safe he is, how tough our Trojans are, how good they at killing night demons... He wears a sickly smile on his face, like maybe he thinks I’m just trying to make him feel better.

  Maybe I am. Plenty of us don’t come back from patrols like this one, and if I’m honest with myself, we’re fighting a holding action against a fearsome enemy. Maybe if we hold out long enough, the mechanologists back home in the Colorado mountains will cook up something better than the Trojans, and we can start a true offensive against these damned creatures. The Trojans are sure a damn sight better than what we started with.

  In the meantime, we keep having to kill at least fifty slaves for every one demon, and those are soul-sapping figures.

  But I don’t say any of this to the boy. Nope, we are kicking night demon ass right, left, and center. I’d hate for him to be scared.

  * * *

  No attacks in the night, and I wake up in a better mood. I almost feel good enough to forget how long it’s been since I slept in a bed, had a hot bath, or ate something other than trail rations. There was this theory originally we could supplement our supplies with hunting while on patrol. That theory died, first patrol out. One hundred marching metal soldiers, with supply train of mechanical mules...game damn near kills its own self getting clear of anywhere near us.

  But bacon travels well and coffee grinds easy, and there ain’t much in the world better than the smells of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon, so even if I don’t wake up in the cheeriest of moods, life gets better pretty quick.

  I’m anxious to bring the patrol to a close, so I pad up mules for me and the boy, and we head on. I work real hard and manage to ignore Still-Waters’ smirks...most of them, at least.

  “Still, you keep that up and your face’ll stick that way.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Just happy to be making good time. How much further you think we’ll make today than yesterday?”

  “I’m about to hop off this damn mule and start crawling down in the dirt. How far you think we’ll make then?”

  “All right, I will quit picking at you.”

  “Damn right you will. Lord knows I am not above making a complete jackass out of myself to get you to stop.”

  “No argument here.”

  * * *

  When all the cities and larger towns turned into night demon fairgrounds, it became clear pretty quick that if you wanted to survive, you headed away from anything close to civilization. It wasn’t long before pretty much everywhere east of the Mississippi was hostile territory, and west of the river wasn’t all that much better, because packs of slaves raided towns, farms, and ranches, taking the people back east.

  That’s what it took for us to make peace with the Indians. No cities big enough to hide night demons, so, as far as our treaties and such allowed, they were doing okay. Add in that “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” business, and eventually we allied.

  I never had any problem with Indians... Of course, Still rightly points out that’s because my ancestors ran off all Vermont’s Indians long before I was born.

  So, for a couple of years, the plains were pretty empty of the white man. We hoped we’d be lucky, and they’d stay that way.

  Nope. The blood-suckers started settling the prairies, like a creeping rash.

  That’s when the mechanologists got serious about creating machines that could fight the monsters. You can’t mesmerize a Trojan, and they’re almost as strong as one of the demons. Nowhere near as fast, but a hell of a lot tougher than us. Once we figured out night demons are real allergic to gold, we saw we might have a fighting chance.

  Which explains why I’m out here bouncing on a metal mule, conversing with an irritating Indian, and hunting trouble like I could eat it with flapjacks.

  * * *

  We sight the edge of another group of farms about time to set up camp. Not enough hours left to clear them out, so we back up as fast as we can, and move away until sundown. We perform our maintenance by crank-lamp light. Supper is late, and cold, as we don’t want a fire to draw attention to us. Of course, that’s predicated on the notion that we weren’t spotted.

  About three in the morning, we find out we were.

  Whoever it was decided to give Trojans the option to sound an alert with a sad, but real damn loud, imitation o
f a bugle call has my undying thanks. It will wake a man the hell on up in a hurry, especially when a bunch of them are sounding the alert at not exactly the same time. And if I ever find the sumbitch, I’ll tell him how much I appreciate his choice...as I’m beating him to death with a bugle.

  First patrols, we sent out pickets. Consequently, there weren’t as many troops back at camp doing their best wall impersonation. That didn’t work out so well. Trojans don’t move fast, so the pickets were out of the fight entirely. It would all be decided by the time they got back to camp.

  Maddened slave mobs and night demons move pretty damn fast; so slightly earlier alerts didn’t prove to be as valuable as having the troops back at camp. Now we just keep them all back, in a shield wall,

  None of that is too comforting during an attack in the dark. Trojans see in the dark just fine, and we got goggles that offer the same benefit, so long as you don’t mind having no side vision.

  Still-Waters and I mind, so we cranked the lamps’ batteries up before we laid down. We turn them on as the bugles are still sounding. He and I have had long conversations about our choice of weapons, and it’s another of those situations where each of us is sure the other is a damn fool.

  I prefer my shotgun, twenty-round magazine, each round salted with gold dust so it’ll kill slave or demon just the same. He favors a gold-inlaid cavalry saber and Bowie knife. Of course, he’s young enough to be right agile, bending and dodging, slicing right and left. I’m an old fart, and I prefer “point in the general direction and fire.”

  To be honest, I haven’t noticed either method being too superior to the other. Slaves may be strong and mad and vicious, but they rarely make it past the shield wall. Night demons are all springy, and like to jump up and over, and once they become our problem, both of us do a pretty good job of sending them back to Hell.

  Tonight, I’m holding the boy close to my side as Still and I fight back to back. He whimpers and carries on so I’d like to knock him out so he’ll quit distracting me, but I just don’t have the time to spare. Getting an accurate count of how many blood-suckers we kill after the fact is flat out impossible. Gold hits them like sunlight, so they burn, and are ashes in nothing flat. That’s why we call out the count as we get them.

  “One!” Still calls. I see the flash from behind me.

  What leaps over the wall at me seems vaguely female, but all the night demons look like they been beat with a big old acid stick, so I ain’t sure. Nor, as I pull the trigger, am I all too interested.

  “Two!” I cry, quickly followed by “Three!” If my gun was a little slower I’d be a lot deader.

  “Four!” Still-Waters grunts. “Fast bastards!”

  One of them comes over the wall, legs bent, ready to hit the ground, and launch into an attack. Bad luck for it—lands a-straddle Number Two mule’s head, face-plants in the ground, and I unload on it, catch it in the ass. Burns just the same.

  “Five!” I shout, trying not to laugh.

  The Trojans are still hacking slaves apart like a farm wife chopping chicken, and the moans of the dying are fading out. The air smells of disembowelment while Still-Waters and I stand, shaking, waiting to see if any other demons want to die tonight.

  Three come over the wall at the same time, to my left, and I turn, pulling the trigger, sending one of them to perdition’s flames. Still turns and slices through another, bright flaming sparks climbing into the night sky.

  That third one though, he catches me in the ribs with a kick, and I have my own collision with Number Two mule, while he claws at Still-Waters. Blood flies, but the Bowie knife ends up in the demon’s chest.

  “Eight. Break out your whiskey,” Still says, putting the knife down, and staggering over to me. “If you can get up.”

  I get to my feet, knowing what’s wrong in an instant. Ain’t my first busted ribs.

  “Yeah, I’ll get it. I am calling this patrol officially ended, soon as we clean out those farms tomorrow.”

  “Good idea,” he replies, holding up a lamp and twisting, trying to get a good look at his wound.

  The boy grabs Still’s Bowie knife, and leaps at me, mouth open in a moan-like scream.

  He’s torn in half by my shotgun’s blast.

  “Ain’t the first time y’all have tried to fool us with a hypodermic needle,” I say, ignoring the tears in my eyes. “Don’t reckon it’ll be the last time, neither. Jesus Christ, I’m too old for this shit. I want to go home.”

  “Tomorrow, Caleb. We’ll head home tomorrow.”

  * * *

  It looks like rain when I wake up again, and even the smells of bacon and coffee ain’t helping my mood.

  I dreamed of my little girls, and their mama, and how I’d had to kill them, and bury them in a field south of Syracuse, New York, as we were running west. I tried, so damn hard, to keep them alive, but I failed. Slaves took them, and I went after them.

  Got there too late. Did what I had to do. Burned everything, and drug them away, to bury them someplace pretty.

  That boy looked to be about Lizzie’s age.

  “Caleb, do you need more time?”

  I look at Still, and I feel every single one of my years, like sacks of stone, strapped to my back.

  “No...more time won’t fix nothing.”

  * * *

  There aren’t many slaves left at the farms—we left most of them rotting where we’d camped. The few that are left fight hard, but the Trojans go through like Sherman through Georgia, only faster.

  I don’t know whether the boy was attacking on his own, if we’d killed his Master in the fight, or if his master is still hiding somewhere on the farms, so we search.

  In a root cellar, we find three of the night demons, sleeping, and have Trojans drag them into the sun.

  If I had a choice, I wouldn’t believe in God. I don’t want to believe in a God that would let these things loose upon the earth, that would make me kill my own wife and children. I barely held on to my belief through the war, and that was nothing compared to what’s come after.

  But by God, the sight of those monsters bursting into flame...it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Hell, it’s downright awe-inspiring.

  “Still, maybe I got a little more patrolling left in me after all.”

  We keep marching east. There’s still blood-suckers to kill.

  The Express

  Jason Gilbert

  “The Angel Express,” Morton said, chuckling as he slapped the paper down on the table where I had my long legs kicked up. I raised an eyebrow, looking at the mustachioed little fat man over top of my almost-empty beer mug. The pub was warm, a man’s haven from the blustery, snowy cold outside. The railroad-matics on the other side of the city were quiet, the workers gone for the evening. The new railroad construction could wait until tomorrow, when the sun would be out to thaw the rails. Oil the gears, ramp up the steam, and do it all over again for another day’s wages.

  I took my feet off the table and leaned forward, looking over the telegram.

  “Why am I supposed to be interested?” I asked. I pulled my goggles up from around my neck and put them on. I turned the lenses, rotating the glass in front of my eye to get a magnified look at the paper—a look for evidence of Morton being full of it again.

  The Angel Express was a find. Of course, I was interested. But, with a weasel like Morton, showing interest was a good way to get him thinking he had you locked in for a good cheat.

  “She’s supposed to still have the cargo she was carrying when she derailed,” Morton said. “Some of that cargo is worth thousands, Gabe.”

  The watermarks came into view on the paper. I pulled off my goggles, satisfied that it’d come from a legitimate source: The Salvage Union. The train had been spotted about fifty miles north of the city. She was derelict and broken. Would never move again.

  “It’d be helpful if they could find a way to send pictures,” I said, leaning back.

  “I’m just glad I got to it first,�
�� Morton said. The Union only posted one claim telegram per salvage find, and only for one very specific location. Finders keepers, and the keepers kept it all.

  One line stood out in particular.

  “Proceed at own risk?” I asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Ghosts, I expect,” Morton said, laughing as he leaned back. He lit his pipe and blew a smoke ring into the air. “If you believe in that sort of thing. The Angel was pulling a couple of luxury cars, if you’ll remember. No survivors, only witness accounts from the airships that happened to be overhead that day. Every car caught fire and burned—except the cargo car.”

  “Yeah, I remember the story,” I said. “Why do I care about a bunch of luggage?”

  The waitress came by the table and poured a shot of absinthe for Morton. He raised his glass to thank her, then downed it and asked her for two more. I shook my head. I never could understand people’s hang-up on that poison. It made decent lube for a rusty steam-engine or motor, but the only real purpose it had was killing brain cells. I preferred my beer, finishing the one I had, and raising my mug to ask for another.

  “The passengers were the elite rich, Gabe,” Morton said. “Jewels. Gold. Money. Hell, even some of the clothing would be worth a fortune in trade. Fine silks and lace, pure leather, satin, you name it.”

  “What’s your stake?” I asked, as the waitress came back and placed a new pint of beer in front of me.

  “Fifty,” said Morton. “Not a penny less.”

  “Figures,” I said, leaning back and replacing my feet on the table. “Go get it yourself.”

  “I think that’s a fair stake,” Morton said, frowning at me, swiping his pudgy hand under his running nose. “I went to the Union and got the damned job the second it printed out.”

  “And you thought we’d split it equally?” I said, shaking my head. “You sitting back, sucking down absinthe on the airship while my worthless ass gets to do all the legwork? Get lost.”