Those Poor, Poor Bastards (Dead West Book 1)

by Tim Marquitz

  The blood curdled in Nina’s veins and she shifted from foot to foot, found herself moving closer to James Manning as Grover’s black orbs settled on Father Mathias. “Hello again, Thomas. You have something I want.”

  Blamed if everyone wasn’t letting on with their acquaintance to this mysterious Black Robe. Nina wasn’t sure what to think of that, but her mistrust of the man just went up a few more notches.

  Father Mathias inclined his head. “Liao. I wondered how long it would take you to find me.”

  Grover’s face went slack, his brow relaxing above those hideous orbs. “I followed the stench of false hope, the sound of doomed prayers, the bleating of blind sheep.”

  Father Mathias, keeping a respectable distance from the possessed shopkeep, crossed his arms and smiled. “No need to be nasty, Liao.”

  Grover’s face became hard again, the scrapes he’d accumulated on his head and face oozing puss from some internal pressure. “I want what is rightfully mine.”

  “But it isn’t yours—”

  “Give me the Taiping Jing or you will die horribly, Thomas! Alone. Screaming for your whore of a mother, renouncing your charlatan faith! A turning will be the best you’ll get. I’ll play with your soul for a century, torturing you until torture becomes all you know, all you remember of your pathetic life.”

  “That’s good, Liao. More ferocious than last time. You’ve been working on your delivery.”

  “Thank you, Thomas,” the Grover-thing snickered. “I’ve had time to practice, but it doesn’t make my threat any less real.” Its eyes roamed across Nina and the rest of the group, and a fawning smile formed. “If you hand him over to me, I’ll go. You will wake up to find me and my heavenly subjects removed.”

  “You can’t make a pact with a devil,” Mathias said. “He’ll kill us all, regardless of your cooperation. Besides, he’s been planning this for a long time. Even if you survived, the world as you know it would be gone in a year or two.”

  “I would have been content to wait, savoring my sure victory, but you summoned me by thieving the Taiping Jing.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Liao. I don’t have it.” Mathias gestured at the railroad boss, whose eyes widened. “Mister Strobridge here stole it from me. It’s him you want.”

  Nina was pleased to see the bastard’s terrified look. He backed up two or three steps before bumping into a stone-faced Red Thunder. The Indian nudged Strobridge forward.

  “Is this true, railroad man? You have what I seek?” The refined tone sounded strange coming from Grover's mouth, bloody spittle accentuating each word with a gurgle.

  “No, I…I don’t…well, not exactly,” Strobridge stammered, coming forward and holding his hands out. “I don’t have it with me…”

  Grover’s face twisted, the split brows lowering.

  “But I can get it,” Strobridge quickly added.

  “I give you until tomorrow morning to turn both of these men over to me, or my heavenly subjects will cleanse this place. Don’t think of doing anything foolish, or else I will have no mercy. Consider tonight a gift. Revel in it, but know it comes to a quick close.”

  Suddenly, Mason Daggett stepped forward and opened up with his Spencer. Nina jumped at the sound, but was even more shocked to see Grover still smiling from where he sat, two fingers held up together, no evidence of a bullet wound to be seen.

  The rest of them fired, blasting Grover with a wall of leaden death. Bullets should have torn him to pieces, yet they didn’t leave a mark. Grover pulled an even bigger grin, hair whipping around his head with the turbulence of the lead balls. A pattern of chipped stone and rock dust began to form around the shopkeep and the room filled with gunsmoke.

  Rachel and Clara rushed back in, Jasmine and Buck behind them. The Buell women screamed and clung to one another as bullets plowed the rock around their father and husband.

  Nina’s aim was true, but she still missed, her bullets shrugged aside by some invisible shield. Maybe this was some kind of devil. She ran out of slugs and lowered her weapon, shaking her head.

  The Daggetts were still firing, and it appeared the thing in Grover was weakening. The grin left its face. Its hand shook. A bullet buried itself in Grover’s chest. Another obliterated the shoulder holding up the fingers.

  The entity vacated Grover Buell; Nina didn’t understand how she knew, only that those black eyes were replaced with Grover’s sad, expressive ones. Before anyone realized he was a living man again, their bullets pierced his already broken body, slamming him into the stone. The shopkeep bucked and twisted as projectiles laid waste to him, until one of Buck’s massive slugs slammed into his cranium and blew poor Grover’s head all over the wall.

  Chapter Ten

  Distant chants reached Nina in her black dream. Drums pounded bom-bom-ta-ta, bom-bom-ta-ta, forming a strong trunk of sound. The step-skip cadence of Gaiute feet moved against the earth, smooth as branches waving in the wind. Voices, like stirring leaves, sang to her, comforting her spirit and filling her with peace and tranquility. The steps and voices combined to form one mighty tree, one ancient song—the song of her Shoshone brothers and sisters.

  Yet even in this tranquil place, hands of bone reached for her in the darkness. Rotted teeth, jagged and sharper in death, snapped all around. They wanted to consume not only her body, but her soul. Nina choked on the suffocating stench of the undead. She didn't care about her body. Let them have it. But the thought of her spirit dying without release terrified her.

  Nina's spiritual brothers and sisters responded, lifting her up from the darkness with their song. She couldn't understand why at first. She barely knew them. After the soldiers attacked her tribe when she was a girl, she and Pa spent only small periods of time among the Bannock tribes and among those the white man called Snake People, Locust Eaters, and the Wind River People, and this was only when Pa allowed some reprieve from the trail. It had hardly been enough for them to ever be considered part of any tribe.

  Blood is blood, my daughter, the Shoshone said, as one.

  Strength surged through her, crushing all fear and desperation. Her heart beat strong and fierce. An eagle's call swept through the ranks of undead, scattering them into ash. Nina's spirit wept with joy, and she opened her eyes.

  Copper-skinned people with long, serious faces stared down at her. Their high-cheeks glowed in firelight, shuffling, moccasin-covered feet kicking up dust. Covered in deer skins adorned with beads of aqua, jade, and blood red, they encircled her, pouring their love over her like summer-warmed honey. One with the land; one with Nina.

  She caught the scents of cooking meat, and her stomach became full. She felt fresh, cool water in her throat, and she was no longer thirsty. The drums beat the weariness from her body, and she was alive.

  Her gaze fell to a tribesman sitting cross-legged before her, suddenly there, or perhaps he had always been. Wrinkles lined his face, and deep frown lines etched the corners of his mouth. Two braids of hair—one over each shoulder—hung gray with age. An immense eagle-feathered headdress rested on his brow. He regarded Nina with brown eyes as deep and wise as time itself.

  She recognized him as the boha gande, the tribal shaman, and bowed her head in an instinctive gesture of respect.

  “Ninataku, Fire-Eater, raise your head.” His voice shook the ground beneath her, for he was the very earth. “You have faced many dangers, but you have overcome them. Your spirit is strong.”

  Nina sat taller, a smile touching her face. “Thank you, boha gande.”

  “You have proven yourself worthy of our greatest blessing, so we bestow upon you the strength of our people to help you see things through to the end.”

  “The end?”

  “Yes, there is much more for you to do. Very little time.”

  “I don't know what to do. Pa is hurt, and we're trapped…”

  “Neither you nor your father’s physical bodies are important. You must save the land, for without it, all life will die. Right now, a great poison
runs through it, an infection that must be purged.”

  “But how?”

  The boha gande's eyes turned to the night sky, his ears listening to some message Nina could not hear. “Ninataku, I’m here to tell you your mother's spirit travels with you. She loves you and will guide you on your journey. There will be many perils along the way, many things to test your heart. Now, you must go…”

  Desperation shook Nina, panic like a cold spike sunk into her spine. She would have to leave this place, leave the protective arms of the People, and go back to something...horrible. It wasn’t fair to show her such peace, and then throw her back to the world of the living dead. “I don’t want to go. Allow me to stay, boha gande. I’ll learn what I must, I’ll—”

  “We are but spirits in your dreams, shadows from the world beyond. You are still flesh, Ninataku. We are but dust and memory.”

  Sadness overwhelmed her. She wanted to shout out, to raise her fists and demand a place with her people. And where was her mother? Surely, she was here. Nina could stay with her.

  But what about Pa? Who would look after him?

  “Goddamn it.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

  The boha gande only smiled. “Now go, Fire-Eater, with the blessing of the tribe.”

  Crystal teardrops fell from her lashes. She opened her mouth to speak, but a crack of lightning shattered the sky.

  Nina opened her eyes with a gasp.

  Manning smiled at her from where he sat against the wall. “Sleep talker.”

  No, Fire-Eater. It took Nina several seconds to orient herself. She longed to go back to sleep, but the oppressiveness of knowing the deaduns were out there and the reeking stench of blood on her clothing piqued her brain. The beautiful song in her head faded into a dull hum, then disappeared.

  She yawned, her ears popped. “What did I say?”

  “Sounded like you were singing actually.”

  Her eyes looked through the gap in the ceiling at the night sky. Stars hung there like gods watching this bloody nightmare play out for the second night. Nina hoped they were amused.

  She gazed around the room, realizing for the first time the absence of that deep chill in her bones. Red Thunder’s fire radiated, emitting very little smoke; not that it mattered at this point. Buck squatted with his back to the flames, a bottle of whiskey hanging from his hand. Father Mathias, Mister Strobridge, and Marshal Oden sat in chairs in No Man’s Land, talking low; probably some narrative about what to do about their ghastly visitor from earlier, and who’d give up the Taiping Jing or whatever the hell it was.

  Red Thunder stared at her from across the fire. His eyes glowed in the firelight, lending to his already intense gaze. They were from two different worlds, but their connection was clear. Did he know about her dream? Had he also dreamt about his tribe?

  Jasmine, Rachel, and Clara had come across to this side, unable to stand being in the same room with Grover’s blood and brains decorating the wall. The smell lingered despite all they’d done to clear the air. They were a snuggling huddle of hair and arms in the southwest corner. Not the most ideal place to be, between a door and a window, but at least they’d fallen asleep. And Buck watched over them, even if their visitor—Liao of the Yellow Hood—had said there would be no more trouble until tomorrow. That’s just what a villain might say before attacking. Damned if any of them should relax their guard just because some deadun-bating maniac obliged to lay off a spell.

  Nina turned her head to the left and surveyed her pa snoring lightly, a colorful, woven blanket pulled up to his chin. One of Red Thunder’s. She reached over and stretched it to cover his shoulder. “He been sleepin’ okay?”

  Manning yawned. “For a few hours. Deaduns ain’t been back. Guess you would have known if they had. Been quiet Over There, too. Maybe they done settled down at last. I tell ya, those Daggetts and...”

  Nina shook her head. She didn’t want to think about Mister Strobridge, creepy Woodie, or the Daggetts. She didn’t believe for one second they’d settled down, but she was filthy, covered with blood and muck, and all she wanted to do was wash it off.

  Nina stood. Her joints should have been aching, her muscles sore and strained. But they weren’t. Even her neck had lost its stiffness. She looked at Manning and the exhaustion was plain to see on him, his eyes a bit sunken and a hint of dark stubble lined his firm, angular jaw. He put his head back against the wall and Nina watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. She needed a drink.

  The sound of drums still echoed in her ears as she made her way over to Buck. “Scaly bastards gave up some bug juice, did they?”

  Buck's face turned up, but his eyes remained shadowed. “Traded three buckets of water for it.” He held the bottle up.

  “That’s a good trade.” Nina took the bottle and inhaled from its mouth. The whiskey fumes cleared the rank smell from her head. She turned the sloshing liquid up, taking three healthy swigs. It burned like a sonofabitch going down, her face screwing up all sour, but her stomach welcomed the jolt. Her head swam pleasantly. She took another swig for good measure before handing the bottle back with a word of thanks.

  Buck nodded and drank.

  Nina ducked into the well passage, running her hands along the walls as she went, guided by the meager campfire light. It was cold and damp, solid. Even the ceiling was stone. The well room was half the size of the others, filled with old crates stacked to the ceiling, rusted lanterns, and other supplies that had gone bad. One crate had been broken up, the pieces now drying next to Red Thunder’s fire. If the stuff burned properly, they’d be warm for a few days. Hungry, but warm. If they lived that long.

  In the near pitch black, Nina made out a short stone wall in the corner marking the well opening, and she went and sat down. Peering down into the dark depths, she was greeted with a cold breeze across her cheeks. She dropped the bucket and turned the crank counter-clockwise to lower it. Soon, she had a sloshing pail of cool water resting on the well wall.

  Nina put her hat down and tied her hair out of her face. She dipped the rag into the bucket and patted at her neck, scrubbed her face vigorously, gasping every time the cold touched her. She wrung out the rag and held it up. Frowned. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light and she could see it was dark with mud, blood, and whatever else.

  Goosebumps raised on her shoulders and chest as she unbuttoned her shirt and wiped down her breasts. Her arms were the worst, covered with grime she could hardly stand to look at, fingernails stained red around the edges, scrapes and bruises she couldn’t see but knew were there. She pulled off her boots and socks and rolled up her pants legs, running the rag over her feet until they were relatively clean. Soon, the rag was completely ruined, and she couldn’t wash it out no matter how hard she tried.

  “Need another?” Nina started and looked up. Jasmine stood there holding an old leather bag and a short candle. She’d found an old coat, too.

  “I took the bag out of that wagon before we left. Stuffed it full of things. I’m pretty sure there’s a rag or two in here.”

  “I’m almost done…” Nina stopped herself before she could push the girl away. She had no right to feel betrayed. Jasmine had good reason to go with the Daggetts when they’d arrived here, had probably saved them all some grief. Jasmine wasn’t hers to tell what to do.

  Nina relaxed. “You know, I reckon I could use another. I’m covered.”

  “I know.” Jasmine set her candle down and opened the bag’s latch, fishing inside. She handed an old cotton shirt to Nina. “You look a lot better though. Can hardly tell you’ve been standing knee deep in guts.”

  Nina chuckled, drying herself off. “Knee deep in guts. That’s about right. I might be a little cleaner, but my clothes are done for.”

  Jasmine’s face brightened. “Hey, I’ve got some clothes. Some denims and a shirt. Too small for me, but oughta fit you just fine. Nancy had grabbed ‘em for herself but…you’re more than welcome to them.”

  “Thanks.�
�� Nina paused, not sure how to ask her next question. “Did they—?”

  Jasmine looked confused for a moment, but her look softened. “Naw, they didn’t do nuthin’,” Jasmine laughed, her voice rich and smooth, heavy with exhaustion. “Georgie couldn’t get his little pecker hard with the Buells standin’ around and a preacher in the next room. Worst part was listening to them complain about having to trade away their whiskey. Talked a little about taking the well away from y’all, but they’re all bark and no bite. Anyway, I’m free now.”

  Nina shot her a quick smile. “I shouldn’t have worried. Seems you can take care of yourself just fine.”

  “I can, but it’s nice when someone else takes care of me, too. Mind if I sit?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Nina thought she’d just meant to sit down on the crate, or at the very least nearby. But Jasmine plopped down on the well wall right next to her, stiflingly close, her dress covering Nina’s bare foot, one leg tucked beneath her and the other on the floor.

  “Let me see.” Jasmine reached over before Nina could protest. The black woman ran her fingers through Nina’s hair, trailing down, down, past her shoulders, until the strands feathered away between her fingertips. Jasmine’s hand brushed Nina’s arm before pulling away, sending a chill down her back.

  “You got long, pretty hair...except for that missing clump.” Jasmine smiled, repeating the motion, toying with the frayed ends Nina had sawed off fighting the deadun.

  This time Nina closed her eyes and leaned into the touch. A light gasp escaped her lips, a tiny hitch of breath. Why was her belly full of butterflies? She opened her eyes. “Can you make it look better?”

  Jasmine frowned and drew back, her hands falling on Nina’s shoulders. “With what?”

  Nina pulled out her hunting knife and wiped it clean with the rag. She turned it over and handed it, hilt-first, to Jasmine.

  Jasmine glanced down. “Hope you ain't expecting anything special. Gonna be ugly if we use that.”