by RW Krpoun
But the point became moot when the crazies attacked.
Chapter Nine
Crazy, singular, at first, a scrawny peon who had had around twenty hard-working years when he ran afoul of Green Coat’s boss’ machinations. He came trotting around the back corner of a building and made a beeline for the Colonel, sounding that wailing moan that is the dinner call for the crazies.
My quartet reacted instantly, drawing weapons and backing or turning our mounts away from the rebels and the houses, edging out towards open ground. The rebels stirred uneasily, trying to watch us and the crazy peon rushing their leader at the same time.
The Colonel watched the charging peon with a bemused air until that worthy launched himself upon the officer’s leg, whereupon he shouted in surprise and pain, braining the upstart with a brisk swipe of his shiny revolver. The peon staggered back and Ramirez shot him twice in the chest, the impact knocking the peon off his feet.
The scene was eerily familiar: I was watching what I had experienced just days before. Ramirez calmed his horse and was looking at the bite on his leg when Billy yelled to warn him that the peon was back upright. Scowling, the young Colonel promptly shot him twice more, careful to get two solid chest hits. This time Ramirez watched the peon, and his jaw dropped when a scrawny underfed and over-worked peon with four heavy bullets in his torso got back to his feet.
“Billy! Tell him to aim for the head!” I bellowed.
The peon launched himself before Billy could relay my message, assuming he even heard me, but Ramirez wasn’t interested in getting bitten again and shot the peon in the head as he tried to fasten his teeth on the Colonel.
I expect that the shooting earlier had roused all the crazies left in town, but most had been too slow to arrive while living people were still around. Apparently they had loitered at the scene, maybe drawn by voices, definitely drawn by Ramirez shooting.
In any case while Ramirez climbed down from his horse to look at the now-inert peon and Billy turned his horse to ask me what hell was going on crazies started pouring down the street and around the buildings to both sides.
Things turned to instant chaos at that point. Ramirez’s horse bolted, leaving him on foot with at most one round in his weapon, the rebel rank and file milled in confusion, the horses who had not encountered the crazies before reacted poorly, the horses in the wagon team became agitated, and life in general got interesting very fast.
My first instinct was to bolt, to put distance between us and the mob, but Mac, ever the soft touch towards animals, charged in to rescue the wagon team who were pinned in place with the brakes having been set, so I whipped Pork Chop around and followed.
Pulling my saddle Colt I started popping skulls as the big man smoothly vaulted from his saddle into the wagon seat. He had to shoot two crazies off the wagon before it got rolling, but he got it moving.
The saddle Colt went empty just as a couple crazies latched onto Nhi’s mule, biting for all they were worth. She shot both, but it was clumsy work to avoid hitting the animal and before they dropped a half-dozen more were piling on and the beast was doomed. I pushed Pork Chop into the growing press around her, firing the M1911 dry and reloading on the fly, becoming a truer believer in these new-fangled auto-loading pistols with every second. Nhi shoved her empty Luger into her waistband and lashed out with a hatchet in either hand. That proved effective enough, but her mule was literally getting torn to pieces.
One hatchet handle snapped on impact; discarding the stub of a handle she ripped her saddlebags free, her gun box tied to the off-side bag, and dove toward me.
I kicked my foot free of the stirrup and tossed the pistol to fire left-handed in order to grab with my right; it was more a collision than a landing, but the point was that she landed well enough to stay aboard while I stowed the now-empty M1911 and drew my Artillery model Colt. We were both lucky she didn’t weigh all that much.
Gunshots rang out on all sides, screams, animal shrieks, and the awful moaning and hissing of the crazies surrounded us, dust was filling the air, and things were happening too fast to track, but Nhi was squirming astraddle behind me and I had a loaded weapon in hand so life was livable. Pork Chop grabbed a former senora by the shoulder and slung the crazy aside, and I shot the nearest zombie in the chest, knocking it down but not out of the fight. Another crazy’s head exploded to my left and I realized that Captain was some distance away, in the clear and firing in support of us; Tobias was twenty yards further out, safe and sound.
Behind me Nhi was steady enough to be firing Sibley’s Browning, so I shot another crazy in the melon and urged Pork Chop out of the melee and back towards Captain. Mac, I saw, had stopped the wagon further down the road and was firing as well, doing what he could.
The rebels had attracted the bulk of the crazies and they were now a twisting incoherent mob in which riders and horses were being pulled down by sheer weight of numbers. A couple of rebels had fought their way free or taken to their heels in a timely fashion and were now pounding away as fast as a panicked horse could carry them. The rest, and their mounts, were dying badly, fighting against impossible odds.
As I reached Captain and turned Pork Chop I saw Billy crash his horse through the mob, a pale-faced Ramirez hanging from the saddle horn and one stirrup; I yanked my Krag free, no easy task with a second rider, and added my fire to the Captain’s until the mob got too close and we took off.
“Not our fight,” I yelled at Captain as I thumbed cartridges into the carbine. “Let’s go.”
“Yeah.”
Mac needed no urging-he had the wagon rolling before we reached him. I pulled alongside and Nhi hopped nimbly onto the crates in back, much to Pork Chop’s relief. She didn’t weigh all that much, but it made for an awkward load.
I reloaded both Colts as we rode, and then started in on M1911 magazines, something I should have done once the last fight was ended. We stopped a mile east of town to let the horses catch their breath and finish sorting out reloading and restocking loops and pouches.
“That was pretty damn awful,” Mac said with great finality as he put some oil into his rifle.
“You’re telling me,” I finished checking Pork Chop for wounds and remounted.
“I had an easy time of it,” Captain grinned, ducking as Nhi threw an empty cartridge box at him.
She motioned me over, and grabbed my collar to pull me into a quick kiss. “Thank you.”
“Yeah..,” I muttered, caught unprepared as the other two chuckled.
“Look who else made it,” Captain observed.
Looking south I saw Billy leading his limping horse with Ramirez slumped in the saddle. Billy held up his hands in a gesture of peace as they approached, but Ramirez didn’t even look up.
“We don’t want any trouble, but the Colonel is hurt and my horse was lamed by one of those…people.” He still had his weapons but Ramirez’s holster was empty.
“We’re taking the wagon.”
“Fine by me.”
“You believe me now?”
“Seth…I don’t know what I believe.”
“Welcome to the club. We paid our dues three days ago.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“You really want to know?”
Billy shook his head and surveyed the horizon. “Yeah. I suppose.”
“Some jasper we never laid eyes on so far has worked up a way to turn people into…well, you saw them. Crazies, zombies…you have to hit their brain to put them down. They don’t attack his helpers, who have these black stone things which make ‘em stay off; some of the black stone statues let men give orders to the crazies. This fellow, we’ve heard the word ‘necromancer’ used, is gathering up old stuff from the days before the Spanish arrival.”
Billy leaned against the wagon. “What for?”
“Dunno for sure. We’re pretty certain he means to use the orphans as some sort of blood sacrifice, but the why is out of sight just now.”
“Seth, you can’t
just make people go crazy.”
“Its like snake oil.”
“Even that won’t do it, not like that. And stones making them obey? That’s an awfully tall tale.”
“Didn’t you see your Colonel put five .45s into a peon before he would stay down? Even the leaf-chewers weren’t that tough. You just saw a bunch of peons and village folk, men and women both, just wade into a group of armed men like starving cannibals. I’m not saying its easy, but you better get your thinking straight, and that double quick.”
He shook his head. “This is insane.”
“That’s true. You better put your horse down and load your Colonel in the wagon. You can sort out your next move at the orphanage.”
“What’s wrong with him, anyway?” Captain asked. “He doesn’t look wounded.”
“He must have gotten a sharp clip to the head,” Billy helped Ramirez down from the horse. “He’s badly concussed.”
“Kinda acts drunk,” Captain observed.
“Oh, hell,” Mac suddenly blurted. “He got bit by a carrier.”
“What?” Billy frowned.
“Damn,” Captain drawled thoughtfully. “Yeah, that must be it.”
“What?” Billy yelled.
“Some of these crazies, they spread being crazy if they bite you,” I explained, knowing how feeble that sounded.
“You have been in the sun too long,” Billy muttered, reaching for the tail gate until Nhi delicately laid the edge of her sword on his arm. “What the hell!”
“Yeah, we really shouldn’t bring him along,” I nodded. “Although we should watch a little, make sure we’re right.”
“Could learn something,” Captain agreed, casually examining his pistol.
“You people are crazy.”
As Billy protested Ramirez twitched, then lurched free of Billy’s grip, staggering a step before collapsing onto the grass. He convulsed once and then lay deathly still. I casually drew my saddle Colt and checked the loads. “Might as well get your saddle and deal with your horse.”
He looked up from the Colonel. “I think he’s dying.”
“Sure. Go on, now, there’s nothing more you can do for him.”
Muttering, Billy pulled his saddle off his shivering mount and heaved it into the wagon, then led the animal a distance away before putting a bullet into its head.
“You can take that cavalry horse we took for the doc,” I observed to Nhi. “It is a pretty decent mount-Mac picked it, and he knows horses better than any of us.”
“I disagree,” Captain said without heat. “He favors wind over heart, which is a result of him weighing about as much as a donkey steam engine. What you need is a mount with fire in their eye and a lightness on its feet.”
“What you need is in the chest,” Mac began, and I didn’t pay any attention to the rest-I had heard it all before.
“They have gone through this a hundred times,” I told Nhi, who grinned. I showed her my watch. “Its been ten minutes so far. Want some peaches? I have a can in my saddlebag.”
She and I were finishing the last of the peaches and Captain and Mac were finally winding down the nature of a good horse debate ten minutes later when Ramirez twitched.
“Billy.” He had walked back a ways to look at the town with his binoculars, and then propped himself on a wheel hub and refilled cartridge loops from boxed rounds. He looked up. “Look at the Colonel.”
“What the hell!”
“Stay back. Captain, put a rope on him. Be ready to trim an arm,” I added to Nhi.
As the rebel lurched to his feet Captain neatly dropped a loop around his chest. Billy stared in amazement as Ramirez staggered a little getting his bearings, then set his milky eyes on his former comrade and uttered that moaning wail that could make a strong man wince. I stepped from Pork Chop into the wagon, dug a revolver from the coat’s worth I had dumped in, and loaded three rounds.
At my nod Nhi stepped up behind the Colonel and lopped his left arm off just above the elbow. The rebel turned and tried to go after her, but the Captain expertly backed his horse and pulled him back.
Hopping down from the wagon I stepped close and shot Ramirez three times in the back at point-blank range, careful not to hit the rope. Tossing the revolver back into the wagon, I walked over to Billy, who was staring slack-jawed.
“Chop off his arm, put three rounds into him, one for sure in a lung, likely got a kidney with another, and he’s still full of fight.”
Billy closed his mouth, swallowing hard. “How…”
“Dunno.” I waved, and Nhi threw her hatchet, dropping Ramirez like a puppet with its strings cut. “Tough as an old saddle unless you puncture the skull, and then they drop like a pile of bricks.”
“He was nearly dead.”
“Yeah. I don’t know how it works exactly, but what we’ve been told is that they put this snake oil on dead people, and they become carriers. They bite you, you become like Ramirez, only the ones that got bit don’t spread it, just the snake oil boys.”
Nhi pulled off Ramirez’s cartridge-studded gun belt and dropped it into the wagon; the Colonel had a bone-handled Bowie tucked into his pants belt, and she tossed the sheathed knife to Tobias with a wink.
I slapped Billy on the shoulder. “Think about it while we ride. Modern times are really something, aren’t they?”
It was getting dark by the time we reached the presidio because Captain and I stayed on the high ground the last couple miles to ensure none of the Chuj got any ideas about sniping at the wagon. I wasn’t too concerned because the native types seldom understand sights and trajectory, and those we had killed had not bothered with much weapon maintenance. Still, you don’t take any more chances than you need to.
Brother Andrew was conducting Mass so Brother Lars met us and took charge of the rifles and handguns; at our instructions he stashed the MG.08 and half the ammunition in a locked shed separate from the other weapons.
We were eating cornbread and pinto beans slow cooked with salt pork when the monk made his appearance with a short, slight monk wearing glasses in tow. “It is good to see you, my friends. Brother Lars tells me you have substantially augmented our defenses.”
“Twenty modern rifles and some other hardware,” I nodded. “Maybe another recruit.” I jerked a thumb towards Billy, who was quietly eating at the end of the table. “More importantly, the Doc was telling the truth,” I handed over the two packets. “It appears to be in Latin.”
“This is Brother Paul, our resident intellectual,” Brother Andrew introduced the short bald monk, who accepted the papers. “He deserves much of the credit for our early awareness.”
“How long will it take to translate the papers?” I asked.
“An hour, perhaps two, to give a generalized idea,” Brother Paul assured me. “I shall set to work immediately.” He darted out, face aglow.
“Brother Paul has been blessed with a keen mind and a curious heart,” Brother Andrew lifted a candle from the table to light a cheroot. “We are blessed to have him with us. Earlier Brother Lars took two of his better students out on a bit of an inspection; there are only a few of the Chuj watching us, but they are sufficient to ensure that we can make no major dispositions without being observed. They also have couriers riding west at regular intervals, and returning from the same direction. They depart twice a day and when there is news.”
“Brother Lars found out a great deal for one patrol,” Captain observed.
“It was not our first foray,” Brother Andrew shrugged. “And we have scouts of our own watching the Chuj. Some of our children spent their early years in the traditional Indian life before coming into our care, and Brother Lars is an advocate of the Baden-Powell system advocating wilderness skills as being useful for personal development of youth.”
“I heard of that,” Captain tapped his bowl. “A British general started it, they call it ‘Boy Scouts’, right?”
“Indeed. We have a formally-recognized Troop here, and it has proven very use
ful. Given the cultural backgrounds of many of our young ladies we allow girls to participate.”
“So you’re watching the Chuj,” I stepped in before Captain could get warmed up on the subject. “Isn’t that risky?”
“There is risk, but the Chuj are from the Yucatan interior, radically different terrain than this region, and the children we are using know this area intimately,” Brother Andrew’s face was grim. “It is not a course I was pleased to undertake, but the risk that the Chuj might try to slip over our walls under the cover of darkness was too great, and any warning we can obtain is priceless. It is also a way to hedge our bet, so to speak-the scouts will be safely outside when the assault comes. No matter what transpires we shall save some of our charges.”
“You believe they’ll attack here?”
“Brother Paul and I have spoken at length with your archeologist, and I believe that unless the necromancer is stopped he will come for our children.”
“We’ll have something to say about that,” Captain assured him.
“I do hope so. As dear as they are to me, the realist in me knows that our charges are simply another a tool for the malignant soul who has set all this in motion.”
“You don’t really believe that he could accomplish something if he got the kids, do you?” I was a bit surprised.
“If he succeeds in gathering all the material goods, then yes, there is a very good chance he could do something…terrible on a grand scale.”
“That sounds sort of pagan.”
Brother Andrew smiled without humor. “When I served as a member of the Vatican’s Swiss Guard, I saw the vault in the great library there, a vault which contained material too dangerous to allow any but a select few to see, and then only when a clear and real need required such an examination.”
“What, you think there might be some of those codexes in there?”
“A cousin of mine took the vows long before I, and served in the library. He had been in the vault once, and I asked him about it, about this great trove of magical works. He would not speak of it save to say that there were no works on magic in the vault at all, that what was kept there was even more dangerous than books of spells and incantations.”
