by J. P. Sloan
The Parson claws his way out of the crumbling lumber dropping onto his frame. I lift my weapon one more time.
The voice whispers, just inches off my right shoulder, “He’s being punished.”
I spin around.
No one.
The Parson bellows, his voice adopting a hollow, unearthly timbre, “Face me!”
Richterman’s voice bubbles from yet another corner. Laughter. Snide, smug, full of mirthful disdain.
The Parson takes a moment and turns slowly to the sources of Richterman’s voice.
Which I realize is directly behind me.
I freeze.
The Parson takes a single step. I can’t make out his face by virtue of that damned angled beam.
“Last two times I had you in my hand,” he intones, “I let you slip away.”
Yep. He sees me, all right.
I keep my gun hand straight in front of me. “That’s not how I see it,” I answer.
The Parson holds. Still no shot.
“Magner has lost his patience with you.”
I grit my teeth. “Feeling’s getting pretty damned mutual.”
The Parson moves forward, still keeping the beam between us.
Richterman’s voice leaks across my left shoulder. “Magner’s done with him. Do you see? He’s failed, and this is his death sentence.”
I keep my eyes on the Parson, though Richterman’s presence sends my skin crawling along my back.
With slow, deliberate motions, I step to my right. Then another step.
The Parson holds position again.
That suits me fine. Just need a couple more steps and I’ll have that clean shot again.
The Parson growls, “If I kill you now, he lets me eat.”
I retort, “So, Richterman’s right. Magner’s got your balls in a clench?” One step.
“You’re insane.” Two steps.
“I’ve been called worse, Padre. Believe that.” Three steps.
And I have him.
He looms against a stretch of stucco and half a frame of a window. The corner of rooftops hangs over his shoulder. No Strigoi. No moonlight.
Just me.
And Uriah.
And Richterman.
Before I can take the shot, I see him. Richterman. Just in the corner of my eye.
He’s standing well to my left. He’s right there. The source of all this valley’s nightmares. Between Magner, and Scarlow, and Katherina, and Folger. He’s the center of everything that’s foul and wrong with this town.
But I only have one bullet. One last silver slug in my pistol, pressed by Godpistols before I even rode into this goddamn valley. I know it’ll drop one or the other, but not both.
For whatever reason, I can only think about Chris Hitchens, half-intact and bleeding out on Folger’s floor. I see his face as he draws and fires on me. I live that pain in my side again, that slug piercing my gut. His face, drained of blood and hope and anything left human.
It was the Parson. He did that to the Hitchens boy.
I pull the trigger.
A weight clamps down on my hand, pushing the gun down. My finger jerks in reflex, but it doesn’t make progress. The trigger is locked.
No, the chamber won’t rotate. Long skeletal hands grip my pistol with ungodly strength, sending pain crackling through my hand.
The Parson sneers at me, just a foot or so from my face.
With a rush of a lusty breath, he sputters, “If you die, I can eat.”
He bares long, yellow teeth. Blunt, cadaverous. Not the needle-maw of a Strigoi. This new Hell that Magner pulled out of that mine stares at me from inside the Parson’s skull.
I’m about to die.
Something wet sprays across my face.
My blood?
Possibly.
I take a quick breath. I feel no pain.
The Parson glares at me with a curl of his brow. His lips move, but nothing comes out. No growl, no cough. Just a slow, easy whine as he releases the gun barrel. As he brings his full posture upright, I finally see a dark hole gushing something horrible from the center of his throat.
I never heard the gunshot, to be honest. But I can smell the black powder.
The Parson twists his demonic frame to face Scarlow and two of his boys. They advance, rifles held shoulder-high, blazing like God’s vengeance. Praise all that’s holy, Scarlow almost looks angelic at that very moment.
I cast a quick glance to my left.
Richterman is gone.
The Parson lurches forward, his gaunt frame jerking with the impacts of lead. I hear a stray round slice past my ear, and I drop to take cover. These boys aren’t packing anything silver-alloyed. I’d figured that much. As much of a coward I’d had Scarlow pegged for, he’d come through for his employer at least. Shiftless bastard or no, Scarlow was a professional, and about to be a half-chewed professional. Their lead slugs only make the Parson’s frame dance a touch. The monster takes step after plodding step toward Scarlow. I see panic set into his expression.
Which is when my Remington sounds off.
Just the one silver slug, it’s all it took. Half of the Parson’s head explodes into red pulp, and the rest of his body drops with a strange, slow heave.
And then, silence.
Except for the faint, impossibly quiet whisper of Richterman’s voice from… somewhere.
“You’re not ready.”
I drop my hand.
Fear sets in. Unbelievable, inescapable.
I move. I move fast. Past Scarlow, out of the wreckage of that damned church. Up the lane.
I stop in front of Richterman’s office. His second-story windows are lit with candles, flickering behind the thick, dark lace hanging at the panes.
Breaths behind me.
I turn slow to find Folger holding himself.
His face is drawn, pale. Terrified.
I try to say something, but my own breaths fill my mouth with nothing more than weakness and fear.
Folger glares up at the building, then back at me.
“What…” He wheezes.
I holster the gun and hold out a calming hand. “You hurt?”
“What were they?”
My eyes clamp shut. He saw the Strigoi. “I told you,” I answer.
“Don’t.”
“We call them Strigoi.”
“Don’t say anything.”
I take a cautious step forward. “I tried to warn you. They’re here.”
Folger’s mouth pulls tight, and his eyes start watering.
I hold out my other hand. “Denton? Listen to me. Listen… to my voice. Stay with me.”
“They aren’t…” He takes a step away from me.
“This is what I do, Denton. I keep people safe from, well…”
I take a moment. Words won’t help him right now.
“We should go home,” I state.
Folger stiffens, turns up the lane to give one quick glance at the church, then nods.
After we close up the pressroom, and Scarlow and company have thundered off in a war party of about six, Folger and I hitch Ripper to the cart and bring ourselves to bear west of town. I watch Richterman’s windows as we drive out of town. The tiny pinpoints of light in his windows douse.
He’s done with us tonight.
e sit silent in the cart for a while, just staring at Folger’s homestead. He hasn’t said a word to me the whole ride in. I’d caught him a moment or two twisting in his seat and uttering some grumbling noises, like a man taken in the heat of a nightmare. Now Folger just sits on the pine bench next to me, glaring at the cellar doors.
He’s thinking about Katherina. I’m sure of it. I put certain thoughts in his head when I thought it was best for him. Now, as he fidgets and whispers silent blasphemies next to me, the deepest, most pitiful kind of confusion gnaws at my guts. His life had worked for him for how long? He and his Strigoi wife made a home here, Richterman notwithstanding. He’d done just fine without the Truth, as I saw i
t anyhow.
Now the Truth is crammed right underneath his saddle blanket. He’s seen the Strigoi. He can’t explain them away. And as tightly wound as his brain was before, he can’t let go of it. Not while he’s married to it.
Finally, Folger climbs down off the cart and steps toward the cellar doors. I hop down and follow him, bracing for any kind of violence.
He just stands there, a few steps away, swaying on his feet.
“Denton?” I venture.
He holds up a hand.
“She’s probably out and about,” I add. “Maybe it’s best you just sit tight inside.”
Folger holds his position for a long minute, then turns without a word for the front of the house. I exhale and pull my hand off the pistol. Hell, the gun’s empty. I’ve fired my last silver slug.
Though, the damned truth is I have a whole bag of blessed silver rounds waiting for me. They aren’t mine, but I might use them in the service of the Godpistols. Gil wouldn’t hold this against me. Hell, if Gil were here, I’m not sure he wouldn’t drop the whole nest of Strigoi and cannibal ghouls and ride out clean.
But I’m not Gil.
I situate Ripper in the shelter with fresh water and hay before I follow Folger inside. I manage the front door with just enough time to see his bedroom door close. I figure he’s entitled to some space. I remember the first time I ever drew up against a Strigoi. Just after Chattanooga. After Ripper and I lit out and headed west. We traveled at night to keep our outlawed asses clear of Union notice. I’d taken to moving cross-country, and one night we rode up on a fresh battlefield. It wasn’t anything more than a skirmish. Wasn’t even a single Johnny Reb in the field. Best I could figure, two companies had bumped into each other in the thick woods and hailed salvos into each other before they got the full draw of the situation. Stupid horseshit luck. The kind of luck you tend to get shoveled on your head in the middle of a war.
There was nothing left but corpses by the time Ripper and I stumbled onto that blood-soaked thicket. I dismounted to take a quick inventory of ammunition and foot leathers, when I spotted something crawling along the ground just past the hillock I was combing over. It was bent and thin, cloaked in rags. It crept along the ground on all fours, and I’d figured it was one of the wild dogs what picked over battlefields left unpoliced. But when it lifted its face to me, I saw nothing but coal-black eyes and a maw full of needle-teeth.
It had just fed on what must have been a survivor, barely clinging to life. Lucky for me, its appetite was sated. It skittered away and sailed up into the trees before I could even draw on it. Not that my pathetic ball shot of lead would have done it harm. Still, I spent several nights awake after that. Even after I’d quit the War, I was certain on my grasp of reality. I’d made decisions, all of them with sound mind.
Even when I ran, I knew what I was doing.
Folger, though. I have my doubts as to whether he’ll wake up tomorrow with a brain full of murder, or a thick whitewash to forget this evening had ever happened. Folger’s a good man, but he’s fragile. Those who hang their hat on their own learning tend to snap pretty quick when the fangs come out.
I pull off my coat and give my person a good once-over. For once, I manage to escape a fight with evil without a scratch. Well, praise the fucking Lord. With a quick rummage over Folger’s stove, I scrape together a couple spoonfuls of Katherina’s gruel and try to convince my stomach it’s enough to call supper.
I settle myself in a chair at the table and set my Remington out for a good cleaning. I inherited this new model from Gil, who’d put one in the hands of each of the Godpistols. The seventy-fives gave us the ability to press cartridges, and speed of operation being key when in a tight spot with a Strigoi or revenant or what have you, he felt it was money well spent. I give the gun a good inside-and-out, then hold up one of Holcomb’s cartridges to the lamp light. The silver top gleams with God’s light. As I slip it and five more of Gil’s bullets into my cylinder, I think on my last few shots. Cooter, the fat cannibal up on the hill. The Parson’s minions hunkered outside this door. The Parson, hisself. I’m a veteran, a disgraced one at that. But I’ve never thrown so many shots out of this gun without a miss. It’s as if God were directing my hand. Shit, there’s hope yet for this old coward.
My thoughts drift to Richterman as I slide the gun snug back in its holster. I had him. He was close enough to touch. I could have ended this. Did I make the best choice, after all?
The front door opens slow. I look up to find Katherina stepping inside, head covered in a dark hood of lace from her gown, a limp faun in her hand. She gives me a considerable look, then bows just a hair.
“Odell?”
“Ma’am.”
She sighs and moves to the far side of the room to hang the animal on a gaffing hook. Seems she’s gutted it outside already. I imagine she’s fairly skilled with field dressing all sorts of prey.
“You are awake. Again.”
I cross my arms and lean back in the chair. “We had a fight.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think?”
She squints and turns to face me square. “You cannot mean Denton?”
“No. Not Denton. He was barely involved, but you and he are going to have significant words come sunrise.”
She steps forward with intent. “What happened?”
“The Parson. Uriah. Whatever his name is. He came a calling.”
“Here?”
“No. Town.”
She runs a hand over her brow. “That makes no sense.”
“Yep. Seems old Magner was done with the good Parson. Sent him to town to bring back Richterman or die trying. Guess how that played out?”
“Richterman? He was… there?”
I nod.
If a Strigoi’s face could blanch, hers did. She slips into a chair across the table and leans forward. “You saw him?”
I nod again.
Her eyes flutter, and she shakes her head. “And what did you do?”
I suck in a breath. “I had a choice. Him or the Parson.” I tap my holster. “I could have. It would have been easy. But I only had the one shot. And right at the moment, well… I gave Denton my word.”
She leans back, her brow curling into a question. “You speak of shooting him?”
“I know. I promised.”
“I find it hard to believe.”
“Well, I ain’t a Strigoi, ma’am. I don’t have your rules to follow. I could’ve done it. Quick. Bang. The Parson probably would have torn my head off my shoulders and ate my kidneys for breakfast. Who knows? Maybe he’d have thanked me for doing his job for him.”
Katherina reaches across the table and slaps a hand direct across my cheek. It’s a tap, really. She’s strong enough to smack the jaw off my skull, if she were given occasion.
Tears brim in her eyes. “You bastard. You could lay eyes on his face and still consider that? Perhaps you are not the man I thought you were.”
I slowly lift a hand to my cheek and give it a good rub. “Are we having the same conversation?”
She snarls.
I hold up my hands. “Look. As pretty a man as this Richterman must be, I didn’t get a solid look at his face. I know you Strigoi can play with people’s minds, so you don’t have to worry about that. I was in possession of my wits.”
Katherina huffs a quick breath. “You said that you saw him.”
“I did. Best I could. It was dark.”
“Did you or did you not?”
“He was directly beside me. I could’ve reached out and touched him.”
She leans forward, nearly climbing across the table, and lays both of her palms alongside my face. “You did not see him.”
“Are… are you trying to toy with my head now?”
“What are you talking about?”
I pull away. “What language am I speaking? I told you. The Parson attacked the town, alone. He called out Richterman. Some of your Strigoi friends showed up to help, but Uriah tore
through them like they was balls of field cotton. Weird types, too. Couldn’t speak. Had a hell of a time trying to coordinate a fucking attack with them.”
Katherina rocks back into her chair, crossing her arms to hold herself. Her face is a storm of emotions, eyes moving quicker than I can follow, but slow enough to let loose a tear or six.
“Orphans,” she whispers.
“Huh?”
“We call them orphans.”
“That’s right. Heard you call them that before.”
She unfurls her arms with a heavy breath and clears her throat. “The change takes time. Several months, before one becomes Strigoi. In that time, the body dies slowly as the new soul takes residence.”
I hold up my hands. “Gettin’ a touch heavy for me.”
“You wonder why they cannot speak? It is because they were turned without a Master to guide them through the change. To keep their minds alive while the body mortifies. It is sadly common in the New World, where there seems to be no sense of responsible siring. They become Strigoi, but they lose the faculties that once made them human. They are like children. No, more like young animals raised by humans. They are so eager to please. So easy for men like Lars to manipulate.”
I nod. “You’re making sense now. They’re feral.”
“If you like.”
“Well, I tried my best, for what it’s worth. I tried to help them.”
She smiles without looking me in the eye. “Thank you for that.”
“But the Parson was stronger. Too strong.”
“Unlike Strigoi, Magner’s creatures seem to get stronger the longer they go without feeding.”
I lean forward. “You willing to share any more of that insight? Or are we still adhering to your policy of fuck-all for useful information?”
“It is best if you figure this alone.”
I slap the table, then collect myself. “Denton may feel otherwise come the morning.”
“I doubt that.”
“You think so? Because he saw them. Your orphans. He knows, now. He knows what they are.” I lower my voice. “He knows what you are.”
Katherina levels an imperious glare on my head. “You think this is the first time he has seen Strigoi with his own eyes?”
I hold my tongue.
