Doc Holliday_The Sky Fire Chronicles

by Paul Summerhayes

  “Also, the sheriff and the deputy were possessed,” added Pat.

  “Possessed?” said Holliday, raising an eyebrow above his glasses. “What do you mean?”

  “They tried to kill me…and their blood was black.”

  “That’s a lot happening in this one small place.”

  “Yeah. There is more to this town than dust and broken dreams,” said Roberts. “And all of this may have something to do with Tombstone.”

  “And what exactly is happening there, Marshal?”

  “The opening of another hell gate, and a possible demon invasion.”

  “Invasion? Let’s find Kate and kill this infernal hunchback,” said Holliday. “Then, I will go with you to Tombstone and help kill these demons.”

  “Good,” said Roberts. “Your country will—”

  “Enough with the patriotic speech, Marshal, my homeland was destroyed by the Sky Fires ten years ago.”

  Roberts nodded. “I’m not sure what is happening here, but everyone who might have known something is either missing or dead. The stable owner, the sheriff and his deputy…who else, Garrett?”

  “A housekeeper, a miner…and the mayor. I‘m not sure if there are any more.”

  Holliday stepped off the boardwalk into the dusty street. “Let’s pick one. The mayor. Let’s pay a visit to his humble abode and see what we can find out.”

  The trio stood facing a single-story building on the edge of town, two streets back from the saloon. It didn’t look like much—but neither did any other building in town. The house was dark and somewhat foreboding.

  No one’s home, thought Pat.

  “It’s a hovel,” Roberts stated what everyone else was thinking.

  “And a suitable residence for the mayor of this town.” Holliday indicated their surroundings with his walking stick. “Shall we knock?”

  They moved to the front door and Holliday rapped three times on its faded wooden surface with his walking stick. The house responded with growing silence.

  “No one’s home.”

  “Garrett,” said Roberts. “If you please.”

  Pat tried the door handle, but it was locked. Leaving her hand on the metal surface, she concentrated, allowing her energy to flow into the lock. In her mind’s eye she pictured the locking mechanism rotating and a moment later was rewarded with a faint click. She turned the handle and pushed open the door.

  “Darling, I’ve needed skills like yours in my past,” said Holliday as he stepped past her into the darkened interior.

  Pat hesitated before drawing her Peacemaker and following the gambler inside. Roberts’ feline eyes flashed yellow as they reflected a distant light. He paused on the porch for a few seconds, scanning the shadows along the quiet street, looking for the smallest movement. There were none. No one watched them that he could detect—no mortal anyway. He couldn’t be sure about the denizens of hell, many of which were gifted with blending into the darkness. Resting a hand on the cavalry saber’s hilt, Roberts entered the mayor’s house.

  Inside, it took Pat several seconds to adjust to the darkness. The small house had only two rooms. The front door had opened into a compact dining and kitchen area. The back door was positioned near the wood burning stove and was open to the night. There was only one other door in the room.

  A bedroom, thought Pat.

  Holliday stood in the center of the room, twirling his cane and humming to himself. He strolled to the bedroom door and cast it open, disappearing inside.

  “Nothing but fleas and roach shit,” Holliday said from the bedroom. “This mayor was obviously a northerner.”

  Roberts found and lit a lamp, filling the room with light. Nothing looked out of place except a knocked over chair and a half drunken cup of cold coffee sitting on a rickety-looking kitchen table.

  “The place looked better in the dark,” said Holliday, entering the main room again. “And it lacks a woman’s touch.” He held up a brown sock on the end of his walking stick, it looked like it might have once been white.

  Roberts didn’t pay any attention to the gambler. He crouched down to examine the floor. Pat peered over his shoulder.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure.” He was studying marks on the timber floor.

  “Maybe the sheriff and deputy ate the mayor,” suggested Holliday. “And the cat was their dessert.”

  Roberts won’t appreciate these comments.

  “Regardless of what happened here,” said Roberts. “The mayor is gone.”

  “And the night is passing,” Holliday said. “If you want to make use of my…talents, we need to hurry.” He noticed Pat staring at him and shrugged. “I’m a night person.”

  And Roberts said he’s not a vampire?

  The old marshal stood, facing his two companions. “Let’s find Mrs. Muller’s house and enquire after her missing housekeeper. There must be a connection here we can’t see.”

  A short walk from the mayor’s residence, Mrs. Muller’s house was a large, single-story structure which smelled of fresh paint. Lights illuminated several of the front curtained windows, indicating someone was at home.

  This looks more promising, thought Holliday, stopping at the front door and rapping on its white painted surface.

  They heard footsteps approaching and the door was opened by a middle-aged woman holding a shotgun. She pointed both barrels through the door, but in a blink of an eye Holliday lunged forward and tore the weapon clean out of her hands.

  “You won’t need this, ma’am,” said Holliday.

  The woman’s face drained of color and she tried to close the door, but she wasn’t quick enough. Roberts pushed the door open, knocking the hapless woman backward. She slipped and fell. With no regard for the fallen woman, the old marshal stepped into the house.

  Pat moved to her side and helped her to her feet. “Sorry, ma’am. Are you Mrs. Muller?”

  “Ja.”

  “We’re marshals, ma’am. We mean you no harm.”

  “You could have killed me!” the woman said with a thick German accent.

  “Just returning the favor,” replied Holliday, holding up the shotgun.

  The woman looked from the gun to the faces around her. “It’s for my defense.”

  “Defense, from what?” asked Holliday. “As I recall, answering the door with a shotgun is not a southern custom. Not one that I’m familiar with.”

  “I’m German, not southern.”

  So it would seem.

  “What’s got you rattled, ma’am?” asked Holliday.

  “There’re strange things going on in this town.” Mrs. Muller made the sign of the cross. “Bad things.”

  “Like what?”

  “People vanishing!” She was obviously agitated. “And noises…at night, and my dog...he is gone.”

  “What about your housekeeper?”

  “Abigail? She’s gone, too.”

  “Can we see her quarters?” asked Roberts.

  “Yes…she sleeps in the cottage behind the main house.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. And if you want to use this cannon,” said Holliday, handing the shotgun back to Mrs. Muller. “You will need to pull the hammers back first.”

  The woman watched in silence as they stepped back out onto the porch and closed the door. The two marshals and Holliday made their way around the side of the main house to a small, isolated building at the back.

  What a sad little dwelling, thought Holliday, taking in the dark box-like shack.

  The porch boards groaned as they stepped up to the shack’s door. Roberts raised a fist to knock, but hesitated as a wind gust blew up from nowhere, bringing with it the smell of the open desert. When the wind died down, the old marshal turned back to the door and knocked.

  There was no answer.

  “Abigail’s not at home,” said Pat. “What’s going on here?”

  “I’m not sure. But the hunchback is behind this, I know it.” Roberts tried the door handle and the door swung open.<
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  They moved inside and Roberts lit a candle which stood on a table. The interior of the shack was clean and tidy and was a similar layout to the mayor’s house, but smaller in size. There were no obvious signs of a struggle.

  Maybe she just left, thought Holliday. I don’t blame her. I want to leave after only a few days here as well.

  “There’s nothing here,” said Roberts after he looked around the house. “Let’s go.”

  The three companions stepped outside to be confronted with the town silhouetted against an orange glow.

  “What the hell is this?” said Holliday.

  “Sky Fire?” asked Pat. “Are we too late?”

  They remained stationary on Abigail’s porch as the flickering light increased and smoke billowed up, blotting out some of the stars.

  “No,” Roberts muttered. “The town’s on fire.”

  Chapter 13

  The three sprinted toward the firelight which seemed to hover above the buildings. Holliday’s speed was inhuman and he raced ahead of the other two, even out-pacing the longer-limbed Pat. The gambler skidded on loose gravel as he rounded a corner and without stopping, he continued on down the main street at a blistering pace. The old marshal trailed the younger pair, following as fast as he could.

  “Hell!” Holliday said, coming to a stop at the town’s center. “Is the world on fire?”

  Massive flames leapt high into the night’s sky from half a dozen burning roof tops, casting dancing shadows along the street. The heat was intense and the roar of the fires sounded like distant thunder. Smoke streamed skyward in thick, black columns, sending small embers and ash floating down from the dark heavens.

  The boarding house was well ablaze. Flames engulfed its timber boards and consumed the curtains in glassless windows.

  Pat stopped beside the gambler, trying to make sense of this hellish scene. “How?” she muttered, but was drowned out by a massive explosion from somewhere inside the saloon. The force of the explosion blew fragments of wood and glass into the street, peppering Pat and Holliday with razor-sharp projectiles.

  Holliday reacted quickly, moving protectively in front of Pat and taking the brunt of the explosion. Pat winced as several sharp objects struck her body, but was thankful that Holliday shielded her from most of the shrapnel.

  Frantic townsfolk ran back and forth with buckets of water, dowsing the flames as best as they could. Men, women and a few children formed bucket conveyors to the few brave enough to stand near the boarding house and throw the buckets’ contents at the flames—with little or no effect.

  What fools, thought Holliday. People will die if they don’t move back.

  “We need to move these people to safety,” Roberts said, coming up behind them and echoing Holliday’s thoughts. The old marshal’s face was grim in the firelight. “Garrett, assist over there.” He pointed to the general store. “Holliday, you and me to the saloon.”

  Roberts didn’t wait for a response. He headed off to assist the lone barwoman doing battle against an imposing wall of flames.

  All right, old man! I’m coming.

  Holliday gave pursuit, overtaking the old marshal in several strides. Before he could reach the barwoman, an explosion ripped through the saloon. The shockwave knocked the woman off her feet, throwing her several yards to land heavily on her back.

  In an instant, Holliday was beside her and she gripped his arm weakly. “Blue Water…she’s in there.”

  “Who?” Holliday asked.

  “…half-breed…”

  The old prostitute.

  Hell. “Sit still, ma’am, I’ll get her.”

  Holliday stood and tucking his walking stick into his belt, he stepped toward the burning saloon. The inferno’s heat was intense and he faltered, shielding his face with his arm. Through the saloon’s smoky doorway, he spotted a dark shape moving in the center of the main room, then an instant later it was gone, obscured by a wall of flames—Blue Water was still alive!

  How could anyone survive in there?

  “Holliday!” yelled Roberts. “Where are you going?”

  Crash!

  One of the saloon’s support beams collapsed, sending up a shower of orange sparks and flames skyward. A gust of heat rushed out the front door, spewing more sparks and smoke past the worried onlookers. The beam had fallen where Blue Water had been only moments earlier.

  This isn’t going to end well!

  Pat dashed to the front of the general store’s bucket line where a man splashed water on the flames and then backed away from the overwhelming heat. She took his place and snatched the next full bucket handed to her, flinging its contents through the open doorway of the fiery building. Flames leapt at her and smoke invaded her throat as she staggered back, coughing.

  We’ll never stop this! she thought, covering her mouth with a hand and blinking away the smoke stinging her eyes.

  Whoosh!

  The fire’s unbearable heat forced Pat back several steps and she stumbled into the person behind her in the bucket line. Together they moved back from the burning building.

  “It’s done for!” the man beside her shouted over the roar of the fire.

  He’s right—

  Just then something big and heavy impacted Pat’s shoulder, driving her off her feet and flinging her to the ground. She spluttered, spitting dirt from her already dry mouth.

  What the hell!

  In the confusion that followed, someone screamed—a long and terrible sound that filled the air with fear and dread.

  Pat blinked the dust and smoke from her eyes and pushed herself up. She was disoriented from the blow she took, but after a few seconds she refocused on her surroundings. A few yards away in the smoke-filled street, a dark shape crouched over a body. It raised its long-muzzled head and Pat cursed silently as she looked at a creature that could only have been spawned in hell.

  It was a hound-shaped monster, much larger and heavier than any wolf she had ever seen. Small orange flames flickered over its black, fur-covered body, but it didn’t seem to notice. Fresh blood dripped from its jowls and two soulless eyes stared back at Pat and despite the intense heat, she shivered.

  Holliday took one step forward and then another. The intensity of the fire was like a physical wall, halting the gambler’s progress.

  Hell! This is hot enough here to blister even my skin! The half-breed is done for.

  Suddenly, silhouetted against the fire raging inside the building, a person appeared at the saloon’s doorway. By some miracle, Blue Water had survived the inferno.

  Holliday shielded his eyes with a hand. “Come on, woman!

  The person stood statue-like for many long seconds and appeared oblivious of the flames and heat that licked at their flesh and clothes. Taking a step out onto the smoldering boardwalk, the person stopped and cast a wary look about the street before locking eyes with Holliday.

  What devilry is this?

  Like a jack rabbit, the person sprung high into the air, landing several yards from the surprised gambler.

  It wasn’t Blue Water. Before Holliday stood a spikey-skinned demon, man-shaped, hairless and covered with scraps of burning clothing. The demon opened its hideously large mouth, exposing dozens of wicked-looking teeth. “Pull your iron,” the demon said in a voice not designed for human speech.

  The drifter?

  Holliday went for his twin revolvers and drew them in a smooth, well-practiced action. But before he could bring them to bear, the demon had crossed the ground between them and grabbed both of Holliday’s wrists in a vice-like grip. If this was the drifter, he was faster in demon form than human.

  Strong claws dug into Holliday’s flesh and he bit back a cry of pain as his skin burned under the demon’s touch. He struggled, but failed to break the demon’s hold, who responded by laughing, covering Holliday in its putrid breath.

  It’s too strong! Holliday thought.

  With nothing else to lose, Holliday drew back his head, then whipped it forward—
striking the demon on the bridge of its nose with his forehead. Holliday’s senses spun dizzily from the impact and after several seconds, his senses cleared. The demon was still standing—and laughing!

  “Your mutations aren’t going to help you here, mortal,” said the demon, still chuckling.

  Now, it was the demon’s turn. It smashed its spiny forehead into Holliday’s face, knocking his hat and glasses off and driving the dentist to his knees. Holliday felt like he had been hit by a locomotive as blood trickled down his face from a dozen wounds.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Holliday muttered.

  Suddenly, a cry of pure rage burst from Holliday, revealing long, canine teeth the size of a predatory cat’s. The gambler glared hatefully at the demon, his black pupils were small dots in the whites of his eyes. Veins pulsed beneath his pale skin and his features became bestial in appearance. Then, his fingers extended and his nails thickened into claws.

  “Time to go back to hell, demon!” Holliday’s voice was deep and otherworldly.

  “Ha! Make your move,” responded the demon.

  Holliday rose to his feet and twisting his wrists, managed to break the demon’s grip. He followed up by dragging his claw down the creature’s face and was rewarded with a cry from his adversary. The pale gambler attacked again and again, but each time the demon sprung out of the way, successfully dodging his blows. In frustration, Holliday snarled and leapt back from his enemy.

  “You’re too slow, mortal.”

  In a blur the demon rushed forward, his thorny elbow striking Holliday mid-chest, ripping his shirt and barreling him over. Looking down on the prone gambler, the demon gloated—but its pleasure was short-lived as it narrowly twisted out of the way of a slashing cavalry saber.

  “Stand still!” yelled Roberts, slashing with his saber again.

  The old man was no match for the demon’s speed as it easily avoided his blade. Judging the moment right, the spiny creature stepped forward and drove Roberts back with the flat of his hand. The impact lifted the marshal clean off his feet and propelled him a dozen yards through the air. Roberts lost his grip on his sword as he hit the ground, throwing up a small cloud of dust and sliding to a stop against a water trough on the other side of the street—where the old marshal lay slumped and didn’t move.