“Cyrus, Joe an’ me decided it would be smart to sleep in shifts. That ways one of us would be awake to raise the alarm in case the dead’uns got a hair up their ass and decided to storm the church. Cyrus was to take the first watch, Joe the second and me the third. I bedded down the best I could, tryin’ to tune out the sound of the dead’uns outside, moanin’ and wailin’ like the damned souls they were. Next thing I know, I wake up to find Cyrus on top of me, his hands wrapped around my throat.
“‘It’s you or me, Farley,’ he growled. ‘I already kilt Joe and fed ’im to ’em. Now its yore turn.’
“Cyrus should have checked to see if I was as harmless as Joe before trying to serve me up to those damned bloodsuckers. I reached into my boot and pulled out my knife and drove it into his belly. Needless to say, it weren’t my cold bones the dead’uns ended up scrappin’ over that night.
“That was two days ago. I been holed up here alone ever since. Every night they come back out, gettin’ closer and closer to the church, like they’re huddling around it for warmth. Last night they started fightin’ amongst themselves something fierce—rippin’ off haids and breakin’ off arms and th’ like.
“When I heard you hollerin’, at first I thought I was dreamin’. When I looked out the window and saw you standin’ out there in the middle of the street, I knew my prayers had been answered. I have been saved.”
Yoakum took a deep breath and let it out slow. “Well, now, Farley … that’s a mighty unusual story. I can honestly say that in all my years as a Texas Ranger, I have yet to hear tell of anything like it before—and I fought against Ironjacket and Cortina.”
“I know it sounds like complete and utter horse hockey. But you have to believe me when I tell you every word of it is true. You want proof?” Farley thrust his hand into his pocket and withdrew a necklace attached to a pendant. “This here’s the medallion Merle took off the dead’un in the box,” he said, shoving the piece of jewelry into Yoakum’s hand. “This is proof I ain’t talkin’ crazy, ain’t it? You can have it, far as I care. All it brung me is misery.”
Yoakum frowned at the pendant, turning it over in his hands. He moved to the broken stained glass window and held it up by its chain so that he could get a better look at the stone. He had never seen anything quite like it before. Depending on its angle, it appeared black, while other times it seemed to glow red as a ruby. He was so preoccupied staring into the stone’s depths, he did not realize that Farley was behind him until a gun butt collided with the back of his head.
Chapter Four
When Yoakum came to, it was to find himself alone. Late afternoon shadows filled the church. As he got to his feet, he grimaced and gingerly touched his skull. His fingers came away sticky with blood. He lurched out into the dying light of the setting sun. There was no sign of either his horse or Farley.
“Goddamn lyin’ horse thief,” he muttered under his breath. All that bastard had left him was a piece of junk jewelry, tucked inside the front breast pocket of his shirt, and the grandpappy of all headaches. But as he stood in the deserted street, Yoakum could not help but remember Farley’s story about the living dead. It was pure poppycock, plain and simple—it had to be. But if Farley had been lying, then where had everybody gone?
As the Texas sun dropped its blood red eye, and the lengthening shadows drew the town into dusk, Yoakum heard what sounded like a dog pawing at a door. As he turned around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise, he realized that the sound was coming from more than one place. The scratching was quickly replaced by a louder, more distinct noise—one that made every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It was a chorus of human voices, united in an ululating wail of pain and despair. It was the cry of the dead’uns.
He saw the first one crawl out from under the shadows of the boardwalk, pulling itself along on its elbows like a Comanche brave sneaking up on a buffalo. The creature was covered from head to toe in a mixture of dirt, manure and mud, although there were enough clean spots for Yoakum to see that the flesh underneath was as pale as death. Its eyes locked onto him shining with an unwholesome hunger. It took an active force of will for the ranger to tear himself from the thing’s gaze.
To his horror, there were dozens of similar creatures boiling out from under the boardwalks and crawlspaces of the surrounding buildings, like maggots escaping a corpse. He made a mental note to himself to amend his opinion of Farley. The man was definitely a horse thief, but he certainly wasn’t a liar.
He turned to flee to the relative safety of the church, only to find his way blocked by more of the erstwhile citizens of Golgotha. They stood shoulder to shoulder, their bloodless faces fixed into masks of depraved longing. He’d rescued men held captive by Indians until they where starved into scarecrows who didn’t look that hungry. He fired his Colt .45 into the crowd that encircled him. Of the six dead’uns he hit, only one dropped and stayed down—from a head wound that took off her sunbonnet along with the top of her skull.
With a collective shout of anticipation, the creatures surged forward, clawing at Yoakum with yellowed nails. They swarmed over him like rats attacking a wounded terrier, violently biting and clawing one another as they jockeyed for position. Yoakum kicked, punched, bit and gouged eyes as best he could, but they seemed immune to any punishment he meted out. In the end, there were simply too many of them. Within seconds of emptying his pistol, he was overwhelmed.
What had once been the town’s blacksmith clamped cold, clammy fingers about Yoakum’s throat. The Texas Ranger drove his fist into the undead thing’s face with all his might. Though he could feel the creature’s from the force of the blow, his attacker continued to pull him inexorably forward. As the blacksmith opened his mouth, a graveyard stench rolled forth, causing Yoakum to gag. He didn’t know what was worse—dying at the hands of fiends, or having to endure their stink while doing it. Suddenly, there was a shout that froze the entire congregation in their tracks.
“¡La Parada!”
The dead’uns crowded about Yoakum abruptly withdrew. As the burly blacksmith let go of Yoakum’s throat, the Ranger dropped to his knees, coughing raggedly as he fought to regain his breath. He looked up as he massaged his bruised and swollen neck, staring in mute amazement at the figure before him. Even if he had not heard Farley’s story about the mummified conquistador, he still would have known that this was their leader, the one they called Sangre.
The Spaniard stood well over six feet tall, with long black hair that fell past his shoulders, and an equally dark beard and goatee that gave his face an appropriately saturnine appearance. Save for his pallid complexion and a set of overlong, yellowed fingernails, there was little to indicate to the casual observer that he was as cold as yesterday’s mutton.
Sangre stared down at Yoakum with eyes that glittered like rubies held before a flame. Although he still wore the rusty morion helmet and armored vest he had originally been buried in, the revived conquistador was also outfitted in a pair of denim trousers and cowboy boots, no doubt taken from one of his recent victims. The others milled about him at a respectful distance. The way they kept their eyes riveted on him, while avoiding his gaze, reminded Yoakum of a pack of hounds anxiously awaiting their master’s command.
The undead conquistador pointed a talon-like finger at Yoakum and spoke in a booming voice. “¡Primero sangres es mía!”
The dead’uns muttered to themselves. It was clear that they did not like what Sangre had to say, but were unwilling to argue the matter. The conquistador allowed himself a smile, displaying fangs the color of antique ivory.
“La paciencia, mis niños. Después que yo soy hecho, èl es suyo.”
“Like hell!” Yoakum growled, spitting a wad of bloody phlegm onto the conquistador’s boots. Like most Texans, he understood Spanish about as well as he did English. And he knew he didn’t like what he was hearing, no matter what the language. “I ain’t no side of beef to be parceled out amongst your kin!”
Sangre grabbed t
he Ranger by the front of his shirt as if he weighed no more than a child. As Yoakum looked directly into Sangre’s burning red eyes, he heard a voice that was not his own murmuring inside his head, urging him to stop struggling and surrender. He felt a sudden pressure on his throat, immediately followed by a piercing pain. Within seconds of being bitten, the wound went numb, as if a paralyzing toxin had been injected into his system. He felt as if he were somehow standing outside his own body, watching as he struggled to escape.
Summoning the last of his strength, Yoakum pulled himself away from the conquistador. Sangre responded by tightening his grip. There was a tearing sound, and the pocket of Yoakum’s shirt came away in Sanger’s hand. The medallion in his pocket fell to the ground between them. The Spaniard yowled as if Yoakum was hot to the touch, and quickly distanced himself from the wounded Ranger.
“¡Recoja ese collar de Diablo!” Sangre snarled, pointing at the medallion at his feet as if it were a rattlesnake coiled to strike. The dead’uns shuffled their feet and eyed the amulet cautiously. None moved forward to retrieve it. “¡Lo toma lejos!” the conquistador thundered.
Yoakum snatched up the medallion and swung it in a wide arc, turning to face the others as they crowded in. The creatures moved back, parting before him like the Red Sea. Yoakum realized he could either go back into the church, or he could strike out on foot. Either way, he’d be dead before dawn. But better that he die under the open sky than holed up somewhere with his back to the wall, like a baited bear.
Yoakum half expected the creatures to dog-pile him the moment his back was turned, but they simply stood by and allowed him to walk away. It was clear from the hungry looks they gave him they wanted nothing more than to tear into him like a Sunday dinner, but something was holding them back—and that something was the mysterious pendant he held in his hands.
Within minutes he was outside the city limits of Golgotha. He had never been so happy to put a town behind him in his life. The relief he felt upon escaping, however, was quickly replaced with concern. As usual, he was out of the frying pan and into the fire. He was a white man wandering alone, wounded and unarmed in the most hostile territory in Texas. He had no food or water, and nothing more than the clothes on his back to protect him against the elements. It was dark, and he had nothing to light his way but the rising moon and the evening stars.
Once he was convinced that Sangre and his followers were not coming after him, he slipped the amulet around his neck and turned his attention to the bite on his throat. Though it was not particularly deep, it continued to bleed long after it normally should have clotted. He was able to temporarily staunch the wound by wrapping it with his bandana, but it was not long before the cloth was saturated. He was weary from walking and becoming increasingly lightheaded, but he knew better than to stop and rest. Even if Sangre’s whey-faced spawn weren’t after him, odds were the smell of his blood would attract any number of predators. The last thing he needed in such a weakened condition was to find himself face to face with a mountain lion or a pack of coyotes. Hell, the way he was feeling, he wouldn’t be able to lick a prairie dog.
As he continued walking, he became dimly aware that he was no longer traveling alone. There was a figure keeping pace with him, one that he could only see from the corner of his eye. The figure was that of a man, dressed in overalls and heavy boots, and he carried a chopping hoe in his left hand, which he used as a walking staff. Though Yoakum could not immediately place the stranger, there was something familiar about him. Then the man turned his head and smiled at him, and, with a start, Yoakum realized he was looking into the face of his father.
“Daddy?”
“Best be careful, son,” Silas Yoakum said. He extended his right hand, in the palm of which was the severed head of a rattlesnake. “They can still bite after they’re dead.”
The elder Yoakum smiled and quickly closed his fist about the viper. As he did so, his features began to rapidly swell and turn purple, the eyes bulging from their sockets, until he looked like he did the last time his son had seen him, twenty years ago.
Sam had been working the fields, chopping cotton, when he heard his father cry out in pain and anger. As he hurried to his father’s side, he saw Silas Yoakum’s arms rise and fall numerous times, swinging the hoe he carried down onto something near his feet. By the time Sam reached him, Silas had chopped the rattlesnake into ribbons. The older man waved his ten-year-old son away.
‘Go fetch your Maw,’ he rasped. Those were the last words Silas Yoakum ever spoke.
Suddenly Sam was back at the house, sitting in the kitchen at his place at the table. The stove must have been on, because the room was hot. Yoakum heard the door open, and he turned to see his mother enter the house, holding out her apron, which was full of blue bonnets from the pasture.
“Aren’t they lovely, Sam?” she asked. “They’re dead but they still look like they’re alive. Mercy, it’s so hot in this kitchen! They’ll need to drink if they are going to keep looking lively. They’re dead, but they can still be thirsty. Be a good boy and draw me some water.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, dutifully walking across the kitchen to the sink. He had to give the kitchen pump handle a couple of good pushes before the water spurted forth. As he watched the cold, clear spring water splash into the waiting catch basin, he was suddenly aware of just how hot and thirsty he was.
He leaned forward and placed his lips against the spout, eager to drink his fill. To his surprise, the water was not cool and refreshing, but warm and slightly salty. He drew back and saw that it was not well-water spurting forth, but blood. Even as he retched, something in the back of his mind urged him to continue drinking from the gushing gore. Though he knew he should resist the urge, he was helpless to fight it. It was as if his body was being devoured from the inside out by a ferocious heat, which could only be slaked by the blood of others.
As Yoakum fought against the dark fire burning inside him, he became dimly aware of what felt like a soothing, feminine hand on his fevered brow, accompanied by a slowly expanding numbness. The numbness overwhelmed the hellfire within his veins, dampening it to a tolerable level, if not exactly extinguishing it altogether. As the lack of sensation spread throughout his body, he wondered if he was dying. The idea did not bother him overmuch. Better to die a man than to live as a monster.
The next thing he was aware of was the smell of wood smoke and the sound of a woman’s voice, chanting in a language he recognized as belonging to the Comanche. It took him a moment to realize he did not need to open his eyes because they were already open, staring at what looked to be the backside of a horse blanket. He reached up and pulled it away, and found himself gazing up at the night sky.
As he sat up, he saw the source of both the smoke and chanting. An Indian woman dressed in buckskin riding trousers hunkered before a small campfire, her back to him. Her hair was long and hung down her back like the mane of a wild pony. Upon hearing him move, she turned her head to look at him, and he could see she was naked from the waist up, save for a beaded pectoral and the paint on her face.
“Who are you?” he rasped, his voice drier than ginned cotton. When the woman did not respond, he asked the question haltingly in her own language.
“I will speak in your own tongue,” she replied. “Your Comanche hurts my ears. I am called Pretty Woman.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“You have been dead three days.”
“You mean unconscious.”
She gave him a look that would wither an apple on the branch. “I know dead when I see it.”
“How can I be dead if I am talking to you?”
“How can a rattlesnake bite after it is no longer alive?”
Yoakum blinked. “I had a dream where someone said that to me. But how—?”
Pretty Woman shrugged her shoulders and went back to poking at the fire with a stick. “Dreams tell us many things. My dream told me where to find you, and to protect you from the s
un.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t, either. For now it is enough that I saw you in my dream and found you before you burned with the rising sun.”
“And you sat with me this whole time? Three days?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I am a shaman. As was my grandfather and his mother before him. My medicine is strong, but I am still young. I am—unseasoned,” she spoke in a way that told Yoakum she was quoting someone else’s words. “So I was sent out into the wilderness to seek a vision, and make its medicine my own.
“For four days and four nights I wandered without food or drink, or sleep. Then, on the fifth night, I looked up and saw the moon weeping blood. The bloody teardrops fell upon the land, and from them sprang forth a man with eyes of fire and the heart of a devil. I saw the devil-man go forth and bring pestilence and death to the Whites and the Mexicans, and to my people as well. I saw towns and villages laid to waste, filled with the dead who are not dead. I saw the fire that burned in the devil-man’s eyes glowing in the eyes of all those he tainted—including my own kin.
“The vision frightened me beyond any fear I have ever known. I looked back to the moon for guidance, but it was no longer there. In its place was a man whose face was whiter than a cloud, and whose eyes blazed red, but not with the same fire that burns within the devil-man. That face was yours.”
“The devil-man you saw in your vision—he is real. His name is Sangre.” He put his hand to his throat, a baffled look on his face. “But if I am, indeed, dead—how is it I still have my wits about me? I’ve seen what happens to those he bites. They’re little more than animals, driven by the need for blood.”
“The charm you wear protects you,” Pretty Woman said, pointing at the medallion still looped about his neck. “I do not know the medicine that worked it, but it is very old and very strong.”
Hell Come Sundown Page 4
