Trail of Tears

by Derek Gunn

  But would Josh come for her? Could he? As she sat and watched the camp, she could see that there were an awful lot of thrall guards, much more than she realised. They patrolled far out of sight in all directions and patrols were coming in all the time from their sweeps. She couldn’t figure out how Josh and the others could rescue them, even if they would follow him on such a mad mission. She felt a single tear well up in her eye and it dripped onto her cheek. She remembered the last time she had cried and how Josh had pulled her into his arms. The cold wind cut through the thin blanket she had and she shivered as she thought again about how warm Josh’s arms had been. She longed to feel them around her once more as she watched the barren horizon.

  * * *

  Josh was frustrated. No one was prepared to leave the cave. They had so much food stock piled that his arguments fell on deaf ears. Most of the people here did not care about the others in the pens. What was the point in risking their lives? Taking on a camp full of thralls and vampires was a sure way to commit suicide. And to what end? To swell their numbers even further and put even more strain on their resources. And what would the vampires do if their entire food supply disappeared? Did he really think they would leave them alone? They were better off hiding here until they had to scavenge for food again.

  What was worse was that, strategically, they were right. If they pissed Von Richelieu off enough then he would scour the area until he found them. For now they were a mere annoyance. Not really worth the effort of a sustained search. The food convoys were bad enough, but now that they had killed a vampire they risked their full fury. Already he had seen more patrols. If the vampires came out in force to search for them he wasn’t sure that the rock above would hide them from their senses.

  But what was he to do about Tanya? The mad cow had walked straight into the enemy camp and got locked up again in an effort to force his hand. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what she was doing, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He had spent yesterday scouting the thrall camp but he had not been able to get anywhere near them. Patrols were far more numerous than before and each thrall looked alert.

  He sighed as he scanned the distant horizon. A cold wind brought small flakes of snow that drifted lazily in front of him before falling to earth where the disappeared. The snow wasn’t sticking up here on the rocks but the grass below was covered in a fine blanket of white. He looked up at the slate grey sky and wondered if they would get another storm. If they did he might be able to sneak into the camp and…

  No.

  He couldn’t put one person ahead of so many. For better or worse the people looked to him for guidance. However, it wasn’t as if they obeyed him either. They liked to get his opinion but there were so many factions within their small group now and everything was debated to death. The final decision was often procrastinated so many times that people ended up forgetting what they had been debating about.

  It had been different when Hammond stood with him. The man had exuded confidence and his easy smile often brought people around quicker than a well-crafted argument. His death had left him alone against the rest of the community. Everyone missed Hammond and some even blamed Josh for his death. The dynamic within the group had changed. He heard a scraping behind him and turned to see Jillian walking towards him. She sat beside him with a sigh.

  “Hey, Red,” he smiled as the girl laid her head on his shoulder.

  “Do you think she found Mark?” she asked quietly, as if her voice would be heard.

  “I think your mother is capable of doing anything she sets her mind to,” he laughed.

  “She’s not that tough, you know. She only appears that way ‘cause she has to.” There was an easy silence between them. Jillian was an easy kid to like but she didn’t give her trust easily—like her mother. “She likes you.”

  Josh snorted, surprised by her statement. He looked down at her and she met his gaze.

  “She has a funny way of showing it.”

  “She left me with you didn’t she?”

  He put his arm around her, shielding her form the cold.

  “That she did,” he agreed. “She must really hate me.” Jillian slapped him in the chest playfully and cuddled deeper into his warmth. They remained like that for some time. Eventually she looked up again.

  “You will get her back, won’t you?”

  Her voice cracked with the emotion and his heart went out to her.

  “Yes,” he said simply. He sat there for some time wracking his brains for some solution but came up empty. He looked down at Jillian’s face. She had fallen asleep. He picked her up and carried her into the cave.

  * * *

  Von Richelieu considered the report he had just heard. Kavanagh was planning an attack. He had worked that out without the need for spies. What was interesting though was the fact that the humans might also be attacking. Now that was unexpected. Had the serum damaged their brains? Humans attacking a camp filled with thralls and vampires. Madness! His spy must have gotten it wrong. Either that or Kavanagh was more intelligent that he thought and was feeding him false information. But that would mean identifying both his sources and that was unlikely.

  What happened to respect he wondered. He came from a time where the elder vampires were venerated. These new breeds of vampire were mongrels. They were incapable of loyalty. He stood abruptly and paced his room. He had never paced before. He had always found comfort in considering his options while mediating, but he could no longer do that. He felt restless all the time now. He longed to do something, to put some plan into motion. Any plan. But he knew that would be wrong. Doing anything was always worse than doing nothing in his experience. He had increased the patrols and was confident that no one could attack without sufficient warning. But, with inclement weather and such a large area to cover it was frustrating to do nothing.

  His ranks had stabilised recently with the number of deserters reduced to a trickle now. He estimated that Kavanagh had thirty five vampires to his two hundred. He also had over a hundred and fifty thralls, some of whom he could turn fully to vampires if required. On paper it was madness to even consider that there might be an issue at all. But if Kavanagh caused enough of a problem and the humans somehow managed to free the other humans his food supply would be gone. If that happened having more mouths to feed would not be an advantage.

  He wondered idly how his experiment on the other side of the country was doing. He had not had any intelligence from the community in some time now. Rumours abounded of thralls taking over and Von Kruger being killed. He had emissaries from Warrick and Flynn still with him demanding action for encroachments into their territories. He looked weak to them, he knew. He had lost the fear that had held everyone in line up till now. He had to regain his standing. He had to make them fear him again.

  It was time to do something about Von Kruger and Kavanagh.

  * * *

  Chandler Flynn flew through the putrid fumes and tried to hold his breath. Though what good that would do he did not know. His skin prickled and his stomach lurched, nausea churning as if he’d had too much to drink. He felt ill. Was this how it would end? Was he not destined to be something more? His eyes watered and everything blurred. His muscles, once hard like steel, suddenly felt as though they were melting. He felt himself fall lower towards the burning embers. The flames had all died but the ruins still smouldered with the retained heat. As he passed he could see the still smoking remains of the vampires who had not made it through the fire. There were so many. Their white gleaming skulls were stark against the gray of the ash. His clothes burned and shredded around him, his hair caught fire, and pain seared through him.

  He caught himself before he crashed into the ruins below and forced his arms to move, using the stiff breeze to angle his way upwards. Behind him he heard a cry and saw his companions fall, their bodies tumbling and stirring the embers to flame once more. Their cries made him try harder and he forced his muscles to push against the air. His stomach threatened to bend
him in half as bile rose in his throat and spewed into the ruins. The liquid he expelled was black and it tasted vile as the remainder slipped down his throat.

  And then he was out of the ruins and flying harder and higher. His skin was mottled and blackened and his body’s healing was slow to react. Had he survived only to sicken and die? He refused to die. He soared higher and noticed for the first time that the sun shone above him. The light was warm on his skin but not painful. He had missed the sun. His eyes misted but this time with relief rather than pain and he cried out. He had made it through. Von Kruger and his army had already flown on but it had been much depleted from the numbers who had flown into the gauntlet.

  He could take him. He had far more vampires. He would not risk them unnecessarily. He needed more like him for certain but only enough to protect the cabal during the day. When darkness swept over the land again he would be outside his cabal’s lair ready to greet them with the sun at his back. It was time to walk the path that destiny had laid out for him.

  Chapter 25

  Harris couldn’t get through the last three carriages. People thronged the floor or pushed against the bodies in front to escape the anticipated rain of death from the thralls’ .50 calibre. So far McAteer and Warkowski were drawing the jeep’s fire and people were trying to get back to the safety of the carriage behind. Most, though, were moving in panic with the majority and everyone was hopelessly blocked. There was no way through, no matter how much Harris screamed and pushed. He saw the jeep with McAteer and Warkowski swerve and then lose its grip on the road. It flipped and then rolled violently, pieces of metal flying in every direction. Harris was too stunned to shout. Warkowski had…

  The thrall in the rear of the jeep rolled the .50 calibre and bullets shattered the walls around him driving any further thoughts from his mind.

  He grabbed the nearest rail and pulled himself up towards the roof. As soon as he came level with the ceiling the wind struck him in the chest like a blow from a bat. He gripped the railing harder and pulled himself level, sliding along its length until he came to a small outcropping. He wrapped one arm around the metal gripping his weapon and anchored himself at the same time. It restricted his field of fire but at least he wouldn’t be blown off.

  He fired, tracking the jeep and letting all his hate and frustration out as he held the trigger and screamed his rage. There was no controlled three round burst. The gun clicked on empty and Harris reloaded awkwardly. His gunfire had been noticed and the thrall raised the .50 calibre. Bullets tore into the roof around Harris, one even striking the metal outcropping just in front of his face, and then he was firing again. He finished his clip before he noted that the jeep wasn’t firing back. His vision was blurred from the wind tearing at him and he blinked furiously until it cleared enough to show the thrall slumped against the heavy machine gun. He grinned and then turned his attention to the driver and passenger. The thrall in the passenger seat was already moving towards the bed of the jeep and Harris caught him a glancing blow across the back.

  The wound wasn’t enough to kill or even hurt a thrall, but it did lose its balance and went sprawling against the driver. The driver turned to clear his passenger and took his eyes off the road as he struggled. By the time he had cleared the other thrall and returned his attention to the road he was too late to avoid the pole. The jeep crashed into it at such speed that it was almost split in two. Harris looked back towards where McAteer’s jeep lay but they had already passed too far for him to see clearly.

  He looked the other way, towards the engine, and could see Carter’s jeep begin to draw level. The deep chatter of the .50 calibre was already reaching him over the howl of the wind.

  * * *

  Aidan Flemming urged the boys to stoke the fire as he saw the jeep approaching but the steam engine was built for the long haul not for short sprints and it sluggishly gained speed. Steam spat at him as he turned dials and shifted levers. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was doing any good but he had to do something. He didn’t have a weapon; he hadn’t thought he would need one. He looked around desperately for anything to throw at the approaching jeep but there was nothing but coal and logs.

  He shouted to Phil Regan but the man sat in the corner shaking with fear and cold. There would be no help there. Bullets sparked off the metal outside the engine compartment and he dropped to the ground.

  “Danny,” he shouted at the boy. “Get back into the fuel compartment. I don’t want you out here when that .50 calibre comes level. Move.” He shouted when Danny tried to argue. Bullets slammed into the dials above him and steam hissed like an angry snake. Flemming could see the hood of the jeep peep around the open entry to the engine compartment. They would be level in a moment and then it would be too late.

  * * *

  Harris hurried through the throngs of people. Now that the threat of the .50 calibre was gone the panic had subsided. But the number of people clogging the corridors had not disappeared and the going was very slow. He passed people who clutched at him crying for help or shouting demands that he didn’t even try to understand. He ignored them all, the noise of the .50 calibre ahead driving him on.

  He came to the infirmary. Sandra. He faltered. He had to know if she was alright. The last he’d heard she might not make the harsh journey. Had she survived? Jesus, he thought, our lives are filled with one crisis after another. The infirmary was filled with people and the noise of their cries and shouts of anger and frustration was incredible. Over the clamour he heard the deep roar of gunfire and it forced him on. He did slow a little though, desperately trying to see the faces of the wounded, hoping for just one glance of Sandra to reassure him that she was alive. He saw nothing—nothing except for row upon row of people lying motionless on the ground. Too many of them had blankets drawn over their faces. Was Sandra one of them?

  Grier ran beside him and he wanted so badly to tell him to go on without him. But he couldn’t. He had a responsibility to all of these people. His own personal needs came a far second to that. He took a deep breath and forced himself through the throng. He saw Emma Logan struggling with a limp figure in her arms. She was screaming at those around her, lashing out with her one free hand as people pushed and clawed at her. He stopped.

  “I’ll follow on,” he shouted to Grier who nodded and pushed his way through.

  Something had happened here, Harris knew. Something bad and he couldn’t just ignore it. He fired a shot into the roof and the room quieted as if someone had dropped a blanket over them all.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” Shouts answered his question as people bellowed their questions and vented their anger and fear. Harris fired again and then a third time until silence reigned again.

  “The thralls are dead. There’s just one left and he’s heading for the engine to stop this train. All you’re doing here is stopping us from getting to him.” He looked over at Emma just as she fell to the floor; the body of Conor Ricks still gripped tightly in her arms.

  Harris glared at the people in front of him. “Attacking children, really? Is this what you have become?” He turned from them and helped Emma into a more comfortable position. He checked her breathing and then checked Conor. They were both alive but Conor’s pulse was erratic.

  “Where’s Doctor Reitzig?” Harris turned back to the crowd and most averted their eyes. Harris felt a deep anger rise. For a moment he wondered why he did any of it. Were any of these people worth the effort? If they could attack children and those who wanted to help them without considering their actions...what was it all for? He gripped his XM8 tightly and brought it up level with the crowd. “What have you done?” His tone was harsh and he saw real fear in their eyes.

  “She’s here, Peter.”

  Harris felt relief rush through him so violently that his legs wobbled and he nearly dropped to the ground. He reached out for the nearest person to him and gripped their shoulder to stop himself from falling. That voice. Sandra. And then he saw her. She made her way slowly t
o the front. Her face was so pale that at first he thought she might be a figment of his imagination, or a spirit. Her eyes were deep hollows, her face gaunt, and the skin pinched tight against the prominent bones in her face. But she looked beautiful to him.

  “She was injured but she’s okay,” Sandra tried a wan smile and then Harris was rushing forward and pulling her into his arms. He lost all track of time as he stood there. His whole world was centred on Sandra Harrington. Everything else was secondary. And then the train started to slow and the chatter of the .50 calibre shattered the moment.

  “Go,” she whispered and he reluctantly pulled away.

  “When I come back, I want this place cleared. Anyone who can help stay here and help. And by God, if I hear of any of you attacking one of my people again you will have me to deal with.” With that Harris rushed from the carriage towards the final reckoning.

  * * *

  Grier began to fire as soon as he cleared the fuel depot. He had been delayed by the door from the carriage. Some fool had locked it and it had taken him precious minutes to break it down. The jeep was ahead of him and his first burst only managed to shower the bed of the vehicle with sparks. He had two men with him, Palmer and Mahoney and they fired as well, emptying their magazines in long bursts. He was about to remind them to use shorter bursts when the thrall noticed them and swivelled the heavy machine gun towards them and returned fire. Grier threw himself down into the coal and logs, grunting as his body was cut and grazed by the sharp edges. He tried to control his slide but his foot slipped and he tumbled helplessly towards the bed of the fuel compartment. He struck the metal hard and his head swam. His mouth tasted of coal dust and his nose was pressed hard against the cold metal.