He continued across the street, looking over his shoulder several times. Lamplight flickered through the shuttered windows of the sheriff’s office, and a hint of laughter filtered out against the moaning dirge of the wind. Port frowned, what could there possibly be worth laughing about in this stinking town?
The sheriff sat at the little wooden table playing cards with the kid. Each looked up in shock at Port.
Port barked, “This the kind of town you run sheriff? Granting the opportunity for a horse thieving murderer to escape?”
“It ain’t like that. We was just playing cards.”
“Yes, sir,” the kid agreed, “jus’ playing cards. I wasn’t gonna try and escape…honest.”
Port picked the kid up by the scruff and threw him into the jail cell. “He has killed three men already, for six dollars and a slow horse.”
The sheriff looked indignant at Porter, as if he didn’t believe him, while the kid gave his most innocent look.
“I suppose I can keep him locked up,” muttered the lawman.
“You suppose? You got more problems. Someone strangled your town drunk, and that murderer is still on the loose.” Port struck another match and lit his cigar.
“Cleary’s dead?”
Port nodded, smoke flared from his nostrils. “Strangled with wire. We got him over in Lulu-belle’s.”
Putting on his gun belt, the sheriff wheezed and said, “I’ll be over in a minute.”
Not waiting any longer, Porter went out the door back into the blasting wind. More tumbleweeds rolled by. Several weeds were massed up against the open saloon doors. The wind extinguished his cigar, and he prepared to light another match. Port kicked the tumbleweeds aside and went in. The lamps were blown out.
Everyone was gone.
Port spun around wondering if it was some kind of joke, but the saloon was deserted. No one was behind the bar or on the low stage. Then it dawned on him that the dead man’s body was gone too. Going up the stairs with his navy colt drawn, Port was ready for anything. A tumbleweed had been blown up to the landing. Port knocked it aside.
There were four small rooms. Two had doors cracked open. No lamps burned, but a hint of moonlight crept through the narrow windows.
No one in either room. Port opened the first closed door, standing as far back as he could reach and still turn the knob. He half expected a gunshot to explode through the door, but none came. Each room was empty as well, though the last had an open window with the wind whipping the sun bleached pink curtains like a banshee.
Port came back downstairs and puzzled. It had been at least five minutes. Where was that idiot sheriff?
He went back outside. Somewhere in the cold distance a horse screamed. Porter gave pause. The street was nearly covered with tumbleweeds, and his horse was gone too! “Wheat in the mill! That damn kid!” He waded through the sea of weeds that almost acted like they wanted to grab and hold him. He puffed on his cigar extra hard to keep it lit against the wind. The orange cherry flared and the weeds seemed to part a little. The door stood open. Expecting to see the incompetent fool dead, Port leveled his six-gun at the ready.
But the sheriff wasn’t there.
The kid was. Hunched in his cell in the darkness, in a fetal position, he sobbed and jerked as Port entered.
“Where is he? What did you do to him?” Port demanded.
“I didn’t…do anything. It was them…”
“Them who?”
“The weeds, they came to life. He opened the door and they rolled in. They took the sheriff. He screamed ‘til he couldn’t breathe no more.”
“Horse chips!”
“They drug his body out the back. They tried to reach me but couldn’t through the bars.”
“You damn liar. Do you got friends trying to bust you out? Tell me or I am gonna shoot you here and now!”
“Better that than those things getting me.”
Port wheeled and looked out the slit windows. The wind was forcing more tumbleweeds up against the door. Their scratching was unnerving. It almost looked like their myriad tiny branches were moving in a uniform, crawling chaos.
Port wrinkled his brow. The whiskey must be too strong here.
“They are trying to get in,” moaned the kid.
Port puffed his cigar and said, “You’re one defective bullet kid.”
“It’s true. Open the door and find out, you cold-hearted bastard.”
“All right.” Port opened the door, wary of gunmen on the street. He puffed on the cigar, looking with disdain at the weeds which fell back away from the door. “Yeah, kid, they’re alive, either that or the wind moved them.”
But the kid was as far back in his cell as he could be.
“Porter!” came a woman’s voice.
Port looked and there on the roof of the saloon was Sadie and a handful of others.
“Run! Run! You’ve got to get away!”
Port looked each way down the street. “From what?”
“The weeds!”
He furrowed his brow again and the wind blew out his cigar.
The weeds closed in.
“Horse chips.”
He leapt back into the sheriff’s office, slamming the door as he did so, but the weeds clogged the threshold, keeping it open. So many rolled atop each other, that the pile was as tall as Port.
He did the first thing that came to mind. He shot the mass with his navy revolver. Smoke belched from the six-gun but the weeds were unaffected beyond a moment’s respite.
The kid screamed in his cell.
“Shut up!” Port kicked over the card table, which did nothing to the weeds. He then flung at chair at them. It crushed a few, but against the mass it was useless. Taking the other chair, Port smashed out the window behind him and dove through.
He landed hard on his elbows and knees, rolling to get up.
Weeds tumbled around each side of the office and then out the lip of the window.
Port was on his feet racing to the next building, a dilapidated Smithy’s. Scrambling up a post, covered with tools, he managed to get several feet off the ground and above the weed’s reach. Then he climbed up to the narrow, slanted roof.
The weeds thrummed in unison and surrounded the tiny structure.
From his new vantage, Port could see thousands of weeds covering the town. Across the street, Sadie and a dozen others sat on the saloon’s roof. The wind moaned and Port sat precariously for what he deemed one of the worst nights of his life. He chanced throwing matches at the weeds, but they rolled away until the matches died in the blustery night. Port knew there was no way he could burn the brush while they were so spread out.
Several times individual weeds attempted to climb the post after Port. One on one he could knock them away, but what about when sleep would eventually take him? He couldn’t stay awake forever.
Dawn’s light only revealed a greater nightmare. There were more weeds than Port had guessed. Not a single horse remained. There’d be no way to outrun the horde, and still the hurtling wind blew fierce as the devil.
He kicked another tumbler that clambered up. Sadie and the others above the saloon did the same with their climbing invaders. Port knew that eventually they would lose. He had to take the fight to the weeds. Looking across the lay of the land, the narrow sloping valley, the reservoir sat above the town. Port chewed his lip and hatched a plan. As much as he didn’t like it, he would need help.
“Sadie,” he called, “Are the miners still using their powder magazines? Do the mines go deep?”
“Yes. It’s there past the east barn,” she shouted, pointing to a lone shack at the far upper end of town. “But so, what about the mines depth? The weeds can go anywhere a man can go.”
“Much obliged.”
She puzzled over his intentions and frowned, shielding her face.
Tearing off another, ascending tumbleweed, Porter then snagged a blacksmith’s hammer from the post. He tossed it to the roof of the sheriff’s office. Then he
gauged the distance between the two buildings. It would be a long jump, especially since he didn’t have much room to start with.
He didn’t like heights, and while this wasn’t that high, the weeds waited below, hungry as rabid dogs. They seemed to sense his intent and gathered thickly underneath him. It was now or never. More weeds were crawling up the post.
Port reached with all he was worth, whispering a prayer as he jumped.
His fingers grasped the lip of the sheriff’s office as the wind was slammed from his lungs. Still, he didn’t let go. He struggled over the lip of the flat adobe roof. Port lay on his back a few moments, breathing hard.
“Are you alright?” called Sadie.
“Yeah, never better,” he panted.
Porter slammed the hammer at the roof of the jail cell. It was hard work and took longer than he would have liked. By the time Port burst through the ceiling, the kid below was screaming in terror.
“Shut up, it’s only me.”
Dumbfounded, the kid nodded and let Port pull him up to the roof.
Port whispered, “We got two things we can do. Nothing and die, or act and perhaps live.”
The kid nodded.
“Now, I know you can run, so I got a job for you. I need a distraction. I need you to get the weeds’ attention while I charge up to the powder box and blow the reservoir wide open. It’ll wash this town clean.”
The kid shook his head, “I’d rather wait here. Get someone else to do it.”
“Look kid, I can’t be yelling these plans across the street for the weeds to hear. I don’t know how smart they are. Wheat! I don’t even know how they are doing this. It’s gotta be you.”
“It could be you. I can run faster than you. Let me light the powder and blow the dam.”
Port grimaced. He knew the kid was fast, he’d been awful hard to catch. “Here’s my matches. There will be some powder kegs. Take one or two, whatever you can still move with. Get up to the reservoir put the keg next to the drainage channel, light it and get the hell away. Once a hole is knocked in that dam, it’ll be like a river in flood. Get clear. You hearing me? These things will come tearing after you, so you gotta do it quick.”
The kid nodded, “But what about after? I do this, you still gonna take me to get hung?”
Port narrowed his gaze. “No. But you’re gonna head to Mexico.”
“I don’t wanna go to Mexico.”
Port cocked his head and gave a wicked grin.
“I’ll go to Mexico.”
“Good lad. I’ll lead the weeds south as best I can. You run north fast as the devil on your tail. Make sure this wind don’t blow out your match.”
Port dropped down to the slopping roof on the front of the office. He tore the sign from the rusted brackets and tossed it, smashing weeds beneath. He jumped down and ran serpentine through the streets of Eden. Weeds rolled after him like a pack of dogs.
***
The kid watched a moment then eased down the backside and made for the powder magazine. On the ground, he peered around the corner to determine if the weeds would even see him. They appeared taken with Porter and paid no attention to him or the others on the saloon.
Porter dodged the few weeds that rolled to intercept him and booted a few, but more came on until they were so thick on his heels that kicking would only waste his time. They lashed at his ankles and no amount of shooting or struggling would avail him.
The kid moved behind the ghost town shops to avoid being seen, but Sadie saw him. “Where are you going?” she shouted. “Help us!” He signaled her to be silent.
While they watched, weeds with a thousand tiny arms grabbed Port’s heel and tripped him. He flailed and sent dozens spinning away, but for every one he threw a dozen more took its place. The weeds piled, reaching to strangle the human life they envied and hated.
Through some eldritch means, or from understanding Sadie’s shouting, the weeds sensed the kid. A number of them, too far from reaching Porter, stopped and rolled north after the young blood.
The kid glanced from the edge of the hotel and saw them coming. He turned and ran for the powder magazine. He pulled matches from his pocket.
Port reared up, tearing weeds from his throat. He roared like a mad bull and swatted the balled weeds away. Like an infinite hydra they attacked from all sides.
The kid saw a hundred or more weeds rolling. He reached the powder magazine and threw back the door. Inside were a half dozen powder kegs. He picked up the nearest and ran for the reservoir. “This had better work,” he muttered through clenched teeth. The weeds were gaining on him.
At the drainage ditch, the kid dropped the keg and fumbled with the matches. The wind blew out the first three—only two left. He looked over his shoulder. The weeds tumbled closer and closer. A light and the fuse went quick. He shielded the delicate blaze with his hands. The weeds rolled. There would be no time to escape and keep the fire alive. This would be his redemption.
“Sorry Mama,” he whispered.
***
The keg exploded in raucous thunder. Black smoke, brown earth, and gray water spit in all directions.
The pursuing weeds stopped and backed away from the spilling reservoir.
An arm reached out from the mass of weeds, and Port was free for a moment before he was sucked back down by the malevolent force.
A torrent of water become a river, as chunks of the dam broke free in a mighty domino effect.
Porter knew he was turning blue from the vine’s deadly grip on his neck. With eyes barely open, he fell to the dust. Torn in all directions, his tongue lolled in hot earth, then felt cool relief.
Water ran, slick and cold, as the weeds let go.
Porter struggled to his knees and saw the wave coming. He moved like a crippled locomotive and just managed to grasp a sturdy post as the river hit. Weeds were drowned and taken away past the corrals and abandoned bordello.
The tumbleweeds tried to hold to one another and again and again were washed downstream from the town.
Sadie and the others atop the saloon cheered and whooped. Port held to his post like a rod of iron, fearful of being carried away. When the water at last subsided to a few feet deep, he looked behind and saw a clumped mass of the drenched weeds.
They moved as one.
Forming together, they rose out of the ebbing waters, rounded like a head with hollow spots for colossal eyes and mouth. Shoulders appeared then arms, fingers, and a hideous weed-bodied torso. Thousands of wet tumbleweeds fused together to fashion a giant weed golem. The vines interlaced, wrapped and knotted about tenaciously. An inhuman cry echoed from the cavity of a mouth and the thing stood up, over three stories tall. It shook the wetness from itself and stepped forward with a ponderous gait.
Sadie screamed. The others ran for their lives to escape the colossus’s awful gaze. Port shuddered, but still his mind sprang like a steel trap to find a way to defeat this demonic foe.
Coming closer, the awful giant stepped on the bordello, crushing it asunder. With the waters gone, the town was now just a mud track. Some of the structures had been knocked off their foundations and were laying haphazardly. The street in front of the saloon was the biggest clearing the town had left.
“Wheat! I’m a fool,” Porter said to himself. “Now I got him.”
“We have to get out of here,” the barkeep shouted, tugging on Port’s shoulder.
“You think you can outrun that?” Sadie asked.
“We just gotta outrun the others,” the barkeep answered.
Port grasped his shoulder and swung the man around. “You wanna live? Get me a lamp! All of ‘em! And be ready when I am! I gotta buy some time.”
The barkeep stared at him like he was insane but dashed back inside.
The colossus was almost upon them and Port stepped into the muddy streets to face it.
“PORTER,” it echoed.
“You know me, but I don’t remember meeting you before.”
“WE ARE LEGION. OURS
WILL BE A PLACE OF HONOR IN GEHENNA, WHEN WE DESTROY YOUR BODY,” the voice came, deep as the pit.
“That’s where we have our feud. I doubt I’ll get anything for destroying yours.”
The hollow eyes looked down on Porter, and an ominous sound that he believed was laughter echoed.
“YOU HAVE NO POWER OVER US.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I do have power over your chosen body.”
“WE WERE TRICKED. BUT IT SERVES US WELL ENOUGH. WE CANNOT BE SHOT. WE CANNOT BE DROWNED. WE CANNOT BE BLOWN APART.” It leaned in closer to Port. “WE CANNOT BE KICKED, NOW.”
“You forgot one,” Port caught the oil lamp the barkeep tossed him. He threw it into Legion’s mouth and shot.
Fire erupted and an inhuman cry rocked the town. The whipping wind gave the behemoth a tongue of flame, and it laughed again before shooting witch-fire back at Porter like a blast furnace. “YOU HAVE ONLY GIVEN US MORE POWER TO DESTROY YOU! EMBRACE YOUR DOOM!” Still sopping wet, the Legion thing was not burning.
The front of Lulu-belle’s burst into flames, but the wily gunman dodged and ran about the slick street, taking cover behind the ruins of the blacksmith’s.
The tongue of fire blasted again, igniting the forge and structure. Port crossed to a ramshackle house. Again the fire tore into the dry wood. Port faked left and went right, taking cover in the collapsed bordello. “You have to do better than that,” he taunted.
The weed golem swung a colossal fist at Porter and shot its witch-fire tongue as he dodged yet again. Smoke obscured him, but as he chanced a look, the edges of the Legion’s mouth blackened.
Sensing that its protection of wetness was wearing off, the golem brought up a hand and suffocated the fiery tongue. It cast its wicked gaze for Porter and realized too late it was surrounded by the flaming ruins of the town--a second sacrifice it never could have understood.
Sadie and the remaining others threw more oil, and the flames grew. Porter backed away through burning wreckage, choking on the smoke. The Legion thing was trapped, and its weed body sizzled and smoked as the wetness boiled off. Every path was blocked. It twisted and turned looking for escape, finding none.
“WE WON’T FORGET THIS,” it roared, before dropping to the mud and writhing as dry weeds were burnt to skeletal ash. Dark things flickered amongst the smoke, and it seemed evil spirits, free of any mortal coil, fled up into the ether.
At the Highways of Madness Page 10
