by Tim Marquitz
The girl screamed, “Jasmine, please!”
Nina watched a thin stream of blood where the girl’d been nicked.
“No, but I'm happy you found your people.” Jasmine's sickly face streamed tears. “But they ain't my people. I ain't never had no people. It's too late, Nina. Too late. I'm done marked.”
“But, Jaz—”
“No,” the black girl growled, started to say more, but stopped. Her face jerked up. Her lip trembled with terror, eyes reflecting something massive moving behind them.
“Let the girl go,” Pa hollered.
Nina ducked as a whoosh pounded her ears from above; powerful beating wings almost knocked her to the ground.
“Sonofabitch!” Manning cussed, his hand steadying her.
Jasmine cried out in mercy or pain, Nina couldn't tell which, but by the time she looked up, the thing had Jasmine by the shoulders—her arms spread painfully wide—and lifted her into the sky with long, lazy wing beats. Rachel fell to the ground and lay there.
Nina heard a rustle of material, the cock of a pistol. She reached out with her right hand and pushed Manning’s dragoon aside. “I've got this.”
Nina walked to the precipice and drew her Colt. Cocked it. She gritted her teeth against tears, pointed the barrel, and squeezed off a round.
Missed.
Jasmine stopped struggling, a look of hurt burning across the growing distance. Jasmine's trembling lips mouthed, “Why?”
Nina shot again and again, missing both times.
I can't even shoot her, Nina thought. Jasmine's eyes lit up with hope, even when Nina raised her gun for one last shot. One last bullet was all she had.
The pistol cracked. But it wasn’t Nina’s gun that went off.
Jasmine jerked as a spot of darker red blossomed on her blouse. Her mouth worked silently, her lungs too mangled to push air. She squirmed in the grasp of the tenuous claws, unable to cover the wound with her arms bound by those wicked talons.
Nina glanced down at Rachel standing on the precipice. She held a small derringer-type pistol, still pointing it up, a small cloud of gunsmoke melting around her. Her shoulders trembled as she wept.
Finally, Jasmine gave up, gazed across the gap. Nina held her gaze until she drew her last breath, and then her friend went still.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GEORGE DAGGETT SCREAMED INTO THE RAG they'd stuffed into his mouth. He bucked against Mason, Manning, Buck, and Red, all four men holding him down, each to a limb. George lifted them off the floor with his sudden, violent outbursts, getting loose more often than not to deliver a wild kick or punch.
“Damn stronger than he looks,” Buck said, his nose bleeding from George’s boot heel. “We’re even now, son.”
“Hold him steady, if you please,” Father Mathias told them, sweat dripping down his face. A droplet fell from the tip of his long nose. “I'm going to cut now.”
There was a moment’s pause, then George Daggett nearly came up off the table. A high, flatulent whistle breathed into the room, followed by a pungent smell.
In the corner of the room, Rachel wrinkled her nose, and Nina considered the girl and her startling resilience…
She thought back to earlier that day; as the menfolk appropriated room and board at the St. Charles Hotel and took George upstairs, she and Rachel had planted themselves at a small table by one of the building’s corner windows. They had sipped their coffee and shared the silence of two sleep-bereft, hard-pressed missies. They hadn’t spoken of the incident on the hill the day before; in fact, Rachel hadn’t said much at all.
After another sip though, the girl wrinkled her nose at the bitter taste. “Ma was the one who taught me. She was a pretty fair shot, like she told you, but she said I seemed to have a real eye for my target.” She smiled. “Daddy couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, though.”
Nina returned the smile, tinged with a bit of sadness and fatigue. “If I haven’t said it up ‘til now, I’m sorry about your family,” Nina told her.
Rachel nodded and stared at the steam rising from her mug. “Thanks. I miss them. I miss Jaz, too.” She wiped tears away before they could get started.
“So how long you had that gun?”
“I found it on the train, after we crashed. Kept it squirrelled away, kind of as a last resort, you know? For myself. Never dreamed I’d have to use it on a friend.” She took a small sip, then stared at the window at the activity on the streets of Carson City.
It was a booming town due to wasichu obsession with Gold Hill and the Comstock Lode—that much Nina knew. Mills and miners dotted the Eagle and Washoe Valleys between here and Virginia City, and on up into Reno. She imagined Strobridge’s superiors will be surveying the territory before long. That is if Liao Xu’s new world doesn’t lay claim to everything first.
Carson City’s streets were jammed with bustle morning, noon, and night. Folks going about their business as if the end of the world was not on their doorstep. Nina envied their ignorance, their only concerns were where to pan, where to dig, and what saloon was serving nickel shots today.
“There’s Mister Strobridge,” Rachel said, nodding out the window.
Nina looked out and saw the railroad boss coming off the boardwalk cattycorner from the hotel, a building with signage reading Overland Telegraph. He was in the company of several white men—three hard-lookin’ fellers trailed behind him, and an older gentleman in a suit walked alongside. She watched Strobridge speak with the gent, who ended up getting red faced and walking away in a huff. Seems the boss man had that effect on most folk.
Strobridge then came inside the St. Charles with his three toughs in tow and hailed the proprietor, a Mister Muller, who had been horrified earlier by their ghastly appearance—though they’d managed to wash down some at a watering hole along the way. Nina could only imagine the reception they would’ve got waltzing into town covered hat to boot in dried blood and crusty bits of bone and brain all over.
“Injuns,” was all the explanation Strobridge provided Mister Muller, as if that one word explained all. The proprietor could wonder about Red Thunder all he wanted, but it seemed none of them gave a good goddamn at this point, and he was gracious enough not to ask.
Right before they’d all headed upstairs to their rooms, Rachel reached across the table and took hold of Nina’s hand. “Here,” the girl had said, and put the Taiping Jing key in Nina’s palm.
“Sakes alive, Rachel! Where’d you get this? We thought we’d lost it.”
“Like I said, I keep stuff squirrelled away. I wear my dresses with lots of pockets.”
Nina looked at the key, still wrapped with the girl’s hair. She closed her fist around it.
“This coffee…blech…wretched stuff…” Rachel pushed the mug away and looked up. “I grabbed the key right before Jaz got taken up.” She shrugged. “I figure it’s important.”
“You figured right.”
“It’s up to you if you want to tell the others. I won’t say nothing.”
Nina nodded and stowed the key, then she and Rachel followed the men upstairs; all of them except Strobridge and his men who sat at a table, ordered drinks, and started talking business or some such. Didn’t matter. At least he’d bought the rooms, saying it was the least he could do.
It stuck in her craw to know her board was on that man’s dime, but damn if she weren’t looking forward to a hot bath, some chow, and perchance a little private time with James Manning to do things he'd be ashamed to tell the Devil.
But first, there was more business to tend to—Daggett business.
GEORGE CAME UP AGAIN, THIS TIME spitting the rag out of his mouth and sounding off pretty good before Pa stuffed it back in. They pushed him back down.
“Jesus!” Mason took a breath, looking pale. The stitches in his cheek pulling taut. “It's done burrowed into his skull.”
George squealed into the rag.
“Indeed,” Father Mathias said, clearing his throat and taking on a stronger t
enor, as if getting ready to preach the Word—which he was. “Hear me, demon. Dead thing. Defiler of the hearts and minds of men. The Lord sent his only son to this Earth to rid it of your kind many hundreds of years ago. It was the Lord Jesus who threw the demons and sinners from his temple, and it is He who commands you. Come out now and face judgment.”
A low, tired whine emanated from George Daggett's head. The man’s eyes rolled and he passed out.
“I've got most of it,” the priest said, working a small tong-like instrument. “Just have to extricate the head.”
“Hurry, dammit,” Mason said. “He’s dying.”
“I hope it ain't looking for brains in there. Not a damn thing to eat,” Manning said.
Buck laughed softly into his bloody mustache. Mason glared at Manning. “After this, you and me’s having words.”
“Just trying to keep things light.”
“Quit trying.”
Manning nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Shhh!” Mathias shushed them.
Nina gave Rachel a look. “He and Jaz both said they was scratched.” She looked down at her arms where dozens of scabrous red nail marks marred her skin, most of ‘em from where deaduns had grabbed hold of her, or at least tried to.
“That’s right.” Rachel nodded.
“Demon!” Mathias had his Bible resting on George’s chest. “Unhold this faithful servant of the Lord, aye, faithful! Let this man, George Daggett, return to the Lord's bosom safe from harm, free from this abominable curse.”
“You got it, Father,” Pa encouraged.
There was a wet pop, and Mathias raised a squirming, gray worm into the air, like some kind of glorious birth. Impossibly fat as a whiskey bottle, it twisted in his hand and nearly fell to the floor. Pa rushed in and took hold of the tail.
“Holy…that was in his head?” Buck gawped at the nasty thing. They all did.
Nina touched the Taiping Jing key in her shirt pocket. It tingled with energy but, still bound against Liao Xu's eyes, was devoid of warmth.
The critter turned and twisted violently, causing Mathias and Pa to stumble into the nightstand. Red Thunder reached out for them, but the two men fell onto the bed, on top of the comatose George, their legs kicking as they still struggled to hold the thing.
“Squeeze it, Lincoln!”
“I got it. Now what?”
“Boot-stomp the fucking thing!” Mason yelled, leaning over his brother’s head for protection. George wasn’t moving, his jaw open slack, and Nina thought he looked awful dead.
Meantime, Pa and Mathias looked at one another. The priest nodded. “Good idea.”
“Okay. One, two, three, now!”
There was a wet smack as the critter hit the floor, just before three boots came down, one after the other, pounding the diabolical larvae into a squashy mess.
“Yuck,” Rachel said.
“No kidding,” Buck agreed, shaking sludge off his boot. Some of it slopped against the door.
Nina reckoned the folks downstairs must be imagining all sorts of things. What would they think when deadun juice oozed between the floorboards to drip in their potato soup?
“Well done, Father,” Pa said, giving Mathias a pat on the back. “It’s a baby worm.”
“Can ya’ll quit making jokes? George don’t look so good,” Mason snapped.
“Let's see to him. I believe I've got enough left in me to give your brother a fighting chance.”
“You got yourself on my good side, Padre, but if my brother dies, I recommend ya’ll get out of my sight.”
“Noted.” Mathias knelt at the bedside and took up his crucifix. “Why don’t some of you go wash up and eat? This will take a few minutes, I believe.” He laid his right hand on George’s forehead. The priest began whispering prayers and shut his eyes.
A minute passed, then two, and the priest continued to pray. Buck and Red filed out first, and Nina saw Cato, garbed in patched overalls and fresh bandages, standing in the hallway leaning against the far wall. Mason, being a contentious Confederate type, had refused to let the black man into the room.
“He alive?” Cato asked, looking genuinely concerned.
Buck grunted something in response, and they filed out of view toward the way downstairs.
“Why don’t ya’ll join ‘em?” Pa said to Nina and Rachel as he pulled a chair to the foot of George’s bed and sat in it.
“You sure, Lincoln?” Manning asked. “I don’t mind staying.”
“No, you go. I’ll grab a bite in a few.”
“I’ll come back up soon as I’m done.”
Rachel went with Manning, and Nina said she’d be along shortly. She was distracted, peering out the window.
The crowds were on the move, everyone going someplace or doing something, heading in and out of storefronts, while horses and wagons moved to and fro. Small bunches of folk greeting, yammering, laughing, bidding adios. All of ‘em up to some sort of cosmopolitan business.
All except one.
A lone figure stood on the sidewalk, across the street. A figure she hadn't noticed before, but now had caught her full attention. The lady had shoulder-length, black hair, cut in a straight line across her brow, hips and legs shapely beneath a dress of faded deerskin, sun-browned arms bare, with eyes black and lifeless as a winter storm on a dark night. The woman’s lips were gray and frosted, as if brushed with ice.
It knew her, and she it.
It will bring you pain.
I can handle pain.
Nina felt the first pangs of it; a heavy pull on her heart, a sort of spiritual dread. The sense that nothing would ever be perfect again.
She put her fingers up to the window pane.
“Hi, Ma.”
About the Authors
Tim Marquitz
Raised on a diet of Heavy Metal and bad intentions, Tim Marquitz writes a mix of the dark perverse, the horrific, and the tragic, tinged with sarcasm and biting humor. A former grave digger, bouncer, and dedicated metalhead, he is a huge fan of Mixed Martial Arts, and fighting in general. His urban fantasy series called Demon Squad is a fan favorite and he is also the Editor-In-Chief of Ragnarok Publications. He lives in El Paso, Texas, with his beautiful wife and daughter. His website is www.tmarquitz.com.
J.M. Martin
J.M. Martin has been a teacher, an occupational therapist, a managing editor, and a graphic designer. He has written comic books and role-playing games, as well as several short stories for Fantasist Enterprises, Rogue Blades Entertainment, Pill Hill Press, and Angelic Knight Press. He recently co-founded Ragnarok Publications with Tim Marquitz and is the company’s Creative Director. J.M. (Joe) lives in Crestview Hills, Kentucky, with his kick-ass, red-headed, black belt wife and three spirited wee folk he swears are pixies. You can visit www.nineworldsmedia.com to find out more.
Kenny Soward
Kenny Soward grew up in Crescent Park, Kentucky, a small suburb just south of Cincinnati, Ohio, listening to AC/DC, Quiet Riot, and Iron Maiden. In those quiet 1970's streets, he jumped bikes, played Nerf football, and acquired many a childhood scar. At the age of sixteen, he learned to play drums and bashed skins for many groups over the next twenty years. By day, Kenny works as a Unix professional, and at night he writes and sips bourbon. His fantasy series GnomeSaga is published by Ragnarok Publications. He lives in Independence, Kentucky, with two cats and a gal who thinks she's a cat. Visit him online at www.kennysoward.com.
Acknowledgements
WE CONVEY OUR THANKS TO THE Ragnarok staff and to the Official Street Team. Thanks, as well, to test readers Ron Ruger and Frank Errington for their keen perceptual skills. Thank you, photographer Allen Freeman, and models Meagan Shea Dameron, Kinsey Renshaw, and Dean Homsher.
Also we wish to thank fellow publishers Evil Girlfriend Media, Kraken Press, and J.L. Murray’s Hellzapoppin Press, and the following fantastic authors for taking part in helping promote The Ten Thousand Things: Django Wexler, Timothy W. Long, Peter Orullian, Gini Koch, Eloi
se J. Knapp, Mercedes M. Yardley, Clint Lee Werner, Rhiannon Frater, Kane Gilmour, and Edward M. Erdelac. Please check out their works! They are fantastic, talented folks.
If you enjoyed The Ten Thousand Things, we urge you to post a review, even if it’s a couple short sentences, on sites like Amazon and Goodreads. Tell us—and others—what you thought! Studies show peer reviews are the most effective forms of advertising, especially for books from independent publishers; plus, connecting with our readers is always exciting and inspiring.
We are having such a blast with this series. We hope you are, too, and that you’ll join us for book three of Dead West, The Devils in Reno, coming this Fall, 2014.
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For more information about the Dead West series, go to www.ragnarokpub.com
