Iron and Blood

by Gail Z. Martin

  “There’s a fight at the gate. Looks like Maguire got plenty of turn-out. You want us to take a shot—” Her voice broke up on the next sentence.

  “Don’t shoot!” Jake whispered. “Not yet!”

  “I said, did you want us to take a shot at locating Thwaites?” Nicki’s voice came through, clearly enough that he could hear her irritation.

  “Yeah,” Jake replied. “Try to keep an eye out for him and Veles. I don’t think this is going to be a walk in the park.”

  “That’s what makes it so much fun,” Nicki replied.

  Jake toggled the switch on his transmitter. “Flatfoot,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “Getting into position now,” Fletcher whispered. “Tell you more later.”

  “Good enough.” He toggled again. “Hey, Partner, talk to me. Where are you?”

  “Heading down,” Rick replied. “Between the riot and the tommyknockers, the mine’s clear of workers—on the normal levels. Don’t be surprised if you can’t reach us, we’re going deep.”

  “Just check in when you can,” Jake ordered. “Too damn many moving parts to this plan,” he muttered.

  Rick started to reply, but the transmitter suddenly hissed static and the connection was lost. Adam meant his contraption to carry sound through the air, not through solid rock, Jake thought. Let’s just hope that with all the back-up, Rick doesn’t need to call for help.

  Andreas and Renate were talking in hushed tones off to one side. From their gestures, Jake guessed they were arguing about where best to set up the ritual. Father Matija and the Logonje had gone into the mine with Rick, but they would be back, hopefully, in time for the big finale.

  Let’s hope we know what we’re doing, Jake thought. Or we’ll be kicking off a bloodbath New Pittsburgh will never forget.

  DROSTAN FLETCHER LED the way to the vivisectionists’ lair. Mitch followed, with Kovach’s guards bringing up the rear.

  Drostan was armed with a shotgun as well as his service revolver and combat knife; his pockets were heavy with ammunition. Mitch had a revolver holstered at his belt beside another wicked knife. In his hand was a shotgun, and a rifle was slung on a strap over his shoulder. Kovach’s guards were equally well-armed.

  The storage shed was quiet. Kovach’s men circled the building, watching the doors. Two of Kovach’s men carried a lightweight Gatling gun, which they quickly got into place. Mitch and two of the guards were armed with extra firepower and as many Ketchum grenades as they could carry. Kovach’s last two men carried a pair of Adam’s latest experimental weapons: canisters of kerosene equipped with a hose, spray nozzle, and air jet.

  “I see they’ve replaced the lock,” Fletcher said.

  “Looks like a whole new door,” Mitch said.

  He bent to the lock with a thin piece of metal; it opened with a quiet click. Mitch swung the door carefully open, and then he and Drostan fell back, happy to let Kovach’s sharpshooters take the fore.

  “Damn!” one of the soldiers swore, choking at the stench that met them: a slaughterhouse in summer, thick with the scent of blood and offal. The clockwork zombies were already heading towards them.

  “Take them down!” Mitch shouted as he fired his shotgun into the clockwork cadavers. His shot blew apart one of the zombie’s chests, exposing a rib cage packed with straw and horsehair.

  “Legs and heads, people, legs and heads!” Drostan yelled, firing, sending a spray of foul-smelling flesh into the air. Even lacking its head and with a huge hole in its chest, the clockwork zombie staggered onwards until Drostan’s next shot blew through its steel-jointed knees.

  “Stay clear of the arms!” Drostan shouted. “Just because they’re down doesn’t mean they’re harmless!”

  Kovach’s men fired in volleys, every second man firing while those in between reloaded. The two men with the flamethrowers switched to their shotguns, unwilling to risk setting the building afire while they were still so close to it.

  The zombies spilled through the doorway, forcing them back.

  “Let the Gatling have a go at it!” Drostan yelled.

  Kovach’s men moved back and the Gatling gun lay down a deadly barrage. The clockwork zombies exploded, torsos and limbs flying. The men with flamethrowers incinerated the twitching mechanized corpses, filling the air with the smell of roasted, putrid meat.

  A rifle shot cracked through the air and one of the men running the Gatling gun crumpled to the ground.

  Mitch ducked for cover and leveled his rifle, aided by a pair of Adam’s nightsight goggles. He pulled the trigger, dropping one sniper, but an answering shot hit close to his shoulder, forcing him to drop to the ground for a moment.

  A shot smacked into the dirt beside Drostan. He dove behind a pile of broken crates and brought his revolver up, sighting on the shadowy forms he glimpsed by the faint moonlight. He returned fire, his targets made easier to hit by the light of the burning corpses.

  “Mine guards. I’ll handle them,” Mitch yelled. “Then I’ll circle back to meet you here.”

  Kovach’s men gave the others enough cover so they could pull the fallen gunner out of the line of fire and finish off the clockwork zombies with the flamethrowers. Mitch melted into the darkness. A moment later, there was a loud bang and a flare of white light as two Ketchum grenades exploded one after another. Several rifle shots sounded in quick succession, then there was silence.

  “Is that all of them?” Mitch seemed to appear out of nowhere, with Adam’s goggles pushed onto the top of his head.

  Fletcher shrugged. “We’ll know if more people shoot at us.”

  Mitch glanced behind him. “I got at least two of them, might have wounded a third, and the grenades were more than they had the belly for.”

  Cautiously, two of Kovach’s men edged toward the doorway. When no zombies appeared out of the darkness, the men made their way inside, guns leveled and ready. The electric lights buzzed into life, illuminating the laboratory.

  Fletcher had warned them what to expect, but he doubted that their worst nightmares could have prepared them for the sight. Five fresh corpses lay on operatory gurneys, partially dissected. Metal gleamed from the joints of corpses where steel pins had been inserted and some of the clockwork mechanism installed. Drostan eyed the piles of crates and equipment, wondering if the two vivisectionists were hiding somewhere within.

  “Look at those… things,” one of their bodyguards murmured, and Drostan wondered if the man was about to throw up. The smell of embalming fluid and formaldehyde was heavy in the air.

  “Spread out!” Kovach ordered. “Rogers, you guard that door. I want Tumblety and Brunrichter found and captured.”

  “Stay sharp,” Drostan warned. “We don’t know if there are any other nasty surprises.”

  One of Kovach’s men remained outside with their wounded comrade, manning the Gatling gun. Two more moved together through the building, while Rogers guarded the door and another man kept watch at the corner of the building.

  “Surgical instruments, bottles of ether, lots of formaldehyde—looks like these guys were planning to build an army,” one of Kovach’s men said as he used a crowbar to rip the lid off a crate.

  “Here’s one of the Tesla-Westinghouse crates,” Mitch noted. The lid had been pried off, exposing gears, wires and tubes, along with a variety of lab equipment.

  “Get it to the door, and we’ll load it on the sledge,” Drostan said. Mitch had shown up with a steam-powered velocipede, yet another of Adam’s creations, along with a wheeled metal trailer. They hoped to get out of the complex with the stolen equipment in the ensuing chaos, exiting through a cut in the back fence where a delivery wagon would be waiting on a side road. Maguire’s men had blocked the roads, but Drostan had scouted an abandoned logging trail where the wagon could hide until the situation cooled off.

  “Got another Tesla-Westinghouse crate,” another of their bodyguards confirmed, noting the shipping label.

  “Here’s one of the Department�
�s crates,” Mitch said.

  “Let’s load them up,” Drostan ordered. “We’ve got plenty of other work to do tonight. Nice of them to move the crates. They were in the other building earlier.”

  Two of Kovach’s men bent to heft a crate between them. Mitch and Jacob did the same. But as soon as they lifted the boxes, the hum of gears sounded from the back of the warehouse, as four more clockwork zombies surged to their feet.

  Drostan swore under his breath as he brought up his shotgun and took the head off one of the nearest cadavers.

  “Fire!” Mitch shouted. A barrage of bullets flew at the clockwork zombies, thudding through their decaying bodies and lodging in the brick walls behind them. Shotgun blasts tore through the zombies’ chests, blew through shoulders to send arms flying, but they still kept coming.

  One of the zombies fell when a blast took out his metal-hinged knees, yet on he came, dragging himself along with his hands.

  One of the bodyguard’s guns clicked empty and he grabbed a crowbar from where it lay between the rows of crates. He swung the heavy iron bar back and forth, hitting the dead men with the sound of ripe melons breaking open. Another swung his empty gun at the zombie closing in on him, but the creature was faster than he expected, and it grabbed his wrist, effortlessly breaking bones. The man screamed as the monstrosity closed its geared hand around his neck, snapping his spine. Mitch turned his weapon on the zombie, blasting it into oblivion.

  “These guys don’t know when to quit,” Drostan muttered, as the last clockwork zombie crashed through a stack of crates, single-minded in his pursuit.

  “Tumblety and Brunrichter aren’t here,” Mitch yelled. “You can bet they’d be running if they were.”

  “Let’s get the crates and get out of here!” Drostan shouted. He and Mitch fired on the last zombie as Rogers and another of Kovach’s men got the lab equipment clear. The smell of gunpowder now overlay the embalming fluid and rotten meat.

  As soon as the last of the crates were out, everyone fell back to the doorway, wary of any new clockwork zombies showing up. Kovach’s men loaded the crates onto the steambike’s wagon, and two of their bodyguards went roaring off toward the road with their reclaimed treasure.

  “Burn it!” Mitch shouted.

  Kovach’s men outside had refilled the kerosene fire guns, and they turned their nozzles on the doorway. With a whoosh, torrents of fire engulfed the mechanized corpses and the crates behind them.

  “Get back!” Mitch yelled, although Drostan and the others needed no prompting.

  “When the fire hits that embalming fluid—” Drostan began.

  An explosion and the roar of flames drowned out what he was going to say. The building went up like dynamite, sending a hail of shattered brick that pelted them as they ran.

  “We’ve got trouble!” One of the bodyguards was watching the shadows, and now, illuminated by the burning building, he could make out shapes moving towards them.

  “We weren’t exactly having a picnic before!” Drostan snapped.

  “Werkmen—heading our way! And I don’t think they’re ours.”

  Kovach’s guards swung the Gatling gun around on its mounting. Staccato blasts of gunfire clanged against metal. But as Drostan peered at the new enemy, something about them seemed all wrong. These opponents moved more naturally than werkman, and flinched when shots hit them.

  “They’re not werkmen,” Mitch yelled. “They’re men wearing metal armor!” The shots set the armored men back a step or two, but still they advanced, as the bullets bounced off their chests and creased the metal plates covering their arms and legs.

  “Armor makes them slower,” Drostan shouted. “Switch up your positions—and aim for the head!” He aimed his shotgun and fired, hitting one of the armored men square in the face. The force was too much for the metal helmet and the man fell backward with a crash.

  With an explosion that rocked the ground, the building collapsed and the earth around it opened up into a giant hole into the tunnels beneath it.

  “Get away from the building! It’s going under!” Drostan shouted.

  The whole building slid into the depths with a thunderous roar. Some of the armored men could not move quickly enough to avoid the ground vanishing beneath their feet. Screaming in panic, they fell and were carried away with the tide of brick and rubble.

  “It’s a sinkhole!” Mitch yelled, as the mouth of the crater continued to expand. “Run!” The bodyguards manning the Gatling gun had to stop their fire to haul the gun away from the crater as ground that had been firm moments before disappeared into the abyss.

  More armored men advanced, trapping Drostan and the others between them and the crater. Drostan, Mitch, and Kovach’s guards scrambled for cover as they blasted away at the new attackers.

  Kovach’s man with the crowbar managed to circle around behind the armored men, getting in several bone-crushing blows before his attackers could turn to face the new threat.

  The roar of an engine came from the tree line. The guard riding the steam velocipede had dropped off his load and was now circling back towards them. “Watch out!” the man shouted. He pressed a button on the handlebars of the steambike and there was a flash and a whoosh as a Ketchum grenade shot from the front of the bike and exploded amid the advancing men in a flare of blinding light.

  Four of the armored attackers were sent into the air, chunks of metal raining down on Jake and the others.

  Stealth had been compromised long ago, Drostan knew, but as grenade after grenade exploded, he still expected the Pinkertons to descend on them in full force. A glance toward the mine’s gates explained why that had not happened.

  The crowd at the gates had become a riot, with the Pinkertons and the mine guards outnumbered despite their guns and clubs. Long abused without recourse, the miners vented their frustration with rocks and boards, wading into the fray fearlessly. Some of the miners had pistols, and returned fire when the guards shot into the crowd.

  “I think the Pinkertons have their hands full,” Mitch observed.

  Movement in the shadows and the sound of horses’ hooves caught Drostan’s attention. In the light of the fires that ranged all around the gaping sinkhole, Drostan could see a black carriage headed pell-mell for the rear gates. And on the back and side of the carriage were crests showing a crimson falcon.

  “Someone’s getting away!” Mitch shouted.

  “Not yet.” Drostan toggled the transmitter on his lapel. “Airship—can you hear me?”

  “I thought you weren’t going to make a scene?” Nicki snapped. “Flyboy had to make us all airsick to avoid that fireball you sent up!”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Drostan muttered. “Look, I need to talk to Wunderkind—”

  “I’m here,” Adam’s voice cut in.

  “Someone’s trying to escape; may be Brunrichter and Tumblety,” Drostan said. “They’re too far away from us, and we’ve got hostile fire between here and there. Can you do something to stop them—preferably without killing them?”

  “We’re on it,” Adam replied.

  “Don’t you dare leave me out of this!” Nicki interrupted. “You need me to locate the targets!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you out,” Drostan replied.

  The Allegheny Princess loomed large in the sky, following the speeding carriage. A bolt of man-made lightning streaked down, burning into the grass a few yards ahead of the carriage, sending the horses rearing in panic, kicking up clods of dirt and a fine shower of toasted grass.

  When Drostan’s eyes had adjusted once more to the darkness, he saw that Farber’s lightning had carved a rough circle around the carriage, leaving it stranded on its own little island.

  “What do you think?” Adam chortled, proud of himself. “And that’s only at half-power!”

  “I think you’re a dangerous man,” Drostan replied. “Great job. We’ll be in touch.”

  Smoke hung over the mining complex. The air was sharp with the smell of burnt wiring, sco
rched metal and roasted zombie. The Gatling gun’s muzzle glowed red. Between gunfire and Ketchum grenades, the armored men lay in a tangle of broken bodies and twisted metal. Behind them, the fire around the crater where the warehouse had once stood was burning itself out.

  “Let’s get back to the mine entrance,” Drostan ordered. “Jake will need our help.” He pitched in with Mitch and Kovach’s guards to carry what remained of their equipment and weapons.

  “What now?” Drostan asked as he trudged back to where Jake stood guard at the mouth of the Vesta Nine. “We took care of the mad doctors, and there won’t be any more zombies—at least, not from that direction.”

  “Good work,” Jake said.

  “How can I help?” Drostan asked.

  Jake eyed him thoughtfully. “You see ghosts, right?”

  Drostan hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What do you see now, here?”

  Drostan took a deep breath and focused his concentration. Finding ghosts at the mine was not difficult; not being overwhelmed by their numbers was the challenge. “I see lots of dead men,” Drostan said. “Miners. All the hullaballoo brought them out, but they’ve got no reason to run away—except…”

  “Except what?” Jake pressed.

  “They’re afraid of the gessyan,” Drostan said. “They hide from them.”

  “Can you tell them what we’re doing? Get them on our side?” Jake asked. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  Drostan nodded. “I can try. Not sure what they can do, but I’ll tell them.” After a moment, he turned back to Jake. “Done.”

  Another transmission through the earpiece startled Jake. It was from Kovach’s second-in-command. “The men are in position, sir. Locked and loaded.”

  Jake peered toward the angry mob at the gates. “Anything changed out front?”

  “Negative. Looks like a big brawl from here.”

  “Good,” Jake replied with a smile. “Let me know if anything changes, and make sure no one gets past your line.”

  “Affirmative, sir.”