Black Creek

by Dan Kemp

  Joseph left the cell, locking it behind him once again. He tore the drawer out of a nearby desk, upending its contents onto the floor. From among them he fished a small brass key which, as he knew it would, opened a door across the room.

  He swung open the door to the armory. It was a small room, no more than a re-purposed closet really, with several wooden racks and cabinets crammed inside. It had been nearly cleaned out by whatever party Gray and the sheriff had raised. Joseph took what was left: a bolt-action rifle and six-shot revolver, a holster which he hastily strapped to his waist, and all the ammunition his pockets would hold. He could catch up with the others if he rode hard.

  Joseph stormed out the back door of the station, but found the stables empty.

  Shit.

  ***

  The old ironworks was nestled in the forest five miles north of town. During a time long past, it had been a major contributor to the local economy, but by now it had not been properly in use for well over a hundred years. In Joseph's youth, teenage couples were often known to sneak off to those ruins. About eight years ago there had been a collapse in one of the structures which killed two kids. As far as Joseph knew, nobody had much ventured out there since.

  As Joseph approached the place now, he saw that this was clearly no longer the case. The old winding dirt road leading to the ironworks, previously overgrown with thick brush, had been recently cleared. It should be just up here over this ridge, he thought, before he came to a barricade.

  "Whoa," he murmured, pulling up and coming to a halt. Pilgrim, the old thoroughbred hastily borrowed from the racetrack on his way out of town, whinnied softly and shifted his feet. Now that he had stopped, he could hear the popping of distant gunfire.

  The road was blocked by a solid wood wall, at least twelve feet tall, with a small door built into its bottom. A smaller fence could be seen extending from the sides through the trees in both directions. Fortunately for him, the door had been broken down.

  Joseph put his heels to the horse, who trotted through the opening. The broken, axe-scarred door laid in the grass just on the other side. Ahead, the road curved through the trees, but he could see smoke in the distance.

  Joseph spurred his horse on and followed the path. The sound of gunfire grew steadily louder until he arrived at the end of the road, where the trees opened up into a clearing. The ruined foundry itself sat centrally in the space, but new construction surrounded it. At least a dozen small buildings now populated the clearing. One, nearest to him and off to the right, was ablaze. Just in front of that, he saw some men taking cover behind a line of wagons. Beyond them, he could see a few other men scrambling between the buildings, taking cover wherever they could.

  Joseph dismounted, tied his horse to a nearby fencepost, and took off into the brush. The men near the wagons, he could see now, were the ones from the town. As he made his way through the trees, rifle wobbling beneath his arm, he recognized Gray and the sheriff. With them were ten other men. Joseph left the edge of the trees and ran toward them at a sprint, staying wide of the burning building. Even still, the heat was almost unbearable as he ran past.

  He slid with an unpleasant crash into position alongside one of the wagons, which sent another flare of pain across his skull. Gray, who had been standing up to fire his rifle, squatted down, looking at him.

  "God damnit, Joe."

  "Couldn't take them alive, eh?" Joe said, trying to shake off the headache.

  "Not exactly. They opened fire as soon as they saw us."

  "Looks like we underestimated them."

  "You could say that," Gray said. Bullets intermittently whistled overhead and thudded into the thick wood of the wagon in front of them. "I don't think they're all even here. That house was completely empty," he said, nodding at the burning building.

  "Well, we better get moving," Joseph said. Gray nodded.

  Joseph stood up, taking aim. There was a two-story house thirty feet away, just off to the right. A few men were crouched on its balcony, returning fire. One man, reloading his weapon, lingered in the open for too long.

  Joseph fired, and the man dropped. The sheriff shouted at him from the next wagon over. "Keep shooting at the balcony, we're moving!" Joseph and Gray kept the men on the balcony pinned down, firing every few seconds, as the sheriff and a few men sprinted for the door. They made it inside, and seconds later emerged onto the balcony where a brawl erupted.

  "Go!" Gray screamed, and Joseph and the rest of the men made for the house. Someone came crashing down to the ground from the balcony above. Joseph took cover inside the first floor to get his bearings. Just across the way now was the largest building, which looked like a barn. Two men were firing from the upper windows, and the doors had been blockaded with tall stacks of crates. At the moment, Joseph doubted his prospects of making it inside.

  Beyond the barn were at least a few other structures, which he couldn't see well. To the right of where he stood, a number of small shacks were clustered together.

  He fired two shots at a man who was running across the path from the barn. The first missed, sending a puff of dirt up from the ground but making the man jump back, directly into the path of his second bullet. Joseph was alone now, he noticed, and unsure where Gray had gone. After a moment, one of their men came down the stairs.

  "Let's go," Joseph said to him, and they scrambled over to the nearest shack. The other man kicked the door down. If nothing else, their party had at least caught Jonah's gang off guard. Their quarters were in chaos, and though this one was otherwise empty, one man was still inside preparing his weapon. Joseph quickly put him down with a shot to the head.

  Most of the other shacks were empty, and the two men cleared them with ease. As they entered the final dormitory, Joseph heard a groan from one of the cots. He was surprised to see a man under a blanket, his skin very pale and his brow soaked with sweat. He made no effort to get out of bed, but looked at Joseph with pleading eyes.

  Joseph stood over the ill man for a moment, then bound his hands and feet with some rope.

  The sheriff bounded into the shack. "There's lots of fighting over by the stables. Let's go."

  Joseph, still tying his knot, nodded. "Right behind you," he said, and then left the sick man alone.

  As he emerged from the shack, he heard screams and gunfire off to his right. From the looks of it, his men had swept through the compound and were attempting to storm the barn from the opposite side. On this side, all was quiet. Whoever had been shooting from the windows of the barn had apparently gone elsewhere. Blood and a handful of bodies littered the dirt paths, at least one of which Joseph recognized as his own. Another, lying unnaturally up against a railing, he recognized as the son of a blacksmith in town. As Joseph recalled, he had run off just a few months back.

  The sound of hoofbeats rose to his left, back toward the entrance to the compound. Joseph spun, raised his rifle, then lowered it.

  It was Hank. His horse slid to a stop just feet away, a cloud of dust stinging Joseph's eyes. The man slid down from his saddle. He wore a leather chest piece, two silver daggers strapped to his flanks, and a rifle slung across his back.

  "What are you doing here?" Joseph said.

  "I told you I would come," Hank replied, though Joseph didn't remember that. "Looks like your friends need help. On the other side of that barn. I'm fine," he added, noticing Joseph's eyes lingering at his shoulder. "I've had much worse."

  "Alright then,” Joseph said, though he had many questions for another time. “We better get moving."

  "This way. I think I saw a way to get inside." Hank led him around the side of the building to a ladder, lying on the ground behind a stack of crates. "Help me with this." Joseph grabbed the end of the heavy ladder, and the two men positioned it beneath one of the high windows.

  Joseph mounted the ladder, taking the rungs as quickly as he could manage before stopping to peer through the window. To his relief, this side of the building was now seemingly unguarded. With
a low grunt he hauled himself through the narrow window and slid, rather inelegantly, to the floor.

  He now found himself on a narrow, raised platform which ran along the outer wall of the barn. Across the way three men were crouched down beneath their own windows, each firing alternating shots outside. Some spindly wooden steps along the left wall would take him to the ground floor.

  Hank came through the window behind him, much more gracefully than Joseph had managed. Without a word Joseph led him along the platform toward the stairs. They hadn’t gone far when several more men emerged from below, whooping and shouting. One of them threw open the barn doors and rushed outside. Joseph picked up his pace. As they passed the stairs, the riflemen at the windows had still not noticed their approach. A few steps later, one turned.

  He was a portly man, ruddy-cheeked and with a thick red mustache. He turned away from the window, kneeling as he reloaded his weapon. Still working, his eyes met Joseph's. "They're inside!" the man shouted, fumbling with his half-loaded gun. The men beside him turned, surprised, but no sooner had they been spotted than Hank broke into a sprint.

  He was upon the mustachioed man in an instant. Hank booted his rifle away, delivering a second kick to the man's chin which left him slumping limply to the floor. Hank spun past him, ducking under the butt of a rifle meant for his head, sliding a dagger loose and planting it in the next man's chest.

  There was a shout behind Joseph. He spun wildly, drew his revolver, and fired. His bullet hit its mark, square in the man's chest, but he kept charging. Joseph jumped aside and his attacker hit the wall before he could slow himself. Joseph grabbed him at the shoulders, heaving him toward the edge of the platform. The man fought him, clawing at his hands and swinging wildly. Joseph dodged one punch and another struck his jaw. He loosened his grip long enough to drive a fist into the other man's gut, and he felt him go limp. With a final push he threw the man, shrieking, to the ground below.

  Joseph bent over, breathing deep, his heart pounding in his chest. "You okay, Joe?" came Hank's voice from behind him.

  Joseph turned to look. Hank was cleaning one of his daggers with a cloth, then slid it back into its position on his chest. Three men lay dead on the wood behind him. "Fine," Joseph answered.

  "We should go then," Hank said.

  Outside, bodies lay everywhere and patches of red stained the dirt. The sun was just beginning to set, and two men stood alone in the middle of the field.

  "Jonah Shaw, you’re under arrest. Drop your weapon." The farther away of the two spoke. It was Gray.

  "Not on your life," came the reply. Jonah stood facing away from Joseph. "But we can make it a fair fight." He holstered his pistol.

  Joseph couldn't see it, but he could imagine the look of grim resignation his friend's face surely wore. Gray's own revolver was still at his waist. If he had seen Joseph and Hank, quietly creeping toward them across the dusty ground, he didn’t show it.

  It happened in an instant. Jonah's hand twitched and both men drew, Gray a half second behind. As soon as he saw it happen, Joseph drew his own gun, took quick aim, and fired. Jonah went down, a spurt of blood from his right leg misting the ground.

  Joseph ran, diving on top of Jonah. He grabbed him by his shirt, pummeled his face as hard and as fast as he could, screaming as he hit him. The man at first cried out and then was silent. When Joseph felt his own hand crack, he switched hands. He beat Jonah beyond recognition. All his teeth were gone, his jaw was loose and crooked. One of his eyes dangled slightly from its socket.

  "Joe." Hank's voice. Joseph stood up. Gray was on the ground as well, Hank at his side.

  "Are you happy now, Joe?" Jonah’s words were broken and stuttering. "You got me." He sputtered blood onto his own face. "Aren't you going to ask me why I did it?"

  Joseph drew his pistol. "No."

  Jess

  Jess ducked under the punch, and felt it graze her hair as she moved in. With her opponent overextended, she shifted and lunged in with her own punch. Just before it connected, a kick found her ribs.

  "You're dragging your back foot, Jess."

  Jess stepped back, wiping a hand across her damp brow. She pressed her other hand to her ribs, aching from the last hit.

  "When you're ready," the instructor said. Jess shifted her mouth guard with her tongue before nodding at her opponent, who stood at the ready across from her, adjusting his foam sparring gloves.

  "Ready," he said when he was done, and took his fighting stance. Jess did the same, taking a deep breath and settling her weight on the ball of her back foot, the heel slightly raised. Jess moved first, pushing off her back foot and striking out with a backfist strike from her lead hand. As her opponent stepped back, parrying her strike, Jess let her momentum launch her into a side kick aimed at his abdomen. This hit landed, though not at full force, as he attempted to sidestep the kick.

  Her hands weren’t on guard, she realized, just as a fist collided with the side of her head. She let the punch spin her around, firing a rear kick as she went. This kick hit hard, and she heard her opponent grunt.

  "Good," was the instruction to stop. Jess and her opponent bowed and touched gloves.

  "Excellent work today," her instructor said as they left the room. "You seem very focused."

  "Thank you, sir. I feel good."

  It was a breezy Monday afternoon as Jess left the karate studio, the first bit of leisure time she had allowed herself in the past week. Her theory had at first been a hard sell to the higher echelons of the department, but they quickly saw the same connections she had, and about which she had obsessed for months. Now the questions she got from her superiors were less along the lines of "Who are you again?" and more like "What do you need from us?" The only criticism had been why she’d waited so long to come forward.

  She was placed in charge of a special task force with several detectives beneath her, and Jess herself reported directly to Chief Pritchard. Jess had been fortunate so far. The very first witness she interrogated had given her an enormous lead, a possible name for one of her two vigilantes. Her team had been combing through all of the old case files, pulling in any old witnesses they could. This hadn’t provided a great deal of new information, only solidifying what they already knew.

  There were indeed two vigilantes. The one possibly named Dorian was more violent, seemingly more unstable. He was prone to killing his victims, sometimes outright executing them after they had already been subdued. The other man was no less dangerous, but from the looks of it, at least he didn't seem to relish killing people. When he acted alone, the perpetrators-turned-victims were usually pacified and left tied up for actual law enforcement to find.

  There were so few cases in which the two seemed to work together that Jess, at first, hadn't even realized there were two suspects at all. In hindsight though, she had been able to identify three occasions where a witness had suggested there might have been more than one vigilante. The outcomes in these cases were much more unpredictable.

  Jess started her car, enjoying even the warm blast of air out of her broken air conditioner. It would be just a short drive back to the station. As she left the parking lot, her phone began to ring. Rachel <3, the display read.

  "Hey," she said, gripping the phone between her jaw and shoulder as she turned into traffic.

  "How was class?"

  "It was good. I needed it."

  "I know you did. Hey, will you make it home for dinner before school tonight?"

  "Yeah, I will. Promise."

  "Alright, I'll cook. Be careful at work. See you tonight."

  "I love you," Jess said.

  "Love you too."

  It was quiet at the headquarters, and aside from the receptionist out front, Jess didn't encounter anyone else until she made it to her own office.

  "Hey Pete," Jess said, closing the unmarked door behind her. The room was slightly too dim, and had three desks crammed into its small working area. The far wall was dominated by two large whiteboards, e
ach plastered with dozens of official reports and witness statements interspersed with her own scrawled writing.

  "Hey," Pete replied without turning around. He was huddled over a table along the far wall, shuffling through stacks of paper.

  "How'd it go?" Jess asked, taking a seat at the table next to him. He turned to face her, his wiry brown hair swaying to obscure his mousy face.

  "It went fine. He should be in soon. Here's the report I put together." He slid a thin folder across the table to her, which she took without opening it.

  "Thanks. Good work. Want to sit in?" Pete smiled, but shook his head. He was a rookie detective, with just a few years experience. He had, Jess heard, come to the department highly recommended and among the top in his class, but so far his skills had not much translated into the real world. His career, to this point, had consisted mostly of soft theft cases and the like. Since he joined the team, she had begun to see that his true aptitude was in the office, organizing and managing their files, so that's where she'd kept him. That was until today, when she'd asked him to run down a simple lead.