Hell on Heels - A Quincy Harker, Demon Hunter Novella

by John G. Hartness

  Mitch jumped down off the autopsy table. “Maybe in your business,” he said. “Not in ours.” He tipped his hat. “Where can we find him?”

  “Over on Ridge Avenue.”

  “Thanks for the information,” Jacob said.

  Sheffield frowned. “These zombies, think you can take them?”

  Mitch grinned. “Sure. With one hand tied behind my back. It’s the living you’ve got to watch out for.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Jacob said, heading for the door.

  “Don’t rush,” Sheffield replied. “The last time you guys showed up, you wanted me to store a vampire in my mortuary drawer.”

  “It was just for the day,” Jacob replied. “It’s not like you were using it.”

  “I used to sleep at night, before I met you two,” Sheffield replied. “Back when I thought things like vampires were fairy tales.”

  “Um, doc, about those fairies—”

  “I don’t want to know!” Sheffield snapped, and covered his ears with his hands. “Out! Out!”

  # # #

  The carriage had not gone two blocks from the coroner’s office before Hans gave three sharp raps to the sliding glass panel between the driver’s bench and the carriage.

  “We’re being followed,” Mitch interpreted, and both he and Jacob drew their guns.

  New Pittsburgh’s streets were full of black carriages, but the one behind them looked more ominous than most. It wasn’t a hearse, but it had a funeral sense about it, from the cloaked driver whose face was hidden beneath the shadow of his hat to the black plumes that adorned the horses’ bridles. And despite the crush of pedestrians, carriages and trolleys, that one particular carriage stayed close behind them even though Hans made a series of turns designed to lose a casual follower.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  Mitch and Jacob hit the floor of the coach as bullets thudded into the doors at close range. Suppressors on the guns hid the sound amidst the mid-day bustle. Steel plates kept the bullets from coming through. Mitch lurched to the bullet-proof glass window, but saw only well-dressed pedestrians walking past.

  “Anything?” Jacob asked, warily looking out on his side.

  Mitch swore. “No one who looks like an assassin.”

  Jacob glanced out of the back window. The funeral carriage was gone.

  “I think we’ve just been sent a message,” Mitch said, straightening his jacket but not bothering to holster his gun.

  Jacob sighed. “And as usual, we’re going to ignore it.”

  The rest of the ride over to Manchester was thankfully quiet. They left the factories on The Point, the triangle where three mighty rivers converged, and crossed the river into the city of Allegheny with its ethnic neighborhoods and workingmen’s houses along the riverfront, while elegant brownstones and wealthy neighborhoods settled comfortably further inland. The brick walls were painted with advertisements for tobacco and gum, milliner shops and dressmakers. There was even an ad for modern hygienic burial vaults at Union Cemetery.

  “They’ll advertise anything nowadays,” Jacob muttered. “Where are we meeting Fletcher?”

  “Mihilov’s. And let’s hope he’s got some information worth paying for,” Mitch replied.

  Mihilov’s Bar was nothing special. A battered wooden sign hung over the door, which had seen a lot of use. The windows were set high in the walls of the narrow room, which held a bar along one side and a few tables with chairs along the other. The air smelled of whiskey, cigarette smoke, and fried fish.

  The tired men who hunched over the bar were mostly mill workers, stopping for a shot and a beer before heading home. Eddie Mihilov, a balding man in his fifties, nodded curtly as Mitch and Jacob entered. Drostan Fletcher, private investigator, waited at a table in the back with a glass of whiskey.

  “How’s business?” Mitch said as he shook Drostan’s hand in greeting.

  Drostan shrugged. “Enough to keep me in rent and scotch,” he replied, and gestured for them to sit down. Mitch went to the bar and came back with ale for Jacob and himself.

  “I got your note,” Drostan said. He was a tall, strongly built man with red hair and the faintest trace of a Scottish burr to his voice, perhaps ten years older than Mitch and Jacob. “How did Washington get interested in this?”

  Mitch grinned. “Washington isn’t. The Department, on the other hand, finds this sort of thing fascinating.”

  Drostan took a sip of his scotch and leaned back in his chair. “You’ve heard Tumblety’s back in town?”

  Jacob nodded. “Heard he might be connected to David Congeliere.”

  Drostan raised an eyebrow. “Congeliere’s made a lot of enemies.”

  “How?”

  “Undercutting the competition. Running advertisements in the paper for his services that people find in poor taste. Adding a discount at that new mausoleum if he gets the embalming job.” He shook his head. “Rumor has it he pays doctors to be tipped off on who’s dying so he can get to the family first.”

  Mitch and Jacob exchanged glances. “What’s his connection to the cemetery?”

  Fletcher scowled. “That’s where it gets strange. The cemetery is completely legitimate. And maybe the mausoleum is, too, but they advertise like Beeman’s gum.” He took another sip of his drink. “Adoph Brunrichter gave a large sum of money to have the mausoleum built.”

  “I don’t recognize that name.” Mitch replied.

  “The guy is a bad penny,” Fletcher said. “Plenty of rumors: hanky-panky with female patients, botched surgeries, questionable experiments.” He shrugged. “But nothing seems to stick to him.”

  “If they’re behind the clockwork corpses, do you know where they’re doing the work?” Mitch asked.

  “Congeliere travels all over the city and embalms corpses at their homes,” Fletcher replied. “A day or two later, after the wakes, his hearse traces the same path and picks up the bodies for interment. Since he offers a discount on the new mausoleum, a lot of his ‘clients’ end up over there.”

  “Interesting,” Jacob said, and took a long pull on his ale.

  “Tumblety and Brunrichter seem to spend most of their time at the house on Ridge Avenue,” Drostan added. “So if Congeliere really is stealing bodies, he’s probably making the clockwork zombies there.”

  “And just so you know, I’ve had two people take a shot at me since I’ve been looking into this for you,” Drostan said with a pointed look at Mitch. “The first was a warning. The second meant to hit me, but I dodged it. I don’t want a third.” He drew out a rolled-up blueprint.

  “I got my hands on the floor plans to Congeliere’s house,” Drostan added. “Thought you might want them.”

  “Let me have a look at those,” Mitch said, reaching for the plans. “I’ve got an idea.”

  # # #

  “This has got to be the worst thing you have ever dragged me into, Storm.” Dr. Sheffield muttered.

  “It’s for a good cause,” Mitch replied smoothly. “Think of it as your uncle’s final service to his fellow man.”

  They stood in the front parlor of Sheffield’s house. The mourners had departed, and Sheffield’s family was in bed, believing that he and his friends would sit vigil with Uncle Frederick.

  “What happens if someone goes into the loft of the carriage shed and finds him up there?” Sheffield demanded sotto voce. “I could lose my job.”

  “Does anyone go up to the loft in the carriage shed?” Mitch asked. “He’s embalmed. We’ll have him back where he belongs tomorrow at the latest.”

  Sheffield glowered at him but said nothing. The casket lay empty on a makeshift bier constructed from boards and sawhorses, covered with a dark tablecloth. In the dining room, some of the leftovers remained from food brought by well-wishers, along with ample bottles of whiskey for the comfort of the mourners.

  “It’ll be easy,” Mitch said in a cajoling tone. “Drostan is going to sit up outside, just in case. We’ll be in here. Congeliere’s hearse is due t
o come later tonight. Right before they get here, Jacob jumps in the casket, and Hans, Drostan and I follow the hearse. Once we get wherever they take the bodies, we throw them a little surprise party.”

  “Be glad I hadn’t arranged for a cremation,” Sheffield groused.

  Jacob climbed into the empty coffin. He could not get his long legs into the box without his knees sticking up. “This isn’t going to work.”

  Jacob climbed out and eyed Mitch’s shorter frame. “Oh no,” Mitch said, backing up a step. “No. Not even for flag and country. No. I’m not doing it.”

  “We’re not going to have another chance like this,” Jacob said in a practical tone.

  “No.”

  “The casket has an air tube,” Sheffield offered. “Uncle Frederick was obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Premature Burial.”

  “No.”

  Jacob sighed. “All right, Mitch. But I’m not sure how quickly we can get the goods on Congeliere and the others. There could be more poisonings.”

  “That’s not fair,” Mitch said, glaring at Jacob.

  “It’s true. We have a golden opportunity to get into the middle of their operation. Drostan, Hans and I will be right behind you,” Jacob promised.

  “What if you’re not?”

  “We will be.”

  Mitch folded his arms across his chest. “I want weapons.”

  “You can have what I was going to use. A sawed-off shotgun. A Colt 45. One of Farber’s Morse Code watches. I’ll have the receiver, so you’ll be in contact with me the whole time,” Jacob said. “And you got that listening device from him the last time we saw him. Works on aetheric waves. So I can hear what you hear.”

  “You knew this was going to happen,” Mitch muttered.

  Jacob chuckled. “No, I didn’t. But sometimes the universe is amazingly just.”

  The clatter of hooves in the street outside ended the conversation. “He’s here!” Jacob said. “Get in the box!”

  Mitch checked the wide leather strap on his left wrist that had Adam Farber’s telegraph mechanism and the odd brass contraption that looked like a cross between a speaking tube and a miniature Edison cylinder, the aetheric wave transmitter. His shotgun was already in the casket, and his Peacemaker was holstered on his hip. With a sigh, Mitch climbed in the coffin.

  “Don’t forget to come after me,” he muttered.

  “Sure, Mitch. Right after breakfast,” Jacob said, trying to lighten the mood. “Just remember—you were very optimistic when I was going to be the one in the box.”

  “That’s because it was you. This is me,” Mitch grumbled, but he got into the casket and pulled the lid shut.

  # # #

  “Here we go,” Jacob muttered under his breath. He had slipped out the back of Sheffield’s house when Congeliere’s men carried the casket out the front. Hans was driving the carriage, and pulled out of the side street a discreet distance behind the hearse.

  Drostan Fletcher had been watching the house from a thicket on the other side of the street. He slipped from cover on a bicycle, requiring only a leisurely pace to stay well behind the hearse and its two black carriage horses.

  Jacob rode one of the Department’s steam bikes. It was loud enough that he had to hang well back, but if something went wrong, he could move faster than Drostan’s bicycle and maneuver better than Hans’s carriage.

  The streets of New Pittsburgh were nearly empty. The shops and businesses were closed, there was little reason for anyone to be abroad given the hour. Few were except for cops walking their beats and tired millworkers trudging home from the night shift.

  Congeliere’s hearse moved quickly, at the upper limits of decorum, making its way through the shadowed streets like the driver had a schedule to keep. The carriage made two more stops, sliding additional caskets in beside the coffin that held Mitch, before turning toward the Allegheny River.

  Once the hearse was out of the residential neighborhoods of Shadyside and approaching the warehouses of the Strip District, Jacob heard a carriage closing behind him. He glanced back, and cold terror ran down his spine.

  Damn. Congeliere suspected something. It’s a trap—and Mitch is stuck in a coffin.

  The driver wore a black cloak and a top hat. The turned-up collar of the cloak hid the man’s face. But nothing could hide the sunken flesh and protruding ribs of the dead horses that drew the carriage through the night, or the click and hum of the metal joints that moved their dead limbs as their hooves clattered against the paving stones.

  Jacob choked back a cry of terror. He did not dare push the steam bike for more speed without tipping his hand to the driver of the hearse. Drostan’s bike was almost invisible in the darkness, keeping to the sidewalks and the shadows. With luck, Jacob’s pursuer would not notice Drostan, and Jacob could draw the intruder off.

  Hans must have spotted the intruders, because he stuck to the plan, taking a left turn at the nearest intersection, able to find the hearse again with one of Adam Farber’s tracking devices, clipped to the waistband of Mitch’s trousers. Jacob turned right, and the carriage with its clockwork corpse steeds followed him, more intent on the oddity of a steam bike than suspicious of an unmarked carriage. No one seemed to notice the bicycle.

  Jacob’s elation that he had drawn off the pursuers faded as he realized that he was now the sole quarry. The warehouse district was deserted at this hour, too late for regular deliveries and too early for the wagons that would come in the wee hours of the morning. The hum of his steam bike vied with the relentless rhythm of the zombie horses, dead steeds that could keep up their pursuit without tiring.

  Here in the empty streets, Jacob feared being caught or trampled more than he worried about odd looks at his government-prototype steam bike. He depressed the pedal, and the gap between him and the ghostly carriage widened. His tire hit a loose paving stone, nearly throwing him, and he veered crazily, trying to regain control of his bike.

  Echoing from the deserted side streets, Jacob heard the howl of dogs. Feral packs were spotted now and again down by the docks. But the howls sounded wrong, strained and unnatural. Up ahead, Jacob saw one cur then another slink from the cover of the shadows, eyeing him with the dead glare of their taxidermy glass eyes.

  “Shit!” Jacob muttered, and gunned his bike. The dogs took after him, and Jacob heard the familiar click and hum of clockwork gears. Only four dogs, but they were big, and they moved fast for being dead. Jacob could not spare attention to get a good look, but what he glimpsed made him shudder.

  Like the horses, the zombie dogs would never pass for living beings. Their dirty, matted fur hung against visible ribs. Patches of fur were missing, exposing putrefying flesh. They can’t last long like that, the thinking part of Jacob’s brain observed, as the rest of his brain argued for survival. Were they experiments? Or can Congeliere and his buddies put these damned things together fast enough to make them disposable?

  He didn’t have time to ponder. The dogs were stalking him, moving to close off his escape from the carriage and its hell-horses behind him. Veering right would put him in the river. Turning left would require trying to climb one of the steeply inclined streets for which New Pittsburgh was famous. Even if the bike could chug its way to the top, he would slow enough that the dogs could take him, or the carriage could ride him down. The uneven paving stones beneath his tires made it impossible to even think of shifting his grip to pull his gun.

  What good is shooting them? They’re already dead.

  Mitch was stuck in a casket headed for a crazy resurrectionist’s lair, and there was nothing Jacob could do to help. Despair warred with terror, sending a sheen of cold sweat down Jacob’s back.

  The clockwork curs were close enough for Jacob to hear their mechanical howls and the snick of their teeth, fangs that looked even larger protruding from blackened, dead gums. The undead stallions were closing on him, hoof beats deafening in the still night air.

  Ahead, Jacob saw barricades of lumber and stone clo
sing off the street for construction. There was nowhere to go. His luck had run out.

  Jacob skidded the bike around so that his back was to the barricade and stopped. He flipped up a protective cover and pressed down on a button to activate the steam bike’s small Gatling gun. Nothing happened. Jammed, he thought, cursing under his breath.

  Jacob drew out his pistol, and pumped a shot into each of the approaching zombie curs, but the dead animals kept on coming, even though the bullets tore into their embalmed flesh. Their glassy eyes full of torment and madness fixed on him, and the pack gathered for the kill as the carriage and its wretched horses thundered toward him.

  Light flared and an explosion beneath one of the curs threw the zombie dog into the air and out of the way. Explosion after explosion rang through the night, echoing from the warehouses and the street, rumbling down the thoroughfare.

  “Take that!” Drostan Fletcher shouted, riding his bicycle as if the Devil himself were after him, using the steep incline of the side street to increase his speed to a suicidal pace. He rode straight at the dogs, scattering them and making the corpse-horses shy back, then retreated just out of reach long enough to light fuses. Drostan hurled a long string of lit fireworks toward the dogs. The fuses glowed in the night, then exploded in a deafening roar as if all the artillery of the old Fort Pitt Foundry were going up at once. Jacob pumped his last two shots at the remaining mechanical curs, putting them out of commission and, he hoped, out of their misery.

  Pounding hoof beats sounded behind the clockwork zombie carriage. Jacob glimpsed another black carriage closing on his attacker, heard the snort and snuffle of living horses. Hans drove his team at a reckless pace, intent on his quarry. A long metal tube telescoped between the two carriage horses, and with a roar and a flare of sparks, an egg-shaped projectile flew toward the zombie coach.

  Jacob dove to the ground with his arms over his head as the Ketchum grenade exploded.

  The explosion sent the zombie coach into the air along with its undead steeds, careening toward the solid brick wall of a nearby warehouse. Fletcher scrambled out of the way, ducking behind a wall to miss the worst of the flaming debris.