We located the generator and Ike retrieved the argon-filled glass tube. He looked up and smiled. “Though this is hardly my invention, I believe this application of Mr. Tesla's generator and light will revolutionize mining. I hope you agree. Ted, take your position by the crank. Gentlemen, douse your helmet lights.”
Dr. Davis looked doubtful for a moment, then complied. Once the darkness engulfed us, I began turning the crank. As before, the tube began to glow eerily. However, as the light level came up, the hair on the back of my neck stood on edge.
There was a sixth person with us in the cave.
But, he wasn't really a person, exactly. He was more like a specter or a wraith dressed in armor like the Spanish conquistadors used to wear, with a metal breastplate and crested helmet. His face was ghostly white with sunken cheeks. The remains of a mustache and goatee clung desperately to paper-like skin, reminding me of moss clinging to a tree.
I gasped and I'm afraid I let go of the crank.
Someone screamed out. Another person else yelled, “Ted!” I wasn't sure if it was Ike or Dr. Davis or both, but I fumbled in the darkness for the crank. Finding it, I resumed spinning. As the light level rose, we realized that the spectral conquistador was gone, along with one of the students.
“Charlie, take over the crank,” Ike called to the other student. “Ted, come with me.”
Dr. Davis lit his carbide lantern. “I'm coming with you,” he said.
“No,” said Ike. “I'm the one who's armed. Sir, you should get back to the school and get some dynamite. If we're not out in an hour, blow up the entrance so that creature won't get loose.”
Dr. Davis bit his lip and looked like he wanted to argue. After a moment he nodded and retreated toward the cave entrance. Once he was gone, Ike looked at Charlie. “Whatever you do, keep that crank going.”
Charlie nodded. Ike handed me the glass tube and drew one of his six-guns. Looking at the dust on the cave floor, Ike pointed to a set of footprints and heel marks showing the path the specter had taken. We followed.
“What was that thing?” I asked.
Ike took a very deep breath. “When the conquistadors came up El Camino Real, they must have used this cave to bury their dead. It's so dry, the corpses mummified rather than decaying completely. The generator must have reanimated one of the corpses – something like Mrs. Shelley described in her book, Frankenstein.”
“Is that even possible?” I asked.
“If I hadn't seen it for myself, I would have dismissed it as fantasy,” said Ike.
We were interrupted by another scream. We stepped up our pace.
Turning a corner we saw the specter bent over the student–Jasper–as though he was going to bite him. Jasper let out a noise that was little more than a pitiful squawk.
Ike raised his six-gun and fired. He missed the specter. Actually, I'm not really sure he tried to hit it, but the creature dropped Jasper and rushed at Ike, who just had time to cock the hammer and fire again. This time the bullet caught the creature in the eye, whirling it around. It toppled over and landed on the cave floor, raising a cloud of dust.
Ike helped Jasper stand. Meanwhile, I held the tube over the specter. There was no blood from the gunshot wound–just a fine dusty brown spray, marking the bullet's path as it exited the body. I felt that were I to touch the specter, it would simply crumble to dust.
“Ted, let's get out of here before Charlie's arm gets tired,” said Ike.
“Or Dr. Davis seals us in for good,” I agreed.
Working our way back through the cave, we collected Charlie and emerged into the light of day, where we saw Dr. Davis looking at his pocket watch and tapping his foot.
“It's over,” said Ike. “The thing's dead.”
Two days later, Dr. Davis called Ike and I to a meeting in his office. “Mr. Delay, Mr. Jones,” he began formally and I knew the news wasn't good. “I'm afraid the budget for next year looks poor. If I don't take steps now, the school will have to close next year, especially given the mounting political pressure.”
Ike and I looked at each other and nodded, then looked back at Dr. Davis.
“Unfortunately, this means that I'm going to have to let one of you go now so I can show the SOBs in Santa Fe that I'm taking steps to improve the budget situation. Also, unfortunately, word of the incident with the remnant or the specter or whatever you want to call it has spread like wildfire among the students.”
“And you're afraid that might have further repercussions in Santa Fe,” said Ike without malice. “Because of that, I'm the one to go.”
Dr. Davis nodded.
“Can I go up and retrieve my Tesla generator from the cave?” asked Ike.
Again, Dr. Davis nodded. “Be careful,” he said, with genuine concern in his voice.
“That goes without saying.” Ike turned to me. “Care to give me a hand after the meeting?”
“Wouldn't miss it,” I said.
In the end, Dr. Davis did his best for Ike. He paid him the rest of his month's wages and arranged via telegraph for him to get his old job back in Madrid. After the meeting, we returned to the cave for Ike's generator. We lit our carbide lanterns and went in. We found the generator in good condition.
“I'm curious about something,” said Ike. Before I could say anything, he went back to the tunnel where we'd fought the specter. I followed him. I almost ran into Ike's back as he stood, staring at the place where the specter's body had lain. The body–even the armor–was gone.
Author note: The preceding story was set during the New Mexico School of Mines' first year of instruction – 1893-94. The school had two faculty members on opening day: Dr. Floyd Davis, president of the college and professor of chemistry and metallurgy, and Theodore S. Delay, B.S., assistant in chemistry and metallurgy. The college's first catalog offered such courses as mathematics, physics, surveying, blowpiping, paleontology, and even prospecting. Dr. Davis was fired from the presidency by the regents in August 1894 and there was no instruction in the 1894-95 school year. Fortunately, the school reopened in 1895 under the presidency of William H. Seaman.
Nikola Tesla invented his generator–better known as a Tesla Coil–in 1891. In the spring of 1893, Nikola Tesla illuminated the Chicago World's Fair with fluorescent lights powered by Tesla Coils.
Although Ike Jones is a fictional character, the mining engineers at Madrid, New Mexico were famous for their prowess with electricity. In fact, they had an annual light show with electrically powered figures that became so famous that it inspired Walt Disney to build a theme park.
David Lee Summers is an author, editor and astronomer living somewhere between the western and final frontiers. He is the editor of Tales of the Talisman Magazine and the author of six novels. Among them are The Solar Sea and Vampires of the Scarlet Order published by LBF Books. His latest novel, Dragon's Fall, will be published by Sinful Moments Press in 2010. Currently, he is hard at work on the weird western/steampunk novel Owl Dance. His short fiction has appeared in such magazines and anthologies as Realms of Fantasy, Bad-Ass Faeires 3: In All Their Glory, The Vampire's Crypt, Aoife's Kiss, The Fifth Di..., The Martian Wave, and Science Fiction Trails. In addition to his work in the written word, David works at Kitt Peak National Observatory.
Twenty years ago, David attended the school once known as the New Mexico School of Mines--it's now the New Mexico Institute of Mining and Technology. While there, he built a Tesla coil with one of his fellow students. Although they didn't manage to raise any undead conquistadors, they did scare a few professors with their pyrotechnics. He also spent a few months living in Madrid, New Mexico. Madrid was one of the first cities in New Mexico Territory to have electric lights. By the early twentieth century, the town was so famous for its electric light show and robotic Christmas displays that it inspired Walt Disney to build a theme park. The lights of Madrid are still a sight worth taking in at Christmastime. You can learn more about David and his antics online at www.davidleesummers.com.
As Ye Sow
by
Renee James
The Civil War had seemed tame to Jedediah Creed after the passion and blood of a youth spent following the great man himself, John Brown. Jed had been little more than a boy when his family rushed to settle what would become Kansas, in an effort to make the territory free of the scourge of slavery. He heard Brown's fire and brimstone exhortations to violent actions in the name of righteousness and this suited his mind better than the endless prayer meetings filled with meek mumblings and bowed heads.
He had answered the horrors of Bleeding Kansas with zealous participation in the raids that history would call the Pottawatomie and Osawatomie Massacres. He became a man through rites of blood dealing justice to Border Ruffians. When Captain Brown was forced to flee East, Jed elected to stay and carry on the good work. When the war itself finally commenced he joined up and marched for the Union. Marching didn't suit him much better than prayer had, so he deserted to reform his old band and fight “Bloody Bill” Anderson and repay their brutality in kind. At war's end he expected his hero's embrace from a grateful nation but instead found charges of desertion and accusations of war crimes. He knew only a violent trade so he set his feet on the same path trod by the James boys and the Younger brothers. But while they wrapped their deeds in the stars and bars, he was left with only anger and a sense of betrayal to warm his icy soul.
They'd been riding for near two days and Jed's companions were looking not too well for the wear. They were men of low repute, but both were former Union soldiers and so he tried to overlook their tainted morals. They were hardly his first choice of accomplices but they had performed adequately in the heat of battle, as the gold in his saddlebags bore witness to. “Godalmighty, Jed!” He heard Roy yell, “We shook 'em. We ain't seen that posse for hours and that wound in my leg ain't feelin' no better.”
Jed slowed his horse, “All right, all right!” he hissed. He unslung his spyglass and surveyed the horizon. “There looks to be a cabin off towards the horizon, I suppose we can hold up there for a bit and maybe Clyde can tend to you.” He pivoted in his saddle and glared at his other companion. “You were a medic in the war, or so you say.”
Clyde glanced over at Roy and spat a wad at a passing lizard, “Hell yes, Mr Creed, but that ain't hardly no wound at all. Why, when we was at Gettysburg there was this kid caught him a cannonball and I…”
“Shut up, Clyde, maybe we should'a left you back in Tickletree so you could patch up all those citizens we put holes in at that bank. Medic, pfft.” Roy spit at the same Lizard. “You weren't no real soldier like Jed and me. Ain't that right Captain?”
Jed turned his horse in a three sixty degree circle squinting his eyes for signs of pursuit then spurred the animal towards the distant house. Roy and Clyde continued their bickering but lit out after their leader.
The old woman sat rocking on the front porch, watching her grandson curse at the old mule refusing to pull the plow. She was somewhere in her nineties now and could sympathize with that mule's point of view. Texas had proven to be a dry, harsh land after a life spent picking cotton under the Louisiana sun, but, praise be, it was their harsh land and her grandson and his family, they were free. Free!
She had been ready to extract a terrible vengeance on Massa Hugh, the plantation owner, for his decades of abuse and cruelty. Then, all of a sudden like, Mr. Lincoln had made his proclamation, so she decided to bide her time and see what happened. When the day came, she searched deep in her soul and decided that her new freedom was the best vengeance she could imagine--less bloody, too.
“Ninie!” Joe shouted from the field, “Old Hepzaba done made up his mind that his work day is over, but I still got a third of this field left to plow!” He shook his head and smiled, “I think I needs your negotiating skills out here.”
Ninie laid her knitting aside and strode out laughing at the look on Joe's face. Even at her age she could out-walk most folks and she was standing near the mule in less time than it took for a mayfly to write out its will. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered into Hepzaba's ear then turned around to get back to her knitting. After a moment's consideration, the mule stood up and resumed his weary gait.
Waiting on the porch with eyes wide stood Little Joe, her eight year old great grandson. His Mama had died giving him birth but he had never wanted for love. As Ninie settled herself in her rocker he tugged at her sleeve. “Ninie, Ninie! What did you say to Hepzaba?!”
“Somethin' you don't need to know about.” But Little Joe was not about to be put off so easily and after minutes of pleading and wheedling, Ninie set down her needles and looked the boy in the eye. “Well, I'll tell you, I only said two words to that critter, 'Mule stew!'”
Little Joe stared for a second, then laughed and twirled himself dizzy at the joke before tearing off after a stray chicken.
“Afternoon, sir. Anything we can be of service with?” Joe had seen the riders approaching from a mile away and quickly gotten out of his plow rig to jog to the house and see that Grandma Ninie and Little Joe were inside. Riders weren't unheard of out this way, but it didn't hurt to be cautious.
Jed smiled his friendliest smile and jerked a thumb at his companions. “We ran into some trouble a ways back, one of my men took a bullet in the leg, nothing serious, but we could use some water and maybe some linens and such. We've been riding pretty hard.”
“Trouble?” Joe asked. “We heard something about an Comanche raiding party last week but I figured they were gone. Not much around here worth raiding.”
Clyde piped up, “Yep, it was injuns, Comanches by the look of 'em. Meaner than coyote in a corner.”
At that the door slammed open and Little Joe bounded down the stairs in a jump. He raced to see the wounded man an awed light gleaming in his eye. “Gee, mister, real live Comanches? Did they try to scalp you, too?” Roy smiled a wicked grin and pushed his hat back to reveal his billiard ball of a head. “Just let 'em try, boy!” and the tension was suddenly broken with laughter.
An hour later and wounds had been bound and the three riders sat in the sparse shade of the farm's one scraggly tree sipping from canteens and gnawing on Ninie's biscuits. “Lonely kinda place, isn't it?” Clyde said through a mouth full of breadcrumbs.
Roy worried at his bandage and offered, “Still, it beats the hell out of the rock hard hole I grew up on. These niggers got it pretty soft now that we done liberated them from the chains of slavery.”
“Negroes.” Creed growled.
From out of nowhere, Little Joe plopped down in front of them. “My daddy says you fellas fought for the Union in the war. Says he could tell by them pant's ya'll wear. Boy, I wish I could have been there fightin' by your side and killin' Rebs.”
Jed set aside his canteen. “Well, first off there weren't no coloreds in our regiment. Though I fought slavery all my adult days, I never even spoke with a black man until the war was over.” Jed thought briefly of the jailer whose throat he had slit the night he escaped the stockade. “That man never showed me one bit of the respect I was due as a war hero… but I guess that don't matter much now.” The boy shifted uneasily at the look in Jed's eyes.
Ninie strolled over to the tree and grabbed Little Joe by the ear, “Boy, you got chores need tendin'.” She slapped his rear and sent him on his way. “My, my but you men sure did tear through those biscuits. I'm sorry we don't have much else besides beans, Joe's gonna be butchering a hog next week and then we could offer you some side meat.” She smiled, “Takes longer to eat without my choppers but I seem to manage.”
Jed scanned the old woman from head to toe and thought to himself, “Good men bled and died for the likes of her.” And a bitterness rose up his throat and settled into his eyes.
Ninie gazed into those eyes and took a step back in spite of herself. “I know you gentlemen wants to be leaving,” her voice quivered, “I've sent the boy out back to see that your horses are ready and that your saddles are nice and tight, we got snakes in these part
s, will spook a horse something fierce.”
Creed exploded, “Damn it, old woman! Did I tell you to send that little black bastard to go poking in our business?!” He shoved her aside like a bar room door on a Saturday night and ran off to where they'd left the horses. His cronies were fast at his heels.
By the time Ninie managed to pick herself up off the ground and stagger around the corner of the cabin a terrible tableau awaited her. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. She saw little Joe fly through the air propelled by the anger of Jed's clenched fist and somehow at the same time she was puzzled at the gold spilling out of the saddlebags and bouncing everywhere in a sparkling chaotic pattern. Time stopped for a moment and she saw one of the other men trying vainly to restrain the big man, a look of surprise frozen on his face in counterpoint the fury in Creed's eyes.
Time unfroze and she heard the sound of an eight year old body slamming into a wooden wall, a terrible crunching, squishing sound. And then he lay still in the dust, his limbs at angles they were not meant to be. Ninie screamed like a banshee baying at the moon. Joe came storming around the opposite corner of the house, a hastily grabbed axe wielded high above his head. Three guns simultaneously barked out their song of death and Joe fell to his knees, anger and surprise lit his eyes briefly before he flopped to the ground like some neglected toy. For a moment all was silence.
Clyde let out a deep breath and whispered, “What the hell just happened here?”
Jed blinked his eyes first at the father, then at the boy. “I caught him stealing the gold. He said he never, but I saw the gold on the ground and had to teach him a lesson, teach him his place.” Now his eyes darted wildly to the man lying face down on the ground. “They must have had it all planned. The boy empties our bags and the, the man, yeah, he's set to murder us while the old darkie woman lulls us into a false sense of laxness.” Clyde and Roy exchanged mute glances. “I'm telling you, men, we're lucky to have gotten out of this with our lives!”
Six Guns Straight From Hell - Tales Of Horror And Dark Fantasy From The Weird Weird West Page 10
