“You’re a loose end. I don’t like loose ends.”
As Joseph crumpled, Roberts reach forward, drawing the dying man’s revolver from his holster. In a smooth motion he turned the weapon on Carter, aiming at his head.
Carter stepped back, raising his hands. “No. Wait,” he pleaded.
The shot rang out, echoing off the buildings and spooking Carter’s horse.
A neat, round hole appeared in Carter’s forehead. His eyes turned skyward as he fell over backward, raising a small cloud of dust when he hit the dirt.
The old marshal worked fast, placing the smoking gun in Joseph’s still twitching hand. A crimson puddle of blood started to spread out from Joseph as Roberts leaned in close to the dying man’s face.
“Don’t worry. I’ll look after your sister.”
Billie and Pat ran from the back door to where Roberts stood over two bodies. Tears streaming down Billie’s cheeks, she dropped beside her brother. She grabbed his shoulder and shook him—but it was too late. He was dead.
“No. No. Not Joey…”
With her revolver at the ready, Pat scanned the scene. What happened here? Carter? She tried to read her boss’s face, but he was as expressionless as usual. “How?” she simply asked.
“I was talking to Joseph when Carter rode up, rantin’ and ravin’ about demons,” said Roberts. “Before I know what is happening, Carter accuses the boy of being a demon and sticks him with his sword.” He nodded to Joseph. “The boy had grit, pulls his gun and shoots the coward before he collapsed.”
“How did Carter get here?”
“I guess he hid in the caves, stole a horse and found his way back here.”
This makes little sense, thought Pat. Why would Carter kill Joseph? She noticed fresh blood on the top of Roberts’ dusty boots and realized he was standing close to Joseph when it all happened.
Billie wailed and great sobs shook her small body. She cradled Joseph’s head, pressing her forehead against his—her grief was overwhelming. “No. No…” she whispered. “Not. Joey.”
Through Billie’s lamenting came a small voice. “They’re coming.”
Pat spun, dropping into a half crouch, her revolver at the ready—it was Eddie, standing in the open doorway of the Outpost. He pointed across the open desert, toward the south.
“We’re safe now,” said Pat, holstering her gun. “Let’s go back in side.” She moved toward the boy, using her body to shield him from seeing the dead bodies. He shouldn’t witness any more deaths...
“They’re coming.”
“Who’s coming, Eddie?”
“The demons.”
Chapter 24
There was no time to bury the dead.
Roberts purchased two rifles and three fresh horses from the Outpost and gathering their meager belongings, they loaded them onto their new mounts. Billie was numb and said little as they lay Joseph’s body in the stable under a canvas sheet. The barman promised he would look after Joseph until Billie returned for him. Pat gave the man a look that said ‘Keeping that promise is a good idea.’
Pat helped Billie onto a horse and placed the reins in her hands. “We’ll come back for Joseph, but now it’s time to go.”
Billie didn’t reply or make eye contact with the tall marshal. Instead, she stared at her hands. Her eyes were red and dust clung to her damp cheeks.
“Maybe you should leave,” Roberts said to the barman.
“And go where?” said the barman, wiping his hands down the front of his dirty apron. “My family’s been living ‘ere for six years and survived countless attacks by God knows what. The walls are thick and protected. And I’ve whisky and plenty of ammo.”
“So be it,” said Roberts. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll be back for my brother,” said Billie.
“He’ll be here, Miss.”
With nothing more to be said, they spurred their mounts north. Eddie rode with Pat, clinging to her tightly.
At midnight, three horses rode unchallenged into Deepwell. The town looked dead—there were no lights on and no one looked out their windows at their coming. No one wanted get involved in anything that didn’t affect them directly. Besides, there was no law now. As far as the locals knew, Bartlett was still out in the wasteland and hadn’t returned. For them, each day that passed lowered the odds of his return.
The horsemen stopped in front of the doctor’s house and one person dismounted, sprinting up the stairs to pound on the front door. After a minute, a downstairs light came on and the door opened a crack. An old man holding a lamp and wearing a nightshirt peered out.
“Open up, Doctor. It’s me, Billie Bonney.”
The door swung open and Billie walked in, heading for the side room where she last saw her mother. Catherine lay in the same bed in the small surgery. It looked like she hadn’t moved at all.
Billie hesitated, then approached the bed. “Mom? It’s me, Billie.”
There was no response from Catherine, she was motionless. Please. Not Mom... In the lamplight the network of red veins were still visible under her pale skin. There was no sign of her breathing.
“Mom?”
“She’s not gone yet,” said the doctor, standing in the doorway. “Her pulse is slow, but she still lives.”
She’s alive. Billie knelt beside the bed and brushed a stray hair from her mother’s face. She wanted to be strong, but a lone wayward tear ran down Billie’s cheek as she grabbed her mother’s hand—it was cold.
“I’ve failed you, Mom. I couldn’t protect Joey and I didn’t find a cure.” The tear dripped off her cheek and onto the white bedsheet. Billie ran her hand over Catherine’s hair and whispered, “The government will help us…they’ll make you better.”
The old doctor placed the lamp on a table in the center of the room and left, closing the surgery door. He walked to the front door and noticed the other two riders stopping in front of the exchange.
“I hope there’s good news for someone tonight,” he muttered to himself as he closed the door and slid home the deadbolt. He rubbed the small of his back and turned, heading back upstairs to his bed.
Chapter 25
Ten days later, Roberts and Pat stood in the waiting room of the south-western branch headquarters of the Agency. They had left Billie and her mother in Deepwell in the care of the old doctor, with the promise that Catherine would be transported to the nearest city with adequate medical facilities as soon as possible. Her condition had not improved—she was still in a coma and the mysterious veins had travelled disease-like throughout her body. The old doctor said it would be a miracle if she survived much longer.
Pat adjusted the high collar of her dark green dress—it felt constricting. She hated wearing ‘presentable clothes,’ but this was an Agency headquarters and the Agency was run by stuffy old men who followed society’s rules. Women must be ladies. Oh, please. Roberts shot her a warning as they entered. Be on your best behavior, he had said. Their every move and spoken word was being watched.
From the number of eyes that turned and watched her, Pat knew she must look ‘presentable’ enough. She didn’t like the attention, but being taller than most men, attractive and athletic drew lots of looks. It was something she had suffered all her life—the unwanted attention of men. If she had a dollar for every time someone complemented her appearance, she would be a wealthy woman already.
She squirmed in her corset, trying to adjust it without drawing any attention. It felt like it was pushing things up too high and pulling down other things too low. These days, Pat was more comfortable in practical attire. Long pants, a blouse, vest and sturdy boots were more to her liking. Not long, multi-layered dresses that restricted movement and the ability to breathe.
The Agency was controlled by rich politicians, most who had never been west of anywhere before. Roberts disliked his superiors, referring to them as upper class fools. He advised to only say what they wanted to hear.
Pat glanced over at Roberts, pacing the room
like a caged animal. He wore a plain grey civilian suit cut in a uniform style. The war was long over, but looking like a soldier was still in fashion. That was something she couldn’t quite understand—fashion that glorified war? It made little sense to her.
Roberts was a southern officer when the Sky Fires happened. And after that day, there wasn’t much left of the south for him to fight for. Flames reduced most of the southern states to nothing more than a crumbling wasteland, from which none had recovered. Lincoln’s war was victorious and the rebel states, what was left of them, returned to the fold. Now the government fought another war—a demon war.
An unholy war?
Click. Roberts closed the lid of his pocket watch, returning it to his vest. He’d stopped pacing now, which was good. He looked…well, the same. No emotions were readable on his weathered face. He neither looked bored, impatient nor happy, his appearance was neutral.
What are you thinking?
“How long are we to wait?” Roberts asked a clerk abruptly.
The man was middle-aged and sat behind a desk near double doors that led deeper into the building. “As long as Senator Peterson deeds necessary,” the man replied without looking up from his paper work. “You got another place you’d rather be?”
“And miss out seeing your sorry hide? Nope.”
“Good. I’m sure the senator would hate to be keeping you from something more important.” The clerk chanced a glance over the top of his spectacles, smiled and then returned to his scribbling.
“Prick,” Roberts mumbled under his breath.
I’d be careful if I were you. The old man is in a dangerous mood.
The clerk looked like he was going to say something, but a door opened, possibly saving his life. A grey-haired man with thick mutton chop sideburns appeared in the open doorway. He wore an immaculate striped royal blue suit. His skin looked soft, unmarked by the sun and if it wasn’t for his grey hair, he would have appeared no more than forty.
“Major. You’re finally here,” said the grey-haired man. “Come in. Come in.”
“Yes, Senator,” said Roberts tersely. The old marshal and Pat moved forward, but the senator raised a long, slender finger.
“This is a business meeting, Major, leave your secretary out here. She’ll be in good company with old Kennedy here. Isn’t that right, Kennedy?”
“If you say so, sir,” replied the clerk.
“I’m not—” started Pat.
“This is Marshal Garrett,” interrupted Roberts. “One of our brightest new field agents.”
“An agent?” The senator clasped his hands together and looked her up and down. “Really? We are entering a new and exciting era for our America.”
“Yes, Senator,” replied Roberts.
“Regardless of this lovely young woman’s capabilities, this meeting is only for your ears, Major.”
“Yes, sir.” Roberts followed the senator out of the room and Kennedy stood and closed the door behind them. He glanced over at Pat and smiling, he sat at his desk again.
Bastards.
Pat stormed over to a window and gazed out over the mansion’s manicured gardens to a quiet, tree-lined country road. A stage coach had just pulled up in front and after the dust settled, a tall, broad-shouldered man exited. He extended a hand, offering assistance to someone inside. A moment later, a dark-haired woman took the man’s hand and stepped gracefully down from the stagecoach. Her tanned skin and her unusual plain white dress gave her a foreign appearance. The man, on the other hand, looked like a ruffian. A revolver slung low on his right hip and a curved sword strung across his back—no doubt, he was a gunfighter.
Without making eye contact with the man, the woman stepped away from the coach and waited patiently as her tall companion caught two bags thrown down by the coach driver.
Pat was deep in thought and was unaware of the two new arrivals. Roberts was right. Peterson is an ass, she thought, clenching her fists.
The pair made their way across the Agency’s trimmed lawn and around a large flower bed to the front of the Agency building.
Roberts followed Senator Peterson down a long, high-ceilinged corridor and through an open doorway. It was the senator’s office, where Roberts had been a few times before. It was not a place he enjoyed being. There was something odd about the room. Something he couldn’t quite put a finger on.
“Sit down, Major.” The senator indicated a plush leather armchair opposite his large polished desk. Peterson walked to a side table and removed the top of a crystal decanter, pouring himself a drink. It smelled like whisky. “You want one? Too early?”
The senator sat behind the desk, rotating his chair to stare out the room’s only window. The curtains were open and light poured through the large pane of glass. He took a sip from his etched tumbler and then placed it on the desk and turned his attention to Roberts. “Your report says you rescued the Stein boy and that he is unharmed. Another successful mission, Major. Well done.”
Roberts didn’t react, his face unreadable. He could have been happy or sad the senator wouldn’t be able to tell.
“So you met the hunchback again. The second time now?”
“Third, sir.”
“That many. When exactly are you planning on killing that demon?”
“I tried but—”
“Don’t worry, Major, I know you tried your best. I’m not judging you.” The senator picked up a piece of paper from the desk. “Your report also mentions…Wilhelmina Antrim—”
“The kid?”
“Kid?” The senator looked up from the report. “This one has a nickname already? Interesting. I never thought you got attached to people.” His eyes returned to the paper. “Your report says she likes to be called Billie Bonney. That name is familiar… You say she’s special. In what way?”
“Her gift.”
“Her mutant power? What of it?”
“With no training, she created energy beyond anything I’ve ever seen before. She can’t control it yet, but she can summon pure magical energy in the form of lightning.”
“Interesting. So she’s not a mutant like you, she’s a mage. But is she with us?”
“Yes. If we can cure her mother’s condition.”
“Your report says her stepfather and brother were killed. And her mother was poisoned by the hunchback in a place called Deepwell. Living in that town and her current condition, both sound equally fatal to me.”
Roberts didn’t find the senator’s humor funny and remained silent.
“If this ‘kid’ is that powerful, maybe we should just kill her. Just in case they recruit her. What do you think, Major?”
“She could be a great asset for the Agency, sir.”
“We’ll see about that in time. I will, of course, rely on you to keep an eye on her. If she turns, or becomes uncontrollable, you will kill her. Right? As you have killed other rogue agents before?”
“Yes, Senator.”
“Cheer up, Major. Remember, we are the good guys.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You may go now, Major, that’s all. Kennedy will give you your next assignment on your way out.”
Roberts stood and turned to go, but stopped. “Sir, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Major. You and I are old friends. Ask anything.” The senator was curious, Roberts had never asked a question after being dismissed before.
“The Stein boy?”
“Why did we send our best team to retrieve one small boy? We’ve been watching the boy for a while and he has an unusual gift. He can sense when the hell gates open and in time, he will help us hunt down and eradicate these demon infestations and make our great country free again. We believe the demons know of his abilities now and must need him for something—otherwise they would have killed him in Deepwell.”
Roberts was silent for a few seconds. “Thank you, sir.”
“The Stein boy will be a valuable weapon for the Agency one day, Major. We have many eyes and gun
s on him now and he won’t be taken again.”
“Thank you, sir.” Roberts closed the door behind himself as he left.
Senator Peterson rotated his chair, gazing out the window again. In a field, a group of men were lying flat a large piece of canvas, at least thirty yards long. Using several ropes, they attached the canvas to a rectangular cane basket—capable of carrying several men. It was the Agency’s latest acquisition—a hot air balloon. Peterson had seen balloons used during the war, but one of the Agency’s boffins came up with the idea to use sky rocks to heat the balloon’s air instead of using gas. He didn’t understand the mechanics, only that the balloons would be used to survey large sections of the wasteland for demon bases and hell gates, safely and quickly—
“Is Roberts a problem?” said a deep voice which sounded like it vibrated up through the floor.
The senator paled, turning hesitantly to face the speaker. The room appeared as it did before, empty and now eerily quiet. Without moving a muscle he surveyed the room, peering into every shadow in every corner. He knew who spoke and it frightened him.
“N-no, Lord,” squeaked the senator, his voice getting caught in his suddenly dry throat. The silence that followed weighed heavily on him and he became aware of the perspiration forming on his skin.
“Good.” A black shape was now partially visible in the shadow of a bookshelf. It was a man, tall and lean, clad in a long black robe. The shadow man remained hidden, not venturing into the morning sunlight streaming through the open window. His eyes, black and cruel, stared unblinkingly at the seated Senator, regarding him for several long seconds. The shadow man’s skin was pale, almost transparent and his head was completely hairless. He smiled, revealing long canine teeth. “One day, your Major will become too troublesome. When that day comes, Paterson, I’ll expect you to do your duty and kill him.”
“Y-yes, Lord.”
“And keep an eye on this girl, Billie Bonney. She is destined to wield vast power, but her gifts need to be nurtured. Have Agent Garrett pay her a visit. Soon. But not Roberts, I think he’ll scare her. He scares me.”
Billie the Kid: The Sky Fire Chronicles Book 1 Page 16
