by Ron Ripley
“Miguel Francisco de Los Angeles,” the dead man said. “I’m sorry, I spoke Spanish at first.”
“Spanish,” Alex said, then he concentrated and spoke in Spanish as he came to a stop only a few feet from the dead man. “You’re from Spain?”
Miguel’s eyes widened, and it was then Alex could see the blood in them, the shattered pupils and the horror stamped around them. “How can you speak Spanish, boy? Are you from Spain?”
Alex shook his head and said, “Nope. I just can.”
Looking at the house beyond Miguel, Alex sat down in the snow and waited for Miguel to do the same. The dead man sat across from him, eyeing him suspiciously.
Alex smiled. “Are you the one she killed the other night?”
“Yes, I think so,” Miguel answered, rubbing his head. “I’m sorry. I do not remember much right now. It is strange. I saw my brother, but he ran. He was too afraid.”
“Of you?” Alex asked frowning.
Miguel nodded.
“That’s stupid,” Alex said. “Why is he afraid of you? You’re his brother. Did you try to kill him?”
“No!” Miguel said horrified. “Never!”
“So, why was he afraid?” Alex asked.
“We were raised to believe that when you died, you either ascended to Heaven or sank to Hell,” Miguel answered morosely. “If I am here, and I am me, then it means we were told lies.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Alex said, shaking his head. “Anyway, do you want to see your brother?”
“Yes,” Miguel said.
“Then just go and see him,” Alex said.
“I can’t find the way out,” Miguel said. “The girl, she won’t let me behind the house, where I came in. These Indians, they won’t speak to me. They laugh, and they chase me.”
“Yeah, they don’t like a lot of people,” Alex said, waving to a group of Hurons preparing to shoot at one of the towers. “There are ways out, though. If you don’t want to try and find them, then just tell me what you’re connected to, and I’ll help.”
“Connected to?” Miguel said. “What do you mean?”
Alex thought about it for a minute, then he said, “Well, was there anything special you had? A ring or a necklace. Even a picture.”
“My father’s ring,” Miguel said, holding up his right hand. “I wore it on my index finger, but it is not here. It is on my body.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” Alex said. He stood up and started walking toward the house. In a moment, Miguel was beside him.
“Is it a good thing?” Miguel asked, confused.
“Yeah,” Alex said, grinning up at the ghost. “See, I can take the ring off your finger, then I can throw it over the fence, and that way, you can find your brother. See, easy as that. Now, where’s your body?”
Miguel pointed to a large lump of snow a short distance from the front of the house.
“Is she here?” the man asked in a soft voice.
Alex looked at the house and saw a figure in the first-floor window.
“Yup,” Alex said cheerfully, “she is.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” Miguel asked him as Alex knelt beside the snow-covered body.
“Nope,” Alex said, sweeping snow off the corpse.
“Why not?”
“Dunno,” Alex said. “She’s just dead. Like you’re just dead. I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of ghosts. They don’t worry me.”
Miguel’s body was on its back, and Alex uncovered both hands in a matter of minutes. After working to get the gloves off, Alex sat back and stared at the man’s right hand. The flesh was swollen around the ring. Alex yawned, stretched, and then dug around in Miguel’s pockets.
“What are you looking for?” Miguel asked, mildly curious.
“This,” Alex said, pulling out a folding knife.
“Why?” Miguel sounded confused.
Alex smiled and said, “How else am I going to get the ring off?”
Miguel’s eyes widened as Alex leaned forward, opened the blade, and carved away at the frozen meat around the ring. Alex hummed to himself as he cut and pared away the flesh.
“Doesn’t this bother you?” Miguel asked after a moment’s hesitation.
“No,” Alex said without looking up. “Should it? It’s only meat.”
Miguel let out a chuckle. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”
After several minutes’ worth of tedious, painful work, Alex freed the ring. Wincing, he dropped it into the snow while he rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. He flexed his numb fingers, frowning, then pulled his gloves off to examine his fingers. He could see small, black dots, and he knew he had touched the ring for too long. Awkwardly pulling his gloves back on, Alex used snow to wipe off the bits of flesh from it and held it up for Miguel to see. “Look, okay?”
“It looks wonderful,” Miguel said, and Alex blushed at the appreciation noticeable in the dead man’s voice. Then Miguel spoke again, anger creeping into his words until the emotion was seething in his dead eyes. “They left my body here.”
Alex nodded.
“To rot when the weather gets warm,” Miguel said, his voice sinking low with resentment. “Someone should have taken me out. Regardless of the risk. I should have been brought out.”
“I’m sorry,” Alex said, sincerely.
The dead man blinked, smiled apologetically and said, “No, I should be sorry. You are treating me well. Thank you.”
“Sure thing,” Alex said, standing up. “Now, I’ll throw it over the fence, and you can find your brother.”
“Why do you do this for me?” Miguel asked.
“You want to see your brother,” Alex said. “You don’t have to be in here. If you’re out there, maybe you can convince him, you know, to take you where you want to be.”
“Thank you,” Miguel murmured.
“You’re welcome,” Alex said, grinning. He hummed again as he walked through the snow toward the fence. Gwen was still visible in the window, but she didn’t attempt to come outside and interfere with him, so he didn’t pay her much attention.
When he and Miguel reached the fence, Alex smiled at the dead man and said, “Good luck with your brother.”
Miguel nodded, his lips pressed tightly together, and Alex threw the ring as far as he could over the fence. The dead man vanished and, a second later, off to Alex’s right, came the sound of a musket being fired. It was answered by the yells of Worthe’s new guards, and Alex snickered as a man fell from one of the towers.
Sitting down close to the fence, Alex gathered snow to him and began to make a snowman while a new battle unfolded farther down the line.
Chapter 13: Served Cold
“How many?” Armand asked him.
Guillermo sighed and said, “Two injuries, one fatality.”
Armand spat, and Guillermo shrugged. He was too tired to care much about Armand’s mood. Since seeing the ghost of his brother, sleep had eluded him. The attack by the Indians earlier in the day hadn’t done anything to improve his general disposition, either. All three of the men affected by the attack had been under Guillermo’s command.
“Increase the number of observers per shift,” Armand said after a moment. “I want eyes on the Village at all times. Understood?”
“Yes,” Guillermo said. “This will cause friction. The men, they are tired. Many of them are pulling double shifts as it is.”
“It’s what we’re paid to do!” Armand snapped. Then, the man took a deep breath and apologized. “I am exhausted. It is not an excuse, Guillermo.”
“I know,” Guillermo replied. “I’m heading out. I want to take a look at everything from the towers. We might need to put in an extra spotter each shift if there’s too much activity. If necessary, I will take the first shift as observer each day.”
“An excellent idea,” Armand said. “It would be good for all the noncommissioned officers to take the first additional shift. I will pass the information along.”
Guillermo nodded and stoo
d up from the table. He took a last drink of water, glanced down at his hands and said, “I don’t care what this professor or David says or wants. If I have the opportunity to destroy the ghost who killed my brother, I will.”
Armand looked at him, took a long drag off his cigarette, and said, “I know nothing, my friend. Nothing at all.”
Guillermo took the unspoken assent and left. His shoulders slumped as he walked along the hallway. Emotional exhaustion washed over him, made his steps heavy and slower on his travels through the halls to the armory.
Klaus, the armorer, raised an eyebrow and asked in his thick, German accent, “What is it today, Herr Guillermo?”
“Riot shotgun, iron shot, and salt rounds,” Guillermo replied. “An additional nine-millimeter, loaded with iron rounds. Four clips. Holster as well. Have the iron blades arrived?”
“Ja, they are in,” Klaus said. “Gloves, too. Anything else, mein Herr, before I go back among the shelves?”
“No,” Guillermo answered. “This should be enough for the first shift.”
“Hunting?” Klaus asked.
“Keeping my options open, should prey appear,” Guillermo said.
Klaus nodded in understanding and left the desk. Guillermo heard the man whistling some German martial song, and in a short time, the armorer returned. He carried everything Guillermo had requested, his arms cradling the massive shotgun as if it were a sleeping baby. Klaus held up an old, olive drab satchel, the sides of it bulging.
“Two drum magazines,” Klaus explained. “They are each shy a few rounds, but that is to ensure they load easier. I have found these particular shotguns to be temperamental. I would hate for you to be caught, how do the Americans say it, flat-footed?”
Klaus chuckled and pushed the equipment toward Guillermo. A serious expression settled onto the German’s narrow face, a flicker of anger dancing in his pale blue eyes.
“I do not like this place,” Klaus confided in a firm voice. “This professor, he thinks he controls it. The boy, Subject D they call him, he proved the professor does not. This boy is in control. He speaks to the dead, and the dead, they listen.”
“Well, the boy is missing,” Guillermo replied. “There have been some sightings of a child within the Village, but although we have yet to find a body in the snow, I doubt the child is alive. I suspect he has been eaten. In the spring, or perhaps later, someone will stumble on the boy’s skull, lodged in some wolf’s den.”
“What makes you think that?” Klaus asked.
“First of all,” Guillermo explained, “I don’t believe the child could have made it from the professor’s house to the Village unscathed. Second, how would he get in? We have patrols and towers. He would have been seen. Yes, there have been sightings of a child in the Village, but there is no way for us to determine if that child is living or dead. Not without going into the Village. As far as I am concerned, my German friend, the boy is dead and a hunter will find his bones years from now.”
“Huh,” Klaus said noncommittedly. “You are equipped, mein Herr. You come back to me if there is anything else you want or need.”
“Thank you,” Guillermo said. He picked up his equipment, slipped the magazines for the new pistol into ammunition pouches and attached the holster to his webbing. He strapped the holster down and settled the pistol into it, checking the draw several times. Finally, he eased the satchel’s strap over his shoulder, adjusted its position on his hip, and picked up the shotgun.
“Good hunting,” Klaus said.
“My thanks,” Guillermo responded, and left the room.
He was out in the cold a few minutes later, the bitter scent of snow stinging his nose. Once more, the sky was gray, with darker clouds clinging to the horizon. A fresh storm hung in the distance, waiting for the night before striking.
Come then, snow, Guillermo thought, climbing into a Humvee and starting it. I have fought in worse, and I will do so again.
He shifted into gear and rumbled along the beaten road to the tower which had been hit by the Indians. Parking the vehicle, Guillermo checked his weapons and then climbed out.
A flicker of motion caught his attention, and he reacted before he knew what he was reacting to. He dropped to one knee and drew his pistol in one, fluid movement. The unsettling howl of a dead Indian ripped through the air as a warclub, still glistening with the blood of an enemy slain centuries before, raced over Guillermo’s head.
Guillermo put a single round through the dead man and heard someone yell, “Contact!”
Gunfire erupted from men working on the new fence and those in the towers. Indians appeared, some of them springing up from the snow, screaming furiously as they did so. Weapons roared, and the Indians vanished and reappeared in their disturbing fashion.
Despite choosing his targets carefully, Guillermo was quickly forced to change magazines on the pistol. As he did so, he caught sight of a pair of Alfor troops being surrounded by the dead. Before they could fight their way out, the Indians closed the circle and howled joyfully. Guillermo got to his feet and holstered his pistol as he ran toward the surrounded men who were vainly attempting to beat back the dead. As he neared them, Guillermo drew his new iron knife and attacked.
The passage of the blade through the nearest Indian caused the dead man to vanish. A second later, another disappeared as a blast of salt tore through them. Part of the round clipped Guillermo’s right arm, but he suppressed the surge of pain which followed.
Focusing on the dead near him, Guillermo attacked them with his knife. Another Indian vanished, but the others knew he was there, and recognized him as a threat. A pair of them turned on Guillermo, one armed with a tomahawk, the other with a war club. Guillermo sneered at them from under his helmet. A childhood spent immersed in street fighting boiled up and served him well as he dodged blows and delivered his own.
Dimly, Guillermo was aware of more shotgun blasts. His attention was fixed on the dead Indians, some of whom cheered joyously as he battled other dead men. There was almost a contest-like atmosphere, as though they wanted to see how well he would do.
Guillermo snarled, dispatched another ghost, and thought, I will show you!
With his iron-studded fist and his iron blade, Guillermo fought with a cold hatred. Rage and sorrow over his brother’s murder filled him and almost spilled out of his control. Yet Guillermo kept it under rein, and his focus sharpened. The world slowed down around him, each Indian moving infinitely slower than the dead man had a moment before. Guillermo saw openings in their defenses and exploited them. He cut and stabbed and worked his way through the ghosts.
The last Indian he dispersed was laughing, grinning at him from beneath a blood-soaked face before Guillermo defeated him with an upward thrust of the blade.
Panting from the exertion, Guillermo straightened up and saw many of the Alfor troops were gathered around him. Like the dead, they, too, had been interested in the result of the fighting. When they saw he was unharmed, the men went back to their various tasks, reloading as they did so.
Guillermo remained where he was. The only sign of the battle was the churned snow beneath his feet.
“I always forget how well you fight, Guillermo.”
Guillermo turned and saw Miguel standing a few feet away. Shivering, Guillermo forced himself to stand still. He had run before and was ashamed of what he had done.
“Miguel,” Guillermo said, raising his visor. He fought back tears, swallowed several times, then managed to say, “I’m sorry I ran from you.”
Miguel shrugged and grinned lopsidedly. “You did not run this time, little brother.”
“No,” Guillermo said. “How are you out of the Village? Did you find a passage we don’t know of?”
“No,” Miguel said, shaking his head. “The boy, he helped me. Subject D.”
Guillermo blinked. “He’s dead. We haven’t found his body, or seen him on the cameras.”
“He did not seem dead to me,” Miguel responded. “He is the one who
helped me. He cut father’s ring off my finger and threw it over the fence. I can go where I will now.”
“Where is the ring?” Guillermo asked, his voice rising slightly with his excitement.
“I will show you,” Miguel said. “First, I need you to promise you will help me get my revenge.”
“On the ghost who killed you?” Guillermo asked.
“On Armand,” Miguel answered through clenched teeth. “On Armand, who has left my corpse here to rot.”
Guillermo nodded and said tightly, “I promise.”
“Come then,” Miguel said stiffly. “I will show you where Father’s ring lies.”
Silently, Guillermo followed his dead brother through the snow as the skies darkened above them.
Chapter 14: Travels
Marcus finished lighting his pipe and prepared to open the door.
“Where are you going?” Alex asked from behind him.
“Alex,” Marcus said, smiling at the boy. “I was going to go for a walk, would you care to join me?”
Alex nodded and hastily dressed. Marcus glanced at Timmy and saw the man was still asleep, propped up on the couch. He was exceptionally pale, his breathing shallow.
“Is he going to be okay?” Alex asked.
“I don’t know,” Marcus answered truthfully. “I hope he will be. Unfortunately, Alex, I am not a doctor. I can only keep him as comfortable as possible.”
“Maybe he’ll stay around if he dies,” Alex said, nodding and smiling at the idea. “Yeah. I’ll ask him when he wakes up.”
Marcus refrained from offering a response. Instead, he opened the door, allowing himself and Alex to exit. The smell of impending snow hung heavy in the air. He and Alex looked up at the sky together, and the boy grinned.
“I need more snow,” Alex said.
“Do you? Whatever for?” Marcus asked, turning left on the cobblestone road toward the chapel.
“I want to make more snowmen,” Alex answered.
“I haven’t seen you build any for a while,” Marcus said.
“Well, I made one yesterday,” Alex said, scooping down to pick up a double handful of snow. He carefully packed it into a snowball and then threw it with accuracy, striking the clock in the center of the face. The boy snickered and made another snowball, one which he tossed from hand to hand as they continued toward the chapel.
