“He has?” Chee answered quietly.
“Yes. Did he tell you he requested you specifically?” Pinkerton asked.
“No, sir. Me and the major haven’t had much time to talk yet,” Chee said.
“Well, I’m certain he’ll give you all the details shortly. But I’m glad you’re . . .” Dog, who moved around from behind Chee and advanced toward Pinkerton, his nose working the air, interrupted him. Pinkerton jumped, for he had not noticed the stealthy animal in the low light of the car.
“Jesus Christ! What is that!” he shouted. His hand instinctively went inside his coat toward his shoulder holster.
“I wouldn’t do that, sir,” Chee said. “This is Dog. He doesn’t it like it when people he doesn’t know hold guns.”
“That is not a dog . . . that is . . . good God I have no idea . . .” He slowly removed his hand from his coat and Dog sat on his haunches, studying Pinkerton.
“Dog,” Chee said, pointing to Pinkerton, “friend. Good boy.” Dog completely relaxed, reached forward and licked Pinkerton’s hand. Then lay down on the floor.
Pinkerton glared at Hollister. “Did you know about this?”
“Nope,” Hollister answered.
“I didn’t make any agreement for a goddamn . . . half wolf . . . half . . . lion . . .” Pinkerton stammered.
“I think they’re a package deal,” Hollister said. “And I’m not going to tell him he’s not welcome. Are you?”
Pinkerton sighed and his shoulders slumped. He turned with his back to the men and gestured around the interior of the car. He muttered something neither man could hear but had apparently given up on the subject of Dog.
“This will be your home for at least the next few weeks. It’s a specially made Pullman car, built to my exact specifications. We’ve consulted with an expert in these matters—in fact, he will be here to brief you shortly. But in the meantime I suggest you take some time to get acquainted with the car. I have had provisions and extra clothing delivered this afternoon. This car, a kitchen car, another for your horses, and a locomotive will be at your disposal for as long as you need it.
“Mr. Pinkerton, what is that smell?” Hollister asked.
“Garlic,” Pinkerton answered, pointing to small cloth bags hanging in the upper corners of each window.
“To what purpose?” Hollister asked.
“It has proven very effective in keeping out certain types of unwanted guests,” Pinkerton remarked. He looked at Chee. “Tell me, Sergeant, what have you heard about your new CO?”
“Heard, sir?” Chee replied.
“Yes. You’ve been in Leavenworth for a year and a half. You must have heard about Major Hollister.”
Hollister looked at Chee and saw the wariness creep into his eyes.
“I didn’t . . . I don’t . . . just rumors mostly, sir,” Chee stammered.
“And what rumors did you hear?” Pinkerton pressed on.
Chee looked at Hollister in desperation and Hollister nodded, telling the sergeant it was okay to speak his mind.
“He fought against Deathwalkers, sir, only no one believed him and he was sent to prison instead.” Chee had removed his hat when he entered the car and he worked it back and forth nervously in his hands.
“Deathwalkers? I’m not familiar with the term,” Pinkerton said, not taking his eyes off Chee.
“My people call them Deathwalkers, sir. They are blood devils: monsters that come awake at night and drink the blood of human beings.”
Hollister shifted uncomfortably. He realized, perhaps for the first time, how ridiculous his story had sounded. No wonder his colonel had not believed him. He understood why no one came to his defense. It sounded unbelievable to him, and he had lived it.
“And what do you think of his claim?” Pinkerton asked.
Chee shrugged. “I don’t know the major well sir, but I have no reason to doubt him. If he says it happened that way, then it did.”
“Really? And what about you, Chee? Tell me, do you believe in these so-called Deathwalkers?” Pinkerton held Chee’s stare until the sergeant looked down at the floor.
“Yes, sir. I do,” Chee replied quietly.
“Really? Have you ever seen one?”
“No, sir! And I hope I don’t. Bad juju. But Deathwalkers are real, all right.”
“Is that so? How do you know?” Pinkerton asked.
“My grandmother, Annabel. My people are from New Orleans, sir. My grandmother has told me stories about Deathwalkers,” he said.
“I see.” Pinkerton nodded. “Hmm. Well, you may hope you’re wrong. Did Major Hollister brief you on your mission?”
“No, sir, we . . . had dinner . . . then came here . . . I haven’t . . . he hasn’t . . . no, sir.” Something was very wrong here. This Pinkerton fellow was very odd, and Major Hollister hadn’t said two words in his presence. Chee tugged nervously at his collar.
“Well as it turns out, his story may be true. There has been another incident in Colorado. You and the major will go there and investigate. How does that sound to you?”
Chee just shrugged and said nothing.
“No thoughts, Sergeant? You have no problem going after these Deathwalkers?” Pinkerton pressed.
“No. No, I don’t, sir,” Chee replied.
“And why is that? If Major Hollister has been telling the truth all these years, this could be a very dangerous assignment.”
“I expect so, sir. But it beats being in prison,” Chee said.
“Yes, Sergeant. From what I know of Leavenworth, I’m sure it does.”
Pinkerton chuckled as he walked behind the writing table and sat down.
Hollister took the opportunity to study the interior of the car. The writing desk was to his right and behind it another doorway led to the rear, where Hollister assumed he would find sleeping quarters. On his left between two of the windows a large wooden rack held several rifles and shotguns. There were numerous Winchesters, two Henrys, and a pair of short-barreled Greener ten gauges. Shelves below the gun rack held boxes of ammunition.
“Make yourselves at home, gentlemen,” Pinkerton said. “As I said, this car has been specially outfitted and . . .” He was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Ah, it must be our guest. Come in!”
A short, dark-haired man, wearing glasses and carrying a small valise, entered the train car. The better light inside revealed that his hair and the goatee framing his mouth were speckled with gray.
“Major Hollister and Sergeant Chee, it is my pleasure to introduce Dr. Abraham Van Helsing.”
Chapter Nine
Van Helsing was an energetic sort. He shook hands, rapidly moving from Chee to Hollister and finally Pinkerton.
“Mr. Pinkerton. So gud to see you! It has been far too long.” Pinkerton had mentioned that Van Helsing was visiting the States from Amsterdam, but his words were only lightly accented.
No one spoke as Van Helsing inspected the interior of the car. He traced his fingers over the markings surrounding the nearest window. “Yes. Ah. A devil’s trap . . . Babylonian, I presume?”
Pinkerton nodded.
“Gud!” He turned, slowly inspecting every visible part of the car. “Excellent work! You followed my instructions to the letter.”
“No expense was spared, I can promise you that,” Pinkerton said.
“What is all of this for? What does it do?” Hollister asked.
“In gud time, Major, I assure you. In the meantime, just know that, hopefully, it will keep you from getting killed,” Van Helsing said.
“How will some paint stop one of those creatures?” Hollister pressed. He was curious now. And annoyed.
“We haff learned some things, Major. A great deal, actually. But first some questions.”
Van Helsing seated himself at the small writing desk, and Pinkerton made no fuss over the fact he had just lost his seat. He pushed a button on the chair railing beneath the window, a panel in the wall slid open, and a wooden rack holding several folding c
hairs emerged. In no time, all of them were seated around Van Helsing who was pulling several journals and papers from his valise.
“First things first, Dr. Van Helsing, if you don’t mind?” Pinkerton asked. He pulled a small silver coin from his pocket and handed it to the doctor, who handed the detective his own similar piece. Both men held the coins in the palms of their hands for several seconds, then nodded as if satisfied that some unspoken test had been passed.
“What . . .” Hollister asked. Only to be interrupted by Chee.
“Silver?” Chee asked.
Van Helsing smiled. “Ach! Yes, silver! Very gud, Sergeant!” From his pocket he handed each man a silver coin identical to the ones he and Pinkerton held. Hollister inspected his. On one side was an engraved picture of a man with a halo about his head. A saint, he guessed, but which one he didn’t know. Hollister had grown up Presbyterian. The small words engraved around the edge read, THE ORDER OF ST. IGNATIUS. On the other side were the words AETERNAM VIGILANTIA. Hollister hefted it in his hand. It was solid silver.
“Mr. Pinkerton and I are part of a . . . society or perhaps association of sorts. We have an interest in the very things you witnessed in Wyoming, Major Hollister. There are many of us, and these coins, forged in solid silver, are one of the ways we can identify ourselves to one another,” Van Helsing said.
“I don’t understand . . . a society?” Hollister asked. He glanced at Chee, but the sergeant was still inspecting his coin.
“From the time of St. Ignatius. The first to fall. Many years ago we learned of the existence of . . .”
“Deathwalkers?” Chee asked.
“Vampires,” Pinkerton said.
“What the hell is a vampire?” Hollister asked, flipping his coin back on the desk, where it rolled around until falling on its side in front of Van Helsing.
“These creatures are called by many names,” the doctor said, pushing the coin back toward Hollister. “Your sergeant refers to them as Deathwalkers. As good a description as any, but most of Europe knows them as vampires. The living dead. Beings who were once human but are no longer, and must survive by drinking the blood of the living. As I believe you saw firsthand, Major.”
Hollister felt a chill fall over him. The car seemed smaller all at once and his mind’s eye flashed on the image of Lemaire dying as the white-haired thing chewed at his throat, its lips and fangs covered in blood. For a while he’d tried to tell himself he had imagined the whole thing. That he and his platoon really had been ambushed by Lakota, and in order to accept the destruction of his command, his mind had concocted an elaborate fantasy to disguise and excuse his shame. But what he’d seen was real.
“I saw . . .” he started to say, but couldn’t finish.
“You are familiar with vampires, Sergeant Chee? You knew about silver?” Van Helsing asked.
“I’ve heard of them, sir. My grandmother was a slave, from Haiti. I mostly thought they were stories told to scare us, but she insisted Deathwalkers were real. According to lore, wood and pure silver can poison them, and I know silver bullets are used for werewolves . . .” the young man said.
It was too much for Hollister. “Werewolves? What the hell are those?”
“Sir . . . they’re . . .” Chee stammered. He could sense the major’s rising confusion and he had no desire to contribute to it. “A werewolf is a man who has been bitten by another werewolf . . . and when . . . during the full moon . . .” Chee gave up, the stunned expression on Hollister’s face making him think he was going to get a dressing-down.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Hollister said. “I’ve been in the army a long time and I’ve heard all kinds of stories around the campfire at night, but that’s all they are: stories. Right?” He turned his attention away from Chee and studied Pinkerton and Van Helsing.
“Much more than stories, I assure you. Nevertheless, the two of you are now the newest members of our society. The Order of Saint Ignatius. You should keep the medallion at all times. We mint them under special instructions with the purest silver available. You will likely come across other members in your travels. We have some of the best minds of our age at work on the study of this . . . phenomenon. The test, holding the pure silver coin in the hand, will tell you if the person is who they say they are. If a comrade has fallen under the thrall of . . . anyone . . . or thing . . . the silver will burn them. It would be an indication for you to immediately . . . kill them,” Van Helsing said.
“You can’t be serious,” Hollister said.
“I assure you we are deadly serious, Major,” Pinkerton said. “But there will be time for you to digest this later. Dr. Van Helsing, why don’t you begin?”
“Da. Gud. Major Hollister, I have read your report many, many times. I want you to know I believe you. Our order has for years gathered much information on these creatures, not only to verify their existence, which I assure you is beyond doubt. But to discover what their intentions might be, as well as how to defend ourselves against them.”
“I think their intentions are pretty clear,” Hollister said. “From what I saw, these things didn’t have much else on their mind but killing people.”
“Yes, but the question is, why? How did these creatures you encountered get here? Where are they from? Have they always been here? If so, why reveal themselves now? Since your incident, Major, we have tracked and chased and followed every lead, no matter how minor, and we have come up with exactly nothing. Those . . . demons responsible for killing your men simply vanished. Not to be seen nor heard of until the Torson City Mining Camp incident one month ago. We believe the same group killed several humans and disappeared without a trace again. It is most odd,” Van Helsing said.
“I’ll grant you that. But now that you’ve busted me out of the pokey, how do you expect me to find them, if you’ve got a whole ‘society’ trying to track them down and they aren’t finding anything?” Hollister asked.
“I’ll be frank with you now, Major,” Pinkerton said. “Basically, we don’t have any other options. Aside from Declan’s son, who survived the last attack, you’re the only person we know of who has encountered these vampires and lived to tell about it.”
“No one believed me,” Hollister said matter-of-factly.
“Yes. Unfortunate but true,” Pinkerton said. “Now you have a chance at redemption.”
“I don’t need to redeem myself,” Hollister said. “I told the truth. Exactly as it happened. I lived in a hole every day for the last four years, knowing that, and it’s the only thing that kept me sane. Save the redemption speech for Sunday school, Mr. Pinkerton.”
“Very well. If not redemption, how about vengeance?” Pinkerton asked.
Hollister reached inside the folds of his cavalry blouse and removed a small flask he had purchased that afternoon and filled at the hotel. He took a long swig of bourbon, then capped the flask and returned it to its hiding place. It warmed his gullet as it traveled down to his gut. Maybe General Sheridan had it right. Maybe a good stiff drink wasn’t so bad now and then. Especially when you’re about to ride off to face eleven kinds of hell. Maybe not a bad idea at all.
“Now you’re talking,” Hollister said.
The rest of the night was spent around the desk, mostly listening as Van Helsing detailed the history of the vampire as compiled by the Order of Saint Ignatius, with occasional prodding from Pinkerton. At one point, Van Helsing read a passage from his journal.
Their appearance is normal and quite human, until feeding on a human—then their facial structure changes. The chin grows longer, and fangs descend from the roof of the mouth. Their speed and strength is remarkable, but it is possible to kill them. Fire is one way, beheading is another, although given their strength and speed, getting them in a position to remove their head proves extremely difficult.
“I killed one with an arrow,” Hollister said.
“Ya. Ve have taken note of this, Major. Yours is the first verifiable recording of killing one by this method. Can you t
ell me exactly how it happened?”
“There wasn’t much to it. It was a woman. She was strong. Unbelievably strong. With one hand she held me up in the air. I couldn’t breathe. Her face . . . changed . . . fangs . . . I pulled an arrow out of her thigh and stabbed her through the heart,” Hollister related.
“Then what happened?” Pinkerton asked.
“She . . . just . . . disappeared. Her body turned to dust and all that was left was a pile of her clothes and the arrows.” Hollister pulled the flask out again and took a little swig.
“Is there anything else? Anything you might have forgotten or something you might have kept to yourself?” Van Helsing let the words hang in the air, the implication clear. No matter what shape Hollister had been in at the time, he had to know how ridiculous his story sounded.
“No, I . . . you said these things could be killed by beheading them?” he asked.
Van Helsing nodded.
“When I pulled my saber, the big one with the white hair paused. It was only a moment, but he reconsidered. I’d already shot him, twice. I might as well have been throwing stones. He shrugged it off like a bee sting. But he took notice of my saber,” Hollister said.
“Da. Decapitation is one method of killing them. I would think a saber would give such a creature pause,” Van Helsing said.
“And . . .” Hollister started. He was there again, on the side of that hill, watching the god-awful mouth descend toward his neck. And then it was gone. Just as the sun came over the horizon.
“Major?” Pinkerton said quietly.
“The sunlight,” Hollister answered.
“What about it?” Pinkerton asked.
“It was just before dawn when they hit us. I was down. The big one, I’ve been referring to him all this time as White Hair, had clubbed me to the ground. But the sun rose. He got up right away. They all, the rest of those . . . things . . . jumped into the back of the wagon, to get out of the sun. White Hair put on some kind of heavy cloak, covering himself from head to toe. But just before that, his skin, his clothes started to smoke. Like they were about to catch fire,” Hollister said.
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