The Road to Hellfire

by Michael Panush

  "It reminded me of a comic book series with imaginative and rich visual ideas. I’m going to go out on a limb and say for anybody who likes Steampunk and Dr. Who, this book will be right up your alley." ~The Speculators' Club Review of El Mosaico, Vol. 1: Scarred Souls

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  About the Author

  A Taste of El Mosaico, Vol. 3: Hellfire, by Michael Panush

  Copyright & Publisher

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  Full Table of Contents

  Rats were underfoot on Van Wessel Street. Clayton Cane saw them scurrying under the pushcarts and market stalls which crowded the narrow main street of the poor New York neighborhood. The rats darted from cover to cover, moving like squeaking black shadows into gutters, alleys and the open doors of towering steel gray tenements. They ran under the hooves of horses pulling along carriages and wagons and the feet of pedestrians in the packed street. Cane saw a pair of rats racing over the sleeping form of ragged homeless man curled up in a stone corner, their claws pattering across his frayed trousers and worn coat. The vagrant slept on, remaining motionless as a corpse even when the rats passed over his face on their way to some rodent destination.

  Cane stood out in Van Wessel Street. He was a man of the high plains, a gunslinger, bounty hunter and mercenary of the harsh Western territories. In the cluttered neighborhoods and warren-like alleys of New York City, he was as out of place as a donkey in church. But even in the West, he still would be an odd sight. He was a broad-shouldered, bulky man, standing a head taller than most. A worn duster and broad-brimmed hat rested comfortably on him, just like the twin revolvers on his waist and the shotgun and lever-action rifle crossed on slings over his shoulders.

  But it was his face that received the most attention. It was a mass of scars and crisscrossing lines, surrounding two cold eyes of different colors. The patches of skin on his face had varying shades, giving his face the look of a patchwork quilt. It was this face that had earned him a feared nickname in the bloody border country where he plied his grim trade. They called him El Mosaico.

  The residents of Van Wessel Street stared at Cane as he walked to the end of the block. Street vendors ended their loud, multi-lingual calls. A couple of children playing before one of the tenement stoops stopped their game and looked up at him. Cane glared right back and kept on trudging across the battered cobblestones. He had somewhere to be.

  He reached his destination at the end of the block – the ornate, palatial political club known as Algonquin Hall. It seemed more like a Greek temple than an American building, complete with marble pillars and a screeching brass eagle poised above the door. Two armed guards, policemen in blue double-breasted coats and peaked caps stood guard near the stairwell. There were no rats on the marble steps.

  “I’m Clayton Cane.” Cane nodded to the policemen. “I was sent for.”

  They exchanged a glance. One of the cops, a fellow with a walrus moustache growing gray, nodded to him and led him inside. There were more policemen on the other side of the doors and then a long marble hallway. Cane walked along, looking at the big oil paintings of past Algonquin Hall leaders. They all sneered down at him from their places along the wall, like they were pleased to be hanging up while he walked alone through the world.

  The office was at the end of the hall. The policeman opened the door, and let Cane slip inside. Cane stared around in surprise. It looked like a drawing room from some old money mansion, complete with a red velvet carpet and cushioned couches set evenly around the room. A suit of armor rested in one corner, while a fully stocked liquor cabinet sat in the other. There was a mounted bear’s head snarling down from the far wall.

  Three men stood in the room, all richly dressed. The plumpest of them walked over to Cane, cigar smoldering in his hand. “Clayton Cane!” he cried. “My Stars, it can be no other! It is grand to see you, Mr. Cane – simply grand!” He held out his hand. “The name’s Claudius Varrick. I’m Honorable Chief of the Algonquin Hall. I’m the fellow who sent the telegram – and I’m awfully glad you answered it.”

  Claudius Varrick was comfortably fat and his face nestled in the folds of his neck like a pampered dog in a carefully prepared cushion. He had thinning gray hair and a thick moustache and goatee, his fashionably checkered suit, striped tie and gilded waistcoat marking him as a moneyed man. “Now, I’d like to introduce you to some of the other leading citizens of the humble Van Wessel Street community.” He extended his hand to a tall, hawk-faced man in a somber black suit. “This is Barnabas Talbot, a local businessman.”

  Barnabas Talbot had very dark hair, coated in pomade. His lacy cravat was knotted around his throat in a garish bow. “I own all the boarding establishments on the street,” he explained, his voice a low growl. “And several factories and garment shops, which employ the local population.” Talbot tucked his hands into the pockets of his morning coat. “And I am very glad that you have arrived.”

  Cane could imagine the kind of businesses Talbot ran — sweatshops, doubtlessly, where the poor immigrants slaved away in miserable conditions for a pittance that would all go into rent at his tenement buildings. He nodded back to Talbot and said nothing.

  Varrick continued his introductions. “And this gentleman is Lionel McCall.” He pointed to a rough sort of fellow, with a bruiser’s red face below curled chestnut hair. McCall wore a garish canary yellow suit, a tall top hat tucked under his arm, and a diamond stickpin on his coat. He seemed like a bulldog, tricked into fine clothes. He had a long carving knife thrust through his sash.

  “It is a rare pleasure, sir!” McCall had a harsh Irishman’s accent. “A rare pleasure indeed!”

  “And what’s your job?” Cane asked, as he shook McCall’s hand.

  McCall grinned. “Ah, I’m a regular pillar of the community, sir. I do all manner of fine things for the good people here. Arbitrate disputes. Pursue various ventures. Run a few gambling games here and there – which Mr. Varrick is good enough to overlook, in return for a fair cut of the profits.”

  So McCall ran the gangs on Van Wessel Street. With Varrick serving a political boss and Talbot managing the businesses, the three of them controlled just about everything. They were powerful men, with the law and the gangs on their side. Why had they asked Cane for help?

  “Your telegram didn’t say why you was hiring me on,” Cane replied, settling uneasily into one of the cushioned couches. “I’m mighty curious.”

  “Of course.” Varrick stabbed his cigar back into his mouth. “Mr. Cane, we have hired you to deal with a great infestation of rats, which has swept across Van Wessel Street and do not seem to have any sign of abating. These rats have ruined local merchants, devoured untended food and will certainly spread disease and filth if left unchecked.” He removed his cigar and let out a long puff of smoke. “And I do care deeply for the well-being of my constituents.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cane replied. “Rats.”

  “The rodents have gnawed through the mechanisms of my factories,” Talbot muttered. “The cost for repairs – and the slow in business – is quite the concern.”

  “Not to mention what they done to my dice games,” McCall added. “I like a good rat baiting as much as the next fellow, and the betting there is a wonderful thing to behold, but you can only hold so many of the events before the market is glutted. And Mr. Cane, the market is thoroughly glutted, with no sign of the rats going away or being killed off. All in all, these rats are ruining our business. We need them—”

  “I don’t kill rats,” Cane interrupted McCall. “I kill men.”

  “Well, that matter is open to discussion.” Varrick’s puffy face split in a knowing grin. “You see, the United States government has quite the large am
ount of information about you, Mr. Cane – and your past. You are a creature of the supernatural, who was not built, but made.” He leaned back in his seat. “It was during the Civil War, was it not? A mad Confederate plantation owner decided to end his country’s lack of manpower by building new men from the remains of corpses, then animating them with dark magic. A little Voodoo from his slaves, a little insane science and some European black magic – and you were the result. Luckily, you escaped his clutches before he could turn you into a loyal servant of Jefferson Davis. Is that not correct?”

  Cane glared at Varrick. His eyes went narrow and cold. “Yeah.” His voice was half groan and half breath. “It’s correct.”

  “You understand the supernatural – and that’s what is behind these swarms of rats,” Varrick explained. “We are utterly certain of that fact.”

  “Indeed!” McCall snapped his knee. “We’ve hired every earthly means of dealing with the pests – exterminators, rat catchers, scientists with chemicals and strange weapons that make my alehouses stink to high heaven – and none of them have worked. And there’s something else too. The wretched rats only bother businesses, properties and establishments owned by us. They’ll never bother the sleeping greasers in their tenements, or munch on fruit from some Greek fool’s stall.” He sighed. “We’re at our wit’s end, sir. We truly are.”

  “I figured as much.” Cane came to his feet. “And the sum you mentioned in the telegram is still what I’ll be paid?”

  “The proper payment,” Varrick answered. “For a proper job.” He looked back at the iron safe in the corner. “And rest assured, we do have the funds.”

  “I didn’t doubt it,” Cane agreed. He looked out one of the glass window, back at the filthy streets and alleys. “There any place where I can find the rats?”

  “The sewers,” Talbot replied. “That’s how they get around. They scurry about in the filth and refuse in which the people of this street reside, darting away to avoid our every effort to destroy them. Go in there, find out what kind of ghost or ghoul is behind this plague, and destroy it with impunity. Talk to the officer outside. He will see you are directed properly and provisioned.” He folded his arms. “And do it quickly, Mr. Cane. Money is wasting.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that.” Cane touched the brim of his hat. “Let me go and survey the situation. I’ll see what I find.” His eyes darted back to the safe. “And y’all keep that money safe now until I come to claim it.”

  Varrick smiled. “Don’t worry, sir,” he called, as Cane pushed his way through the door. “We fully intend to!”

  A quick questioning of the policeman outside pointed Cane in the direction of the nearest manhole cover, which would lead into the sewers. The cop also gave him a few supplies, which Cane was grateful for. Sewers weren’t his usual surroundings.

  He entered the street once again, forcing his way through the crowd. His eyes lingered on the neighborhood’s residents and their ragged clothes, thin frames and dark hair, as foreign languages mixed with English filtered into his ears. Some of them lived in the street, others in the crowded tenements. All of them cleared out of Cane’s way.

  He reached a manhole cover, hidden in the shadows of an alley between some sweatshop and one of the tenements. Cane knelt down next to the manhole cover and drew out a Bowie knife from his boot. He got to work, wrenching open the rusted steel. It took a few moments to open.

  There was something his employers weren’t telling him – that was for certain. Men like Varrick, Talbot and McCall lived on lies and misdirection. They had used those lies – as well as violence and double-dealing – to build themselves into the richest and most powerful men on Van Wessel Street. They lived like kings while the rest of the poor and miserable citizens just tried to survive from day to day. Now some rats aimed to change things and Cane had been hired to make sure they didn’t.

  The manhole cover flipped over, making a noise like a rusted hinge’s creak. Cane peered inside. He saw the iron rungs leading down into darkness, then grabbed the lantern the officer had given him and used a match to light the wick inside. He slipped his feet into the high wading boots and started going down. His hands touched the rough metal of the ladder and he descended into darkness.

  A few heaves and careful steps and Clayton Cane reached the bottom. His boots struck down into something soft and wet, which could charitably be called ground. Cane let go of the ladder and raised the lantern. Rats fled from the light. He saw their emaciated forms, patched with filthy brown fur, as they scurried out of the ring of illumination cast by the lantern.

  The rats scurried down the long cement passageway. Cane started after them. He had no idea what he’d find down there. His boots squelched as he trudged through the mud. He couldn’t see much in the lantern’s light, but the bare cement walls, the low ceiling and the carpet of filth under his feet.

  The smell was awful. Cane felt it stab into his nostrils like a pair of thin fingers, sliding down his throat and reaching deep into his chest. He drew out a scented bandanna that Varrick’s policeman had given him and knotted it tightly around his nose and mouth. Cane had smelled all kinds of terrible things in his time, from vulture-picked bodies lying rotting in some desert to the sulfurous stench following a blistering cannonade. He knew those smells well. There was something up ahead that didn’t come from human waste.

  After a few moments, he saw it. Cane knew what it was, even as he neared the dark outline. It was a human body, skeletal and half-eaten, lying in the corner of the narrow hall. Cane looked over the corpse. He saw the puckered skin, filled with the marks of hundreds of teeth, under a pea coat that now featured numberless holes. Cane raised the lantern and read the inscription, stitched in gold thread, over the corpse’s breast pocket.

  “Smitts Rat Catcher Service,” Cane read and felt a slow shiver run through him. “Yeah,” he said to himself. “There was a whole lot them rich folks weren’t telling me.” He started further down the hall. Rats darted ahead of him. He could hear their feet in the dark, as they stayed just ahead of his lantern’s beam of yellow light.

  Something was behind these rats. Cane had no idea what it was. He had seen strange spirits and ghosts before, many times, and each one interacted with the world around them in a different ways. Some appeared as gaseous phantoms, barely visible in the physical world, while others used trees, rocks or living things to express themselves. Maybe the rats were one of those cases.

  Up ahead, Cane saw that the cement tunnel split into separate passages. He kept walking, his free hand slowly reaching to the shotgun on his back. More rats were running past him. Where the sewage was deep enough, they swam. One ran over the toe of his boot. Another followed. They seemed strangely light, like they were fallen leaves going over his boots. He reached the split and stood still.

  A paw struck into the filth. Cane heard the splash. It was far bigger than what a rat’s little claws would make. He swung his shotgun around, just in time to see some dark, blurry shape hurtling towards him through the tunnel. It drew closer and Cane saw that it was a rat – but far larger than a rat should be. This creature seemed more like a ragged, large dog, with a matted coat, hairless, twisting tail and eyes like dying coals in a dead fire. The rat bounded towards him, moving quickly over the sewer floor. There was little time to act.

  Cane raised his shotgun and fired, just as the rat leapt for him. One of the barrels thundered away. In the enclosed space of the sewer, the gunshot made Cane’s ears ring. His shot cut the giant rat in half. Bloody bits of the rodent splashed down into the sewage, staining the greenish water red. Cane raised his lantern as he heard more rats approaching.

  “Giant rats,” Cane muttered. He slammed open his shotgun and slid in a fresh round. “Guess those wealthy men weren’t spitting falsehoods after all.” There had to be something supernatural here, making these rats grow to a giant size and seek his flesh. He’d have to get to the bottom of it. His shotgun thundered again, aiming at sound and movement. A rat
squealed, cut down in mid-charge. But it wasn’t alone.

  Before Cane knew it, half a dozen more of the rats had reached him. They seemed to appear from nowhere, like they had crept out of the walls themselves. The giant rats lunged up and snapped at him and Cane struggled to gain ground and fight back. One of the rats scratched him, a jagged claw slashing past his leg like a stiletto blade. Cane kicked the rat in its furry snout and it stumbled back with a squeal. He lashed out with his boots and the butt of his gun, doing his best to drive them back. Another rat sunk a fang into his forearm, but he ignored the pain and sudden flash of blood. When the rats were far enough away, Cane raised his shotgun and fired it again, doing his best to ignore the sheer noise of the gunshots. Rats flipped back from him, their bodies shattered.

  One of them scurried away. Cane saw it dash out of the circle of light from his lantern and gave chase. He pounded through the sewage, feeling like the cement walls were closing in on him. The only light came from his lantern and it swung and bounced with his every step. Shadows leapt and danced on the walls. Smaller rats were underfoot. Cane could feel them crawling through the sewage, running over his legs. There seemed to be far too many of them.

  The giant rat stopped in front of him. Cane’s own feet skidded to a halt, kicking up putrid juices from the sewer floor. He raised his shotgun, only half wondering why the rat had stopped running. He took aim, reaching for the trigger and preparing to blast the giant rodent into red shreds. That’s when he heard the squeaking from the sides.

  Ambushes and traps were a thing Cane understood. He’d ridden against the Apache, and knew that they could use a few snipers and riflemen to turn any canyon into a death trap for countless cavalry troopers. He still had some memories, drifting back from the bodies that composed him, of riding with Quantrill, Bloody Bill Anderson and the Confederate partisans, and had bushwhacked Yankee patrols time and time again. But he never figured to be led into a trap by rats.