by Mark Frost
Day with the sword, acknowledged his audience with a grateful wave. He took a step back in midair and lowered his head; a moment of introspection, the actor preparing for his entrance. The audience went silent.
Bendigo turned back around, in character now, bobbing like a cork in the water. With the pinched corset torturing his voice to a strangled parody of his rich baritone, he cried out, "To be, or not to be; that is the question."
Reverend Day leaned on the edge of the box, sly boredom, propping his chin up, the fingers of one hand drumming his cheek while the other waved idly in the air.
In response to Day's gestures, with each succeeding line of the soliloquy Bendigo raised the sword and ferociously slashed himself across a part of his body; nothing spared, arms, legs, back, chest, neck, face. Each cut opened gaping wounds.
"Whether tis nobler... in the mind... to suffer the slings and arrows... of outrageous fortune ... or take arms ... against a sea ... of troubles and by opposing end them."
Eileen knew their blades were severely dulled down for stage combat; Rymer was striking himself with inhuman strength. Blood rained on the audience but the white shirts offered no reaction, looking straight up, not even raising a hand to shield their faces from the splatter as it pelted down.
"To die, to sleep—no more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache ... and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to!"
A devastating blow nearly severed Bendigo's left hand at the wrist; bones shattered, hanging by a thread of flesh. Sheets of blood cascaded down his face from cuts along his scalp; agony informed every word he spoke, and Eileen thought she could hear an occasional desperate cry break through beneath the words.
" 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—to sleep—perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub—"
Bendigo screamed as he thrust the point of the sword clear through his lower abdomen below the corset, straining with both hands to break its blunt tip through the resistant skin of his back.
Eileen sobbed and turned away, blinded by tears and rage, trying to pull herself to her feet.
Reverend Day stood in front of Bendigo and began to slowly applaud, banging his simian hands together; the audience picked up the rhythm and the clapping grew into a booming, rhythmic beat.
"—for in that sleep of death ..."
Bendigo's voice failing, face collapsing, gray as ash, all the emotion breaking through, underlining his final words.
"... what dreams may come ... when we have shuffled off this mortal coil... must give us pause ..."
Eyes open, Bendigo died, suspended limply in the air. The audience rose to their feet, applause growing steadily to a thundering crescendo.
"Bravo! BRAVO!" shouted Reverend Day.
The audience amplified the mocking tribute.
Reverend Day twirled his hand; Bendigo's body revolved and bowed low in each direction, dumb acknowledgement of the only standing ovation offered to him in a long and mediocre career.
Eileen stumbled blindly to the rear wall. A lantern burned on a hook near the door. She plucked it off and hurled it at the fallen curtain; the lantern shattered, the oil spread, ignited by the wick, and began to burn.
As the flames licked up the arch, she turned and ran out the back door of the theater.
Dante had never seen a play before. Frederick and he walked in late, after the show had started, settling into seats behind Reverend Day in a box above the stage. He guessed the actors were telling some kind of story down there, but he didn't feel much interest in trying to work it out. He liked the colorful pictures of the mountains and the pieces of a castle that rolled on and off the stage, and the uniforms on the soldiers were fun to look at, too; bright red with lots of shiny buttons.
But most of all he liked that girl with the black hair and her titties pushing out the top of her low-cut dress. He slipped a hand inside his briefcase and rubbed a thumb along the edge of a knife, daydreaming about how nice it would be to use it on her. The Reverend and Frederick had made him feel so free about his work that anything seemed possible. When it was over, he might even ask them to let him have that girl to play with.
Everything started to go wrong when that big fella Cornelius rushed into the box; he said shots were being fired and some guards had been killed; and when the Reverend stood up and started screaming, Dante could see a big, red cloud come off him like a barrel of black powder exploding.
Whatever the Reverend yelled at those people below made them real scared, even Frederick went a little pale, but as far as Dante was concerned, it felt like the real fun was about to begin. Then that fat actor floated right up into the air in front of them and began to cut himself, and Dante knew that he'd been right; this was better than freaks at a sideshow.
When the fire started, Reverend Day screamed at the people in the white shirts again, "TO YOUR PLACE, GO, GO! WAIT FOR THE SIGNAL!"
Whatever had been holding up the actor's body let go, and it plopped down onto the seats like a loose hank of rope. The people in white shirts were so busy rushing to the doors, shouting and screaming, that they started stepping all over each other; couple of 'em got crushed in the stampede. Dante leaned over the balcony and watched from his seat, rocking back and forth, laughing; this was a hell of a lot funnier than anything those dumb actors had been doing.
Reverend Day whirled round on the men in the box.
"Call out the Brigade," he said to Cornelius. "Everyone knows their responsibilities; follow the Plan."
"Yes, sir," said Cornelius, and he ran out of there.
"How many of your men are left to me?" he asked Frederick.
"Nearly sixty," said Frederick.
"Assemble them at the church for the Holy Work. Then you come alone to the chapel and bring me that book as soon as our visitors arrive. You have one hour before the Work begins."
"What about the fire?" asked Frederick, nodding toward the flames shooting up the curtains.
"Let it burn. Let it all burn."
Frederick gestured for Dante to follow him and started out; the Reverend clamped a hand on Dante's arm.
"No," said the Reverend. "He stays with me."
Dante could see Frederick's jaw working; he was mad. He clicked his heels, nodded sharply, and left the booth. Reverend Day held out a hand to Dante; he giggled and snuggled up under his sheltering arm as they walked out of the box and down the mezzanine hall. Smoke rolled in around them filling the air, temperature rising from the spreading flames, but they never hurried their pace.
"How do you feel, Mr. Scruggs?"
"I feel good, sir. I feel real good."
"That's fine, boy. That's just fine," said Reverend Day, holding him closer as they started down the stairs. "It's going to be a glorious night."
chapter 16
When Frank mentioned the stolen rifles, Kanazuchi told him about the machine guns and it occurred to both of them that the warehouse would be a good place to start. A wind had come up, swirling dust, thickening the air. Bells were still ringing in the church tower, and as they slowly crept back toward the main street, small patrols of white shirts occasionally ran by carrying torches and weapons, heading for the center of town.
A red glow lit up the sky above that area, and they realized a fire had started to burn.
"Looks like the theater," said Frank, seeing white shirts pouring out into the street. "Eileen's in there."
"She will move away."
"To where? It spreads to those shanties, the whole town'll go up like kindling." Jacob missing, Eileen on the loose; shit, his whole plan was collapsing. Frank looked over and saw Kanazuchi studying him. "What?"
"May I offer words of advice?"
"I guess we know each other well enough."
"Events move in a flow. Picture water in a stream."
"Okay." What the hell was this, a lecture on nature appreciation?
"More water means greater force. Harder to resist."
"Like a current."
"Like a flood. Takes away everything in its path. Now; here: We are in the flood."
Frank saw a massive number of armed men assembling near the House of Hope—the same militia outfit he'd seen running around in the dark last night. He could make out Cornelius Moncrief striding around waving a rifle and shouting orders.
"So once you got your feet wet, it's better to jump in, is what you're saying," said Frank.
"Once started, it is better not to worry. The river will carry you. Trust in a positive outcome."
"Okay."
Over Kanazuchi's shoulder, Frank caught a glimpse of a white shirt sneaking up the alley behind them. Frank stood casually and swung the butt of his rifle like a baseball bat around the corner, smashing the man against the wall. He fell and lay still.
"Damn; it's working already," said Frank.
No more waiting for the right moment to cross; Main Street was crowded now. White shirts heading for the church at the end of town; a hundred torches burned there already, lighting up its dark face. The brigade of militia marched down the street toward their position, platoons peeling off to search every side street.
Searching for us, both men realized.
They lowered their weapons, waited for a rush of shirts to congest the street, then walked calmly across through the mix. No one took a run at them; the militia was still a quarter mile away and the eyes of the people passing were all focused on the church.
Reaching the alley, they broke into a run; Kanazuchi drew his sword as he took the lead. At the next intersection, a white shirt patrol turned the corner ahead of them; Kanazuchi ran right through the four men, the sword in his hands a blur, and before any of them could fire a shot, parts of three bodies hit the ground. Frank killed the fourth man with a single shot. He saw a severed hand still holding on to the torch.
Lights and activity ahead: the warehouse. A long line of white shirts crowded its broad front entrance, black shirts inside at a stack of crates, passing out a rifle and a box of bullets to each man that passed. Frank followed Kanazuchi to the rear door and they entered the warehouse.
White shirts swarmed over the interior; a chain of them relaying crates forward to the distribution area. Taking cover at the rear, ahead to their right they saw teams of men in black loading the machine guns onto the back of caissons; two of the four guns already being wheeled toward the front.
"Gatling guns," said Frank. "Shit. You weren't kidding."
"This is bad."
"Bad don't quite cover it."
"Can you work one of these guns?" asked Kanazuchi.
"Yup."
As they turned to go, two guards in black came through the door, pistols drawn; they reacted quickly, raising the guns to fire. Kanazuchi rolled to the floor and as he came to his knees the long knife flew between them and pinned one guard's forearm to the door. His finger pulled the trigger before the gun dropped; the bullet shot harmlessly into the ceiling. Kanazuchi killed him with the Grass Cutter before he could scream.
The second man had the drop on Frank; no time to raise the Henry, Frank spanked out his Colt and fired. The man went down but his single shot creased Frank's face, skidding across his cheek, chipping the bone. Blood slipped from the wound in freshets; pain seared his nerves. Frank raised a hand to it and realized the damage was slight.
But at the sharp report of the guns, all work in the warehouse stopped, a hundred eyes searching for the source. Kanazuchi yanked the wakizashi from the dead guard's arm and they ran out of the warehouse, crossed the open plaza, and sprinted down an alley. Saw torches coming toward them from Main Street and veered right. Flames ignited the sky ahead; deep shades of orange and red, the fire spreading. Behind them men from the warehouse spilled down the side streets, the search intensifying.
Frank stumbled trying to keep pace with Kanazuchi; he had the night vision of a cat. Fifty steps ahead, Kanazuchi pushed him into a cramped chicken coop, hens scattering. Frank gasped for air; Kanazuchi closed his eyes, breathed deeply, drew his energy inward, and listened. One group rushed by outside, shouting to another. A minute later, a second group passed them, heading in the other direction.
The roar and crackle of the fire advanced on them; distant screams twisted in the wind, crashes as a ruined building came down. Clusters of ash drifted, black snowflakes. A dim red glow lit the coop's interior; Frank could just make out the hard line of Kanazuchi's face, staring out at the night. Out of habit, Frank reloaded the Colt. He looked up at another sound, shocking, completely unexpected.
Children singing. A chorus of voices.
"What the hell..." whispered Frank.
Kanazuchi instantly alert. "Come."
They left the hiding place and followed the voices down the alley to the next street; ahead of them, marching together, herded by white shirts ringed around them, at least a hundred children, the ones Kanazuchi had seen in the holding pen, singing "Old McDonald Had a Farm." A few of the small ones crying, frightened; most of them skipping along, strings of them holding hands, laughing happily.
"Only kids I've seen here," said Frank.
For the first time, Frank saw anger in Kanazuchi's eyes.
"What are they doing?" asked Frank.
"Taking them to the church. They are all going to the church."
Miles before they reached the town, they saw the fire. The blistering pace Jack set in the lead spread them out over a quarter of a mile, but as he drew within sight of the guardhouse and gate, he slowed and waited for Walks Alone to catch him. Off to their right, strangled formations of rock glowed in the moonlight.
As she drew alongside, Jack whispered, "Three men."
"To the right," she said.
Jack nodded.
Doyle and the others still lagged a half mile behind. Jack and Walks Alone skirted the gate and rode on until the rocks were behind them, then doubled back, tied the horses near the entrance to a narrow passage, and entered on foot, drawing their knives.
In a clearing at the center of the formation, they found three horses and the cold remains of a campfire. Using gestures to communicate, they split up and stalked silently toward two openings at the guardhouse end of the clearing. Jack scaled a high rock to survey while Walks Alone waited below for direction.
Three men wearing loose black clothes stationed across a hundred-yard stretch at the edge of the rocks. Sniper rifles in hand. One held a pair of field glasses, watching Doyle and the others arrive at the guardhouse. Jack pointed Walks Alone toward the one to the left, jumped down softly, and moved in on the man in the middle.
Walks Alone tossed a handful of pebbles against the rocks to the man's left. As he turned, she ran in from the right and slashed his throat with one downward stroke of her knife. The man slammed her back against the rocks with a powerful blow, raised a hand to his throat, and realized the artery had been cut. Calmly pressing one hand to the spurting wound, he pulled his pistol with the other. She ducked under his arm before he could fire, plunged the blade in below the center of his ribs and ripped upward. Letting go of the handle, she covered the man's mouth with one hand and wrestled the gun from him with the other. He sank slowly to the dirt and died.
The guard in the middle heard faint sounds of the scuffle to his left, then something scraped the rocks behind him; all he saw was a deadly descending shadow.
Walks Alone joined Jack at the center position; together they approached the third guard. All they found was a pile of cigarette butts in the sand. Both sprinted back to the clearing; the guard was already on his horse, riding toward the passage. Walks Alone threw her knife; it clattered off the rock near the man's head.
They ran after him, losing ground; by the time they reached their horses, the black shirt was back on the road, riding low, heading for The New City. Jack pulled his rifle from the saddle, ran forward, steadied the barrel against a rock, and drew a bead on the disappearing figure.
Doyle and the other men were examining the telegraph key in the guardhouse when they heard two rifle shots
crack the night. They ran out to the road; Jack and Walks Alone galloped toward them out of the darkness.
"After us," shouted Jack. "One of them got away."
Both of them covered in blood.
Jack and Walks Alone wheeled and took off down the road.
"Jack's back," said Doyle.
"I couldn't help but notice," answered Innes.
"Lionel," said Doyle, "perhaps you ought to wait here.... "
"By myself?" said Lionel, launching himself into the sad-die like a veteran. "Are you crazy? Let's ride."
They followed Jack's hell-bent pace. The sky grew red; the violent bouncing of the saddles blurred their vision, giving the horizon a shimmering miragelike surreality, until The New City itself finally came into view; the entire southern half of the town was engulfed in fire, wind gusts fanning sheets of flame to towering heights. On the north side of Main Street, most of the buildings remained intact.
They heard church bells ringing, and at the far end of that street, for the first time they saw the black tower stark against the sky, lit up by the inferno, marbled in a dozen hues of swirling red reflections. A sea of torches swarmed around its base above an undulating mass of white that they realized was a crowd of people.
A second gate blocked the road in a fence that ringed the settlement; Jack and Walks Alone steadied their horses' strides on approach and cleared it with a jump. Two black-shirted guards jumped out of the guardhouse and took aim at their backs. Presto and Innes quickly dismounted and cut the guards down with a volley before they could shoot.
"This is it!" shouted Innes, running forward, opening the gate while Presto covered him.
"Leave the horses here," said Doyle, climbing down.
"But they've already gone on," said Lionel, pointing to Main Street where Jack and Walks Alone had ridden from view.
"We'll need a way back out," said Doyle, ending the discussion. "Tie them here."
They secured the horses to the gate and armed themselves.
"Lionel," said Doyle, "why don't you wait for us here as well...."
