Railroad!

V4:Chapter One-Haunting and Haunted

2012-02-20T06:24:00.001-05:00

Volume Four

The Size of Things

Chapter One

Haunting and Haunted

In which Dodger angers the ghosts of his past and present.

He was little again. Not just small, but young. Very young. Perhaps ten? Maybe twelve? His mother was there too, only much younger—and not to mention alive. She’d died years ago, and yet here she was, fresh as a daisy. A fine vision of miserable beauty in her all-black attire. Which, after he thought about it, must’ve put him at twelve years old after all. For he was twelve when his father died, twelve when his mother first donned her mourning clothes, never to take them off again.

Twelve was the age when everything went to hell.

Little Rodger sat at his usual place at the table and listened as his mother gave him a speech. Not just any speech, either. Not about being good to others or not climbing the neighbor’s trees so he could get to the best apples at the top, or the simple fact that pie was not a breakfast food.

No.

This was The Speech.

“So I’ll have to marry him, hon,” she ended.

She smiled, softly, like she did the first time this had happened. (This had happened once already, hadn’t it?) Rodger furrowed his brow at her, because he was twelve years old and didn’t understand the way things really worked. Any boy of his age would’ve done the same, because that’s what twelve-year-old boys do. His mother tried her best to explain it all to little Rodger, but twelve just doesn’t process things the same way as, say, fifteen or twenty or thirty.

A boy of twelve views life through a peculiar myopic lens. A band so narrow you can fit no more than a few hours—at the most—inside. When dealing with timelines, there are only two instances that make sense to him: days gone by and now. There is no tomorrow. There is no next week or next year or the span of a lifetime. There is only what has passed and what is happening. There isn’t even a last week or last year. Memories from a week ago are as distant as a year ago, and while there might be the oncoming holiday or birthday, those days aren’t viewed with the long scope of maturity. Six months might as well be two days in the grand scheme of things, simply because it isn’t here and now. Why worry about the sun rising tomorrow when there is so much sunlight left today?

But for Mrs. Dodger—soon to become Mrs. Bolinas—everything hinged on that fateful tomorrow. It was hard to feed a growing boy when the bank took everything you owned to pay your late husband’s overdue debts. It was tough to keep your chin up in town when everyone gossiped behind your back about the mysterious circumstances surrounding his death. It was difficult to find a way to make ends meet, especially when those ends were slipping through your tired fingers.

Marriage wasn’t just the easiest solution, it was the only solution.

“But I don’t like Mr. Bolinas,” little Rodger said.

“That makes two of us,” his mother said, with a sad laugh.

“Then why marry up with him, Ma?”

Her mouth formed a hard line as she considered what to say. “Because he’s a respectable man. He has money and a nice home. He can take care of us.”

“Do you love him like you did Daddy?”

She did a double-take so comical, Rodger almost giggled. “What a thing to ask! Why, I’ve a mind to-”

“Don’t you love him at all?” he asked, softer this time, the humor of the moment take away by the first sign of tears in her eyes.

His mother said nothing for a long time. She just sat and stared at him, those soft eyes so full of tears and misery and hopelessness. Just sat and stared and said nothing. After a bit of this, young Rodger started to squirm. He blamed himself for her sudden silence, feeling that he had somehow wounded her with nothing but a question. And truth was he had, but not intentionally. For the human heart is a complex thing, an ageless beast that gnaws the bones of endless yesterdays, tracks down the heady scent of tomorrows, all while keeping one hoof pressed hard against the throat of today.

They sat like that for what seemed an eternity. She staring, he squirming, neither saying a single thing. Though there was much to say, and even more that would be said in days to come. Painful words. Hurtful things. Truths that, once spoken, could never be taken back. Rodger wanted to say something now, to ease her pain. Apologize? Blame his stupid mouth or his stupid tongue? Anything to make her smile. His mother beat him to it, opening her mouth to speak. Yet instead of her sweet voice answering that single unanswered question, the sound of a whistle issued forth from her parted lips.

The whistle of a train, to be specific.

A very specific whistle from a very specific train.

Dodger awoke with a start. He sat up, soaked in sweat, and looked around his darkened room with a furtive glance. His quarters in the Sleipnir were a far cry from his family dining table. As were his mid-thirties a far piece from twelve.

A dream. Of course. It was just a bad dream.

For the fourth morning in a row.

The latest ingredient in his boiling pot of problems.

Dodger pulled apart a few slats of his blinds, just to make sure they were still traveling. The Sleipnir’s movements were so smooth, so imperceptible, that oftentimes Dodger forgot they were on a moving train until the whistle announced that they were approaching their chosen destination.

Speaking of whistles, didn’t he wake to the sound of one?

Over his thoughts, there came the muffled voice of Boon. “Dodger? Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” he croaked at the door. Dodger coughed to clear the worry from his voice. “Come on in.”

“I don’t want to disturb-”

“Yes you do. And you have. So come on already.”

The restless spirit drifted into the room, passing through the door with a light crackle and a practiced ease. “I’m glad you’re well. I was concerned.”

“What are you up to out there?”

Boon twisted the buttons of his ghostly vest between his big fingers. “I was just making a security round.”

“I’ve told you, Boon, you don’t have to do that. I’m a light sleeper. And besides, that’s why I make a security roster.”

The security roster was born of Dodger’s initial return to the Sleipnir once he decided to take the job. That embarrassing moment when he approached the driver all but sunning himself on the back of the engine car rather than keeping an eye out for danger. Danger that was, as a matter of fact, creeping right up behind the not-dead man. The roster was an exercise in compliance, a chance to teach the crew to become more aware of their surroundings by assigning them the responsibility of actually watching said surroundings for a certain length of time.

The roster, however, didn’t go over well with the troops. Boon was all for the shifts—and who could blame him, for the ghost had nothing better to do. But Dodger couldn’t place the ghost on the schedule without giving his presence away, something he promised Boon he wouldn’t do. Ched agreed to work the hours Dodger scheduled him, but put little effort into maintaining that agreement. Mr. Torque laughed when Dodger asked what shifts the metal butler wanted. Dodger had no idea what Lelanea did with her copy, and he couldn’t pin down Feng long enough to ask his opinion on the matter, so that fuse fizzled out as well.

Dodger kept his hopes up, convinced all they needed was a firm hand and a good example to follow.

“I know I’m not on the roster, officially,” Boon said. “But I thought perhaps I could fill in now and again. Just for old time’s sake.”

“Wash,” Dodger said, “how is Ched going to learn responsibility if you keep doing his shifts for him?”

The ghost fidgeted under Dodger’s question. “The truth of the matter is, well, I lost the hour of patrol to him in a game of chance. I think he cheated. He was looking at my cards, for starters.”

Dodger held back the urge to remind the ghost that the only way to play cards with him was to physically play both hands. This meant you had to look at the man’s cards. How else could one hold a game with a spirit that couldn’t actually touch anything? “Then I’m going to have to ask you guys to stop using your shifts for currency. It shouldn’t be seen as a chore or a punishment. It’s just a way to-”

“I heard you mumbling from the hallway,” Boon confessed.

“Mumbling?” Dodger asked. “I must’ve been talking in my sleep.” He ran a pale hand through his wild hair. “Geesh, I haven’t done that since I was a kid. What did I say?”

“I couldn’t make it all out. Just mumbles. Like you were talking to someone about something dark, somber. In your dreams, perhaps?”

“Yeah, and it was a pretty somber dream.”

“Must’ve been a heck of dream, lad, to get you so worked up.”

Though much of it had condensed into a cool layer of grunge, Dodger realized he was still wet with sweat. “It was.”

“Nightmare?”

“No,” Dodger lied. “But it was a little unusual because, well, not only haven’t I talked in my sleep since I was a kid, I haven’t dreamed since then either. I mean, I guess I dream—everyone does—but I never remember them. And I don’t think they’ve ever been that vivid.”

The ghost didn’t reply. He just stared at Dodger with a raised brow and a slight look of concern in his eyes. Or was it alarm?

“What time is it, anyway?” Dodger asked, shrugging off the spectral concern and pulling on a clean shirt.

“Six,” Boon said.

Dodger stopped dressing long enough to give Boon a stare of disappointment. “Six? I thought I told you to wake me at five.”

“You did, but I thought it would be best if you slept. Considering everything you have been through in the last few days.”

It was true that Dodger did indeed need the rest. After leaving Thad and his men behind at the farm, Dodger slipped into a routine of sleepless nights and grumpy days. But that wasn’t the point. This defiance wouldn’t do. Boon was a nice enough man—well, a nice enough ghost—but niceties weren’t what Dodger needed to do his job. Discipline. Regulation. Compliance. These were all dirty words in his realm of experience, but they were the only way to make sure the Sleipnir’s defenses remained tight. Someone needed to be in charge. In other words, someone had to be the bastard.

“Boon, I appreciate your opinion and your help. I know you like to think of us as partners, and so do I. I want you to know that I value your input. I really do.”

“Well, then, I don’t know what to say. I’m glad you appreciate my help. Thank you. It’s nice to feel needed.” Boon seemed taken aback by this sudden outpouring of affection. Which was just enough to set him at ease for the harsh words to come.

“And you are needed. Gladys would’ve killed me in that mine without your help. And your insider information about the crew has made my transition into the job almost too easy. But …” Dodger let that single word linger. “But I am the chief of security on the Sleipnir now. Not you. And it’s my ass on the line if something happens to the professor and his crew. Not yours. I consider us partners, true enough, but I also need for you to recognize when a request is not just a request, but a command. From a superior.”

To his credit, Boon received his dressing down with the air of a professional. He listened to Dodger without interrupting. And once the worst had passed, Boon tipped his head as if in understanding, as if in thanks. From all perspectives, the ghost seemed to take it rather well.

“Are we done here?” Boon asked, pausing a moment before he added, “Sir?”

Dodger sighed. “Good gravy, Wash, I didn’t mean you had to address-”

Are we done here, sir? Boon asked inside Dodger’s mind, placing an undue amount of emphasis on that last word.

“Boon, please don’t take it the wrong way. It’s that you let me oversleep every day for the past week. I usually don’t have a problem waking up before dawn, but here lately I’ve needed a little help. Your help.” He tried for a pleasant smile, but even without a mirror, he knew it looked what it was. Forced.

Perhaps your late rising is a sign that you needed the rest more than you think?

Dodger had trouble arguing with that level of logic. “Be that as it may, I have to know I can rely on you to follow instructions.”

The temperature of the room seemed to drop ten degrees as Washington Boon gave Rodger Dodger a heart-stopping glare. A glare that said, “Haven’t I already proven that by saving your life on more than one occasion?”

Dodger couldn’t be sure, but he swore he heard the sound of grinding teeth.

I’ll do as told from now on. Sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, sir, I have things that need attending to before we arrive at Sunnyvale, and I do believe Feng is almost here with your breakfast. Sir.

Feng. That mysterious man of the East was at it again. With a timing that would’ve made Pavlov weep to witness, Dodger’s stomach roiled in response to nothing but the name of the train’s cook.

“How does he do that?” Dodger asked.

But his question went unanswered, for the ghost was already gone.

“Well that’s just great,” Dodger said as he dressed. “What a way to start your morning. Piss off your friendly neighborhood haint.”

A knock rose from the door, taking his attention from the gravity of the moment. Dodger went to his door and flung it open, praying that it was Boon come to demand an apology (one Dodger would willingly give) before he remembered that the ghost couldn’t touch anything, therefore the knock was from someone else.

A certain Celestial someone.

NEXT UP:

CHAPTER TWO

UNEXPECTED DIALOGUE

In which Dodger has more than a word with Feng.

<<BACK

IT:Number Four-Pure Harvest

2012-02-13T06:32:00.001-05:00

Intermission Tales

Number Four

Pure Harvest (by Jaidis Shaw)

In which Dodger lends Ched an ear.

The professor’s story was so in-depth it stalled the game, which was fine by Dodger. He was tired anyways, and although he enjoyed listening to the crew tell their tales of intrigue, he was starting to get a hankering for his bunk. That and he was about up to his ear holes in wagered time owed to Lelanea. Who taught that gal how to play cards?

“That was a beautiful story, uncle,” Lelanea said.

“Thank you, my dear,” Professor Dittmeyer said. “And now I do believe it’s your turn, Ched.”

“Are you shure you’re ready?” Ched said.

The group shared a moment of silence as they stared at the driver. The moment stretched into a minute. The minute bordered on two.

“Well?” Lelanea asked.

“I ashked if you were ready,” Ched said.

“For Odin’s sake,” the doc said, “of course we are. Now stop stalling and start telling. Chop! Chop!”

“It’sh pretty grueshome,” Ched added, trying his best to waggle his almost frozen eyebrows.

Dodger gave a tired sigh. It did feel like the driver was stalling.

“Gruesome?” Lelanea asked. “You mean more gruesome than a sasquatch tearing people apart alive?”

Ched nodded solemly.

“Sasquatch?” the doc asked. “When did we talk about sasquatches?”

“Dodger shared a story with us,” Lelanea said.

The doc’s eyes lit with wonder. “Really? I’d like to hear that one! Would you mind sharing it again?”

“I’ve already had my turn,” Dodger said. “Let Ched have a go. Unless he really is just stalling.”

“I ain’t shtallin’,” Ched said. “I jusht wanna make shure y’all are prepared.”

“How could we be any less prepared?” the doc asked. “Tell your sordid tale before I lose my patience.”

“All right.” Ched hooked his thumbs in the straps of his overalls and leaned back in his chair. “Shettle in folksh, caushe thish ish about to get bloody.”

Dodger rubbed his tired eyes, wondering if listening to the not-dead man’s gruesome tale just before bed was a good idea. Too late now, he supposed. In for a penny, in for a heapin’ helpin’ of whatever blood drenched gore Ched was about to shovel on his tired mind.

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Pure Harvest

By Jaidis Shaw

Wyatt swung his legs over his horse and jumped to the dusty ground below. Removing a pair of goggles from his pocket, he eyed the impending storm briefly before slipping them into place. He hated wearing the obnoxious goggles but he did have to admit that they had kept his eyes protected in more than one sand storm. Ace—who took his name from the cards Wyatt won him with—stamped the ground and gave a nervous snort as Wyatt began tying the reins through his belt loops. With a quick glance at the sand that was almost upon them, he lifted the leather duster from his shoulders, wrapping it around his horse companion’s head the best he could. The loud hiss of sand pelting the worn leather was deafening as Wyatt held the coat steady as best as he could. The flesh on his legs began to burn; the worn denim not thick enough to stop the sand’s furious assault.

The sand storm passed almost as quickly as it had appeared and Wyatt lowered the duster, shaking it free of the sand that had collected. It was by no means the first time he had been caught in an unpredictable storm, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He would give anything for some fresh water to bathe in to wash the grit from his pores, something other than hard dirt to sleep upon, and heaven forbid some fresh grain for his horse. Removing the goggles from his raw skin and untying his horse’s reins, he brushed his clothes taking care to remove his boots and pour out the sand that filled them. After a thorough brush down, he moved to inspect his horse and removed what sand he could. He made a mental note to pick up a brush for his horse at the next town he came too. Mounting his horse once again, he continued on his way in search of the new start he was seeking.

Wyatt urged his horse into motion once more in search of civilization. His rations were dangerously low and he emptied the last of his canteen hours ago. Whispering a silent prayer to the Gods above to provide him a place to rest, he wondered if he had made the right choice to head this way, leaving behind the comfort of home. Pondering the life that had been taken from him, he hadn’t noticed the outline of buildings drawing closer in the distance. Wyatt urged his horse into a gallop, eager to make it to the town awaiting him.

Pulling on the reins to slow his horse, Wyatt looked at the run-down buildings before him. Trotting through the seemingly deserted town, Wyatt wondered where the people were. He knew he wasn’t alone as he could feel the eyes staring at him from darkened windows. A door creaking open to the left grabbed his attention. From the shadows a tall man appeared, sizing Wyatt up with black eyes.

“Howdy,” the man said, his gruff voice rumbling around the cigar hanging from the corner of his cracked lips. “We don’t get too many travelers through these parts. What brings you to our fine town?”

Wyatt tried pulling his horse to a stop but the stud gave a nervous snort before taking hesitant steps backward. He yanked the reins down with authority until the horse reluctantly stopped. Facing the strange man, Wyatt took note of his horse’s hesitancy as the hairs on his own neck stood on end in warning.

“Good day, sir,” Wyatt said while nodding his head in greeting. He hopped down from his horse onto his aching feet. “I was just passing through the area when I came upon this town. Perhaps there is a place where I could rest for the night?”

The man stepped out into the street, the sun illuminating his weathered skin. “Just passing through? Where you headed?” He removed the soggy cigar from his lips and spit in the dust, a dribble of spit glistening on his chin.

“No place in mind. Just travelling is all. I wouldn’t want to be a burden though sir. If there is nowhere I can stay here I’ll just be on my way.” Wyatt said as he prepared to mount his horse.

“No need to be in a hurry lad. We have plenty of room here if you’d like to stay the night. In fact, you’re just in time for our big Harvest celebration. I’ll have Matilda show you to the stables. I’m sure your horse could use some fresh grain.”

“Much obliged.” Wyatt nodded his head in appreciation as he let out a sigh of relief. It was going to be great to rest his aching feet.

“No need to call me sir. The name is Chuck Dennison. Matilda!” Chuck hollered the name again before heading back into the building from which he came; the door swinging in his wake.

A young girl emerged from across the street, her head held high in pride. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled back in a blue ribbon that matched the flowers on her faded dress. Taking the reins from his hands without so much as a word, she turned and led his horse towards the stables. Stepping through the doorway to the stable, Wyatt waited as his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness.

“You can keep your horse in this stall,” Matilda said, “and there is a bucket of grain over there. You’re welcome to it. There is fresh hay in the stall and grooming supplies are along that wall over there.” Matilda pointed to a nearby wall. “I’ll be in the building across the street getting ready for the celebration. Come on over once you’re done and I’ll show you to your room.”

“Thank you,” Wyatt said. “I really appreciate your hospitality miss.” Wyatt walked over to the brushes and selected one. Using long, slow strokes he began brushing the grit from his horse’s coat. As casually as he could, he asked, “What is this Harvest celebration all about anyway?”

“The Harvest is a time of faith, purity and celebration. Every six months the town comes together and a name is selected at random. Everyone in the town is included and it is a great honor if you’re chosen. To be chosen means that God himself has selected you for the sole purpose of saving the rest of us from damnation. Not only does it guarantee the selected a place in Heaven but allows everyone to consume God’s purity. Can you imagine?” Matilda stepped towards the sunbeams streaming through the doorway, allowing their warmth to caress her face.

From this angle she looked just like his daughter. He would’ve done anything to have one more moment with her. But it was too late for such foolish wishes. Far too late.

“How is it possible to consume God’s purity?” Wyatt asked. He stopped brushing his horse as he awaited her response. The young girl looked so peaceful and content standing there, the sun casting a halo around her, but there was something nagging at Wyatt that made him think otherwise.

The young girl smiled and said, “By eating it of course. It is a feast after all.”

Matilda disappeared into the sunlight leaving Wyatt with his mouth agape. Eating it? She couldn’t mean literally … could she? Wyatt thought to himself. A soft neigh brought his attention back to reality. Bending down to pick up the brush that had slipped from his grasp at some point, he heard voices approaching the stables.

“Who do you want selected boss?” a low voice asked.

Two figures entered the stable and went to a box hidden in the corner. Wyatt recognized one as the man from earlier named Chuck. Remaining crouched behind his horse, Wyatt watched as the man pulled a burlap cloth off of a wooden box and used a key around his neck to unlock the tarnished lock.

“I think we should go young this time, Ted,” Chuck said. “It’s about time we had some tender meat for once. Have you noticed the older they are the tougher the meat?”

The man known as Ted smiled, showing his rotten teeth.

“We could select Olivia. She sure is ripe boss; fresh from the vine.” Ted licked his lips in anticipation.

“No. I was thinking a little younger this time. God came to me in a dream and told me it needs to be Matilda. You get to work on filling the box and I’ll go let the town know it’s time.” Chuck turned and left his companion to his work.

“Sure thing boss.” Ted removed a stack of parchment from the inside of the box and began scribbling on them, one by one, and placed them in the box.

Wyatt couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Were they really eating folks? Though a religious reason may be partially to blame for this insanity, it appeared the both Chuck and Ted had darker reasons for their love of human flesh. Who gave them the right to fill the town with this false notion? Wyatt glanced at his horse and weighed his options. He could probably wait for the man to leave, mount his horse and be gone without anyone noticing. But remembering the peace on Matilda’s face gave him pause. He couldn’t save his own daughter when it mattered most but maybe he could save someone else’s little girl. Taking a Colt pistol from the holster around his waist, Wyatt crept to the man focused on his chore.

“Psst,” Wyatt hissed.

“What the …?” Ted said as the pistol’s butt slammed into his head.

Wyatt caught the heavy man as he slumped forward and lowered him to the ground.

“Sorry partner,” he said. “That’s gonna leave a mark.” Wyatt took a piece of paper from the box and read the name. Matilda Walters. Selecting another slip from the box he glanced at the familiar name. Matilda Walters. “Bastards think you can rig the selection. I’ll fix that.” Removing all of the names from the box, Wyatt started writing a new name on the pieces of parchment and quickly put them into the box. He wasn’t sure the exact number of slips that needed to be in the box but didn’t think that the people would stop to count. After adding the remaining pieces, Wyatt secured the box with the lock that was lying beside it. He didn’t want to take too much time and be caught in the act. Hoisting the box in the air, Wyatt walked out into the street and into the gathering crowd.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Chuck began, “the time has come for another Harvest celebration. God came to me in a dream last night and reassured me that this next selection would be the purist yet. He has personally laid his hand upon one of us, blessing the one chosen for the great feast tonight. Bring forth the box Ted.” Chuck said, searching the crowd for his partner.

“Here it is,” Wyatt said as he approached the center of the circle where Chuck awaited. “Ted asked me to bring it for you sir.” Placing the box on the ground at Chuck’s feet, Wyatt turned and drifted back into the parted crowd. The energy surged through the crowd; a wild hunger reflected in the eyes focused on the wooden box.

“Thank you. As you all know, once the name is selected and read aloud, the feast may begin. May whomever is selected bless us all with God’s ever lasting peace and purity.” Chuck kneeled at the box and took the key from around his neck. Opening the box, careful to not reveal the names, he reached into the boxes depth and rummaged for a slip. The crowd pulled in tighter as he pulled out a folded piece of parchment, all eager to hear the honored name. “The name that God has chosen today is …” He stood, unfolded the paper and glanced at the name. “Wait … this can’t be.”

“What is the name?” a man to the left asked.

“Read it!” a woman yelled from the back.

“Who has God chosen?” the crowd cried, surging forward in unison, trying to get a glance at the name.

Matilda stepped up and snatched the paper from Chuck’s shaking grasp, unable to resist.

“The chosen is …Chuck Dennison!” she yelled above the roaring crowd and glanced over at the man trembling before her.

Chuck glanced around the crowd until his gaze settled on something at the back; a silhouette sitting upon a horse. Wyatt nodded his head in salute as the crowd converged on their prey, a scream piercing the desert heat.

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Jaidis Shaw currently resides in a small town located in South Carolina with her husband and her beautiful daughter. When not reading or writing, Jaidis fills the position of Book Tour Coordinator for Nurture Your Books™, maintains her blog Juniper Grove and loves encouraging her daughter to let her imagination run wild.

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Thanks to everyone who participated in the intermission tales.

Join us next week when regular Railroad! updates return.

NEXT UP:

VOLUME FOUR

THE SIZE OF THINGS

In which Dodger and the crew get underway.

<<BACK FORWARD>>

IT:Number Three-Those Beautiful Shoes

2012-02-06T07:19:00.006-05:00

Intermission Tales

Number Three

Those Beautiful Shoes (by Gregory L Hall)

In which Dodger hears a story from his boss man.

Dodger held his cards in front of his face. It wasn’t that he was so much interested in getting an up close and personal peek at his hand, as he was trying hard not to let Ched see the wide smirk he bore.

“Go ahead,” Ched said, snapping up his cards. “Laugh it up. Like you ain’t never took shweet on a gal you never met.”

“Aw, poor thing,” Lelanea said. “He can dish it out but he can’t take it.”

“I really don’t care. I got no shame left, ash you know.”

“It’s all very true,” Professor Dittmeyer said.

The table of players all turned to find the professor peering over Dodger’s shoulder.

“He had little shame when I took him on,” the doc said. “And I’m afraid drinking himself into oblivion didn’t help matters much.”

“Heya, doc,” Dodger said. “You” wanna sit in?”

“I’m not very good at this game.” The doc poked a finger over Dodger’s shoulder, tapping on the cards one by one. “Is it my understanding that those three cards with the A’s in the corner are worth a certain amount of points?”

Dodger winced.

Lelanea and Ched looked to one another before tossing their hands into the center and unanimously declaring their intention to fold.

“Oh my,” the professor said. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all, uncle,” Lelanea said. She patted the space beside of her. “Sit here. We were just taking turns sharing stories.”

The doc rubbed his hands together excitedly and sat. “Stories, you say? Well that I can do. Who was up next?”

“It’s was Ched’s turn,” Dodger said.

“Why don’t you go, shir?” Ched asked.

“Are you sure?” The doc asked. “I don’t want to usurp your turn.”

“I like to think of it ash shaving the besht for lasht.”

“Well in that case I better make it a good one.”

Dodger grabbed the cards and shuffled while his boss man set about telling his tale.

********************************

Those Beautiful Shoes

By Gregory L Hall

The old man tried to muster up a grin as he stared into his son’s eyes. They were so bright and full of hope, whereas the old man’s were not. He had lost that long ago.

“Now you know what to do, yes? Do we need to go over it one more time?”

“No, Papa. I have it all stored in my brain. My big, big brain.”

The old man laughed and patted the boy on his head. He checked the straps on the large shoes one more time before he rose. His knees groaned but that didn’t matter much now. They would be here soon. And he would be dead.

A whistling noise signaled the shortage of time as hot bursts of steam filled the upper sections of the laboratory. The old man looked up with sadness. His son looked up in wonderment.

“Papa, do you really have to turn everything off? I love your workshop. I want it to stay.”

The old man stood in silence, lingering for a moment too long, allowing his son to see the anguish he tried so hard to hide. When he heard the boy gasp in empathy, he quickly spoke up to deflect his mistake.

“I’m just shutting things down for a little while. Remember I told you about the bad men? Well, we wouldn’t them to know how to work my machines, would we? They are not smart like us. If I shut everything down, they can only stare at all these wonderful things. They wouldn’t have the first clue on how to operate them, no?”

The boy giggled with pride, his father’s weak moment already forgotten. “No, they wouldn’t. That’s a good way to keep our secrets, right, Papa? I like that we have so many secrets between us. That’s why we’re the best of friends!”

The boy hugged his father, catching the old man off balance. A smile spread across his tired wrinkled face. He was so proud of his little man.

Pounding on the outer doors shattered the magical moment.

The boy’s eyes flashed with fear.

The old man simply nodded with false confidence and walked to the last of his great machines. “Now please climb to the upper level and deactivate the last of the power units. I will get these few over here.”

The pounding increased at the far end of the building but the old man ignored the threat. He turned the final iron wheel until it locked in place as the front doors crashed inwards.

“Now to the rooftop, my beautiful boy. You must be ready to go.”

“But Papa, I don’t want to leave you. I want to help fight the bad men.”

“You are very brave. Strong and brave but these men, their kind, we can’t fight them. Not in that way. We must use our heads; our intelligence is what will defeat them. Not our fists.” He gestured to the metallic case on the upper tier. “Now please do as we discussed. We came up with a perfect plan, yes?”

The boy nodded reluctantly. He did as told and climbed the ladder with the case. The cumbersome shoes slowed him down but he was a strong and agile boy. He gave one final look back to his father before disappearing through the roof hatch. A crash reverberated down the hallway and the old man rubbed his throbbing temples. The sutures held, so he slowly turned to face his foes. He didn’t notice the roof top door remained open.

A dozen ragged men, covered in the filth of the land and reeking of their unrepentant sins marched into the laboratory. The old man stood his ground as they spread out around him, cutting off any chance of escape.

Their leader- the cruelest soul in the county- a man named Titus, stepped forward. He milked an arrogant grin as he slapped a heavy piece of hickory against his palm. “Guess you know why we’re here. People all over this territory talk about how smart you are. Of all the fancy gadgets and machines you’ve built. Things you’ve thought of to help make life easier for folks.” The gravel in his throat rattled as he spit on the stone floor. “Well, these people don’t deserve to have things made easier for them. Unless I say so.”

“You have no right,” the old man said. “You have no claims to my work!”

“Wrong, old doc. I own Red Rock and everything for a hundred miles in every direction. Even you know that. And that means I also own you. Now, show me all these mind boggling gifts you’ve made me. You got a carriage that don’t need no horse? A gun that can shoot a stick of dynamite two hundred yards? I heard you can even make people fly in the air like oil gushing out of a hot well.”

The old man held his poker face. “I have not invented anything worth noting. All of my experiments wind up as failures. I am just a foolish dreamer who’s run out of time.”

“Well, I agree with the running out of time part.” Titus signaled for his men to post up at each machine. “But here’s what my intellect tells me, Mr. Genius Man. If you were smart enough to build all these fancy machines in the first place, you probably aren’t the failure you claim to be. Now, fire these engines and machines up and show me what you’re making.”

“I can’t. I have dismantled them. They no longer work. Did you think I wouldn’t hear of your coming here? My work will never fall into your hands, Titus.”

A thug jumped on either side of the elder and grabbed his frail arms. Titus swung the hickory back, paused for a second to savor his enjoyment and then slugged his target in the gut. The blow dropped the inventor to his knees. A cough and a wheeze spilled blood out over the old man’s lips.

“Well, if you won’t turn these machines back on,” Titus said, “I guess it’s up to us to figure out how to do it. You ain’t the only big brain around here.” Titus waved to the various units. “Boys, start pulling some of these levers. Turn them wheels. Let’s crank up these useless piles of cow dung and see what they do!”

The old man let his head drop, not as much in anguish as exhaustion. He was so tired. He was so empty. But everything would be better soon. His only son escaped, and that was all that mattered.

The men clamored and banged around the great machines like fire ants, searching for clues as to how to activate secrets well hidden. They loosened the grip of jammed wheels and spun them back unleashing rattles and hums. Levers were pulled downward and large buttons were pushed multiple times as if the repetition would override any delays. Still, outside of the scattered noises and vibrations, no magic flooded out from the laboratory.

Titus leaned into the old man’s face, his breath foul and wet. “I’m getting bored here. And that’s never good because then my mind starts wandering, coming up with inventive ideas myself. Wonder how your knee caps would react to an experiment with my hickory?”

“Hey, boss!” a gang member yelled down from the upper levels. “There’s like a metal ring I can grab that’s attached to a pin. Should I give it a yank?”

“I got one on my machine too!” another thug shouted.

Titus grinned, searching for any tells on the old man’s face.

The inventor broke eye contact.

“I’m guessing you’ll each find one, boys!” Titus shouted. “Smart guess says we just found the locks the old doc thought we wouldn’t. Pull out those pins, boys. We’re about to make some real noise.”

The men eagerly did as ordered. Within seconds the laboratory shook from the released energy into the mighty machines. One of the thugs happily turned to his boss, celebrating their triumph. His face evaporated in a concentrated blast of hot steam. Titus recoiled in shock. Then he watched helplessly as blast after blast wiped out his gang. They dropped scalded to the floor and the catwalks, some with their torsos melted, others with red globs coloring their bleached skulls.

“What in holy hell—what did you do, you old devil?” Titus howled. “You set me up! You set my men up!”

The old man revealed his last saved smile. “I told you. You will never have my work.”

Titus grabbed him and in one fluid motion, put a pistol to his head. The gunshot echoed above the steam bursts like a mine explosion over a fading train whistle.

“No!”

Titus spun around and looked up at the ceiling. A small boy peeked through the open roof hatch. The pistol fired a second shot but the little figure ducked back out of sight. Titus ran like a crazed bull to the upper level and grabbed the ladder in his huge sweaty hands. He launched himself through the tight opening to find the youngster fiddling with oversized shoes.

“You stop what you’re doing right there, boy.” Titus growled as he leveled the gun again. “Them shoes, whatever they do there, belongs to me. My property. I’m not above putting a bullet in your head just like I done your daddy.”

The boy did not move for a long moment. Then he quickly reached down and pulled a cord. Smoke and flame erupted, making the rooftop shake like an earthquake. Titus tumbled backwards as the boy lifted into the air. Higher and higher he rose. Titus pulled the trigger until his gun was empty. The final bullet struck the boy in the leg.

But the boy was not hurt. There was no pain. He cradled the case his father gave him and a clumsy smile covered his angelic face. As he disappeared into the cloudy night sky, his big brain reviewed his landing spot. Right outside the caverns where his Papa built the second laboratory. There he would put the contents of the case into the new machine his father built. And there they would live together forever.

The old man and his android son.

***************************************
Gregory L Hall's stories have appeared in many publications, and he is the author of At The End Of Church Street.

He is also the host/producer of the popular live internet radio talk show The Funky Werepig, now featured on TMV Cafe. Gregory continues to be on his best behavior so that his wife and children do not vote to lock him out of the house. The weekly re-evaluations occur every Friday so check back often.

***************************************

<<BACK FORWARD>>

IT:Number Two-Ched and Luella

2012-01-30T06:36:00.005-05:00

Intermission Tales

Number Two

Ched and Luella (by Lori Titus)

In which Dodger listens to Lelanea’s story.

Ched and Lelanea stared over their respective cards at Dodger, in silence.

“Well?” Dodger asked.

“Well,” Ched said as he laid down four threes and an Ace. “I think I jusht won thish hand.”

“You conniving devil!” Lelanea shouted and tossed her cards to the table. “I was sure you were bluffing.”

Pulling the sizable pot toward himself, Ched chuckled. “I told you before, I’m an exshellent liar.”

Lelanea snorted. “It’s easy to identify when you’re telling a lie.”

“Really? When ish that?”

Lelanea leaned in closer, a wicked smirk warning the not-dead man she was tired of kidding around. “When you make discernible words.”

Dodger cleared his throat, snatching the attention. With the pair now staring at him again he asked, “Did neither of you hear a thing I said?”

“Shure, sharge,” Ched said. “Shashquatch. We gotcha the firsht time.”

Lelanea, unmoved by the bloody particulars of the story, dealt the next hand. “Ante up. Seven card stud. Nothing wild. Blind. See if you can bluff your way out of this one.”

“I aim to pleashe.”

It was then that Dodger understood. The cool calm. The lack of even a remote interest in the topic. “You’re kidding me.”

“What?” Lelanea asked.

“You mean you’ve really dealt with this sort of thing before?”

Ched nodded. “Twish, if memory shervesh me.”

“It was twice, though the second time hardly qualified as dealing with.”

“What happened?” Dodger asked.

Lelanea shrugged.

“Ushual shtuff,” Ched said. “Tribe of nativesh up north wash havin’ shome trouble with ‘em, show the doc wash called in to try and make a way to keep the great hairy thingsh out.” Ched tossed two papers into the middle of the table. “Two shecondsh.”

“I’ll see your two seconds, and raise you another ten.”

“It was my bet,” Dodger said.

“Sorry,” Lelanea said.

Dodger tossed his call into the middle. “Tell me what happened? How did he keep them out?”

“Sonic barrier.”

“Great wailing shound,” Ched said. “Drove ‘em back into the foresht. The bashtardsh.”

“And the second time?” Dodger asked.

Ched grinned. “Didn’t need to do much then. It wash a shtray on it’sh own. Thing took a shine to the Misshy.”

“No he didn’t,” Lelanea said. Though the blush that rose to her cheeks seemed to agree.

“Do tell,” Dodger said.

“Not much to tell,” Ched said. “One shecond he wash trying to take my arm off and turn over the engine cab, the next he wash cooing at our lady here.”

Lelanea pursed her lips. “That’s not taking a shine. I’ll tell you what taking a shine is.”

“Then what is it?”

“The time you dragged us all the way to California because you had a ‘feeling’ for a certain someone. I suppose that qualifies as taking a shine.”

Ched narrowed his gaze. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I would. Get ready, Dodger. You're going to love this story.”

Dodger was the only one smiling now, and that's only because he was pretty sure the next story was bound to be a bit on the embarrassing side for the not-dead driver.

And it was about time someone else was embarrassed for once.

**************************************

Ched and Luella

by Lori Titus

The setting sun was just slipping down the desert sky, leaving strands of gold and pink in its wake.

Luella had not meant to leave her laundry on the line so long. She usually tended not to go outside near twilight, especially when Ben, her husband, wasn’t home. He was in Roseville, and would be gone for a few days.

She needed to take down the white sheets that were drying in the summer sun since morning time, or risk having to wash them all over again. The winds became strong once night came, and she didn’t want dust all over them.

She was almost done, folding the last of the sheets into a basket, when she felt the pressure of a pair of eyes on her.

The figure stood just at the edge of the road, hands in pockets. His face was shadowed by a hat. The warm breeze blew, sending down the sweet, smoky, and unpleasant aroma down to her. She knew it well, and what it meant.

His eyes were fixed, unblinking, and there was a pure intensity in the stare.

Yet, there was something different about this one.

Luella knew very well when she was in the presence of the undead. All her life they had come to her unbidden. This dead soul still inhabited his flesh. But she also knew that he was not here to kill her. If he had meant harm, she would have felt him coming from miles away.

Instinctively, Luella’s hand crept to her thigh, where the metal of her pistol pressed with a protective weight into her flesh.

The zombie didn’t move. He seemed mesmerized.

She did not turn her back on him, but lifted her basket and edged into the back door of her house. Once inside, she peered out the window.

The fellow was no longer standing in the spot where he was before. Instead of coming to her, or after her, he was walking silently up the road, taking his leave from her.

The next morning, Luella woke late, and disoriented, with dryness in her throat. It was barely nine in the morning, but the heat had already settled in. The first thing she did was to fill her glass with water.

Staring out the window, she saw the man.

He was no closer than he had been the evening before, but the sight of him standing in the sunlight made her shudder. He moved his head, ever so slightly, a look to her that appeared painfully stiff. He tapped his hat. If she had been closer, she would have heard him mutter, “’mornin, Mish.”

Ched saw the lady walking towards him. As far as he’d traveled to get here, now that she was real, only feet away from him, he almost wanted to turn and run.

It took some finagling to get the Sleipnir across the California Mountain passes to reach Lazarus. He’d been driven by something that he couldn’t explain. First, he’d say he dreamed of her, if he ever slept the way a normal man did. But the image of her face at some point, crept across his consciousness. From the time the train made its way across the border from Nevada, he knew where he was going. And that this woman was drawing him there.

He told no one of his plan. When asked why he wanted to come to Lazarus, he simply said it was a place he’d heard of, and that he was curious about. The Professor simply sighed and shook his head. The man surely knew a lie when he heard one, even if he had not bothered to call Ched on it.

Ched wondered what in his gravelly voice, or fixed expression could have given him away. But that was how it always was with the Professor. He just knew things, without a soul bothering to tell him.

She was as beautiful as he imagined, maybe more so. In the time that he had been not-dead, Ched learned to recognize that there was a beauty to anything that held life within it. Never a man that thought much of spiritual things, he could sense brightness in this woman, a certain calm. Something about her was so full of life. Like a bright beacon, she drew dark things to her across a barren landscape.

Ched was surprised that she smiled at him as she approached, a little grin that tugged on the edges of her mouth. Her dark eyes regarded him without fear, and that realization sent a sort of pain flooding through his core. Since he had been like this, there was no one that looked upon his countenance without fear, or disgust. Sure he had the odd gal that would look over his carcass, but none that looked right at it without flinching. In fact, there were few that even looked at him like this back when he was living flesh, which hadn’t been the case for some time.

“I don’t think it’s the best idea, you standing out in this hot sun, sir,” she said. “My name is Luella. And you’re…?”

“I’m Ched. Nish ta meet ya, Mish Luella, but I know who ya are.”

She laughed. “Well, that being said, would you like to come sit in the shade?”

Luella walked beside him, careful not to get too close. His face was that of a grinning skull, his skin leathery and sallow. She showed him to a seat on her porch and he settled his bones into it gently. His eyes were slow to move in his head, but they followed her movements. It slowly dawned on her that this man, dead though living, watched the sway of her hips. When she looked back at him, he looked down, like an embarrassed little boy. If there had been blood flowing in those cheeks of his, he would have blushed.

“I can offer you some whiskey,” she said softly. “Would that do?”

“Yesh, jush fine, thank ya ma’am.”

She already had a bottle sitting on the edge of her window, and she poured him a glass. He understood the porch was as far into her territory as she would let him go.

“I take it othersh like me come callin’?” he asked.

“None like you,” Luella said softly. “The zombies that try to find me have vengeance in mind. I don’t remember ever entertaining one. I hope that does not insult you.”

“Naw, ‘shposhe it’sh an honor.”

Luella sat down across from him. “Do you know why you’re here, exactly?”

He put his glass down. It took effort to meet her eyes, but it helped that she looked at him kindly.

“I wish I knew how ta shay it. I shaw your fash. And I felt… shomethin’. I don’t reckon I feel much theshe days, and nothing like thish for a long time. I knew where you were. Closher I got, shtronger it kep’ getting.”

Luella nodded patiently. “There’s something about me that draws the dead to me. No one has ever been able to really explain why. It could be chemical, or spiritual, but it’s real, either way.”

“Like love. Maybe there ain’t way of explainin’ it.”

“That could be true. Do you remember being in love, Ched? Back in your living days?”

He just stared at her for a time. How could he explain that this pull towards her, this nameless need, was deeper than anything he could remember feeling? “I guesh so. When I wash nine. I loved a lil gal named Roshalie.”

Luella smiled. “Oh?”

“Lil redhead with a shweet shmile. She kished me onsh, and then she ran. I chashed her until I caught ‘er and kished ‘er back.”

Ched looked down at his hands. He felt woefully inadequate. Rosalie was nothing compared to this grown man love that moved through him now. Luella continued to stare at him with her pretty brown eyes.

“I think you followed your compass here, much as the others did,” she said in a soothing voice. “It’s not love, it’s something else. But you’re right, it’s not something to be explained.”

“I am shorry to have bothered ya, ma’am…”

“No, not at all. Rest for a bit. You can stay for a while, can’t you? Leave when it’s closer to sundown.”

She stood, and put a hand on the shoulder of his jacket, easing him back into his seat.

“I hope you don’t feel that you have been passed by,” Luella said. “I did before I met my husband. You have a second chance. Surely some lady will appreciate you.”

Ched shrugged. “I don’t think sho.”

“I do,” she said.

He tried, as best as he could, to smile. The expression lit something in his eyes.

“Tell me about your travels,” Luella said, taking a seat again. “What do you think about California?”

Ched reckoned he liked California just fine.

*******************************

Lori Titus is the author of Lazarus, a novella about zombies, magic, and resltess living folk in Old California. She is also the Managing Editor of Flashes in the Dark, a website that features horror short stories. For more information about upcoming projects, including The Marradith Ryder Series, follow her on Twitter as Loribeth215 or on her blog, http://loribeth215.wordpress.com/

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<<BACK FORWARD>>

IT: Number One-Better Start Running

2012-01-23T10:11:00.003-05:00

Intermission Tales

Number One

Better Start Running (by Eric S. Brown)

In which Dodger spins a yarn.

“Fold,” Dodger said, and chucked his poor hand onto the table.

A pair of Queens was only good if there wasn’t a wild card in the deck. But the way Lelanea played, half the damned deck was wild, which meant he couldn’t manage the odds as well as a Dodger preferred. Which was irritating as all get out. Which was probably why she called the game in such a manner.

“Too rich for your blood?” Lelanea asked.

“Not at all,” Dodger said. “I just know when I’ve been beat.”

“That’s news to me. I guess I learn something new every day.”

“And I still have a lot to teach you.”

“You two gonna flirt all night?” Ched asked. “Or are we gonna play shome cardsh?”

“We aren’t flirting!” Dodger and Lelanea yelled together.

They looked to one another for a heartbeat, then looked away. Dodger wondered if the heat on her face was as warm as his. Maybe warmer.

“I’ll see your fifty,” Lelanea said. “And raise you another sixty seconds. A whole minute. What do you think of that?”

Ched raised an eyebrow, a difficult feat for the not-dead man to pull off. “That sho? You think you got me shushed, huh?”

“If you mean do I think you’re bluffing, then yes. I do. Now cough up the minute or fold.”

“Okay, little misshy. I’ll shee your shixty shecondsh. Whacha got?”

Lelanea laid down Aces and eights—both wilds when she called the strange game of Dead Man’s Hand—which put her King of hearts kicker slap dab in the middle of a royal flush. “And you have …?”

Ched made a non-committal grunt before he tossed his cards onto the table, face down.

Lelanea giggled as she pulled the piles of papers toward herself, and the already thick stacks of similar scraps of paper to her left and right. Stacks that were way larger than either Dodger’s or Ched’s. “Look at that! I have over four hours in servitude from both of you. What will I do with so much time on my hands?”

“Who’s idea was it to bet with seconds of service?” Dodger asked. “Why not cash?”

“Mine,” Ched said. “Money don’t do me no good. What am I gonna buy?” He grinned, or at least tried to. “But if I can get her to drive the line for an hour while I tell her what she’sh doin’ wrong? Hell, that’sh worth a hundred dollarsh if it’sh worth a dime!”

“You be quite and just deal the cards,” Lelanea commanded.

“I still don’t know if I’m playing right,” Dodger said. “That Feng of yours knows some strange hand combinations. Why are Aces and eights a dead man’s hand?”

“He didn’t shay,” Ched said as he shuffled the deck.

Dodger made a note to ask about it. Among other things. “What now?”

“Chashe the Queen,” Ched said. “Sheven card shtud. Queensh wild, along with the firsht card dealt fashe up after a Queen appearsh fashe up. Wild card chagesh every time Queen appearsh fashe up.”

Between Ched’s slur and the strange instructions, Dodger wasn’t sure he understood. But there was no way he was about to admit it. What ever happened to good ole five card draw, nothing wild, winner takes all? Ah well, at least it wasn’t Dirty Shultz. Dodger reckoned if Ched called that game again, he’d have to punch the man in the nose.

“So, Mr. Dodger,” Lelanea said. “Do you know any good tales?”

“Tales?” Dodger asked as he picked up his cards.

“You know, stories? Legends? Tales you care to share?”

“Ah. I see. Why? You in for a good story?”

“Shure, sharge,” Ched said. “Shpin ush a yarn.”

Dodger spread his cards out in his hand, the pair of Queens that returned to him bringing a smile to his lips. Queens were wild, that much he had understood. Perhaps his luck was changing after all. “Sure, I have a story for ya. If you think you can take a gory one.”

“The gorier the better,” Lelanea said.

And for some reason, Dodger almost expected her to say that.

******************************************************

Better Start Running

by Eric S. Brown

Private Jessie Morgan of the Union Army held his position in the trees above the road and prayed the Rebs passed by without noticing him or any of the other remaining members of his unit. His hands were shaking so bad, he was terrified his Springfield rifle might go off accidentally and doom them all. He wasn’t new at this. Jessie had seen plenty of action in the last few days but at the moment he felt like one.

Robert, Wes, himself, and the Colonel were the only survivors that he knew of from the engagement two days earlier when the Rebs sprang their trap. With all the fighting going on to the north in Virginia, no one expected the Rebs to have such a large force, over a thousand strong, on patrol in this part of North Carolina.

Their unit had stopped near a creek they’d come across for their midday meal—and for the officers to plot their next move—when the Rebs had caught them off guard, silently taking out their sentries. No one saw or heard the bastards coming. The first volley of fire from the Rebs cut their numbers just about in half. The Colonel rallied the men as best he could and they tried to make a stand but it was futile and hopeless. Most of the men were dead before they got to fire more than a single shot. The Colonel gave the order to retreat but there was no organization to it. By that time, it was every man for himself, and everyone knew it. Most of the men were gunned down, shot in the back, as they made a break for it. Jessie had narrowly escaped with his life. There were a couple of rounds that came so close, whizzing past him as he ran, that he’d nearly wet his pants.

Jessie felt no shame in running though. His wife and son were waiting on him back home. Dying in a battle that was already lost wouldn’t help them, or serve to do anything except get him a fast fall into Hell. He’d fled into the trees and kept moving until the sounds of screams and gunfire were far behind him. For a long time, he’d merely wandered about trying to decide what he should do. Jessie was alone, lost behind enemy lines. When the Colonel and the others found him, he nearly wept at the sight of them. After that, the four of them headed north. The Colonel assured them all their best hope was to stay low and keep moving. Eventually, he told them, they’d reach safety or stumble across another battle group that had fought their way through the Rebs’ lines and could join up with them.

None of them had any real rations to speak of and their weapons were limited. In the chaos of the Rebs’ surprise attack and their frantic retreat, Wes left his rifle behind and Robert had nothing more than his Springfield and the uniform he wore. Between them, they had two rifles and the Colonel’s revolver—which had just three bullets in its chamber.

By the second day of their flight northward, they were exhausted and starving. Random chance and bad luck conspired to stick them in their current predicament. They’d heard the Rebs coming and taken cover in the trees on the hillside. On the road below them, a wagon carrying supplies bounced along the dirt and gravel on rickety, wooden wheels. Jessie counted sixteen rebels in shoddy looking gray jackets and tattered pants. An officer rode shotgun beside the driver of the wagon. The rest of the Rebs were on foot, fanned around it.

Sweat beaded on Jessie’s forehead. If the Rebs noticed them, they were dead. He glanced over at the Colonel who crouched in the brush a few feet away. The Colonel scowled at him.

Someone started screaming in the distance. Even the Colonel jumped from the sound of the bloodcurdling wail. Something was happening on the road. The Rebs had stopped. Jessie risked a peek about the tree he cowered behind to see what was going on. The Rebs stood with their rifles ready as an Indian woman with long, flowing midnight hair came running down the hill opposite from where he hid towards them. She was yelling the same word over and over again. Her dress was torn and spotted with blood. Jessie half expected the trigger happy southern troops to gun her down before she reached them but the officer on the wagon shouted, “Hold your fire!” as the woman stumbled into their ranks.

Jessie used the moment to move closer to the Colonel, knowing the Rebs’ attention was fixed on the woman. “What’s she saying sir?” he whispered. Jessie knew the Colonel spoke Cherokee and handful of other Indian dialects.

The older man carefully leaned over to him. “I don’t know. Now, will you keep quiet?”

“But I thought you spoke . . .”

“I do private but the word she keeps saying is not one I know . . . Sasquatch” The Colonel quoted the woman as if musing over its meaning and trying make sense of it.

“Well, whatever it is,” Jessie said, “it’s got the Rebs spooked. Should we try to take them?”

The Colonel shook his head, motioning for Wes and Robert to keep their cover as well. “No, distracted or not, there’s too many of them. Let’s see how this plays out.”

One of the Rebs shrugged his jacket from his shoulders and tried to wrap it around the woman. She broke free of him and slashed his cheek with her fingernails leaving trails of red. The man backed off, stunned, pressing a hand over his wound. A second Reb offered her the canteen he carried. Slapping it from his grasp, the woman howled the word Sasquatch once more and pointed into the woods. The Rebs poor attempts at comforting her turned to mockery and flat out anger.

Together, the Colonel and Jessie watched as one of the Rebs hauled back a hand and smashed a fist into the woman’s mouth to get her to shut up. She fell backwards onto her butt. Jessie could see the blood leaking from her lower lip as she sat there, eyes wide and finally silent.

The officer in charge climbed down from his seat on the wagon to the road and walked over to her where she sat.

“You’re scaring my men, little missy,” the officer said. “Ain’t no such thing as a Sasquatch, and we all know it. Ain‘t that right boys?”

Several of the men shouted, “Yes, sir!”

Others bent over in laughter.

“You scared the devil’s gonna get ya, squaw?” one of them taunted the woman.

The officer leaned closer to her. “You ready to behave now?”

The woman spat a mouthful of red tinted saliva into the silver hairs of his beard. “Sasquatch!” she howled again at the top of her lungs.

The officer jerked his revolver free of the holster on his hip and put a bullet into her forehead. The point-blank shot blew open the back of her skull, spraying the gravel with hot, red liquid and bits of brain matter. As her corpse flopped over, the officer wiped at his beard with the backside of his hand. “Get her out of the way boys. We got some Yankees to go and kill. Time’s a wasting.”

Two of the Rebs picked up her still twitching body and tossed it into the grass at the side of the road. Jessie ground his teeth in anger at the sight. How could any one be so cold? His hatred for the South and their ways grew hotter within him. They would lose this war and he swore to himself he would be there when it happened. If men like these were the best the South had to offer, maybe the Union was better without them but even so, they couldn’t be left to their own. The evils they committed from slavery to the cold-blooded murder he’d just witnessed were too great to ignore.

The officer started to return to his seat on the wagon as a roar that sounded like fifty dogs barking together at once in perfect chorus thundered through the woods. A tree toppled over, as if something shoved it to the ground. The Rebs looked as if they were about to break.

“Stand your ground!” the officer yelled as a beast emerged from the woods.

It stood at least eight feet tall. Thick, shaggy, brown hair covered its body from head to toe. Jessie’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at it. The thing looked strong enough to rip a grizzly apart with its bare hands.

Burning yellow eyes filled with a feral, primal rage took in the men as they raised their rifles. The trees echoed with the cracks of the southerners’ shots as they unleashed a volley of fire at the monster. Jessie saw the rounds hitting the beast but they didn’t look to be having an real affect on it. A few tiny dots of red blossomed in its hair but that was all. The thing stood as still as a stone statue.

“Oh Lord,” Jessie muttered aloud as the beast sprang forward.

It closed the distance between it and the Rebs so fast it was almost a blur to Jessie’s eyes. Reaching out, it folded the first Reb it came to backwards, snapping his spine where he stood. It backhanded another with such brutal power the man’s head left his shoulders in a bloody spray and went rolling through the dirt. A few of the Rebs were attempting to reload their Springfields, but most of them were scattering and making a run for it.

The horses were squealing, straining against their reigns. The driver lost control, and they pulled him and the wagon away as they tried to flee. The beasts blocked their path. Its huge hands ended the horses’ lives with quick blows to their heads. The wagon turned over, crushing the driver beneath it.

The beast roared again as the officer, who was either too brave for his own good or very stupid, advanced on it emptying his revolver into the thing’s chest. He got so close that the barrel of his weapon was nearly touching the monster’s brown hair when he fired his final bullet. The beast grunted as the round ripped into its flesh from the close range shot. The officer looked up at the beast in disbelief that it was still very much alive as its hands closed on him and hefted him into the air above it. With an angry grunt, it tore him in half. The beast threw his two halves in different directions as the officer’s shredded intestines flopped in the wind.

Jessie thought his heart stop beating as the beast looked straight into his eyes. He had no idea how it knew he was there but it did. There was no question of that. Maybe it had smelt his fear. It didn’t matter. All the Rebs who hadn’t taken off were dead now.

It would be coming for them next.

“Run!” he heard the Colonel shout next to him.

Wes and Robert were already moving, their legs pumping under them as they scurried further up the hill. The Colonel took off after them.

Fighting Rebs was one thing.

Fighting a demon beast straight from the depths of Hell itself was another altogether.

Jessie couldn’t move. He was frozen with terror as the beast stepped over the bodies of the dead rebels and charged towards him. His Springfield slipped from his trembling hands as the beast towered above him.

“Oh Lord, please no,” he managed to pray aloud before two, large, hairy hands slapped together on the sides of his skull.

His brain matter burst into the air.

*************************

Eric S Brown is the author of the popular Bigfoot War

series as well as numerous other books including titles like

War of the Worlds Plus Blood Guts and Zombies,

A Pack of Wolves, and Last Stand in a Dead Land.

(Click the titles to find out more or purchase these amazing books!)

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Twelve-Punishment and Penance

2012-01-16T06:32:00.001-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Twelve

Punishment and Penance

In which Dodger finds hope.

The farm was alive with activity and crawling with dog men. Dodger had left four behind but returned to almost two dozen. Row of tents had sprouted up across the field, promising a fine crop of canvas at the end of the season should Dodger choose to harvest. As it was, he wasn’t really sure what to make of the whole thing. He instructed Ched to park near the pond again—so they could jerk what water they needed without difficulty—and asked Boon to keep an eye on the train while he made his way to greet the men on foot.

When he was within shouting distance of the group, someone did just that.

“Commander Dodger!” Bottle shouted, and ran to meet up with him.

“Bottle,” Dodger said, tipping his fingers to his hat and ignoring the title. He then motioned to the commotion going on around them. Specifically, the men filing out of their respective tents and lining up across the field as they stood to attention. “What’s all this then?”

“Your men, sir.” Bottle grinned, and Dodger really wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t that he was apposed to other folks smiling. But in his opinion, folks like Bottle should have the common decency to keep their rotten mouths shut.

“What do you mean my men?” Dodger asked, though he knew full well what Bottle of the Broken Tooth meant.

Bottle’s smile faltered. “They came out here because they want help. They want a chance to be normal again, and they want to work for you. On your farm.”

Dodger groaned low and throaty. What started out as a chance to help his fellow veteran was turning into a nightmare. Not for the men. No. For the men it was salvation, a chance at a new life, a singular shot at redemption provided by a seemingly gracious host. But for Dodger it was a whopping meal of worry.

For starters, the farm didn’t really belong to him. By all technical definition, it belonged to a man that didn’t exist. When he invited Thad’s men to stay as long as they needed, he sure as hell didn’t mean for them to start a commune for two dozen dog-men! Worse than that was the main course, or rather the problem of the men working for him. He didn’t want anyone working for him, much less on a farm he didn’t own. And for desert, Dodger wasn’t totally convinced the Doc’s could find a cure at all. What if it didn’t? What would the men do then? Revolt? Turn rabid? Worse?

“Is something wrong, sir?” Bottle asked, his smile mercifully gone.

“Yes,” Dodger said. “Where’s Thad?”

“He’s in HQ, sir.” He gave a nod toward the house.

“Stop callin’ me sir!”

Bottle flinched. “Yes, sir. I mean, not sir.”

“Just … geesh … just call me Dodger.” Dodger raised his voice to include all of the men in his instruction, stalking the length of them and back again in a way that came almost too natural to him, as he said, “You don’t have to salute or call me sir or anything like that. I’m not your alpha male and I’m no better than you are. You aren’t a pack of dogs, you’re a group of men. Proud soldiers, true, but the war is over and you are civilians now. Act like it.”

“Yes, sir!” the men shouted as one.

Dodger ran his hand across the length of his face and groaned again. What could he do? He did what came natural. “As you were.”

Given their order, the men broke apart and returned to their menial duties.

“Rather like ants,” the professor said.

“More like bees,” Lelanea said. “Which would make him their queen.”

Dodger found the doc and his niece watching the proceedings with obvious amusement. “I’m glad you find this so funny.” He turned away and headed for the house, fuming so much as he walked that he was surprised he didn’t start a fire with each step.

“It’s not funny,” Lelanea said, following him. “It’s entertaining.”

“In that case, I’m pleased to provide you entertainment.”

“You don’t have to be such a hard head about it.”

“These men look up to you,” the professor said. “I think it’s charming. And admirable.”

“As do I,” Lelanea said.

Dodger stopped and whipped about to face the pair again. “They don’t look up to me, they respect me. There is a mighty big difference between the two. It’s not about personal feelings, it’s about rank. Rank I don’t have nor do I deserve. If they thought you were the man in charge, they would treat you the same way.”

The parlor was just as busy as the fields, filled with men bustling and hustling about. Some scoured maps while others were busy cleaning a variety of weapons. If Dodger didn’t know better, he would think he was in the midst of a war room.

“Thaddeus!” Dodger shouted.

All of the men stopped what they were doing and stared up at him in shock. One of the fellows yelled, “Commander present!” With his shout every man fell into formation complete with salutes and grim expressions. Would this madness never end?

“Where is Thad?” Dodger asked the first soldier in line.

The soldier—a motley mix of poodle and man—appeared too nervous to speak at first, until the fellow beside him poked him in the side. “He’s at the back, sir. In bed.”

“It’s well after ten o’clock. What’s he doing in the bed at this time of day?”

“Recuperating.”

“Recuperating? From what?”

“From the battle, sir.”

“Battle? We’ve only been gone a day. When did you have time for a battle?”

“Perhaps I can help, sir,” another soldier said.

Dodger recognized the lad as one of the original four he left here just the afternoon before. Couldn’t place his name, but knew him. “As you were, men.” He pointed to the familiar soldier. “You, show me where he is. I think we need to have a little chat with Thad.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, and fell in line behind Dodger.

Thaddeus might have been resting, but the appearance of Dodger had him struggling to get to his feet.

“Please,” Dodger begged. “Don’t get up on my account.”

The man returned to his sickbed, and Dodger had never seen someone more deserving of such. Thad was a mass of bruises, lacerations and from his slings a fair amount of broken bones. In short, he looked like he had gone ten rounds with a couple of pissed off mules. Which gave Dodger a bit of an idea as to just who the men had been battling with.

“Butch was here?” Dodger asked as they reached Thad’s bedside.

“Yes,” Thad said. “He came with his men just after you left. He must have been laying in wait.”

“Damn it!” Dodger punched the bed post. “I shouldn’t have let them leave you here. I knew this would happen.”

“Don’t blame yourself. We were bound to square off with him sooner or later. Best sooner and be done with it. And we held our own. Not as well as you did single handedly, but we came away the victor. I’m not as bad as I look, and I’ll wager I’m a far sight better than Butch.”

Dodger sensed a sinister undercurrent to his words. “How much better?”

“Six feet of dirt separates us from his pooling corpse, or else I’d let you have a look yourself.”

That was it then. Bulldog Butch was dead. Dodger didn’t know whether to be relieved or grateful or angry or all three. He waved the extra solder away, pulled up a rickety chair, tossed his hat on the bed and propped up his feet as he sat. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

And Thad did.

Butch and his guard showed up about an hour after the Sleipnir pulled off demanding that Thad and the others return to the pack at once. Of course, Thad and his men told Butch just where he could stick that proposal. Words flew. Then fists. Then bullets. The fight was short but brutal, resulting in the death of all the members of Butch’s bulldog guard as well as the leader himself. Thaddeus lost one of his men, the one called Clyde. A sad turn indeed but things could have gone much worse.

“All of these men came with Butch?” Dodger asked.

“Not at first. They packed up camp and followed him, as they are wont to do.” Thad paused to smile, with some level of difficulty and pain on his part. One of his front teeth was missing, tearing at Dodger’s guilt. Through his painful grin, Thad said, “But they follow you now.”

“No,” Dodger said quickly. “They follow you.”

Thad furrowed his furry brow. “Me?”

“Yes. You.” Dodger knew it would be too hard to break the men from their habits. The least he could do was guide them. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You lead the fight against the leader. You’re the new alpha male now.”

“But … you’re the-”

“No. I’m not even pack. Remember? I’m just an outsider who had an argument with Butch. Which I settled, fair and square.”

Thad nodded at this idea, though Dodger could still see confusion lingering in his eyes. “Yes. I think I understand.”

“Good man.” Dodger leaned back again and looked this new leader over. What a mess he was, but give him time and he would be just fine. “Tell me then, Alpha male, what are those men up to? All that hustling about and such? They look like they are getting ready for a war.”

Thad sat a little taller as he said, “That’s because they are.”

“I thought you said Butch was dead.”

“He is. Which leaves but one man for us to settle a debt with.”

“Rex?” Dodger didn’t so much ask the name as spit it out.

“Yes, sir. We have it on good authority that he survived after being subjected to his own treatment. And we intend to go after him. He took our lives from us. It’s high time we took them back.”

Which made all sorts of sense. Crazy sense, true, but sense nonetheless. Rex had robbed these men of their very lives by changing them into monsters. They could never return to the real world. They would always be outlaws. Always be rejects. But as a man who had been on many a war path, both professional and personal, Dodger knew all too well that the destination was never as satisfying as the journey. Hate got inside you like a wasp nesting, laying its eggs over and over until all you did was buzz with loathing. Eventually you lived for just the sake of hate and hate alone.

“Listen here,” Dodger said. “I might not be as all fired mad at him as you folks are, but do you think it’s wise to just wander back into his den like that? I mean, you men just got free from him. Why seek him out again?”

“But that’s just it. We aren’t free of him, Dodger. We never were. We only thought we were.” Thad huffed in frustration. “I don’t know how, but he was controlling Butch. He has been this whole time. It was his idea for Butch to challenge Jack. It was his idea for us to come out here and set up camp. It was his idea for us to kidnap Lelanea in order to get to your boss. Rex has been manipulating us this whole time.”

“I take it Butch confessed all of this.”

“The beast sang like a bird when he realized we had the best of him. It was sad really, but I’ve seen it before with his kind. All muscle when things are going his way but no backbone when the chips are down.”

Dodger barely heard Thad’s admonishment of the bulldog. His mind was reeling with the news of Rex, and the possibilities it presented. “Then Rex is still out there.”

“Aye.”

“Thad, do you know what this means?”

“That we will finally have our justice?”

“If he isn’t dead, then perhaps the machine wasn’t destroyed. It might still be out there too.”

Thad took on a grim look. “Then there is all the more reason we should move in on him as soon as possible. To stop him making more monsters like us.”

“Yes, but think about it. If the machine is still whole and in working order, then the professor can use it to change you back. He can cure you.”

“I thought our case was hopeless.”

“It was hopeless when we thought the machine was destroyed. But if there’s a chance-”

“Then we should take it,” the professor said from the doorway. “If there is even the remotest chance that terrible machine is still intact, then we should seek it out and destroy it.” The professor glanced to Thad and added, “After we change you men back first, of course.”

Dodger was pleased the doc saw it his way without argument. Things worked a whole lot smoother when the boss man was on board of his own free will, instead of coerced, manipulated or even strong-armed. “If you think it’s a good idea, sir, then we should go after it.”

“I certainly think we should. After I administer the serum to the men we should leave at once.”

Dodger got to his feet. “I’ll round the men up and-”

“I don’t think so,” Thaddeus said over the furtive planning.

The professor and Dodger fell quiet, turning as one to face the man in the bed.

“Rex is our quarry,” Thad said. “He no longer controls us, but he no longer worries about us either. From what I understand he knew all about our instability. He was content—nay pleased—to know we would eventually melt away and no longer cause him trouble. Yet with the professor’s serum we can and will survive. And we will take him by surprise.”

“I can help you,” Dodger said. He motioned to the professor. “We can help you.”

“And we will gladly take any help you are willing to provide, save for joining us on our task.” Dodger was set to argue, but Thad wouldn’t have any of it. He nodded to the professor and explained, “You’re a target for him, sir. You draw his attention. Attention we don’t want on us.”

“Me?” the professor asked with a look of horror. “Why on earth would he want me? He has the damned machine!”

“Perhaps he doesn’t?” Dodger asked. “Perhaps it really was destroyed and he wants you to build him another one?”

“Fat chance of that happening. I was lucky to cobble together the first one.”

“It’s more than just the machine,” Thad said. “Butch was quite clear about Rex’s desire to capture you alive. That man will not rest until he has you in his clutches. Butch alluded that the train was of great interest to Rex as well. It would serve you and the Sleipnir best to stay as far away from him as possible. Dodger, take the professor and your crew away from here. Seek trouble somewhere else, and leave us to go after Rex. If we find the machine intact, we shall send for you.”

As much as he wanted to, Dodger couldn’t argue with Thad’s logic. “How will you know where to find us?”

Thad chuckled, despite the pain the act obviously brought him. “Are you jesting? We can smell that driver of yours almost ten miles off!”

The professor laughed loud along side the wounded man. Dodger, however, just grinned. He wanted to laugh but there was so much troubling his soul. Despite Thad’s eagerness to go after Rex, Dodger couldn’t help but feel like he was sending these ex-soldiers to their death. These men were the very same reason he found the frontlines such easy work. Farmers and clerks turned soldiers were no match for a military trained warrior. Granted, Thad and his men had a few years of soldiering under their furry belts, but most of that was spent in captivity. Not on the battlefield.

Rodger Dodger was the most capable man here for this kind of work. With the instincts of a well trained fighter, and the detachment of a professional assassin, he knew he could track down this Rex and deal with him in just a matter of days. But Thaddeus was correct in his assessments. It wasn’t Dodger’s place to deal with Rex. At least not now. Right now, Dodger’s place was on the Sleipnir. His place was protecting the professor, and his marvelous train.

“Thaddeus has a point,” Dodger said. “We should get you and the line away from here as soon as possible.”

“I suppose you know best,” the professor said. “And I do have other work that needs tending to. Deliveries to make. Promises to keep. That sort of thing.”

“Rest assured we will find him,” Thaddeus said. “And we will make him pay for the things he has done. To our bodies, as well as to your honor, sir.”

“I appreciate that. Yes. I most certainly do. Mr. Dodger, please make sure these men are given ample supplies and as much as you think they will need from the petty cash box.”

“Yes sir,” Dodger said.

“We can’t accept your money,” Thad started.

“You can and you will,” the professor snapped. “After all, you can’t run an army without a budget. Now stop harping on about it. I need to go and get the serum ready.”

The professor left grumbling something about congenial ingratitude, and Dodger made to follow the man when Thad called out, “Dodger?”

Dodger turned about to face him.

“He knows we can never repay him,” Thad said. “For his help or his money.”

“I don’t think he expects you to,” Dodger said. “I think he sees it all as part of his penance.”

“There is no need for penance. At least not on our part. This was not his responsibility. We understand that now.”

“That as it may be, I reckon he sort of blames himself.”

“I can’t help him there. Will you at least assure him that we do not fault him?”

Dodger doffed his hat again and nodded. “I’ll try my best, but guilt can be a hard thing to drive from a man.”

“And Dodger, please know we don’t fault you either.”

“Fault me? I never said you did.”

“No. You never said we did.” Thad stared at him in silence for a few heartbeats, letting the weight of his words sink deep. “I don’t know what wrong you feel you have done us, but your penance, as you put it, is no more required than his.”

Dodger had nothing to say to that, so he said as much.

With another nod and a quick gesture he bade Thad a silent farewell, then made his way back to the line. There was much to be done, and as usual, so little time to get it done. He reckoned the dog men could remain on the farm long enough to gather their forces then shove off, which settled this incessant need to work the farm that no one owned. Dodger was very pleased that Thad was so willing to step up and take command, for this settled his second issue. The third item would just have to remain on the menu for now, at least until the machine resurfaced. Which left Dodger to turn his mind toward his own work; protecting the Sleipnir and her strange crew.

As he made ready his plans for getting the professor as far away from here as possible, Dodger mulled over the Thad’s last words. Was Dodger’s remorse for his past life so transparent? The answer was yes, of course. He wore his need for atonement like a god damned badge. Throwing himself into his work on the farm for hardly any pay. Taking care of the drunks and bums at Decker’s bar for nothing but room and board. Doing anything and everything to give back to the world without raising his fists or firing a gun or even using his tainted name. While it was true he felt subject to a lifelong penance, it wasn’t just to Thad’s men.

Dodger’s penance was to the entire human race.

But all that would change now that he had a real function again. Protecting the lives of those aboard the Sleipnir with the very same talents he used to cut so many other lives short seemed not only poetic in its nature, but also a little on the ironic side of things. Literary tools aside, Dodger hoped he would find what was stripped from his soul so very long ago. He hoped to find purpose, to find worth, or at the very least to find contentment for a job well done. Maybe, just maybe, he would dig a little deeper and find that thirteen year old boy that took his first human life without pity or remorse.

Find him and forgive him at last.

END VOLUME THREE

NEXT UP:

A BRIEF INTERMISSION

In which a few guests of honor tell us a few tall tales.

Thus ends the first collection of Railroad! tales.

While your humble staff prepares the print edition of the

first three volumes and readies the next volume for posting,

a hand full of amazing authors have agreed to keep you

entertained by regaling us with some delightful tales.

Join us next week when our first guest, Eric Brown,

spins us a weird western yarn of frightening proportions:

"Better Start Running"

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Eleven-Home Again

2012-01-09T05:19:00.001-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Eleven

Home Again

In which Dodger awakes in his own bed.

The darkness was different this time.

Oh, she was just as cozy and loving and compassionate as she had always been. She still wrapped her inky arms about him, pulling him into the comfort of her dark bosom, inviting him to stay, to rest, to dream. Only this time she said as much. This time she had a voice.

And her voice sounded an awful lot like Rebecca of the Forsaken.

“Drink,” she whispered. “Drink the darkness and be healed. Drink and rest.”

“I can’t,” he said.

“You must.”

“I’m afraid.”

The darkness laughed, though Dodger felt it was not meant for him. It was a warm laughter, like a mother chuckling at the antics of her child. “Good. Recognizing your fear gives you control of it. Courage springs from fear. Drink and live.”

“I’m tired. I don’t want to go on anymore.”

“I know. You have seen much, too much for one man, but today is not your day to die. The world still needs a champion, Rodger Dodger. And our cursed half sister needs you more than she will ever admit. Now, drink.”

At her encouragement he drank. Not deep enough to slake his thirst, but enough to take the edge off. Heck, he didn’t even know he was thirsty until he got down that first wet throat full of … whatever it was. After he drank, the voice spoke again.

“We are kindred spirits. We are unique, yet alike. And we take care of our own.”

We take care of our own. The words swirled and spun in his mind, doubling in volume and intensity until all was darkness once more.

When Dodger awoke, he was not where he expected to be.

He expected to be in the brothel, in a bed, and perhaps in the arms of some lithe lovely. Maybe even two lithe lovelies. Or a few full bodied beauties. He never considered himself to be a picky man, especially when it came to the wonderful world of women.

But he wasn’t in the brothel. No.

He was in his bunk, in his quarters, on the Sleipnir. A quick peek out the slatted shades confirmed his suspicion that the train was indeed traveling. Sunlight pouring into the small cabin told a tale of an unexpected passage of time. How long he couldn’t be sure. Yet none of this was as startling as a single, stark fact.

Whoever put him to bed in his bunk had stripped him completely naked.

This didn’t bother him on a modesty level; it just left him wondering who got a gander at his goods while he was down for the count. More specifically, did some little lady have herself a look see while Dodger was at his most vulnerable? He wouldn’t blame her if she did. Hell, he sure would’ve had the roles reversed. Or would he? No, he supposed he wouldn’t after all. Again it wasn’t modesty that would’ve kept his eyes other places, but common decency. Sneaking a peak at her nudity would kind of take the thrill out of it when time came to face her nakedness head on.

And that time would definitely come, if he had anything to say on the matter.

Dodger pulled away his thin sheet expecting (aside from his usual scars) a horror show of lacerations and cuts, only to find himself well on the way to healed. Where the Jackal had laid into him were but thin, pink lines tracing the sides of his abdomen; a crowd of parenthesis fighting for the chance to frame the paragraph of his stomach and punctuation of his navel. The doc’s medicine again? He wasn’t sure. Just before he passed out Rebecca said something about tending to his wounds, which once again brought him back round to the fact that he was naked. Now, why was it that he associated those two things?

Snatches of memories drifted to him; light caresses, soft lips, the command to drink, chilled flesh under his hot hands, a cascade of blonde hair sweeping across his chest as deft fingers fondled his-

Welcome back to the land of the living, Boon whispered as his presence filled Dodger’s room.

Clutching the sheet over his bare groin, Dodger croaked, “Odd choice of words for a ghost.”

How are you fairing?

“Better than I expected. Tell me, did every job you go on for that man involve you blacking out? Because I’d like to think I will see at least one task through without falling unconscious.”

Boon answered with a soft laugh.

Dodger ran a hand over the tender pink scars. “Doc did a good job patching me up. I can barely feel any of it. Or for that case, remember any of it. What happened after I blacked out?”

The presence of the spirit roiled as he struggled to answer the question. Well … umm … I wasn’t there the whole time you see … and … well …

Without warning the door swung open wide, and the professor stormed inside carrying a silver tray. “Mr. Dodger! I am so pleased to see you up and about.” The professor dropped the tray onto the desk. “Feng was on his way here with this, so I assumed either you learned to eat in your sleep or you must be awake again. Good thing too, for we’ve almost arrived at our destination.”

Dodger narrowed his eyes at the man. “How long have I been out?”

“Fourteen hours, from my measure. And for a while there it was a bit touch and go. We weren’t sure you would wake at all. But no worries, you’re right as rain now.”

“Thank you, sir. Again.”

The professor started at the gratitude. “Thank me? No, no, no, no my dear boy. You should thank-” His words cut short as he lifted the cover from the tray and eyed the breakfast piled high. “Bacon! I do love bacon. Lelanea never lets me near the stuff. Raises my blood pressure through the roof, you see. Maybe the tray was meant for me. Feng always knows best.” He settled in beside the tray, swinging his feet from the side of the desk as he nibbled on a slice of bacon. “Where was I? Oh yes, not me. You should thank the ladies of Waxford.”

“Waxford,” Dodger echoed.

The beast wounded you deeper than you professed, Boon whispered. She left you in a hell of a state. You would have never made it back to the line alive. Rebecca and her sisters saved your life.

“How?” Dodger asked.

“I’m not exactly sure,” the professor said. “But I suspect it has something to do with their chosen profession. They seem to posses a healing touch, as it were.” He leaned closer to Dodger and lowered his voice as he added, “Quite frankly, I wouldn’t mind a little healing like that every now and again.” The man giggled a bit before returning his attention to the breakfast tray. “Then again, the danger one must face to receive such affections gives a man pause.”

“I’ll bet. Speaking of which, I have half a mind to quit on you after that stunt.”

“What stunt?” the professor asked around a mouthful of bacon.

“It wasn’t like I didn’t ask.”

“Ask? Ask what?”

“You knew Waxford was populated by vampires and you just let me wander in there like nothing was amiss.”

The professor blew a meaty raspberry at Dodger. “Pshaw! Vampires! I’ve never heard such nonsense. Oh, there’s coffee too. You should really eat, lad. It’s nice and warm.”

Dodger waved away the offer of food. “If they aren’t vampires then what in the hell are they?”

“What are they? Interesting question. Yes. Very interesting.” The professor shoved another strip of bacon in his mouth and chewed as he considered his theory. “I’ve given this much though, and near as I can surmise they suffer from a blood disease that slows their metabolism to an almost standstill, with a corpse like effect. They appear, for lack of a better word, dead. No pulse, little blood pressure, and cold as stone. This infection keeps them in a sort of metabolic stasis for a number of years. Hundreds, if Miss Becky is to be believed.”

Down went another strip of crispy pork, followed by a sip of coffee.

“As a side effect they seem to have a heightened sensitivity to direct sunlight—scorches the poor things to a crisp I’m afraid. I theorize it’s a lowered level of melatonin in direct relation to their slowed blood flow that causes this. The infection also goes to great lengths to keep the host alive, mending the most astounding levels of damaged tissue.” He paused to chew on another handful of bacon. “Another interesting side effect to note is that they must consume extraordinarily high levels of protein in order to survive. The young ladies feel human blood is the best source for this. They might be right, but it’s a heck of a way to survive.”

“They weave an impressive tale that makes them out to be vampires.”

“Hogwash. They overlay this vampire fairy-tale atop a complex disease as a coping mechanism. Simple as that.”

“But why?”

“What can I say? They’re as imaginative as they are beautiful. And I also think that the disease eventually drives them madder than they already are. Hence the beast you fought off.”

“How did you know …” Dodger thought twice about that question before he decided to back up and start at the source. “How did I get back here?”

“Ched went into town to fetch you after you stayed gone half the night. He practically busted down my door he was so convinced something was wrong, and wouldn’t shut up about it until I let him go in after you. I thought he was just after a fling with that floozy of his. Are you sure you don’t want some of this. I’m afraid I’ve eaten most of it.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” The professor dove into the rest of the plate, the eggs and toast stood little chance against his hungry attack. Between mouthfuls he finished his tale. “As I was saying, only Ched would be willing to walk fifty miles to meet his lady friend. But as it turned out, he wasn’t just after a quick romp in the sack. He came back a few hours later with you piled up in the Rhino, all patched up by Rebecca and her ilk, with the fantastic tale of how you won me two vials of … well, what you went after. I suppose you owe him some level of thanks.”

“He’s not the only partner I should thank,” Dodger said, glancing about the room.

Anytime, partner, Boon whispered.

Misunderstanding the statement as directed to him, the professor said, “Yes, but we won’t return to Waxford for some time. I’m sure you’ll still be with us when we do, so you can thank them then. As for now, I need to get back to my work, which I’m pleased to say is almost complete. Thanks to your diligent effort I have enough of the compound to help a whole infantry of the poor fellows. In fact I should have plenty of it left over for my other research projects as well.”

“The research concerning Lelanea?”

Boon gasped.

The professor stared at Dodger, all of his humor lost. “What do you know about that?”

Dodger didn’t know much about it, but he remembered hearing tale of such research among the other bits and pieces and fragments of the last few hours. “Rebecca mentioned your niece. Several times. Said she was cursed. That like the Forsaken, death and damnation was her only cure.”

“Yes, well, the ladies of Waxford are a touch melodramatic. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Dodger would agree, but he wouldn’t be sidetracked. “Is Miss Lelanea ill?”

“Not exactly.” The professor furrowed his brow. “But she does have a right to her privacy. Just as you have right to yours. I hope you understand that. And can find it within yourself to respect it.”

The old man had him there. “I reckon I can’t argue with that.”

The professor was visibly relieved at Dodger’s response.

“But,” Dodger added, “can you at least tell me what in the world I almost laid my life down for?”

“Haven’t you figured that out yet? After all, the ladies of Waxford deal in but one commodity.”

Dodger smirked. “I supposed as much, but you’d really pay five thousand dollars for a vial of blood?”

“It isn’t just any blood. It holds the source of their special condition.”

“I guess I just don’t understand how their infected blood will help keep those men stable.”

“As I said, it holds amazing self healing properties. Of course I won’t inject it directly into them. That would be suicide. Or rather murder. No, I’ve diluted it with a variety of other chemicals that should stave off the unwanted effects of the Forsaken disease but at the same time allow the infection in the blood to act as a stabilizing compound.” The professor hopped down from the desk with a little nod at the empty tray. “Sorry about your breakfast. I’m sure Feng will bring you another tray. We should arrive at your … or rather Mr. Carpenter’s farm in the hour. Unfortunately you returned to us in your current state. Visa vie, your nudity. I don’t know what other clothes you packed, but you will find a replacement suit there on your bureau. A gift from your new admirers.”

Dodger shot a glance to the chest of drawers, and sure enough there rested a folded pile of garments with his hat perched on top. His jacket hung from a peg on the wall beside the dresser. A phrase lingered at the back of his mind, as if reminding him of something he always knew: We take care of our own.

The professor checked his pocket watch, and clucked his tongue. “Get dressed and be ready to round up those men, as I will be prepared to begin treatment the moment we arrive.”

“Yes sir,” Dodger said.

The professor nodded once more, stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. As the professor’s presence faded from the door, so did a certain ghostly presence begin to dissipate from the room.

“Hang on there, bucko,” Dodger said. “Not so fast. Get your ethereal ass right back in here.”

You wish to speak with me further? Boon asked.

“Well?”

Well?

“Are you going to tell me about Lelanea or not?”

Please, Dodger, I beg you not to put me in this position.

Dodger smiled wide as he realized what Boon meant. “That’s right. Dead men tell no tales. You can’t lie. So tell me the truth. What’s wrong with her?”

Don’t be so callous. Nothing is wrong with her.

“You know what I mean. Is she … is Miss Lelanea sick?”

The ghost hesitated. In a way, yes.

“Is she dying?”

We’re all dying. Some of us faster than others.

“Why would the Forsaken say those things about her?”

Again, the spirit hesitated before he whispered, I’m afraid the truth of the matter is something she will have to share. You should ask her. Though I wouldn’t recommend it.

“That’s not an answer. It’s just a dodge, you know.”

A dodge, perhaps, but not a lie. Much like Ched and myself, her story is hers and hers alone. Until she is ready to share you will have to be patient. You may never know. Rest assured she is healthy, just … afflicted.

“Afflicted? Sounds terrible.”

You have no idea, my friend. You have no idea how terrible it really is for her.

And the sorrow in the spirit’s whisper left Dodger even more worried for Miss Lelanea than he was before.

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Ten-Like Hungry Jackals

2012-01-02T06:53:00.007-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Ten

Like Hungry Jackals

In which Dodger deals death to the deathless.

A high-pitched shriek sounded from the left tunnel, followed by the unmistakable noise of something scrambling toward him. Dodger leveled the gun, and waited. The instant the tunnel mouth proved movement, he fired. A creature shot forward, tumbling into the grotto and collapsing at his feet. There the thing—what looked like a man, only warped with unnatural features—twisted and writhed, screaming at the top of its unholy lungs as a fetid vapor rose from the gaping wound in its shoulder.

Dodger had no time to watch this spectacle, for a chorus of voices sounded from both tunnels, filling the grotto with a wild echo of shrieks. Sounds bounced off every surface, dancing through the mines until Which was a bit unfortunate as now he couldn’t be sure which tunnel would dump the next target onto him. He raised his weapons again and waited for the sign of movement.

Left! Boon shouted in his mind.

Flinching at the scream, Dodger hesitated for an instant at the urgency in the ghost’s voice.

Left, damn you! Boon shouted.

Dodger understood, and fired blindly into the left hand tunnel. To his relief, a creature skidded from the mouth and fell writhing before him.

Right!

Dodger complied, firing Florence into the darkness of the right hand tunnel.

Thus it went, back and forth, Boon piloting Dodger’s shots by shouts and Dodger following his partner’s lead. Four, five, six, and with a flick of the dial he switched the guns to their second setting. Seven, eight, nine creatures exploded under the force of two bullets, until eventually the shouts and shots and shrieking ceased. A thin vapor rose from the pile of dead at his feet, leaving Dodger a bit light headed but none the worse for wear. It was easy. Too easy.

“Bravo,” came a woman’s voice from the belly of darkness.

Dodger paused as he reloaded his gun. This was unexpected. Rebecca said the vampire was an animal. He didn’t expect to talk to her.

“I haven’t seen shooting like that in years,” the woman said. Her voice had just an edge of an accent. Something European. Bulgarian? No, Romanian. Home of dark legends and myths. “You have quite a way with weapons. I wonder if you have the same, delicate way with women? I often find those talents coincide. Something to do with the expertise of the hands, I imagine.”

“I take it you’re Gladys?” he asked the darkness.

“Yes. And you’re lunch.”

Dodger smirked at that. “Funny. Very funny.” He clicked Hortense closed and turned his attention to Florence. “I hate to disappoint you but I have no intention on dying today.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Are you going to come on out,” Dodger asked. “Or are you going to make me come after you?”

“Why should I come out? You’re just going to kill me too. Aren’t you? After all, isn’t that what those lying, two faced bitches sent you down here to do.”

“Yes.” He flicked the second gun closed and eyed the two tunnels. Where in the hell was Boon! At the moment Dodger needed him most, the ghost just ups and disappears. It was just as well, Dodger always worked better alone. If he could keep her talking, he was fairly sure he could pinpoint which path she was down. “I do plan on killing you. I’d like to say I’m sorry about that, but considering the state these poor men are in, I can’t say that I am.”

Her voice turned venomous. “Those men had it coming. Abusing women for their own disgusting needs. They deserve everything they got.”

“I thought the policy of the Rose was give a little, get a little.”

“As if you believe that any more than I do.” The Jackal’s rich laughter echoed up both tunnels.

“I’m not sure what I believe anymore. Let’s get this over with. Come on out now.”

“Tell me, why should I come out?”

The left one. He was almost sure she was down the left hand side. “Because I will kill you either way.”

“Men are all the same,” she said. “You expect women to just bend to your very will. I should thank you for my freedom. But I won’t. I knew it was only a matter of time before those cows made a mistake.”

“Come out and face me, or I’ll just come in after you.”

“Come in after me? You think you know everything. But I know something you don’t.”

“Oh yes? What’s that?”

“I have a gun too.”

Dodger ducked and rolled away just as the Sunbox exploded and shattered behind him, taking with it his only source of light. The inky gloom swallowed him whole, drowning him in complete black. He scrambled in this darkness, over the pile of corpses, until he came to rest against the cavern wall. Backing up the wall, Dodger drew both weapons and waited in the darkness for death to claim him.

Several sounds came to him as he concentrated, listening for a hint of where she was; a scurrying along the cavern floor, the grunts of those men sill dying before him, his own too loud breathing.

Wait … if he could hear his breathing, then so could-

The Jackal swept him off his feet before he could finish the thought and Dodger buckled under her. In his effort to break his fall he dropped Hortense, reaching out for any purchase along the cavern wall. He found none, and fell to the ground under her heaving bulk. To his dismay, the fall twisted his right arm behind him, pinning Florence under their combined weight. There he struggled in the total darkness, squirming amidst the bodies of the dead and dying, fighting to keep his life’s blood to himself. The beast chomped the air inches from his face—he didn’t need to see it to know. He could all but feel her teeth snap and snarl, dripping slobber and God only knows what else on his face.

With his left arm he held her away, trying his damnedest to get enough of her weight off of him so he could free his right arm and his weapon. Unable to land a bite, she resorted to punching and clawing at him, tearing through his shirt to reach the tender flesh beneath. Dodger let go long enough to get a few hits in himself, before returning to the struggle of keeping her from biting his face off.

“Yes!” she shouted. “Struggle for me. I like my meal to fight back. That’s it!”

And that was it, too. Dodger was fairly sure she would turn him into ground meat right there on the rocky floor of her prison. His strength fled him, as did his blood, her blows gutting him deeper and deeper with each stroke. Eventually he lost his grip on her, at which she grabbed his arm and pinned it above them, lowering her face to his, the cold rank of her charnel house breath in his face.

“You put up a good fight,” she said. “It will bring me much pleasure to have a meal of you. Or perhaps I should make you one of mine. Infect you. Rule you. Would you like that?”

Before all of this, Dodger used to think he was something special. He used to roll with the punches and shoot from the hip and dodge the bullet and a variety of other euphemisms for avoiding getting his ass handed to him by his enemy. Hell, even when he wanted to die—throwing himself in front of cannon after cannon, gun after gun, onto knives and swords and bayonets so many years ago—he couldn’t seem to manage it. Yet here he was, writhing in the dirt and blood and, for the first time in years, genuinely fighting for his life. The trouble with it was, and this was the most unbelievable part, he had never felt more alive.

He actually wanted to live.

“Any last words before I consume you whole?” she whispered.

Before he could answer, Boon shouted, “Gladys!”

“Wash?” the Jackal asked, and lifted herself off of Dodger.

In fact, she lifted herself just enough for Dodger to free his right hand, and the weapon it bore. He slid his arm out from under them, raised the gun to her bulk and opened fire. Bursts of light leap from the barrels as they blasted triple shots into the shrieking beast. In moments it was done; Dodger was out of ammunition, and the Jackal went silent. She slumped over him, motionless, and weighing what Dodger would guess came to about a million tons. With maximum effort he rolled her corpse off of him.

“Is she dead?” Boon asked, his voice labored.

“She was dead before,” Dodger said, his voice equally labored.

“You know what I mean.”

“I think she’s given up the ghost now.” Dodger got to his knees with a wince, and began routing around the darkness, searching for his missing weapon. “Speaking of ghosts, where did you go? I could have used some help sooner.”

“I thought I could help more if I touched her mind. Perhaps I could talk her down, or something like that.”

“And?”

“And it was a bad idea. A very bad idea. It put both of us at peril, and I can’t apologize enough. Are you well?”

“Well enough. I think I might need some of the doc’s medicine though. And soon.” A familiar outline passed under his searching fingers as he swiped his hands over the cavern floor. “There you are.” Ignoring the burning pain in his sides, Dodger snapped up the stray gun and holstered her. “How about you? You sound almost as bad as I feel.”

“Good. Just weak.”

“I didn’t know ghosts could get weak.”

“As I said, tapping into a normal mind drains my constitution, but her mind … Dodger … it was unspeakable. The darkness. I’ve never seen such thoughts before.”

Dodger wanted to sympathize, but reckoned they could commiserate all they wanted once they got back to the line. “Can you find the exit?”

“I’m at the ladder now. Follow my voice.”

He did as asked, carefully picking his way across the floor, to the ladder as Boon guided him along. Once he reached the exit, Dodger looked up the shaft, to the pinpoints of light just piercing the hatch, wondering how in the hell he would make it all the way up there in his current shape. But somehow he did, painfully pulling himself up rung for rung, until he pushed back the hatch and thrust his face into the moonlight once more. Spilling out of the shaft’s mouth like some retched up meal, Dodger rolled onto his back and sucked the clean night air into his aching lungs.

“Damn son,” Boon said as he stooped over Dodger. “You look a mess. I didn’t realize how much damage she’d done.”

“I’ll be fine,” Dodger said. “Most of it’s superficial.” He pulled back the tatters of his jacket, hissing at the dark gouges underneath. Laying on his back again he tried to lighten the spirit’s mood. “I think I’ll need a new shirt though. Shame too. I liked this one.”

“As did I,” Rebecca said. Her silhouette eclipsed Dodger’s view of the swollen moon as she moved in to look down at him. “But I’m certain we can outfit you with something comparable.” The vampire stooped over him and pushed Dodger’s hands aside to inspect his wounds. Dodger was far too weak to resist. She removed his shirt, hissing and clucking her tongue at the damage underneath.

“It’s not that bad,” Dodger said, though as he did he could feel a trickle of warm life stream from the corner of his mouth.

“I must admit, it’s better than what I expected. But, of course, I didn’t expect you to survive at all. You’ve surprised and impressed me. You’ve impressed my sisters as well.”

“I aim to please,” he whispered.

“Your aim is extraordinary, Mr. Dodger.” She clapped, and other figures moved in along either side of him. “Take him to the Rose. We shall tend to his wounds there.” Looking back down to him she added, “Tis the least my sisters and I can do for such exceptional service.”

The presence of so many blood suckers around his very bloody body made Dodger all sorts of nervous. “I appreciate the offer, but I reckon the doc can take care of me when we get back to the line. I’d like to settle up and get on our way.” He tried to sit up, to get to his feet on his own, but the moment he raised his body the world spun and nausea swallowed him whole.

“Nonsense,” Rebecca said. “Our medicine is stronger, and our methods are much more pleasant. Relax, let us ease your pain.”

Before he could argue, Rebecca passed her hand over his eyes, and with the motion Dodger fell into the loving arms of his dark mistress once more.

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Nine-Down in the Dark

2011-12-26T06:13:00.001-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Nine

Down in the Dark

In which Dodger picks locks, secrets and battles.

One fine evening, many years ago, a man by the name of Joseph Bernard Waxford wandered into Fort Keller and collapsed. The man was dehydrated and delirious and, perhaps more importantly, loaded down with two sacks of familiar yellow nuggets. When revived and questioned about his curious cargo, he claimed to have found it all in a mine in the middle of the desert, bursting at the seams with gold. Well, being the adventurous types (which is just another word for greedy) the young men of the fort were, a number of them abandoned their duties at the Fort and took off for the heat of the south, hoping to find an untold wealth of treasure in the sand.

They did indeed find the beginnings of a mine—a small hole in the ground blasted away by unknown hands which led into a wide underground cavern—and set to work seeking the very same gold the mad man claimed was there for the taking. The small town of Waxford, named in Joseph’s honor, sprang up to care for those men who spent countless hours digging away in the belly of the earth. And countless hours upon countless hours were spent. Hours used up. Hours wasted. For when it came down to it, nary a single pebble of gold was ever unearthed from the cold, uncaring rock.

In a year the town folded, the folks faded and Waxford was no more.

“And that’s when Becky and her girls moved in,” Boon said, finished his narrative as the pair of men approached the mouth of the now abandoned mine.

“They swooped in and set up shop, as it were,” Dodger said.

“Yes. The story of Waxford’s folly was enough to deter thru traffic. That and the fact that it’s located between miles of sand and the rump end of nowhere.”

Dodger crouched over the heavy boards bound with iron chains covering the entrance to the mineshaft beneath. He pulled at one of six aged padlocks that held the whole works in place. “Bitch. She never said anything about a key. I guess we’re supposed to let ourselves in.”

“Blast them open?”

“No. I don’t want to announce our arrival to those below.” Rather then return to the Rose and risk an unnecessary encounter with the vampires, Dodger turned his mind and his penknife to the task of picking the locks.

“A lock pick are we?”

“Among other things. Like the bearer of silver bullets, apparently.” From the corner of his eye, Dodger saw the ghost wince.

“I’m sorry. I should have said earlier, but it completely slipped my mind.”

“That’s all right.” A soft click sounded his first success. Dodger turned to the next lock in line. “Tell me more about ‘em. Why silver?”

“Silver, for some reason or another, seems the best way to deal with the majority of the unusual trouble the doc attracts. You know the kind I mean? Yes. I discovered early on in my work for him that it’s best to go ahead and carry silver bullets at all times. Saves the trouble of loading it when you need it most. Because most of the time, you’re gonna need it.”

“That’s all kinds of handy, I suppose.” Another click. Another lock. “How long have you been with the doc?”

“A few years. Seems longer.”

“And you’ve been dead just a few weeks?”

“Yes. I died quite unexpectedly. There wasn’t time to train a replacement.”

Dodger gave a snort at the spirit’s words. “It’s been my experience that unless you are diagnosed with a proper disease, no one dies expectedly.”

“That as it may be, in my case it was doubly surprising. I went into town for some supplies. Alone. I normally took Ched with me on those little excursions, but I just needed some time to myself. It was stupid of me, I now know. The Rhino always draws attention, especially from thieves and thugs. They see the fancy carriage and assume you’re carrying great wads of cash. It’s best to travel in pairs.”

Dodger made a note of that as he swallowed hard and thought about the lumpy envelope he had left in his jacket pocket.

The spirit pressed on with his tale. “I also left the guns with Ched. I hated carrying them into town. They tended to make folks a touch nervous. Made them hard to do business with.”

“I can imagine.”

“That was my mistake, though, because I was jumped on my way back to the Rhino. Two thugs took me by surprise. I tried my best to fight them off, and when it was apparent they had the upper hand I acquiesced and offered them everything I had, but … they weren’t just after my money, Dodger. They weren’t satisfied with my goods. They wanted my life. I don’t know why. Just pure tee meanness I suppose, but they weren’t happy until they beat my brains into a bloody soup.”

Dodger stopped to look up to the long, sorrow filled face of the ghost. “You watched it all, didn’t you?”

The ghost nodded. “One moment I was under their hateful blows, the next I was standing over them, watching the whole thing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t just that. I never got a chance to say goodbye, you know? It was like I went away for supplies and just never came back. I feel like I abandoned them.”

Dodger didn’t know what to say to that. He returned his focus to the locks, and asked, “What was with the whispering in front of the vampire? Ched can hear your whispers, why not her?”

Thankfully the spirit got over himself. “It was a risk, I admit, but I sensed she couldn’t hear me. Perhaps it is something in how the vampire mind works.”

“Well, all I can say is I feel like an ass not knowing what’s going on half the time. Damn, this one is tricky.” Of course, it had been a number of years since Dodger picked a lock, and even then it was with professional tools. He jiggered it and wiggled it, probing the tumblers deep with his knife until the lock gave up the fight. “Tell me, did you ever learn what became of old man Waxford?”

“A decade or so later he finally confessed that the gold belonged to a rival miner in Black Hills territory, up north. Seems he killed the poor fool, hid his body in the mines and made a run for it. When he spotted the Fort, he rounded and approached from the south so folks wouldn’t suspect his little lie. He didn’t think so many idiots would go looking for the made up mine, much less name a whole town after him.”

“Don’t tell me,” Dodger said as slipped another free and moved onto the next lock in line. “He spilled his guts to some innkeeper because his conscious bothered him after so many years of spending the poor fool’s money.”

“Sort of. He told the whole story to Becky when they took him in as a client.”

“He became one of the retched lonely, huh? I guess there are some thing money just can’t buy.” Dodger shuddered at the thought of Becky taking on a client. He dropped the fifth lock to the sand and started on the last. “That doesn’t bother you? The idea that they just help themselves to men like that?”

“It really is a give and take relationship. From what I understand, men get as much as they give.”

Dodger paused, mid-pick, to glance up at the specter. “And how much did you give? Or should I ask how much did you get?”

It was a mean spirited question, one designed with a specific effect in mind.

An effect Washing Boon was quick to exhibit.

The specter huffed and puffed and grew all manner of flustered at the idea he had engaged in trade with the brothel behind them. “Well I never intended … that is to say … I think perhaps … well … it isn’t that they aren’t lovely girls …” He hemmed and hawed, declared and denoted, and all the while became more and more incomprehensible in his embarrassment.

Dodger couldn’t help but laugh at the poor ghost. “Don’t worry, Wash. I wouldn’t think less of you if you did, nor more of you if you refrained. I suppose, once you got to know them, a little time with such talented ladies might become a hard thing to resist.”

“You have no idea,” Boon said.

Dodger supposed he had to thank merciful Kwan Yin for that. With a soft click, the last lock opened and Dodger pulled it away. He lifted the hatch and peered down into a long, dark shaft. A foul scent wafted from the hole, curling around Dodger in musky wisps of rot and death. Giving the Sunbox a few cranks, he lowered the light into the mouth of the mine to reveal a worn and quite unreliable looking ladder.

“I guess it’s our only way down,” Dodger said.

“Well, the best of two ways down,” Boon said.

“Shall we proceed?”

“Allow me to go first, just in case they are laying in wait.”

Dodger couldn’t argue with that logic, and so he watched as the spirit descended the ladder, then grabbed up the Sunbox and followed, pulling the hatch closed behind him.

The ladder ended after nine or so feet—Dodger guessed this from the relation to his own height—with the shaft bottoming out into a round cavern perhaps a dozen or so feet in diameter. Paths branched off from either side, two nondescript tunnels that lead off into utter blackness. Dodger was just able to stand erect. Boon, on the other hand, had to stoop or else the top of his ghostly head disappeared into the rocky roof with a soft crackle of static discharge.

“This is most annoying,” Boon said.

Dodger hissed and held a finger to his lips. Not yet, partner. Let’s secure the area first.

Good idea, Boon whispered in his mind.

Dodger didn’t know if Boon heard his very thoughts, or if his plan was just that apparent. He drew Florence and set her hammer as he kept the Sunbox held high, watching the flickering shadows for any sign of attack. None came. Yet.

Where to first?

Dodger motioned to the left passage. Eldest hand always goes first.

You stay here. I’ll see what I can see. Boon disappeared into the darkened shaft.

Dodger stood in the small halo of light the Sunbox provided, breathing shallow and listening for any little movement, any little sound. He heard nothing. Saw nothing. Felt nothing. The ghost stayed gone for what seemed a very long time. One hundred heartbeats, maybe longer. Dodger was just about to trace Boon’s exit, when the specter exited from the opposite shaft across the grotto. Where only minutes before his presence was strong, his appearance almost solid, the ghost now flickered and waned. His voice reached out to Dodger as if coming from miles away, his usual whisper nothing more than a weak sigh.

The shafts converge into another small cavern a ways from here. I was unable to see in the darkness—I don’t understand any more than you do so do not ask—but I was able to touch the beasts’ minds with some effort. I counted ten of them scattered all along the way. The strongest minded one, the Jackal I assume, is at the back. They appear to be asleep, but I don’t know how long that will last once you start firing.

“We should make our stand here,” Dodger whispered as quietly as he could. “I hate to ask this but can you draw them to me? I can protect this spot better than running up and down some dark tunnel.”

I understand, and yes, I think I can bring them to you. I shall give you a count of fifteen and flush them out.

Boon slipped into the left hand passage again, and Dodger began his countdown.

Fourteen.

Thirteen.

Twelve.

Using the crank as a hook, Dodger affixed the Sunbox to a step of the ladder behind him.

Eight.

Seven.

He drew both weapons and set the dials to one. No need to waste ammo when one silver bullet was enough.

Four.

Three.

Dodger set the hammers on both weapons, raised his arms and aimed them toward the dark tunnels.

Two.

One.

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Eight-Give and Take

2011-12-19T06:21:00.002-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Eight

Give and Take

In which Dodger comes to a bloody accord.

“Becky?” Boon asked. “What is going on?”

The vampire’s mood changed so suddenly that even Dodger felt a pang of sympathy for her. She stared hard at the ghost and asked, “Do you remember Gladys?”

“The new girl?” Boon asked. “The little brunette with a foreign accent?”

Rebecca nodded. “One of our contacts in New York rescued her from the streets and sent her to us. We took her in on good faith, bound her to our vows, and taught her our ways. She showed promise, but she betrayed us, Wash. She wasn’t just a lost fledgling. At her cold undead heart she was a Jackal.”

“Oh dear.”

“I know. Surprised us too. Trouble is, we didn’t find out for nearly a fortnight. Meanwhile the clients she wasn’t outright killing, she turned and hid in the pit.”

“Dear God in heaven,” Boon whispered.

“I don’t know how it got past us. I trained her myself, and Dot kept watch on her as close as she could. We’ve just been so busy with all these frontiersmen. And the rise in tourists is threatening to close us for good. I just assumed she-”

“I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” Dodger said over her.

Rebecca gave a little impatient huff. “What is it now?”

“Well, I don’t think the jackal I’m thinking is the jackal you’re all talking about.”

“Give him a break, Becky,” Boon said. “He ain’t never dealt with the likes of you before.”

“I can see that much,” Rebecca said. She looked away and muttered just loud enough for Dodger to hear, “I just hate dealing with new people.”

“You’d do best to get used to it,” Dodger said. “Because I plan on being around for a mighty long time.”

She looked to him again, a faint trace of a smile belying her gruff attitude. “A Jackal is the most twisted of our kin. Their main goal is to consume, taking and taking but never giving. They will turn a normal human into one of us without considering the consequences, creating more and more until their numbers are out of control. They are animals at best, and monsters at worse.”

“And you have just such a Jackal here.”

“Unfortunately, yes. She is held captive in the abandoned mines this town was originally built around. When we discovered she was turning her clients into monsters like her, or just eating them whole, we tossed her into the darkness with the rest of her brood and sealed them inside.”

“Why didn’t you just kill them and be done with it?”

She blinked, as if unsure of why he would ask such a thing. “Because that would violate our vows, Mr. Dodger.”

“Vows,” Dodger echoed. “Vampires take vows. You’re joking with me.”

“I most certainly am not. While it is true that our condition requires us to feed off of the life force of others, some of us learned over the years that we don’t have to kill to survive. We can coexist with normal humans if we show restraint. We take vows promising to never bring harm to another. To never take an ounce of life without permission and always give something in return.”

“Sounds like a noble endeavor,” Dodger said.

“Thank you. The Elders—the most arrogant of our kin—despise us for this, and thus we are forsaken by our own kind. Hence your employer’s colorful name for us.”

“He has a knack for naming things,” Boon said. “I’m always impressed by it.”

“As am I,” Rebecca said, but she sounded anything but awed. “The Desert Rose is a sanctuary for those like us, those tired of killing to survive. We take them in and teach them a better way. They accept our vows of nonviolence and we promise to protect them from the persecution that plagues us from all sides.”

Dodger smirked. “Kind of like a convent for bloodsuckers?”

“Very amusing, though apropos.”

“How deep do your vows run? Surely you’re allowed to protect yourself against attack.”

“We are and we did by means of non-violence. Killing a human is abhorrent, but to kill one of our own kind? We just can’t. We sealed her away so she could bring no more harm to others, or us. But there in the darkness she and her brood suffer. And as they suffer, so do we.”

“I see.” Dodger wondered, with all the talk before about throwing his carcass to the monsters in zee pit, just how much suffering was really going on here. He had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps she wasn’t telling him the whole story. Or rather, the whole truth. “I take it this is where I come in?”

Rebecca dropped her gaze to the floor. “I hate to ask, but I’m at a loss for an alternative. We are at our wits end, Mr. Dodger. And we have heard much about your skill at handling … shall we say, problematic situations?”

“You just assume I am willing to spill blood where your precious vows forbid it.”

She raised her eyes to him again, surprise over taking her.

“You’re wrong about your Elders,” Dodger said. “You’re just as conceited as they are.” He glanced to Boon, and found the ghost shaking his head in silence. Was his contempt for Dodger or the vampire? It was hard to read the spirit, so Dodger just let the idea go.

Rebecca’s surprise faded into a cool calm again. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but those are my terms. Handle our problem and I will give you what you want.”

Dodger considered this offer, unsure of the value because he had no idea what they were bargaining for. He wanted to ask, but reckoned he might weaken his bargaining power if he proved ignorant of the prize. “I will take care of your dirty business if you give the professor twice the amount he asking.”

“Twice!” Boon and the vampire shouted in unison.

“That’s right. Twice. I’ll do what you ask of me, only if you give us twice what we came for. And we keep the money too. Deal?”

“Dodger,” Boon started. “I think that’s a bit much to ask-”

Dodger lifted his hand, asking Boon’s silence, as well was support.

Rebecca leaned against the couch again, regarding him with a cool stare. Though she did her best to conceal it, Dodger could sense the wild anger dancing behind her eyes. But she kept her unruffled façade, eyeing him as she weighed either his offer or the best way to kill him and be done with this whole affair.

At length she said, “The rumors about you are true. You really do drive a hard bargain. I wonder if everything they say about you is true.” She gave him the once over, from head to toe and back again, licking her plump lips as she ended the sweep of her gaze at his groin.

Or was it the guns she stared at so hard?

No, it was his groin. He felt naked under her penetrating gaze, but resisted the urge to cover himself with his hands. Boon cut him a questioning glance, and with it Dodger knew his next bull session with the guys in the cab was going to be full of awkward questions and dirty suggestions.

“I accept,” Rebecca said. “If you can manage to dispatch Gladys and her brood I would be glad to give you twice what you want. And yes, you can keep the money.”

“Sound good to me. What about the mines. Do you have a map?”

“No, but you won’t need one. The caverns are limited.”

Which left the deed itself. Dodger hated to ask, but he needed to know. “Do the usual vampire remedies apply? Or is there some special way I have to kill her?”

“Unless things aboard the Sleipnir have changed dramatically since Wash’s demise, then you’re well enough armed.”

Dodger stared at the vampire, unsure what she meant.

Your ammunition is silver tipped, Boon whispered.

Raising an eyebrow at the news, Dodger tried not to act too surprised. “I suppose that settles that.” He removed his jacket and held it out to her. “If you can hang onto this, and point me in the right direction, we can get this over with.”

The vampire snorted and snapped up his coat. “It’s good to see we aren’t only ones that get a little blood thirsty. You certainly live up to your name, Rodger Dodger.”

And all at once Dodger regretted his enthusiasm.

“Boon can show you the way to the mines,” Rebecca said as she settled onto a settee. “I need to gather my girls and explain the terms of our agreement. Do make haste. I’m sure we would both like to get this over before the sun rises so you can collect your payment and be on your way.”

“Just one more thing,” Dodger said, rolling up his sleeves. “How many did you say there were?”

“I didn’t. And truthfully, we aren’t sure. Could be as many as half a dozen, maybe more.” Rebecca slipped his jacket on in a move that was all seduction, whether she intended it or not. “But don’t worry, I’ll know if you’ve slain them all.”

“How? Will you just somehow sense it?” Which Dodger wouldn’t put past her. After all, she was a vampire.

“Nothing so dramatic. You see, once you go down there’s only one way you’ll come back out alive.” She flashed him some fang, and a good bit of cleavage, before she pulled his coat over her bosom and said, “Goodbye, Mr. Dodger.”

Her farewell had an edge of finality to it that Dodger just didn’t care for. Rather than giving her the pleasure of a response, he followed Boon out of the parlor, through a low-lit hallway and back out onto the porch. No sooner had the door closed behind them then Boon gave a hoarse shout.

“Great gravy, son!” he whispered fiercely. “What was all that about back there?”

“What was what?” Dodger asked.

“All that flirtin’ and fakin’ and flauntin’. I’ve never seen anyone handle Becky like that. Boy she was as mad as a hornet trapped in honey there at the end. Do you realize how close you came to ending up in that pit as a snack instead of a savior?”

Dodger stopped on the bottom step and looked up to the spirit of the taller man. “What else was I supposed to do? You weren’t any help back there you know. One of us had to stand up for ourselves. Some partner you are.”

“Well it was kind of hard for me to get a word in with you two playing verbal poker like that. It was all I could do to keep up! I’ll say it again, I have never seen Becky treated like that. I mean the way you spoke to her, much less make her back down from a full payment? And you got us twice what the doc asked for! How did you do that?”

“It was nothing. I just bluffed her.” Dodger returned to his stroll. “Anyone can do it well if they know how. Stop making a big deal out of it and show me where this place is.”

“A big deal? Dodger, you don’t understand the enormity of what just occurred here. There’s just one thing those women love more than blood, and that’s money. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but did you or did you not just talk a one hundred and fifty year old vampire out of five thousand dollars?”

Three things struck Dodger all at once, bringing him to another stop.

First and foremost, he had a hard time processing the suggestion that the buxom southern gal was a day over twenty-five, much less one hundred and fifty years old.

Secondly, how much money did Boon say Dodger was just walking around with stuffed in his jacket pocket like it was a few measly bucks?

And third, he had done just the very thing Boon claimed he had done.

Boon’s chuckle interrupted Dodger’s shocked thoughts. “Forgive me for being so crass, son, but I don’t understand how you get about without limping, ‘cause you must have balls as big as church bells.”

Dodger groaned as he rubbed his eyes. “Let’s fetch the Sunbox from the Rhino and get this the hell over with. I’m getting tired and I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Seven-The Forsaken (continued)

2011-12-12T06:10:00.002-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Seven

The Forsaken

Continued

“How do you know of me?” Dodger asked.

“Let’s just say we hear a lot of rumors from our clients. And your name may have come up once. Or twice. Or three times.”

“Clients? That’s a strange word for victims.”

The women growled again, and for a moment Dodger worried he had crossed whatever line kept them from killing him. Rebecca snapped her fingers, calling her ladies to attention.

“Leave us,” she demanded.

Grumbling, the women filed out of the room, leaving the three of them alone. Dodger felt more than one pair of cold eyes weighing his worth as the women departed.

“Was it something I said?” he teased.

“Dodger,” Boon warned.

“I obviously touched a nerve.” Dodger chuckled as his own humor. “I didn’t think vampires had nerves.”

“Please be quiet. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Embarrassing you? These monsters tried to kill me!”

“Becky,” Boon said aloud. “I apologize for his behavior. If I had known-”

“No need to defend him,” Rebecca said as she scooped up the gun belt from the desk behind her. “It isn’t his fault. He bears the bias of his forefathers. Let him think what he wants. It matters not to us.” She held the guns out to Dodger. “Here, I’m sure you’ll feel less exposed with these on.”

Dodger snorted and looked again to Boon for help. “Are you telling me they don’t lure men out here to the middle of the desert and kill them for their blood?”

“Not quite,” Boon said. “They take life from their clientele, true, but only enough to survive. In exchange the men who willingly allow them access get … well …” The spirit grinned, unable to finish the thought. If he had any blood to blush with, Dodger supposed the ghost would’ve turned a fine shade of pink.

“They get a night they won’t soon forget,” Rebecca said. “My girls have had many, many years to hone their talents. They are the best at what they do. The very best. Is it so much to ask a little life in exchange for such boundless pleasure?”

“It that’s true,” Dodger said, “then why aren’t you overrun with these so called clients? I don’t know a man alive that wouldn’t let you drain him dry if you’re as good as you say you are.”

“A man can easily forget other things when their memory is crowded with such delights.” She waggled the gun belt at him.

But Dodger wasn’t fooled by her double talk. “You mean you make them forget.” He snatched the belt and proceeded to buckle it in place. As soon as the belt settled on his hips, he felt a little safer; though he didn’t know how much good the guns would do against the supernatural being.

“We prefer to think of it as giving them other things to remember. Better things. We leave just enough hints behind to lead others brave souls to us, but not enough to reveal our home to unworthy eyes.”

“Just who do you consider worthy?”

“Anyone in need of our special touch. The lonely and dejected. The outcast. The heartbroken. Those willing to give anything to feel loved, even if for one night. I would wager that even you have probably heard of us? The great Rodger Dodger is sure to have been around the block a few times? Yes? Enough to pick up on certain rumors?”

The Desert Rose.

Dodger remembered now. Tales of a brothel so hot it left a man soaked just thinking about it. Women so beautiful you would willingly lay your life down just to lay with one of them. A meal of flesh so satisfying a man would pay whatever price asked for the privilege of a taste. Trouble was, no one knew where they place was located. Even those who had claimed to visit couldn’t quite remember where they had been at the time. But the rumors persisted, and the mirage flickered hot and scrumptious in the burning mind of every lonely man across the west.

And yes, in his past life Dodger set out for the place at least once. Maybe twice. But business always came before pleasure. How many times had he willingly bled for some nameless boss? No one ever offered him a night to remember. The most he got from a job was a head full of nightmares he’d rather forget.

“This is quite a setup you have,” Dodger said, trying to shift the conversation away from himself. “How long you been at this?”

“Here?” she asked. “Long enough to know it’s probably time to move along. America is expanding, and there is no place for us in this new world. Soon there will be nowhere for us to go.”

“What will you do then?”

She didn’t answer, and Dodger reckoned he was pretty glad about that.

“I hate to seem obtuse,” Boon said. “But we are here for a reason, and time is growing short.”

“Oh yes,” Rebecca said. “Your strange men are in need of our help. Help we would love to give, except …”

Dodger waited for the pause to pass, but it didn’t look like she was going to elaborate without a prompt. “Except?”

“We have the most unfortunate troubles of our own.” Rebecca flounced—not walked or strolled or stepped, she full bodily flounced—across the parlor and draped herself over the arm of a couch. There she crossed her legs, showing a heaping helping of thigh in the process, and pushed her chest out as far as her physique would allow for without breaking her spine. Her posture was somewhere between erotic and demure, much like a clueless virgin trying to seduce her husband on their wedding night.

And funny enough, it was just the kind of innocent seduction Dodger loved.

“I just don’t see how I can focus on what you need when I have so much worry on my delicate mind.” Rebecca pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead and sighed. “Worry that I’m sure the legendary gunslinger Rodger Dodger could handle with ease.”

“Knock it off,” Dodger said.

She placed a hand across the swell of her cleavage and dropped her mouth open, just a bit, in attitude of fake shock. “Why, sir? Whatevah do you mean?”

Dodger was pretty surprised himself that her naive sex kitten act wasn’t melting his pants right off his horny ass. He wasn’t sure if his near death experience had inoculated him against her charm, or if it was the presence of the ghost, or a little bit of both. Whatever it was, the sight of her lolling about on the arm of the couch with her breasts pushed forward and her lips set in a pretty pout did not fill him with the urge to do her bidding.

It filled him with the urge to run away as fast as he could before she could attack again.

“What do you want?” Dodger asked.

“Why would you assume I want something?” she asked.

“Because you’re showing us enough landscape to plant a crop of wheat on. Now what do you want?”

She fluttered her eyelashes and heaved her bosom. “I can’t ask a big, strong, handsome man like you to-”

“Just tell us,” Dodger said. “So we can get out of here.”

“Come on, Becky,” Boon said. “You ain’t foolin’ either of us with that routine. Just name your price and we can be on our way.”

She sat upright and smoothed down her thin gown. “Death has changed you, Boon. You used to be all kinds of fun.”

“I did not!” Boon turned to Dodger. “I did not. She’s just saying that. Ched likes that kind of fun, not me.”

Dodger stomach churned at the visual of such a suggestion. “Bringing Ched into this isn’t making it any better.”

Boon didn’t seem to hear him. “I mean sure, I like to have fun. But with the right kind of gal. You know … a certain kind of gal.”

“You mean a living woman,” Rebecca said. “Which is kind of ironic now, isn’t it?”

The ghost grinned wide and goofy. “Yeah. I reckon so. Me being dead and you being-”

“Wait up,” Dodger said. “What is this dead business? I thought you said you weren’t a vampire.”

“No,” Rebecca said. “I said we didn’t like that name.”

“So you are vampires?”

Rebecca thought about this before she said, “I think you should save that question for Hieronymus. He has all manner of theories about us. I’m sure he would be willing to share them with you.”

Dodger got the impression that she was done talking about the subject. Had she been a he, Dodger would have pressed harder for more information, vampire or not. But again, his experience with women forbade him this gratification. Not that he had an especially deep respect for the fairer sex. He just knew once a woman set her mind to being done with something she was as apt to change it as a eunuch was to grow a new pair of family jewels.

Boon cleared his throat, producing an awkward sound from the ghost. “Back to the matter at hand. Dodger did bring a full payment, with a little extra for bugging you gals so soon since the last time.”

“As much as I love money,” Rebecca said, “I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as a financial transaction. I said we had problems of our own, and I meant it.”

“What kind of problems?” Dodger said.

A look of genuine concern came over her. “The kind that needs killing.”

NEXT UP:

CHAPTER EIGHT

GIVE AND TAKE

In which Dodger comes to a bloody accord.

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Seven-The Forsaken

2011-12-05T09:18:00.001-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Seven

The Forsaken

In which Dodger learns the truth of Waxford.

“Stop, Rebecca,” Boon said. “Don’t hurt him.”

At the voice of the spirit, the women reverted. Just like that, the fangs were gone, the women were flawless beauties again, and Dodger trembled and sweated and wondered what in the hell just happened. One moment he was all too happy to die by their hands, or rather mouths, and now? Now the idea horrified him. Which is to say, he returned to normal on the matter.

Boon stood in the center of the ladies, holding his hat in his hands and pleading with the blonde. “Don’t hurt him. Please.”

“Wash?” the southern belle asked. She furrowed her pert brow as the corners of her lips curved ever so slightly down.

“Zee meal was lying,” the Frenchy said. “Boon is alive after all.”

The women cooed and clapped, glad to see Boon was unharmed. All save for the blonde belle. She silenced the others with a quick hiss and crossed the room, approaching Boon. His spirit towered over her as she stood beneath him, craning her neck to look him in the eyes.

“He wasn’t lying,” she said. “Was he?”

Boon shook his shaggy head. “I’m afraid not, Becky.”

The southern gal reached up and caressed his ghostly face. Static sparked from her palm, crackling as she ran her fingers through his beard. Quite literally. “What happened to you?”

“I guess I just danced a little to close with lady death. You know she always loved me for a partner.”

“She isn’t the only one.” A few tears rolled down her pale face, tracing the curve of her cheek on their way to do gravity’s biding. “Then it is true. Washington Boon is dead?”

“Yes. He is.”

The room itself seemed to gasp in astonishment. Several women covered their mouths. Some started to weep along with the blonde. Others looked away, as if the sight of his ghost was too much to bear.

“Why are you still here?” the belle asked as she wiped at her damp eyes.

Boon shot a glance to Dodger, who sat slack jawed and shocked into silence, then looked back to Rebecca. “I don’t rightly know.”

“I do.” The woman smiled, but this time it was an honest to goodness smirk. No fangs. No danger. “You linger for her.”

Boon gave a soft sigh. “Perhaps. Time will tell I suppose. Speaking of which, we ain’t got a lot of time on our side right now. Can one of you pretty ladies please untie my partner?”

“This cretin is with you after all?”

“He sure is. And we are both in a bit of a rush, so … if you don’t mind?” Boon motioned to the bonds.

“Always in a hurry to get back to her.” Rebecca clapped her hands and the two burly women closest to Dodger began to undo the knots that held him fast.

Only they weren’t women. Were they? Well, they were women now. All bosom and rump and lips. But what were they just a few minutes ago? All fangs and thirst and anger? And seduction. Loads and loads of seduction. Dodger knew what they were, but at the same time he didn’t want to know. Still, the analytical part of his mind reached for a name to describe them, but it sounded wrong. Wrong because it was impossible.

“For a partner of yours he was quite ill prepared,” Rebecca said.

“The Doc reckoned trial by fire was the best method for this one,” Boon said. “He’s a little on the skeptical side. Has to see it and touch it and taste it to believe it.”

“He was almost on the dead side. Your side of dead of course, not ours. You should have warned him. Or us, at the very least.”

Boon rubbed his neck. “Yeah, I would’ve spoken up sooner, but I wasn’t sure you would be able to talk to me, much less see me.”

“Congress with the deceased is one of our many gifts. You know that, Wash.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Where’s Ched?” a plump redhead asked.

“Yuck,” the French gal said with a snort. “Trust zee mention of congressing with corpses to remind her of him.”

“He’s back on the line, Lucy,” Boon said. “But he sends his love.”

“Pooh,” the redhead said, sticking out her lower lip. “I don’t want his love. I want his body. As close to mine as possible.”

The ropes gave way and Dodger slipped to the floor, just catching himself before he struck the ground. He still couldn’t manage words, the distress of what had almost happened and was happening now threatened to close his mental shop for good. A few ladies tried to help him to his feet, but he flinched from their touch—a touch he would have given his life to experience only moments before—and stared at them, still trying to make sense of what seemed so senseless.

“What brings you to Waxford?” Rebecca asked.

“You know why,” Boon said.

“He needs more? So soon? Will he ever give up on his hope for her cure? I told him, Lelanea is cursed. Like us. There is no cure. Only death. Death and damnation.”

“It’s not for her. It’s something different this time.”

The blonde narrowed her eyes. “Tell me he isn’t trying to make more of us. He is well aware that’s forbidden.”

“No. Nothing like that.” Boon launched into a brief explanation of the last two days, starting with Dodger’s employment and ending with their need for whatever it was they were here to gather.

“That’s quite a story” Rebecca said. “You make me feel as if I should give you what you want for free.”

“Is that an offer?” Boon raised an eyebrow.

“You know me better than that, Washington-”

“Vampires!” Dodger shouted over her, unable to contain the impossible idea any longer. He didn’t care who heard him, or what they thought of his insanity. For lack of a better thing to say, he repeated, “Vampires!”

Rebecca stopped talking, and turned to Dodger, a cool calm crossing her beautiful face. “Must you use such vulgar language? There are women present.”

“Women?” Dodger could all but feel his eyes trying to bulge their way out of their sockets, but he couldn’t help his heightened level of alarm. “You aren’t women! You’re a bunch of vampires! Lady vampires!”

The ladies growled in unison, filling the room with feral anger.

“Stop calling them that,” Boon whispered. “It only upsets them.”

Dodger looked to Boon for help. “Upsets them? They tried to kill me! And you! You just let me waltz on in here like nothing was wrong. Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Warn you about what?” Boon asked. “About the women of this town and how they will suck the life from your cooling corpse just as soon as look at you?”

“Well … yes.” Except, the way the ghost put it, the whole thing sounded silly. But it wasn’t silly! It was real! “They almost killed me. You could have given me some kind of idea.”

Boon sighed in his wistful, ethereal exhale. “And if I came right out and explained the way of things would you have believed me?”

“No,” Dodger was forced to admit. He also had to admit that just about every crewmember tried to talk him out of going it alone. Dodger dreaded facing Ched’s smug grin when they returned to the line. “But if you aren’t, you know what, then what was all that ‘sucking me dry’ about?”

“If you need a label so desperately,” Rebecca said, “then you may refer to us as Forsaken.”

“Forsaken,” Dodger echoed.

“Yes. It was your employer’s idea. Much like you he wasn’t satisfied until he had a label for us. Though I must admit his word is fitting. We have been forsaken—by humanity, by divinity, by our own kind—so the label is effective, if not a little dramatic.”

“The doc has a flare for the dramatic,” Boon said. “Just as my friend here can be a little over defensive. But we’re all friends here. Aren’t we, Dodger?”

“Dodger?” Rebecca asked. “You’re not the Rodger Dodger?”

The sound of his name on her lips simultaneously made Dodger ache with need while his skin crawled in disgust. It was an interesting effect. Nauseating, but interesting.

“Depends on what ‘the’ stands for,” he said.

Rebecca raked her blue eyes over him, in much the manner a hungry man measures up a side of beef hanging in a butcher’s window. “Oh yes, you’re him all right.”

(Click forward to continue)

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Six-Waxford (continued)

2011-11-28T05:53:00.002-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Six

Waxford

Continued

And they were the last thing Dodger saw before someone delivered a strong blow to the back of his head. Granted, it was enough to knock him for a loop, but not quite enough to put him all the way out, which was probably the intended effect. Dodger decided it might be best to play possum for a bit. Lay low, as it were. He went limp in his captor’s arms and allowed them to drag his heavy ass up the steps and inside.

Dodger kept his body limp and his eyes closed while someone propped him in a chair and proceeded to tie him in place. Again. Twice in as many days. (Would every job for the Doc wind up with him cold cocked and tied down?) Dodger flexed his muscles, allowing for a little play in the binding should talking his way out of this not work to his advantage. Speaking of talking, the room was alive with the chatter and natter of a variety of female voices.

With the trill of a French accent, a woman suggested, “I say we drain him now and dump his husk in zee pit. Let zee Jackals have what is left of him.”

A decisively British woman said, “No. Why gorge when we can make a month’s worth of meals out of the chap? I say we should enjoy him nice and slow. Let the bugger suffer long for what he’s done.”

A down home southern woman said, “Girls, girls. Let’s not get out of hand with this. We don’t rightly know what he’s done. Now, do we?”

Dodger recognized her as the shadow from the porch.

The one who rushed him.

All eyes and mouth and … something else. Even though it only happened moments ago, he couldn’t seem to remember now.

“But he has the guns,” the Frenchy said.

“Boon would never willingly part with his girls,” the Brit added.

A chorus of women agreed with this simple truth.

“Yes,” said the Southerner. “But I say we talk to him a little bit first. Find out what’s going on. Get a little information.”

Ah, the voice of reason. Dodger could almost kiss her, whoever she was.

Then the southern gal went and ruined by adding, “Then we kill him.”

The sea of feminine voices approved.

“You should just kill me now,” Dodger said. “Save us the trouble of arguing.”

Gasps rose from his audience and he lifted his head to lay eyes on a bevy of beauties. From pleasantly plump to bone thin, from blonde to redhead to brunette, from delicate to dangerous to delicious, every possible form of feminine glory lay spread around the room in front of Dodger. Some of the women lounged across the few couches, while others perched on benches, with the remaining sprawled on the floor. A quick count gave him twenty heads, and not male among them, though more than one was a bit masculine than Dodger’s tastes cared for. He was pleased to see he had been correct in his assumption. Either the Desert Rose was a bordello or a lingerie shop, because every little filly wore nothing more than a corset, panties and stockings.

And to his randy delight, some wore even less.

“If one of you ladies would be kind enough to set me free,” Dodger said, “then we can talk like civilized folks.”

“Where did you get these?” the southerner asked.

Dodger turned to her, and was taken aback by her beauty; a short but buxom blonde, with bright blue eyes and ruby red lips. A crimson, silky, knee length nightie was all she wore. The kind that one could see everything through if the light was just right.

And the light was oh so right.

She pushed Boon’s guns, as well as her bosom, into Dodger’s face and asked again, “Where did you get these?”

Funny thing was, Dodger didn’t remember being disarmed. He even peeked at his naked waist, just to make sure they were indeed Boon’s guns. Whoever took the guns had the deftest touch of anyone he had ever met. “I told you before. They came with the job.”

“You’re lying.”

“What would I gain by lying?”

“Your life.” The woman smiled, and with her grin something seemed wrong.

Dodger glanced around the room at the women, whom were all smiling now. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something seemed odd about their collective grins. Aside from the fact that their smiles were the sexiest things he had ever seen, the blonde’s the sexiest of all, something was just not quite right with them.

“My life?” Dodger asked. “Surely you don’t mean to kill me?”

“Surely we do,” the southerner said.

The other women, who had spent the last few minutes chattering like a house of nervous hens, had now grown quiet. As quiet as the grave.

“Over what?” Dodger asked.

“Let’s start with the crime of trespassing.” She lowered the guns and pushed her chest to him again.

He could sense the swell of each breast resting against his shoulder. His pace quickened. His pants suddenly seemed far too tight. “Is it hot in here? It seems awful hot in here.”

She lowered her voice to a sultry purr. “How did you find us?”

“I was sent here.” Dodger swallowed hard, trying to work down the dry lump in his throat, and will away the growing lump in his lap.

“By who?” The blonde smiled again, and the sight of it tore at Dodger’s subconscious.

What was so wrong with her smile? Her sexy, seductive, scintillating smile. He blinked, slowly, trying to flush the image of her grin from his tired mind. It was getting hard to concentrate with the weight of her body against him. She smelled so good too; sweet but cold. Like a rose at the heart of a snow drift. And he wanted her. More than anything else, he wanted to have her. Wanted to touch her. To taste her. To give his life to her.

“I told you already,” he said.

“What do you want with us?” she asked.

He heard his own voice as if through a wall, muffled and miles away. “I told you, I was sent here on an errand.”

She ran her hands through his hair, letting his wild locks slip between her dainty, pale fingers. “You’ve told us nothing but lies. I don’t know how you got those guns, but I think Marguerite has the right idea. We should drain you and toss what’s left to those Jackals in the pit. But, then again …” The blonde traced a line from his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, across his lips and down the length of his throat, stopping to press her fingertips against his throbbing artery, then lower still to grope the area over his racing heart.

Dodger hoped she would keep on going.

She didn’t.

“You know,” she said, “in a way I am glad you stumbled across us. It’s been far too long between meals, and we were getting so very, very thirsty.”

She forced her smile wider. Very wide. Too wide. Much wider than Dodger really thought any woman had a right to smile. Any person, for that matter. It struck him in that instant, the thing that was wrong. The wrongness of her smile. Of her mouth. Or more specifically, of her teeth. No, not her teeth.

It was the wrongness of her fangs.

Of all their fangs, for each woman turned on him now, mouth agape and overfilled with sharp teeth. They hissed and spat at him as they came closer, hunger and rage burning from their very eyes. Anger and appetite for the man who had stolen Washington Boon’s weapons. And there was little he could do to resist.

Aside from the fact that he was their captive meal, he couldn’t help but find the whole scenario highly erotic. He gulped in excited breaths, pleased to make contact, any kind of contact, with these beautiful creatures. Let them have him. Let them suck him dry. If this is how he should meet his maker, by the seduction of these sexy ladies, then he was all too satisfied to oblige. He always knew he would die at the hands of a professional, just never knew what profession would get him in the end.

The southern belle leaned into him, lowering her cold mouth to his neck, the point of her delicate but dangerous fangs pushing against his leathery, sun worn skin. Just before she could sink into him, just before she could make a meal of him or drain him or whatever other horrible plan they had for Dodger, a familiar voice and presence filled the room.

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Six-Waxford

2011-11-21T05:51:00.003-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Six

Waxford

In which Dodger faces those tricky ladies.

The Rhino proved to have an unexpected side effect; it was fun to drive.

Being a slave to the tracks for so many years, Dodger enjoyed the sudden freedom of the Rhino. He loved wheeling her back and forth in wide swoops across the open expanse of sand. Dodger pedaled fast, pushing her harder to higher speeds, not minding the effort it took to really open her up. At one point he thought they might be going as fast as the professor suggested, a heart stopping one hundred miles per hour. It was much like the manner Ched bobtailed the engine car, but on a more personal scale. Dodger reckoned a man could get used to this sort of thing. He knew he could.

Boon—who flickered into existence the moment the sun faded—seemed to enjoy the trip as well, chattering about the times he and Ched enjoyed the speed and convenience of the Rhino. Not to mention the magnetic effect it seemed to have on the opposite sex. Women, Boon explained, loved the Rhino, drawn to its beauty and dangerous nature and wild speeds like a flock of moths to a lightening bolt.

By the time they reached visual distance of Waxford, Dodger was pouring with sweat from pedaling so hard for so long. He slowed to a crawl, letting the Rhino coast for the last few miles while he regained his composure. At Boon’s suggestion, they parked the Rhino a quarter mile from the town proper, though there wasn’t much town to speak of.

“You ready?” Boon asked as he prepared to climb out of the vehicle.

“Yes,” Dodger said. “I’m ready. You, however, are staying here.”

“I thought you wanted me with you?”

“I wanted you to help me find the place. Which we have. Now you can wait here and keep an ethereal eye on the Rhino.”

“The folks of Waxford are familiar with the Rhino. They will leave her alone. And I’m familiar with the folks of Waxford. So if I come along, they will leave you alone.”

Dodger eyed the landscape of sand surrounding them. “You can come with me if you tell me what’s wrong with this town.”

The spirit sat back again and considered the request. “Let me put it like this: If someone had come to you a few days ago and told you that in two nights time you would be speaking to a ghost, in the middle of the desert, in a vehicle you powered yourself to a town you know nothing about to fetch an item of which you have no idea the value or identity … would you have believed them?”

“No. Of course not.”

Boon opened his palms to the sky. There was Dodger’s answer.

“I’m prepared to believe more now than I was two days ago,” Dodger argued.

“I doubt that,” Boon said. “In fact, I dare say you are prepared to believe little of what you can touch and even less of what you can see.”

Dodger had to admit that was a fair assessment of his cynicism. From his experience, seeing didn’t always equate to believing, and just because you had a bird in the hand it didn’t make it any easier to deal with than the two hiding in the bush.

“Besides,” Boon continued, “the less you know about this the better off you are. You should know better than most that knowledge is deadly. Some secrets, my friend, threaten to deform the very soul. Just go in, mention the professor by name and they will gladly take his money and give you what you want.”

“Then at least tell me what I’m after.”

“That’s something you really don’t want to know.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just am.”

And his sincerity convinced Dodger, so he pushed no more on the matter. “Just ask and ye shall receive? Easy as that?”

“Easy as that.”

“Fine then. You stay here and keep an eye on the moon for all I care. I’ll see you in a few. Or not see you. Or whatever.”

Dodger hoped down from the Rhino and set out for the town on foot.

Waxford was smaller than Blackpoint, with but four buildings composing the whole place; what he assumed was a tiny general store (with wide windows displaying sales of tack and feed) sat beside a barber shop (made obvious by its striped pole) with what looked to be a church on the far end (lack of décor left him unsure of the denomination) and a two story saloon (bearing the name ‘The Desert Rose’) parked proudly in the middle. That was it. Well, that and it was quiet. As in graveyard silent. Dodger was disappointed. He imagined the place a hive alive with illicit activities. But this was dull, dreary and boring. His grandmother could’ve lived in a town like this. She probably did for all he knew.

Dodger considered bringing the Sunbox along, but instead left it in the Rhino in favor of the comfort of dark. He preferred to travel by darkness, even when heading into unfamiliar territory. The dark of night, Dodger decided, was just about the only thing he looked forward to any more. Sunlight was too revealing, showing him things about himself and others he’d rather not see. Cloudy days held either the threat of rain or worse, the oppression of humidity. But a dark night with a clear sky was just right for anything. One could get up to so much mischief in the dark.

Two could get up to even more.

With the thought of mischief on the brain, and a wary eye, Dodger strolled into the center of Waxford. The Desert Rose was the only place lit by torches, which was good since that was his destination anyways. At first the place seemed abandoned, despite the lit torches. Far too quiet for a town that lived by night. Then sounds finally reached him, confirming the residents were indeed night owls. The soft strains of someone at the piano drifted from under the swinging doors of the tavern, accompanied by occasional laughter and scraps of conversation. Make that feminine laughter and conversation. The sign suggested a tavern, but Dodger had a good idea what this place really was. He smiled, to himself, as he stepped onto the wooden staircase that led to what he was fairly sure was a desert bordello.

The moment his foot hit the first step, his dusty boot clapping against the hollow wood with a much louder thump than he expected, all sounds from inside ceased.

Then the torches blinked out.

The torches flared bright for an instant, and next the light was gone, leaving Dodger standing at the foot of the staircase in nothing but the moonlight. There he waited, made blind by the sudden flare and then absence of light, his hands resting on the guns and his heart thumping loudly in his ears. His mind raced to make sense of the timing of the torches. They must’ve heard him mounting the stairs, and weren’t expecting visitors. Yes. He must’ve spooked them. This meant he had lost the element of surprise, if he ever had it at all.

“Hello?” he called out. “I’m sorry if I’ve startled you. I’ve come about-”

“What do you want?” a woman asked.

He hadn’t seen her walk onto the porch, but all at once there she was, a svelte shadow in the silver light, standing a few steps above him. Dodger pulled his jacket over the guns, not wanting to spook her further.

“Tell me what you want,” she said. Her southern accent placed her far from home.

Dodger tipped his hat to this kindred spirit as his own homebred laze of speech kicked in. “Evening ma’am. I hate to interrupt your little get-together, I’m here on an errand of utmost import.”

The shadow regarded him in the darkness before she repeated, “What do you want?”

Dodger always did like a woman who got to the point. “I was sent by Professor Dittmeyer. I’m supposed to ask for Miss Rebecca? She has something he needs and I have payment for whatever it is here.” Dodger patted his shirt pocket and the fat envelope tucked inside.

“You’re here on Hieronymus’s behalf,” she said. The way she drew out the Doc’s name gave Dodger the impression that she wasn’t sure which annoyed her more; the stranger’s presence or his association with the professor.

“Yes ma’am, I am.” Dodger flipped aside the flaps of his jacket, flashing Boon’s guns as a kind of identification. If they were on a first name basis with the Doc, then surely they were familiar with the unusual guns. “I only just started working for him a few-”

“Where did you get those?” The shadow raised a hand and pointed to the gun belt slung low on his waist. At least, he hoped it was just a hand.

“Florence and Hortense here?” Dodger placed his hands on the gun butts to emphasis his relationship to the weapons. The little ladies were his now. At least for the time being. “They came with the job.”

“Where’s Wash?”

“Who?”

The shadow huffed. “Where is Washington Boon?”

Dodger understood then. Her confusion. His intrusion. The residents of Waxford hadn’t heard the bad turn that had befallen the knightly Boon. “I’m afraid he is no longer with us.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Washington Boon is dead, ma’am.”

The shadow gasped. “You’re lying.”

“No, ma’am. I wished it weren’t true. But I’m afraid-”

“You lie!” the shadow screamed and made a rush for him.

Dodger tried to evade her, and would have too, but in the distraction of discourse someone snuck up behind him. (Lord have mercy! Was he that out of touch with his training?) This new person grabbed him up about his chest, pinning his arms to his sides with his hands still resting on the guns. He struggled against this force, bucking as hard as a wild mustang, but his captor held tight. The shadow raced down the length of the staircase and was on Dodger in seconds. He looked up just in time to see her face very close to his, her eyes glinting with rage, her mouth open wide, and her moist fangs glistening in the moonlight.

Fangs? Well, yes, that they were.

(Click forward to continue chapter...)

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Five-The Rhino

2011-11-14T06:26:00.003-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Five

The Rhino

In which Dodger longs for a mount, but gets something much better.

The Sleipnir arrived at her destination just as the horizon was busy trying its hardest to swallow the sun. The sun, however, wasn’t giving up without a fight. It cast its last few rays across the ocean of sand, as if scrambling for purchase on its way down the mealy throat of the distance, leaving behind streaks of amber and orange in its burning wake. Wisps of clouds, now free from their solar despot, reached across this painted landscape with shadowy tendrils, carrying in their touch all the secrets of darkness and the promise of the oncoming night.

Dodger looked up and down the length of the train, turning back and forth to take in the distance, in both directions. But no matter which way he looked all he saw was sinking sun and hot sand and encroaching darkness.

“Where is this supposed town?” he finally asked.

“Waxford?” the professor asked. “We’re still a good distance from it. Thirty miles or more, if Ched followed his instructions. And he usually does.”

Dodger smirked. “Then you were serious. You can’t get closer than that?”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

“How will they know? There’s nobody around.”

“They’ll know. Trust me. I put nothing past them. Though a tad eccentric, the residents of Waxford posses valuable information as well as invaluable arcane objects. They also are uncannily clever. Thus I will play whatever game is required to appease their unusual appetites.”

“Then you’re shending me in after all?” Ched asked from the back of the engine cab.

The professor frowned at his grinning driver. “I don’t mean those kinds of appetites.”

“I can handle it alone,” Dodger reminded the driver.

“Shuit yourshelf,” Ched said. “I’m shure you’ll enjoy the trip.” A hint of humor lingered in his words, leaving Dodger most uncomfortable.

“I hate to be the requester of bad news,” Dodger said. “But am I right in thinking you expect me to hoof the next thirty miles?”

“Not at all,” the professor said.

Dodger was pleased not to have to walk the distance, if not just a touch confused on how he was going to make the trip if not by foot.

Then the professor added, “You’ll take the Rhino.”

Which only served to confuse Dodger all the more.

“Torque is dishengaging her now, shir,” Ched said.

Which didn’t help matters for Dodger at all.

“What is the Rhino?” he finally found the wherewithal to ask.

“I’m so very glad you asked,” the professor said. And the way he rubbed his hands together seemed to confirm his words. He looked very glad indeed. The professor held out a hand to the end of the line, toward the caboose.

Dodger fell into step beside of the man, more curious and confused than ever. He supposed it as a state he would just have to get used to.

“When I first began to travel in the Sleipnir,” the professor said, “I was immediately faced with a simple problem; size. The Sleipnir, though a marvel in her own right, is far too large to travel into some areas. Specifically into inhabited areas, such as townships and cities. The regular railways have no problem with this due to their monopoly on the tracks. They just glide into towns and back out again. No one thinks anything of it.”

“But take a transport like this in a town,” Dodger said, catching the professor’s well placed drift, “and all hell will break loose.”

“Exactly. As a result, I had to devise a separate means of transport. Something smaller, easier to handle, but at the same time non-obtrusive. Something that wouldn’t spook the locals, as it were.”

Dodger controlled his urge to smirk. What he knew of the man, he was fairly sure it would be next to impossible for Professor Hieronymus J. Dittmeyer not to spook the locals.

As they approached the end of the line, the professor waved his hand at the caboose. “And now I’m pleased to introduce to you the end result of such a quandary. Mr. Dodger, behold the Rhino.”

The front and top sections of the caboose was still attached to the train, but a cube segment from the back end and base had been detached, slid free from the SMART and was now resting on wheels of its own beside the rest of the train. Mr. Torque sat in the back of this standalone segment of the caboose, turning some hidden crank, which raised a foldaway roof over the whole affair.

It looked very much like a carriage. So much so that Dodger commented on it.

“A carriage?” the professor asked. “Oh, my boy, it is so much more than just a carriage. So much more. Torque! Open her up, if you please.”

“Yes, sir,” the metal man said. He opened a small side door and climbed out of the carriage that was more than just a carriage.

“The Rhino is unique among vehicles,” the professor said as he ushered Dodger toward the thing. “Aside from being virtually indestructible, she can reach speeds of up to one hundred miles an hour or more with sufficient input.”

“One hundred!” Dodger exclaimed.

“Yes, but as I said it requires sufficient input. The fastest I’ve clocked her at was around seventy five, and that was at a very short run. I hypothesize that with adequate effort she could reach unheard of speeds.”

“Effort,” Dodger echoed just as they reached the front of the Rhino and looked under the now opened hood. He expected to find a steam engine, much like the one on the Sleipnir, only in miniature. But instead the space was filled with a series of flywheels, ten in all, bound to one another by lengths of slated belts and connected in turn to a variety of cogs ranging from the size of his fist to the size of a diner plate. The disturbing lack of horses—or any beast of burden for that matter—left him dreading his next question. “What kind of input does it take?”

“Manual, of course,” the professor said.

“Of course.” Dodger eyed the mechanisms, wondering just how much manual effort he was going to have to put into the thing to make it fifty miles. And back again.

“I think you will discover it is a comfortable ride. I have always found carriage rides most unpleasant, you see. And after some exploratory research I discovered the chief culprit was the deficiency of a proper suspension. Thusly, I took the lousy suspension of such a vehicle into consideration when I designed the Rhino. And of course, the lack of wild animals at the helm helps considerably.” He motioned for Dodger to inspect the interior. “As you can see the seats are padded for extra comfort, and the-”

“Sir,” Dodger said over him. “I hate to interrupt, but I think I get the general idea. I apply manual power and it goes.” Dodger nodded to the pedals in the floorboard of the vehicle. Pedals he was certain propelled the flywheels and powered the simple engine underneath the hood.

The professor grinned. “Normally I don’t enjoy when someone steals the thunder of my explanation, but it pleases me to see you’ve worked out just how the Rhino functions with just the hint of detail. Extraordinary. Simply extraordinary. Once again you impress me, Mr. Dodger.”

“So tell me, how much manual effort will fifty miles require. I don’t want to be tuckered out by the time I get there.”

“Not much at all. Each flywheel expounds the amount of kinetic energy fed into it, exponentially increasing it to the next in line. By the time it reaches the main gear shaft, that energy is compounded to the tenth degree. Why, the effort to maintain thirty miles per hour feels like nothing more than a pleasant stroll.”

“Which means I have to pedal the whole way.”

“Yes, you have to pedal the entire trip. There is nothing to be done about that. Unless you want to take someone with you. Someone to share the load, as it were.” The professor leaned in and lowered his voice. “There is a reason Boon always took Ched with him on these little trips. The man never seems to tire. Of course, it’s hard to get him to do much else, so I supposed it’s good to have him for something besides pulling levers up front.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Are you sure? He is rather keen on going.”

Dodger glanced back, over his shoulder at Ched, who stood with his arms crossed and his typical shit eating grin framing his yellowing teeth. “Again, thanks for the offer sir, but I think I can make it alone.”

Almost alone, Boon whispered, his presence sidling alongside Dodger.

About time too. Dodger was beginning to wonder where the spirit had wandered off to. And for that matter, where was that pretty niece at?

“Have it your way.” The professor withdrew a silver pocket watch, checked the time, looked to the position of the sun, licked a finger, held it to the air a moment, then pointed to the distance. “There. Waxford should be about thirty miles in that direction. There is a saloon in the middle of town. The Desert Rose. You can’t miss it.”

The Desert Rose. Something about the name sounded familiar, but Dodger couldn’t put his finger on just what.

The professor dug about in his jacket, then pulled forth a thick envelope which he handed to Dodger “When you arrive, ask for Rebecca. Tell her I sent you, and she should give you what you are after.”

Dodger ran his hands along the bulging envelope, and wondered just how much money there was inside. He knew better than to ask a superior the contents of a sealed package.

The professor continued, “All of it should be there, plus more. Tell her I included a bonus for being so demanding as of late.”

“Becky will want to count the cash,” Ched said. “Sho don’t be shurprished if she makesh you wait while she doesh.”

“Yes,” the professor said. “Miss Rebecca is less trusting than even my niece. And that’s saying quite a lot. Well then, Mr. Dodger, are you prepared? Is there anything else I can do for you before you go?”

“You can tell me the truth,” Dodger said.

“The truth about what?”

“Waxford. What is so dangerous about the place? You make it sound like nothing more than a town of thieves, but I have a feeling you aren’t giving me all the details.”

The professor became visibly nervous; picking at his jacket, smoothing down his bowtie, scratching at his head, and doing everything but explaining.

“Not getting shcared, are we?” Ched asked.

“No,” Dodger said. “But I have no plans on turning into a mushroom either.”

Ched furrowed his brow—a nausea inducing facial contortion for anyone watching him—as he tried to figure out just what in the world Dodger was talking about.

Boon whispered, He means he doesn’t like being kept in the dark and fed manure.

“Precisely,” Dodger said under his breath. Louder, he added. “Is someone going to shed some light on this?”

“Light,” the professor said with a loud clap of his hands. “Of course. You’ll need light. The Rhino has built in headlamps, but you might require a portable source. Torque! Bring me a Sunbox!”

“Way ahead of you, as usual,” the metal man said and passed a gray box off to the professor.

About a half a foot in length and less than that in width, most of the box was metal, save for one side, which looked to be a pane of frosted amber glass.

“Thank you,” the professor said. He flipped a handle out from the back of the box, and gave this impromptu crank a few good turns. In seconds, the glass pane emanated a soft glow. “Easy to use. The more you crank, the brighter the light, the longer it lasts. You can shut it down by pushing the handle back into place. Here you are. The Sunbox.”

Dodger took the Sunbox from the professor, his eyes wide with wonder. “Again, I don’t know what to say.”

The professor held up a chubby palm. “Before you espouse my genius any further, I feel I should admit this is not one of my designs. I borrowed the idea from a colleague.”

“I think he means he pilfered it,” Mr. Torque said.

“No, I said what I meant and I meant what I said. Otto was more than glad to allow me to commandeer his design. It’s not like I’m selling it. Just employing it.”

“You sell it all the time.”

“Do not!”

“You do too. You used it on that gunner golem you sold last week to the Germans. And it’s the same design you used for the headlamps of the Sleipnir, and the Rhino, and that self propelled underwater thingy you sold to-”

“Enough!” The professor huffed. “We made a trade. Otto got the plans for you and I got the Sunbox. In this case, I came out the winner here. God help him if he actually tries to build another one of you.”

“We would’ve known for shure if he did,” Ched said. “The world couldn’t handle another one of him.”

Everyone laughed, save Mr. Torque, who proceeded to fume under his metal shell.

The professor cut his chortle short and clapped again, rubbing his hands together as he said, “Good then. All set? Of course you are. Wrap her up, Torque, and show him the ropes. Or the pedals, as it were.”

The Rhino was simple to operate; stepping up and down on the pedals powered the locomotion. Easy as that. A manual gear allowed for shifting from forward to reverse, and a wide steering wheel controlled direction. After a quick run down of the vehicle from Mr. Torque, Dodger boarded and went on his way with the spirit of Boon in tow.

He was almost twenty minutes into the trip when he realized that the professor had cleverly avoided telling Dodger anything else about the town he was headed for.

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Four-Dialing it Down

2011-11-07T09:48:00.002-05:00

Volume Three

Chapter Four

Dialing it Down

In which Dodger gets what he asked for.

After the pair settled down gain, Ched became the epitome of what Dodger considered to be the perfect traveling companion. He spoke very little, listened with at least feigned interest and didn’t require the entertainment of engaging conversation every waking hour of the day. For the most part, they rode along in silence; Ched focusing on his work as the clickety-clack of the SMART lulled Dodger into an almost meditative state of mind. Boon, on the other hand, seemed distracted. He slipped away from the cab for long lengths of time without so much as a goodbye, only to return espousing apologies for being gone so long. After the third or fourth disappearance, Dodger finally asked Ched where the spirit kept drifting off to.

“He likesh to keep an eye on her,” the driver explained.

Dodger neither asked for nor expected more on that matter.

Thus it was. Silence. A little chatter. Then back to silence. After the excitement of the previous day, it seemed almost dull by comparison. Not that Dodger was complaining. No. A little dullness never hurt anyone. In fact, it hurt a lot less than the blows and throes of high excitement. Even so, within a few hours into this dullness the professor called Dodger to the meeting car and he found he was pleased to have something to do besides sit and watch the quiet driver at work.

“About time,” the professor said when Dodger joined him. He motioned to Mr. Torque. “Go on then, let him have it.”

“I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to a delivery boy,” Mr. Torque said. “And with you in the very same room. This is so beneath my station.”

The professor huffed. “No, mopping the men’s room at the World’s Fair is beneath your station, but if you don’t stop whinging on about your station that’s exactly where you’ll end up! Now do as I say.”

The metal man whizzed across the room and unceremoniously shoved a handful of leather and metal in Dodger’s direction. “Here. Take them.”

“What is it?” Dodger asked.

“Just as you requested,” the professor said.

Dodger fumbled with the belt for a moment before he realized he was holding a pair of pistols. “Sir, I appreciate the offer, but I really don’t want another pair of guns.”

“It’s not another pair. They are Boon’s. Or are they still his? I don’t know now.”

Dodger inspected the weapons and, sure enough, they were Boon’s tri-barreled babies. “But … what about dialing them back a bit?”

The professor stuck out his lower lip, as if hurt by the question. “I did just what you asked. You haven’t even looked at them properly.”

Mr. Torque snorted. “That’s gratitude for you.”

With a slight air of annoyance, Dodger drew Florence. Right away he could tell something was different. The gun was a little heavier, not much but enough for his sensitive hand to detect. He turned the oversized revolver to him and gawked at what he found. Perched on the cylinder of the gun was a small metal disk bearing the numbers one, two and three. ‘Two’ was framed by a small gold plate, while the other numbers rested to either side of the frame, as if awaiting their turn to be selected. Selected? Then that meant …

Yes. It was a dial.

Dodger snapped the gun open and whistled at the tiny clockwork additions that twisted around the innards of the existing mechanisms. A slotted aperture covered the chamber of the main barrel, keeping the hammer from striking the awaiting ammunition.

“Sir,” Dodger said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing needs to be said,” the professor said. “You asked for me to dial it back for you. So I did. Now you can dial it, up or down, as many as you like.”

He pushed the dial from two to three, and a soft series of clicks confirmed what Dodger suspected. The aperture over the main chamber slid open, exposing the ammunition of all three chambers. When he spun the dial to one, apertures closed over the side chambers, again keeping their respective hammers from striking the bullets inside.

“I can choose?” Dodger half-asked, half-declared.

“Yes,” the professor said. “The selection of one will release a single shot from the main barrel. A selection of two will fire shots from the side chambers only, and of course three will issue a bullet from each barrel. I’m afraid you will have to reload by hand until I can adjust the clips to accommodate half-full chambers. Alternately, you can just unload it in order to employ the spring loaded clips. It will leave a lot of math and loose ammunition on your end, but I know you are well capable of handling both.”

“I can choose?” Dodger repeated.

“I know it isn’t fancy, but I didn’t have a whole lot of time-”

“Not fancy?” Dodger clapped the professor on the shoulder. “Sir, this is just … I hesitate to say amazing because I feel like a damned parrot. But it is. It’s amazing!”

“You’re right,” Mr. Torque said. “You do sound like a parrot.”

“Will you be quite!” the professor snapped. “I’m glad you approve, Mr. Dodger.”

“I more than approve. This is just the kind of thing I was thinking. And you did it so fast. I wasn’t expecting anything for a few days. Maybe weeks.”

“It was rather easy when I got down to it.”

“Talks as if he did it alone,” Mr. Torque said in a low voice.

The professor ignored his metal manservant. “Just a matter of taking it apart and adjusting a few cogs. And you know me. Once I get started on a thing-” The professor cut his own speech with a soft gasp. “For a moment there I addressed you as if you were Boon. Forgive me. I forget you don’t know me. And in that respect, I don’t know you.”

“Not yet, sir,” Dodger said. “Just give us time and we’ll get there.”

The professor smiled.

“How touching,” Mr. Torque said. “Should I give you two some privacy?”

“Will you be quite!” the professor shouted.

Dodger could just about feel the metal eyes rolling heavenward in their dry sockets. “Again, I’m just …”

“Amazed?”

“Yes. Yes, sir. I am.”

As am I, Boon whispered, his presence drifting into the car. I’m almost jealous I didn’t think of such a thing.

“It wasn’t really my idea,” Dodger said. “At least not what I was expecting.”

“Nonsense,” the professor said. “Credit where credit is due, son. I was just following your suggestion. And speaking of which, I managed to find another buckle for the holster. I hope it will suffice.”

Dodger grabbed up the belt and inspected the new buckle. His new buckle. To his (almost) disappointment, it was just a plain brass fastener and nothing more. No hidden pockets. No small surprises. In many ways it suited Dodger. “It’ll work great. Thanks, Doc.”

“My pleasure, really.”

Returning the weapon to the holster, Dodger said, “Good thing you finished this so fast. I could have taken another pair, but I feel better with these on my hips. Especially if that town is as troublesome as you say it is. Boon’s presence will be a welcome help.”

I’ll take that as a compliment, Boon said.

“Take is ash you will,” Dodger whispered in his best imitation of Ched.

“He would have been a good partner for you,” the professor said. “Boon, I mean. Yes, a good Ying to your Yang. Or would that have been the other way about? I’m never sure about such things. I confess that while Feng and I are old friends—very old in his case—I still don’t know very much about his culture.” The professor stopped to tap his chin in thought, and then clapped his hands together as the moment of contemplation passed as quickly as it overcame him. “Well then, Ched says we will reach Waxford in a couple of hours. I suggest you have a nap. The residents keep very late hours, and I don’t want my best man falling asleep on the job. Do I?”

“No sir. I reckon you don’t.”

Dodger left the professor to whatever new task consumed the man, and made his way down the line to his room. A nap sounded like a fine idea, even if he wasn’t particularly tired. At the very least, he could put up his feet and think about things for a while. As he opened the door to the fourth car, he came face to face with Lelanea.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, her hand fluttering over her chest. “You startled me.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Dodger said. He stepped to one side, to let her pass, but she motioned him forward and stepped out of his way.

“I hear you plan on going to Waxford alone,” she said as he stepped into the car.

“Yes. Is that unwise?”

“For you?” She tipped her head to one side and eyed him. “Or for them?”

He laughed. “I don’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.”

“Why can’t it be both?”

“Why not?”

She laughed high and tinkling, before her titter wound down into a long and drawn out sigh. “Seriously though, Dodger, you should be careful in Waxford. The women there are very dangerous.”

“Dangerous how?”

“They can be tricky. You just need to watch yourself with them. That’s all.”

Ah, so that was her worry. She didn’t want Dodger to go in and get all wrapped up in the arms and lips of some strange, crafty woman. In a way, her warning was kind of sweet. Maybe she was over Boon after all. Maybe Dodger did have a shot at her affections. As well as other parts of her, as Ched put it.

“I appreciate the warning,” Dodger said as he stepped closer, closing the small gap between them. Her body heat was astounding; the warmth of her skin radiated like a bonfire through her clothes. Staring down at her, he winked. “But as you know, I can hold my own.”

“Is that so?” she asked as she edged in closer to him. She lifted her face to his and whispered, “Was that holding your own when they knocked you out and tied you up or was it when that bulldog beat the ever living snot out of you?”

“Certainly you aren’t going to compare those rough and tumble men with a handful of tricky women?”

Lelanea dropped her smile and her flirting. “You know, I think Ched is right for once. The women of Waxford are going to eat you alive, and it’s something I can’t wait to see.”

With that she turned away and rushed off, leaving Dodger alone in the narrow hallway.

“What is up with Waxford?” he asked no one in particular.

With no answer forthcoming, Dodger wandered back to his room, where he found a hearty lunch awaiting him along with a pot of chamomile tea. Rest came easy to Dodger, thanks to the tea, and he slept well, despite the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach that Waxford wasn’t just the simple den of thieves he imagined it was.

It was something much worse.

<<BACK FORWARD>>

V3:Chapter Three-Ched's Tale

2011-10-31T13:26:00.004-04:00

Volume Three

Chapter Three

Ched’s Tale

In which Dodger gives a little to get a little.

Considering they were hoping for a cure, Thaddeus and his men took the news of the serum well. They admitted a certain level of disappointment, but were pleased to learn that they would avoid that most dreaded of fates among their pack; turning into a pool of steaming goop without warning.

They took the rest of the news just as well. Very well, in fact. Once Dodger explained the circumstances—that the men should remain hidden on the farm until the professor was ready to help them—they seemed only too grateful for the chance to spend some time in the house.

“It’s been years since I’ve slept under a real roof,” Bottle said. “I’m not sure I remember what it’s like.”

The professor loaned the fellows a few supplies, both sundry and foodstuff in nature, while Lelanea managed to outfit the lads with enough linens and toiletries to last them more than a few days. Dodger armed them with a pistol apiece, including plenty of ammo, then waved a hearty goodbye to the lads as the Sleipnir pulled away from the farm and headed into the heart of the desert.

The trip to Waxford was just a few hours at the Sleipnir’s top speed. But considering they had until nightfall before the place came to life, Ched recommended they conserve both fuel and water by taking the trip at a leisurely pace. This left them a runtime of around ten hours, give or take a few stops to jerk some more water.

Ten hours with little to do but talk. Which was just fine, because Dodger had a few things he needed to ask a certain someone. But before he would claim the prize of a story waiting for him, Dodger had another problem to take care of. Boon’s guns. They were too much for a man of his particular talents. Dodger felt like he was carrying around the equivalent of a pair of cannons instead of plain old pistols. Injured men were hard enough to interrogate, but turn those men into pulpy piles of rent flesh with a single shot of Boon’s gun and, well, it was neigh on impossible to talk to what was left after that.

“And just what do you recommend?” the professor asked.

“I don’t know,” Dodger said. He took off the belt and held the holster out to the professor. “Maybe just dial them back a bit?”

“Dial them back?” The professor drew Hortense from the holster. Or was that Florence?

“Yeah. I appreciate the help it gave your Boon, but in my hands three bullets at once is kind of like skinning a flea with a sling blade.”

“Overkill?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why not just carry a different pair?”

The obvious answer was of course Boon himself. Dodger found he enjoyed having the ghost around, whether he was willing to admit it to the spirit or not. But still, the actual power of the guns was a little bit much. “I guess I’ve kind of grown attached to them. I really hate to ask you to change them at all because sometimes, well, I have a feeling I’ll miss that extra firepower. I wished I could have it both ways. Does that make sense?”

The professor nodded and said again, “Dial it back.” He drew the second gun and stared at the pair, bright mischief playing behind his wild eyes. “Yes. I’ll see what I can do.”

Dodger laid the remaining gun and holster on the desk. “Take this too. I can’t wear it.”

“What about it?”

“Well, I just … it’s the buckle. No offense meant. But it’s not mine.”

The professor shot a quick glance the wide metallic buckle bearing the name of the last weapons’ wielder. “None taken. Can’t expect you to go about wearing another man’s name blazoned on your waist, can we? I’ll have it replaced before we reach Waxford. Anything else?”

“I reckon not. Thanks.”

The professor returned his attention to the guns in his hands, turning them back and forth as if seeing them for the first time. “Now, dial it back you say? Very interesting choice of words.”

Dodger left the professor to his work and headed to the engine car, where he found just the man he was looking for. He slipped into the car and slid the door closed behind him. Ched was seated in his place at the helm, while the dim shade of Boon rested in the shadows of one corner.

“You two mind some company?” Dodger asked.

“Shure,” Ched said. “Though thish old gal practically drivesh hershelf. There ain’t much to do up here. Jusht warnin’ ya.”

“Not looking for work. I’m looking for a good yarn.”

“Yarn?” Ched rubbed his chin as he spun around to face Dodger. “I shuppose I do owe you a tale or two.”

“And I owe you.” Dodger once again made himself comfortable on Ched’s trunk.

“Are you finally going to tell him?” Boon asked.

“I planned on it,” Ched said. “Unlessh you wanna tell it.”

“No, go ahead. Just don’t take all day.”

Ched propped his hands behind his head, stretched his legs out full length heaved a loud, exasperated sigh. “Well, you shee, it all shtarted when I wash twelve. I had thish aunt who-”

“Good Lord! Twelve? He’s not asking for your life story, Ched. Just tell him the facts. Stop dragging it out you old drama queen.”

The driver glanced to the roof of the cab. “Do you want me to tell thish or not?”

“Fine. But try not to bore us. Ten hours is a long trip when listening to your prattle.”

Ched relaxed and started again. “Ash I wash shayin’. I came from a pretty shtrict religious houshehold. Mosht kidsh have either one or the other to deal with, but I had both Chrishtian and Jewish rulesh to follow-”

“You’re Jewish?” Dodger asked.

“Yesh. On my mother’sh shide. You got a problem with that?”

“No. You, just, well, you don’t look Jewish.”

“You mean I’m too tall for one of the choshen people?”

“Sure, let’s go with that.”

“I’m not shuprished you think sho. I get that a lot. I admit I’m only half Jewish. My father wash of Irish stock. A tall, lean handshome man. I take after him, in cashe you were wonderin’. My mother, however, wash a little Yiddish woman from the old country. Dad met her on vacashion there, married her there, then brought her out to America to shtart a new life. Did pretty good too. He wash a cobbler, you shee. Made enough money to move a lot of both shidesh of the familiesh to America. The mishtake came when Aunt Penny moved in with ush. Aunt Penny had a particular talent that my mother deshpished. She made wine, you know for Shunday Massh and shtuff.”

“Sounds like a good talent to have,” Dodger said.

“Ash far ash I’m consherned, it wash the besht. But mother hated her for it. Forbade me from even shpeaking to Penny.”

“I didn’t think Jews had any hang-ups about alcohol?”

“They don’t,” added Boon.

“It washn’t the Jew in her that hated boosh,” Ched said. “It wash the wife in her. My dad wash a raging alcoholic. And, ash it turned out, show wash I.”

Dodger made the connection. “You started drinking at twelve.”

Ched shrugged. “And jusht didn’t shtop. I couldn’t help it. It wash show delishush. Aw, sharge, the thingsh that woman could do with a little water and some fruit, it wash pure magic.” The driver ran his withered tongue across his dry lips, smacking them as best he could in their state of stiffness.

“Get on with it,” Boon demanded.

“I’m gettin’ there.” Ched redirected his attention to Dodger and continued. “Ash I wash shayin’, that wash my introduction to the devil of the drink, and my downfall ash well. I’ve fought that particular demon my whole life, and then shome. Losht job after job becaush I couldn’t shtay off the shauce. I’ve worked for jusht about every line out there. And got the pink shlipsh to prove it too.”

Dodger knew well enough what the driver spoke of. Railways would put up with a fair amount of tomfoolery and odd behavior from their crew, as long as the work got done. But the one thing that would get you fired from a line lickety-split was drinking on the job. No matter how much of a functioning alcoholic you were—and Ched certainly appeared to be the most functioning alcoholic Dodger had ever seen—the Railways forbade drinking on the job. Operation several tons of machinery while under the influence was not something an employer appreciated. If nothing else, it was a lawsuit waiting to happen.

“Then the doc came along with hish fabuloush train,” Ched said.

“And hired you when no one else would,” Dodger finished for the driver.

Ched lifted his boney shoulders in a shrug again, the motion as natural to the man as breathing. (Or rather as natural as breathing was for Dodger.) “Shaid he didn’t care if I wash pickled in the shtuff, ash long ash I could keep him on the move.”

“Which is kind of ironic when one thinks about it,” Boon said.

“Because …” Dodger said, then paused, unwilling to finish the crazy idea.

“Becaush …” Ched said, encouraging Dodger. “Go on. You’re shmart enough to put it together.”

“It’s ironic because you are pickled in it now. Aren’t you? The whiskey is the only thing keeping you from … what? Rotting?”

Ched stretched his already strained mouth into a jack lantern grin while he nodded.

Now, Dodger might have been smart enough to put it together, but that didn’t mean he was gullible enough to believe it. “I still don’t understand what happened to you. You claim to be dead, or not dead, or not alive or whatever. But that’s impossible.”

“Careful,” Boon warned. “The professor doesn’t allow the use of that word on his train.”

“Beshidesh,” Ched said. “You do realize you are holdin’ half this dishcusshion with a corpsh, and the other half with a ghosht?”

“Point taken,” Dodger said. He waved his hand at the not-dead man. “Then tell me, how does a twelve year old alcoholic turn into this?”

“Like I shaid before, I wash shtupid. I had jusht shigned on with a shweet job. I had my own engine. My own cab, not one I had to share with other driversh. My own. I had a bossh who didn’t care how much I drank. Hell, he offered to pay me in whishkey if I liked. I had it all. And what did I do? I drank it away.”

“I thought you were allowed to drink all you wanted?”

“I could, and that firsht night I wanted show badly to shelebrate my new leash on life, but I didn’t have anything to shelebrate with. I wash on my way to the kitchen car, to beg Feng for a shpare a drop of cooking sherry, when I passhed through the lab. And what to my wandering eye did appear? A liquor cabinet. Filled to the brim. Top shelf shtuff too.”

Dodger couldn’t help but gasp. He had an idea of where this was going.

“Yesh,” Ched said. “Like the fool I wash, I broke into it and drank it all. Technically, I should’ve died from alcohol poishoning.”

“But didn’t,” Boon said.

“No,” Ched agreed. “In that lot, among the bottlesh of brandy and shcotch, there wash an unmarked jug. I reckoned it wash hooch, like the resht of it. Homemade, from the lack of a label. And homemade hooch, I musht shay, ish the besht hooch of all.” The driver sighed through his gritted teeth, the resulting sound a low whistle of yearning mingled with frustration. “Washn’t jusht hooch I got into. Turned out it to be a jug full of number thirteen.”

Boon explained, “Compound thirteen is so powerful the professor rarely employs it. The results can be unpredictable, though it brought me back from the brink of death many a time. A single drop can do the most amazing of things.”

“And you drank a whole jug of it?” Dodger asked.

Ched nodded. “Yup. A full gallon.”

“Holy cow!”

“Tell me about it. Next thing I know, I wake to the doc shcreaming in my ear. He wash show shrill I though it wash my mother come back from the grave to cussh me out. But no, he wash jusht shore at me for drinking hish compound. Shomthing about the expensh of it. That and he didn’t know what to do with my corpsh. But I had a few thingsh to shay on that matter, which came ash a bit of a shurprish to him.”

“It was a surprise to all of us,” Boon said. “One minute you’re dead to the world, quite literally, and the next you were instructing us how to hold a proper Irish-Jewish wake. It was disconcerting to say the least.”

“It’sh not like you lishtened,” Ched said, then snorted as he crossed his arms again. “Worsht wake ever.”

“It’s not like you were really dead.”

“How wash I shupposed to know I hit on shome magic combinashion?”

“Let me see if I understand this,” Dodger said. “You drank this compound thirteen, as well as a cabinet full of liquor. And the resulting mixture killed you then reanimated your corpse?”

Ched tilted his head as he considered the explanation. “That’sh about the shize of it. The doc callsh me hish unintenshional experiment. Saysh I took a rishk no man wash meant to take. Me? I call it a pain in the ash. I used to like the drink. But now? Now I’d give my right arm just for a shingle bite of shteak.”

“You don’t eat?” Dodger asked, then corrected his question at once. “You can’t eat?”

“Let’s just say its best he doesn’t,” Boon said.

“Eating ishn’t the isshue,” Ched said. “Lack of isshue ish the isshue.”

Dodger stuck his tongue out at that. Just a little. “I think I get your drift.”

“Eating is forbidden for our skeletal friend,” Boon said. “But drinking is a must. The very drink that killed him now keeps him.”

“The whiskey preserves you,” Dodger said, with just a touch of undisguised awe in his voice.

“To a degree,” Ched said. “I have the occashional shlipsh now and again where my brain goesh a little shoft around the edgesh. But for the mosht part I’m all here. And the Shleipnir ish shtill my baby.” He patted the instrument panel beside of him.

“That seems like an unfair trade. She was your baby either way.”

“What can I shay? Shometimesh you’re the windshcreen. Shometimesh you’re the bug. And shometimesh …” Ched paused to scratch his boney chin and give a strained chuckle before he said, “Shometimesh you’re the shtupid idiot who shticksh hish head out the window and opensh hish mouth ash wide ash posshible until all he hash ish a mouthful of bugsh. Which bringsh ush to you, I shuppossh.”

“What about me?”

“How about it? You a bug or windshcreen kind of man?”

“A little of both, I suppose.”

“Ain’t we all? You gonna give ush a little thrill? Tell ush all about the shtimulating life of the amashing Rodger Dodger?”

Dodger knew this was coming, but it still made him uncomfortable. “Sure. Go ahead and ask your questions.”

Ched regarded Dodger for a little while in silence, working up to what was sure to be a doozey of a question. What would it be? Who was the real Rodger Dodger? What did he do to get the scar on his chest? Why was he living under an assumed name?

“You don’t have to do this,” Boon said.

“I want to,” Dodger said. “Ched shared. You shared last night. It’s my turn.”

“I didn’t think you were the sharing kind?”

“Normally I’m not. But I think it’s only fair to give a little if you wanna get.” Dodger didn’t mention that something about being aboard the Sleipnir brought out a need for total disclosure. Maybe it was a yen for a little male bonding, something he never really got a chance to experience in his past life. Maybe it was just the burden of carrying around so much for so many years. Or maybe Ched just had one of those faces you wanted to tell everything too. No … probably the later more than the former. Ched had a face you wanted to make noises at, but those noises were more along the lines of shouting in horror.

As if he sensed a deeper meaning to Dodger’s words, Boon whispered, I understand. I truly do.

“Don’t worry,” Ched said. “I won’t shnoop too deep. I find mosht folksh pershonal bushinessh a bit tedioush. Baggage I ain’t willing to share the weight of, if you get my drift. And I’m shure you’re no exception.”

“Thanks,” Dodger said.

“Not a compliment, but take it ash you will. I reckon I only want to know one thing about you.” Ched put his hands on his knees and leaned forward, very dramatically, to look Dodger right in the eye as he asked, “Where on thish schweet earth did you learn to handle a pishtol like that?”

Now that was a loaded question if there ever was one. Dodger could tell as much or as little as he wanted, Ched would never know the difference. Or would he? Maybe that’s why the driver chose to ask it in such a fashion. Soft brain indeed. Dodger hadn’t seen a sharper mind in years.

“I always had a knack for gunplay,” Dodger said.

Ched crossed his arms, and waited for more.

Dodger decided to give him what he wanted. In a manner of speaking. “Atop that I was trained by the best when I went to work for Uncle Sam’s rails.”

“You drove for the Fedsh?” Ched asked. “I hear that’sh good work. Eashy work. Good pay too.”

“It was, for the most part. I did cargo and livestock hauls mostly. Every once in a while I pulled duty on a passenger train.” When the target was aboard, Dodger’s real inner voice finished for him. “Then the war came on and I was transferred to the frontlines. My skill with a gun was in high demand I suppose.”

“But it’s not just gunplay,” Boon said. “You fight like a well trained warrior. Too well trained. Much more so than a normal soldier. I sensed a level of foreign influence in your moves.”

Dodger was taken aback. “You’re a good judge of fighting styles. Yes, I know a little of this and a little of that. It was all part of the work I did for the government. I was trained in marksmanship and several other forms of combat.”

“What kind of formsh?” Ched asked.

“Enough to know how to hold up my end of a fight. When I’m not blindsided by some abnormally strong bulldog of a man that is. And I can usually take quite the beating before I hit the mat.”

“You’re just one talented man, aren’t you?” Boon asked.

Was that a tinge of jealousy in the ghost’s voice? “I didn’t have a choice. I needed to be the best of everything in my line of work. Being second best will get you killed real fast in the field.”

“And you’re telling me you needed thosh kind of shkillsh to drive?” Ched asked.

Dodger had almost forgotten that part. He laughed a bit before he said, “No. Even when we ran into trouble on the tracks, you didn’t need quite that level of expertise. No, I must admit driving was just a small part of my job. My real job.”

Ched seemed unimpressed. “So, what wash your real job?”

Dodger fell quiet, reverting to his usual brooding silence. How much was he ready to expose to these strangers? And in interest of being completely honest with himself, they were just strangers. Weren’t they? He had barely known them a day and he already told them more than even Betty knew. And he wanted to tell her everything. Was he prepared to tell them everything? Better still, were they prepared to hear it?

Ched looked at him expectedly.

Dodger could feel the spirit all but staring at him as well.

“You know,” Dodger said. “Normally this would be the part where I would say something like ‘I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’ Yet, in this very unusual situation, I don’t think that threat will matter much. Between a dead man and a not-dead man, who would I kill? And how?”

For few seconds no one said a thing. The ghost was silent, the driver narrowed his eyes at Dodger, and Dodger could do nothing but wait. Then Ched gave a grunt, which wound itself out into a low growling laugh. Boon joined this with his hushed chuckle and Dodger was pleased as the tension of the moment snap, rebound, and relax.

“Maybe he’sh keen for ush to guessh?” Ched asked after a healthy bit of laughing.

“Were you a Marshal?” Boon asked.

“Not exactly,” Dodger said. “But I worked closely with them on occasion.”

“Pinkertons?”

“After my time. I was out of the game by the time they formed.”

“Go on then,” Ched said. “Shave your shecretsh. We’ll hear them shoon enough.”

“That a threat or a promise?” Dodger asked.

“It’sh the truth. Theresh shomething about being aboard the Shleipnir that makesh folksh wanna shing like a freakin’ shongbird.”

“Tis true,” Boon said. “I thought my secrets were my own until I spilled them within just a week of being aboard.”

“I never had any shecretsh,” Ched said. “I don’t really care what folksh know about me.”

“You mean it’s hard to have secrets when your life was so boring.”

“Might’ve been boring, but at leasht it washn’t whiney.”

“Whiney! Why I never whined a day I was alive!”

“Naw, you jusht waited till you wash dead. Now itsh a nonshtop blubber fesht.” Ched balled his fists and rubbed at his sallow eyes, mimicking a crying child. “Boohoo. Woe ish me. The thingsh I shoulda shaid. The thingsh I shoulda did. All the losht time. The losht time!”

“You stinking sack of pus. How dare you deride my condition. At least I didn’t die by my own stupidity!”

“We both know that’sh a matter for debate.”

Dodger sat back and listened as the discussion devolved into a cussing match. Sharing secrets was all well and good, but Dodger’s history was a far cry from the ghostly gunman or a drunkard not-dead driver. Rodger Dodger’s past was very different from everyone aboard. And very troublesome. Which was, perhaps, half why he wanted to share them, and half why he wanted to keep them to himself.

NEXT UP:

CHAPTER FOUR

DIALING IT DOWN

In which Dodger gets what he asked for.

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