Dream Factories and Radio Pictures (12 page)

Der Untergang des Abendlandesmenschen

T
HEY RODE THROUGH THE FLICKERING LANDSCAPE
to the tune of organ music.

Bronco Billy, short like an old sailor, and William S., tall and rangy as a windblown pine. Their faces, their horses, the landscape all darkened and became light; were at first indistinct, then sharp and clear as they rode across one ridge and down into the valley beyond.

Ahead of them, in much darker shades, was the city of Bremen, Germany.

* * *

Except for the organ and piano music, it was quiet in most of Europe.

In the vaults below the Opera, in the City of Lights, Erik the phantom played the
Toccata and Fugue
while the sewers ran blackly by.

In Berlin, Cesare the somnambulist slept. His mentor Caligari lectured at the University, and waited for his chance to send the monster through the streets.

Also in Berlin, Dr. Mabuse was dead and could no longer control the underworld.

But in Bremen . . .

In Bremen, something walked the night.

* * *

To the cities of china eggs and dolls, in the time of sawdust bread and the price of six million marks for a postage stamp, came Bronco Billy and William S. They had ridden hard for two days and nights, and the horses were heavily lathered.

They reined in, and tied their mounts to a streetlamp on the Wilhelmstrasse.

“What say we get a drink, William S.?” asked the shorter cowboy. “All this damn flickering gives me a headache.”

William S. struck a pose three feet away from him, turned his head left and right, and stepped up to the doors of the
Gasthaus
before them.

With his high-pointed hat and checked shirt, William S. looked like a weatherbeaten scarecrow, or a child’s version of Abraham Lincoln before the beard. His eyes were like shiny glass, through which some inner hellfires shone.

Bronco Billy hitched up his pants. He wore Levis, which on him looked too large, a dark vest, lighter shirt, big leather chaps with three tassels at hip, knee, and calf. His hat seemed three sizes too big.

Inside the tavern, things were murky gray, black, and stark white. And always, the flickering.

They sat down at a table and watched the clientele. Ex-soldiers, in the remnants of uniforms, seven years after the Great War had ended. The unemployed, spending their last few coins on beer. The air was thick with gray smoke from pipes and cheap cigarettes.

Not too many people had noticed the entrance of William S. and Bronco Billy.

Two had.

* * *

“Quirt!” said an American captain, his hand on his drinking buddy, a sergeant.

“What?” asked the sergeant, his hand on the barmaid.

“Look who’s here!”

The sergeant peered toward the haze of flickering gray smoke where the cowboys sat.

“Damn!” he said.

“Want to go over and chat with ’em?” asked the captain.

“&%#*$ no!” cursed the sergeant. “This ain’t our #%&*!*ing picture.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said the captain, and returned to his wine.

* * *

“You must remember, my friend,” said William S. after the waiter brought them beer, “that there can be no rest in the pursuit of evil.”

“Yeah, but hell, William S., this is a long way from home.”

William S. lit a match, put it to a briar pipe containing his favorite shag tobacco. He puffed on it a few moments, then regarded his companion across his tankard.

“My dear Bronco Billy,” he said. “No place is too far to go in order to thwart the forces of darkness. This is something Dr. Helioglabulus could not handle by himself, else he should not have summoned us.”

“Yeah, but William S., my butt’s sore as a rizen after two days in the saddle. I think we should bunk down before we see this doctor fellow.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” said the tall, hawk-nosed cowboy. “Evil never sleeps. Men must.”

“Well, I’m a man,” said Bronco Billy. “I say let’s sleep.”

Just then, Dr. Helioglabulus entered the tavern.

* * *

He was dressed as a Tyrolean mountain guide, in
Lederhosen
and feathered cap, climbing boots and suspenders. He carried with him an alpenstock, which made a large
clunk
each time it touched the floor.

He walked through the flickering darkness and smoke, and stood in front of the table with the two cowboys.

William S. had risen.

“Dr.—” he began.

“Eulenspiegel,” said the other, an admonitory finger to his lips.

Bronco Billy rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Dr. Eulenspiegel, I’d like you to meet my associate and chronicler, Mr. Bronco Billy.”

The doctor clicked his heels together.

“Have a chair,” said Bronco Billy, pushing one out from under the table with his boot. He tipped his hat up off his eyes.

The doctor, in his comic opera outfit, sat.

“Helioglabulus,” whispered William S., “whatever are you up to?”

“I had to come incognito. There are . . . others who should not learn of my presence here.”

Bronco Billy looked from one to the other and rolled his eyes again.

“Then the game is afoot?” asked William S., his eyes more alight than ever.

“Game such as man has never before seen,” said the doctor.

“I see,” said William S., his eyes narrowing as he drew on his pipe. “Moriarty?”

“Much more evil.”

“More evil?” asked the cowboy, his fingertips pressed together. “I cannot imagine such.”

“Neither could I, up until a week ago,” said Helioglabulus. “Since then, the city has experienced wholesale terrors. Rats run the streets at night, invade houses. This tavern will be deserted by nightfall. The people lock their doors and say prayers, even in this age. They are reverting to the old superstitions.”

“They have just cause?” asked William S.

“A week ago, a ship pulled into the pier. On board was—one man!” He paused for dramatic effect. Bronco Billy was unimpressed. The doctor continued. “The crew, the passengers were gone. Only the captain was aboard, lashed to the wheel. And he was—drained of blood!”

Bronco Billy became interested.

“You mean,” asked William S., bending over his beer, “that we are dealing with—the undead?”

“I am afraid so,” said Dr. Helioglabulus, twisting his mustaches.

“Then we shall need the proper armaments,” said the taller cowboy.

“I have them,” said the doctor, taking cartridge boxes from his backpack.

“Good!” said William S. “Bronco Billy, you have your revolver?”

“What!? Whatta ya mean, ‘Do you have your revolver?’ Just what do you mean? Have you ever seen me without my guns, William S.? Are you losing your mind?”

“Sorry, Billy,” said William S., looking properly abashed.

“Take these,” said Helioglabulus.

Bronco Billy broke open his two Peacemakers, dumped the .45 shells on the table. William S. unlimbered his two Navy .36s and pushed the recoil rod down in the cylinders. He punched each cartridge out onto the tabletop.

Billy started to load up his pistols, then took a closer look at the shells, held one up and examined it.

“Goddamn, William S.,” he yelled. “Wooden bullets! Wooden bullets?”

Helioglabulus was trying to wave him to silence. The tall cowboy tried to put his hand on the other.

Everyone in the beer hall had heard him. There was a deafening silence, all the patrons turned toward their table.

“Damn,” said Bronco Billy. “You can’t shoot a wooden bullet fifteen feet and expect it to hit the broad side of a corncrib. What the hell we gonna shoot wooden bullets at?”

The tavern began to empty, people rushing from the place, looking back in terror. All except five men at a far table.

“I am afraid, my dear Bronco Billy,” said William S., “that you have frightened the patrons, and warned the evil ones of our presence.”

Bronco Billy looked around.

“You mean those guys over there?” he nodded toward the other table. “Hell, William S., we both took on twelve men one time.”

Dr. Helioglabulus sighed. “No, no, you don’t understand. Those men over there are harmless; crackpot revolutionists. William and I are speaking of
nosferatu
 . . .”

Bronco Billy continued to stare at him.

“ . . . the undead . . .”

No response.

“ . . . er, ah, vampires. . . .”

“You mean,” asked Billy, “like Theda Bara?”

“Not vamps, my dear friend,” said the hawk-nosed wrangler. “Vampires. Those who rise from the dead and suck the blood of the living.”

“Oh,” said Bronco Billy. Then he looked at the cartridges. “These kill ’em?”

“Theoretically,” said Helioglabulus.

“Meaning you don’t know?”

The doctor nodded.

“In that case,” said Bronco Billy, “we go halfies.” He began to load his .45s with one regular bullet, then a wooden one, then another standard.

William S. had already filled his with wooden slugs.

“Excellent,” said Helioglabulus. “Now, put these over your hatbands. I hope you never have to get close enough for them to be effective.”

What he handed them were silver hatbands. Stamped on the shiny surface of the bands was a series of crosses. They slipped them on their heads, settling them on their hat brims.

“What next?” asked Bronco Billy.

“Why, we wait for nightfall, for the
nosferatu
to strike!” said the doctor.

“Did you hear them, Hermann?” asked Joseph.

“Sure. You think we ought to do the same?”

“Where would we find someone to make wooden bullets for pistols such as ours?” asked Joseph.

The five men sitting at the table looked toward the doctor and the two cowboys. All five were dressed in the remnants of uniforms belonging to the war. The one addressed as Hermann still wore the Knight’s Cross on the faded splendor of his dress jacket.

“Martin,” said Hermann. “Do you know where we can get wooden bullets?”

“I’m sure we could find someone to make them for the automatics,” he answered. “Ernst, go to Wartman’s; see about them.”

Ernst stood, then slapped the table. “Every time I hear the word vampire, I reach for my Browning!” he said.

They all laughed. Martin, Hermann, Joseph, Ernst most of all. Even Adolf laughed a little.

* * *

Soon after dark, someone ran into the place, white of face. “The vampire!” he yelled, pointing vaguely toward the street, and fell out.

Bronco Billy and William S. jumped up. Helioglabulus stopped them. “I’m too old, and will only hold you up,” he said. “I shall try to catch up later. Remember . . . the crosses. The bullets in the heart!”

As they rushed out past the other table, Ernst, who had left an hour earlier, returned with two boxes.

“Quick, Joseph!” he said as the two cowboys went through the door, “Follow them! We’ll be right behind. Your pistol!”

Joseph turned, threw a Browning automatic pistol back to Hermann, then went out the doors as hoofbeats clattered in the street.

The other four began to load their pistols from the boxes of cartridges.

* * *

The two cowboys rode toward the commotion.

“Yee-haw!” yelled Bronco Billy. They galloped down the well-paved streets, their horses’ hooves striking sparks from the cobbles.

They passed the police and others running toward the sounds of screams and dying. Members of the Free Corps, ex-soldiers, and students swarmed the streets in their uniforms. Torches burned against the flickering black night skies.

The city was trying to overcome the
nosferatu
by force.

Bronco Billy and William S. charged toward the fighting. In the center of a square stood a coach, all covered in black crêpe. The driver, a plump, cadaverous man, held the reins to four black horses. The four were rearing high in their traces, their hooves menacing the crowd.

But it was not the horses which kept the mob back.

Crawling out of a second-story hotel window was a vision from nightmare. Bald, with pointed ears, teeth like a rat, beady eyes bright in the flickering night, the vampire climbed from a bedroom to the balcony. The front of his frock coat was covered with blood, his face and arms were smeared. A man’s hand stuck halfway out the window, and the curtains were spattered black.

The
nosferatu
jumped to the ground, and the crowd parted as he leaped from the hotel steps to the waiting carriage. Then the driver cracked his whip over the horses—there was no sound—and the team charged, tumbling people like leaves before the night wind.

The carriage seemed to float to the two cowboys who rode after it. There was no sound of hoofbeats ahead, no noise from the harness, no creak of axles. It was as if they followed the wind itself through the nighttime streets of Bremen.

They sped down the flickering main roads. Once, when Bronco Billy glanced behind him, he thought he saw motorcycle headlights following. But he devoted most of his attention to the fleeing coach.

William S. rode beside him. They gained on the closed carriage.

Bronco Billy drew his left-hand pistol (he was ambidextrous) and fired at the broad back of the driver. He heard the splintery clatter of the wooden bullet as it ricocheted off the coach. Then the carriage turned ahead of them.

He was almost smashed against a garden wall by the headlong plunge of his mount; then he recovered, leaning far over in the saddle, as if his horse were a sailboat and he a sailor heeling against the wind.

Then he and William S. were closing with the hearse on a long broad stretch of the avenue. They pulled even with the driver.

And for the first time, the hackles rose on Bronco Billy’s neck as he rode beside the black-crêpe coach. There was no sound but him, his horse, their gallop. He saw the black-garbed driver crack the long whip, heard no
snap
, heard no horses, heard no wheels.

His heart in his throat, he watched William S. pull even on the other side. The driver turned that way, snapped his whip toward the taller cowboy. Bronco Billy saw his friend’s hat fly away, cut in two.

Billy took careful aim and shot the lead horse in the head, twice. It dropped like a ton of cement, and the air was filled with a vicious, soundless image—four horses, the driver, the carriage, he, his mount, and William S. all flying through the air in a tangle. Then the side of the coach caught him and the incessant flickering went out.