Hellfire (11 page)

A cluster of men holding rifles stood with their feet firmly planted at the back of the crowd. One of them had his rifle still raised above his head, a coil of smoke wafting up from the barrel. A silver star rested on his lapel.

“Break it up! Y’all go on back home now and forget about this monster business before somebody gets himself hurt.”

A wave of grumbles ran through the crowd. Nobody moved.

“Sheriff!” the man in the alligator leather called from the stack of cedar. “You know as well as we do that there’s something out in those woods… something evil!”

The sheriff of Shreveport shook his head and lowered his rifle. “The mayor’s office has already issued a letter to the public about those woods. It’s an escaped circus ape, and men are already on the case tracking it down.” He turned toward another man in the cluster. “Ain’t that right, Marshal Davies?”

A blond man stepped forward and showed his own badge, the star of the Rail Agency, just as Husk had seen on the black-coated Ticks man the evening before at the train wreck outside of Bastrop. This marshal wore a garish blue suit. He said something, but it was lost in the grumbling of the crowd.

Husk scratched his chin. What did the Rail Agency care about a circus ape? Unless it tore up the tracks, he couldn’t imagine that they would bother to look in on it. Even if they did want the ape caught, what would they care about a bunch of farmers and lumberjacks went hunting for it? If anything, they should have issued a bounty on it to speed up its capture.

The men around Husk began shouting again. He turned both ways to see their twisted-up faces, red with heat and anger.

“You are forbidden by order of the Federal Rail Agency from setting foot in those woods!” the blond marshal yelled over the crowd.

“Those woods are ours!” the man with the alligator coat shouted. “Let’s go, boys! We have a circus ape to catch!”

All at once, they rushed forward. Husk’s lanky body was pushed by two or three men behind him. He had no choice but to march with them.

The sheriff and his men took several steps backward and raised their rifles. He barked out several unintelligible warnings.

Husk slid his hand into the hidden pocket with his revolver. If this was going to turn ugly, he was ready to blast his way out.

The rail marshal’s voice rang out shrill, “Stop this now, you inbred hicks!”

The crowd didn’t stop.

He turned to the sheriff and cried, “Shoot them!”

Even from a distance, Husk could see that the sheriff’s face was blank. The marshal screamed again and again, but the sheriff shook his head and dropped his own rifle. The cluster of deputies followed suit.

“I’ll do it myself, then!” the marshal screamed.

Before his hand could reach his gun belt, the mob was on top of him. Even over the sound of the sawmills, Husk could hear fists and boots hitting the blond marshal from all sides.

The crowd flowed toward the back gate, which opened onto the wild green of the trees and the bayous beyond. Armed men marched like a loose army into it. They sought blood. Husk turned to the tall man, who had his long rifle held ready with both hands.

“This… thing you’re going after,” Husk mused, “was it the thing that caused the train crash a few weeks back? Killed Jim Ralph and Matt Thompson?”

“You really do know something, don’t you, boy?”

Husk shrugged. “That’s all I know about it.”

“All I know is we’re going to kill it before it ruins another farm,” the man with the bushy eyebrows said.

A knot formed in Husk’s tight stomach. This was a creature that even a blind man could see. Did they know if it could actually be killed? He cradled his revolver and mumbled a little prayer hoping he wouldn’t find out, even if it would sell a lot of papers.

Chapter Fifteen

Nate Kemp strained once more against the leather straps on the mental hospital bed. He pressed his shoulders as hard as he could into the mattress, feeling the stiff board underneath, and tried to arch his back. There was a little bit of give on the strap over his chest, just enough that he could move his upper arms and pull on the straps at his wrists.

His back ached, and his shoulders burned. Still, Nate pushed. He tried to wriggle, scooting toward the edge of the bed. The leather groaned softly at the buckle. Just an inch more, and he could have twisted his shoulder, bearing the long, fresh scar, under the strap.

His lungs began to scream for air, and Nate gave up. He let his body collapse back into a prone position and took in a huge gasp. The air was cool and smelled of paint inside the cell.

Nate looked down over his body. Even if he could get out of the strap against his chest, the ones holding his hands wouldn’t budge. The strap over his ankles wouldn’t be too difficult if he could turn his legs, but the point was moot as long as his hands were held tight. Whoever had been in here before must have stretched the leather out all it would go.

He rolled his head back and looked around the cell. The asylum here at Oak Grove was only a year old from what Nate had read in the paper, replacing the old wooden one that looked more like a fort with a stockade than a hospital. Still, he wondered how many men had been confined in this room with its barred window, bedpan, and four blank walls. There were manacles linked to a chain on a ring set into the floor. At least they hadn’t chained him up there.

Or maybe it would have been better. He would be able to move around, orient himself right over the bolt in the floor and pull straight up with his legs and his arms. If that didn’t work, he could try rocking the bolt. Stone didn’t stretch like leather; it just gave way.

Nate huffed. As long as he dreamed, he might as well give himself the key.

He had nearly convinced that pretty nurse to let him escape. Everything was going well as they talked. There was something about the way she made him feel calm, as if even locked up in a loony bin was a good choice for the time. Then his temper had driven her off. She might still have believed him, crazy as his story was of monsters and angels catching him as he fell, if he had just kept his temper.

His stomach rumbled. Nate shifted again under the leather straps, trying to find a more comfortable way to lie and let his empty stomach ball up. The farmer’s wife who had stitched him up had given him some cheese and jerky yesterday, and he hadn’t eaten since. That stew the nurse had mentioned couldn’t come fast enough.

When it did, maybe he could talk them into letting him get one hand free to work a spoon. He’d eat, be good for them, and then free his other hand. Then it would be out the door, into the long hall, out to the front entry… where he was sure five orderlies would jump him.

“Stop it,” Nate told himself. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy in this nuthouse.”

A soft chuckle rose up from his gut. Nate let it out. He laughed long and hard until he had to catch his breath.

It was the first time Nate had laughed in he didn’t know how long. Days were tough on the train, and he and Jones only occasionally swapped a joke or two. At home, he, Ann, and Ma were tired enough that all they could muster were weary smiles. There were laughs down at Tacker’s Saloon, but those always had the tinge of something dirty to them, like MacGill’s limericks about Zelda the barmaid’s waist. They were funny at the time, but, looking back, he couldn’t help but think of the sour expression on Zelda’s face, miffed but enjoying the attention. He wondered when the last time was that someone told her they genuinely appreciated her.

Somebody screamed beyond the heavy wooden door. Nate set his head up to look, even though he couldn’t see anything. It sounded like the breathy hollering Flipp—Weatherford—had made when he first came in.

He really had known Zane Weatherford. The courier had ridden on his train dozens of times, ensuring particularly valuable crates got to their destinations in western Gloriana or back to Lake Providence. Weatherford was fairly quiet as he went about his business, but Nate had always traded hellos with him. He had a head full of coal-black hair starting to turn to ash at the temples.

Now Weatherford was completely bald. Nate had heard stories about people going gray after a terrible shock. Seeing a hellion must have been enough to make his hair fall out completely. Nate had a bad enough time himself when the locomotive went weird, and it took him hours to get back to being able to talk at all. That was after fighting the little monster with the spider legs and eyes. He couldn’t imagine seeing hell break loose without any warning. Even worse, there was being picked up by the Rail Authority and locked up in an asylum. For the past week, Weatherford had been told over and over that he was, in fact, Rodney Flipp and his whole memory was a lie. No wonder he had turned to stealing ether.

The cries were getting louder outside. Flipp’s shouting had set off some others, and now it seemed as if everyone in the hall were having at it. Nate wondered, Does this happen all the time?

Then he smelled it.

Flipp was right: he never would forget that ruddy smell of sulfur and rot. It had washed over him from the hellions on the train, and then it had been forced into his face when the hunchback grabbed him.

The door’s lock turned itself over with a dull clunk. Whatever made the smell was coming inside.

Nate struggled with the straps again as quickly as he could. They wouldn’t give.

The door groaned open, and the screaming became deafening. The first person in was Jim, the freedman who had strapped Nate down. His face was wrinkled with worry. After him came the doctor that had taken out Nate’s stitches.

Lastly came the man in the long black coat. He smiled under his waxed mustache. His dark eyes sparkled as the screams resounded.

Nate gasped and tried to press himself against the wall. “You!”

“Remember me, do you?” Marshal Ticks said calmly. He turned to the doctor. “That should give merit to my story.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Sims replied. He squinted his eyes at Nate.

Behind the black-suited marshal, there were his two henchmen in their long, brown leather coats and wide hats. He could see the toes of their boots and the dark lenses on their masks with tubes running under their coats, but there wasn’t an inch of uncovered flesh. The short one, Parvis, came inside. The tall one, Biggs, the one who dropped him from the airship’s platform, stood in the hall, the top of his hat hidden by the top of the doorframe.

Shadows flashed in front of Nate’s eyes. Between the spots of black, he could see Parvis with his hammer. He struck Nate again and again until his body was so ragged he couldn’t even fight back when Biggs picked him up. Then Biggs dropped him, and Nate grabbed the mask. The horrid flat-nosed face with the beads of eyes and wide ears like a bat flashed before him. It had squealed at him as he fell into the night.

“Get them away from me!” Nate screamed. He pulled on the straps at his wrists as hard as he could. Blood made the leather slippery, but he couldn’t get loose.

Nate wanted to scream more, but he lost his breath. He had to calm down. He had to think. Nate gave up pulling on his wrists and worked to turn his ankles. Just maybe he could slip a foot free from the bottom strap.

“The patient seems to be quite disturbed,” Dr. Sims said. “He has been claiming to have seen monsters and that he himself was thrown out of a Rail Agency airship.”

Ticks narrowed his eyes. “He has, has he? What nonsense.”

The marshal took several steps toward Nate. His boots echoed in the small room.

Nate wriggled his whole body for show, but he kept his foot working on the leather strap.

Ticks stood over him a moment and glared. His face turned to a sneer, and he said, “It’s a miracle he survived the fall at all. Typically, when someone becomes desperate like that and jumps, it ends much more poorly.”

“You pushed me, you filthy weasel!” Nate said through gritted teeth.

Ticks shook his head. “Stop that twaddle-talk. You’re only making things more difficult for yourself. The doctors here are trying to help you.”

“That we are,” Sims agreed from behind him. “While I understand your position in needing to reclaim him for the pursuit of justice, marshal, I would like to keep him here for observation. He is clearly unwell.”

“Clearly.” Ticks clicked his tongue. He smiled thinly. “Unless he is lying, pretending to believe stories of monsters to cover up his clarity of mind in murder.”

“Murder?” Nate blurted. Jones. “I didn’t kill Jones! I tried to save him!”

“Precisely,” Ticks said. “From the monsters.”

The marshal shrugged and turned away. “This one has the truth either tangled up in his lies or locked away in an unsound mind. Tell me, doctor, how might I sort out the truth?”

“The human brain is a complex organ,” Sims said. “Through at-length discussion, we may be able to decipher what he genuinely believes.”

“I don’t quite have time for that, I’m afraid,” Ticks said, his tone sorrowful. “I will need to turn in my report to the judge as soon as possible with recommendation as to whether this is a matter to turn to the justice system or if it is best handled under your care. Taxpayer dollars are at risk.”

“I understand, but these things do take time.”

Ticks cleared his throat. “Then perhaps there are ways of expediting the truth. Mr. Parvis!”

The short hunchback waddled in past Jim and the doctor. His stubby gloved hand held up the spiky-edged meat tenderizer. The black orderly gasped.

“No!” Nate screamed. The visions were coming back. He closed his eyes so tight he saw stars. “Keep him away from me!”

“What are you planning on doing?” Sims asked.

“Only what we have to,” Ticks replied.

Nate opened his eyes and tried to focus on the doctor. He pleaded, “Don’t let him!”

Sims raised a finger at Ticks and pointed with his other hand toward Parvis. “I cannot condone torture!”

Ticks leaned over the doctor and shook his head once. “You are wasting precious time for the Rail Agency and the courts of justice in the state of Gloriana. I’d hate to have to include this in my report to the governor and our senators with the recommendation your funding be cut while we try to make up for dollars lost in the judicial system.”

Sims swallowed visibly. His voice came softer. “But, this isn’t necessary. I’m certain that after only a few sessions—”

“We have our own methods, thank you, doctor.” Ticks gave a firm nod. “Mr. Parvis is quite skilled in his work in targeting those particular pressure points that will encourage the patient toward the truth. Now, Mr. Parvis?”

The short hunchback plodded toward Nate.

He wriggled and pushed up his knees, finally getting enough space between the leather straps to slip his right leg out.

He threw himself around and kicked from the awkward angle. His bare foot met with Parvis’s side, below his raised arm where he held the hammer, right in the thin strip of aerophane fabric. It felt like he kicked into a bale of cotton.

Parvis let out a long, high squeal and gurgled like a pig. He dropped his hammer and fell back several steps until he bumped into the far wall. His wide gloves held the side, and he continued to whimper.

“Worthless,” Ticks muttered. He stepped forward and brushed Parvis out of the way. His black-gloved hand picked up the hammer.

Nate tried to free his other foot. As he turned, Ticks smacked his shoulder with the hammer, exactly where his new scar rested. Nate grunted.

Ticks blinked. “That should have sent you into spasms.”

“It’s feeling better,” Nate told him.

Ticks cocked his head to the side and reached out with his free hand to pull down the bandages at Nate’s collar. It was clean skin, but for a few smudges of blood. “That’s impossible.”

Nate pulled away from his grip so much that one of his shoulders rode up the wall next to the bed. It was an awkward enough angle that his left leg freed itself. Pursing his lips, he rolled backward and kicked his legs up as high as he could.

Both of his bare feet met with Ticks’s ear. The marshal’s hat flew into the air. He let out a shocked hurking sound and stumbled backward.

When Ticks recovered, he hissed out a string of swears through gritted teeth. He raised the hammer high. Nate tried to scrunch himself down, but his head lay exposed above his knees. All he could do was watch as Ticks approached with the hammer.

Jim darted in front of him and caught Ticks’s arm.

“Enough!” Sims called. “I was foolish to think this would lead anywhere useful, and now we have a brawl in my own sanitarium! Marshal, put down that hammer!”

Nate watched as Ticks slowly turned away and Jim let him go. He tossed the tenderizer toward Parvis, who was still holding his side and didn’t catch it. The hammer clanged against the stone floor. Ticks’s mustache twitched.

“Very well. I believe we may be done here,” Ticks said.

Nate relaxed slowly. The doctors may have thought he was crazy, but at least they would protect him from Ticks’s genuine insanity.