James Axler (5 page)

Mildred had determined that Krysty would be fine; other than the auditory hallucinations—acousma, Mildred had called it—Krysty seemed normal now, just exhausted. The latter was probably down to dehydration, and, Mildred argued, that may even be causing her acousma.

“A dose of bed rest and you’ll feel much better,” Mildred had assured Krysty, though she had insisted on staying at the woman’s side, just in case. Jak had agreed to stay with the women while the other three went off to speak with the locals.

“Roll up, roll up,” the barker at the entrance called as Ryan’s group reached the front of the line. He held out a rubber stamp glistening with dark ink and asked them for the minimal entry fee. Doc paid with some of the jack he had received at the bar.

The atmosphere inside the circular building was stuffy, despite an open skylight at the center of the roof.

In the middle of the room was a round pit, twelve feet in diameter with a floor covered in straw and sawdust.

Two mastiff dogs were held in cages at opposite sides of this arena, and they growled at each other meanly through the metal grilles of their holding pens. A low wooden fence surrounded the pit, thin struts acting as bars to prevent the animals from getting out once uncaged. The rest of the room was built with a regular incline, raising the floor from the pit to the outer walls, providing the standing crowd a good view of the action without obscuring the people behind them. Two men worked through the crowd, money and stubs exchanging hands.

“Which one do you like?” J.B. asked Doc and Ryan.

Doc craned his neck, trying to get a better look at the vicious-looking mastiffs. One of the dogs had an ugly scar across its flank, and a streak of white fur covered its left eye, while the other had a dark, dappled coat of fur, browns and grays and blacks, like it had been rolled in ash. “I am no expert in such matters,” he admitted, “but it seems that the one on the left is the spitting image of our esteemed leader.”

Noticing the white patch of fur across its eye and the scarring on its body, Ryan laughed in agreement.

“That’s the one we should bet on,” he agreed, clapping Doc on the back.

J.B. went to speak with one of the bookies while Doc and Ryan split off into the crowd.

“Ladies and gen’lemen!” a man’s voice called from the center of the pit, and the crowd hushed, with just a few conversations continuing as whispers. Doc looked at the man. He was dark skinned with a stubble of hair upon his head, dyed scarlet with food coloring. He had dressed in a patchwork of bright clothes, a long jacket with metallic buttons that twinkled as they caught the flaming lights of the room, striped trousers and bright shined shoes. He held a cane similar to Doc’s own, and used it to gesture around the room as he went into his pitch, addressing specific members of the audience as his cane singled them out. This man acted as the ringmaster, working up the excited crowd to fever pitch before the dogs were released.

“We got us two magnificent brutes to start things off tonight,” the ringmaster announced. “Killers, the both of them, let me assure you.” He flicked the cane toward the caged mastiff with the white stripe across his eye, running the cane along the bars of the cage, antagonizing the beast. “The Streak here, he’s eighty-eight pounds o’ pure muscle. Those jaws chomp down on your arm, your leg, let me assure you, you would need some serious medical attention, my friends.” The man moved across, glaring at the other dog, banging his cane on the top of its cage before launching into similar patter about that hound.

Doc stopped listening, checking the room to try to work out where the ringmaster had appeared from and, thus, would likely disappear to. He spotted a curtained-off area across the circle from the entrance, and pushed and excuse-me’d his way toward it while the ringmaster continued his lecture.

Finally the ringmaster finished his spiel and bared his teeth at the caged animals one last time before reaching for the fence surrounding the arena. Two dog handlers, thick gloves on their hands, leaned into the arena and prepared to unlock the respective cage doors. “Unleash the hounds!” the ringmaster hollered, ending with a wolf like howl before leaping over the fence. The crowd held its collective breath as the cage doors were raised and two short-haired bundles of rage and fury leaped into the arena, scrabbling for purchase on the sawdust as they snarled at each other.

The ringmaster ducked his head low and made his way to the curtained area at the edge of the room, never once bothering to look back. Doc stood there, leaning both hands on his cane, its silver lion’s-head handle glinting in the light.

“Hot diggety, but that is one nice cane you’ve got there, sir,” Doc announced as the ringmaster walked past him, pulling the curtain aside.

The ringmaster stopped, turning a querulous face in Doc’s direction. Doc weaved his cane back and forth where it stood on its point, making the lion’s-head catch the light. “Well, thank you,” the ringmaster said as he looked at Doc, then down at the head of Doc’s ebony cane. “You not here for the fight?”

Doc shrugged. “I decided to save my money for a later duel. I figure that the odds may become more agreeable as the evening wears thinner.”

The ringmaster nodded. “It’s a sound plan. Lot of people just come for the spectacle. They’re out of jack by the time the real action kicks off.”

A cheer surged from the crowd as one of the dogs attached its jaws to the neck of the other, tossing the wounded animal around the circle. The ringmaster pulled back the curtain and gestured inside. “You wanna talk a little out of people’s way?” he suggested.

“Much obliged.” Doc followed the ringmaster through and found himself in a small dressing area in a corridor, a mirror propped up against a crate. Farther along the corridor were four cages, holding two pit bulls, a ridgeback and what looked like some kind of cross-breed Alsatian-cum-wolf.

Doc had handed the ringmaster his swordstick and he waited patiently while the man examined the lion’s head atop it. “This is some fine workmanship,” the ringmaster admired. “Are you in the market to sell this?”

Doc tried to look noncommittal. “A man has to eat, my friend.”

The ringmaster smiled. “That he does. What do you want for it?”

Doc pointed a thumb back to the curtain. “Mayhap nothing if my strategy pans out. Who knows when Lady Luck will smile?”

The ringmaster reluctantly handed the cane back to Doc. “Lady Luck, she can be an unfaithful mistress. If you do find you want to sell it, I would be very interested.”

“That’s mighty kind,” Doc said, nodding to himself as he strode back toward the arena. As he reached a hand up to part to curtain he stopped and, as though in after-thought, turned back to the ringmaster. “I guess I’ll know when you’re here by the beacon.”

The ringmaster looked at him. “The beacon?” he asked, puffing at the cheroot.

“You know,” Doc said, “the tower. I did not see it myself, got here early, but you light that when it is fight day, am I right?”

The ringmaster laughed. “That ain’t nothin’ to do with me, man. Nothin’ to do with anyone, far as I can tell.”

Doc scratched his head, further messing his already unruly white hair. “Then what’s it there for?”

“You know, I don’t think anyone in this whole ville knows the answer to that. When it first appeared some of the good men of Fairburn tried pulling the thing down. Succeeded, actually. Then the outlanders come and shot six men—” he snapped his fingers “—like that. Chilled ’em, stone cold. Told us we were not to touch the towers again.”

“Towers?” Doc asked, emphasizing the plural.

“I hear they’re dotted all over,” the ringmaster told him. “Near the tracks. That’s how they travel, you see?

By the tracks.”

Doc was mystified, trying to recall if he had seen any tracks while the companions made their way to Fairburn. “I am surprised they can find them,” he said after a couple of seconds’ thought, not really sure what he was referring to but hoping it would entice the other man to tell him more.

“Oh, they worked damn hard gettin’ those tracks in serviceable condition,” the ringmaster assured him.

“’Round here wasn’t so bad. The tracks were just a little buried by the dust storms, I think. But some places they must’ve had to rebuild them pretty much from scratch.”

Realization dawned on Doc then. “You mean, the railroad tracks.”

“Too right I do.” The ringmaster spit. “Couldn’t travel around in that monstrosity otherwise, could they?”

Doc shook his head in agreement before turning back to the curtain. “I shall get back to you about the sale,” he told the ringmaster, “if my bets do not pan out the way I would surely like them to.”

“Good luck,” the ringmaster told him, and Doc was touched—it sounded like he meant it.

Out in the main room, the crowd was whooping and cheering. Doc scanned them, looking for Ryan or J.B. among the sea of heads. He spotted Ryan almost immediately, the tall man towering over the crowd around him. He seemed to be talking with a pretty blond woman, but when Doc got closer he realized that his friend was trying to extract himself from the conversation.

“Excuse me, madam,” Doc said loudly as he inter-posed between the lady and his friend.

Ryan scanned Doc’s face. “What news, Doc? Any success?”

“A little. Let’s find J.B. and I’ll explain it to you both at the same time.”

KRYSTY SUDDENLY SAT UP in bed, tilting her head as though to catch a faraway sound.

Mildred put down the book she had been reading.

“What is it?”

“Something,” Krysty began slowly. “Something’s out there.” She looked at the window, and Mildred’s gaze followed.

Half dozing in a seat in the corner of the room, Jak shook himself and was suddenly wide awake. “What?” he asked the women simply.

“I can hear it,” Krysty told them both. “Coming closer now. Screams all around it, like a blanket. A blanket of agony.”

Mildred looked at Krysty, wondering what it was that she thought she could hear. Her companion looked disheveled, black rings still heavy around her eyes, her rose-petal lips so much paler than normal. “There aren’t any screams,” Mildred assured her. “It’s just your mind playing tricks. Try to forget about it now. Try to keep calm.”

Krysty slowly sank back onto the bed, calming her breathing with an effort. “But they sound so close,” she mumbled.

“I know, Krysty,” Mildred told her, taking one of her hands in her own. “Just try to rest, recover your strength.

And in the morning it will all be over. No more screams, I promise.”

Jak was standing by the window, his nose pressed to the glass and a white hand pushed against it over his brow, trying to block out his own pale reflection. He craned farther, turning his head sideways to see a greater distance. Then he said a single word. “Screams.”

Mildred turned, shocked. “What? What did you say?” she asked him.

The albino teenager didn’t move from the window.

“Screams. Coming.”

Mildred stood beside him, peering over his shoulder.

She knew that Jak had incredible eyesight, almost superhuman, which was decidedly odd for an albino.

That very ability had saved her life more than once, an early-warning system for all of the companions. She tried to follow where he was looking, squinting to discern whatever he had seen. “What is it?” she asked.

“There,” he said, jabbing his finger toward the skeletal tower that loomed over the ville wall. Mildred followed as Jak traced his finger along the glass. “See it?”

“What am I looking for?” she asked, unable to identify anything unusual in the darkened landscape beyond the wall.

Jak turned from the window, glancing at Mildred before marching to the door. “Lights,” he told her.

“Wait, you can’t just…” Mildred began.

 “Have to,” Jak told her. “Find out. Tell Ryan.” He left the room, quietly pulling the door closed behind him.

Mildred turned back to the window, pushing the side of her face against the cold glass as she tried to locate whatever it was that Jak was investigating. Almost a minute passed, her breath clouding against the glass before she spotted it—a tiny flicker of crimson light, there and then gone, out in the far distance. She watched for it in the darkness, her heart fluttering anxiously in her chest, until it suddenly reappeared, larger and presumably closer. It wasn’t just one light. Now she could make out there were three separate light sources, infernal red and traveling side by side. “What the hell is that?” she muttered to herself.

JAK’S HANDS WERE STRAIGHT, held like blades to cut through the air as he ran across the street and into the shadows between the buildings beyond, taking the most direct route to the wall and the lights beyond it.

When the high wall came into view, Jak assessed it, mentally calculating where the ridges, the natural hand-and footholds in the wood were. Wiry and thin, it was easy to mistake Jak Lauren for a younger boy, but in reality his body was a powerful tool, not an inch of fat on the whole frame; he was built sleek, like a jungle cat.

With three quick steps Jak was up and over the wall, the soles of his boots barely glancing off the wooden surface as he sprang up it, just quiet tapping sounds to mark his passing. He dropped to the other side, landing in a crouch, his weight distributed evenly. Then, without a second’s hesitation, he was running again, his flowing mane of hair a snow-white streak cutting through the darkness.

He focused on the lights approaching across the dusty plain, flaming red and satanic. When he turned his head he could just barely make out the sounds, as well, carrying uncertainly across the flatland with nothing to amplify their echo to his ears. Most of all, however, he felt its approach, heavy on his booted soles, a tremor through the dirt, rumbling across the land.

“A TRAIN?” J.B. repeated.

Doc looked around the crowded room, wondering how much of this they wanted to announce to the strangers around them. He stood with J.B. and Ryan near the back of the crowd, close to the lone entry and exit door.

“That is what the man told me,” he explained, gesturing with his hand that they keep the volume of their conversation low.