Shadow Falls: Badlands (16 page)

After making a small fire, Galen finally sat and immediately felt the exhaustion closing in. In truth, he wasn’t sure how many times he could go through days like today; he knew, however, that his path would not be so cleanly completed, however.

Indeed, each return from the darkness left Galen just a little skewed—his journey a little offset from its previous course. As he was coming to comprehend—albeit incompletely—each return from the darkness resulted in slightly altered memories. Of course, he had no way to confirm that his current memories weren’t his previous memories, but this explanation was the only one he had for the time it took him to resituate himself in his own mind. As far as he could guess, some things would be forgotten and others revealed from the obscured uncertainty of the past. He still had no idea, however, what original past was that which was continually re-tooled and resituated.

***

It was the metal clang that woke him up. A jarring noise one could never forget—for what it signified, or more precisely, what it signified about for its listener, was dire. So Galen had no choice—his instincts caused him to shoot upright when he heard the unmistakable sound of his jail door closing.

Galen found himself back in the stuffy jail cell in Sagebrush, Texas—disturbed from slumber in the middle of the night.

Standing before him, visible in the thin light of the moon shining through the barred window of his cell, was a tall man whose eyes only were illuminated. The gaze that was both cold and clear—like the sight of a star in the winter night.

“You the undertaker?” Galen said from his haze. “'Cuz some other man already come and measure me for—”

Galen stopped. He was suddenly aware that the man was asking him a question, although his mouth never moved, nor had any sound been made since that of the cell door.

“I didn't mean to fall asleep. I just—” Galen said, his voice trailing off when the man interrupted. Though he still didn't speak, Galen could hear the man's voice—that of a country rube—in his head.

“I don't underst— Yes, I know what day tomorrow is. I'm ready to go to the gallows,” Galen answered. “I'm quite tired.”

The man gave no reaction. His unwavering gaze continued to dissect Galen.

“Do I know you?” Galen finally asked, inching closer to dread. “I don't understand what you’re asking,” Galen responded to the voice in his head.

The question came to Galen once more.

“Of course I know who I am. But you still haven't told me who you a—” he answered though cut off again.

“I don't understand what you're say—”

“I'm Galen Altos!” he finally shouted. He covered his ears, but the inquisition continued.

“I don't understand! I told you: I am Galen Altos!”

“What do you mean ‘before that’? Before what?”

Galen shook his head. “I've always been Galen Altos!” he cried. “I don't understand!
Before what?
”

With that the man's mouth opened slightly, his thin lips breaking into a cruel grin.

If I could only place why this man seems so familiar
, Galen thought, amidst the invasive voice.

But the real truth eluded Galen's memory; the smooth timbre of the voice had begun to have a hypnotic effect on Galen, clouding his faculties.

If you only knew who I was, you’d realize how very mistaken you are
, he heard the voice whisper in his mind.

The man chuckled from deep back in his throat. Galen could very much hear it with his own ears.

Feeling the stab of anger in his heart, Galen lunged off the bed and at his tormentor, but when he went to wrap his arms, he got nothing but air—for the man who had come to visit him had vanished like a wisp of smoke. Galen opened his eyes to find the sun shining through the bars of his window. He sat up, puzzled after what he figured was another in a series of nightmares. From outside came the sound of a public gathering—something he hadn’t heard in his entire three-week stay in his cell. But it wasn’t until he peered through the bars that he realized the gathering was at the foot of the gallows over-looking his hold.

No sooner had he turned away from the window then the front door of the Sheriff’s office opened. Entering behind the stone-faced sheriff Overton was the rail thin deputy Kentuck holding a pair of old manacles, grinning.

“Time to go,” growled Overton.

As they led him out to the gallows, Galen kept his head low, for he was too tired to stare back into the eyes of townsfolk who’d come to watch him hang just for sport. The crowd parted, and Galen was all too aware of the murmurs and hissing. The family of the man he’d accidentally killed had obviously come to pay their last respects to the condemned.

Galen climbed the steps very slowly—not out of fear, but because Overton held him back by his cuffed hands to milk every last second of the spectacle. Once on the platform, Overton dramatically read the sentence. “Today, on the twenty-third of June, the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty, we are meting out this punishment of an eye for an eye—as was the way God had justified in the Bible.” The Sheriff’s words were met with nodding heads of unspoken assent.

No blindfold was offered, nor was the opportunity for last words; instead, the ten-strand hemp noose was placed around Galen’s neck. Galen looked up. His worst fears were confirmed: the rope was indeed short. There would definitely be no quick neck break for him; he was going to dangle and dance for the crowd’s delight. He promised himself to let loose and give them a good show.

Overton nodded to Kentuck, who put his hand on the lever for the trapdoor under Galen’s feet. It was not until this moment that Galen finally looked at those folks staring so intently back at him. Men, women, and children—some whom he imagined had traveled to town for this very occasion, their faces hungry for the excitement they’d been promised.

And it was there among these people that Galen saw him—the man who visited like a wraith in the dead of night before disappearing in smoke.

Suddenly Galen realized where he had seen that face. His chest tightened—for the man standing before him, the man who spoke in the accent of a southern gentleman, was the very same man who appeared in Galen's new nightmare of the burning church; the very same man who, in the midst of the flames and those dying around them, addressed him not as Galen but as Brother Thomas.

The world dropped before his eyes as he plummeted downward, the rope pulling taut. Galen’s head jerked upwards, his body downwards, and his windpipe collapsed, suffocating him. The muscles in his neck tensed and burned like fire. Galen squeezed his eyes shut only to hear the man’s voice again. Galen’s legs kicked uselessly under him, trying to fight off the inevitable. With every last bit of effort, he forced his lids to open, though the pressure in his head made his eyes feel like they would explode. Again he saw the man, this time draped in a halo of light, wings coming from his back. No one else seemed to take notice.

The man spoke without uttering a sound; it was a distinct warning. “The Coyote is coming, Galen. Today I flee, but tomorrow you must find me before it’s too late.”

*****

CHAPTER 14

C
yril rode until the mid-afternoon sun vanished behind the dark grey storm heads that had been threatening since morning. The road from Kansas City had been swift, and he fixated upon his task with all available focus and vigor. There was little doubt in his mind his master would indeed reward him for completing the work he had begun so long ago. For as far as Cyril knew, the master's dawn had finally arisen. But Galen Altos was now standing in the way.

Cyril tried suppress the frustration over his inability to kill Altos all those years ago during the war—oftentimes within arm’s reach of each other. He attempted to forget the times he could have easily killed Galen, but had been prevented by the one he served.

And during the war—during those opportunities—Cyril remained perplexed. That time waiting, according to the master, was time dedicated to observation—to see how strong Galen’s powers truly were. But during all that time, Cyril had not once seen a single hint that Galen had any powers whatsoever. It was only after Dunburton's surprise correspondence that Cyril realized Galen had somehow survived the church’s conflagration in Juarez. Cyril now realized he had made a grave mistake by underestimating Altos and letting him get away.

Cyril shuddered at the thought of what the master would do to him if he found out Altos was still alive—though it seemed highly unlikely he didn’t already know, for the master knew plenty about Galen.

But why wouldn’t he have said something?
Cyril wondered.

Altos’ survival was worrisome. Though Cyril had successfully hunted down and dispatched several men and women at the behest of his master—never once questioning his orders—it was this single failure he feared would keep him from his final reward, but lead to facing unspeakable and merciless retribution at his master's own hands. This mere thought was enough to make Cyril remount his horse to continue pushing forward despite the storm.

Within an hour, the feeling he’d sought since Kansas City had begun to operate—like a compass needle finding its bearing. There was no doubt; he was definitely on Galen's trail once more. He could sense it. As Cyril came down the road toward an abandoned farmhouse, he felt Galen growing closer with each foot.

The moment he entered the long-abandoned structure, Cyril knew Galen had been here shortly after fleeing from Kansas City. The scene he could see in his mind was clear as day: Altos had spent the night here huddled in front of the hearth trying to keep warm.

No,
Cyril thought.
That wasn't it
. He held his hands out, trying to further divine what the room was attempting to tell him.

Galen's imprint by the hearth was indeed quite strong. With his bare hand, Cyril fished through the cold ash in the hearth unsure of what he was looking, but confident he would find it. When his fingers closed around a hard orb, daggers of ice stabbed through his body. Cyril removed the object and, upon seeing it, immediately began to tremble.

There in his hand was the petrified eye—the same one Cyril knew had come from an ancient creature that roamed the earth long before himself.

As Cyril's gaze fell into the unavoidable pull of the eye's milky iris, he became aware of the other connection this horrid object shared with Galen Altos and Major Dunburton.

That old fool,
thought Cyril. It pained him to think Dunburton was ignorant of the true cursed nature of the eye. Like most mortal men who had heard of it and attempted to possess it, the major had no real idea of its province.

Quickly, Cyril saw someone he could only identify as a Gypsy. Though it seemed highly unlikely, she had knowledge of Galen. Seeing her actions now, Cyril was certain this old woman somehow understood exactly what Galen was.

And then as he saw how Galen crudely killed her, Cyril was dumbstruck; it became obvious Galen himself was still completely oblivious to his own identity.

Which would explain certain things,
Cyril finally reckoned. Especially why the master himself doubted whether Altos was even a threat.

How could the master be deceived?
Cyril puzzled. Before he could pry his gaze from the eye, it began to show him something—a flash of what could only be an event in the future. It sent a wave of terror through Cyril's body. From his shaking hand fell the eye, where it hit the floor and stopped without a single bounce. Without hesitation, Cyril left the abandoned house—and the eye—behind as quickly as his feet could carry him.

He was no more than a few yards out the front door when, from behind him, came a voice.

“You disappoint me,” it said coldly.

Cyril turned slowly, as to not provoke. There, standing in the house's ramshackle doorway, was Miles Lawton. And though the appearance he always took in front of Cyril was that of a young boy, the Coyote was no less dangerous now than in his natural form.

Cyril didn’t dare hesitate in his submission to the boy; he lowered his eyes as Miles Lawton approached.

“The way you held that wretched thing,” the boy said with an air of disgust. “You stood there trembling like a scared girl.”

Cyril made a great deal of effort to choose his words very carefully. “The eye is cursed. It's a fool's toy of madness and folly.”

The boy stooped down to pick up a small stone that he rolled in his hand. “They've said similar things about that petrified relic for—” his voice momentarily trailed off. “For longer than you can imagine,” he finished. The boy arced his arm back and threw the small stone away from the house. “Tell me, Cyril, what exactly did you see in the eye? What truths did it reveal to you?”

“I saw Altos,” answered Cyril. He focused his mind on the part of the vision he dared talk about and tried, at least for now, to block out what he'd seen concerning the boy who stood in front of him. He told Miles about the Gypsy's fatal encounter with Galen and of his suspicion that Altos seemingly still had little idea of who he was or where he'd come from.

“Of course not,” hissed miles. “Which is why we must find him before he finally wakes up to the truth.”

That would be easier said than done,
thought Cyril. Galen had a several week head start.