Trail of Tears (34 page)

He wondered idly how his experiment on the
other side of the country was doing. He had not had any
intelligence from the community in some time now. Rumours abounded
of thralls taking over and Von Kruger being killed. He had
emissaries from Warrick and Flynn still with him demanding action
for encroachments into their territories. He looked weak to them,
he knew. He had lost the fear that had held everyone in line up
till now. He had to regain his standing. He had to make them fear
him again.

It was time to do something about Von Kruger
and Kavanagh.

* * *

Chandler Flynn flew through the putrid fumes
and tried to hold his breath. Though what good that would do he did
not know. His skin prickled and his stomach lurched, nausea
churning as if he’d had too much to drink. He felt ill. Was this
how it would end? Was he not destined to be something more? His
eyes watered and everything blurred. His muscles, once hard like
steel, suddenly felt as though they were melting. He felt himself
fall lower towards the burning embers. The flames had all died but
the ruins still smouldered with the retained heat. As he passed he
could see the still smoking remains of the vampires who had not
made it through the fire. There were so many. Their white gleaming
skulls were stark against the gray of the ash. His clothes burned
and shredded around him, his hair caught fire, and pain seared
through him.

He caught himself before he crashed into the
ruins below and forced his arms to move, using the stiff breeze to
angle his way upwards. Behind him he heard a cry and saw his
companions fall, their bodies tumbling and stirring the embers to
flame once more. Their cries made him try harder and he forced his
muscles to push against the air. His stomach threatened to bend him
in half as bile rose in his throat and spewed into the ruins. The
liquid he expelled was black and it tasted vile as the remainder
slipped down his throat.

And then he was out of the ruins and flying
harder and higher. His skin was mottled and blackened and his
body’s healing was slow to react. Had he survived only to sicken
and die? He refused to die. He soared higher and noticed for the
first time that the sun shone above him. The light was warm on his
skin but not painful. He had missed the sun. His eyes misted but
this time with relief rather than pain and he cried out. He had
made it through. Von Kruger and his army had already flown on but
it had been much depleted from the numbers who had flown into the
gauntlet.

He could take him. He had far more vampires.
He would not risk them unnecessarily. He needed more like him for
certain but only enough to protect the cabal during the day. When
darkness swept over the land again he would be outside his cabal’s
lair ready to greet them with the sun at his back. It was time to
walk the path that destiny had laid out for him.

Harris couldn’t get through the last three
carriages. People thronged the floor or pushed against the bodies
in front to escape the anticipated rain of death from the thralls’
.50 calibre. So far McAteer and Warkowski were drawing the jeep’s
fire and people were trying to get back to the safety of the
carriage behind. Most, though, were moving in panic with the
majority and everyone was hopelessly blocked. There was no way
through, no matter how much Harris screamed and pushed. He saw the
jeep with McAteer and Warkowski swerve and then lose its grip on
the road. It flipped and then rolled violently, pieces of metal
flying in every direction. Harris was too stunned to shout.
Warkowski had…

The thrall in the rear of the jeep rolled
the .50 calibre and bullets shattered the walls around him driving
any further thoughts from his mind.

He grabbed the nearest rail and pulled
himself up towards the roof. As soon as he came level with the
ceiling the wind struck him in the chest like a blow from a bat. He
gripped the railing harder and pulled himself level, sliding along
its length until he came to a small outcropping. He wrapped one arm
around the metal gripping his weapon and anchored himself at the
same time. It restricted his field of fire but at least he wouldn’t
be blown off.

He fired, tracking the jeep and letting all
his hate and frustration out as he held the trigger and screamed
his rage. There was no controlled three round burst. The gun
clicked on empty and Harris reloaded awkwardly. His gunfire had
been noticed and the thrall raised the .50 calibre. Bullets tore
into the roof around Harris, one even striking the metal
outcropping just in front of his face, and then he was firing
again. He finished his clip before he noted that the jeep wasn’t
firing back. His vision was blurred from the wind tearing at him
and he blinked furiously until it cleared enough to show the thrall
slumped against the heavy machine gun. He grinned and then turned
his attention to the driver and passenger. The thrall in the
passenger seat was already moving towards the bed of the jeep and
Harris caught him a glancing blow across the back.

The wound wasn’t enough to kill or even hurt
a thrall, but it did lose its balance and went sprawling against
the driver. The driver turned to clear his passenger and took his
eyes off the road as he struggled. By the time he had cleared the
other thrall and returned his attention to the road he was too late
to avoid the pole. The jeep crashed into it at such speed that it
was almost split in two. Harris looked back towards where McAteer’s
jeep lay but they had already passed too far for him to see
clearly.

He looked the other way, towards the engine,
and could see Carter’s jeep begin to draw level. The deep chatter
of the .50 calibre was already reaching him over the howl of the
wind.

* * *

Aidan Flemming urged the boys to stoke the
fire as he saw the jeep approaching but the steam engine was built
for the long haul not for short sprints and it sluggishly gained
speed. Steam spat at him as he turned dials and shifted levers. He
wasn’t entirely sure if he was doing any good but he had to do
something. He didn’t have a weapon; he hadn’t thought he would need
one. He looked around desperately for anything to throw at the
approaching jeep but there was nothing but coal and logs.

He shouted to Phil Regan but the man sat in
the corner shaking with fear and cold. There would be no help
there. Bullets sparked off the metal outside the engine compartment
and he dropped to the ground.

“Danny,” he shouted at the boy. “Get back
into the fuel compartment. I don’t want you out here when that .50
calibre comes level. Move.” He shouted when Danny tried to argue.
Bullets slammed into the dials above him and steam hissed like an
angry snake. Flemming could see the hood of the jeep peep around
the open entry to the engine compartment. They would be level in a
moment and then it would be too late.

* * *

Harris hurried through the throngs of
people. Now that the threat of the .50 calibre was gone the panic
had subsided. But the number of people clogging the corridors had
not disappeared and the going was very slow. He passed people who
clutched at him crying for help or shouting demands that he didn’t
even try to understand. He ignored them all, the noise of the .50
calibre ahead driving him on.

He came to the infirmary.
Sandra.
He
faltered. He had to know if she was alright. The last he’d heard
she might not make the harsh journey. Had she survived? Jesus, he
thought, our lives are filled with one crisis after another. The
infirmary was filled with people and the noise of their cries and
shouts of anger and frustration was incredible. Over the clamour he
heard the deep roar of gunfire and it forced him on. He did slow a
little though, desperately trying to see the faces of the wounded,
hoping for just one glance of Sandra to reassure him that she was
alive. He saw nothing—nothing except for row upon row of people
lying motionless on the ground. Too many of them had blankets drawn
over their faces.
Was Sandra one of them?

Grier ran beside him and he wanted so badly
to tell him to go on without him. But he couldn’t. He had a
responsibility to all of these people. His own personal needs came
a far second to that. He took a deep breath and forced himself
through the throng. He saw Emma Logan struggling with a limp figure
in her arms. She was screaming at those around her, lashing out
with her one free hand as people pushed and clawed at her. He
stopped.

“I’ll follow on,” he shouted to Grier who
nodded and pushed his way through.

Something had happened here, Harris knew.
Something bad and he couldn’t just ignore it. He fired a shot into
the roof and the room quieted as if someone had dropped a blanket
over them all.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Shouts
answered his question as people bellowed their questions and vented
their anger and fear. Harris fired again and then a third time
until silence reigned again.

“The thralls are dead. There’s just one left
and he’s heading for the engine to stop this train. All you’re
doing here is stopping us from getting to him.” He looked over at
Emma just as she fell to the floor; the body of Conor Ricks still
gripped tightly in her arms.

Harris glared at the people in front of him.
“Attacking children, really? Is this what you have become?” He
turned from them and helped Emma into a more comfortable position.
He checked her breathing and then checked Conor. They were both
alive but Conor’s pulse was erratic.

“Where’s Doctor Reitzig?” Harris turned back
to the crowd and most averted their eyes. Harris felt a deep anger
rise. For a moment he wondered why he did any of it. Were any of
these people worth the effort? If they could attack children and
those who wanted to help them without considering their
actions...what was it all for? He gripped his XM8 tightly and
brought it up level with the crowd. “What have you done?” His tone
was harsh and he saw real fear in their eyes.

“She’s here, Peter.”

Harris felt relief rush through him so
violently that his legs wobbled and he nearly dropped to the
ground. He reached out for the nearest person to him and gripped
their shoulder to stop himself from falling.
That voice.
Sandra.
And then he saw her. She made her way slowly to the
front. Her face was so pale that at first he thought she might be a
figment of his imagination, or a spirit. Her eyes were deep
hollows, her face gaunt, and the skin pinched tight against the
prominent bones in her face. But she looked beautiful to him.

“She was injured but she’s okay,” Sandra
tried a wan smile and then Harris was rushing forward and pulling
her into his arms. He lost all track of time as he stood there. His
whole world was centred on Sandra Harrington. Everything else was
secondary. And then the train started to slow and the chatter of
the .50 calibre shattered the moment.

“Go,” she whispered and he reluctantly
pulled away.

“When I come back, I want this place
cleared. Anyone who can help stay here and help. And by God, if I
hear of any of you attacking one of my people again you will have
me to deal with.” With that Harris rushed from the carriage towards
the final reckoning.

* * *

Grier began to fire as soon as he cleared
the fuel depot. He had been delayed by the door from the carriage.
Some fool had locked it and it had taken him precious minutes to
break it down. The jeep was ahead of him and his first burst only
managed to shower the bed of the vehicle with sparks. He had two
men with him, Palmer and Mahoney and they fired as well, emptying
their magazines in long bursts. He was about to remind them to use
shorter bursts when the thrall noticed them and swivelled the heavy
machine gun towards them and returned fire. Grier threw himself
down into the coal and logs, grunting as his body was cut and
grazed by the sharp edges. He tried to control his slide but his
foot slipped and he tumbled helplessly towards the bed of the fuel
compartment. He struck the metal hard and his head swam. His mouth
tasted of coal dust and his nose was pressed hard against the cold
metal.

He felt arms grip him and help him over. He
looked up and saw a young kid looking down at him.

“Are you okay?” he heard the boy ask and he
began to reply but coughed instead. He looked around him, searching
for his men, but both of them lay sprawled at the top of the fuel
pile, their bodies torn apart from the heavy calibre fire.

“Shit,” he sighed as he struggled to his
feet. “Can you get their weapons, kid,” he asked through gritted
teeth. He bent down painfully as he retrieved his own and then he
strode without a backward glance towards the engine
compartment.

He was already reloading as he walked and
fired relentlessly as he came to the entrance to the compartment.
He had had enough of these bastards. He planted his feet and
emptied the clip, reloading and firing again. Bullets slammed
around him, one struck his shoulder and shattered the bone,
spinning him around and almost sending him out the other side of
the compartment. The .50 calibre was silent though and he could see
the gunner slumped over the weapon. The bastard was hurt but was
already pulling himself up again. Grier tried to rise but his legs
wouldn’t support him. He looked down and saw a wound in his
stomach. He hadn’t even felt that one. Even now his shoulder was
throbbing painfully but his stomach was numb. He saw the kid
approach him and he tried to wave him away but his vision clouded
and he fell forward.

* * *

Aidan Flemming snatched up the machine gun
after the soldier was shot and he continued to fire at the jeep.
The thrall was already pulling the long barrel back into line,
though his wounds were slowing his actions. Aidan had never fired a
machine gun before and the bullets sprayed wide, some of them even
striking the inside of the compartment and ricocheting back.