Last Train from Perdition

Seven.

The boy was maybe twelve years old, but Lawson knew that was only in appearance. He had been taken and turned young, that was for sure. The boy wore a white shirt with a ruffled collar and ruffles down the front; at least it had been white once, before it had become matted with dried blood. He wore gray short pants and cream-colored leggings, with old-fashioned buckled shoes. Above the pallid and grinning face the mass of curly, touselled hair was straw-colored, and the boy’s eyes were light. Except now they held centers of crimson, and they were aimed at Trevor Lawson with not only malicious intent but a touch of true merriment. The boy was thin and awkward-looking; he had not been given time to fill out his bones.

“Hello,” he said, in his high-pitched, childish voice. “I’m Henry.”

Lawson nodded. His gun was ready. “I imagine you know my name.”

“I do. We all do. Let me introduce myself a little better. I am…was…Henry Styles, Junior. You can call me Junior, if it pleases you.”

“Nothing pleases me right now.”

The little boy cackled and clapped his hands together. The fingernails were long, dirty claws that Lawson figured could rip the head from a human being in a matter of seconds.

When he was done laughing, Henry Styles Junior said, “Do you know how many there are of us out here?”

“Many,” was Lawson’s answer.

“We—I,” he corrected, “brought an army. After what you did to LaRouge and the others at Nocturne…I kinda figured we needed to be more careful.” The grin widened, so much that the fangs almost slid out. “I always liked the snow,” he said. “Makes me think of Christmas in Philadelphia.”

“Oh? That’s where you’re from?”

“Born in Philadelphia in the year…” Junior paused. “What year is this?”

“1886.”

“Hm. Born in Philadelphia in the year 1781. That makes me—”

“Older than you look.”

“Smarter than I look, too,” Junior said. “They say you’re smart too, Mr. Lawson.”

“Nice of them to say.”

“Are they correct?”

“I’d like to think so.” While he was speaking, Lawson was scanning his surroundings; at any second he expected some monstrosity—similar to the shape-changing vampire he’d faced on a rooftop in New Orleans last summer—to attack from any direction.

“Ease yourself,” said Junior. “We want to be gracious.”

“Grace from one of you? I doubt you understand that concept.”

The thing that looked like a boy laughed. A black tongue that might have been forked slid out from the mouth and caught some snowflakes before it withdrew.

“Your situation,” the creature said, “is hopeless. You do realize that.”

Lawson was about to deny it, but in truth he could not…at least not yet.

“And there you are. The truth of the matter. Let me tell you what we desire: yourself and Ann Kingsley. When you give yourselves up to us, we’ll clear the track. The others can go on to wherever they’re going, and long life to them.”

“Does that include the man who’s lying down in that brush? Or have you already drained him and torn him up?”

“Tut, tut,” Junior said, with the fixed grin upon his warped mouth. “Sacrifices must be made, for the good of the many. I believe I recall President Washington saying such a thing.”

“He’s dead.”

“Regrettably so. I wish we’d gotten to him first. What a leader he would’ve made for us!”

“I doubt that LaRouge would like to share the honor. Is she here?”

“As much as you would like her to be…no. She is at a distance, but you can be sure she’s with us, in her own way.”

It was disconcerting to Lawson, talking this way to a creature who looked like a little boy, spoke like an older man and thought like a monster. He had to get away, calm himself, and try to reason things through.

“Our terms,” said Junior. “Give yourself and your lady friend up, or we take everyone. We’ll take you and Miss Ann anyway, but I know you’ll bring some of my tribe to harm and I dislike that certainty.” He swung his legs back and forth on the boulder as any rambunctious tyke might, who didn’t mind the wind temperature in the single digits. “We won’t wait very long, Trevor. So for the sake of your newfound—”

“You won’t have to wait at all,” Lawson said, but even as he was squeezing the trigger to send a silver bullet through Junior’s skull the creature whirled away so fast it was a white blur…then only empty space and a ripple in the snow where the body had been. Lawson had never seen one of them move so quickly as that, and he was both shocked and in awe of Junior’s speed; so much so that his finger had not had time to depress the Colt’s trigger to its firing point.

And then when Lawson turned away the thing that was crouched on top of the locomotive behind him sprang into the air, and from the rags of its shirt two ebony wings that had been folded in wait now exploded into their span of ten feet width.

The thing resembled a human being only for its having two legs, two arms, a torso and a head in addition to the wings; everything else was, as Easterly had said, an abomination. It was dark-fleshed and muscular and gnarled and greedy, and as it swooped in silence down from its perch upon Trevor Lawson the mouth gaped wide open to ready the curved fangs. Above it the eyes with their crimson pupils were hypnotically horrific, and the claws at the ends of the long fingers twitched in anticipation.

It came at him so fast that, again, Lawson was stunned and mostly for the fact that he had let himself be beguiled by Junior as this shapechanged vampire had crouched atop the engine. His Colt fired with a sharp crack but his aim was off. The bullet streaked past the thing’s left side and continued on into the night like a small blue-flamed meteor. Lawson’s own fangs slid out. He threw up his free arm to protect his face and throat. The claws reached for him and were only inches away, but the desire to survive sped Lawson’s actions.

And also steadied his aim.

The second shot took the thing in the head, just above the left eye.

It was upon him before the sanctified bullet could take effect. It bore him to the ground. Lawson put his hand against the thing’s chin to keep those fangs away. The claws dug into the shoulders of his coat and the batlike wings fought the air.

In what seemed an agonizing length of time but was only a matter of seconds the creature shuddered and writhed and began to crack apart beginning at the hole above the left eye. Within the cracks a pulsing red heat glowed, as if the power of the consecrated silver was attacking the vampire’s ichor. The misshapen face crisscrossed with cracks like that of a dried-up mummy. The thing tried to pull away from Lawson, as if getting back into the turbulent air would save it. Lawson did his best to hold onto it but it tore away from him with a strangled scream. Its eyes imploded, the left and then the right, even as the wings powered the body upward with the last of their massive strength. The face collapsed upon itself, the mouth caved in, the arms and legs flailed as more seething red fissures opened in the body.

Another pistol cracked. A large piece of the vampire’s head with black hair attached to it blew out and burst into flame in midair. This second silver bullet sped the process of destruction, and even as Ann bent over Lawson to help him to his feet the creature was torn apart by the wind. The last to be dissolved were the wings, which fell into the snow in patterns of ash. What remained were the rags of the shirt, a pair of gray trousers and a pair of ordinary brown boots.

Lawson struggled up. Did he still have his hat? Yes, the leather chinstrap had held. His Colt? Yes, in his hand. Two bullets fired. Three, with Ann’s. A pair of silvers wasted. He was dazed and for a terrible moment had been back in time on the battlefield at Shiloh, crawling away in desperate terror from the nightmarish army that grinned and capered with glee as they pursued him across a landscape of the dead.

“Get inside,” he told her. “Hurry!”

“I heard the shots. I knew—”

“Come on!” he said, pulling her. There was no time. They were everywhere. A dark shape streaked through the air ten or twelve feet above their heads. The embankment to the right was coming alive with figures that appeared from the cover of trees, shrubs and rocks. On the left side, where the cliffs rose up, more figures seemed to be emerging from the very stones. As Lawson pulled Ann with him, his gaze fell upon one of the dead shapechanger’s boots lying in the ashen snow.

It held a spur.

“Move!” he said, aware that on both sides the earth was vomiting forth a hideous horde. They had reached the engine when a single voice cried out through the wind.

It said, “Ann! Annie! Wait for me, Annie!”

She caught her breath and might have fallen had Lawson not been holding her.

“Trevor!” she said, as the tears streaked down her cheeks. “It’s my father!”

“No, it’s not.”

“They have him! Listen to him! He’s still alive!”

“Annie! Please…don’t leave me…!”

“Let’s go!” He was prepared to pick her up if she resisted but she did not, though her knees had weakened and she staggered the rest of the way to the passenger car.

Ann had left Rooster with his rifle and Eric with his pistol in charge of keeping everyone where they needed to be. When she and Lawson came into the car, Reverend Easterly was on his knees beside Blue, who had regained consciousness and was holding his hand. Eric stood over him, his pistol drawn but held down at his side. Gantt was sitting toward the front, the lantern on the seat beside him, his face seamed with worry. The others were still sitting where they’d been when Ann had left the car. Rooster’s rifle swung toward the door.

The fireman said, “Put that gun away and get to talkin’!”

Lawson ignored him. He holstered his Colt and shut the door, then he helped Ann to a seat and went back to see about Blue.

“Did you hear me, Alabama?” Rooster had shouted it; his patience had shredded with the sound of the shots. “Who were you shootin’ at out there?”

“Not who,” Ann managed to say, her voice listless. She slid her revolver into its holster. “What.”

As Lawson approached, Easterly started to stand up and retreat but instead he corrected himself. He remained where he was, his hand still grasping the girl’s. Blue’s eyes had opened, though they were still nearly swollen shut with pain. “Where am I?” she whispered. “Where am I?”

“I’ve told you,” Easterly said gently, “you’re on a train. You’re being taken to Helena, to the hospital there.”

“A t…train?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. Blue tried to lift her head, but it was too much effort for her.

“Where am I?” she whispered. And then, “Ohhhhh…I’m h…hurtin’.” The swollen eyes searched, and what they could see or not see was anyone’s guess. “Am…I…dy…dy…” She gave it up, for again it was taking too much precious strength.

“Have faith,” said Easterly, in as soft as voice as Lawson had ever heard a man speak. “We’re going to get you to that hospital. Aren’t we, Mr. Lawson?” His heavy-lidded eyes moved up upon the vampire.

“That’s the plan.”

Blue shivered. “C…c…cold,” she whispered, though the blanket was still around her and the passenger car was so sturdily built as to let only a few small shrills of wind in. She began to cough…once…twice…a third time more violently even as Easterly tried to calm her. A little thread of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, and Lawson found himself staring at the vein that gave a weak pulse at her throat.

Her coughing subsided, but her breathing had become harsh. Lawson took from his coat the small bottle that Fossie had given him, and was grateful his clash with the winged monster hadn’t smashed it. “The doctor gave me this for her,” he said as he offered it to Easterly. “It’s morphine and whisky, to help her sleep.”

“I think,” said the reverend, “that she’ll be sleeping well enough very soon, don’t you?”

“Give her a sip if she needs it.” Lawson could do nothing more for the girl. It looked as if Fossie’s Mule Punch wouldn’t be necessary for the moment, because Blue’s eyes had closed and she had—thankfully—drifted off again. “Watch her carefully, will you?”

Easterly nodded, and Lawson could tell he was sincere in his regard for the girl’s life. He figured it was probably because Easterly had stolen so many men from their wives and children in his past life as a back-shooting bounty hunter. Lawson turned away to give his attention to Rooster, who had come along the aisle with his rifle ready and his face contorted in a snarl of anger and fear.

“Who you shootin’ at?” Rooster demanded. “How come you lettin’ Mr. Tabberson lie out there and die? Come on, tell us!”

“Watch that gun, Rooster,” Gantt cautioned, though his voice was weak.

“Pardon, Mr. Gantt sir, but hush up! I’m wantin’ to know what Alabama’s got us into! That fella says he’s a warbuck, I’m kinda believin’ it’s so!”

“That’s what I think!” Mathias had stood up from his seat. “You should’ve seen him back at the Palace! And look at him now! There’s something mighty wrong about this gent!”

“I am not a warlock,” said Lawson, and he spoke it loudly and forcefully enough to silence all other voices.

“What I am,” he went on, into the small noise of the wind keening around the car, “is a vampire.” He moved his gaze from face to face and found them all frozen. “Well…a correction. I’m not entirely gone…that is, not entirely like one of the things that has blocked this track and has taken Mr. Tabberson to his death…or worse. They’re out there in a large number. If they got in here or got to you out there, they would either take you to be turned or they would drink you dry and then tear you apart. I could do that too, if I were of a mind.”

“Wait a minute, wait a damned chicken-pickin’ minute!” Rebinaux said, and he too was on his feet. “What the hell is a vampire? I thought you said you was from Alabama!”

Lawson grunted. This was going to take a little demonstration.

“Mathias,” he said, “do you have a coin?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Take the coin and throw it as hard as you can against the front wall.”

“Huh?”

“Just do it. As hard as you can.”

Mathias removed from his trouser pocket a small coin. He shook his head as if he thought Lawson utterly insane, and then he reared his arm back and threw the coin with all his strength a distance of a little more than twelve feet.

“Pitching is not your game,” said Lawson, as he leaned against the front wall next to the door. He opened his right fist to show in his palm the Liberty Seated ten-cent piece.

They had not seen him move. He had been standing several feet behind Mathias one instant, and in the next he was at the far wall, waiting there at his leisure. He had gone along the aisle past Rooster and the Winchester hardly leaving a swirl of disturbed air. Rooster’s back was still to him when Lawson spoke, and when he spun around he brought the rifle’s barrel up again aimed at the other man’s chest.

“Easy, Ann,” he said, because she’d drawn her gun once more and it was levelled at Rooster’s head. “It’s not me you have to fear,” he told the group. “It’s those things out there. Lead bullets can hurt me, but they can’t kill me or my kind. There are two ways to do that: a consecrated silver bullet through the skull, or cutting the head off. I’m sure you have questions, but be brief. We have to figure out a plan of—”

“A vampire,” said Reverend Easterly. He had risen to his feet from Blue’s side. “I’m not an uneducated man. I’ve even read Polidori’s book. I would say you are a lunatic, sir, but I’m afraid I know better.”

“Good. That advances us somewhat.”

“Of all the Satan-spawned garbage on this earth and in the world beyond…I never thought I’d see the likes of you. I’ve heard of your kind for years, but to see one…” Easterly had the crucifix between his hands again and held onto it as if to dear life itself. “They have been the subject of legends in Europe for hundreds of years,” he told the others, but his eyes never left Lawson. “Spawn of the Devil, the very worst disciples of evil under the sun.”

“Under the moon, to be exact,” said Lawson.

“I thought them fiction,” the reverend went on. “A figment of a mad imagination. But now…seeing you…knowing you. Why don’t you tell them what you drink to give yourself a so-called eternal life?”

“I’ll do better. I’ll show them.” He decided to put on a display of his speed again, and within an eyeblink he had passed Rooster once more and was opening the large canvas bag that Ann had brought aboard holding his clothes, his protective black shroud, and other items. From the bag he took another of the Japanese bottles. He uncorked it, held it over his open mouth and poured. The blood ran out onto his tongue, which fortunately had not yet become forked nor turned black but it was the color of gray ash. He closed his mouth and felt the blood being absorbed by the hollow fangs in their pits in his upper jaw. It was a delicious taste, though it had somewhat of a stockyard flavor; nothing could come close nor was nearly as satisfying or as strength-giving as the real thing.

Lawson corked the bottle again and said with gore on his lips, “Cattle blood, gentlemen. A priest friend of mine in New Orleans secures it for me. What Reverend Easterly is trying to tell you is that vampires drink human blood. And yes, this is true.” He dropped the bottle back into the bag with a smile.

Then he propelled himself at Eli Easterly. His smile was gone.

Human eyes could not follow him at his half-speed; the human mind could not comprehend his full speed. He was there and then he was not, as if he’d abruptly vanished. In the next heartbeat he was in Easterly’s terror-stricken face, and the terror was intensified when Lawson’s mouth opened wide, the lower jaw unhinged and from the upper jaw the fangs slid out. Easterly’s crucifix came up; with no effort Lawson knocked the man’s hand aside and the Cross flew away across the car.

Lawson grasped the man’s collar and spun him around, standing behind him to face the rifle Rooster held and—yes—the pistol the soul-shaken Eric aimed at him too.

“Lisssssten to me, every one of you!” he said, as he allowed the fangs to retract and his mouth to properly arrange itself. “You can think of me as a monster, that’s fine. There’s a war going on, and Ann and I are in it. You are too. I’m sorry for that but it can’t be helped. Now…together, we’ve got to figure a way out of this. We could try to wait them out, until sunrise, but they won’t allow that. You’re going to have to follow my directions or before this night is over you’ll either be dead or you’ll be on the way to being turned…which will make you like them. Or me. And gentlemen, just look at what I am. You have no damned idea what this is like. I am a dead man walking…but by God I won’t be destroyed by them. Or taken by them, and I’ll protect Ann and all of you as best I can.” He looked from face to face. It might have been a trick of the lamplight, but everyone seemed to have gone a few shades gray. Even Rooster.

“Any questions?” Lawson asked.

The wind shrieked and the snow was blown in white gusts past the windows. Otherwise there was silence.

Then: “They must want something. What is it they want?”

“They want me,” Lawson said to Mathias. He released Easterly, who to his credit did not cringe nor fall to his knees in terror, but simply lowered his head and went over to retrieve his crucifix. “And they want Ann. I spoke to one out there who I think is their leader. He looks like a twelve-year-boy but he’s far from it. He said if Ann and I give ourselves up, they’ll let all of you go.”

“Well…hell…” said Rebinaux, but he sounded as if his mouth was stuffed with cotton bolls.

“If you want to save us,” said Presco, who was near jabbering, “then…that’s the only way, ain’t it? Lord Jesus and Holy Joe, I don’t want to be et up or turned into no blood-sucker!”

“Unfortunately,” Lawson answered, “they lie. As soon as they had us, there would be nothing to stop them from going through this car like a roomful of flying knives. And if you think you could get outside and outrun them…I’m twenty-five years turned, gents. Some of them will be eighty…ninety…a hundred years or more. They get faster with age.”

“Shit creek,” Gantt muttered. His eyes were wild. “We’re up shit creek, ain’t we? I mean…I can’t hardly believe what I’m—”

The conductor was interrupted when something came out of the woods on the right.

It slammed against the window between Mathias and Eric with a force that nearly shattered the glass. Even so, the window cracked with a gunshot noise along the diagonal. Stuck there for a few seconds was a bloody mass that had an eyeless face and a flame-red beard. The mouth was open, but there was nothing inside the mouth but the darkness of the night beyond.

The naked skin of Jack Tabberson slid down the glass, leaving thick scrawls of gore to mark its slow passage. Then it fell away, into the snow.