The Damnation Affair

Chapter 29

The rain had slacked to a penetrating drizzle, but the gullies were full of flash-flood, brown foaming water like beer but without John Barleycorn’s kindness. It was a mixed blessing, because Gabe had found the bay mare from the livery at the edge of one of the gullies, unhappy and shivering with fear. It was a job to catch and calm the horse, but he managed, and then the problem became getting back to the town.

As long as he thought of it that way—the next problem to be solved, and the next—he could push aside the sick fear under his throbbing ribs and the lump in his throat. The cold crawling on his skin was nothing new, and the habit of shoving it aside so he could work was nothing new either.

But the warmth of grace, pins-and-needles in his extremities but a bath of balm to the rest of him, was a new thing. For a few terrible moments, standing before the leering cave-mouth as the storm moved farther east, it had refused to answer him. He’d gone to his knees on the soft-squish ground, and instead of rage that God had failed him yet again there was instead a terrible fear that he would no longer be able to consecrate anything—and that meant his best weapon, his best way of protecting what he had to protect, was gone.

Faith doesn’t leave, he had thought, staring through the falling water, at the churned-up earth and the darkness. It just goes underground.

And then the grace had come roaring back, because of the feel of Catherine’s mouth under his, the slim curves of her described under his aching hands, and the sweet dazed look she wore when he’d finished all but kissing the breath out of her. Easy and warm, not a painful swelling to be excised because he no longer fought it. It simply was.

The claim mouth was sealed again, and this time, he thought it just might take.

What am I gonna do about her brother? She won’t take it kindly if I put him down. But he’s infected, and…but I buried him consecrated, which means he might be well-nigh unkillable. And to hear her talk, all we need to do is find a priest. It ain’t that simple.

And God alone knew what she would think if she found out about him. The Templis were not regarded kindly in many quarters. And she was such a decorous little thing, too. Would she even consider a man who had broken his vows?

It was too dark, as if night had come early. That was worrisome as well, and the bay mare was tired and still shuddering. Still, he couldn’t leave her out in the wild, with God-knew-what roaming around and the storm still heaving its way across the flats.

At the foot of the hills, he turned north instead of plunging straight to the east. It took him a mite longer than he liked, but he found the stand of crying-jessum trees, their long silvery branches flickering and tossing droplets as they shivered in the knifing wind.

The grave was there, at the foot of a once sand-crusted boulder serving as a headstone. The slightly sunken earth still resonated underfoot, meaning it was still consecrated, but Russ Overton was nowhere to be seen. The ground was a mess, not a lot of sign to be found, but Gabe thought there were two sets of hoofprints—one coming from Damnation, the other heading back.

Well, the mage could probably feel something rising to threaten his town and his charterstones. It wasn’t like Russ to not come and find Gabe, though. That was…worrisome.

Just add it to the list. Jack stared at the dancing trees for a moment. The wash right next to them was full now, roaring along instead of just a trickle of sandy slugwater in its bottom. Everything in the desert was going to drink well tonight, and the mud in the town would be knee-deep before long.

Won’t Catherine hate that. He stroked the bay’s neck, soothing, and realized he was talking to the beast. The thunder had receded, and the horse shivered afresh. “Easy there, we’re going back to town now. You’ll be having a mash and a combing and some rest soon.”

He hoped he wasn’t lying to the poor dumb animal, and decided to walk her for a bit. She’d had a terrible day.

Ain’t we all. Irritation, frustration, and the need to hurry boiled under his skin, but he breathed deep and let out a long sigh. There was no use in exhausting himself or killing the horse. He had just enough time to get back before sundown, even if it was too dark now. Even the worst evil couldn’t make the sun sink faster.

But it could thicken the clouds, and do nasty work underneath them.

Your trouble, Gabriel, is that you can just imagine too goddamn much. Focus on what needs doin’ instead.

Jack Gabriel set off for his town, still talking to the horse. After a while, he realized he was praying.

Old habits died hard.

Damnation seethed under a dark, rain-lashed sky. He came on the town from the northwest, and knew something was wrong the moment he stepped over where the circuit should have been, its invisible hand a weight that said home to a tired body. The weight was absent, and his head came up, bloodshot eyes squinting through the drizzle. The mud had begun, sucking at the bay’s hooves, and the horse plodded forward thoughtlessly, past caring.

There was a sound, too. He cocked his head, listening intently. A metallic clanging, with a long reverberation. The grace in him responded, painful prickling all over, the warmth intensifying to just short of a burn. He didn’t need to look to see his charing would be alive with golden light, but he did reach up and tuck it under the edge of his shirt, just in case.

It wouldn’t do to have questions asked.

That’s the charter-bell. The big iron thing hanging outside and above the chartermage’s office, glowing dully every night as they rode the circuit, was usually silent. There was only one reason for it to be tolling.

An incursion. A bad one. The charter-circuit was broken.

He didn’t even swear, just set his jaw grimly and urged the tired bay forward. She obeyed, and though he longed to put the spurs to her, it wasn’t fair to ride her to death.

Catherine. Did she make it before the circuit broke?

He tried to tell himself he’d find out soon enough, that nothing would be served by riding in all a-lather. Everyone knew their duty when the bell rang—women and children locked in the safest place they could find, the men gathering to patrol in groups with any weapon that might serve against reanimated corpses, the saloons to stay open and dispense news and courage, in whatever increments they could, the jail to be manned by special deputies who were probably even now scrabbling for their tin stars and getting their folk to safety. They were good men, and steady, and hard from work.

Better hope it’s enough.

Still, he was the sheriff. He rode the circuit with the chartermage; the town’s defense was his concern. Keeping the peace was a matter of allowing the chaos to bubble just enough, but not overflow; keeping order during an incursion required something else.

So it was that Jack Gabriel straightened his spine, counting the tolls of the charter-bell. It kept gonging, over and over, and that was serious. It would sound until Russ stopped it, like a metronome or a heartbeat, and Gabe almost stood in the stirrups as he peered ahead, trying to guess what the hell was going on.

The town is the first place he’ll go, Robbie Browne had said.

The thought of that ancient, hungry thing crossing the circuit-line was…well, enough to make a man’s knees go weak. The town was safe enough during daylight, wasn’t it? Even though it was dark under a pall of stormcloud, and the diamond stitcheries of lightning were centered directly over Damnation.

You have to face up to it, Jack. That thing could be riding inside any flesh it could find. If the thing ain’t inside the town, it’s just waiting for dark. Which isn’t that long off. And it’s no doubt sent in some troublemakers to sow chaos and contagion early.

Still, fending off the thing from the claim on home ground was better than facing it out in the hills. Damnation hadn’t been here long, but charters drove deep, and every man in the town would fight. Even the Chinois would, and now Jack could hear their charter-bell ringing too, a brassier sound lifted on a flirting wind from the south, driving drizzle into his face. The rain was intensifying again.

Fighting in the mud. Again. No matter how hard and fast he ran, he always ended up in the filth with his guns to hand.

The bay mare, sensing something amiss, lifted her head. Jack blinked away falling water, his sodden hatbrim drooping, and he wasn’t mistaken.

No, there were things rising from the boiling dirt. Claw-shaped things. Hands, tearing at the surface from underneath as the undead rose. He was fairly sure nobody had been buried out here, so that meant these were gotar—pure contagion, human-shaped and shambling, their jaws working and their teeth chips of sharp-flaked stone. And of course the thing from the claim would call them up and send them into Damnation. It would be child’s play for it, now that it had found a vessel.

The fact that the vessel might be Catherine herself was enough to send an ice-knife all through him. Had she been caught outside the circuit by a fleeting shadow, holes driven through its shroud by the falling rain? It would be so easy for the thing in the claim to snap a saddle-strap or loosen a stirrup, and if she hit the ground wrong and her neck snapped, inhabiting the still-warm flesh would be child’s play. Or, maybe Russ had felt the cold breath, and—

Don’t think like that. Solve the problems right in front of you, Gabe.

Jack breathed a soft curse, the mare began to shudder, and his left hand was at its gun before he caught himself. Bullets wouldn’t do anything against mud-things. Cold iron or blunt force to shatter their coherence was the only way—and the half-dozen or so who were rising were already turning blindly in his direction, making wet snuffling sounds under the lashing rain.

I’m sorry. There ain’t no choice now.

He put the spurs to the mare, and she leapt. Clods of mud flew from her hooves, and he bent in the saddle, urging every ounce of speed out of her.

Joe swore at him, for the bay was covered in mud, shaking, foam-spattered, and probably near ridden to death. Gabe answered with a term that was a near anatomical impossibility, and the chaos enveloped him. Hiram Greenfarb was passing out torches, Capran’s Dry Goods was alive with a crowd as he passed out scythes and other implements, and the Lucky Star was a poked anthill. The jail was open, and Gabe arrived at a dead run to find Tils and Doc Howard there already, tin stars pinned to their vests. Tils was red-eyed and smelled of rye, but his jaw was set and he appeared at least mostly sobered-up.

“What we got?” Gabe yelled, and Doc swore at him with a mixture of profound relief and irritation, bracing an ancient shotgun against his shoulder as he watched the street outside.

“Where the hell is Russ?” Paul Turnbull appeared from the back room, a bloody rag tied around his head. “We ain’t seen no one from the outlying farms, even though that damn thing’s been beating itself senseless. The graveyard looks like someone stirred it with a stick—Salt got us to drag him out there, and he threw down a boundary. Then he passed out, I got him upstairs with the whores. Some wounded, mostly fools hurting themselves. South end of town’s a mess; the Chinee are having a time of it too. Guess their chartermage died last night.”

Now that’s interesting. The cabinets set along one wall were all unlocked, he found the one he wanted and shook his hat off. His eyes burned with grit and his heart galloped along far too fast for comfort. “Shit. South end of town?”

“South and west. Western charterstone got hit by lightning. Goddamn thing shattered. Where’s Russ?”

I don’t want to guess. “Don’t know. Get Granger, he’s the closest thing to a chartermage we’ve got otherwise.” The charterstone was hit? Goddamn. No wonder the boundary’s broken.

Thankfully, Tils just set his jaw and took off when Paul pointed at him. Doc nodded, once. “I’m off for the Star; the girls are making bandages and Ma Ripp’s there. So far everything’s holding at the south end of town, but I don’t fancy the chances of the outliers.”

“Serves ’em right, outside the charter!” Paul hollered, but Doc just bared his yellowing teeth and left. The door banged open, and it was Granger—a paper-thin nonentity of a man, but more solid now that his wife was probably locked in the attic of their neat little two-story house and not looming over him.

“Where’s the damn chartermage?” Granger’s graying hair stood up in wild tufts, he shook the water from his hat and clapped it firmly back on his head. “And Lordy, Sheriff, what the hell happened to you?”

“Got caught in the rain.” The belt loaded with extra ammunition wrapped around his hips, and he breathed into the sudden weight. He grabbed at the canvas satchel he had checked just last week, settled the strap diagonally across his body, and jammed his own hat firmly on his wet, filthy hair. “You come with me. Paul, stay here and wait for the other deputies. They should be along any moment.”

“Not so sure, they all live south of Pig Street.” But Turnbull just waved at him. “Nobody’s seen the schoolmarm today either, Gabe. Are you—”

I hope she’s at home. “Well, then, guess I’d better go find her. Come on, Granger. Limber up your charm-throwing and let’s see what the hell’s happening out there.”

“Always in the mud,” Granger muttered. “You’d think they’d attack in the dry season. Shitfire.”

A hard barking laugh surprised Gabe, and then it was outside again, the storm overhead rattling and smashing every inch of sky. He turned south, peering out from under the flapping awning over the jail’s front, and a confusion of men’s voices and high horse-screams broke through the rain. He wasted no more words, and behind him Granger puffed to keep up with the sheriff’s long loping strides. Mud sucked and splashed, and all Gabe could think about was if Catherine had made it safely to her little cottage.

The sooner he dealt with this mess, the sooner he could find out.