The Ghost of Apache Creek

Chapter 53

Sam Pace grabbed the rope and started his downward climb.

He was still ten feet above the ground when the bell tower collapsed.

Flaming timbers plummeted around Pace and a beam slammed into the top of his left shoulder, numbing his arm. He let go of the rope and fell heavily to the smoldering ground.

The weight of the heavy iron bell forced the shattered wreckage of the tower to tumble into the street—and saved Pace from further injury from falling beams or the bell itself.

But fire rippled across the ceiling of the church and hemmed him in on all sides as the walls blazed. Trapped by sheets of flame, Pace felt tongues of fire lashing at him, the heat threatening to scorch out his lungs.

Fire is a good servant but a bad master, and Pace felt a surge of panic as flames lashed at him. Blinded by smoke, he turned to his right and, limping on a left ankle that had taken the brunt of his fall, ran for his life.

Pace lowered his head and hit a shifting scarlet and gold wall. He splintered through burning timbers and what was left of the charred framing and hit the grass rolling.

He felt fire rip at his back, staggered to his feet, and tore off his burning shirt. Then he ran again, away from the church. Behind him the entire building collapsed with a roar, flames shooting high into the night sky.

Pace limped into the street, and the sight that greeted him caught the breath in his throat.

The whole town was on fire, from the saloon all the way to the barbershop. The east wind had picked up and spawned a roaring firestorm that cartwheeled through the buildings.

Worse was to come.

As Pace watched, the fire finally found the stacked barrels of gunpowder in the rod and gun shop. With a tremendous roar, the roof of the store was lifted clean off. The blast leveled the walls and scorched and splintered timbers hurtled across the street.

Pace felt the explosion like a gigantic fist, its punch powerful enough to knock him on his back.

For a couple of minutes he lay where he was, stunned. Then slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet.

The sky above Requiem had shaded from midnight blue to cherry red, barred by a dozen columns of sooty black. The wind fanned flames that devoured Requiem like wolves, picking the town clean to the bone.

Sam Pace groaned and fell to his knees, a sorrowing penitent at a sacrificial altar.

His town was gone. And with it, the reason for his existence.

Pace saw the movement out of the corner of his vision, the slow crawl of a white worm. He lifted his head and his eyes narrowed, focused, clutched at a fistful of night.

The worm crept, slithered, slid away from the burning church, its way lit by fire.

Sam Pace rose to his feet. He drew his Colt and limped toward the worm, tall and terrible, his naked chest splashed by scarlet shadow, the hollows of his eyes deep in darkness.

The worm, pale, covered in filth from its own body, stopped and looked at him. It raised a hand, in a plea for mercy or in defiance, Pace would never know.

“Which of them Peacocks are you?” Pace said, looking down at the man.

The mouth in the skull face opened, smiled. “Pestilence.”

Pace nodded. “Then go back to hell, damn you.”

He emptied his gun into the man, and was still thumbing the clicking hammer when Jess grabbed his arm and gently pulled him away.