Chapter 2
The posse rose with the sun. Winston Grainger, Maintenance Overseer for the Texan Telegraph Concern, rolled out of his rawhide tent and stood blinking at the coming day as his hired guns packed up their encampment. They complained, these mercenaries, but the pay was good enough for them to put up with a little busy work.
Enis, an engineer from Germany who worked for curiously little, came and stood next to him as the sun crept up the sky. He was almost the opposite of Winston: where Winston was overweight, Enis was slim; where Winston was bald, Enis had hair especially as the German had a full beard he could almost plait; and where Winston looked shrewd, Enis seemed wide-eyed and naïve.
“Are you feeling ready for this?” Enis asked.
Winston reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes. He didn’t offer one to Enis; the German didn’t smoke. “No,” he said. “Are you?”
“Only because they pay so well.”
The overseer nodded, took in a breath of deep, rich tobacco. The TTC had to pay well to get people into the Badlands, the black heart of The Dixie Problem. Winston’s last few trips had practically paid for his new home with Abilene, his sweet little Mexican wife. Drawing deep on his cigarette, he wished he didn’t have a couple more payments to make and could wash his hands of the TTC.
Two minutes later the Sawyers, young brothers distinguishable only by the lengths of their hair – Adam long, John shaved bald – left their tents. Stretching almost in unison, they scratched themselves and then silently joined Winston and Enis. Winston took in his little team now they were all upright; three engineers, ten mercenaries, it was the absolute minimum for a repair job in the Badlands. Even if a pole had simply sunk in a flash flood, you needed a posse and you made sure the job was done well before sunset.
Sunset was some way off though. A sky pure enough to adorn a Cathedral stood behind his rabble, holding not even a whiff of cloud as it healed from the bruise of sunrise. The morning was cool but promised heat to come. There were rises and mountains below that clear sky, brown and honest, and the air was pure enough to please the Lord Himself.
Still, Winston shuddered as he took in the horizon. Although you couldn’t tell, those rises were the start of the most dangerous place in America. And that was what he hated most about the Badlands; how nothing made them stand out. Somehow it would be better if the sands were black and the sky red, the air sulphurous and foul-tasting. Instead it looked exactly like the rest of Texas, unassuming and hard and American. The Badlands were dishonest as well as deadly, a cruel mix.
Old Red, leader of the mercenaries, waltzed over as Winston cursed the lands. Maybe fifty, he had a thick moustache, hair like sugar and gunpowder. Old Red was older than you’d expect a hired gun to be but an old mercenary must be a good mercenary.
It was Winston’s first time working with the man. He seemed capable enough. Time would tell. His men didn’t give a good account of themselves though, calling themselves the ‘Red Bullets’. Seeing how young and green they were, Winston called them fodder.
“We’re ready when you are,” said Old Red.
“Good,” Winston said. “Saddle up.”
Within ten minutes, they were charging ahead at a good pace. The horses weren’t ruined in their haste but they weren’t spared either. Three of the Red Bullets took the lead. Three more covered the rear and two each side covered the flanks. Inside this ring Winston and Enis were on horseback. Adam and John manned the carts, looked after the spare wiring, components and replacement poles; everything needed for any kind of damage.
The Red Bullets had cheap horses, except Old Red who must’ve known the value of a good ride. Enis had a strong mongrel but Winston had the biggest, most impressive beast – a black colt called Thunder – though that was only because he needed a beast like that to carry his frame.
Old Red looked back at Winston as they rode. “This your first time in the Badlands?” he shouted.
“No. Is it yours?”
“Nah. I’m in and out like a horny teenager.”
“That’s what the whores say of him too,” one of his men chimed in.
Old Red cackled. A God-fearing man – and who wouldn’t be after so many trips into the Badlands – Winston didn’t approve of such talk. Not that he’d say such a thing.
The old mercenary’s eyes twinkled with humour. “You ever faced… one of them?”
“Yes, thank God,” Winston replied.
“Why thank God?” one of the faceless Red Bullets asked.
Old Red cackled again. “Because he’s still alive, ain’t he?”
They made good time to their target zone, a stretch of land between a nothing town called Crucifix and the Colorado River. The break was in a key line to Austin. With no-one around for miles it was hard to know where the break might be but Winston had narrowed it down from experience; any engineer learned the quirks of the line after a few while. He figured it’d be somewhere down a deep valley worn by some long-gone river. The valley had no name; only the Indians named parts of the Badlands.
Rather than go charging in, the Red Bullets led them to a verge so they could check where exactly the damage might be and spy out any trouble. Winston prayed it was something obvious, not a pissy wire.
Only a third of them went on the climb; Winston, Old Red and a couple of the mercenaries. The rest were left in the shade of the rise so the horses could rest and have some water.
It was sheer and rocky, their verge, and unforgiving as the walls of Hell. Winston was not a fit man and he found every step difficult, especially in the rising heat. Soon he stank of sweat. But if that were the worst of this trip he’d thank the Lord for a week solid.
On their way up, they made an unpleasant discovery. Or, rather, Winston did. He stayed at the lead with Old Red despite his trouble with the climb and looked around constantly, nervous as a virgin bride. That was probably why he saw the body first.
It was too small to be an adult. Slumped, one arm splayed out, it rested on a rocky outcrop like some heathen shrine. Winston doubted there could still be life in such a discarded-looking frame. Which made things worse.
He checked no-one else had noticed then tapped Old Red on the shoulder, pointed to the corpse. The old mercenary looked up and then called the climb to a halt with a raised fist.
Before the overseer could wonder how they’d handle it, Old Red pulled his weapon and shot the corpse three times. One bullet missed, two hit. The corpse jolted with the impacts and fell from the outcrop, destined to land in a disgusting pile fifty feet below them. It had been a little girl, one badly mauled long before Old Red had shot her.
But before the corpse landed, two grotesque wings sprouted from its back. Glistening sinewy things, black like a demon’s tongue. They flapped in unnatural ways, raised the girl’s corpse into the air and then swooped her down at them, her dead face as limp as her arms.
Old Red and his Red Bullets were ready for it. It seemed they weren’t fodder after all; their guns rattled off shots, perforating the demon’s wings so they were useless. The corpse fell to the ground ten yards ahead of them and skidded along in the dust.
Wasting no time, Old Red pulled a thick glass bottle from his backpack, one with a short fuse coming from its cap. Inside was a mix of quick-acting accelerants and blessed holy water. The old mercenary lit the fuse and threw it at the corpse, which went up in flames just as the creature inside tried to escape its flesh home, distending and tearing in order to flee. There was no satisfying squeal of protest, no shriek of agony as it died; only the sizzling of flesh.
“Good shot,” one of the mercenaries said.
“Wasn’t it?” Old Red asked.
They turned to go back to the climb. Before he joined them, Winston knelt and said a prayer for the soul of the girl the demon had inhabited.
At the top of the verge, they were doubly blessed. Not only could they see nothing that might trouble them but there was also a very clear break in the line; about a mile south, one of the telegraph poles had been dislodged and lay useless on the ground, its wires trailing like entrails.
“It ought to be a clear run,” Old Red said, still pleased with himself after their encounter with the creature. The man’s lack of decency wore at Winston’s nerve worse than Thunder’s saddle wore at his thighs.
“God never likes a man to say ought,” Winston said. “Why else would one pray if ‘ought’ were enough?”
Old Red shrugged. “Why indeed.”
They climbed down without speaking and then appraised the rest of the crew of the situation. To save time, Winston ordered them to leave a cart behind and tie four horses to the other one in case they needed to make a quick exit. Winston didn’t like leaving TTC property unguarded but if any bandits were brave enough to operate in the Badlands they were welcome to it.
Anyway, they’d come back for it unless things really went south.
So they struck out, racing like angels on God’s command, and were quickly at the downed pole. Repairing it was a matter of routine, something the engineers had done a thousand times; the creatures of the Badlands often knocked poles over when they shambled or slithered around. Winston and Old Red barked out orders, presided over the whole repair job, but nothing either could say would make a man in the Badlands quicker or more vigilant.
Those Red Bullets not securing the area grabbed shovels from the cart and dug an orifice for the new pole. Then they took the most solid-looking pole and stood it up with Enis’ and Adam’s help. The two engineers then worked on reconnecting it, replacing the torn wiring and testing that it took a signal after. The job ran like clockwork, smooth and fine.
Leaving them to get on with the main job, Winston and John examined the damaged pole. He trusted John to assess the damage more than his brother; the man had an eye for poor work. And if another team had done a shoddy job there would be hell to pay; the TTC don’t like spending this much because some two-bit moron couldn’t dig a proper setting.
But after examining it for five minutes it wasn’t obvious what exactly had befallen the stricken pole. Or, at least, it’s clear poor workmanship wasn’t to blame.
“What happened?” John asked, wiping his bald head with a rag.
Winston knelt. “I don’t know. It looks like… like the pole was just ripped up. See where the ground’s disturbed back there? This wasn’t done by a storm.”
John looked around nervously. Out here, anything could have made such a mess of the pole. “Why only this pole?” he asked. “Normally they’d take a couple of them out, right?”
“God only knows,” Winston said, standing. “Maybe the demons were fighting each other and accidentally knocked it over. Maybe it looked funny to one of them. I don’t really care. I’m calling it as a code nineteen; blame the Dixie Problem.”
John nodded. “Good call.”
The new pole was working again soon after. Enis and Adam both confirmed it by sending small messages using the waystations on either side; Adam sent a passage of the Bible, Enis an unflattering sentiment about Adam. Winston made a note to deduct a few dollars from Enis’ paycheck. Not that the German would really notice but it was the principle that mattered.
“Ready to move out?” Old Red asked. His eyes skitted upward a couple times. “The boys are getting nervous.”
Winston held his hand over his eyes and looked up too. Noon had come and gone, rolled along the placid blue sky. Whilst they weren’t yet in danger of being caught out here at sunset, it was always better to get away early. If he were a prouder man, Winston would have made fun of Old Red for being a bit yellow.
But Winston kept himself pious. “Enis, we good to go?”
Enis always knew when a job was done. It was why Winston didn’t want to check into his past even though it was clear he was running from something; the man was thorough as a Saint. “I am thinking yes, we are good to go.”
“Then tell your men-”
“Red, something’s coming,” one of the mercenaries shouted. His voice was filled with panic.
Old Red span. “Where?”
The mercenary, a young man with a whispy beard on his chin, pointed with his gun, a massive calibre pistol that could down a mountain if needs be. “North, just entering the valley.”
Winston pulled out his binoculars – Abilene called them his Far Eyes – and scanned the horizon. Sure enough, a figure approached. It looked like a man but then so did many things that weren’t. Wearing black, it had a black face and black hands. Fear rippled through Winston; if he didn’t know better, he’d have said he was looking at Lucifer himself.
“What in the Hell is someone doing out here?” Old Red asked.
Winston didn’t lower his Far Eyes. He watched the figure. Not quite running, not quite walking, it was moving with an insistent speed that suggested it would be with them soon.
“Thieving?” John suggested.
“Lost?” another Red Bullet said.
“He doesn’t look lost,” Winston said. “More like he’s found what he was looking for.”
Old Red cackled, though there was tension in his voice. “Don’t be so melodramatic. Come on, Abe, take him down.”
“You can’t shoot an innocent man!” Adam cried, long hair swishing in dismay.
“What is this, your first trip? No man willingly shirking the Dixie Problem can be innocent. Abe, you got a sight on him?”
Winston risked a look away. Abe, a Mexican lad, barely a teenager, was now laying beside Old Red. He had a long rifle in his hands which he leant on a stand built into the barrel. It was a sniper’s weapon, another with a huge calibre. He even had a cushioned metal plate slung over his shoulder to deal with the kick. Nothing living could survive a shot from that beast.
“Yes,” Abe replied.
“Then fire, you damn moron!”
The shot rung out. Winston’s ears complained in shrill tones but he barely noticed; instead, he went back to watching the dark figure. The bullet struck true, smacking into their chest, but it didn’t faze them; the monster just kept coming. For surely, after shrugging off such a shot, a monster it must’ve been.
“Damn it Abe, hit, will you!”
Winston licked his lips. “He did hit.”
“Then how is he still walking?”
“Is no he, Red.” Abe replied. “That’s how.”
There was a silence as Old Red considered this. Then he shouted “Right, we’re out of here. Gather everything. Move quickly. Go!”
Winston was inclined to agree. He dropped the Far Eyes into his waistcoat pocket and ran to Thunder, who was spooked almost out of her mind. Climbing onto her, he spurred her into running and they charged away south. His engineers were shortly after him and the mercenaries were last. None spared their horse as they fled.
Thankfully, the black figure did not speed up or give chase. They got back to the cart they’d left pretty sharpish and Adam and John leapt from their horses to prepare it as soon as they were close enough. It did Winston a little proud that they’d known he wouldn’t want to leave the cart.
“You can’t be serious!” Old Red roared when he saw the TTC employees preparing the cart. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“I am serious,” Winston replied. He looked back for the dark figure; it wasn’t following, had seemed to have ignored them entirely. “Looks like we’ve got time.”
“I ain’t waiting around for a damn cart!”
Winston understood. He did. But if they weren’t being chased then he wasn’t about to lose part of his wages for leaving this stuff out. “You leave, you don’t get paid. This cart’s worth more than you.”
Old Red looked back at his men; they were harrowed, scared, but they sure as the Lord’s mercy weren’t going to like wasting a day for no pay. So the old mercenary backed down, shooting Winston an evil eye.
Not that he should’ve complained; Adam and John had the cart prepared shortly after the confrontation. Enis had brought the horses over in the meantime and so they were off again not a minute later, racing out of the Badlands, running away like school children.
Winston couldn’t help but risk one last look back with his Far Eyes before. The figure was deep into the valley by then. It hadn’t cared a jot about them. Winston wondered why for a moment but didn’t ponder it for long; who could hope to understand the mind of a demon?
Then a massive roar echoed between the Badlands’ verges. It was soon followed by a loud crack, as though the great spine of Leviathan had just been broken; the figure must have undone all their good work and was letting them know it’d done so.
“God save us,” Winston said, crossing himself.
“From what?” Enis asked.
Winston swallowed. “Another trip out here.”