Chapter 21
Night came quickly, shoving the day rudely aside. Time always seemed to race when Dust was waiting on a battle, when he had to put civility aside and decide things with violence. As a Ranger, such times had come all too often. As a member of the Solution, not often enough.
He didn’t like admitting it but enjoyed facing eldritch creatures as it was pure release, an unburdening of responsibility and morality; Dust didn’t have to worry whether he was doing the right thing, never had that horrible moment of looking into a man’s eyes and seeing the soul leave him… Nor did he have to worry about taking them alive, holding back his strength still he didn’t turn their bones to powder. These were monsters, pitiless horrors that should never have existed, and all they deserved was to be sent back to wherever they came from.
Dust was hidden in one of the more damaged buildings, ready to pounce. In another broken-down house across from him was Naismith. Before entering, she’d wrapped a dark blanket around her shoulders and covered her face with soot to hide her better in the dark. Hence her shadow was all he could make out in the twilight
This would probably be Naismith’s first time killing her fellow man. She’d talked a tough game in the chapel but he imagined she was scared, excited, fearing for her life; all the things a novice should feel before a big fight.
All the things Dust no longer felt.
He looked over to the chapel, locked up with physical barriers and locked-down with more spells than he’d ever seen outside of a Solution holding cell. Seeing the Father’s layout had been one thing but witnessing its full power was quite another; each rune glowed a gentle amber, feeding on the Father’s faith and will, and the whole spell cracked across Dust’s magical senses. Whatever and whoever came to destroy it would face a tough time.
Dust made a note to ask Dick why the Solution hadn’t teamed up with the Vatican; only for the power they had, mind, not the strings that’d come with it. Though the need to qualify himself like that might explain why.
He turned his eyes back north-west, looking past crushed glass and warped walls, and saw nothing more than tall outcrops of red stone and an overcast sky. He kept watching, kept waiting.
After a few minutes, he saw crucifix hanging in what was left of his hiding place’s hall in the corner of his eye, still clinging to the wall that held it up. The whole house had withstood one hell of a battering, perhaps because it was so close to the chapel; the carpet had been chewed and clawed, every window rendered useless, and the whitewashed walls were marked almost as badly as Dust’s torso. Yet still it stood and still that crucifix hung over him.
Dust kept his attention on the horizon but found his eye wandering to that crucifix more than once.
Eventually a wolf broke the town’s silence by howling in the distance. Most of the town, hell, most of the Badlands would treat that as innocuous. Not Dust and Penelope; that was Claw of the Gods’ signal. The harriers were coming. Dust drew his other gun and trained it in both hands, letting it settle in and feel like a part of him. Which, he supposed, it kind of was.
They were approaching from the north-west, just as Shadows Fade had predicted. Dust could feel them, a sizzling build-up of vile magic, an eldritch horde, a small army. With slow, patient breaths, he awaited their arrival. Excitement flickered inside him, bringing a small smile to his face. It really had been too long.
Two minutes later, they crested the north-western horizon. Dozens of creatures belonging to That Which Sins fell onto Crucifix; Fallen Angels, Scamps, Illicits and Shriekers as well as some new things Dust couldn’t name. They gibbered and growled and moaned.
He watched them sprint down a narrow valley that led into the town proper and clash against the chapel’s walls. Immediately, the Father’s protection flared with a brilliant golden light and the most eager monsters were singed by his power. But the following creatures were more careful, something Dust hadn’t been prepared for; some worked together to throw their brethren onto the chapel roof where the protection was weakest whilst others used weapons or rocks to assault the chapel and avoid the burning magic.
That showed a level of planning and co-ordination the Father had not mentioned. And the human harriers weren’t amongst them. Had Shadows Fade really dealt with them already? If so, how were the damn monsters working so well together? The Father couldn’t afford for him to wait and find out. Dust had to step out now even though it was too early, trust Naismith and Shadows Fade to do their jobs.
He looked again at Naismith, darkened and hidden, a sniper. Perfect. Dust had to be the only obvious target if he were going to draw their fire. To achieve that, he’d have to get their mob’s attention first.
That meant being big, obvious, so he jumped through the rotting wall in front of him, knocking that crucifix down to the worn carpet. He gave the owners a small apology before bellowing like a furious bull and charging toward the chapel. He levelled his other gun at the monsters and it roared louder than he had, disintegrating creatures on the roof with three squeezes of the trigger.
This got their attention. The horde turned from their task and took a moment to react. Some dropped their tools in shock, others roared back challenges. Dust killed two more on the roof as they wasted their time.
Then a shot rang out from behind the chapel. A bullet grazed Dust, a flesh wound along his shoulder that barely stopped his charge. The harriers had joined the fray. Dust changed direction, zig-zagging randomly. Two more shots, kill shots, missed him before he could put the chapel’s bulk between him and the shooter.
“Don’t just stand there,” someone shouted, a Mexican with a strong accent. “You stupid motherfuckers, get him!”
That spurred the creatures into action. Those who were still on the ground swarmed round the chapel, attacking in a pincer movement. Dust fired into the crowds as they rounded three chapel, alternating between the two throngs, taking two out at a time.
Just picking them off like this wouldn’t be enough to keep him safe; there were too many of them. Naismith was supposed to be covering him but Dust realised she hadn’t fired once yet. Was she scared of giving away her position? Had she frozen when the harrier had shouted, when she knew she might have to kill a man? Or was she waiting until the horde would least expect a counter-attack?
Dust didn’t know and didn’t have time to work it out as some of the creatures got within clawing range. He’d have to fight them hand-to-hand, even if he might get swamped. He span his other gun, brandished it. The runes and spells still fresh from being fired singed his flesh but Dust ignored this. It was just pain.
A shambling horror was closest, a pinkish creature from some depraved woodcut with more sexual organs than limbs. It raised its taloned arms to strike but, before it could, Dust drove his other gun into the creature’s excuse for a skull. The bone shattered with a flare of magic and a horrible crack. Its life and taint spilled from the wound as it fell to the floor, covering Dust’s travel clothes in black viscera. Some got in his open mouth. It tasted like old strawberries.
Two monsters, things more taint than flesh that used the very earth to make up the difference, came at him from the right. Dust turned and swiped through them both, destroying them. Being so insubstantial, they had no chance and he wondered why they’d even attack him.
The answer came immediately as a Shrieker leapt down from the roof and clamped its hands onto his shoulders before he’d finish his swing. Hands was a kind word too; Shriekers had no fingers, just amorphous masses of gelatinous flesh with barbed bones haphazardly piercing them. Their grip was strong though, difficult to break once they’d gotten hold of a victim, even for Dust.
He looked back and saw a humanoid mess of flesh with no facial features barring the wide, shark-toothed mouth it used to paralyse its victims. He slammed it against the chapel, feeling the Father’s will fight against the Shrieker and hearing its flesh sizzle. It would not survive the vicious feedback.
But it managed to get a Shriek off before it died.
The Shriek was high-pitched pain, a madness vocalised. It felt like his ear drums and eyes would burst from the pressure. Dust fell flat, his body losing all strength, and the world darkened. For just that moment, he was completely defenceless.
The other creatures used this to their advantage, crowding over his fallen form. Scratches, kicks and bites rained in on him, cutting him all over. The Shrieker’s dying form wrapped its legs around him with its final act, just to make it a little harder to defend himself. And the harrier, having realised there was a pile-on, shot through the chapel, attempted to pierce it and get at him.
The fight had stopped being fun.
Dust tore the Shrieker’s dead hands and legs from his body, taking two more blows to the head in the meantime and a scratch across his back. The world went fuzzy, his eyes refused to focus. He blindly struck out with his other gun, knocking a few of them back with severe injuries.
A Fallen Angel – a kind of succubus with dark wings extending from where its arms should be – flew past the church and was shot by the harrier, mostly from reflex. The bullet took an unlucky ricochet off its solid skull and struck Dust in the hip, bruising the flesh rather than piercing it.
The creatures kept coming at him, dodging his wild flails, and he lost more flesh from his legs and his right arm. The Scamp that took from his arm, a small blur that he knew was shaped like the traditional Christian devil, chuckled as it swallowed. Dust’s indignation gave him a moment of clarity, which he used to crush the damned thing.
It also allowed him to realise he would die if he kept this up; their whole plan had relied on Naismith and Shadows Fade backing him up and they’d been found wanting.
First he needed to get to his feet. He summoned what little magic he had and used it to fuel a counter-attack; animal rage took over and swept the bright white gun wildly around him. The creatures, sensing the surge of power, backed off just enough for him to spring to his feet. Only the dead Shrieker was still near.
They watched him, wary, and saw a weakened, bleeding man trying to fight – he did a quick count – ten creatures on his own. A mote of fear passed through him but he suppressed it; he was Dust, ‘the Wanted Man’, and even though that reputation was mostly undeserved, he would survive. Of course he’d survive.
The creatures broke the peace then, attacked all at once. Dust tried to disrupt them by chatting the Fallen Angel which had bounced a bullet into him. With a roar, he hammered his other gun right through the thing’s black heart. His arm exploded with pain where it lacked muscle but he roared the feeling out. The Fallen Angel moaned seductively and tried to tip him a wink as it died but Dust had already moved onto its sister, who had her head taken clean off.
The things held back, tried to surround him again. That couldn’t happen. Having used his own magic up, Dust entreated his tattoo for power. Resistance was kind or worried because he received some very quickly. Not too much mind, just enough to issue knock the creatures away.
“Resistance is with me,” he roared as he clasped his hands together, all he needed to do to loose the magic. A great white sphere crashed against his attackers and scattered them like marbles.
Some landed in decrepit homes, dealing the ramshackle structures their final blow.
Dust said “Sorry,” before he he ran down Crucifix’s main street, put some distance between him and the horde.
The eldritch horrors got back to their feet or extracted themselves from destroyed buildings, roaring or chittering with frustration. Another bullet rang out but the harrier’s aim wasn’t good enough to hit him at this distance. Dust crouched, made himself a smaller target, and rattled off three shots at the gathering crowd, each tearing into his arm.
He’d thought the pain would be worth killing the remaining Fallen Angel and Shriekers but Dust almost dropped his gun when it hit; his arm was aflame, burning so strongly he had to turn and bite down on the material of his shirt to keep from screaming. Just a few Scamps and two less identifiable things remained and they were closing on him again but he couldn’t shoot back with his arm so messed up.
He tried to raise his other gun anyway, invite another torrent of searing pain, but the agony was too great. The Scamps were about to tear another chunk out of him when Naismith joined the fray; her rifle roared from his right and the Scamps were disintegrated mid-attack, one bullet passing through all three of them. She fired again and the remaining two, amorphous creatures were undone.
“Thank you,” Dust shouted through gritted teeth.
“I’m sorry,” Naismith said. Her voice was filled with genuine remorse. She nearly sobbed but caught the sound before it could fully escape.
Dust felt the Father’s magic sizzling from behind the chapel. It was still under attack. A few creatures were still attacking it. And then there was whoever shot him.
“Don’t be. Let’s go,” he said. “This won’t be over.”
Dust ran back down main street but his legs nearly gave way. He caught himself and his legs visited more merry Hell on him for moving whilst they were missing chunks. Ignoring them would be easy for a few seconds if he adopted a weird run to not use the torn muscle. It wasn’t dignified but it was effective. Even if he looked like a scared cripple in the process.
Then a shot echoed out. He threw himself to one side, landing painfully on the fleshless part of his arm, and prepared himself to receive another bullet wound. But there was no impact and no explosion of red dust beside him; instead there came a tinkle of glass.
He hadn’t been the target, had never been. The chapel was.
Dust awkwardly scrambled to his feet and took cover behind the chapel. “Can you see the shooter?” he shouted to Naismith.
“No!”
“Keep an eye out!”
“I… I don’t know if I can,” she called back.
Dust took a deep breath. Shadows Fade seemed to have been tied up, perhaps by a second wave, so he was still alone. And he could not fight alone whilst his arm was so badly wounded; he’d recover eventually but he’d have to force it if he was going to survive. He concentrated, stole a moment of quiet calm amidst the battle and begged his tattoo to seal his wounds. The dull pain stopped immediately and the healing began; his flesh reknitted itself and his skin healed over, giving him a new series of scars.
Healing wasn’t easy. Magic was destined for destruction and making it create cost dearly. So such strong magic came at the cost of draining him; as soon as it was done he felt like he’d run for two days solid. Then wrestled a bull. His tattoo felt icy, as it always did when he begged so much magic from it.
Being whole was a blunt edge for such a fight but it would do.
He cast his magical senses over to the chapel; half a dozen strong creatures were left. He didn’t need magic to know they were supported by the harrier, only his ears as he kept firing into the chapel.
But he wasn’t using normal bullets any more; there was blood magic entwined with each one. That was severe, dangerous magic for a novice to use. This had to be a final push, an all-or-nothing move by the cult inspired by panic. Getting the Word was important for them, sure, but risking their harriers’ lives and drawing attention like this was dangerous. If they didn’t succeed, people would know.
But that was a side issue. For now Dust snuck round the chapel until he was in a good position to take out the eldritch horrors. Moving freely again was a blessing. His eyes remained on the horizon, constantly searching for the harrier so he could dodge more shots, but none came.
He reloaded the other gun, took a deep breath and then started firing. Six Illicits – greatly muscled creatures with four arms, three legs and solid iron chains around their necks – were battering the chapel. The chapels’ walls splintered beneath their attacks in spite of the spells that seared their flesh. Two more shots rang out as he watched, tearing holes in the walls for the Illicits’ great fists to widen.
With half an eye on the northern horizon, Dust shot twice more, killing three of the Illicits. The bright shots tore their heads right off. Immediately, a shot came at him but he was already moving so it missed by an inch. The Illicits did not look up, did not mourn their lost brethren, instead concentrating on making a hole in the chapel.
If they got in, it would all be over. Dust drew his normal gun, moving fast as he could, and aimed both weapons in opposite directions. His erratic movement made him an awkward target as he unleashed two volleys; the Colt struck roughly where Dust thought the shooter was and the other gun perforated the Illicits. They fell to the floor, lifeless lumps of meat.
No creatures remained. Both his guns were empty. Then the harriers shot back. No, that wasn’t right; the boom came from the distance but hadn’t been aimed at him or the chapel. A scream followed, human. Dust reloaded his other gun and held it ready, waited to see what had happened.
He smiled when Claw of the Gods appeared on the horizon with a rifle in its blue mouth, which it promptly bit in half. The message was clear and filled Dust with as much cheer as a whole bottle of good whiskey; the shooter was down.
The wolf howled and seemed to gesture back along the horizon. It wanted him to follow.
“Naismith?” he shouted.
After a second, she replied “Yeah?”
“It’s all clear. Come on, we need to get going.”
Another pause. “Why?”
“Shadows Fade is calling us. I think that there’s more for us to do.”
Dust waited. There was no response.
He was almost ready to leave alone when she appeared beside the chapel. She had discarded the dark fabric and wiped most of the soot from her body. Her now-revealed face was white as new paper and the rifle in her hands shook terribly. Somehow, this had been a worse experience for her than fighting the Paints.
He couldn’t take her in this condition, not when there might be more fighting. So he walked over, covered in ichor and dripping blood, and embraced her like a daughter. She did not resist, simply let him hold her.
“You did well,” he said after a moment. “It was your first real fight. Don’t blame yourself.”
“Thank you,” she sobbed.
He held Naismith tighter for a moment and then let go, stepped back. She wiped her eyes and looked away. “What must you think of me? I am trying to prove I’m capable of succeeding my Father but here I am, bawling like a pitiful wallflower.”
“Everyone has trouble with their first few fights,” he said.
“Does it get easier?”
Dust shrugged. “You get more used to it.”
She wiped her eyes again and said “Well, Penelope will be going through worse. Let us finish this so we can rescue her, huh?”
He turned and saw Claw of the Gods waiting on them. The wolf padded at the floor restlessly and kept gesturing to the horizon.
“Yeah, we’d better go,” he said.