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It was the smell that stopped me cold: raw, bloody, the stench of spilled guts and stale piss. I took a few more steps inside before Hanson's light told me the worst.
They had all died in their stalls, from the looks of it. Blood, dark and covered by the feasting flies, was splattered across the pale broken wood walls and straw-covered floor. I found the tell-tale marks where something dragged several heavy objects out of the stable, the occasional bits of bone or guts left behind. Behind me Hanson gagged and started to vomit, and it was all I could do not to join him. A single boot, its thick leather ripped and bloody, lay in the dirt. Next to it was a pitchfork, its handle broken and tines bent. It was the only sign of the stableman.
"Back to the train," I said, turning and giving the stunned conductor a push. I didn't know what the hell had happened here, but I wasn't inclined to be a target for whatever must have done this. I had civilians to protect. We were leaving Cold Springs, and I hoped to God others had managed to get away as well. I would send a telegraph in the next town asking for help from the nearest fort.
Hanson didn't need any more urging. Holding his pistol in one hand and lantern in the other, he jogged toward the train. I trotted behind, trying to keep him and the lantern in sight while watching the shadows around us for trouble. Once or twice I thought I saw something move in the darkness, soundless, nearly formless, but nothing I could identify, and I was not going to take a shot at something when I didn't know what it was. We reached the Flyer, sitting on the tracks blowing occasional clouds of steam.
"Go!" I yelled up the engineer and fireman. "Get this train moving!"
The engineer looked to the conductor, and Hanson nodded his head. I saw the man reach for the Johnson bar as the fireman tossed his smoke aside and grabbed his shovel. That was good enough for me. I led Hanson back to the smoking car, where Talbot's man would likely still be playing cards with Blenchy, Smith, and Professor Adams. I'd let the Englishman tell his boss what was happening. We climbed aboard, Hanson in front, still holding his light. The men looked up from their cards and whiskey. Bloom stood, his face set hard as he glanced at my Colt.
The train-whistle screamed, loud and long, and I waited for the jerk forward that never came. Hanson turned toward the door, heading back to talk with the engineer, but something inside my gut made me grab the older man by the arm, stopping him. The whistle cut off as sudden as it sounded, but the train was still.
You never really noticed the porters, not after the first day. The two men had simply gone quietly about their business of keeping everyone comfortable, pouring drinks, setting the table in the dining car, and serving food. I knew they handled all the cleanup, and slept in the kitchen part of the dining car. Hell, I hadn't even given the one in the corner the barest glance.
The smash of shattered glass and broken wood made everyone flinch. I turned toward it, just in time to see the claws burst from the porter's chest. There was a split second of calm before he screamed, blood bursting from his mouth to run down his white uniform, and then he was just gone, pulled into the darkness beyond the car.
I glanced at Blenchy and Smith, both of whom held their pistols ready, Smith licking his lips nervously and shifting his weight from foot to foot. I saw the Englishman draw a thin sword from his walking stick and small pistol from his jacket. I caught Blenchy's eyes. He cocked an eyebrow at me.
It crashed through the other side of the car an instant later, shattering wood an inch thick. We all wheeled and fired at it, the roar of five pistols loud in the enclosed space as the thing climbed into the car with us.
The Horror at Cold Springs is available in print from The Sam's Dot Publishing Bookstore and in ebook format from Smashwords.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Originally posted at michaelmerriam.net. You can comment here or there.
They had all died in their stalls, from the looks of it. Blood, dark and covered by the feasting flies, was splattered across the pale broken wood walls and straw-covered floor. I found the tell-tale marks where something dragged several heavy objects out of the stable, the occasional bits of bone or guts left behind. Behind me Hanson gagged and started to vomit, and it was all I could do not to join him. A single boot, its thick leather ripped and bloody, lay in the dirt. Next to it was a pitchfork, its handle broken and tines bent. It was the only sign of the stableman.
"Back to the train," I said, turning and giving the stunned conductor a push. I didn't know what the hell had happened here, but I wasn't inclined to be a target for whatever must have done this. I had civilians to protect. We were leaving Cold Springs, and I hoped to God others had managed to get away as well. I would send a telegraph in the next town asking for help from the nearest fort.
Hanson didn't need any more urging. Holding his pistol in one hand and lantern in the other, he jogged toward the train. I trotted behind, trying to keep him and the lantern in sight while watching the shadows around us for trouble. Once or twice I thought I saw something move in the darkness, soundless, nearly formless, but nothing I could identify, and I was not going to take a shot at something when I didn't know what it was. We reached the Flyer, sitting on the tracks blowing occasional clouds of steam.
"Go!" I yelled up the engineer and fireman. "Get this train moving!"
The engineer looked to the conductor, and Hanson nodded his head. I saw the man reach for the Johnson bar as the fireman tossed his smoke aside and grabbed his shovel. That was good enough for me. I led Hanson back to the smoking car, where Talbot's man would likely still be playing cards with Blenchy, Smith, and Professor Adams. I'd let the Englishman tell his boss what was happening. We climbed aboard, Hanson in front, still holding his light. The men looked up from their cards and whiskey. Bloom stood, his face set hard as he glanced at my Colt.
The train-whistle screamed, loud and long, and I waited for the jerk forward that never came. Hanson turned toward the door, heading back to talk with the engineer, but something inside my gut made me grab the older man by the arm, stopping him. The whistle cut off as sudden as it sounded, but the train was still.
You never really noticed the porters, not after the first day. The two men had simply gone quietly about their business of keeping everyone comfortable, pouring drinks, setting the table in the dining car, and serving food. I knew they handled all the cleanup, and slept in the kitchen part of the dining car. Hell, I hadn't even given the one in the corner the barest glance.
The smash of shattered glass and broken wood made everyone flinch. I turned toward it, just in time to see the claws burst from the porter's chest. There was a split second of calm before he screamed, blood bursting from his mouth to run down his white uniform, and then he was just gone, pulled into the darkness beyond the car.
I glanced at Blenchy and Smith, both of whom held their pistols ready, Smith licking his lips nervously and shifting his weight from foot to foot. I saw the Englishman draw a thin sword from his walking stick and small pistol from his jacket. I caught Blenchy's eyes. He cocked an eyebrow at me.
It crashed through the other side of the car an instant later, shattering wood an inch thick. We all wheeled and fired at it, the roar of five pistols loud in the enclosed space as the thing climbed into the car with us.
The Horror at Cold Springs is available in print from The Sam's Dot Publishing Bookstore and in ebook format from Smashwords.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Originally posted at michaelmerriam.net. You can comment here or there.
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