The Sons of Chaos and the Desert Dead Table of Contents
The Sons of Chaos and the Desert Dead
by Aaron Polson
- 3 -
Sam Isherwood felt naked without his gun belt. His fingers knitted together, palms against the back of his head. He occasionally felt the dull jab of a gun barrel in his lower back. Reaver–a big, bull-chested man with a scarred face and peculiar necklace of human teeth—and another man marched Sam and Sheriff Benton down the hill toward the entrance to the Old North Mine. Clouds of dust danced at their feet. The harsh New Mexico sun scowled down as a rivulet of perspiration zig-zagged across Sam’s cheek.
“Long time since we laid eyes on each other, Mr. Isherwood. Figured I’d had my last bit of you after that thunderous disaster in Kansas.”
“I never imagined—”
A sharp jolt to the solar-plexus interrupted Sam’s words. He ground his teeth together.
“There’ll be a time for catching up once we’re inside, out of the heat. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.” Reaver chuckled as he ducked inside the main entrance.
For a moment, the darkness of the mine blinded Sam. The smell was as dusty as the hills outside, but stale. He blinked hard, trying to adjust to the darkness.
“You two, drop and cozy up to the wall. Seth’ll keep an eye on you while I fetch a canteen. That sun has a way of drying a man out.” Reaver moved deeper into the mine and vanished.
“You heard the man. Just hold on tight, gents.” The other man, Seth, leaned against a wooden beam at the entrance, fished a pouch of tobacco of his jacket, and started rolling a cigarette. The barrel of a rifle protruded from under one hooked arm.
“You know these guys?” Benton whispered through gritted teeth.
Sam glanced at Seth, now happily smoking his cigarette, and back to the sheriff. “Not the short one out there. The other man is Abraham Reaver. He helped me with a problem back in Kansas. ‘bout a year ago.”
“So, whose side is he on, then?”
Sam stifled a bitter laugh. “His own.”
Sheriff Benton grunted slightly as he pulled up one knee and dusted it off. “You’ve mentioned Kansas before. This ‘trouble’ you had. What the hell happened up there?”
“You wouldn’t believe me, Sheriff. Even wilder than the ashes I showed you out at John’s this morning. You wouldn’t believe–”
Heavy footfalls echoed in the dark mine. Reaver’s thick voice cut through the gloom. “Oh, come now, Isherwood. Tell him. Tell him about the buffalo. Tell him about the thunder-beasts we killed together.”
Benton squinted. “Buffalo? You let a bunch of overgrown cows give you hell?”
“The cursed buffalo of Spring County, Kansas, to be exact. The black thunder or whatever the hell the papers started calling it. Young and heroic Federal Marshal Samuel Isherwood massacred the unholy minions of the Sons of Chaos.”
“Sons of…? What the hell is this? Cursed? What’s that? What’s a Son of Chaos?”
Sam glared at Reaver.
“Me, I suspect. But not in the proper sense.” Reaver grinned, and to Sam Isherwood he never looked like more a monster. “The Marshal left me for dead, despite the fact I fought on the side of goodness and truth. Hasn’t he told you? I suppose he hasn’t had the chance.”
Sam lowered his head, remembering Amanda Reaver’s voice when she told him about her father, when she talked about the hate and anger inside him. He choked down the memory of how she’d wanted to die—how he couldn’t shake the thought after watching her face moments before one of the monsters crushed her on the banks of the Republic River.
“Mr. Reaver helped me find and kill some rabid bison,” Sam muttered.
Reaver spat. “Bullshit, and you know it. Still a greenhorn in so many ways, Isherwood. Those buffalo weren’t rabid. You haven’t heard of the Sons of Chaos, Sheriff?”
Benton’s gaze shifted from Sam to Reaver. “Nope. We’ve had plenty of it. Chaos, that is, what with the hell caused by Billy the Kid. But Sons of Chaos? No. Not before you mentioned them.”
After a moment of silence, Sam stood up and dusted off his pants. His heart pounded. His eyes stayed on Reaver, watching the big man’s hands. He pressed his shaking fingers against his trouser legs, feigning courage. Heat rose across his neck and raced down his back, stirring his stomach. His shoulders squared with Reaver’s.
Reaver didn’t move.
“You’ve held a Federal Marshal and dutifully elected lawman against his will, Mr. Reaver.”
“So I have.”
“Well, I demand you release us, so—”
“So you can chase after the Sons like some half-cocked bloodhound? Marshal, I’ve been able to—”
“Wait,” Sheriff Benton said as he lurched to his feet. “What’s this Sons of Chaos business, before the two of you start a pissing contest?”
Sam took a breath. “A group of anarchists aiming to take down law and order. Destroy the government. Do what they can to disrupt life out here. Anywhere.”
“They’ve got the Devil on their side,” Reaver said. “God-forsaken monsters made a pact with the Devil.” He leaned in, eyes glinting like lightning. “Up in Kansas. They raised a herd of buffalo from the dead. They killed my daughter. Unholy beasts. They’re the ones causing trouble here, not my gang.”
“Outrageous.” The sheriff shook his head.
“The truth,” Reaver said.
Sam had taken a step back after Reaver interrupted him. He felt locked away, in some sort of bubble or behind a wall of glass. The Sons of Chaos. Denver. Their last known base of operations was in Denver. Had they come to New Mexico? When? Evangeline and John had moved within the year.
They met in …
“Denver.”
“What?” Reaver turned to Sam. “What about Denver?”
“The Sons of Chaos, in Denver. My sister met her husband there, and they came here.”
Sheriff Benton held out his hands, palms up. “Dead buffalo! Outrageous. Between you and this man, Marshal, your wild stories—I don’t know what I can, or should, believe.”
“You saw the corpse at John’s, Sheriff. You said—”
“I saw something. A body. Sure …”
“Six bullets,” Sam said.
“Your word.”
Sam kicked a rock, and his chest swelled with a big puff of air. “You must believe–”
“Easy, Marshal,” Reaver said, smiling. “Seems you’ve got a bee in your britches all of a sudden.”
“Buffalo, Sam? Secret gangs spreading anarchy?”Bentonstared.
“Like I said, the Sons of Chaos have the Devil’s ear, Sheriff.” Reaver’s lips grew taut for a moment, and then he said. “There’s a book.”
Sam, incredulous, shook his head. “We destroyed the book in the cave. Blew it up with the buffalo.”
Reaver took a step closer to Sam, backing him to the wall. The stone was rough and cold. “Not the only copy. I’ve been chasing those bastards since they killed Amanda. Since you left me to die. I’ve tracked them to the foothills of Denver, and then Zack Latham headed south. He’s disguised. Playing the role of some fancy-pants businessman. John-something. Cubbage, I think. Jonathan Cubbage.”
The blood drained from Sam’s face. He leaned against the rocky wall, dizzy. “Jonathan? Evie’s John …”
“That’s the name. I built this gang—hell, there’s only five of us, me, the Burton boys and two others—to give Latham trouble and hunt down that mangy polecat. All I want is a good, healthy chunk of revenge, Marshal. He killed my Amanda.”
Sam looked at his trembling hands. “Evie …”
“Who’s Evie?” Reaver asked.
“My sister. Evangeline. She’s married to Jonathan Cubbage.”
Sheriff Benton drew back a booted foot and gave the rocky ground a healthy kick. “God-damn. My deputies.”
“Who?” Reaver asked.
“Cubbage’s boys, his hired bodyguards. They’re my deputies. They’ve been looking for you—the Burton gang.”
Reaver’s eyes narrowed. “The Sons of Chaos.”
“No. No. I sent them after you, yesterday. They rode out yesterday,” Sheriff Benton said.
“We haven’t seen them, not a peep. No mystery men in black, Marshal,” Reaver said.
Sam began walking for the exit. “Evie. I’ve got to get her. She’s in that house.” He wheeled to the sheriff. “Can you trust Granger?”
“I suspect. He’s been hanging on my boots since he was seven or eight. Long time Santa Fe resident.”
Sam hesitated, looking over his shoulder at Seth, wondering if Reaver’s man would try and stop him. Evie–God, Evie. Could she have married the leader of the Sons of Chaos? The cold horror of this realization settled in Sam’s gut like a stone.
Reaver laughed. “What are you waiting for, Marshal? I’m not in your way.”
“You’re holding us against our will.”
“Inviting you for a chat. Would you have listened to me any other way?” Reaver drew Sam’s revolver from his waistband. “Your gun. I think we’re through here.”
Seth tossed a smoldering cigarette to the ground and smashed it with the toe of his boot.
“No one’s stopping you.” Reaver stepped forward, offering the gun.
“Free to go? You crazy son of a bitch. I should have shot you back in Broughton’s Hollow. You don’t care about anyone, do you? You don’t care about the law, just your misguided sense of revenge. You’re as bad as the Sons of Chaos.”
Reaver lowered the pistol. “Revenge. Justice. All just words. Why else would I be here? My daughter is dead, Marshal. I’m righting a wrong. I suspect that makes us allies again.”
Sam’s shoulders tensed. Anger swelled in him like a living thing, some kind of beast waking in his chest. “Allies. Hell. All I know with any certainty is that my sister is out there. Someone—something—tried to kill her last night.” His hand waved toward the hills. “The sun’s getting close to the horizon, and I want to make sure I’m back with her before the night falls. If there’s any more of those monsters—if John is Latham—!” The anger boiled over, burning his legs and arms and neck like hot iron. Sam began trotting for the rise, hoping his horse waited on the other side. He squinted under the bright sun. Twenty yards from the mine, he began running. Stitches pulled at his sides as he crested the hill from which they’d surveyed the mine earlier that afternoon.
The horses were gone. Evie was alone.
Sam lowered his head and started toward Santa Fe.
The sound was small at first, a minute clank like tin spoons in a drawer, but it grew louder. Sam paused, brushed sweat from his forehead and scanned the horizon. He felt the sound in his chest, a steady clank-clank-clank, and the squeaking groan of metal against metal. His legs began to shake. Not nerves. Something else.
It came over the ridge, a carriage of sorts—to Sam it looked like a box made of steel. The sun glinted on its surface like daytime lightning. A plume of smoke billowed from a black pipe at the rear of the machine. At either side, rectangular plates of metal flashed and disappeared. It thundered toward Sam until he felt its rumble in the earth and saw the pinched face of Abraham Reaver.
Sam dove, tumbling onto his stomach and rolling away from the path of the metal carriage. A bitter, ashy smoke assaulted his nostrils. With a wrenching howl, the thing stopped twenty yards beyond Sam. A cloud of yellow dust obscured the machine, and Reaver’s massive form leaped from the back.
“It’s not The Horse, but it works. You left this.” Reaver stepped out of the haze tossed a pistol to Sam. “Get in, you damned fool. You’ll never make it back to Santa Fe on foot. Not by nightfall, at any rate.”
As the dust cleared, Sam could see three other forms in the carriage: Sheriff Benton, Seth, and another man. He knelt, picked up his pistol, and beat dirt from the front of his black trousers.
“Marshal?”
Sam scowled at Reaver, holstered his gun, and started walking again.
“Don’t be a stubborn fool. We’re going to get your sister. We’re on the same page. Those Sons of Chaos bastards have taken something from both of us. You feel the hate, Isherwood? Do you feel it?”
“Go to Hell,” Sam muttered. He glanced over his shoulder. Smoke trailed skyward like a grizzled finger.
“Good. We’re going to need you mad. They’ve taken something from both of us, but we have a chance to get your sister back.”
“C’mon, Sam,”Benton hollered. “This damn contraption moves pretty quickly. Climb in.”
#
The sun leaned against the western hills as Reaver’s horseless carriage rattled up to Jonathan’s gate. The courtyard was quiet, no sign of Granger or Evangeline. Seth Burton, brandishing a Winchester rifle, vaulted off the side of the machine. The other member of the Burton gang, Seth’s younger brother, George, with long nose and ears too big for his skull, climbed down and helped the sheriff to the ground.
“Looks suspicious,” Reaver said.
Sam hopped down, stumbled slightly, and steadied himself. He tilted his head and listened, searching for the whispered neighing of the horses in the stables, but heard nothing. Just the faint brush of the wind.
“Evie!” he called.
“Sam, ease off. Granger’s here.”Bentonstepped forward, holding out a hand. “He’s kept an eye on her.”
A breeze brushed across the hillside, kicking puffs of dust skyward. “Evie!” Sam opened the big gate, scanned the empty courtyard, and started for the house. The front door was open, and a pervading blackness spilled from within. Long shadows of the other men stretched across the packed earth of the yard. Reaver barked orders, but Sam couldn’t hear the words.
He jogged toward the open door, drew his pistol, and stepped inside.
On the tile floor, face down, was Deputy Granger.
“Shit, Sam.” Sheriff Benton pushed past him into the dark room. He knelt next to the body and rolled him over.
“Evie?” Sam hurried to the stairs and took them three at a time. Her bedroom door was open, as were the other doors. A smell hung on the second floor–a putrid, rotten smell. Too rotten for a fresh body.
It couldn’t be Evie.
Sam forced the loathsome image from his mind. He quickly checked each bedroom, and then hurried down the stairs to the first floor when satisfied she was gone.
“Evie’s not here.” Sam studied Granger’s limp form and realized he might be the only link to finding his sister. “How is he?”
Reaver and Benton had Granger on the divan. His head lolled back, but he moaned and blinked his eyes.
“Coming around,”Bentonsaid. “Got an awful knot on the back of his head.”
“Wha…”
“Harlan? Harlan, can you hear me?”
“S-sheriff? Damn. My head feels like a horse landed on it.” Granger touched his head gingerly.
“Who got you, Harlan?”
“Dunno, Sheriff. I was keeping a good guard down here, and then…. Wham.” Granger’s head wagged back and forth. “Next thing I see is your face.”
Sam realized he was still clutching his pistol, holstered it, and approached Granger. “Deputy, was there any sign of my sister? Any sign of Evangeline?”
“Sorry …”
“Did you see anyone else?” Sam asked.
“She was upstairs last time I checked. She cried out a little—”
“What?”
Granger grimaced. “I asked her if everything was okay. She said fine. Everything was fine. I sort of dozed a bit. But then, I dunno. Wham.”
Sam looked at the stairs. “Everything’s not fine. That smell.”
Reaver drew a Colt revolver from his hip holster. He spun the cylinder with a whir and click.
“Yes. Noticed it when we first entered the house. Stinks like something died. You sure you checked up there? Checked really good?”
“Nobody’s there, Reaver. Nobody.”
Reaver took the stairs two at a time until he made the hallway landing. His head cocked. Sam followed slowly so as not to disturb his listening—if that’s what Abraham was doing. Evie was gone, and now Sam’s imagination started to play games with the rotten-flesh smell in the house. No one was upstairs when he checked—no one alive. A blackened monster shuffled through his memory. Sam glanced at the ashy smudge on the floor.
“I know what you’re thinking, Marshal, and it isn’t your sister.” Reaver lifted his nose. “This is more of a two–day-old stink. Someone—no, part of someone who’s been gone for a couple of days.”
“Corman,” Sam said.
“Who?”
“Emmanuel Corman. He was murdered almost two days ago. At night, we suspect.” Sam scratched the side of his face, remembering the grisly scene in Corman’s hallway, the broken ribs, protruding bones. “The coroner reported he was missing some parts.”
Reaver scowled, then turned and strode into the upstairs hallway, pausing at each door. “In here,” he said outside of Evangeline’s bedroom. “Whatever it is, it’s in here.”
“I checked.”
Reaver shook his head. “It’s here.”
Despite the two windows in the far wall, the room was mostly dark. Late afternoon heat had nested on the second floor, and the bedroom filled with even more oppressive warmth than the hall. It was a strange mix, darkness and sunshine warmth, but the smell overpowered everything. Reaver moved like a black phantom through the heat and foul odor. He paused in front of one window, blotting out the last scraps of daylight. An insect buzzed.
“I think we found the problem,” he said.
“What?”
A light flickered and then warmed a sphere of yellow around Reaver as he lit a match and candle. Next to the candle, on Evangeline’s dresser, was the clay figure—the gift she had unwrapped the day before. Even in the dim light, Sam could see it had been broken. Reaver lifted the candle, and shadows danced on the wall.
“There’s meat in here, Marshal.”
“Meat?” Sam’s stomach dropped, dragged down by an invisible stone. “What do you mean meat?”
Reaver, candle in one hand, swung the butt of his pistol like a hammer in the other before Sam could stop him. The remnants of the statue shattered, and shards fell, clunk-clunk-clunk, to the floor. Where it once sat now lay a few, dark, lumpy objects.
“My God.” Sam stepped back, covering his mouth.
Reaver took a shard of pottery and poked the lumps. “It’s a heart, I think. A human heart. Maybe a liver. Looks like it could have been a liver.”
“Evie’s?” Even Sam was surprised how quiet his voice sounded.
“No.” Reaver shooed away a few buzzing insects. “Like I said, it’s been here longer than a few hours. Maybe that fellow Corman’s. Where’d this figure come from?”
Sam swallowed hard, trying to keep the vomit down. “Gift,” he muttered. “It was a gift. A wedding gift.”
“Well there’s something else here, too. Something….” Reaver dug his fingers into the mass of purple flesh. When he lifted his hand, a long strand of soiled chain was pinched between forefinger and thumb. “A necklace. Looks like one, at least”
Reaver’s fingers were covered with offal. Sam tasted the sour-acid tang of bile in his mouth. He covered his lips with the back of one hand.
“A locket, I guess,” Reaver said. He lifted the small object to his ear and shook it. A tiny rattle sounded from inside.
Sam took a few steps away and tried to breathe through his nose. The smell hammered against his senses until his brain felt lost in a fog of rot. “W-whose?”
“Don’t know. It’s awfully dirty.” It made a dull sound when Reaver dropped it to the dresser-top. “Not your sister’s, I assume?”
Sam shook his head. His brain wheeled.
The gunshots were distant and muted, but unexpected enough to send barbs of fright dancing down Sam’s back. The scream which followed drove the barbs into his flesh. “Your man at the gate—
“George,” Reaver snarled. He rubbed his soiled hand against his trousers as he strode from the room.
Sam followed momentarily, thankful to be free of the oppressive air and foul odor. Sheriff Benton crouched next to one window, Granger sat on the divan, his eyes open and alert, and Seth stood with his back to the wall adjacent the courtyard door. The sky had grown darker, and the interior glowed with a single lantern.
“Something’s moving out there, in the yard.”Bentonnodded toward the window. “Lots of somethings. Can’t see too well with these damned old-man’s eyes.”
Sam froze midway across the room, close enough to the windows that he could make out several shapes shambling through the twilight gloom.
You asked for the desert dead, well, you got ‘em. Come back next week for the thrilling conclusion of Aaron Polson’s Sons of Chaos and the Desert Dead!
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