Lynch (11 page)

“Where's Sasquatch?”

“You mean the Injun? When it realized the old man was dead, it hollered like a stuck hog and ran off into the cave. It's dead, too. Or will be soon. God knows I emptied enough lead into it.”

“I don't understand—how did you know to come here?”

Drake laughed and spat a wad of bloody phlegm on the floor of the cave. “Don't play innocent! I know what that ungrateful sack of shit did! He didn't have no more use for me, once I was drummed out, so he sent you after me! Who was he to think he could treat me that way after all I'd done for him over the years?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who do you suppose it was who allowed that medicine wagon to travel unmolested by Injuns—or dissatisfied customers, for that matter!” Drake snorted. “Hell, I even provided him with bodies for those damn fool experiments of his!”

“Y-you mean you and Mirablis—you were working together?”

“Let's just say we had us a business arrangement. The old geezer paid me so he could get first crack at the spoils of war, as it were.” Drake studied Lynch's face for a moment then gave a short laugh that sounded like a bark of pain. “You ain't shittin' me, are you? You really
didn't
know about me and th' old man. Huh! I guess Mirablis was right when he said this was all a big misunderstanding.”

“Oh. There's no misunderstanding,” Lynch said as he laid Mirablis body on the ground, his voice strangely calm. “I
am
gonna kill you, you murderin' Yankee bastard.”

“You can try, you broke-neck freak,” Drake snarled. “But better men than you have died tryin'.”

Lynch smiled, his eyes glowing like stars in the gloom of the cavern as he got to his feet. “Be that as it may, Drake. But then again—I'm already dead.”

The bullet struck Lynch's neck brace, knocking him onto his back. Drake moved forward and pointed the gun point-blank at the other man's head and repeatedly pulled the trigger, only to have the hammer click onto empty chambers.

“
Damn you!
” Drake screamed in rage, hurling the useless gun aside. He turned and fled as fast as he could, stumbling through the darkness toward the light that marked the open doorway leading to the cabin.

Lynch took his time getting to his feet. There was no point in hurrying after Drake. After all, where could his prey possibly go that he could not follow? Drake was a dead man and knew it. Lynch could afford to stalk him at his leisure—after all; he had all the time in the world.

Chapter Fifteen

Drake ran through the cabin's single room, bursting through the door and into the open air. He was bruised and cut from slamming into rock formations in the dark, and he had a cracked rib from where the Injun freak had grabbed him, but he was alive—which was more than could be said for Barnes and Obermeyer. He had to get some space between him and that broke-necked son of a bitch. Once he had space, he could figure out a battle plan. But right now he had to grab his horse and ride.

Drake hurried toward the barn, only to come to a sudden halt upon seeing the doors standing wide open. The horses that he and the others had arrived on were lying on their sides. Standing in the middle of the fallen animals was a black horse, tearing at the flesh of the fallen animals as if it was grazing in a field of clover. The black beast raised its head and made an angry snorting noise as it pawed the ground, staring at him with glowing eyes.

The outlaw made a choking sound, then turned and fled on foot, following the narrow winding path that lead toward the top of the mountain. As he neared the first bend, he looked over his shoulder and saw the hanged man standing outside the cabin, watching him.

Lynch watched Drake run until he was out of sight, then fished out his pocket watch and Katie's braid. He sat down on a nearby rock and stroked his dead wife's hair, the time piece resting beside him with its case open. When five minutes had passed, Lynch snapped the case closed and returned the watch to his waistcoat pocket. He began walking in the direction his prey had gone.

Halfway up the mountain, Lynch noticed that the wind had grown considerably stronger. He paused to tilt his head back as best he could and stare up at the sky. There were clouds gathering overhead—growing larger and darker with every minute. He grunted to himself and returned Katie's braid to his breast pocket.

A few minutes later, the foot path disappeared, and Lynch found himself alternately hiking and scaling his way up the side of the mountain. Though there were plenty of natural handholds in the form of rocks and stunted shrubs, the rigid neck brace made it difficult for him to maintain his balance while climbing. He was within feet of the pinnacle when something wet and cold splashed against his cheek.

As he paused to wipe the raindrop from his face, a large rock struck him in the shoulder, sending him sliding ten feet down the side of the mountain. As Lynch struggled to regain his footing, a second, even bigger stone struck him squarely on the spine.

In the months since his resurrection, Lynch had forgotten what true pain actually felt like. He routinely suffered shootings, stabbings and being burned alive, much like anyone else would endure a scraped knee or bruised elbow. However, the pain exploding along his spine was so intense it was all he could do to keep from screaming until he burst a lung. As he lay there, groveling in agony, he could make out Drake's silhouette on the ledge above him. The outlaw looked like a wild-haired savage preparing to bash out the brains of his enemy.

“I'm gonna kill you, dead man!” Drake shouted as he lifted a small boulder over his head. “And this time you're gonna
stay
dead!”

As if to punctuate his statement, the storm clouds swallowed the sun. The winds howled like wolves scenting blood. Lynch stared up at his killer, awaiting the final blow that would return him to his wife.

Just then a crooked shadow rose up from behind Drake, and a pair of mismatched arms encircled his barrel chest, lifting him off the ground as if he were a child. Startled, Drake dropped the boulder, which bounced harmlessly past Lynch, then sailed off the side of the mountain into the valley below.

“
Put me down!
” Drake screamed. “
Put me down, you red-skinned freak, or I'll yank your guts out your ass and feed them to you!
”

If Sasquatch heard Drake's threat, he showed no sign of it. The crazy-quilt Indian had his eyes shut and his head thrown back. Lynch could barely make out the sound of ritual chanting over the thunder. Suddenly Sasquatch's eyes flew open, and his gaze fell on Lynch's and held it. The giant smiled as best he could and mouthed the words “
Forgive me
” in English. Then there was flash of blue white light so intense that it transcended sight, followed by a noise so loud it sounded as if the mountain was cracking open.

When Lynch regained the ability to see and hear, the first thing he noticed was that his eyebrows were singed off. The second thing he noticed was that he was alone. He lurched to his feet, trying not to overbalance and slide even further down the side of the mountain.

He scoured the top of the mountain for signs of his friend, but all he found was a blasted patch of rock located roughly where Sasquatch had been standing. Lynch called his name over and over, but there was no answer except the distant rumble of the passing storm.

Epilogue

Lynch knew he should be angry about how he had been used and betrayed, first by Mirablis, who had been secretly in cahoots with his murderer, and then by Sasquatch, who had used him to lure Drake within convenient striking distance so he could avenge himself against the man who slaughtered his tribe. But try as he might, he could not bring himself to hate them. What was done was done. There was no way of changing the past, only learning from it.

He searched through the papers scattered about the floor of the cabin until he found Mirablis' private journals and the Frankenstein notebooks. The pages were yellowed and filled with cramped handwriting, most of it in a language he did not recognize, and included chemical and mathematical formulae. How was he supposed to decipher this in time to figure out how to make more elixir re-vitae before his supply ran out?

If the notebooks had proven somewhat disappointing, the steamer trunk at the foot of the old man's bed made up for it. Inside he discovered a variety of glass jars, in which various human body parts were suspended in elixir re-vitae. Lynch lost no time in tossing out the collection of hands, livers, hearts and genitalia, and then decanting the precious elixir into containers more suitable for transportation.

The last jar was also the largest—roughly the size of a three-gallon jug. As Lynch lifted it out of the trunk, he was surprised to find it contained an unborn child. A child with Katie's cheekbones and his chin. As he leaned forward, the child in the jar jerked, like a sleeper in a dream, and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

All it took was a small keg of black powder to seal off the entrance to Mirablis' underground laboratory and reduce the cabin to a pile of splinters. Once he was certain all traces of the scientist's existence had been obliterated, he hitched up Alastor to the old medicine show wagon. He climbed up onto the driver's box and released the brake. Without being told, the undead horse began to head toward the setting sun and a new beginning.

He had lived the life of the destroyer before and found it empty. Now he had a new mission in life—one that demanded far more of him than killing. It was up to him learn how to defeat the dark hunger that threatened to make him a monster, and find a way to decipher the old man's journals and help him change his nightmares back into dreams. As much as he missed his beloved Katie, and yearned to rejoin her, it was necessary to postpone their reunion. Somehow, he was certain she would understand.

After all, their son needed him.

Find out more about Nancy A. Collins at:

truesonjablue.blogspot.com

hopedalepress.blogspot.com

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Nancy Collins

Cover image © 1998, 2012 by Stephen R. Bissette, used with permission

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1533-2

Distributed in 2015 by Open Road Distribution

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com