Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz (13 page)

“Now, let’s see what the French have got,” he
grinned, before digging his spurs into his horse with a roar. He
galloped towards the front line.

Thomas couldn’t feel his left arm. At first, he thought it
merely trapped beneath the weight of his body where he had fallen but
then, as he rolled onto his side, he began to think perhaps something
more serious had occurred. Vague images blurred through his mind as
he remembered what had happened moments ago—the immense
weight of the beastman pressing down on his chest, the futility of
his struggle against the creature’s frightening strength, and
finally, the incredible pain as he was torn apart.

The boy’s eyes went wide with shock as he recalled his own
death. Sitting bolt upright, he stared in horror at the multitude of
corpses littering the ground. Then, he let out a loud wail of anguish
as his eyes fell upon the stump of bloody flesh protruding from his
left shoulder where his arm should have been. The severed limb lay
beside him, stringy threads of skin and sinew trailing from its top
like soggy cabbage. Thomas reached out and laid his one remaining
hand atop the lifeless arm. Beside him, Sergeant Foss sat up and made
a strangled hissing noise through the ragged hole in his throat.

The two of them observed each other’s wounds in wonder and saw
the pictograms bestowed by the Brotherhood of Uclés were now
nothing more than charcoal, burnt through their tunics and seared
deep into the flesh of their chests. It was becoming clear the monks
had invoked some powerful forces on the duke’s behalf. Around
them, more previously lifeless corpses began to stir from their
eternal slumber.

Sergeant Foss’ head jiggled on the remains of his neck as he
raised a hand and indicated the last of their regiment, engaged in
close-quarters combat with the ferocious beastmen of the Ninth, some
way distant. Unable to comprehend his strained rasping, Thomas
understood enough of Foss’ motions to know he was suggesting
they carry on fighting. Clambering to his feet, the shattered body of
Thomas Worthington helped what remained of Reginald Foss’
eviscerated form to stand. With his own severed limb brandished as a
makeshift club, the two of them staggered back towards the battle. A
horde of reanimated soldiers stumbled along behind them.

The Duke of Wellington’s initial entrance into the battlefield
had not gone as well as planned. For starters, his mighty warhorse
had become spooked by the feral beastmen and had run amok throughout
the lines, crushing tens of soldiers underfoot, be they friend or
foe. To make matters worse, he had discovered that the armor, which
Congreve had so carefully designed to protect his personage from
harm, was next to useless in the rapid cut and thrust of battle. He
was already beginning to seize up in the moist air. He had only
managed to wound two of the howling loups-garous, and miraculously
decapitate a third by virtue of a gargantuan physical effort. Now
though, he was in a definite spot of bother.

A wild lunge from a flailing beastman had gored out his horse’s
throat. In its pitiful death throes, the poor animal had collapsed to
the ground on top of him, pinning him beneath. The metal legs of his
suit had become hopelessly crushed beneath the horse’s flank,
and unable to escape from his armor, the duke struggled to defend
himself against the enemy.

Two half-dead beastmen had come across him on the battlefield and
were doing their best to get inside his armor and devour the tasty
meat within. Blow upon blow rained down from the creatures’
elongated talons. Inside his claustrophobic shell, the duke roared
like a man possessed, beset as he was with equal parts rage and fear
at his inability to act.

Young Worthington reached the lead creature first, ramming the fist
of his detached arm between the beastman’s jaws as he attempted
to force the rest of the limb down its throat. Unable to bite him,
the disorientated lycan staggered backward and made to swipe at him
with its claws. That was when the first of Foss’ shots took out
its left leg. Falling to its knees, the creature attempted to wrench
Thomas’ arm from its mouth and had almost succeeded in pulling
the limb out past the wrist when the sergeant’s second silvered
ball struck its chest dead center. The Duke of Wellington watched in
surprise as the creature fell dead, and the remaining beastman turned
tail and ran off into the night. Feeling three strong hands take hold
of his armor, the duke found himself manhandled from beneath his
horse. His dented helmet was pulled off, and Lord Wellesley stared up
at the two ashen faces of his saviors.

“Well don’t just bloody stand there you idiots, help me
up!” he bellowed.

Thomas and Foss obliged as best they could with their guts hanging
out. Once the duke was upright, they watched their commander in chief
survey the continuing battle.

“It’s not enough,” he commented, taking stock of
the remaining numbers of French and English soldiers. “The
tide’s not yet in our favor.”

Reaching into his saddlebag, the duke withdrew a crumpled white shirt
and tossed it to the sergeant.

“You, man, make a signal to the artillery to begin their
assault!”

Foss stared dumbly down at the clothing and let his broken jaw sag
open.

“Don’t argue, man” bellowed the duke. “Just do
it!”

Fortunately, the fog had lifted somewhat over the last fifteen
minutes. Once Foss began to wave the shirt from side to side in the
air above his head, a dull rumble of explosions emerged from the
hillside behind them.

The first barrage of rockets fell well short of the French position,
landing amongst the bodies of the dead. It didn’t matter,
though, for no sooner had the shrapnel dispersed, did translucent
white specters rise up from the dirt and drift toward the French
forces. The wraith-like entities entwined themselves
en masse
around the hulking bodies of the beastmen and sought to bring them
down by sheer force of numbers.

Wellington and his honor guard watched in fascination as several of
the revenants poured themselves into the beastmen’s orifices
like smoke, and then exploded them from within, showering the field
with matted clumps of hair and gut. The remaining English infantry,
whether undead or alive, took advantage of the reinforcements and
charged forward to dispatch the flailing lycans with little mercy.

Within minutes, the majority of the French army was either dead or
dying. Seated clumsily upon the rump of his horse’s carcass,
Wellington steadied himself and eyed the two riflemen who had come to
his rescue.

“I don’t suppose either one of you gentlemen has a drop
of brandy about you, do you?” he enquired. “It’s
damned hot in this get-up and I could certainly use a drink.”

Eager to improve his chances for promotion, Worthington immediately
stepped forward and pulled the pilfered hipflask from his rucksack,
holding it out to Lord Wellington. The duke drained the remnants of
the flask in one breath, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Damned fine brandy,” he commented, before noticing the
initials W.H.D. inscribed on the flask. He glared suspiciously at the
private.

Thomas smiled weakly and shrank back to stand beside Foss, who once
more stood with one arm resting on the muzzle of his rifle. Cocking
his head to one side, the sergeant let out a low sigh through the
hole in his neck and Thomas duly kicked him on the shin.

“Not a word,” he whispered.

Tucking the hip flask inside his armor for safekeeping, Wellington
watched the remains of his infantry give chase to the wolfmen, as
they ran for the hills. It had been one hell of a battle he now
realized as he took stock of the dead. If hadn’t been for his
agreement with the Brotherhood of Uclés he would almost
certainly have succumbed to the superior forces.

There was time enough to hunt down that rogue French sorcerer before
the year was out, he decided. It seemed the only problem remaining
was how to explain to both the king and the prime minister that he
promised one half of the treasury and the whole of the Isle of Wight
to an order of supernatural monks, who could reanimate the dead, in
exchange for their services.

Darcy was cleaning the last of her tables when the man stepped into
the diner, beer bottle in hand.

“Got to be kidding me,” Darcy murmured, glad that Bob,
the diner’s owner, wasn’t close enough to hear. Not
bothering to fake a smile, she wiped her hands on her rag, and then
tossed it into the seat.

“It’s almost closing time,” she said, gesturing
toward the many empty tables. “But we can whip up something
quick if you’d like.”

The man remained at the door, looking confused. Darcy sighed. These
types showed up far more than she liked, overworked farmers and
factory workers coming in doped out of their minds on meth. Sometimes
it seemed like the only thing their little town was known for; that
and its chicken factory.

“Need some help?” Darcy asked, heading to the bar to get
her pad and pen. Not that she’d need it, but she wanted to keep
some space in case he was dangerous. The meth heads usually were,
especially if they were hard up for cash. Bob was in the back,
washing the dishes and mopping the floor. He was younger than her,
just a year over forty, and had the beefy arms of someone who had
spent most of his life working two jobs, none involving a cushy
office. She knew he’d be listening in, even if pretending
otherwise, and the second things got iffy he’d be out in a
heartbeat.

Her late night customer blinked, and then shook his head and started
muttering.

“Just need some coffee,” he said, glancing behind him,
through the glass door to the parking lot. “Lots of coffee.”

Darcy sighed. Coffee drinkers weren’t known for their tips, and
she’d already cleaned the pot and put it away. Who the hell
needed coffee at 10:30? Night shift, of course. Given how ragged the
man looked, she wondered if he’d just been fired from the
factory. Walking back around the counter, she stopped before him and
raised an eyebrow.

“Going to sit?” she asked.

He stared at her for a moment, and she wondered if she were about to
have an incident. The man looked like he’d been through hell.
He was handsome enough, for a working type. Short brown hair, tanned
skin. His jeans and t-shirt certainly looked like he belonged around
there, but when he spoke she couldn’t place his accent.

“Yeah, of course. Sorry.”

He sat at the nearest booth, shifting so his back was to the window.
He rubbed his eyes, and when she offered him a menu he pushed it
away.

“I know it’s late, so whatever you can prepare the
fastest, I’ll take that.”

“That’s kind of you.”

Darcy scribbled down a ham and cheese sandwich on her pad of paper
and then tore it off. At least the man wasn’t going to keep her
there forever, though Bob might not be too happy with how inexpensive
his order was. Bob had no problem staying late so long as paying
customers kept coming, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t
grumble and mutter about cheapskates. Not that he’d let her
complain the same.

“Here you go,” she told Bob as she tossed the paper
through the window.

“He all right?” Bob asked, looking through the window at
her customer. “Don’t sound like he’s a local.”

“He ain’t,” Darcy said. “Probably just a
trucker driving longer than he should.”

“He looks likes shit.”

“Say it louder, Bob. I don’t think he heard you.”

Bob leaned to the side and called out to their customer.

“Hey, buddy, you all right? You look like shit.”

Darcy winced and bit her tongue. Whatever hope of a tip she had
probably went right out the window. Turning around, she saw her
customer shaking his head, and to her surprise, he started laughing.

“Thanks for noticing,” he said. “Now when do I get
my damn coffee?”

“Coming up,” Darcy said, plugging in the machine and
replacing the filter. Once she got it running, she filled up a glass
of water and brought it over to the man.

“What’s your name, hun?” she asked. “Because
crude as Bob may be, you do kind of look like shit.”

Again he laughed, but this time not quite so loud. Dark circles were
underneath eyes laced with red veins. His shirt was covered with
sweat stains, and he stank like an outhouse. That she noticed at all
was impressive, because with how many farmers came in to eat in the
diner, she was well familiar with the smell of pigs, cows, chickens,
and their shit. Stubble covered his face, rough and uneven.

“Name’s Brad,” he said. “Sorry to bother you
… ”

He leaned closer, and she realized she’d taken off her name
tag.

“Darcy,” she said. “Darcy Evans.”

“Well,” Brad said, offering her a grim smile. “Sorry
to come in so late, Darcy. Don’t worry. I doubt I’ll be
here long.”

She gave him a perfunctory smile, then went to check on the coffee.
There was just enough for a cup, so she filled it and brought it
over. He accepted it without a word, and after blowing across the
top, began drinking without sugar or cream. Darcy stood there, hands
on her hips. Other than locking the door and cleaning up Brad’s
table, she didn’t have much else to do, and she’d worked
far too long to pretend otherwise.

“So where you from, Brad?” she asked.

Small talk was the key to getting tips, of course, and it’d
become such an ingrained habit that Darcy would even chat with the
hopeless customers. Besides, the reason she took the waitress job
after her husband died was because she missed contact with the world
outside her little apartment. It sure as hell wasn’t for the
money.

“Minnesota,” Brad said, taking another sip.