Ghostwalkers (46 page)

“You're the gunhand, Mr. Torrance. For now I think we're better served with it in your possession. Just a loan, mind you, I'll want it back.”

Grey almost made a joke about Saint having to pry it from his cold, dead fingers, but that was too close to a prophecy. He merely nodded.

“Ammunition?”

“Ah,” said Saint, “that's where I think Brother Joe's providence may actually have smiled on us. The ghost rock you brought back from Mr. Chesterfield's house was of excellent quality. It's already been processed, which makes it far more pure than anything I've dug up myself. Given time, I can make several hundred rounds for the Lazarus pistols and perhaps two dozen for the Kingdom rifles.”

“That's not a lot if we're about to have a war,” said Jenny.

“It's what we have,” said Saint. “And it uses about one-eighth of the ghost rock these gentlemen brought back. Would that they had left the gold and platinum behind and brought only the rock … but, oh well.”

“Seemed like the thing to do at the time,” said Looks Away. “We wanted to have something to use to convince the townsfolk that it was time to pull up stakes.”

Saint shrugged that away. “Too late now anyway,” he said.

“What about the rest of the ghost rock?” asked Grey. “Can't you make more bullets out of that?”

“I could, of course, but I have other plans for it,” said the scientist. “I'll need a considerable amount of it for the Kingdom cannon. And if there's any left, I want to see about getting some of my other little toys ready for our guests.”

“What other toys?” asked Jenny.

“Well,” said Saint, “I have prototypes of plasma mines, seismic webs, the Celestial Choirbox, a few rattlesnake bombs and—.”

“Stop,” said Grey. “None of that makes sense.”

“What are all those things?” asked Jenny.

“Oh, I'm sure it wouldn't make sense to you, my dear. It's all very technical.” The little scientist chuckled. He seemed amused by how confused he was making them, and was clearly content to be the smartest man in the room. Even Looks Away seemed mildly at sea. Grey found that he did not entirely like Doctor Saint. Not that he thought the man was corrupt or untrustworthy—just a bit of a pompous ass.

Jenny reached for the second Lazarus pistol but Saint moved to block her hand. “Oh, don't touch that. It's not really a woman's weapon.”

Grey expected Jenny to fry him for that comment, but instead she pushed his hand aside and picked up the pistol. She weighed it in her hand. “I'll bet I could do pretty well with this.”

Saint looked alarmed, but Looks Away was amused. “I have no doubts at all.”

Jenny held it with two hands and at arm's length, sighting along the barrel, then turned slowly, aiming at various targets in the room. When the barrel swung toward the scientist, Saint uttered a small cry and scuttled sideways. “Question is what should I shoot?”

“Miss Pearl, please,” insisted Saint. “That's too much gun for a—.”

“For a woman?” Jenny finished, then she repeated, almost move for move, the tricky gun handling Grey had done a minute ago. The weapon seemed to melt into liquid metal as it moved through her hands. Saint stared in frank astonishment. Jenny stopped the gun on a dime, the handle pointed toward the scientist. “You're right, Doc, maybe it's way too much gun for a woman.”

“Okay, Jenny,” said Grey mildly, taking the pistol from her and laying it on the table, “he gets the point.”

“Dear lord,” said Saint as he plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “I had no idea. How did you…? I mean, where did you…?”

“My father taught me,” Jenny said darkly. “He believed that a woman should know how to defend herself.”

“You don't say,” murmured Looks Away dryly. He had clearly enjoyed the demonstration. He cleared his throat and turned to Grey. “You were closer than me when the worm blew up. You were unconscious almost the whole day. Are you sure you're up for a fight?”

“Yes, I damn well am,” said Grey. “But there are four of us. Fancy weapons or not, that's not a lot to throw at Deray.”

“We have more than that,” said Looks Away. He removed a piece of paper from his pocket and spread it out on the table. “While you were, um, recovering, I asked dear Mrs. O'Malley to make some useful lists. We have sixty-two people able and willing to fight. That includes everyone we could pull in from the farms. Just about everyone has a gun and ammunition.”

“I've seen some of those guns. Squirrel rifles and muzzle loaders.”

“My pa had a bunch of guns from back when we had a real farm,” said Jenny. “Seven good rifles and a dozen handguns.”

“And the weapons we took from the undead,” said Looks Away. “Another twenty-six guns—handguns and long-arms. A few of the farmers have shotguns.”

“Doc,” said Grey, “will your gadgets be enough to make up the difference?”

Saint pursed his lips. “I don't know. If I had another week, maybe two … I could do better.”

“We may not have that time,” said Grey.

“We don't,” said Jenny with certainty. When Grey glanced up he saw that her expression had changed again. The cocksure smile was gone and in its place was a far more serious expression. It was not the first time he'd seen that shift. Something about it worried him. It made him wonder if these events were pushing her over some kind of mental edge. When she spoke, even her voice was slightly different. Softer. “Deray is coming,” she said. “Make no mistake. He is coming for us all.”

All three men looked at her, and from the expressions on their faces it was clear they were as startled as he was by her change of mood.

“What … makes you so sure, Jenny?” asked Looks Away.

Her response was delayed as if she didn't hear at first. Then she walked over to the window and looked out into the empty barnyard. “He's coming,” she repeated.

Then as if a shadow that had been blocking the sun moved off to another part of her internal sky, she straightened and turned, and her devilish smile was back. “And let the bastard come, too.”

No one spoke for a moment. Looks Away cleared his throat.

Grey nodded and walked over to study the big map on the wall. Every detail of the landscape was carefully marked in Saint's careful hand.

“We are substantially short on manpower, firepower, and resources,” said Doctor Saint. “If we are going to survive this, we need a plan.”

“All right,” said Grey without turning. “Let's make one.”

“You have something in mind, old boy?” asked Looks Away.

Grey turned. “Yeah, I do. It's risky, it's crazy it'll probably get us all killed, and I can guarantee you're not going to like it.”

“Now there's a sales pitch for you,” said the Sioux.

“Tell us,” said Jenny.

He did.

It was risky and crazy. And they didn't like it.

But they all agreed that it was their best—and perhaps
only
—chance.

 

Chapter Seventy-Seven

They worked all through the last hours of that day and into the night. Jenny got the blacksmith and a tinker to act as apprentices to Doctor Saint, while Looks Away and Grey oversaw the building of barriers and defenses.

At one point, well after midnight, as Grey was directing men to stack flour sacks filled with sand along the road into town, Looks Away asked, “You're sure this Deray will come to us?”

“Yeah,” said Grey. “We killed his worm.”

“That's hardly enough. It's unlikely he's all that sentimental about his pets.”

“Of course not, but think about it. You think it was just coincidence that Lucky Bob and that worm were waiting for us? Deray had to have found out that we were down there. Hell, we left enough corpses behind. Those big lizard birds—.”

“Pteranodons.”

“Whatever. That cat with the big fangs.”

“Smilodon.”

“And those chicken lizards.”

“Velociraptors.”

“Looks—I swear to God you are the most pedantic son of a bitch I ever met.”

“Benefits of a classical education,” said the Sioux.

They grinned at each other.

Grey hefted another sandbag and thumped it down chest high on the barrier. “Besides, Lucky Bob may not be as dead as we'd like him to be. I kind of think he picked himself back up and scampered off to tell his master about Doctor Saint's big ol' cannon. So—do I think they're coming? Sure. I'm just surprised they're not here already.”

Everyone worked until they were ready to drop.

Grey finally staggered back to Jenny's place in the black hour before dawn. He washed in the kitchen washtub and shambled off to find the couch. However there was no blanket or pillow. Instead there was a folded piece of paper lying on the center of the cushion. He picked it up, opened it, and read the single word written in a flowing feminine hand.

Upstairs

Grey smiled and put the note into his shirt pocket.

Then, still smiling, he climbed the stairs.

Her door was ajar and the soft yellow glow of a single candle showed him the way. He went inside very quietly.

Jenny stood with her back to him, looking out at the last of the night's stars. The pale silver light shone through her nightgown, revealing curves and planes and ripeness.

“Jenny—?” he said quietly, but she shook her head.

“The night is almost over,” she murmured. Her voice was so soft, so distant. Cold and sad and filled with pain.

Unsure of what to do, Grey stood there, not fully inside the room.

“Grey—?” she murmured. “If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, and he found that he meant it even though there were things he never wanted to talk about.

“Annabelle,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Do you still love her?”

He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Yes.”

She nodded and turned slightly so that her profile was etched in silver fire. “You're a good man for admitting that,” she said. “She was lucky to have you.”

“She died because I wasn't good enough as a man.”

He thought he saw her mouth curl softly. A ghost of a ghost of a smile. Then she reached up and unfastened her gown and let it fall. It drifted like snow around her ankles.

“Jenny,” he began, “you should—.”

“No,” she said in a whisper. “No more words. I'm so cold. Make me warm.”

And he came to her and carried her to the bed. Around them the night was vast and tomorrow was a threat. But he held her close and for a while—just a while—the night and all its terrors went away.

 

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Morning dawned cold and bright, but there were storm clouds on the horizon. To Grey it looked like the gods of war were sending a message that lacked all subtlety. The distant thunderheads were thick and bruise-colored and far above them dark birds drifted in slow circles. They might have been vultures but Grey had his doubts. They could have been pterosaurs, which meant Deray was definitely coming.

Grey stood on Jenny's porch, watching the birds and the clouds and trying not to be afraid of what was coming. He wore two gun belts strapped low across his lean hips. His Colt was on his left side with the handle reversed so he could snatch it with a fast cross-draw; and on his right hip was the Lazarus pistol. It was fully loaded with a ten-shot barrel magazine, and extra magazines were clipped to the belt. Grey felt awkward carrying the thing because it neither looked nor felt like a real gun, but if it was anything like the Kingdom rifle, then looks were truly deceiving.

The door opened and Looks Away came out holding two steaming cups of coffee. He handed one to Grey and they stood for a moment looking out at the clouds. It was going to turn dark soon and Grey hoped they'd all live to see the bright sunshine again.

“An east wind is coming,” observed Looks Away, intruding into Grey's morose thoughts as the Sioux nodded toward the storm. “Poetic, if a trifle obvious.”

Grey answered with a sour grunt.

“You're certainly cheerful,” said Looks Away. “Not enough sleep?”

“We should have packed all these people up and gotten the hell out of here while we had the chance.”

“If you want to play that game, old chap, then I should have stayed in London. There's far less ghost rock over there and, last time I checked, no living-dead dinosaurs or metal giants and only one quite foul necromancer that I know of. But, alas, I'm not in sodding England and we didn't sodding well leave town, so…”

“Just saying,” muttered Grey.

They sipped their coffee.

“How do you think they'll come at us?” asked Looks Away.

“He'll have to bring his main forces across the bridge. But he has that airship, and those flying reptiles and maybe more of those worms, so he could come at us from a lot of different directions.” Grey sucked a tooth. “I'm betting it'll be the bridge, though.”

“Betting or hoping?”

Grey shrugged.

Inside the house they heard a sound that made them both turn. It was a lovely voice lifted in song. Jenny Pearl, singing a sad old ballad.

“‘She Moved through the Fair,'” murmured the Sioux.

“Don't know it.”

“It's about a man whose love is murdered before their wedding, then comes to him as a ghost on what would have been their wedding night. It's as morose a tune as any I've heard. You're a sourpuss this morning, so it should suit you.”

Grey sipped the coffee and didn't comment. Last night had been so strange. Jenny had been so passionate, so intense, but after their brief exchange of words she hadn't spoken at all. Not even in the heat of climax, and not at all this morning. Now she sang tragic songs as the drums of war rumbled behind storm clouds.