Little Willy swept his sleeves across his eyes and swallowed. “He’s going to tell me who did this to him.”
“I don’t think he’s going to do much talking, Little Willy.”
“SUFFER, you imbecile.”
Hank convulsed and contorted and his teeth smashed together so violently they cracked. Little Willy turned Elijah’s severed head upside down and peered into the open gullet of his throat before rolling up his sleeve and sticking his bare hand into the mushy pulp beneath Elijah’s chin. He slid his fingers around the neck bone and pushed past the muscle and connective tissue until he could touch the base of Elijah’s skull. He grabbed the brain stem and yanked it out of the way, guiding himself along the gelatinous surface of Elijah’s brain. “Show me what happened, Elijah,” Little Willy said. “Show me.”
Little Willy closed his eyes and felt the creature ripple with energy. He reached out with his mind and tried to reignite the spark of existence inside Elijah’s brain. It was cold and dark, unlike anything he’d ever encountered.
Elijah’s presence was out of reach, and Little Willy commanded him to return over and over until the eyelids on Elijah’s face began to flutter. Little Willy stroked the decomposing flesh on his brother’s cheek and said, “I’m here, Elijah. Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.”
Elijah’s mouth opened and closed and Little Willy focused until the brain matter surrounding his hand grew hot, as if he were holding a scalding cauldron of boiling water. He tried smashing the skull against the hull of the ship, frantic to free his hand. The creature started to peel away from Little Willy’s body, its dark purple color turning pink and spotty as it unseated itself from his flesh.
Hank Raddiger gasped as soon as Little Willy’s spell over him ended. He sat on the ground in silence, feeling a cool breeze blow over his aching body. When he sat up, Little Willy was sitting cross-legged next to him, looking down at the creature sunk into his armpit, sucking on the fluids in his body. “What the hell is this thing?” Willy said.
“Something evil!” Hank said. “Something I wish we’d never found. Let’s get rid of it right now while it’s weak.”
“How long has he had it?”
“How long has who had it?” Hank said.
“My brother,” Harpe said. “It’s amazing.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Hank said. “We fought those military bastards for it last week and you’ve been letting it crawl all over you ever since.”
Little Willy looked at the severed head on the ground and whipped his head away. “Get rid of that thing, Hank. Get rid of it right now. I don’t want to see it ever again.”
Hank got to his feet and brushed himself off. “Ok, Little Willy.”
“Elijah,” he said. “Don’t call me by my brother’s name.”
A hundred yards above the canyon, Charlie Boles grabbed his son by the shoulder and said, “We’re getting the hell out of here and going home.”
A rifle’s battery pack hummed in Boles’ ear and he looked over his shoulder to see one of the uniformed Custom’s officers aiming the weapon at him. “Don’t move.”
17. Pale Horse
Dr. Royce Halladay set his cards down on the table and shook his head mournfully. “I apologize for my lack of knowledge, but I am not certain if having four of the same card is a good hand. And these do not even have the decency to be a proper number. Tell me, is the letter ‘A’ a good card to have?”
The other men at the table threw their cards down in disgust. “Go to hell, Halladay,” one of them said.
Halladay stared at the men in affected confusion as they stood up to leave. “But what about all this money you’ve left on the table, gentlemen? Well, I suppose I must take it then, if only to keep it safe until you return.” He raked the pile of coins and bills toward himself and chuckled. The chuckle became a cough, then a bark that left him gagging on phlegm and blood.
He looked up as the Proud Lady’s doors swung open and Sheriff Walt Junger came through them, looking all around the bar until their eyes met. “There are four warrants for your arrest on this side of the planet alone, Royce,” Junger said.
“I would prefer if you called me, ‘Doctor,’ if it’s all the same to you, Walter.” Halladay slid the money inside his shirt pocket and stood up to walk over to the bar with his empty glass. He set the glass down and tapped it for the bartender to fill it up again.
People standing around the bar had stopped what they were doing to watch the scene unfold, and Junger’s face started to twitch. He hitched up his gun belt and loudly announced, “I’ll call you anything I damn well please, blood-spitter. And it’s Sheriff Junger to scum like you.”
Halladay turned toward him with a raised eyebrow, “Now why would I call you that, Walter? Doctor is a distinction I earned, while the title Sheriff has only ever truly belonged to one man, and we both know what happened to him.”
“He was killed by the savages out in the wasteland. I saw his body, which is a damn sight more than you did after you ran off and hid when we were under attack.”
“Has that story passed through your lips so many times that you actually are starting to believe it, Walter? I wonder.” Halladay swallowed his drink and set it on the bar. His eyes were bloodshot and ached from lack of sleep. His legs jittered with restlessness and there was fire in his chest that boiled his guts, yet when he looked at Walt Junger standing there, all red-faced and affronted, Halladay suddenly felt right. He stood up straight and said, “Do you want to talk about what Tilt told me right before he passed on? It is a hell of a story.”
Junger backed away and struggled to unsnap his guns, shouting, “You are under arrest!”
Halladay produced two pistols, both aimed an inch from the Sheriff’s face. He cocked back both hammers and waited for Junger to lift his hands away from his weapons. Halladay smiled gently and said, “I apologize, Walter. You were not prepared.”
Halladay decocked the pistols and twirled them in his palms twice before dropping them back into their holsters. Both men stood facing one another, unarmed. Halladay said, “Are you ready?”
“Seneca 6 is a civilized town, Doctor Halladay! We have laws. This is not how we do things.”
Halladay started to answer when his face suddenly contorted and he bent forward, as if to begin a great fit of coughing. Junger grabbed for his pistols, when Halladay snatched both of his guns out of their holsters and jammed their barrels against Junger’s forehead. “That was called theatrics, Walter. And the cuckoo on your clock just crowed.”
Junger turned for the Proud Lady’s doors and ran through them, screaming for help. Halladay walked slowly down the steps after him, aiming his pistols near Junger’s feet. Halladay fired and the ground exploded next to Junger’s boots, sending him sprawling across the road. Halladay cocked the other pistol and shot it into the ground near where Junger lay and said, “Get up.”
Junger got up to his feet and let his hands hang loose at his sides.
“Arm yourself, cur,” Halladay said.
Junger stood there shivering, clutching his arms around his chest and he said, “Go to hell, Royce. You’re gonna have to gun me down in cold blood.”
Halladay smiled when he said, “Oh, but I assure you, mine is colder than a crocodile’s.” He went to pull the trigger, but the metal barrel of a rifle tapped him on the shoulder and stayed his hand. Halladay looked back at the young man holding the weapon and said, “Bartholomew Masters? Tom’s boy? I was always fond of Tom. Now, kindly remove from this conflict before you become perforated.”