Bloodstained Oz Read online

  Chapter Twelve

  Hank stumbled along, winded and parched, as the thick dusty air moved around him like a shroud. He gripped the scythe he had taken from the prison so tightly that his knuckles hurt. Hawley was just ahead, around the next bend. There would be help there, a little bit of sanity. He could rest, find shelter. And if anyone doubted his word and wanted to go out to the prison to check things out, well, that was up to them. But he wasn’t going back there. Not ever.

  He’d been moving as quickly as he could and running almost completely on instinct as he traveled. But now as he got closer to Hawley he heard the sounds—screams in the distance, both human and otherwise—and realized that his hopes were wasted.

  Nothing to do now but keep going, and pray that the next town was still untouched. Still, he had to go into Hawley. If he wanted to get out of here, he was going to need transport of some kind. So he moved toward the sounds of people screaming and dying, but he did so with great caution and a tight grip on his scythe.

  He was expecting the worst, and he got it in spades. Careful, sneaking around corners and hesitating at every shadow, he moved through the town. Several times things ran past him in the night, and he knew that if they got close enough, they would be able to smell him. These were not the monsters with the emerald eyes, but other things, just as bloodthirsty, but smaller. Like children.

  There were dead people everywhere he went, and most of them had not died easily. He passed the body of a woman who might once have been young and pretty. Her clothes were half torn from her body and she was covered in bite wounds, most of them small enough to have come from children. Worse still, he could see that she’d been with child and something had taken the time to tear the unborn baby from her belly. What little remained of the newly forming infant had been discarded like so much trash and left a trail of wet black dirt that ran all the way back to the expectant mother’s corpse.

  Not far away from the dead woman another body lay face down. The wind hadn’t yet obscured the remains of the struggle, and Hank could see the signs on the dirt that showed the man on the ground had fought hard against what must have been an army of children.

  Hank moved closer, carefully stepping over the dead woman and her almost child. She stared at him with unseeing eyes and he flinched with the shock of recognition as he looked at her face. Once upon a time she had been a sweet girl named Ellie Mae Harris, and he’d had a thing for her older sister, Susannah.

  He spat his shock from his mouth along with a thin streak of phlegm. He could not think of the past or those already dead when he could still hear the sounds of people dying. Not when he himself was still alive.

  Something in the distance rattled and clanked, a sound that made him think of the cell doors at the prison squeaking in protest to being moved. He heard it several more times and wondered at the odd rhythm the sound produced. He might have thought about the noise more, but he heard a shuffling in the dark behind him and turned.

  They had found him.

  There were seven of them, tiny little men the size of children, and each was dressed in evening finery that had seen better days. Three females were in the group, their silk clothes stained and tattered, the bottoms of their dresses so torn and frayed they looked like rats had been feasting on them. The tallest of the females was barely over three feet in height and any thought that children had been responsible for killing Ellie Mae and her unborn child was discarded when he saw the vulpine fangs in the mouths of the things coming his way. Like the freaks with the emerald eyes, these creatures were pale, except where their faces had been painted with the blood of Hawley’s citizens.

  Their eyes were not the green lanterns of the ones at the prison; aside from their size these vampires looked like humans. They had human eyes, that reflected the light with a crimson gleam and somehow that made it even worse. It cemented their reality for Hank.

  The first of them leaped at him, jaws wide, reaching out to grab him so that it could clamp its jaws on his face. Hank swung the scythe. Adrenaline fueled his swing and if there was a God, He was being mighty nice to Hank with his aim. The blade cut deep into the monster’s neck and damned near took its head off. One second it was a screaming little man and the next it was twitching on the ground, and Hank hoped it was dying.

  He didn’t have time to feel satisfied. There were six more coming his way. One of the women dove low, toward his legs, and her fangs sank into the meat of his calf. Hank let out a yowl and kicked her with his free leg, boot striking her temple. It wasn't enough. She bit down a second time, her cold dead tongue licking at the hole in his pants leg and the flesh underneath. Hank hit her four times with the blunt end of the scythe, unable to step back to swing the blade. She shuddered away from him with a watery sigh.

  “You bitch! That’s my blood all over your face!” His vision went red and Hank stomped down on the thing as it tried to back away.

  Hank grabbed another of the creatures by her thick, curly hair and held her off the ground. She flailed and snarled and spat at him until he used his weapon to hack her chest open and then her throat.

  The others began to circle him.

  A round, elderly male—he was having trouble thinking of it as a man, even with the neatly cropped mustache and beard—ran at his left side and as he turned to defend himself, two more of the damned things moved to his right. Hank caught the one he’d been tracking just in time to realize what a mistake he'd made. The ones on his right hit him hard, far harder than he expected from such little people, and knocked him to the ground. The trinket in his pants pocket flared with warmth even as more fangs sank into his flesh.

  Hank had been working in the labor camp for months and there was little about him that could be called soft. With all of his strength he drove his right arm into the ground, shaking the biting nightmares loose. He reached up and dug his fingers into the eyes of the one at his shoulder until he felt the cold orbs burst wetly under the pressure.

  The thing fell back, screeching like a banshee, and Hank spun around in the dirt to kick another that lunged for him. A third grabbed hold of him and bit his arm deeply, the child-sized hands gripping his shirt sleeve. Hank ran at the nearest building, which he’d used as cover moments before. He rammed the wall, the vampire trapped between him and the hard wood. The boards creaked and he felt his entire arm go numb. The scythe spun away from his hand in an arc and clanged to the street. It was worth it; the damned thing grunted again and let go of his wounded flesh.

  As it hit the ground, Hank started to kick it, caving in its skull with the toe of his boot.

  “You stay there, you little bastard!” He staggered over and grabbed the scythe, ready to hack the thing into pieces, but it was up already.

  This time, though, it was moving away from him.

  Hank leaned against the wall of the church and panted, covering his mouth with his hand to keep at least a little of the dust away from his lungs. He looked around, checking for the other tiny vampires, but they were gone, probably in search of other, easier prey. Even now he could hear an occasional scream coming from nearby.

  There was no way he could stay in Hawley. There was nothing left in the town to stay for, and sure as hell not a chance of surviving. Hank set off again and soon found what he needed. The bicycle was ancient, designed with a massive front wheel and a much smaller one in the back. Even climbing on the thing was probably risking a broken neck, but a quick check confirmed that it was functional and he had no other option.

  The wind picked up again and brought still more dust with it. Hank covered the lower half of his face with his shirt and climbed aboard his new ride. The wheels made a few light squeaks, but rode smoothly. He stood as much as he dared on the contraption and pumped his legs hard to get going properly. The scythe stayed in his right hand, pinned across the handle bars, because he refused to have to reach for a weapon with everything that had been going on. In his pocket, the necklace seemed to have cooled down a great deal. If he was right, that
meant he was at least a little safer.

  He turned down the road away from Hawley without much regret about never seeing the place again. He had a fortune in his pocket and if he was very, very lucky he could get something for it in another place.

  The night was as hot and miserable as the day had been and the breeze from riding the bicycle was invigorating. Fingers of air cooled the sweat on his scalp and painted his hair a different color at the same time.

  As he passed by a small shack on the outskirts of town, something silver flashed in the moonlight. A dark figure lunged from beside the shack. The axe swung and destroyed the front tire of the bicycle, shearing through the thin rubber and the frame it was supported by.

  Hank was thrown forward, and only barely managed to turn to avoid impaling himself on the scythe, which flew from his hand and rattled as it hit the dirt road. He landed on his hands, scraping off layers of skin. His palms burned. The bicycle clattered to the ground, ruined.

  The sounds came again, a squealing noise followed by a loud clank. Even as he scrambled to reach the scythe he glanced up and saw the thing that wielded the axe. The blade glinted in the dusty moonlight, well polished and well used.

  Hank stared, mouth agape. The thing stood close to seven feet, a man shaped contraption with legs and arms made of cylinders that had once been connected together by rivets. Its head was capped by a pointed tin hat. In the broken joints of the monstrosity, he could see pulleys and heavy cords that slid with each motion it made.

  Thick, rusting tin legs lifted with a squeal and slammed to the road with a ringing clang. The arms were segmented and almost ludicrous. Its long fingers ended in a sharpened twist of tin that was already coated with sticky redness. More pulleys and wheels ground together as each arm moved with a rattling squeak. Between those arms a wide chest of metal glinted, but something had ripped the tin open, and inside the deep cavity Hank could see a shape moving in the darkness.

  The head of the tin man, above the pit of the torn chest, turned to look at him. Deep cavernous eye sockets held something inside them, human looking eyes that moved in his direction. A nose had been fused to the cylindrical head, and it actually seemed to be breathing. Below that a mouth had been torn into a scowl by the same sort of force that had opened the metal of the chest.

  The thing clanked toward him.

  The tin man said, “I can’t help you, it’s taken my body from me,” in a hollow voice that rang dully into the night. “Run if you’re able.”

  “What?” Hank could only stare.

  A laugh came from the cavity inside the tin man’s chest. “He said ‘run if you’re able,’ and you should. Will make you taste better when I finally get to you.”

  A face peered from inside the tin man and Hank looked at the ugly little vampire, like the ones in town, and felt his heart sink.

  The tin man raised his axe. Hank twisted and dove to the ground, rolling in the dirt, grabbing his scythe. A hollow sobbing noise came from the head of the monster and a high-pitched cackling laugh echoed from the chest. Tiny hands pulled at cords and the tin man moved toward him with more noisy steps, his long stride eating the distance between them with ease.

  Hank stood and swung his scythe, hoping to skewer the creature riding in the tin man’s chest, but one of the massive arms blocked the blow and the blade snapped.

  One metallic leg rattled as it lifted and the tin man kicked Hank in his hip, staggering him. Before he could recover, one of the hands closed on his wrist and squeezed with enough force to make his bones creak. Hank let out a scream and thrashed as the mechanical man lifted him into the air.

  The human eyes within the tin man’s head looked his way again and he saw the fine network of veins and muscles that still allowed it to see him. Hank felt the entire body of the thing shudder as the other arm rose, reaching for his face.

  Panic took over completely and Hank thrashed his legs, kicking the torso of the contraption. Each blow let out a deep resonant bong like a bell and he wanted to scream in fear. His foot slipped into the open chest of the thing holding him and he felt his heel catch on a softer surface that gave way. The tin man’s arms went slack and he fell, hitting the dirt in a tangle of limbs.

  “I’ll kill you!” the voice squeaked from inside the tin man’s chest.

  Hank had no doubt he would. So instead of trying to fight again, he turned and ran, legs pumping furiously, chest tight with effort and fear.

  The tin man pursued him with clanging steps, each one marking the distance that separated Hank from his death.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Elisa sat in the darkness and wondered how long she could weep before she had no more tears to shed. The world had gone mad and she felt as if she weren't far behind. Stefan was dead. Jeremiah was dead. Savage little animals, monkeys like winged demons, had killed them and almost her as well, and the only thing that kept her safe was her dead husband’s faith in a God she could not bring herself to believe in.

  What sort of God would allow any of this madness to happen? And yet His power had saved her.

  The wind shook the canvas of the wagon that had been her home for far too long, and she thought about Stefan and his faith. Once she’d asked him how he could believe in God and still sell false promises to the desperate people around them. Stefan had smiled, his even teeth flashing in his swarthy skin and winked at her as he answered. “I do not sell false promises, my love. I sell hope.”

  “How so?”

  “The people here are desperate and miserable. I sell them a little alcohol to calm their nerves and I tell them that it will solve their woes. For a little while at least, they have hope again.”

  That had been their last discussion on the subject. She’d have given almost anything for them to argue the matter again.

  Aside from the wind there was no sound, but she was not foolish enough to trust that the silence was a promise of safety. She would not leave the wagon until the sun had risen. By then, she knew from the old stories, she would be safe.

  Physically, at least. There was no haven from the fear that sent shivers through her, or from the grief that tore her up inside.

  When Elisa’s father had passed and she’d asked her mother if she was well, the woman had merely looked at her with dark, heavy eyes and said that she was hollow. She understood now what her mother had meant.

  Something struck the side of the wagon and Elisa bit her lip hard to avoid screaming.

  “Is there anyone in there? I need help!” shouted a voice. A man’s voice.

  Fists slapped at the canvas, seeking a way inside, and Elisa rose from her crouched position and moved carefully to the entrance at the back of the wagon. Nothing would take her in the night, not if she had any say in the matter.

  The hands slapped and clutched and felt for a way into her haven. Elisa held her breath and clenched her hands into fists.

  “If anyone’s in there, please help me!” The man’s voice was strained and dry. Whoever was out there sounded human, but she wasn't foolish enough to trust that.

  Elisa crouched low, ready to strike.

  The rear flaps of the wagon opened and a dark shape lunged halfway into the interior. Elisa had been expecting one of the winged monkeys, with teeth bared and the blood of her loved ones smeared on the vile hands and feet. Without taking a moment to get a good look at the intruder or wonder how one of those unholy things had entered now when they had been unable to before, she struck out.

  Her fist collided with nose and cheek, flesh and bone and cartilage. The man staggered back, withdrawing almost all the way out of the wagon. He spat curses, blood streaming from his nose. The knuckles of her fist throbbed from the impact but she could tell he’d felt it far more than she had.

  “Lady, you have to let me in!”

  Covered in sweat and dust and wearing the clothes of a prisoner, the man lunged for her wagon again. In that moment, she understood her error. The crosses had kept the evil out before. This man was human after all.
Criminal or not, he was a human being, and fleeing from the things out there in the darkness. Elisa’s heart surged and she reached for him, pulling at his arm, helping him into the wagon.

  As he began to haul himself into the wagon’s interior, his hand caught one of the crucifixes that Stefan had adorned the entrance with and tangled into the rosary beads.

  “Listen to me, there’s some dangerous things running around out there and one of the worst is right behind me. We’ve got to hide somewhere!”

  He might have said more, and she might have answered him, but before either could speak again, the man’s eyes went wide and he was jerked from behind. Something started pulling him out of the wagon.

  The stranger held on desperately, his eyes as wild and frantic as a horse tethered near a raging barn fire. The tendons in his neck and shoulders stood out like cables, but his strength was not enough. She heard his scream, saw the crucifix tangled in his fingers tear loose from its anchor and watched as something almost as tall as the wagon hauled him into the darkness.

  The man who’d been climbing into the wagon was not small. He was a little over average height and even through the prison garb she could see the lean muscles of his body. If she'd passed him on the street and been worried that he was dangerous, she’d have avoided him. Now, looking at the man as he struggled against the thing that had grabbed him, he looked like a child.

  The thing he struggled against was some kind of metal man, an impossible thing, but it had been a night for impossible things.

  The crucifix in his hand swayed and darted on its beaded necklace, but he was too busy trying to stay alive to give it much thought.

  “The cross! Use the cross! They can’t abide it!”

  Though the man struggled, he could not free himself from the metal man’s grasp.

  Elisa wanted nothing more than to stay exactly where she was, to be safe inside her wagon and then, maybe, to wake in the morning and find everything the way it should be, with Stefan peddling his elixirs and trinkets and Jeremiah sleeping in her arms. But nothing in her world would permit her to watch a man, even a criminal, be murdered before her eyes.