Stopping next to Chee, Hollister realized the last few minutes had taken a toll on him. His ankles and knees ached from his jump off the roof, he was winded, and his leg muscles were cramping up. He hoped they could get inside the jail and hole up until daylight, when they might have a chance to get out of this mess.
Yet, he had already decided he wasn’t leaving Shaniah out here alone. There were too many Archaics here, even for her, and if he was ever going to find the one who’d killed his men, he was going to need her.
“How do you suppose she is doing that?” Chee asked.
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Hollister said.
“Should I shoot?”
“Not yet,” Hollister said, drawing his pistols as he did. “Let’s see what happens.”
The Archaics from the rooftops had disappeared. One lay in the street about twenty yards away, apparently dead or severely injured and Hollister wondered if the silver or wooden bullets had found a way to kill it-something that was previously unknown to Van Helsing or the other members of the Order of Saint Ignatius who had studied these creatures. But Hollister knew there were more Archaics in this town than the dozen or so Shaniah somehow held in check.
In fact he was sure they were being watched. It was the same feeling he’d had in the army. He could remember riding the plains with the army, chasing Sioux or Cheyenne and knowing they were out there but never seeing them. It was unsettling.
He took his eyes off the drama up the street and studied the buildings, the alleys, the hiding spots, but he saw nothing.
“Chee?” he said.
“Yes, Major, I feel it too. She has done something to capture their attention and though we can’t see them, I have a feeling we are surrounded.”
“Well, shit, Chee, that ain’t comforting at all. How many rounds you got left?”
“Forty-seven,” he replied.
“Forty-seven. You’re sure. Not fifty-two or forty-three? Forty-seven on the dot?” Hollister asked, unsure if the younger man was pulling his leg.
“I like to keep track of my ammo, sir,” he said. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Hollister just shook his head, checking the loads in both of his pistols. He made a vow to himself that if he survived this, if he ever faced these creatures again, he would arm himself with far more than two Colts and a knife. Perhaps a pistol in each boot, a rifle and shotgun for his back. A sword. And maybe a cannon, if he could figure out a way to carry it.
“Well, Sergeant, I can tell you I have considerably less than forty-seven rounds, but I don’t know exactly. And I thought I left the train with plenty of ammunition. I guess from now on, we need to make every shot count.”
“Yes, sir,” Chee said.
Their attention went back to the street. Something was happening.
S haniah stood her ground. She could not back up, shift her feet, or move in a way that showed any weakness. The Archaics were getting restless. She wasn’t sure where the attack would come from, but a big burly man stood out from the rest. He wore a leather apron, what was left of it, torn and covered in blood, and Shaniah guessed he might have been a blacksmith. Where the others had begun to fidget and prance back and forth, wild with hunger but confused and held in place by her appearance, he moved very little, watching her every movement.
She gave another loud howl and swung the blade through the air in a mighty arc. These initiates had not mastered speech yet, their voices stilled by their rapidly changing physiology. Most could not speak in Archaic form for weeks after turning.
“I am Shaniah, your Queen. In time you will come to serve me. Now you obey. You will feed when I allow it. You will follow my commands. This is how it has been and always shall be.”
Nothing she said was remotely true. Her position as leader of her people was an elected one. She was not “served” by her people. The Archaics of the high mountains were a small, self-sustaining society and while it was true that she could make decisions for her people, she had been chosen by the Council of Elders because she was the Archaic who was the best hunter, the strongest, the most cunning. She had earned her place through action and example, not by fighting it out as she had heard other groups like the wolf people did.
She needed to exert her will on this group. If they learned to shelter themselves from the sun, they could keep Hollister and the others penned up inside the jail until they starved. There was no time for that.
Her words caused some consternation among the group. It was almost certain they could understand her. Their primitive instincts were just in charge and difficult for them to control. They wanted to kill and eat Hollister and the rest in the jail. For them there was no other course to take.
The blacksmith had slowly worked his way to the front of the group, acting as if he had no interest in anything going on around him. Shaniah set her feet, tightening her grip on the blade. His attack was sudden, and even though she was prepared, his quickness surprised her. He leapt in the air the ten feet or so between them. The blacksmith had been one of the most recent to turn, so he would not disintegrate to ash yet. It was a lucky break for her.
Shaniah did not hesitate. Swinging the blade, she rotated her hips, her arms and shoulders pouring every ounce of strength she had into it. The big knife connected with the man at his neck and his head came off as if she had sliced through a melon. His body collapsed to the ground and with one hand, Shaniah snatched his head out of the air, her fingers twisted in his long dark hair. She held the head up, brandishing it at the Archaics, her eyes burning with rage.
“Do NOT disobey me!” she commanded, tossing the head at the assembled group, who scattered, stumbling over each other to get out of the way.
Now came the dangerous part.
She spun on her heel, walking toward the jail, her back exposed to them, but without haste, as if they were no threat to her at all.