The Indigo Man

“Hold her down!”

Sweat stung at her eyes. Her exhausted muscles were beginning to flag. The Sanchez woman was in her third week among them at the monastery, and she continued to show no signs of improvement. Currently, she was thrashing and bucking, doing all that she could to fight off the priest and the cluster of nuns, all fighting to tie her down to the table. For Mary Elizabeth, it was her fifth time fighting with the woman. She didn’t feel battle-hardened. She felt defeated.

The Sanchez woman, as Mary Elizabeth preferred to think of her, was half of the age of most of the nuns in the room, and pretty enough when she wasn’t cursing them in some ancient tongue. Her olive skin, now slick with sweat and splotchy with exertion, was actually quite lovely. She spoke with only the slightest accent, and from what some of the people had told them upon her arrival, she could even do her sums.

If not for the demon that had taken residence in her, she would have been considered quite appealing.

A claw raked toward Mary Elizabeth’s face, and she flinched away, barely missing deep scars along her cheek. She gave the priest an exasperated stare and pulled tight on the rope, slamming the offending hand back down to the table. The possessed creature screamed, a chilling, ululating sound that sent half of the nuns into muttering prayers.

“This is hopeless!” Mary Elizabeth grunted, tying off the bindings and backing away from the table. She wiped sweat from her eyes and glared at the priest. He gave her a chiding stare that she didn’t back away from. “The demon in her is beyond us. We’ve done all that we can.”

Father Bermudez shook his head, eyes narrow. “Penance for blasphemy, Sister Mary Elizabeth. There is nothing beyond the power of God. Your lack of faith may well be what is keeping us from casting this evil from her.”

“Three weeks, father. Three weeks!”

“We do not determine the time that God places before us, Sister.” Bermudez shook his head and made a clucking sound. He combed back his silvery hair with his fingers and shook the sweat from them. He was a fat man with an inflated sense of self-worth, and he did well at reminding the people locally of how horrible they were for all of their sins. Mary Elizabeth dealt with his pomposity as well as she could, but when she couldn’t mind her tongue, she would find herself tending the fields or scrubbing pots. Of course, these moments would also include a reminder for her to read the book of James, to show her how wicked one’s tongue can be.

The thought of extra duties kept words from flowing, though nothing could contain her from glowering.

“Holy Water,” he snapped toward a couple of other sisters. They were younger are cowed much more easily than Mary Elizabeth. Neither of them dared meet the Father’s eyes, especially at this dark work. He sprinkled it, saturating the Sanchez woman. Her eyelids fluttered, and a soft, ecstatic moan escaped her lips. Bermudez eyed her, a frown curdling his features.

“Darkness…” the Sanchez woman hissed. Her mouth was turned up into an impossible caricature of a smile, and her eyes were all whites. “It comes this night….”

“Demonic heresy!” Bermudez snapped, pulling his cross from his chest, holding it before him like Excalibur.

“It will consume us….”

“Father, wait!” Mary Elizabeth shouted, and Bermudez froze, his face white and drenched in sweat. He was panting. The Sanchez woman twisted in her bindings leisurely, her arms and legs rolling in feline grace. Her hands flexed and rested.

“We cannot withstand….”

“I will not listen to this in the walls of my church!” Bermudez spat, and he pounced forward, pressing the crucifix into the rambling woman’s forehead. He seemed to move with enough force to push it through her entire skull. The Sanchez woman let out a low, pained moan, and it slowly rose into a high-pitched wail, keening and echoing in the dark room. The other sisters fell to their knees and crossed themselves, whispering desperate prayers.

“Begone from this place!” Bermudez roared. “Out, in God’s name! Leave this woman and leave this house!”

The wail subsided, and the Sanchez woman’s body tensed, then relaxed. A soft, relieved sigh escaped her lips, and she went slack. Bermudez blinked and swallowed. He glanced at Mary Elizabeth, and they shared a surprised glance. It quickly morphed into a look of pride for Bermudez. His face glowed with smugness, and he raised his eyebrows towards the kneeling sisters.

“It is done,” he said to them, his deep tones reverberating in the suddenly silent room.

“Praise Him, Praise Him,” the sisters replied in rapid, breathless whispers.

“Undo this woman and see that she has a place to recover,” Bermudez said, and it took Mary Elizabeth a moment to realize that he was speaking to her. He brought his hands together in two brisk, expectant claps. “Quickly. That poor creature needs rest.”

“I’d rather not untie her, Father,” Mary Elizabeth responded. She kept her distance. “Whatever is within her could be lying in wait.”

“Fear is for the faithless, Sister Mary Elizabeth,” Father Bermudez replied, raising an eyebrow. Is this some challenge? Does he mean to prove himself to the other sisters? When she didn’t move, Bermudez snorted and began undoing the straps around the Sanchez woman’s ankles. “I will require penance for abandoning your faith in the Almighty,” he growled. “In these dark times, faith should be our shining example, not something we hide away in a moment of weakness.”

Mary Elizabeth scowled and said nothing.

Bermudez shook his head. His fingers worked on the straps and knots holding the woman down by her wrists. “I really expected more from you. A woman as headstrong as you choose to be is normally not so easily accquainted with fear. You have seen how fruitless past efforts have been. We’ve had to wait for her lose herself to sleep. And now you exhibit a faint heart? Now, after seeing God’s hand at work?”

“She nearly scratched me before,” Mary Elizabeth grumbled. She looked away from his girth, away from all of the self-assurance that seemed to ooze from him and fill him with such obnoxiousness. “That is all.”

“God won’t allow this creature to harm you, Sister,” he answered. “Meek as a lamb, gentle as a kitten! Look upon her as she rests. Innocence.” He smiled upon the Sanchez woman, beaming like a proud parent. “She won’t harm a fly.”

“Father?” The Sanchez woman’s voice was thready, and her hands groped blindly. Bermudez drew close to her. Her hands found his and climbed to his shoulders, then around his neck. “Please, help me,” she breathed. Her fingers locked around his neck, and he lifted her easily. “Please…”

“All is well, child. You are safe in this house.” He turned to Mary Elizabeth. “Fetch water, and make haste. Get some stew warmed, too. She’s apt to be famished.” He cradled her, pulling her close and making shushing, assuring noises.

The pitcher of water was in the adjacent hallway, and when Mary Elizabeth returned, the Sanchez woman was still clinging weakly to Bermudez. “Shall I send word to the doctor in Millford? She’s bound to have family there, worried about her.”

He nodded absently. “Yes, yes. Good.” He stroked the woman’s hair. “Have some sisters come up and draw a bath. She needs proper rest.”

“Father…”

“Yes, my child?” He pulled back, looking down upon her over his nose.

“What did you call this place?”

“This is Monastery of the Order of St. Jerome, my dear. You’re safe here.”

Color returned to her face. Her eyes looked upon him with an intense, curious light. Mary Elizabeth tensed.

“That’s not what you called it,” the Sanchez woman purred. “Not before. Not when I was talking.”

His forehead wrinkled. He turned to Mary Elizabeth. His face went slack when he saw the look of fear upon the Sister’s face, and when he turned, the Sanchez woman’s eyes were full of darkness.

“You called it your church, you prideful, faithless worm.”

She clawed at him, creating crimson fissures into his cheeks and chin. He bellowed with rage and shoved her back, stumbling and falling hard onto his rump. He ran his hands along his face and glared at the blood staining his fingers and palms. An unintelligible grunt rose from him, mingled with fury and fright. Wide, uncomprehending eyes took up his entire face.

She crawled along the floor, loping and stalking, savage and amused. “In time, you will come to understand that God the Father does not share His churches and His praise with mortals as pitiful as the likes of you.” She twitched, her head turning to the side. Her lips pulled away from her teeth. “Perhaps soon.”

“Begone from this place!” he sputtered, reaching for and failing to find his cross.

“Oh, I think we’re past theatrics. Don’t you, Sister Mary Elizabeth?

Mary Elizabeth felt a scream catch in her throat. The Sanchez woman turned her gaze upon the nun, and the wide smile she’d been offering only to Father Bermudez was upon her, and the Sister felt certain that at any moment her bladder would let go. The woman cackled.

“The darkness is coming. Tonight. This gluttonous imbecile likes to wear his faith like a pretty suit, impressing those that happen to cast eyes upon him. But not you. No, I sense your faith. Your fear is there too, shining like a lone star in a cloudless sky, but your faith is there as well, lurking and prepared. So I warn you again of the darkness. I warn you to be prepared to do what must be done, else it will consume you where you stand.”

Mary Elizabeth swallowed. “I hear you.”

“And now…” the Sanchez woman rumbled, and she launched forward, her claws bared and gleaming, her mouth snarling. “…time for me to cleanse this filthy soul!” She was upon Bermudez, gouging him and spilling more blood, and the Father’s screams echoed in the darkness.

The Sister moved without thinking, her feet carrying her closer to the carnage, and not away, where she wished to be. Mary Elizabeth swung the jug of water with all of her might. It shattered upon the top of the Sanchez woman’s skull, and her shrieks and curses fell silent. She tumbled from the top of Father Bermudez. His scarred, bleeding, sobbing form trembled.

“Get the doctor! And get Father Rosario!” Mary Elizabeth screamed, sending feet scurrying in all directions. She looked upon the Sanchez woman’s prone form, waiting for it to spring to life in all of its cackling madness. “And to hell with ropes! Bring chains!”

———————————————————————————————

“Night’s fallin’.”

“I got eyes, idjit.” Fran wiped his mouth. He needed a fix soon, especially after such a long job. These moon-faced gunners were only good for eating their chow and spending all that they earned on whores. He knew that the job was important – Hiram wouldn’t have come along if it wasn’t – but he also knew that being too far away from the gaze would send him to fits, which was just the sort of thing to muck up a job.

The bounty caravan trudged along the East Road, filling the air with the whicker of horses and the groan of axles on wheels. There were a couple of riders near the front picking on guitars, but they weren’t good enough at it to really make any kind of music. Most of the riders sat in packs, speaking of home or how they planned on spending their money. A few people walked along behind, bound at their wrists, stumbling and exhausted. Those were the bounties hardly worth the reward, from dirt-poor families that had been robbed or worse. The real rewards sat in the caged wagons rolling like fat beetles in the middle of the pack.

Behind them was the vast plains, used some half-century before as fertile farmland, but now packed full of desperate highwaymen and worse. The job of collecting this many bounties had been dangerous, but most folks knew better than to cross the likes of the Blanchettes, even this far from home. Looming before them, like a stack of dead, gray teeth from a massive jaw, stood the skyline of the city that had been, Tersch.

Fran paled at the sight of the dead city, abandoned years ago in the echoes of some sort of plague. Some said it was a military attack of some kind, with all sorts of weapons dropped and blasted, sending folks a-scatterin’, but Fran’s pa, Big Blanchette, said it was a bunch of hogwash. “Folks got terrible sick, tossin’ their cookies and lettin’ loose rivers of brown water. When the docs couldn’t do a thing for ‘em, they hightailed it. All that stuck ’round was the religious, tellin’ folks prayer’d heal ‘em. Poor saps that stayed probly cursed they God ‘tween upchucks.”

Naught but shadows danced in the midst of the old buildings, once tall and majestic according to his Grandpa, and full of life. Tersch started a place of dreams, but now, it was a den of nightmares. Fran doubted that Hiram planned on actually riding through that old, haunted place, but he was going to make sure, just in case.

A voice cut into his thoughts, and Fran shook irritably. “What, now?” he spat.

“I said, best set a fire, don’tcha think?” The rider was a yokel that probably was better handling a plow than a sidearm, and with his thick accent fire became fahhr. He had a pitiful dusting of fuzz on his cheeks and chin, and he laughed like a loon when someone told any kind of joke. He was always the first to get drunk. The way he twitched made Fran think that perhaps this one was itching for a pull from the jug. Boozers.

“I look like your hired man? If you want a fire,” Fran mocked the accent perfectly, “then you’d best hop down off your squawker and set one. Otherwise shut your mouth.”

The rider grunted sourly, finally seeming to understand that Fran wasn’t in a mood for small talk, and reined up his legger and trotted past Fran, toward the front of the caravan. The legger was a rarity in these parts; flightless birds with strong legs and a mean disposition if not broken young. It glared at Fran with black, lifeless eyes as it clucked past, head bobbing with each stride.

“He is a stupid man, is he not? Perhaps you’d do well to shoot him and steal his mount. A beast like that is worth twice what you’re paying him.”

Fran turned on his horse and looked back to the caged wagon. Three of the bounties in the cage were sleeping, but the fourth never slumbered. He could sense the glowing, mismatched eyes staring at him, like a big cat in the high grass, and he trembled.

“I’m really not talking to you, you butcher.”

The man in the cage chuckled; it was a majestic, throaty sound that did little to calm Fran’s nerves. “A pity you are too daft to comprehend irony, lest you might join me in my amusement. To call a man like myself a butcher would contend that there are others here with far less blood on their hands…which you know as well as I is a misapprehension.”

“Shut your hole, Demon.”

The man in the cage ceased laughing, but Fran could feel the deadly smile in the air around him. “Yes. To some more than others.”

“Say what you will about my family, we don’t kill babies.” Fran felt his blood rising. He’d wanted to shoot this one once they’d bound him, but Hiram wouldn’t allow it. He’s far more valuable upright and breathing. Let those that will pay stretch his neck or riddle him with holes. We’ll take the pay and wash our hands of him. Fran felt for the butt of his revolver and stroked it, feeling comfort in its presence.

“Perhaps,” the man in the cage whispered. “But then, perhaps, you don’t know your family as well as you should, Fran Blanchette.” The figure pulled away from the cage, leaning against the side and swaying with the rickety ride. “By the by, I hope your dreams aren’t bad. Going so long without a hit of the gaze can do mad things to an addict.”

“You don’t know me!” Fran squalled. He pulled the revolver and took aim. “You don’t know nothing!”

“Put that thing away.”

His older brother was staring at him, sitting atop his nyx, face shadow between the tall horns. Hiram’s eyes were always piercing, even in the dark. The muscular goat-horse hybrid trotted forward, and its rider never left his gaze from Fran. “I’ve told you what he’s worth. You plan on killing him, I suggest you ride quick and don’t look back, because I’ll take what’s owed me out on your hide.” He glanced toward the cage, his eyes flat. “If he keeps running his maw, smash his yap shut with the butt of your gun.”

Fran hung his head, sliding the revolver back into his holster and not wanting to look at his brother. Hiram ruled over him, always had since they were kids. He was five years older, much stronger, much faster, and much more ruthless than Fran had ever managed to be. His name now held a reputation beyond that of his own little brother – as evidenced by the posse he was leading.

“You draw that gun on my quarry again, Francis, I’ll shoot you myself,” Hiram growled. “I won’t be paid less than I’m owed.” Hiram flapped the reins and the nyx turned, heading back towards the center of the caravan.

Fran swallowed and stared ahead as the form of his brother coalesced amidst the other riders. His own pa had told him he’d never be as strong, as smart, or as fast as his oldest brother. The memory of those words had a way of stinging him to his core. His hatred for his brother had turned black, forming into the most bitter sensation he could manage to swallow down.

“There is another option, of course,” the man in the cage said softly, dark amusement in his voice.

“Oh yeah?” Fran grunted.

“Yes, indeed. You could kill him first. Leave his body in that dead place before us, with the rest of the ghosts. It would be the wisest thing to do, Francis,” the man assured. “I am a good judge of people. I know these poor souls in this cage with me will all be blubbering and crying once their future consists only of the gallows. I know that half of these men you hired won’t get a third of what you promised them, because you’ll find a way to cheat them out of the pay. And I also know that at some point, your brother means to kill you.”

Fran glared at the shadow figure looming near the bars. “Hiram ain’t killin’ me.”

Laughter drifted from the cage, black and ill-spirited. “Perhaps not today, maybe not even this season, but he does mean to destroy you, at some point. The only question is: When that day comes, will you be able to stop him?”

“You talk too much.”

“You think too little.” The man gripped the cage, and fading sunlight spilled over his dark features. Pale eyes – one green and one yellow – peered from a face the color of midnight. “Free me and I will kill him for you, since you lack the courage.”

“You just hush,” Fran spat, but his words weren’t angry. He had trouble masking the intrigue he felt.

“It’s a standing offer, but linger not upon it too long,” the caged man remarked. He backed away from the bars, lounging in the meager space of the cell. “If I find a way to free myself, I might come for you first, instead. Just to take the joy from your brother.”

—————————————————————————————–

“You’ve got quite a gift with coffee,” Father Rosario remarked, his face hovering behind the steam. He took a lengthy sip and offered an amorous sigh. Sister Mary Elizabeth smiled and simply drank hers, trying not to encourage the mischievous priest.

Shadows shrouded the dining room, with only the shimmering orange orbs of candles casting ghostly light throughout the room. They sat at an oak table, lacking decoration. Their chairs lacked cushion. The shutters creaked against the evening breeze, groaning from age and disuse. The priest and the sister lingered quietly. Rosario inhaled the aroma of the coffee, quietly thanking God for this rare luxury. He noted how the shadows caused the sister’s frown to age her.

“Millford’s a plenty long haul, Father,” she said, setting her mug upon the table. “Paulina and Doris are dedicated to the church and to God, that’s not to be doubted, but I’m not sure they were the best choices for the task. Father Bermudez needs someone to tend to his face, and my doctoring doesn’t go much past midwifing.”

“That’s a treasure to know, that amongst priests and nuns, we have someone capable of delivering a baby. Is there something naughty amiss that I need to be made aware of?” Rosario laughed. He was a lean man of an age with Bermudez, though laugh-lines creased his features more than stress and wrinkles. Dark hair, peppered with haphazard patches of gray, framed a kind face. His hazel eyes danced behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.

“Not for here. I need to learn more, in case of any situations such as this,” she said. She shook her head. “I don’t like having her here. She says such frightful things, and she speaks like something from another time.”

“Paz?”

Mary Elizabeth blinked. Rosario chuckled. “The girl that attacked Father Bermudez. Her name is Paz. You really didn’t know, did you?”

“I only knew her last name.”

“She lives not far from here,” Rosario continued. “On the other side of the dead city. Her family travels about, using the land as they can and trying to stay a step ahead of harriers.” He took another lengthy sip, relishing the flavor. “Brave people, to live on this sort of land. Far too many sorts that would come and take all they had. Sometimes, they did come. More often, though, they limped away.” A small curve of a smile rested upon his lips.

“Her father brought her this way. Said she was talking crazy, speaking like a different person. I’d met with them in the past, prayed and supped with them. Seemed like the least I could do, to offer hospitality to them when they’d given it so freely to me over the years.” He shrugged. “I didn’t realize how bad things were.”

“I hate that she has to be chained, but she is so very strong, Father,” Mary Elizabeth said, words rushed. Bermudez had never mentioned that Rosario knew the family. “If you had seen–”

“The scars that Father Bermudez bears are more than enough for me. He could have been more careful, but I know how he operates, and I’ve no doubt he was so sure he had a handle on things.” Rosario sighed. “He is my colleague, but he can also be a fool when his pride gets the best of him. I try to stay out of his way, mainly to spare his feelings: He’s always thought that I think he is inferior to me. In truth, I fear for him. He lives recklessly for a man in his position. He places more faith in his own intellect than in the will of God.”

“If I may speak freely?”

Rosario barked a laugh, gesturing with his mug. “Woman, I’ve been speaking freely all this time. I’m no nobleman lording over you and expecting you to remain subservient to me. Speak, and do it as freely as you can manage.”

“Father Bermudez nearly got everyone in that room killed. If the Sanchez woman–”

“Paz,” Rosario interrupted, though not chiding.

“Paz, forgive me. If Paz had managed to avoid the jug, she would have been able to kill all of us. The strength that she bears…it is unnatural, even for a strong woman.”

Rosario tilted his head. “It seems to me that all of you believe that Paz is the host for something unnatural. And whatever is within her is bestowing strength and knowledge and all sorts of malice upon her soul. Is that right?”

“It has to be,” Mary Elizabeth confirmed. “It’s been years since I saw one, but this is a demon. A strong one at that.”

Rosario nodded, but he held his index finger up, begging her consideration. “Yet both you and Father Bermudez say that Paz – or rather, the entity that is within her – chastised the Father for claiming that this was his own church, rather than belonging to The Lord. Do I have that right?”

“It was madness. The rage upon her face was terrible to behold, and–”

“Please, answer my question,” Rosario interjected, and though there was no impatience in his voice, his stare compelled Mary Elizabeth to stop and think.

“Yes,” she answered. “She…IT…called him prideful. And faithless.”

Rosario stroked his chin, eyes staring into the vacant shadows at the corners of the room. “Did she sound angry with him when she called him these things?”

“Oh yes,” Mary Elizabeth nodded. “Furious, in fact.”

He laced his fingers together, shaking his head. “Therein lies the deepest portion of my worry. I am concerned enough with Paz being horribly violent, and having to keep her bound, but the fact that she was angry when accusing Father Bermudez of pride and faithlessness makes me wonder. What kind of demon would be enraged by a priest that was falling out of line with God?”

Comprehension dawned, but was quickly shrouded in a new fog of confusion. It did seem passing strange that a demon would be angered with Father Bermudez succumbing to sin, even one that seemed so small in the eyes of men. Yet if it wasn’t a demon, what was it? “I cannot answer that, Father.”

Rosario pushed himself away from the table. “I suppose there is only one way to figure this out, without the Almighty opening the skies and telling us directly.” He paused, looking to the ceiling hopefully, then chuckled to himself. He winked at Mary Elizabeth. “Well, it was worth a try.”

“You don’t mean to go see her now, do you?” Mary Elizabeth gnawed at her lower lip. “There are so few of us here.”

“Never, Sister,” Rosario winked. “In these halls, one never walks alone. Praise be that He is always with us, especially in His own house.”

——————————————————————————————–

The moon hung fat and lazy in the southern sky, bobbing along slowly above the bruised horizon. Fran chewed his beans methodically, staring into the fire and pondering on the offer made by the indigo-skinned killer.

Oxen snorted and stirred, tethered to the parked wagons. The few leggers in their menagerie buried their heads beneath their wings, sitting down on their folded, muscular legs. Horses snorted and whinnied in the darkness. It was the men – always the men – that made most of the noise, laughing and cursing and shouting. Their faces were huge and orange in the glow of the bonfire. The bawdy stories they shared was keeping them from their sleep.

“She told me that her pa would need to meet me ‘afore we did the deed,” said a voice, choking back hysterics, “An’ I said her to her – woman, all you’ll be wed to tonight is the beastie in my pants, so if you want yer pa green with envy, by all means, let him come by and meet it!”

Guffaws echoed above the rising smoke of the fire. Men spat beans and water everywhere, clutching their bellies and hooting at another exaggerated tale from the hired guns. Hiram sat among them, a small, bemused smile on his face, staring upon all of them with his flat eyes. A few men slapped his back, thinking he was laughing as well, but Fran knew his brother far too well. His eyes were like a doll’s eyes, lacking in everything, especially humor.

“Where is the closest town? I could do for my beastie to be freed for a bit!” shouted another.

“Ain’t naught but haunts and deadmen in that shadowy place,” said another, voice still amused. “Can’t imagine anything else being out this way. You’ll have to tame that monster yourself, seems.”
Laughter rose again.

“There’s a church out this way, somewhere near what’s left of the city,” said another, his voice mangled around the beans he was trying to eat.

“Mayhap you can charm one of the sisters from their black robes and show her your salvation.” Hoots and cackles rose into the air.

“Not this one,” replied another, solemn. “I heard laying with them women puts in straight into the fires of Hell. I done enough bad, I don’t need some church-woman making sure I meet the devil.”

“I’m already burned, might as well go straight there instead of foolin’ myself I might end up elsewhere!” cried someone, and he was given laughter and backslapping.

“Millford isn’t far.” The laughter faded slowly into silence, until it was softer than the whir of the cicadas. Hiram toyed at his beans with a spoon, and looked up, his eyes seeing all around him, and he gave a small, acknowledging smile. Fran felt the electric prickle of anxiety run over his body; his brother stood amongst the hired men, and they looked up to him the way that a lowly peasant would a king. “Once there, you can get the whoring out of your system. No need to worry about laying down with women of the church.”

One of them laughed nervously. “A-course not, Hi. We’ll leave ‘em be.”
A long blade slowly emerged from Hiram’s boot. He admired it for a moment, and then began to pare his nails with deliberate nonchalance.

"See that you do.”

“Ain’t you just a saint.”

Fran swallowed. From the shadows, a staggering figure coalesced, his hat askew. A ruddy face looked down upon the inhabitants of the bonfire with derision. The shabby creature in a rumpled overcoat and stained shirt was Emil Boggs. He’d always been one of Big Blanchette’s men, and upon a time he’d been the best tracker in the region. Now, he was only good at finding whatever brew might be in the camp.

“Emil,” Hiram replied. A placid tone carried his voice, but his eyes were narrow and watchful. Fran licked his lips, alternating gazes between the old drunk and his brother.

“You seem awful troubled with the thought of your boys trussin’ up some nuns and making women of them,” Boggs slurred. A bottle trembled in his grasp, with a splash of amber liquid swirling along the bottom with each shambling step. “You don’t have a mind shootin’ anything that get’s in your way, mind ya–”

"Emil, while I am proud of you for getting your lips from ’round that bottle long enough to say ‘Boo,’ I have to admit I don’t rightly care for anything you have to say right about now.” Hiram sniffed loudly, drawing his pipe from beneath his jacket and filling it with slow, deliberate taps. “Why don’t you go on: finish that drink and sleep it off. Sleep ’til the day of judgment, for all I care. In between all of that, you’ll mind what you say.” A match scratched and popped alight, and he took steady puffs from the pipe. Hiram’s eyes flashed with each pull. “Go on, now.”

Emil’s eyes narrowed and widened, and a fat tongue rolled from between his lips, saturating them. Most of the men in camp were in need of a wash, but the stink coming from Boggs was profound. Fran lowered his beans to the ground, heart pounding in his chest, hoping that the old man would call off his little show of defiance.

“Ain’tcher dog, like these jackboots.” He brought the bottle to his lips, draining it. It tumbled from his grip, landing weakly on the hardpan, not shattering. A low, neuteredclang echoed against the crackling fire. “I seen you and Fran grow from swaddled rags to where the both of you is today. You won’t treat me this way.”

“Shut up, Boggsy,” Fran blurted. His voice quavered. He’d wanted no part in any of this, but he knew all too well when someone was pushing Hiram too far.

The round, beleaguered face turned to Fran, and its features screwed into an expression of disdain. “Notchoo, Fran. Not the little whelp. No, you won’t bark at me without me taking you down a few pegs!”
Laughter drizzled throughout the onlookers, and heat rose to Fran’s cheeks.

"A whelp he is, no doubt about it,” Hiram agreed, and he shifted. A crack of thunder rattled all around them. Fran saw the soft reflection of the fire on Hiram’s pistol, now naked in the evening breeze, with a lazy, rising tendril of smoke peeking from the barrel. Emil blinked, and a trickling flow of blood flickered over his wrinkled eyelid and splashed below to his cheek. A dark, wet hole above his eyebrow gleamed. The drunk collapsed.

Silence encompassed them.

Hiram holstered his revolver fluidly and gave Fran a particularly harsh expression. “Since you don’t mind a dead man calling you out, then I figure you won’t mind cleaning up that mess.” He waved a dismissive hand at the fresh corpse. “So go ahead whelp, and get to it. Can’t see you being useful for much else.”

The riders snorted. Whispers behind hands and smiling eyes were cast upon him. They think me weak, too, just like Hiram.. He snatched Boggs by the ankles and began dragging him. A small trench shadowed the dead man’s girth.

“Pa won’t like this,” he remarked, grunting.

"But he ain’t here, you stupid jackass,” Hiram spat. “Get that stinking husk out from my sight. And the dead body, too.”

Fran darkened under the rushing waves of laughter. He felt at his hip, scowling.Should have brought it, a voice said in his mind, but the thought evaporated at the sight of Hiram’s careful, carnivorous eyes. A smile, rapier thin, crossed his features, as if to say, Pity you ain’t got something hanging there.

Fran dragged the body into the shadows. His gaze caught the shadow of the caged wagon. Gotta be him, Fran decided, bitter. The Indigo Man’s warnings were true.

Fran hoped his shot was as true as his visions.

---------------------


Comfort was a luxury that eluded him in the cage. He stretched as much as was possible to keep his muscles from knotting and his limbs from going numb. A hollow gurgle echoed in the pit of his stomach. Death was coming for everyone, and for those that lived like he did, it tended to arrive early. This understanding kept the cold realization of his impending demise from burdening him.

The other denizens of the cage kept their distance from him, scooting away if they came close to brushing one another, as if the man’s nature was catching. Their eyes always looked upon him with stark terror. They were even afraid to speak with him, which suited him fine. He’d never been good with friends, and he doubted that the sort cooped up with him in this place were the sort that he’d like to be associated with.

He could hear laughing in the distance, and smell the scent of trail chow. He knew he’d get fed the bottom of the pot, with probably a little bit of dirt and ash mixed throughout to remind him of his place here. He’d take the food. Hunger overpowered his pride.

The moon cast a pale sheet upon the interior of the cage, illuminating his legs. The other wagons were parked in a cluster nearby, dark and vacant. The towering spires of the dead city loomed in the distance, watching over them like hungry massive vultures. He would see some of the riders look upon Tersch and cross themselves. It made him laugh. God doesn’t dwell in that place. He abandoned it long ago.

His bunkmates were sleeping, their forms contorted and folded in the cramped space. He rolled his shoulders forward, trying to work the kinks out of his neck. Footsteps whispered near the cage, and he froze, eyes scanning.

A pair of arms sprang into the darkness, encompassing one of the prone forms of his fellow criminals. A rag was stuffed into his nose and face. He twitched feebly, arms trembling against the assailant, before falling slack. The same process was done with the other two, though with less struggle.

“I’ll fight harder than them,” he called out. “Fair warning.”

“Not the plan,” said a familiar voice. “I need you awake.”

He turned toward the voice, and looked upon the pale face of the younger brother. “Little Blanchette, whatever do you think you’re doing?” he inquired.

“Shut up, Demon.” He gestured, and a pair of men emerged from the other side of the wagon, looking around them with worry. “Help me get him out of here. Lou, go watch and make sure nobody else is curious about the Indigo Man. Can’t have that right now.”

The one named Lou removed his hat, wringing it in his hands. “Whatcha want me to do if that happens?”

“Knock ‘em out or kill ‘em, I don’t care much. But don’t let nobody know what we’re doing here.”

Lou nodded and faded into the darkness.

The younger brother smiled up at him. “Yorrick Mordecai Baptiste, right? Not Demon, or Indigo, or whatever anyone calls you. You got a name, regular as the rest of us.”

He smiled down from the cage. “Baptiste is my name, yeah, and I suppose that makes us alike. But that’s all that makes us alike.”

Blanchette drew his revolver. The barrel looked huge and cavernous in the dark. “Not true. I could shoot you here and you’d die, just as easily as I would, if the tables was turned. You’re not something beyond the rest of us. Just a freak with freak skin. You still bleed. You still die.”

Baptiste smiled. “Someone got your goat tonight, I reckon. You sound mighty angry. And since we haven’t spoken in some time, I wager I can guess who did it to you. Again.”

Blanchette scowled. “He’s gotta die.”

“Oh certainly, but in that regard, we all have to die, Fran.” His feline grin split his features, exposing a row of white teeth that starkly contrasted his inky skin. “You were just opining about such truths. What makes Hiram Blanchette need to meet his maker any sooner than the rest of us?”

“Just does. You said you’d do it. Or was you just jawin’ at me?”

“Oh, I’d be thrilled to do it, that offer still stands.” He pulled close to the bars. “I’d be plenty amused to do the same deed to you, as far as that goes. Can you trust me?”

“Kill him, and I’ll let you be. You can take what you need and do whatever it is that you need to do. You won’t get no trouble from me.”

“I’m hardly worried about trouble from you.” He inhaled deeply. “But, right now, freedom is a delicious thought. I accept your terms.”

“Duke, help him down.” Now it was Fran looking over his shoulders, eyes wide and ears raised. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Duke, the biggest of the three, took Baptiste by the wrist and helped hiim down out of the cage. It swayed at the shift in weight, and the three slumbering residents made no protest.

Pins and needles emerged in his legs, and Baptiste sat down, hissing as he massaged the pain away. The air no longer suffocated him. Duke and Fran exchanged an uneasy glance, and Baptiste clucked at them. “You try sitting in that cramped space with the stink of the Earth as your companion. I can promise you, your legs won’t be the same if you just try to get up and go.”

“We ain’t got time for this, Fran, someone could come,” Duke muttered, his fingers flexing and relaxing.

“Lou will let us know, just settle–”

“Lou’s dumber than a rock and he can’t see everywhere. Tell the darkie to move it.”

“The darkie can hear you,” Baptiste remarked.

“Shut it,” Duke snapped, but his fear overwhelmed all else. “Why the hell did I agree to this? If Hiram finds out I was party to this, he’ll flay me.” He drew a huge pistol, cocking the hammer and aiming it toward Baptiste. “Kill him, that’s what we do. He got out and we had to shoot him.”

“Put it away, for God’s sake!” Fran hissed, taking the big man by the arm and pulling him away from Baptiste. “Hiram ain’t stupid. We kill ‘im, and he’ll wanna know how them other boys got knocked out so easy. He’ll flay you then, too. You wanna save your skin? Let the Demon kill Hiram and there ain’t a thing he can do to any of us.”

“Shooting me would be counterproductive,” Baptiste added.

Duke scowled, but he disarmed the gun and slammed it into his holster. “I don’t like this Fran. Not one bit.” He turned to Baptiste. “You done rubbin’ yerself?”

“Are you offering to help?”

Fran couldn’t help it; he snickered. Duke’s murderous stare softened, and even he chuffed a soft laugh at the joke. Baptiste smiled, his pale teeth glittering in the moonlight. He thought it was remarkable that these were the sort to free him. He hadn’t been sure that he would be able to figure his way out of the cage, but God had strange ways of offering providence.

He stood and took shambling, uneasy steps. “Like a fawn,” he muttered to himself, and he moved toward the other two. “Okay, then. I should be good. What do we do now?”

“Kill Hiram.” Fran’s brutal voice lacked any fear; he was ready for the deed to be done.

“Yes, I’ve gathered that was part of it. Is there a plan?”

Duke and Fran shared another glance, and Baptiste shook his head. “You guys have really planned this out well, haven’t you? Step one: Free the Indigo Man. Step two: Let him kill Hiram. Am I supposed to be the brains or the brawn of this outfit?”

“I figured a fella like you would know what you’d need to do to kill a man,” Fran responded, petulant.

“Oh, I know what I need to do. In fact, I’m a bit relieved that neither one of you thinks ahead in such a way. Otherwise, you might have been prepared for this.”

He moved like a cobra, liquid and furiously fast, stomping Duke inches below the knee. His leg bent askew, and he tumbled forward. He opened his mouth to cry out in pain, but Baptiste lunged ahead of him, driving his elbow into the big man’s gut, expelling the air from him before he could shout. Duke folded forward, gasping and agonized. Baptiste swung his arm in a huge, rising arc, and struck Duke behind the ear. He fell forward, his leg twisted to the wrong side, and made no sound.

Fran had his hand on his pistol, ready to draw, but Baptiste already had Duke’s gun aimed at the younger Blanchette’s face.

Fran made a low, mewling sound.

“I suppose you thought yourself passing smart, drawing a murderer from his den to do your dirty work,” Baptiste hissed. He pulled back the hammer. “I have stayed free for as long as I have because most that thought they could dupe me were only twice as smart as you. Your plan was simple, and you didn’t share it with me because, in the end, you planned on shooting me to avenge your brother’s murder and win the favor of all of these other men. I don’t like people that plan to kill me.”

“You shoot that gun, you kill me, but then they’ll all hear it and come running.” Tears leaked from Fran’s eyes, and his lips trembled. “You won’t make it nowhere.”

White teeth emerged from the dark lips, carnivorous. “I think that’s more of my problem than yours, don’t you?”

And he moved again, free hand a blur as it caught Fran just below the chin. His head snapped back, knocking his hat to the dirt. He wobbled a bit before falling, and his eyes lost focus. Baptiste snatched his pistol from his holster, stuffing it into the band of his jeans.

“Worry not, I still plan on killing your brother,” he offered. “Just not today.”

“Hold it!”

He turned, and there was Lou the lookout, come back to see if the deed was done. Baptiste had no chance to draw, and there was a crack that filled the air like thunder, and a sharp pain took him in the shoulder. He fell to a knee, grimacing.

Lou looked at him with wide eyes, and then looked upon Duke and Fran. His hesitation gave Baptiste the time he needed – he drew and fired twice, both shots taking the lookout in the head. Lou fell without a word, landing noisily beside the caged wagon.

Shouts emerged in the distance. Baptiste pressed a hand to his wounded shoulder and groaned. He had hoped to make a clean getaway. He didn’t know how far it would be to someone that could tend to him. He shuffled from the aftermath of his escape, moving toward the horses that he thought might still have some provisions packed upon them. He wouldn’t be able to prepare as he’d hoped. The cries and footfalls of the other men seemed frighteningly close as he merged into the shadows.