Chapter Seventy-one
Malachi could not believe what was happening. His followers, the army he had sired, gunned down and burned to near death before his eyes. How? This was not Shaniah’s doing. He knew that. It was humans who had created weapons that killed and maimed his people. Impossible.
He remembered centuries before, when the Old Ones had decided that mankind had grown beyond the ability of the Archaics to treat them simply as prey. He had argued against it then and he had opposed it again when the Council chose Shaniah to be their leader. We are Archaics! He had reasoned. Humans should tremble before us! But the Council had been too weak. They had always been too timid. Afraid of tiny beings no better than insects.
When the decision to avoid human contact was made, the Archaics fractured. Most went along to the high mountains of Eastern Romania. But a few scattered, never to be heard from again. There were times he wondered about those who had chosen freedom; had they survived? Had they lived and prospered in the human world? Did they still feast on the Huma Sangra?
Malachi had decided to wait. He went along with the others to the high mountains. But one day he would become an Eternal. Then he would take control of his people. And he would show them that humans were not to be feared. Humans were nothing more than food.
Once he left, after Shaniah’s ascension to leadership, he had quickly learned on his journey to this place about the advances of humankind and their remarkable ingenuity. He had seen human weapons up close. Had felt them cut his skin and pierce his flesh. And he had found them to be no match for a true Archaic. A mosquito bite. Even those humans who had learned control of the elementals did not instill fear in him. He was unbeatable.
To Malachi, humans were nothing more than walking meals. He remembered that, a few years ago, he had been on the plains of Wyoming and his band had killed a group of soldiers. One of the soldiers had shot him several times. He felt the bullets stinging his skin but hardly slowing him down. The soldier had no idea how close he was to death. How Malachi would feast on his blood. But the sun came up and he did not have time to kill and drain the man.
Archaics owned the night. Another reason they could decimate the human race when he raised his army. Humans feared the night. Darkness was a great disadvantage to them. They could not see, did not feel or hear the presence of an Archaic stalking them until the fangs sank into their necks. And they died, as they should.
He had come to America to get away from the very Archaics like Shaniah and the Old Ones who could have stopped him if he had stayed in the old country. Every step of the way he had planned carefully, turning followers when they were needed, but carefully planning and growing.
He was close to unleashing his full fury on the human race, but now he saw before him these puny creatures that stood toe to toe with his Archaics unafraid, with weapons he could not imagine. The cries and screams of agony of his people brought him back to the present.
He was angry and confused, and for a moment not sure of what he should do. Should he retreat? Let his soldiers die here and start afresh somewhere else? All he needed to do was live three more days and he would be an Eternal. Nothing, no weapon, no spell, no elemental could kill him after that.
“I tried to tell you this would happen.”
The voice from behind him actually startled him, but he showed now sign of it as he turned to face her.
“Hello, Shaniah,” he said. “It is good to see you again.”
Chapter Seventy-two
Hollister emptied the Fire Shooter and then shrugged the other one onto his back, twisted the knob, and pulled the trigger. Fire shot out of the barrel and more Archaics screamed and died. In Absolution, Shaniah had said that fire would not kill an Archaic. He had to consider the possibility that she was lying or withholding something in case she needed some tactical advantage later. Because to Hollister it looked like the Fire Shooter took the flesh right off their bones. He wondered if they were able to regrow skin. Maybe they could come back to life as skeletons or something. Or maybe Monkey Pete had put something in his “mixture” to give it a little extra kick. Holy water, maybe? Whatever it was, the Archaics sure looked dead.
The ground between the two buildings and the mine shaft was littered with bodies. By Hollister’s count there were maybe only sixty Archaics left alive. It was almost over. If they killed the rest of them, he could go after Malachi. He checked the gauge on the Fire Shooter and it now was about a quarter of a tank full.
He was swinging the barrel back and forth, the fire knocking down Archaics like bowling pins. Up near the mine entrance he saw Malachi still standing on the crates. It was like he was glued to the spot, forced by someone to watch his army crumble before his eyes. Suddenly Malachi broke for the mine shaft, and Hollister thought for sure he saw someone in a dark coat and flash of blond hair following him. Shaniah. Going into the mine after Malachi. A bad idea. Really bad idea. He couldn’t let her do it alone. She had taken a part of him. His heart, his soul. He just knew he couldn’t let her face Malachi alone.
He glanced across at Chee in the shed, still working the Gatling.
“CHEE!” he hollered, hoping he could be heard over the sound of the gun. The sergeant looked in his direction.
“I’m going after Malachi. You clean up the rest!”
“Major! I don’t think-”
“Shaniah is in there with him!”
“Sir! Please don’t, she will be able to…”
But Hollister was no longer paying attention. He slung the Ass-Kicker over his shoulder. For good measure, he put a couple of bundles of dynamite in the pockets of his duster. He grabbed the Henry with one hand and kept the barrel of the almost empty Fire Shooter in his other. He glanced out the open wall. He had a clear path most of the way to the mine. Chee was still working the Gatling and Hollister reminded himself to thank Monkey Pete for packing so much additional ammo.
Hollister broke through the door frame and cut to his left around the building. There weren’t any Archaics closer than thirty yards away, so he sprinted toward the mine. Five or six noticed he was out in the open and came his way. He pulled the trigger on the Fire Shooter. And as often happens in dangerous or combat situations, a strange and silly thought entered his mind. He really didn’t like the name “Fire Shooter” for Pete’s weapon. He made a mental note to work on a new name for it.
The fire shot out of the barrel and drove the advancing Archaics back, giving him time to run toward the mine shaft. And he would have made it just fine if he hadn’t tripped and fallen face-first into the dirt. He wasn’t hurt- mostly embarrassed, and afraid he was going to die like a fool, letting six Archaics jump on him and tear him apart. When he got to his knees though, he saw how close he was to serious trouble and his embarrassment disappeared. An Archaic had seen him tumble and lunged in his direction. Hollister swore they could cover twenty yards in a single bound. It would be on him in an instant. He dropped the Fire Shooter and tried to bring his Henry up so he could shoot, but the slings and belts were all tangled up from the fall. Only ten yards left, he pulled his Colt and was raising it to fire when Dog knocked the Archaic flat on its ass.
The creature had once been a young boy, and though he possessed newfound strength and agility with his new Archaic abilities, he was no match for the massive, enraged animal. There was no question Dog had developed a passionate hatred for Archaics. He wasted no time, grabbing the throat and shaking the creature as easily as he might shake a rabbit. Hollister staggered to his feet, raised the Henry, and shot the Archaic in the heart. It exploded into a cloud of dust. If it was possible for a canine to look disappointed, Dog did.
“Sorry to ruin your fun, boy. I appreciate you saving me and all, but I’m in a rush,” he said.
He checked the Henry and both pistols. The dynamite remained in the pockets of his duster. But the barrel of Fire Shooter was now clogged with dirt. He knocked it on his boot trying to clear it, and some of it came loose but it was still plugged, deep in the barrel. He shrugged out of the apparatus and left it there. He didn’t have time to try to fix it and it was almost out of fuel. The Ass-Kicker was probably a better choice anyway. He slung the Henry on his back and pulled the Ass-Kicker around to his waist. He worked the action, heard the small hiss of steam as the
