The old cantina looked like something from just this side of Hell. Run down, with no exterior lighting, save a neon sign that threw garish shadows across its face, it squatted in the middle of the desert. It was ugly, in all senses of the word. But, for all its hideousness, it had a strange appeal. Its attraction was like that of an auto accident, grotesque, but fascinating.
The twin headlights of the hearse pierced the night with stark beams of white light. As the black vehicle meandered up the drive, the light played across the surroundings. A half dozen semis could be seen parked out front, with another dozen behind the building. About twenty motorcycles of differing make, model and condition rested along the front of the structure, some parked in lines, others grouped haphazardly. A Winnebago, looking completely out of place, sat near the edge of the patch of bare dirt that served as a parking lot. Many of the parked vehicles were caked with the dust and dirt of the dry desert plains of northern Mexico, and some were broken-down and neglected-looking. The hearse cruised past them, its headlights casting long shadows behind them, pulling to a stop at the steps of the dilapidated adobe building.
The driver's door opened, and a figure, silhouetted by the hearse's interior lights, stepped out. He stood next to his vehicle and turned slowly, scanning the area. He could see nothing that might present a threat, so he motioned to the passengers and closed his door.
In the shadowy, surreal light of the neon, the driver struck a rather unusual figure. Tall, very tall, and thin, very thin, he was dressed in a black suit. The cut of his clothes was several decades old, showing either a lack of fashion sense, or a taste for history. The black clothing accentuated his pale skin and dark ponytail. As he walked around the car, his black boots left small depressions in the loose soil. With little expression on his face, and eyes as flat and dark as the night sky, he surveyed his surroundings, like a predator hunting for prey.
The passenger-side door opened, and a woman stepped out. Dressed conservatively, in slacks and a blazer, the woman also favored dark colors. Her turtleneck sweater provided a dark contrast to her pale skin. Her hair was also black, but a white streak ran down the part, and it was pulled back in a severe and conservative bun. She favored the driver with an impassive look, her eyes hidden by the dark glasses that she wore.
The man reached into his vest and pulled out a silver pocket watch. He popped it open and examined its face. Showing it to the woman, he said, "About that time, Natasha."
The woman briefly examined the watch, and then nodded. "Let us begin then." She turned and addressed the other passengers: "Get ready."
The other doors to the hearse opened. A man, dressed rather casually, but not distinctively, stepped out. A t-shirt, blue jeans, and trench coat gave him a rather scruffy, if generic, appearance. He scratched the stubble on his chin as he exited, and fished in a pocket, removing a battered package of unfiltered cigarettes and a lighter. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag as he looked up at the building. Murmuring to himself, but loud enough for the others to hear, he said, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." His only response was a grunt from the man in black, who had moved to the back of the hearse and was opening up the rear door.
The last passenger provided a bright contrast to her two dark companions. She wore her clothing loose and bright, the colors suggestive of a summer's day, rather than a dark night or, in the case of the scruffier man, a seedy neighborhood. She studied the garish neon that flickered across the surface of the building from where she sat, with the door open, but still within the hearse, as if the heavy metal vehicle provided her with some protection. Nervously, she twisted the folds of her light cotton skirt in her hands, and her pretty, expressive face was filled with a look of trepidation.
The scruffy man stepped around to the back of the hearse. As he approached the other man, saying, "Sure wish the twins were here. Wasn't there any way that you could've gotten them out of jail, Jack?"
The driver had opened the rear door of the vehicle and was reaching in to remove its contents. Lying in the back of the vehicle was a collection of firearms that would make most collectors green with envy and cause the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms to blow a collective gasket. "The Sheriff was doing his job, Samuel," he replied, pulling out selected weapons. "I wasn't about to waste time breaking them out. They should learn not to pick fights in small-town cantinas."
Samuel shrugged. He took the pump shotgun that Jack offered him and checked the action. "It'd just sit easier with me if they were here, that's all."
Jack nodded and handed him a large drum clip filled with shells. He pulled out a Calico 9 mm pistol, fitted with a helical clip. Holding 50 rounds, it rarely needed reloading during a firefight. Resting the unusual sidearm on the top of the car, he reached back in for more weapons. "Their presence would be a help, but I think that we can perform this extermination without them," he commented. "We'll pick them up tomorrow, when we go back through town."
Natasha came around the car and looked down at the girl. "Do not be nervous," she said. "We have done this before."
"You have," said the girl. "I haven't."
"You will do well. Stay close to the door and take care of any that get past the rest of us. The beasts will be frenzied with hunger and will not have the sense to see that you are scared. Be calm and all will be well."
"But why us? Why me?" the girl demanded.
"Because we have to," said Samuel, resting his elbows on the roof of the car. His cigarette was dog-lipped in the corner of his mouth, and the smoke drifted about his head. "Each of us has been touched, or cursed, or influenced by the evils that these beasts represent, the evils that they are a mere fraction of. Because we know of them, we must destroy them. It is in our power to do so, and it is our destiny to do so. It is your destiny too, Karen. Don't forget what brought you to us."
Karen looked from Samuel to Natasha. The older woman nodded, confirming his speech. Karen looked over at Jack, but the dark man was busy loading a weapon and had his head down inside the car. She sighed, resigned to her fate. "It's just so ... ," she trailed off.
"I know," replied Natasha. Jack came up and held out a pair of pistols. Natasha nodded, taking both and handing the smaller, lighter one to the girl. Jack looked at Natasha, an eyebrow cocked in concern, but she dismissed him, and he stepped back to where Samuel was pulling out a tool belt and loading it down with equipment. A collection of rather mundane wooden stakes and mallets were tucked into it before Samuel shucked his trenchcoat off and pulled on the belt.
Natasha turned back to the girl. "Karen, look at me."
Karen looked. The two women stared at each other for a moment, and then Natasha took Karen into a motherly hug. "We will not let anything hurt you," she said softly. "I will not let anything hurt you." She released the girl and looked at her again, an eyebrow raised to form an unspoken question. Karen sniffed a little and then nodded. Natasha smiled the barest hint of a smile, barely breaking the impassive face she showed the world.
Jack and Samuel walked over. Jack surveyed the group. "Everyone ready?" he asked quietly. Natasha nodded, and Karen hesitantly said, "Yessir."
"Well, then, let us begin. We have little time."
Samuel reached into his tool belt and handed Natasha four clips of 9 mm shells. Natasha took one and handed the other three to Karen. Samuel seemed ready to object, but she silenced him with a raised eyebrow.
The group arranged themselves into a visible pattern. Jack and Natasha took the lead, approaching the steps of the building. Samuel and Karen followed, bringing up the rear. Samuel flashed Karen a quick smile and a thumbs-up before moving into his position. Karen smiled weakly and followed.
At the foot of the steps, Jack studied the front entrance of the building. It was a pair of heavy oaken doors, old and stained. The building had once been a mission, or some other similar religious edifice, built by the Spaniards when they occupied this part of northern Mexico. It had weathered the elements as well as could be expected, and the door remained as strong as it had been when it was first hung on the cast iron hinges.
Jack tilted his head slightly as he studied the entrance, and listened. Faintly, he could hear the snarls and other noises of feeding beasts, as well as the moans of their prey. He looked over to Natasha, and said, "We have too little time for subtlety."
Natasha nodded, and Jack turned to face the doors. Without looking, he handed the Calico over his shoulder, to Samuel. Jack reached into his coat for an ancient revolver, an old Navy Colt, its dark metal matched by the ebony handle. It seemed to flow out of the shoulder holster and perch on Jack's hand like a beast made of steel and wood. Jack lifted it and fired, fanning the hammer with his other hand. Four shots rang out, one to each corner of the doors, and then a fifth, towards the very center. As the echo of the fifth shot bounced off of the building, he started up the stairs.
As Jack slowly made his way up the steps, the doors began to move. Slowly, the weight of the heavy wood began to feel the pull of gravity and, with the pins of the hinges shattered by the bullets from the revolver, there was little to stop the doors from falling away from their moorings. As Jack progressed past the third step, halfway to the doors, they fell away, shattering against the top step, the fall breaking apart the lock already damaged by Jack's fifth bullet. Their impact with the stone floor echoed across the night, and kicked up a cloud of dust. Jack calmly stepped over them into the doorway. As he moved into the building, he reached into his pocket and pulled forth a handful of shells. Calmly, but quickly, with a skill born of long practice, he reloaded the pistol without looking, keeping his eyes on the interior of the building. Natasha, Samuel and Karen followed close behind.
The view that greeted the four would cause the sanity of a normal man to shrivel. Bestial monsters, mockeries of human form, were in all parts of the room. Their prey, a motley collection of bikers, truck drivers and lost tourists, was strewn everywhere. Several lay on a bar along the back wall. Many of them had had their throats or wrists torn open, but a few still lived. The beasts were over their victims, their contorted snarling faces covered in blood and gore. Their snarls mixed eerily with the moans of the living.
The dull crash of the door had broken the beasts' feeding frenzy. Most of the monsters were staring at Jack as he stepped through the dust, calmly working the third bullet into the revolver. Jack surveyed the room coldly, and many of the beasts flinched away rather than meet his stare, despite their apparent ferocity.
One monstrosity, a female, wearing the scanty clothing of a table dancer, approached Jack cautiously. Carefully, she edged around toward Natasha keeping Jack between her and Samuel's shotgun. Samuel seemed disinclined to do anything but watch. He looked about, taking in the various shadowed alcoves, the bandstand, jukebox, doors, and other landmarks. The shotgun hung loosely from its shoulder strap, and his hands, including the one holding Jack's Calico, were at his sides. The female spoke, her voice rough from the mouth full of angular teeth, "You are here for the feast?" Jack studied her for a moment, as his hands, working as of their own volition, slipped a fourth bullet into the gun. He stared down at her, cold eyes boring into hers, until she looked away. As the fifth bullet was pushed into the pistol, he nodded ever so slightly. Looking apparently relieved, the creature continued, "Welcome then, you are just in time."
"Indeed," said Jack. His hand rose and the steel monster there roared and spit out its lead projectile. The creature fell backwards as the bullet blew a large hole out the back of her head and scattered brains across her fellows. As the bullet left the barrel of his pistol, Jack holstered it with one hand and reached for the Calico. The grip slapped into his palm as Samuel handed it over, and Jack swung back around to open fire.
As the echoes of the first shot bounced off the adobe walls of the building, the four hunters sprang into action. They did not hesitate; they moved like a machine in peak condition. Jack leapt into the throng of monsters. He landed on a wooden table and began shooting, his dark eyes flashing.
Samuel brought his shotgun up in an almost lazy fashion, picked a target and fired. The buckshot load disintegrated the creature's head, spraying its fellows. The beasts, stunned by the summary execution of their spokeswoman, flinched and screamed as another one of their pack died. A tight smile on his lips, Samuel pumped the shotgun and picked another target. He smelled the too-familiar odor of cordite and heard the ejected plastic shells rattling as they bounced and tumbled across the floor.
Standing in the doorway, Natasha stopped at the top of the stairs and studied the room. She looked over her shoulder and motioned to Karen to step forward. As she saw the carnage that had begun, a timid cry escaped from Karen's lips. Her eyes began to glaze in fear, but Natasha shook her gently. She motioned her to stay where she was and guard the doors. After making sure that Karen understood, she followed Jack and Samuel. Wincing slightly at the noise of the guns, she picked off six or seven beasts with her Beretta before discarding it on one of the tables. On the table was a truck driver, bleeding from the neck. Grabbing her arm as she lay the pistol down, he breathed, "Help me," his face a mix of fear and pain.
Natasha studied him from behind her dark glasses. She nodded to him and forcibly disengaged his hand from her arm. Turning she pulled a wooden stake from Samuel's tool belt. Samuel started, but turned and saw her stepping away towards the table. Nodding to himself, he sprayed shot to her left and right, clearing away several advancing beasts.
As she approached the table again, she saw that the young man was almost gone. His eyes were glazed over, and the blood spilling from his neck had slowed to an ooze. Soon, he would be a greater problem. She knew he would sprout a mouthful of fangs, and then would join the fellowship of beasts. In a single fluid motion, she drove the stake through his chest. He screamed, jerked once, and then lay still. Natasha turned and walked away.
Samuel stepped over the body of another destroyed attacker, pumping his shotgun to chamber the next round. He moved near the bar, where Jack had placed his back. Where Samuel relied on buckshot, going for a large area of fire, Jack was a surgeon, using one bullet per monster, and always making a kill. "How many more, do you reckon?" asked Samuel, blasting a beast that had leapt up onto the bar trying to surprise Jack. The creature was kicked backwards by the impact and fell among the bottles of liquor and glasses with a shattering crash.
"A few dozen," said Jack, felling three attackers in rapid succession. "Give or take six or seven. Why?"
"I'm running short on ammo, and we're all running short on time. We gotta finish this up fast."
Jack let a slight smile show. "I thought you didn't like to be rushed."
Samuel grinned. "Doesn't mean I won't, if I have to." He popped off a shot that took off the arms of two beasts that had clustered together. Jack finished them off.
"Well, we'll try to prevent it then. Can't have Samuel Corey getting rushed."
"Thanks, Jack. You're a saint."
Jack chuckled, a dry sound, as he placed an extra hole in an attacker's head. "Not likely."
Natasha stepped over several oozing corpses. She was looking about the room, checking on the other hunters. More often than not, she would turn her gaze towards the door, where Karen was standing. The girl was standing too stiffly, she noted. If any of these monsters got to her, she wouldn't have time to react. She would have to advise her after they were done here.
Suddenly, one of the beasts threw itself over a table and landed in front of her. It lashed out, hitting her in the face and sending her glasses flying. It moved to remove her face, but it froze, transfixed by what had been hidden up to that moment by the dark sunglasses. Its feral eyes glistened in terror as it saw itself reflected countless times, and it stood motionless as she stepped past it. It did not react as her hand stroked its face in an almost-motherly caress. And she did not react as its head exploded when she stooped to retrieve her glasses. Placing them on her face and looking about, she stepped past Jack and Samuel and through a door next to the bar, following a trail that she alone could see.
Karen watched the monster that had attacked Natasha freeze up and allow her to pass. When the creature's head exploded, she jumped, startled. This was a terrifying situation. All of these beasts looked human, and might have once been people like her. They had had mothers or brothers, lovers and friends, and had at one point lived their ordinary lives, worrying about ordinary things. Much like she had, before she had met the others. But, unlike her, all of these poor souls had come here, and met their end at the hands of this pack of perverse, misshapen beasts, and they had risen again, to feed off of living beings. It was horrifying to think about.
She thought about the others and how they struck her, both when she first met them and now. Natasha, outwardly cold and alien, who paid for her knowledge and power with the ultimate price. Karen had been frightened of her at first, but now she knew that the other woman cared very deeply for the other members of the group, even if she lacked the humanity to show it often. The twins, wild and reckless, currently were jailed for their carelessness. She found them comforting in their mundanity, even though she knew that, as hunters, they were anything but mundane. Samuel, the easy-going intellectual, a scholar of the streets. She trusted him, found in him a kind voice and a patient ear. Samuel had eased her fears when she had first joined them in their hunt and helped her understand why she was there.
And then there was Jack. What little she knew about the dark warrior terrified her beyond reason.
Karen didn't notice the commotion in the room. A group of the undead had rushed the men and surrounded them. Samuel had dropped the shotgun and wielded a mallet, and when he wasn't using it to drive stakes, he was crushing skulls and breaking bones. Jack blazed away with his pistol, but he too was surrounded and running low on ammunition. Karen was oblivious to this, until a single beast jumped away from the crowd and bounded up the steps towards her. The sight of its glowing eyes and fang-filled mouth leering towards her pushed her into action. Screaming, she emptied four bullets into the monster. The beast jerked and fell to the ground. Still screaming, she stepped down into the room, over the corpse, and began emptying her gun into the crowd of undead. She didn't stop screaming, and only paused firing to reload, until Samuel took the empty pistol from her hands. Then, she blinked and noticed that the only people standing were the hunters.
All around the room were twitching oozing bodies, remnants of the monsters and their victims. Karen could see that those that hadn't been bashed, shot or staked were collapsing, like toys winding down. "What's wrong with them?" she asked quietly.
"Natasha's found the Alpha and killed it," replied Jack.
Karen felt a huge wave of relief pass over her. She swayed on her feet until Jack took her arm. "Sit down. You look like you're about to faint," he said quietly. Firmly, he guided her to a overturned chair that he set upright and gently pushed her into. He gave her an appraising look, and for a moment, she could see some humanity in his eyes, some hint of the ordinary man that he might have once been. He said, "You did good, but next time try not to scream so much. It makes Samuel nervous."
She started at the praise, unsure of what to say in response. He smiled briefly and turned away, walking back to the bar. She watched, confused and pleased at the same time.
Samuel offered Jack a shot of mescal. Jack took it and knocked it back without expression. "No lime?" he asked, a slight note of disappointment in his voice.
"Sorry," said Samuel, pouring himself a shot. He swallowed the potent liquor, coughed, and added, "War shortages and all that."
Jack smiled his small smile again, and they sat for a few moments in silence, listening to the fading echoes of the chaos that had filled the building but a scant few minutes before. Samuel spoke again, asking, "You think she'll be okay?"
Jack nodded. He reached behind the bar, pulling out the cash box and several bottles of tequila, mescal and whiskey. After a moment's study, he discarded the whiskey with a snort of disgust. "She'll be fine," he said, opening the cash box and pulling out the bills. "She's stronger than she gives herself credit for. Natasha knew that when she picked her."
"Hmm," Samuel nodded, pouring both of them another shot. "Well, we might want to keep a better eye on her next time. That berserker bit can be a problem." He motioned to Jack's shoulder.
Jack turned and looked at his coat. A horizontal tear indicated a spot where a bullet had passed very close by. "Hmm, you may be right. I'll talk to her about it. Does us no good to get hit by friendly fire."
"Tell me about it." Samuel knocked back the mescal, coughed, and said, "Shouldn't we be getting out of here? It's getting to be that time."
Jack nodded. "You go rig the demolition packs. I'll get Natasha." He stuffed the money into his coat pocket, grabbed the bottle of tequila and walked through the door leading to the back of the building.
The passageway beyond was dark and narrow, but there was a light at the end. A door stood open, allowing Jack to enter the room. Inside, he found Natasha, bending over a bed that had, at one point, been sumptuous and expensive, but was now decaying and dusty. Several dozen candles were set on the old bureau and dresser, casting flickering, sepia-colored shadows. He approached her cautiously, knowing that, at times like this, she could be dangerous when interrupted, lashing out on instinct.
"Natasha," he said quietly, "it is almost time to leave. Dawn is coming, and we must get back to our hotel before then. Samuel's setting the charges."
Natasha straightened up slowly. She swayed slightly, as if she was drunk or giddy. She turned towards him, revealing the dissolving, decayed corpse on the bed. Wiping the ichor from her lips, she said, "Of course, Jack. We must leave. Would you like some before we go?" She lifted her arm and offered him the inside of her wrist.
Jack shook his head. "No time." He turned and moved to the door. Natasha followed, and the two of them left the room of the unnatural predator that had encountered something more dangerous than itself and lost.
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