Ganymede (The Clockwork Century #3)

Ganymede (The Clockwork Century #3) Page 9

“Sir, I—”

“Wait. Hush.”

“Sir, what—?”

“Hush, I said.” He dropped his voice so low that Josephine could scarcely make out the words. “Do you hear that?”

The lieutenant whispered back. “Hear what, sir?… Oh. I think…”

“What is it?”

“Sir, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Josephine Early wasn’t sure. She heard it, too, very faintly—it was coming from the far side of the men, from below the wharf, nearer the water. Crouching down, she reached for the Schofield under her skirt and retrieved it from the heavy-duty garter where it had been fastened. She removed her gloves and stuffed them into her pocket, then grasped the gun carefully, readying it, adjusting her grip.

“It sounds like … like someone having a hard time breathing.”

“Yes, sir, something like that. Where’s it coming from?”

“There … no. Over there. Or maybe over there.” He indicated several directions, none of them certain.

The woman behind the crates closed her eyes, in case it’d help her listen harder. She concentrated and breathed as shallowly as she could—until the pounding of her heart was nearly as loud as the distant wheezing. Her hips and lower belly ached against her foundation undergarments from maintaining such a cramped posture, and her head was beginning to throb.

“Cardiff, I don’t like this.”

“Me either, sir. Maybe we should be on our way.”

The colonel wasn’t quick to move, but he was quick to reach into the gun holster he wore hanging off his shoulders. Josephine couldn’t see what he carried, probably a Colt service revolver—something loud and high caliber, being a Texian and a man of authority. Very likely, it was the kind of gun that could take somebody’s head off in a pinch.

Against all reason, she was glad to see he had it. He was going to need it, but not to defend himself against any hidden Union spies like herself, crouching behind crates. She was sickeningly confident of that much. She knew it from the rushing sound of broken breaths being dragged in and out through rotted throats. She knew because the sound was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, drawing closer, coming toward the lantern light on the dead-end wharf.

The lieutenant drew a handgun as well, more nervously than the colonel. He instinctively retreated until his back was nearly pressed against the commanding officer’s—and he held the lantern high, throwing the light as far as he could, hoping to get a glimpse of whatever was approaching from the darkness.

Josephine didn’t want to see it, but she needed to.

This had all been a terrible idea—on everyone’s part, and at least the colonel ought to have known better. Maybe he had known better, but he was cocky with his guns and his rank; maybe the lieutenant had been the ignorant one, seeing the place during the day when the sun had chased off the worst of the shadows.

If only they’d left the light off. If only they’d kept their voices down.

Every muscle in Josephine’s body was tighter than a violin string. She watched around the corner, crouched on one knee, gun held up at the ready, almost next to her face as if she were praying. She considered running, back out the way they’d come—but no, they’d see her, or hear her. They’d open fire, not knowing she wasn’t the most dangerous thing on the wharf, and not knowing she only meant to escape.

Besides.

She jerked her head away from the corner and listened.

Coming down the walkway, up from the river in staggering, shambling steps that didn’t keep time like an ordinary walker.…

Josephine retreated away from the crate’s edge, shrinking herself to the fullest extent possible, down at the bottom edge where the angle was sharpest and the shadow was deepest.

It wouldn’t help. They didn’t have to see her to know she was there.

The ragged, sickly gasps grew nearer. Josephine tried to sort them out—to determine how many were coming. She detected three on the far side of the Texians, who were sweating with fear; she was sure of two more, from farther back on the wharf; and one more … no, two more coming up the back way, cutting off the only obvious means of retreat.

“Sir, we should go!”

“Put out that light, you idiot.”

“We won’t be able to see!”

“What’d you walk me into, Cardiff?” The colonel’s voice was rising, not from panic, Josephine didn’t think. She’d give him credit there—he was holding steady, feet planted and firearm level. Texians were repugnant, problematic, occupying, Confederate-allied bastards down to the very last man … but she couldn’t accuse them of being cowards.

“Sir, we should be quiet—”

“Turn it out!” he ordered. “I’ve heard about what goes on here, I’ve heard what people say.”

“People say a lot of things, sir.”

Lieutenant Cardiff struggled to hold his gun and turn down the lamp without dropping it, a prospect that flooded the watching woman with horror. What a thought, burning alive or being eaten alive—a choice no one should have to make.

His voice quivering, the lieutenant said, “So many people have made reports. Word from Austin says they’re sending a specialist—some Ranger with an interest in strange … things.”

Josephine began to calculate how far she was from the wharf, and if she could run past the men without them shooting her, and if she could swim in what she was wearing—if she made it over the side of the walkway and into the Mississippi where there were snakes, to be sure; and alligators, maybe; and bad men up to bad things, but none of it was as awful as what was coming.

“Sir, there are stories,” the lieutenant gulped. “But they’re only stories—goddamn locals, they think we ought to be afraid.”

“Goddamn locals aren’t always out to snow you, son. I don’t know about you, but I’m plenty afraid right now.”

Out of the darkness, up the walk that led to the wharf, something rose out from the murky night. It moved more slowly than a person should, and its posture suggested that something was broken, deep inside. When it stepped, it stepped unevenly, and with effort. Harder and faster the loud, harsh breathing came; for when it spied the Texians—or possibly Josephine, who was nearer to the thing and in its direct line of sight—its efforts rose. It let out a loud, hard cry, a noise that shredded the wharf and summoned more of its kind.

Faster it approached, one foot in front of the other, gracelessly, but with a purpose. Now it saw fresh meat and loped ever faster toward it—toward Josephine, who held out her gun but held her fire.

If she squeezed the trigger, the Texians would know she’d been there hiding, listening. If the hideous man-shaped thing reached her, it wouldn’t make a difference anyway—she’d be dead or worse by dawn. She held off as long as she could, waiting until the last moment … until the feeble moonlight sparked off the thing’s wet mouth and she could’ve almost counted its teeth.

One shot, two shots—both of them blasted like cannon fire in such a close space.

But not from Josephine’s gun.

The Texians had seen the incoming monster just in time, and it was their fire that took the thing down, and took it to pieces. Its head split in two, and the top half landed at Josephine’s feet. Its quivering torso went left, right, and toppled backwards to lie still upon the wharf’s edge.

She clapped a hand over her mouth and fought for composure.

Another one was coming. She wouldn’t be so fortunate twice in a row. She lifted the gun again and waited. The sloughing scrape of dead feet, the horrible rhythm of dead lungs.

More of them, incoming.

The first brute had only located and declared the prey. The rest would come in for the kill.

“Dear God!” the colonel barked. He opened fire again, two more shots that exploded and left the madam’s ears humming. The bullets landed with squishy thumps, the sound of arrows hitting melons, but Josephine didn’t dare take her eyes off the path from whence she’d come—not unless she wanted the creatures to come groaning up behind her. She braced her back against the crates and locked her elbows, holding the gun out and facing the wood plank path.

The colonel demanded, “What are they?” and now his voice was cracking, losing the battle-hardened calm that had served him well so far. “What are those things?”

“They aren’t real; they aren’t real. This isn’t real,” the lieutenant babbled.

A shot went wild and clipped the edge of the crate, casting splinters into Josephine’s hair and up against her face—where one left a brief, hot sting.

“It isn’t true!” Cardiff was shouting now, and firing again; she was almost certain the wilder shots were his. Another one, two, three blasts.

How many guns did the men have between them? How many shots?

Josephine cursed herself for not observing them better. She should’ve noticed, should’ve counted. Nothing to be done for it now.

“Pull yourself together, man!” the colonel ordered. Two more shots landed in something dense and wet. Then he tried a different tactic, addressing the incoming creatures directly. “Who are you? What do you want?” But it was a desperate, foolish thing, and the officer sensed it immediately.

“Cardiff,” he called. “What are these things?”

Three more shots rang out, and Josephine wished to God she could cover her ears, shut them out, give herself a moment of quiet so she could listen again, and better pinpoint the things that were to come.

Not a chance. Two more shots, and then the fall of something heavy that clattered and rolled. A gun, discarded as empty. Texians always went armed, and surely two officers like these would have backup, or so she told herself as she stared with all her might—unblinking, lest she miss a crucial moment—and watched for more monsters, arriving up the back way.

They were coming right for her. She knew it, even though her whole head was buzzing from the percussion of the gunshots so nearby.