Michael Spradlin: Blood Riders

Don’t let it touch you, Hollister thought. He was out of bullets. It kept coming forward and Hollister threw his pistol at the beast, but the heavy Colt bounced off its head with no effect.

Keeping the thing in sight, he backed slowly away in the direction of the horses. A quick glance over his shoulder showed his own mount still standing there, pacing nervously at the edge of the camp-disturbed by what was happening, but too well trained to leave its master. Lemaire had just broken a mare two weeks ago and the not-quite-tame horse had skittered away. Jonas thought of turning and running, but instinctively knew the creature would be upon him the moment his back was turned.

Reaching into his boot, Hollister pulled out his Bowie knife with one hand and drew his saber with the other. Most times he didn’t carry the sword as it only got in the way. But the colonel was a stickler for it, always insisting officers carry one on patrol. And for some reason, the saber seemingly gave the creature pursuing him more pause than the other weapons, for it slowed its advance. Its gaze locked on his and it made him feel like a frightened buffalo calf staring into the eyes of a wolf.

“You have taken one of ours,” the creature said to him in a voice tinged with anger and hatred. It made Hollister cringe to hear it. He found himself losing his breath and he tried to calm himself, but he was too afraid.

“You killed my men!” Hollister shouted at him.

“Yes. We feed,” it replied. “My followers feed. And you have taken one of mine. Caroline. You will die for this.”

“Murdering bastards! I’ll kill you all!” Somewhere Hollister found the courage to step forward and take a mighty swing at the man with his saber, but the creature dodged it easily.

Hollister had overswung, and with his next step backward, tripped over something and fell to the ground on his back. Without warning the creature was straddling him, pinning his arms to his sides. The creature struck him with a fist the size of an anvil. Hollister felt his nose crunch, and the warm taste of blood filled his mouth as it hit him again. He screamed in agony at the fangs descending toward him. He knew he was going to die and wished to close his eyes against it but found he could not.

Suddenly and without warning the creature straightened up, looking off to the east. Hollister was still pinned beneath him, struggling to free his arms. But day was breaking as the sun topped the horizon and light spilled across the prairie. The creature shouted out something in a language Hollister had never heard and stood up. For a moment, Hollister thought he saw smoke coming from the fiend’s skin and clothing, but was sure his own loss of blood must be playing tricks on him.

“Some other time,” the creature hissed at him, “for Caroline.” He moved backward toward the camp, into the shadows and away from the advancing sunlight. The smoke coming from his clothes and body disappeared. Hollister sat up and watched in horrid fascination as these living monsters moved among the camp, dragging the bodies of his dead men behind them. Each body, in turn, was tossed into the back of the upright wagon effortlessly, as if it were a sack of flour from a general store. Six creatures remained, including the one with the white hair. He counted his blessings they hadn’t all attacked him at once. All of them moved with speed and precision, as if it was important for them to make some unknown deadline.

They had taken four of the dead trooper’s horses and cut loose the saddles, hitching them to the wagon. The white-haired giant looked back at Hollister as he donned a long robe he had pulled from the back of the wagon. The robe covered him completely and before raising the hood, he studied Hollister again. He took a few tentative steps in his direction.

“Another time. For Caroline,” it reminded him. It stood there staring at Hollister for a long moment. Hollister felt as if the giant man were toying with the idea of finishing him now instead of waiting. It looked down at its robe and then off to the east and the rising sun. For a reason he didn’t understand, it left him there in the dirt.

In two steps it vaulted into the seat of the wagon. The other creatures had disappeared into the back, and Hollister could hear awful sounds coming from behind the canvas covering.

He stayed on the ground, too terrified to move, watching until the wagon disappeared from sight. Hollister tried to stand, to reach his horse and give pursuit, but had taken a frightful beating. His head was bleeding and the pounding was so loud in his ears, he thought his skull might cleave in two.

“Bastards!” he shouted. “I’ll find you! I’ll kill yo…” the world spun and he collapsed in the dirt, flat on his back. As he drifted into unconsciousness, the morning sunlight washed over him like a blanket and the last thing he remembered was its warmth on his face.

F rom a small hillock to the west, Shaniah watched and waited. She knew the troopers were doomed the moment they approached Malachi’s camp, but there was nothing she could have done to stop it. Not yet. Malachi and his group were feeding, drinking what the Old Ones called Huma Sangra — the name for human blood in the ancient language of her people-and growing more powerful every day. Though she was strong and nearly an immortal herself, she did not feed on human blood, and because of it, could not match their speed and strength. It frustrated her to stand idly by with Malachi so close. But she would not be able to end it now.

The human who’d survived intrigued her. Though it was the sun that had saved him, he had fought bravely, and she’d watched in fascination as Malachi hesitated briefly, cautious of the human and his saber. One of the few ways to kill an Archaic was to cut off its head, but there was no way for the man to have known that.

She rode into the camp. The man was still alive, but she would be gone before he regained consciousness. Standing over him a moment, she pulled her hood wide in order to study him more closely. He was a handsome man, for a human. For a brief instant she thought his eyes opened and he looked at her, but he had been beaten so severely that she was sure he was only semi-conscious at best. His eyes closed again. She could not stay much longer. The leather gloves and cloak she wore were too warm in the morning sun, but she could die without them, for she was a creature of the night, an Archaic herself.

Malachi had captured and turned a band of settlers. Humans were turned when they were bitten and then drank the blood of an Archaic. The change happened in a few hours. Some could not survive the process and those who proved unable were merely drained of their blood and their bodies discarded. She had watched for three days, unable to stop Malachi or help any of the humans they had fed upon.

Malachi had then used his new recruits to stage a scene looking like a Lakota attack. They waited for a rescue party to show up, with the intent to feed upon or turn more humans. Malachi was becoming more and more daring, gathering more and more followers.

Shaniah inspected the camp, peering inside the wagon, looking for any clue of where Malachi might be headed.

She remounted her horse, turning the great stallion west. The animal, named Demeter, was one of many that had been specially trained since birth not to fear her kind. He would not spook or shy away from her as most creatures would, and as a result the horse had saved her life on more than one occasion.

She could not ride for long in the sun and heat, even with the cloak, and would need to find a place to hide until the night came. Then she would think about Malachi again. Where he might be going next and what his plans were.

And more important: how to stop him.