Morrow turned his eyes on Ixchel, hovering once more out of reach and range alike, pits where her eyes should lie already intent on Pinkerton’s bent and heaving back, apparently too appetite-hypnotized to be aware of her threat — and Goddamn, but he really didn’t know how that woman’d ever borne the sad chore of walking from place to place, back in the day. But then again, she probably hadn’t had to do it for long.
Then back to Pinkerton, popped jaw crunching back and forth like a coyote cracking bones for marrow, blood greased back so far it’d dyed his sideburns cathouse red. ’Cept what he was actually chewing on had been a man’s hollowed-out idea-pan, some poor bastard’s entire life writ infinitesimal small on grey-pink loops of brain — same ones Pinkerton was shovelling down right as Morrow watched, licking his fingers for the last of it, while hexation sweated out like mercury through every pore.
How Morrow’d admired the man, once — truly, completely: a man of action, of application, far-seeing and inventive, carving a new path through a brave new world. But there was nothing of the personality he’d followed left at all, that he could see, no matter how hard he searched for it — only hunger, ape-stupid and degraded.
Yes, soldier. Remember what I told you? That time I spoke of when you must follow your own instincts, do as your conscience dictates . . . is now.
So I see, Morrow thought. And raised the gun, not giving himself time to think about it further, if only in faint hopes Pinkerton might not “overhear” him do so.
A man stuffed sausage-full with that much stolen witchery couldn’t really fail to figure out when someone was plotting his doom, though, ’specially if they only stood a yard or so that-a-way; that disgusting object Pinkerton called a head jerked up, sniffing the air. And before he could turn, Morrow pulled both triggers at once and gave it to him, right in the back, hard enough he could see Pinkerton’s naked spine glisten amongst the meat.
The hole opened was fearsome. So was what poured out, a flood of decay cut with arcane marsh-gas flame that turned the sand below all rotten black and crap-bucket brown, the sickening horn-dun yellow of a bled-out corpse’s feet. Pinkerton shrank visibly as it escaped him, straining to catch the bulk in his cupped hands, only to have it scald them so bad their palms blistered up like slimy mittens. These he lifted Morrow’s way, maybe in plea, or cut-off imprecation; it was impossible to tell either way, since the damage he’d done to his own speaking organs wasn’t healing, leaving his unstrung tongue to flap useless in the rising wind.
The Enemy already seemed to’ve eddied away, like any good tempter. But Ixchel stared down still, grinning fit to bust, as though she’d seldom seen anything quite so sweet in all her long, hard un-life.
Daughter, she called, sweetly. I see you at play and rejoice, for your pleasure gives me pleasure. Yet it seems I have need of you here.
And the eager answer, resonant as a grave-s
truck gong, seemingly echoing back from everywhere at once: I come, mother. I come.
Though it was somewhat hard to tell, Morrow almost thought Pinkerton might’ve whimpered at the sound of it, for which Morrow certainly didn’t blame him. Yet found he was running a tad low on sympathy, nonetheless.
Let’s at least hope she makes it quick, was all he had time to think, before Clo swept in and tore Pinkerton in two, like paper. One half went this way, the other that, while the very best part of what was left inside him all went streaking up into Ixchel herself, who barely seemed to register its influx.
But then again, neither did Morrow, really. For that same instant must’ve been when whatever hit him next knocked him backward like a hundred haymakers, a blindsiding mortar burst, right into the corpse-tangle’s raw and reeking briar patch heart.
So here he lay, coming to by painfully slow degrees while someone tugged hard on what he gradually realized must be his broken arm, trying to extricate him from this hex-dug hole; Private Carver, calling his name and hauling, while what sounded like Ixchel and Clo wiping the field with the dregs of Pinkerton’s forces raged somewhere behind. Barely able to resist screaming aloud, Morrow gritted out: “Please stop doin’ that before I puke, Private — Jonas, I mean — ”
Carver let go, sprang back. “Ed Morrow, that is you! You’re awake?”
“Most definitely so, yeah.”
“Oh, thank the Lord! Man, things are comin’ fast as yellow-jack shit out here; I got these gals t’look after, and almost nobody left upright to help. After they all broke and run, things just got worse — don’t even know where half them folks got to, Doc Asbury and the Captain included . . .” Here he stopped, peering closer. “What’s wrong with your arm?”
“Broke, I think . . . that or so far out the socket it’s like I can feel the damn ball movin’ ’round loose in there . . .”
“Yeah? Well, it looks pretty awful, but might be the gals could take a look — ”
“You trust ’em to?”
Another voice intruded, from further back — female, uptown New York — Berta? Calling out: “He doesn’t have too much choice about it, Mister Morrow; lost his gun in the first rush, so we’ve been watchin’ his back ever since. That’s after he jimmied my collar free, of course . . .”
Another one — definitely Eulie, this time — chimed in. “. . . an’ he was glad enough he did, when one of them dog-things with the hands jumped him. Sissy made short work of it, so when she was done, he popped mine off, too . . .”
But here she trailed away, voice dipping further, almost breaking. Perhaps recalling how there’d been a third person answered to that diminutive, once upon a time — someone whose shell still flew somewhere above, claw-handed and red to the elbow, seeking for further prey.
Morrow stopped to cough, long and heavingly, Carver considerately glancing away ’til he was done. After which he then leaned in just as Morrow pulled himself up, and said: “Saw what happened, y’know . . . with Himself, back in the thick of it. What you did.”
Face clammy, Morrow spat to clear his mouth before replying, carefully. “What was that, Jonas, exactly?”
Make or break time, and they knew it, ’specially since Morrow’s injury made it highly unlikely he could fight back, if Carver decided he had to do anything about Pinkerton’s untimely and highly unnatural demise.
But the younger man simply shrugged. “Nothin’ I’d swear to, sir, in court or out of it. That’s all I wanted to say.”
Morrow felt welcome relief and a weird sort of sadness fall on him together to hear it, both genuinely grateful yet truly amazed that anyone he’d known such a powerfully brief time would advance him this high-blown level of trust. But then again, these were tumultuous days; Carver’d done much the same for Fennig’s ladies already, and seen it returned fivefold. Might be he’d decided he might as well place his faith in whosoever it took his fancy to, for however short a time he might remain able to do so.
One way or the other, Morrow was glad to feel Eulie’s light touch probe at his hurts, efficient as any “real” doctor. “This’ll pain some,” she told him. He nodded.