From An Irradiated Crypt (PRELUDE)

This is taken from the THIRD novel in the Rail Legacy series. Book One is AN UNSUBSTANTIATED CHAMBER, followed by CERULEAN RUST. If you want the full story, head on over to: https://www.amazon.com/William-Jackson/e/B00UC38FTI/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0


Railroad City, Missouri
October 10th, 1891




The King of Keys crashed into the trees of Indian Isle resilient in mind, broken in body. Red cedar broke his plummet to the earth, while the sylvan scent of split bark awakened his senses to the vivid intimacy of pain. Branches scratched as cat claws. Venerable limbs pummeled ribs to the breaking point. He managed on the final branch to gain a meager stance, aided by three strands of impervious whips the King could extend from each fingertip, his singular aptitude from the blue prowess which made some of the race paranormal. Humanity plus. Over the years, those ten whips slashing in and out of view had snared enemies, lifted him out of dark ravines, saved children stuck in wells and made every boy take up the bullwhip as if it were the next great art form. On this merciless eve of fog and violence, the strands of this vigilante paranormal were literally saving him from becoming another plot in this sullen isle's expansive, melancholy cemetery. As battered as he felt, the weary mind gave thanks to this minor talent, for it alone remained after his most powerful weapon sizzled, useless, on both forearms.

The left ankle twisted inside weathered cinnamon boots as he hobbled down from the oak to a path of unsymmetrical granite stones occupied by the sultry whistles and undulating forms of sickle slugs. Fat, frothy, golden things blowing air through elongated tubules akin to the breeding plumage on some birds, they fed off of the remnants of a monstrous man-beast whose corpse bonded to the isle some time ago, a voracious coupling of flora and fauna. King avoided the perilous trails of fallow mucus each left behind on their parades across the cemetery's stretch of ancient garden. Here, those who perished by means of disease and the noose were buried, until the wealthy in their sky yachts took a look at the scenic way the monstrous Frontier to the west merged with the manicured flower gardens cared for at one time by the Rail Horticultural Society. Now, the isle had become a wall of thorn bushes, and burly men carrying rocket revolvers paid very well came out three times per year to cut open walkways for those in need of coming to pay their respects. Mausoleums and crypts. Effigies and isolation.

In truth, few, if any, came to Indian Isle for any reason. Razor Crows, black metal feathers and beaks, eyes of black iron dread, slept in the trees above. Sullenaries, faded buzzards that fed off of positive human emotions, vied for the same habitat. The locale remained avoided, a savage slice of the unknown in the dead center of a major metropolitan network. The King came here to rendezvous, to break bread with a possible new ally. But for this brief episode in time, he pursued but one goal: survival.

I may be bringing the enemy right to them. He bit down on a tough leather belt shoved in his mouth, straightened the scowling brass domino mask that covered his face from the nose on up. In a second, King had recovered the tan open crown hat on wedged it back down on his head. He took several bold breaths. One sudden jerk, a momentous grinding of teeth, and the left humerus popped into the socket. Relief turned into dizziness. sparking volton tubes on the ether gauntlets, a gift bestowed to enhance his vigilante crusade, made indiscretion impossible. He thought of tossing the weapons in the nearest pond of moss-infested water, but their potency stymied his hand. Too powerful. All they've done! I blew apart a Naval cloudcraft an hour ago! Mason could repair them, him or Simon or someone. No rest. Move. Trudge along now...

Beyond the uneven rows of weathered headstones under malicious ivy he limped, dedicated to the meeting, wary of the hunters, the lights and yells of surviving Navy airmen. They would come for him, right as rain. They would come with the skinny aerowings polished bright, the cavalry sabers, damnable rocket revolvers loaded. Fear struck the King's nerves, twangs of a banjo picked by a hound dog’s fangs. He picked up the pace along with the pain, leaving the tombstones for a broken watchman's house, shrouded in vines, cut in twain by a fallen oak. A Bark Spider, big as a sheep, eyes forward on a hard knob, sat curled up under the tree as it watched the King of Keys go by. Had not the arachnid eaten earlier, the cowboy would have had another skirmish to survive.

For a solitary second he paused at the entrance to the Sycamore Path. Dozens of the trees were planted here three decades back along a narrow road. These trees bent over the road, forming a pleasant archway. Tonight, it offered no such comfort. The King hastened down the road, turning from it after a hundred yard sprint. Into the garden he went, the tall expanse of bushes and obscene mauve cattails growing in and around the Grecian mausoleums constructed by the city's elite. He passed the most illustrious names in the Rail: Amberson, Dade and Dietrich. These surnames were emblazoned in white stone over fanciful columns, to remind those who came that even the wealthy long dead lived in better homes than most of the still living world. King hated each one, but now was not the time for animosity. In his line of sight, nestled in a blanket of radiant green ivy, lay the tomb of the family Rivendale. This clan, husband and wife, made no mark upon the city save for this solitary shrine to their demise. Copper doors corroded to an unhealthy shade of green held circular windows of stained glass that formed images of crying angels. Bountiful copper door rings hung jutting outward as if suspended in time. King mounted the two steps leading to the door, noticing the massive size of the crypt for only two people.

A deep breath was taken, more to abide his afflictions than for bravery. The King pushed the door, found it opened with ease, and entered. Another mental anguish of pursuers coaxed him into shutting the door after making it in. He found the crypt pristine, free from invading insects or even blowing leaves. It smelled of rosemary, a scent to soothe the mind and refresh the memory. He found it welcome as well as suspect. The interior formed a classic cross pattern, with the marble sarcophagi of Amelia and Wilfred Rivendale side by side at the intersection eight feet ahead. But there seemed to be a good deal of space around them, and the other three ends of the crypt went off into doorways. Roses laid on the coffins as if delivered that morning.

Doors? Inside a mausoleum?

He dismissed his first thought, to call out to for this new ally, presumably in this gruesome theatre, the proposed meeting site. But then, the hair on the back of his neck stood up like wild horses on the run, and the King lost his nerve. Years of battle had hardened him, made his spirit not unlike a cleaving blade. But the feeling here, a raw, cryptic sensation pierced the King to the heart. He had been a paranormal, superhuman, for several years now, encountered his fair share of those more empowered than himself. But this, this felt--

Unnatural...

A flick of the fingers turned off the annoying gauntlets, turns of two dials to cease their spastic eruptions. He extended the fingers of the right hand, prepared them to launch out piercing sharp whips in the blink of an eye, and made his way for the closest door. Nerves hummed as the King tiptoed beyond the sculpted marble tombs, carved faces like people but eerily not, an avid screech down the cowboy's metallic spine. He reached for the doorknob, a curved metal handle painted bone white. As if to lend assistance, the door creaked open. For all intents and purposes, it should lead outside to flowers and spider webs. But he discerned a mist rising from the crack, hot gas in cool air. But before the King dared open and enter, the stained glass windows let in an abundance of probing lights. Lights, and sound. Stained glass scattered the lights into rainbow fingers, clawing at the interior of the crypt. Well-tuned hums made by the conical boilers of what could only be aerowings stole the remnants of King's resolve.

I’ve been corralled.

The hoots and hollers of young men murdered the stillness of the night. Mechanisms of weaponry clicked as they made their way to the crypt.

“I got blood spots right here!”

“King! Last vigilante standin’! Naval killer! We comin’ in! Dethroning starts in ten seconds!” Their laughter leaned toward diabolical.

King took hold of the doorknob. He grabbed air instead. Behind the mask, he blinked several times. His body beneath the trappings of a typical cowhand shivered, cold sweat. Had his eyes betrayed, or had the world slipped away from him? A knob was there, sure as could be. But it had no being in a physical sense. A second attempt also proved fruitless. The door had been open but now, shut, sealed. He turned about, thinking he may have enough time to reach another door before his pursuers stormed in.

But the interior shrank. Yes. It shrank as the King watched, the cross pattern sliding into a more familiar rectangular mausoleum. The added doors faded away to reveal simple granite walls. Sweat squeezed out of King’s pores. He found breathing hard. He reached for the nearest sarcophagus to steady himself right as the door blew open in a cracking of glass, a bending of metal framing. Three men, armed for war, entered, guns trained on their target. King of Keys saw, but his mind doubted.

“You all for real?” He squinted. Life moved in flashes above while slowing near the old slab floor.

One chuckled before being silenced by his allies’ tempered stares. They moved in on the King, a royal lost in a haze of uncertainty. Was the pain making him delusional? Could Death be calling?

The rifle butt to the face did nothing to help him decide. The splitting of nasal cartilage, tearing of the eyes assured blindness as the men advanced. King staggered back. So many years had he eluded them. The last of the old guard, a legendary mask, laid low with ease by young bucks because of, what, coffin fright?

Dear God, why?

A battery of blows moved in.

“Know how many men was on that ship you destroyed?” The question came with a kick in the ribs. King faltered to his knees.

“We might have to go scrap with the Germans, an’ you go an’ kill American soldiers!” The heel of a boot stamped King’s temple as he fell to the floor. “Them gauntlets ain’t helpin’ you none now are they?”

“Are you here for the children?”

Two men slowed down their rampage to gaze again at their man who chuckled earlier.

“What’d you say?”

The third man kept ramming his rifle into the abdomen of the King.

“I said...nothing.”

“You must be with him. You are for the children. Follow me.”

King of Keys sprawled out on the stone floor, coughing up blood, forgotten altogether. Sailors raised arms, though each remained unsure of where to aim. They looked up and out, paranoid. No one caught sight of the sea green and violet mist low on the floor, creeping towards their boots.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” A bolt cocked back and shoved in by nervous hands. “He’s got allies! I told you! They run in packs, just like rats!”

“I know you told us he’d have friends here! What if they're Pinheads like him?”

“We got guns, so shutup. Shut! Up!”

The mist expanded, a voluminous collection of puffy swirls riding up the legs of the men, obscuring the King from view.

“What is this? Y’all see the crypt moving? Tell me y’all see what I’m seein’!”

“Get away from me! Get awa--!”

“Follow…”

Training, firearms, nothing held a chance of resistance. They fell into the enticement of the mist, right next to the King of Keys, succumbed to a voice most alluring. The crypt filled to every crevice with green, gaseous evanescence.

"Yes, you are here for the children. Help me. It is all for the children. Come hither. Come with me to the Nothing Land..."