Hollow Mountain Dead

By Jonathan Moon

For centuries, something has been slumbering deep inside of Kimmler’s Mountain. In the endless darkness, an unrelenting horror has grown...waiting.

In the late 1800’s, greed sets it free.

A mine owner named Martin Kimmler releases a plague upon the people of the mountain, a plague that turns the dead into ravenous demons. Cannibals. Monsters that exist only to feed and to spread the horrific infection.

As the ancient cosmic evil unleashes its Hell on Earth, the men and women from the mountain towns of White Wood and Gilliam form unlikely alliances with Natives from the sacred tribe of the Madoosk. Some fight the onslaught of the dead or travel toward the heart of the mountain, to the source of the plague. Others risk life and limb to escape Kimmler’s Mountain with as much pilfered gold as possible, cutting ruthless swaths across the lawless landscape and through anyone in their way.

Battles great and small will dot the blood-soaked mountain as the good in men battles the cosmic evil.

The Great Evil is awake. The Great Plague is spreading. The End of Humanity hangs in the snapping jaws of the Hollow Mountain Dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Jul 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781618682932

Book preview

Praise for Hollow Mountain Dead

"Hollow Mountain Dead serves as further testament to Jonathan Moon's incredible skill at creating the most macabre, blood-soaked, and often thought-provoking horror landscapes, and he has made a permanent fan out of me. There's a wonderful sense of inevitability, of hopeless destiny, and just pure originality flowing through this novel's veins. It's another grisly triumph for this balls-to-the-wall author."

Jason S. Hornsby, author of Desert Bleeds Red and Eleven Twenty-Three

It's a mountain of grueling, raw horror, and Jonathan Moon's unmistakable voice paints this cruel yarn in crimson hues. A great read.

David Dunwoody, author of Empire and The Harvest Cycle

"Jonathan Moon delivers a tour de force of action packed mayhem. Hollow Mountain Dead offers a clever reinvention of Wild West mythos, Cthulhuesque horror, and zombie pandemonium that is sure to please any lover of the genre. Read this book and thank me later."

Timothy W. Long, author of Among the Living series

"Hollow Mountain Dead in a word: VICIOUS. Jonathan Moon has set a new standard for Horror Westerns."

Thom Brannan, author of Sad Wings of Destiny

Jonathan Moon writes like Clive Barker on psychedelics.

Jason Hughes, screenwriter of Dead Girls Don’t Cry and Without Notice

A PERMUTED PRESS book

Published at Smashwords

ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-292-5

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-293-2

Hollow Mountain Dead copyright © 2014

by Jonathan Moon

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Dean Samed, Conzpiracy Digital Arts

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Part One – Hell Claims the Peak

Chapter One – Martin Kimmler Unleashes Damnation

Chapter Two – Hell Starts Down the Mountain

Chapter Three – The Price of a Distraction

Chapter Four – Memories and Thieveries

Chapter Five – Never Trust a Man with Three Saddlebags Full of Gold

Chapter Six – Bad Omen Gold

Chapter Seven – Dead Dreams of Fire and Flesh

Chapter Eight – Bargaining for a Tainted Soul

Chapter Nine – One Step Ahead of Decay

Chapter Ten – Last of the Great Protectors

Part Two – The Fall of White Wood

Chapter Eleven – The Gang’s All Here

Chapter Twelve – The Brutal Birth of a Ghost Town

Chapter Thirteen – Determination as Grim as the Sky Above

Part Three – Battles Against Dark Days Foretold

Chapter Fourteen – Pursuit of the Lynch Mob

Chapter Fifteen – The View for Bloodshot Eyes

Chapter Sixteen – Horse Corpse Vision Quest

Chapter Seventeen – Chasing Destiny into Hell

Chapter Eighteen – Battle for the Mountain Top

Chapter Nineteen – Return to White Wood

Chapter Twenty – When the Earth Heaves

About the Author

Dedication

Special THANK YOUs to Shannley and Kaya Moon, Timothy Long, Tracey Fitzgerald Poist, Fred Morina, Permuted Press, and YOU.

PART ONE

Hell Claims the Peak

One

Martin Kimmler Unleashes Damnation

There is a hum in the air.

Even over the constant rhythmic pounding of the two five-stamp presses pulverizing rock and ore outside his window, Martin Kimmler can hear it. Kimmler’s geologist (and second in command), Trevor Jamison, prattles on about the large oblong stones the Chinese workers had recently unearthed, but Kimmler hears his voice like it’s coming from a dream submerged in a lake. Kimmler’s fear builds with the hum. He stands up from his desk and walks around Jamison, who spins in his chair to continue his worried rant. Kimmler also hears shouting from outside; Jamison speaks louder to be heard over barked words. The hum swells as if infused with rising panic. Kimmler’s ears vibrate with the warning the mountain is moaning out.

The hum reaches a buzzing climax that coincides with the clattering whining halt of the massive gold presses.

Kimmler’s fear is swept away by the rising wave of his fury. What in the hell is happening out there? The men wouldn’t shut down the presses just for catching a worker kestering a nugget, though it was an offense worthy of the Skinnin’ Shack. An angry smile weasels its way onto Kimmler’s grim face. His afternoon would be much more enjoyably spent in that wooden torture chamber in the middle of camp. His three closest thugs – Les, Bart, and George – would help administer some of his personal brand of retribution: mutilation. Often he would have his three goons hold an offender down while he sawed off a limb or two. After sweating his way through the grisly task of hacking through solid bone, Kimmler would sit in his fine European chair, red-faced and wheezing around a plump cigar. Bart would use a customized iron spade to cauterize the wound, leaving a KMG brand in the fresh scar tissue. If the offense was deemed worthy of the penalty of death, the offender’s termination was a long, drawn out ordeal. Before Kimmler was satisfied, strips of freshly scarred flesh would hang from the tin ceiling of the small wooden shed, thus dubbed the Skinnin’ Shack.

He shakes himself from pleasant gore-streaked memories and silences Jamison. When no gunshot rings out to answer the stopping of the presses or the increasing shouting outside his window, Martin Kimmler walks to the window and looks out on his operation. He sees the entire mine emptied of occupants, nearly two hundred Chinamen crowded around his office. His overseers are backed up to the building. They shout and order the workers back with cracks of their bullwhips. Kimmler’s temper roars at the work stoppage. He stomps to the door, orders Jamison to not move a damned muscle, and thunders out to face his insolent workers.

Why the hell are you all out here? His bellowing voice silences the shouting from his workers and his men alike.

Kimmler looks to his nearest behemoth, Bart. What the hell is going on?

I don’t know, boss. They jus’ came scamperin’ out all at once wantin’ to confer to you.

Bart doesn’t look up at Kimmler and that angers the mine owner even more. Kimmler doesn’t deal well with disrespect in general; he is really thrown when one of his enforcers is doing the disrespecting. While he is considering his options he glances in the direction of his workers. Each man is covered head to foot in dirt. Thick, rich black soil, gutted from the mountain. Every set of eyes is focused, wide and unblinking, on him, the ivory whites a stark contrast to the black dusting on skin.

Well, what the hell do you all want? No worky, no money!

The workers all begin shouting and pointing into the mouth of the mine. They grow excited quickly and begin pushing against Kimmler’s guards, who respond by whipping them.

Enough! Kimmler shouts over the noise. Where is Kim?

He’s down ‘ere, Bart tells Kimmler without taking his eyes off the mob.

Kim, the Chinaman who Kimmler communicates with and treats almost like a human, is huddled behind Bart in the dirt. His normal confidence has abandoned him; he cowers, shielding blackened eyes and a busted nose. Martin Kimmler laughs out loud at Kim and kneels to talk to him.

Here I am asking everybody else what the hell is going on and, judging from the looks of ya, you are the man to ask. So, Kim, what the hell is going on?

They won’t dig any deeper.

Bullshit. Kimmler scoffs. Kim nods towards the unblinking workers. Martin scoffs again, Like hell they won’t.

They found a man in the deepest tunnel. He told them to go back. He told them they were about to unleash evil spirits trapped in the mountain. They blame me as much as they blame you.

Huh, ya think they wanna’ visit the same beatin’ on my face, then?

Martin Kimmler stands up and looks at the workers with a challenge in his glare. None speak or move a muscle; they only stare intently at him. He scans them, looking from one set of eyes to the next. He searches for anger but finds only fear.

Tell them to get the hell back to work, Kim.

Mr. Kimmla, Kim whines, they won’t.

Bullshit, Kim.

I’m sorry, Mr. Kimmla, I don’t know what to say to make them.

Kimmler sneers and tells the beaten man, Bart does.

Bart takes his cue and draws one of his pistols.

Mr. Kimmler says breaky time is over!

The mob remains stone still.

Bart takes his eyes off the mob for the first time and looks at his boss. Kimmler nods slightly. Bart turns back to the workers and snarls, Now!

Still, the mob stands silent.

Bart raises his pistol and shoots the nearest Chinaman in his face. His head snaps back and the men around him get splattered with brain matter and bits of bloodied scalp. The men closest to him back up slightly but the rest remain still. Bart turns slightly and trains his pistol on another worker’s forehead.

You stupid bastards! Mr. Kimmler says get your lazy asses back to work!

The silence that answers just pisses him off more. He fires his pistol and then turns it on the crowd. Five workers fall from his well-placed shots but the mob of workers refuses to obey.

Are you kidding me, Kim? The irate tone Martin uses does little to mask his returning fear. Kim opens his mouth to speak but Kimmler silences him.

The next bullet is for you if you tell me you’re sorry there, Kim. I don’t want apologies, I want solutions.

Kim stammers a minute before saying, Maybe follow them down, Mr. Kimmla, show them you don’t fear the old man in the tunnel. Maybe then they won’t.

Old man in the tunnel? What is that about Bart?

Bart keeps his eyes on the eerily still mob. None of the workers are looking at him. Instead, they all stare at Mr. Kimmler. Bart shifts his stance. I don’t know, boss. I ain’t seen no old man.

Well, if he could talk to them, then how the hell am I supposed to talk to this old man?

Kimmler directs the question to everyone but no one answers. Bart keeps reloading his pistol, bullet by bullet. Kim is standing on shaky legs and the workers just kept on staring at him.

Fine, I’ll go get this old man outta’ my mine. Then I’ll decide how many of you still deserve jobs.

Within minutes, Kimmler is following three of his workers into the shaft of his mine.

Martin Kimmler isn’t used to crawling through the rickety mine shafts of his claim and he is having a hard time keeping up with his Chinese workers. They move like darts through the dark tunnels and he trails behind, stifling a heart attack but too proud to tell them to slow down. They are deep, deeper than Kimmler has ever been. He is making the most out of his investment; he knows that for damn sure as they snake down tunnels getting ever darker. Kimmler refuses to spend extra money on an elevator, so his workers rely on a system of narrow, hollow switch-backs carved through the inside of the mountain like a wormhole in a dog’s heart. The three workers brave enough to lead him back into the tunnel stop suddenly ahead of him and he slows his pace to catch his breath and make them wait on him. The tunnels have no ventilation and the smoke from the torches burns Kimmler’s unaccustomed eyes; his world is dark and blurry as he shuffles forward. He reaches the waiting men and his heart nearly jumps out of his chest.

An old Native blocks their path, flanked by a torch burning brighter than any other they passed on their journey down. He is covered in layers of thick multicolored blankets and sitting on an odd rock formation near the end of the tunnel. His dark eyes are hollow and sunken into his wrinkled face, a stark contrast to his bright white braided hair. His hands are curled like talons and grip the blankets around him. At his feet lay the abandoned pickaxes from the workers who first encountered him. The old man nods at the three workers and they back up to allow Kimmler to get closer. He greets Kimmler with a familiar smile.

Get the hell outta’ here, old man, Kimmler growls after pushing his way past the Chinese workers.

The old man smiles and shakes his head. I can’t.

His voice is raspy and old but full of spirit. Martin Kimmler recognizes the old Native. He has been by Kimmler’s office before, first pleading and then demanding Kimmler cease the mining. Kimmler only knows him as an inconvenience. He does not know his name – Gray Crow – or the fact his urgings come at the behest of an ancient secret tribe – the Madoosk. The Madoosk tribe is charged with protecting the world from the cosmic evil that dwells within Kimmler’s mountain. On his last visit, Gray Crow saw the large, oblong carven stones the workers had brought to the surface. The old Native became extremely emotional and screamed at Kimmler in the tongue of his people. The scene turned tense with men ready to battle to the death, but the old man stormed off, blanket flapping, and stayed away. Until today.

Why the hell not?

Interesting that you say ‘hell.’ Would you believe we are right now near an evil that would corrupt hell into flakes of rust and turn humans into devils too foul for such a hell?

The three workers all whimper and cower when Gray Crow says the word hell. This strikes Kimmler as odd, because he says hell in almost every sentence he barks and they’ve never flinched away from him.

I’m losing my patience, old man.

Gray Crow laughs at Martin Kimmler—not a wise thing to do.

Well, little boy, I have enough for both of us. I’ll sit here forever to keep you from digging deeper into this mountain. The old man’s voice is strong and echoes the resolution in his dark eyes, the eyes of a man that has made up his mind and given up his soul with conviction to his cause. Kimmler recognizes the look; his own eyes reflect determination to unearth gold. Still, Kimmler realizes he is losing control of the situation and panic creeps up his neck.

Who the hell you callin’ little boy? His voice shakes.

You are ignorant and greedy. Perhaps the spirits called to you. Whatever the reason, you cannot dig anymore.

Who the hell…

Enough, Mr. Kimmler. Gray Crow’s voice echoes through the tunnels and sends the three workers into near hysterics. When the canary in a cage held by one of the men falls dead with a soft thud, they lose it and begin weeping and howling.

See, Gray Crow smiles, we are at the wall of death.

The three workers begin shouting at Kimmler and backing out the way they came. He responds by shooting them all in their backs as they flee. The gunshots echo through the mineshafts and rattle Kimmler’s teeth. He levels the pistol at the old man. Get the hell out of my mine.

Gray Crow shakes his head slowly. His smile melts away as Kimmler pulls the trigger. The first bullet hits the rock wall behind the old man, sending chips of stone back at Kimmler. The second hits the old man in his throat. His hands shoot from his blanket to the gaping wound, catching handfuls of dark sticky blood before it oozes between his fingers and down his frail arms. Kimmler fires the last round but Gray Crow twitches to his side as his lifeblood puddles at his feet. The bullet slams into the wall again and a thin green miasma sprays from the hole into Martin Kimmler’s face. He howls in pain as the vapor dissolves the flesh of his left eyeball. He falls to the ground and crawls over the three dead workers as the skin on his cheek begins bubbling and peeling. Kimmler is screaming and crying in the near darkness of the tunnel; he doesn’t notice the dead canary hissing and snapping at him as he crawls past.

Kimmler finds a wall and uses it to pull himself up and guide him to safety. Back on his feet he can move much faster, although his face is dripping blood and black flakes of skin stick to his hand when he touches it. As he nears the mouth of the mine he hears sounds from behind him. Howls and growls. Moans and foot falls. He breaks into a dead run but the sounds get even closer. Kimmler runs out of the mine and into a crowd of nervous Chinese workers, half of his face disfigured beyond recognition.

Blow this fucker closed! He screams at Bart and the force of his yell splatters the nearest workers with his blood. They yell and panic like it’s boiling oil. Kimmler’s legs give out from running and he collapses to his knees.

Bart doesn’t question his gore-dripping boss and lights a stick of dynamite with his half spent cigar. Kimmler is screaming at the workers to get him water and towels for his face but they are in chaos and ignore him. Bart tosses the stick of dynamite at the darkness just as the three dead Chinamen tackle him to the ground. The dynamite bounces off a wooden entrance arch and rolls towards the laborer tents crowding the lower camp. The big man punches and kicks, but the three dead men take each blow and continue to snap at his flesh. One rips into his forearm and another into his thigh. Blood spurts from his wounds and his movements slow enough for the third to latch onto his windpipe. While the three feast on Bart, Gray Crow runs past, blankets flapping behind like a long exotic tail, clawed hands outstretched. Kimmler turns and sees him just as the old man reaches forward and tears out his throat.

Martin Kimmler staggers backwards into the panicked rush of workers. He disappears under hundreds of running feet and the cloud of dust stirred from them. The mountain shakes with the force of the explosion. Shards of trees, charred cots and tent poles, and chunks of rock pelt the stampeding men. The workers shove and trample, moving in chaotic waves of confusion that fan the spread of the infection. Soon Bart is back on his feet. He runs into the melee with a flap of muscle dangling from his forearm and hunger roaring within. The Gray Crow-thing growls and leaps into the riot, taking a worker down, chewing on his face.

Martin Kimmler’s eyes open and all he sees are feet and dust. For the first time since he acquired the mine from a man in black named Braden Boon, he doesn’t have a single thought about gold. His corpse slithers a few inches; he snaps at the Achilles tendon of a worker who stood still for a second too long. He pulls and flops backward while gnawing, his spine broken from the trampling of his doomed workers. Screams and roars ring through the air like a summer grasshopper’s song.

Two

Hell Starts Down the Mountain

Xin Chu, known as Kim to his ignorant and now-dead employer, fled the moment Mr. Kimmler followed the workers into the mine. Xin climbed up over the mine entrance and watched chaos and death overcome the camp from the shade of the tall pines that line the ridge. Mr. Kimmler erupted from the mouth of the mine with strips of flesh eaten off his face and the mining crew went crazy with fear. He saw the three workers take down Bart and he saw the old Indian man rip Mr. Kimmler’s throat out. He watched with quickening breath as killed workers would rise and take down others, clawing and biting at their throats and faces.

When the dynamite blew the worker’s tents to scraps, Xin was knocked to his ass. His face battered by angry workers and his pride all but destroyed, he now decides to run. As he makes his decision he notices three Natives hidden among the trees facing the destruction behind him. One is adorned in bright purple and red blankets and feathers while the other two possess the tomahawks and physiques of warriors. All six black eyes consider him with cold indifference when he holds his hand to them for help.

Help me. Something is happened to camp. Workers are become demons. He realizes how ridiculous it all sounds but Xin knows what he saw.

Death is here. We all need help now. There are too many, too soon, the older Native tells the fallen Xin as he turns to walk away.

Xin struggles to his feet and shouts, Wait. What can I do?

The old man turns back quickly with his finger to his lips. The two warriors scowl at Xin and his wounds throb when he blushes.

Can you kill them all? the old man asks.

No. Can’t you?

All three men laugh under their breath at Xin but stop abruptly when shouts and gunfire erupt from the forest behind them. Xin turns towards the sounds and sees shapes among the trees, moving in their direction. He looks back to the three Natives and only the old man remains. The two warriors have vanished into the trees.

You should run, the old man says.

The gunshots and shouting have ceased but several men are trampling closer to the small clearing where Xin stands frozen. Xin turns away from the old man, panics at the large shadows approaching, and turns back. The old man is gone. Even as the sound of his final warning fades the shapes become real and three of Martin Kimmler’s goons nearly run Xin over.

Doug, George, and Les all carry full saddlebags over both shoulders and pistols in each fist. George levels both of his six-shooters at Xin’s face. Xin staggers backwards to flee the twin smoking barrels but instead crashes awkwardly into a tree trunk hard enough to knock the wind out of him. George cocks both pistols. Xin figures himself for dead and closes his eyes, thankful his end didn’t come with snarling teeth. Les, the tallest of the bunch, reaches over and slams his forearm across George’s wrists, forcing the guns down.

What the… George protests but Les interrupts him.

It’s Kim and he’s alive, Les takes both heavy saddlebags from his own shoulders and drapes them over Xin’s shoulders, He can help carry some of this shit.

Yer right, George grumbles.

He shifts to remove his saddlebags as a dead worker charges from the tree line behind him. The dead man’s face and neck are crimson ribbons over gray pulp and he growls as he shambles quickly forward. George has his saddlebags half-off and can’t raise his pistols. Les darts past Xin and grabs him by his collar as he passes.

Shit! George shouts as the dead man clears the last of the trees and dives for him. In mid-air the snarling monster’s head snaps back with the crack of a pistol. Shards of broken teeth rain from his face and pink clumps of brain splatter the tree behind him. The dead man lands in a pile with an audible crack. George looks for the bullet’s owner and sees Doug lining up another shot at the next thing stirring the bushes. George sees Les tugging Xin down the backside of the mountain and shrugs the saddlebags back onto his shoulders.

Two dead workers thunder from the pines with arms outstretched towards Doug and George. Doug shoots the closest in the forehead, dropping him; George shoots the next in his chest. The dead man doesn’t even slow his frenzied approach as the bullet tears through his heart. Both Doug and George put a bullet through the dead man’s forehead, blowing most of his head into tiny chunks of tissue, skull, and hair. Both men are running after Les and Xin before the zombie crumbles to the pine needle-covered ground.

I ain’t sharing with Kim! George shouts downhill to Les.

George, shut the fuck up! Les growls back.

He’s an asshole but he’s right, Doug tells George before the other man can yell again.

The four men run nonstop, dodging trees and bushes alike, for a solid ten minutes.

The screams from the camp above them have ceased and they have seen or heard no signs of pursuit. The four men crest a small ridge and nearly trip over the rooftop to a wooden house built into the mountainside. Les shoves Xin down the ridge and follows right behind. Doug and George jump down on either side of the building and Xin and Les walk around to the front. All six guns are pointed at the door, which is slightly ajar. One small window is next to the door and is covered with a greasy film. Three different sized chimneys puff smoke into the trees above. Doug, Les, and George each take a few steps forward while Xin watches shapes twist and bend in the trees far back the way they came. He can’t tell if the shadows are real or if his mind is making up its own terrors.

No time for this, he tells them while scanning the mountain above for the dead men.

What is it, Kim? Doug asks quietly.

Opium den, Xin answers flatly.

Oh, yeah, George says and stomps forward. He kicks the door off its hinges and follows it into the dim room. A rush of thick stale smoke erupts out. The splintered remains of the door land on the dirt floor and send small clouds of dust to stir in the sunlight.

The house is twice as big as it looks because it really does extend half again as much into the mountainside. Long couches line the walls, each couch filled with the sprawled semi-conscious forms of workers from the mine, lost in opium dazes. Three small paper lanterns hang from the tin ceiling and shine a deathly light on the intricately designed yet filthy Chinese tapestries that cover the wooden plank walls. A few exotic glass bottles are littered across the dirt floor; each reflects the lantern light in warped rays back at the ceiling.

George reaches down and tugs an opium pipe from a half-awake worker who offers no resistance and rolls away from the big man and the daylight he brought with him. George chuckles and opens the flap of his saddlebags, then tucks the pipe inside it. Xin sees the unmistakable shine of gold when he does. Doug and Les both walk in a few more steps but neither follow George as he works his way around the first wall picking the pockets of the wasted workers.

No time for this, Xin says, his disgust distorting his beaten face even more.

Now, hold on there, Kim, George says. Then he notices the only movement in the room giving life to a brown wool blanket in the corner and he speaks to himself, What we got here?

Enough, Xin says with a huff as he turns and walks quickly through the open doorway.

He’s right, George, we ain’t got time for this shit, Les says as he follows Xin and his gold out into the sunlight. George ignores him as he creeps closer to the rolling blanket in the corner. Les shakes his head and turns to Doug. We’ll leave you and this asshole both if you fall behind.

Doug nods and watches Les disappear behind Xin. The exchange of words has stirred the men on the couches and in the near darkness their movements look like slithers and twitches. A man behind George strikes a match and lights the bowl to an opium pipe so long his face remains hidden in shadow.

George reaches down, tugs the wool blanket and tosses it behind him. A worker looks to him with wide dull eyes but doesn’t stop his gyrating at the young woman under him. She covers her eyes from the sunlight and whimpers either with pain from the man on top of her, who quickens his pace, or in fear of the big man leering at her with menace under his mustache.

Well, lookie at what I found, Doug!

Shit, Doug mumbles.

George grabs a handful of the worker’s hair and tugs the smaller man off the girl. The worker doesn’t fight very much but George slams his head into the wall hard enough to split the man’s skull with a wet cracking sound. George drops the worker in heap on the floor and then reaches for the girl. He wraps one of his large calloused hands up in her straight black hair and tugs her to her feet. The girl manages to grab the blanket off the floor and half-cover herself as she is jerked into the air. She screams and slaps weakly against George’s barrel chest. He carries the girl so her feet dangle a few inches above the floor.

The man that is smoking the long pipe stands and steps in George’s path.

You pay! the man screams in George’s face.

George is still smiling when he puts a bullet through the man’s left eye. The back of the man’s skull and brain matter spray the men lounging on the couches. The warm sticky gore wakes them from their stupor as it splashes against their faces. They jump up in sloppy unison and scream at Doug and George. Doug slams the butt of his gun into the nearest man’s nose. A river of blood flows from the man’s shattered nose as Doug kicks him in the chest. The bleeding man is propelled into a small crowd of shouting and swaying men. Even above the angry shouts in the opium den, bloodthirsty howls can be heard coming from the direction of the mine camp.

Time to go, George, Doug says as he pistol-whips a second man.

You got that right, Dougie. George walks through the shouting men, pistol-whipping those in his way and carrying the girl by her hair.

Doug backs out the door; the howls are closer than before. He watches a dozen shapes thunder through the forest towards them. The girl exits first, held aloft by George. A small worker jumps on his back as he leaves. The worker wraps one arm around George’s stout neck and stabs the big man in the shoulder, arm, side, and chest with a dull pocket knife. George bucks and twists like a wild horse, trying to get his vicious attacker off him. The girl, clad in the wool blanket, screams and kicks but George holds tight. Both his saddlebags go flying, as does the man on his back. The attacker lands at George’s feet and George kicks him once in the face. He throws the girl at Doug, who is picking up George’s saddlebags. Doug catches her as George leans down and starts pummeling his would-be assassin. Huge balled fists smash repeatedly into the knife-wielding worker’s face until it caves inward with a squish. Bone, brain, and cartilage are smashed into a tacky pulp that connects to George’s fist in long strands like bloody snot as he stands up on wobbly legs.

Blood flows freely from the stab wounds dotting George’s upper torso. His green work-shirt is turning brown. The big man sways before spitting a clot of dark blood at the corpse’s brutally inverted face.

Give me back my gold, Doug, George grumbles as he struggles to his feet. And my new whore.

The girl looks back at the building and a new terror infuses her screams. The old Native from the mine shaft leads a wobbly but swift charge of two dozen dead men down on the opium den. Gray Crow leaps from the roof Xin almost tripped on, howls in mid-air, and lands on two blinking men that just stumbled out into the light. George spins around sloppily and tries to draw his weapons. He manages to grip the