Midnight Agency, Season One: The Obsidian Gate

By Ken Hoover

To fight monsters, you need a few devils.

 

In a time of blood and myth, humanity used its nuclear weapons to crack the world. In the year of blinding white light which followed, gods of death and cruelty poured through the gap and staked their claims, fueled by the relentless smothering of human lives. Two hun

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Hoover
• Release date: Nov 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087986845

Ken Hoover

Ken Hoover lives in New Mexico, which provides inspiration for the Midnight Agency series. When he is not working at his day job or spending time with his family, he writes weird stuff. He is an alumnus of NMSU and Superstars Writing Seminars. Visit his website for more-short fiction, deleted scenes, musings, and merchandise.

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Midnight Agency

Season One

Ken Hoover

Midnight Agency: Season One

By Ken Hoover

Copyright © 2021 by Ken Hoover. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 9781087986845

Published by Barnes & Noble Press

Cover art by Milan Jovanovic

First printing: 2018

Third printing: 2021

Published in the United States of America

For Camila and Gavin.

You are my light in the darkness.

Episode One:

Restless Spirits

One

Carlos sat in a dead man’s chair. He rubbed his wispy mustache, realized it was a tell, and quickly dropped his hand. He peeked at his cards again, trying desperately to mask his disappointment beneath his black bolero hat.

The last man who’d sat in this chair had been shot dead, and Carlos had bought his way into the game with his spare ammo, taking the blood-spattered chair. As play proceeded around the table, he reflected it had been a poor choice for a young lawman to sit at a poker table surrounded by outlaws.

Call, he said, then raised with his last .45 cartridge. He tossed it into the pot with a casual flick. No big deal. Even though it was his last bit of currency. It was a weak bluff, and he knew it.

Fold, muttered Knockback Bill. Need a damn drink anyhow. He tossed his cards down and stumbled in the general direction of the bar where rusted radioactive signs and license plates were nailed to every inch of wood.

That left only Sombrero Dave, a hired gun whose massive girth was testing the limits of a small wooden chair, and Slick Ace Jake, rumored to be a mean-ass skinwalker. Both called and stayed in the game. Their faces revealed nothing to Carlos.

Play circled back to a girl named Diablo. She was in her early twenties, he guessed, like him. Silky black hair, tinged red, spilled like ink onto her white blouse. The blouse had fallen off one shoulder, giving the gamblers something else to consider besides their cards. Her strategy seemed to be working, too, for she’d won a serious pile of ammo. And Carlos almost missed the two guns tucked into a sash—one silver, the other big and black.

His captain had sent him to make first contact with her. Warm her up to the idea of the Midnight Agency. If possible, he was to escort her to his superiors for recruitment. But Carlos doubted a girl named Diablo would agree to come with him anywhere, even if he wore an Agent’s badge.

Especially if he wore a badge.

Ladies, said Diablo, pushing her stockpile forward, her black eyes glinting. I call you cowards and raise you all-in.

Carlos had used every bit of spare ammo on his gun belt, and with no currency to bluff with, he’d have to leave the table, thus losing any chance of befriending Diablo. This was his first solo mission, assigned to him because only he could infiltrate The Contaminated Saloon on account of his youth and anonymity. He’d spent an hour studying the card players, and all that work was going up in smoke. His imminent failure smothered him. His captain already treated him like a child. What would he think now? This had been Carlos’s chance to show his team what he could do. His chest constricted, his lungs felt dried up. A shadow flitted on the edge of his vision, sliding along the adobe wall.

What about you, gunslinger? asked Diablo. Do you have anything left besides those pretty little guns of yours?

The saloon, which had been spinning around him, suddenly lurched to a stop. Her words knocked the breath from him like a gut-punch. His Colts were family heirlooms, passed down generations before and after the White Event. They were pieces of art, these old guns, with their checkered ivory grips and floral engraving. They were objects to envy and fear.

My guns...are priceless, he managed, his throat tight, forcing his Spanish accent to choke the English words. The guns were his abuelo’s, given to him by his father when he left the village to join the Agency. They are my birthright. Sacred.

Just one should do, then. Unless you can offer up something else... She let her words hang there while she raised a skeptical eyebrow.

To fold was to let this chance slip away, yet he couldn’t gamble away his guns. Not on a bluff. What good is a gunslinger without his guns? What would his captain think of him if he returned without one of his Colts? In his mind, he heard Captain Driskill’s reprimand. Old Silas would lecture him. And Mingan would shake his head in judgment.

Kid ain’t got shit, said Sombrero Dave.

The air grew warm, and sweat soaked his shirt and vest. Carlos drew his left Colt from its holster and placed it on the table. Its weight jostled the pile of bullets. Take care of these pistols and they will serve you well, his father had told him after he placed them in Carlos’ hands.

Well now, said Diablo, admiring the gun. Must be one hell of a hand.

Carlos bobbed his eyebrows at her, forcing himself not to look at his Colt.

You talk a mighty game, Diablo, said Sombrero Dave. He shoved his stockpile forward. But you ain’t gonna beat me. Not this time.

Ain’t a coward, but I ain’t no idiot, neither. I fold, snarled Slick Ace Jake. He slapped his cards down and stepped away from the table. He lingered to watch the action, his hands resting on his gun belt.

Carlos glanced at his Colt in the pot. It was a piece of his soul. And I’m about to lose it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Carlos saw a shade, a living shadow, slither across the saloon floor. It slipped amongst the square tables and chairs. Seeing ghosts was nothing new to him, but this one was different. When it vanished, it disturbed the air, like scratches on a mirror. Inquieto, thought Carlos. Restless.

No one else noticed it. No one ever did.

Let’s see what you got, said Diablo.

Distracted by the shade, Carlos realized she was talking to him. He felt everyone around the table watching him, judging him. He was going to lose. His only chance of getting the Colt back was to gamble the other. His face grew hot. His hands trembled. With a thin-lipped smile, he fanned his cards and laid them down, face up. It was a hodgepodge, with a high Eight of Diamonds.

You bet your Colt on an eight? Diablo scoffed. That was some bluff, gunslinger.

Stupid’s what it was, said Sombrero Dave, laughing. He revealed a pair of twos and a pair of sixes. He smiled triumphantly, leaning back in his chair. The wood groaned.

Why Dave, she said, I didn’t believe you had a pair. She flipped her cards over, one by one. Aces and eights, the Dead Man’s Hand.

The onlookers gasped. Sombrero Dave leaned forward, gripping the table’s edge, red-faced and breathing heavy like a bull about to charge. The dealer found somewhere else to be.

Carlos joined the gawkers, positioning himself behind Bill and Jake. He tossed back the rest of his watery beer while dropping his free hand to unfasten the loop securing his other—now his only—Colt .45 at his leg. The other Agents were outside somewhere, too far away to intervene. Worse, there was no presence of law in The Contaminated Saloon, no semi-auto shotgun above the bar, no happenstance sheriff at the saloon doors. Just me, he thought.

Carlos noted the SIG-Sauer stuffed down the back of Dave’s jeans, wedged between his giant butt cheeks. Nearby, Bill rested a hand on his gun, and Jake growled low in his throat, flexing his hands. All of them glared at Diablo.

The whole place had dropped dead quiet, waiting for violence to spring forth.

Diablo sat in the middle of it all, unconcerned. She paid the men absolutely no attention, as if they weren’t there at all. She calmly stood her bullets and shell casings one-by-one, like they were toy soldiers instead of winnings. But they were precious things, those bullets. Commodity. Twenty-twos, forty-fours, specials, thirty-cals.

You skinned me! shouted Sombrero Dave, spittle flying from fat lips. He brandished the black SIG in his fat fist. You haven’t won big all night. Now you expect me to believe you just got lucky? I bet you supplied yourself with those aces. And just where do you hide them cards? Maybe I’ll find out where you hide everything.

At that, Diablo settled back in the wooden chair, using a black fingernail to push up her hat brim. Her deep onyx eyes narrowed.

Dave, she said, her voice honey-thick, did you really think I wouldn’t notice you switching cards when you feigned that sweaty, fat cough of yours?

Shit, Dave, you didn’t! snarled Jake.

"She’s the cheat!" said Dave, jabbing the SIG in her direction.

Get that gun any closer to my face, Dave, said the girl firmly, and you’ll lose your damn hand. I promise you that.

Carlos fingered the handle of his Colt. He was a faster draw than most, and he could shoot better than anybody. Some people were cardsharp. Carlos was gunsharp. He never missed.

Dave roared, red-faced, and overturned the table, tossing it aside like a saddle. Cartridges and drinks flew in all directions, men and women scattered. Carlos watched his Colt slide beneath a table. Only the girl defied the panic, rising from her chair with feline grace and drawing the biggest pistol Carlos had ever seen from a black waist sash. It was a Mexican flintlock, an antique long before the White Event. It hummed ominously, and orange runes flared on the black barrel and stock.

Diablo moved the barrel to Dave’s sweaty forehead, pressing it into the skin. It sizzled on contact like a branding iron, but Dave was too afraid to move. Carlos saw nothing but fear in his crazed eyes.

You should know me better than that, Dave, she said. Drop that SIG or see what happens.

Dave stared cross-eyed at the big black barrel. Reluctantly, he dropped his SIG. It clattered to the floor. Good boy, thought Carlos.

As for the rest of The Contaminated Saloon, only the bartender remained, as well as a few spectators near the saloon doors, who were either too dumb, old, or drunk to hightail it. Carlos stood behind Bill and Jake, unnoticed. His Colt was beneath a table, but he didn’t dare go for it now.

On your knees, Dave, said Diablo.

The fat man awkwardly knelt with a heavy thud, keeping his hands up. Don’t go shootin’ me! he said, voice unsteady.

Why not, Dave? You made all sorts of threats to my bodily person. Now be a gentleman for a change and pick up my winnings while you’re down there.

He looked confused. What’s yours?

All of it, Dave.

Yes, Diablo.

Don’t call me that. My name’s Kory Shaw. She dropped a satchel beside him, nudged it with her boot. Fill that for me.

His hands searched the floor like tarantulas, gathering red, copper, and black cartridges as fast as they could. Yes, Miss Shaw.

That’s better, she said, smiling approval.

After he gathered all bullets within reach, he handed over the satchel. She snatched it away and stepped back, keeping the gun leveled at Dave’s head. The glowing gun, black and fiery, purred like it was alive. Carlos smelled something burning, like spoiled eggs tossed into a fire. Is that the gun or Dave’s forehead?

Carlos watched everything at once, the way Captain Driskill had taught him.

Dave flitted his eyes to his SIG on the floor out of reach. Bill and Jake stood stiff, still undecided, but Carlos knew if one of them went for Kory, the other would follow. Even with that devilish gun, three against one was unfair. Then Carlos saw Jake’s hand unclench. His dirty fingernails grew into talons. He’s shifting!

Carlos bashed him over the head with the butt of his gun, then sidestepped and backhanded Bill in the same manner. Both men crashed to the floor. He’d seen Captain Driskill do this several times but had never tried it. Can’t argue with the efficiency, he thought. Didn’t even have to waste a bullet.

Just then, the shade slithered up the wall behind Kory, coalesced into human form, and raised some sort of long spiked club. Turquoise eyes flared menacingly.

Carlos shot it right in the forehead. Its vanishing looked like rips in the wallpaper. Only the bullet hole remained, pockmarking the adobe. Pleased with himself, he spun the gun into his holster. When he looked up, Kory was aiming a silver six-gun right at his forehead. With a disappointed frown, she cocked back the hammer.

Midnight Agency, Carlos announced. Badge is in my vest pocket.

Why are you shooting at me, Agent? asked Kory.

There was a shade behind you. But do not worry. I scared it away. He nudged Jake with his boot. These two were going to bushwhack you. And now they’re not.

Look at you, saving lives, she muttered. Dave, don’t even twitch. She reemphasized this by aiming her demonic gun at the fat man, still kneeling, who snapped his attention away from the SIG and back to Kory.

Carlos swallowed. This was his moment. Why don’t we find somewhere else to be, Miss Shaw?

Yeah. This game’s dead anyway. Dave, next time I see your ugly face, I’ll blow it through the back of your head. She threw the satchel over one shoulder, then stepped over the debris and out the front door.

Carlos grabbed his Colt off the floor and kissed its silver barrel. He snatched up the SIG, too, then backed out carefully into the cool night air.

Don’t come back, said the barkeep.

Two

Once outside, Carlos chased Kory up the boardwalk. Miss Shaw, wait.

Go to any nuclear hell of your choosing, Agent!

I just want to talk, he said, handing her Dave’s SIG.

She tossed it in her bag without slowing down. Escort me, don’t escort me. What do I care? Just keep the yappin’ to a minimum.

Because Old Town was the largest settlement between Phoenix and Independence, a train depot had been planned, promising a surge of wealth into the community. When the railroad tracks were finally unearthed a half-mile away and across the river, the plans changed. And so a New Town had risen from the rubble. Hastily built saloons and bordellos crowded the thoroughfare like mismatched teeth, attracting travelers and entrepreneurs of all sorts. Too many outlaws, con men, thieves, and Texans, the porter had told the captain when they’d arrived. Fed up with the lawlessness delivered to New Town twice a day, the Old Town villagers had set about taking matters into their own hands, stringing up known outlaws on their rusty windmill in the Old Town plaza. No wonder people were beginning to call the town Wicked City.

Come with me, he told Kory, as they clomped past another saloon. It is not safe here.

It ain’t safe anywhere.

It is with the Agency.

Carlos heard a disturbance from up the street. At first, it sounded like a fierce desert wind, but now he heard a roar of angry voices. From around the next corner came a mob of men and women. Several carried torches to light their way, but most wielded pitchforks and shovels, shouting so loudly Carlos couldn’t understand a word they were saying. All of their faces were twisted into angry masks, crying for blood and justice. Carlos and Kory stepped aside to let them pass, but the mob quickly surrounded the boardwalk in a semicircle.

Figures, said Kory.

Midnight Agency, said Carlos, damned if he would let villagers threaten him like this. He plucked his badge from his vest pocket and held it up so everyone could see the silver moon and star. What is your intention? he shouted, but he could barely hear his own voice.

An old lady stepped in front of the others and fired a shotgun skyward. The mob grew respectfully quiet. The vieja aimed the shotgun at Carlos now.

We have come for Diablo, said the old lady in Spanish. She is not welcome here.

Abomination! someone shouted.

"Bruja!" yelled another.

Carlos gave them his best smile and held out his hands, peaceful-like. He spoke in Spanish. Ladies and gentlemen, I am with the Midnight Agency, and I have apprehended this wanted criminal single-handedly. We’ll be taking her with us.

Like hell, muttered Kory.

Carlos ignored her. Please, go home. Do not let the need for violence fill your good hearts. Leave her to us.

Blood witch! shouted a woman. This was echoed by many.

Carlos waved his hands. No, no. Look at her. A bit homely, perhaps, but no witch. She’s just a young lady, trying to find her way like all of us. Please, go home. Leave her to the Midnight Agency.

Move out of the way, little boy, said the vieja, and no harm will come to you.

He’s full of cow shit! shouted Dave from down the street, marching toward them with a gang of gamblers and outlaws. Bill and Jake wobbled behind, rubbing their sore skulls.

As Dave pushed into the mob, the villagers jumped Dave and his gang and beat them to the ground. They swarmed Carlos, grabbing, scratching, and punching. His clothes ripped. Someone kicked his knee, bringing him down. He looked up to see Kory struggling against the mob, too, unable to do anything but protect herself from the beating.

In the madness, her hat dislodged, revealing two shiny black horns on the top of her head.

Ay Dios mio, he thought.

To the windmill! someone shouted.

But I’m an Agent! said Carlos, just before a frying pan smashed him on the head.

Three

He opened his eyes to see thick, low clouds in the night sky. Snow fell lightly around him. Or was it ash? A torch flared across his vision. Shouts. Jeers. His skull felt tender, cracked.

They dragged him by his arms, and his trousers threatened to peel off into the mud. All around him, villagers cried out for justice and death. Men, women, even children. They hauled Jake, Bill, and Dave. Nearby, he saw Kory being dragged by her boots. Her horned head, now hatless and bloody, banged on the ground. If this continued, they could kill her.

The rusted metal frame of the windmill came into view. He’d seen it earlier, of course, standing high in the wide expanse of the plaza, surrounded by adobe buildings on all sides.

They abruptly dropped Carlos, then strangled him with rough rope, and hoisted him to his knees. A noose! I cannot die like this, he thought, choking. Hanged like a criminal. Don’t they see I’m an Agent?

The villagers shouted instructions back and forth. Throw the rope over. Heave.

To his right, he heard the whine of rope on metal and saw Jake fly into the air. His boots dangled a good five feet above Carlos’s head, kicking. That wasn’t the way to kill a skinwalker. Not completely.

He found Kory, awake now, her head a bloody mess, clutching the noose around her neck. An older man with a handlebar moustache tried to take her flintlock pistol, but his fingers sizzled, and he recoiled in pain, then backhanded her across the cheek. The gun, it seemed, fought back.

Carlos reached for his own guns, but they were both gone. Some hero I turned out to be.

No, save Sombrero Dave for last. He might break the damn windmill! someone shouted in Spanish, and many men laughed.

Carlos might have laughed with them, if he could speak.

The rope whined, and Bill flew into the air.

It looked like Kory would be next. The rope hauled her to her feet. Carlos found her eyes, now liquid black and filled with sadness. Her meanness had disappeared, leaving only a scared girl. She was younger than he’d thought by a year or two.

He smiled to show he wasn’t afraid. I wish I could’ve known you better, horns and all, he said, croaking, as his rope tightened.

A sharp whistle. A silver flash in the night sky.

Kory fell to the ground, the rope above her severed cleanly. Another whistle, another, and another, then Carlos heaped to the ground. He crawled to Kory. When he reached her, she squeezed his hands and smiled with genuine kindness, and he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

Then he realized everything had stopped.

All around, the boots and legs of townsfolk stood still, watching, waiting as snow fell around them.

I’m Captain Roland Driskill of the Midnight Agency, said a commanding voice with a southern drawl. Desist this unlawful gathering immediately or you’ll answer to me.

Standing over Carlos was a gray-bearded gentleman in a nice gray suit and a derby. In one hand he held a Peacemaker, in the other, a thin cane sword, blade shining silver in the scant moonlight.

Who the hell? muttered Kory, letting go of Carlos’s hands and scowling.

She clawed at the noose to loosen it, her face pinched and mean again. But he’d seen that kind girl beneath the surface, hadn’t he? If only for a moment.

"Hey, jefe," said Carlos, his throat hoarse from the noose.

Captain Driskill continued his speech. If you question my ability, you should be aware that I am not here alone.

At that moment, in a swirl of smoke, a woman with ghostly white skin appeared. She wore a lacy black dress, as if in mourning. Hello, my love, she said, surveying the crowd with frost-colored eyes.

Captain Driskill nodded his head, touched the brim of his derby. Miss Clara.

The villagers cried out. Several crossed themselves and called her Witch. Others called her Bruja.

Undeniably, she said with a wicked smile.

The earth shook beneath Carlos, and a loud, mechanized thumping preceded two beams of light that glared like angry eyes. A hiss of steam billowed into the air behind the enormous figure. Gears clattered and whirred, steam hissed with each step. Even though Carlos had seen Silas Blue in his walking suit before, the sight still amazed him. The crowd parted as Silas stomped over to join Captain Driskill. Thoom. Thoom. Thoom. Silas was as good as dead from the waist down, but the mechanical frame supported his lower half, spine, and neck. Built into one of the arms was a miniature Gatling gun, which began to whir and spin.

That’s Silas Blue, Carlos told Kory. He used to be a marshal until some outlaw shot him in the spine. He’s still angry about that. Our last Agent is Mingan.

Where? asked Kory.

Oh, he’s out there somewhere.

The villagers finally started to see reason. Most left straightaway like cowardly dogs, but the last dispersed with a few spits and curses.

After a few minutes, the plaza was deserted except for the settling dust. And the ghosts. Carlos counted at least fifteen dead people shuffling around the plaza. This plaza was a place of death.

Captain Driskill sheathed his cane sword, and Miss Clara dissipated like thinning smoke. The Gatling gun wound down and stopped.

Carlos probed the lump on his aching head. "I did the best I could, jefe."

We came as soon as we heard a mob was forming, said Captain Driskill. He extended a hand to Kory to help her to her feet.

Your head needs tending to, my dear, he said.

Ain’t your dear, she said, rising without aid.

"What about the others?" asked Silas, his voice crackling through the loudspeaker. Gears whirred. Steam hissed skyward. With a giant mechanized hand, he pointed to where Jake and Bill lay sprawled in the dirt.

They will live, said a low voice.

Mingan was now crouched beside the bodies, dressed in buckskins and a leather poncho. His long black hair was held back by a brown headband. He claimed the jagged snakes painted on the soles of his moccasins gave him a serpent’s sneakiness, but he was plenty sneaky without them.

The fat one smells like beer piss, said Mingan.

Captain Driskill shook his head. Was the poor soul hanged?

Nope, said Mingan. Fainted. Take better care of your guns, Carlos.

He placed three pistols onto the ground. Carlos recognized his two Colts. He scooped them up and wiped mud off their barrels. My babies, he said, giving Mingan a smile of gratitude.

Kory snatched her six-gun off the ground and shoved it into her black sash. Who are you people? she asked, now wearing a black Stetson, stolen from one of the fallen outlaws.

To hide her horns, thought Carlos. She’s ashamed of them.

I apologize, said Captain Driskill. I thought I made that abundantly clear. We are the Midnight Agency.

"Oh, I’ve heard of you, mister. But what are you?" She angrily snatched a black serape off the ground and tossed it over one shoulder.

Captain Driskill ignored her. Silas, watch for mobs between here and the train.

"Yes, Captain," answered Silas. As soon as he started walking away, the rhythmic sound of gears, steam, and stomping filled the plaza.

Captain Driskill said, Mingan, take point. We’ll head to the roadhouse for the night. I think we’ve had enough exhilaration.

By the time Carlos looked, Mingan was already gone.

Captain Driskill finally addressed Kory. Were you born with those horns, Miss…?

"Name’s Kory Shaw. And no, I was not born with them, she said as she finished adjusting the serape, black with a white lightning bolt pattern. Carlos thought it suited her. These are a curse, passed onto me by my father. An inheritance, if you like."

What hardship you must face, child, said Captain Driskill.

Ain’t your child.

But we do not judge. Appearance can mislead. Rather, our actions define us. There are many terrible things in the world, Miss Kory, and I find myself in a dilemma, concerning you. He paused to let her respond if she wished. When she said nothing, he continued. I cannot permit myself to abandon you in this wicked city. Nor is it safe to leave you alone on the road out of town, where you could fall victim to the brutalities of Jornada war parties, skinwalkers, chupacabras, and the like. Besides, a blizzard is coming, if the soreness in my bad leg is any soothsayer of quality.

I’m no good in the cold, but I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time.

So I have deduced, said Captain Driskill, but that did not prevent me from having to intervene tonight. If I hadn’t, I believe you would be swinging by the neck. You may join us, if you wish. We have rented a roadhouse a few miles outside of Old Town. In the morning, we’ll be taking our train westward.

Your train? she asked. You say that like you own the thing.

Indeed, we are furnished with an engine and single coach so that we may move swiftly across this great dead land of ours. Therefore, we may offer you safe passage to anything along the way. You’ll not find a better offer.

Smooth, thought Carlos. Getting her to come with us like that.

She chewed her lip in thought, then nodded. Fine.

This way, then. Captain Driskill offered his arm to walk her properly, but Kory glared suspiciously.

She doesn’t trust us yet. And who can blame her?

With a shrug, Captain Driskill limped down the snow-dusted street, using his cane to support his wounded leg.

Carlos looked back at the plaza and saw a shadow moving behind the windmill. Its glowing turquoise eyes flared, and then it