It’s What They Call Themselves

Red dust swirled around the wheels of the coach as it passed through the valley. Rafaela crouched in the desert shrubs on either side of the beaten path, her hand around the handle of her hatchet—gripped so tight the dry skin of her palm had almost fused to the leather cords of the grip. She looked up into the hills, trying to spot Finley. The old San Patricio should be up there with his bolt action. She had watched him go, but a lot could happen in between here and the hills.

She was weighing her options if he had not made it into position—wondering how or if she could fulfill the plan on her own—when a shot rang out in the valley. The driver up on the stage jerked to the side and slid off the couch, tumbling three times in the dust before coming to a stop. There was the steady hand that had downed the invaders during the war. Finely had fought with Rafaela’s father. He had been one of the few the Americans did not hang for treason. Good luck for Rafaela—her only good luck these last six months.

The horses kept going, startled by the noise, pulling the coach further along down the road. Rafaela had positioned herself a bit ahead of the first attack point for this reason. The coach was still down the road from her hiding spot and still coming towards her. She tapped the tips of her fingers against the grip of the hatchet, getting them unstuck in case she had to throw it.

A second shot rang out. The bolt securing the horses to the coach pinged out of place. The horses, still bridled to each other, galloped all the faster, now unmoored from the heavy coach and free to run away. Rafaela made a note to go search for them afterwards if they made it out of this. Their own horses had been drained the night before and they could use replacements. The rest Finely could get fenced for cash to fund the next…

Rafaela shook her head. No sense getting too ahead. Survive this encounter. Or don’t. Plan later.

The coach rolled to a stop. Finely would be up in the hills with his iron sights trained on the door. Fat load of good it would do. There was a reason Rafaela had to do this up close with a hatchet instead of from a nice safe distance like Finely.

She crept up to the stopped coach. Travelers from the coast thought of the desert as a barren place. In their minds it was like the great sand sea of Egypt—but the Mexican desert, or Rafaela supposed it was now the American desert, was rocky and full of little cracks, crevices, and shrubs to hide in. She could get all the way up to the coach without being seen by any person inside of it.

She crouched by the back of the coach, just under the back-left wheel, and rolled her wrist to loosen it. This was the part where her nerves always threatened to fray. Her heart beat against the inside of her chest like it was trying to escape before the rest of her. Her palms were no longer dry an she had to readjust her grip so the hatchet did not slip from her fingers. Open the door and jump back. Just like last time and every time before that. Two motions and an ocean of opportunities to get it wrong in between.

Rafaela went around to the side of the coach, muscles tensed, and flung the door open, then jumped back. Perfect. The best she had ever done it.

Nothing leapt out at her. Hairs on the back of her neck stood up. The inside of the coach was not large. Even from here she could see the entirety of the interior. Empty. Had it always been so? Had the blacked out windows that she used to tip her off to which coaches to prey on been used to deceive her?

A bullet whizzed past her head and buried itself in the side of the coach. Rafaela’s eyes went wide. She spun around, scanning for the gunman. That had come from the hills, where Finley was supposed to be covering her. Who was firing warning shots at her from…?

A warning shot.

Rafaela threw herself into the dirt as claws whistled over her head. She rolled, kicking up dust to cover her until she could right herself. When she got to her feet the dust cloud swirled around a dark shape. Rafaela rotated her wrist again. As the dust dissipated she saw tinted lensed half hanging off a pale face. A mustache that looked more like twisted sinew than hair ended in points on either side of a chiseled face. The face might have been handsome except something primal inside of Rafaela screamed at her that this thing was deadly, a predator that was to be run from and prayed against.

It opened its mouth in something like a smile and showed off entirely too many teeth, all jagged and pointed. Rafaela had seen predator animals. Lobos, coyotes, and pumas. They had pointed teeth because they needed them to hunt and tear meat. God had given them their teeth for survival. This thing had pointed teeth because it wanted them. It had chiseled its teeth down to points because it thought that’s what predators were meant to have.

The tinted lenses fell from its face. It oscillated its head from side to side like a snake, starring at her with red eyes that were blood red where the whites should have been. It stepped to the side, crossing one leg over the other as it made a wide arc around Rafaela. She tightened her grip on her hatchet. The silver plating glinted in the sun. Too many people had told her these monsters could not go out in the sun. After bitter months she had found that only half true. The sun did not kill it, but she saw the sluggishness in its movements. It would still probably kill her, but she might live slightly longer.

So she charged it—arching her arm back, ready to plunge the silver plated hatchet into its body. The monster took a half step back, not scared by any means, but surprised. That instinct that told her to run away when she saw it was ingrained in every beating heart on the planet—or so she guessed. Like any predator, it was unprepared for its prey to run towards it. Its muscles had been primed for the chase.

Rafaela swung her hatchet in a smooth strong motion, giving it momentum with her whole body. A man would have died in an instant. The creature bent back at the middle and the hatchet sailed through empty air where its throat had just been. It lashed out with its hand, grabbing hold of her wrist. Its skin was cold, the only warmth coming from the sun, but in its grip her wrist felt like it might snap. She dropped the hatchet into her other hand and made a wild swing—without the power or precision of the last strike. This time she made contact.

The hatchet dug into the thing’s stomach, tearing through layers of fine suit until it found tepid flesh. The sound was less like skin being cut and more like dry wood cracking. Black sludge sloshed from the wound, turning red desert sand to mud. The thing barred its teeth and hissed in Rafaela’s face. She could not say which stunk more, the bile that had come from the wound or the rancid air from its throat.

Her mind clouded, the noxious odor burned her lungs and the edges of her vision began to blur. She staggered back, choking up on the hatchet so it did not slip from her grip. Her boots sloshed in the damp patch of muddy earth. Rafaela hacked out a cough. The thing took another step towards here, mottled leather boots making grooves in the sand.

Another shot echoed in the valley. It’s shoulder jerked to the side and the broad side of the coach behind it exploded in a spray of black sludge and wood chips. It barred those chipped teeth again. Gracias a dios por el Irlandés.

Rafaela rolled her shoulders. The shot had distracted it, not stopped it. She crouched low on her next swing and then swung the hatchet up, digging the curved underside of the blade into the already open wound and tearing upward.

More noxious breath. This time she made sure to hold her breath. The blade wrenched flesh all the way up to the collarbone. Rafaela yanked it out, putting her whole shoulder into it. Bits of brown bone came out with it.

The beast listed to the side, sunlight shining through the hole Finley had put in its shoulder, black sludge staining the expensive white shirt. Rafaela set her arm straight and swung from her hips, bearing the silver plated edge of the blade down on the beast’s neck. More black sludge plastered the side of the coach. The body, now lifeless as well as dead, fell face first into the sand.

Rafaela stumbled back and landed on her rear in the dry hot sand. It burned through her trousers. She let the hatchet fall into the dirt—where the blade buried in the damp sand, leaving it upright. Her heart thundered in her chest, pumping blood that the beast might have dined in if that had gone on any longer. She shook under her body could shake no more.

Heavy footsteps and a familiar whistle alerted her to Finley’s approach. He came with the barrel of the rifle up, like the beast might suddenly get back up. Rafaela conceded he had a point. The job was probably done—but ‘probably’ had nearly gotten them killed before. She pulled the hatched from the dirt and forced herself to her feet. Then, with one final blow, she separated the head from the neck. Finely slung his rifle over his shoulder and took out his watch.

“I think that might be a new record.” He worked the tip of his boot beneath the body and rolled it onto its back.

Rafaela wearily went through the pockets, drawing several old treasury notes which she passed to Finely. He folded them up and placed them in his waistcoat pocket. After digging through a second damp pocket, she found a blackened envelope. She cut it open with her jackknife and dumped the contents into her hand. She read the note twice and then passed it to Finley.

“Round up the horses,” she said, getting to her feet. “If we hurry we can make it to San Antonio before the one he was traveling to meet.”

“The name looks familiar,” Finley said.

“It should, you’ve got his knife on your hip.”

Finley looked down at the big hunting knife strapped to his belt.

“Ah, yes.” He pointed to the letter. “What’s this word. I don’t recognize it.”

She stood on her toes to look over his shoulder.

“It’s what the old priest said they call themselves. It’s Hungarian.”

“Vam—pyre” Finely sounded it. “Eh, makes no difference I suppose.”

Rafaela looked out at the desert. These beasts were spreading with the railroads and the armies, moving into lands their decaying bodies alone could not reach. She and Finley had miles to go before San Antonio, and miles to go after.

They saddled up the horses and rode off into the desert toward the next town. If they rode fast they could be there before nightfall.

***

Liam Espinoza-Zemlicka is a writer, teacher, and anthropologist from Southern California. He has been published in academic journals on the nature of race in fan spaces and the use of graphic novels as teaching tools. As an anthropologist, he has taught classes on language, religion, magic, and witchcraft. His fiction has previously been published in Grim and Gilded, and he was on the Long List for the Uncharted Magazine Novel Excerpt Prize Competition. As he routinely forgets to save a copy of this bio for submissions he has copy/pasted this from the last time he was published in Grim and Gilded and is hoping nobody notices...wait...drat!