On their way up, they made an unpleasant discovery. Or, rather, Winston did. He stayed at the lead with Old Red despite his trouble with the climb and looked around constantly, nervous as a virgin bride. That was probably why he saw the body first.
It was too small to be an adult. Slumped, one arm splayed out, it rested on a rocky outcrop like some heathen shrine. Winston doubted there could still be life in such a discarded-looking frame. Which made things worse.
He checked no-one else had noticed then tapped Old Red on the shoulder, pointed to the corpse. The old mercenary looked up and then called the climb to a halt with a raised fist.
Before the overseer could wonder how they’d handle it, Old Red pulled his weapon and shot the corpse three times. One bullet missed, two hit. The corpse jolted with the impacts and fell from the outcrop, destined to land in a disgusting pile fifty feet below them. It had been a little girl, one badly mauled long before Old Red had shot her.
But before the corpse landed, two grotesque wings sprouted from its back. Glistening sinewy things, black like a demon’s tongue. They flapped in unnatural ways, raised the girl’s corpse into the air and then swooped her down at them, her dead face as limp as her arms.
Old Red and his Red Bullets were ready for it. It seemed they weren’t fodder after all; their guns rattled off shots, perforating the demon’s wings so they were useless. The corpse fell to the ground ten yards ahead of them and skidded along in the dust.
Wasting no time, Old Red pulled a thick glass bottle from his backpack, one with a short fuse coming from its cap. Inside was a mix of quick-acting accelerants and blessed holy water. The old mercenary lit the fuse and threw it at the corpse, which went up in flames just as the creature inside tried to escape its flesh home, distending and tearing in order to flee. There was no satisfying squeal of protest, no shriek of agony as it died; only the sizzling of flesh.
“Good shot,” one of the mercenaries said.
“Wasn’t it?” Old Red asked.
They turned to go back to the climb. Before he joined them, Winston knelt and said a prayer for the soul of the girl the demon had inhabited.
At the top of the verge, they were doubly blessed. Not only could they see nothing that might trouble them but there was also a very clear break in the line; about a mile south, one of the telegraph poles had been dislodged and lay useless on the ground, its wires trailing like entrails.
“It ought to be a clear run,” Old Red said, still pleased with himself after their encounter with the creature. The man’s lack of decency wore at Winston’s nerve worse than Thunder’s saddle wore at his thighs.
“God never likes a man to say ought,” Winston said. “Why else would one pray if ‘ought’ were enough?”
Old Red shrugged. “Why indeed.”
They climbed down without speaking and then appraised the rest of the crew of the situation. To save time, Winston ordered them to leave a cart behind and tie four horses to the other one in case they needed to make a quick exit. Winston didn’t like leaving TTC property unguarded but if any bandits were brave enough to operate in the Badlands they were welcome to it.
Anyway, they’d come back for it unless things really went south.
So they struck out, racing like angels on God’s command, and were quickly at the downed pole. Repairing it was a matter of routine, something the engineers had done a thousand times; the creatures of the Badlands often knocked poles over when they shambled or slithered around. Winston and Old Red barked out orders, presided over the whole repair job, but nothing either could say would make a man in the Badlands quicker or more vigilant.
Those Red Bullets not securing the area grabbed shovels from the cart and dug an orifice for the new pole. Then they took the most solid-looking pole and stood it up with Enis’ and Adam’s help. The two engineers then worked on reconnecting it, replacing the torn wiring and testing that it took a signal after. The job ran like clockwork, smooth and fine.
Leaving them to get on with the main job, Winston and John examined the damaged pole. He trusted John to assess the damage more than his brother; the man had an eye for poor work. And if another team had done a shoddy job there would be hell to pay; the TTC don’t like spending this much because some two-bit moron couldn’t dig a proper setting.
But after examining it for five minutes it wasn’t obvious what exactly had befallen the stricken pole. Or, at least, it’s clear poor workmanship wasn’t to blame.
“What happened?” John asked, wiping his bald head with a rag.
Winston knelt. “I don’t know. It looks like… like the pole was just ripped up. See where the ground’s disturbed back there? This wasn’t done by a storm.”
John looked around nervously. Out here, anything could have made such a mess of the pole. “Why only this pole?” he asked. “Normally they’d take a couple of them out, right?”
“God only knows,” Winston said, standing. “Maybe the demons were fighting each other and accidentally knocked it over. Maybe it looked funny to one of them. I don’t really care. I’m calling it as a code nineteen; blame the Dixie Problem.”
John nodded. “Good call.”
