Thomas snuck into the graveyard at midnight.
Carrying an oil lamp low in his left hand, he hoisted the shovel in his right and slinked among the tombstones until he located his prize—a mound of dirt, newly churned, resting at the foot of a humble marker. The lantern’s quivering flame danced across
Raiders shoved Dr. Byron Stoneburner into the wooden crate. Hands bound, mouth gagged, the professor squirmed while the sliding lid clicked into place—trapping him within a world of darkness as thudding hammers nailed his coffin shut.
“What do we do with grave robbers?” a muffled voice crooned from outside the box.
Donner. Where’s Donner?
Nicholas shielded his face from the blizzard’s gale, lifted his kerosene lamp, and counted the antlered heads of his reindeer. Dasher. Dancer.
A January gust smacked his red coat. Snow stung rosy cheeks.
Prancer… Vixen. The old man’s teeth gritted. Comet… Cupid… Blitzen…
Donner?
Yukon peaks loomed in silent observance…
Mark ducked away from a barrage of hail moments before the gunshot clacked. The bullet skimmed his shoulder as a gust, gritty and wet, kicked him to the sidewalk. The tornado slashing through the Indiana countryside was closing in—debris and trees rotating in a torrid sky like dust in a vacuum.
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Clowns. Dudley Keene dismounted from his sorrel and cursed. He unsheathed his Winchester rifle from its saddle scabbard and pumped the lever. I hate clowns.
His dirt-stained boots plodded through tall grass until he reached an island of wreckage in the sea of prairie. An abandoned carriage stood idle beside a caravan of upturned covered
Hayden DuPont peeled away the bear’s gut and poked his head into the morning air. Mushy fur sagged as Montana wind sliced through the beast’s opening. Intestines and fluids dripped. DuPont’s breath plumed. Relief flooded his chest.
Alive.
Naked and caked in dried blood, he crawled from the bear’s protective womb and toddled
Slade Cartwright adjusted the scope on his Sharps rifle and awaited the Devil’s stagecoach. The Texas Ranger tipped the brim of a sweat-stained hat, swigged from his canteen, and wiped perspiration from his forehead. Mesquite trees and cacti provided limited shade underneath the unforgiving sun, but he made do amidst the desert rock outcropping.
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With a Glock 17 aimed between her eyes, Judy Suarez lit a cigarette and grinned. “Aren’t you going to ask if I’m feeling lucky?”
I stood to the side, helpless, as Chelsea gripped the handgun with firmer resolve, her attention fully trained on my employer. “Shut up! For once, let me think.”
Situated in Judy’s
A musket ball whizzed past Lizzie Ozark’s ear and smacked the skull of a neighboring soldier. Warm blood splattered her cheek. She chanced a look and stifled a cry.
Through the haze a hundred yards away, gray uniforms shifted, progressed, and reformed ranks. Injured comrades groaned around her feet.
Her regiment’s tattered Union
The first thing Mia noticed was the blood—dark specks drizzled across fresh snow like errant paint strokes. Her boots crunched in pursuit until the spatter disappeared into a sheet of white beyond the remote compound.
Blinding wind cut at her eyes as she peered into the Yukon permafrost and shouldered her
“Vampires, Marshal. Was a vampire that did it,” said the stout hotel manager.
Roland Chadwick, Deputy US Marshal, removed his fingers from the bite mark against Judge Wilkens’s neck. “Should send for a doctor.”
The manager leaned over the lawman’s shoulder. “Ain’t one in town, just the barber. He’s only good with stitches
Gregory Martin rode into town mumbling, “Killed. Killed us all.”
He stumbled from his horse, staggered toward the frontier clinic, and collapsed. Within the hour, he was dead.
Roland Chadwick, Deputy U.S. Marshal, dispersed an inquisitive crowd and joined Dr. Vernon Mortimer inside his humble hospital.
The physician locked the door and shook
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