READ: Marked Men 1

A stowaway on a train, running from something horrible, falls into the hands of evil men. Soon, innocent lives will be lost as human monsters will face something ancient, powerful... and hungry.

Hey, folks, John Mierau here! Today's fiction marks my first newsletter/ebook release in a long time. There are a few good reasons for that. If you want to know more, keep reading after today's fiction. Without further ado, please enjoy 'Marked Men', Part 1 of 3.

Laramie Mountains, Wyoming
1869

“Get up!”

Rough hands yanked Daniel from his hiding place behind a crate of buffalo pelts bound for the east. Half asleep, he was thrown from the train car into prairie and scrub brush. He tried to break his fall, and his hands were slashed on the rock bed of the tracks. He screamed and came all the way awake. He wanted to run but could only cradle his hands to his chest, gasping at the pain. A tall man jumped down after him, kicking him in the ribs before tying his wrists together. “Y'all picked the wrong train,” the man drawled.

The sun already hung at the top of the sky, shrouding his captor in shadow. Daniel looked up the tracks and saw the square timber of a mine entrance cropping out of a low foothill; his guts turned cold. The mountains? I'm not even out of Wyoming!

It would come that night. He was running out of time.

His captor herded Daniel to the gleaming black-and-red caboose at the rear of the train he'd just been thrown off. His legs were kicked out from under him. Head spinning, he stayed where he was put, blowing on his bloody hands. Behind him, an army of Chinese in straw hats were hauling all manner of goods from the mine onto the train, watched over by hard-looking white men with rifles.

On the porch of the caboose stood a man with his back turned. The collar of his tailored white shirt was undone and he was lathering his face to shave. A thin Chinese boy stood a step away holding a mirror. From behind, someone approached Daniel's captor. The new voice was Irish, the same brogue Daniel had worked so hard to banish from his own mouth. Moments later a stocky Irishman stepped into view. He tipped his dented felt hat to the man on the caboose.

“Travis caught him riding your rail for free, Mr. Bock,” the new man reported, then spat brown tobacco juice onto the tracks.

The skin of his Marked left hand tingled, and Daniel clamped his right over it. He quaked, having learned to fear whatever the Mark delighted in. Daniel looked around for the source.

The one named Travis had walked past the train to the rusted steel stop at the end of the tracks. His cruel eyes were now on the crowd of Chinese breaking their backs loading Bock's train. He was stroking the leather of his holster as he watched them. A gunman. But he was not the source: the Mark was celebrating a greater evil.

A whip cracked, and Daniel turned in time to watch two white men kick a fallen Chinese. The man huddled on the ground and did not resist the blows. The remaining workers kept their heads down, likely hoping not to attract similar attention.

Forget his bad luck, Danny-boy, find a way to improve your own!

Daniel cleared his throat, already dry from the hot sun. “I sure do apologize for how this looks, sir, me being on your train and all. My name is Downey, Daniel Downey. My father's big in --” Daniel licked his lips, the blarney close to stillborn on them. “In the fur trade! I was robbed collecting goods for him.”

Now the juices were flowing, Daniel thought. “I see you're hard at it, sir.” He levered himself to his feet. “I'd be glad to lend a hand in exchange for a seat back to the next station. I would make full restitutio--”

Something hit him hard behind the knees and Daniel collapsed. The Irishman spat tobacco next to his head.

“I—I assure you all I”m no hobo.” He plucked at his tattered vest. “Oh, this,” he laughed. “I can easily replace--”

“I doubt that. Damnation, stand still, boy!” Bock raised the back of his razor-wielding hand to the child holding the mirror. “You know I don't approve of trespassers, Mister Jessup,” he said, before wiping the blade carelessly on a towel draped over the boy's shoulders. The boy's eyes never left the blade.

Jessup cleared his throat. “I was thinking the mine, Mister Bock?”

Bock shaved another strip, then turned and bent his hooked nose down toward Jessup and the prisoner. As Daniel met his eyes, the Mark burned.

The Mark exposed the darkest secrets of men, reveled in them, and forced them on Daniel. It showed him nothing bright or beautiful. Nothing Daniel would want to remember with crystal clarity long after, perhaps forever. As he stood staring up at Bock, such a knowing was forced on him.

The opium-tinged sweat of the workers faded, replaced by the phantom scents of cigars and scotch. The aromas filled Daniel's nostrils as the Mark's workings took hold: the inner thoughts of Leland J. Bock played out before his eyes.

The smoke and liquor were the pettiest of Bock's vices, but he demanded the best of both. He hungered after the best and finest in all things. It was that hunger which had driven him to his fortune, using every means at his disposal. It was that hunger that returned him now to the Laramie mine, the first of his businesses. He was here to recover its buried treasures. Prizes a lifetime of theft, violence and death had accrued.

The train shuddered through the night, carrying Bock closer to his mine. “They will be here in two days, Jessup,” Bock had said. Smoke curled from his lips and along the windowpane of the caboose. Jessup stood behind Bock's high-backed chair, hat in hand. “Don't find out what happens when I am disappointed.” Bock savored the effect of his words. Fear had always been his favorite motivator.

He'd paid a prince's sum to the newly minted rail line inspected of the newly minted Trans-Continental Railway, but it had bought him only two days. Two days to haul every work of art, every nugget of gold, every stolen moneybag out of the long-dead coal mine he was streaming toward. Two days to get it aboard this train and away, before less corruptible men uncovered the booty that had financed his empire. Two days to save all he could before he buried that secret life forever.

The Mark shuddered, its vision at an end, thrusting Daniel back into his own skin. His stomach turned. All thoughts of self-preservation were lost in the face of the horror set to come. “You can't do it”. But he would, Daniel knew it. Bock's darkness was etched in him now, and invisible tattoo never to be forgotten.

Daniel sprang toward the rail car. “You can't--” Travis was suddenly there. His hand blurred and an iron blow sent Daniel back to his knees. He followed it with another, and another. The gunman hummed while he worked.

Jessup chuckled. “Day's work in the mine won't kill you,” he lied.

Aboard the train Bock turned away, disinterested. He pocketed his razor, took the mirror from the boy, then yanked the towel off the boy's shoulder. The waif stumbled against Bock. “Use this one too, he's getting sloppy,” he snarled, pushing the boy down the stairs. “Get it done!” He slammed the door against Jessup's simpering.

Jessup yanked Daniel by his bonds toward the cave mouth, but Daniel wrenched the rope free of the fat Irishman. Reaching up, Daniel caught the boy stumbling off the train, clawing his fists into the pajama-like top the kid wore. “Run! Clear out of here! Get into the mountains and stay there!”

The boy stood frozen as Jessup yanked Daniel away by his roped, bleeding wrists. He stumbled, and Jessup pulled harder. Struggling to stay on his feet, Daniel looked back as Travis waved on a powerfully built man to take hold of the boy. No! He hadn't known the words to reach the boy, had received no glint of understanding from his young eyes.

The faces Daniel passed all seemed indifferent, uncomprehending. “Run!” Daniel shouted, but nobody listened or cared. Some sniggered at the sight of a white man being pressed to labor. Close behind now, the boy struggled to wriggle free, staring curiously at Daniel.

“Stop working and run, they're going to seal--”

The back of Daniel's head exploded and he fell. Jessup walked around him, spat more tobacco from the wad in his mouth and pointed at him with his metal-filled leather sap. “Shut it or I”ll bury you right here, son!”

Daniel crawled in the dust. He couldn't work his mouth to shut, but his eyes pleaded with each of the Chinese he passed.

“Jaysus,” the big man slapped the boy and he fell to the ground in a puff of dust in front of Daniel. “The little shit bit me!” he yelled.

“Get him moving, Hawkins,” Jessup barked.

Daniel looked up. “How can you do this?”

“Do what, boyo? We're just cleanin' out Bock's piggy bank before the new owners come along.” Jessup said coyly. “Haven't you heard? The Trans-Contintental Railway's done. Last spike's goin' in up at Promontory, a pretty gold one, so I hear 'em say.”

The boy, Jun, cried out. Daniel turned too late to fend off Hawkins, whose massive arms wrapped around his chest. Jessup moved in close with a knife drawn. “I've got no more track to lay. Why feed all these Chinee?” the foreman whispered harshly. “An' I can't have you scare 'em before they're finished this last job!”

Daniel squirmed but he couldn't get free. “They're gonna bury you,” he wailed, nothing left to lose. “Don't let 'em do it, please, you gotta--!”

The knife came in. Just in time, a second metal gleam sliced down Jessup's arm. Bock's straight razor, in the hands of the boy!

Jessup squealed and dropped his blade, dancing away from the boy. Hawkins tossed Daniel to the side and he struggled to stay on his feet. The boy stood frozen, staring at the blood and bits of flesh on the razor. Perhaps used to cries of pain, Jessup's screams hadn't drawn any attention from the workers.
Hawking drew his pistol and pointed it at the boy. Daniel charged and smashed the hand down.

The sound of the gunshot did reach the workers, who scrambled away from the men as blood geysered from Hawkins' leg. Workers rushed for the mine entrance, away from the white man shooting in their midst. Daniel pushed himself against the cave wall and silently urged them on. An old Chinaman pressed against the wall close by, his wizened, intelligent eyes puzzling out what was happening.

Daniel saw Jessup draw and shoot, and the stamped slowed, confused. Hawkins, on his knees, somehow clung to consciousness and pointed his gun at the boy again. Daniel ran forward and kicked the big man in the face, knocking him onto his back. He scooped up the gun and pulled the Chinese boy close to the wall.

Jessup fired into the air twice more, and the rush toward the cave mouth froze. “Jaysus Chri--” he squealed. The hand holding the pistol was shaking and coated with blood. “Travis, get in here!” He waved the gun at anyone that got close. Low words passed from mouth to mouth among the workers held at bay by that single gun, building courage. Feet began inching forward, until the cocking sounds of rifles echoed across the mine entrance.

Travus ran into the cave slow and careful, cocking a rifle. Daniel stepped protectively in front of the boy, even as he thought of running. No, stick it out and pay a debt for a change! He'd get the boy out, and then get clear himself.

Travis shot a thunderous round, and some of the workers turned and ran.

Daniel felt the Mark writhe, as it only did when feasting on the commission of horrible acts. He feared the guns would hold the Chinese at bay long enough to seal their fate.

Daniel shouted again. “They're going to seal you in!” Didn't any of them speak English?

Jessup hurried over to a stack of barrels and pulled a small box from the top of one. “We wanted 'em ignorant, kid. No English, a-tall.” His good arm kept the box up close to his chest. The cut arm trembled but kept the pistol up.

Daniel saw that string was tied to the box. Not string, he decided, some kind of black cord. It snaked to the mouth of the cave before climbing up the wall and sticking into a bundle of red sticks.
Dynamite.

“Ain't you the hero, Downey! Too bad none of these bastards know it.” Jessup spat out a lump of tobacco. “Travis, don't let any of 'em by on your side. Hawkins, get off your ass and bring that Chink kid here. I owe him sumthin' special.” Jessup ratcheted a T-shaped handle out of the top of the box.
More railroad men collected near the cave mouth. With each burst of a rifle, the Chinese fell back. Daniel felt his odds becoming grimmer and grimmer. As the spurs of Travis' boots chimed closer, the boy patted a small hand against Daniel's back. “Mister?” he whispered. “Foreman Jessup will hurt us? Bury us in the cave?” Jun spoked in a refined British accent, not struggling with Daniel's words but in naive disbelief.

Daniel hugged the boy. “Yes, yes he will. He's a very bad man, please tell them all!”

The boy spoke the words Daniel could not, and the Chinese roared.

The mob surged toward Jessup and Travis. Daniel saw the old Chinamen's eyes widen, his hand pointed toward the front of the cave. His shout was lost in the roar of the mob, and then he was carried away by it, too. Daniel followed to where the finger pointed. Past Travis, firing into a wave of broken fingernails and calloused hands. Jessusp was almost out of the cave.

Daniel raised the gun without thinking. He aimed for the chest. The bigs man spun a bolt open on the box to feed a second cord into it. Daniel's hands shook, and he pretended it was just from months of liquor. He pretended he was sighting squirrels with his father's shotgun, held a deep breath, and fired.
Jessup dropped the second cord as if he were surprised by something, and made to stand up. Daniel sighted again, but right then the fat squirrel fell backwards, on top of the half-set detonator.

The world shrieked and came apart.

Hey, folks, this is John again. I hope you enjoyed Part 1!

Okay, here's some background on what's happening with upcoming fiction from me and ServingWorlds.com!

First: yes, this is a little different from my usual science fiction stomping grounds, but I think it hits all the hallmarks of my stories. 'Marked Men' was the third story I ever sold to be published. It was in the DAW anthology 'Slipstreams way back in 2007. IIRC. It's also the story that launched Season One of the Serving Worlds Podcast.

I'm prepping my next novel, and it's not science fiction. It's...um... urban military portal fantasy, I suppose? A unique take, let's say! Anyhow, all that new work has got me using creative muscles that remind me of some of the fantasy stories in my past...like this one!

Also, prior to the launch of that podcast I've been renovating the podcast feed, revamping this members-only feed (now using a ghost backend) to sync with my Patreon supporters' page. I'm doing it in an effort to make things clean, tidy and fun for you to BINGE stuff 😄

I'm also testing the newsletter model of storytelling. We'll see how that goes, but if there's enough people who want to get their storyfix from newsletter instead of ebook, I'll keep releasing chapters as well as podcasts.

To whet your whistle, I've decided to start with a few fantasy stories, released as ebook chapters and (lightly edited for audio) podcast episodes before launching my new big bad this summer.

I'm dropping 'Marked Men' into the feed complete, and then following it up with another story over the next month. Depending on reactions, I might drop a third before starting what looks like a year's run on the secret project novel I'm editing now.

Stay tuned for more!

John