![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
From: Mr. Zebulon Pike, Mojave Desert, Arizona Territory
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
December 1879
Dearest Sister,
It is my fondest wish that the new year finds you well as I expect this letter will have found its way to you well after the turning of the decade. As for myself, the closing of this year has come with both good and bad. The bad part begins west of Flagstaff on the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe rail line with a quick succession of four disasters.
The first was an earthquake, felt while we were stopped to take on coal and water. It was strong enough to be noticeable though not to cause any damage. So, while it is an exaggeration in and of itself to connect it to the other two disasters, it was connected to subsequent events.
Past the Needles and crossing the barrenness of the Mojave Desert, we were beset by rifle-firing riders. As I was intent on a project in my caboose workshop and the others were much better rifle shots, I did not suspend my work to bother with them.
Then came the catastrophe. There was a massive scream of metal from forward and I had only a moment to look up and see the cars ahead leaping from the track. When things finally came to a sickening stillness, the caboose was on its side and I was buried beneath loose tools and equipment.
Suspecting that the riders may have sabotaged the tracks and expecting a fight, I searched for my rifle, but could not find it. Instead, I strapped myself into the mechanized external skeleton that I had constructed from the remnants of the Hellstromme automaton captured in Deadwood. It responded easily to the commands of my musculature and, now fortified with the strength of several men, I was able to begin moving about the debris.
Mr. Tobin came back and indicated that we needed to leave. I was not finished in my attempts to recover materials and he even attempted to extricate me with force, his merely superhuman muscles no match for my ghost rock-heated, steam-powered pistons. Even so, I recognized his urgency, was able to find my new top hat and leave, breaking through the broken roof cupola rather than trying to squeeze the automaton’s bulk through the doorway.
Instead of the expected sabotage, I found that the earthquake of earlier in the day had apparently collapsed a natural cavern hidden beneath the desert floor. While the tracks were only slightly disturbed so as to give little indication of the void beneath, the weight of the engine had caused the final collapse, followed by the derailment. There was now a broad pit with the coal car and first two cars of the train heaped in like children’s toys. The engine was half out of the crater, hung up on the twisted iron of the tracks. I could surmise from the noises coming from the boiler that it was still mostly intact while much of the piping and valves were destroyed leading to a dangerous buildup of pressure.
A suitable application of high explosives could have easily opened up a key valve to relieve the pressure but, while I had some explosives, it would not have been suitable to the task. With the added strength afforded me by the automaton, I might have pushed, pulled or broken something enough to do the same but Mr. Bongiovi was much more concerned about getting the injured to safety and Mr. Tobin with the unknown assailants surely hidden not far off that, instead of resolving the engine issue, we took refuge deeper into the cavern.
Which was not an entirely natural formation. At either end of the large chamber were man-made tunnels approximately 25 feet high with a standard gauge rail line running through the partially collapsed cave. There was evidence that this chamber had been used as a storage area, barracks and workshop but had been abandoned as the tunnel diggers had moved on. The roof collapse had only partially covered the tracks.
It became immediately apparent that this subterranean tunnel was an elaborate gambit in the ongoing rail wars. After the Great Quake of ‘68, the entire state of California was nearly abandoned. Now, with newly discovered rich veins of ghost rock being found amidst the devastation, all the major rail companies are racing to re-connect to this lucrative resource. It has been particularly difficult for us in our private train trying to get further west when, at every turn, we are looked on as some sort of competitor.
With coercion, corruption and sabotage becoming more and more common, someone, and I shall not reveal who as of yet though you have probably guessed, had decided to bypass the whole matter by burrowing underground. I thought at the time it would take a remarkable machine to make such an endeavor possible. Brunel and Cochrane's shipworm allowed workers to dig four yards a week. Beaumont’s rather standard machine can bore through a half a mile in a month. Harrison’s boring machine design should be able to easily double that but, unless this mystery machine were able to bore through several miles of stone each day then there would be no way it could compete against the surface railroads, even if its route could be kept secret.
Which, given the collapse beneath an AT&SF line, will be unlikely.
We chose a westward direction and began walking through the tunnel, the hydrogen-enhanced lamp on my automaton’s shoulder lighting the way. After no more than half an hour there came a rumbling from behind that I suspected was the detonation of our steam engine. I hoped that it had caught some of our pursuers by surprise. After another hour, a light ahead portended an approaching train. We all took cover in the ample alcoves and debris on either side of the tracks and I shuttered my lantern. A light engine with empty flatcars rumbled by. It was another three hours when a similar train, this time filled with iron rail and other supplies came from the East. I estimated the distance to the supply depot behind and guessed that were would be shortly approaching either another supply station or dig point.
In less than an hour I saw something ahead in the darkness. Mr. Tobin, who was not limited by the darkness, approached and returned a short while later to say that an apparent Hellstromme automaton with a Gatling gun was standing guard. It had seemed uninterested in Mr. Tobin’s approach so I took a chance in approaching myself.
The machine paid no attention to me, dressed as I was in the mechanical corpse of one of his predecessors. It was clearly Hellstromme’s work with some modifications, most notably the addition of pliable leather coverings at the joints to prevent the invasion of my mono-polar metal filings. As I was able to approach to nearly arms length without any reaction I was tempted to try disabling the machine but thought it might not be so easy with the added protections that had been incorporated into the design and I did not want to involve our already battered company in a firefight in such close quarters. Instead, I took a chance that the discorporated brain inside held enough consciousness to respond to commands but not quite enough sentience to question the authority of the source, saying to it, “You stand relieved!”
Surprisingly, it responded by performing a smartly executed about turn and marching away down the tunnel.
We followed behind with Mr. Tobin again scouting ahead. In short order we came upon a larger chamber, brightly lit with a number of arc lamps. Crews of men were offloading the supply train and a man who looked like he might be a supervisor was investigating the returned automaton. We were on our guard but a few of the men looking up from their heavy work seemed to pay us little mind.
The supervisor ended his investigation of the confused automaton and sent it back up the tunnel, finally noticing our presence. Given the obviously secret nature of the tunnel construction, I would have expected him to act in a more suspicious manner. Instead, he welcomed us better than any visitor to a conventional work site might. Perhaps they were so confident in their security that anyone showing up unannounced would simply be assumed to have authorization to be there. It is also possible that he recognized the similarity between my external mechanical skeleton and the construction of Hellstromme’s automatons and thought I was a co-worker. In any case, he had our injured attended to at the camp infirmary and escorted Messrs. Tobin, Sombrero and myself to a Pullman car on a siding.
I extricated myself from my mechanism and took a key element with me to prevent tampering and climbed the steps to the car where a man stood guard with a rifle. The interior was opulently appointed and with another guard by the door and a third on the far side, there sat two gentlemen in comfortable chairs. Between them was a small table with a number of documents and a silver coffee setting. To the left, the man in a white suit with a broad, welcoming smile introduced himself as Mr. Lacy O’Malley, editor of the Tombstone Epitaph. His introduction of his host was unnecessary.
After nearly two years of harsh competition at a distance through proxies, I found myself suddenly before my arch-nemesis, Doctor Darius Hellstromme. I was sorely tempted to draw my pistol then and there but Mr. Tobin stepped in front of me to take a seat, glancing sternly at me and then at the guard behind us as he passed.
He was correct in doing so. Mr. Tobin’s glance had communicated to me that the guards were very likely to be Harrowed as he was, possessed of demons and exceptionally dangerous. With my LeMat carried at the small of my back beneath my frockcoat, I would be unlikely to draw it and bring it to bear before I was set upon by the man behind me. Experience has shown them to be that swift.
I was watching Hellstromme intently as Mr. Tobin introduced us but his expression didn’t change. Knowing. Confident. Perhaps a bit puzzled at our unexpected arrival. O’Mally prattled on and I ignored him until I heard him mention your name! He described being impressed by your writing. Your being in New Orleans in the company of Mr. Pace. Your having forwarded him a letter to give to me.
I wish I were able to say that I immediately recognized the falsehood but his expression gave no indication that he was lying. Hellstromme, on the other hand, let his smugness slip slightly, revealing that he knew more.
Then it was Hellstromme’s turn to speak. He spoke as if we were merely competitors instead of arch rivals. He addressed the murderous history between us as a misunderstanding brought on by his overzealous nephew. He denied all knowledge and responsibility of the “unpleasantness” that had been ongoing for the past year and admitted that he had only recently learned the details. Like a proud father, he welcomed us to his underground railroad project and graciously offered us a tour of the facilities.
All lies.
He could not see my intent glaring behind the dark glass of my goggles.
Mr. Tobin was uncharacteristically polite and thanked Hellstromme for his hospitality.
I had removed my hat on entering the car, as would only be polite but, instead of waiting on leaving the car to return my hat atop my head, I put it on then as Mr. Tobin was standing to leave. He recognized my intent and, while his expression revealed that he did not entirely approve, he was prepared to follow through. I waited a theatrical beat and then moved to tip my hat. The rest happened in the space of a single heartbeat. In one motion, Mr. Tobin grabbed the back of Mr. O’Mally’s head and bent him over at the waist and also kicked the legs out from under Mr. Sombrero. The Harrowed guard behind me took a step forward to try to stop me from what I was about to do. The guard on the far side of the room saw his comrade’s action and began moving to protect Hellstromme. I squeezed the switch concealed in the brim of my hat.
The toroid-shaped explosive charge in my hat detonated, the steel cap defecting the blast outward horizontally. The explosion, throwing notched wire in all directions, all but decapitated the Harrowed approaching me from behind. The other caught most of the blast in the back, protecting the escaping Hellstromme from the bulk of the deadly shrapnel. As he attempted to rush his master out through the front of the car, Mr. Tobin’s pistol erupted over my shoulder, several rounds striking the guard about the head and shoulders.
Rather than attempting to pursue Hellstromme through the shattered parlor, I rushed to the side, grabbed the overhead rack that ran the length of the Pullman, and swung myself feet first through a shattered window. I dropped to the ground, stumbled, and regained my footing just as Hellstromme extricated himself from the far end of the car. He saw me and I could see the indecision on his face as he weighed the choices of standing his ground to challenge me or be shot in the back while attempting to flee.
He spoke to me, no doubt attempting to influence or distract me. With his well-practiced smile perhaps he was even attempting to invite me to join him. “Together, we could rule the world,” he might have said, but, with my ears still ringing from the blast, his entreaties fell on literally deaf ears.
I laughed and waited for the inevitable. It came soon enough when he reached for the pistol on his hip and I for mine holstered at the small of my back. Even though my draw was through the longer distance, the past year of intense experience, ironically driven by Hellstromme himself, allowed me to bring my pistol to bear more quickly and my first .41 caliber round went through his chest just left of center. His pistol fired and twisted from his grip. He coughed and stumbled in a disconnected manner that suggested at least a piece of my projectile had struck his spine.
My second round struck him in the side as he turned, just under the right arm. He dropped immediately with the round likely puncturing both lungs and rupturing the heart. Hellstromme was dead before he hit the ground but you and I both know that death out here on the frontier is less certain than it should be. Before I had an opportunity to send another round into the back of his skull, I was attacked from behind, my third round going wide. From the smell of blood and the unnatural strength, it was clear that this was one of the guards that had been brought down in the firefight outside the rail car, reanimated by the demonic spirit of the Harrowed from inside the car that Mr. Tobin had failed to kill immediately.
It held my right wrist, preventing me from bringing the pistol to bear. Fortunately, even though its other arm was wrapped around me, limiting movement of my left arm, I had enough freedom of motion to access the derringer that I had taken on the habit of carrying in my waistcoat pocket. After some more jostling, I was able to fire the small pistol, breaking the creature’s right wrist and freeing my hand to bring the more substantial pistol to bear over my left shoulder and into the creature’s face. Several rounds into its skull released its hold for good.
When I turned back to my initial task, Hellstromme was gone.
The two Harrowed were accounted for, both having been shot through the head and thus their existence permanently ended, but there were plenty of opportunities for someone to have carried Hellstromme's body away. I would have given chase immediately had I not noticed the newspaperman O’Mally attempting to strap himself into my mechanical skeleton. As I had a key component, he could not have activated it but his bumbling might have damaged delicate parts and prevented me from using it when the need pressed.
I stormed over and bodily dragged him from the device, his eyes wide with terror. With my pistol pressed to his throat for emphasis, I explained that we had killed Hellstromme’s nephew months previously, rendering impossible his responsibility for the attacks that had continued in Deadwood, Cheyenne, Cimarron and Denver. I described some of the other atrocities he had committed and the bloody retribution that we had returned upon his underlings for his crimes. I made it clear that I understood fully that a newspaperman lies as a part of his profession and that he had but one opportunity to tell me the truth in its entirety. If he attempted to deceive me in any way, I would kill him without a second thought. I would then decapitate him and set fire to the corpse to ensure that his body did not become the abode of demons or his brain the controller of one of Hellstromme's automatons.
I do believe he soiled himself then and there.
A short but intensive interrogation revealed that all of O’Mally’s knowledge of my sister had been through Hellstromme. The letter he claimed to have for me was another forgery, much better conceived and executed than the last but clearly lacking the embedded cypher I directed you to start employing. It is embarrassing that I was so easily provoked. I know you will say that Hellstromme had entirely earned my response but that mention of you had precipitated rash action on my part put at risk the entire enterprise. Perhaps, had I not acted so swiftly I may have come up with a better plan that would not have allowed Hellstromme to escape.
And escape he did. After settling things with O’Mally, Mr. Tobin and I advanced down the tunnel in search of Hellstromme’s escape route. At the dig site, after fighting off giant subterranean centipedes likely roused from their hiding places by those who hoped to escape with Hellstromme’s fresh corpse, we had then to contend with yet another automaton sent to block our passage down a side tunnel. I had thought the boring machine, a surprisingly efficient digging machine with flailing arms, might be able to quickly dig past the tunnel collapse caused by the not-unexpected self-destruction of the automaton, but it’s construction was embarrassingly fragile and it broke down. O’Mally later told me that it was not Hellstromme's design and had been purchased outright from the inventor. With Hellstromme involved, I interpreted it to mean that the machine had been stolen and the inventor probably had his brain in a jar somewhere.
At this moment, some technician is probably extracting Hellstromme’s brain from his shattered body and is putting the villain's brain in a similar jar. Hellstromme's personal automaton will not be the clunky war machines that he has been setting against us but a finely tuned mechanism that will afford him all the dexterity and mobility he had in life. No doubt, much like the augmentative skeleton that I have constructed for myself from parts he provided. In short order, he will begin acting through his proxies to regain control of this severed tentacle of his corporate empire.
My plan in the short term is to take advantage of the work stoppage brought on by the chaos of Hellstromme's apparent assassination. Given enough time, I will send the boring machine to travel back through the tunnel, tearing up a hundred miles of track and collapsing the tunnel. The side tunnel through which Hellstromme escaped, once cleared, will be our escape route as well. We have recovered maps and plans of Hellstromme’s underground railroad and I have yet to decide whether we shall try selling that information to the highest bidder or send it free of charge to all the combatants in the great rail war and watch the carnage ensue.
In any case, Hellstromme's attempt to tunnel his way to California is over.
These past thee months have been supremely trying. I miss you terribly and long to find a place to settle in so that I can build a laboratory, establish a postal address and again begin receiving your letters rather that continue with being able to send you letters but receive only sporadic coded telegrams in reply. Had I only been able to kill Hellstromme, this great game of cat and mouse could have finally come to an end. Now it shall be all the more challenging.
Keep yourself well. Keep yourself safe and watch for my further correspondence.
Eternally, your brother,
Zebulon
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
December 1879
Dearest Sister,
It is my fondest wish that the new year finds you well as I expect this letter will have found its way to you well after the turning of the decade. As for myself, the closing of this year has come with both good and bad. The bad part begins west of Flagstaff on the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe rail line with a quick succession of four disasters.
The first was an earthquake, felt while we were stopped to take on coal and water. It was strong enough to be noticeable though not to cause any damage. So, while it is an exaggeration in and of itself to connect it to the other two disasters, it was connected to subsequent events.
Past the Needles and crossing the barrenness of the Mojave Desert, we were beset by rifle-firing riders. As I was intent on a project in my caboose workshop and the others were much better rifle shots, I did not suspend my work to bother with them.
Then came the catastrophe. There was a massive scream of metal from forward and I had only a moment to look up and see the cars ahead leaping from the track. When things finally came to a sickening stillness, the caboose was on its side and I was buried beneath loose tools and equipment.
Suspecting that the riders may have sabotaged the tracks and expecting a fight, I searched for my rifle, but could not find it. Instead, I strapped myself into the mechanized external skeleton that I had constructed from the remnants of the Hellstromme automaton captured in Deadwood. It responded easily to the commands of my musculature and, now fortified with the strength of several men, I was able to begin moving about the debris.
Mr. Tobin came back and indicated that we needed to leave. I was not finished in my attempts to recover materials and he even attempted to extricate me with force, his merely superhuman muscles no match for my ghost rock-heated, steam-powered pistons. Even so, I recognized his urgency, was able to find my new top hat and leave, breaking through the broken roof cupola rather than trying to squeeze the automaton’s bulk through the doorway.
Instead of the expected sabotage, I found that the earthquake of earlier in the day had apparently collapsed a natural cavern hidden beneath the desert floor. While the tracks were only slightly disturbed so as to give little indication of the void beneath, the weight of the engine had caused the final collapse, followed by the derailment. There was now a broad pit with the coal car and first two cars of the train heaped in like children’s toys. The engine was half out of the crater, hung up on the twisted iron of the tracks. I could surmise from the noises coming from the boiler that it was still mostly intact while much of the piping and valves were destroyed leading to a dangerous buildup of pressure.
A suitable application of high explosives could have easily opened up a key valve to relieve the pressure but, while I had some explosives, it would not have been suitable to the task. With the added strength afforded me by the automaton, I might have pushed, pulled or broken something enough to do the same but Mr. Bongiovi was much more concerned about getting the injured to safety and Mr. Tobin with the unknown assailants surely hidden not far off that, instead of resolving the engine issue, we took refuge deeper into the cavern.
Which was not an entirely natural formation. At either end of the large chamber were man-made tunnels approximately 25 feet high with a standard gauge rail line running through the partially collapsed cave. There was evidence that this chamber had been used as a storage area, barracks and workshop but had been abandoned as the tunnel diggers had moved on. The roof collapse had only partially covered the tracks.
It became immediately apparent that this subterranean tunnel was an elaborate gambit in the ongoing rail wars. After the Great Quake of ‘68, the entire state of California was nearly abandoned. Now, with newly discovered rich veins of ghost rock being found amidst the devastation, all the major rail companies are racing to re-connect to this lucrative resource. It has been particularly difficult for us in our private train trying to get further west when, at every turn, we are looked on as some sort of competitor.
With coercion, corruption and sabotage becoming more and more common, someone, and I shall not reveal who as of yet though you have probably guessed, had decided to bypass the whole matter by burrowing underground. I thought at the time it would take a remarkable machine to make such an endeavor possible. Brunel and Cochrane's shipworm allowed workers to dig four yards a week. Beaumont’s rather standard machine can bore through a half a mile in a month. Harrison’s boring machine design should be able to easily double that but, unless this mystery machine were able to bore through several miles of stone each day then there would be no way it could compete against the surface railroads, even if its route could be kept secret.
Which, given the collapse beneath an AT&SF line, will be unlikely.
We chose a westward direction and began walking through the tunnel, the hydrogen-enhanced lamp on my automaton’s shoulder lighting the way. After no more than half an hour there came a rumbling from behind that I suspected was the detonation of our steam engine. I hoped that it had caught some of our pursuers by surprise. After another hour, a light ahead portended an approaching train. We all took cover in the ample alcoves and debris on either side of the tracks and I shuttered my lantern. A light engine with empty flatcars rumbled by. It was another three hours when a similar train, this time filled with iron rail and other supplies came from the East. I estimated the distance to the supply depot behind and guessed that were would be shortly approaching either another supply station or dig point.
In less than an hour I saw something ahead in the darkness. Mr. Tobin, who was not limited by the darkness, approached and returned a short while later to say that an apparent Hellstromme automaton with a Gatling gun was standing guard. It had seemed uninterested in Mr. Tobin’s approach so I took a chance in approaching myself.
The machine paid no attention to me, dressed as I was in the mechanical corpse of one of his predecessors. It was clearly Hellstromme’s work with some modifications, most notably the addition of pliable leather coverings at the joints to prevent the invasion of my mono-polar metal filings. As I was able to approach to nearly arms length without any reaction I was tempted to try disabling the machine but thought it might not be so easy with the added protections that had been incorporated into the design and I did not want to involve our already battered company in a firefight in such close quarters. Instead, I took a chance that the discorporated brain inside held enough consciousness to respond to commands but not quite enough sentience to question the authority of the source, saying to it, “You stand relieved!”
Surprisingly, it responded by performing a smartly executed about turn and marching away down the tunnel.
We followed behind with Mr. Tobin again scouting ahead. In short order we came upon a larger chamber, brightly lit with a number of arc lamps. Crews of men were offloading the supply train and a man who looked like he might be a supervisor was investigating the returned automaton. We were on our guard but a few of the men looking up from their heavy work seemed to pay us little mind.
The supervisor ended his investigation of the confused automaton and sent it back up the tunnel, finally noticing our presence. Given the obviously secret nature of the tunnel construction, I would have expected him to act in a more suspicious manner. Instead, he welcomed us better than any visitor to a conventional work site might. Perhaps they were so confident in their security that anyone showing up unannounced would simply be assumed to have authorization to be there. It is also possible that he recognized the similarity between my external mechanical skeleton and the construction of Hellstromme’s automatons and thought I was a co-worker. In any case, he had our injured attended to at the camp infirmary and escorted Messrs. Tobin, Sombrero and myself to a Pullman car on a siding.
I extricated myself from my mechanism and took a key element with me to prevent tampering and climbed the steps to the car where a man stood guard with a rifle. The interior was opulently appointed and with another guard by the door and a third on the far side, there sat two gentlemen in comfortable chairs. Between them was a small table with a number of documents and a silver coffee setting. To the left, the man in a white suit with a broad, welcoming smile introduced himself as Mr. Lacy O’Malley, editor of the Tombstone Epitaph. His introduction of his host was unnecessary.
After nearly two years of harsh competition at a distance through proxies, I found myself suddenly before my arch-nemesis, Doctor Darius Hellstromme. I was sorely tempted to draw my pistol then and there but Mr. Tobin stepped in front of me to take a seat, glancing sternly at me and then at the guard behind us as he passed.
He was correct in doing so. Mr. Tobin’s glance had communicated to me that the guards were very likely to be Harrowed as he was, possessed of demons and exceptionally dangerous. With my LeMat carried at the small of my back beneath my frockcoat, I would be unlikely to draw it and bring it to bear before I was set upon by the man behind me. Experience has shown them to be that swift.
I was watching Hellstromme intently as Mr. Tobin introduced us but his expression didn’t change. Knowing. Confident. Perhaps a bit puzzled at our unexpected arrival. O’Mally prattled on and I ignored him until I heard him mention your name! He described being impressed by your writing. Your being in New Orleans in the company of Mr. Pace. Your having forwarded him a letter to give to me.
I wish I were able to say that I immediately recognized the falsehood but his expression gave no indication that he was lying. Hellstromme, on the other hand, let his smugness slip slightly, revealing that he knew more.
Then it was Hellstromme’s turn to speak. He spoke as if we were merely competitors instead of arch rivals. He addressed the murderous history between us as a misunderstanding brought on by his overzealous nephew. He denied all knowledge and responsibility of the “unpleasantness” that had been ongoing for the past year and admitted that he had only recently learned the details. Like a proud father, he welcomed us to his underground railroad project and graciously offered us a tour of the facilities.
All lies.
He could not see my intent glaring behind the dark glass of my goggles.
Mr. Tobin was uncharacteristically polite and thanked Hellstromme for his hospitality.
I had removed my hat on entering the car, as would only be polite but, instead of waiting on leaving the car to return my hat atop my head, I put it on then as Mr. Tobin was standing to leave. He recognized my intent and, while his expression revealed that he did not entirely approve, he was prepared to follow through. I waited a theatrical beat and then moved to tip my hat. The rest happened in the space of a single heartbeat. In one motion, Mr. Tobin grabbed the back of Mr. O’Mally’s head and bent him over at the waist and also kicked the legs out from under Mr. Sombrero. The Harrowed guard behind me took a step forward to try to stop me from what I was about to do. The guard on the far side of the room saw his comrade’s action and began moving to protect Hellstromme. I squeezed the switch concealed in the brim of my hat.
The toroid-shaped explosive charge in my hat detonated, the steel cap defecting the blast outward horizontally. The explosion, throwing notched wire in all directions, all but decapitated the Harrowed approaching me from behind. The other caught most of the blast in the back, protecting the escaping Hellstromme from the bulk of the deadly shrapnel. As he attempted to rush his master out through the front of the car, Mr. Tobin’s pistol erupted over my shoulder, several rounds striking the guard about the head and shoulders.
Rather than attempting to pursue Hellstromme through the shattered parlor, I rushed to the side, grabbed the overhead rack that ran the length of the Pullman, and swung myself feet first through a shattered window. I dropped to the ground, stumbled, and regained my footing just as Hellstromme extricated himself from the far end of the car. He saw me and I could see the indecision on his face as he weighed the choices of standing his ground to challenge me or be shot in the back while attempting to flee.
He spoke to me, no doubt attempting to influence or distract me. With his well-practiced smile perhaps he was even attempting to invite me to join him. “Together, we could rule the world,” he might have said, but, with my ears still ringing from the blast, his entreaties fell on literally deaf ears.
I laughed and waited for the inevitable. It came soon enough when he reached for the pistol on his hip and I for mine holstered at the small of my back. Even though my draw was through the longer distance, the past year of intense experience, ironically driven by Hellstromme himself, allowed me to bring my pistol to bear more quickly and my first .41 caliber round went through his chest just left of center. His pistol fired and twisted from his grip. He coughed and stumbled in a disconnected manner that suggested at least a piece of my projectile had struck his spine.
My second round struck him in the side as he turned, just under the right arm. He dropped immediately with the round likely puncturing both lungs and rupturing the heart. Hellstromme was dead before he hit the ground but you and I both know that death out here on the frontier is less certain than it should be. Before I had an opportunity to send another round into the back of his skull, I was attacked from behind, my third round going wide. From the smell of blood and the unnatural strength, it was clear that this was one of the guards that had been brought down in the firefight outside the rail car, reanimated by the demonic spirit of the Harrowed from inside the car that Mr. Tobin had failed to kill immediately.
It held my right wrist, preventing me from bringing the pistol to bear. Fortunately, even though its other arm was wrapped around me, limiting movement of my left arm, I had enough freedom of motion to access the derringer that I had taken on the habit of carrying in my waistcoat pocket. After some more jostling, I was able to fire the small pistol, breaking the creature’s right wrist and freeing my hand to bring the more substantial pistol to bear over my left shoulder and into the creature’s face. Several rounds into its skull released its hold for good.
When I turned back to my initial task, Hellstromme was gone.
The two Harrowed were accounted for, both having been shot through the head and thus their existence permanently ended, but there were plenty of opportunities for someone to have carried Hellstromme's body away. I would have given chase immediately had I not noticed the newspaperman O’Mally attempting to strap himself into my mechanical skeleton. As I had a key component, he could not have activated it but his bumbling might have damaged delicate parts and prevented me from using it when the need pressed.
I stormed over and bodily dragged him from the device, his eyes wide with terror. With my pistol pressed to his throat for emphasis, I explained that we had killed Hellstromme’s nephew months previously, rendering impossible his responsibility for the attacks that had continued in Deadwood, Cheyenne, Cimarron and Denver. I described some of the other atrocities he had committed and the bloody retribution that we had returned upon his underlings for his crimes. I made it clear that I understood fully that a newspaperman lies as a part of his profession and that he had but one opportunity to tell me the truth in its entirety. If he attempted to deceive me in any way, I would kill him without a second thought. I would then decapitate him and set fire to the corpse to ensure that his body did not become the abode of demons or his brain the controller of one of Hellstromme's automatons.
I do believe he soiled himself then and there.
A short but intensive interrogation revealed that all of O’Mally’s knowledge of my sister had been through Hellstromme. The letter he claimed to have for me was another forgery, much better conceived and executed than the last but clearly lacking the embedded cypher I directed you to start employing. It is embarrassing that I was so easily provoked. I know you will say that Hellstromme had entirely earned my response but that mention of you had precipitated rash action on my part put at risk the entire enterprise. Perhaps, had I not acted so swiftly I may have come up with a better plan that would not have allowed Hellstromme to escape.
And escape he did. After settling things with O’Mally, Mr. Tobin and I advanced down the tunnel in search of Hellstromme’s escape route. At the dig site, after fighting off giant subterranean centipedes likely roused from their hiding places by those who hoped to escape with Hellstromme’s fresh corpse, we had then to contend with yet another automaton sent to block our passage down a side tunnel. I had thought the boring machine, a surprisingly efficient digging machine with flailing arms, might be able to quickly dig past the tunnel collapse caused by the not-unexpected self-destruction of the automaton, but it’s construction was embarrassingly fragile and it broke down. O’Mally later told me that it was not Hellstromme's design and had been purchased outright from the inventor. With Hellstromme involved, I interpreted it to mean that the machine had been stolen and the inventor probably had his brain in a jar somewhere.
At this moment, some technician is probably extracting Hellstromme’s brain from his shattered body and is putting the villain's brain in a similar jar. Hellstromme's personal automaton will not be the clunky war machines that he has been setting against us but a finely tuned mechanism that will afford him all the dexterity and mobility he had in life. No doubt, much like the augmentative skeleton that I have constructed for myself from parts he provided. In short order, he will begin acting through his proxies to regain control of this severed tentacle of his corporate empire.
My plan in the short term is to take advantage of the work stoppage brought on by the chaos of Hellstromme's apparent assassination. Given enough time, I will send the boring machine to travel back through the tunnel, tearing up a hundred miles of track and collapsing the tunnel. The side tunnel through which Hellstromme escaped, once cleared, will be our escape route as well. We have recovered maps and plans of Hellstromme’s underground railroad and I have yet to decide whether we shall try selling that information to the highest bidder or send it free of charge to all the combatants in the great rail war and watch the carnage ensue.
In any case, Hellstromme's attempt to tunnel his way to California is over.
These past thee months have been supremely trying. I miss you terribly and long to find a place to settle in so that I can build a laboratory, establish a postal address and again begin receiving your letters rather that continue with being able to send you letters but receive only sporadic coded telegrams in reply. Had I only been able to kill Hellstromme, this great game of cat and mouse could have finally come to an end. Now it shall be all the more challenging.
Keep yourself well. Keep yourself safe and watch for my further correspondence.
Eternally, your brother,
Zebulon
