Decker Smith slipped away without another word. Gunnison watched him for a while, sneaking, dodging, working his way across the burned terrain and down the mountain. Before long he was out of sight.
Gunnison mulled over what he’d heard, wondering how much of Decker Smith’s information he could trust. The parts about Ottinger’s plans and vengeful motivations sounded terribly speculative. He soon realized, though, that none of it really mattered beyond the crucial information he’d picked up about Rankin and the woman called Princess: They were alive, and no longer in Gomorrah.
Returning to the little shed that was his hiding place, he ate, rested a few moments, then left. He returned to the place where he and Paul Callon had hidden the bulk of their luggage, and from it added to his supplies. Most of it he would abandon, because he was on foot and probably would be for a long time to come.
The only aspect of leaving here that bothered him was abandoning Kenton’s body. It wasn’t right, leaving him there on the ground, like a dead dog. Maybe, if they really did set the trees afire again, like Decker Smith predicted, they’d find Kenton’s body and give it a proper burial. Or maybe the flames would simply cremate him. There was at least some dignity in that…wasn’t there?
He looked at Gomorrah, the town he’d never even fully entered, for one last time. “Paul, good luck with your story,” he said. “I’ll look forward to reading it.”
Alex Gunnison turned his back on Gomorrah and headed west, hoping that, somehow, he could find the trail of Rankin and his companions.
Gunnison was long gone by the time darkness fell, and so did not see the man who strode in through the night from the burned-out woodlands toward Gomorrah. This was a man in pain, joints aching, head throbbing. He did not understand why the landscape around him was burned and the trees gone. He could not comprehend why there were reddened blisters on his face, why even part of his hair was singed away. He could remember no fire, for he had been unconscious until only a couple of hours before.
The last thing Brady Kenton could remember was traveling up the lonely road toward Gomorrah, eager to meet the man named Rankin who had contacted him, dropping tantalizing hints about Victoria being alive. And then…he wasn’t sure after that.
A robbery, he thought. He seemed to remember that. A man rising from the brush, catching him by surprise. Striking him on the head, hard. He remembered falling, weak and helpless. Feeling his coat stripped from him, his possessions taken. He remembered the man’s laugh as he put on the coat. “Fine fit!” he’d declared. “Just like it was made for me!” He vaguely remembered seeing the man picking at the Masonic pin on the lapel.
Then he’d passed out. And everything had been black, for a long time.
He stopped, staring into the town of Gomorrah, more confused than ever. The town wasn’t as it should be…it was substantially…gone.
He stood still for a full minute, trying to figure out what had happened. Nothing made sense.
At last he saw a man walking through the dark streets of the town. A soldier? Why would a soldier be here?
It didn’t matter, though. He was thirsty, hurting, hungry. He needed help.
He walked slowly toward the ruined town, trying to call out to the soldier. At first he could not find his voice, but at last it came. The soldier stopped, turned, half-raised his rifle, but lowered it again and advanced.
Kenton was deeply relieved. He speeded up, trying to close the gap between himself and the approaching soldier, but he was weak, and dizzy, and fell.
The soldier came on, calling now for help.
Kenton was too dazed to really take in what happened over the next hour or so. He heard words spoken at him, saw faces before him. One of them appeared to be that of Colonel J.B. Ottinger—a human devil if ever there was one! He assumed he was hallucinating, but just in case, mumbled out his name as Grant Houser, one of his several aliases.
He was in Gomorrah, but in what building he didn’t know.
Oh, no. He was hallucinating again. The face of that rather obnoxious young journalist from the Observor, Paul Callon, was floating around in space above him.
First he’d hallucinated that human devil Ottinger, now an irritating competitor. Why did his illusions have to be so unpleasant?
“Hello, Kenton,” Callon’s face said. “Glad to see you coming around at last. Glad to see you alive at all, for that matter.”
Good Lord…the illusion talked! Or maybe it wasn’t an illusion at all.
“You look like someone has run you through a wringer,” Callon went on. “Several times. I didn’t recognize you at first. Of course, I wasn’t expecting to see you at all. Last time I saw you, you were a charred corpse.”
Charred corpse? Ah, yes, this was definitely a hallucination. The Callon-shaped thing was babbling nonsense.
“I wonder if Ottinger recognized you? You really don’t look yourself at all,” said the Callon phantom.
Kenton licked his very dry lips. “That isn’t really you, is it, Callon?”
“One and the same.” Callon reached down and touched his shoulder. A flesh-and-blood touch. No hallucination after all!
“Thunderation, Callon! I didn’t expect to see you here…wherever ‘here’ is.” Kenton licked his lips again and tried in vain to swallow. “Water…is there water?”
“Got a whole bucket of it over here. Hang on.”
Callon vanished, then returned with an overflowing dipper in his hands. He knelt beside Kenton’s bunk and helped him get himself upright to take a swallow. When that water passed his lips and flooded down his throat, cool and refreshing, it was on the whole one of the finest experiences of Brady Kenton’s life.
“Thank you, Paul.”
Callon laid the dipper aside. “Better lie down again, Kenton.”
“No…no, I want to sit up.” Kenton rubbed his temples gently, eyes closed.
“I must say you’ve recovered quite nicely from your recent death,” Callon said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Gunnison and I found a body outside town. Burned to a crisp, wearing your coat, bearing your pistol. We were sure it was you.”
“Gunnison is here?”
“Not right here precisely. I left him out in the forest outside town.”
“He believes I’m dead?”
“He may have already so informed the Illustrated American.”
“Thunderation.”
“For what it’s worth, he was very grief-stricken when we found your corpse.”
“Obviously it wasn’t my corpse, Paul.” Kenton twisted his neck, wincing. “If it was wearing my coat, it had to be the highwayman who attacked me while I was coming up to Gomorrah. He took my pistol, too.” He looked at Callon suddenly. “Burned to a crisp, you say?”
“That’s right. Just like the town itself, and much of the mountaintop. You’re a bit on the charred side yourself. I suppose you must have been lying senseless out in the woods when the firefall came. By the way, I found an old coat in that wardrobe yonder that looks like it would fit you. You’re welcome to it—the original owner is probably dead and gone.”
“Thank you. What was that you said about a firefall? What’s a firefall?”
“Well, you’ve just asked the question of the hour. Something very strange happened on this mountain, Kenton. An explosion that killed much of the population and spread fire through the town and the woods. And now the army has come in, from Fort Brandon, and taken the town over.”
“Fort Brandon?” Kenton frowned. “Thunderation…then that was Ottinger I saw!”
“That’s right. He’s here. The man in charge.”
“I wonder if he knew me?”
“Hard to say. Like I said, you don’t look yourself right now.”
“I told him my name was Houser.”
“Good thing. I doubt that Ottinger has any affection for Brady Kenton.”
“No. Not at all.” Kenton paused, then said, “He even hired a man to kill me once, after I exposed him in the Illustrated American.”
“What?”
“The effort failed, obviously. It was never repeated. I just let it go.”
“Colonel J.B. Ottinger actually tried to have you assassinated?”
“Yes. I’ve never mentioned it to anyone. Not even Alex. For heaven’s sake, don’t you dare spread the story.”
“The man must be insane!”
“Mad with vengefulness. Willing to do anything to even a score, and unwilling ever to drop a grudge. Other than that, as sane as you or I. But evil. Very evil.”
“What will you do, Kenton? You’re in his hands now.”
“Where are we?”
“Locked up in this cabin. One of the few structures to make it through the firefall mostly unscathed. I’ve been here since early yesterday morning. They caught me sneaking about.”
“What’s become of Gunnison?”
“I wish I knew. He may still be hiding out in the woods. I wish I’d stayed out there with him…I’m achieving nothing locked up in here.”
“Paul, I was to meet a man here, named Rankin. A very important meeting, for personal reasons. Do you know if he survived this great fire?”
Though Gunnison had told Callon the reason Kenton had come to meet Rankin, Callon thought it prudent not to reveal to Kenton that he knew something so personal. “I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything. How can I, locked up here?”
“Why did they put you here?”
“Because they determined that I was a journalist, and Ottinger has no use for journalists.”
Kenton pondered deeply. “I wonder if the fact they’ve put me in here with you indicates that I’ve been recognized as a journalist, too?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the most convenient place to lock up stragglers who stray into this burned-out town.”
Kenton sniffed and frowned. “What is that horrific stench?”
“That’s one question I can answer: It’s the dead, my friend. The dead of Gomorrah. Lined up in rows in a tent not far from this cabin. Growing quite ripe by now. There’s a little hole through the wall over there; I look through it to see what’s going on outside. I saw soldiers with shovels a few minutes ago. A burial detail, I suppose. It’s about time. They’ve been photographing the bodies.”
“Callon, I don’t understand this ‘firefall’ business.”
“Something happened here, Kenton. Something very strange and lethal.”
Callon outlined the story, giving every detail he could. He told as well of how Gunnison came to enter the picture, his finding of Kenton’s stray notes, his learning of Kenton’s planned meeting with the man Rankin. Callon did not, however, give any indication that Gunnison had told him about Kenton’s search for his lost wife. This, he knew, was too delicate a topic to be brought up with Brady Kenton. He also made no mention of the Confederate Ridge Rebels, though this was merely an oversight in his haste to tell the tale.
Kenton listened with fascination, and Callon observed an interesting phenomenon: As the details of a tantalizing, unusual tale were fed to him, Kenton’s color and vigor visibly returned. He even stood and began pacing back and forth, unable to hide his mounting fascination.
But his first comment when Callon was done let the latter know that part of Kenton’s energy also stemmed from worry.
“I wonder how I can find out if Rankin survived? And anyone who might have been with him?”
“I don’t know, Kenton. But I think your biggest worry has to be your own safety. If Ottinger actually tried to have you killed once before, and if he realizes that he has you literally in his clutches…”
“I know, I know. But don’t worry about it. I’ll find a way to handle Ottinger.”
“You have an abundance of confidence, Kenton.”
“I always have.”
“I think you should try to find some way out of here.”
“Sounds like a certain way to get shot at.”
“But if he recognizes you…”
“I’ve told them my name is Houser. I’ll stick with that story.”
“You really should get away.”
“Not until I know beyond a doubt that Rankin isn’t here among the survivors.”
“The numerical odds are against it. There are more dead than alive. There were a few who survived who got away from Gomorrah before the army sealed the town off.”
Kenton’s stomach growled loudly. “I’m starving. I hope they bring some food soon. They have been feeding you, haven’t they?”
“Yes. But not nearly enough.”