Metal & Faith

The harsh, inhuman scream ripping through the air nearly had Monica doubling over as her bloodied fingers fought to pull bullets from her bandolier. Rumbling a curse that didn’t meet her ears as she fumbled, the small divot made in the sand by the round she’d dropped filled her belly with rage and frustration. Dropping her revolver at her side, Monica wrapped a hand around the wooden handle of her knuckle knife, pulling the blade from its sheath as she stepped out from the small doorway she’d hidden in. Monica’s eyes instantly locked onto the two new skeletons that lay rotting in the sand before shifting toward the reason she’d come out there at all. As she fixed her gaze on the being not fifteen paces away, her bangs passed before her eyes, and she couldn’t help but notice the streaks of gray, making the memories of that morning feel like years ago.

“Well, well, look at the famed Monica Fierro, bested by waking up with the sun for once.” Had it been anyone else but Francis, the Hunter would have gotten to her feet and planted a fist in their face. Instead, she had settled for glaring at him from under the wide brim of her hat.

“Sometimes I wonder how yer so lucky that I put up with ya,” Monica grumbled as she swung her feet off of the chairs she’d pushed together. “‘Sides, are those other two jokers even ready yet?”

“Not yet. They’re out tacking up the horses right now. I’m gonna go make sure they ain’t messing anything up, be sure to ask the innkeeper for the plate of eggs and bacon I had him save for you.” Francis flashed a toothy smile to Monica, who rolled her eyes in response.

Monica stepped in front of the floor-length mirror after Francis had left, using it to fasten the buckles of her dual bandoliers behind her back. She’d refilled the empty slots last night, something she was far more thankful for now that she was running behind. She strapped the worn leather holster around her waist, thumb brushing across the polished wooden grip of her revolver. Her eyes swept to the knife on her left hip and the bag of ash before it. Having noticed the heavy dark circles under her eyes, the Hunter moved to pull on her old, charred duster with a heaving sigh. The numerous multicolored beads lining the weathered leather clinked softly as Monica reached up to adjust her hat, tracing the teeth she’d claimed from various beasts that lined the crown. With one last glance at her reflection, Monica turned on a heel and left the room.

Monica crunched away at a strip of bacon as she stepped out into the blistering desert sun, the brim of her gambler tipped low to shield her gaze. The street wasn’t quite bustling as it was still early morning, but various people shuffled about between the numerous wooden buildings, eager to get out from under the sun’s harsh rays. Monica glanced down to the end of the street to look at the vacant train station before following the tracks off into the distance. A feeling of quiet hesitance coiled in her gut, and she’d tossed the half-eaten strip of bacon away before stepping down from the inn’s porch. As soon as her boots had hit the dust, Francis and the two men from the city emerged from around the corner, talking quietly amongst themselves.

“With all due respect Father Francis, I believe your partner is just being paranoid. I’m sure this is nothing more than a simple labor strike, one that Douglas and I will straighten out. There’s really no need for you to give us any protective wards.” The dark-haired man named Orly had said to the priest. His tone had irked Monica, so sure of himself, so condescending. I know more than these two hicks from the boonies ever could, it said.

Still, Monica had pushed away her discontent and strode over to the trio. With a tip of her hat to the city fellows, she stepped into one of the stirrups of her horse and swung a leg over her back in a well-practiced motion. 

“Mornin’ gentlemen. By what I overheard, I take it ya haven’t shifted yer position on what ya think of my hypothesis?” Monica asked, tone oozing with derision that made Francis cringe.

She had ignored that fact, though. She’d had plenty enough of the portly man courtesy of the previous job and was more than displeased that she’d been roped into another one with him. Although the forced smile Orly offered her did manage to warm her heart ever so slightly.

“Miss Fierro, I know your line of work can make one… Jumpy,” Orly paused momentarily as Monica’s sharpened gaze fell on him, causing him to rethink his next words. “No, we haven’t. We sent a telegram back to Dorado last night and heard back this morning. Douglas, I believe you have the transcript?” Ortly asked his partner as he removed his bowler hat to fan himself.

“Ah, yes.” The younger blonde man spoke, patting down the pockets of his striped vest before producing a small scrap of paper. “While we appreciate the expert opinion and wariness of Hunter Fierro, we find her worry to be unfounded. Thus, we grant Agent Orly the privilege of going forth with the investigation of the South Dorado rail yard as seen fit.” Douglas folded up the paper as he finished and offered an apologetic look to the Hunter.

Monica had to avert her gaze as Orly stared up at her with a smug smile plastered across his face, a grumble about city folk and common sense leaving her lips. Something that only prompted a complacent response from Ortly.

“Times are changing, Miss Fierro. That rail yard is well protected by soldiers wielding state-of-the-art weaponry. I mean, sure, out here, monsters are a real nuisance. But in and near the city, it’s like they know that we’re advancing and that they’ll be stomped out if they try to stop us.” Orly’s slim mustache curled upwards with his lip as he pulled himself into the saddle.

Monica had only set her jaw in response, unable to speak a word without risk of letting various obscenities slip. So she’d stayed silent, brooding about the fact that Orly was partially right. Monsters tended to stay away from cities, and dwindling monsters meant dwindling hunters. However, it wasn’t the thought of being out of work that scared her. It was the fact that there still were monsters that found their way into cities like Dorado. Monsters that no wet behind-the-ears hunter would be able to bring down.

The conversation had been sparse after that. The four had already debated about the scenario for hours the previous day, at least Monica and Ortly had, while Francis and Douglas had exchanged exasperated looks. Thankfully, the group had been saved from any more bickering by Douglas riding beside the Hunter rather than his shorter partner. However, Monica felt a twinge of sympathy for Francis, as he still had to be subjected to Orly’s grating self.

The harsh sun and the choking dust made for a long ride, unfortunately, and Douglas’ frequent, although good-natured, questions were beginning to wear on Monica. He was young, and Monica couldn’t fault him for being curious about her line of work as opposed to his own. That didn’t stop her from feeling relief, however, as the shapes shimmering with the heat on the horizon began to take the shape of trains.

As the four got closer, Francis glanced back at Monica, whose lips were pressed into a thin line. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the large main building, specifically the single window that looked across the yard and the movement within it. Monica reached into her saddle bag to pull out a pair of binoculars, turning the small dial until the window came into focus. As they did, Monica’s teeth ground together, and her horse let out a huff as she stiffened. Seated so casually, with a leg dangling from the window, was a young woman wearing a pristine white dress. The back of her head rested against the frame as she seemed to be basking in the sun, her olive skin shining in the light. Monica’s intestines had instantly coiled like a rattlesnake ready to strike. While the girl looked normal, the Hunter knew better than to ignore her instincts.

“Hold up a moment.” Monica’s voice came out low and steady, enough to make Orly pause. However, his retort came soon after.

“What could possibly be the matter, Miss Fierro?” He asked, exasperated.

Instead of answering, Monica urged her horse forward and offered the man her binoculars, a finger extended in the direction of the window. For a time, Orly said nothing as he glassed the side of the building. While he did, Monica casually withdrew her revolver from its holster and loosened the mouth of the bag on her hip.

“Seems to me like the foreman has had enough of the strike, and he’s trying to get some air.” Orly finally said, annoyance plain on his face as he turned back to Monica.

At that, all doubt was erased from her mind, and she pressed the dark metal of the barrel of her gun into the pouch. As she withdrew it, white ash fell to the ground, although much of it remained stuck to the weapon, filling out symbols engraved in and outside of the barrel.

“Let’s go see fer ourselves then. But keep yer wits about you and whatever y’ do. Do not approach that man. Because that’s not what I see.” Monica’s voice remained unwaveringly serious, her eyes shifting between the three men, two of which nodded.

Sand mixed with gravel as the group neared the engine house, the loud crunching beneath metal horseshoes being the only sound. Each step only solidified Monica’s suspicions. No labor strike she’d ever heard of refused to return telegrams. And if she hadn’t been convinced enough, the sight of the trains up close nearly made her think about turning around. Each and every locomotive looked as though it had been out of commission for years. With thick layers of rust, broken windows, and rotted wood, even the oil had turned to little more than sludge. No one would have guessed that the rail yard had been fully operational not a week ago. The crunch beneath one of the horse’s steps drew all of their attention, each of their gazes coming to rest on the brittle skeleton partially buried in the sand, some of the ribs cracked courtesy of a hoof.

“Told ya this wasn’t no labor strike.” Monica husked, her voice not nearly as taunting as she wished it could be.

Orly swallowed a lump in his throat as he nodded, a finger tugged at his collar. However, Francis had been the one to speak up.

“Well, I think that about relinquishes your jurisdiction on the investigation, Agent Orly.” Francis spoke calmly, the normal pep in his voice nowhere to be heard, “I think it’d be wise to leave the rest up to Monica from here. Yall are out of your depth now… With all due respect, of course.”

A smile flickered at the corners of Monica’s mouth as Francis picked up the slack for her lack of snark, although she had been quick to take her reigns back up.

“Imma be honest here. I don’t know what we’re walking into, so I wanna get the drop on whatever it is. Hitch yall’s horses to anything sturdy you can find. We’re going in on foot from here.” Despite the anxiety gnawing at her insides, Monica’s voice remained steady as she slipped off her horse, hitching her to a handle of a nearby train car.

It hadn’t been much longer until the four were sneaking their way along the side of the engine house, each nervously glancing about the large swathe of vacant tracks. They’d reached a small side door by the time Monica realized something wasn’t right. She turned her head and suppressed a gasp as she saw Douglas had strayed from the group, having found his way onto the tracks as he looked at something hidden just behind the front of one of the trains. His lip had been quivering as he approached, the firearm at his hip forgotten entirely. Before Monica could stop him, Orly had scurried toward the taller man whispering harshly for him to get back. Francis’s hand had clamped down hard on Monica’s shoulder to stop her as well, and a moment later, she realized it very well could have saved her life.

“Mama?” She could just barely make out the word Douglas had said before a scream ripped apart the silence of the rail yard.

Monica could do little more than slink backward as she’d covered her ears, although she hadn’t been lucky enough to miss what happened to the pair of city slickers. Hair greyed and skin wrinkled before eyes turned milky and posture faltered. Before long, flesh fell from the bone, and poor Douglas and Orly had been reduced to little more than dusty, sun-bleached skeletons, partially buried in the sand. Ducking into the doorway, Monica sucked in a breath at the realization that came crashing down on her, one that explained the state of the rail yard.

Another scream rippled through the air, making Monica’s vision blurry as she stepped out from around the doorway. Leveling her revolver, the Hunter paused as she met the eyes of the young woman standing between the remains of the agents. Her mouth was open only a sliver, yet the sound permeating the air was nearly deafening, evidenced by the trickles of crimson running down the sides of Monica’s head. Trying to steady her nerves, Monica squeezed the trigger and promptly fell into carelessness, her pride cracking with every missed shot. Hiding away again, she tried to blame it on her swimming vision, but those familiar eyes remained present in her mind. Glancing at Francis, who covered his ears as he knelt beside the wall, Monica folded her hands and nodded at him. Understanding what she meant, the older man folded his hands in prayer, allowing his ears to bleed freely as he worked to keep both of their wards strong.

Fumbling to reload, a curse left her lips as a bullet slipped from her bloodied fingers and made a small crater in the sand. Ditching her gun, Monica drew her knuckle knife as she stepped from the doorway once again. She couldn’t help but notice the gray steaks in her hair as her bangs blew across her eyes. Focusing on the twisting fear constricting her bowels, Monica willed her feet to move as she grabbed the bag of ash from her belt in her free hand.

The young woman’s face remained emotionless as the Hunter neared her, even as the bag of ash was thrown in her direction, enveloping her in a cloud of white that made her skin sizzle. Plunging herself into the cloud, Monica thrust her knife forward, feeling it sink into not flesh but something. Something that she knew hurt as the scream reached a peak that made her see spots. With a furious yell that was still drowned out by the unending scream, Monica wrenched her knife upwards, orange embers lying in its wake. The scream slowly dwindled as the Hunter pressed forward, tumbling to the ground as the woman collapsed. Ash settled around them as the scream stopped, and Monica found herself lying atop the corpse of the being, embers still rolling across the gash her knife had made as she stared down at a face that looked disturbingly similar to a younger version of herself. Mercifully, the being’s skin began to wilt, shriveling its flesh until it was unrecognizable.

Francis’ hand came down carefully on her shoulder, pulling Monica off of the smoking remains of the woman, if she could still be called as such. Meeting the woman’s gaze, Francis squeezed her shoulder. He knew from the look in her eye that Monica was shaken by more than just nearly meeting their match.

“Whatever you saw wasn’t real. Orly mentioned a foreman. You said that’s not what you saw. And I’m assuming she didn’t… didn’t look like what I saw either.” Francis’ voice shook for a moment before he managed to gather himself.

As her heartbeat finally slowed in her ears, Monica felt her body sag as she trudged over to the corpse in the sand. “I know, I know.” Monica trailed off as she breathed deeply. She didn’t have the guts to say she almost wished it had been.

“What do you think it was? I never seen a thing like that before.” Francis asked.

“Got no idea… Most specters, ‘least I think that’s what it was, don’t just stare y’ down like that. Not to mention all the rest of this.” Monica grumbled, motioning to the ruins of the once bustling rail yard.

“Times really are changing… But I’m not so sure it’s in the way Orly thought.” Francis mumbled, getting to his feet as well to go find their horses.

“Yeah… I know. Come on, let's get moving. I wanna reach Dorado sooner rather than later. Those damn officials better grease my palm damn well if they want me to ever work for ‘em again.” As she spoke, Monica combed through her bangs, noting how the gray hadn’t faded.

Just like that, the two set off toward the looming city walls, a sandy bag that held proof hanging from the side of Monica’s horse and another thing neither of them understood plaguing their minds.