Tooth & Claw - Part 1

This is a piece of what I call "Fictional Improv," where I write a story piece by piece, right before your eyes without a plan, or any real editing. Enjoy...

TOOTH & CLAW BY DUNCAN R. MACMASTER

"Did anyone recognize you?" asked Rich Beaumont as he put his new roommate's trunk on his bed.

The new arrival shook his head. His recent fame hadn't reached into the back end of beyond, which was how Rich described this town, if anyone would call Pentecost Nevada a town, or even a village. Anyone who managed to see through the fine layer of dust that coated the outside of the windows of the Willow Branch Hotel and didn't see the handful of dusty automobiles would expect to see Tom Mix getting ready to fight some men in black hats. The dust was all over this shadow of a town, clustered in small piles in every available, nook and cranny, and danced down the one street in swirling clouds. Across the street was a saloon called the Lazy Lariat. It was a squat two story building of dust-caked red brick, and inside it promised cold beer, as if Prohibition's repeal was already official, and aside from the hotel and the combination gas station-grocery store was the bulk of this town. Their reason for being in this town was in the rooms above that saloon.

"Have you seen him yet?" asked the new arrival as he scanned the street.

"Not yet," said Beaumont, "but I did get an eyeful of Willy Jarvis."

"Did he recognise you?"

Beaumont shook his head and opened his suitcase. "I'm not famous like you Griffin. And even if he asked around all he'll find out is that I'm a surveyor with the dam authority. Aside from a few local ranchers they're the only people who pass through here since the guano mine closed. What is guano anyway?"

"It's shit," answered Griffin as he took off his hat, and hanged it on a hook.

"Shit?"

"Bat shit to be specific," added Griffin as he loosened his tie. "It gets processed into fertilizer."

"You learn something new everyday," said Beaumont as he took a large package out of the trunk and started to unwrap it, "and by the way, you are a surveyor too."

"I think I can fake that," said Griffin.

"Though I'm not sure how I'm going to explain your unique brand of surveying gear," said Beaumont as he laid the freshly unwrapped Browning Automatic Rifle on the bed. "Do you really need this sort of fire-power?"

Griffin looked over the weapon; it wasn't FBI standard issue, but J. Edgar Hoover, normally a stickler for rules, would be forgiving if it helped get the mad dog killer Nicky West off the streets.

#

"Will you relax," said Willy Jarvis as he put the sandwiches his uncle Otis made for them on the small table that sat between the bunks. "If Thad Griffin was in town, we would have gotten word; strangers stand out in this town."

"That's what I'm worried about," said Nicky West. "Did you hear who they sent after me?"
"No," said Willy, "the radio reception's lousy here."

"Special Agent Thaddeus Griffin has been assigned to hunt down my sorry ass," said Nicky. He had to keep busy, so he pulled out his Thompson submachine gun and started disassembling it for cleaning. He cleaned the two weapons about three times a day since he got to Pentecost, the two shotguns, twice a day, and the four pistols, two .38 revolvers, and two Colt .45 automatics twice a day each. The constant tending to the tools of his trade kept him sane while he waited for the world to blow to hell. "I was able to catch the news out of Reno late last night."

"He's famous," said Willy. Thaddeus "Thad" Griffin was the FBI's favourite gangbuster, and a media sensation at twenty-five years old.

"He's a phoney," snapped Nick.

"He took down Smiler O'Rourke," replied Willy. That case made Griffin's name a household word. Smiler was a real mad dog, robbing banks and killing his way across country. He had settled in San Francisco to invest his earnings in the dope trade, killing two federal narcotics agents in the process. The FBI's California office stepped in, and in a scene straight out of a pulp magazine, Smiler's boat blew up in San Francisco bay, ironically right in view of Alcatraz, the very prison he was most likely to spend the rest of his life. Griffin escaped with a bullet in his shoulder, the admiration of an entire nation, and the spot as the nation's second most famous G-Man.

"Yeah," muttered Nick, "we'll see."

"Is there something you're not telling me?" asked Willy. Willy Jarvis was five years older than Nick, but normally took Nick's orders without question. However, times had been stressful since they had to hide out above Willy's uncle's saloon, and it was starting to show in both men. It had been a week since his world went to hell, and Nick went from simple anonymous bank robber, one of many running around in these tough times, to one of the most wanted criminals in the country, inheriting not only Smiler O'Rourke's place on the list, but also the man who hunted him down.
"Nah," said Nick, rubbing his chin and realizing that he needs a shave. "Just something I'm thinking, but if I told you what I was thinking, you'd think I was crazy."

Nick reassembled the Thompson, got up off the cot, went over to the sink, and looked at himself in the mirror. He didn't have a handsome face, it wasn't ugly though, and it didn't harm his ability with the ladies, because what he lacked in looks he made up in boyish charm. But that boyish charm, that lively glint in his eye, and that ready smile, weren't around very much lately. Instead his face now seemed almost unfamiliar, he didn't know the tired man with the dark circles under his eyes, and his normally wheat-blonde hair hung limp on his head. He looked spent and worn out, as spent and worn out as this bloody town.

"Let's just get in the car to Mexico tonight," said Willy, "let's just get in a drive. We're flush from the Omaha job. We can live pretty well there, get us a couple of sweet senoritas, and lay low till they get all this figured out."

"They already have it all figured out," said Nick, as he soaped up face, "and we're it."

"That's an even bigger reason to go," said Willy.

"We have to wait here for another day or two," answered Nick.

"Why?"

"If I told you," said Nick, "you'd think I was crazy."

"Maybe I already do."

#

"I think that old coot is crazy," said Ned Lansing as he turned off onto what passed for a road that was the only way to reach Preacher Hill. The "road" was nothing but a pair of shallow ruts carved into the hard packed earth, and Ned's old army surplus truck bounced and swayed from side to side.

"Think of this as your Christian duty," said Betty Lansing, keeping a white knuckle grip to keep from bouncing out of her seat. Her brother snorted. He was always more of a fatherly figure to her, being fifteen years her elder. She remembered how quick he was to smile when she was a little girl, before he went to Europe, and the war. Ever since then, he just seemed angry, as if something sat in his gut as if he swallowed a large stone.

Betty was a pretty girl, and many wondered how a burly and surly bear as Ned could possibly be related such a delicate looking creature. Her appearance was deceiving, for despite her fragile appearance, she could match Ned point for point in the toughness department.

"We can't afford to be too Christian these days," growled Ned. "Only had one damn customer today, what are we going to do for money?"

"We got that land Pappy left us in Las Vegas," said Betty. "Maybe we could do something with that."

Ned snorted again. "That place will be as dead as Pentecost, once they're finished the dam. And more worthless land isn't going to help us out much, especially when you're making me waste gas on a lunatic."

Betty wanted to say that Dr. Emil Prosper wasn't a lunatic, but she wasn't sure about that. He was an incredibly intelligent man, who just appeared out of nowhere, paid them in cash for Preacher Hill, and set up shop. He was some sort of scientist, and he even looked like one from the movies she'd see on her monthly trip to Reno. He had wild bushy hair, thick glasses, and spoke with an accent that she didn't know. Ned, who had been to Europe, couldn't place it either, but the man's cash was American, and that's all that mattered.

Prosper then moved into the old Spanish mission building, bringing with him several truckloads of what looked like the sort of gear she read about in going into big city power stations. Sometimes, when the night was clear and quiet, she could see a soft pale white glow, and hear a distant humming coming from the distant hill. It had been over a week since he last came in for supplies, and she knew that he had to be running out of food, and that someone should check on him. Though she was capable of driving the truck herself, she insisted that Ned accompany her, not because she was concerned about being out after sunset, but in case they found the old man incapacitated, and she needed someone to lift him onto the truck.

"Look at your hair," said Ned.

Betty looked at herself in the rear view mirror; her red-hair, cut like Clara Bow was standing at attention. She could also feel a strange pins and needles sensation dance up her arms. Ned seemed unaffected, but he kept his so short you really couldn't tell.

"This doesn't look good," said Betty.

The old mission came into view. The white stucco and stone building seemed lost in a forest of black metallic coils, each one topped with a silvery coloured metal ball.

"Not good at all," said Ned. "You go knock in case he's become an axe murderer."

"You're a chivalrous soul," growled Betty as she climbed out of the truck, strode right to the front door, and gave a good hard rap.

The door swung open, she suddenly realised Ned was beside her. Inside was dark in comparison to the orange light of the setting sun.

"Dr. Prosper?" she asked.

She stepped inside, with Ned close behind. Once their eyes got accustomed to the gloom she could see more of those strange coils. Thick black cables crisscrossed the air above them. Glass tanks filled with strangely coloured liquids bubbled and some even glowed. She could feel her hair rising even higher, and she could taste something metallic in her mouth, even though it didn't have saliva in it. She could hear a low hum, as if a great engine was running somewhere in the confusion.
"Dr. Prosper," she called again.

This time she got an answer, a low moan. Betty charged ahead, with Ned close behind, the weaved their way between the machines to find Prosper's thin frame slumped in a seat before what looked like a large console, covered with dials, levers, and gauges. The front of the console looked scorched, and Betty saw the blackened sleeves on Prosper's normally white coat.

She rushed to him. "Get some water," she commanded, and Ned went looking for some.

"How do you feel Dr. Prosper?" asked Betty, though she could see he was in bad shape, she just wanted him to make her believe that he was better off than he looked.

"So primitive," croaked Prosper, "it's so primitive here. I tried to get home..."

"I found some water," said Ned as he came in with a jug and an earthenware mug. Betty took them and rubbed some on Prosper's dried and cracked lips. She couldn't give him the water directly, because she didn't know just how dry the old man was.

"I have to stop the automatic..." groaned Prosper, "it's set backwards, it's all wrong, all wrong."

"We better get him to town," said Ned, "maybe we can get Doc Willows to come up."

"I have to stop--" moaned Prosper, then the hum grew loud. A myriad of lights came on. "Too late," he muttered before going limp.

"Help pick him up," said Betty. "This whole place looks like it's about to go nuts."

Ned heaved the old man in his broad arms just as sparks burst from the console. More lights came on, lightning arced between the black metallic coils, and the humming grew so loud she couldn't hear herself think. They ran back the way they came, dodging cascades of sparks, the crackling of hundreds of tiny thunders ringing in their ears.

Once outside they saw that the forest of coils outside the old mission had come alive, crackling with little bolt's of lightning so steadily that it gave everything a bluish glow that overwhelmed the setting sun. Betty got into the driver's seat, while Ned pushed Dr. Prosper into the middle, yelling, "Get moving," as he climbed in.

Betty didn't need him to tell her twice, and her small foot pressed the gas pedal flat to the floor. The truck spat sand out in a wide arc as she turned away from the old mission and the waves of strange lightning and tore down the old track.

They had reached the big boulder at the bottom of the hill when the truck's engine just went quiet, and rolled to a stop at the entrance to the road.

"What's with this piece of...?" growled Betty.

"It's just out of gas," said Ned, still cradling the unconscious Dr. Prosper.

"You own a gas station," snarled Betty.

"I know," said Ned, "I guess this is one of those situations you would call ironic. Don't start punching, there's a can in the back of the truck, it should have enough to get us back to town."
"Well," said Betty.

"Well what?" replied Ned, "I'm propping up your friend here; you don't want to disturb him, do you?"

Betty cast her brother a dirty looked and stepped out of the truck, slamming the door as punctuation to her displeasure. The can was there, nestled between Ned's toolbox, and a pile of burlap. It was full, and Betty took it to the gas tank, and poured it down the spout.

"Don't spill any," said Ned.

"You shut the--"

A thunderous crack from the top of Preacher Hill swamped the words "hell up," and Betty looked up to see a column of light shoot up from the old mission and into the gathering clouds. Then another crack and a ring of white light burst out from the column and flew in all directions.
Betty snapped the cap back on the tank, tossed the can aside, and jumped back into the driver's seat. She was just about to hit the ignition when she heard something.

It sounded like water.

It sounded like a roaring river.

#

Thad Griffin carefully polished the wooden stock of the B.A.R., and then he checked the firing mechanism. Everything moved smoothly, just as he intended. The sun was setting, casting angular shadows on the wall. Griffin only had his bedside lamp on, and wished he had brought a book. Beaumont was downstairs, getting roast beef sandwiches from the hotel kitchen. While they still had a cook, room service had to be "do-it-yourself." Griffin didn't mind that, after the whole Smiler O'Rourke debacle, the fewer people between him and his target the better.

Griffin's shoulder ached. It did that at odd times ever since they fished him out of San Francisco Bay. Hoover had the bullet in a glass case at the FBI's head office, which annoyed Griffin. It was his bullet; he took it in the shoulder because he couldn't bear to see that permanently grinning face leering at him from the bridge of that boat without trying to stop him. He earned that bullet in the haze of gunfire, the flames, and cold salt water rushing over him.

Griffin didn't even realize he took a bullet until after they laid him on the deck of the harbour-master's boat. His grandfather, a colourful fellow, would have said it hurt like a son of a bitch, and while J. Edgar disapproved of such language, Griffin felt it was accurate. He owned that damn bullet, not the bureau.

A flash of light caught the corner of his eye, and then something roared in the distance. Then there was another flash, high up in the darkening sky. Griffin then heard a loud pop, something sharp glanced across his right cheek, and room went dark except for the slivers of light through the window.

Griffin hit the floor, his Colt .45 automatic in his hand, cocked and ready to fire.

Then silence.

Griffin heard voices out on the street, they sounded confused, and then he heard footsteps coming to the door.

"Thad," said Beaumont as he opened the door, "the lights just went out. It looks like it's all over town, light bulbs just went..."

"It happened here too," said Griffin, pointing to the remains of the bedside lamp. "I thought someone took a shot at me."

"Yeah," said Beaumont, "the bulbs just popped. The lamps in the lobby shot sparks all over the place. I thought I'd been made and someone was trying to give me some ventilation."
Thad Griffin looked at the other lamp, the one that wasn't on.

"The bulb didn't blow up here," said Griffin as he pulled the chain. "But there's no power."

"Phone's are dead too," said Beaumont as he fiddled with the cradle.

"That's lovely," said Griffin, "how will we contact Jeffries?"

Beaumont shrugged. "Do you hear something?"

He went to the window, and opened it; the cool evening air swept in, and with it came a very distinctive sound. It sounded like a waterfall.
"Holy shi--"

The whole building rocked, throwing Griffin onto the bed next to his BAR. He grabbed the rifle and rolled onto the floor. It wasn't a bomb; his experience in San Francisco taught him what an explosion felt like. This was different; the entire hotel was swaying madly, and a deafening roar filled the air. Glass broke as the window-frames warped, raining shards.

Something hit the building, something large, something heavy, and Thad Griffin, America's favourite gangbuster felt the floor give way beneath him.

To Be Continued...