The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [187]
Lights and activity ahead: the warehouse. A long line of white shirts crowded its broad front entrance, black shirts inside at a stack of crates, passing out a rifle and a box of bullets to each man that passed. Frank followed Kanazuchi to the rear door and they entered the warehouse.
White shirts swarmed over the interior; a chain of them relaying crates forward to the distribution area. Taking cover at the rear, ahead to their right they saw teams of men in black loading the machine guns onto the back of caissons; two of the four guns already being wheeled toward the front.
"Gatling guns," said Frank. "Shit. You weren't kidding."
"This is bad."
"Bad don't quite cover it."
"Can you work one of these guns?" asked Kanazuchi.
"Yup."
As they turned to go, two guards in black came through the door, pistols drawn; they reacted quickly, raising the guns to fire. Kanazuchi rolled to the floor and as he came to his knees the long knife flew between them and pinned one guard's forearm to the door. His finger pulled the trigger before the gun dropped; the bullet shot harmlessly into the ceiling. Kanazuchi killed him with the Grass Cutter before he could scream.
The second man had the drop on Frank; no time to raise the Henry, Frank spanked out his Colt and fired. The man went down but his single shot creased Frank's face, skidding across his cheek, chipping the bone. Blood slipped from the wound in freshets; pain seared his nerves. Frank raised a hand to it and realized the damage was slight.
But at the sharp report of the guns, all work in the warehouse stopped, a hundred eyes searching for the source. Kanazuchi yanked the wakizashi from the dead guard's arm and they ran out of the warehouse, crossed the open plaza, and sprinted down an alley. Saw torches coming toward them from Main Street and veered right. Flames ignited the sky ahead; deep shades of orange and red, the fire spreading. Behind them men from the warehouse spilled down the side streets, the search intensifying.
Frank stumbled trying to keep pace with Kanazuchi; he had the night vision of a cat. Fifty steps ahead, Kanazuchi pushed him into a cramped chicken coop, hens scattering. Frank gasped for air; Kanazuchi closed his eyes, breathed deeply, drew his energy inward, and listened. One group rushed by outside, shouting to another. A minute later, a second group passed them, heading in the other direction.
The roar and crackle of the fire advanced on them; distant screams twisted in the wind, crashes as a ruined building came down. Clusters of ash drifted, black snowflakes. A dim red glow lit the coop's interior; Frank could just make out the hard line of Kanazuchi's face, staring out at the night. Out of habit, Frank reloaded the Colt. He looked up at another sound, shocking, completely unexpected.
Children singing. A chorus of voices.
"What the hell..." whispered Frank.
Kanazuchi instantly alert. "Come."
They left the hiding place and followed the voices down the alley to the next street; ahead of them, marching together, herded by white shirts ringed around them, at least a hundred children, the ones Kanazuchi had seen in the holding pen, singing "Old McDonald Had a Farm." A few of the small ones crying, frightened; most of them skipping along, strings of them holding hands, laughing happily.
"Only kids I've seen here," said Frank.
For the first time, Frank saw anger in Kanazuchi's eyes.
"What are they doing?" asked Frank.
"Taking them to the church. They are all going to the church."
Miles before they reached the town, they saw the fire. The blistering pace Jack set in the lead spread them out over a quarter of a mile, but as he drew within sight of the guardhouse and gate, he slowed and waited