Edge: Killer's Breed

"How many?" Hedges demanded as the troopers down the hallway kicked open the other doors and entered the rooms with guns blazing.

A woman screamed and a man cursed. The old crone in the bed closed her eyes and fell sideways in a faint.

"Only saw the one," her husband answered, holding her limp head to his chest. "Honest, mister. Just the one up here. He told us to stay in bed. We don't want no trouble. Don't hurt us or Sarah or John."

Hedges shook his head, reached for the handle and slammed the door closed before he moved down the hallway. There was nobody in the next room, but the bed was littered with glass where flying bullets had shattered a religious painting hung on the wall above. More gunfire exploded from below as the two troopers came out of the third upstairs room, both looking pale and sick.

"I heard a noise, lieutenant," one of the men whined. "I seen what happened out on the streets. I didn't want to take no chances."

Hedges looked over their shoulders. The woman was in her mid-twenties and had never been pretty. The bullet had smashed up into her skull after entering through her nose to make her very ugly. The boy—probably her son—was no more than six years old. He had taken it in the head, too, through his small right ear. Both wounds were still pumping out blood to spread stains on the sheets.

"Christ, he looks like my son," the second trooper exclaimed, his face twisted into a bitter grimace.

"Lieutenant?" a voice whispered from below. "You okay up there?"

Hedges was glad to be able to turn away from the horrible tableau of senseless death. "Yeah," he called and started down the stairs, beckoning for the two troopers to follow him. The stairway gave directly on to the barber's shop which was fitted out with two chairs before washbasins with wall mirrors above, and a bench for customers who had to wait their turn. Now the bench was overturned and two uniformed figures were sprawled across it, one in blue and one in grey. Another Confederate soldier was folded across one of the chairs. Through a doorway which gave on to a back room Hedges could see one of his troopers doubled over a window sill.

"Weren't easy, sir," the survivor reported, his lower lip trembling. "Christ, war is a stinking business."

Hedges thought about the dead mother and son upstairs and nodded. Then his expression hardened. "But we're in it. Let's go."

He led the way through into the back room and gently removed the body of the dead Union soldier from the window before climbing out. A bullet smashed into the frame and he went headlong to the ground.

"Hell, I thought you was a reb," somebody called.

He looked up and saw four men running towards him, all in blue uniforms. The one with a smoking Colt helped Hedges get to his feet. The lieutenant shook free of his grasp angrily.

"I told you to keep calm!" he bellowed.

The expression of another man changed suddenly from fear to rage and he sprayed spittle as he yelled at Hedges. "There was eight of us went in there. My best friend had gone to meet his maker without a face and the other three are just as dead. This ain't no hunting party. I'm gonna shoot at anything that moves before it has a chance to shoot at me."

Hedges held the other man's blazing glare. "What's your name, trooper?" he demanded when the man paused to draw breath.

"Morgan. Why!"

"Ninety day volunteer?"

The cold tone and impassive expression of Hedges were beginning to get through to the thin-faced, sandy-haired youngster, driving back his rage and replacing it with anxiety. The man nodded.

Hedges spat against the wall of the building he had just left. "I got a feeling this war's going to last a lot longer than ninety days, Morgan. But you won't if you don't get a hold of yourself. So cut out the yakking and let's get on with doing what we came here for."

With this he spun on his heels and headed across the alley separating the barber's shop from the stage depot. He had not taken four paces before a man loomed up on the roof of the building and loosed off a shot. Hedges felt a searing pain in his right hip and started to fall as his head snapped up. He saw the man who had, shot him, then heard a volley of gunshots from behind him. He hit the ground and rolled on to his back. He had a crazy, upside-down view of the Confederate soldier throwing his rifle into the air before pitching forward off the edge of the roof.  

"That calm enough for you?" somebody said as Hedges was lifted and carried hastily into shelter at the rear of the stage depot.

Hedges put a hand under his tunic and grimaced as he withdrew it, coated with blood.

"Can you stand, sir?"

He tried, using the wall and helping hands from two of the men. His side felt as if it were on fire, but his legs could support his weight.

"Morgan?" He didn't know the names of any of the other men.

"Sir."

"If 1 can't make it, you take over."

"Me, sir?"

"You."  

"Jesus."