January, 1936

  “We give to you, oh King, our bodies and minds, our very souls.” A young man prayed at the end of a long wooden table set out with all manner of supper.

  “We ask for your Dominion over us, yearn for your guidance, and your ancient knowledge. All things of this world are yours, and so too are we. In your name we pray, so say we all.”

  “So say we all.” Repeated a chorus of voices. Many men sat at the table, waiting to dig in. Ladies sat with them, smiling and conversing after the prayer was finished. A young lady in a beautiful yellow dress came and sat next to the prayer leader. Her eyes a stark green, she shot him a grin.

  “Are you ready for tomorrow’s procedures, Willy?” She asked sweetly.

  Willy, preoccupied with a roasted chicken thigh, answered without looking.

  “I think it’ll just be swell, my sweet. The children are almost ready to begin fostering the Aspects. Could you imagine if they each developed an Aspect? I think the Age of Yellow is fast approaching, Meredith.”

  “Well, we know they won’t ALL develop. Some casualties are expected.” She kissed his cheek, “But you’re an optimist. I always loved that about you.”

  Willy couldn’t help but flush a bit in his cheeks. Having Meredith’s attention at his age was a blessing, one he had never received before joining the Cult. Women wouldn’t even look in his direction; a lanky, filthy street rat like him was a curse, not an object of admiration. Not so since he joined the Cult, and submitted to the will of his King.

  Not only had he been welcomed among the ranks of the most fortunate in society, the ones who would be prosperous in the coming Age of Yellow, but he was given a post at the Bastion in Texas. A high honor for any foot soldier of the King, a Bastion assignment came with access to the Bastions many lovely caretakers, such as his Meredith.

  “We will need to feed them soon, just to keep them upright.” Another of the cultists at the table wiped his mouth.

  “Hunger’s good for Yellow,” yet another shook his head, “Keeps the King on the mind. It’s ok if one or two pass out. We can always dunk em again, get the spirits raring to go.”

  “I agree.” Willy nodded, “A few good dunks in the ice for the little ones will do them right.”

  Their dinner was interrupted by a loud crash. The wall next to them shattered, spraying splinters across the room. Several of the men fell over in their chairs with the unseen force. Food and furniture lay all over the ground.

  A heavy fog rolled in from the outside, made opaque by the winter moonlight. A few silhouettes broke the glow of the moon, casting shadows of wide hats and draped ponchos across the floor. Eyes of blue and brown shone in their dark profiles.

  “Fuck!” A cultist shouted, “Sorcerers! Ru-“

  His cry was cut short by the loud crack of a pistol. Willy’s ears rang, damaged from the sound of the gunshot in tight quarters. He could scarcely hear the sound of the man’s head exploding to pieces, or the shouts of the others as they scattered to get their guns. He could hear the dull thud of furniture toppling. Sharp pops mercilessly pounded his already battered eardrums. Some of the men reached for their weapons but were cut down just before leveling them. None could get a shot off at the Six-Guns.

  He felt Meredith pull him out of the room, rushing him along the hall and away from the muffled cries of his brother cultists. She rushed him to the barracks room across the way, throwing the door open. He regained some hearing as she shoved them under one of the bunks.

  “Where’s my gun?” Willy asked groggily

  She shook her head, those pretty eyes stormy with doubt, “We have to hide, we can’t shoot Gradymen! They’ll kill us first.”

  The window nearby crashed inward, two more of the Six-Guns hopping through with grace. Willy listened to them, holding a hand over his mouth to muffle his breathing.

  “Keep it tight, Chaunce.” A gruff voice echoed through the barracks, “Simple torch and burn, don’t shoot any kids. Just like we went over.”

  “Got it Dad. I’m good to go Rez.” Another, higher voice followed.

  Long moments passed as Willy watched the leather riding boots step across the floor from his spot under a bunk. The boots suddenly stopped, forcing his heart into hyper speed.

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  “There. Hiding.”

  He heard the click of a pistol. Suddenly, he found himself inexplicably filled with dread. It was like a weight, an incredible blanket of terror. Never before had he felt this. All the glory, all the horror of his King and His agents could never surpass the overwhelming sensation in his mind. His stomach turned, he felt like vomiting.

  A boot kicked the bunk aside, revealing the glowing eyes of a Six-Gun over him, as well as the black of the pistol muzzle. Willy could see death in those eyes, those horrible eyes. The Gradymen, America’s horrible avatars, all had those eyes. They all had death on them.

  “Where’s the kids?” The Six-Gun barked, “Spit it out, with the moments you got left.”

  He felt the claws of death reach out from the depths and grip him. Words escaped him. Staring now into the eyes of a Six-Gun, he could only surrender.

  Meredith sprang up, a kitchen knife in hand. “Our King will take you, Gradymen!”

  She flung herself at the Gun, only to be shot by the other before she could take a second step. Willy watched her body crumple. Her blood misted the air a sickly pink.

  “Fuck it, we’ll find them ourselves.” The older of the two sighed.

  Willy took his opportunity as two of his fellows burst through the door, rifles in hand. He threw himself out the window, tumbling out into the courtyard. There was little time to gather himself or mourn Meredith. More of the cultists shouted and fired at the gate. Horror still painted his mind as Willy watched them all fold and collapse against just a single member of Grady’s Posse.

  The Six-Guns moved so slowly, surely, methodically. Willy could hardly believe they were human. They were more like ghosts, floating confidently through the yards and halls of the Bastion, leaving only death in their wake. Willy watched as the ammunition stockroom burst into flames. One of the sorcerers had lit up a cigar and appeared to breathe fire into the storage shed, like a terrible dragon from an old book. Another tore asunder the schoolroom wall with the wave of a hand. These were no men, these were monsters born of America’s worst sins.

  Only one thought came to Willy’s mind as that odd sensation of dread began to clear. He had to unleash the Sullied Ones. A grim look spread across his face, he had hoped this would be unnecessary. He had pushed for the Sullied to be destroyed long ago, but the administration insisted on keeping them locked in the cellar. Now, feeling the foggy chill on this most horrible night, he understood they were right. The Sullied Ones were their only chance against Grady’s abominations.

  Willy summoned his courage and breathed in deep. Picking himself up, he bolted for the main hall. The sounds of shots and screams excited him, but he tried his best to keep his cool for the King. One of the Guns was too distracted with Tony, that brute he had never gotten the chance to beat in a fist fight, and Willy was allowed to slip into the main hall. He tossed his body through the doors, hugging the ground as bullets raked the building. He could see spears of moonlight puncturing the dark of the hallway as the bullets left holes in the wall.

  “Ahead and to the left…” He muttered, crawling on all fours. His legs felt like Jelly as he heard boots crunching glass in the room to his left.

  He could hear the deep voice through the wall, “Give us the kids, and I’ll make it quick.” It was followed up by a few gunshots.

  “Joe, you gonna let me work or what?” That voice sounded disappointed.

  Willy hurried along, trying to ignore his pounding heart.

  A higher voice followed, “I’m trying here! These guys keep going for weapons!”

  More of the windows shattered in on Willy as he reached the cellar door, the bodies of his brothers crashing in limply. He caught sight of their priest, Benjamin, rushing around the corner.

  “I knew you’d go for them.” Benjamin nodded to him, “We have to hurry. The Aspects can NOT fall into their hands. They simply can’t take them, the King won’t have it.”

  Willy panted lowly, trying to keep his voice down, “I think the Sullied will handle our intruders. Help me get the cellar unlocked.”

  Benjamin, dressed in tawny robes, looked him up and down for a moment before reaching for his pocket. He withdrew the keys and picked out the correct one. He offered it to Willy.

  “This is it. Go ahead and unlock the door.”

  “What? You’re right there, you do it!”

  Benjamin pursed his lips and cocked his chin, shaking his head. He held the keys out a little closer to him. Footfalls could be heard as Six-Gun boots started down the hall in that steady pace they kept. Hearing it, the priest tossed the keys at Willy’s feet and bolted in the opposite direction.

  “Our King wills you unleash them.” He looked back before pushing through a door to the inner sanctum.

  Willy leaned down, hearing the chortling and sloshing of the Sullied in the cellar. His nose close to the door, he could smell the rotting gore and fecal matter underneath, an acrid stench. The cellar door rocked a bit as they pounded on it from the inside, forcing Willy back a step. They were excited, he could tell, the shooting and death had set them off. Willy picked up the keys, finding the one the priest had held out to him.

  “Drop it.” The firm call came from the corner, followed by a sharp click.

  Standing back up, Willy turned his gaze to the Six-Gun standing in the hallway. He got a good look at the man, standing in his Wild West getup, the pattern of suns repeating across his poncho. That same look of death was in his eyes. They were truly horrible.

  “I give myself to the King, something greater than myself.” Willy defiantly pressed the key to the cellar’s lock. “It’s a shame you Gradymen can not see beyond your vile sorcery.”

  The Six-Gun shot him in the chest. He felt the bullet hammer his insides, tear open his back. Flecks of bone and viscera painted the floor behind him. Willy found it in himself to remain standing through it.

  “Praise… the King!” He turned the key.

  The cellar doors flew open, throwing the lock against the wall. Many hands gripped Willy and dragged him into the gnashing darkness. He let death overtake him. To Willy, it was better to die at the hands of his King’s creations than fall to the bullets of the Gradymen.