The Necromancers of Santa Muerte (Part I)

"Phoenix Dust Storm 2" by Alan Stark is licensed under CC by 2.0

From the top of the Hamiton Hotel, James Swift peered through the smart binoculars over the desert plain. Behind him lay the city of Laredo with a quarter of a million souls that needed time to evacuate. In the distance, a massive cloud of dust was barely viewable by the naked eye, yet in the binoculars, a slightly different picture emerged. James took a couple of pictures and uploaded them to Ranger Command in Austin. He sent a message with the pictures that simply said, “It’s getting closer”.

He nervously fingered the brand-new star affixed to his chest. Most people would jump at the chance to be deputized by the Texas Rangers, but James felt it was a death sentence. He would not be part of the evacuation.

“Anything new?” muttered the only other person on the roof, the man who deputized him, Ranger Roberts. James did not even know his Christian name. The situation was dire and such pleasantries were forgotten.

“It’s getting closer, sir. I cannot tell if they are deliberately coming our way or not,” James said.

“They are,” Roberts said matter-of-factly. He stood like a statue made of ebony, staring off into the distance at the dust cloud. The only movement that James could see was the sweat dripping off the elder Ranger’s gray mustache.

“While the army get here in time?” James asked, allowing hope to creep into his voice.

“No,” replied Roberts, “We’re all there is. I know you are new to all this, so I won’t go over our history. Know this: the good Lord blessed the people of Texas with the Rangers and we will defend them to the end.”

“Even against that?” James gestured emphatically at the cloud of dust, “besides, I did not exactly agree to become a Ranger.”

“You are man of fighting age. That is enough.”

“Why did you choose me? There were plenty of others at the gun store. Most of them have better aim than I do.”

“Simple,” Roberts began, “when I saw that boxy bullpup in your hands, I knew you cared more about practicality than style. Those good ol’ boys with their fancy, artisan guns are just not cut out to be Rangers. When you’ve been with the Rangers for 40 years, you learn how to read people mighty quick.”

James stared at the dust cloud silently. They were coming, the hordes of reanimated bodies brought back by the necromancers that served Santa Meurte. It started with some stories in the news of several churches south of the border severing themselves from Rome. James did not care at the time, as a semi-devout Southern Baptist, the Catholics losing some churches to some weird death cult didn’t matter to him. Then the videos of the dead rising during funerals were leaked to the wider Internet. Upon reanimation, they tore anyone who was not one of the faithful to shreds. Everyone took notice after that, but it was too late.

The various types of undead helped the necromancer-priests and priestesses solidify control of Mexico City, and thus, of the Mexican government. Catholic worship was immediately outlawed, which even unsettled the thoroughly Protestant James.

“C’mon,” the old Ranger said, “let’s go to where they will come in.”

“Where will they attempt to enter” James asked as they walk toward the stairs.

“At the border checkpoint, of course.”

James stopped for a moment and imagined hundreds of decaying bodies patiently waiting in line with passports and visas in hand. The utterly ridiculous scene played in his mind on a loop and he stifled a laugh. Ranger Roberts look at him with a smirk.

“No, we aren’t filling in for the Border Patrol agents that were ordered to leave. It’s the weakest point in the border. With the wall finally built, the checkpoint is the only relatively open spot for several miles,” Roberts said.

Part II here: https://steemit.com/fiction/@notjohndaker/the-necromancers-of-santa-muerte-part-ii