The Good, the Bad, and the Dead

by Bruce Campbell

  Dex resumed firing, trying to keep the reforming horde from reaching the troopers being dragged behind the vehicle. Some of the troopers clinging to the towropes disappeared below the water and never resurfaced.

  The tank tilted back as it rumbled onto dry land. It ground its way up the bank until the entire length of the towropes was clear of the water and then stopped. Only six muddy and disheveled troopers still maintained their death grips on the lines. They lay coughing and thrashing on the bank like a bunch of freshly-landed fish. All but one had lost their weapons.

  Robertson staggered out of the side hatch of the tank in obvious pain. He gave the men a few minutes to catch their breath and then bellowed, "Okay, on your feet, men. We've still got a job to do. There are a few spare weapons in the vehicle. Grab 'em, and let's go."

  The captain limped back into the vehicle and plopped down into a seat. He nodded at Dex, who had descended from the turret. "Thanks for the help."

  "No problem."

  It took a few more minutes for the exhausted and traumatized soldiers to regain some semblance of organization.

  Once they were ready, they clambered up on the outside of the tank. The vehicle rumbled up to within twenty yards of the great gates.

  After the clanking echo of the tank's arrival had died away, a deep voice boomed out from the top of the wall, "Who is it that invades Death's Kingdom in his life?"

  Dex, who had resumed his position in the turret, gazed upwards. The top of the wall was lined with thousands of figures. At first he took them to be angels, but a second glance dispelled that notion. They may have once been angels, but no longer. Each of them was nearly twice as tall as a man. They were dressed in robes which once were white, but were now stained with mud, filth, and gore the huckster didn't care to contemplate. Each had wings, but like their robes, the feathers of these appendages were dirty, bedraggled, and stained.

  The huckster felt a persistent tugging at his leg. He looked down to see Hellstromme. "Out my way, you cretin," he hissed. Dex dropped down from the turret and stood aside to allow the scientist to pass.

  Once in the turret, Hellstromme answered the fallen angel's question. "It is I, Dr. Darius Hellstromme. I have brought myself here through the strength of my intellect and my powers of creation. I demand you step aside and open the gate!"

  His remark elicited a chorus of booming laughter from atop the wall. Through the circle of the hatch, Dex could see the color rising in the scientist's face.

  "As formidable as your intellect may be," responded the angel amidst a new howl of laughter from his cohorts, "you should know that it will take a much greater power to unlock these gates." Dex could see the muscles of Hellstromme's jaw flex as he ground his teeth.

  The scientist climbed down from the turret. "It's up to you now, Reverend Whitlow," he said to the preacher. He turned to Dex, "You, get back up there and cover him." Dex started to protest- what good would a steam Gatling do against a thousand fallen angels?- but then he thought better of it and started up the ladder.

  Once in position, he could see that the reverend had moved out in front of the tank. The six troopers formed a semicircle in front of him. Whitlow had a Bible in one hand and a cross in the other. He dropped to his knees and began to pray.

  Dex heard a great beating of wings and one of the fallen angels landed before the gates. "I'm sorry, Reverend, but we don't allow that sort of activity here." The angel drew the sword from his hip and advanced toward the tank.

  The troopers guarding the preacher opened fire. The angel's sword spun in a flashing arc and the huckster heard the plinking sound of metal on metal as the bullets were deflected. The creature laughed. The guards hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether to fire again or run. Before they could choose, the angel decided for them. He attacked in a lightning quick strike, his sword blurring into a silvery line of death. Dex fired but heard the bullets deflected. In less than a second, all six guards lay dead on the ground.

  The fallen angel stood over Reverend Whitlow, his sword poised only inches from the man's head. The preacher held his cross before him. The creature swung his sword but it was stopped by an immovable force inches before it made contact.

  "Your faith does you credit, little man," said the fallen one. "But it is all for naught. Even now our forces are destroying the only way you will ever leave this place." Shots sounded from across the river in the direction of the train.

  Dex looked back across the water. Great masses of demonic creatures were converging on the train from both ends. The withering fire laid down by the train's defenders ripped through their ranks, but the creatures kept on coming. A row of demons vanished in a burst of flame, but the flamethrower-armed-trooper who slew them was overwhelmed by the ones behind them and was ripped to pieces.

  The Reverend Whitlow looked back also, and this momentary distraction gave the fallen angel the opening he was looking for. Its sword flashed again and the preacher's headless corpse toppled to the ground.

  "Back up! Back up!" screamed Dex. "We have to get back to the train."

  "No!" bellowed Hellstromme. "Gunners, prepare to fire on the gates."

  "Sir, nothing short of a siege mortar is going to even budge those gates, and we sure as Hell can't fight all those angels," volunteered Robertson.

  "Silence! Gunners, fire on my command."

  Dex had heard enough. He slid down the ladder into the passenger compartment. Hellstromme turned to face him with a Gatling pistol in his hand. "Don't interfere," growled the wild-eyed scientist.

  The huckster's hand shot out and energy flared across the gap between himself and the inventor. Hellstromme staggered back, the pistol discharging into the ceiling. The burst ricocheted wildly off the steel walls of the tank. There was a scream and a grunt of pain. One of the gunners slumped over his cannon.

  "Damn, I'm hit," gasped Robertson. Dex turned to see that the officer's jacket was stained red with blood. A pink froth bubbled from a hole in his chest. "Get them the Hell out of here," the captain gurgled.

  The tank shuddered under a tremendous blow that made it ring like a gong. Rivets popped and sailed around the cabin. A second blow rattled the vehicle and a silvery blade sliced through the armor. It withdrew and Dex could see the fallen angel through the hole it left behind.

  "Driver, full reverse," the huckster roared. "Gunners, load solid shot. Target that...angel, dead ahead." Dex could hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth.

  The driver had been waiting for the order with his foot on the clutch. The tank lurched into gear with the sound of tortured metal and shot backward. The fallen one's sword scraped down the vehicle's bow with a howling screech. Dex heard the metallic clank of the cannon breeches slamming shut.

  "Ready sir!" screamed the port gun crew. The starboard gunner, working without his partner, was only seconds slower.

  "Fire!"

  The tank rocked with the recoil. Two twelve-pound cannonballs slammed into the angel simultaneously. The being was lifted off its feet and hurled back against the gates. Black ichor oozed from its chest and mouth. It began to stagger unsteadily to its feet.

  The driver locked the starboard track while gunning the port one. The tank spun crazily in place and Dex was thrown against the wall. The vehicle was now pointed at the river, and the driver poured on the steam. The tank splashed into the river like an enraged bull elephant.

  The huckster grabbed the turret ladder and began climbing as best he could in the madly rocking vehicle. Once in the turret, he braced himself against the edge of the hatch and grabbed the steam-Gatling.

  The muddy denizens of the river Styx began to surface and he gunned them down in droves. The steam exhaust from the gun burned his hands and face but he didn't let up on the triggers even when the gun's barrels began to glow red with the heat of firing. The huckster could see that the remaining defenders had retreated inside the train and were firing out through small gunports.

  "Gunners, load canister. Fire at will."
/>
  Boom. Boom. The canister rounds cut huge paths through the raging demons. Dex sprayed the far bank with the Gatling and more dropped.

  The cannons fell into a regular cadence and the hexslinger turned his attention back to the slimy bodies attempting to scale the sides of the tank. A few well-placed arcane blasts cleared the closest ones and Dex went back to work with the Gatling.

  Like a cresting wave, the thinning ranks of the demons reached the train, broke, and then fell back. More of the retreating creatures fell to the defender's fire.

  The steam tank rumbled up onto the shore and came to stop. Dex fired a few quick bursts to hurry along the few creatures that weren't running away as fast as their friends, and then dropped down into the lower portion of the tank.

  Vapors from the firing cannons and steam from the bow Gatling gun had combined to make the interior of the tank a smoky, sulfurous Hell all its own. The huckster groped his way toward the rear of the tank, coughing and hacking. He found Robertson's body and knelt down beside the man, placing a finger on his neck. There was still a weak pulse! "Somebody help me with the captain!" he yelled.

  Dex turned toward the crew and discovered the barrels of a Gatling pistol only inches from his face. Hellstromme glared at him.

  "Don't you move," said the inventor. "Men, get Captain Robertson on the train. We're leaving."

  The side hatch banged open and two crewmen edged cautiously past Dex. They gently lifted Robertson off the floor and carried him outside.

  "You are the reason this expedition failed," growled Hellstromme. "I intend to make you pay for that failure."

  "You are a mad scientist," replied Dex. "If it wasn't for me you and your men wouldn't be leaving here."

  "That's more true than you know," said the inventor icily. He motioned toward the hatch with his pistol. "Get out."

  Dex stepped out of the tank and drank in a great lungful of air. Hellstromme stepped out close behind.

  The lieutenant left in command of the train rushed up to the pair. "Glad to have you back, sir. What are your orders?"

  "Prepare for departure. Have this man hog-tied, and make sure you wrap the rope around his hands so he won't be casting any spells," replied the scientist.

  "But sir," began one of the tank crewman.

  "Unless you care to stay behind, I suggest you don't finish that sentence," snapped the inventor.

  Damn, thought Dex, for someone with such a reputation for logic and intellect, Hellstromme was awfully unreasonable. The huckster glanced up toward the rock he tried to reach earlier. His mind molded the spiritual energy around him and he looked down at his hand to see the result.

  Before he could see the playing cards which had appeared there, a bullet slammed into his shoulder. The hexslinger stumbled back and collapsed to the ground. As he lay on the ground, numbed by the impact, Hellstromme's troopers grabbed him. Ignoring the huckster's wound, they flipped him on his stomach and yanked his arms behind him. The pieces of his shattered clavicle ground together and he vomited. This brought a fresh wave of pain, and Dex passed out.

  When he came to, Dex found himself lying face down on a low table. His hands were bound behind him and his head was trapped in some sort of stock. Despite the pain in his shoulder, the hexslinger tried to twist around and see his hands. The stock around his neck prevented him from seeing—he wouldn't be throwing any hexes! As the huckster lay gasping from the exertion, he noticed for the first time that there was a basket on the ground beneath his head.

  "Good, good, you're awake. I wouldn't want you to miss our departure," said Hellstromme. Dex turned his head to the left and saw the scientist crouched on the rails. He had a strange tool in his hands and was making an adjustment to the ring his men had built earlier. A squad of troopers stood in a circle around the famed inventor.

  "What the Hell are you doing?" asked Dex. "This is madness."

  "That may very well be," replied the inventor evenly "Perhaps I should see a doctor when I return to Salt Lake City"

  Hellstromme straightened up and dropped the tool in the pocket of his lab coat. "There, that should do it." He turned to Dex. "You see, back in the physical world, I have these roundhouses. They are quite marvelous pieces of work, if I do say so myself. The arcane structures in them absorb and store fear, and as you probably know, ever since 1863 there's been a lot of that floating around. When aligned properly, the roundhouses can transmit this fear through the ghost steel rails of my railroad. That is what powered the gate we passed through to get here."

  The inventor moved closer to the huckster. "I don't have anything like that here, so it was necessary to find an alternate means of powering the gate for the return trip. Fortunately, doing business in these parts is fairly simple. There is a lot you can accomplish through the power of a simple, human sacrifice. I had brought a condemned criminal along with me for that purpose, but I'm sure he appreciates you volunteering to take his place."

  Dex struggled against the ropes, but only succeeded in reopening the wound in his shoulder. He felt a warm stream of blood begin to pool around his chest.

  Hellstromme pointed down the track in the direction of the waiting train. "Do you see that lever across the track there? With the chain attached? Good. When the train hits the lever, the chain is pulled. The chain is attached to this guillotine here-a simple but marvelous invention, by the way. Pulling the chain releases the blade, which will slide down and remove your head from your shoulders. If everything works correctly, and the train maintains a constant speed, it should pass through the gate just as you die."

  Dex cursed and struggled with his bonds again in vain.

  "I wouldn't wriggle around so much," said Hellstromme, "You might accidentally release the blade prematurely, and that would be most unfortunate. For both of us."

  The inventor began to walk away with his squad of guards. "Goodbye, Mr. Crawford, perhaps we will meet again someday."

  Dex hurled a string of curses that would peel the paint off an outhouse wall at the retreating scientist. Hellstromme never looked back.

  The huckster continued to pull at the ropes around his hands but he could feel his strength fading. Blood from his shoulder began to run through the hole in the stocks and splash into the basket in big, crimson drops. He looked down the tracks and saw Hellstromme swing up into the locomotive. The train's whistle howled.

  Panting with exertion, Dex continued to strain at the ropes. Blood from his chafed wrists ran up his arms and he felt his bonds loosen slightly.

  There were two loud booms from the direction of the train and it began to roll forward, gathering speed quickly. The huckster twisted his arms frantically but the ropes held tight. The bones in his shoulder ground again, and he nearly passed out.

  The hurtling train grew ever larger. Dex strained hard and there was a loud pop as his unwounded shoulder left its socket. He cried out in pain but was rewarded with the sight of his fingertips over the top of the stock. His pain-fogged mind reached out for the energy he needed, but it slipped through his mental fingers.

  There was a loud metallic clang as the locomotive hit the lever and bashed it to one side. Dex felt a jerk and the vibration of the descending blade. The train flashed past him in a roaring wave of steam and searing heat. Everything went black.

  ***

  "Jokers and suicide kings are wild. The winner of this hand takes all."

  As Dex drifted back toward consciousness he heard the familiar patter of cards being dealt and the reassuring clink of chips. His confused mind registered the fact that his hands were untied. His head pounded and he felt a little feverish. Okay, he thought, that is the very last time I drink tequila. Damn, what a nightmare.

  "How many cards you want?"

  "Uhh."

  "C'mon, hurry up!"

  "I'm thinkin', I'm thinkin'"

  Dex heard the sound of a hand slapping flesh and a heavy grunt. Maybe it was a good thing he'd missed this game, it didn't sound very friendly.

  "Dam
n it, Balgar, give me a second!"

  Balgar? Dex sat up and opened his eyes, expecting to see the back room of some mid-western saloon. Instead, he found himself in a dimly lit cave. Out the cave's mouth was a vast rocky plain dotted with lakes of fire. People writhed in agony in the flames and desperately clawed their way to the edges only to be pushed back in by a horde of gibbering demons.

  The slap of cards and clink of chips stopped suddenly. The huckster slowly turned around. Four demons, playing cards in hand, silently watched him.

  Dex could only stare in horror. The quartet of devils was seated around a large, flat rock. At the center of this makeshift card table was the pot for which they were playing: his severed head.

  He looked down at his ghostly body and would have feinted had he a mortal shell to do so with. He began to run, though he had nowhere in Hell to run to.

  DEAD TO RIGHTS

  by Phillipe R. Boulle

  Yale hadn't expected a welcoming committee. Sure, he'd seen a few heads looking down at him, but when you were riding a lift up to a mesa town from the Maze channel below, you attracted some attention. He hadn't heard the crowd over the wail of the ghost engine pulling him up, though, and when he stepped off the lift, at least twenty men were waiting. The youngest was a teenager, but most were full-grown, their dark Mexican skin traced with the grooves of hard labor. Howling Bluff was a mining town and these were surely the men who pulled the ghost rock out of her.

  "Mira. Unferetro," the kid said.

  Yale had picked up a fair bit of Spanish in his years in the Maze, so he knew the crowd wasn't so much looking at him as at the pine casket he had with him. They moved forward and Yale was very conscious of the Colt on his hip-six bullets for 20 men.

  "Verdad, Manuel. Es Diego," the kid said to an older burly man, pointing at the casket.

  "iQuien es?' asked the older man, stepping forward to address Yale but pointing at the coffin. He was about five-four, but almost as wide. His substantial fist was clenched.