Deadlands: For a Few Dead Guys More

by Shane Lacy Hensley

  "Freedom isn't measured by the flag flying over your home, Mr. Duvalier." For the first time, he mentioned the huckster's name. "It's a more practical conceit than that. You want to risk damnation, you better know what you're paying for. Believe me, I know."

  "Then stop me if you can. Or perhaps you can't bear the thought of letting your men escape the Hell you put them in?"

  Stoker's brow furrowed in anger.

  "Have a care," he spoke softly. "My patience has limits."

  "I'm sure. As does mine."

  Stoker opened his mouth to reply, then stopped suddenly. Somewhere far off, a bell was ringing, and shouts could be heard in the distance "I took the liberty of warning Colonel Brighton that you might be in the area. It seems you're not as stealthy as you pretend."

  Stoker glanced briefly back towards the door. The sound of approaching men grew closer, beginning to converge upon the house.

  "The cry has been raised, Mr. Stoker. The Union is on its way. You can leave now and slip away, or take the time to kill me and end up swinging from a gallows by morning. Your choice."

  Stoker's eyes smoldered, and for a minute,-Simon believed he would risk capture just to make the huckster scream. Then the anger vanished and the Georgia smile returned.

  "As you see fit, Mr. Duvalier. Enjoy my property while you can."

  Like a shadow over the moon, he was gone. The front door hung open and now the Union soldiers could be seen running down the street. But Simon's guest had disappeared like smoke.

  "Believe me," Duvalier whispered after him. "I will."

  ***

  Every home in Normandie watched the sun go down. Every native face pressed against their windows, or stood on their porches to watch the twilight. Thunderheads were gathering on the horizon, promising rain for tonight, but for now the early evening was gorgeous. The sunset faded, staining the growing clouds purple and red. And every man, woman and child told themselves that it would be their last under Union oppression.

  Simon Duvalier sauntered slowly down Normandie's main street, towards the army garrison. He passed townsfolk looking eagerly through their windows, watching his progress. A furtive glance and cloaked smile told them what they wanted: the time had come. Be ready. The saber lay against his side, in the recesses of his great coat. He passed the garrison guards and nodded benignly at them. One of them nodded a greeting. After seven months of quiet occupation (and a few hexes to make the huckster's smile more charming), he no longer worried the troops. That was about to change.

  Simon strode purposefully to Colonel Brighton's office as the last threads of twilight faded from the sky. Knocking on the door, he waited patiently for Brighton's word before entering. It wouldn't do to be rude. The colonel sat behind his desk, his uniform rough and dirty.

  "Simon!" Brighton gestured. "Have a seat, please."

  "Thank you Colonel." Duvalier smiled and took the chair opposite him. "I wish we could have talked earlier, but I know you're busy and I didn't want to inconvenience you."

  "Not all, not at all. Now's the perfect time." He was right in more way than he knew, Simon thought. Somewhere behind the clouds, an empty moon had risen.

  "I wanted to talk to you a little more about this man you say came to you. This Stoker."

  "Yes?"

  "I'm concerned that he managed to slip by our patrols so easily, and am curious as to why he'd want to try. You said he was after your man Grimm."

  "Yes. Grimm had antagonized him for some reason, and fled back here for safety. I believe Stoker caught him before he could get to us."

  Brighton's eyebrows furrowed. "You have no idea what the business was between them?"

  "None at all." Simon's face was beatific. "Grimm ran off without consulting any of us."

  Brighton leaned forward. "Presumably, then their business was concluded when Stoker killed Grimm?"

  "Presumably."

  "Then why, Simon, did he come see you?" The Colonel looked genuinely puzzled.

  "I expect it was to find out if anyone had sent Grimm to him. Also, he wanted something from me." At this, he held up the saber. The runes on it pulsed slightly, like something alive. Thunder rumbled in the distance and as it did, the blade began to glow.

  Brighton's eyes narrowed and he started to stand. For the first time, suspicion appeared on his face. "Where the Hell did you get that?"

  "Nowhere in particular," Simon said cheerfully as he suddenly plunged it into Brighton's chest. The colonel tried to dodge the blow, but the huckster moved with inhuman speed, slamming the blade through the man's ribcage like he was spitting a squab. Blood gushed out of Brighton's uniform and spattered across the room in fat drops. Simon laughed as lightning lit his face in a ghastly mask. The colonel looked disbelievingly at him.

  "Kill—you-" he whispered, before pitching forward on his desk.

  "No you won't. And you're not alone." Simon watched the growing puddle of blood then looked back to make sure no one had heard them. With a snap of his arm, a deck of cards appeared in his hand. They were French in origin, and very old; he heard that the original owners had met their ends at the guillotine. The top five glowed slightly and as he shuffled them on the desk, the glow spread to the others. Embedded within the colonel's chest, the saber slowly matched it. The thunder grew louder, and rain began to fall Duvalier muttered quiet words under his breath, their meaning flowing past him like water. His eyes lost their focus and for an instant, he seemed an eternity away. The string of words never stopped, though, but grew louder by the moment. Almost unconsciously, he turned the top card over, revealing the ace of spades. The cards glowed a little brighter and lightning flashed from the window to match it.

  "I call upon the Sons of the South to defend us in our moment of need."

  Another card turned over. The ten of spades.

  "I invoke the power infernal to deliver us from our enemies."

  The queen of spades was next.

  "I draw the blood of my foe to give new life to the Confederate cause."

  Two cards at a time: jack and king. He drew the five cards together and held them in his hand.

  "I summon the fallen men of the 3rd Georgia Cavalry to fight by my side."

  The royal flush exploded with energy masked by the thunder outside. In the space of minutes, the storm had come. Brighton's body began to shudder, and the saber seemed to throb with a life of its own. The cards struck its hilt with a blast of electricity, sending tendrils of energy into every corner of the room. The blood on the desk gleamed a Hellish black, adding to the blade which had drawn it. Duvalier screamed ecstatically as he felt the power surging through him, watched the barriers fall away and gates open. Somewhere far off, something chuckled.

  In the yard outside the garrison, the dead began to rise.

  The Union soldier on the tower stood wide-eyed as glowing smoke coalesced from every corner. His shouts of warning drew his compatriots near as the tendrils snaked in. They coursed along the ground, gathering in little pools and groupings. Someone called for Brighton. He didn't answer. The smoke took shape, forming dozens of vaguely human forms. Flesh and bone appeared in ghostly white, swathed in the grey uniforms of the Confederacy. With each moment, their images became clearer, like photographs coming into focus. Gaping jaws and empty eye sockets formed out of the air, with rifles and bayonets clutched in undying hands. The Third Georgia stood in silent formation, the mark of the grave touching every face. A soldier bolted towards the gateway but not nearly fast enough. With an unspeaking howl, the ghosts attacked.

  The watch sergeant fired a shot at the nearest apparition as it drove its bayonet into his gut. Other ghosts fell upon the disbelieving ranks, moving with the precision they were trained in life. Their fascination broken, the Union troops tried to defend themselves. Bullets flew through the air, steel flashed and shouts of combat grew. It did them no good. The insubstantial bodies of their foes ignored their blows while tearing their mortal bodies apart. Ghostly blades drew human blood in buckets, t
urning the parade ground into a slaughterhouse. What the phantoms couldn't strike down with their weapons they tore apart with bony claws.

  The 3rd Georgia stormed through the garrison, seeking every living thing it could. A group of soldiers formed a knot in one corner, trying desperately to hold them off. They died screaming as ghostly bullets pierced their flesh. Another held a rosary in front of him like a shield as he made his way through the camp. An undead corporal, his neck broken, snatched it from his grasp before pulling his skull apart. Sergeants and lieutenants tried to contain the growing panic, only to die as horrified as their men. The rain grew harder, trying to bury the newly dead with its fury.

  Duvalier watched it all from Brighton's office with unbelieving glee. The cards still lay spread in his hand, their energy feeding the undead troops before him.

  "You really should see this, Colonel. Your damn Yankee soldiers have no nose for discipline at all."

  Reaching over, he turned Brighton's body on its side and plucked Stoker's saber from his chest. The weapon screamed with power and the runes on its sides beat a furious tattoo. He held it up with the cards, feeling it hum down his arm.

  "Normandie, Missouri is beholden to no one!" Simon screamed, throwing the doors open to abattoir.

  Outside, the slaughter continued. A Union private, his uniform soaked in blood, reached the garrison gates and threw them open. A few stragglers quickly followed, trying madly to escape the carnage. They staggered outside the garrison walls and into the storm only to find the town of Normandie waiting for them. The natives had gathered in silence, attracted to the noise and to the prospect of liberation. They carried torches and axe handles, and glowered mercilessly at the shocked Union soldiers.

  "You—you people-" The private breathed.

  A hard-thrown rock struck him and he fell to the ground. The crowd advanced on the remaining few troops with a unanimous shout. One of the bluecoats managed to fire a pistol. The rest went quietly, their minds still struggling to comprehend what had happened. The blows fell as fast as the rain, fell until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began. They pounded out their hatred and vengeance, screaming curses incoherently against all Yankees and their ilk. As brutal as it was, it ended quickly.

  Simon Duvalier strode through the gateway as they finished their task. Behind him, the glowing forms of the 3rd Georgia were completing the massacre. He held Stoker's saber high over his head and gave a triumphant Rebel yell above the storm. The crowd looked over to him with blood in their eyes, then added their voices to his. The cheer rose into the sky, so loud even the heavens couldn't silence it.

  "My friends!" Simon shouted. "We are subjects no longer!"

  They howled their approval and clasped each other's arms. Not a soldier moved from the garrison, and the dying croaks of the crowd's victims were lost in the growing mud. Torches waved triumphantly, and as Simon laughed, he felt the glow of victory filling every soul he saw.

  His back towards the garrison, he didn't notice the silent approach of the 3rd Georgia. They passed through their victims on the ground, shambling inexorably towards the front gates. The crowd, in its exultation, didn't acknowledge them, until one little girl tugged her mother's sleeve and pointed.

  "Mommy, the glowing men are coming!"

  Simon turned and the crowd fell silent as the ghosts breached the gate. A glowing bullet whizzed past him, leaving a trail of ectoplasm in its wake. It struck a member of the crowd in the throat and he flopped over backwards. Another bullet rocketed by as the 3rd Georgia surged forward. The mouths gaped open in predatory leers.

  The citizens of Normandie backed away slowly, their ebullience forgotten in an instant. Somebody screamed as the ghosts drew closer. Simon's eyes widened at the sight and he held up his hands to ward them back.

  "You spirits are under my command. I order you to-"

  A phantom rifle slammed into his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. He heard the snap of bones and realized the damage an instant before the pain struck him. Above him, the 3rd Georgia continued forward. The crowd lost all semblance of order and flew in a dozen directions, screaming frantically to escape their undead saviors. The ghosts moved with inhuman speed, spreading out in threes and fours to follow their new victims. A man slipped and fell in the mud, only to be pinned there by a glowing bayonet. Doors flew open as families sought sanctuary in their homes, only to be butchered where they stood. People fled mindlessly into the darkening night, their cries of panic turning into screams of horror as the ghosts caught up to them. What had just occurred in the Union garrison was now repeated in a gruesome encore, spread throughout every nook and cranny of town.

  Simon Duvalier pulled himself up from the mud as his friends and neighbors died. He tossed his cards away in a flash, their light fading as they left his fingers. His shoulder throbbed and he could feel the bones grinding as he raised Stoker's saber above his head. As he stumbled forward, he could see the 3rd Georgia whispering through the streets, slaughtering everyone they saw. A ghost nearby tore a young woman's ribcage open. It didn't look up as he raised the saber then brought it down on its translucent skull. The head split open and the sword's runes flashed; the phantom howled noiselessly as it twisted in pain. In a flash it had vanished, its essence collapsing into smoke before being drawn back into the blade.

  "I summoned you, and I can destroy you," Duvalier muttered. He raised the sword again, and turned back to the street, only to be greeted by a trio of ghostly soldiers. One of them pointed a bony finger at him and hissed. He swung the sword in low arcs, stepping carefully forward to confront them. So focused was he, that he never heard the gunshot behind him, or felt the bayonet shatter through his spine. He looked down in amazement to see the glowing blade sticking out through his gut. Then back at the ghosts in front of him. He was barely conscious of the saber slipping from his fingers. And then they were on him.

  The last thing he heard was a child's cry of horror as the rain and the mud drew him close. Far off in the distance, he felt a manitou's dark fingers slipping around his soul.

  ***

  The rain continued for many hours, long after the ghosts had faded. One of the houses had caught fire, but the wet kept it from spreading. It didn't matter; no one lived there anymore.

  He entered the town more deliberately than he had before. As he stepped over the bodies, he moved gingerly, careful not to disturb them with his boots. A dead man looked up at him soullessly, his torn cheeks filling with rain. He ignored it; there were too many to pay attention to.

  He didn't stop until he had reached the town square, where the Stars and Stripes still flew on the flagpole. Here he stepped more carefully, watching the bodies for identifiable features. An insistent whisper tugged beneath his hat, calling to him for supplication. He ignored it and continued his search. His slow and purposeful moves finally brought him to the body he was looking for. Simon Duvalier had been torn in half, his scarlet waistcoat covered in his own entrails. His eyes were black as pits, with no emotion remaining. He had died as empty as a husk.

  Austin Stoker regarded the body for a long time, letting the rain pour down on top of him. Then at last, he nodded and reached down to retrieve his saber in the mud. The faint sound of howls rose through the rain, only to fade again as he whispered to the blade. The glowing symbols quieted, and the sword's agonized power sank quietly before his soothing words. He sheathed the blade, then looked back at the corpse beneath him.

  "You don't understand," he spoke. "It ain't about sides anymore. It never was."

  His folly scattered far and wide, Simon Duvalier had no answer.

  NUNNA DAUL TSUNY

  By Zach Bush Howls Softly crawled through the darkness, belly pressed to the ground. He used his knees and elbows to pull himself up the hill. He envied the turtle's hard shell, for his chest had grown sore long ago, but he was thankful enough that it had taught him its walk.

  His mind was nearly as weary as his body. He had been crawling this way
for a long time now-long enough to have covered two of these rolling hills, he realized-and he wasn't sure how much further he had to go. If the clouds had not decided that they would hide the full moon tonight he could easily have seen the top. Instead he could only make out blades of tall grass directly before they slapped against his face.

  He didn't begrudge the clouds for hiding the moon because that was their nature. He couldn't hate them for what they were any more than he could hate the sun for shining or the air for filling his lungs. What was it that Baker was so fond of saying? "Don't argue with God." The meaning was clear, although without the major's pronounced drawl it lost something. For now he was grateful that the clouds hid him from eyes other than his own.

  He closed off his thoughts and focused on the comforting repetition of his movements. He lost himself to instinct, his mind floating away from the pain of bruised flesh and aching joints. He made himself the turtle, plodding blindly forward, unsure of its destination but unwavering in its desire to get there.

  The soft glow of the sky and the and the dim grayness of the grass was suddenly split by a vast darkness. He froze until he realized he had crested the hill, and that the darkness was simply more distant terrain.

  His mouth twisted into what could have been a smile as he spotted the glow of a campfire near the base of the hill. If his eyes hadn't been as accustomed to the dark he wouldn't have seen it. The fire had burned down to embers and was now just a dark red amongst the dark, dark blue of the night.

  He licked his lips and closed his eyes, counting quietly to himself. When he reached 200 he opened his eyes and squinted in the direction of the camp. Now he could see dark shapes around the fire, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't tell how many or exactly what they formed.

  He cursed as the wind shifted behind him. The last thing he needed was for those below to catch his scent. Still, he needed to get closer to identify those around the campfire. He pulled himself forward once more.