Guns of Perdition

by Jessica Bakkers

  Jessie frowned as he tracked her long left arm and saw her hand rested on the ground palm to the sky, mere inches from Justice. With the slightest provocation, that hand would snap around the handle and bring Justice to bear. Likely before she was even fully awake.

  Like the midday sun, she was glorious, blazing...and utterly out of his reach.

  He closed his eyes, exhaled, and swallowed a racking sob. When he opened his eyes, he stole one last look at Grace, then turned away. Moving with silence learned during his time at her side, Jessie crossed the camp and approached Paul. The gelding bobbed his head. Jessie warmly greeted his nag and buried his face in Paul’s mane. The feeling of hot horseflesh beneath his face stilled the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. With quiet efficiency, he checked Paul’s tack and bags and climbed into the saddle. As he unhitched the reins, Jessie’s gaze drifted, unbidden, to Grace.

  Even if silence weren’t necessary for him to sneak away, he knew he’d never be able to scare up the right words to tell her goodbye. What words could possibly set straight the tangled, painful feelings that churned his guts? What words could begin to explain the hot jealousy and unrequited need he felt every single time he looked at her? What words could explain he loved her?

  And what words could convey why he couldn’t spend another day by her side—shame-faced and burning—as she gave herself to her man and amusingly tolerated “the boy”. There were no words.

  Jessie swallowed and tugged the reins and let the horse take him outside the campfire’s glow. He let Paul take him away from Grace and her proverbial scythe.

  Worm Wood was once again sullen by night. The difference this time was that even The Last Saloon was dark and grim as he rode past. Where the saloon had been crawling with strange creatures and unearthly folk, now the grand building was silent. Gone were the gallant men and beautiful women who’d milled inside and out. It seemed the folk who’d disappeared during the showdown at high noon hadn’t seen fit to return. Jessie wondered if they’d somehow heard word of the Four Horsemen in their town—Horsemen who made it a habit to hunt and kill supernatural things—and skedaddled.

  Jessie supposed he should have been wondering why he’d returned to the town, not where everyone else had gone. But that was a question too tangled up with the other things he didn’t want to think about, so he let the matter lie as he rode past dark windows and closed doors. The only sounds that broke the night were crickets and cicadas singing their night song.

  Paul rounded the wide-open space in the middle of town, and Jessie half expected to see the Darksome Gunman standing, alive and well, where he’d stood at high noon.

  Cool moonlight bathed an empty street.

  Paul continued down the dusty road, headed straight for the wooden church. Jessie didn’t know if he was subtly pulling the reins, leading Paul along, or if the gelding set their course. Either way, when the church’s ragged steeple eclipsed the moon, Jessie slid from Paul’s saddle and strode to the foot of the steps. He trod the steps carefully, yet they still groaned beneath his booted feet.

  The church doors were flung wide, inviting him to step inside the black maw. He peered inside for a moment before setting his boots to the boards. As he crossed the threshold, long-held superstition urged him to draw the sign of the crucifix over his chest. The church smelled of stale unanswered prayers. His footfalls were too loud as he made his way down the aisle between rows of hard pews. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could make out a large shape directly ahead, rising up behind the pulpit. Jessie’s hand drifted to his Colt as he inched closer. A fresh smell—coppery and bitter in the bland staleness of the place—assaulted his nose. He moved closer to the bulky shape, and as he closed the gap, he was roped with cold bands of unease.

  A score of candles suddenly flared to life. They were dotted around the pulpit, surrounded the pews, and hung in overhead sconces. Jessie blinked at the sudden light, his eyes watering, and peered beyond the glare. A fat crucifix jutted up from the platform behind the pulpit, and draped over the crucifix was a body.

  Though he was twisted backward and his head lolled onto his chest, Jessie instantly knew it was the Darksome Gunman. The floor beneath the Gunman was slick with pooled blood. Grace’s cavalry saber still stuck out of the Gunman’s chest like an oversized macabre bee sting. Jessie’s throat dried up with horror at seeing the Gunman’s body so grotesquely parodied, and he turned away and retched.

  Slow, languid applause broke the stillness.

  Jessie spun on his heel and stared down the aisle as the rhythmic clapping continued. Strolling down the aisle was an old man, his hands applauding slowly. Derisively. Jessie’s eyes narrowed as he watched the grizzled prospector approach. He palmed the Colt as Cottonmouth approached the front row.

  “Cottonmouth. What are you doing here?”

  The prospector’s brows raised and his face twisted into a smile. “Me? Could ask the same of you, boy.”

  Jessie frowned. He jerked his head at the Gunman. “You do that?”

  Cottonmouth grinned.

  “Why?” Jessie asked in quiet horror.

  Cottonmouth’s eyes crinkled with mirth. He gazed past Jessie at the Gunman’s lifeless body. “Had to be sure. Still cain’t quite reckon it. You done it. You actually done it. You learned to use the power of the blood. You rewrote the rulebook and embraced your place as the lamb.”

  Suddenly all mirth vanished from the prospector’s face. He turned, and Jessie’s bowels clenched at Cottonmouth’s icy stare. “Are you ready to bleed, little lamb?”

  Raw terror chilled Jessie’s heart, and fear stabbed his vitals. He fumbled to draw the Colt, but Cottonmouth struck faster than an old man should’ve been able. He swung one arm and blocked Jessie’s draw, then jabbed Jessie with a stunning right hook. Jessie swayed and turned into the second punch, square across his face. He went down hard and everything dimmed. As he blinked rapidly and struggled to see through the trickle of blood that dripped into his eyes, he began feeling about for the dislodged Colt.

  “Now, now, Jessie. Don’t bother.” Cottonmouth’s voice was different. It wasn’t just that his words were enunciated clearer—like an educated dandy—his actual voice was different. Gone was the rough rasp, the catch and hitch as though he were one breath away from death. Instead, his voice was silky smooth, dark and flowing like expensive ink.

  This new voice chilled Jessie to the marrow.

  Cottonmouth offered Jessie a smile, and there was a hint of the Darksome Gunman in that smile. Cottonmouth swaggered across to the Gunman’s body and in one smooth movement, wrenched the saber free.

  “Who in blazes are you?” Jessie whispered.

  Cottonmouth shrugged as he approached Jessie. The saber’s tip dragged on the boards, gouging a deep groove in the wood.

  “Names are so trite, Jessie. Cottonmouth suits me just fine.”

  Jessie’s attention was diverted to a hiss of steam that belched from Cottonmouth’s boots as he trod the platform. With each step he took across the blessed platform, steam rose from his boots. A stab of fear pierced Jessie’s gut, and he drew a hasty cross over his heart. He thought he’d become accustomed to weirdness over his time spent riding alongside Grace. Shape-shifters. Chupacabras. Angels. Horsemen. But seeing Cottonmouth swagger across the platform, boots steaming against the holy wood, Jessie’s grasp on reality nearly snapped. His damaged mind clawed for something to hold onto as it threatened to implode under the strain of all that had happened. Images of Cottonmouth bringing him comforting words at Whitestand Hollow flashed before his eyes. Cottonmouth pawing at his journal. Cottonmouth absorbed in the bright bead of blood on Jessie’s thumb.

  “It was you all along! You set me in Grace’s path! You gave me the idea about the journal. You taught me about the power of the blood. You honey-fogled it all along so as we’d bed down the Gunman.”

  Cottonmouth shrugged. “What can I say? He wasn’t the only high-stakes filcher in the game.” He flashed Jessie a
grin, and for just a moment, Jessie saw the devil beneath Cottonmouth’s veneer, fiery death and ice-cold rage not quite masked by his tired, watery eyes.

  Jessie’s bladder gave way at that flash of insight, and his heart skipped a beat in pure terror.

  Cottonmouth strolled across to Jessie and smiled down at the young man. “You done me a trick, boy. More than you’ll ever know. Shame really. That it comes to this.” The words were just that: words. There was no true emotion behind them. No remorse. No sympathy. No gratitude.

  “Comes to what?” Jessie couldn’t help but whisper. He was lost in Cottonmouth’s eyes.

  “You played your cards and trumped the Angel of the Abyss. You outplayed him. Every one of you.”

  Jessie’s pulse thrummed in his ears. “But why would you want the Gunman dead? He was trying to start the Apocalypse. Ain’t that something you’d be all over?”

  Cottonmouth stuck out his lower lip as though musing on Jessie’s words. “Might be you got a point there, Jessie. Would I like to see this cow-chip world blackened and scorched by Holy fire? Sure. Do I want to follow the likes of my brothers to see it done... Well now, that’s a whole different kettle of fish. Until now though, I’ve been hog-tied and helpless in Hell to do a damn thing about it, one way or another.”

  “Until now?”

  Cottonmouth smiled. “Ain’t the easiest thing for a fallen angel to claw his way back up again. Getting shy of Hell’s a big nut to crack. Course, having a rein-in along the way might help. Been hearing the Abyss is a right fine place to have a rein-in.”

  Jessie reeled. “You fixed to have your own brother killed just so you could take his place in the Abyss?”

  Cottonmouth’s brows raised. “You make it sound so dastardly! Besides, it ain’t all about having a rein-in along the way. You ever notice how them native folk fight?”

  Jessie blinked at the sudden change in topic.

  Cottonmouth frowned. “Aw, c’mon, you know what I mean. How a few bare-chested, white-feathered war-brands ride into town and stick a few folk with arrows before skedaddling, only to have the main force come riding in on the other side of town and set it all on fire.”

  Jessie drew in a quick breath. “A diversion.”

  “Right, that’s it. A diversion. Gotta give the big bugs something to do while I’m having my rein-in.”

  “Lord’s sake...What are you fixing to do?” Jessie breathed.

  Cottonmouth shrugged. “Ain’t what I’m fixing to do. It’s what you’re fixing to do. Without you, son, none of this would even be possible. Takes a right sinful man to set them free. A once-pure, gentle and meek soul, utterly overtaken by base sin. Now. Are you ready, Jessie? Ready to become the lamb?”

  Jessie’s mouth went dry. His gaze slid to his hand and the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his palm. He thought of going for his journal, trying the same trick of writing Cottonmouth’s name in its yellowed pages.

  Cottonmouth laughed gently and shook his head. “Oh, Jessie. You think you already committed the sacrifice don’t you? By writing his name in your little book and by bleeding on it?” His tone was both sad and amused at the same time.

  Cottonmouth raised the saber off the ground and held it horizontally. He looked into Jessie’s eyes and shook his head. “That weren’t your sacrifice...”

  Cottonmouth raised the saber. Jessie flung up his hands in a feeble gesture of protection. The saber caught the candlelight and glinted like burnished gold before it flashed through the air and severed both of his hands.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Jessie’s agonized scream rang out of the church and echoed across Worm Wood.

  He rocked back and forth with his arms crossed over his breast. Blood spurted from the raw stumps where his hands should have been. Cottonmouth peered at him without expression. He took a step off the platform and approached one of Jessie’s severed hands. In a fluid movement, he swooped, picked up the hand, and tossed it onto the platform where it scudded along the wood until it splashed to a stop in the dead angel’s pool of blood. As Jessie’s ragged screams turned into gut-wrenching moans, Cottonmouth casually picked up Jessie’s left hand and tossed it into the blood pool.

  Jessie’s breath hitched in short, sharp gasps as he went into shock. He was barely aware of Cottonmouth mounting the platform and splashing through the blood to stand next to the dismembered appendages. Cottonmouth looked down at the hands, and when he opened his mouth, it was not the genial, enigmatic prospector who spoke, it was Lucifer, the fallen angel.

  “And he followed her with a wrathful fist, striking her enemies in rage, cleaving in her name with righteous anger. Wrath was his sin.”

  Jessie sobbed as the pool of blood began to bubble. It was as though a cookfire burned too hot beneath the pool; red bubbles spattered and popped as the blood boiled. The blood-covered hand trembled. Jessie’s ears were filled with the sounds of bone crunching and flesh rending. He glanced up as the macabre soup of blood and flesh morphed and grew into the shape of a squatting man. Slick with gore, like a newborn babe, the man straightened up and blinked.

  Cottonmouth extended a hand with the gentle care a cowpuncher would show to a yearling and cooed to the naked, blood-drenched man.

  “Wrath.”

  The man blinked again and gazed around blankly.

  Cottonmouth nodded. “That’s right. Learn, my child of anger and hate. Learn all you can about this world. Now, come stand by me.”

  Wrath turned his hostile gaze on Cottonmouth and stepped out of the blood pool. Cottonmouth nodded perfunctorily.

  “And he supped with a gluttonous hand, dining on the thrill of her, gorging on the experience of all she had to offer. Gluttony was his sin.”

  As the blood pool began to bubble and vomit specks of red onto the surrounding floorboards, Jessie closed his eyes and let the tide of hot agony take him away to a dark place. Dimly he heard the squelch and crunch of flesh and bone taking shape, and Cottonmouth’s soft voice calling for Gluttony to step forth beside him. Then all sounds faded and darkness beckoned.

  Sudden screaming agony brought Jessie back to reality as his leg burned with white-hot fire. He slammed back onto the wooden floorboards, and the air rushed out of his lungs, but nothing compared with the searing pain at the end of his leg. He couldn’t hold back the scream that ripped from his throat as Cottonmouth brought the saber down for a second time and cut through the remaining flesh and tendons and severed his left foot.

  Cottonmouth bent and plucked Jessie’s right foot from the church floor. He tossed it into the blood pool, where it tumbled over itself and came to rest beside the left foot.

  “And soon he wallowed in a mire of sloth, unhappy with his fate but unwilling to challenge her and change it. Sloth was his sin.” His words fell on deaf ears. Jessie didn’t move, didn’t answer. He lay shivering on the church floor, relieved of his hands and feet, and moaned. His eyelids fluttered as he floated in and out of consciousness.

  Emerged from the blood, still bathed in the sticky red substance, a man slouched toward Cottonmouth and the two who stood beside him. Cottonmouth greeted Sloth with a solemn nod and waited as he took his place beside his brother, Gluttony.

  Cottonmouth turned to the remaining gory appendage.

  “And soon he was consumed with envy, for those who shared her presence, for the one who shared her bed. Envy was his sin.”

  Cottonmouth welcomed his daughter from the bloodbath, and when his silent cohort was settled behind him, he turned to Jessie. He leaned down and placed a hand on Jessie’s feverish brow. Jessie’s eyes fluttered open for a second.

  Cottonmouth looked down and smiled. “You’re nearly done, little lamb.”

  Cottonmouth dug the saber deep into Jessie’s eye socket. Jessie screamed as he surfaced from the dark place, ripped out by the hot, burning hands of agony.

  Cottonmouth ignored his screaming as he leaned down and plucked out Jessie’s eyeball. He tossed it carelessly into the angel’s blood. />
  “And he watched her with a lustful eye, obsessed by her, wanting her. Lust was his sin.”

  The blood pool boiled and spat until another man rose and sauntered across the platform on bloody feet.

  On his back, Jessie made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. It was part gurgle, part moan. It was a death rattle.

  When Cottonmouth leaned down and skewered Jessie’s left eye, Jessie’s moan broke off and he choked and thrashed about.

  “And he coveted her friendship and yearned for more, he was consumed with the need for her attention. Greed was his sin.”

  As Greed took her place beside her brothers and sister, Cottonmouth knelt once more beside Jessie. He placed the tip of the saber on Jessie’s chest, and with a quick motion of his wrist, sent Jessie’s vest buttons pinging through the air. “Do you know how hard it is to find one man harboring all seven sins at once? Especially a man who began his journey as pure as virgin snow? It took so many years till I found you in that dive of a saloon, innocent, chaste, just waiting to be corrupted by them. Then it was such a small matter to put you in their path...to put you in her path.”

  Cottonmouth raked Jessie’s shirt open with the tip of the saber, exposing the young man’s blood-spattered naked flesh. He rested the tip of the blade on a space of pale flesh.

  “Humankind is so beset with doubt, insecurity, and flaws one doesn’t have to look too far to find wrath and gluttony, sloth and lust, greed and envy. The difficulty lies in finding an individual plagued with these sins, yet self-righteous enough to be beset with pride. For the longest time I didn’t think you had it in you. I’d hoped you learning you were the lamb would do it, but no! You took to that with pious self-sacrifice.”

  Cottonmouth slid the blade into Jessie’s chest and opened a five-inch hole from between Jessie’s nipples down to his belly button. “Ain’t it the ultimate guffaw then, that to save your precious pride, you walked away from the woman you love...and into my arms?”

  Jessie groaned and gurgled but did not scream. He haltingly breathed out and whispered, “Grace—”