The Devil's Graveyard

by AnonYMous

  ‘You won’t need to.’

  The Kid took off his sunglasses and handed them to Jacko. ‘Put these on and head to the stage area. I’ll meet you there in five minutes with the rest of your costume.’ He waited to see if that had sunk in, before adding in characteristically gravelly tones, ‘You don’t show, I’ll find you and make your nose look like the real Michael Jackson’s.’

  Having made his feelings clear, and having convinced himself that Jacko understood, the Kid turned and headed back out of the casino. Once again the other customers drew back out of his path. This time they could see his eyes. It wasn’t an improvement.

  Jacko called after him. ‘I’m gonna need more than a fucking’ costume to qualify for the final, ya know that?’

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ was the Kid’s parting comment as he vanished from sight behind a crowd of people.

  Twenty-Four

  As Gabriel gunned the Harley past the road sign that welcomed all newcomers to the Devil’s Graveyard, he knew he was in for one hell of a night. He had a date with destiny, no less.

  Gabriel Locke was a New Age Disciple, trained by the greatest of God’s own bounty hunters to protect the world from evil. As promoters of the Lord’s work went, Gabriel didn’t look quite as many people would have expected. Not for him the crew-cut, the smiling friendly manner, the cheap blue suit. He was a heavily tattooed biker with a shaved head and a two-inch scar running horizontally below his left eye. If he had looked a little less intimidating, things might have turned out differently for him.

  After an early career as a wannabe preacher, he had met a man named Rodeo Rex who had shown him that there was much more to God’s work than spreading the word and having faith. There was another side. A much darker side. A side that involved killing on behalf of the Lord to protect mankind. Rex had taught him all about hunting down and killing devil worshippers, vampires, werewolves and other undead scum, as well as various other evil sorts who had no place on this earth (and who wouldn’t get to heaven anyway).

  Most recently, they’d been in Plainview, Texas, wiping out a coven of vampires running an underground casinocum-all-night buffet. Anyone who lost was allowed to leave the premises as they were likely to return another day, but those who won big never left. Or not alive, anyway. They were served up as food for the immortals instead, which had the advantage of turning them into vampires as well, thus raising recruitment.

  So Gabriel, his mentor Rex and a couple of other New Age Disciples had shown up and staked the casino out, before descending on the place one night, armed to the teeth. The vampires had put up a feeble fight, as it turned out. They were typical bloodsuckers who only preyed on the weak; indeed, half of them killed themselves rather than suffer at the hands of Rex’s gang. The operation was an incredible success.

  But two other significant things had happened during their month-long stay in Plainview. First, they encountered a small, bald-headed black guy in his forties who claimed to be more than two thousand years old. He had shown up out of nowhere and claimed that the Good Lord had sent him to find the Disciples, and charge them with a new mission. This man went by the name of Julius. He was pleasant, well-mannered and well-educated in equal measure. And he knew his stuff when it came to religion.

  To most people, a guy claiming to be over two thousand years old would have been considered a liar and a fool, but not to Gabriel. The Good Lord frequently led him to all corners of the earth, bringing him in contact with all kinds of people with claims just as outrageous as Julius’s. Gabriel had faith in the Lord, and for that reason he believed in his heart that Julius was telling the truth. So, when the little man asked Rex and his crew to help him carry out a job on behalf of God, fighting the forces of evil, they knew he was a good guy.

  Assured of their support, Julius had explained that he needed them to help him lift a curse at the Hotel Pasadena in the Devil’s Graveyard. The job had everything they could possibly desire in a mission from God. The undead were involved, there were contracts being signed with the Devil, a talent show featuring impersonators of dead singing stars figured prominently, and, almost as important, there was a $50,000 reward for assisting Julius in the mission.

  Rex had agreed that he and his crew would take the job on – indeed, they couldn’t wait for it – but then the second significant thing had occurred in Plainview, Texas. The night after they had successfully wiped out the vampire casino, they paid a visit to the local red-light district. And there they came across a smoky, run-down bar that was hosting an arm-wrestling contest. One man was defeating all comers. A shady-looking character with dark, greasy shoulder-length hair and two-day-old stubble. He looked like a biker type who knew how to handle himself in a tricky situation.

  It had come as no surprise when Rex pulled up a seat and drew hands with the man. What followed was an arm-wrestling bout like no other. It had lasted for almost forty minutes, with neither man giving an inch. This had infuriated Rex, for he had never lost an arm-wrestling bout in all his life, or even come close. Word of the extraordinary contest had spread like wildfire and hundreds of people had flocked to the bar to watch the outcome and bet their money on who would triumph.

  First one man, then the other, gained the upper hand, but eventually Rex triumphed, as he always had. The other guy seemed to give up, as if his muscles had packed up and gone home. It all happened very suddenly. One moment, the two hands and arms were locked almost immovably, the next Rex slammed his opponent’s hand down on to the table and let out a huge roar of victory. But then Gabriel witnessed a strange and unexpected thing. Something he had never seen before. This man whom Rex had defeated refused to let go of the other’s hand. Instead, he began to squeeze it tightly.

  ‘What the fuck’re ya doin’? Let go, ya fuckin’ dickhead,’ Rex had yelled.

  His opponent hadn’t responded. By rights he should have let go and congratulated Rex on his victory. Not this guy, though. This guy had no class. He tightened his grip on Rex’s hand. Gabriel and two of his Disciple brothers watched on, unsure what to do. The bones in Rex’s hand cracked, one by one. Gabriel remembered seeing an impassive expression on the other man’s face as Rex winced and struggled to pull away, desperately trying to grab his opponent with his other hand. But the silent man just swayed back out of reach, maintaining his terrible grip. Rex had always taught Gabriel that a one-on-one fight was the only fair way to do things, so he and the other Disciples stood by and watched.

  And they regretted it.

  Eventually the other man released his grip, stood up and walked out of the bar without so much as offering his congratulations or an apology for his post-bout actions. Rex picked up his winnings and, cursing horribly, rushed off to the nearest hospital to get his hand fixed. Gabriel had gone with him to offer moral support. His mentor was in agony the likes of which he had never witnessed before. Meanwhile, the two other members of the New Age Disciples, Roderick and Ash, followed after the man who had broken Rex’s hand. They planned to exact revenge on him for his assault on their admired leader.

  At the hospital, the doctors had been forced to perform emergency surgery on Rex’s hand. It had, however, been damaged beyond any surgeon’s skill, and they had ended up amputating it and replacing it with a hook. That had been a shock, and not just for Rex. How the hell did you console someone who’s just had his hand cut off at the wrist? Gabriel hadn’t had the faintest idea what to say. He still remembered vividly Rex’s fury at the whole incident. And so it was that, without consulting his distraught boss, Gabriel had made a call to Ash to give him the go-ahead to exact revenge on the man.

  Which had only made matters worse.

  When Gabriel had called, Ash and Roderick had been sitting in a car in the parking lot of a motel, which had a small diner attached to it. Ash informed Gabriel that the man he and Roderick had followed was driving a black Pontiac Firebird. They had followed him to the motel on the outskirts of Plainview, where he had stopped off for something to eat. They had
pulled up in the car park and watched his every move for a few minutes, waiting for Gabriel to call with further instructions from Rex. Gabriel remembered his conversation with Ash only too well, for it was the last time they ever spoke. He had instructed Ash to follow the man into the diner. Ash had done this, but had then been unable to find his target anywhere inside. So with Gabriel’s blessing he had returned to the car to wait for the man to reappear.

  Gabriel had heard everything that followed through his cell phone. It still haunted his every waking moment, even now, several weeks later.

  ‘Gabe. No sign of the guy in the diner or the motel. Guy on reception says he never saw him,’ Ash had said.

  ‘You saw him go in though, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but the reception guy says no one’s been in.’

  ‘He must be lying. Check again.’

  ‘Hold on. I gotta get back to the car. Roderick’s up to something.’

  ‘Up to what?’

  ‘Hang on. Fuckin’ car’s shakin’, man.’

  Gabriel heard the sound of Ash opening the car door.

  ‘Ash. Don’t get in!’ he had yelled into the phone.

  ‘What the fuck? Rod? Rod? Jeeesus! Gabe! He’s fuckin’ dead.’

  ‘Don’t get in the car!’

  ‘His throat’s been cut. Oh Christ! What the—’ He had sounded panicky and desperate on the phone, but the line had gone dead mid-sentence. Gabriel had tried to get him back, but without success. Eventually he had gone out to the motel, and found the car and its grisly contents. Of the stranger there had been no sign.

  Some days later, the local police had concluded that the killer was the driver of the Pontiac Firebird. After killing Roderick he had waited in the back seat of their car and slashed open Ash’s throat shortly after he had returned to the vehicle.

  So it had come about that, with Rex busy constructing himself a new hand and Roderick and Ash dead, Gabriel had the Devil’s Graveyard job all to himself. And the word on the street was that the guy who had crushed Rex’s hand and then killed the two other Disciples had headed out this way too. There was a distinct possibility that he intended to pick up the cash on offer from Julius for his top-secret mission. So if things went as they should, Gabriel could kill him. He looked forward to that.

  The desert wind chilled him to the bone as he rode down the desert highway on his chopped Harley, on which he had had almost every metal part chrome plated, so that it glowed silver in the moonlight. Gabriel had always liked cold weather. It made him feel alive when the skin on his arms tightened up and turned red. For that reason, he rode, even at night, in a black leather jerkin over a sleeveless black T-shirt. He was an accomplished rider, and enjoyed the added thrill of not wearing a helmet or too much other protective gear. His only nod towards safety equipment consisted of a pair of heavy biker boots with chrome buckles, and some black leather pants, although these were more for fashion purposes than protection.

  On his right bicep, he had three tattoos of dice, bearing respectively the numbers one, two and three. What he wanted, almost more than anything but had yet to earn, were three similar tattoos on his left bicep bearing the numbers four, five and six, signifying that he was a fully pledged member of the New Age Disciples. Completing his mission would attain these. The back of Gabriel’s shaved head bore one other small tattoo of a crucifix. He looked like one murderous sonofabitch.

  Which was exactly what Gabriel was. Rex had signed him up for his prowess as a killer, nothing else. The religious side of things was still fairly new to him. Sure, he was enjoying the education, but not as much as he enjoyed the killing. As a younger man he had killed a few people he shouldn’t have. Now Rex and the New Age Disciples were educating him in the ways of killing for the right reason. Killing for the good of mankind.

  The evening sky had darkened quite suddenly, and the stars were shining brightly as he thundered past Sleepy Joe’s Diner, the offbeat sound of the big V-twin’s exhaust echoing back from the building. He knew the way to the hotel from there thanks to a map that Julius had given to Rodeo Rex. As Rex was unable to attend himself, he had handed it on to Gabriel, along with the mission. It was a proud moment to be trusted by Rex to carry out such an important assignment on his own. He wanted to prove himself worthy. He’d made that hard for himself by arriving late, but he was close now. The Hotel Pasadena lit up the night sky a few miles down the road. The time for killing was near.

  Gabriel was itching to get started. The frustration resulting from all that had happened to his comrades in the last few weeks had built up inside him, and he was ready to unleash it. As it happened, his first opportunity came upon him somewhat earlier than he might have expected.

  On the right side of the road about half a mile ahead he saw a ragged figure stumbling towards him. He slowed the bike slightly, dropping the speed from sixty miles an hour down to a more manageable thirty. With his right hand he pulled a dull silver handgun from a custom holster on the side of the bike. As he closed with the figure staggering out of the desert towards him, waving its arms, he took aim and fired.

  Even above the noise of the Harley’s exhaust, the discharge from the gun made an almighty bang in the still of night. The bullet flew with lethal accuracy into the face of the pedestrian at the side of the road.

  Nice shot, Gabriel thought to himself as he rode on past the fallen body. Anything that came walking out of the wasteland in the Devil’s Graveyard on Halloween almost certainly deserved to die.

  He tucked the pistol into a shoulder holster under his jerkin, ready to use it on any more passers-by he might encounter. A further mile down the highway he saw a camper van parked at the roadside. An evil, righteous grin spread across his scarred face.

  His night of killing was about to get interesting.

  Back down the highway, the body of the man he’d shot lay cooling where it had fallen, the back of its head blown out, its dark uniform dusty and stained with blood.

  So ended the life and all too brief police career of Patrolman Johnny Parks.

  Twenty-Five

  Jacko watched from the side of the stage as a Frank Sinatra impersonator was given a thorough roasting by the judges. Sinatra’s performance had started off shaky and simply gotten worse as it went on. He’d hit a bad note early on while incorrectly singing the line ‘I know the end is near’ during his rendition of ‘My Way’. After that, his voice (and his recollection of the correct lyrics) had completely deserted him. At times he howled like a drowning cat, and in one truly excruciating moment he had started singing in what sounded like Flemish. He finally finished off his performance with an appalling fit of coughing.

  Jacko had entered his name with the show’s organizers just ten minutes before Sinatra had gone onstage. They had agreed to let him perform last on the condition that he acquired a better outfit than the red leather suit he was wearing. It had been difficult to convince them he was planning to perform a Blues Brothers song, particularly because he didn’t even know what song he was going to sing. But they had allowed him to enter, most likely because they figured he’d be one of the entertaining ‘freaks’.

  Since he had arrived at the area off the stage where the Bourbon Kid was supposed to meet him, he’d seen three performances. They had all been awful. But now, as he witnessed Frank Sinatra being taken apart by the judges, he was the only contestant still to go. He was due onstage within the next two minutes and he still didn’t have the Blues Brothers outfit that the Bourbon Kid had promised him. The Kid’s efforts to find a suit were taking longer than Jacko had expected, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. If the Kid didn’t show up with the outfit, he had the perfect excuse not to go up and perform. As things stood currently, he might be going onstage dressed as Michael Jackson wearing a pair of sunglasses. And that, as Blues Brothers outfits went, was somewhat lacking in authenticity.

  He hurried back down the steps that led to the stage and walked round to take one last look up and down the passageway to see whether the
Kid was on his way. He checked both ways three times before deciding that he was going to have to make a run for it. Eventually, just when he had given up hope, he saw the darkly dressed killer appear at the end of the corridor, coming from the lobby. He was carrying a black suit and white shirt in one hand and a smart slim black clip-on tie in the other. He jogged down the hall to where Jacko was waiting.

  ‘You think you could have cut it a bit finer?’ the anxious singer snapped sarcastically. ‘I don’t even know what fuckin’ song I’m s’posed to be singin’, and let’s face it, at this rate I wouldn’t have time to learn the words to “The Chicken Dance”.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up and put this on,’ growled the Kid. He threw the suit and shirt at Jacko who caught them, then laid them down on the carpet. Then he reluctantly took off his red leather jacket and held it out for the Kid to take. When the latter made no attempt to take it, Jacko eventually dropped it on to the floor at his feet.

  ‘This is a shit plan, you know?’ he complained. ‘I’m due on in about thirty seconds an’ I don’t have an act.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said the Kid, pulling a small silver object from his hip pocket. ‘You got an angle.’

  ‘Yeah? An’ what’s that?’ Jacko asked as he picked up the white shirt and began slipping his arms into the sleeves.

  ‘I got you this.’ The Kid held out the six-inch-long silver object he’d drawn from his pocket. Jacko took one look at it and shook his head.

  ‘Oh no. Oh no no no. You surely don’t think I’m goin’ out there with a harmonica, hopin’ to win?’

  ‘Figure you’ll be the novelty act. No one else has played an instrument. It’ll get you noticed.’

  ‘It’ll get me laughed at, is what it’ll do.’

  ‘That’s a chance I’m willing to take.’ The Kid’s voice sounded like gravel crunching underfoot.