Deadtown and Other Tales of Horror Set in the Old West

by Carl Hose

  “Good to see you all bleed the same as us,” Frank muttered.

  He found a lantern at the entrance of the mine, lit it, and began descending slowly into preternatural silence. The surrounding cloak of blackness all but swallowed the meager light of the lantern.

  Frank stopped when he felt a slight vibration beneath his feet. He listened. A low rumble came from somewhere ahead of him. After a moment, he continued moving ahead. The floor of the mine became steeper. He saw a pulsating yellowish-green glow ahead. The passage became more narrow and the roof of the mine dropped dramatically the further he went. He stooped and made his way deeper into the mine, moving toward the glow.

  A light emanated from a narrow opening a few hundred feet ahead. The top and bottom of the mine nearly met, and Frank had to belly crawl to get to the opening. He looked through the aperture and located the source of the glow over the edge of a sheer drop. A massive lump of mottled green flesh glistening with a coat of slime sat dead center of the cavernous room. Around the base of the thing were thick tentacles burrowing into the rock floor. There were no eyes on the thing, but when it began to make a high-pitched wail, Frank knew it was aware of his presence and mighty pissed about it to boot.

  The walls and floor of the mine began to vibrate more fiercely. Frank took notice of two stacks of wooden crates marked DYNAMITE down in the cavern, just to the right of the alien brain. That dynamite might be the only real chance he had. He figured he could work his way through the crack, then he could make it to the dynamite and blow the son of a bitch sky high.

  The walls of the cavern were beginning to crumble. The alien brain was about to bring it all down, and there wasn’t much time. An explosion shook the ground behind Frank as an alien tentacle smashed up through the rock and came crashing down next to him. He rolled to one side in time to avoid being smashed beneath the slimy appendage, reaching for his Colt as he did. He managed two rounds. The tentacle jerked and slammed against the wall, causing a shower of rock and timber to come crashing down around Frank.

  Both of Frank’s legs and one arm was pinned down. His Colt was just out of reach. It was a position he wasn’t too happy to occupy.

  The tentacle slithered under the pile of rock and timber and circled Frank, wrapping itself around him. He felt it chest swelling and knew it wouldn’t be long before the thing squeezed the guts right out of him.

  A gunshot exploded, followed by three more in quick succession. The tentacle fell away from Frank and slithered off, leaving him gasping for breath.

  O’Grady stood a few feet away, his rifle still smoking. He came forward and knelt beside Frank.

  “Happy to see you,” Frank said. “Think you can get this stuff off me?”

  “Give it my best,” O’Grady said, then he set about grunting and pushing until he had moved enough rock and timber to allow Frank to slide out.

  “I gotta get down there,” Frank said, indicating the narrow opening into the cavern. “There’s dynamite. I can blow this whole place.”

  “I’ll cover you best I can,” O’Grady said.

  Frank nodded and dropped to his belly, twisting and turning as he maneuvered himself into the opening.

  The alien brain made a high-pitched screech that sent chills running through every inch of O’Grady’s body.

  “What the hell’s down there?” he said.

  “Somethin’ ugly,” was Frank’s response.

  He was halfway through the opening, looking down the sheer drop to the cavern floor. He grabbed hold of a jutting slab of rock and pulled himself the rest of the way through, then he started down the side of the rock face, digging his fingers and the toes of his boots in wherever he could.

  Another of the alien brain’s tentacles broke through the floor of the cavern and started up the side of the wall. It wrapped around Frank’s ankle. He pulled a knife from his boot and sank it repeatedly into the mottled green flesh. When the tentacle finally loosened its grip, Frank pushed away from the wall and landed on the floor of the cavern, rolling as he did. It hurt like hell. He thought for a second he heard bones snapping, but everything seemed to be moving the way it should.

  He rolled toward the dynamite just as a tentacle landed where he’d been only a moment earlier. He broke open a crate and grabbed a handful of the explosives, stuffing as much into his pockets as he could, then he started back up the wall, digging into the rock until his fingers started bleeding.

  He made it back to the top, dodging whipping tentacles as he went. Carrying the extra bulk of the dynamite made getting through the opening tricky, but with O’Grady tugging, he managed to squeeze through the opening in time to avoid a curling tentacle.

  Frank lit a stick of dynamite, then touched off a second with the first stick and the third stick with the second, tossing each through the opening. He just barely managed to get the third one through when the first exploded, followed closely by the next two explosions.

  The mine shook as the cavern began to implode. The roar of falling rock was deafening, and above that roar came the horrendous screeching of the alien.

  “Did you get it?” O’Grady asked.

  Smoke and dust hung heavy in the air. Frank couldn’t even see where the Irishman was standing. “Don’t know,” he responded.

  He lit two more sticks of dynamite and rolled them through the opening. More explosions, more falling rock, and more of the godawful screeching.

  “We have to go,” O’Grady said. “It’s going to collapse.”

  “I can’t,” Frank replied. “Not until I know that thing’s dead.”

  He was choking on the smoke. Black grime clung to his sweaty features and he had to wipe sweat from his eyes just to get a look through the opening.

  “Startin’ to clear,” he finally said.

  He could make out the remains of the alien brain through a haze of smoke.

  “Blew it to hell and back,” he said.

  O’Grady gave a big sigh of relief. “Thank the—”

  As Frank was pushed away from the opening, a tentacle slithered through and wrapped around him. The tip of it opened wide, a big black mouth ready to devour. Frank felt his ribs cracking and the breath leaving him fast.

  He fumbled the last stick of dynamite out, lit it, and stuffed it into the mouth of the tentacle, then he began clawing at the mottled flesh to pry himself free. “Dammit, get it off . . .”

  O’Grady leveled his rifle and fired a round into the tentacle, then levered another into the chamber and fired again. The bullets slammed the flesh with a dull thud, spewing greenish-yellow pus all over the place.

  The dynamite was nearing the explosion point when the tentacle fell away, allowing Frank his freedom. He moved as fast as he could to get as far away from what was about to happen as was humanly possible. O’Grady was hot on his heels.

  The blast threw the two of them forward. They continued to race to the top of the mine while everything crumbled around them, finally emerging in a billowing cloud of smoke and mine dust, gasping for breath as the mine finished collapsing behind them.

  * * *

  “You won’t consider staying?” Mary asked. “We could use a hand rebuilding.”

  “I’d like to do that, but I ain’t good at stickin’ around,” Frank said. He swung himself up into the saddle. “Might happen through again, though,” he added. “Like to get to know ya better if I do.”

  She smiled. “I’d like that.”

  O’Grady, who had kept a polite distance up until now, stepped up and extended his hand. “We can’t thank you enough,” he said.

  “And I can’t thank you enough for savin’ my ass,” Frank shot back.

  “I should have never hesitated in the first place.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s understandable,” Frank told him.

  He looked around at all the grateful faces that had showed up to see him off, including Mary’s daddy. He tipped his hat at Mary and nudged his horse, putting the little town of Aleone behind him.

  Pra
irie Guts

  Blistering sun beat down on the wagon train as it began a slow trek westward. John Barclay rode up alongside Cole Kellerman, the scout, who paced himself well in front of the lead Conestoga.

  “Five wagons gone,” Barclay said.

  “You sure about that?” Kellerman asked.

  “I know how to count. We had seventy-five last night, seventy this morning. That makes five wagons gone, you agree?”

  “Maybe they turned back,” Kellerman suggested, ignoring Barclay’s sarcasm.

  “This far along, and in the middle of the night?” Barclay said. “Ain’t likely. Besides, one of the missin’ wagons belongs to Jacob Haines, and believe me, old Jake wouldn’t have turned back on his own for nothin’.”

  “What else you figger?” Kellerman asked.

  Barclay shook his head. “I ain’t sure, but somethin’ don’t feel right.”

  Kellerman leaned off to the side and spat on the ground. “Gotta agree, I guess,” he said, straightening in his saddle. “Wagons don’t just up and disappear.”

  “You got that right,” Barclay said. He looked around, then turned back to Kellerman. “Somethin’ happened to ’em, though.”

  “You want me to backtrack, see if I can pick up a trail or somethin’?”

  “Be a waste of time,” Barclay said. “Your duty’s to the rest of these folks.”

  Kellerman nodded in agreement. “Just thought I’d make the offer.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  It was a hell of a job moving wagons across the prairie. Barclay had been doing it for going on three years, but this was the first he’d heard of anything like wagons disappearing in the night, right under his nose. He couldn’t figure it out. He’d started this trip with more than a hundred wagons, now he was down to seventy, with nary a single explanation to be had.

  “I want round the clock watches,” Barclay said. “I don’t want a minute of the night to go by without eyes on this train.”

  “I’ll round up a few men and set up shifts,” Kellerman said. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to another goddamn wagon on my watch.”

  The two men didn’t notice when the dry, hard-packed earth began to rise and crack open in the wake of the wagon train. Something underground rose to the surface and followed, keeping a good distance behind the last wagon.

  Fifteen miles fell away with grueling effort before Barclay finally brought the wagon train to a halt for the day. He saw to the circling up of the wagons while Kellerman rode a wide perimeter to make sure everything was in order.

  After supper, Kellerman organized the first watch and set about positioning them in key locations. He was damn set on having seventy wagons when they moved out in the morning.

  Barclay hitched his horse to the chuck wagon and took out a smoke. Pete Evans, who was in charge of the cooking, filled a tin cup with fresh, hot coffee and handed it to the wagon master.

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” Barclay said, gratefully accepting the coffee.

  “Can’t help notice the crease in your brow,” Pete said.

  “It’s those damn missin’ wagons.”

  “Yeah, I seen we was light again this mornin’.”

  Barclay nodded. “We’re keepin’ a closer eye on it now. Never seen nothin’ like it, not in all my time on the trail. Seen a few wagons turn back before, but that ain’t the case here. Not as many as we’ve lost.”

  Kellerman came riding up hard then. He pulled back on the reins of his horse and turned to the side, angling his head so he was looking directly at Barclay. His face was etched with stress and worry.

  “What is it?” Barclay asked, handing his half-finished cup of coffee to Pete.

  “We’re missin’ the Oggermans,” Kellerman said. “I just did a visual ten minutes ago and accounted for everybody, now I can’t find the Oggermans nowhere. Me and the boys rode the circle twice.”

  “Their wagon?”

  “Right where it’s supposed to be. There’s a fire burnin’ next to it. Looks like they was ready to snug down for the night. Bedrolls laid out and everything.”

  Suddenly the earth began to vibrate beneath their feet. A low rumble began somewhere off in the darkness.

  “What the hell is that?” Barclay said.

  He cocked his head and listened.

  Pete began licking at his lips nervously.

  The rumbling, which seemed at first distant, gradually rose in volume, as if something were heading their way. Just as suddenly as it began, the noise vanished and the night was once again still and silent.

  * * *

  Daylight came without incident. Breakfast was eaten quickly, the wagons loaded up, and the westward trek once again underway. As usual, Kellerman rode point. Barclay started at the rear and rode alongside the train, all the way to the front, doing a visual inspection of each wagon.

  Since the Oggermans never did turn up, Barclay got one of the boys from the Smith party to drive the Oggermans’ wagon. He could see no reason to leave a perfectly workable wagon behind.

  “What you figure happened to ’em?” Kellerman asked as Barclay drew up alongside him.

  “Doesn’t make sense they’d wander off on foot, all three of ’em, so your guess is good as mine.”

  They rode in silence for a while, both men deep in thought, until they began to notice a steady shaking of the ground, and then the horses and mules began to get agitated. One team of horses went wild and took off, dragging its wagon away from the rest of the train.

  “What the—”

  Barclay angled his horse in the direction of the runaway wagon. Kellerman followed, and the two of them chased after it.

  Barclay was just about next to the wagon, preparing to jump on board, when the earth split wide open in front of him. Something massive rose out of the fissure. The thing was big and alive, mottled and grayish-pink, with thick blue veins pulsating under its oily flesh.

  Barclay’s horse reared up and tossed him on his ass. Kellerman’s horse did the same. The big grayish-pink mass of pulpy slime wrapped itself around both of the horses in one sweep and they were gone, sucked into its pulsating bulk.

  “What in God’s name is that?” Kellerman hollered, his voice rising a notch or two in pitch.

  The quivering slime spread wide at the tip and fell over the runaway wagon, sucking the wagon and its entire team of horses into the black void of its mouth.

  “Jesus!” Barclay squealed.

  The thing was already a good twenty feet above ground, and that wasn’t yet all of it. The hard-packed earth continued to split and crack as more of the creature rose up to tower above them.

  Barclay and Kellerman clamored to get away.

  The monster curled and lunged forward, slamming back down on the ground again. It tore down into the dirt and made a beeline for the wagon train like a sea creature breaking waves. When it came up out of the ground again, the slimy beast curled around two wagons and swallowed them whole.

  Barclay and Kellerman drew their guns and opened fire, emptying twelve rounds of ammunition into the pulsating mass. Bullets hit the mottled pulpy flesh with no more effect than if Barclay and Kellerman had spit on the creature.

  While the men hurried to reload, the beast swung around to face them with what must have been the head, though no features distinguished it as such.

  “Aw shit,” Kellerman groaned.

  They opened fire again. The gray-pink pulp flung itself at them. Barclay dove to one side and Kellerman to the other. The thing hit the ground between them, causing ripples in the ground that shook what was left of the wagon train.

  Men, women, and children jumped from the wagons and scampered off in every direction. Mothers tried to gather their children, some of the men were bringing up rifles and taking shots at the quivering beast while others simply dropped to their knees and prayed God to save their worthless hides.

  “What the hell is that thing?” Kellerman asked, although he certainly didn’t figure there was an answer to the
question.

  “Looks like the prairie’s guts you ask me,” Barclay said.

  The guts slammed into the ground again, burrowing deep, and came up beneath one of the wagons, tossing it through the air. The occupants of the wagon were thrown free—all except for an old woman who clung on for life, only to be crushed beneath the wagon when it came crashing back to the ground.

  The throbbing pink and gray mass circled the wagon train and made one lunge after another, sucking up horses and oxen and mules, swallowing the Conestogas as if they were pebbles, and slurping up people left and right.

  Everybody scattered away from the wagons, but the jelly-like beast spread out, its glistening flesh washing over everything within its massive radius. Kellerman and Barclay were still putting up a pretty good fight when the slimy, throbbing mass of tissue rolled over them too.

  When the dust finally settled, there was not a single shred of human life, not one physical piece of evidence that a wagon train had been on this trail westward. It looked as if a groundhog of mammoth proportions had been by recently, but that wasn’t the case at all.

  The bowels of the prairie had been disturbed . . .

  . . . and something evil was regurgitated.

  Six-Guns and a Silver Bullet

  Jake looked out the window and caught sight of a full moon hanging above the timberline. It cast pale light on the hard-packed snow-covered ground outside.

  It was silent snow, but Jake knew it was only the calm before the storm. Tonight it would happen, and it was a good night for a showdown.

  He turned away from the window and crossed the short distance to where a pot of coffee sat warming on a potbelly stove. He poured a cup of the strong black liquid and gulped most of it down in a swallow. He’d need plenty of it. Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

  His eyes fell on the gun belt hanging on the single chair at his kitchen table. There was only one chair because Jake never had company. He had no friends to speak of, nor did he care to make any.

  He’d have company tonight, and those guns were going to be the welcoming committee—a pair of Colts he hadn’t used in more than five years.