A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West (29 page)

He straightened his hat, buttoned up his shirt collar, then straightened his necktie. It wouldn’t do to look sloppy. He turned to Pastor John, “And you, don’t go nowhere.”

An emaciated pale horse eyeballed Pastor John from off to one side. It wasn’t tethered up. It just stood there looking like Death itself – not even the fat black flies went near it.

“Ah’m going in,” Evans said, barging through the saloon doors with his men at his back. They spread out behind him to block the doorway.

Pastor John, impelled by some macabre urge, crept forward and peered through the wooden slats, giving him a good view of inside. Down by his feet, something had gouged lines of fresh furrows into the old wood. Looked like something, or somebody, had been dragged kicking and screaming back inside.

Evans strode forward into the dimly lit bar with his rifle held loose yet ready – the muzzle raised precisely enough to be used at a moment’s notice while still not appearing overly aggressive. Silence reigned.

Pastor John felt the tension in the air, thick like molasses.

Evans’ eyes swept across the room and fixed on the bar. Nat studiously stared down at the counter, wiping the surface carefully. He seen the stranger sitting with his back to the door.

Pastor John knew that the Devil’s coat and boots were expensive, no doubt about that. Evans spotted him straight away.

Something was very wrong and Evans looked like he felt it in his gut. No guns to be seen. No hands under the tables pointing hidden pistols his way either – he’d have spotted that. He knew he was missing something but couldn’t see what.

Pastor John knew. Lord above, he knew! He tried to speak but failed. What if the Devil looked his way?

Evans’ steps echoed across the floor as he made his way to the bar and stopped directly behind the Devil. He knew these men; tough frontiersmen and miners all. They were all as afraid as he had ever seen a man. He eyed the stranger and the line of upturned whiskey glasses set in front of him.

“Nat.” He nodded at the barman. “Everything well?”

The barman glanced up. Sweat beaded his forehead and his face seemed pale. His gaze flicked over to the Devil, lingered a moment, then fell back down to the counter.

Soft leather whispered as the Stranger slid round on the stool to face the marshal. He leaned back against the bar and raised a glass of whiskey in greeting. Evans seemed to note the pale skin and finely groomed features; here was a man not used to toiling under the sun’s glare.

“Good evening, Marshal Evans,” the Devil said.

“Evenin’ Mister…?”

“Rex. Rex Mundi.” The stranger smiled. There was no warmth to it. The smile never came close to touching his cold eyes. Pastor John felt like ice ran through his veins…Rex Mundi. He named himself the King of the World. Evans frowned. “Come far, Mr Monday? This here town doesn’t look like your sort of place, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I like it just fine Marshal. I hitched a lift with an acquaintance of sorts who was heading out this way for work. May I buy you a drink? Something to wash away the dust from the trail perhaps?”

Evans ignored him for a moment and stared at the barman. “Nat? I’m looking for Black Jack. Heard he was in here.”

The barman shifted and a bead of sweat slowly slid down his forehead. Nat’s gaze moved again towards the Devil and then flicked away as if burned.

Evans turned again to the Devil.

The man calling himself Rex Mundi grinned, revealing perfect white teeth. “My good friend Nathaniel was accosted by your Mr Black Jack. I’m afraid that I let myself get a little carried away with his wishes.”

He tapped a manicured nail on the rim of the glass and pointed upwards.

Evans slowly lifted his eyes, trusting his men to act if the stranger tried anything.

“Lord have mercy!” He staggered backwards, fumbling for his rifle, unable to tear his eyes away from the horror hanging over his head.

Pastor John felt compelled to look up.

Four dead men hung crucified on the rafters above, their faces twisted in a final expression of terror. They stared down at Evans with gaping bloody pits instead of eyes. Metal railway spikes nailed them to the rafters through wrists and ankles. Tendrils of blood oozed out across the ceiling, a slick pool defying the laws of nature.

Pastor John’s heart thudded in his chest.

“The devil’s work!” Evans croaked, raising his rifle and tearing his eyes downwards. One of his men retched loudly behind him. His finger found the trigger.

The Devil rocked back as the marshal’s first shot cracked through the air to take him in the chest. The second shot tore through his shoulder.

Nat dived behind the bar as the Devil spun around in a spray of blood. Nat began shrieking, “Kill him! Kill him!” over and over.

The Devil’s body juddered as the deputies joined in, opening fire in a cacophony of roaring fury, shredding the fine black overcoat and throwing his body to the floor in bloody ruin.

The gunfire died off, leaving Pastor John feeling suddenly deaf and numb amidst the gun-smoke. The acrid stench of cordite filled his nostrils.

Evans seemed to realise his trigger was still clicking and forced himself to lower the empty rifle. The locals gingerly began emerging from behind overturned tables.

A solid sheet of blood suddenly crashed down across the floor, turning the saloon into a gore-strewn slaughterhouse. Slick rivulets oozed down Evans coat. A whore shrieked off to the side, franticly scrabbling at her blood-soaked face. With shaking hands Evans began clipping bullets back into the rifle.

Blood lapped around Pastor Johns boots. A wave of nausea rushed through him. A blind hope filled him; had they killed the Devil?

A scarecrow figure rose up creakily through the clearing smoke, black leather overcoat hanging in tatters around shredded flesh. Evans swallowed and readied his rifle. He aimed. He blew the man’s brains out across the wall.

The figure lurched back on its feet. Glossy viscous dark blood oozed from the gaping hole in its forehead. It began to fall – then snapped forward again. Its eyes bore into him.

“You fucking do NOT!” the creature screeched.

A flash of heat. Shrieks filled the air. Evans spun, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

Pastor John lurched back from the saloon doors, his eyes stinging.

The deputies were screaming pillars of incandescent flame. Their flesh sloughed off into the air as a torrent of floating ash. A flame-wreathed skeletal hand reached out for Evans, pleading, before it too dissolved into the inferno. The flames vanished, leaving smoking piles of ash and molten metal on the untouched wooden floorboards by the doorway.

Pastor John moved forward, hand on the door, heart hammering. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t running.

The Devil’s boot slammed into Evans’ side and the marshal crashed to the floor. He loomed over Evans, a death’s-head grin with broken bloody teeth across his face.

“Ungrateful, ignorant, violent, crude, mud-crawling, stupid, fucking self-important flesh-bags!” he screamed, punctuating each word with another kick.

His hand shot out to point at the whore, halfway to the exit. “Nobody leaves, harlot!”

She screeched and flung herself back, cringing under a table.

Evans lay dazed and moaning on the blood-spattered floor. The Devil hauled him back up and deposited him on a chair.

The Devil scowled, his pale face streaked with drying blood from the hole in his forehead. “I try to do a good deed now and again and I never, ever, get any gratitude. Nothing ever changes on Earth, or in Heaven.”

He glared at Nat, cowering at the bar. “You ungrateful, disappointing piece of shit. You and me, we are done.”

He turned back to Evans. “You would think you would be grateful I disposed of that scum. Were you not wanting him dead? I will tell you what, Marshal Evans, I’m going to rip your intestines out and hang you from the rafters like a piñata.”

He looked around the room and licked his lips. “This room is full of sin. Your souls will all be delicious.”

Before he realised what he was doing, Pastor John was through the saloon doors and striding forward. His hands found the battered leather-covered bible in his pocket and he drew it forth. The prayer to Saint Michael sprang into his mind:

“Saint Michael the Archangel,

defend us in battle;

be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray…”

The Devil walked up and slapped the bible from his hands. He wrapped his hand around Pastor John’s throat and casually lifted him kicking into the air.

“I find myself wondering what use you think a bit of leather and paper and a few mere words will do against me,” the Devil growled, examining Pastor John’s face, his eyes piercing. “Why come back? You could have fled. You should have fled.”

The grip around Pastor John’s throat eased slightly so he could answer. He felt a strange sort of peace flow into him to mingle with the abject terror. Peace with himself. He felt something he hadn’t had in a long time. Purpose. He got to say what he had to say to the Devil, eye to eye.

“You ain’t getting their souls, Satan,” he croaked. He had to have faith, like he used to. If the Devil existed, then so did God.

The Devil dropped him to the floor and let go.

Pastor John rubbed his throat and drew a deep breath. “You ain’t going to take them down to Hell with you Satan.”

The Devil rolled his eyes. “Oh please. The conceit of humans never ceases to amaze me. Why would I bother myself by enslaving millions of tortured sinners and bringing them down to some tawdry masochistic torture chamber? You torture yourselves without any help from me. What is sin anyway, but how you feel about yourselves? Personally I feel pretty good about what I do, or I wouldn’t do it.”

The Devil shrugged. “The souls of sinners just taste better.”

Pastor John stared. A chill rippled up his spine. The Devil ate human souls.

“What? And that’s worse than eternal torture in some Hell? Nobody deserves that.”

“You can’t have them,” Pastor John said softly, “I don’t care who or what you are. They ain’t yours to eat. You killed my family, you ain’t killing any more if I can help it.”

The Devil grimaced. “Sometimes bad things just happen. You all want a scapegoat to make it easy on you – if you want to believe that then go right ahead. Is this your faith in God making you stand up for these scum? If so, that faith is misplaced, preacher man.”

Pastor John shook his head, “Maybe, maybe. But this is me saying no. Do whatever you like with me but let them go. I don’t have anything to offer nobody no more, but I can do this.”

The Devil froze. “You will put your heart on the line and take their sin upon yourself?”

“Whatever it takes.” His throat felt like it was burning. Somebody began coughing from behind him.

The Devil suddenly grinned. “You have balls, preacher man; I will give you that. Here is how it will be. We will play a game of chance. Blackjack. If I win, I eat all your souls; if you win I don’t even kill them. And no, I do not cheat.”

He quickly dealt the cards onto a table, leaving behind sticky red fingerprints. Two cards face up. The Queen of Spades and the King of Hearts. Pastor John trembled and reached for the cards. Sudden blind hope surged through him, clearing away the fugue. Twenty. If the Devil couldn’t beat twenty then he would get out of here in one piece. Maybe. He coughed. Nat began wheezing for breath from where he cowered behind the bar.

The Devil grunted. “The Suicide King and the Queen of Burials. Well, Pastor John, it would seem that the luck of the cards may go your way tonight,” the Devil said, frowning down at the cards. “Shall I deal another card?”

Pastor John shook his head, the words all a jumble on his tongue.

“And now the house deals,” the Devil said with a grin. He flipped a card out. The Ace of Spades. His dark and blood-filled eyes slowly rose to meet Pastor John’s. “The Death card. The alpha and the omega.” Slowly the next card came out, face down.

They both looked down as he turned the card over. The four of clubs.

The Devil tapped his fingers on the table as the rest of the clientele held their breaths. “The Death card and the four of clubs; the Devil’s Bedpost. Intriguing.”

He dealt another card. The two of spades. “The Curse of Mexico.”

Pastor John’s heart hammered in his chest. His throat was burning and his mouth felt so dry…he could do with a whiskey right now.

The Devil looked him in the eyes and flipped out another card. They both looked down. The six of diamonds. Thirteen. The Devil grinned and flipped over another card. The nine of spades. He was bust on twenty-two.

A collective sigh rippled through the room. Sudden fear as the Devil rose, his chair scraping across the floorboards. The entire building began shaking. Glasses and bottles began falling and smashing all around them.

“Well, Pastor John, it seems that you have cheated the devil this day.” The earthquake subsided as quickly as it had begun.