HOW THE WEST WENT TO HELL

BY ERIC S BROWN

KINDLE EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Pill Hill Press on Kindle

How the West Went to Hell

Copyright © 2010 by Eric S Brown

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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HOW THE WEST WENT TO HELL

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Prologue

One year before Reaper’s Valley

Baalon raged against the chains that bound him. His muscles strained for freedom but the shackles were too strong.

His plans had been so carefully lain. He’d followed his foe across the United States, all the way to the western edge of the continent. He was so close to bringing down his enemy and long time rival.

The only thing he hadn’t counted on was the priest.

Somehow, the religious man had known what Baalon was from the moment he had first entered the town of Highwater. The men of the town rallied to the priest’s call and met Baalon with all the force they could muster.

Baalon’s wounds had healed, though they had been many. The bullets which had torn through his host’s body had left his clothes in bloody tatters, reducing his borrowed form to a mangled mass of shredded meat so damaged he had been rendered unconscious.

The priest was wise, sickeningly so. He instructed the men of Highwater to chain him while he was passed out and his body fought to repair itself.

Now, Baalon had reawakened to greater danger than he’d ever faced. Five men stood around him in a circle, their rifles and shotguns leveled at him should he make a move they didn’t like or the chains break and set him loose.

They were not a threat—the priest was his sole concern.

The good Father Paige of Highwater emerged from his church with his dog-eared copy of the Bible and a crucifix in his hands. Baalon hissed with fury as the priest drew closer to where he stood, shackled. Father Paige knelt before him and looked him in the eyes. Baalon snarled, exposing his fangs.

Father Paige fearlessly held his ground and pressed the cover of the Holy Scripture to the flesh of Baalon’s forehead. Baalon reared back his head and howled with pain as the cross etched into the leather binding singed his skin.

Father Paige retreated a step and opened his bible. He read passages from the good book and whispered prayers. Baalon’s struggles against his bonds grew more furious. His body spasmed and shook as he felt the cleansing power of God wash over him. Baalon’s eyes blazed a sinister shade of green as he continued to howl and scream. “No!” he begged the fates, his voice hoarse, “I am so close!”

Father Paige moved closer to finish the rite of exorcism that would cast out the spirit from the man he occupied. Baalon cursed. “You fool! I am not the threat you feel in your midst. He is here and he will unleash the very wrath and darkness of Hell itself upon you and your followers! You must set me free if you wish to live,” Baalon warned the priest.

“Your lies will not save you, demon,” Father Paige told him calmly. “Your taint will be gone from the poor man’s soul you have stolen.”

“I am not lying, Father. He will devour all the souls in Highwater and his taint shall spread far beyond the boundaries of this town. Even now, he begins to release his evil while you waste your time with me. I could be your ally in this fight. I want nothing more than to see him fail.”

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I cast you from this man!” Father Paige shouted and pressed the scripture against Baalon’s flesh once more. Baalon’s will to remain in his host was strong, but the priest’s faith was stronger, fueled by the power of God. Baalon shrieked and his hold within the battered body broke. His essence flew from the man he’d held under his power for so long and dissipated into the night.

Father Paige released the man from his chains and lifted his head with a gentle hand. “You are free now, son.”

The man was soaked in sweat and could barely speak, but he managed a weak whisper into Father Paige’s ear. “Thank you, Father, but you’ve made a terrible mistake.”

One

Now

L ouis Farmer felt as if he were riding into Hell. The interior of the stagecoach was like an inferno as the sun’s blazing rays fell on its roof. Large dark, wet patches of sweat stained the underarms of his expensive suit, and the constant bouncing as the stage rattled along the trail did nothing to ease his stomach, which was already tied into a nervous knot.

He should be back in his office in New York City, editing the latest manuscript to come across his desk—not out here, away from proper civilization, chasing a nightmare. Kramer, his boss at the publishing company, demanded he head into the field as if he were a lowly journalist instead of a well-respected, world-renown editor.

The simple truth was the book he was currently stuck with needed more substance in order to be publishable; and, since the author was dead, it fell to Louis Farmer, editor extraordinaire, to “fix” the problem. Kramer, notoriously tight with his money, wasn’t about to hire a ghost writer to travel west and finish the project when he could just as easily use Louis to do the job without shelling out an additional penny beyond Louis’ normal salary and travel expenses. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead, above his gold-rimmed glasses.

Three other passengers shared the stifling stage with him. The man to his left was in his early twenties and had introduced himself as Michael Clark. He was smugly charismatic, with a roguish sort of charm. Louis pegged him as a gambler from the way he shuffled a worn deck of cards with practiced ease as they rode.

Across from them sat Mr. O’Rouke, a lawman in route to Reaper’s Valley to become its new sheriff. O’Rouke was a giant of a man, standing well over six feet in height, with wide shoulders and chiseled, rugged features. His look of hardness bespoke of years carving out a living with the deadly Colt .45 he wore holstered on his belt, low on his hip.

The lawman’s handshake was so firm, Louis had wondered if the cursory, polite gesture was going to break every bone in his hand when they’d been introduced.

Yet it was the fourth passenger who held Louis’ attention and interest, and he was quite certain the beauty had captured the awareness of the other two men, as well. Her name was Eliza Green. Even in these horrid conditions, she was stunning in her black dress.

She was headed west to settle the affairs of her recently deceased brother. It was easy to see she came from wealth by her gentile manner, but Louis’s interest in her was much more physical in nature. Her figure was slender and fetching beneath her dress, and her long blond hair was pulled back behind her head, showcasing her long, slender neck.

Her blue eyes were mesmorizing, and Louis forced himself to stare out the window lest he be caught staring at her. “Mr. Farmer? Excuse me, Mr. Farmer?” she unexpectedly called to him in her cultured voice. Louis carefully turned to gaze into her sleek, delicate features.

“Did I understand correctly that you are a writer?” Eliza asked. Her slender fingers played at the black ribbon tied around her tiny waist. Louis noticed she did not wear a wedding band.

“I was once,” he answered with a pause, sliding his spectacles back up his nose. “I’m an editor by trade these days.”

“Oh, do you work for Harper’s magazine, then?” she purred. Her voice was smooth and sultry, with an ever so slight hint of a southern drawl, sending tendrils of pleasure spiraling up his spine.

“No, ma’am,” he answered, his voice a little higher than usual. He took a steady breath to calm his nerves. “Nothing so prestigious. I edit fiction, novels and tales of the west.”

“I reckon’ she’s asking what brings you out here, Mr. Farmer,” O’Rouke pointed out in a gruff bark.

Louis hoped his companions attributed his reddened complexion to the increasing heat. “Research,” he answered honestly. “I’m working on a book about an outlaw who’s reputedly murdered hundreds of people.”

O’Rourke chuckled. “Them books always glorify the evil that men do. Not a lick of truth or common sense to most of them. No offense, Mr. Farmer, but couldn’t you just make up the facts in your office in New York City like most of them book folks do anyway? ”

Louis didn’t react to the insult. He wasn’t about to start a fight with a man like O’Rouke. “No. This story is so strange, I won’t pretend I understand it. My publisher didn’t either, so he sent me out here to find the missing pieces of the manuscript’s puzzle so that I can finish the book.”

“But you said you weren’t a writer anymore,” Eliza reminded him.

“I’m not usually, but the original author is dead.”

“How did he die?” Michael asked from beside him, suddenly interested in the conversation.

“Rather gruesomely,” Louis admitted. “I would rather not share the details in the presence of a lady.”

Eliza giggled, bringing her hand up from her lap to cover her mouth. “I assure you, Mr. Farmer, I am not faint of heart. Please continue, if you would be so kind. I admit to being afflicted with a dreadful curiosity,” she urged him.

“His body was found in the room of his hotel room in New York. He was staying in the city while I looked over the book and considered it for publication. A maid discovered his corpse dangling from a beam on the room’s ceiling, hanged there not by a rope, but by his own entrails. His body had been gutted and his skin flayed from his bone in long strips. Someone had collected what they could of his blood and wrote characters of some unknown language on the room’s wall that even the best linguists I could acquire the services of were not able to recognize the tongue, let alone decipher its meaning.”

Michael appeared sorry he had asked for details, and the yellowish hue on the young man’s flushed face suggested he was on the edge of being sick. Neither Eliza nor O’Rouke seemed fazed by the atrocity. The wealthy, demure southern woman climbed a few rungs on the ladder of his estimation.

“That’s disgusting, is what it is,” O’Rouke grunted. “Sounds like the work of Indians or some sort of cult.”

“That’s what I thought at first, too,” Louis agreed, “But the cuts on his body were too rough and jagged to have been made by any blade. They looked to be more the work of an animal—perhaps a large predatory cat or something of that nature, as the wounds more closely resembled claw marks.”

“Ain’t never heard tell of big cats in New York City, son,” O’Rouke told him with a glower of disbelief.

“Neither have I. His murder is just another piece in the puzzle of the murder book.”

“Must be some sick book, ” Michael shuddered.

“It is,” Louis nodded, “but it’s my job to make sense of it and make it marketable. Dark and disturbing tales have an ever growing readership and my publisher feels this book will set the standard for all those that come after it.”

The interior of the stage fell quiet and Louis could see the others had heard enough about his assignment. He pushed his glasses into place on his nose from where they’d slipped again and glanced through the window at the barren and rocky hills along the sides of the trail.

Renewed nervousness about his job flooded his senses. Louis reached into the pocket of his jacket and let his fingertips brush the metal of the small, loaded Derringer buried there. The weapon did nothing to reassure him that everything would be alright in the end. The author of the book was dead, and there was no certainty that such a grisly death wouldn’t be his fate, as well.

The stagecoach arrived in Reaper’s Valley shortly before sundown. Michael hopped down and was gone before Louis even realized he’d left. Mr. O’Rouke was greeted by an important looking man, with two armed gents in tow, that Louis could only presume was the mayor. As the stage driver helped Eliza with her luggage, Louis gave her a shy farewell nod and ventured into town in search of lodgings for the weeks to come.

His quest led him to an establishment called “Pete’s,” which served as both the town’s sole hotel and saloon. Louis hated bars and was uncomfortable in them, but his only alternative was sleeping on the street.

The owner introduced himself as Pete through a wide smile, showing cracked, yellowed teeth. He was a rather crude and smelly fellow that Louis would wager seldom bathed. Yet the rate for a room was well within his allotted budget, so Louis signed into the guest register, paid the lodging fee, secured his key, and headed upstairs as quickly as he could.

Two

Far on the other side of town, Pastor Gregory sat at the desk in his small office with the Bible spread open before him. A single candle illuminated the tiny space, the flicker of its flame dancing on the walls.

Pastor Gregory had moved to Reaper’s Valley a year earlier and had taken over the Lord’s work in this violent and sinful place. He had tried hard to reach out, show the love and goodness that was his Lord, but for the most part, his words fell on deaf ears. His congregation numbered less than three dozen of the hundreds of souls who called Reaper’s Valley home. None the less, for those who did attend his services, he worked long hours preparing the most truthful and moving sermons he was capable of producing. He leaned against his chair, stretching his tired back and arms. The evening was growing late and he had much to do on the morrow. He planned to go visiting his derelict flock and take the word of God to those who refused to come to church.

Pastor Gregory jumped as something slammed into the front door of the church. The noise was so loud he heard it clearly all the way from where he sat in his office, tucked away in the back corner of the church. He sprang to his feet, his heart thundering in his chest, wondering what could have made such a noise. The thumping did not come again, but as he moved into the sanctuary, he heard a much weaker pounding on the door. Then everything fell silent.

Pastor Gregory said a silent prayer to the Lord, steeling himself in the armor of faith, as he walked to the door and opened it. A man stood before him, leaning against the church’s wall to stay on his feet. The man, in his early thirties, was dressed in black from head to toe.

The pastor noticed two things at once. The man wore an elaborate gun belt with the silver butts of what appeared to be twin Colt revolvers protruding from its worn leather holsters, and the man was badly injured. His sleek black clothing was torn and ripped in numerous spots where blood oozed from the holes, dripping off of the saturated fabric to stain the church’s porch. “Father,” the wounded man croaked, clutching a gaping wound which ran across his midsection with a blood soaked hand.

Pastor Gregory took a step back.

“Help me,” the man pleaded softly, his voice full of pain. For a moment, Pastor Gregory hesitated, staring at the stranger on his doorstep. Finally, he said, “Son, this is a house of God, not a hospital. I don’t know what you were up to, but there’s nothing for you here but forgiveness.”

The man shook his head stubbornly, refusing to leave. “Jesus said ‘what you do for the least among us, you do for me,’ Father. I have nowhere else to go.”

Pastor Gregory was shocked by the man’s reminder of his Christian duty, and hung his head in shame at his initial reaction to someone so clearly in need. He met the stranger’s eyes.

“Thank you,” the pastor said sincerely. “There’s no such thing as a perfect person, only a perfect God. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

The wounded man nodded.

Pastor Gregory took the man’s arm around his shoulders and helped him into the church. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”

He led the injured man to the nearest pew and helped him ease his battered form onto it. As the man removed the dark-clad stranger’s coat and let it drop onto the floor, Pastor Gregory asked, “What’s your name?”

“Nathan,” the man replied, wincing.

“You’re in pretty bad shape, son. Let me get you some water, and then I’ll fetch Doc Henry.”

Nathan caught Pastor Gregory’s arm in a grip that was surprisingly strong, considering how much blood he must’ve already lost. “I don’t need a doctor. Help me dress the wounds and God will do the rest.”

The pastor relented with a nod and Nathan dropped his arm. “What happened to you?” the man of God asked as he noticed the large stomach wound wasn’t caused from a bullet. It looked as if someone had taken a dagger and dug it into Nathan’s guts.

“Doesn’t matter, does it? I failed, Father. I rode hard and got ahead of him, though. I imagine he’s still a town or two behind me.” Nathan took the pastor by his shirt and yanked him close. The wounded man spoke loud and clearly. “He’ll be coming. We need to be ready.”

Before Pastor Gregory could ask anything else, Nathan’s eyes closed and he slumped onto the pew, unconscious. Pastor Gregory removed Nathan’s hand from his shirt and appraised this stranger who’d staggered into the house of God. There was no doubt he was a professional killer, but the Lord moved in mysterious ways, and who was he to question Him? The pastor stood tall and hurried to find what he would need to clean up the man and tend his numerous wounds.

It was going to be a long night.

Three

Lee rode into the town of Clay’s Peak as the stars filled the sky above him. He was in no hurry.

He knew his enemy had passed through this town.

He could smell the lingering scent of the man’s arrogant self-righteousness. As he crept slowly along the town’s main street, his eyes were drawn to the light spilling out from the saloon ahead of him. The sounds of music, cursing, and the squeals of excited whores drifted to his ears. He secured his horse and walked into the saloon, deciding he owed himself a drink in honor of the victory soon be his. Every head in the place turned to look at him as he entered through the swinging doors. He savored the attention—his apparel was rather striking.

He liked it that way.

He wore a stark white longcoat over a white shirt and white well-tailored pants. Even his thick boots had an ivory tone, all in sharp contrast to his tanned skin. The black pupils of his eyes were partially hidden from the shadow cast by his small white hat in the saloon’s glow. Greeting the shocked stares with a smile showing off matching rows of perfectly white teeth, he swaggered to the bar where a bald and fat man stood, his stained apron making it clear he was both the establishment’s barkeeper and cook. The man seemed deeply disturbed by Lee’s foppish and effeminate beauty as the man in white took a seat on one of the barstools.

“Can I help you?” the fat man asked. He tried to offer a smile, but his lips curled up in a sneer instead of a pleasant expression.

Lee set about tugging off the white gloves covering his fingers. “I would like a glass of your best wine, please.”
The bartender burst into belly-shaking laughter.

Lee’s ungloved hand struck like a snake. He grabbed the fat barkeep by his throat and pulled him close, his grip so tight droplets of blood formed where his fingernails pressed crescent-shaped cuts into the man’s skin. “I said I’d like some wine,” Lee hissed.

The fat man struggled to get enough air into his lungs. “Don’t got no wine,” he rasped, his pudgy face turning blue. Lee released the fat man’s throat, smirking when the bartender rubbed his bruising neck with dirty hands.

The man in white felt a hand fall on his shoulder and spun around to see a roughlooking fellow with several days worth stubble on his face. “Don’t know where you come from, stranger, but this is Jim’s bar. You’ll show him some respect,” the cowhand demanded. Lee brushed the man’s hand from his shoulder without a word, offering only a mischievous grin in reply.

“What are you supposed to be dressed up like that? You some sort of clown or something?” the man goaded Lee, bringing about a chorus of snickers from the saloon’s other patrons.

Lee shook his head and ignored the cowhand. Turning back to the barkeep, he asked, “If no wine is available, what spirits do you recommend, good sir?”

The cowhand shoved Lee from behind.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, mister!”

Lee was on his feet like lightning. As he stood, he lifted the roughlooking cowhand from the floor by his stubbled throat with a single hand. The cowhand’s feet kicked in the air as his hands clawed at Lee’s grip until, with a fast and effortless flick of his wrist, Lee snapped the man’s neck and let his corpse drop to the saw dust-coated floor of the saloon with a dull thud.

Lee watched the saloon’s other patrons shove whores off of their laps and toss their cards onto scuffed wooden tables as they got to their feet to stand against him. “He killed Kaufman in cold blood!” Lee heard someone shout. Another voice yelled, “Get him!”

Guns whipped out of holsters as the saloon became a cacophony of barking pistols. A multitude of bullets smashed into Lee, staining his white clothing with dark splotches of red. Lee staggered but stayed on his feet until the boom of a double barreled shotgun thundered from behind the bar. The force of its slugs ripped into his back and sent him whirling to the floor with a crash.

Lee closed his eyes and listened to the shouts of anger and glee around him, then pushed himself up to his knees. When he stood, the blood from his wounds was gone and his clothes were as whole and spotless as they had been when he’d entered. He drank in the terror, relishing its rich scent. He drew in deep gulps of fear-infused air as he retrieved a single dagger from the sheath inside his right boot.

He twirled the blade in his fingers and laughed. “Oh what fun,” he said in a sing-song voice as he darted into the crowd so fast he became a blur. He slashed a cowpoke’s throat wide, hot rich blood spraying onto him, and he laughed with malevolent delight.

A large man in a brown duster tried to grab the stranger and was rewarded with a strike from Lee’s dagger that pierced his cheek and exited the other side of his face. Lee withdrew the blade and kicked the man, who lost his footing and fell to the ground. He spat out half of his sliced tongue to the floor upon impact.

Bullets ripped into Lee, but he ignored them, lost in the bliss of his macabre dance of death. Soon he stood alone over the bodies of his victims. He bent over the corpse of the nearest woman and drove his knife into the valley between her breasts, then broke open her rib cage and rewarded himself with her heart. He held it in his hand and examined it before he opened his mouth and took a bite out of the left ventricle, squirting warm blood onto his lips.

Lee wiped away the blood with his white gloved hand and walked out into the night.

His horse awaited him where he had left it tied outside. He loosed it, climbed into the saddle and rode on towards the next town. There was so much more fun to be had ahead of him. If Lee remembered correctly, the next town to the west was named Reaper’s Valley. The name was very fitting for what he had planned, and he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as his horse galloped faster and faster, spurred on by his master’s growing excitement.

Four

Louis doubled-checked that the door to his room was locked before he began to settle into his new, temporary home. The light from the room’s oil lamp illuminated the small padlock on his suitcase as he slid his key into it and flipped it open. Inside, underneath his meager change of clothing and a few personal items, was the manuscript. It was the only copy Louis knew of and it had been like pulling teeth to convince Kramer to allow him to bring it along on his westward journey.

The book still remained in its original hand-scrawled form. The pages were in a loose stack, which Louis carefully lifted from the case and carried to the table in the corner of the room where the lamp sat. He sunk into the chair there and scanned through it, taking great care to keep the pages in the proper order as he went.

He’d read the book from cover to cover, but he needed to refresh himself about the details of the murders and the description of the killer. After only a few pages, however, Louis realized the fatigue from his journey had caught up with him.

His stomach growled and he discovered he couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten. Locking away the manuscript and shoving the suitcase under his bed, he stepped from his room onto the open area of the hotel’s second floor above the saloon. He could hear that the crowd had dwindled a good bit. Either that or most of the carousers were now so intoxicated they were unconscious at their tables.

A tipsy dancer with shoulder-length red hair and freckles, her shapely frame encased in a frilly gold and black dress that rose high on her thighs, met him in the hallway. She tripped over her feet and caught her balance by placing a gaudy, bejeweled hand squarely in the middle of his chest. Louis felt his cheeks flush red as he awkwardly reached out and put his hands on her sides to steady her. “Careful,” he urged her. She chuckled and the scent of alcohol on her breath made Louis recoil.

“If I were careful, honey,” she slurred, “I wouldn’t be in this line of work.”

“Do you need help to your room?” he asked.

“Depends,” she answered with a lewd grin. “How much you paying?”

Unsure of what to do, Louis left her to fend for herself. A much more sober and sane looking young woman awaited him when he reached the bar. She was busy, attempting to clean up the mess of the night, and did not see his approach. “Excuse me,” he began, “I was wondering if I might purchase some dinner?”

She looked up from scrubbing the counter with a bright smile. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Louis offered a weak grin. “Am I that obvious?”

“Like a sore thumb,” she answered. “About that dinner, I ain’t got much. Maybe some hard biscuits and cold gravy in the back.”

“I’ll take it,” Louis exclaimed and eagerly fished a roll of bills from his pocket to pay her as she disappeared and returned with a plate of cold food. She saw the money in his hand. “Don’t fret about paying for it. It’s just left over from my pa’s supper. You just take it, now.”

“Thank you.” Louis bowed his head in gratitude and took the plate.

“What’s your name, mister?” she called after him as he started for the stairs.

“Louis Farmer.”

“You staying a while?”

“Sadly, yes,” he confirmed.

“See ya tomorrow then,” she said, vanishing into the rear of the bar without so much as a second glance over her shoulder.

A plate of food in his hands, Louis walked back up the saloon stairwell to his room. He was surprised to find he was looking forward to seeing the cook of his simple meal again.

Five

A s the sun rose over Reaper’s Valley, Nathan came awake with a start. Pastor Gregory, who’d been on his way to check in on him, found himself staring into the barrel of an angry Colt .45. “Whoa!” the pastor shouted, showing his empty hands.

Nathan lowered the gun. “Sorry.”

Pastor Gregory shrugged. “I suppose if I lived the life I suspect you do, I would be on edge, too. “

Nathan holstered his Colt and sat up. His coat and shirt were gone. In their place was a large wrap of bandages about his upper stomach. Nathan began to unwind them.

“Changing those is a good idea,” Pastor Gregory commented. “That’s a fairly nasty wound. We don’t want it getting infected. Let me help you wash it.”

“Don’t bother,” Nathan told him. The pastor stopped dead in his tracks as Nathan tossed the red-stained rags aside. There was no trace of the gaping wound from the night before. Pastor Gregory’s mouth hung open in awe of the miracle he’d just stood witness to. “H-h-how?” he stuttered.

“I’m a fast healer,” Nathan said without further explanation.

“I’ll say,” Pastor Gregory agreed, giving Nathan an odd look.

“Where are my clothes?” Nathan asked. “I don’t have much time.”

“You’re going?”

“I’m very grateful for your help,” Nathan assured him, “but there’s someone I have to find quickly. I’m sure you have a slew of questions, but I can’t answer them. Now, where are my clothes?” Nathan repeated.

“I tried to clean and mend them as well as I could while you slept. I guess the Lord knew you’d be needing them a lot sooner than I expected. They’re hanging on the line behind the church, beside the creek.” Pastor Gregory blocked Nathan’s path as he started for the door. “Will you answer one question for me, Nathan?”

Nathan gave him a warning glare but nodded.

“Who are you?”

Nathan smiled. “I am a servant of God, just like you, Father.” He gently pushed Pastor Gregory aside and walked into the rays of the morning sun.

“Wait!” Pastor Gregory cried after him. “If you’re in such a hurry, you shouldn’t try to go it on foot. Take my horse. He’s not fast or young, but he’s around back, too. He’s yours if you want him.”

“May the Lord bless you and keep you, Father,” Nathan said sincerely and left the pastor staring after him as he rode away towards Reaper’s Valley. Gregory shook his head, wondering if the poor boy ever figured out he wasn’t Catholic.

Six

Louis rose early. The saloon was empty, except for the owner. Pete didn’t bother to acknowledge his presence as he walked past the bar on his way to the street.

Louis decided his day should start with a proper breakfast, paid for with the money he was given for his travel expenses. The sky was blue above him, without a cloud in sight. Something about the sun made him feel safe from the darkness he was searching for. His stroll through the streets of Reaper’s Valley led him to a dining establishment that was as respectable as he supposed he would find in the west. Truth be told, he was rather impressed as he lingered in front of its main window and peered in at its well set tables.

Mr. O’Rouke, whom Louis supposed he should call sheriff now, was seated at one of the tables, shoveling heaping spoons of egg and sausage into his mouth. Louis started for the door, but stopped as he spotted a rider galloping into town. A wave of excitement and fear wash over him. The rider wore all black and was clearly in a hurry.

“Could it really be him?” Louis whispered. There were only a few people in the street, as it was still early. The rider brought his horse to a halt only a few feet from where Louis stood. He looked down at Louis from his position in the saddle.

“Where is the sheriff?” the rider in black demanded.

Louis blinked. He couldn’t believe this was really happening. The man he’d traveled so far to find had just found him. The editor’s hand slid into his pocket, gripping the tiny pistol hidden there. “You’re him, aren’t you?” Louis asked as the man shifted on his horse and brushed his long coat back to reveal a Colt revolver holstered on his hip.

“I have no quarrel with you, but I will kill you where you stand if you try to use that gun you’re holding,” the black-clad stranger replied.

Louis went pale and released the Derringer from his sweaty palm, letting it drop back to the bottom of his pocket. “My name is Louis Farmer,” he blurted. “I’m a friend of the man who wrote the novel about you. I’ve come all the way from New York City to...”

The man cut him off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t care. Do you know where the sheriff is or not?”

“I’m right here, boy,” a voice boomed from the door of the restaurant. Both Louis and the man in black turned to see O’Rouke watching them with a bright, shiny new badge pinned to his jacket and a double barreled shotgun in his hands aimed at the rider. “What is it you want?”

The stranger hopped down from his saddle and landed gracefully on the street to face O’Rouke.

“Take it slow,” O’Rouke warned him. “I don’t know you from a hole in the ground, son, but I can tell you’re trouble. Move again without me telling you to, and we’ll be fitting you for a wooden box. You take my meaning?”

“This town is in danger,” the rider stated, ignoring the lawman’s threats. “There’s a man coming who will murder every man, woman and child in this valley, Sheriff. You can’t stop him alone—and neither can I.”

O’Rouke looked at Louis with disbelief, as if he could not belief the audacity of this man riding into his town and telling him what he could and couldn’t handle. The book editor shrugged, at an uncustomary loss for words.

The sheriff turned to the man in black again. “Are you some kind of crazy or something? Ain’t nobody killing anybody in this town now that it’s under my watch. I think you’d best put those pistols of yours on the ground, real slow like, boy, and come with me. I got a feeling we should have a serious talk together in private.”

“You can call me Nathan,” the rider said with an eerie calm, considering there was a shotgun pointed at his chest.

“Fine, Nathan.” O’Rouke mood was growing more foul by the second. “Put those guns on the ground and I’ll listen to whatever you got to say.”

“No,” Nathan said.

“What?” O’Rouke’s barked, his finger twitching on the trigger of the shotgun. Apparently, the big man wasn’t used to folks standing up to him.

“You heard me, Sheriff,” Nathan said in a cold, flat voice.

Louis watched in horror as O’Rouke fired his weapon. Both barrels of the shotgun thundered, echoing through the empty street. With a skill unlike anything Louis had ever seen, Nathan sidestepped the shotgun’s blast, avoiding taking a bullet. His poor horse wasn’t as lucky. The shots hammered into its side as it rose up on its hind legs, making a terrible, painful whinny before fell over into the street.

Nathan threw himself at O’Rouke. With a chop of his hand, he sent the sheriff’s shotgun flying from his grasp. Nathan followed up with a blow using the flat of his palm to the underside of the sheriff’s chin. O’Rouke went reeling backwards, spitting teeth and blood. Nathan spun on the ball of his left foot, hitting the sheriff with a kick to the chest with his right that sent the lawman careening through the restaurant’s window to land with a crash on the wooden floor inside. Louis raced to the window for a better view after Nathan had darted through it, following O’Rouke inside. Nathan stood above the sheriff, looking down at him. The other diners were frozen in their seats, watching the scene unfold before them.

“Don’t even think about trying for your pistol,” Nathan growled at O’Rouke as the sheriff tried to sit up. “I just want to talk, that’s all. But you’re not getting my guns.”

Louis could see O’Rouke wrestling with his pride. A stranger had just ridden into town and put him on his arse during his first day as sheriff, and worse, had done it in public, for all and sundry to see. Word of their fight and the lawman’s loss would spread like wildfire and tarnish O’Rouke’s reputation as a tough man.

Nathan leaned in and offered the sheriff a hand to help him to his feet. Grudgingly, O’Rouke accepted it. Nathan pulled the big man up. “Come on,” the sheriff grunted. “If we’re doing this, it’s going to be in private. No need to spook everybody with your crazy stories.”

Before they left the restaurant, O’Rouke put on a show, telling folks everything was fine and to go about their business as if nothing had happened. Nathan kept silent and let the lawman appease his constituents. Louis met them as they stepped back outside. “I’m coming with you,” the editor informed them. “I believe I know this man, Sheriff, and can tell you whether or not what he has to say is true.”

Nathan shot Louis a curious glance as O’Rouke snarled, “Do whatever you want. Don’t reckon’ having you along will hurt none.”

Seven

O ‘Rouke swiped at the blood on his lips with the back of his hand and collected his shotgun as he led them to Reaper’s Valley’s jail. The lawman took a seat behind his big, oak desk and set about pouring a shot of whiskey from a bottle he retrieved from his bottom desk drawer as he waited for Nathan to get on with his story. Louis took a seat across from O’Rouke but Nathan remained standing. “Do you believe in the Bible, Sheriff?” he asked.

O’Rouke raised an eyebrow. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything,” Nathan answered flatly.

“I suppose I believe in the Lord and his word, but I ain’t much of one for church,” O’Rourke answered evenly.

“Then you know demons are real.”

Louis was on the edge of his chair with anticipation as Nathan continued.

“There’s a demon on the road to Reaper’s Valley right now, as we speak. He’s very old, very powerful, and hates all of God’s creations. Above all else, he hates us, human beings. Man was made in God’s image and the Lord loves us best.”

“I done said I ain’t much on preaching, boy, or are you deaf? If you got something to tell, just do it, and leave the sermons for Sunday,” O’Rouke grumbled as he gulped down a second shot of sour mash.

“This demon is coming here to kill us. He hopes he can kick start the end of days by releasing his full self in this town and letting his evil grow, fed by sin, until it consumes the world.”

“Why here?” Louis asked, unable to stop himself from interrupting.

“I don’t know,” Nathan admitted, shaking his head. “Maybe because I’m here, maybe because it’s as good a place as any. He’s tried once before. I managed to stop him, but not to the point where he can’t try again—and he will, right here in this town. Soon.”

“Even if I believed you, which I ain’t saying I do, how on God’s green Earth am I suppose to help you stop a demon?” O’Rouke chugged another shot of whiskey and refilled his glass.

“Round up every man you can who knows how to handle a gun and we’ll meet him on the road. It’ll be cleaner if we can kill him before he makes it into town.”

“I’m sorry, son, did you just say kill him? Didn’t you just say he was a demon?”

“While he’s on Earth, his physical presence can die. If it does, he goes back to Hell and will stay there until the proper time for him and his kind to be unleashed upon the world in force, which I pray is a time long in the future. Killing him will not be easy, but there are ways,” Nathan explained.

“What about all the folks you murdered in Highwater?” Louis interjected.

Nathan shook his head. “I don’t know who told you that, but they got it wrong. Those weren’t people and I didn’t kill them. I set them free.”

“Wait,” O’Rouke demanded, turning to Louis, “What are you talking about? Wasn’t Highwater that town that people say went crazy and no one made it out of there still breathing?”

“Yes, but one person did make it out,” Louis gestured at Nathan. “He did.”

“None of that matters,” Nathan shouted. “I didn’t kill those people! He’s coming here—right now. Will you stand with me and defend humanity?”

O’Rouke turned to Louis with his eyebrow raised in question. The editor was stunned the sheriff considered his opinion to have any value. “I think we should,” Louis said quickly. “If he’s telling the truth, one can infer that this demon he’s talking about is what caused the Highwater massacre. I don’t know about you, Sheriff O’Rourke, but I believe him. I think we’re in danger.”

Eight

Eliza was impressed by the size of her brother’s estate. His farm was massive and his house was a mansion in comparison to the ones she’d seen in Reaper’s Valley. It was a two story affair with six rooms on the ground floor and three above.

There was china in the cabinets, furniture that looked to have been well cared for until recently, and even a small library which must’ve been Timothy’s study. The brother she recalled from her youth, who’d struggled to become a lawyer only to throw it all away on a whim, was an ill-tempered drunkard lost in self pity.

Losing his license to practice law was the least of the shames he’d visited upon their family name. He’d stolen money from his clients, gambled, kept whores on his payroll, and worse, until it all came crashing around him so hard, Timothy had no choice but to leave the city or risk having his crimes proved in court of law. Their father, a powerful senator, had cleaned up most of his mess and swept it under the rug, but even so, Timothy was left with much to own up to.

This house, however, made Eliza wonder if Timothy had found himself again in the west. She believed people could and did change—and she hoped he had. In spite of all of the sins Timothy had committed during his short lifetime, to die out West alone, far from his family and childhood friends, was a sad and tragic thing.

She ran a fingertip over the top of the table in the living room. It came away from the wood’s surface smudged with dust. The only question left was what to do with the house and the farm. Timothy’s debts were surprisingly small. It appeared he’d kept a good watch on his accounts and made sure they were straight and properly handled here, unlike his past conduct in the city.

Paying off his few debts would not be a problem.

Selling the house was why she’d come. But now, here where her brother had apparently reshaped his life and reformed his behavior, she was tempted to stay—at least for a while. If she did, she would certainly require some servants and hired hands. Though she was capable and independent, the house was simply too large for a single person to care for on a daily basis.

Timothy’s staff was long gone. When he passed on and their pay came to a staggering halt, they hit the trail. Word of her coming had not proceeded her or perhaps they might have stayed to see if they could find work in her employ.

Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would ride into town and hire help. With a laugh, she realized she had made her choice. Eliza walked onto the house’s front porch. Before her lay a beautiful sea of browns and greens which intermixed like life and death themselves. There was no denying the allure of the wide open West. Not even the darkness of a small band of storm clouds gathering on the horizon marred its rugged splendor, only added to her feral grace.

Nine

Louis wandered back to the saloon as O’Rouke left to gather those he could. Nathan agreed to wait for him at the jail.

For the life of him, Louis couldn’t puzzle out why he’d opted to accompany Nathan and the sheriff as they rode to meet the demon before it reached Reaper’s Valley. Such bravery was very uncharacteristic, and his skill with a gun was negligible. Likely, he admitted to himself, he would be more of a hindrance than a help to their posse should real trouble arise. But something inside him, whether it was a misguided sense of adventure or something more, told him he had to go.

Maybe, he thought, I have finally grown a backbone. Louis marched himself up to the bar and slapped his palm loudly on its top, demanding Pete’s attention. The big man sauntered over to where the editor stood. “What do you want?” Pete barked as he polished a water-spotted shot glass with a stained white rag. Louis steeled himself and spoke. “I want to see the girl who was here last night.”

Pete laughed in his face. “Which one?”

“The one who was sweeping behind the bar.”

Pete’s head tilted slightly to the right as his gaze cut into Louis’, his humor gone. “My daughter?” he asked sharply. “What do you want with her?”

Louis held firm, though inside, he was shaking in his boots. “That’s between us.”

Pete set down his towel and glass and leaned onto the bar, his hand reaching for something out of sight.

“Pa!” the girl shouted from the rear of the bar as she came running up behind her enraged father. “You leave him alone, now. You can see he’s harmless. Put down that gun!”

Pete grunted and his hand drifted back into sight, empty. The saloon owner laughed, taking in Louis’ gangly frame and bespectacled face. “I reckon he is at that. You just remember you got work to do. Don’t you let him keep you long.”

“Yes, pa,” the girl answered as she walked around the bar and led Louis to a table in the far corner of the saloon where they took seats across from each other. “You’re either really brave or really stupid, mister,” she told Louis. “I seen my pa break a man’s arm for less offense than that.”

“My name’s Louis,” he said nervously as he chewed on his lower lip, preferring not to think about her pa and whatever weapon was lurking beneath the grimy bar counter any longer.

She grinned at him. “I know.”

Beautiful wasn’t the right word to describe her—she was fetching in a plain, simple kind of way. Her dress was home spun and worn from age. It possessed its fair share of patches, which Louis guessed she’d sewn into it with her own capable hands. She was thin, but not sickly, with brown hair and eyes to match that complimented her tanned skin. She certainly wasn’t the type Louis lusted for in his dreams, but she’d been nice to him, and he found her kind nature attractive. “What’s your name?” he asked. “I didn’t catch it last night when we met.”

“Beth,” she answered, brushing a strand of hair over her ear.

He took her hand and she gasped at the unexpected contact. “Beth, there’s some real bad trouble coming to Reaper’s Valley. I’m riding with the sheriff this afternoon to see if we can stop it before it gets here.”

Beth giggled, her mirth lighting up her face to make her dull features almost pretty. “There’s always trouble here.”

“Not like this,” Louis assured her. He fetched his Derringer from his pocket, concealing it as best he could in his palm, and pressed it into her hands. “I want you to have this.”

She gave him a look that told him it was the oddest gift she’d ever gotten. “I don’t want no gun, Mr. Farmer. I got my pa to look after me.”

“Please, Beth,” Louis begged her. “Take this. You may need it if we can’t stop the killer that’s coming.” She studied him for a minute and then sighed. He guessed she sensed his real fear. Finally, she accepted the gun and slid it into one of the pockets sewn into her dress.

“Don’t let anyone know you have the Derringer and only use it if you have to,” Louis finished as he stood up from the table.

Beth met his eyes as he looked down at her. “Thank you, Louis,” she said softly, giving him a small, crooked smile. He nodded and walked from the saloon, hoping she’d be alright. He’d done what he could to repay her kindness.

Ten

Eliza started into her brother’s house, but movement in her peripheral vision made her turn to the horizon once more. She squinted towards the east, trying to see the tiny shape in the distance drawing closer with each beat of her heart.

Then she saw him.

A rider was pushing his horse hard and heading straight for her new home. A shiver ran through her and turned her blood cold as she realized she was alone without a proper weapon to defend herself with if the rider proved to have ill intentions.

Never one to give into fear without cause, Eliza remained where she was on the porch and checked her appearance, making sure her dress and hair were in order. She released an audible gasp as the rider drew closer, shock coursing through her veins. The man in the horse’s saddle was her dead brother, Timothy.

He brought his horse to a stop at the edge of the porch, kicking up dust in the animal’s wake. Timothy’s boots crunched the gravel as he dismounted, a leer splitting his face. His blond hair, which matched her flaxen tresses, was drenched with sweat and he appeared very much alive, though on the verge of collapse.

“Hello, sis,” he greeted in a haggard voice. “I didn’t really think you’d come.”

His corporeal ghost walked up porch’s short set of steps and approached her. “Timothy?” she cried in disbelief, still not trusting her eyes, even as tears welled up in them. “But you’re dead.”

Timothy’s form shifted like water, swirling and reshaping. Maggots crawled from open patches of decayed flesh across his rotted, sickening excuse for a face. His nose was missing and one of his eyes dangled from its socket, attached by a bloodied strand of sinew. Eliza almost vomited when she caught a whiff of the stench wafting from his decomposing person. The repugnant odor of decay coming from his walking corpse was overpowering.

Timothy took her hand and pulled her into his arms. His touch was cold and his grip was so tight she winced. “Yes, he is,” the corpse-thing cackled as it held her to its chest. Then it whispered, “I’m not your brother,” as its foul breath tickled her ear.

Eliza screamed and shoved the thing with all the strength her adrenaline-spiked terror could muster. She caught the ghost by surprise, causing it careen backwards over the porch’s railing, into the yard. It hit the ground with a loud, wet thud.

The corpse suddenly melted away and in its place was a foppish man dressed in regal white clothing from head to toe. Even his hat was a stark shade of white, blinding like snow on a clear winter’s day. The man grinned, showing her his perfect teeth, with a devilish glint of mischief in his eyes. “Oh, Eliza,” he giggled, “I was just funnin’. I am very upset at what a naughty girl you have been. It’s not nice to shove people. Someone could get hurt.”

Eliza ran into the house and slammed the door behind her, twisting the lock into place, fearful the small precaution was not enough to keep her unexpected visitor outside of the home she had just inherited. Her breath came in ragged pants and her heart raced in her chest as she leaned with her back to the door, taking inventory of her situation and trying to come up with a plan of escape.

Expecting the man-ghost outside to come crashing in through one of the dusty windows at any moment, she sprinted for the stairs. She raced up to the second floor, and into what was once Timothy’s bedroom. The door had no lock. Straining, she shoved a heavy dresser against it, blocking the entrance, then slumped to the floor in the corner of the room.

Tears flowed over her flushed cheeks in tiny rivulets, but she managed to keep her sobs muffled. The house was quiet and the sounds of shattering glass never came. After a couple of moments of satisfying self-pity, Eliza forced herself to take several deep breaths and calm down. If she was going to live through this nightmare, a clear head was a necessity—fear caused people to do foolish things, and she could afford no mistakes.

She listened closely, hoping to hear something that would give her a clue as to where the creature was, but there was only the sound of her own heart beating in the silence which had fallen over the house. She scanned the room from where she sat, trying desperately to spot something, anything, she could use as a weapon.

She held her breath as she heard a faint scuffling noise in the bedroom’s closet. Craning her neck in the direction of the sound, Eliza threw up her hands and let out a startled shriek as the monster exploded out from the closet and scurried toward her. It roared, revealing row upon row of jagged, razor-like teeth within its distended jaw.

Eleven

“This is it?” Nathan asked O’Rouke, disappointment dripping from his words at the sight of the small group of armed men the sheriff had rounded up.

“Reaper’s Valley ain’t New York City, Nathan,” the sheriff drawled, shrugging. “These men aren’t being paid or asking to be compensated for joining our cause. You should be glad anyone came at all.”

“He has a point,” Louis added. “I really have no idea why I am here myself.”

“Neither do I,” O’Rouke muttered under his breath.

“He’ll be riding in from the east,” Nathan told the small posse as he drew one of his revolvers and checked it. “I doubt he’ll care if we see him coming or not. He won’t see us a real threat. That should give us an advantage.”

“It’s pretty barren out there, nothing but sand and rock for miles other than a few homesteads,” O’Rouke said. “There’s only one road and that’s the one the stage uses. From what you say, he shouldn’t be hard to find. I’m told Bull is the best tracker in these parts.” O’Rouke gestured to an unusually tall Indian who stood even taller than the Irish lawman. “He doesn’t speak much English, but he’s a good man from what I’ve seen of him so far and comes highly recommended.”

Nathan nodded and then glanced at the sky. “We’re losing light. It’s time to go.” He swung up into the saddle of his horse, making the leap in one swift, fluid movement. “Try to make sure everyone stays together, Sheriff. We don’t want the demon to get the drop on us and pick us off, one by one.”

As everyone was mounting up, Louis skittishly started for the horse O’Rouke supplied for him.

“Think you can handle him?” O’Rouke teased as Louis attempted to climb into the house.

Wrapping his hand around the pommel of the saddle and shoving his shiny boot-tip into the stirrup, Louis drew in a ragged breath as he prepared to hurl himself astride the neighing beast.

“Don’t fret about me,” the New Yorker grunted as he managed to pull his way up onto the horse and tried to find his balance in its saddle. “I’ll keep up.”

O’Rouke snorted and rode on after the others, leaving Louis to bring up the rear of their small posse.

Not far outside of town, Nathan spotted a farm to the northeast. “What’s that?”

O’Rouke cleared his throat and spat onto the ground. “Don’t rightly know, mister. I just got here yesterday. Haven’t had the time to scope things out properly yet.”

“That’s the Green estate,” an older man with wrinkled skin and graying hair answered. “Ain’t nobody there. Green died some months ago and his workers hit the trail. Reckon the bank will get the place if none of the family shows up to claim it.”

“Wait,” Louis stopped him. “Did you say Green?”

O’Rouke exchanged concerned glances with Louis, then addressed the group. “A Ms. Green came into Reaper’s Valley on the stage with us. She was planning to settle her brother’s affairs, if I recall things right.”

Nathan stared at the farm. “He’s there.”

“How can you know?” Louis asked.

“Let’s go!” Nathan shouted, ignoring Louis’ question, and spurred his horse. The horse took off at a full gallop, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Nathan was already jumping out of his saddle when the others caught up to him at the house.

“Damnation, boy!” O’Rouke complained as he dismounted. “You want help or not?”

“Tracks,” Bull called to them in stilted English. “Man rode in. Not long before.”

Nathan walked onto the porch and tried the door. It was locked and didn’t budge. O’Rouke started yelling orders at his men. “Fan out! I don’t want nothing getting out of that house unless we see it first.”

Nathan backed off the porch, drawing one of his pistols.

“What are you thinking?” O’Rouke asked, walking toward the man in black. “Door is locked, I saw you trying it. And none of the windows are broken. Maybe Ms. Green found a place to stay in town?” the lawman postulated.

***

Louis followed Buck and two men named Hank and Tony around behind the house. Hank carried a Winchester rifle while Tony clutched a stout looking shotgun. Bull held a large, wicked knife. Louis realized with a start that he was unarmed. O’Rouke hadn’t given him a weapon and he’d passed on his Derringer to Beth.

“Try the back door and see if it’s open,” Hank ordered Tony as they crept along the back side of the farmhouse.

The thin cowhand nodded and stealthily approached the door. “It’s locked, too,” Tony said quietly. He turned to Louis. “Think we should let ourselves in?”

Splinters of wood flew as a pair of leathery, greenish hands with long, curved fingernails burst through the door and grabbed Tony from behind. The cowhand lost his grip on his shotgun as the hands yanked him so hard into the door that his breath left his body in a loud grunt.

The hands released the cowhand and he toppled into the dirt, bleeding from where the claw-like nails had sunk into his flesh. Hank whipped his rifle up to his shoulder and fired several times into the door. More wood splintered and cracked as the bullets punched through it.

“Nathan!” Louis screamed as the door completely shattered, bursting outward, as Eliza sprang from the house at them. At least, Louis thought it was Eliza. The thing wore the same black dress of mourning, but the resemblance to the woman he fondly remembered ended there. This woman’s skin was reptilian brown and green, and her once-stunning blue eyes blazed a shade of yellow that glowed in the dimness of the growing twilight.

Hank fired a round into her stomach that sent her staggering backward with an inhuman squeal of pain.

Bull rounded the corner of the house at a full sprint. The big Indian snatched her up in his long arms, pinning her hands to her sides, careful to avoid her sharp, clawing fingers. The woman roared and, with impossible, preternatural strength, ripped Bull’s thick arms from his body and tossed them to the ground

The Indian screamed as blood squirted from where his arms used to be. He staggered forward, his bronzed features contorted in agony, and tripped over the bloody stumps that were once his upper extremities. He fell to his knees with a muted thud, then bled out, his legs tangled with his amputated arms.

The woman screeched and moved with the grace and speed of a ferocious cat, charging Hank. He managed to fire another shot, which blew a chunk of flesh from her shoulder, before she slammed into him, taking him down to the ground with her. They rolled a couple of rotations, each vying for control, but she came out on top. She sat astride him, slashing his face over and over with her claws until nothing remained but a bloody mess of mangled meat with the white glint of bone peeking through the crimson muddle.

***

Nathan and the rest of the posse came running in from around both corners of the house, converging where Louis stood, paralyzed with fear. O’Rouke and Nathan closed in from the right; the old man, Buck, along with a kid named Henson, came in from the left. Nathan popped off a shot from the Colt in his hand as he ran. The round struck the woman’s forehead squarely between her eyes, scattering her brains to the wind. She teetered over Hank’s corpse, then collapsed onto it, covering the gruesome visage with the thick fabric of her black dress.

O’Rouke wasn’t taking any chances after seeing the carnage around him. He marched up to Eliza’s remains and emptied his revolver into her unmoving form, just to make sure she stayed down. The woman’s body twitched as each bullet tore into the dead flesh, but otherwise, she didn’t move. O’Rouke flipped open his pistol’s chamber and dumped the empty cartridges onto the ground. “What in the Hell is she?” he demanded as he reloaded.

Nathan looked sick. “We’re too late. He’ll be in Reaper’s Valley by now.”

“What do you mean too late?” Louis asked, dreading the answer.

Nathan closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, then told the remaining members of the posse, “It’s begun.”

Twelve

Michael Clark sat at the poker table with a blankness to his expression learned through years of practice. The man across from him wore the fine suit of a banker and was undoubtedly a shrewd businessman from the amount of money he had to risk. His skill did not apply to cards, and he was not very good at poker. Michael intended to take the good banker’s money throughout the course of the game.

Michael had spotted the businessman’s “tell” by the second deal of the evening. The hand they held now would decide the final victor of the game and Michael knew he’d already won when he saw the man scratch at his thin, waxed mustache.

The gambler was about to call the banker’s bluff when, somewhere in the darkness outside of the saloon, a man screamed. The cry was more than one of pain. Pure, torturous terror resonated within the howling shriek.

Aside from Michael and his opponent, there were three other patrons in the saloon, along with the evening’s compliment of dancers and whores. Pete, the owner, reached beneath the bar and produced a double barreled shotgun as the other men scrambled to their feet and left their tables. As the crowd moved towards the main entrance’s swinging doors to see what was happening, Michael made use of the distraction. He swept the pot from the table into his pockets and crept deeper into the saloon, searching for its rear exit. A young woman with brown hair and a worn dress bumped into him as she emerged from the back of the building.

“May I help you?” she asked as another scream cut through the still night air out in front of the saloon, followed promptly by the sound of a shotgun being discharged.

Michael put on his best smile. “I believe you can. I was attempting to find a less crowded route of escape from this establishment.”

The young woman, who he thought he remembered was named Beth from his earlier transactions at the bar, was focued on the commotion outside. “What’s happening?” she asked him, standing on her tippy toes to peer over his shoulder.

“Don’t reckon I care to know, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, tipping his hat. As he tried to push by her, Michael found himself staring into the tiny barrels of a Derringer. Beth appraised him coolly. “I think you’re about to care,” she informed him. “Tell me what’s happening out there?” she demanded, pressing the pistol into his gut.

“I don’t know, ma’am, but I think it’s time we both hit the trail.”

A chorus of screams rang out as pistols cracked and a shotgun thundered again. The crowd at the door, the ones who hadn’t ventured outside, turned in a panic and fled towards them. A dancer darted by with tears flowing from her eyes and a stricken look of horror contorting her face as she raced for the stairs.

The saloon’s small outer doors swooshed apart as a mangled corpse was hurled inside. It landed on the floor, its head cracking wide open on the wooden slats. A puddle of red wetness grew around the dead man, staining the sawdust. Michael and Beth watched as a trio of creatures came bounding inside in search of the crowd. Two of them had once been men. Their skin was leathery and held a greenish, sick hue. Long razor-like nails sprouted from the tips of their fingers and their eyes glowed yellow with hatred and anger.

The third of the grotesque pack was a woman. Most of her hair and half of her face were gone, as if someone had blasted a shotgun into her at point blank range, leaving a hollowed-out crater where her cheek had once been. The woman leaned back her head and snarled like a mad dog, revealing rows of dagger-like teeth.

“Holy...” Michael started, but Beth poked him in the ribs with her gun.

“This ain’t the time to be takin’ the good Lord’s name in vain,” she corrected him. “We need all the help we can get. ”

One of the creatures launched itself up the wall to the open area of the saloon’s second floor, covering the distance in two leaps of its powerful legs. The female creature’s glowing golden eyes fell on Michael and Beth.

“This way!” Beth shouted as she tugged Michael into the rear portion of the bar where she and her pa lived. The gambler followed her down a short hallway and into a room that was half a kitchen and half a bedroom. Beth closed the room’s heavy door and threw a thick piece of wood across it to keep it in place. “That ain’t gonna hold her,” Michael warned. The door rocked in its frame and the wooden flat barring the entrance cracked from the pressure, barely staying together.

“You got a gun, mister?” Beth yelled. Michael nodded dumbly, drawing a revolver from underneath his jacket. “Then shoot her!” Beth screamed at him.

The woman slammed into the door again, and this time, it flew inward. Michael raised his gun and fired as she leapt at them. His shot wasn’t aimed, but God was with them and the bullet impacted with the woman’s skull, snapping her head back at an unnatural angle. The woman collapsed. Blood leaked from the hole in her head. “Is she dead?” Michael sputtered.

Beth kicked the limp body. “I think so. Don’t matter none, though. There’s two more of them.”

Beth looked at the pieces of the shattered door. “We can’t stay here. Besides, we got find my pa,” she said. Tears dribbled down her cheeks. “He’s stuck out there with those monsters!”

With the immediate danger passed, Michael was beginning to get his nerves and emotions under control. “Your pa is dead,” he said, his voice flat.

Beth whirled on him, moving in so close the Derringer’s barrels dented his gut as she poked it into him again. Tears streaked down her face and her cheeks were red with anger. “Don’t you dare say that. You don’t know if he’s dead any more than I do,” she snapped.

“Alright,” Michael soothed, staying as still as he could until she removed the Derringer from his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Beth said quietly. “He ain’t dead yet and neither are we.” She started for the door, but Michael caught her by the shoulder.

“Wait, let me go first,” he requested. “That little gun of yours is just going to make them angrier than they already are.”

Thirteen

O ld man Patrick lay with his face pressed into the dirt of the space between Pete’s saloon and the general store next door to it. He swore that if he lived through this horrible turn of events, he was gonna change his life forever. He’d give up drinking, be in church every Sunday, and he might even stop yelling at his wife, Margret.

As far as he could tell, everyone else was either dead or changed into one of them...them things. They were something straight outta Hell; he was sure of it—wasn’t nothing on this Earth like them. One of them popped its head around the corner of the general store and peered into the darkness where he lay.

Patrick held his breath and prayed like there was no tomorrow, and he wasn’t altogether certain there would be a tomorrow—for him or anyone else. The thing sniffed the air like an animal. It lingered for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to he was worth the effort of killing, then it moved on.

Patrick sighed in relief.

The thing must have thought he was dead or something. He didn’t really care. He was just glad it was gone. Patrick had no gun, not that a firearm would do him any good if he did. He’d just seen younger and stronger men get ripped to pieces in spite of being knowledgeable about the pistols and shotguns they carried. His heart wasn’t what it used to be and his chest hurt something fierce as he rolled onto his back and tried to figure a way out of the mess he found himself in.

He’d lost count of how many of those things there were now. It seemed if they didn’t kill you outright, but just hurt you with their teeth or claws, you became one of them.

They were fast, too—fast enough that having a horse wouldn’t matter, either, unless you were moving full speed before they ever saw you. Otherwise, they’d just drag you from the saddle and eat you anyway. With a trembling hand, he got his metal flask from his pocket and unscrewed it. “One more drink, Lord,” he whispered, “to settle my nerves.” He took a hit of the homemade rotgut and put away the flask. Wasn’t much he could do but make a run for it, and only a fool would bet on him making it.

Still, he had to try.

Margret would be waiting on him to come home, and if he was going to die, he wanted to be by his wife’s side. His bones creaked as he stood, or at least they felt like they did. The pain in his chest wasn’t getting better, either.

It was getting worse.

Patrick felt like a big heifer was standing on him, the pressure making it difficult to draw breath. He used the wall of the saloon to steady himself and stay on his feet. Something growled above him and his gaze shot upward. Frightened, he stared into the eyes of his death. One of the creatures was attached to the wall like a spider, its face so close he could smell its putrid breath. Patrick screamed as the thing let go of the wall and dropped onto him like a razor-covered ton of bricks.

Fourteen

O n the other side of town, Danny Reece was getting a lot more than he’d bargained for in coming to Reaper’s Valley. His plan had been such a simple one—get in, get his loot, and get the hell out of Dodge.

He’d ridden in three days earlier and began scoping out the routine of the town’s bank. He knew the sheriff would be new and not used to the area yet, if he’d even arrived by the time Danny made his move. It would’ve been so easy to walk into the bank tomorrow morning and ride out with the town’s money stashed in his saddlebags.

He cursed his luck, wishing he hadn’t dragged his feet and waited an extra day. Danny knew seeing the sun come up would take a miracle, and he didn’t expect to live through the night to see daylight. He didn’t know what the creatures in the street were and he sure as hell didn’t care to find out.

They bled and that was enough.

Danny was sure he’d killed two of the things as he’d fought his way to the town’s tailor shop where he readied himself to make his last stand. He’d snatched up a shotgun from the corpse of a man who had never got the chance to fire it again after he’d reloaded. Danny knew that shotgun had saved his life.

As he sprinted across the street, a creature wearing the flashy dress of a dancing girl made a grab for him. Danny squeezed the gun’s trigger as the shotgun bucked in his hands. The blast caught the woman dead on in her stomach. Her entrails poured to the dirt from the gaping hole the blast had torn through her. She howled and grasped at the strings of intestines dangling out of her midsection, trying to shove them back inside, forgetting about him entirely.

As he ran on, Danny scooped up a Winchester rifle from the corpse of the blacksmith, then dived through the tailor shop’s window. He landed roughly on the floor amid shards of broken glass that fell inside with him, showering his body and skittering across the immaculate wood floor. Danny wasn’t very talented at many things in this life, but he was good with guns.

A creature lurched through the window after him. With the speed of a trained soldier, Danny pumped the Winchester’s lever as he fired round after round into the monster until the gun clicked empty. The creature flopped to the floor, its extremities jerking in the spasmodic throes of death.

Danny squatted near the thing, pressed the barrel of his Colt to its head, and pulled the trigger to be sure the creature didn’t get back up. Both the rifle and the shotgun were empty and he had no extra ammo for them. Only his pistol remained with which he could defend his life.

He carried eighteen additional bullets for the six-shooter on his gun belt and five were still chambered inside his revolver. He knew it was nowhere near enough to take out the attacking horde, but Danny had never run away from a fight in his life, and he had no intention of taking the coward’s way out tonight.

He watched as two of the monsters closed in on his position. Danny fired a couple rounds at them, hoping to force them into taking cover, but the shots did nothing to slow them down. Both of the things came forward, heedless of the danger.

Danny chuckled. The things were fearless and, in a sick kind of way, he admired them for their unique brand of courage. He gave a shout and leaped from the shop, running to meet them head on, his six-gun blazing. Danny sent the lead creature to Hell before the other plowed into him, sinking it nails into his flesh as it pulled him close and tore a chunk of meat from his sinewy shoulder. Danny cried out and tried to push his attacker away, but the thing held fast. Its second bite ripped through the bank robber’s throat, sending hot blood spraying into the air from the wound.

Fifteen

Lori cowered with her legs hugged to her chest in her room above the saloon. All hell had broken loose on the street outside minutes before; but now, as she sat in the dark, weeping beside her bed, the night had fallen eerily quiet. The death-like silence was so intense, Lori felt like she was the only person left alive in the world

She ran a hand through her long, dyed red hair and wondered how many people were lying dead in the street outside her window. Lori was too terrified to even think of crawling to the grimy pane and taking a peek to see. She had seen some of the monsters scale the walls of the buildings in town as easily as she might walk across a road.

Her body shook with sobs as she picked at a loose thread on her dress. It was a nervous habit from her youth that she reverted to in her fear. Her gaze was fixed on the open window as she waited to see a pair of yellow eyes rise over its sill. Still, no monster came to call, so she sat and cried and continued to hope all of this madness was merely a bad dream.

Someone rapped lightly on the door to her room. “Lori,” a soft, male voice called to her. “It’s alright, honey. You can come out now. The monsters are gone.” The voice tugged on her heart with an hypnotic tone, though it was not one she recognized. There was an edge of an accent to it she couldn’t place.

She hugged her legs tighter, rocking gently back and forth, debating her options. Monsters didn’t talk, did they? she wondered. Surely whoever was on the other side of the door was telling the truth and had come to save her. Ever so slowly, she tried to calm down and rubbed at her red eyes, wiping away the tears. She straightened her dress and got to her feet.

“Lori,” the voice called again as the door opened and a man entered her room. He shined like an angel from heaven. The man wore all white and smiled at her as he reached out and took her hand in his own, stroking it with white gloved fingers. She plunged into his arms and clung to him tightly as a fresh round of tears was born. He hugged her close as she sobbed into his chest. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he purred, running a hand gently up and down her spine.

“Who are you?” Lori asked, her voice broken by the sobs wracking her voluptuous frame.

“I’m your savior, Lori. I’ve come to give you a new life at my side—the one you’ve always dreamed of, where no one will ever hurt you or call you names ever again.” He broke from their embrace but kept his hold on her hand. “Come with me, Lori. I want you to meet your new family.”

With a hesitant smile, Lori followed him onto the open part of the second floor, which looked down into the saloon below. As she peered over the railing, a sea of yellow, hungry faces showing fanged teeth greeted her. She screamed and tried to pull away from the man.

“What’s the matter with you, you little whore? Are we not good enough for you?” the man in white snarled.

He grabbed her and forced her into her room again, and then flung her onto her bed. His hands tore her best dress and pushed her thighs apart as he climbed on top of her. “Don’t you worry,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust and sin, “I’ll show you how good we can be together. And if you’re nice enough to me while I do it, maybe I won’t let the children have a turn with you afterwards.”

Sixteen

Beth and Michael’s escape from the saloon was harrowing. They’d made it through onto the rear side of the building, thinking themselves mostly concealed from the terrors in the street beyond. Unfortunately, they stumbled upon one of the creatures feasting on the gutted corpse of an old man. Its head swiveled in their direction as Michael jerked up his pistol.

“Don’t!” Beth ordered as she shoved his gun down. “The noise will bring the others.” The thing hopped onto the saloon’s wall and scurried along it towards them. Beth and Michael ran for their lives. As they cleared the alley and sprinted on into the night, the creature reached the end of the wall and stopped, hanging sideways from the wood, watching them run. It roared after them but didn’t follow.

“There’s a stable not too far from here,” Beth told Michael, panting. She took the lead, ripping her dress at her knees so she could move more freely as she went.

As they approached the stable, the horses were running wild inside the fences, scattered in a state of panic. A lone creature sat on the gate like a bird perched on a clothes line. It wore the body of a boy who couldn’t be more than twelve years old.

The thing twisted its neck when he heard their approach. Upon seeing Michael and Beth, he leaped from the top of the gate into the dirt. With an inhuman snarl, he came loping towards them. Michael’s hand flew on the hammer of his pistol. Blood sprayed as the bullets struck the boy and knocked him from his feet.

Beth kept moving as Michael fired. She knew others would be coming, drawn to their position by the sound of gunfire. The boy flipped himself through the air like an acrobat and landed in her path. Beth forgot all about the tiny Derringer she carried, and tore the necklace she wore nestled close to her heart from beneath her dress. She held it out at the boy. “Get away from us!” she shouted as the thing looked upon the cross she held. It’s yellow eyes burst into flames. The boy howled as his eyes blazed in their sockets and ran away, blindly, into the darkness.

Michael caught up to Beth, trying to catch his breath. “What did you do to him?” he asked.

Beth shook her head. “I didn’t do anything!” she snapped.

Michael noticed the cross in her hand. “I think I need to get me one of those.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” Beth told him, cramming the cross into one of the stitched on pockets of her dress. “They only work for people with faith.”

Seventeen

Nathan, O’Rouke and Louis rode close together with Buck and Henson behind them. The sun had long ago sunk from the sky and the small group came to a stop at the top of a hill which looked down onto the town of Reaper’s Valley. Several of the town’s buildings were on fire and the night’s slight breeze caused the glowing embers in the flames to twirl about in the darkness like fireflies. “We’re too late,” Nathan moaned, taking in the destruction before them.

“It’s never too late as long as you’re still kicking,” O’Rouke argued. “Let’s ride in there and show this demon of yours what Hell is really like.”

“You try that and you’ll be dead before you ever get close to him,” Nathan said, shifting in his saddle to point at the saloon. “That’s where he is. He’ll be waiting on me to come to him.”

Louis squinted, trying to make out the shapes in front of the saloon more clearly. There appeared to be a crowd of people inside and around it. The way they moved told him they weren’t human anymore, but soulless, parasitic monsters. He thought of Beth and hoped she and her pa had made it to safety before the demon had moved in. “So, what do we do?” he asked no one in particular.

“I say we forget about all of this and get out of here,” the kid, Henson, suggested.

“And where would you go?” Nathan retorted. “Reaper’s Valley is just the beginning, boy. His evil will spread out from here like a plague until the whole world is consumed by it. His disease has been loosed. The only way to stop it is to kill him and take away the power that drives it.”

“Look,” Buck grumbled, “I don’t believe in demons and all the hogwash you’re rambling on about, mister. I just want to live to see the sun come up. Something tells me that if we go riding in there,” Buck said, pointing at the town, “it ain’t gonna happen, now is it?”

“There’s a fort north of here. What say we ride up there and get us some help?” O’Rouke suggested.

“He’s right,” Henson agreed. “The army can handle this mess a lot better than we can!”

“No,” Nathan said in a tone that left no room for disagreement. “They’ll just be killed. Or worse, transformed into more of those things like the one we saw back at the Green estate. Besides, who knows how far his plague will have extended before they could even get here. He has to be stopped now and we’re the only ones close enough to put an end to him.”

“One of those things killed three of us. How many do you reckon’ are in that town down there, Nathan? A dozen? Fifty or more?” O’Rouke asked.

“We need help,” Louis interjected as he patted his empty jacket, showing what remained of the posse that he didn’t even have a gun, to make his point clear. “I mean, not all of us are even armed, and none of us are trained soldiers.”

“I’d wager there’s only one man still alive in all of Reaper’s Valley at the moment. And I assure you, he can’t give us the kind of help you’re wanting,” Nathan said with a sigh.

Buck scratched at the gray and greasy hair under his beat up hat. “There’s the Presley farm off to the east yonder. Maybe the folks there are still breathin’. I know Robert has some hired hands who can handle themselves pretty well. If they’re still alive, they could help us. I also heard he’s got some dynamite he’s been using to clear the rest of his land with. Having some of that might go a long ways toward helping us stop this fellow you say is causing all this ruckus.”

“Alright,” Nathan relented, acknowledging the wisdom in the others’ arguments. “We’ll pay them a visit before we head into Reaper’s Valley. But one way or the other, we are going down there because he has to be stopped. Understand?”

Eighteen

Robert Presley poked at the corpse lying in the doorway of his barn. The damned thing had torn up every horse he had and killed both of his hired men to boot. It’d taken over a dozen shots to bring the thing down. He didn’t have the faintest idea what in the devil the creature was. It had the shape of a man and wore blood-drenched clothing torn and worn out to the point of being rags. A chill ran through him as he thought about how its yellow eyes had burned at him as if he were nothing more than food to be gobbled up. They had been full of hate, too—a hate so strong he had felt it in his bones as the thing had looked him over.

“Robert?” Jessica placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to pull him away from the dead body. He could tell she was scared and worried, and she had every right to be.

He ignored her as Gary knelt beside him and the corpse. “It ain’t breathing no more, pa.”

Robert shoved Gary to his feet. “You get away from it now, son,” he ordered. “No point in taking a gamble. Go and get some oil. We’re gonna burn the thing while we can.”

The damage the vicious monster had done was overwhelming and it weighed heavily on Robert. The horses it had killed and feasted upon were his livelihood. He had been planning on auctioning them off come Fall, and that money was supposed to have seen his family through the winter. Now the horses were gone and his help was dead. There wasn’t gonna be any money when the bank came to collect on its loans.

“Robert,” Jessica said again, more sharply.

“Quiet, woman,” he barked harshly, pushing her from him. “Can’t you see I am trying to think? You better be grateful Gary ain’t dead, too. Poor Mathew and Harold didn’t stand a chance against that thing. If I hadn’t got here when I did...” Robert let his words trail off.

“Got the oil, pa,” Gary yelled as he came running from the barn with a tin container swaying in his hands.

“Pour it all over that thing, son. I want it to burn fast and hot.”

When Gary was done, Robert produced a match from his cigarette case and struck it against the calloused pad of his thumb. He tossed it onto the thing’s body. The creature lit up with a “pouff” noise as the flames sprang to life on its green, leathery flesh. They all stood watching it burn as its meat crackled and popped from the heat, releasing the stench of brimstone into the air.

“Pa,” Gary said, “you don’t think there’s more like it coming, do you?”

Robert flew into his son’s face, so angry he felt like busting the boy’s skull open. “What in tarnation would make you think such a thing? I ain’t never seen anything like it in my life and I likely won’t ever again. Whatever it is, son, I don’t think it was meant for this world.”

“I didn’t mean nothing, pa,” Gary whispered.

Robert got a hold of himself. “Make sure you burn their bodies, too,” he gestured at the remains of Harold and Mathew. “We ain’t gonna have time to bury them proper.”

“Yes, sir,” Gary nodded as Robert turned his back on his son and started towards their house.

Nineteen

Pastor Gregory held the cross on the chain around his neck tightly as another of the things outside made a run at the church door. The creature wasn’t any more successful than the one before it. Its thick, leathery skin began to smolder and smoke before it was able to touch the church.

The demon winced in pain but forced itself on. It reared back a hand and punched the wood of the door, splintering the door’s frame as its hand burst into flames. Flinging its burning hand about wildly, it retreated and fell, rolling in the dirt.

There were a total of five of the monsters prancing and skulking around the church, searching for a way inside to get at him. Pastor Gregory knew they wanted his soul. The things reminded him of old paintings of the possessed he had seen as he had studied to become a man of God. He wondered if the rapture had come and he had been deemed too sinful to be taken into the kingdom of Heaven to meet his Lord.

Surely, he thought, there could be no other explanation for the spirits of Hell being loosed upon the Earth as the end of days begun.

Whatever they were, demons or evil spirits, they appeared unable to venture onto holy ground. He was safe as long as he stayed inside the church’s walls.

At least, he prayed that was the case.

With every attempt the monsters made, they seemed to get a tiny bit closer to forcing their way within the hallowed walls. The most disturbing thing was he recognized some of them from his flock. One of the demons wore a brightly colored dress that belonged to Mrs. Wessel. He knew the woman and her vivacious clothing well. She wore it to his services every Sunday morning as it was the best she owned and could afford no other.

Another of the creatures wore the remains of a pair of snake skin boots and a stained, gray vest that strongly reminded him of Mr. Ford, the town’s pious barber.

Pastor Gregory closed his eyes and whispered a prayer that the souls of his faithful followers were safe with the Lord and these things only wore their flesh over their demon spirits. His focus quickly returned to his own survival, however, as one the creatures’ clawed hands smashed through a window near him.

He flinched from the heat as the part of his attacker’s body that had forced its way inside the church was incinerated in a flash of fire and light, leaving nothing more than ash drifting to the floorboards.

With his faith in the protection of the Lord restored, his mind turned to more practical matters. He had very little food tucked away. He usually ate in town as he spent most of his time visiting his flock and spreading the word of God among the wicked as best he could.

There was even less water, perhaps a single pitcher which remained from tending the strange visitor he’d received the night before.

He hoped the monsters would eventually tire of their failing efforts and return to where ever they’d come from, but that seemed unlikely.

One of the things had died trying to get in and its death did nothing to deter the others. For almost an hour, as best he could guess, their assault was nothing short of relentlessness. Pastor Gregory doubted they would ever leave without claiming him, body and soul, unless something beyond his knowledge called them home or help arrived to drive them away.

He sighed and walked to stand below the altar, finding an unexpected state of peace washing over him. Pastor Gregory got to his knees and bowed his head. His trusted the Lord and the Lord would provide.

Twenty

M ichael and Beth rode hard, pushing their horses to the limit, though neither of them knew exactly where they were headed. The only thing that mattered was putting as much distance between themselves and Reaper’s Valley as possible.

When the frantic pace of their flight finally slowed, Beth paused to get her bearings. Though she hadn’t traveled much in her life, she had grown up in these parts and knew the landscape well. “Ain’t much out here, but we’re gonna need a place to rest and get some water for the horses when the sun rises.”

Michael’s skill at reading folks for a living tipped him off that he wasn’t going to like what was coming from her mouth next.

“We need to go back to town as soon as we can,” she informed him.

Michael laughed. “Ain’t nothing on this Earth that can make me do that, lady.” As soon as the words were out, he knew she was headed back, with or without him. “Here,” he said as he drew his pistol, tossing it to her. “You’ll be needing it a bit more than I will.”

“My pa is in Reaper’s Valley. I could use your help,” Beth pleaded.

“Sorry about that, lady. I know hopeless odds when I see ‘em.” He paused. “That there Colt has two rounds left in it. Keep one for yourself.”

Michael kicked his horse and rode on without another word. Beth held the gun for a moment and then tore more of her dress to tie the weapon to her waist. Tears burned in her eyes but she held them at bay. She would be strong and she would save her pa, even if all of Hell itself stood between them.

Beth decided that if she was really going to head back to town, it might as well be now. She turned her horse around. The moon hanging in the sky was tainted an unnatural shade of red, and it cast an eerie light across the desert’s sand and rocks as she rode. If she was about to die, she wanted to do it fighting for the ones she loved.

Twenty-One

Nathan and the remains of O’Rouke’s hastily gathered posse galloped onto the Presley farm. A rifle cracked as they approached. Henson yelped as a bullet blew his right shoulder into a bloody splatter of meat and sinew. The young man toppled from his saddle. Buck tried to reign in his horse and dodge the young man’s flailing body, but couldn’t move quickly enough. Everyone heard the sickening crunch as a hoof ended the young man’s life, popping his skull underneath its weight like a rotten melon.

“Take cover!” Nathan shouted in warning. Another shot came from the house, striking Nathan’s borrowed horse in the neck. Blood sprayed on his face, and he threw himself clear of the mare as it toppled towards him.

Louis and O’Rouke were out of their saddles and crouching behind the short, low cover of a trough. O’Rouke fired a trio of shots at the house with his pistol. Nathan scrambled to his feet and ran across the yard to duck underneath an unhitched wagon bed.

Buck was a goner. The old man gave into the rage of being partially responsible for Henson’s death. He spurred his horse, charging the house, firing as he went. Buck’s Winchester spat rounds into the grass as his horse bolted forward until the rifle clicked empty.

He was rewarded by a satisfying cry of pain. The old man didn’t have time to savor his victory, however, as a third shot from the house punctured his chest squarely in its center and sent him sprawling to the dirt, dead before he hit the ground.

Louis was pale with fear as he huddled beside O’Rouke. “Why are they shooting at us?” he cried.

“How the devil should I know?” the sheriff spat, leaning against the trough’s rim as he fired at the house. He emptied his gun, and then ducked back to reload.

“You, in the house!” Nathan yelled at the top of his lungs. “Hold your fire!”

A sobbing voice answered, “You just killed my ma!”

Another voice screamed, “Shut up, boy, and keep firing! We gotta keep ’em pinned down less we want ’em getting in here!”

Nathan sighed. Buck’s vengeance had determined the outcome of this battle with an unlucky shot, murdering the woman. There would be no reasoning with the folks in the house now. He glanced at O’Rouke and signaled that he was making a go for it. “Cover me!” he ordered the surly sheriff.

O’Rouke hopped up, his hand flying on the hammer of his pistol. Five shots boomed, smashing into the front porch, near the house’s windows, as Nathan rolled from under the wagon and bolted for the house. He quickly saw that both of their adversaries were on the first floor, firing through the open windows. A teenager with a rifle in his hands took aim at him as he ran.

“God forgive me,” Nathan prayed and squeezed his pistol’s trigger, aiming on the fly. His bullet slammed into the teenager’s forehead and the young man dropped from Nathan’s sight below the sill of the window where he had stood.

“Gary!” a rougher, more callous voice wailed. Nathan reached the house, crashing into its wall from the force of his speed. He flattened himself against it, hoping he was out of the man in the house’s field of fire. “Last chance!” Nathan yelled. “Stop this madness or I will!”

The man’s Winchester barked another shot at where O’Rouke and Louis hid behind the trough. O’Rouke grunted as the bullet hit its top, splicing the wood and sending splinters tearing into his cheek.

“Dang it!” he raged, clamping a hand over his wound. Nathan worked his way to the front door of the house and knocked it in with a single, well placed kick. He leapt into the house to find a man with a smoking rifle clutched in a white knuckled grip. The man spun, trying to get a bead on his opponent with the weapon.

Nathan put a bullet into the man’s stomach and a second one into his left arm, the impact causing the man to fling his rifle across the room. The home owner sank to his knees in a whimpering heap as a wet, red spot swelled on his shirt. He grasped the window sill, trying to stay on his feet. “Who are you?” the man wheezed and slumped to the floor.

Nathan walked to squat near him. “My name is Nathan Star. I’m here with Reaper’s Valley’s new sheriff, O’Rouke. Why did you fire on us?”

“Lost two men earlier tonight to some kind of thing that looked like a man, but wasn’t. It slaughtered all my horses in the field and then set into the ones in the barn. What was I suppose to do when I saw a posse riding onto my land with guns in their hands?” Robert’s voice grew weaker and more strained. “Didn’t know who you were,” he rasped with his last breath.

Nathan caught his body as he fell forward and then eased it to the floor. Brushing Robert’s eyes closed with the tips of his fingers, Nathan said a prayer for his soul. A once beautiful woman, her dress soaked with blood, lay several feet deeper into the room beside the corpse of the teenager he’d shot. A mixture of pity, anger and guilt kept Nathan kneeling over the man’s body as O’Rouke busted into the house with his Colt at the ready. Louis followed him, appearing terribly out of place.

Nathan glanced at O’Rouke. “You can put your gun away. They’re all dead.”

The sheriff took in the death around him. “Fools,” he muttered. “We just wanted help.”

Nathan stood. “Is a man a fool to fight in defense of his home and family?”

His words struck O’Rouke like a blow to the face and the sheriff bit his lip.

“This is really bad,” Louis said to no one in particular.

Nathan moved by him as he headed for the front door. “Yes,” Nathan nodded, “it is.”

Twenty-Two

“Lee,” the man in white whispered into Lori’s ear. “That’s my name.”

His head slipped to her bare and freckled breasts once more as his forked tongue, more than a foot long, lapped at her nipples. Lori shuddered as its cold coarseness, but laid still. Her body ached from the fury and passion of his thrusts. He’d taken her four times so far, and not every violation had occured in the bruised area between her thighs.

She whimpered as he laughed. “What?” he feigned shock, “You want more? You’re one hungry little whore. Or perhaps, I am just that good?” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I do believe I’ll keep you for myself, but you’ll have to wait for another romp, my dear. I have something I simply must attend to.” Lee stood and motioned for the small pack of demons, who’d come inside the bedroom to watch their exertions, to follow him as he left the room.

As he closed the door after him, Lori lay on her back, bleeding onto the bed’s sheets. She was out of tears and her voice was nearly gone from screaming, which had only seemed to urge him on to more depraved sexual acts. Sometimes, the things he’d done to her were so terrible or hurt so much, she’d couldn’t stop from screaming no matter how hard she tried.

She attempted to roll over onto her side, but the strength required to perform the action wasn’t there. She couldn’t endure his “affections” again. Lori rested, trying to gather enough energy to get up. Her throat burned and felt scratched down its length. She gagged at the thought of what caused the feeling. As the memory of his penetrating violence floated through her mind, she almost vomited.

Terrified she would drown in her own sickness, she struggled to calm her stomach and turned her mind to finding a way to take her life before he returned. She knew suicide was a sin, but so was almost everything else she’d done in her life. Surely God would understand this one.

Hell would be a relief compared to Lee’s touch on her skin and his probing, tearing fingers inside her. If she could just make it to her night table, where she kept a straight razor—just in case any of her normal clients ever tried something she didn’t want to do or got a bit too forceful in their loving.

She was under no delusion that she could hurt Lee in any real way, much less kill him—but if she could reach it, she could set herself free from the nightmare she was trapped in.

She tried again to get up and failed as pain shot through her midsection from the effort. Lori fell back onto the bed. The best she could do was to pull the stained and bloody sheets over her naked body and turn to God for the first time she could remember since she’d been a child. She begged for death to come and take her from this place.

***

Lee clapped his hands together rapidly as he stood at the top of the stairs leading to the saloon’s second floor.

“Come, my children!” he summoned the horde of demons below. Excited shrieks punctuated the air as the creatures laid back their heads and yipped their pleasure like a pack of frenzied coyotes. “There’s work to be done before you’re free!”

Twenty-Three

Nathan sat on the steps of the Presley’s porch while O’Rourke scavenged what weapons and ammo he could find.Louis pushed his glasses up his nose and walked over to the man dressed in black. “May I sit with you?” he asked.

Nathan shrugged. “Last I heard, this was a free country.”

Louis placed himself on the steps beside Nathan and took his pocket watch from his jacket. He held it up to his companion. Its hands had stopped ticking. “Now, I suppose this watch could’ve gotten broken dozens of times tonight, but something tells me it didn’t. It should have been dawn hours ago.”

“Noticed that, did you? Would you like a gold star for your discovery?” Nathan asked sarcastically.

“No, but I would like an explanation. I have never heard of a demon who had the power to blot out the sun.”

“He’s not one demon,” Nathan admitted with a sigh.

“I think it’s time you fessed up,” Louis stated. “I have pieced a few things together, but I’d like to hear the whole truth from you.”

Nathan appeared tired and beaten as he turned to Louis. “He calls himself Lee today, but he’s had many names over the centuries. You would know him best by the name Legion. He’s a swarm of hellspawn, compressed into a single form. No demon can truly bring on the end of days—only God can choose the time of his son’s return. Legion believes he can, though.”

“Wait, this is the thing Jesus cast out into the pigs?”

“Yes,” Nathan nodded. “Ever since those pigs drowned, he’s been locked in a single body. He hops from host to host like a disease. He believes that if he can free all the pieces that make up his whole on this earth, the world will become so much like Hell that he can force God’s hand. All he’s really going to do is take the human race to the edge of extinction and have a lot of fun doing it.”

“So those creatures...” Louis prodded.

“Yes, they’re pieces of him possessing whoever they can. He can even add souls to the numbers that compose him. If the host’s spirit is weak enough to be turned into a demon, their tainted spirit joins his. If one of them bites you or breaks your skin with its nails, their evil infects you like a plague. The sin inside you becomes alive and you become just another part of him.”

“Lord have mercy on us,” Louis prayed.

“And as you have noticed, the possessed are lesser demons than Legion, but they’re still demons. They are faster, stronger and more difficult to kill than a normal man or woman would be. Usually, it takes a lot of damage or a shot to the head to stop one of them,” Nathan added.

“So the last time he tried to force the end of days was in Highwater? That’s why everyone died there?”

“That was my fault.” Nathan sighed. “I failed to get to him before he released his taint. When I did reach him, I hurt him bad enough to make him run. Then I spent days cleaning up the mess he had made, freeing all those poor souls his pieces had taken over. That was only the first time he’d tried to carry out his plan. I caught up with him again a few days ago and almost died trying to destroy him. I barely made it into Reaper’s Valley alive and I knew he’d be after me.”

“So you’re like some sort of holy warrior, tasked by God to stop him?” Louis asked.

Nathan shook his head. “No, I was one of them, but not a part of him.” The confusion plastered across Louis’ face must have been obvious because Nathan went on to explain. “I was possessed by another demon who was jealous of Legion and wanted to win the Morning Lord’s favor by showing him up. The demon that possessed me was named Baalon. He was not as strong as Legion, but he was more cunning. He only failed because God saw it fit to take him out from the game and put the fate of humanity in my hands, I suppose. That’s why I was after Legion in Highwater. Not because I was some kind of saint, but because I was caught up in the politics of the demons themselves. ”

Louis stared at him in awe. Nathan continued, “A man of God named Father Paige spotted Baalon as soon as he entered Highwater and managed to round up enough help to capture him for an exorcism. He was able to cast the demon from me, but Legion walked free while they wasted their time with me and Baalon. ”

He took a deep, ragged breath, then continued. “When Baalon was exorcized from my body, I discovered I was changed physically from the demon’s presence within me for such a long time as it had chased Legion across the country. I was faster and stronger, too. As soon as the demon was out of me, I hit my knees and tried to get right with God. I swore I would find Legion and stop him. I mean, knowing what I knew, what else could I do? You see, part of Baalon’s knowledge and memories stayed with me. I was the only man alive who knew what Legion was planning.”

“Is that why you wear black?” Louis asked, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose again.

Nathan nodded. “We’re all tainted by sin from the moment we’re born. That’s just the way things are. I wear black because I know and accept my faults. Legion wears white as a smack in the face of the Lord. Demons are fallen angels and they can be as beautiful and as alluring as the stars in the heavens if they choose to be.”

“And you really think we can stop him?” Louis held his breath, waiting for a response.

“Anything is possible, so long as it’s God will.” Nathan got to his feet with refreshed confidence and a new surge of energy. “Thank you, Louis,” he said, a rare smile stretching across his face. “I needed this talk.”

Louis gave him a weak smile in return. “I don’t know. I think I might have been better off without it.”

Nathan chuckled.

“Where’s O’Rouke?” Louis asked, looking around and seeing no sign of the sheriff.

Twenty-Four

Lee led his children from the saloon to find an unexpected surprise waiting for him. In the middle of the street stood a young woman in a tattered, torn and bloodied dress with shoulder length brown hair and a bold look of determination on her face. Around her lay three piles of ash. One of his children sat a few feet from her, grasping a leg which appeared to have been shattered by a well placed bullet. The young woman held a cross in one hand and a still smoking Colt revolver in the other. “You killed my pa,” she hissed.

Lee touched her mind with his own, copying all the knowledge of who she was and her memories, so he would be able to manipulate her more easily if the need arose. “Ah, what have we here, a virgin with a crucifix? Is it Christmas already?” He licked his lips and smiled. “Come now, Beth, what do you really hope to accomplish here? Your Colt is empty and that little gun in your pocket is as useless as your misplaced faith. Besides,” Lee laughed, “your father isn’t dead. He’s right over there.”

Beth turned and peered into the ranks of the foul things as they poured from the saloon and encircled her.

“Pa?” Beth said weakly as the demon that was once her father moved closer. The muscles of his thick arms rippled under his flesh, more powerful than ever. Gone were the eyes that had looked into her own so many times over the years with love and kindness, their gentleness replaced by shining yellow orbs of hatred and hunger. There was nothing human left about them and their unholy glow made Beth feel sick to her stomach.

Her pa took another step forward, and then sprang at her like a cat pouncing on its prey. Beth swung the cross in her hand up to meet him. He landed on top of her, shoving her into the dirt, as the cross touched his leathery flesh. A cry of fear and hurt exploded from his lungs as he burst into flames.

Beth screamed, too, as the flames spread over. She was trapped beneath his burning bulk with no means of escape. She lay in the street on fire, long after his body had flashed to ash. Beth howled and begged for help as she rolled about, trying to extinguish her flaming dress and hair. The man in white laughed long and hard, as did his children. They watched her die a slow and agonizing death in front of them, their fevered howls chorusing through the air.

When she finally lay still, Lee tipped his small, white hat to her corpse, and then turned his attention back to the matter at hand. One man still lived in Reaper’s Valley and his soul cried out to Lee. The pastor’s faith needed to be stomped out and his soul devoured. Lee motioned for his children to follow him and set out at a brisk pace for the church which rested just beyond the edge of the town.

Twenty-Five

O’Rouke yanked his oil lamp away from the open case he’d found in the corner of the barn as soon as he saw what was contained within it.

This was why they’d come.

He lifted a stick of dynamite in his free hand and felt its weight. O’Rouke counted eight more sticks inside the case. Seeing those damned monsters chew on one of these firecrackers would be fun. Carefully, he placed the stick back where it belonged. They didn’t appear to be sweating, but his knowledge of explosives consisted of what he had heard in stories told by drunken miners and railroad workers during his travels.

He figured Nathan would know how to handle the stuff properly. The man sure seemed to know everything else. Even the way he fought was fancy. O’Rouke had seen the martial arts style Nathan used among the Orientals, but he’d never seen a white man use it, much less with such skill, until Nathan put him on his arse during their first encounter. His tongue probed the empty gums of the two teeth he’d lost in that fight.

A shuffling sound came from the hay loft above him. O’Rouke drew his pistol and held his lamp high to get a look at the area where the noise had originated. A rat ran across one of the barn’s support beams and he breathed a sigh of relief. Though he would never admit it to another living soul, he was scared. Horse thieves, drunks, even gunfighters he could handle...but demons from Hell? They really creeped him out and put him on edge. He holstered his gun and went to fetch Nathan.

He ran into Louis and the man dressed in black at the entrance of the barn. “Found it,” he boasted. “We got ourselves enough dynamite to cause them things a real hurting.”

He led Nathan to the crate of dynamite and watched as their leader inspected it closely. “This stuff is in pretty good shape. Shouldn’t be too dangerous to carry, but I would recommend not letting it get bumped around too much, just to be safe.”

“Great,” Louis muttered. “Who gets to be the one to lug it into town?”

Nathan and O’Rouke both turned to him as he asked. The look on their faces spoke volumes. “I should have known,” he sighed. He grimaced at the container of explosives.

“Sorry, Louis,” Nathan said, putting a hand on the near-sighted editor’s shoulder, “but you are the logical choice. O’Rouke and I are the better shots and we know how to handle ourselves in a fight. If it makes you feel any better about it, we’ll be doing our best to keep those things off of you while you’re tossing the dynamite sticks.”

Twenty-Six

Pastor Gregory had long grown accustomed to the lingering, hungry howls of the demons outside the church. It was funny what a person could adapt to, given enough time. His hope had been that the rising sun would drive them back into the darkness which had given them birth, only the sun never rose. It was as if time itself had stopped in its tracks and the night had become eternal. Still, he was not afraid.

“God is good,” he said aloud as he prepared his meager meal of hardtack, stale bread and tepid water. He was grateful for the food on his plate, though he wanted a hot cup of coffee badly. Coffee was his one addiction and he drank too much of it on a daily basis. Being cut off from the caffeinated beverage without warning left him jittery and in a foul mood, despite his best efforts.

The front door of the church was almost gone. It hung on its hinges, a broken and battered mess of wood and splinters. It was only through the grace of God that somehow it still held the creatures at bay.

Most of the windows lay in sparkling shards on the floor. The demons outside, though they remained to plague him, had stopped their relentless attack on the building. Pastor Gregory bowed his head to say grace as a commotion began outside. The demon’s howls were joined by a chorus of similar cries that sounded like they were getting closer with each passing second.

Pastor Gregory set aside his plate of food. With the cross which once hung on the wall of his office in hand, he carefully peeked through the window closest to the main door. There were more than five dozen of the demons approaching from town to join the ones who sat watch over him. In their midst walked an angelic being, garbed in pure white, who glittered underneath the pale light of the stars.

“Pastor Wayne Gregory,” the glistening man in white called, “Your faith is about to be rewarded!”

Retreating deeper into the church’s main aisle, between matching rows of pews, Pastor Gregory prepared for the worst. The front door fell from its hinges as the man in white swaggered inside. As he crossed the threshold and walked toward Pastor Gregory, his illusion of graceful divinity fell apart. His white clothing smoked as patches of it began to smolder and his tanned skin melted away to reveal snake-like skin in place of flesh. The red glow of his eyes illuminated the horror that was his face, and when he smiled again, his teeth were sharp, pointed, jagged things like those of a rabid dog which had gnawed its way free of some mighty chain.

Pastor Gregory fought down the fear growing within him and stepped forward to meet the demon. He thrust his cross forward. “In the name of the Lord God almighty, I cast you out of this place!” The demon-thing threw its arms over its face to ward off the power of the cross. Pastor Gregory pressed his attack, moving closer still. “In the name of Jesus, begone!”

The thing peeked between its lifted arms and snickered at the pastor. “Just fooling,” it laughed and grabbed the cross from the man of God’s hand. Pastor Gregory saw the demon’s hand catch fire as it held the crucifix. It cursed and hurled it across the room.

Pastor Gregory heard the cross strike the far wall of the church and clatter, useless, to the wooden floor. The demon’s eyes glowed a darker shade of red as the flames on its hand were extinguished. Cradling its wounded extremity to its stomach, it glared at him.

“That wasn’t very nice,” it spat, his words devolving into a hissing noise when they stressed the ess sound. “I came all this way just to see you and you burn me. I was going to kill you quickly, but now I think a bit of suffering is in order.” The demon thrust its hands out from its sides, its arms spread long like the savior on the cross.

An unseen force blew the church’s walls and roof apart. The church’s structure flamed as it fell, becoming nothing more than ash before any of it ever touched the ground. The last bits of the debris drifted over Pastor Gregory like a black snow. The demon marched itself to Pastor Gregory, lifting him from what remained of the floor by this throat.

With the church destroyed, the demon’s foppishly handsome features returned, though they carried a hard, sinister edge. Lee’s white gloved fingers dug into Pastor Gregory’s flesh. “Your god is strong little man,” Lee hissed as a forked tongue darted from his mouth to stroke the pastor’s cheek. “But in this world, I am stronger. He gave it to us when we were cast from the heavens and I...I am going to make this world into such a likeness of my L

ord Lucifer’s dreams that not even God will be able to ignore the blood and flames!”

The pastor watched as the man in white held up the hand that had burned and showed it to him. “See, it’s all better now. Your effort was wasted—just as your faith is!”

Pastor Gregory twisted in the demon’s hold and spat into its face. Lee flung him into the waiting arms of his hungry, soulless children. Pastor Gregory felt dozens of cold, grasping hands pulling him in different directions. He screamed as one of his shoulders dislocated. A set of yellow teeth tore a chunk of meat from his thigh and a clawed finger poked his left eye from its socket to bob by a purple vein against his cheek.

The man in white waded into the ranks of the lesser demons and yanked him free of them. “It’s not time to die yet, Wayne,” he chided the pastor. Lee carried him to an enclave behind where the church had stood, and let his children hold Pastor Gregory against a tree with his arms spread and his feet pressed together.

Pastor Gregory watched in horror as Lee snapped off one of his own fingers and straightened it as another grew back to take its place. Lee removed two more fingers in this fashion before his attention returned the pastor. He plunged each of them through Pastor Gregory’s hands and pushed together feet, crucifying him on the tree. Pastor Gregory wailed and moaned with pain. Finally, Lee turned his back to the religious leader and motioned for his children to depart. They left Pastor Gregory to die as his savior had so long ago.

Twenty-Seven

Two hours later, O’Rouke, Nathan and Louis rode into Reaper’s Valley. The streets were empty except for the rotting bodies of the dead. The trio galloped up to the saloon and dismounted.

O’Rouke clutched a Winchester tightly in his sweaty palms and a pair of double barrel shotguns were strapped to his back. Louis wore a revolver in the holster of the new gun belt about his waist and held a stick of dynamite ready to be lit at the first sign of trouble. Nathan’s custom-made Colts were in both hands as he led the way into the saloon. The saloon reeked of stale blood, brimstone and human waste. The sheriff nearly gagged as he caught a whiff of it. There was no sign of Legion or his minions.

“Louis,” Nathan said quietly, “Check the upstairs.”

O’Rouke took a position that gave him a clear shot at the front door as Louis crept up the stairs to the second floor. “Where are they?” O’Rouke complained, impatient.

Nathan moved to the center of the huge saloon so that he could get a shot at both the rear of the bar and the main door if he needed to. As if in response to O’Rouke’s question, all Hell broke loose.

Demons came pouring from both sides of the saloon, snarling and screaming their rage and hunger. The lawman and Nathan opened fire at the same time. O’Rouke’s Winchester cracked, sending the fastest of the creatures coming at him straight back to Hell as a bullet blew out the backside of its skull. It toppled to the floor, tripping up the ones following it. Nathan’s hands were a blur as his pistols dispensed his own blend of righteous justice upon the pack of demons charging at him from the rear of the bar.

Seeing he didn’t have time to aim his shots, O’Rouke tossed his rifle aside and unslung his shotguns. He emptied the two double barreled weapons in a single, staggering blast. Three demons died as the heavy slugs ripped through their stolen bodies.

Out of shells, the sheriff dropped one of the shotguns and swung the other like a club. It impacted with the jaw of the creature leaping at him with the sound of crunching bone. The demon smashed into a table to O’Rouke’s left, its broken and disjointed jaw hanging open as blood bubbled from its mouth. The blow shattered the rifle’s stock, rendering it useless as a club, so the sheriff flipped it around in his hands and impaled the next demon.

As the broken shotgun slid into the thing’s chest like a spear, it grabbed at O’Rouke, slashing deep groves into the flesh of his arms through his jacket. The Irishman screamed, but held firm to his makeshift spear and twisted it inside the creature as it howled, its blood covering the front of O’Rouke’s shirt and hands. O’Rouke released the shotgun as the demon stumbled backwards, trying to pull the weapon out of its gut, and finally fell over. The sheriff drew his pistol like a professional gunfighter, but the remaining creatures were too close and too fast. He went down under a mass of clawing hands and gnashing teeth.

Twenty-Eight

When Nathan’s Colts clicked empty, twelve demons lay dead on the saloon floor. Only two of the ones who’d entered from the rear of the bar remained. He spun his smoking Colts into their holsters and held his ground as they charged at him. He caught the first one, using its own momentum against it, and smashed it into the bar behind him.

Its face crumpled inward from the force of the impact and Nathan left it lying unconscious as he turned to meet the second monster. With a swift kick to the underside of its chin, its neck was snapped in a single, painful motion.

Nathan knew he was far from being out of danger.

He jumped over the bar and ducked behind it. His fingers flew as he reloaded one of his pistols with a chamber of silver bullets, each with the sign of the cross etched into their tips. He finished just as the second wave of demons charged, fueled on by feasting on O’Rouke’s soul.

Nathan put a bullet into the first one’s right eye and rolled to his feet. He came up firing. Demons dropped like flies from his well aimed shots.

“Enough!” Lee shouted as he entered the saloon. The final seven demons inside the saloon sunk to their haunches and sat like cowering dogs in the presence of a cruel and violent master. Nathan and Lee stared at each other across the bar in silence.

Twenty-Nine

L ouis had barely reached the top of the stairs when the demons poured in and the fighting started. Knowing he couldn’t use the explosives he carried without killing Nathan and O’Rouke along with the things, he had ducked into the closest room and shut its door after him. He let out a cry of surprise and fear when he realized he was not alone. A battered and bloodied young woman lay on the bed across the room from him. Louis saw at once that she was still human and rushed to her side. He knelt by her and stared at her with compassion, trying not to let the pity he felt for her show as he met her eyes with his.

“Every thing’s alright,” he murmured, “We’re here to help.” Louis tried to remain calm even as he was on the verge of panic, not knowing how to handle the severity of her wounds. “What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Lori,” she rasped in a voice so weak he could barely hear it.

Louis recognized her as the fiery redhead he’d met on the stairs during his first night in Reaper’s Valley. She tried to speak again. Louis leaned in to make sure he heard her. “Kill me,” she begged.

Louis ignored her request.

He wasn’t a doctor, but he could see she was hurt too badly to be moved. “Just try to lay still,” he told her. “We need to keep quiet until Nathan makes it up here.”

Through sheer force of will, Lori lifted her hand enough to take Louis’ wrist. “No,” she said, as loud as she could, “please kill me. I wish this torment to end.”

Louis shook off her hold. His eyes met Lori’s again and he saw the fear and sincerity in them. He looked down at her bruised and broken body, had no doubt she had suffered at the hands of the demon called Lee. He doubted she would last through the fight and did not have the heart to watch her suffer.

Finally, he nodded, shrugging off his pack of dynamite and placing it on the floor. He pulled his pistol from the holster on his hip, cocked it with his thumb, as he’d seen Nathan do many times. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he lowered the pistol’s barrel to her sweat-drenched forehead.

He willed himself to take action, assured himself his actions were merciful, but he couldn’t bring himself to squeeze the trigger. In that split second of hesitation, Lori’s soul was consumed by the evil growing within her and replaced by something darker, beyond the realm of human comprehension. Her eyes filled with a sickly, yellow light and she lashed out, knocking the Colt from Louis’ trembling hand.

Then she was on him.

Louis cried out as her teeth tore his throat open. The thing that was Lori moaned an orgasmic whimper of pleasure as his hot blood flowed into her mouth. Louis’ vision went black as she pulled him onto the bed with her. As his life drained away, he felt each bite she took as she gnawed on him for what seemed like an eternity, until at last, he felt nothing at all.

Thirty

“Took you longer than I expected to get here,” Lee said.

“Did it now?” Nathan answered levelly, keeping his revolver aimed at the demon lord. Lee snatched a chair and plopped onto it with his legs spread open over its back and his arms resting across its top. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“You’ve been busy,” Nathan commented. “It’s easy to see that.”

Lee’s lips split into the mockery of a smile. “And there’s much left to do. I’ve only just begun, but I suspect you already know that.”

Nathan shook his head at Lee. “What I know is you’re not going to make it out of this saloon alive.”

Lee slapped the top of his chair with a flash of anger, his eyes flashing red for a heartbeat. “Oh, come now! The time for such empty threats is over. You’re outclassed and outnumbered, gunfighter.”

“You’re as arrogant as always,” Nathan replied with a laugh as he squeezed the trigger of his Colt. Lee’s eyes grew wide as he watched the bullet leave the gun’s barrel and come streaking towards him in slow motion. He was so stunned that, in spite of the power of speed flowing through him, he didn’t move fast enough to completely dodge it. As he dove to the side, the round smashed into his shoulder with a spray of blood and flames. His growl of shocked pain shook the very structure of the building around them.

As he clasped his wound, extinguishing the flames, Nathan was already on the move. He was over the bar and sprinting for the stairs before Lee sprung to his feet and gave chase. The lesser demons watched, afraid to interfere without being commanded to do so by their master. Lee grabbed Nathan and flung him across the saloon.

Nathan flew through the air and smashed into the far wall. He bounced off it and landed on the floor with his left arm broken and several ribs cracked. Nathan pushed himself up. “That all you got, hellspawn?”

“Fool!” Lee roared from where he stood on the stairs. “Don’t you know when you’re beaten?”

Nathan coughed up a splatter of blood and wiped it from his mouth with the back of his right hand, which still held firmly to his Colt. Nathan closed his eyes and channeled all that remained of the power inside of him into its last round and put his faith in God to guide it. Lee sprang at him again, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye as Nathan fired, but he was too late.

The bullet flew upwards and tore through the wood of the ceiling. It’s path carried it straight into the pack of dynamite that lay beside Louis’ corpse, where it had fallen off the bed. The saloon exploded in a giant ball of fire that lit up the darkness of the night. In its wake, there was only the snapping and popping noise of cooking flesh and burning wood.

Epilogue

Captain Marcus Alves sat in his saddle, longing for a stiff drink. His regiment had been deployed to the town of Reaper’s Valley to investigate the claims of various travelers who had shown up at Fort Gustner. Each and every one of them had swore that Reaper’s Valley was no more, and that all of its residents lay rotting in its streets. There were numerous theories as to why it had happened, the most popular among them being an attack on the town by the Indians who lived in the desert to the west of town.

Marcus’ orders were to take his men, ride into town, and discover what had really happened there. There were simply too many accounts to disregard out of hand, and if the Indians were involved, they needed to be dealt with.

As Marcus and his men rode in, the first thing that struck him about the destruction was its randomness. Some buildings were burnt to nothing more than piles of ash and charred timber while their neighbors’ homes remained unscathed. It was true that the unburied dead were everywhere. Most of their remains were nothing more than bones, picked clean by birds and other scavengers. Marcus estimated the death toll to be in the hundreds.

Inspection of the corpses gave him no evidence to support the theory that Indians were responsible. There were no arrows or dropped weapons to point a finger at them. Many of the skeletons, however, possessed oddly-shaped, razor-like teeth. It was something Marcus couldn’t account for with any rational explanation and seeing those misshapen skulls disturbed him to the core. He made the sign of the cross over himself and prayed that whatever happened in Reaper’s Valley ended with the deaths of its residents.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus caught movement coming from one of the burnt buildings. Something shifted in the rubble and ash of the saloon. At first, Marcus didn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing, but something stirred again. He rode over to the pile of debris and stared in disbelief as a living human hand pushed its way out from underneath the charred and broken wood. As impossible as it was, it was happening right in front of him.

“Help!” he shouted at the closest of his men. “Someone is still alive over here!”

Marcus and three other soldiers dug the man from the wreckage of the saloon and helped him into the street. They laid him on his back and one of the soldiers unscrewed his canteen, offering it to him. The man drank, long and hard, before handing it back. Marcus was bursting with questions for the miraculous survivor, but started with the simplest question of all as he knelt beside the man in the street. “What’s your name, mister?”

The man smiled up at him. “My dear Captain, you can call me Lee if you so choose.”

About the Author:

Eric S Brown is a 35 year old author living in North Carolina with his wife and son. He has been called “The King of the Zombies” by places like Dread Central and was featured in the book Zombie CSU: The Forensics of the Living Dead as an expert on the genre.

Some of his books include Space Stations and Graveyards, Dying Days, Portals of Terror, Madmen’s Dreams, Cobble, The Queen, The Wave, Waking Nightmares, Unabridged Unabashed and Undead: The Best of Eric S Brown, Barren Earth, Season of Rot, War of the Worlds Plus Blood Guts and Zombies, World War of the Dead, Zombies II: Inhuman, Tandem of Terror, and Bigfoot War. He was the editor of the anthology Wolves of War from Library of Horror Press. Some of his upcoming titles include The Human Experiment, Anti-Heroes, The Weaponer, and Kinberra Down.

His short fiction has been published hundreds of times. Some of his anthology appearances include Dead Worlds I,II, III, and V, The Blackest Death I & II, The Undead I & II, Dead History, Dead Science, Zombology I & II, The Zombist, and the upcoming Gentlemen of Horror 2010 to name only a few.