The Good, the Bad, and the Dead

by Bruce Campbell

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE DEAD

  Edited by Shane Lacy Hensley

  I can't say that I'm a die-hard gamer from day one, but I did spend many an hour dressed up as Zorro, fighting bad guys in my back yard. Deadlands: the Weird West might just take the place of those lost childhood fantasies. Make no mistake, boys and girls, Deadlands lives up to its name—this is one weird-ass world.

  If I had to describe it, I'd start by saying that it's kind of a cross between Evil Dead and The Adventures of Brisco County Jr., so I guess I was petitioned to write this foreword for obvious reasons.

  I had never heard of this game before I attended the 1997 Origins Convention in Columbus, Ohio and I must say that it's haunted me to this day. At the time, I thought, Sure, let's have f un with these poor gaming saps, but next thing I knew, I was leading a rebellion in a tavern and trying to get a giant spider out of a cave with dynamite.

  Go figure.

  Needless to say, it was a fun game. I liked how fluid it all was, depending on how imaginative you wanted to be. That is why you "gamers" do the game thing, right? I mean, you don't pay hundreds of dollars for books and games and conventions in strange cities just to meet women...do you? Come to think of it, there was a pretty good-looking bar maid. Of course, I wasn't there spending money, I was making it, but that's another story...

  The group I played with moved about like a migrating flock of birds, undulating in and out of vestibules, conference rooms and we ended up on the steps of the hotel we stayed in.

  I think we accomplished our mission, but to be honest, I was a little rusty on the rules. I liked how we were instantly transported to a world that was at the same time completely different, yet utterly familiar. Deadlands uses the Western and Horror cliches carefully, yet indispensably.

  I guess you could say I'm endorsing this unique world. That might not mean much, but it's one of the few events of its type I've witnessed in years that didn't bore me to tears. That's gotta mean something...

  For you Western buffs out there, polish up the six-shooter {in the safety of your own home, of course) and saddle up-this is a fun ride. Those of you who re-enact famous Civil War battles on weekends, give this a try instead.

  For the horror fanatics among you, this ghoulish game should placate the fact that Evil Dead 4 will most likely, never come to pass.

  So, in closing, I advise you to stay sharp and read like the wind! Just don't blame me if your loved ones send out a Posse looking for you when things heats up-anything can happen in this warped world.

  Oh, and if you see a guy who looks vaguely familiar playing a "Reckoner" at the Des Moines Origins Con, be afraid...be very afraid...

  Best to all you Knuckleheads.

  Bruce Campbell

  WELCOME TO THE WEIRD WEST

  A cold corpse stalks the High Plains, a six-gun in his hand. Far in the distance, a wolf howls at the full moon. But this is no ordinary animal. It is a thing of legend. And the undead gunslinger knows only he can stop it.

  Welcome to the world of Deadlands: the Weird West. It's a world of high adventure and campy horror. Where brave buffalo gals fight alongside preachers serving up fire & brimstone with a hickory stick. Where hexslinging hucksters cast spells with the aid of dark spirits. Where mad scientists build infernal devices such as flamethrowers, Gatling pistols, and magical elixirs. And death is only the beginning, for not even death can stop the heroes of the Weird West.

  The history of Deadlands is our own up until Independence Day, 1863-the day the Reckoning began. At that time, a vengeful Indian shaman named Raven freed the manitous from their long imprisonment in the spiritual Hunting Grounds. The manitous are like bees, gathering bits of fear from humanity and carrying it back to their dark and ancient masters, the Reckoners. These sinister beings take little bits of fear and create horrors born of humanity's worst nightmares, thus creating even more fear in a growing cycle of terror. Their purpose? To one day saturate the world in fear until it becomes a Deadland and they can walk upon it in the flesh.

  Even heroes know little of this grand scheme. They know only that things lurk in the hollows of Texas or the canyons of Arizona. As they fight the forces of darkness, the heroes of the Weird West slowly learn the horrible truth. Many die trying. The greatest of those become unliving hosts for the manitous—the Harrowed. These undead gunslingers are the most powerful heroes of the Weird West, but they are also the most dangerous, for the malicious manitous inside sometimes take charge of their hosts and force them to commit dark and unspeakable deeds.

  Now the influence of the Reckoners has caused a number of changes to the West we once knew The terrors that arise during violent battles has prolonged the Civil War until the present, 1876. Now it is mostly a cold war, fought with spies and insidious plots. When offensives do arise, usually around election time, they are fought with repeating rifles, flamethrowers, airships, autogyros, and steam tanks. But such violence attracts the manitous, and the horrors of the battlefields make any campaign short and bloody In California, the "Great Quake" revealed a new superfuel called "ghost rock," so-named because it howls like the souls of the damned when burned. More valuable than gold, the race to feed the East's insatiable demand for ghost rock has caused the "Great Rail Wars," a deadly race by six cunning and devious Rail Barons to complete the first transcontinental railroad.

  In the Dakotas, the Sioux reclaimed their ancient magic, and with it, their homeland. Even they are not immune to the ravages of the Reckoning, however, for the People are split over a movement called the "Old Ways," which demands they forsake modern weapons and other tools for handmade devices.

  Such events have caused the Northern government to form a shadowy network of agents to control and contain terror-the Agency Across the border, this job is handled by the famed Texas Rangers, whose motto is "shoot it or recruit it." These government agents fight alongside independent heroes to battle evil. The agents hide the truth from the public to keep fear from spreading-the heroes tell their tales to such tabloid papers as the Tombstone Epitaph in hopes of destroying fear by inspiring others with their great deeds.

  This is the world of Deadlands. Welcome to the Weird West.

  HATE: PART THREE

  by Shane Lacy Hensley

  The bright blur finally faded. Heck Ramsey looked out and was surprised to see he was no longer in Missouri. At least no part of Missouri he had ever seen. There was a town below— that wasn't so unusual-but the land surrounding it was.

  It was a stark desert, broken only by rugged mountains to his right that looked straight out of a picture book of the West.

  The 18-year old cavalryman looked around him. He had just crawled out of a shallow grave, left for dead after being shot by Pale Willy, one of Bloody Bill Anderson's henchmen. Why they had moved him here he had no idea. Texas maybe? The gang wintered in Texas, he had heard.

  That was it. Texas. He must have lain half-dead for days while they brought him here. When they thought he died, they buried him. Or someone did. Bill wasn't much on burying folks, though he'd put plenty in the ground.

  Heck looked up. The graveyard he was buried in had a gate with a sign but he was on the backside and couldn't read it. He stood, didn't feel any immediate pain, and walked toward it. Looking back up into the bright sun, he saw that it read "Boot Hill." This and the gray slat-board buildings below convinced him he must be in Texas somewhere.

  He had no gun, but he did have his holster. Someone had changed his clothes-that was odd-dressing him in a long black duster, black shirt, and black denim pants. Was this what passed for a burial suit in Texas?

  Heck felt up under his shirt. The bullet holes wh
ere Pale Willy had shot him had healed-he must have been unconscious for a long time. He remembered his uncle had been kicked in the head by a mule once and had slept for nearly a year before waking up. How long had he been unconscious? And who had kept him alive that long? He didn't put it past Bill. It'd be just like the bastard to nurse someone back to health just so he could know who killed him. Sorry to disappoint you, Bill, he thought, then added, Big mistake.

  Heck wandered on down into town, if it could be called that. There were seven businesses and a half-dozen dilapidated houses surrounding "main street." A tumbleweed bounced across his boots before Heck noticed he was alone. Not a single soul walked the street or stared at him from a window.

  In fact, all of the windows were broken. Most of the doors hung ajar, too. As he crested the end of the street, he got a better view Here and there were bodies. Some had been shot, some hacked to pieces, others mushed into jelly by horse-hooves. That was one of Anderson's trademarks, so Heck had little doubt he was responsible for this massacre.

  He did not become queasy as he had in days past (months past? he was so unsure how much time had passed). The carnage was no greater than that of the Centralia battlefield. Killing ground, he corrected himself. There had been no battle-just a wholesale slaughter.

  A desert draft probed its way through town, thinking of becoming a breeze. It poked its ethereal fingers into the swinging doors of the town's only saloon, setting them swinging and inviting Heck in. He accepted.

  Inside was an even more grisly scene. Flies buzzed on corpses everywhere. A soiled dove lay sprawled upon a billiards table. Heck would never tell anyone the things that had been done to her. Another man hung from the chandelier, swinging from a crude rope. A pair of legs jutted from the top of a player piano. The bartender lay on the bar, stabbed a thousand times with tiny slivers of broken bottles. Another man had been thrown down the stairs-thirty or forty times by the look of his broken body.

  Now Heck felt his stomach retch, but nothing came up. He nearly doubled over in pain, feeling his guts twist and stretch. He needed food. As much as it sickened him, he had likely been buried for days, and had maybe lain unconscious for months before that. There was no food here, but there had been a restaurant just across the street.

  Heck staggered out of the abattoir and across the bloody lane to "Ike's Eatery." An incredible stench greeted him as he approached the door. Inside, the corpses of a man and two young women were tied to a still-burning cook-stove. Was there no end to Bill's depredations?

  The former spy reeled and felt the floor give out from under him. He fell to his knees beside an overturned table and the mutilated body of a dead customer. The man still clutched a bloody drumstick in his hand. Sickened, Heck reached out and touched the greasy leg. The greedy corpse would not let go, so Heck pulled harder. He fought the urge to cry but no tears seemed to come anyway. He would have to find water next. The precious meat finally tore loose from the bone and Heck fed the slimy gobbets to his mouth. He pried loose another strip of meat and ate that, too. Then he lay with his head on the stinking, bloody slat-board floor and fell asleep.

  ***

  Heck had no idea how long he lay there, but it was dark out when he awoke. He arose quickly, staring at the wide eyes of his unwilling waiter. He staggered out of the restaurant as fast as possible, evading the overwhelming stench and gore.

  In the street, he found he had a bit more energy, but now his throat ached. He rubbed it and felt it was flat, as if it had been crushed but was now mostly healed. He remembered Bill standing on his throat—the damage must have been permanent. He tried to say his name and heard only the sound of a coffin dragged across gravel. Water. He needed water.

  Only one horse trough had any water in it-and there was the body of a young boy in there as well. Heck closed his eyes and drank anyway.

  The water helped, but his voice still did not recover. Probably never would.

  He stood and looked around. Ahead was the "Gazette," the office of a local newspaper, no doubt. Heck moved toward it, hoping it would tell him the date as well as his location.

  Another scene of incredible carnage greeted the young man when he entered. A stack of newspapers lay haphazardly piled beneath the end of the printing press. They were wet to the touch-he could not tell what wet them in the darkness, but he had a pretty good idea. He felt his pockets, was surprised to find a match there, and lit it.

  The wetness on the paper was indeed blood. The paper's editor perhaps, for it was hard to tell, had been run through his own printing press. His paper, the Purgatory Gazette, had been printed in its editor's blood.

  Heck dropped his match in disgust, but he did not retch this time.

  The headline read "FOUR HORSEMEN HEADED TO PURGATORY!" He lit another match to read the small type.

  The bandits known as the Four Horsemen have been spotted ravaging their way through north Texas from Tyler. Authorities in the Texas Rangers advise our little town to evacuate until soldiers arrive on the 25,h. This reporter, as well as Sheriff Duncan and several others in town, have refused to budge. These murderous raiders must be stopped, and it is this opinion of this paper that Purgatory has the sand to do it.

  Readers new to north Texas may wonder who these "Four Horsemen" are. They are not known by name, but by the aliases of Death, Pestilence, Famine, and War. Death is a tall fellow with dark hair and a mustache. Pestilence is pale and sickly. Famine is short with red hair and a propensity for knives. War is a quiet, lanky killer with blond hair. No better descriptions are available for most who have seen them did not survive their...

  There was more, much more, but it was hidden by the blood of the paper's editor.

  Heck felt a chill run up his spine, as if someone had stepped on his grave. Then he looked up at the date. The Centralia massacre had taken place on September 27"1, 1864. The date on the Purgatory Gazette read June 3rd, 1876.

  1876?

  Could he truly have lain in a coma for nearly 13 years?

  Heck's train of thought was broken when he heard a sound from outside. Horse hooves.

  He moved to the window quietly Sitting astride a brown mare was none other than Little Archie Clements.

  "You here, Ramsey?" Clements called as he lit a cigar. Strangely, the short man did not have his pistol drawn.

  Heck looked around for a weapon, any weapon, but found nothing. So he simply waited and watched. Archie, who loved to carve up his victims with a Bowie knife, sat straight in his saddle and flicked the match from his cigar into the street. He sniffed the air like a dog and looked over toward the office of the Gazette. "There you are," he said. "Come on. Bill's waiting."

  Heck didn't understand. He stood in complete darkness. There was no way Little Archie could have seen him. Had he really smelled him?

  He stepped out onto the porch into the pale moonlight. It was full and red. A "blood moon" his father had called it.

  "What do you want, Archie?" he croaked as best he could with his crushed throat. His voice was a saw cutting through a dry tree.

  "Bill's waiting. You took forever to dig yourself out this time."

  This time? Heck walked out of the shadows and into the street. Archie Clements stared him dead in the eye. He looked exactly as the spy remembered him-short with red hair and mean eyes-except his cheeks were pockmarked with sallow pits, as if he had been shot in the face with buckshot long ago.

  "What's goin' on, Archie?" Heck said. "What happened here?"

  "What's wrong with you, Heck?" Archie seemed genuinely puzzled. "You know what happened here. We taught this place nobody messes with our gang."

  "Who's 'we'?" Heck already knew the answer, but he had to hear it.

  Archie's hand moved down to his knife. "Bill, me, Pale Willy. And you, of course."

  Archie reached for his knife, instinctively realizing something was wrong, but Heck was faster-damn faster. So fast he could hardly believe it, in fact. Heck drew the long Bowie knife-modified to have a serrated edge, he
noticed—from Archie's saddle then plunged it down through the villain's leg. It sank deep into the horse beneath. The animal reared in pain, ripping the knife free and sending Archie crashing to the street. Heck kept his grip on the knife all the way to the ground, then twisted it up and back until it caught in Archie's bone.

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Archie. I've never seen this place before in my life!" That much was true, at least.

  ***

  Heck didn't like doing it, but the fact that it was Little Archie, one of the cruelest men he'd ever met, made it easier. He twisted the knife deeper into Archie's leg and waited to hear him scream. Instead, he was greeted with a high-pitched laugh. "What are you doin', Heck? You know that don't hurt us no more. Don't you go cuttin' off my legs again! You and Will did that back in Tucson and it took me a week to get 'em back."

  Heck stared blankly. Nothing Archie Clements said made any sense. It was like hearing someone speak a bunch of Mexican words you thought you knew but didn't make any sense all strung together. Finally, he dealt with the obvious, distracting his mind from the unbelievable facts already unveiled to him. "Where's Bill?" he rasped.

  "Up in the hills there. Maybe your time in the grave addled your head."

  "So bring me up to date."

  "Sure, but give me my knife back."

  "Not yet."

  Archie sighed and hate filled his eyes. "We'd been keepin' a low profile. Doin' a little mischief across the border. Then we hit that Dixie Rails train. Somebody musta hid in the wreckage and survived, 'cause the papers was filled with our description the next day. One o' the papers even claimed they knew you was Heck Ramsey. That paper yonder," Archie pointed to the Gazette. "Some bastard knew you back in Missouri. I don't 'member his name."

  A vision came into Heck's mind, a vision of a newspaperman he had "saved" back in Columbia by urging the mob to burn his office instead.

  "You wanted to teach 'im a lesson. Him and the whole town. So we did."