Deadlands: For a Few Dead Guys More

by Shane Lacy Hensley

  FOR A FEW DEAD GUYS MORE

  The Wild Dark West

  First off, I have to tell you up front , I'm a sucker for the Wild West, and Horror doesn't hurt my feelings either. I've written both Horror and Western, and on occasion, combined the two. And as a sometime writer of this mixed material, I've felt as if I were out there by myself on the lone prairie, wearing my skivvies with a cold wind blowing, and nothing but miles of nothing to see.

  But combining the Western and Horror genres, is in fact, a very natural combination.

  Why?

  I'm afraid I can't give an absolute answer, but maybe I can shake the bushes a bit and see what flies out.

  The Western first. The landscape is a big part of it. Especially if you're living in a neighborhood cramped up with neighbors on every side, tons of bills, and regulations to live by, the idea of wide open spaces and being on your own is vastly appealing. That doesn't necessarily mean you'd like it in the long run, but we're all subject to the urge to just shuck what we're doing and light out for the wild country Of course, much of this wild country no longer exists. Which is another appeal of the Western. Nostalgia. Because there is this: the West did exist. It was real.

  Another appeal, and nostalgia contributes to this, is the larger than life characters that populate the landscape of western history and myth. What is the West but American mythology We accept so much about the west that isn't true, blend it with what is true, because we've grown up with it in books, films, comics, radio shows, you name it. The Western is ours. No one else has had quite this experience. Australia comes close, but only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades. I once wrote that America's Western hero is incomparable. I still stand by that.

  If horror films are the nightmarish and often nihilistic manifestations of our conscious and subconscious fears, the Western is mostly about good and righting wrongs, or moral dilemma, as in the great novel THE OX BOW INCIDENT.

  Or it can be about honor, even if all else is negative, honor is often seen as a redeeming virtue. As in the classic film, THE WILD BUNCH, or the novel and film, THE SHOOTIST. But even at the bottom of the most negative Western novels or films, there's usually some saving grace.

  Not always the case with horror.

  Horror allows us to stand near the railing and peek over into the darkness, at the abyss. And as the saying goes, sometimes the abyss looks back No matter how beautiful a person, how powerful, how loved, they, like the rest of us, must face the final frontier. Death. The beyond.

  This fear of the beyond, and of its trappings: funerals, graves, molding bodies is forever with us. What better genre to couple it with, to provide a sort of sweet and sour result, then to mix the darkness of the abyss with the great and glorious mythology of the bright and shining West.

  Like a dish of sweet and sour sauce, it works, tastes pretty darn good. But the problem is this. Getting readers and gamers and film goers to try it. It's a new and strange dish. You have to convince the meat and potato eaters (read Western and Horror fans) to take a bite.

  In the last fifteen to twenty years, more readers, film goers, etc. have been willing to take that bite. And, they've liked the taste. This is not to say that this sort of thing hasn't been done in the past. Even the novel DRACULA had as one of its heroes a Texan with a Bowie knife who dies a heroic Western style death trying to dispatch the great blood sucker.

  But, new or not, between 1986 and now, a considerable list of western influenced horror tales in fiction, comics, and film could be tallied, and my genre in this list would easily surpass in number of Western/Horror items any list previously made since the beginning of our fascination with Western fiction and the possibility of combining it with horror.

  The landscape has become filled with Weird western activity, skeletons in chaps, ghoolies in hats, cowboys blazing away against things from the dark beyond. Even Robert Coover, noted for his literary novels, has recently taken a swipe at the Weird Western.

  When I wrote DEAD IN THE WEST in 1980, and it appeared serialized, then updated and novelized in 1986, this was, if not a non-existent genre, certainly a rare one, and much of it inferior in quality. And though I can't take full credit for the current fascination with the Western/Horror genre, perhaps I can take a bit of credit for giving it a needed jump start. I followed DEAD IN THE WEST with THE MAGIC WAGON, BEST OF THE WEST and NEW FRONTIERS and RAZZORED SADDLES. The former a novel of weird doings in the latter days of the West, and the last three anthologies of Western fiction that mixed all manner of elements. Adventure. Science Fiction. Romance. Fantasy. And Horror.

  Yep, I'm one of them thar pioneers that went before and sent back word, and thank goodness some folks listened.

  Western-horror is everywhere now. Even a lot of the modern horror fiction has a western atmosphere or flavor, just one example being Gary Raisor's skewered and seriously dark and nutty horror novel, LESS THAN HUMAN. Think about the film VAMPIRES or its forerunner, NEAR DARK.

  The western may survive without this horror influence, or any other sort of cross-pollination, but it is my opinion that this new infatuation isn't hurting it any. And, like rock and roll, I believe that it's an infatuation that will grow and become more mainstream.

  Okay, it may never have the popularity of rock and roll, but I certainly don't believe it's the hula hoop of genres; it will not sick into oblivion. It's branded with a big iron into our psyche now, and there it will remain.

  Another advantage for the purist is I believe it draws people to more traditional western fiction who might never have considered reading it, and maybe it will draw western readers who might never have considered it to darker more fantastical fiction.

  Cross reading, cross viewing, cross experiencing, like cross training in sports, is always a good thing. I'll leave cross dressing up to you.

  Given all this, it's only logical that a role playing game should develop out of the wild and woolly and the wild and ghoolie. For a role playing game is nothing more than the combining of fictional conceits to the gaming spirit and the individual's imagination. And if it's one thing we do need in these modern times, it's more imagination.

  The result of this union of Weird West and games is a fun, very smart, and varied little item called DEADLANDS. Although I've never been one to play role playing games, I can see how this one I would enjoy, if only by reading the material provided in the game books and casting stories in my mind.

  DEADLANDS is rich with wild characters and situations. It seems to have been conceived by Lovecraftian creatures who are Western Fans and are on steroids, snake head liquor, and hemp smoked jerky strips.

  Supernatural lighting, leather and gun oil, blend here to produce action and ozone, magic and gunfire, soul sucking manitous and Texas Rangers with the motto, "shoot it or recruit it."

  It delights me to no end to see a mixed genre, of which I am one of the pioneers, grow to not only include fiction and films, but even games.

  DEADLANDS has wild cowboys and deadboys, cowgirls and deadgirls, blazing away in a blended historical world we know of with one we don't, and would rather not know. But, it's our world. Our west. Our history, if skewed a bit, and therefore more immediate than the tales of Norseman or ancient Greeks.

  What can be proved with DEADLANDS, both the game and the fiction it spawns, is that this genre need not fit into the obvious. There's plenty of good ole Western elbow room for the imaginative thinker, the inventive writer, and therefore, great fun for the adventurous reader who doesn't mind the occasional burr under their saddle, or a little trail spice in their coffee.

  So, fasten up that bib shirt and fix a neckerchief knot, slap on a hat, pull on some jeans and chaps, stru
ggle into your boots and saddle up ole dobbin, even if dobbin is a skeletal horse, and look out for ghosts or things that poke their claws through the thin veneer that separates us from the netherworld, cause we're fixin' to do more than take some ole doggies to market and dodge Western Wizards called Hucksters.

  We're gonna ride through bloody sunrise to bloodier sundown, to Hell, and hopefully, back. Returning with all our body parts in tact if we can manage it, and even more importantly, our souls.

  And we're gonna have one Hell of a time.

  Joe R. Lansdale (His Ownself)

  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 TWO

  By Shane Lacy Hensley Heck Ramsey felt hot air. He had finally broken through his shallow grave. Now bright light burst through, raking his eyes like a desert sandstorm.

  The young cavalryman gulped in deep breaths. He had been trying to breathe shallow for so long the sudden rush made his head spin. He tried to see, but the brilliant sunlight blinded him. Everything was a bright blur He lurched up out of the dirt, desperate to escape that maddening horror of being buried alive. As he leaned out and back, his hand felt a smooth stake behind him. He felt upward and found another stick nailed perpendicular to the first-a cross. The raiders had at least had the decency to put a cross on his grave. But they'd made a mistake putting him in the ground before he was dead. Heck was going to make them pay for that.

  But he wasn't going anywhere until his vision cleared. And the incredibly bright sun washing over him wasn't going to allow that for a while. So he sat on the hard ground and continued his journey back through the last month's memories.

  ***

  "Who we gonna kill today, Bill?"

  It was dawn, September 23rd, 1864, the day after Heck Ramsey, Blake Mullins, and the rest had arrived in Bloody Bill Anderson's camp in central Missouri. Heck had hardly slept a wink. Every time some Rebel moved, he felt as if a cold knife were at his throat. Every whispered conversation was a pair of Confederate raiders who had discovered he was a Union spy Heck imagined them looking at him through the darkness, plotting to put the barrel of a Colt against his dusty-blonde, 18-year old head and send him to Perdition. When one of the drunken raiders nearly stepped on him in the darkness while looking for a place to do his business, Heck had all but done his in his bedroll.

  The fitful sleep finally ended in dew-covered morning. It was cold in the morning of the Perche Hills, one of the few high points in this part of Missouri. The days were hotter than Hades though, even though the Farmer's Almanac had predicted 1864 would run colder than usual.

  Heck sat up from his bedroll to see Bloody Bill emerge from his tent. His long black hair still spilled out of his Confederate officer's hat, but the wild eyes Heck had seen before had now narrowed to evil slits. The killer's eyes still seemed unusually large and wild, as they had during his drunk the night before, but this morning they at least seem "caged," somehow, behind the taut, pale skin of his skull. "What did you say, Will?" he smiled as he looked out over his awakening camp.

  "I said, who we gonna kill today? The boys are itchin' for some killin'." Pale Willy looked even sicklier in the daylight than he had the night before. He wasn't an albino, but he was the next closest thing. His white skin, cornsilk-fine white hair, pale blue eyes, weak chin, and slight frame gave him the look of an invalid. But the gunslinger's deliberate movements told another story. The vessel might be weak, but the soul inside it had the speed and cunning of a serpent.

  Bill walked over and regarded the new men coldly. "Blake Mullins," he said, as if he didn't remember meeting him last night. "I know you." Bill walked to the next man—Heck—and stared him hard in the eyes. "But I don't know the rest of you. Stand up and let me take account of you."

  Blake's crew jumped to their feet, rushing into a hasty and haphazard line for their new master's approval. Heck moved slower, catching a hateful glare from the always-suspicious William. If he ever found out Heck was a Union spy, he imagined it would be a long and painful death.

  Bill Anderson himself suddenly stepped in front of Heck. He could feel the bandit's fetid breath wash over him. It seeped into his skin, poisoned his blood, raced to his heart. This was the man who had shot his brother, Tom, in Lawrence. Tom had died a slow, lingering death over the next few months, torturing his mother, father, and brother more with his agony than himself.

  Heck hated all Rebels. All Southerners for that matter. They had sundered the greatest nation on earth. They held black men as slaves, had fired the first murderous shots at Sumpter and later Manassas, and did it all with pig-headed stu
bborness and indignant self-righteousness.

  "What is your name?" said Bill through tobacco-stained teeth.

  "Heck Ramsey From Lawrence." He felt his eyes grow narrow. His guts filled with caterpillars struggling to break free of their cottony cocoons, but the hate in his heart kept his gaze firm. He would not show this murderer fear.

  "I've heard of you."

  Heck's heart skipped a beat.

  " was in Lawrence, once," the bastard smiled. Frank James, who had also been there the day Quantrill and Anderson had massacred over one hundred unarmed Union prisoners, laughed first. Pale Willy and Little Archie Clements joined in next. They laughed as if it were some private joke. As if few knew of the carnage they had wreaked in Lawrence.

  Bill continued, never taking his black eyes off Heck. "I heard you was a coward."

  Heck could barely breathe, but some part of his brain realized what was going on. Bill didn't know who he was, he was playing the typical schoolyard bully, trying to goad him into leaving.

  "Try me, Captain," Heck stared back, unflinching.

  Bill turned his back. "It's no use. You're a damn coward. Get on outta here 'afore we shoot you."

  Heck tapped Bill on the shoulder. Frank James made a move as if to grab this insolent ruffian who dared touch their leader, but Willy's right arm snaked out like lightning to stop him. He loved to watch a fight.

  Bill turned, his hand already moving toward his pistol. Before he did, Heck lashed out with a right hook, loosing the tension built-up over the last month in this God-awful Rebel state in one jaw-shattering blow. Bill tumbled to the ground like a sack of Idahos. Little Archie drew his knife, Frank James (slow on the draw, Heck noticed) drew his pistol, and Blake and his friends watched dumbfounded.

  A dozen pistols pointed at Heck, but he just stood there, looking down at the raider captain with disgust.

  Bill stood, rubbing his jaw. "Swear him in, boys; any man that will knock down Bill Anderson surrounded by his men will do as a member of our band."