Deadlands: For a Few Dead Guys More

by Shane Lacy Hensley

  "Come back to the table, Grimm," the tall man beckoned. "They're going to see you there."

  "And what if they do? Will they come in here and break up our grand schemes?" the sarcasm dripped from his voice. "Sweet Joseph, we don't even have guns anymore! How are we supposed to fight them?"

  "Through cunning and patience." Now it was the card player's turn to speak. "Have a seat and I'll tell you how."

  Grimm looked pensive for a moment, then took a chair around the table. "Don't see the point," he muttered. "Goddamn Yankees got us by the tail."

  "Stop that talk!" the tall man hissed. "You want to get rid of them or just sit here and complain about it?"

  "They got Tim and Franklin easy enough."

  "Tim and Franklin were stupid. You don't take on a company of Union cavalry with squirrel guns."

  "Besides," the card player turned over the Jack of Diamonds. "The Union needs us to keep order. We're civic leaders, men of importance. The town listens to us."

  Grimm glared at him, the derision open. "So we can tell them to roll over and show our bellies to the new bosses?!"

  "Or make life for them as unbearable as possible."

  "With no guns? No horses? We're not guerillas, Simon! Even with the whole town on our side, we can't take them all!"

  "Not now, perhaps. But in time."

  Grimm scowled. "Yeah, when the war's over."

  Simon Duvalier stopped turning cards. The gleam in his eyes turned to fire. "Do you doubt my hatred of the Yankees, Grimm?"

  "What does that have to-"

  "Do you question my devotion to the Confederate cause?!"

  "No, Simon. I don't," Grimm replied pensively. "But how can we do anything about it?"

  Simon smiled, the bright smile of a child with a secret. Without a word, he tapped the cards in front of him. Sparks of electricity leapt from his hands, dancing across the table top towards the cards. As the bright arcs touched them, they shuddered, then slowly rose.

  Grimm's eyes widened. "How—how the Hell?"

  "A remarkable little book I studied in my youth."

  The cards floated in formation above the tabletop. At a whispered command, they began to wheel and turn, spinning in an increasingly complex pattern. Grimm struggled to sustain a gasp, while his thin companion merely smiled knowingly.

  "That's...that can't be done!"

  "It can and it has," Simon replied. "Since time immemorial. What you see here is nothing, a parlor trick. But with the same power, I can rise up and wipe every Yankee I see from the streets."

  The younger man breathed incredulously.

  "What? Now?"

  "No. Not with what I have here. But there are forces out there that can, and will if I have my way. All we have to do is find them."

  The card pinwheeled in the air for several more moments before finally settling down again. The electricity slowly softened, then died. Simon looked up at his companions.

  "You've had this planned, haven't you?" Grimm asked.

  "Since the moment Colonel Brighton entered town. Can you shoot a gun?"

  "You know I can."

  "Good. Matthew here and I will put the Union to sleep. We'll nod our heads and acquiesce to his demands and do everything in our power to be good little Yankees. Meanwhile, you're going to slip out and get what I need. Tonight. As soon as we're done here."

  Grimm nodded slowly. "Where am I going?"

  "I have no idea. But there's a man out there who has something I require if this is going to work. I need you to find him and take it from him. Can you do that?"

  Grimm smiled. "No matter what it takes."

  "Good. It shouldn't be hard to find him-he leaves a wide trail. The tricky part will be taking what he's got..."

  The three men leaned over the table as their plans slowly grew.

  ***

  Seven months later The American flag still flew above the town square, but the gallows had long since been removed. Simon Duvalier didn't notice it. As he crept from one shadow to the next, he was more concerned with being spotted than with changes in the decor. Normally, he wouldn't have worried; the curfew had been lifted weeks ago. But this time was different. This time, he didn't want any Yankees watching him move.

  He darted from alley to doorway, moving swiftly and silently as he could. Ahead loomed a tall wooden barn-the furthest building from the Union garrison, and the one least likely to attract any notice. He could see thin lantern light peeking out from the slats, and reminded himself to chide Grimm for being so careless.

  Then he opened the barn door, and the reprimand died on his lips. A hot smell like fresh copper assaulted him, so powerful that tears welled in his eyes. His assistant, Matthew, looked up at his approach, along with the three or four other men huddled around a wide workbench. One of them gestured to him and the others spread apart so he could see. The hot copper hit him like a brick.

  Grimm lay on the table. His clothes were soaked head to toe in blood and he leaked from injuries too numerous to count. His face was a mass of open wounds and one eye had puffed shut permanently it seemed. His trembling fingers clutched at his belly, where Simon could see a hint of intestine poking through the clothes. So gruesome was the sight that he almost didn't notice the long object wrapped in blankets at the boy's feet. Almost.

  Grimm's remaining eye flared feverishly at the sight of Duvalier, and he desperately tried to raise his head above the board. He opened his mouth to speak, but only emitted a trickle of foam-flecked blood. Matthew closed in behind him and whispered something soothing, but Grimm was having none of it. He gestured Duvalier in close, shaking the other men away with shuddering gestures. The huckster leaned in, near enough to kiss, and Grimm tried once again to speak.

  "...I got it Simon," he croaked, "he had it just like you said."

  "Good," Duvalier nodded. He glanced again at the wrapped object at the boy's feet. "You did very well. I can't imagine what you went through to get it."

  Grimm smiled and crimson tears welled out of his eyes. "More—more than I had thought!" his body was wracked by coughs, the sick, deathly coughs of an old man. "But he ain't done yet. He-he followed me here-cut me up-I fought him off, but..." he tried to gesture, but his hands could only clench in spasms of pain.

  "Hurt you, did he?" Simon asked quietly.

  "More than that. He's comin' here-comin' to take it back. You got a couple days, three at the most to use it, Duvalier. Use it quick or else he'll..." His head flew back and his body contorted with shudders. The blood pooled over the table top and dripped onto the barn floor.

  "I know, Grimm," Duvalier answered. "And I'm sorry I couldn't save you from him." Grimm smiled again, and for the first time seemed unbothered by the mutilations. Then, his muscles relaxed and the spasms slowed to a halt. He uttered a last, gurgling breath and fell silent, his face still fixed on Duvalier. The huckster nodded silently at the corpse, then glanced up at the other men.

  "He gave his life for our cause, gentlemen," he lay his hands on the strange wrapped blanket. "We need to ensure that he didn't die in vain." Matthew nodded slowly and cleared his throat.

  "He got-got cut somewhere west of town. Left a bloodtrail a blind coon could follow. Whoever this fellow is chasin' him, he's gonna find this place."

  "No he's not. Pack up your things and dump the body on the floor. I don't want any sign that we were here."

  The men looked aghast "But Grimm..."

  "Grimm ran away seven months ago," he looked pointedly at the body on the table. "He came back, got shot, and crawled in here to die. That's all the Yankees need to know about him."

  "But we can't just leave him!"

  "We can and we will. Or do you want to Colonel Brighton to lay us all out next to him?"

  The men fell silent.

  "Good." Duvalier nodded. "None of us were here tonight, and we don't know anything about the poor boy's death. Brighton isn't going to suspect us because we have no weapons." He placed the package under his arm and turned to g
o. "You men clean up here and get back to your homes before the Yankees find us. Matthew, come with me. There's some things we need to discuss."

  They threw open the doors to Duvalier's study after a brief but harrowing jaunt across town. Duvalier's house was small and tastefully decorated, as befitted a man of his position. One could easily miss the occult tomes tucked into the shelves, or the strange knick-knacks scattered across the decor; the Union certainly had. The study lacked windows, which made Simon comfortable. Matthew moved immediately to a large bottle of scotch on the corner and emptied a healthy amount into the nearest tumbler. An equally healthy amount spilled on the table top as he tried to steady his shaking hands.

  "Lord Almighty," Matthew coughed. "I haven't seen a man die since the Yankees came. I'd forgotten how ugly it could be."

  "You're going to see a lot more of it before we're done." He quickly unwrapped the blankets to reveal what Grimm had given his life to deliver.

  It was a Confederate cavalry saber, the naked blade unadorned with sheath or scabbard. The blade gleamed dull and predatory in the light; its edge honed keen as a razor. The handle and basket were well-worn. Someone was used to handling it. A strange series of symbols had been carved into the blade, obscuring a now-illegible inscription at the hilt. Simon held the weapon up into the light, and his eyes blazed with what he saw.

  Matthew turned to his friend, drink in hand. He almost choked at the sight.

  "A sword?! We got that poor boy cut into hash over a sword?!"

  "Your naivete is touching, Matthew. Did you think I would send him out for some army surplus trinket?"

  As he spoke, he produced a card in his free hand: the Ace of Spades. With a few muttered syllables, the card began to glow-followed promptly by the symbols on the blade. Arcs of energy flowed across the gulf between them, lighting Simon's face with a Hellish glow. Matthew stared, his reservations vanishing "This weapon," Duvalier breathed, trying to keep the glee from his voice. "Belonged to a man named Austin Stoker. A black magician, an occultist with connections to infernal forces."

  "A huckster? Like you?"

  "Far worse than me, Matthew. What I hold at bay, he embraced with all his soul. He was a captain in the 3rd Georgia Cavalry at the Battle of Gettysburg, commander of almost two hundred men. None of those men left the battle alive, but he did. Walked away from that carnage untouched and vanished into the wilderness. Some say he sacrificed them to a demon for immortality. Others say he abandoned them to a fate worse than death. But whatever happened there," he suppressed a chuckle, "their essence remained. The souls of two hundred Confederate soldiers lie within this blade. Trapped by Captain Stoker and consigned to a Hell of his devising. Good boys, who fought the Yankees with all their hearts. I believe if we give them the chance, they'll fight the Yankees again."

  "You can set them free?" Matthew whispered.

  "No. But I can cause them to manifest. To give them shape and form to do our bidding. Think of it, Matthew-200 phantom soldiers at our beck and call! Does Colonel Brighten have guns or men who can stop that?"

  "No. No he doesn't." The tall man fell silent for moment as Simon put the card down.

  "It may work, Simon," Matthew muttered. "But it's...troubling somehow. Summoning the dead."

  "Restoring the damned!" Simon retorted. "Using their energy in the cause they died to protect!"

  "It's blasphemy. If we use them, we'll be no better than this Stoker fellow."

  "I beg to differ. Stoker used them for his own power. We'll be using them to set our homes free. Do you hate the Union, Matthew?"

  "You know I do."

  "Do you wish to see them out of Normandie? To hear their screams as they flee this valley forever?"

  "Of course."

  "Then you must be prepared to do what it takes. Grimm was a sacrifice. There will be others. But with my knowledge and this artifact, we will have the soldiers we need to destroy the Union menace. Trust me, Matthew. I know what I'm doing."

  Matthew looked at the sword, then gulped the last of his scotch.

  "All right. For Grimm's sake. When can we unleash them?"

  "New moon. Three days. I'll need to make certain arrangements before then. Can you make excuses to the Colonel for me?"

  Matthew nodded.

  "Good. Spread the word, tell the people to be ready. The ghosts of the 3rd Georgia will help us, but we must take advantage of it if we are to truly free ourselves."

  "I'll see to it."

  Simon smiled. "I have no doubt. It's the beginning of our liberation, Matthew. At this time next week, we will be free of the Union forever."

  ***

  The moon rose, a near-invisible sliver over the Missouri countryside. The next evening, it would not rise at all: just a black disc in a sky of ink. Simon Duvalier failed to notice it. He was ensconced in his study, committing the ceremony to memory.

  Matthew had come to him several times, to inform him of the preparations. The townsfolk were ready and waiting for his signal. When the time was right, they would move. Now he was alone, reading his well-used copy of Hoyle's Book of Games. The ancient text said a great deal about the summoning of the dead, but you had to know where to look. The spells and incantations were hidden behind rules and variants, discussions of poker. Perhaps one reader in a hundred knew what master Hoyle was really writing about, and even fewer knew how to make use of it. Duvalier didn't want any piece of that hidden wisdom to escape him. He feverishly pored through the pages, searching for anything that would help his upcoming task.

  He didn't become aware of the man behind him for several minutes.

  "You have something that belongs to me. Your colleague stole it and I want it back."

  Duvalier smiled, and turned to his uninvited guest. "Mr. Stoker, I presume. I was wondering when you'd show your face."

  The man stood tall and imposing in the study's doorway. His face was shadowed by a wide-brimmed Confederate hat, matching the grey uniform that clothed his body. A neat black beard, streaked with grey framed his intense wolf-like face. He held a lit cigar in his teeth and an Army revolver in his hand. An empty scabbard hung on his belt like a missing tooth. Austin Stoker gazed down at the huckster, searing holes straight to his soul. Yet his countenance seemed charming almost, and he moved with the bearing of a gentlemen.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Duvalier replied. His eyes never wavered as he met Stoker's.

  "Please don't insult me, sir. We're educated men." He voice was deep and smooth, the accent pure Georgia. Duvalier held his hands up.

  "The saber's gone, Stoker. I'm not stupid enough to store it here and I'm not frightened enough to tell you where it is."

  Stoker smiled, his charm curdling into something darker. "Perhaps you should be."

  "I know of your reputation, Captain, and I can assure you I'm prepared for it. Do you think you can destroy me the way you did your men?"

  Stoker's eyes blazed as he inhaled slowly. "You know nothing about me. Or my men. Don't presume to judge what you don't understand."

  "Then don't threaten me. I've faced more than my share of the devil's footman; you're no different."

  The sound of a cocking pistol rose almost casually from Stoker's hand. Duvalier plucked a card from his sleeve with equal ease. It began to glow the instant it touched his fingers.

  "Fire that six-gun, Mr. Stoker. Or try, at least."

  The pair stood in silence for a moment, each sizing up the other.

  "I don't need the gun, sir," Stoker said at last. "I could kill you where you stand."

  "Then you'd never find your saber, would you?"

  "True, but it might be worth it just to burn that grin off your face."

  Another moment of silence followed. Then the renegade officer slowly released the hammer and holstered the gun.

  "I knew you'd see reason." Simon smiled "Doesn't change anything."

  "Of course, not. But killing me gets us nowhere. Now then, you were going to tell me that I'm desperate t
o return your rightful property?"

  Stoker snorted and the cigar in his mouth flared. He walked toward Simon's desk with the deliberateness of a tiger.

  "The thing I can't figure out," he rumbled, "is what you people want with it anyway. Why send a poor boy to get himself killed for some piece of 'infernal' equipment? Aren't y'all God-fearing Christians out here?"

  Simon returned his question with silence. Stoker regarded him for a moment.

  "You're going to take down the Yankees, is that it?" he said at last. "Use my sword to purge your fair town?"

  "Something like that."

  "You're a bigger fool than I thought."

  "Not a fool, sir: a patriot. The tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of tyrants. And I intend to drench Normandie in it before the week is through. Your coveted saber is merely a means to that end."

  "What if I told you that the souls inside that steel are resting in peace? And that summoning them disturbs that rest? I've never called on them the way you're planning to. Not in seven long years. They've suffered enough."

  Simon looked stunned for a moment, then recovered with a derisive laugh.

  "You're a liar. And even if you're not, I'll chance a few hauntings-even a few hundred hauntings-if it gets rid of the Union."

  "These aren't parlor room shades, sir. A wrathful ghost has power you can scarcely conceive of."

  "That's why I want them."

  "What do you have against the Yankees? You've got a quiet town here. There's no bloodshed, no horrors of war charging down your streets. You haven't had to worry about Mojave rattlers, wendigos, or your great-grandfather coming back from the dead. There's kids playing in your streets, crops growing in your fields. Normandie is an oasis, one you should be damn grateful for. Why do you want to go meddling with it?"

  "Because it's not free!" the sudden passion in his voice shocked him. "We're subjugated by an oppressive power! The damn Yankees came in like a Roman army, took our pride and our manhood from us, and made us their dogs! Their presence pollutes the air we breathe! I don't care if they keep our streets as safe as a nunnery, I won't have them here!" His tone lowered to a hiss. "I'll face the fires of Hell itself to wipe their scum from Normandie."