Hell Come Sundown

by Nancy A. Collins

  His belly burned as if packed with hot sand, and his tongue felt as if it was made of jerked beef. The agony was so intense he cried out, burying his face in his hands. He knew he would do whatever it might take to quench the thirst raging within him, even if it meant crawling on his belly through barbed wire and broken glass. Suddenly a voice broke through the screeching white noise that filled his head. When it spoke the words were like a cool hand on a feverish brow.

  You need not suffer so. All that is needed to end the pain is a little blood. Drink from the woman. Her blood is yours. Take it, my son.

  Hell lifted his face from his hands and stared at the Indian woman before him. A part of him found her familiar, but he could not push aside the fire in his gut long enough to think of where he knew her from.

  Her blood will be sweeter than any wine. It will slake your thirst and make you strong. Drink deep, my son, and bind yourself to my service for all eternity.

  Hell slowly approached the trembling woman. Although she struggled mightily to escape, she was unable to free herself from the two strong men pinning her arms behind her back. Her one good eye was wide with terror, and the fear coursing through her body made her carotid artery pulse even faster. If he concentrated, he could hear her blood rushing through her veins, pumping through her racing heart. It was as if it were calling out to him, begging him to set it free.

  He leaned forward, brushing his cheek against the side of her head. She involuntarily gasped and held her breath. Her perfume was a heady mixture of fear and sweat. Something buried deep inside Sam Hell stirred, twisting about like a snake trapped in a jar.

  “Sam,” the woman whispered, a solitary tear trickling from her good eye.

  Hell grabbed her by the hair, jerking back her head so that she could see his face as he grinned, exposing his teeth. He opened his mouth wide, arching his neck like a cobra preparing to spit its venom—and sank his fangs deep into the throat of the man holding Pretty Woman’s right arm.

  The bandit screamed and let go of his captive in a desperate attempt to pull himself free. With a savage sidewise shaking of his head, Hell tore open the bandit’s jugular vein. The blood that spurted into his mouth tasted sweet, quenching the fire in his guts. Part of him wanted to keep drinking until his skin was as full and tight as a tick’s, but he forced himself to stop for fear of losing himself in a feeding frenzy. The mortally wounded bandit fell to the ground, one hand clamped over the pumping gash in his throat, blood squirting between his fingers like water from a hose.

  The smell of spilled blood was making the assembled dead’uns increasingly agitated. An undead dancehall girl leapt onto the wounded bandit before he had a chance to scream, and within seconds he was buried under a writhing carpet of pale, dead flesh. The dead’uns snarled and snapped at one another like a pack of jackals as they fought to feed.

  “Madre de Dios!” exclaimed the bandit holding Pretty Woman’s left arm, recoiling from the sight of his comrade being ripped to shreds.

  The second her remaining captor loosened his grip, Pretty Woman turned on him, slamming the heel of her palm into his nasal bridge while bringing her knee into his groin. He went down hard, cupping his hands over his shattered nose. He had time to scream only once before he, too, was swarmed.

  “Run for it, Pretty!” Hell shouted before he disappeared under a sea of grasping hands and flailing limbs. “Run!”

  The shamaness sprinted toward the church with two of Sangre’s human followers on her heels. Suddenly there was a hail of gunfire from the church, dropping one of the bandits dead in his tracks, and causing the second to dive for cover. The door to the church opened, and Pretty Woman darted inside. Cuss and Clem continued to lay down fire from the windows while the rest of the men hurriedly replaced the barricade.

  Once she was safely inside and the doorway was blocked once again, Cuss handed his rifle over to Elmer and dropped down from his sniper’s perch. “Good to have you back, Missy.”

  “It’s good to be back, Cuss. But this is far from over. Sam’s still out there, and in greater danger than any of us could possibly imagine. I’ve got to help him.” She went over to where the Tucker children were busily loading the spare rifles with ammunition. “Girl!” she said, pointing at Katie. “You must answer the question I am about to ask truthfully: Have you ever been with a man?”

  The young girl’s cheeks turned bright pink and she her eyes.

  “What kind of question is that for a squaw to ask a god-fearin’ white girl?” Mrs. Tucker said indignantly.

  “Stay out of this!” Pretty Woman snapped. “It is for the girl to answer!”

  “It’s okay, mama,” Katie said. “I owe her my life. I can answer her question. No: I’ve never been with a man. Not the way you mean, anyway.”

  “Good,” Pretty Woman replied, taking out her knife and slashing it across the young girl’s palm. “Then we stand a chance. But we’ll still need a distraction.”

  “¡Bastante!” Sangre shouted, angrily kicking the seething mass of undead flesh before him. “Stop it, you mindless fools! Stop it before I destroy you all!” The dead’uns quickly retreated, trembling before their creator’s rage like cowed dogs fearful of their master’s lash. “Get him on his feet!” Sangre snarled, pointing to Hell’s prone body.

  Two dead’uns obediently grabbed the former Ranger and jerked him upright.

  “We undead are a hardy breed,” Sangre said, retrieving the knife tucked into his boot. “We break a leg and it knits within hours. Pluck out our eyes, and they grow back in a fortnight. While we cannot regenerate severed limbs, or survive a fire, for all practical purposes we are immortal. That can be both a blessing and a curse. As you will soon discover.

  “I shall have you drawn and quartered, so that you can never again raise a hand against me or run away from me. Then I shall have your eyes gouged out, your ears cut off and your nose sliced off.” Sangre mimed the actions with short, sharp jabs of his knife. “I will keep you in your own little box, like I was kept. And whenever your eyes, ears and nose start to grow back, I will have them removed yet again. And again. And again!” Sangre pressed the flat of the blade against Hell’s cheek, angling the tip so that it was directly under his right eye. “Perhaps then you will learn your lesson, eh?”

  “Lord Sangre!” one of the bandits blurted. “Something’s happening at the mission!”

  The conquistador turned to see the double doors of the church swing wide open and Cuss Johnson come barreling out, bellowing at the top of his lungs, a huge wooden cross clutched in his hands like a battle standard. Sangre’s spawn, made bold by their feeding frenzy, surged forward, shrieking in delight at the prospect of another meal, only to have the first of their number that came within striking distance of the cross burst into flame like dry kindling.

  “Come on, you sorry sons of bitches!” Cuss yelled as he swung the cross like a giant baseball bat. “Come and get it!”

  The dead’uns drew back, their hunger overridden by their sense of self-preservation. Since the enemy was refusing to attack, the former gunrunner waded in among them, swatting them like so many flies. “Hold on, Sam!” he shouted as he set an Apache dead’un ablaze with a backhand swing. “I’m comin’!”

  Sangre cursed and motioned for his remaining human servants, who were gawking at the sight before them with open mouths, to close ranks around him. “What are you fools waiting for?” he shouted. “Shoot him!”

  The bandits opened fire and Cuss went down in a hail of bullets, the cross falling from his hands before he hit the ground. Hell used the distraction to break free and run to where his friend lay dying on the hard earth. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Dark Ranger snatched up the fallen cross.

  Though he was wearing leather gloves, he could feel his hands grow hot the moment he touched the icon. Screaming in anger, grief and pain, he charged toward Sangre, who stood behind his wall of human killers. He could feel bullets enter his chest and belly, but they meant nothing to him and hu
rt even less. Smoke curled from his palms as he brought the cross down onto a bandit’s skull, and he put the searing pain in his hands out of his mind. As he flailed away, all he could see in his mind’s eye was his father, desperately chopping at the rattlesnake that had bitten him before it had a chance to slither away and kill someone else.

  The bandits protecting Sangre fell away, their heads crushed and necks fractured, until there was nothing separating Sam Hell from Sangre. He swung the cross high above his head, but as he was about to bring it down with all his might, his leather gloves dissolved in a burst of flame, setting his hands afire. Though Hell tried to maintain his hold on the cross, the agony was too great. He dropped the wooden icon to the ground, where it continued to burn. Gasping in pain, Hell dropped to his knees, holding his charred hands before him in a grotesque parody of prayer. The skin was blackened, like that of roasted meat, with deep fissures that exposed the bones underneath.

  Sangre stepped forward, amused by the turn of events. “You continue to amaze me, Ranger. You are damned, yet you seek to walk in the light. You battle against your own kind in the name of a deity who has turned his countenance from you. It is utter folly to deny what you are, to fight against the dictates of your nature—and yet you continue to do so, even when you know it is hopeless. You are either a deluded fool or the bravest man to have graced this planet. Either way, you are far too dangerous for me to allow you to continue to exist, even as a pet torso.”

  Sangre retrieved Hell’s gun belt and removed the revolver from its holster, holding it so that the barrel pointed to the sky like a steel finger. “If your bullets have enough magic in them to wound the immortal, then they must also be able to kill them.”

  The conquistador aimed the barrel directly at Hell’s forehead. Hell wanted to pray, but he knew that the words would burn in his mouth, so he closed his eyes instead.

  Suddenly Sangre paused, a confused look on his face. He tilted his head to one side, then another, sniffing the air like a hound trying to identify a scent. “Do you smell that?”

  “Smell what, my lord?” replied a dead’un with a United States Marshal’s star pinned to his vest.

  “Brine.”

  A flash of lightning abruptly tore across the night sky, immediately followed by a crash of thunder. Thinking he’d been shot, Hell opened his eyes and looked around, surprised that his brains were still in his head A strong wind had come from nowhere, kicking up dust devils that danced among the assembled dead’uns, tugging on their clothes and hair like unruly children.

  Fat raindrops struck the dusty ground hard enough to be heard. Instinctively, Sangre lifted his head to stare up at the clouds overhead. As a raindrop struck his cheek, the skin began to bubble and sizzle. The Spaniard screamed and clutched his face. His shriek was quickly picked up and echoed by his spawn, who also began to claw at their flesh like things possessed.

  A raindrop struck the back of Hell’s neck, burning the exposed skin like a drop of hydrochloric acid. As he leapt to his feet, yowling in pain, the Ranger saw Pretty Woman running out of the church, a bundle under one arm. Upon reaching him, she threw a man’s jacket over his head.

  “Mr. Crocker was nice enough to loan you this. Don’t take it off, if you want to keep your skull in one piece!” she warned.

  “The bloodstone—I can’t go back inside the church without it,” Hell gasped.

  “I already have it.” The medicine woman held up the amulet and quickly looped it around his neck. “I snatched it without them noticing when I escaped.”

  “Bruja! You are the one responsible for this!” Sangre shrieked, great beads of liquid fat rolling from his face like tallow from a candle. He pointed an accusing finger at Pretty Woman, the flesh dripping from it as if he had just dipped his hand in honey. “This is no natural storm! ¡Mátelos todo!” Sangre screamed as his face sloughed away, revealing the skull underneath.

  If Sangre’s army of the night heard him, they gave no sign of it as they darted about frantically, their flesh running from their bones. Those who had lost their eyes to the mysterious downpour stumbled into the fellows, causing them to trip and fall into pools of rainwater mixed with viscera, where they continued to dissolve even faster than before. Elmer and Mr. Crocker stood in the open doorway, watching the destruction of Sangre and his unholy legion with a mixture of disgust and fascination.

  “My God,” Mr. Crocker said. “It’s like when my wife pours salt on the slugs in our garden.”

  Pretty Woman hurried her charge past the two men guarding the door and into the safety of the waiting church. As Hell tossed aside the jacket that had protected him from the murderous downpour, the others closed in about him.

  “Cuss told us what Sangre did to you,” Jimmy Tucker said, fixing Hell with a curious eye. “He said that you were like those things outside, but different. Is that true?”

  “Yes, son. It’s true,” Hell said with a slight smile that showed his fangs.

  “Well, I don’t care if you are one of them things, you saved my life, mister—and I want to shake your hand!” The salesman said, thrusting his hand forward. He froze when he saw the blackened ruins jutting out of the end of Hell’s shirt cuffs.

  “Dear Lord!” Mrs. Crocker gasped.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am, “Hell said with a weak smile. “I’ll be good as new in just a few hours.”

  Loretta Tucker jumped up and pointed in the direction of the door. “Mama! Look! It’s Cuss!”

  Hell turned and saw the old gunrunner standing in the door of the church, rainwater and blood pouring down the front of his clothes. Elmer and Clem ran to help their friend into the building, where he was placed in one of the pews, a folded petticoat under his head. Dottie Tucker sat down beside him, holding his hand while her children stood by and watched.

  Hell leaned over and spoke the dying man’s name. Cuss’ eyelids flickered open and he gave the Ranger a weak smile. “Hey there, Sam. Glad to see you got back safe.”

  “Good Lord, Cuss—why did you risk such a damn fool stunt just to save me?”

  “Seemed like the thing to do at the time,” the old man rasped, attempting a shrug. “But before I go—I just want you to know, Sam, that you’re a better man dead than most folks livin’.”

  “Back at you, partner,” Hell whispered as he closed his friend’s eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  Hell awoke to find himself lying flat on his back, staring up at the underside of a church pew. He crawled out from his makeshift shelter and stretched his stiff muscles with an audible crack. The interior of the church was deserted save for Pretty Woman, who was seated crossed-legged atop the altar.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “They returned to Tucker’s Station after they buried Cuss,” Pretty Woman explained. “They took the bandits’ wagons and horses. I told Mrs. Tucker where we buried her husband along the trail, so she could bring him home, too.”

  “Good. I’m glad they made it out of this okay. How are you feeling, by the way?”

  “Like I was kicked in the head by a buffalo.” She unfolded her legs and hopped onto the ground. “So—do you want to see what’s left of him?”

  “Might as well get it over with,” he sighed.

  Hell gave out with a low whistle as he surveyed the hillside outside the church. The ground was littered with dozens of skeletons, their bleached bones gleaming silver in the West Texas moonlight.

  “Which one is his?”

  “That one,” she said, pointing to a skeleton dressed in a fancy embroidered vest with one arm still fixed in a sling. It still held Hell’s pistol clutched in its bony hand.

  “I’ll take that back, if you don’t mind,” Hell said, retrieving his weapon and gun belt. He stared at Sangre’s peeled skull for a moment before bringing his boot heel down, reducing it to powder. “Mind telling me how you managed to pull off that little rain dance of yours?” he asked, as he refastened his gun belt.

  “I remembered Cuss saying something abou
t the Salt Flats being near here,” Pretty Woman replied. “All I needed was the blood of a virgin and the right words to appease the spirits. Once that was done, it was relatively easy to create a strong enough wind to mix a cloud of salt dust with a rain cloud. Luckily Mrs. Tucker’s oldest girl isn’t a liar.”

  “You never cease to amaze me, Pretty, even after all this time!” Hell chuckled, shaking his head in admiration.

  “Now that you’ve finally hunted down and killed Sangre, what are you going to do now, Sam?”

  “Keep doing what I’ve been doing, I guess,” he shrugged. “From what Sangre said, these weren’t the only spawn he created. I bet he’s done what he did in Golgotha a hundred times over: create an angry mob of dead’uns, then force them to fight it out among themselves until they were winnowed down to the meanest of the lot, then sent them out into the world to spread his contagion. Sangre may be gone, but the evil he created is still out there. I can feel it.” Hell turned to look at Pretty Woman. “But what about you? You said your destiny was tied to Sangre’s and my own. Now that he’s gone, you’re free to go back to your people.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” the medicine woman admitted.

  “Well, are you? Going to go back, that is?”

  “My people have their own path to walk, just as I have mine. For the time being, my path is the same as yours.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Hell said with a smile. “Because I’ve gotten used to having you around.” He reached up and touched the bolo tie cinched about his neck. “After all, you’re one of my two lucky charms.”