by Mark Tufo
“They will write stories about me.” Zakerny’s defense was weak. In his heart of hearts he knew Lucifer spoke the truth, but he was unwilling to stop fighting.
“You can’t exist in fiction, dear boy. Only in the hearts of people, and you will never get the opportunity to create that bond. Until the time you fade, you’ll spend your remaining existence in oblivion, slowly wasting away.” Zakerny heard the delight in Lucifer’s voice. “No, you will not be remembered, only forgotten.”
“Wouldn’t that mean the other souls die too? No one can be remembered for ever?”
“They have the safety of either heaven or hell. These kingdoms will maintain their essence. But this place,” Lucifer waved his hand at the cell, “there is no protection here. You are truly on your own.”
Zakerny considered flinging himself at the Lord of Hell, to hurt him, and tear the flesh from his skin. The fear, the unbelievable fear, drowned his sanity. “You can’t do this to me. I made sacrifices in honor of Hell.” His voice was high pitched, and it hurt his throat to speak. “I have lived my life for Hell and its children. I existed solely for evil and malice. I have corrupted souls for you, innocent souls. All in Hell’s name. You are the Lord of Hell, you should be flattered by my actions.”
“Flattered?” The tone of the beautiful man’s voice turned cold. “I should be flattered? You killed children in the honor of my domain? You killed them for me? For the sake of my kind? Do you know what an insult that is to me? Humanity is all too willing to blame me for their choices, but I have never once asked anything of a human. Do you think I spend my time trying to lure more souls to hell?” Lucifer waved his arm towards the door. “Hell is filled with souls, each begging me to punish them. Do you believe I would want more? Why would I go to Earth and find more souls? In what possible way would that benefit me? I don’t have the time or the patience to go and meddle around in pitiful human affairs. There is no power in being the shepherd of souls, I can assure you that. I don’t want more souls, I don’t want any souls. If you think I’m building an army, then you are sadly mistaken. I simply oversee. I weep for humanity more than any other angel because I am confronted by its sickness each and every day. So do not assume you are going to get a pat on the back or a ‘well done, boy’ from me after you took it upon yourself to torture innocent children and take away their lives. You forced me to witness your despicable acts each time you sacrificed in Hell’s honor.” His voice never raised, but the coldness made Zakerny whimper, and salty tears mingled with snot ran down his face. Everything he knew was upside down, and the man couldn’t make sense of anything. All my life I prepared for this, and now…
“But you are the fallen angel, you are Satan, you’re the adversary.”
“I am not the adversary.” His voice sounded soft and slow, and Zakerny could hear emotion in his tone for the first time. “I never fell from Heaven.”
His face slick with tears, Zakerny lifted his head and looked at the lord of Hell.
“Only I was strong enough, compassionate enough, and yet unforgiving enough to oversee Hell. Not many can take on such a task. I am the servant—the most faithful of them all—and this is how I serve.”
“You lie… this is a test. You are the prince of lies. You are testing to see if I’m worthy of Hell.” Zakerny wiped the tears from his face; his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. “You can’t be the most faithful, this is a trick.”
Lucifer shook his head, and his hand reached for the door.
“Where you stand now is still part of Hell, this is only the rim,” he said with a level tone of voice, and he pointed at the stone floor. “There in the darkness is where the real Oubliette begins. If it’s your belief that I’m lying to you, that I test you, why not step into the darkness? If you believe you can beat it, then by all means… enter. You asked me before where your choice was, and I give it to you now, stay on the rim and pay penance for the life you lived—you must truly repent, and give yourself to Hell—or you can step into the darkness and believe that this is a test.” Lucifer pulled the door shut with a deafening blow, and looked at Zakerny through the little window, his blue eyes impossibly bright and colorful.
The human got to his feet and straightened his shoulders, his heart still heavy, tears lining his face. Hope bloomed from a weak flame in his soul. A trick, only a trick, of course it is. How can it not be? “I shan’t be fooled by your talk of redemption, Lord of Lies. I am here for a reason. You were sent to hell, but I came out of my own free choice. I’m here to reign, not to be forgotten. You can’t stop me, Lightbringer… there is no light in my darkness.” Zakerny took a step back, and then another. The darkness felt cold on his back.
“Very well, Zakerny. You chose your darkness. Be content with your choice.”
Zakerny nodded and took another step back, but the hope was fragile, and doubt made master of him. He saw the edges of the floor disintegrate, and the murderer screamed and jumped towards the door. The darkness blossomed like an oil leak in the ocean. The blue eyes watched him from the window.
“Lord… please, I was wrong,” Zakerny pleaded, and he pried his fingers between the bars in an attempt to touch the master of Hell. “Please… I will repent.”
“I gave you the choice of redemption, but you chose your pride.”
Then the floor beneath him disappeared, and Zakerny clung on to the door with all his might.
“Please—” His weight felt so heavy on his fingers, and his skin was slippery against the metal. The blue eyes still looked at him, and Zakerny’s heart skipped a beat; he finally understood. I was wrong, so wrong. His fingers burned with the pressure, and he lost his grip, his nails scratching at the wood of the door as he fell. Lucifer slammed the lid of the peephole, and the cell was cast in utter darkness. Zakerny fell deeper and deeper into the void, the only thing that betrayed his movement was the swirling in his stomach. There was nothing; nothing but Zakerny himself and the gravity pulling him down.
“I gave you the choice of redemption, but you chose your pride.” The words echoed through his head, and suddenly Zakerny’s new body crashed onto an unseen surface. His bones snapped under the impact and tore through his skin. He lay broken and alone. Tears flowed from his eyes, and his shoulders shook much like those of the children he used to torment. How long he would stay in the Oubliette; in the nothingness? He didn’t know. But one day his soul would fade and die, and his memory would be nothing but a shallow husk. Hope ebbed from his body with his spilling tears.
“You chose your pride” The words cut into his very soul.
He screamed.
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Whispers
Heath Stallcup
Edited by TW Brown
Cover Art by Ronak Kothari
Whispers
©2013 May December Publications LLC
The split-tree logo is a registered trademark of May December Publications LLC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author or May December Publications LLC.
Printed in the U.S.A.
ISBN— 978-1-936730-92-6
Preface
Although previously stated, I feel it necessary to reiterate the fact that this book and all of the characters within these pages are, indeed, fictional. Although I crafted this story in a real area, where real people live, I chose not to use the real landmarks, people, Sheriff, etc. of that area for a reason. I did, however, steal an i
dea from a friend of mine to have friends and acquaintances volunteer their names to be used as characters in the story. As each character was needed, a draw of the hat pulled the character’s name to be used. I must admit, that in itself was quite interesting.
As a former officer of the law, I know that the agencies or departments are made up of all different kinds of people. Whether the department is large or small, it’s the people that make them what they are. People bring with them their strengths and their flaws, and it is those very traits that make us human. This story tries to use the different personalities of people to bring out the intrigue, humor and frictions to add a touch of flavor.
Rather than dishonor the brave men and women of a real law enforcement agency by writing their personnel into a fictional story, I placed fictional characters into those positions to tell the story. In no way are they to be considered a reflection of the real Wood County Sheriff’s Department or any Constables working within Wood County.
To my Dads. You both love Westerns, and this is as close as I could get for you and still stay in the genre.
I lost my first dad far too early and my father-in-law is doing his best to fill those shoes…
Acknowledgements
To my wife for putting up with my crazy self. I don’t know how you do it.
To my sister Sheila for being such an awesome proofreader and catching ALL my mistakes and double checking everything. Maybe one of these days you’ll catch me on something.
Ronak Kothari, whose artwork still blows my mind every time he submits a proof to me for approval.
TW Brown for polishing these turds and making them shine like a diamond. You’re a genius and a prince among men!
Mark Tufo, you made all this possible…what was that percentage again?
Denise, you rolled the dice. My fingers are crossed they don’t come up snake eyes!
Sandra Mantooth…I wish you had talked me into choosing this career path YEARS ago. I finally know what I want to be when I grow up! I just hope I have enough years left in me to be able to share all the stories bouncing around in my crazy head!
Prologue
Texas, June 1885
As the sun rose on the Texas hardpan just outside the growing town of Quitman, the few small shopkeepers that called the town home began opening their doors and setting up their goods for what promised to be another scorcher of a day.
Sheriff James ‘Two Guns’ Tolbert stepped out of his office and stared across the street to the saloon and the few staggering drunks that made their way out of the swinging doors and back to whatever ramshackle shacks that happened to be home. He shook his head and tipped his hat at the skinny barkeep as he shooed the patrons out of his place with an old corn broom.
The balding man sighed heavily and leaned against the broom, pushing his wire rimmed spectacles back up on his bird like nose and waved at the sheriff. “I always miss a few, it seems.” His voice carried across the dirt street, “Care for some breakfast, Jim? Jenny has the stove fired up.”
James glanced down the dirt street and noted that the bank was still closed. He checked his pocket watch. He had at least another thirty minutes before they’d open. The wire service was inside the bacnk and he needed to send a telegram. Glancing back up, he nodded to Buford.
“I think I could swallow something.” He stepped from under the shade of the overhang in front of his office and made his way towards the saloon. “Especially if Jenny is the one cooking it.”
“Would I lie to you, Marshal?” Buford shot him a crooked grin.
James looked down at the smaller man and smirked at him. “Wouldn’t be the first time, Buford,” he muttered as he stepped into the saloon and found a chair in the corner where he could see any who came or went from the nearly empty dance hall.
“Well, live and learn, Marshal, that’s what I say. Only did it once, as I recall,” he cawed.
James leaned back in his chair while Buford poured a tin of hot coffee for him. “Quit calling me ‘Marshal,’ will you? It’s still just Sheriff.”
“For now, Marshal.” Buford eyed him knowingly. “It’s just a matter of time.”
“I’m more than happy just being a sheriff, thank you.”
“But your cousin is the marshal, and word is he just got moved to the Rangers.” Buford smiled a crooked smile. “That’s gonna leave an opening for a marshal…and who better than you?”
“I ain’t countin’ no chickens ‘til they’re hatched, Buford.”
“Soup’s on!” Jenny called from the back.
Wiping his hands on his dirty smock, Buford nodded to James. “I’ll be right back.”
James watched him step to the back of the saloon, a slight limp in his step. He soon reappeared carrying a large plate with fresh farm eggs, sunny side up and a pan seared slice of thick cut ham with two biscuits fresh from the oven. James felt his mouth water as the aroma rose to his face and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything fresh from the stove since he and Mary had last shared a meal at her home nearly a week ago. Everything else had been leftovers sent over from the saloon or the boarding house and eaten hastily at his desk.
“I’ll send some marmalade for your biscuits,” Buford said as he limped away.
James nodded and began to slice into the ham. He made quick work of the steaming hot breakfast and washed it down with the hot coffee, which Buford topped off twice.
Jenny slipped out after Buford had gone upstairs to change out the sheets and shoo out some of the late sleepers and sat with him while he sopped up the egg yolk with the remains of his biscuits. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“That you’re gonna be the new marshal?” she asked, her eyes wide with wonder.
James paused and studied the young girl sitting across from him, staring at him with wide eyed wonder. She was the epitome of youth and beauty, but well-guarded by her father and far too young for a man of his advancing years. Although he suspected that she may harbor a crush on him, he also knew that the young men of the small township all tripped over each other to simply stand in line and tip their hats at her on the rare occasion that Buford allowed her out.
“Well, to be honest, I don’t really know.” He washed down the remains of his breakfast with the coffee. He pushed his plate back and gave her a smile. “Either way, it doesn’t really matter. I have my hands full right here.”
“How so? If you was marshal, you’d cover such a bigger area. More power and more authority, right?”
James smiled at her and nodded. “Well, yes. But as it is, what with Jericho Miller trying to bring the railroad through here…”
Jenny’s eyes widened even further and she nodded. “Oh yeah. And that rotten boy of his causing so much trouble.” She didn’t try to hide the obvious distaste.
“Now, Jenny,” James patted her hand, “let’s not be too judgmental of Simon. The boy can’t help it that the good Lord didn’t bless him with an overabundance of good sense.”
“Or kindness,” she added.
“Or that.”
“Jenny!” Buford yelled from the railing above them. “Don’t you got chores to git to?”
“Yes, Papa.” She rose from the chair and gathered the dishes.
“Thank you, Jenny. It was wonderful.” James gave her a soft smile.
“You’re welcome, Sheriff.” She quickly slipped away to the back.
He rose to leave and heard the approaching beats of horse hooves galloping into town. Peering out the window of the saloon he sighed and tossed three bits on the table. Buford never charged him for his meals or his drinks, but he never liked being beholding to anybody.
Adjusting his hat to allow for the sun he stepped through the swinging double doors, out of the din of the saloon and into the early morning light of Quitman. The arriving horses belonged to a bunch of hands from the Miller Ranch. The eight men arrived just ahead of a buckboard wagon that pulled to a stop at the general store where the hands had already tied off their horses an
d were milling about outside being loud and rowdy.
James sighed inwardly and leaned against the post along the front of the saloon where he could keep an eye on the new arrivals. He knew that things could easily escalate and trouble was just a spark away.
Jericho Miller was a mean snake of a man, but he got things done in this part of the world. He shook hands and rubbed elbows with people who made things happen, powerful people out east who had no qualms spending other people’s money to make or break entire regions of the nation, all in the name of progress.
When Miller’s son had been arrested for drunk and disorderly charges the spring before, Jericho had come to James personally and explained that he was bringing the railroad to the thriving town of Quitman. The railroad had the potential to put the tiny town on the map as a whistle and water stop.
“A real train stop, right here in the tiny burg of Quitman…think of the money, the jobs it could bring!” the old man argued.
“Think of the crime,” James countered.
Still, Jericho had a point, and before it was over, he had talked James into allowing the elder to simply pay a fine and Simon out of jail by paying restitution to the shop keeper whose windows he had shot out and property he had destroyed. It went against his better judgment, but he allowed it. He felt dirty afterwards, like he needed a bath that no lye soap or scrub brush could get clean. A dirt that went plum to his soul.
