The Good the Bad and the Infernal

by Guy Adams

  “It’s a weak man that lets the opinions and beliefs of others affect his own. I can proudly say there’s not a single continent I’ve set my boots on that has altered my perspective on life.”

  “Yes,” Elisabeth replied. “You can say that proudly, can’t you?”

  Quartershaft smiled dreamily and Elisabeth wondered if he might actually fall over. “I’m glad I impress, my lady.”

  “I say,” Forset shouted, watching as one of his crates swung precariously from a luggage pulley, “careful with that! It contains equipment of a most fragile and temperamental nature.”

  The young porter waved his acknowledgement just as one of the ropes came loose and the crate plummeted to the ground.

  HENRY JONES MOVED unerringly through the crowds of people on the platform. The dark glasses and cane he carried served to discourage undue attention; he certainly had no need of them. Along with the dark suit and wide-brimmed hat, they helped offer a degree of anonymity. By now, a lot of lawmen would be on the lookout for him. It was better for the life expectancy of those lawmen, and casual passers-by, that they not find him. Even had he not been wishing to keep a low profile, he frequently wore a disguise. Henry Jones had the sort of countenance that drew attention. Unfortunately, uppermost in the list of things he hated—a prodigious and changeable list—was people staring at him. Nobody, not even the beautiful Mrs Harmonium Jones, had the slightest idea how he could tell. His mood was so perpetually sore on the subject that nobody saw fit to ask.

  Mrs Jones was also attempting to disguise her appearance, something only really achieved by using a derby hat and a particularly relentless girdle. Her facial hair was a source of great pride, and it would take more than a fear of law officers to get her near a razor, foam and strop.

  They also had a crate to negotiate, the contents of which were a little harder to disguise in public and were therefore forced to travel freight.

  “There something alive in there, sir?” asked the conductor as he admired the beautifully painted crate on the platform. DR BLISS’S KARNIVAL OF DELIGHTS, it said in curling, scarlet letters, the words sharing space with pictures of roaring lions, chuckling clowns and the snarling face of a top-hatted ringmaster. “Only some of the boys swear they heard something move when they were getting it off the train.”

  “It’s just equipment, pal,” said Harmonium in a passable, throaty tone. “Otherwise we’d have filled out the requisite paperwork.”

  “Good,” the conductor smiled, “good. Only... we’re supposed to check on all livestock; just for safety, you understand. I mean, I have my passengers to think of.”

  “Sure you do,” Harmonium replied, tucking a dollar into his jacket pocket, “and you’ve looked after these two just fine.”

  “Oh, well, thank you, sir. Most kind.”

  “We particularly appreciated how you left us to our own devices,” added Henry, tilting his thick black lenses towards the man.

  The penny dropped. “Oh, naturally. Well, be seeing you, then.” And away went the conductor.

  “Rest easy, boys,” whispered Harmonium into one of the discreetly drilled air holes. “We’ll soon have you out of there.”

  But before she could receive a reply, everyone on the platform turned towards the air-rending crash of a large packing crate falling to earth and splitting open.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Henry. “Someone hurt?”

  “I sure hope so, honey,” his wife replied. “What say we go and find out?

  “CAN I HEAR a hosanna?” Obeisance Hicks was, as always, inclined to wonder.

  On this particular afternoon, his timing was not ideal; the answer was a resounding ‘no.’ The only thing most people within preaching distance could hear was the sound of an almighty crash, followed by considerable panic.

  “What in the name of Christ is that?” wondered the not-so-reverent Hicks. He decided that, since his congregation was inclined to abandon the word of God in the hope of finding out, so was he.

  “Keep an eye on the messiah,” he muttered to Hope Lane, before wandering into the train station.

  She sighed, horribly conscious that he had now drawn attention to her, and nodded.

  Inside, Hicks wasn’t the only one wanting to catch a glimpse of catastrophe. He noted, not for the first time, that if there was a way for him to market gawping at the dead and dying, he could pack in the God game for ever. People flocked to blood as surely as flies.

  Today they were to be disappointed. As far as Hicks could tell, the crashing sound had been a collection of ironmongery dropped from a height. If it had fallen on anyone, then they were so deeply buried that the gathered crowd had little interest in attempting to save them. There was a good deal of standing around and shaking of heads. That’s the other thing with a crowd, Hicks decided; they all have an opinion and it’s usually the same one. People were dumb as sheep.

  “I dread to think what you’ve broken!” cried out one man, with an accent so strongly British that a number of the gathered crowd automatically reached for their guns. There was not a great deal of good feeling towards that particular country; Hicks, being of Dutch stock, couldn’t honestly say he gave a brace of shits on the subject.

  “Some of that equipment was irreplaceable,” the man was saying. “Simply irreplaceable!”

  As if in agreement, a loud hissing noise erupted from the centre of the piled metal, and the crowd darted back as far as the limited space would allow. Metal clanged and rang out like a church bell under gunfire as a large, crab-like device appeared from underneath the fragments. It sat at the centre of the heap for a few moments, as if content in its nest, and then jumped for the sky.

  “Somebody stop it!” the Englishman shouted, and with no further ado, the young woman standing by him began scaling the stationary train.

  Hicks decided he may well have fallen in love as he watched her run across the roof of the train in pursuit of the metal creature as it hovered along, like a vulture scanning the ground for carrion.

  “Do be careful, darling,” the Englishman suggested—stupidly, in Hick’s opinion, and in that of many there gathered—before turning away in shock as the young woman made a leap for the escaped device. She grabbed it in its midsection and proceeded to fly over the crowd, in a manner that pleased the gathered gentlemen greatly. Showing a consistent lack of regard for feminine decorum, she swung her legs up and grasped the device between them so as to hang from it more securely.

  She initially appeared to be fighting it, but after a few moments, Hicks changed his mind, having been reminded of a business acquaintance who he had often watched buttoning up her corsets post-congress.

  “Well, I’ll be...” he muttered. “If she ain’t planning on wearing the thing.”

  With a final, triumphant click and a whoop from the crowd, the young woman did just that. She righted herself so that she was now stood upright, albeit several feet above the ground, then grasped a pair of handles, pushed forward and swooped gracefully back to earth.

  There was a round of applause and, having disengaged whatever engine the thing possessed, she unclasped the legs and took a small bow.

  “The Forset Thunderpack,” announced the Englishman with considerable pride. “In full working order!”

  The device in question gave an almighty bang and fell silent.

  “And thank God I got it back before it had been operational for more than sixty seconds,” said the young girl.

  “Why might that be?” asked an impressed observer.

  “It has a bad habit of blowing up if ignited for longer than that,” she replied, “and would have likely taken most of this train station up with it.”

  The crowd dispersed quickly after that, but Hicks lingered. He’d seen something that had excited that essential heart of him, the black pulsing mass of his pocketbook. He had seen money.

  Eventually he turned around and headed back out to his caravan, disinclined to continue in his never-ending mission to save souls and
accrue dollars. He might even stay off the whisky a little, give his brain time to think.

  Looking up, he wondered why there was a crowd gathered around his caravan. Then he heard the sound of the dopey-minded motherfucker he offered up for the nation’s prayers. The old soldier was shouting his goddamned face off about something. He couldn’t leave the wet-brain alone for a minute.

  “Mind out, now,” he shouted, pulling at the shoulders of the idiots that had clustered around. “Nothing to see here. Man of God... coming through...”

  They refused to move, fascinated by the sight of the hirsute figure, his white robes stained bloody as his stigmata gushed forth. And what in hell was that he was shouting?

  “God damn you,” Hicks shouted, his temper frail at the best of times. He pulled out his gun and shot a couple of bullets into the air. “Shift your sinful asses, you worthless cocksuckers, or I’ll smite each and every one of you with the righteousness of a Colt .45!”

  That had more success, and the crowd slowly dissipated while he clambered up onto the makeshift stage he preached from, wondering how to make the idiot shut up without shooting him.

  “Wormwood! Wormwood! Wormwood!” the simpleton shouted.

  “What the hell’s Wormwood?” Hicks wondered aloud. “Some kind of tequila?”

  “It’s the name of a town,” said someone behind him. He turned to see two gentlemen, one with a long and bushy beard, the other blind. The blind man pulled off his dark glasses to reveal a smooth patch of skin where the eyes should be. “And I’d very much like to hear what else he has to say on the subject.”

  5.

  SUN-SHATTERED AND SCORCHED, the dust fields whipped tails at the sky.

  The landscape roasted. A world suited only to the dead and to the reptiles and flies that scurry impatiently through the ribcage cathedrals of carrion. They, in turn, are picked off in hit and run assaults by birds, dipping in and out of this wilderness like pearl divers before returning to the skies where the winds blow fresh and clear.

  The air was as thick as cooling cooking grease.

  It was a quiet world. The feather-light brushstrokes of a sidewinder’s body seemed loud across the dunes; the occasional screeches of a hawk pierced the silence like a railroad spike. The delicate crunch of a horse’s hooves was almost unknown, an intrusive and unwelcome sound. Yet here it was, startling the snakes and lizards into the shadows of their rocks.

  The horse moved gracefully, a ballet dancer moving through the inferno.

  Its rider was suited to this world. His flesh dry as parchment. Old, tight eyes looked out over the trail and refused to betray a single thought. The pale overcoat he wore fluttered around the horse, the hem ragged and torn. The leather of his boots creaked like coffin lids.

  On he rode. On towards Wormwood.

  THE ROAD TO

  WORMWOOD

  THE OLD MAN

  AND THE BANKER

  CHAPTER ONE

  A STRANGER IN TOWN

  I CONSIDERED PRAYING, I’ll admit that much. This account will be difficult without a degree of honesty between us, so, yes, prayer had its charm. Thing is, I’d never had much time for religion, and back then, I couldn’t quite find the hypocrisy needed for a hasty ‘Our Father.’ Convictions are dangerous things. Believe anything too hard and life will bite you on the ass for it. Having a little extra experience, these days, I’ll pass some of it on: put me in that situation now and I’d dance buck-naked in a mound of mule shit if I thought it would give me a fighting chance. Pride is the sure and safe province of the idiot.

  That said, remembering the look of those three: men made from stubble, cigar smoke, ancient sweat and anger. Skin like jerky, eyes like bullet holes in a dead man’s back... Remembering all of that, it occurs to me that it would have taken a hell of a hosanna to placate them.

  Their leader laughed. I remember that, more clearly than anything else. It was a shock. I was about to die (to my mind a very serious and solemn affair) and this son of a bitch was full of cheer.

  I made the decision not to beg. To die with some dignity. Sometimes the best you can hope for is that your last moments are not filled with screaming and the smell of your own shit.

  I held a brave face right up until the first shot.

  IT HAD TAKEN me three days to cross from the small township of Dashett to Haskell. One day the railways would make this journey; until then, it had to be endured the old fashioned way.

  My mount was old and unsteady, a mule I had picked up from a sadist in Kansas. I was convinced the beast would die rather than see journey’s end. Lying on my blanket at night, I strained to hear its laboured breathing, monitoring its health like an anxious parent hearkens to a child. Frequently it would fall silent, and I clutched my blanket tight, certain I was stranded in the middle of this wilderness with no transport. Eventually, a sneeze or fart would break the silence and I’d fall into nervous sleep.

  Once in Haskell, I found that I was better disposed towards him, regretful of the harsh words and curses I’d heaped on his narrow, scabby shoulders. I tethered him at a stables, gave him an affectionate rub on the nose, and agreed a price for his safekeeping with the unsanitary creature I took to be in charge (on account of the fact that he was the only one not tied up). With the small saddle and bag I had thus far carried halfway across the country, I set off into town.

  Haskell was like many of the small towns I had visited on that long trek. I had left the security of home and family for the uncertainty of the West Coast and a job that I hoped to hell would still be there when I arrived. The trip had been full of these unambitious townships: untidy gatherings of houses and stores constructed around a ‘main street,’ a wide dirt avenue that offered all the traveller could need (providing he wasn’t fussy about hygiene or longevity). There were a couple of saloons, a hotel that I would later discover doubled as a whorehouse, a general store and stables. Around these perpetual fixtures, a littering of homes shuffled self-consciously in side streets. I assume they had taste and were as ashamed to be seen there as I was. At the head of the main street, the twin gods of Western life presided over the town, represented by their respective owners, well-heeled and conversing pleasantly on the boardwalk adjoining the two properties. To the left was Mr Joshua Forrest (Banker), and to the right was Isaac Crutchins (Undertaker). May they forever rule.

  I walked towards the hotel, enjoying the feel of the ground beneath my boots, my thighs curiously light with nothing between them. My plan was simple: food in my belly and sleep in a bed.

  I knew the hotel was unlikely to be up to much, having spent enough time in shabby hostels to be relieved at the sight of a mattress in a room. Even so, the filth that peppered the foyer took my breath away. New life forms mingled with the tobacco stains. I swear I could feel the carpet moving beneath my feet. Here it wasn’t just outlaws that you had to be careful with; treat ’em wrong and the roaches were likely to beat the shit out of you.

  Skulking in the shadows to the left of the entrance, an old man was being pumped impatiently by an ageing hooker. She showed more interest in the dirt wedged beneath the nails of her free hand than the stunted dick that was, even now, helping to pay her bar bill.

  Several men were sleeping off a night of whisky (or had got bored, waiting on the hooker’s affections). They were littered around or beneath the chairs and benches that lined the walls. Perhaps there was an economy drive running, and the owner was trying to cut down on excessive wear of the beds.

  Coughing self-consciously, bag in my hand, saddle slung over my left shoulder, I made my way to the small counter at the end of the hall. I felt sorry for it. Old and splintered, it struggled to keep upright beneath the combined weight of a small check-in ledger and brass bell. Thinking back, maybe I should have just given the thing a firm kick and put it out of its misery. Checking around, there was no sign of a manager, so I slapped the bell as gently as I could without breaking the desk’s back.

  “Wha’ you wan’?” grunted a voice
from behind me. It was the man being jerked off. The hooker didn’t stop; presumably she was disinclined to get him all fired up a second time.

  “Just a room for the night,” I replied. “A meal, if you can?”

  For a moment I thought the man hadn’t heard me. Maybe he was trying to figure out some of the longer words. Then he grunted fitfully and slapped the hooker away, having spent himself with all the passionate energy of a man hawking phlegm into his handkerchief. He got to his feet and loped over to the counter, tucking himself in as he walked.

  “Cash up front. No food.” He sniffed, turning the ledger towards me so that I could sign it. I did so, he looked at it (maybe the shapes pleased him; I refuse to believe he could read), then threw me a key.

  “Up the stairs, third on the right.”

  He waddled through a threadbare curtain behind the counter, presumably feeling the need for some time alone. Perhaps to read a little poetry, press some flowers. Either that or there were still some acts he considered should be performed in privacy, like eating children or fucking a horse. Maybe he got bashful about such things.

  I went upstairs and along to the third door on the right. Looking at the lock, a good sneeze would probably have opened it. Stickler for tradition, I used the key.

  Inside, there was nothing but a small bed frame, featuring a mattress with attractive body-fluid decoration. Looking closely, I figured that that there were enough mixed deposits on its surface to give birth all on their own in a few months. I needed to take a leak, and there was nothing so luxurious as a pan in sight. I checked out the window and saw precious little except a horse tethered below. I tried my best, but a slight breeze made aiming tricky; when I finished, I apologised to the horse and closed the window.