Black Book, Volume 1 (Black Book (Volumes))

by Dylan Jones

  Black Book

  Part 1: The Devil's Blood

  Dylan Jones

  The 'Black Book' series spans several centuries in an epic tale of good against evil; From the Old Wild West to the Earth's fragile future. 'The Devil's Blood' introduces Sheriff Jack, a time-travelling loner on a life-long quest to find humanity's last hope; The mysterious Black Book.

  Sheriff Jack's first encounter with his adversary brings nothing but bloodshed in its wake, and leaves the Sheriff fighting for his life. Not unexpected, when his enemy is the Devil himself.

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  1. Devil

  I think it's best if I start by telling you about the day I met the Devil outside a saloon in Nebraska.

  I stepped out of the musty drinking hole, my eyes adjusting to the white midday sky. I clipped my watch shut and dropped it back inside my jacket.

  Cupping a splintered match in my hands, I lit up another smoke. I had a three day shadow on my face and was exhausted. Still sober though, and that was a start for now. I squinted down the high street, left then right. Not a soul. I shivered. My hand fell to my side out of habit and rested on my gun.

  Across the street, above the store, a shutter slammed shut. There was a time when I'd have done the same. Back when I was just another ordinary man, before I knew the truth of the world. I patted my left chest pocket, felt the bulge and clink of bullets. Comforting. Not as comforting as two pockets full, but there was no more time.

  There was no fanfare, no cloud of dust, and no clap of thunder. When I first met the Devil himself he was just sitting on the saloon porch behind me. Been there all along I guess, watching me check my gun and ammo. If he saw me flinch at all he was polite enough not to show it. And isn't that just a hoot?

  'Marvellous day for a matrimony. Wouldn't you say chief?' He wore a white fitted tuxedo, and dabbed at his moist forehead with a black silken rag.

  I grimaced at the sound of his voice. It wasn't raspy or evil like you'd expect, and the tone was pleasant enough, but it was wrong all the way to the end of the dial.

  'Pearse Slake. Delighted to meet you.' He snaked out a long thin hand, and I noticed yellow dirty nails, tuxedo or not. When Old Handsome spoke for the second time I had cleared the fog enough to at least answer him. Incredible how quickly we can adapt.

  'You may have the wrong impression of me even before we start.' I said calmly. There was no way in hell that I would voluntarily shake that hand. He didn't pause even for a second, and his hand was back in his lap as if it had never left. A town sheriff back in those days had very little in the way of perks, but refusing to shake the hand of a stranger was one of them, and thank the good Lord for that. I looked away and over the dusty horizon for a merciful couple of seconds. Anything but those eyes.

  'Apologies for the unannounced intrusion chief, but I come seeking only a little water for myself and perhaps a bed for the evening. Then I shall get on with my business.' His skin rippled as he spoke.

  'As I said, you may have me mistaken for someone else. I'll be polite right back to you, and there's no harm in that. But I'm not your friend stranger, and you certainly aren't welcome here.'

  For a moment I thought he would end it right there. Just cut the pretense, string me up, and try and make me drink my own wine. But he stood up quietly, quite the gentleman, adjusted his hat, and gave me a wink.

  'Nevertheless , it has been my pleasure to finally meet you Chief.' and with that he walked away, smiling.

  My head throbbed. I stood my ground until he was well over the rise and out of sight and then I sat down hard onto the wooden stoop.

  'Jesus wept.' I exhaled hoarsely, beads of sweat drew icy fingers down my back. I dabbed a shirt sleeve onto my forehead and it came away darker. I felt the nausea almost pass, but before I knew it, I had spilled my breakfast all over my boots. My head pounded as if nails had been driven through it, and at that moment I would have killed a man for his whisky.

  When I was eight years old I spent the summer at old uncle Ned's farm in Ohio. He called me to the sty one morning and asked me to help him lift out one of the pigs. I could see one of its hind legs had been gnawed down to the bone by something, another stronger pig maybe, or a wild dog, he didn't know. What he did know, he winked at me, was that we were going to eat well that week. Being eight years old and a man of the world, I knew full well what good old uncle Ned meant to do, and my stomach dropped down a few floors.

  Nevertheless, we hauled the doomed pig to the yard, and strung him up by his hind legs. (Maybe if I had ever learned to call a pig it instead of he , I wouldn't have baulked so badly at what was coming.) Anyway, when Ned carved up that poor pig's throat he bled out quietly, without any of that squealing they do. What he did do however was feverishly lick up that pool of blood that was gushing out of him. He did that right until the end came. I guess it could be that pigs will simply eat when they're hungry, and he dint know enough to worry that it was his own blood. But in my heart I knew he was trying to keep that blood inside himself where it belonged.

  When I heard the Devil talk to me, that's what came to my mind. That desperate strung up animal, clutching at the very last chance of life. The damned, lapping up its own blood.

  You may think that I imagined a strange man to be something that he wasn't. I only wish it were so. There's no doubt as to who he was because I have met him many times since.

  Besides, on that dark day in Nebraska, what the Devil didn't know was that it was I and not he who had orchestrated our little meeting, and had planned it for well over a year at that.

  2. Chaos

  I had read many reports describing evil aftershocks following visits from the devil. Countless witness testimonials in many different languages over hundreds of years. People from vastly different cultures and geographical and chronological locations recounted similar stories of unspeakable horror. Suicidal pet dogs running into white-hot fireplaces, babies gouging their own eyes out. They all began the same way; A well dressed stranger crossing their paths. A polite man with a scratchy, scaly voice and filthy yellow claws.

  For me, the aftershocks began with a distant rumble. I brushed the slick strip of hair from my brow and winced past the sunlight toward the horizon. I could see no thunderclouds, but on heaving myself up, I could see a cloud of a different kind. Dust approaching from the west. Maybe seven men on horseback, coming at us like the wind.

  As if in reaction to this train of thought a woman's scream pierced through the saloon doors behind me. That didn't sound too good. I pushed briskly through the doors and stepped into the gloom, turning my back for a moment on the approaching omen.

  My eyes took a second to focus, and the first thing I saw in the gloom was the quick butt of a rifle. I flinched and dropped down half a second too late, and caught the worst of it above the bridge of my nose. I didn't feel a thing but a bright white star flashed in front of my eyes. I landed hard on my side and the sawdust floor tried to envelop me in darkness.

  'Are you one of them?' the silhouetted man's spittle stank of bad whisky. He'd used his Winchester as a crutch and was leaning heavily on it to get real close. He was close enough to kiss me or kill me. I wasn't in the mood for either. I brought my left hand defensively up toward the gash on my forehead. The movement of a man in shock, checking his injuries. It's a universal gesture and is the total opposite of threatening. Which is why he neither expected or saw my right hand shooting palm out, punching his rifle out from under him. It popped out of place, and he fell hard, face first onto my chest. Still blinded by the bright flashbulbs in my head and the contrasting darkness of the room, I grabbed for his nape with my left. I wrenched a thick fistful
of long greasy hair and spun him round on his back like a snared fish. Before he even had the voice to complain I crashed my right hand down on his larynx, hard. He howled and squealed, his hands clawing at his throat. I pushed his face into the dirt and got up onto my feet.

  'One of who?' I growled at him, thumbing back on my revolver. A thin line of blood snaked into my left eye, giving the world a terrible red hue. I must have looked like hell, because the woman screamed again. My eyes almost got their act together and I could make out five other faces apart from the loon on the floor.

  A woman of pleasure, her dress torn at the neck, was cowering behind the stair bannister. She had a palm shaped mark on her face that was still throbbing a bright red. A sleepy old man who looked around a hundred and eight peered at me over wire frame spectacles. In his gnarled hands he had two dusty black aces and two black eights. Not a bad hand. Shame he'd never get to play them. His gambling partner, a young boy no older than twenty, had pissed in his boots and was desperately trying to avoid any eye contact. By the bar, a large Ox of a man was twisted around and grinning at me, still sipping his whisky. He wore a long grey coat and had a faceful of whiskers beneath the muddy brim of his hat. His huge frame was making his wooden stool screech every time he moved. One of the stool's legs had already splintered. Years of humid saloon air had maybe started it, this big Ox had finished it off.

  The empty glass and empty seat beside his own told me he was the loon's drinking pal. Behind him, with the bar between them, the barkeep was staring at me intently. Not as old as the full-house holder, but getting there steadily. He had one eye shut tightly and his other was blinking down a long Remington rifle barrel, which was pointed straight at my head.

  I licked my lips and tried my best to ignore the gun. With any luck, the old timer would miss if he got excited enough to shoot. Besides, I needed an answer from the coughing lunatic on the floor.

  'I'll ask again,' I nudged him in the ribs with my boot, 'and since there's a big cloud of hooves headed this way right now, I suggest you be quick in finding your tongue.'

  He let out a long rasping cough. 'Fudging broke my throat!' he wailed thinly. 'You're one of 'em. You've come here to fudge my shit up. He tole me you were coming. He fudging tole...' The rest was lost as he rasped into another coughing fit.

  A quick glance at the Ox at the bar, his eyes gleaming, his tongue feverishly licking his top lip over an imperceptible smile, told me that it was he who had set the loon off like a crazy firecracker. Question was why?

  The Ox was dressed like a man passing through. He had a travelling coat, well-worn but expensive boots, the beard of someone who slept under the stars and the deep color of a man who walked often or far during the afternoon heat. In contrast the loon on the floor was a local drunk. No shoes to his name. No money to be spending in the saloon. I had seen him before a couple of times, roaming the outskirts when the traders passed through. But I hadn't seen the Ox before. They seemed like an odd couple to be sharing a drink and a conversation. Time to shake things up.

  I threw my gun casually to the Ox, 'Shoot him.' I said, as I took a stride toward the bar. The Ox didn't disappoint. With lightning quick reflexes, he had caught the revolver and reversed it at my head just as I reached the bar. I poured myself a large drink, ignoring the two guns now pointed at me. The bar tender had taken a cautious step back and was alternating his line of fire like a pendulum. Me, the Ox, Me, the Ox, tick, tock, tick, tock. I couldn't reach the old man's rifle with the bar in the way.

  Not without a prop.

  Tick, tock, tick ...

  I swung the bottle of Jack in an arc. Tock; It smashed squarely against the tip of the barrel as it pointed toward the Ox. The bottle evaporated into fragments, knocking the rifle-butt into the old barman's eye socket and he yelped back, dropping the heavy gun on the bar. The woman squealed and ran, aiming to hide behind the old card player. She slipped in the boy's puddle and went sprawling into the table. I felt more than heard the hollow noise her head made as it clipped the corner. The card game was well and truly over, as woman, table, drinks and cards all crashed to earth in a pile.

  The boy scampered away to the back room, clutching his wet drawers as he went. The old man simply blinked in disbelief, like a solitary house left untouched in a tornado's wake. He threw his aces and eights - Dead man's hand - after the rest of the pack.

  The ox and I got the best deal and were drenched in fine American whisky. The Ox barely blinked. I swiped the heavy rifle off the wet bar.

  'I wouldn't do anything rash.' The Ox's slick drawl matched his agility, not his size. I looked down and saw that he had invested the split second distraction in advancing his gun hand. His finger was tensed on the trigger and the muzzle was sticking well into my gut. I gave him one last chance.

  'We're all friends here big bear. I had to make sure old Fred here didn't hurt himself with this old blunderbuss.' I grinned at him to show how friendly I was. He grinned right back, and pulled the trigger.

  When a man pulls a trigger at point blank, he's not expecting to have to be on his guard afterwards. At worst he's thinking he should be ready to pull the trigger once more toward the guy's friends. But it took that Ox maybe only a second and a half to pull that trigger three times at point blank.

  What's the only sure-fire way to know if a man with a gun intends to kill you? Easiest way is to give him a gun, before he pulls his own. That way, at least you know where the bullets are.

  It took me half a second to raise the old Winchester up to shoulder level. I used the other second to pummel the heavy end into the Ox's face. It hit him like a steam train. I heard something crack. Yet he barely flinched. His eyes were on fire, and he meant to kill me with his bare hands. It didn't matter. His flinch had made him lift his leg off the floor for a moment, putting all of his weight on the stool. I pistoned my leg out and snapped the seat's bad leg clean in two. Then two things happened at once.

  The Ox fell backwards like a felled tree, crashing heavily onto his back, and rapping his head solidly on the bar's boot rail. At the same instant the saloon doors splintered open and three large men on heavy horses stomped in. Steam rose from the horse backs and black-red blood streaked down their flanks from gored spur marks.

  The whore awoke at the noise and screamed again. The wail didn't last as long this time. There was a loud bark from the doorway, and the girl's head disappeared in a puff of red. Her lifeless body toppled to the ground and bled. Blue smoke rose from the shotgun barrel of the horseman closest to the bar.

  No one moved. Even the loon stopped his whinging and locked his eyes on the new arrivals. A fly ambled along the bar, quietly enjoying the warm whisky. I wondered where the rest of the posse had gone. I glanced behind me at the back-room door. Pissing boy had opened it a notch and was gawping through the crack.

  'You.' The eldest, a lean wiry man with pockmarked skin, pointed at the bar man. 'Three of your finest water pans for your horse guests, and a taste of scotch each for their riders.'

  The old guy looked to me for help, didn't get any, shrugged, and went about serving the drinks. I noticed that the dead girl's hand was lying in the puddle of urine. For some reason, that made me even angrier than the fact that she no longer had her head.

  I cleared my throat. 'Seems we may have outdone ourselves with the introductions. This young girl now lying headless in pisswater was Coraline.' I spoke to their front man. 'She's pleased to meet you. And you are?'

  Three simultaneous gunshots rang out. The boy was shot in the head through the back door, the lunatic screamed in pain, and the old guy with the cards mewled like a sick cat.

  'Anything else to add, Sheriff?' A shotgun and two large handguns pointed towards me, still smoking. I risked a quick glance across the room. The ox still snored softly on the floor and the barman was frozen mid-pour. The old card player died in his chair, a dark rose blooming on his shirt.

  A scream pierced the silence. 'They shot me! I tole you they was comin! I Fudgin tole
you!' The lunatic's screeches were cut short by three further shots. He flopped along on his belly, his long wild hair splayed into a dark fan in the sawdust, then was still. It seemed the shotgun shooter also had a handgun.

  'Now, you only have two more of your flock to protect in here shepherd, so I suggest you speak only when spoken to. Wouldn't you agree?'

  I said nothing.

  He dropped gracefully off his horse and slapped its rump. The horse trotted to the far corner of the bar, where the barman had filled three cooking pots of varying sizes with almost drinkable water. The horse drank gladly. The two other riders did the same, and the horses joined their thirsty companion.

  'We're looking for a man, Sheriff,' I assumed he was the leader, or that his two gruff looking companions were mute. He grabbed his whisky off the bar and breathed in the aroma, his eyes shut. 'and we think you can help us find him.' He handed the other two whiskies back to his co-riders, the shot glasses like thimbles in their bear hands. They made the Ox on the floor look like a rag doll.

  The leader looked at me in amusement. 'You've been spoken to. Hence, you may speak.' He smiled, almost politely.

  'You already know I won't help you. Which makes me wonder why you haven't shot me yet.'

  The wiry man laughed, a real hearty laughter from his belly. 'Oh, that's beyond good. Maybe I won't kill you now because I'm impressed with your rapport. Is that the plan?'

  I shrugged. I hadn't meant anything clever by it. I was just buying time. Try to work out what this clown really wanted, and who for. Before I killed him.

  'See this tall gentleman here? Step forward Jake. Thatta' boy.' He put a hand on the shotgun fellow's arm as he stepped toward him. He couldn't quite reach his shoulder and keep it natural looking. 'How long have we known each other Jake?' he asked shotgun. Jake grinned at him, and with the onset of his smile I realised Jake was barely a man. He was a boy in a man's body. A farm hand maybe, working hard all his life, his body grown way before his years. His face weathered more than usual by time spent outdoors.