Deadsville

by C. L. Bevill

  Tavie jerked.

  Finally, she said, “Didn’t Barastyr break the rules? Didn’t he kill someone he shouldn’t? Shouldn’t he be paying some kind of price for that?”

  Thana sighed. “Technically, you won. You figured out what happened, therefore stopping the eradication of both the living and dead worlds. You figured out most of it, anyway. You stopped Patrick Byrne. You kept any more of the deadies from being exorcised. That’s all good. But…”

  “But…”

  “The reaper wasn’t exactly a deadie,” Thana finished. “So he doesn’t fall under the same category.”

  “You’re saying Barastyr is going to get away with this?” Tavie asked as she glanced down at Nica. “He manipulated Patrick into doing murder. Those two men’s souls are lost forever. They’ll never get another chance to redeem themselves. Just like him.” She touched Nica’s forehead. “And he was trying.”

  Thana frowned. “It’s true. He was the most hopeful case I’ve ever had. It’s a great shame that it’s come to this.”

  “Can’t you…bring him back?” Tavie asked and her voice broke.

  Barastyr chuckled and slapped his chest with one hand. “No. Thana, the fantastic Greek goddess of death cannot bring back the lowly reaper. Only I can bring him back. I was responsible for his passing. He belongs to me until he’s judged. Oh, those pesky little rulsies.”

  Tavie stared at Barastyr. He made an a-ha noise, then bent over and picked up the white ten-gallon hat. He carefully pushed the squashed head out and examined it. The hat wasn’t really white or ten-gallon anymore.

  It was odd how obscure little conversations suddenly burst into Tavie’s head exactly when she needed to know them. There had been another exchange once. Enoch had told her about the deadies down by the little stream of water. She had remembered the first part in a time where she needed a little help. “Them peoples down at the crick think the gods of death are out to get us,” Enoch had said. But it had been the other part that was even more important and had occurred to her when she was last at the Deadsville Jail. She didn’t know any of the old stories, but she knew something about gods enjoying an impudent adversary. Enoch had also said, “They even say that deadies can challenge them beings like in the old stories.” She had hoped for this opportunity. She had prepared herself for it. And here it was.

  “I challenge you, Barastyr!” Tavie yelled sharply.

  The entire room, which had been full of the sounds of murmurs, shifting feet, and anxious sighs, became as silent as the depths of space. Maybe it was true that there no one could hear you scream, but it wasn’t space in this place, and they heard Tavie issue her challenge.

  “Do tell,” Barastyr drawled.

  “My soul,” Tavie said.

  “Octavia,” Thana said warningly.

  Gary Cooper, Tavie thought. High Noon. Ten paces and draw.

  “We have an old fashioned shootout. You hit me in the heart I’m yours until the sun devolves into a black hole,” Tavie said. “I hit you and not only do you leave us alone, Nica comes back.”

  Barastyr grinned and it was a wide predatory grin. “Done! Do you want to spit on our palms and shake hands?”

  “Eww.”

  “Very well then.”

  Everything just went buh-bye.

  * * *

  Tavie opened her eyes and saw the Deadsville equivalent of Tombstone, Arizona. She’d visited there once with a boyfriend. They’d driven down to Tucson, spent the night, seeing various sights, drinking until the touch of dawn, and then down to the old western boomtown, Tombstone. The Deadsville version had the western style buildings, the carriages with black horses, iron streetlights lit with blue gas, saloon after saloon (The Deadsville Dry Gulch and the Silver Skull Casino stuck right out.), and dozens of deadies all dressed in the appropriate attire.

  Tavie stood in the center of the dirt street, with one hand on the now-returned Glock in her holster. She looked down and saw that she was still wearing the same clothing she’d had on before and her free hand touched her chest just for a moment, just to make sure. She thought deliberately, Best Hollywood cowboys of all time. John Wayne. Gary Cooper. Richard Boone.

  On one side of the street a newly constructed wooden gallows loomed, casting a dark shadow from the light of bluish street lanterns. Only one deadie stood on the gallows, and he had a noose tied securely around his neck. The other end of the rope was tied to the top of the gallows, ready for the big drop. Seemingly alert and well, Nica stared at Tavie. He shook his head but he couldn’t move it very far.

  Lined on the wooden plank sidewalks were deadies galore. Some were cowboys with a dozen types of hats ranging from traditional Stetsons to straw hats, leather hats, and felt hats. Maximillian was dressed all in black and could have given Yul Brynner a run for his money. Lillian was garbed as a saloon girl, complete with a scarlet corset that pushed almost everything up and out. Coco was a 19th century school girl with a white shirt, plain black tie, a long black skirt, and leather lace-up granny boots. Several reapers had cowboy hats sitting on top of their hooded heads; their fiery eyes stared out defiantly and even embarrassedly as they carefully held their scythes. Hungry Hippo Herman wore a well-to-do shopkeeper’s attire complete with a three piece, woolen ditto suit. Fritzi might have been a schoolmarm with her tan bonnet and her brown dress to include a bustle that would have knocked people down had she swung it around. There were many familiar faces of deadies Tavie had met while in Deadsville, and all were in period costume. Some of them looked upon their bodies with dismay while others smiled weakly.

  Pudd sat on the ground about ten feet away from her. A handkerchief was tied around his neck in a way that really suggested wicked bad beach dog rather than old west dog, but he didn’t really seem to mind. Next to him sat Barastyr’s giant dog, wearing a white bonnet and appearing displeased. Pudd noticed the other dog and snarled out of the side of his mouth. The large dog inched away fretfully.

  However, Thana got to be the madam of the bunch. Her hair was a mile high bouffant of a fire engine red color and her face powdered white with ruby red lips. The dress was emerald green with a very tight waist accentuating her muffin tops. (And it was tops, in plural.) Atop her breasts that were about to break rank at the slightest cough, hung a death’s head cameo from a velvet neckband. Most importantly, she didn’t look very happy about it.

  A few of Thana’s “girls” gathered behind her. All were soiled doves with fluttering chemises that only went just below their knees and tight jewel-toned corsets that emphasized their assets. Fishnet stocking and low heeled shoes completed their ensembles. One deadie working girl slapped the hand of a man dressed as a cowpoke who reached a little too close for her comfort.

  On the end of the street, opposite her, stood Barastyr. He wore a blue outfit. A western shirt was robin’s egg blue. The scarf around his neck was silvery blue. The pants were coordinated with the shirt and trimmed with silver edges. The boots were navy and detailed with silver embroidery. His hat was a conservative light blue felt Stetson. The belt and holsters at his waist were dyed gray leather and held black handled revolvers.

  James Coburn. Henry Fonda. Randolph (tip your hats, boys) Scott.

  Barastyr said, “High noon, dear Octavia.” He indicated the clock tower she hadn’t noticed before. At two stories high and free-standing, it was easily the tallest building in the town and the top was festooned with the prodigious clock. Under a copper dome with a fish scale pattern, the tremendous brass hands moved unerringly toward the roman number twelve. She could almost hear the clicking as the gears chugged and shimmied. “I’m letting you have one bullet,” he added chivalrously. “I don’t want six in the head again. Of course, we are aiming for the heart.”

  “There’s thirteen in this one,” Tavie said helpfully. Dale Evans. James Garner. Miss Kitty. Miss Kitty was definitely an honorary cowboy. “Does this mean you only get one? Seems fair to me. Am I right, Thana?”

  Thana bobbed her bouffant helpfully.
“I can’t imagine changing the rules at this point. One shot each. Whoever hits the heart gets the prize.”

  “When the bell starts at noon,” Barastyr called. He shivered melodramatically. “I love this part. Who’s going to hit whom? Will the fearsome sheriff beat the evil god of the dead? Who can tell?”

  Tavie looked at the clock and then at Nica. Nica shook his head again. He didn’t say anything but Tavie wasn’t surprised. Barastyr probably wouldn’t let him.

  “So you’re enjoying the whole cowboy in an old western town thing?” Barastyr asked.

  “I’m surprised Thana went along with it,” Tavie said. There was at least a minute left until the clock struck the noon hour.

  “Hah! Do you really think I could stick the head god of the dead into a madam’s outfit?” Barastyr barked and then snickered. “She’s digging it. I’m just playing along.”

  “Haven’t you people ever heard of video games for entertainment? Get a frickin’ Xbox. PlayStation. Wii U. Something.” Tavie checked the clock again. Since Thana was in charge of the change in venue, it explained why she was still in possession of her little backup plan.

  Barastyr turned toward Tavie to face her fully. His right hand hovered over the pistol. Tavie knew the gun was something different from the others he’d had before. It looked like a Colt Single Action Army revolver with inlaid handles. Charlie was the one who was an expert on most revolvers from the 19th century. He had a pair of the Colt SAAs on his wall. She’d been permitted to fire one once on a range. Truth be told, she much preferred her Glock.

  Tavie took a breath and thought about live-fire firearms training. The training sergeant had a simple code. It was the four F’s in getting through the encounter of a deadly threat in police work. It was find them, fix them, flank them, and finish them. Four F’s. It didn’t get any simpler.

  Gene Autry. Clayton Moore. Jane Russell. Yes, Jane Russell counts. She played Calamity Jane in The Paleface.

  Barastyr’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at Tavie. Somewhere inside her, she knew that he was aware of her game. Thinking of movie cowboys and whatever else was a way of covering up what was most important.

  Famous horses. Silver. Trigger. Mr. Ed. Secretariat. The Budweiser Clydesdales.

  A loud click sounded. The two clock hands moved into place.

  Barastyr reached for the right hand pistol, his hand a blur of blue motion.

  Tavie’s hand touched the Glock and she wondered if the first round was still actually chambered. Then she had it out and there was a booming explosion of noise that was immediately followed by an odd clank.

  The god of the death looked down at his pistol and carelessly blew smoke from the end of the barrel.

  Pain melted into Tavie’s body in a monstrous liquid wave of agony. She hadn’t gotten her shot off, but she hadn’t really planned to do so. The gods of the dead were tricky bastards and one had to know how to deal with them. Forcing herself to disregard the pain, she focused on other sounds then. Deadies gasped. Coco bawled out a “No!” Nica shouted.

  Tavie felt the world move in place as she fell over backward. The pain of her back hitting the ground didn’t nearly match the one in front. It was fire personified searing into her chest and she almost couldn’t bear it.

  Another annoying noise penetrated Tavie’s consciousness. Barastyr crowed. “One shot!” he brayed. “One shot and she’s down! They should have made movies about me and not the stupid Greek gods! In your face, Baron Samedi! I’ll be getting all the beads in the Big Easy next Mardi Gras! I’ll have the record on being flashed! Boo-ya!”

  Tavie took a deep breath and mentally shoved the pain away. Not dead, she thought. I’m not dead. Movie cowboys. Chuck Connors. Lash LaRue. Michael J. Fox. She rolled over and got to her knees. The burning started to fade.

  Barastyr danced a jig in front of Thana, who appeared disgusted. He transitioned into a moonwalk that wasn’t half bad. Several of the deadies and the reapers stared at Tavie as she brushed off her jacket and checked her weapon. She knew very well she hadn’t fired her Glock.

  Thana’s chilling gaze roosted on Tavie and her eyebrows arched in what Tavie would have called surprise. Tavie wasn’t supposed to be on her feet, much less checking her weapon to make sure it was going to fire properly.

  Barastyr suavely swung Fritzi into his arms, dipped her backward nearly into the ground, and planted a wet kiss on her lips. She struggled feebly. One of her side-laced boots attempted to find purchase as he held her in place. Finally he swung her up in a dizzying movement and let her go. Someone behind her caught her before she could fall. He turned away before he saw Fritzi wipe the back of her hand across her lips.

  “Wait,” Barastyr said suddenly, catching sight of Thana’s expression. He frowned.

  Thana smiled delightedly at him and he clearly became aware that not all was right.

  Barastyr sluggishly turned back to where Tavie should have been laid out cold on a dirt road. Tavie raised the Glock and aimed at his chest, using the stance she had been taught. He was only about ten feet away and she would have a difficult time missing.

  “Michael J. Fox was never a cowboy,” Barastyr whispered.

  Tavie used her left hand to raise her shirt. There, the pot belly stove’s door hung from a piece of rope she’d salvaged from Deadsville Jail. The flattened slug from the .45 bullet Barastyr had fired fell to the ground and revealed the great divot it had made in the iron door. “I never saw A Fistful of Dollars,” Tavie admitted, “but I did see Back to the Future Part III.”

  Tavie fired the Glock and hit Barastyr right where she wanted to hit him. He fell down like a sack full of rocks dropped from the top floor of a tall building.

  “And I know that sometimes the only way a heroine wins is by tricking a god,” Tavie finished.

  ​Epilogue

  Death is the grand leveler. – English Proverb

  ~

  “Life’s a bitch and then you die…again.” – Common Saying in Deadsville

  ~

  Tavie was aware that she wasn’t going to ride off on a white horse into the sunset with the hero, drinking Fresca and chewing bubble gum. Or however the ending was supposed to go. In fact, she was sure it wasn’t the ending. Not the real ending, anyway.

  Outside the Deadsville Jail, she sat in the same papasan chair she’d seen Hungry Hippo Herman in, watching deadies coming and going. It wasn’t the rocking chair that it should have been, and she didn’t have a shotgun resting across her lap, but it was what it was. Pudd rested by her foot and dreamed of something only canines could possibly understood, with his back paws twitching in time to his subconscious.

  Tavie thought about her parents and knew that they were both basically okay. Her father had finally accepted his daughter’s death and her mother was on the cusp of doing so. Thinking about them didn’t bring the pain that it had before.

  It was true that Tavie should probably do something like patrol Deadsville but she didn’t really want to do the chore at the moment. Tavie didn’t know how much time had passed since she had shot Barastyr in the heart, but everything had dissolved away back to what passed for normal in Deadsville. Deadies had shaken their heads and gotten back to the business of being dead. Reapers had vanished, as had all of the gods of the dead.

  Tavie hadn’t even gotten an attaboy from Thana, but that was probably best because Tavie wanted to punch the head GOTD in the jaw for her manipulations and for not providing all the answers about her death. Then Tavie wanted to hold Thana down and demand to know what had happened to her when she’d died.

  Thana had prudently vanished as soon as the contest had concluded. Even Barastyr hadn’t been lurking around Deadsville in the short-term, allegedly keeping his end of the bargain.

  Tavie even had a moment to think about loose ends. Why had Patrick Byrne wanted another bible from Darren? Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Sternstein had just been keeping an eye on Darren until everything fell into place for the next phase of his plan. Maybe Tavie
would never have all the answers.

  The sound of a footstep made Tavie turn her head. Nica stood there, dressed in black again, looking remarkably ordinary for a man who’d been dead such a long time. A shy smile curved his lips.

  Why did I ever think he was ugly? she asked herself. Nica was anything but ugly.

  “Reporting for duty, ma’am,” Nica said. He adjusted his shirt and showed the crudely made star pinned there.

  “Great,” Tavie said. “I didn’t think we were going to have someone step up to that opening. Deadies seem a little freaked out by me.”

  Nica scratched the side of his nose. “They’ve never met anyone like you. Neither have I.”

  “Do you miss being a reaper?”

  “Not even hardly,” Nica said. “I’m going to miss going to the world of the living but there are certain compensations here.” The sides of his lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh but didn’t dare.

  Tavie became aware that Nica had been awarded an interesting status. No longer a reaper, he hadn’t been judged either. He was in Deadsville the same as she was, for the interim.

  He stopped next to the papasan chair and smiled completely. “Nice chair,” he said.

  “I think Hungry Hippo Herman is a little afraid of me. It turned up a little while ago, without so much as a slight attempt at bartering,” Tavie said ruefully. “Not that I’m complaining about the chair. This is the first time I’ve gotten to sit in it. Fritzi and Coco have been fighting over it. However, I’ll have to return it since it’s an obvious bribe and all that.” She touched the soft cushion. “Maybe after a little longer.”

  Nica reached out slowly and ran an index finger along her cheek. Tavie couldn’t help pressing back. It was just a small pleasure but it was nice to enjoy the moment. Who knew what was going to be around the corner in Deadsville?