The Six-Gun Tarot

by R. S. Belcher

  The Reid house had been rented by various mine managers for a few more years until Bick declared the mine bust and closed it. The house had sat vacant for the last few years, a decaying sentinel looking down on any who entered Golgotha from the south.

  As they approached the house through the weed-choked, rocky field, the posse could hear singing. It was a strange sound and it made the horses shuffle uneasily, even the normally unflappable Muha. The voices sounded reversed, shrill. No words could be made out clearly, but the mad joy, the ecstasy, was plain in the delivery. It reminded Highfather of a circus’s hurdy-gurdy organ, only made of human throats.

  There were dancing lights and shadows in the broken windows—candlelight and wild, almost spastic dancing to the hellish cadence. Mutt suddenly felt the same dread swell up in him he had felt in old Earl’s shack. He swallowed it down, tightening his grip on Muha’s reins.

  “Easy now,” Highfather whispered. “We got a job to do. Let’s do it. Mutt, you take Collins and Shepp and come in the back way, in case they try to rabbit down Backtrail Road. Josh, you and the others are with me.”

  The horses began to whinny as the voices inside the house rose in volume and frenzy. Highfather gave the signal to dismount and the posse left the spooked animals near the edge of the yard. Mutt and his boys vanished into the shadows to the left of the front door. Highfather stepped onto the rotted porch’s steps, careful to avoid the broken boards and gaping holes. The singing was now a chant. A powerful voice leading many. Highfather could make it out through the door.

  “Hail, hail that which cannot die.

  All grovel to He Who eternal lies, the true one, the all-seeing eye!

  Couched in blessed darkness, bound in light and lies, the ending of all that thrives, awaiting the time that ends all times.

  The mindless dancer at the edge of mind, the Bridegroom to the Black Mother with a thousand bleating, hungry young—”

  He reached the door and put his hand slowly on the tarnished doorknob. He hefted his pistol, cocked the hammer and slowly, slowly turned the knob.

  There was a terrible crash behind him as Carl Jesper fell through a decayed step. Highfather winced and looked back at the rancher. He was up to his chest in the rotten stairs, surrounded by a cloud of dust and sand.

  “Dammit, Carl!” Josh Pedigo hissed. Josh didn’t have time to finish his admonishment. Dozens of filthy arms reached up through the shadows beneath the stairs, grabbed Jesper with black, oily fingers and pulled him, screaming, down into the darkness.

  Highfather felt the doorknob jerk free from his hand. He turned to find himself staring into the face of Oscar Deerfield. The mine owner’s eyes were viscous, weeping pools of darkness. Its mouth yawned open and more of the oil-like substance oozed out, revealing yellowed teeth and a fat, black worm-like thing where the tongue should be. The worm thing shook like a diamondback’s rattle trying to rip itself free of Deerfield’s mouth.

  Highfather felt hands on his throat, raised his pistol and fired. The world exploded in harsh light, deafening thunder and the stench of cordite.

  Deerfield’s headless body fell to the side.

  “Everybody in, now!” Highfather shouted over the screams and gunfire that were erupting behind him. The lurkers that had dragged poor Carl Jesper down were now pouring out from their lair below the front steps, like a swarm of hungry rats. They were mostly squatters and they, too, leaked the black stuff from every orifice.

  One them lunged at Josh Pedigo, who stood frozen in fear, mouth agape. The thing clamped its mouth to Pedigo’s even as he overcame his fear, screamed and pumped thirty-ought rifle rounds into its chest. The scream ended abruptly. He staggered backward from the squatter thing and clawed at his throat, struggling, choking. He fell to the ground making sounds like a trapped animal, rolled onto his side and was still. The squatter thing he shot leaked black fluid from the chest wounds, but seemed unharmed by the point-blank rifle shots. It turned and lumbered toward another terrified deputy.

  “Silver!” Highfather yelled as he fired to cover two of his men who had followed him onto the porch and through the front door. “Use the silver rounds!” He holstered the pistol and cocked the Winchester. The voices were louder inside, the chant growing more insistent by the moment.

  “Hail, hail that which cannot die!

  Hail the dweller in darkness!

  Hail the Effigy of hate!

  Hail the many-legged goat!

  Hail the beast!

  Greatest of the Old Ones, the One True God of matter and decay…”

  Another one of the things shambled into view in the old house’s foyer. Highfather recognized it—Vic LaSalle. He had worked odd jobs for Haglund, the butcher, liked to play faro on Friday nights at the Paradise. Told a good joke. More creatures appeared, descending the hall stairs toward the sheriff and the deputies.

  “Vic, stop, right now. Only warning you get.”

  “Hail the Greate Olde Wurm!” The voices wailed in ecstasy and terror, falling into alien chants now, lost to the frenzy of the collective power of the mass. The sound was more animal than human.

  Vic opened its mouth; black ooze splattered on the floor. It kept walking.

  “You boys got silver bullets loaded?”

  “Yup.”

  “Jesus almighty, Jon, what the hell is this?”

  The things stumbled closer; their eyes were black mirrors, like a shark’s.

  “Do you have the damned silver rounds?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Take the ones on the stairs.” The deputies leveled their rifles. Highfather aimed at LaSalle. “Powerful sorry Vic. Fire!”

  The guns roared in the enclosed entry hall. The ones on the stairs fell, smoke pouring from their wounds, like steam from a kettle. Vic was driven back a few steps from the force of the bullets that ripped through its head and neck. Again, smoke pouring from the wounds, like its insides were on fire. It ended against a wall and slid to the floor, trailing smoking black ooze.

  More of the creatures from outside were making their way up the stairs into the foyer, cutting off the men’s escape route. Josh Pedigo, reborn into darkness, led them.

  “Go, go!” Highfather shouted as he cocked his rifle and hurried down the dark, narrow passage toward a large chamber full of candlelight and twisting shadows. He heard the men at his back firing, wildly. He hoped they were keeping track of the few precious silver rounds they still had. He heard more gunfire and figured it for Mutt’s party. None of the ruckus seemed to deter the wailing and chanting, which was definitely coming from the room ahead.

  Highfather entered, sweeping his rifle before him. The room had once been a grand dining hall for entertaining bankers and speculators from Carson and Virginia City. Now it was a temple, a blasphemous shrine to whatever slumbering cosmic evil had devoured his town. The walls were covered with symbols, pictures, strange pictographs—all of which seemed to writhe and crawl like snakes in the shuddering light of hundreds of black and red candles. Feeble moonlight filtered through the dirty, broken wall of windows in the room. There were close to fifty or sixty townsfolk in the room, no, not townspeople, not anymore, creatures—the Stained. Men, women, children all bearing the dripping, oozing mark of the Greate Olde Wurm, all of them naked and writhing in debased congress with each other on the floor—a carpet of undulating, oily flesh. The room was thick with heat and the smell, her smell—the same as in the jailhouse—the heady, intoxicating, inhuman spoor, like all of man’s animal desires distilled and cast on the wind. Holly. She was here—she was the altar, nude, on her hands and knees, pale face slack with ecstasy, eyes squeezed shut with drops of oil, dripping, pat, pat, pat, between her lids. Her back was slick with blood, human blood, not the foul ichor that these creatures oozed. Highfather’s mind almost snapped when he saw its source.

  “Sweet, merciful Lord in Heaven, no.…”

  The tiny, still form was held high in the left hand of the priest, who stood behind his living altar. He wa
s a tall man with a mane and beard of gray. His eyes, unlike his congregation’s, were human, but there was no sanity, no mercy, in them. He squeezed the last of the infant’s blood into an inverted animal skull, a dog’s or perhaps a coyote’s, he held below in his right hand.

  Mutt appeared at the doorway on the opposite side of the room, his gun in one hand, his knife, wet, in the other. Stains of shadow covered his shirt and hands. He was alone.

  The priest tossed the baby’s body. He smiled at Highfather and with a simple gesture brought the wailing and chants to an abrupt halt.

  “Ah, Sheriff, welcome. You’re just in time to take communion.”

  The gunfire behind Highfather ended. There was the sound of a scuffle, a whimper, a choking sound and then silence. He could feel inhuman eyes on his back. He looked to Mutt and the deputy nodded slightly. They were alone now.

  “I’ve heard so much about you, Sheriff,” the priest said. “You were the only one to resist the Black Madonna’s charms. Pity. You have no idea how liberating it is.”

  “It’s not too late, Jonathan,” Holly purred as she stood. Two of the Stained stepped forward and draped a black cloak around her blood-slick body. “Come to me now. I need you.”

  Highfather leveled the Winchester. Two silver bullets left. One for the priest, and one—sorry, Harry—for Holly. Highfather wished there had been some way to get her out of here. He hated to break a promise. He felt dry, sticky breath on his neck and knew there was no way any of them were getting out of here alive.

  “You’re the one responsible for this,” he said to the old man. “What do you call yourself? So I know who I’m sending back to Hell.”

  “Hell?” the priest said. “You presume to send me to Hell? Oh, Sheriff, you have such a puny vision. Your Hell is a playground for sick children. No, our vision is … deeper, richer, too complex for such limited minds. I am Ambrose, servant of the True God, the First God, not the imposter who cowers in Heaven and whose ass you and your ilk kiss.”

  “Say hello to him for me.” Highfather’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  Ambrose smiled.

  There was a blur in the shadows to Highfather’s left and a massive man, dressed in black like a priest, grabbed the barrel of the rifle and jerked it out of Highfather’s hands before he could fire it, like taking a toy from a child. The huge figure tossed the gun casually against the wall and it shattered as if it were glass.

  “And this is Mr. Phillips, my deacon,” Ambrose said. “He is living proof to the power of the Milk of the Wurm.” He raised the skull chalice, as if offering a toast.

  Highfather saw Mutt moving, then lost sight of him as all the congregation began to rise. He launched a powerful right at Phillips’s chin.

  “We’ve made great headways toward bearing witness to your entire community of the power and the glory of the Greate Olde Wurm. We are nearly a hundred strong now.”

  The punch landed with a sick crunch but no other effect. Jon followed up with a strong left hook, which also seemed to do nothing. It was like hitting a stone wall.

  “I sent the rest of the faithful down the mountain to share the glory with their former friends and family in the town,” Ambrose said. “With each new follower, each new soul tainted, liberated, the chains holding the Greate Olde Wurm grow weaker. He awakens, grows more restless. By noon tomorrow, we will be powerful enough in number, in will, to free the Great One, the crawling, gibbering chaos—”

  Highfather drove blow after blow into Phillips’s face, again and again and again. His knuckles split from the force. The black-garbed giant’s head didn’t even snap back from the barrage of punches. Phillips drove a single thunderous right into Highfather’s chest. The sheriff felt a bright star of pain in his left side as the wind left his lungs. He fell into darkness. An instant later he opened his eyes with much effort. He was on the floor smashed up against the side of the doorway. He tasted blood, and it felt like he was being stabbed in the chest with a burning knife. Over him, surrounding him, were several of the Stained, including two of his recent deputies. Ambrose’s voice boomed from somewhere out of Highfather’s dim vision.

  “It’s a shame you didn’t give in to your temptations when you had the chance, Sheriff. Once the final rite is completed and the Great Old One is freed, He will shake off this blasphemous world, like a dog shaking itself dry. He will pull the sun from the sky and hurl it into the Void. He will tear down the false universe and return things to their beautiful, pristine origin. There shall be no more temptation; there shall be no more want or need, no more tears, no more joy. All will be blessed darkness.”

  The Stained reached down for Highfather. He fumbled with his numb, bleeding hands, drew his pistol and fired twice. Heads exploded and alien blood rained down on him. The bodies fell back and remained still.

  Silver and shots to the head, good to know.

  He struggled to his feet. Every breath, every movement, was brilliant pain in his side. The other Stained shuffled away from him as Phillips strode forward like a dark prince. Highfather fired, emptying the remaining normal rounds into the hulking deacon. One bullet caught him squarely in the forehead. His head jerked, and then straightened. There was a trickle of blood, as if he had been knocked in the head by a rock instead of a .45-caliber bullet. His eyes darkened and he reached for Highfather’s throat.

  Mutt roared as he dived through the crowd of the Stained and crashed into Phillips’s back, driving his knife deep between the shoulder blades, with all his weight behind it.

  “Jon, git! I got this!” the deputy shouted. Phillips shrugged and Mutt flew off his back and hit the ground with a crash. The deacon reached behind him, grunted and tossed Mutt the knife.

  “I like killing Indians,” Phillips said. “It takes a little more work to get them to scream, but it’s worth it.”

  Highfather put his fingers to his lips and whistled loud and long. With his other hand he shrugged the shells out of the Colt.

  Ambrose was laughing. “Bring them to the Mother for communion!” he called out to the inhuman congregation. “The sheriff and his deputy can lead us in our next hymn.”

  A wall of hands was tearing at his coat, his arms, his legs, his face. Highfather jammed a bullet into the pistol’s cylinder and snapped it shut with a flick of his wrist. All he could see around him was horribly familiar faces smeared with blackness; all he could smell was Holly’s, the Wurm’s, spoor.

  Mutt wasn’t faring much better against Phillips than he had, but he did notice the deputy was taking the punches better. Mutt was hurt, there was no denying it, but he seemed to be much hardier than his slight frame suggested.

  “Get the gun,” Ambrose said to his followers. “Don’t let him kill himself; this will be too fun to miss.”

  The Stained were abnormally strong. Their hands gripped Highfather tightly as he struggled to raise the gun. He winced and pulled his gun arm free long enough to level the pistol, find his target and fire.

  With a thunderous boom, the bullet smashed one of the oil lamps near the small mountain of candles in the room. The lamp oil splashed everywhere. The candles and the curtains behind them were suddenly devoured in brilliant, violent flame. A few of the Stained caught fire as well, screaming and staggering, further spreading the blaze.

  “How much fun was that?” Highfather called out to the shocked priest as he drove an elbow into the face of one of his attackers.

  Before the enraged priest could collect himself, the large windows on the southern side of the room exploded inward as Bright and Muha crashed into the room, trampling bodies as they came to their masters’ aid.

  “Mutt, stop fooling around; we’re leaving!” Highfather called. The deputy was pinned to a wall, being held six inches off the ground by Phillips as the dark deacon continued to pummel his swollen face.

  “In a minute, boss,” Mutt mumbled through pulpy lips. He spit blood in Phillips’s eyes and the giant dropped him, wiping wildly at his face.

  “Damn
you!” Phillips bellowed.

  Mutt staggered toward the battered Highfather, who was already climbing on Bright. The sheriff pulled a scattergun from his horse’s saddle and fired. Three of the Stained staggered backward from the blast, but none of them fell.

  Smoke was filling the room and flames crawled along the walls, lapping at the ceiling. Ambrose was yelling orders to the swarming congregation. Holly and Phillips were nowhere to be seen.

  Muha kicked another attacker when it lunged toward his master. Mutt scooped his knife up from the floor and used it on two more of the creatures trying to grab him, without a second’s pause of motion. The things that had once been townsfolk bled the black blood of the Great Wurm from their opened throats, but did not die. His free hand wrapped around the saddle and he pulled himself up. Highfather was reloading the shotgun, firing cover for his deputy’s retreat and then reloading it again. Though the shot didn’t kill the infected, it did keep them at bay for a moment and off the two men and their horses. Bright snorted the smoke and shuffled nervously from hoof to hoof.

  “It’s okay, girl; we’re leaving,” Highfather said, petting her. “I’m sure glad we learned that little trick.”

  Mutt was in the saddle and had drawn his own rifle.

  “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouted over the roar of the flames.

  “Enjoy your little victory, gentlemen!” Ambrose shouted as he headed for the room’s rear door, surrounded by a swarm of his loyal congregation. “Enjoy it while you can! We grow stronger with every moment. Your town and its people are mine, Sheriff, mine! Our God stirs and your God is afraid to face Him. Mark my words, this world has seen its last dawn! Its last!”

  His voice was lost in the crash as part of the flaming ceiling tumbled down.

  The two riders plowed through the crowd, still intent on capturing them, both men shooting as they went. The windows were wreathed in flames, but neither horse balked as they charged forward, leapt over and through the maelstrom of fire and landed in the cool, dark desert night.