by Tim Marquitz
I slapped the cylinder home, and pulled myself to my knees, teeth clenched at the grinding agony in my shin. And there he was.
Jack bolted around the corner of my barrier, fury and terror waging a war across his features. He saw me and his rage won out. Before I could bring my gun to bear, he charged in, knocking the Webley aside and barreling straight into me. My leg gave way, and down we went. I swallowed a scream as his boot collided with my leg, my head thumping against the hard wood of the floor. My gun slipped from my fingers and bounced out of reach. Then I was eating punches.
Blow after blow rained down while stars filled my vision. His fists were like bricks. Each one crashed into my face as if they’d been thrown from the roof. Subconsciously, I caught the rhythm of his attack—left, right, left, right—and managed to shift my head out of the way. His fits slammed into the floor beside my ear, the collision whirring into my brain. Knuckles popped, and Jack bit back a shout as he pulled his injured hand back.
That was all the pause I needed.
I wrapped my good leg around his ankle and turned my hips, yanking my leg up behind me. Jack twisted, only helping provide the momentum I needed, his own leg getting tangled up in mine. I sat up and pushed, and Jack toppled to the floor. He landed flat on his back, flinging a handful of curses my way as I used his leg to leverage myself up until I was on top of him.
“Sticks and stones, asshole.”
I drove my elbow into his side with all my strength and weight behind it. The brittle snap of a rib was an orgasm to my sense of retribution. He cried out and clasped at his torso, but I just grinned, ignoring the metallic taste of my blood, and started on his face. Jack might have hit hard, but he’d never had his ass kicked by a demon.
Several punches landed to his cheeks and jaw, before he thought to cover his head. I just hit him in the ribs then, driving the broken one deeper into his chest. He rolled to his side and tucked himself tight, but I kept on. Jack coughed blood as I beat him, a crimson spray dotting the floor. I knew I should save a piece of him for my uncle, but right then, I didn’t give a damn. My mother’s voice resounded inside my skull, and while I knew it wasn’t really her screaming at me to kill the bastard, it seemed like a pretty good idea to me. I pounded on him until Scarlett pulled me off.
“That’s enough, Frank,” she told me as I huffed and struggled against her grip. Her hands were vises. She had no intention of letting me go.
I glared at Jack until the adrenaline faded. He was slumped on the floor, gasping to draw air into his battered lungs. His broad chest rose and fell, but there was none of the easy rhythm he’d shown earlier. No, this was the chug of a train struggling up a hill in the rain, wet and labored.
Finally I relaxed against Scarlett’s hold, my anger settling. The feel of her boobs against my shoulder blades helped. She let me go once she felt I would play nice. I sighed while she helped me to my feet. My leg still burned like a case of rampant syphilis, but I could stand on it. I staggered over to Jack, staring down at him.
“Not so bold now, are you, Jack?” It felt good to see him humbled after all he’d done. Right then, it didn’t matter which side got what was left of him, but I my desire to see him suffer hadn’t entirely been sated. I hovered over him, hoping he’d give me a reason to hurt him more.
He just coughed up a phlegmy ball of mucous and blood as he looked up at me. The crimson slime oozed down his chin as he whispered something.
“What?” I asked, leaning in closer, fists clenched and ready to crush his skull.
“N-n-not…” he sucked in a pained breath, his face drawn in severe lines as he formed his words. “N-not Jack. Ke-Kelvin.”
The words were like a knife thrust into my spine. I snapped my head around to look at Scarlett to see if she’d heard him. Her face was a mask of conflicting emotions, fluttering between disbelief and horror.
“You’re not Jack?” I asked, grabbing him by his collar and pulling him up so we were eye to eye.
He groaned at the motion, but shook his head with conviction. A tiny smiled glistened across his bloody lips. It fell away in a fit of coughing when I shoved him back to the floor.
“If he’s not Jack, then who the hell is?”
“I am.”
Thirteen
The answer sang out at our backs, both Scarlett and I spinning about to see a figure standing in the doorway.
And what a figure it was.
My gaze bounced up from the pal cleavage on display to the face of the woman who’d spoken, my brain only just then catching up the fact that she was, in fact, a woman. But not just any woman.
She was the redheaded woman I’d seen at the bar and at the cabal’s house; the same who’d been so close as to sniff my nutsack when she’d grabbed my leg. I let my senses loose and instantly picked up the same odd sense of magical energy I had at the bar and the murder scene. The same I’d noticed when Jack ran from the house we’d raided. And then it hit me.
She’d been at each of those locations.
My eyes darted back to look at the man who’d called himself Kelvin. His boots on full display, they looked to be right around the same size as the pimp’s. I turned back and glanced at the redhead’s feet. She wore heavy boots. My gaze lingered, trailing along her feet all the way to her toes. The boots came to a slight point, unlike the ones on Kelvin. My heart jumped into my throat as her energies played against my senses.
She was our killer.
Scarlett stared at her, finding her voice first. “Who are you?”
The woman smiled. “The name’s Jacqueline, but you can call me the Ripper, if you prefer.” Gone was the scared and timid creature who’d begged for her life on her knees. She stood there bold, chest jutted out, the wicked gleam of foot-long silver blade sitting steady in her hand. The glistening tear from earlier had been replaced by a malevolent glimmer and the subtle dance of fire.
Jacky wasn’t human; at least not completely. There was the definite musk of demonic heritage about her. It wafted off her clearly now that I knew where to point my senses.
“Did Lucifer send you?” she asked.
My cousin’s head swiveled to me, only confirming that she’d picked up on Jacky’s scent, too.
“I know, I know. Jesus, woman, I know!” Scarlett waggled an angry finger at me. She hated when I used the Lord’s name in vain. “No, Lucifer didn’t send us,” I barked, turning my focus back to the other woman.
“You aren’t here to take me home?” Jacky’s eyes narrowed and she inched forward, the blade shifting our direction. “If my lord Satan did not send you, then who are you? Why are you here?”
I raised my hands to the sky. “Seriously, can you just stop with that shit, already? I’m having a hard enough time as it is.”
Scarlett huffed as she swallowed back a chuckle. “Care to revisit our earlier conversation, Frank? You remember, I’m sure, the one where you emphatically stated Lucifer wasn’t involved in any of this.”
“He’s not, damn it.” I pointed a finger at Scarlett. “You’re starting to piss me off, you know that?”
“Prove me wrong.”
“I’ll prove my foot in your ass.”
“Stop talking to that whore of an angel and answer my question,” Jacky shrieked. The words were like daggers, each syllable sinking in to the hilt.
Scarlett’s head snapped about to face Jacky. “I’m a what?” The tips of her ears were a bright pink, standing out against the golden blond of Scarlett’s hair.
I took a cautious step to the side, putting some distance between my cousin and me. Things were about to get ugly.
“You heard me,” Jacky shouted back, brandishing her knife, “whore!”
There was that word again.
It was barely out of Jacky’s mouth before Scarlett was on her. Curvy flesh slammed together as the two women flew through the open door to disappear outside. I hobbled after them, cursing the bullet hole in my leg, and paused in the door frame where there was an excellent view o
f the cat fight.
Well, cat fight might be a bit misleading. It was more of a cat mauling, a pissed off lioness versus a kitten. For all her bluster, Jacky was just a blip of energy compared to the brilliant star that was Scarlett. Whatever power she’d accumulated was more a side effect of the rituals she’d been performing, leeching off the aether as she pecked the dimensional walls. It wasn’t natural magic like Scarlett controlled. It wasn’t even close.
Jacky clearly had demon in her bloodline, but she hadn’t run up against any others and hadn’t evoked a soul transfer to increase her natural power. She definitely had never seen a real angel before, let alone one as sensitive as my cousin. If she had, she would have known better than to cast an unchaste accusation Scarlett’s direction.
Angelic fists slammed into Jacky’s face and forehead, reddened welts trickles of blood marring her features. Our little Ripper was getting her ass kicked.
I knew I should jump in and save her—letting someone higher up, or much lower, decide the woman’s fate—but I was having too much fun. Jacky’s chest heaved, damn near popping out of her tight, low cut blouse. She grunted with every blow landed. Scarlett’s chest wobbled side to side, and I felt my neck cramp trying to keep up. It’s not often I get entertainment like this without being on the receiving end of the beating, but all good things must come to an end.
After giving Scarlett a few minutes to get her licks in—metaphorically speaking—I yanked her off Jacky, reminding her she’d done the same to me with Kelvin. She snarled but gave in easier than I expected her to. Jacky moaned on the ground, lying in a pool of her own blood, barely able to do anything but twitch.
“What do we do with her now?” Scarlett asked. She paced as she tried to catch her breath and cool her anger.
“Want to split her like a wishbone and each of us take a piece?”
Scarlett stopped and stared at me. If I didn’t know her better, I’d have thought she was taking me seriously. After a quiet moment, she let out a sigh and shook her head. “You have a better idea?”
“Metatron wants her punished, right?”
She nodded.
“Then I have the perfect solution.”
Fourteen
“Color me impressed, Frank,” Baalth said, patting me on the shoulder as he walked by and dropped into a chair across from my uncle. “More surprised, admittedly, but still…vaguely…impressed.”
“High praise, indeed.” I did my best to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but my protruding tongue probably gave me away.
Lucifer waved me over to the empty chair set out before his desk, alongside Baalth. I hopped into it, all smiles. It wasn’t often I got to sit at the big kid’s table.
“How did you get Scarlett to agree to rescind Heaven’s claim on our wayward killer?” my uncle asked.
“I have a way with women.”
Lucifer chuckled, but Baalth only shook his head. My uncle was more willing to believe my bullshit, or at least pretend I wasn’t lying my ass off. He wasn’t real concerned with justifying the means as long as the end worked out the way he wanted it to. Collateral damage was an art form in his world view.
“Regardless how you managed it, you did well. I’m proud of you.”
I couldn’t help it, but my smile grew until it stretched my cheeks. Uncle Lou was usually thumping my skull for being a dumbass. This was pleasantly different, and I was gonna bask in it as long as it lasted.
Besides, it’s not like figuring out what to do with Jacky was all that big a deal. I simply gave her what she wanted. Too bad for her, Uncle Lou doesn’t take too kindly to foolish Devil worshippers mucking up his plans for subtle world domination. At least she finally got her face-to-face with Lucifer, and we figured out what the hell she was trying to do up in London.
Apparently, she’d been born to a human mother after a demonic liaison gone wrong and had been abandoned on Earth as a child. She’d never had any contact with her own kind, and definitely had no idea who or what she was supposed to be. It was pretty clear she was different, but it wasn’t until she’d hooked up with Kelvin and his bunch that she’d learned what she really was. Well, sort of.
Seems Kelvin got his claws into her early and, as humans are known to do, he got everything wrong. He’d apparently convinced Jacky she could summon the Devil and be returned to Hell through ritual sacrifices. Kelvin, of course, thought he’d get something out of the deal, too.
Well, he was sort of right. Jacky got her one-way ticket to Hell plus one, her buddy Kelvin dragged along to keep her company. And while I don’t know what happened to either of them after Baalth led them away to chat with Uncle Lou, I didn’t think we’d be seeing them again.
“Proud enough for a reward?” I asked. If the udder’s dangling right there, you gotta milk it for all it’s worth.
Baalth leaned back into his chair with an amused snort.
Lucifer smiled, showing off his fixation for perfect dental hygiene. “Most definitely, Frank. You deserve a reward for your success.”
“Really?” I hadn’t expected it to be so easy.
“Certainly,” Uncle Lou said. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll send you to the New West to sow your wild oats, no expenses barred.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah?”
Lucifer nodded. “You need only do one little thing for me while you’re there.”
Baalth chuckled low in his throat, the sound sucking all the happiness from my face. I slid into my seat and met my uncle’s twinkling gaze as he rose from his desk.
“Be sure he’s ready, Baalth.” Lucifer nodded to us and left the room.
“Another job?” I asked after my uncle had left.
Baalth grinned. “Hard work is its own reward.” He hopped up from his seat and patted me on the head. “Now go and pack your bags. This one’s going to be tough.”
About the Author:
Raised on a diet of Heavy Metal and bad intentions, Tim Marquitz writes a mix of the dark perverse, the horrific, and the tragic, tinged with sarcasm and biting humor. He looks to leave a gaping wound in the minds of his readers like his inspirations: Clive Barker, Jim Butcher, and Stephen King.
A former grave digger, bouncer, and dedicated metalhead, Tim is a huge fan of Mixed Martial Arts and fighting in general.
He lives in Texas with his beautiful wife and daughter.
www.tmarquitz.com
Follow Tim on Facebook: www.facebook.com/tim.marquitz
Twitter: @Marquitz
Read on for a preview of THOSE POOR, POOR BASTARDS, the first volume in the all-new Old Western Action-Horror series, "Dead West." From the deranged minds of Tim Marquitz, J.M. Martin, and Kenny Soward.
'THE WALKING DEAD AND HELL ON WHEELS COLLIDE!'
September, 1868...SOMEWHERE IN THE SIERRA NEVADA, during the expansion of the Central Pacific Railroad, Nina Weaver and her pa, Lincoln, trundle into Coburn Station with a wagonful of goods they're looking to barter. Of all the rotten luck, their world—and the future of the American West—is forever changed when a sudden swarm of zombies invades town on the hunt for some human-sized vittles.
Those Poor, Poor Bastards
Book 1 of
Dead West
Copyright 2013
Marquitz, Martin, Soward
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the authors except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Worldwide Rights
Created in the United States of America
Designed and edited by J.M Martin | Nine Worlds Media
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Photography: AFREEMAN Photography
Cover Model: Meagan Williams
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One
“If one of them colossal swarms come you’d hear that low rumbling noise…then jump for your horse, get to them before they scattered to hell and gone. Then you ride at a dead run in the dark if you got to, with cut banks and prairie dog holes all around. Ending up with your neck broke in a shallow grave is a damn sight better than what they’ll do.”
— “Teddy Blue” Abbott, We Rode Dead West & Away From Hell
Nina Weaver tucked an errant strand of hair beneath her hat and walked around to the rear of the wagon. Her boots squelched in the mud and the stench of horse shit burned her nostrils. She didn’t want to be here, hated towns, but they were a week past broke and needed the cash.
The spring thaw had turned Main Street into a mess of manure and mud, a wagon trap, a thick river of organic slop only a pig could love.
A pair of stinky traders passed by on the wooden-planked walkway, each with a string of carcasses slung over their shoulders. One nodded at Nina. She nodded back, keeping her brim low. On a bench next door, a couple of old-timers cackled and spit tobacco as far as they could into the street. Across the filth-ridden lane, two whores hawked themselves in front of the Pussy Palace, flirting with their lips and stockinged legs, lifting their dingy dresses sky high. Another whore tossed a bucket of piss from the second story window while one of her sisters priced her cunt to a man on the boardwalk below.
