Consequence
The Tracking Board’s 2016 Launch Pad Manuscript Competition
The year is 1865. The Civil War has splintered these United
States and though the war has ended, its people are more divided
than ever. Underneath the fear and hate lies a far darker evil,
one that has yet to reveal itself to the world, until a
dangerous demonic outlaw murders the wife and son of a Union
soldier, and then steals his baby girl.
Now the world beneath will clash with the one above as the
soldier, a ruthless butcher named Carter Nash, spends the next
eleven years hunting the outlaw and his gang, leading him to a
brutal, unforgiving mining town in Nevada called Consequence.
With his vengeance closer than ever, Carter must evade the
forces of darkness and the lawmen of the West to find his
daughter and kill the demons who took everything from him.
It seemed darker than most nights, almost as if some unseen
force was hiding the stars. The small patch of light that cut
through the clouds came from the dimly lit full moon hovering
above them, an air of omnipotence about it. It was clear to Rose
that God didn’t want her to bask in the moonlit splendor of what
should have been a cool autumn’s night. A job like hers wasn’t
exactly the kind of thing a nice Christian girl would stoop to,
nor was it the kind of thing that God showed favor on. And she
should know. Rose had been a nice Christian girl her entire
life, until her Pappy received a bullet between the eyes from a
Yankee bluecoat during the War of Northern Aggression. Without
dear departed Pappy in her life, she had nobody left to lead her
down the path of the righteous. She abandoned the church and
made her way West on the back of a caravan, determined to make
something of herself. Desperate for money, she was driven to do
things that made her fall out of favor with the good Lord and
put her on the fast track to Hell. And yet, despite the
disapproving looks she received daily from the church ladies,
she couldn’t have cared less. Her golden blonde hair and
innocent blue eyes made her a favorite throughout the town, and
she always tended to earn more than the older courtesans.
Life as a whore came easy in Consequence what with every
wannabe miner in the West aching for a little taste of home.
Rose was the best. Thin, blonde, and cute as a button. Three
traits that made you a hot commodity in a town that ran on greed
and whore-mongering. But that was the magic of the West. Back
home, Rose was nothing more than a common harlot, giving in to
the devil’s temptations. But here, Rose was queen of the
bordello, a goddess with the legs to prove it too.
The time was nine thirty-five in the evening when Rose sat
outside the Lucky Prospector saloon, counting her hard-earned
cash that made life worth living. Ever since an incident with a
ranch hand who had been a few cents short, she’d been barred
from entry after sunset, but there was no law against unwinding
on the porch. She ran the dirty bills through her hands,
admiring her day’s haul. She flicked through the wad of greasy
ones and fives, smirking at the occasional ten, when a thin but
muscular cowpoke with a tan ten gallon hat strolled up beside
her and put his hand on the post next to her. He stood there,
staring at her with lustful eyes. She tried her best to ignore
him, but the sound of his teeth clacking together as he smacked
his chaw filled her ears. She glanced over. His eyes were
slightly bloodshot and he hadn’t shaved in about three days. His
white skin was unnaturally pale. Rose didn’t think anything of
it at the time.
“Evening,” he said, iron in his voice. Rose didn’t
acknowledge him. “You know,” he said, “where I come from, when a
woman disrespects a man, bad things happen.”
Rose looked up. “Well, ain’t you dangerous, cowpoke. Now, get
lost. I ain’t workin’ tonight.”
The man rubbed his hand over her thigh. “You’re always
workin’, honey. I’ve had me a long day and I’m fixin’ to unwind,
if you catch my drift.” He smiled a broken smile, three of his
teeth missing. His incisors were strangely longer than most.
Rose smacked the man’s hand and he let go. “I’m done for the
day, mister. If you want something sweet, take it up with Madame
Ivy at the Red Thorn or come see me in the morning.” Rose walked
away, but the pale cowpoke followed.
“Harlow,” he said. “Damian Harlow. You heard of me?”
Rose sighed. This wasn’t going to end anytime soon. “Can’t
say I have, Harlow. I’m sure you’re a dangerous man. Now go
bother somebody who gives a shit. I’m goin’ to bed.” As she
turned away, Harlow grabbed her arm forcefully, bruising her.
His strength was incredible, unlike anything she’d ever felt
before. She tried to wrestle out of his grip, but he was too
strong. He slammed his arm against her neck, locking her in his
grip like a vise.
“I don’t think you heard me, sweetheart. I’m a paying
customer. I want what’s mine.” He smelled her neck sensually,
his attuned nose seeking out the sweet smell of the blood that
was pulsing within her. Rose felt his nose glide along her neck
and she started to shake with fear.
“Help!” she screamed. “Somebody hel...” Harlow clapped his
hand over her mouth. The drunks in the Lucky Prospector never
even looked in her direction. Nobody came to her rescue.
“You seem to be gettin’ the wrong idea, sugar. The
situation’s much, much worse than you thought.” Rose heard a
sickening twisting sound that made her think of flesh being torn
apart. Harlow turned her around, revealing black and blue skin,
jet black eyes, and two long fangs protruding from his mouth.
Rose wanted so badly to scream, but the monster’s hand was
still pressed firmly over her mouth. His other hand flew down
the front of her dress, but he pulled it back in agony. Smoke
poured from his palm and he winced in pain, loosening his grip
on her. Rose bolted towards the sheriff’s office as Harlow threw
down a sizzling crucifix.
“Please God, somebody help me!” she screamed down the street.
“He’s gonna kill me! Please! Please!” She pounded on the
sheriff’s door, but nobody came. She glanced in the window and
saw the sheriff passed out next to an empty bottle of whiskey. A
few feet to her right stood the church, with a candle in the
window still lit. She ran to it, dust flying from the street as
she did so, and pounded on the door. She heard the slow
footsteps of the reverend, but the noises around her were
silenced when Harlow came up behind her and grabbed her throat,
forcing her head to the left.
“You slippery bitch.” Harlow bit down hard on her jugular,
sucking the blood from her veins. She had no energy left to
scream. As the life faded from her body, the door swung open to
reveal Reverend Campbell, the local man of God.
“What’s all that racket?” he muttered. As he connected eyes
with Harlow, the reverend felt his heart skip a beat. He
scrambled for his crucifix and pointed it at the beast in front
of him. “Begone, demon! In the name of the Lord, I command you
begone!” Damian Harlow stared at the crucifix, and transformed
back into his pale old self. He wiped the blood from his mouth
and tossed the body on the ground, adjusting his hat as he did
so.
“Evening, reverend. I’ll be seein’ you again.” He grabbed a
handful of dirt and threw it in the reverend’s eyes, blinding
him momentarily. As fast as he arrived, Harlow was gone. After
clearing his eyes, the reverend barreled out of the church and
cradled Rose’s head in his lap.
“Murder!” he bellowed. “Somebody help! Murder!”
CHAPTER 1
LYLE HARVELLE, ATTORNEY AT LAW
“If you ask me,” began Senator Johnson Ellis as he stood
surrounded by his parasitic constituents, sipping from a glass
of cognac with a bizarre red tint, “the plight of the slave has
been greatly exaggerated. We rescued them from that dreadful
continent and gave them the food off our table. What’s a few
chains compared to such a rescue? If you ask me, the blacks
should be thanking people like me.”
As the empty-headed swill swallowers ate up Senator Ellis’s
words, there was one man at this garden party fundraiser who
hadn’t been paying attention to the senator’s opinionated
opener. He stood directly across from Ellis, watching him
intently but not listening to him talk, fiddling with his own
flimsy mustache. He wore a smart blue buttoned-up suit that was
hand-tailored by the finest couturier in Baton Rouge. But he was
far from Baton Rouge now, of course. He’d found his way to
Devil’s Neck, Nevada, a dust bowl filled with criminal lawmen
and hapless prospectors who were a few decades late to the
party. His name was Lyle Harvelle, attorney at law, or at least
that’s who he was tonight. Over the years, he’d gotten used to
many different names. Lyle Harvelle was the educated man, Lucky
Chuck was the dumb ranch hand he used for distractions, and one
time he’d convinced a community of Mormons that he was Jesse
James. It had been a long while since he’d used his God-given
mantle, as the law had no trouble plastering it all over the
West. Oh, yes. The marshals would have a goddamn festival once
they got ahold of...
“Why, Mr. Harvelle,” said a loud, brash womanly voice that
shook Lyle from his thoughts, “what are you still doing way over
here?”
Lyle Harvelle looked into the eyes of the senator’s wife
Patricia Ellis, the hostess of the night. She was nearing her
thirty-fifth birthday for the fourth time and with the senator
being in his late sixties, Patricia was used to fooling around
with some of her more “gifted” guests.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?” Lyle asked with sincerity.
Patricia smiled. “The party’s moved on, handsome.” She put
her hand on his thigh and smiled. Lyle laughed uneasily and
removed her hand.
“Has it now?” he mumbled. “I’d better go join the senator.”
“So soon? But I’m just starting to enjoy myself.” Her hand
jumped to his other thigh and she pulled it back with a fright.
“My lord, is that wood? I do apologize. Howsoever did you lose
your leg, Mister Harvelle?”
Lyle sighed and wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Took a bullet for my
country. In exchange, the bullet took my leg.”
Patricia narrowed her eyes and placed her hand back on Lyle’s
wooden thigh. This time, her hand felt cold, hard metal. She
paid it no mind. “And which country would that be, handsome? I
pride myself on having an ear for accents and I’m almost certain
I can hear a hint of Massachusetts in your Virginian voice.”
Lyle ignored her question and removed her hand once again.
“Please, Mrs. Ellis. I’m here on business and it’s high time I
got to it.”
Patricia smiled. “Hard to get, ain’t ya? I like that in a
man. Johnson and I hail from Somerset, Georgia. He didn’t fight
in the war, but he sure supported the cause. When we lost the
Negroes, we came out here. After all, what were we gonna do?
Pick our own cotton? Not likely.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t,” replied Lyle absentmindedly.
Her other hand landed on his shoulder. She squeezed it slightly.
“Why, Mr. Virginia Lawyer,” she exclaimed. “I absolutely
cannot let you leave my home without showing you my boudoir. All
my husband’s friends say it’s the nicest room in the house.”
Lyle cleared his throat and shook his shoulder free of
Patricia’s wandering hands. “As I said, ma’am, I have a job to
do here. Though I’m sure your boudoir is to die for.”
Patricia frowned, denied her night of pleasure with the
lawyer from Virginia. “My husband’s in the parlor with the rest
of his little birdies. You know, if you really want to be a part
of his circle, all you have to do is hate the Negroes and suck
the life out of this town. You do that and you’ll get along fine
with the rest of them. Better hurry up, handsome. The party’s
getting cold.” As Lyle turned toward the parlor, Patricia
slapped his ass and winked at him. Lyle sighed and hurried
along, not looking back.
“Oh Johnson, you must tell us about your trip to Washington,”
said Henry Winger, a businessman from Kansas City who had yet to
come into his beard but, for some reason, fascinated Senator
Ellis. “Was the election as baffling as people are saying? I’d
heard there were riots in the streets. How did you emerge
unscathed?”
The senator chuckled, his jowls bouncing unpleasantly. “No,
my dear Henry. Riots there were not, but you could cut the
resentment in the air with a butter knife. Allow me to be the
first to welcome President-Elect Hayes to this glorious nation.”
He raised a glass of cognac to the sky. “May 1876 be the
beginning of our ascension to the throne, so to speak.”
Lyle Harvelle raised his glass and smiled through his teeth,
all the while remembering his mission. He’d done this a thousand
times and most of them had gone off without a hitch. The only
problem was that this time, he didn’t know how many of them were
here or whether or not this was what other hunters referred to
as a “Meet and Greet,” which involved luring innocents to an
enclosed space and striking without warning. Seeing as this was
a dinner party, the end result could be much worse than he’d
expected. As the night grew old, he would surely find out. A fat
hand found its way onto his shoulder as the senator walked up to
him.
“Tell me, Mr. Virginia Lawyer,” said Ellis, “what has brought
you here to Devil’s Neck? Surely, it’s not just the pleasure of
my company.”
Lyle laughed and placed his cognac down on a nearby table.
“Pleasant though your company is, my good senator, I’m afraid my
presence in Devil’s Neck is strictly business.”
“Is that so? Has one of my constituents done something
unseemly? Or should I be afraid for my wallet?”
“Oh, don’t you worry, senator. I’m not here to bother any of
your constituents. My employers have sent me down to your neck
of the woods, if you’ll pardon the pun, to deliver a writ of
restitution to a Mr. Carter Nash.”
The room suddenly went silent, shadowed quickly by the quiet
whispering and murmurs that often follow a revelation such as
this. “Carter Nash? The outlaw? The one the papers have begun to
refer to as the Wild Butcher of the West? I’m afraid your
employers have sent you on a snipe hunt, Mr. Harvelle. Nash has
never been caught. The man is a ghost. They say the only people
to set eyes on him are his victims right before he cuts their
heads off. If you have any good sense at all, sir, then you will
return to Virginia and tell your superiors what I have just told
you.”
Lyle Harvelle picked up his brandy and shot back what was
left in the glass. “Well, if I did that, I wouldn’t be a very
good lawyer, now would I?”
Before Ellis could retort, the dinner bell was rung and a
tall, lurching butler named Gordon announced, “Dinner will be
served in the dining room promptly.”
The dinner announcement caught Ellis off-guard, and he turned
away from Lyle to address his guests. “I believe you heard dear
Gordon, there. If you could all join me in the dining room, we
will be feasting on an old favorite of mine.”
As the guests began to flock into the dining room, Lyle felt
a wave of relief wash over him. If his conversation with the
senator had gone on any longer, he might have blown his cover.
He had no idea what a writ of restitution was, but thankfully
neither did the senator. The dining table was long, easily
sitting all twenty guests. Senator Ellis sat at the head of the
table, with Lyle Harvelle seated at the opposite end next to Mr.
Winger and a ditzy cotton baroness named Daisy Something-Or-
Other. Lyle couldn’t help but notice that there was no
silverware on the table, apart from spoons. There were twenty
napkins folded in a bizarre shape. They might’ve been bats.
Gordon and two maids went around to each empty glass and filled
it with white wine, slightly tarnished by the same red tint that
enhanced the cognac.
The senator stood and chimed his glass with a spoon, politely
demanding silence. “My dear friends and constituents, thank you
so much for coming to my little soiree tonight. We will be
serving a delightful favorite that I have enjoyed ever since I
was a young man. But first, we will begin with an appetizer
specially made for my closest friends.” Senator Ellis clapped
his hands twice and two carts were wheeled out of the kitchen.
On each cart sat ten silver bowls of red liquid.
“Tomato soup, how lovely,” announced one of the guests on the
right side of the table.
“Yes, indeed,” said Gordon. “Quite lovely.”
As each guest received a bowl, the senator smiled and
announced “Dig in, my friends. Please, let me know what you
think.”
As the soup touched each person’s lips, half the guests
smiled in delight at the taste of an all-too familiar dish. The
other half spit it out harshly and screamed as they realized
what was really in the bowl.
“Grab them!” yelled the senator. The guests on the left side
of the table jumped forward and pinned the guests on the right
to the wall. The guests on the right had already started sobbing
and praying to their God to let them wake up from this
nightmare. Lyle Harvelle sat calmly at the end of the table,
remembering the faces of the guests on the left. Henry Winger
grabbed him and pinned his arms, not allowing him to move.
“Something tells me Gordon’s soup here isn’t the only thing
on the menu,” said Lyle. “Am I right, senator?”
Senator Ellis laughed a dark laugh, as if his voice was
changing into something evil. “Quite right, Mr. Virginia Lawyer.
You see, my friends and I enjoy one meal and one meal only.” He
picked up one of the bowls and slurped ravenously. The red
liquid stained his lips, which opened to reveal long, extended
fangs. “We drink blood, my boy, and tonight, after we finish our
appetizers, my constituents and I are going to drink you and the
rest of the cattle.” Senator Ellis’s eyes grew jet black and his
skin faded into a dark bluish tint. The rest of his inhuman
guests did the same, all becoming shadowy monsters of the
darkest evil.
Lyle Harvelle scoffed and smiled. “Eleven against one, huh?
Not looking too good for me.”
The monstrous senator looked at Lyle with confusion. “Why
aren’t you scared? The rest of these folks are pissin’ their
pants, but you’re looking at me like I’m horseshit in the
street. Who the hell are you?”
“Don’t you remember? You said it yourself.” Lyle extended a
silver knife from his sleeve and stabbed Henry Winger in the
heart, dropping him to the hardwood floor. He stood up, drew his
pistol, and ripped off his fake mustache. “Carter Nash. Pleased
to make your acquaintance.”
Before the senator could react, Carter Nash fired a pointed
silver slug straight into Ellis’s shoulder. The senator yelled
in pain and collapsed onto the floor. “Get that goddamn son of a
bitch!” he screamed at his constituents.
Carter smirked and climbed onto the table, stabbing Daisy
Something-Or-Other and a very fat gentleman in their respective
foreheads once he reached slightly higher ground. He holstered
the gun and grabbed a small glass ball out of his pocket. He
held it high above his head.
“Solis lumen!” he yelled, igniting the magic within the ball
and engulfing the dining room in a flash of bright, golden
light. Every dark creature let go of their human meal and fell
to the ground, desperate to escape the sunlight. One red-haired
oil heiress failed to escape and exploded in a burst of flames,
painting the walls with her entrails. Carter set the ball on the
dining room table. “Get out!” he screamed at the humans cowering
on the floor. “All of you, get the fuck out of here!” The humans
quickly hopped up and ran for the front door, but were met by
the vicious, blackened form of Patricia Ellis.
“Now,” said the hostess, “where do you all think you’re
going? Dinner isn’t over yet, darlings, and we can’t start
without you.” She bared her fangs and hissed at the humans,
grabbing the man in front and sinking her teeth into his throat.
As she slurped up the warm red blood, she failed to notice
Carter Nash walk up to her.
“Hey, bitch,” he said. Patricia looked up, her fangs stained
pink with the young man’s blood. “Dinner’s over.” Carter pulled
a silver stake out of his pocket and stuck it deep in her chest.
The lady’s meal fell at her feet as she fumbled at the stake.
She quickly collapsed, lifeless and cold. Carter walked up to
the man she was snacking on and put a silver bullet between his
eyes. “Fuckin’ vampires,” he muttered to himself.
As the survivors ran outside into the wild of Devil’s Neck,
Carter walked back into the dining room. He grabbed Senator
Ellis by the leg and dragged him into the kitchen. As the door
closed, Carter once again yelled, “Solis lumen!” This time, the
ball’s light was extinguished and the remaining vampires crawled
out from under the table. Soon, Carter found himself facing the
remaining seven vampires, led by Gordon the Butler.
“Carter Nash,” said Gordon, “it’s a pleasure to meet the
butcher of my people. Imagine the rewards in store for me once I
rip you apart.” He bared his fangs. “I think I’ll skin you alive
and feast on the blood that drips from your dying body.” Gordon
and his small army surrounded Carter, who had removed another
small ball from his pocket. Only this one had a fuse on the end.
In his other hand, he held a match.
“I’ve been hunting you sons of bitches for a long time,” he
said to Gordon, “and in all that time, do you know what I’ve
never seen?”
“What’s that?” responded Gordon.
“One of you assholes choke this down.” Carter lit the fuse
and tossed it into Gordon’s hands. As the butler caught it,
Carter punched him and ran past him into the kitchen. Once the
door closed, the small bomb exploded in a violent flash of
silver and holy water that annihilated Gordon and blew the
others to pieces. When Carter opened the kitchen door, what he
saw would have made the hardest stomachs in the world hurl up
yesterday’s brisket. The once beautiful white walls were now
painted a permanent crimson red with the blood of the vicious
creatures that once inhabited it. There were innards and body
parts scattered across the floor, coupled with the violent
screams of the few vampires who survived the explosion. For
these poor souls, Carter walked out and stabbed each one in the
forehead with a silver knife. With each stab of his blade,
Carter felt another piece of his old life return to him. It was
like this with each job. Every vampire he killed made the world
a little safer and got him a little closer to his ultimate goal.
He’d never been closer to that goal but first, he had to deal
with the senator. After a bit of searching, he found Senator
Ellis hiding in the meat locker.
“Well, my dear senator,” said Carter. “I believe you have
something I need.” He grabbed the senator by his bullet-pierced
shoulder and tossed him on the ground. He pulled his knife out
of his sheath. “Shall we?”
CHAPTER 2
THE WATCHFUL EYES OF THE BURLAP CHRIST
When people look back at the annals of history, they often
overlook Consequence. While it may have resembled every other
mining town from back in the day, it lacked a certain shred of
morality that the others tried their hardest to maintain.
Consequence was a cesspool of scum and treachery that gave the
entire state of Nevada a bad name. Despite the persistent word
of its people, there was no gold or silver left in or around the
town. The people who had come to strike it rich had been left
penniless, with no place to go. They were the first settlers.
Most of them were still there, unable to achieve anything beyond
their callous, wasted lives. In their heads, they’d convinced
themselves that money was the only sure way to happiness, love,
and everything else they wanted. A mindset like that can destroy
a person if they never make it past the first step. Consequence
was filled with underachievers who wanted every scrap of cash
and coin that fell into the piles of horseshit that paved the
only road in and out, provided they didn’t have to work too hard
to get it.
Part of the willingness to work was attributed to the town’s
unofficial leader and hoarder of crime, a man by the name of
Harrison Powell. His name alone struck fear into the hearts of
those who could not protect themselves in Consequence, which was
pretty much everybody. When money was involved, you could be
damn certain that Powell was involved. He had leverage over the
local lawmen like Sheriff Quinn, who was more than happy to look
the other way in exchange for a few gold coins every now and
again. Any deputy or new meat that tried to stand against Powell
was made an example of in the worst way. Powell made it known
that he liked to experiment. Sometimes he tied them to the
tracks, sometimes he dipped them in tar and slapped a wad of
feathers on their backs, but his favorite method was hanging. A
hanging was the ultimate symbol of his power. All he had to do
was say the word and the lever was pulled, the asshole was
dropped, and the people learned their lesson once again. It was
in many ways, the perfect system.
Nobody died in Consequence without Powell approving it first,
which was why the discovery of Rose’s mangled body and Reverend
Campbell’s screams of demons were so disconcerting. It meant
somebody was killing people against Harrison Powell’s wishes,
and that in turn meant trouble was on the horizon for
Consequence.
Reverend Campbell stood next to the bloodless corpse that
once resembled a beautiful young woman. He held his crucifix
tight in his hands and was refusing to let anybody near the
body.
“I saw him!” he yelled into the crowd that had begun to form.
“I looked into the eyes of the devil himself! He slaughtered
this poor girl and drank the blood from her neck! You will be
next! Sinners! Fornicators! Murderers! All of you!” The good
reverend stumbled and fell into the dusty road, at the feet of
the most powerful man in Nevada. Powell was a tall, burly man
with dark brown eyes and a thinning black hairline that he hid
underneath a wide, brown Stetson. From Campbell’s perspective,
he looked like the shadow of the West come to claim his soul.
“Now, now, reverend,” said Harrison Powell, adjusting his
Stetson. “Surely you have better things to do than scare all
these kind folks with talk of devils and murder. Don’t you,
reverend?”
Reverend Campbell felt his lip tremble. “Mr. Powell, I am a
messenger of God. These people need to know that Satan has come
to Consequence.” Murmurs consumed the crowd as the smallest
cloud of fear began to overtake them one by one. Powell grabbed
Campbell by his collar and stared deep into the reverend’s eyes.
“You stop that talk right now. If I hear one more word out of
your crazy, God-fearing pie hole about Satan or demons, you’ll
be talking to God in person. Is that what you want?”
Powell’s demanding eyes told Reverend Campbell that he was
telling the Lord’s plain truth. Against his better judgment, he
sorely conceded. “No, Mr. Powell. I don’t want that.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?”
Campbell’s eyes fell to the dusty ground. “No, we don’t.” He
turned to address the crowd. “I’m sorry, everybody. It must have
been the prairie dew again. Damned stuff makes my mind itch.”
“That’s what I thought. Be on your way, reverend.” Powell let
go of his collar. Reverend Campbell backed away too quickly and
fell backwards through the doors of the church. Powell turned
his attention to the people who were still scared of the devil.
“I suggest the rest of you be on your way as well. Let the
undertaker do his duty.” As the crowd dispersed, a short man
with a black funeral suit walked up with a cart and a coffin.
With another man’s help, he picked up the ruined cadaver and
plopped her into the coffin. The undertaker then hopped on the
horse latched to the cart and made his way to the cemetery out
near Badger Gulch. As he faded from view, Powell made his way
into the Lucky Prospector saloon and sat at his table in the
back with his three associates, each of whom was more despicable
than the last.
There was Roger Knox, Powell’s remarkable attorney. Despite
the many illegal activities Harrison Powell was involved in, he
never seemed to get caught or even accused of any sort of
wrongdoing. Knox knew which palms to grease and when to grease
them. Sheriffs, marshals, politicians, all of them belonged to
Powell through Knox. Without him, Powell’s empire would have
crumbled years ago.
Then there was Ed Keaton. He was Powell’s loyal bodyguard. He
had a build that would have rivaled Goliath himself and a temper
to match. Nobody got within two feet of Powell without going
through Ed Keaton first. It was rumored that he once ripped a
railroad tie in half and killed two men with it. It had been
neither confirmed nor denied, but everybody believed it.
And finally there was Luke Powell, Harrison’s deadbeat little
brother. Luke had no special skills and he wasn’t very handsome.
His older brother would never admit it, but he cared for him
deeply, as he was the only family he had left. Their parents
left Philadelphia to head westward and ended up settling down
with a cattle ranch. One day, when Harrison and Luke were in
their teens, their parents were found ripped to shreds alongside
the bulk of their cattle. They’d been told it was a pack of
wolves, but they always had trouble believing that. Since then,
Harrison Powell had felt responsible for Luke, even though most
times he was more trouble than he was worth.
As the crowd dispersed back to their hovels, one young man
walked into the church. His name was Joshua Chester, but folks
just called him Red due to his fiery red hair and tendency to
blush. Red Chester was a quiet boy with a big heart and if there
was something happening, he wanted to know what it was and if
there was something he could do about it.
“Reverend Campbell?” he asked as he entered the church. Red
walked to the altar, where the cross of Christ stood watchful
over him. There was something strange about the figure of Jesus
but before Red could go in for a closer look, the good Reverend
appeared from an adjacent doorway. He saw Red staring at the
cross.
“Burlap,” said Reverend Campbell.
“Beg your pardon, reverend?” responded Red.
“That’s what it’s made of,” said Campbell. “The Christ
figure’s stone head was shot off last week when the Anson Gang
ran through here. I tried to mend it as best I could, but these
old fingers aren’t what they used to be. Thankfully, Mrs.
Dandrige down the way made me a new head out of burlap. It’s not
the most flattering the Lord has looked, but I guess our burlap
Jesus has its own brand of charm.”
Red nodded, only half paying attention to the Reverend’s
story about the burlap Christ. “Is it true?” he asked. “Are
there demons in Consequence?”
Reverend Campbell looked like he wanted to say something, but
instead said something else. “You heard Mr. Powell. We aren’t
supposed to be talkin’ about things like that. There’s been a
terrible crime committed in this town. Sheriff’s gonna telegraph
the marshal and he’ll bring whoever did this to justice.”
Red sighed. “I’m sorry to say this in a house of God, but as
sweet as Rose was, she was a whore. Ain’t nobody callin’ the
marshal over a dead whore, if you’ll pardon my sayin’ so. Also,
you didn’t answer my question.”
The reverend shook his head. “I’m sorry, Joshua, but I’ve had
a long morning. My bones are weary and I must relax my tired
mind. Allow an old man the chance to rest.”
Red was unfazed by the reverend’s second dodge. “What can
you tell me about them? Demons, I mean.”
“Joshua, I shouldn’t...”
“Between us friends, reverend. Nothing leaves this church.
Powell never has to know, I swear on my dear departed mother’s
grave.”
Campbell’s eyes darted to the door. “Lock it.” Red did as
he was told and followed the reverend back into his small
bedroom. Inside was an old war chest filled with tattered books.
He pulled one out from the bottom that looked far older than the
rest. The cover was torn and holding on by a thread. It was
titled Daemon. “This book has been passed down through my family
for generations, all the way back to Jamestown. I never thought
I’d be looking through it for guidance, but we are on the cusp
of trying times, Joshua. We must know everything we can.”
“Wow,” said Red, wide-eyed. “Tell me everything I need to
know.”
CHAPTER 3
ON THE SLAB
In the deep dark wine cellar of the senator’s lavish
mansion, Carter Nash stood in front of a table. On said table,
he laid out his tools for the evening. Silver knife, wooden
stake, a pair of pliers, a cup of holy water sanctified by
Father Brian of New Jefferson, South Dakota, and of course a
strand of homegrown garlic just in case. Behind him, hands tied
and hung up on a meat hook like a side of beef, was Senator
Johnson Ellis. The little bit of color in his pale, dead face
drained as he watched the Wild Butcher of the West sharpen his
silver knife before baptising it in holy water.
“I don’t know how many of us you’ve strung up like cattle,”
said the senator, “but I bet I’m the richest. Let me go and I’ll
give you your weight in gold.” Carter turned around and stared
into the senator’s eyes. There was a darkness in Carter’s human
eyes, something primal to be feared. And it worked. “No gold,
then,” responded the frightened senator. “Women? I can get you
thousands of women. I can even get you men if that’s your
preference. This is the West. We don’t judge out here.” Carter
walked towards the senator, unfazed by his offers. He kept
walking until he was eye to eye with his prey.
“Five days ago,” said Carter, “a gang of vampires passed
through here. I know you gave them rooms for the night as well
as some drinks for the road. I only need you to answer one
question and then maybe I’ll consider you a loose end. Where
were they going?”
Senator Ellis went from cowering wretch to cackling rogue
in a split second. “So you’re after him. I should have known.
Why else would you be here? You didn’t come to my party to save
anybody. I could see it in your eyes. You want Harlow, don’t
you? Yeah, he stopped here. Him and his boys. But if you want
his whereabouts, I welcome you to eat shit.”
Without hesitation, Carter plunged the knife into Ellis’s
belly. The senator screamed as the holy water dripped into his
guts, setting his blood ablaze. He instantly turned, revealing
his demonic face. “Arghh!” he yelled. “I’ll rip your fuckin’
throat out, you goddamn sonofabitch!”
Carter ripped the knife out and sheathed it. “I’m gonna
give you one more chance, you undead piece of shit. Where is
Harlow going?”
Ellis reverted. “Back East to fuck your mother.” Carter
picked up the stake. He held it to the senator’s eye.
“You see this? This stake was carved out of a holy tree. I
acquired it at great expense. If I stick you in the eye with it,
it won’t grow back. It’ll hurt like a bitch too. Now, you
fucking tell me. Where is Damian Harlow going?”
Ellis laughed. “If I tell you anything, that silver blade
of yours is gonna be good friends with my neck awful quick. If I
keep mum, you’ll just keep on torturing me. Any pain you inflict
upon me is like a whore’s tug compared to what Harlow will do to
me if I spill a thing about him. So, I reiterate. Eat shit,
hunter.”
“Never let it be said that I didn’t warn you.” Carter
slowly lowered the wooden stake into Ellis’s open eye socket,
destroying his right eyeball piece by painful piece. Ellis
screamed into the empty night as Carter pushed it further back,
careful not to pierce his brain. He left it in as he went for
the pliers.
“Harlow’s gonna eat your fucking tongue for breakfast, you
stupid son of a whore! Do your fucking worst!”
Carter wiped the sweat from his brow. “You’re harder to
break than I thought you would be, bloodsucker. I’ll give you
that. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this, but you’ve left
me no choice. The mess is always unbelievable.” He ripped the
stake out of the mangled eye socket and tossed it aside. He hung
the garlic around Ellis’s neck, burning him. The pain made the
senator once again show his demonic side, revealing his fangs.
“Open wide, fucker.” Carter grasped the senator’s left fang
with the pliers and pulled with all his might. The long, jagged
tooth burst out of the senator’s mouth, followed by a spurt of
blackened blood.
“Agggghhhhhhhhhh!” screeched the senator, rotten blood
pouring from his disfigured mouth. Carter dropped the fang into
his own hand and showed it to the senator. “You take the bite
out of the tiger, suddenly he’s not so scary anymore is he,
senator?” He grabbed a necklace from under his shirt and showed
it to the senator. It was made of torn out vampire fangs, more
than seventeen of them. “I’ve killed much more than this,
senator. These are just my favorites. I think I’ll add yours to
the collection. In fact, I think I’ll add both.”
Carter went for the other fang, but the senator blurted
out, “Consequence!”
Carter paused, the pliers less than half an inch away from
the senator’s ruined maw. “Say again?”
“A mining town twenty miles west of here, just before the
California border, name of Consequence. Harlow said he and the
boys were gonna have themselves a bite before they made it home.
They should be there by now. There, I fucking told you. Now,
please just kill me.”
“With pleasure.” Carter grabbed his long, silver knife from
its sheath and took the senator’s head off with one clean blow.
He picked up his tools and cleaned out the senator’s house for
any supplies he might need. He packed his saddlebags and stole a
horse from the stables. Finally, he poured oil all throughout
the house and lit a trail with a red hot match, before leaving
his burning nightmare behind in search of the mining town of
Consequence and his much anticipated meeting with Damian Harlow.
#
Another pale bastard, thought Madame Ivy as her latest
customer strolled into the local bordello of Consequence, a
place the locals had affectionately begun to call the Red Thorn
in honor of town favorite Rose. Madame Ivy looked her colorless
customer over from top to bottom before sneering at him. He wore
a black ten-gallon hat with a rim larger than most, and around
his mouth and nose he had on a plaid bandana. Ivy reached for
the rifle she kept under the bar just in case Mr. Pale was
fixing to rob her or worse. When he lowered the bandana and took
off the hat, she let her fingers rest. He ripped off a pair of
heavy miner’s gloves and flopped them down on the bar in front
of her.
“I’ve seen every whore-mongering son of a bitch in this
town twice over mister,” she said bluntly. “Who the hell are
you?”
“Name’s Clayton Ross,” said the stranger. “I was just
passin’ through on my way to San Francisco and thought I’d stop
by to visit the home of the legendary Rose I’ve heard so much
about. She available?”
“I’m afraid you’re a day late, Mr. Ross. Rose is dead.”
Clayton didn’t blink, but said politely, “My apologies. I
heard she was the best. Wouldn’t be surprised if your business
went to shit now.”
“There are some things that never change in this world, Mr.
Ross, and one of them is the male urge to fuck anything that
moves. Now, if you want to unwind for an hour, it’s six dollars.
You can have Iris, Lily, or Violet. If you feel like waiting an
hour, I think Jasmine is almost done upstairs.”
Clayton Ross rubbed his stubble, pondering. The leggy,
redheaded Iris winked at him seductively. He took out a billfold
and laid six dollars on the bar. “You tell Miss Iris to wait for
me upstairs. I got a hunger I reckon she can satisfy.” He set
down another five dollars. “And give me a bottle of Kentucky red
eye. I’m thirsty too.” Iris giggled and ran up the stairs,
giving Clayton a good look at her talents.
Ivy reached for the bills, but suddenly found herself
thinking of Rose. It was a stranger that had ripped her apart
like that. Nobody local would dare try anything under Powell’s
nose, she was sure of it. With the reverend screaming about
demons and a sudden influx of new arrivals, Ivy felt she was
starting to have a change of heart. Or maybe it was pure, old-
fashioned suspicion.
“Take your money,” she said to Clayton Ross.
“Pardon?” asked the bewildered customer.
“I can’t let you take any of my girls. Not until we know
who you are. You’re welcome to the red eye, but these girls
ain’t for sale to strangers.”
Clayton glared angrily at Ivy, ready to throw a punch, but
before he could say anything, a tall shadow overtook them both
as Harrison Powell walked in the door. He looked down at Ivy,
then over to Clayton. “What seems to be the problem here?” he
asked calmly.
“She don’t want to sell me a whore,” said Clayton. “That’s
the problem.”
Powell looked back at Ivy. “He got money?”
Ivy gulped. “Yessir.”
“He pull a gun on you?”
“No sir.”
“Then give the man a whore. We don’t play favorites in
Consequence. You know that, Miss Foster.”
Madame Ivy winced at Powell mentioning her real name. “I
do, Mr. Powell. Won’t happen again, I swear it.”
“I know, darlin’. I know.” With a tip of his hat, Powell
walked to the back of the Red Thorn to help himself to one of
Ivy’s many flowers. Clayton sneered at the Madame, then scooped
up his whiskey and strolled upstairs to meet Iris. As he did,
Ivy couldn’t escape this feeling of dread over her latest
customer. Something was terribly wrong.
CHAPTER 4
THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN
Clayton Ross strolled into the fifth room down the hall to
find Miss Iris lying on the bed, bathed in sunlight. Out of
instinct, his hand reached up to shield his eyes.
“You mind closin’ them curtains, darlin’?” he asked.
“Sunlight don’t usually agree with me.” Iris smiled and shut the
curtains, allowing Clayton to sigh with relief and take off his
hat. “That’s better.” He walked over and laid down beside Iris,
who pulled him towards her into a big wet kiss. As she let him
go, he noticed a crucifix on the wall above them. His eyes
narrowed, but he didn’t let it bother him.
“I love a strong, commanding man,” she said, “and I bet I’m
just the woman you’ve been waiting for.”
Clayton eyed the curve of her neck and he started to
salivate. “Honey, you have no idea.” Iris went for his belt, but
Clayton stopped her. “Hold on, missy. I want to enjoy this.” He
dropped her onto her back and rested himself on top of her. He
leaned down to her neck and flicked it with his tongue. “I can
feel the blood pumping through your veins. I bet it tastes like
the nectar of the fuckin’ gods.”
At this remark, Iris grew worried. “Don’t talk like that,
mister, if you don’t mind my sayin’. It’s just that after what
happened to Rose, some of the girls get worried when men talk
like that.”
Clayton smiled. “Do you worry?”
Iris nodded. “Yes, I do, Mr. Ross.”
He laughed. “Funny you should mention that.”
“Why?” asked Iris hesitantly.
“Friend of mine, my boss really, blew through town a day
ago. Said he killed himself a whore right out there. Said she
was the best blood he’d ever tasted.”
A great big bubble of fear started to grow in Iris’s
stomach. “Don’t joke like that, mister. A stranger’s liable to
get shot jokin’ around like that in this town.”
Clayton walked over and locked the door. He walked back
towards the bed and smiled again. “Ain’t no joke, pretty flower.
Promise me you won’t scream?”
Iris tried to scream, but Clayton clapped his hand tightly
over her mouth. With his other hand, he held her down on the
bed. “Now, that boss of mine sent me here to clean up his mess,
just like last time. But I figured while I’m here, I’d better
try some of this tasty Consequence whore blood, don’t you?”
Clayton opened his mouth wide, becoming the monster he really
was. His fangs grew out of his teeth and his skin turned an evil
blackened blue. His eyes were now dark and empty. He cackled and
clamped his fangs onto Iris’s neck, sucking her warm, coppery,
ambrosial blood. In his ecstasy, his hand slipped and Iris’s
screams echoed throughout the Red Thorn.
“Quiet, you human bitch!” He slapped her and kept drinking,
but was interrupted when the door swung open to reveal Madame
Ivy holding a shotgun.
“Let her go, asshole!” she yelled. Clayton turned to face
Ivy, revealing his monstrous form, and roared at his attacker.
The blood drained from Ivy’s face as Clayton leapt at her and
her finger squeezed the trigger. Clayton flew back into the
wall, knocking the cross off the wall and onto his face. He
screamed as the symbol of Christ burned into his flesh. He
ripped it off his face like an infected bandage, grabbed his
hat, and jumped through the window. He cradled his burning face
in his hands as he bolted down the street, faster than humanly
possible. Before long, he was gone. Ivy knelt down to put
pressure on Iris’s gushing neck, all the while thinking one
desolate thought.
What in God’s name was that?
#
Clayton Ross limped his way back to his horse, careful not
to connect eyes with any of the oblivious townspeople of
Consequence. As he mounted his ride, he heard the warning bell
ring from the sheriff’s office and he could see Madame Ivy
dragging Iris’s bloody body out of the Red Thorn and yelling,
“He’s a monster! A fucking monster did this to her!”
Goddamn it, thought Clayton as he rode away on his horse,
Damian’s gonna be pissed. It wasn’t long before he reached the
town line and soon after, Consequence was far behind him. He
glanced upward at the hot sun beating down upon him and he
adjusted his hat and bandana, careful not to let the sunlight
touch any part of his skin. His face burned with an agonizing
pain he hadn’t felt for centuries, not since he was human. He
continued to gallop well into the evening, happy to take off the
gloves and bandana once the sun fell behind the mountains. By
seven o’clock, he had reached the vampire sanctuary of
Longtooth, which rested in an abandoned cave twenty miles
outside of Consequence.
Clayton galloped through the cave and tied his horse up at
the local saloon. As he took off his hat, he looked around in
the dimly lit cave that any vampire in the world could call
home. Longtooth resembled every other town in the West, apart
from its lack of sun and lack of humanity. It had a church, a
courthouse, a saloon, and every other building that Consequence
had. Of course, they served blood at the saloon, the courthouse
was rarely used, and up until recently the reverend preached a
black sermon in favor of the devil. The recently deceased
Reverend Bonney had pissed off the wrong outlaw and found
himself at the wrong end of a silver bullet. Now Longtooth was
in need of a new reverend, provided one came their way.
Damian Harlow was in the saloon with the rest of his Rowdy
Red Gang. There was Mason Boyd, a former soldier who Damian had
met in 1836 while defending the Alamo. Dying and suffering,
Mason refused to stop fighting. A bullet in his stomach was
nothing compared to the pain he would feel if they lost. Damian
found him lying in the dust and dirt once the battle was done,
and promised him he could end his suffering. All Mason had to do
was ask. Damian sank his teeth into Mason’s neck, tainting him
with his disease of death. Mason awoke the next day with no pain
in his stomach. The bullet was gone and so was the wound. He
felt tremendously thirsty. Damian promised him there would be
plenty to drink on the road ahead.
Damian’s next recruit, the enigmatic Silas Vaughn, was a
vigilante at large in Charleston, South Carolina. He targeted
criminals that, in his mind, had escaped justice. Murderers,
rapists, thieves, anybody who he believed was worthy of his
particular brand of justice. The lawmen were always three steps
behind him, and Silas made sure it stayed that way. Damian
happened to be in town when Silas was stalking his final victim,
a crazed doctor who had butchered his entire family. While
hunting him, the killer got the drop on Silas and stabbed him in
the lung, making his escape. As the blood poured from his mortal
wound, Damian slithered up to him and promised him he could end
his suffering as well. Silas awoke the next day with an
insatiable lust for a new kind of justice, one that was far less
noble. The year was 1851.
It wasn’t long before Damian met his last man, a psychotic by
the name of Archie Cole. In 1860, just a week before South
Carolina seceded from the Union, Archie’s wife Charlotte had
caught him in a whorehouse in San Altos, Texas. To get back at
him, Charlotte put arsenic in his soup. Damian happened to be
scoping the house for a midnight snack and caught them in the
act, just as Archie ate a spoonful of the dreadful stuff. As he
collapsed in a dying fit, Damian ripped open Charlotte’s neck
and told Archie that if he wanted, he could live forever. With
no other choice but to agree, Archie nodded with his last
breath. Damian bit him carefully and turned Archie into his own
worst enemy. Unfortunately, the arsenic had already seeped into
his mind and gave Archie a permanent madness. From there on in,
Archie killed his food with an insanity unlike any vampire
before him, sometimes even giving Damian a weak stomach.
Clayton walked into the saloon, towards the table where his
longtime family sat sipping from shot glasses filled with virgin
blood. Damian had found Clayton in 1812, when the British
marched on Washington and burned it to the ground. Back then,
Clayton’s name had been Francis Collins, an English soldier who
ran into Damian on the battlefield. As Damian slashed Collins
with his monstrous claws and hurled him to the ground, he
noticed something in his eyes. Collins was not afraid. Here, in
the midst of fire and war, facing down a demon from Hell, this
young soldier looked death in the eye and told him to do his
worst. Instead of killing him, Damian bit his neck. When Collins
woke up the following morning in the ruined heap of some half-
burned church with Damian Harlow standing over him, he knew that
something special had found him. Damian helped Collins fake an
American accent until his English brogue naturally wore off over
the decades. When the country began to move westward, Collins
changed his name to Clayton Ross and helped Damian find the rest
of the Rowdy Red Gang. They’d been together longer than the
rest, but Damian treated him just as he would any other vampire.
To Clayton Ross, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
As men, they were monsters. As monsters, they were something
less than men. Despite the blood thirst and desperate need for
flesh, Clayton, Mason, Silas, Archie, and Damian had learned
more about the world than they ever thought possible. Life was
fleeting. Death was forever. They had witnessed history, some
more than others, and they knew what to expect in the future.
People never change, even when they’re dead. Their assumed
clairvoyance did not mean they wouldn’t indulge in a little
snack from time to time, but they considered themselves a notch
above all other organisms on earth. And why shouldn’t they? They
were just above the food chain, after all.
Damian Harlow wore a tan wide-brimmed hat with a bandana over
his nose and mouth. On his neck, he had a shoddy tattoo of a
vampire bat that had just begun to fade. He was thin and pale,
but strong as an ox. His hair was brown with freckled gray
spread throughout. It seemed even eternal life couldn’t stop the
gray hair from taking over his scalp, though he had started to
think it made him look distinguished.
“I got bad news, Damian,” said Clayton, pulling up a chair.
“People in town know something’s up. I had an incident with one
of the whores and I had to kill her. I think the head whore, or
whatever she’s called, saw my face. They’re getting smart now.
If I’m gonna kill the better part of this town, I’m gonna need
everyone’s help.”
Damian didn’t say a word. He rolled his cigarette to the
other side of his mouth and sighed. He looked up and connected
eyes with his oldest friend. “What the fuck happened to your
face?” he asked sincerely.
Clayton shrugged. “What? What’s wrong with my face?”
“Grab a mirror,” said Archie. “You look like someone used
your face for target practice.”
“We’re vampires, you dumb shit,” said Mason. “A mirror ain’t
gonna do him no good and there ain’t a damn one in Longtooth
anyhow.” Mason Boyd stood up. “Clayton, you got a damn cross
burnt into your goddamn face. Now the whole town’s gonna know
you’re a fuck-up.”
“Hey, fuck you, Boyd!” said Clayton. “I was caught off guard.
Could have happened to any one of us and it only happened to me
‘cause I was cleaning up Damian’s fuck-up.”
Damian stood up sharply. “I was thirsty, goddamn it! Not my
fault the fuckin’ reverend’s up late at night! Rose was damn
tasty, that’s for sure, but I’ll be damned if that whore’s gonna
be the reason people learn about us. Now, Clayton, you’re my
oldest friend and I trust you, but how fuckin’ hard is it to
kill an old man and burn a body?”
Clayton suddenly remembered the reason Damian sent him to
Consequence. “Shit. I’m sorry, Damian. I never got to doin’
that. I was so thirsty, dammit, and after hearin’ you brag about
whore’s blood, I knew I had to have a taste. I apologize, Boyd,
this is my fuck-up.”
Silas Vaughn, who’d been silently enjoying his blood,
muttered, “What do we have to deal with now?”
Clayton sighed. “The head bitch, Foster I think her name was,
saw my face. My real face. So there’s probably gonna be some
talk about that. Also, I bit one of the whores. Name of Iris.
We’ve got ‘til tonight for her to turn and, if she hasn’t
already, Rose too.”
Damian shook his head. “Shoulda just kept on goin’. I didn’t
need her. We got blood right here. Gallons of it. I could’ve had
some of that. This whole thing is one big headache and that’s my
fault. But Clayton, I need you to make this right for all of us.
Tonight, you’re gonna go back to Consequence and kill this
Foster bitch. And, if you can get to them, burn Iris and Rose.”
“What about the reverend?” asked Clayton.
“If you have time. He’s just a miserable old fool, nobody
will believe his bullshit. But Foster, she’s important. If she
dies, all this vampire nonsense will disappear. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“And Clayton?”
“Yeah, Damian?”
“If you fuck this up again, don’t bother coming back. ‘Cause
if you do, I’m gonna rip out your heart and feed it to Archie
here. And you know he’ll eat it, too.”
Clayton was pretty sure Damian wouldn’t kill his oldest
friend, but something in his eyes told him that he had one more
chance to clear this up or his ass was headed for bad days.
CHAPTER 5
LYLE SIMPSON, U.S. MARSHAL
As Iris bled out in the doctor’s office, Madame Ivy and
Harrison Powell called a town meeting to clear up any
misconceptions the townsfolk had about what exactly was going
on. It was Ivy who spoke first, once everybody settled into the
courthouse.
“My name is Clara Foster,” she said. “You all know me. You
know the services I’ve provided for this town. You know I turned
my back on the church some time ago and that I don’t believe in
superstitious nonsense. When Rose was killed and people started
screaming about demons, I counted myself among the first to
dismiss it. I’ve always said that nothing is real unless I can
touch it. Today, everything I thought I knew about this world
changed in the blink of an eye when I saw Iris get attacked by
something I’d never seen before. I don’t know if it was one of
Reverend Campbell’s demons, but I know what I saw wasn’t human.
It was a monster. A monster named Clayton Ross bit my girl on
the neck and drank her blood. Now, you tell me how I’m supposed
to rationalize that.”
Clara sat down and the townsfolk erupted into a wild and
fearful frenzy. Powell rose from his seat and yelled for peace.
“I said it before and I’ll say it again,” he announced. “There’s
no such things as demons! What Miss Foster saw was the result of
either too much whiskey or not enough. This Clayton Ross is a
known outlaw and a murderer. If y’all wish for me to do so, I’ll
form a posse to personally bring him to justice. Then we can all
sleep soundly. But if one more person claims these heinous
crimes to be the act of a demonic presence, I swear by all that
is good and holy it will be the last thing they ever say. Do I
make myself clear?”
A timid voice from the back of the room cleared his throat.
“Pardon me, sir,” it said, “but you’re wrong.”
The room filled with hushed murmuring. Nobody ever told
Harrison Powell he was wrong, if they knew what was good for
them. Powell’s bodyguard Ed Keaton rose to his feet, but Powell
stopped him. “Out of sheer curiosity, I’m gonna let that slide.
Please, enlighten us, whoever you are.”
Red Chester rose from his seat and took out a piece of
paper scrawled with notes he’d taken from Campbell’s book. “Miss
Clara, you said that Ross bit Iris on the neck and drank her
blood. Is that correct?”
“That’s what I saw, all right,” said Clara.
“I read in a book that there’s only one kind of demon that
feeds on the blood of humans. That there was a vampire that you
saw, Miss Clara.”
Clara remembered the cross on the wall burning Clayton’s
face and the buckshot barely hurting him. “A vampire, you say,
Red? How do we kill it?”
Red turned the paper around. “According to the reverend,
you can stake them in the heart with a wooden or silver stake or
you can cut their heads off or you can burn them. Sunlight will
kill them after prolonged exposure and they need to feed every
twenty-four hours or they’ll start rotting away. But be warned,
Miss Clara. Anyone bitten by a vampire will become a vampire
themselves. And there is no cure. That’s probably important. We
should all know that.”
“Thank you very much, Red,” said Powell. “I sure hope you
enjoyed your moment because it will never happen again.
Everybody listen to me right now! There’s no such thing as
vampires!”
Suddenly, the courthouse door swung open to reveal a tall,
well-dressed gunslinger with five o’clock shadow and a silver
star pinned to his chest. “Sorry to interrupt your gathering
here, but I’m looking for the man in charge,” he said.
Powell walked towards him, followed closely by Keaton. “Who
wants to know?”
The man whipped out his badge. “Lyle Simpson, U.S. marshal.
I’m looking for a group of outlaws known as the Rowdy Red Gang.
They’re Damian Harlow, Silas Vaughn, Mason Boyd, Archie Cole,
and Clayton Ross. Any of those names ring any bells?”
Everybody perked up at the mention of Clayton Ross. “Mr.
Marshal,” said Powell, “you’ve come to the right town.”
Luckily for Carter Nash, there weren’t any wanted posters
he could see in the streets of Consequence so he didn’t have to
wear the stupid fake mustache that seemed to fool all the
idiots. Still, it wasn’t safe to use his real name and he’d
taken a liking to calling himself Lyle. Of course, after the
incident in Devil’s Neck, he knew he had to change the last name
to something he could easily remember, but others would dismiss.
Thus, U.S. Marshal Lyle Simpson was born.
Powell dismissed the town hall, leaving behind Clara
Foster, Red Chester, and himself. In the back of the room, Ed
Keaton stared at Carter silently.
“You say you’ve seen Clayton Ross in town?” asked Marshal
Simpson.
“You bet your ass we have,” said Clara. “Son of a bitch
attacked one of my girls then hightailed it out of here. But I
should warn you, marshal, if you don’t already know. According
to Red here, Ross is a vampire.”
Carter’s eyes flared up. The job wasn’t easy when the
townsfolk started asking questions about vampires. He needed to
steer the conversation away from the truth. He looked over at
Red, who was studying the marshal’s face as if trying to
remember something. “Vampires, eh? Someone’s been filling your
head with bullshit, boy. Probably the church, if I had to guess.
Never had a taste for it myself.”
“Then why are you wearing a cross, marshal?” asked Clara.
Carter looked down and saw he was wearing a silver crucifix
around his neck. He cursed his stupidity silently and figured
now would be a good time for the truth.
“It was my wife’s,” he said earnestly. “She died. Now, who
did Ross attack?”
Clara responded, “One of my girls. Her name is Iris.”
“Your girls?”
“Yeah, I run the local pleasure house. In there, they call
me Madame Ivy but in the real world my name is Clara Foster.”
She held out her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Foster,” said the marshal as he
shook her hand. “May I see Iris? If she’s lucid, she may be able
to tell me something about Ross.”
“Sure, I’ll walk you.” Carter turned to follow Clara out of
the courthouse, but his arm was grabbed by Powell.
“Mr. Simpson,” he began, “you no doubt are aware of who I
am. In knowing that, you in turn know that I am the first and
only law in Consequence. This son of a bitch that everybody
keeps calling a demon will find himself at the end of a rope,
but I’ll be holdin’ it. Not some cool-breeze marshal fresh off
the wagon trail. Are we clear?”
Carter laughed. “Mister, I must say you have an unusually
high opinion of yourself. I don’t, in fact, know who you are nor
do I care. I’ve been after the Rowdy Red Gang for a very long
time and if you attempt to impede my investigation in any way, I
will personally have you shot in the street. You and your dog
back there. And that’s Marshal Simpson. Are we clear?”
Powell was taken aback. Clara and Red backed away, unsure
of who was going to draw first. Keaton had started to inch
forward, but Powell once again backed him down. “You just made
the stupidest mistake of your life, you rotten fuck. Don’t get
comfortable, Simpson. Marshal or not, you better watch your
back. It won’t be long before somebody puts a bullet in it.”
Harrison Powell pushed Carter out of the way and left the
courthouse, followed by Keaton. Clara and Red didn’t exhale
until they were gone.
“Marshal Simpson,” said Clara, “you are either the bravest
man I’ve ever met or the dumbest sack of shit that ever set foot
in Consequence.”
Carter chuckled. “I’m sure we’ll find out which sooner
rather than later. Now, if you could show me to Iris.”
“Certainly.” She turned to leave, but Red caught her arm.
“If it’s no trouble, could you wait for us outside, Miss
Clara?” he asked. “I have something I’d like to ask the
marshal.”
“I’ll be just outside.” She turned to Carter. “When you’re
ready.” Clara walked outside, closing the courthouse door behind
her. When she was gone, Red erupted into a laughing fit.
“I knew it was you!” he yelled triumphantly. “This whole
time, I thought I was losin’ my mind, but I knew you looked
familiar! And you ain’t no marshal neither!”
Carter shushed him. He pulled out his gun. “Who the hell
are you? Talk or I’ll shoot you in the foot and work my way up.”
“Relax, Major Nash, I ain’t gonna tell.”
Carter was stunned. He hadn’t been called “Major Nash”
since the war ended. Since before it happened. He repeated his
question. “Who the hell are you, son?”
Red saluted Carter dramatically and formally introduced
himself. “Private Joshua Chester, Twentieth Pennsylvania. You
don’t remember me, do you Major Nash?”
Carter holstered his weapon. “It was a long war, son.
Remind me.”