The chaos erupted all at once around Josh, and he soon found himself firing along with the others. [i]Knock Knock[/i] kicked hard against the sheriff's shoulder, and the heavy buckshot slammed hard into a zombie. With both barrels empty, he opened the breach to reload a pair of fresh shells. As he broke the shotgun open, he suddenly felt it ripped from his hands and onto the muddy ground. The stock was completely shattered.

Josh looked up at the now thinning horde of zombies and saw the man in black, with his nasty looking colt firmly in his hands. With his black hat tilted up, Josh got a good look at the man's rotted face. Even after years of decay and ruin, the sheriff still recognized it from nearly every dime novel and penny dreadful he read as a boy.

It was Clayton Rutherford.

If you believed the old tales, Clayton was a Confederate guerilla, killing pro-union folk from Kansas to Colorado. Some say he was killed not far from Longwater, shot in the back by his own men. Either way, he was staring down the sheriff, murder in his murky dead eyes. 

Even over the din of gunfire, no bullet seemed to pierce the revenant. He spoke with a voice that everyone in town could hear clearly.

[i]"This is but a taste of the hell that awaits you, folks.[/i] he said with a thick southern drawl. [i]"The Devil is on his way, and in seven days, his train will pull into the station. After that, no angel in heaven will give you mercy. If you fight, you will die. If you run, you will die. If you submit... well, you'll still die, but it won't be as painful as the other two options.[/i]

Clayton brought his boney fingers to his lips and blew, bringing a stallion of black fire into view. [i]You can pray, for all the good it will do you. Every night, you will be met with horrors worse than this. You only have yourselves to blame for this.[/i] With that, he tilted his hat forward and road off into the morning, leaving the rest of his undead to attack the towns folk. 

After the ghost-man rode off, and Joshua came back to his senses. He drew his pistol and joined the rest of the townsfolk still fighting. The sheriff could see the old soldier, Colm, not far off. "Still want a job, old timer?"