[IC] Deadlands: Tales o' the Weird West

[AndyC]

Deadwood Mining Camp
Black Hills Region
Dakota Territory
April 5th, 1877

The regular bustle up and down the street's thoroughfare had grown to an eerie silence, as dozens of townsfolk stopped what they were doing to stare. The only sounds audible beyond the wind and the odd creaking of hanging sign were the squeaking of wagon wheels, and the irregular clopping of a horse's hooves.

The brown mare limped into town, snorting and heaving from exhaustion, its fur matted with dark blood stains. Flies buzzed over a nasty wound in its right flank, no doubt the cause of the animal's limp. Many more of those flies, however, swarmed across the body seated at the front of the wagon, head drooping to one side, mouth frozen in a permanent scream.

"What in God's name...." Sheriff Seth Bullock muttered to himself as he stepped out into the street, the crowd of gawking bystanders unsure of what to do. "Everyone....*ahem* everyone stay back! Someone get the Doc!"

A boy in the crowd, maybe twelve years old, nodded and broke out into a run towards Doc Cochran's practice. Bullock whistled to the wounded horse, trying to get it to come towards him as it listed aimlessly down the street. With his left hand, Seth held out an open palm, trying his best to soothe the animal. His right hand, however, was firmly on the grip of his pistol.

A year ago, Deadwood had its first brush with the strange and unnatural events that had been cropping up across the country. What seemed at first to be an outbreak of smallpox in the camp turned out to be something far more dangerous altogether, as those who died from the illness simply didn't stay dead. Since then, the folks of Deadwood and Seth Bullock in particular had done their best to prepare for the day that the otherworldly visited their camp again, while praying that it never did.

"That's it, that's it...." Bullock said gently as the horse approached him, snuffling his outstretched hand. "Nothin' to fear, girl."

A thin man in a bowler hat emerged from the corner building, approaching the Sheriff and the wagon.

"Everything all right, Seth?" Sol Star asked, his own hand subconsciously drifting towards the Derringer in his vest pocket.

"No," Bullock answered curtly. "We've got a dead man riding through our thoroughfare, so I'd say everything is not all right. Just need to know how bad it is. Think you can keep the horse from getting spooked?"

Sol nodded, not entirely confident.

"Good," Seth said before Sol could change his mind. "I need to see what's in this wagon. Maybe that'll tell us why this man died...."

---

TWO HOURS LATER

"There's an old bit of Celestial wisdom," Al Swearengen began as he looked at the faces gathered in his office. "Rather, a curse. 'May you be born in interesting times.' I'm sure our esteemed friend Mister Wu could expound upon why this particular phrase is considered a curse by his people-- or at least he would if I could ever convince the man to speak a fuckin' word of English-- but I personally never found any ominous tones in such a saying."

Seth Bullock and Sol Star glared at Swearengen from the far corner, arms folded across their chests. They'd never liked the man, and had more than their fair share of conflicts with his operation, but over time, they'd worked out something of an understanding for the sake of the camp as a whole.

"You see, if there's any constant in the world, it's that nothing's constant," Al elaborated. "Everything changes sooner or later. Just when you think you've got your house sorted out, the winds start blowing in another direction and you've got to start all over again. Some people might look at that and see chaos. They might see it as dangerous, even downright fuckin' deadly. Me? I see it as opportunity after opportunity."

Down the hall, a woman's voice cried out in high-pitched squeals of exaggerated ecstacy. Al rolled his eyes.

"Johnny, would you mind going to room four and reminding Lucy that our establishment is not a God damned opera house? I'm in the middle of something and I'm finding it exceedingly difficult to hear myself think over her hamming it up for the customers." Johnny Burns, one of Al's lackeys, nodded urgently and scrambled out the door, his lanky limbs practically fumbling over themselves as he nudged past the others. "Now then....where was I?"

"Opportunity," Joanie Stubbs, owner of the Bella Union saloon and Al's chief competitor, chimed in. "And what exactly this has to do with a dead man riding into our camp."

"Y-y-yes," E.B. Farnum, ostensibly Deadwood's mayor but very much another one of Al's lackeys, sputtered. "I-I was wondering wh-what exactly is going on here, Al. Th-there's panic grown in the camp."

"There's always panic in the fuckin' camp," Al spat. "Ever since last year's unpleasantness, the goddamn hoople-heads have been jumping at their own shadows. What you're about to hear does not leave this room until we have a plan on how to deal with it. If anyone lets slip, I'll cut every last one of you myself, then do your families and friends just to make sure."

"Big fuckin' talk, as always," sneered Jane Canary, who had once worked as one of Al's dancers before coming under the wing of the legendary Wild Bill Hickok. In the past year, "Calamity Jane" had become a legend in her own right hunting unnatural creatures throughout the Black Hills. "I ain't scared o' you no more, Al. I'll tell whoever the fuck I want--"

"I d-don't think that's necessary, Miss Jane," stammered A.W. Merrick, the owner of the camp's sole printing press and newspaper. "But Al, if there's a threat to the public at larger, maybe we should--"

"Not. A. Fucking. Word." Al repeated. "Now, before this conversation gets completely out of hand, Sheriff Bullock, if you would be so kind as to show everyone here why I am so insistent on the lot of you exercising some caution."

Seth exchanged looks with Sol, shrugged, and moved towards the desk, producing a small burlap sack.

"We were able to identify the body as one of the miners," he began, "A fella who only went by 'D.B.' No family in the camp, no close friends, only a few friends at the No. 10 Saloon. Seems he came here looking for gold. What he found, though...."

Opening the bag, Seth poured the contents onto Al's desk. A handful of pitch-black stones, criss-crossed with veins of sickly glowing green.

"My God," Stubbs exclaimed, "....is that--"

"Ghost Rock," Bullock answered with a nod. "His wagon is full of it. Enough to buy a mansion in the hills..."

"Or burn down a city," Sol added.

Ghost Rock was a mineral only discovered after the Great Quake of '68 on the West Coast. It burned far hotter than coal, and could be used as a power source for contraptions beyond the wildest imagination. As the war between the North and South dragged on, both sides were looking for any edge over their enemies, which meant that these days a fistful of Ghost Rock was worth nearly ten times its weight in gold.

"...s-so....that makes us rich, d-don't it?" Farnum asked sheepishly.

"It makes us all fucked, is what it makes us," Swearengen answered, "Unless we play this very carefully. The second word gets out that there's a vein of Ghost Rock this size out here, the camp is going to be swarming with outsiders. Blue Coats, Gray Coats, scientists, mystics, Mormons, you name it. And that's just the folks who'll be coming here willingly. This stuff does things to people, calls out to 'em like it's got a mind of its own. You mark my fuckin' words, before this day is out, we're going to see people wanderin' into Deadwood that we've never seen before, who have no idea that the rock is even here. There is going to be blood on the streets that'll make last year's disaster look like a spring dance. And we have to decide, here and now, how we're going to deal with it."

"...I suppose," Bullock began, "I can start looking for deputies. People who can help keep the peace."

"I believe between the two of us," Stubbs said to Al, "our girls can get an information exchange going, find all about any newcomers and their secrets before they get out of line."

"I-I-I can hold of any, um, 'ambassadors' from the Yankees and Rebels, and t-tell you what they tell me," Farnum added.

"I ain't helpin' you with shit, Al," Jane scowled. "But if Bullock needs me to put a critter down, I can get a posse together."

"And, of course, I can keep the town notified of any events or opportunities," Merrick added. "At least, those you see fit to print."

"Well, I suppose that settles it, then," Al sighed, opening a drawer on his desk and producing a bottle of swill. "To interesting fuckin' times."

[Humble1]

John William Henry

You mark my fuckin' words, before this day is out, we're going to see people wanderin' into Deadwood that we've never seen before, who have no idea that the rock is even here.

The steam carriage hissed and rattled to a stop at the corner of Lee and Main. The oak door shuddered twice before finally swinging open. One battered workboot hit the ground, raising puff of dust.

The man who stepped out could fool the eye into thinking that he was as wide as he was tall. Broad black shoulders had to turn sideways slightly to get out of the narrow carriage door. Under one arm was a soldier's haversack, stuffed to overflowing with worldly goods. The other arm carried a squirming load of dog, a barrel-chested pit breed sniffing the wind and shaking pricked ears.

"Well, Polly, we're here. Now it's time to figure out where 'here' is."

Post office and hotel offered little to a man like John Henry. The theater ... would he even be allowed inside? But a hardware store ... that held promise.

"C'mon, girl. Let's go get the lay of the land."

The front door to the Star & Bullock Hardware Store did not have a bit of stick to it, and the wide-board floors did not squeak under foot. Henry nodded firmly to himself. The set of a man's face might lie, but the product of their hands told you their true character. Someone cared about craftsmanship in this building.

A chill went down his back when he saw the ghost rock equipment lining the shelves. Slowly and reluctantly he forced himself to examine the new contraptions. One - a ghost rock powered drill - had an almost repulsive effect on him. Fighting himself, he made his hands lift the heavy machine and turn it over, memorizing every detail.

He'd left almost everything behind in Mississippi, but it looked like some horrors had preceded him. There wasn't much farther he could run. Best to make what he could out of this place, carve something out of this ... Deadwood.

[RezonanceV]

One of Many Hunts: Somewhere in New Mexico

The sun settled on two black dusters worn by Vic Godspeed and Don Grinz. The two were prone observing over a ledge on top of a ridgeline above a small camp. Below their height parked two wagons with a family of four and two wagon drivers bound to large wooden stakes in the ground. Surrounding the family and drivers were 6 outlaws and their gang leader who appeared visibly taller with a black vest fashioned from leather. Gold buttons adorned the center of the vest as each reflected light from the setting sun off the dome surfaces. The leader was bent forward examining one of the young girls with his index finger and thumb, touching her jawline he measured her features with a grotesque smile. There was no question in the mind of a right person that this evil hovering over its prey reveled in the young girl's discomfort.

Vic never liked waiting around when there was action to be taken, but he knew timing was important, even if everything in his gut told him to go. Vic turned his head toward Don asking, “What do you think?” Vic paused as Don met his eyes, Vic continued, “Is that our mark?” Don mindful of keeping low from the gang’s sight as he moved, slowly tipped to one side pulling out a brass Gregorian telescope. Don laid back on his belly situating his large burly self into a comfortable spot as his elbows extended slightly forward but flat. He closed his right eye as a left eye dominant man, he scanned with the telescope for any features that were noted in the Ranger report.

There it was on the neck, a mark, a scar, it was something that distinctly told Don this was their mark. The mark was just peeking out from the folded red collar of the gang leader’s shirt. Don took his eyes off the telescope handing it over to Vic, “Yup, collar line, you’ll see.”

Vic took the telescope, looked through, and confirmed the sign, “When do we move?” He passed the telescope back to Don who packed it away back into his duster, “Midnight, when the full moon is at it’s highest.”

The two slowly pulled away from the ridgeline to prepare for the upcoming hunt.

4 Hours later…

The fire was cracking below Vic and Don as the two made their preparations in the dark. The gang chattered loudly as the frightened family of four would scream every so often when played with by one of the members. Vic and Don both knew nothing was going to happen to any of them so long as the gang leader’s master had not yet awoke to fill it’s drink, never the less Don could tell Vic was biting at the idea of waiting for something to happen if he weren’t the one initiating it. Don reached into his side jacket pocket pulling out a pocket watch, “Vic, it’s time.” Vic got up from sitting against a rock 10 feet from the ridge line they were observing from earlier. He dusted off his clothes and made his way below.

An outlaw, as Vic was making his way down, walked over to one of the young females in her early 20s. He cut her free from the stake she was bound too as she tried fighting him off but to no avail. The outlaw dragged her to the back of one of the wagon throwing her in and hopping in behind her. Don was surprised, if their monster showed up while that outlaw was defiling it’s meal, he’d be ripped apart and fed on instead. But, these were outlaws, men with no honor, no discipline, no self-control, and will be justly punished as a consequence to their evil.

Not seconds later, one of the outlaws keeping watch sighted Vic as he approached the camp, “Boss, we got some idiot coming through!” Don from above watched as the gang leader hopped off the stage wagon in between the stakes bounding the family and drivers,. He walked up to the East of the camp where Vic was entering from. Don was perched on the South side which provided him a profile view of the entire camp giving way to each outlaw’s position as they reacted to Vic’s emerging presence.

“What you doin’ here boy? Best you scat before we make you scat.” The gang leader spoke up as Vic continued his advance. The four outlaws began tightening their formation to meet to Vic reinforcing the Eastern line of the camp, all but two, one was still in the back of the stage wagon while the other remained watching the hostages.

“Are you deaf?” The gang leader drew his pistol, BANG BANG BANG BANG.

Vic stopped. Don watched three of the outlaws and their gang leader drop to the floor like bricks tossed from a building. The gang member watching the hostages yelled to warn the other, “He killed the crew!” Drawing his gun, the outlaw fired three rounds at Vic’s advance but missed each time as Vic trained his revolver firing one shot which hit the carotid of his attacker. The outlaw fell back with a reflex reaction to bring his hand to his neck, but the blood was too loose, too quick, and too much to stop.

“You can come on out, leave that girl alone and maybe I’ll let you die quick!” Vic yelled at the outlaw still in the wagon. He was positioned to take a quick shot if the outlaw came out, which he did, and as he leapt out Vic’s bullet punched the outlaw’s left breast sending him to the floor. Vic then quickly moved over the wagon to see if the girl was safe, as he looked into the back of the wagon he saw the young girl passed out, still clothed, but her breath was shallow. Vic climbed back checking her for any mortal wounds, but only saw bruising around her neck. Then he realized…the monster wasn’t coming, it was already here. Vic was ripped from out of the back of the wagon and tossed several feet as his shoulder hit the ground hard.

Don watched as the thought-to-be dead outlaw from the back of the wagon rose as if never shot, before he could react, the outlaw had thrown Vic clear across the camp. It began to move with speed about to finish Vic off leaving a small window that Don took. The Whitworth Rifle fired an 11.5mm bullet at 100 yards smacking its target between the rib cage. The gravitational force sent the monster to a knee but not to it’s back. Reorienting his senses, Vic drew his other revolver firing three shots, each punching a hole in a small grouping around the left side of the monster’s face. It fell to the floor as Vic retreated to a better position.

As Vic and Don reloaded their weapons, the outlaw-monster rose again.

The monster turned it’s sights toward Don, Vic yelled, “Don! It’s coming for you!” The monster dropped its gait launching toward Don’s location with a fierce stride. Don finished reloading turned back to face the monster down range, “Shit!” Just as the monster leapt from a 15 yard distance Don fired his rifle aiming for the head, but punching the shoulder. The monster dropped short of Don’s position. Don scrambled to get up but the monster was quick taking a second lunge colliding into Don as he stood. Don fell back 3 feet, but the monster now standing where Don was began to burn at the skin. Crying out in pain it tried to move but was incapable.

Vic took this chance to fire, BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG. Four out of the six shots punctured the monster, one in the rib, two in the hip, and two down the side of it’s left leg. Vic was approaching from the left profile of the monster, and it dropped to a knee. Vic dropped the dead revolver, drawing his second as he approached, BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG, and used his free hand to draw his sword. All six shots hit their target, three in the left shoulder, two in the torso, and another in the hip. The rounds were not meant to kill it, but to slow it down. As the monster recovered Vic was now arms reach about to plunge his sword into its neck, but before he could the monster mustered up enough power to turn as swipe Vic’s arm cutting it clean across, he dropped the blade, and the monster hit him with the other hand sending Vic’s face to one of the rocks.

The monster found strength restoring in it’s body as it began to move from its locked position to finish Vic off. Stammering over as the bullet wounds slowly healed it raised it’s hand to cut Vic’s head clean off. SHLUK! A blade stabbed through the back of the monster’s head. Don standing behind it with his Whitworth’s bayonet equipped to the end. He used his entire body to send the blade from the back of the skull to the front of crown. Vic regaining consciousness watched in a haze as the monster dropped to its knees still breathing. Quickly, he reacted with his sword somehow still gripped in his hand. He raised himself up and with one strong cut decapitated the monster. The body of the beast fell as the head was still suspended by Don’s Whitworth which he dropped not seconds after. Vic and Don both crashed to the floor.

Don taking a deep breath, “Are you alright?” Vic tried lifting his cheeks for a smirk but settled with, “Yes.” Don took another deep breath, “I’m gettin’ too old for this.” He then proceeded to lay down on his back. Vic leaned up against the rock he had hit earlier, “Ha, not yet old man, I’m just getting started.” Don groaned following Vic’s remarks, “Let’s get the family free and get back home for a debrief.” The two took their time getting up, placing the decapitated head in the bag, “Hey, Don…that vampire was the strongest we’ve run into, what gives?” Don paused, “It’s a Upir, the damn thing is nearly impossible to kill.” Vic processed for a moment, “A Upir? Why’d they only send us then!” Don kept moving along toward the family, “Because ain’t nobody else who wanted the job.”

Texas Ranger Outpost: Somewhere in New Mexico

Vic and Don were sitting on a bench, Don chewing tobacco spat up some unwanted juices as Vic sharpened a dull edge on his Bowie knife. A commanding officer of the Texas Rangers walked over to the two handing Don papers. Don replied to the man handing off the papers, “What’s this, Greeves?” The man Don called, Greeves, was in charge of the outpost in New Mexico. He was a veteran, about as old as Don but with less hunts and chose administrative duties over hunting monsters. Greeves sat down next to the two, “Well, I wanted to give you two some R&R after the Upir almost took ya’ both out.” Greeves cracked a smile as the two almost detested had they not seen the bait coming a mile away, “Deadwood.”

Greeves paused, “They got ghost rock in Deadwood.” Don dropped his head slightly, “Damn, how much?” Greeves pointed to the paper that Don placed next to him, “Too much, check the telegram.” Don moved his hand to flip the sheet over, “Yeah, too much, are we headin’ there then?” Greeves nodded, “The assignment comes from the top chariot of our greater ambitious organization, the mayor…a Mr. Farnum contacted one of our connections in the Confederacy who reported to our boys upstairs who assigned it to me to assign to you.” Vic laughed, “We get it, it’s important, why all the sighing big fella?” Vic stretched his arm out patting Don on the shoulder.

Greeves answered for him, “Because ghost rock wherever it pops up, draws attention, death, and some of the most twisted characters this world has to offer.” Vic smiled at the response, “Good, it’s about time we met a match.” Don turned around to face Vic, “No kid, there is no match…it will be a blood bath, and we are being sent as a sacrifice to get any good information the clean up crew can work from after the fight has died down.” Vic sat back a little, “Hmm…then I guess we better make it a good show.” Greeves chuckled a bit, “I can see why you like him Don.” Don snorted, “Eh, he’ll do for now.” He spat once more releasing the tobacco onto the desert floor of the outpost, “Pack up boy, we are heading to Deadwood.”