J Duncan - Deadworld

“Finally, you surprise me. Good show, I say. I am pleased.”

Nothing in Drake’s voice sounded pleased, and Nick did the only thing he could think to do. Pushing the flaps of his coat aside, Sheriff Nicholas Anderson drew his old six-shooters and prepared for the end.

Jackie did what any self-respecting agent would do when confronted by the man who had killed her partner and friend. She emptied her Glock into the man’s body, though her aim was not nearly so lethal, given her trembling hands.

“Die, you son of a bitch,” she said through gritted teeth, pulling the trigger for several rounds even after the clip had emptied.

Drake had begun to walk forward but stopped, flinching for just a moment at the initial shots. He stood there, a faint smile on his withered face, as if the bullets were little more than annoying mosquitoes. Small, pasty white smears appeared where the bullets hit him, one on his stomach, a pair in the chest, another in the throat, and finally beneath the cheekbone. When she had finished, he glanced at Jackie, a “what do you know about that?” look on his face, and then adjusted the suit on his thin frame and continued stepping forward.

“Fuck,” she muttered and let the now useless weapon clatter to the floor beside her.

“It would seem, my dear agent, that real bullets have little effect in the world of the dead, but the thought is appreciated just the same.”

Above her, Nick did nothing but stand at the ready, the handheld cannons aimed in Drake’s direction. To Jackie, it appeared comically out of place. If bullets could do nothing, what the hell was Nick going to do to him? She watched the ghostly crowd cower back from Drake’s presence as though he had some dead-repelling force field around him. Their fear was palpable. A few more steps, and Drake stopped, still a good twenty meters away.

At Nick’s side, Gwen spoke quietly. “Nicholas, listen to me.”

Behind Jackie, Shelby spoke to Nick with grim determination. “I’ll handle the goons, babe. Focus on him.”

Drake, meanwhile, casually scanned the crowd, his hand tracing a slow arc from left to right. The act had the crowd of ghosts shrinking back in terror. When his arm stopped and the fingers curled up into a “come here” motion, he smiled and said, “Miranda Davenport, it is time to move on. Come, child. Come.”

The young, faded form of a woman stepped from the crowd and walked toward Drake as though his order could not be denied. There appeared to be no hesitation in her steps. Why, Jackie wondered, would anyone willingly approach that thing? Perhaps it was some kind of hypnosis. Perhaps he had control over all of them in some way in this place. If so, they all were more than screwed.

Miranda Davenport did not stop when she got close to Drake but instead walked right up to his outstretched hand. Her back was to Jackie, but her distance indicated Drake’s hand had pushed directly into her body. The pale, faded form shuddered, and Miranda’s head arched back, her mouth open to scream, but no sound issued forth. Her body kept bending, folding awkwardly back, quaking against Drake’s stiffened arm. For a moment, Jackie swore he was pulling the dress from her body, but as the woman’s body stretched and contorted, she realized with horror that the woman’s body was being drawn directly into Drake’s outstretched hand. The body lost shape, folding down until it appeared her back had snapped in two, and then shrank and evaporated until finally she was gone, drawn up into Drake’s body like the result of some soul-sucking vacuum cleaner.

Jackie looked over at Laurel, who still crouched beside her. “Jesus, Laur. What the fuck was that?”

She shook her head. “I think he just consumed her soul.”

Drake shrugged his shoulders and gave his neck a soft, twisting pop, the smile on his face a bloodless, sinister line. “You see, Nicholas? Even in death, my victims feed me. I have more power than your morally rigid soul could possibly fathom.” He began to walk forward again with slow, deliberate steps. “I knew from the beginning your righteous constraint would keep you from ever doing what needed to be done. You’ve never had a chance, dear boy. Smart blokes know you only play games you are guaranteed of winning.”

“This game isn’t over yet, Cornelius,” Nick grated, but Jackie could sense the lack of confidence in his voice. Who would blame him after seeing that?

Gwen’s hands clasped around Nick’s then, finally drawing his attention away from Drake. “My love, we can help. We’re ready to move on from this. You just have to be willing to let us go.”

He turned, the twisted sneer on his face melting away when he looked down at Gwen. “What are you talking about?”

Drake laughed. “Are you so dense as all that, Nicholas? They accepted their fate long ago, unlike you, who has proven stubborn to a fault.” He gave a mirthless chuckle, stretching out his arms to encompass the crowd. “In the end, my friend, you cannot accept what you are, and the fact that you are here, still living, makes it so much the sweeter. Now then, Ralph Morris, come to me and accept your fate.”

The man stepped from the crowd, approaching Drake with no resistance. Jackie turned her gaze away. Watching the process had slimy worms of dread crawling around in her gut. She would kill herself before going out like that. But, then, did it matter one way or the other? Being slowly consumed by the chill of death could not be much worse. The ache was getting excruciating, thin shards of ice being driven into the marrow of her bones. She would be lucky if she could get to her feet now.

“Laur, if this doesn’t go well, take me back. I don’t want to die here like this.”

“If it comes to that,” she whispered, “but we aren’t done here yet.”

“He’s going to suck us up one by one until Nick is the only one left.”

“It’s Nick’s move right now, just hold on a bit longer, hon.”

Above Jackie, Gwen’s voice was quietly insistent. “Nicholas, let me go. Don’t let him take me like that.”

“I won’t let him, not again.”

“No, love. Now.” She reached up and touched Nick’s face. “Let me go, and I can help you. We all can.”

It took Jackie a moment to realize what she meant. Nick’s expression confirmed her suspicion. Gwen wanted him to suck them up just like Drake was doing, and the shock on Nick’s face said it all.

His voice was barely audible. “No! Gwen, there must be another way.”

Drake called upon another ghost to feed his twisted soul.

“Nicholas, you’re our only hope of leaving on our own terms. Don’t let me die at his hand a second time.”

Nick’s face went slack. The dread in his stare was painful to watch, and Jackie knew what he must be thinking. How can I destroy my wife again to stop this killer? Drake’s chuckle froze the air in her lungs.

“Just cannot stand to step into those shoes, can you, Nicholas? Cannot dare to be like your old friend Cornelius.”

Gwen took Nick’s face in her ashen hands. “You could never be like him, love. It’s one of the reasons I love you so much, but this is the right thing to do, and the time is now.”

“Touching, Gwendolyn,” Drake said. “Just the right amount of sentimentality to end our little affair, but I believe it is time. Come. Come to me.”

He motioned with his hand toward Gwen, and to Jackie’s surprise, she stepped away from Nick, her hands still held to cup his face. Nick’s jaw went slack, his eyes wide with terror. It was not a look Jackie would have ever expected to see on his face. Three steps toward Drake, and Nick holstered a gun and reached out to his dead wife.

“Gwen.”

She paused, looking back over her shoulder at him. “Sheriff.” Her tone had an imploring quality to it, but Jackie saw something else in her look, one of stern reminder that Nick was indeed the sheriff and still possessing those qualities that had made him so.