Joe Lansdale - Dead in the West

Screaming, he thrust the Reverend from him, smashing him into a crate, turned, and started up the stairs, taking marvelous leaps. The Indian's back started to puff black smoke.

"You okay, Reverend?" David asked, helping him up.

"Yeah. Thanks to your distraction."

"I didn't do nothing. That was some shooting."

"Yeah," said the Reverend. "It was, wasn't it?"

He pushed the revolver into his sash and they went up the stairs, slowly.

The church was on fire. Zombies had burst into flames from the sunlight, had heaped up amongst the shattered pews, and had fallen against the walls, setting it ablaze.

The Indian stood in the center aisle. He was trying to make his legs move, but they were melting like candle wax, flowing out of his pant legs, filling his boots.

He dropped to the floor, face first, arms out in crucifix position.

The church was really ablaze now. The walls had caught good and the flames had spread to the rafters. The old roof was creaking threateningly.

The Reverend and David made a run for it, leaping over the dissolving body of the Indian as they went. The Reverend first. David second—

—and one of the Indian's hands shot out and grabbed David by the ankle, pulling him to the floor. Wheeling, the Reverend saw the Indian's ruined, blackened face, the jaws spread, showing teeth through rents in his cheeks, and like some sort of monstrous lizard, the Indian lunged forward—his teeth snapping against David's face.

Too late, the Reverend leaped forward, kicking the Indian's head. The head, like a powdered ball of ash paper, came apart and the teeth scattered like rotten peppermints to join the smoking remains of the other zombies on the blood-slick floor.

When the Reverend turned to look at David (hardly able to do it), the boy was staring at him, a look of horror on his face.

The Reverend dropped to his knees to help him up.

"No good," David said. "I'm a goner. Kill me."

But the Reverend could not bring himself to do it. He knew the thing for him to do was take his empty revolver and smash the boy's head without warning, but he simply could not.

With his arm around David's waist, he helped him outside, avoiding blazing timbers and the burning remains of zombies. By the time they had gotten down the steps, fire had totally claimed the church, and a tongue of flame licked out of the doorway at their backs.

The Reverend laid David down in front of the crate that held the Indian's woman, held the boy's head up with his hand.

"Feel weak," David said. "I—I'm so sorry."

Blood was running down the boy's cheek, into his shirt collar.

In a moment, the wound would sicken David to death, then he would live again. Or rather the shell—that had been David—would move. And it would be hungry, ready to bite and spread the Indian's poison.

"For the sake of God, Reverend—Jeb. Don't let this happen to me," David moaned.

The sake of God, thought the Reverend, frozen, unable to move. THE SAKE OF GOD!

That old bastard had certainly gotten his pound of flesh out of this one. Pounds of flesh.

He has made everything I touch sour and decay. Defeating the Indian, his evil, was nothing but an empty victory.

"Please" David said.

"Okay, son " the Reverend said, and he got his feet under him, began looking about for something to do the deed with other than his revolver. Something heavy or sharp.

Then it was out of his hands.

David closed his eyes and breathed no more.

The Reverend stepped back, staring at the body, wondering if the Indian's disease could be spread after he was dead.

David's eyes popped open.

The Reverend pulled the empty revolver from his sash. It would have to do after all.

David pulled his feet beneath him, stood. But the rays of the sun were on him, and immediately he began to dissolve. He let out one little screech, caught fire, and fell.

II

The Reverend buried what was left of David behind the church and made a rude cross out of some blackened wood. He put the lid on the crate with the woman's body in it, stacked kindling around it, and set it on fire, burned it until it was nothing more than gray ash that was caught up by the wind and carried away.

He let all the stock he could find in town go free, then he took brands from the smoldering church, worked them to flame, and set fire to the town—lest some monster might be hiding in the shadows of a building, waiting for sundown.

Then, with his horse saddled and a few supplies taken from the General Store, he rode out of Mud Creek.

Up on the hilltop, the same from which he had first surveyed the town, he looked down at the smoking ruins and the little blazes here and there and thought of Abby, Doc, and David. He thought of all the lives— literally gone up in smoke—because of a savage moment on a dark night.

He thought about God and his harsh ways, and tried to figure some answer for it, but none would come.

Finally, he turned the horse, gave it his boot heels, and disappeared into the tall East Texas pines.

III

What the Reverend didn't see was a very large spiderlike thing—the exact shape and size of the birthmark on the Indian's chest—crawl out from beneath the shadowy protection of a fallen church beam and move lumberingly, smoking all the while, puffing up little spurts of flame, toward a large hole that had once been beneath the church and had been the home for a prosperous ground hog.

It tumbled into the hole, out of sight, and a wisp of dark smoke belched out after it to temporarily mark its passing.

Then the smoke was gone and the sky was clear and the day turned hot.

This edition of Dead in the West © 2005

by Night Shade Books

Jacket illustration © 2005 by Colleen Doran

Jacket & interior layout and design by Jeremy Lassen Scanned/OCR/Proof:

Meatisgood

First Edition

ISBN 1-59780-014-7 (Trade Hardcover)

ISBN 1-59780-015-5 (Limited edition)

Night Shade Books

http://www.nightshadebooks.com