How the West Was Weird

By Russ Anderson

Aztec vampires gorge themselves on a small Mexican village. A masked hero of the 1940s stumbles onto a town that time forgot. A gunslinging exorcist works to save a boy from demonic possession. These are the stories of the American West your history teacher never told you about... because she was scared! Includes nine original tales of the weird, wild west, by Barry Reese, Derrick Ferguson, Josh Reynolds, and more.

Approximately 53,000 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russ Anderson
• Release date: May 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466007741

Russ Anderson

Russ Anderson can usually be found in the suburbs of Baltimore, where he lives with his wife, his daughter, two beagles, and a very old, very angry cat. When he's not working for the man, he enjoys bicycling, making up stories, and pie.

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How the West Was Weird

Nine Tales from the Weird, Wild West

Edited by Russ Anderson, Jr.

Copyright 2010 Russ Anderson, Jr..

Individual stories are copyright their respective authors.

Published by Pulpwork Press at Smashwords

All Rights Reserved.

Front cover art by Jim Rugg

Cover design by Tamas Jakab

http://www.pulpworkpress.com

These are works of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For my dad, Russell Anderson, Sr., who taught me all the finer points of gunslingers, spaceships, and monsters.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CAMAZOTZ

by Joshua Reynolds

WYRM OVER DIABLO

by Joel Jenkins

SPACE MINERS

by Ian Taylor

DON CUEVO’S CURATIVE

by Thomas Deja

THE TOWN WITH NO NAME

by Mike McGee

SINS OF THE PAST

by Barry Reese

YOU NEED TO KNOW WHAT’S COMING

by Ian Mileham

OF ALL THE PLAGUES A LOVER BEARS

by Derrick Ferguson

OUT SOUTH OF BORACHON CREEK

by Bill Kte’pi

CAMAZOTZ

by Joshua Reynolds

1915. Cuilchui, Mexico.

Three figures sat around a rough table in a rundown cantina. One was an American. One was a Mexican. The third was dead.

The dead one sat crouched in a chair, nearly curled up in a ball, dried-stick limbs bound tight with rough moleskinner twine. Its head was covered in a mask made of turquoise chips and gold wire. The face of the mask was hidden behind its hands and there were rags covering its limbs, cosmetic niceties that the other two couldn’t help feeling some small relief for.

Ugly thing, the Mexican said, in perfect English. He was a trim little man, dressed in a suit that only had the barest patina of dust. There was a plate in front of him.

"Si," the gringo said, in mangled Spanish. He was sweating cheap liquor and his skin was peeling from the ugly glare of the sun. He had a bottle in front of him. Empty now. Bandages covered the fingers that rubbed it. The Mexican nodded.

"You hurt, amigo?"

Got bit.

Bit?

Bats. The American rubbed his fingers. All over the damn jungle.

Bats?

Bats. His tone was unmistakable. The Mexican rubbed his chin.

I heard you were working with Pershing. Trying to catch Villa, he said, smiling. I heard you got into some trouble. Skedaddled with a few friends.

Shouldn’t listen to rumors, the American said, tapping his fingers on the table.

Where’d you find it?

Guatemala.

And the bats?

Same, the American said, frowning.

And your friends?

With the bats.

Ah. Is it in good condition? the Mexican said, gesturing with his fork. Changing the subject. The American shrugged.

I ain’t dropped it, that’s what you asking.

It wasn’t, but I’ll take that as a yes.

How’d you know I wanted to sell it? The American patted the dead thing, then rubbed his hand on his shirt.

I didn’t. I only know that they want to buy it. The Mexican gave a shrug of his own.

Ten dollars American, the American said quickly. Ten dollars and it’s yours.

"Five, and I don’t mention where – or how – you got it to the Federales," the Mexican said, dipping his fork into the food in front of him. Pork and rice and tomato, cooked to perfection. He chewed, watching the gringo sweat. Then, "Best deal you’re going to get, si?"

If–

The Mexican held up a hand. No ifs. There is no if. You won’t get across the border with it. Not after what happened with your friends out in the jungle. But I can get you cash for it right here. He didn’t look at the dead thing. He hadn’t, not the entire time.

Worth more than ten, the American said. He sounded tired. Men on the run always sounded tired. The Mexican shrugged and took another bite.

Not here, he said, mouth full.

Yeah. The American looked around. The cantina was full this time of day, when the orange light washed over everything, making it all look somehow alien and dead. He wanted gone. Wanted out of Mexico with its strange light and empty streets and its people. Most especially the people. He looked back at the Mexican.

Five dollars.

The Mexican nodded and put down his fork. It tinked against the plate and the American winced, reminded of something else. The Mexican didn’t notice, or didn’t care. He pulled a bill folder out of his coat pocket and slid the money out, off of a wad. The American’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the cash. He licked his lips. The Mexican smiled.

Never seen a rich man before?

Never seen a rich greaser before.

The Mexican’s smile faltered, bent into a frown. The American’s eyes narrowed. They went for their guns simultaneously. Leather creaked. Metal clicked. Pistols snapped and snarled and then, the powder smoke settling, the American pulled the Mexican’s plate towards him with the barrel of his Colt. He picked up the fork and began to eat. Chewing, he eyed the abandoned bill folder. Then the empty bottle.

Can’t have everything, he said, looking at the mummy. The dead thing didn’t reply. The other customers in the cantina settled down, getting back to their drinks, their food, their lives, studiously ignoring the body on the dirt floor, resting on a blanket of blood, his dark eyes watching the flies circle overhead.

The American’s name was Jefferson. He was a drinker and a thief. He recognized fellow enthusiasts of either persuasion instantly. The Mexican, whose name had been Ortega, had been the latter and not one worth a bullet.

Jefferson wasn’t too put out by the expense though, seeing as he had a nice, new fat wallet to make up for it, but he was faintly alarmed by the prospect of the late Ortega’s business associates seeking him out.

After all, someone had sent Ortega to buy the damn thing.

Probably should have found out who, hunh? He looked at the corner where the dead thing now sat, face covered, arms bent like folded wings. He shuddered slightly. The mask had gold on it, but he hadn’t yet taken it off its head to examine it closer.

I should have asked, he said. "And you should have listened, compadre." He looked down, past the balcony railing, to the alley below. The locals dragged Ortega’s body out into the street after Jefferson had gone and left him naked in the gutter. The body was still there, limp and somehow shrunken.

He saluted the dead man with a warm beer and sat back on the rickety, straw-bellied chair that was the room’s only other bit of furniture besides a splay-legged bed. He’d dragged the chair out onto the little balcony and he sat in the doorway, chair legs cocked up, bracing himself. He had his pistol on his lap and a beer in his hand. He took another swallow of beer. The sun was setting. Everything was going from orange to purple. The balcony curtains rustled in the rising breeze.

He closed his eyes, rolling the beer around in his mouth. A shudder ran through him, a rippling chill that froze the sweat on his face.

A noise.

Jefferson brought the chair down with a thump and turned, pistol up and cocked. The dead thing hadn’t moved. He licked his lips, then drained the beer, gulping the sour liquid down.

He lowered the pistol. Turned back towards the setting sun.

Stupid, he said. "No use thinking about that."

He looked down, at Ortega. As the shadows flowed across the street, the local wildlife came with them. Coyotes, or dogs, were growling at each other. Daring each other to be first. Eventually they’d get to it, but for now Ortega was staring up at him, the same look of condescension on his face that he’d had when the bullet busted his breastbone. The shadows crawled across his face.

Just like wings, he muttered. He shook himself like a dog. Who were you working for? Jefferson said, calling down. His voice echoed oddly. Ortega didn’t answer. The night filled with the sounds of dogs. Jefferson turned away, tapping his cheek with the pistol.

He tossed the empty bottle on the bed, holstered his pistol and went to the bucket that sat by the window. Three more beers there, wrapped in wet towels to keep them cool. He unwrapped one and used his buck knife to pop it open. He took a swallow. The towels weren’t very effective. He held the wet bottle to his head, trying to cool off.

On the other side of his door, a floorboard creaked. Jefferson lowered the beer and raised his pistol.

Who’s there? he said, a half-second before the knock came.

No answer. Just the first knock. Then a second. Bump. Bump. Jefferson eased the hammer back. The ‘click’ was loud in the little room.

I said, who’s there?

A hiss of rough cloth. The scrape of something leathery. Jefferson whirled. Fired. The curtains continued to flap, unheeding of the bullet hole in their midst. He took another slug of the sour beer and let it rest in his mouth a moment. The echoes of the shot died away.

What was that, hunh? What was that? he said. The thing in the corner didn’t answer. It was dark now. He could barely make out its shape. Just a lump crouching in the shadows.

He lit some candles, half-shrunk gobs of wax perched on rough iron dishes. The dishes had engravings on them. Geometric blocks and bloated vermin faces with triangle noses and flanged ears that danced in a ring. More Indian shit. The gold on the mask glittered in the light.

You’re smiling at me. Damn if you ain’t. Jefferson sat on the bed and watched it watching him. He took aim with the Colt, his hand trembling slightly. I wasn’t the one who dug you up. Ain’t no call to go smiling at me.

Something thumped on the roof. Dried mud sifted down, making him blink and sniff. He got up, head cocked. Listening. A shadow passed between his balcony and the moon. He swung the pistol towards the curtains again. Took another drink. Even the nights here were an odd color, an off-purple that was somehow blacker than black. And the stars seemed so far away. Voices in the street, a drunken argument. Guttural tantrums echoing up among the adobe tenements.

Don’t you try anything, he said, whirling back. The thing in the corner sat and watched. Jefferson rubbed his bristly cheek with the barrel of the Colt, scraping the metal roughly across his peeling skin. Don’t you… He trailed off.

Something hissed. Flesh scraped on wood.

The latch on the door rattled softly. A shadow crawled beneath it. He took aim. The door popped open and he pulled the trigger. A body pitched backwards, squalling. A stream of jungle-Spanish rattled the air and a long form, lean and low, came past the falling body, something in its hands, swinging–

The saw-toothed club nearly took the hide off of his belly as he fell backwards, fanning the hammer, filling the limited space between himself and his attacker with lead. The club thunked down, obsidian teeth biting into the wood of the bed and the body twirled, spinning, trailing darkness. There was a bark and the sound of the curtains coming off the wall. He rolled across the bed, firing blind. Something sharp and fat dug across his arm and a thin form went stumbling back, toppling off of the balcony. Screams from below as the party was broken up.

Jefferson heaved himself up, ignoring the pain that flared through his arm. Go, got to go, got to got to… he muttered, stumbling over the bodies – thin, rangy limbs scattered in death – towards the corner. They were naked save for loincloths and ash paint, their faces daubed in white and red like something out of a nightmare.

Where there’s three there could be four. Five. Six. Too damn many. Probably been following me since the jungle. Since– stop it! Got to get out of here. Got to go. Go… go where? North. Across the river. His words tripped over themselves, tumbling from his lips rapid fire as he squatted beside the dead thing.

We’ll go north. Sell you at the first goddamn hokum show I find. Let them try and get you back then! He grabbed the twine that bound it and hauled it up easily. Carried you on my back out of the jungle, I can carry you over the river. He stepped out of the room, pistol held out before him.

The obsidian club chewed the wall, narrowly missing his head. Jefferson reeled back, pistol snapping. The Indian shrieked, high-pitched, and staggered, bleeding. Not dead yet though. Jefferson kicked out, digging his bootheel into the Indian’s gut, holding him in place against the opposite wall of the narrow hallway and put the Colt to his temple. He pulled the trigger as the painted man struggled and squirmed.

Jefferson let the body fall, nearly pulled off his feet by the weight of the dead Indian. He regained his balance. Heavy, he said. He shifted the weight on his shoulder and raised the Colt, peering at it. One shot. Got to be enough.

He stumble-walked down the steps, trailing blood from his arm. Screams from above. He nearly leapt down the last few steps. Bodies everywhere. Dead. He could hear gunshots jangling out in the street. Smell smoke. Shouts and yells in Spanish. French. English. He shifted the dead thing again, trying to settle its weight.

The boarding house didn’t have a door, only a curtain, a blanket with more of those Indian designs, children’s blocks and squashed, flat side-faces with gaping mouths, dangling pointed tongues. He thrashed it aside with his gun hand, stepped out into the street.

Something was burning. He could see the hot orange glow, smell the stink. Things flew overhead, tiny, fat shapes on membranous wings. Jefferson bit back a scream as a shape flitted past. There were bodies in the street, writhing lumps covered in blankets of fur and leather, tiny teeth working in flesh.

God.

Dark shapes hopped towards him, little tongues flicking. He screamed, long, loud, and shrill.

Get away!

He fired and a bat was punched back, a sliding mass of blood and fur. The pistol clicked. Click-click-click. His breath whistled in and out between his clenched teeth as he began to run.

Fire licked out at him as the cantina collapsed with a groan. He leapt over a body – Ortega? – and kept moving. Behind him he could hear them coming, bare feet pounding, grunted curses. The soft whisper of obsidian cutting the smoke, making a path.

Should have sold it to Ortega. Shouldn’t have shot him. Should have…

Past and present blended together in his terrified thoughts. The Guatemalan jungle and Cuilchui’s tumbledown buildings blended and grew together, spreading with the flames. He could smell that smell, the raw, livid smell of the jungle, of life and death mingling with the clay and shit. He stumbled, tripping over a body that might have only been in his head and the thing spilled from his back,