Dead Man's Debt

By kd Alexander

Providence: 2115
Welcome to the new frontier.

They call this a prison. Jake Dollop calls it home. There are some men too stubborn to leave, and just about as many too stupid to die. In the new frontier, everyone's got a price. Jake's is high. Wanted for a crime he didn't commit, he wanders into a nowhere town on a half-dead horse with no name.

There he finds himself face to face with a past he'd rather forget. But secrets don't die easy. Or so he thought. The last words of a dying man push him toward a future he doesn't want, but so desperately needs.

Pursued by a crooked sheriff and a past that just won't let go, Jake sets out to settle a debt owed to a dead man at Diablo Hill.

They say there's gold in them hills. But the mountain has its own secrets.

A secret that Apex Village died for.

A secret that could change the world...

• Language: English
• Publisher: kd Alexander
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215856451

kd Alexander

I write like Michael Bay directs.Put simply, I grew up in a strange time, where parachute pants were cool, and hyper-flourescent colors were all the rage. Cheesy action shows and even cheesier sitcoms fed my television addiction. Comic Books opened my eyes to all sorts of things that my parents would not approve of.Gold Eagle was publishing dirty books that I was never allowed to read. They were full of exotic locations and high stakes adventures. But, the cover art alone convinced my mom that they needed to be passed by. So, instead, she let me read Dragon Lance, Shadowrun, Dark Sun, and Redwall. No really. I was surprised too!When I became a real boy, I made a point to read all the pulpy good stuff I was never allowed to read as a kid. Characters like Conan the Barbarian, Doc Savage, the Shadow, Mack Bolan, and even a little unicorn named Ariel became some of my new heroes.And as a writer, I try to go back to that sense of wonder and adventure that I loved reading about when I was a kid. There’s nothing like the high you get when a book sucks you in. And as you come back to reality, letting the world slowly come back into focus, I hope that you were entertained.

Book preview

1

Jake Dollop paused at the gates, testing the waters before he treaded into the unknown. It had been a long time since he’d seen these parts. Of course, that was when he used his real name.

But names are powerful things. Especially the names of the dead that coated his life in subterfuge and lies.

Tonight he was Jimmy Watson, a lone traveling banker on the outskirts of civilization. He pulled his hat low, letting the brim conceal his face in shadow.

Jake’s price was high. It was a bounty he hoped no one would cash in. Jimmy Watson was an innocent man. He’d been traveling under the alias for several weeks now, trying to eke out whatever pitiful survival he could in these wastelands.

The town of Black Mesa was all but deserted. A pale moon peaked out behind gray clouds, casting the world in an eerie light. Shadows played on adobe walls. For a town on the outskirts of humanity, the place was mostly well kept and almost peaceful.

Peace can change in an instant, just like the weather out here in the wastelands. Weather that was already getting worse as the night stretched on and the temperatures dipped into freezing.

Judging by the light cast down from the moon high above, the outlaw figured it had to be close to midnight.

Wisps of smoke rose, twirling in the sky. They joined with the clouds and the moon in a strange surreal sight. He sighed and knew snow would fall soon.

Snow used to be rare out in these parts. But that was a long time ago, back when his father still walked the earth. The Russians had changed that when they listened to the Elven traitor and nuked the free world. Nowadays snow was something the sand folk got real used to.

Even in August.

His sweat froze in the unnatural cold. Dew froze to crystals on the scrub beneath his feet and bounced moonbeam back toward the heavens. Jake knew he was sticking out, but there was no cover here. And it’s kind of hard to fit in well past the witch’s hour, as it was. They had curfews now.

He knew he was going to be noticed. And he stunk too. There was no use hiding or slinking about. He didn’t want to give the marshal any ideas. It was already hard enough to lie once. But he knew those boys were up to no good.

Hell, they tried to rip him right before the town gates. It was highway robbery.

He laughed a bit at the stupidity of their bed tax. His voice echoed in the still night.

He stepped into the town square and caught movement off to his right. There was some kind of scuffle. He stepped off the main path and hid under the eaves of a nearby building to watch the show.

A girl was chasing her boy round and round. They looped the ramshackle house twice as she chased him. The kid managed to stay out of arm’s reach as he ducked and dodged every stick and stone she could throw at him.

He could hear him faintly on the soft breeze. Help me mister.

Help. Him? Hah. No one helped him when he was chased out of the last town. No one was there when the whore wouldn’t give him his cash back after he took his hat off and she saw his dead eye.

No. He would not help. Not tonight, not any night. This was a business all to themselves. It wasn’t worth getting shot dead over.

Help yerself, kid. Jake Dollop crossed his arms and sucked his bottom lip.

But the girl was starting to raise quite a ruckus. She’d make a mess of things. He had to keep a low profile. He couldn’t be here, not for this.

She caught the boy and tackled him clean to the ground.

He walked away when she started beating the boy with the heel of her shoe. It was better not to see anything. He heard the blood gurgling in the boy’s throat as she stabbed him dead with her stiletto heels.

No, this was not the place to be. Not tonight, not any night. The sands were dangerous, but cities were scary. Making yourself a dead man’s a lot easier in civilized lands than out there in the wastes. At least in no man’s land, you know where your trouble was. You knew your enemies.

But when you get yourself around people, that’s where the real trouble starts. Towns were dangerous beasts. Ain’t no doubt about that.

He stepped out of the shadows and into town square, a place no less wretched than the rest of town. Dried blood stains dotted the cracked asphalt, splatters of trouble long forgotten. No matter how recent it may have been. Weeds grew in the cracks of the shattered blacktop. Tiny dunes popped up in random spots, filling the gaps between weed and rock.

The jail was off to the right. Rusted bars filled the windows like cracked teeth and dripping fangs. Winds swirled about, caught in the tunnel between buildings. The wooden signs creaked an ominous sound.

A nail gave out, letters fell, screaming out in the silence. He stepped off into the darkness only to find that the marshal’s office was right in front of him. Crooked letters spelled out Sheriff on the rotting sign above. Its clapboard walls were painted with a dull, almost sickly looking blue. It stood out. Nothing else had color. Nothing, except that.

He stepped closer, a poster danced, its rotting edges swaying, decaying in the cold north wind.

He shivered, color draining from his face. The picture was good. Not great, he’d seen better. But, he had to give the artist credit. He felt better, his secret identity was at least still safe here.

Blood seeped back into his face, his skin turned back from the pallid color of fear to a sun scorched brown. Nothing ever has color out here in the sands. Well, that wasn’t the whole truth. There was always red. There was plenty of that to go around.

The paths between the sheriff and the jail met in the middle.

The road squared around, looping back to the gates and the rest of town.

In the center stood the gallows, it was a crude contraption of rotting plywood and rusting nails. It was there like some sick statue, as if the hanging man were something to celebrate. A thick hemp rope hung from the center, it swayed gently in the breeze. Icicles dripped down off the contraption.

More red to stand out against this land of gold and gray. No need to step closer. He knew what color well water was. No rust nor dirt had that shade, that hue. No, there was only one thing out here in the wastes that was that deep a red. Notches in the wood dripped more of the dark liquid.

The snows had begun to fall. Contrasting everything in their sickly yellow that stood out against the black of midnight. The stench of sulfur hung heavy in the air, drowning out the sweet iron of the gallows.

Stars fell away and vanished into the infinite darkness. Golden orange lights winked out as candles were snuffed to sleep. The faint ring of steel on stone meant the marshal was out. He had to find the saloon and get a room. There’d be trouble otherwise. Even more if they knew who he was or took the time to find out. He reckoned ‘Jimmy Watson’ didn’t need no loitering charge.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and wheeled around, his fingers closing around the wooden grip of his six shooter. He popped the snap and lifted it out. Slowly, not enough to present but just enough to give him the advantage. The cylinder cleared the holster. All that was left was a six inch barrel. And that would come out easy enough. He hunched his shoulders, pretended to be cold. They met at the gallows.

How fitting.

Easy friend.

He knew the voice. Mr. Balls of Steel. The guy sounded alone. Maybe that’s why he was so nice.

You’re out late.

That a crime, marshal?

Actually, Mr. Watson, it is. Ever hear of something called loitering?

Can’t say that I have, marshal.

Call me Bill. Bill Graham. The marshal held out his hand.

He paused, weighing the options. No rope. Just one gun. On Graham’s right side. He can’t draw if he ain’t got the hand to shoot with. Can’t hog tie or shackle a man without nothing in your hand. Easy. Maybe he was honest, had to be. The guy was a lawman. Then again, he had met plenty of crooked lawmen.

But the guy had that smile. That damned smile. Honest. Maybe. He grabbed it, shaking Graham’s hand.

Pleasure, sir. Graham said, all matter of fact. So what brings you out this late? Thought you needed a rest.

Fancy getting the lay of the land. See your sights afore all them people get out and muck things up.

Ain’t much to see, Mr. Watson. We’re a small town, see. Everyone knows everyone. Nice and quiet like. Ain’t seen a rustler in almost two years. You’re not a rustler, are you Mr. Watson?

If I was out to be rustlin’ ya think I’d be here talking to the lawman?

Graham nodded. Good point. That is, unless you were fixing to befriend the law.

Way I see it, man can’t have too many friends. Especially in unknown lands such as these.

Friends is always good, Mr. Watson. But, friends don’t mean much nowadays anyway.

He nodded.

See, Mr. Watson, way I see it is words is cheap. Ain’t nothing talk like money does. Graham dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. But you don’t seem the bribing type. You look like a man of scruples. Do you know that word, Mr. Watson?

Another nod. I know that word, Mr. Graham. Seems if yer lookin’ fer a man with no scruples, you best check your friend from the gate.

He means well. Really. Wants to help the town and his family. Seth’s just had his first little one. Times is tough, Mr. Watson. I’m sorry he treated you that way.

I’ve had worse.

A drifter such as yourself? That don’t surprise me much. You say bandits got your loot?

Everything I ever owned is in their hands. He said, more truth than lie. But there’s different bandits out in there in this world. I ain’t no lawman though. I hear all you civilized people look down on folks like that. Ain’t no good for a man to take the law into his own hands.

No. You may be right. But, I reckon we can help with that.

That’s mighty fine of you, Mr. Graham.

Here. Graham put something cold and hard into his hand. Reckon you need it more than I.

Money. Cold hard steel money. Felt heavy enough for a bunk and a beer. Maybe a hot meal too. This was a treasure. Thank you, Mr. Graham. You truly are a man among men. He clapped Graham on the shoulder.

Reckon you better get yourself on in. Man like you don’t need to catch no loitering charge. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Watson.

He wondered about that. Would it make a difference? Figure, he already saw Saint Peter. They can’t hold his loitering against him no more. No, not since Jimmy was long gone back to the earth.

Nope, he didn’t need no loitering charge.

Cause dead men don’t loiter.

The inn was nothing special. It stunk of cheap whiskey and tobacco smoke. Dingy wallpaper hung loose, yellowed and falling off cheaper drywall. The place was probably pretty once. A rough rounded border crowned the wall where it met the ceiling. He imagined it once was painted a shiny white. The paint was probably fresh around the same time that green flowered wallpaper was in style. The floor was simple enough and made of uncured, rough hewn wood. The boards were stained with blood and bile for decoration, with an occasional blackened spot from where a lost cigar fell and scorched the ground. Oval tables with green felt liners were surrounded by drunken men that hooted and hollered, calling cards and naming bets.

A man with a handlebar mustache shuffled cards and laughed a throaty laugh while a card player told dirty jokes.

The room was alive with an energy he hadn’t seen in weeks. Young women leaned against walls and bannisters, their tight bodices highlighted every curve. And they all wore white. Funny. White was the color of purity, angels, and virgins. But, the girls were neither virgins nor angels. If this town was like the others, they were the ones to be most wary of.

A lady with certain - womanly ways - holds much power. Some of the whores in the last town were runners for bandits and local gangs. Some even led the crews, taking their own cuts of the larger prizes.

One of the girls sauntered over to him. Her hips bounced rhythmically in a perfect sexual tempo. She bent over, pouting rouge stained lips. Fancy a drink handsome? She sat down next to him and crossed her legs just right as she adjusted her ruffled skirts, showed a little bit of milky white calf. The flowered bonnet on her head held red hair about to burst from within. Perfect teeth. Perfect eyes.

No thanks. Not thirsty yet. He grunted.

I didn’t mean for you. Care to indulge a lady?

Ain’t got money to spare.

Not even for a friend? She held out a dainty palm for him to kiss. What’s your name, mister?

He ignored her hand. Names. Always with the names. Jimmy. Jimmy Watson.

Some girls were a different kind of trouble. Especially the government ones. A man can never be too careful. There’s certain secrets a man feels more comfortable sharing with a woman. Secrets like murdering poor innocents, stealing cattle, that sort of thing you don’t want to share but always do. It’s part of the thrill, part of the game. Some guys get off on telling war stories. He didn’t.

Well, don’t you wanna know mine?

No.

Well, I never.. She flicked back stray wisps of hair and set about in a mood dark enough to bring the storm clouds on in.

She was good. But not that good. Whores never approach their customers. That was a golden rule and her fatal mistake. The doors slammed shut and he spoke to her no more. A third yell brought the barkeep running.

What’ll it be, mister? He huffed out a long sigh, wiping his dirty paws across a greasy apron.

Whiskey and beef. And I’ll take a room too. Nothing too fancy now. I won’t be here long. He noticed the girl’s ears twitch ever so slightly.

She scrunched her nose up and pretended to scratch her face. He smiled a private smile. A man could make a killing out here in this town. Everyone he met sucked at poker.

The barkeep came back with a steaming plate and a strong shot. He handed the key over. Room 343. Upstairs on the right. That’ll be thirty dollars. You want it on credit?

No. Steel. He tossed the heavy coin down on the wood. It spun round and round then fell with a dull thud.

The barkeep picked it up and took a bite of the steel. His grin lit the room up when his teeth didn’t sink in. Reckon you’re gonna want some change for this? Hold on a sec.

It’s all yours my man. Consider it payment for a job well done. I ask just one favor.

Anything, anything!

Keep yer damn mouth shut. Anyone asks, you didn’t see me. Didn’t hear from me. Don’t know me from Adam. Got it?

The barkeep nodded vigorously. Your secret’s safe with me. Don’t worry. Me and Mathilda won’t tell a soul, will we dear?

Mathilda?

My daughter. The girl you’re sitting next to.

He felt like an ass.

Your secret’s safe with us, Mr. Watson. She smiled sweetly. I would so love a chat with you later. Say, by the fire. Reckon I’ll come visit in a bit, see how you settle in to your accommodations. Figure you’d be more amicable company once you got yourself a full belly.

No need. Thank you kindly. But, I don’t need no favors from y’all. You folk been more than accommodating. Reckon I’ll hit the hay now. Kinda tired from travel. With that he stood up and pushed his plate away.

He could feel their eyes watching him, burning with their gaze as he walked up the steps to his room.

Morning came and burned away the last night’s snow. Sunrise called his name and brought him slowly into the waking world. He sat up gingerly, feeling the bones creak and pop. Standing would take a bit longer.

You gotta start the morning slow, or old age creeps up on you right quick; and then you find yourself broke and hurt, sleeping in the sands.

A man was only as good as his hands and strong as his foundation. He stretched his legs out, blinking back pain from the burn in his calves. When searing pain turned into a dull ache he stood and limped over to his clothes.

They were folded on a rocking chair. Shirt above pants above vest. Not the way he left them last night all crumpled in a ball on the floor. He picked the shirt up and brushed trail dust instinctually away. There was no dust. There was no odor. The shirt was stiff, almost new.

Maybe it was new? He did overpay, maybe they were gentle folk nice enough to buy him a new shirt with the money he spent. He pulled the pins and broke the fold. Nope. Same shirt. There was a slight red tinge right below the arm. The hole was stitched shut, but the scorch still remained.

He brushed his naked chest and felt the old wound rise up to greet him. The stitches should come out soon. But he didn’t want to be bothered with it. They were enough hassle just to put in. There wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to do something that crazy again.

But, that night it was either live or die. A man does weird things when he sees the end of the light. Things he’d never dream of doing sober or sane. It ain’t easy to stitch up your own holes. The bullet was still in there somewhere. He was probably dying slowly anyway, so why not prolong the pain a little bit longer. He pulled the shirt on and finished dressing.

His belt was missing a few rounds. They were getting harder to replace. But the bandolier was still full. He strapped on the belt, readjusting the holsters. He wore them cross draw. More comfortable, easier to get to. Turn your body into the threat and you got a good shot dead on at draw. He wasn’t an expert shot, but he was good enough.

Good enough to stay alive.

Every man’s got his tools. Some farm, others wrangle horses. He killed people. And his tools were getting old and worn down. The six shot on his right hip was starting to rust out. He drew it and popped the cylinder in a single motion. Loaded brass fell to the floor. He used the last of the oil and spent a good time wiping it down and rubbing it clean.

It wasn’t just his gun getting old. Killing people takes a lot out of you. After a while they all blur together into one red hot mess. He was tired. So damn tired. Sleep didn’t kill the demons that crawled in his brain. It wasn’t healthy to be this cold, to be this numb. He remembered a time when he used to be warm. When things used to be good.

Then the bombs fell and the world he knew turned to dust. The squads came and made everyone go away. Everyone but him. That night he ran. Ran as hard and as fast as he could. Running away from the pain. Always running away from his problems.

On his twelfth birthday, everything died.

But you can only run for so long. Your legs give out and you either fall dead right there or crawl into a new day. When he met Betsy, he stopped running. She was his ground and now she was gone. And he was running away again.

He picked up the brass and dropped a round into the cylinder. He spun it shut and held it to his head.

Always running.

He pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. Well, something happened. Resolution. Reawakening. This was the last time he would run away.

There had to be some way to get her back. There had to be something. If only he had the money. If only he had the means. He reloaded the pistol and holstered up.

Dedication shined a light into his pale gray eyes. Money or honor. It’s usually one or the other. He’d seen his friends take up the business. Watched them corrupt themselves and end up in a pine box. But, he would have both. It could be done. He knew it could be done.

There were stories, of men from before the end days. Men among men whose deeds were still told in campfire nights. They had it all. The money, the power. And honor. They did great things. He heard a story once in a camp. A story of a man who fought in the wars. He was shot down and awoke in a strange land, only to battle back to his family.

And save the world below in the process. They were just stories, but they had meaning. They had purpose. Heroes need purpose. From here out, he would be a hero.

He stepped out of the room and found himself some company.

Bad company.

The kind you don’t ask for.

Mornin’ Mr. Watson. Graham tipped his hat with the weak hand. His strong hand was too busy holding the grip of his pistol to shake. Beg pardon if I don’t shake yer hand. Seems we got some talkin’ to do.

He sighed. Reckon you got me in some kinda trouble, marshal?

Depends on if you can make mine go away.

There was no escape. Graham got him good. They were right in front of the stairs. He had nowhere to go. All the doors were locked and the wall wasn’t going anywhere. What kinda trouble we lookin’ at?

Maybe same trouble got your money. We got bandits in them hills. Maybe same boys got you the other day, maybe friends of yours. Either way, we need help. Seein’ how you owe us a tax still, I reckon you’d be willin’ to work a charge off. Tax evasion’s a felony in this county. You don’t want to know what the penalty for that is.

Think I saw your penalties last night.

Graham pouted. So I take it you’ll behave?

Ever faithful, sir. He sneered. Praise be his. Long live the king.

Graham ignored the sarcasm. North of here, out in the valley. There’s about six goons we need rustled up. They’re bad, bad men. We got a couple counts of murder on each of their heads.

Killing’s easy, marshal.

They ain’t that kinda killer, Mr. Watson. They. Eat. People.

This changed things a bit. Hunting down cattle rustlers and murders is easy work. Fun and messy, but easy none the less. They usually get drunk on their cheap thrills. They like the shock and awe sorta games.

When tables get turned, they get scared. Ain’t nothing but bunch of yeller fools then. And that’s when the real fun begins. But there are two kinds of people in this world needed to die more than any other. Them that messed with kids, and them that ate people for dinner.

That’s different. In that case, killing’s free. You want their heads?

Just one.

He set out after lunch. The valley wasn’t that far away. It took him less than three hours in the suffocating heat before the head of the valley poked out from above the horizon. Brown and red stone rising higher than the tallest buildings in the east glared down at him. The narrow road curved down around a hill and disappeared into the mouth of sleeping giants. Save for needle brush sticking out in odd patches, the valley was bare. The day had been cloudy, half hazy. The path ahead shimmered and danced in waves of heat.

He stirred the horse forward. Better to get this over with. Make the killing quick and messy. Or, he could run. The road curved down around the hill out into parts unknown. It would be so easy to get away. But, what’s the point in running?

There’s nowhere left to run, no one to run to. Except for her. If she even cared anymore. But, what would he say? I’m sorry doesn’t seem fitting.

Failure was not an option, could not be an option. All the cards were on the table. He liked Jimmy Watson. Didn’t want a bounty on his poor head. Jimmy may have some use somewhere else.

It was just one of his names. One of his many names. The names of the dead have power. He had taken many names. But Betsy knew his one true name. She was the last to taste it on her lips. He could turn around, go back and challenge the Sheriff for his honor.

Honor. A useless thing, a toy to play with. And they always played with it. Just one little pull and he’d dance like a puppet on their string. He’d be better off without it. Not much honor in killing.

But these folk ain’t worth not killing. Maybe some honor in that. No use showing them mercy. He didn’t like the lawman. There was something odd about him. Some folk just ain’t right. Maybe he could get his honor. And then their loot. Lawmen make good money. No need to rob poor senseless bastards. Bed tax.

What a joke. Weren’t no bed tax, it’s just a fancy name for highway robbery. All legal and such way of robbing poor old bastards like himself. But he always did their jobs. Jobs was better than money.

It was something to do. And this was something worth doing. He couldn’t stand still for very long. Settling down never seemed an option. But, they usually paid him well. He felt good in his heart and got to keep his honor. And sometimes they even threw some bucks his way. He’d been saving them. There was close to fifty dollars, American paper, sitting in his saddlebag right now.

But, no one needed to know that. Last guy that asked died on his knife. People get real weird about their money. He didn’t feel bad taking it from the dead. He figured they were just going to take his anyway. So why not strike first. Take theirs. Dead don’t need no money. Except the pennies he left the ferrymen.

Always gotta pay the ferryman, lest you end up in a place worse than this. And there were places worse than this. Plenty of them.

At three he struck. He left the horse tied to a dead tree and snuck into the valley on foot. It’s easier to hide in plain sight. No use sneaking around and wasting energy best saved for killing. So, he walked into the valley without a second thought, without a care of consequence.

There were three waiting for him. They sat huddled around a campfire, backs to the mouth of the valley. There were supposed to be six. But, three were better than none. His stomach growled as the wind caught the embers. The sweet, fatty smell of meat slow roasting on a spit caught him by surprise, turning his empty stomach into twisting bile. He was hungry, always hungry. But not that hungry.

There was something different in the odor. It made him sick.

The closer he got to them, the stronger the smell became and the more flips his stomach did. Two were chewing on bones, the third was still sucking down blackened meat.

He licked his fingers, savoring the taste. The corpse was still roasting on the slowly dying fire. He couldn’t make the head from the feet, it was nothing more than a smoldering chunk of meat. The embers glowed softly, their orange light contrasted with the browns of the valley.

He shot the man with the meat first. One bullet to the back of the head was all it took. Blood spattered his face, staining