BLACK JACK DERRINGER: A Post-Apocalyptic Western

By K.H. Koehler

"A fine and fascinating tale." --Hellnotes

"A very fun and exciting story, perfect for urban fantasy, pop science fiction, and cross genre fans." --Dark Scribe Magazine

"A superb western fantasy." --Baryon Review

"Reads like Tombstone on acid." --Monster Librarian

"Mad Max m

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Monster Factory
• Release date: Mar 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869231505

Book preview

BOOK I: BLACK JACK DERRINGER Or, THE ACE OF SPADES

1

He was the man of her dreams, Alice West thought wistfully as she puffed on a lavender cigar and blew the stinging smoke through her nose. The man girls dream about. The man she had been waiting for her entire life.

The man who was going to make her rich.

The albino was sitting with three inbred yokels around a felt-green card table, his back to the wall of the Dead Horse Saloon. He was rambling about something or other and losing hand after hand of poker. He had three cards now and he was reading them with all the intensity of a kid with a dime novel, eyes going back and forth typewriter-style behind the magnifying portals of the biggest pair of glasses she’d ever seen. The lenses looked like they weighed a pound apiece, and they turned his pale scarlet eyes into bloodshot, owl-like disks.

The eyes were freaky, definitely muto, but the rest of him was perfect. Lanky, long—he’d wear a duster well, Alice thought. At the moment, though, he was wearing a black pencil-neck suit and paper collar like some kind of redneck preacherman. The ivory hair tumbling over his shoulders was too long and unruly and made him look like a genuine momma’s boy, but he was the right age, late twenties.

Just right for her plans.

Oh sweet destiny, how you love your children! It was a line from a song Alice remembered from childhood, though she could only ever recall the first refrain, the rest lost to time and desert and exhaustion and the type of lifestyle best left to bandits and mutos.

She kicked down her chair and put out the cigar on the rubber sole of her boot heel. She took one more pull on the bottle of Molten Mettle—it was damned near empty and that was an omen to her way of thinking—and then she got to her feet to stage her approach.

That’s when she heard them talking.

The Black Ace, my ass.

On the grave of my grams.

Your grams is still alive, Merl, said the big one-eyed miner at the poker table. One-eye gnawed a stogie, annoyed by all the jawing.

Merl decided to take a massive swig from his bottle of Rockbottom, sucking it past the two remaining teeth in his whole head. Don’t mean ’tain’t true, he said, slamming the bottle down. It looked like a glass exclamation point sitting there. You hear ‘bout New Constantine? Black Ace damned near wiped the map there. Fire, flood, Biblical stuff.

Like in the Bible? the albino piped up with interest.

That would be Biblical stuff, yeah, Merl informed him.

The one-eyed giant harrumphed, jiggled his fat in the chair like a big sack of pea soup.

Someone else took up the conversation and muttered something about New Constantine being only a crow’s flight away from here. Here meaning New Hope, the town Alice was bunked down in at the moment.

Alice kept her eyes on the albino gambler and her ears turned to the conversation going on at the table. She considered asking a few questions—which direction had The Black Ace last been seen going in, being first and foremost on her list—but the outcome was always the same. A frown up and down, then instant male-issue dismissal—or worse.

Once a fellow bounty hunter had sat her down and tried to set her straight by telling her how much man’s work it was—rough nights, hard trails, dangers aplenty in the Skillet, highwaymen and mutos abounding everywhere and ready to take a pot shot at a pretty little gal like herself. Since that time, Alice had learned to keep her big mouth shut and her ears open and her opinion snugly lodged in her throat where it belonged. Better it strangle her than she let it out and get a talking-to again.

Now, she just listened. Listened and planned and sat at the corner tables of saloons all across the burned-out and unfriendly face of the Skillet, waiting to hear about potential bounty-heads.

It paid off.

Well, it usually paid off.

Sometimes it paid off.

Like when she got paid.

And sometimes not. Like last night when she brought Wild Rider Williams and his partner Skank in.

She’d gotten the upper hand on the two of them near the runoff at Willow’s Creek. Goliath, her muto black Suffolk, could go twice as long as any horse she’d ever owned. She’d ridden him hard through the night, catching up with the outlaws at their makeshift camp on the riverbank well ahead of the local lawdogs. Rider had squeezed off a few shots at her as a warning, but Goliath could turn on a dime and did so beautifully, letting Rider’s ammo spark against his impervious mutant hide while she kicked the switch on her custom-made saddle and the seat rotated under the belly of the giant black beast.

From her protected position she dropped Rider like a rabid coydog with her custom long colt, shooting him point-blank through the kneecap. When Goliath flared his nostrils she knew his partner was nearby. She dropped out the saddle and rolled down the riverbank through mud, brush and ensuring bruises, and came up on one knee at the bottom, hair snared and teeth bared. She was barely able to breathe because her lungs were on fire, but she dropped Skank with a single upshot through the eye.

Rider was fortunate in that her shot had been aimed to maim, not kill. She waited patiently until he stopped screaming and passed out from the pain. Then she shot him through the other knee. Making a primitive litter, she and Goliath dragged Wild Rider’s considerable girth through the sand and sagebrush and back to the law offices at New Hope.

Unfortunately, Rider’s good-fer-nothing weight and her two broken ribs made the going rough and slow, and the lawdogs caught up to her shortly before dawn. Alice drew the long colt, making pains to hide the agony of the gesture, but the lawdogs could smell her wound, it seemed. They drew on her as she fumbled with her gun, knocking her off Goliath with a bullet drilled squarely through one shoulder. The impact dropped her to the ground like a sack of cans.

She saw the sun winking at her overhead and then had intimate congress with Mr. Pain, her old nemesis and sometimes partner. Then there was an abrupt, breathless agony as one of the lawdogs kicked her in her broken ribs with a steel-toed boot.

After that, Alice spent vacation time swimming in blessed darkness for a while. She wondered if Mr. Dead would come a-riding his liquid night steed for her, but he was evidently too busy hauling Rider and Skank’s big fat asses down to hell because she came around sometime after full dark.

Her bounty-head was gone, which was bad—and Goliath, too, which was worse. She could deal with losing a bounty-head, but the horse thieves were going to pay! Half walking and half crawling over the rocky dead ground like a hobo on his last night of a bender, Alice somehow made it back to New Hope, leaving a thin spool of blood in her wake that was quickly drunk up by the parched floor of the Skillet.

She reported the horse-theft to the sheriff but was told he hadn’t actually seen her ride into town on a big black muto horse so she couldn’t very well press charges. And if she had, she would’ve been run out by the good law-abiding, god-fearing townsfolk of New Hope, so she’d best keep her pretty mouth closed, put on a dress, and go home and make babies with her darling.

All that work and pain, and all she had to show for her troubles was a talking-to.

Alice thought about drawing the long colt and shooting the sheriff through his thick Troglodyte skull…then thought better of the move. She was walking wounded; she didn’t need a hanging party to end both her short-lived career as a bounty hunter and her life.

The local sawbones was too drunk and crazy to see her, but she remembered something her pa had taught her and decided to pay a visit to the undertaker instead, finding him surprisingly handy with sutures and bandages.

Life in the biz was always an experience.

It was at the undertaker’s that she saw the scruffy sight of the dead lined up in the window, fly-specked and peeling in the sun like dolls of paper-mâché in a big-city window display—Ryder among them, head balanced sideways on his broad outlaw shoulders. She later learned that the badly-knotted necktie party’s rope had snapped it clean off like a greedy kid with his first chocolate bunny.

Stuff like that gave you perspective. It made you wise.

It made you shut your big fat mouth.

In the end, Alice decided to spend her convalescing period in beautiful New Hope. That would teach ‘em lawdogs that she wasn’t gonna run for the hills with her tail firmly between her legs.

Well, if she wanted to be honest with herself, she wasn’t in any position to run, tail or no tail. She wasn’t exactly road-ready—she had neither horse nor supplies—so she was sort of stuck in New Hope, but never mind that. Her pa always said she had three things going for her: ambition, patience, and a capful of stupidity. The ambition was her gas, the patience her brake. The stupidity sort of messed up the analogy, but her pa had warned her long ago that she weren’t no schoolmarm. And after today, she was apt to agree.

But she could seethe and plan and make life a living hell here until she was good and ready to leave.

Problem was, she’d been doing precious little of that. As the days in New Hope wore on, she found both her purse and her belly growing increasingly lighter.

So one day she got it in her head that a few hands of poker might get her out of this armpit of a town and started watching the dealers and marks. That’s how she came to notice the albino card player. And that’s when she knew he was her ticket out of here.

2

He looked like a muto, and for that reason alone he was no more welcomed in this town than she was.

But if she could just develop some kind of rapport with him and convince him that her ideas always worked out—well, all right, nearly always—then she could take the first steps toward improving her financial situation.

Steps such as tracking down The Black Ace, the most notorious outlaw in the whole Skillet.

Last she heard, there was a 250,000,000-mark bounty on the man’s head, and a lady could buy herself a good life for that sum of money.

Now was the time. Time to make a move…

Full house! I have a full house! the albino crowed like a half-wit.

That ain’t no full house, freakshow.

Alice stuttered in her approach, suddenly reconsidering this bright idea of hers. Might be, going this route was going to land her a pretty spot in the undertaker’s window, right next to headless Rider.

The albino quit shouting and looked up at Alice’s approach. She hesitated, struck dumb by the look in his eyes. A fox-like, sidelong look completely at odds with his idiot appearance, as if he had known she was there all along. Maybe he was a bounty hunter too? She didn’t think so. The guy seemed too talky—preacherman or teacherman. Not that it was any of her beeswax, but whatever the hell he was, he wasn’t long for his mortal coil if he stayed in his present company.

Whatever the reason, her gut told her to back off, and she always listened to her gut. So Wild Alice West detoured around the poker players and approached the bar instead. She ended up near the end reserved for aged barflies, mutos, and the tobacco-decorated spittoons. It was wretched, but anywhere else was apt to get her unwanted attention from the randy collection of miners and ranchers that dropped their worthless hides here on a nightly basis.

The barkeep deemed her worthy of attention. Help ya, darlin’?

Alice narrowed her eyes, pushed her hat back on her head, friendly-like. Bottle of MM, she said. And tell me ‘bout that albino. She leaned her arms on the tacky top of the bar.

That’s Mr. Treen. He’s new here—sorta like you, missy.

Mr. Treen. Mr. Treen what?

Mr. Treen No-Last-Name, the barkeep informed her, plunking down the bottle of 30-proof Molten Mettle.

Alice took no offense. She did take the bottle, then a quick swig of the electric blue rotgut inside. The burn was friendly, familiar, and gave her strength. Mr. Treen, she said, tasting the name. It tasted fine to her way of thinking. Unusual but intriguing, like a foreign vintage. You ever seen him here before tonight?

Nope. The barkeep reached for a glass to polish. Don’t see too many new folk round these parts.

It wouldn’t be the glorious hospitality, would it? She was tempted to ask but thought better of it. Discretion, valor, that type of thing.

Where’s he staying? she said instead.

Who wants to know?

Alice made swirls in the watermarks on the rustic, unpainted bar. Just a working girl a little down on her luck, is all.

Well, shoot, I can fix ya right up with a dozen moneyed gents, darlin’, so long as you have at least one good tit, one tooth in yer head, and know yer place. Yer looks ain’t so bad. That duck ain’t worth your time.

He’s a player, Alice said. He’ll be loaded by night’s end.

The barkeep raised his brows as if to dispute that, but she wasn’t fooled none by the albino’s idiotic display. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he walked away with a deed or three before the night was through. Hell, he might own the entire town by morning. He’d probably also be rolled ‘n’ hanged by the locals before he left. He was new, didn’t know the ropes here the way she did.

That gave her an idea.

A man like Mr. Treen just might be in the business for a good bodyguard, a classic way to open up a working relationship. And she’d worked that circuit, once upon a time. She looked him over for weapons, but he looked clean—the suit was too slim and snug-fitting to be concealing any firearms.

Maybe he didn’t carry them.

Naw—no one in their right mind (or their left) would venture out into the Skillet without a homemade arsenal. This land ate strong men.

So where’s this Mr. Treen stayin’? she persisted.

The barkeep discreetly thumbed the ceiling before moving down the bar to service a new customer.

Alice took another swig from the bottle—the burn in her throat and stomach helped counteract the redundant hammering aches in her ribs and shoulder—and over the next hour sat back and watched Mr. Treen lose another hundred marks.

He was nothing short of a working miracle.

While the others sat stoic and eyed each other like snakes about to strike, Mr. Treen sat smiling and shuffling his cards, eyes going back and forth like the museum piece cat clock over the entrance of the saloon. He yammered constantly, about anything, everything. He was definitely a player—he’d had maybe two whiskeys since sitting down, the sign of a professional gambler. He chatted amicably with the men like some half-wit, ignoring their ribbing, their cold looks, their snide comments, biding his time before he himself struck. He talked about the desert, the saloon girls, and the bandits that might be creeping into town now that the sun was going down.

When he started jabbering on about what monstrous creatures of the night might be out there waiting for them all, one of the players finally snapped. You gonna play or talk me to death, freakshow? asked the giant, one-eyed miner.

Like her, Mr. Treen stood strong in the face of adversity. Sir, he said, touching his heart with thespian delicacy. A gentleman never rushes a good hand. Or a bad one…

You wanna call or you wanna lose that good hand of yers, freak? ‘Cause I’d be more n’ happy to oblige ya.

Well, I don’t know, Mr. Treen said earnestly, studying his cards. You said deuces are good, yeah?

The old miner grinned. Reeeeal good.

So having four of them must be even better. And he fanned down his five cards.

The dark looks on the stubbly assortment of faces spread like a commutable disease. The pot had been a big one, and the motley assortment of players began to sweat like a bunch of whores in church.

Alice suppressed a smile.

Mr. Treen gave them a bemused look. Deuces—good, he said as if making mental notes. The greasy lights of the saloon burst in flashes of white light off those ridiculous round frames on his face. His smile was a different light altogether, teeth unnaturally white and straight and perfect, shining like his ice-white complexion. You’re such a lucky player, Mr. Lawson! I’m sure it’s finally rubbing off on me.

Alice rolled her eyes at the bullshit line.

One-eyed Mr. Lawson began to seethe, so Mr. Treen made the discretion/valor mental connection she had earlier and slowly stood up, scooping his winnings into his suit coat. He was bigger than Alice had anticipated, standing a full head taller than the tallest man at the table, and almost two heads taller than she herself, but almost excruciatingly thin in that long, long black suit. Still, he was perfect for her needs—an ivory tower of opportunity, so to speak.

You cheatin’ asswipe! the miner said, throwing his cards at Mr. Treen.

Now that’s quite impossible, Mr. Lawson, Mr. Treen said as ivory hair slid partway across his smooth, perfectly shaven face, partly hiding his little smile. You taught me yourself.

Mr. Lawson stood up and pushed himself chest-to-chest with Mr. Treen.

Alice took a swig of whiskey and braced herself for a fight, but Mr. Treen looked less worried than she reckoned he ought to be. In fact, he was smiling from ear to ear from what she could see through all the long, wind-frayed hair.

You better have a gun, she thought to him. If not, you’re going to die the richest man in town tonight, Mr. Treen No-Last-Name.

3

What kind of gun does a man like Mr. Treen carry? Colt? Sawed-off Winchester?

She wondered.

And then she knew.

He was a gentleman, a Derringer man, most definitely.

Black Jack Derringer, how nice to meet you. I’m Wild Alice West…

You cheated me, you muto bastard! Mr. Lawson spittled as he took Mr. Treen uncouthly by the lapels of his pressed black suit and lifted him an inch off the floor—then just as quickly set him down again on his feet. Turning his neckless head down, he nervously noticed the hidden object in Mr. Treen’s suit pocket being pressed into his groin with unnerving insistence.

Ah, she so loved being right!

4

Is this any way to treat a brand-new friend, Mr. Lawson? Mr. Treen asked in a soft warning voice completely at odds with his goofy appearance. He canted his head almost mechanically.

Alice suppressed a shiver; suddenly he didn’t look like the man she had been observing all night. Something—someone—had come to replace Mr. Treen No-Last-Name…and that man’s name was Mr. Death.

You keep being antisocial like this, and you won’t have any friends at all, Mr. Treen whispered. His voice was scouring, condescending, and suddenly very old. He smiled, but his eyes were dead.

Alice saw Mr. Death transfer itself instantly to Mr. Lawson. Something commutable and waiting.

Moments ticked by like hours.

But then Mr. Treen’s smile faltered when he sensed a gun being aimed at the back of his