Deadwood

The sun fell and bled to death on the distant horizon, gutted by the passing knife of time that signaled the end of another day, and the dawn of another night. The only grieving cry to accompany the somber scene came from the train that screamed its eulogy to no one. Not to be dishearted, the train would come to a stop at a simple platform to disembark those who would stay with the sun until it took its last breath.

The train would not stay to see the final passing.

Looking on any map presented to you, you would be hard pressed to find Deadwood. The closest even a cartropher could get you was a vague, "Oh about here..." with a general motion made towards the map. Usually a circle made with a finger in the air was done, or some distant reference 'its west of such and such...' but typically it would be wrong. Suffice to say, Deadwood was in the wastlands of the American west. Really that's all that you need to know about where it is.

The train is the most common method of arrival. Usually the Westbound 669 (with the numeral nine swinging by a hinge on the tail) is the train that stops. It stops only when it is needed, and always at the same time.

People get off the train. No one gets on.

No cargo is taken off. No Cargo is put on.

You will not find the stop listed on any train despot.

If you need to be there, you will be taken there.

This, is Deadwood.

Ezekiel deboarded from the train just as it began its slow journey westward. His coat was linen, but the heat did not seem so bad here in Deadwood. Died black, there was the faded collar of a clergyman set open about his enck, and a preacher hat pulled over his head to block those dying rays. He waited until the train was gone in the distance, a distant sight, that turned to a distant sound, that faded further into memory...then gone.

He arrived.

The town of Deadwood had been whispered about in ghost stories for some time now. Normally the vatican did not concern itself with ghost stories, but when the Holy Father decreed he would go, and investigate, it would be so. Ezekiel could only be pleased that he was chosen for the service, and blessed be the works that come from his hand, for rigtheous will be his wrath and merciful be his punsihment, and for those he came to hunt there was but one punishment.

Dead, for the undead.

Deadwood was a haven for such abominations, and yet people also lived here. Living people. How they survive, how they even remained sane was a testimony to the human spirit...and something to investigate. One does not look a gift horse in the mouth, but when the horse begins to talk you find out exactly whose voice it is...


...and sometimes, well, you got to shoot the horse.

His tools were crafted in the same forges that crafted the armor and swords for the bishops of the crusades. 4 six shot revolvers, two at his hip, two under his arms, and one rifle that was slung over his back. His bullets silver, each one had in it a psalm carved minutely into its surface.

He was here to do God's work.

And by God He would do it.

The sun set.

Night came.

Ezekiel went into the darkness.

Bea was digging in the field that afternoon. A bead of sweat had made a trail through the dirt that dusted her face. She stood and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. In the same motion, she shielded her eyes and squinted into the distance, focusing on a column of black smoke.

The train was coming.

She had seen it before, in the past, but she regarded it as if she had seen it for the first time. Her eyes widened in eager curiosity, following the trail of smoke, then the expression of curiosity turned to fear. Her mouth gaped in shock as her hands dropped the shovel and scrabbled up her face trying to cover her eyes.

It felt like she couldn't stand anymore, she couldn't breathe. "Goddamn it," she kept muttering. "Goddamn it. No, no, it kin't be. No." She grabbed her head in her hands and rocked in the dirt. It wasn't until the circling shadow of a vulture brought her to her senses that she headed back toward the saloon, where she waited until nightfall. The train had left her mind.



In the darkness, a light flickered like a beacon through the grimy window of the saloon. Its wooden panels had been whitewashed by the sun as were all the buildings in Deadwood. At night, they glimmered like ghosts.

It was called the Knock-on-Wood Saloon, and seeming to bear no relationship to its name, its sign bore the peeling image of a gate with two keys on either side.

From within, moving shadows wavered and into the silent streets trickled the tune of a piano. In the darkness of the saloon's porch, a rocking chair creaked emptily. To anyone, it seemed like another quiet night in another ghost town in another forgotten part of the American West. But those who knew about Deadwood also knew better.

Bea stood at the saloon bar, wiping out the glassware. She felt someone sidle up to her. Over the din of conversation, he whispered into her ear.

"Beatrice, you reckon' what I miss the most?"

"Drink, I reckon'."

"No, guess again, Bea."

"Grub?"

"Nope."

"What then?"

"Flesh."

A hand groped under her shirt from behind as she giggled. "You mean my tits," she retorted, whirling around to catch the molester.

But there was no one. The din of conversation had disappeared. There was no one behind her, no one at the bar counter, on the stools, at the table. It was only the lonely tinkle of the automatic piano that she had cranked up earlier. That and the empty creaking of the rocking chair on the porch.

She laughed, her voice echoing eerily in the empty saloon. It reminded her again that no one was there. She shivered, broke down to cry.

Eyes unfocused, Bea began to scrub the bar counter. Her rusty-red hair frizzed about her face like a halo illuminated by the lamp light. She stopped, staring with bleached blue eyes into the darkness that lay beyond the window.

OOC: Bumpiarselo! Anyone interested in reviving this?