Gehenna (West of Hell #1) Page 4

  McCall sat on his cot, inspecting the sheriff's office. There were shotguns, revolvers, lever-action rifles, and muzzle loaders stacked and leaning everywhere. A veritable gold mine of firearms sat just outside of his reach. The entrance was directly in front of his cell, and a back door sat off to his left. Neither looked too sturdy.

  Along the wall, opposite of the sheriff's desk, sat half a dozen kegs of gunpowder. Apparently the local gun ordinance pertained to explosives as well. McCall eyed the kegs for a few seconds before turning and glancing back at his gun, which sat upon the desk. No matter how he got out of this, he had to take that Peacemaker with him.

  Leaning back against the cold, stone wall, he cracked a smile while thinking about the deputy he'd put the fear of God into. Every time someone asked him about the markings on his pistol he came up with a more outlandish story.

  He used those tales to fuel his infamy. The more people feared him, the less he had to worry about them getting into his business. Even Mad Dog was just a stupid name he spread around to help build his legend.

  Truth was, he hadn't killed that many men. He'd only shot down four, and all of those were in self-defense. Killing changed a man, and not for the better. Unfortunately, when people think of you as a fighter, they want to challenge you. When they think of you as a stone cold, rampaging beast, they tend to leave you alone.

  Now he had to relax and wait for an opportunity to present itself. If he was going down, he'd be damned if it would be in a shithole town like this.

  It had only been a few minutes since the sheriff had gone to check on the situation when McCall heard arguing voices coming down the street.

  Deputy Aaron burst through the front door. His face had drained of all its color, except for some darkening under his eyes. He hesitated for a moment when he looked at McCall, as if he'd forgotten about the prisoner. Dropping his gaze, he hustled over to the empty cell to McCall's right, fumbling for his keys.

  "What's going on out there, boy? You don't look so good."

  The deputy didn't have a chance to answer before Sheriff Stanley strode through the door and pulled Aaron away from the cell by the collar of his shirt. Taking the keys from his nephew, the sheriff opened the cell door before stepping clear.

  Coming in behind him were two men and what looked like a person who had been stampeded to death—except he somehow wasn't dead. McCall didn't understand how the man could still be alive, let alone struggling with such ferocity, in his condition. Part of his skull was exposed, and a hanging flap of skin covered one of his eyes. He didn't have any lips.

  "Hold him over by the door, but don't let go of him yet," Stanley said.

  Two more, and much larger, men dragged in yet another crazed man, this one with an axe buried in his chest. He fought against their hold despite what should have been a mortal wound.

  "Throw both of them in at the same time and I'll get it secured," Stanley said, taking a position behind the open cell door.

  The first group to come in the jailhouse threw their butchered prisoner in the cell and quickly stepped aside. The second group did the same and the sheriff slammed the door as fast as he could.

  McCall watched the mangled prisoners as they stumbled over one another, slowly getting back to their feet. They pushed to the front of the cell, their arms extending through the bars, and tried to grab their captors. Broken arrow shafts protruded from their backs.

  A putrid smell permeated from them, like a dead animal that had been in the sun all day.

  "You boys go on back to Ellis' place; Deputy Aaron and I will take it from here."

  "What're you going to do with them?" the large, balding man asked.

  Stanley considered the new prisoners for a few seconds before responding. "I don't know yet. We still need to figure out what the hell is going on with them. We're going to do a quick search around the town to see if anyone knows who they are. We'll check on you at the saloon as soon as we're done."

  Not wanting to take their eyes off the strangers, the four men backed out of the front door, leaving it open behind them.

  Walking back to his desk, Stanley opened the top drawer and took out a bottle of some dark booze. After taking a long pull from it, he handed it over to the deputy.

  "You aren't looking so good. Take a swig of this, it'll clear you up."

  To McCall's surprise, Deputy Aaron looked even worse than he had when they entered the jailhouse only two minutes before. His skin was taking on a sallow, thin appearance.

  Grabbing the bottle, Aaron started to drink from it only to spit it back out, covering the sheriff's desk.

  "That tastes like kerosene!"

  "I made it myself."

  "With what? Kerosene?"

  "Only a little."

  "Anyone care to explain what's going on here?" McCall asked from his cot. "How is a man with an axe in his chest still walking around?"

  The sound of McCall's voice grabbed the attention of the lipless man, who turned and tried to reach through the bars to McCall. He was short a good two feet so McCall didn't bother moving.

  Stanley walked around his desk and stood in front of the second cell, out of reach of the moaning men.

  "Who are you?" They didn't acknowledge the question, just kept trying to grab onto him. "Where did you come from? Why were you attacking that woman?" No response except more moans.

  "Aaron, you're telling me that you shot this guy three times?"

  Wiping the alcohol and spit from his lips, Aaron turned around. "Yes, sir, three times at less than five feet. He just kept coming forward, trying to take a bite out of me."

  When the deputy had arrested McCall at the general store yesterday, he'd been frightened. Now he seemed petrified.

  "No man could live through that. It just ain't possible."

  "Look at the front of his shirt; three bullet holes, and three more arrows sticking out of the back. The other one looks like someone mistook him for a tree and tried to chop him down."

  "He ain't no man. Neither of them are," McCall said. "At least not anymore. No one can live through that."

  A startled look swept across their faces. Stanley recovered after a few seconds and laughed it off. Aaron didn't.

  "What are they then? Demons? Why don't you leave the investigating to those of us who are still men of the law? We don't need advice from an outlaw in a jail cell," Stanley said.

  The sheriff knew the one part of McCall's criminal history that wasn't fabricated − he had once been Sheriff McCall before Mad Dog. He'd presided over a sleepy hamlet back east, spending most of his days at one of the few pubs in the area.

  A caravan, passing through on their way to Philadelphia, was held up on the outskirts of town. Hearing the gunshots from his perch at the bar, McCall had been able to catch up to the bandits before they could escape. The gunfight was short, with Sherriff McCall putting two men down before three others escaped. Though he lived in a small town, he'd always been an incredible marksman.

  The marshals arrived the next day with a warrant for his arrest. He was charged with robbing the caravan, killing its occupants, and the murder of two federal officers. As soon as they walked through the door, he recognized three of them as the men who'd escaped him the day before.

  The corruption of the marshal service had caught McCall completely off guard. Though he pled his case, they were intent on having his head. After gunning down another agent, he fled, abandoning the life he'd built. It wasn't a week later that his face began appearing on wanted fliers up and down the east coast.

  "It doesn't look like he's going to be capable of standing soon, let alone investigating anything," McCall said, nodding at the deputy.

  Aaron was sitting against the edge of the desk, his hands placed on his knees to support his weight. His body began trembling, shaking the entire desk supporting him.

  "Aaron?" Stanley asked.

  Abruptly falling to his knees, he pitched forward, cr
acking his head against the wood floor. He never raised his hands to protect himself from the fall.

  Stanley dropped to his haunches beside Aaron, placing a hand on his back. McCall stayed in his cot, reclining against the wall, watching. He'd seen even the biggest of men fall apart after a gunfight, but had never heard of someone having such a visceral reaction.

  "Come on, son. We need to get you over to Ellis' saloon and have the doc take a look at you."

  The trembling stopped. Aaron lay motionless on the floor, his uncle kneeling over him.

  "Aaron?"

  A moan escaped Aaron as he slowly leaned backward, his black eyes looking over his uncle.

  "Aaron? What's wrong wi−"

  The young deputy lunged at his uncle, chomping down on Stanley's right ear. The sheriff howled as he fell backward, pushing his nephew away. The combination of his weight falling back, and violently shoving Aaron in the opposite direction, tore his ear free.

  Stanley scampered away until his back bumped against the kegs of black powder. His shocked face was ashen gray as he pressed a hand to the gaping hole on the side of his head. Streams of blood seeped through his fingers, coursing down his forearm.

  Aaron chewed on the ear with slow, deliberate bites. McCall could hear the cartilage crunching.

  After a large and pronounced swallow, he crawled forward, eager to get another piece of his uncle.

  Chapter 5