The Dead Man: Kill Them All (8 page)

Three down
.

Scotty to go.

Matt swallowed more bile. All around him, the firing gradually died out again as the townsfolk realized it was nearly over. Matt whistled sharply. One enemy remained, so they were all still in danger.

“Hey, Scotty? It’s just you and me now.”

Matt walked out into the center of the street, dust spraying up around his boots. He kept walking, and then he stopped, licked his lips. He called out, “Scotty? Let these people be. Let’s finish this.”

Shit, my voice is shaking. I sound like a poodle standing up to a Great Dane…

A kind of eerie silence fell, except for the low snapping of the steady fire in the barn. Matt could smell the wood smoke blended with the stench of death. Could faintly hear people murmuring, some crying out in pain. Dark reflections flickered up and down the empty street. Everyone held their breath. Matt Cahill waited, knowing there was only one way it could end.

“Matt?”

Scotty came out of the alley, holding a 9 mm down by his right leg, pointed at the earth. He had placed his body perfectly, between the empty movie house and the tourist shop, so none of the people defending Dry Wells had an easy shot. He was lost, looked like something dragged up from a grave a week after he’d been buried. His skin was filthy, with wounds oozing fluid and broken bones poking from torn clothing. His face was a frozen mask of shrieking horror, the countenance of a man buried alive. Matt Cahill stood out in the open, the .38 down at his own side, the ax in his other hand. The two men faced each other on the dusty, dark street. Shadows danced all around them.

“So here we are.”

“Yeah.”

“The 1972 Dolphins, dude. A perfect season. Look it up.”

“I will.”

Scotty grinned horribly, chuckling wetly from deep in his broken chest. To Matt, the laugh sounded disturbingly familiar, so much like his long-dead friend. The two enemies waited there in the street, all eyes on them. The fire made the town flicker like an old black-and-white photograph under a strobe lamp.

“I’m kind of screwed, aren’t I?” Scotty asked. He coughed. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, but it ain’t anything good, is it?”

Matt shook his head. “No. It’s not.”

Scotty looked down. “You remember that old movie comic, W.C. Fields? Talked through his nose?”

“Kind of.”

Hog and Zeke approached from Matt’s right, their weapons trained on Scotty, who pretended not to see them. Matt heard footsteps on the roof as the snipers moved forward, too. Sheriff Pickens stepped out of the shadows. Every gun in town was trained on Scotty now. Matt was the only one who saw the grotesque writhing of the wickedness under his putrid skin.

“W.C. Fields—he had liver disease from all the boozing,” Scotty said finally. “The man was dying in some rest home when a drinking buddy came to see him. This guy caught Fields reading the Bible.”

Matt kept his eyes on Scotty’s hands, just to be on the safe side. He wondered where the mercenary was going with all this.

“The friend says, ‘What the hell are you doing reading
that
, Bill?’” Scotty said.

“And W.C. Fields just smiles and says, ‘Hey, I’m looking for loopholes, friend. Just looking for loopholes.’”

Scotty raised his eyes. His shoulders sagged a bit. “Man, I really need to get this over with.”

Matt swallowed. “I know.”

Scotty jerked his weapon up, though perhaps a bit more slowly than he could have. Matt wasn’t sure. In any event, Matt was a split second faster as he threw the ax with all his might. It spun end over end, slammed into Scotty’s Kevlar vest, and stuck there, throwing his aim off, turning him to the side. His one round whizzed by Matt’s left ear. And then everyone in town opened fire at once. Scotty danced an obscene jig in the dust for a long moment, his body shredded and torn. Then he dropped to his knees and fell sideways into the dust. Matt watched his face become handsome again as the tortured soul departed.

It was finished.

EPILOGUE

Monday, 9:46 p.m.

The fires were almost out. The air had turned harsh, as sharp as a blade and filled with dark smoke and ash. Matt Cahill had already made the rounds congratulating and thanking the townspeople. He knew the military and police would be here soon. He had to leave—time was running out. A horse was saddled and ready a few yards away.

“You’d best get going,” Kyle said. “I promise we’ll all keep your presence here a secret.”

“Good,” Matt said quietly. “It’s really better that way.”

“Matt?” Sally said, her voice trembling. Kyle pulled her close. “Thank you.”

Matt smiled in the darkness. Sally and Kyle stood together, which was as it should be. Kyle was a good kid, with plenty of guts. He’d take care of Sally, no doubt about it. Matt walked down the sidewalk. Sheriff Pickens and his teenage children waved from across the street. Suzie was crying. Matt searched for something to say. He knew there were no words. Finally he just tipped his hat.

“Take care.”

“You too,” Sally said.

And with that, Matt Cahill checked to be sure he’d properly fastened his ax, pack, and bedroll to the horse. He mounted up and rode away like someone from another century. Behind him, the weary citizens waved as they watched him leave for good.

Out in the darkness Matt paused. The evening had cleared as if relieved of an evil burden. Bright stars hung like tiny diamonds in the night sky. A chill passed over his body. He turned in the saddle, took one last look at the town of Dry Wells, sparkling there in the shadows like a forlorn jewel. Leather creaked and the horse nickered. In the distance, Matt could see the highway and another long string of flickering lights closing the distance. The approaching emergency vehicles and the National Guard. The town would be safe now.

Once again, Matt wondered if perhaps it had all been meant to happen. He had come back to life for a reason—or many reasons. Perhaps this was one of them.

It was time to move on. Like an old-time cowboy, Matt kneed the horse and turned away towards the safety of the Ruby Mountains. He rode away looking forward to entering the far more familiar tree line and the comfort of the mountains. He felt satisfied in some ways, but also deeply concerned. For Matt Cahill now had a new enemy to worry about.

The university.

THE END

But Matt Cahill Will Return in

THE BEAST WITHIN

By James Daniels

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Harry Shannon, author of The Dead Man: Kill Them All was born in Reno Nevada. He has been an actor, an Emmy-nominated songwriter, a recording artist, music publisher, VP at Carolco Pictures and a Music Supervisor on “Basic Instinct” and “Universal Soldier.” His novels include “Night of the Beast," “CLAN," “Daemon," "Dead and Gone," “The Hungry” and "The Pressure of Darkness," as well as the Mick Callahan suspense novels “Memorial Day,” “Eye of the Burning Man,” “One of the Wicked," and “Running Cold.” His collection “A Host of Shadows” was nominated for the 2010 Stoker Award by the Horror Writer’s Association. Readers may contact him via Facebook or
www.harryshannon.com