Regulation of the Dead
CHAPTER I:
BAD MOON RISING
Nebraska, 1892-
Frank Canton pulled down his Stetson just below his dark eyebrows so as to block out the setting yet powerful sun. As orange bled into the evening sky he slung his rifle over his shoulder and drew a six-shooter revolver from his holster instead. He turned around to face Cheyenne Tom and gave a strange half-smile.
"This ain't gonna be a range war." He murmured with dry and tactless humour and moved towards the wooden KC Ranch. Canton was a tall man with broad shoulders which were hidden under his beige coat. His scarred face was covered in shadows from his tipped hat and his thick moustache didn't move, not even in the breeze.
While at the door of the ranch he held his hand out and signalled Cheyenne Tom to get down low. He did so and lay on his belly, his Winchester Rifle pointed steadily at the crooked door.
Frank knocked hard three times.
"Open up, boys." He hollered. "It's Canton. Frank Canton." Silence seeped from under the door. He waited for a few moments and then strolled back to Tom, a plan forming in his dark eyes.
"What now, Frank?" Asked Tom clambering to his feet.
Tom was smaller than Canton, smaller than most men, in fact, but was also faster. His body was thin and nimble but also stronger than steel, some said. He got his name from ingratiating himself within a tribe of Cheyenne Indians for six months. Nobody knew how he blended in so well, being white as a sheet and toting his Winchester wherever he went. He couldn't even speak the dialect. But he managed it.
"Now?" Frank repeated and pulled the hammer back on his revolver. "Now we check our other options. Stay low and be alert."
Frank hitched up his slumping belt and moved quickly down the side of the ranch in an awkward yet graceful crouch. Dust was kicked up in his wake and formed a yellow and brown mist around his ankles and irritated his eyes.
At the back of the ranch he slid down behind a broken out window. Although the glass was gone—most of it, anyway—a dirty green blanket had been draped over the gap in a feeble attempt to keep out insects that might be disturbing to live with. Frank took in a long, deep inhale and then slowly breathed out cool air. He closed his eyes, counted to three and peered through a gap in the blanket, his breath held in his lungs.
His eyes drifted left and saw nothing but an empty room with a burned out log fire and a bucket of piss. His eyes drifted right and he saw nothing but an empty room and a bucket of water. He grimaced at the prospect of having those buckets in such close proximity but also had to admire the cyclical nature of it, such was his sense of humour. You'd never have to leave the room, he thought to himself and swung his eyes left once more. This time his breath caught up with him and he spluttered out air when he saw what he saw. Some kind of beast stood gazing at him with lifeless grey eyes. It seemed to resemble a man but at the same time, Frank thought, it was unrecognisable as a human.
"Fuck," Canton breathed and fell onto his backside, kicking around in the dust, trying to find his feet and balance. He was a man who had seen much action, especially in the years when he was a US Marshal, but the thing he saw in the ranch chilled him. He wondered if the thing could have possibly been real when it reared its ugly head, pushing the blanket aside and moaning low. Its teeth were yellow and the lips were non-existent. Its skin had a grey-green tinge to it and its jaw snapped with such ferocity that he was stuck to the spot. He thought about calling for Cheyenne Tom but knew even in his state of panic not to make a sound.
The creature leaned through the window and made a confused noise in its throat as it realised the wall of the ranch blocked its way. Frank's eyes narrowed and he studied the rotting face.
"Champion?" he whispered. "Nate Champion?"
The monster—Champion, as Canton knew him—gave out a hideous groan and then fell silent when it heard the voice behind him.
"Nate? Where are you, friend? You smell something?"
Frank recognised the voice immediately. Nick ray, the other man they were sent to kill, next to Nate Champion. They were cattle rustlers and it seemed the local cattlemen were pushed to breaking point. Canton and Tom, The Regulators, as they were called, were hired to put an end to them, one way or another. Canton had always preferred putting criminals down but was starting to regret taking on this particular case.
By the time Nick reached the window and his possessed friend, Frank had already left and was heading back to Tom.
"Are they home or shall we call back later?" Tom jested but soon regretted the joke when he saw the look on Canton's face. "W-what's the matter, Frank? You seen 'em?"
"I saw... you believe in God, son?"
Tom nodded. "Well sure, I guess so."
"I hope to shit you're right because the devil just looked in my eyes."
"The devil just-? What're you talking about, Frank? What devil?" Tom adjusted the grip on his rifle subtly.
"This place ain't right." Canton said. "Ain't right." This time with more emphasis. "We gotta go."
"Go? We been paid to do a job. You wanna give Walcott his money back?"
"Fuck Walcott!" Frank screamed. "Fuck him! You wanna go in there then be my fucking guest but I'm getting the hell outta here."
Tom was stunned into silence and suddenly the dry clicking sound his mouth made seemed incredibly loud. The men argued with each other with their eyes before Tom spat on the ground and held up his hands.
"You're the boss. Get the ponies."
Frank nodded at him with relief and gratitude for agreeing to leave and walked shakily to the two black ponies a few feet away. Just as his hand clutched the reigns he heard an almighty scream and a deathly crashing sound.
"Jesus!" exclaimed Tom as Nick Ray smashed through the cabin door with a cry. A maverick piece of splintered wood tore through his abdomen, causing him to scream again before a trickle of blood vomited from his mouth.
"Let's go!" Shouted Frank as he climbed onto the pony.
Tom just kept staring until Champion emerged from the doorway and moaned and spluttered with evil.
"Holy shit," said Tom under his breath but just continued to stare.
Frank leapt from his pony and tried to drag Tom away but both of their attention was on Champion who now knelt down to the dying Nick.
Nick gargled blood and then let out one single scream of agony as Champion sunk his diseased teeth into his neck and began ripping apart his flesh, shredding his jugulars and swallowing everything.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" stuttered Tom and shot quickly with his rifle, the recoil taking him out of his trance. The bullet tore through Champion's body, jilting him but not effecting him. When his meal was done his stumbled to his feet and moved to Tom and Frank. Tom fired another shot, this time through Champion's neck. Dark blood cascaded out but still nothing seemed to damage Champion. He just kept coming with relentless hunger.
"What the hell's going on here?" he barked at Frank. "Why the hell ain't he dying?"
In one swift, terrified moment, Frank swung his arm down, pulled up his revolver and shot Champion through the head, stopping him in his tracks. Dust and blood hovered around the dead body and Tom breathed hard.
"The fucking head." Frank gasped in disbelief.
