Deathbed Ch. 3

“What did you do?”

“Some of us stood around lookin’ uncomfortable, and some went and puked as quiet as they could, and someone else went back to the bar and called the coroner to come scrape the poor guy’s liver off the highway, and then the stranger rode up and got off his bike. I figured at least he’d take his helmet off then, like a mark of respect or something, but he didn’t. He just stood there lookin’ at the dead body. Mentioned that he’d won, and we felt that wasn’t quite appropriate under the circumstances.

“So we told him to get on his fancy black bike and show us the back of it right smart, or we’d reduce it to scrap and him along with it. We’d seen that flash and we had a notion he had somethin’ to do with the tire going--it wasn’t a clean win even if ‘Taker hadn’t been killed. He paid us no mind. He looked at the body and he called him by name, and we all damn near fainted when the body sat up sudden.

“Had an eye hanging down from the socket and the brains showing on that side, and he’d lost an arm and a half, among other things, and his legs were smashed to jelly. But he sat straight up and seemed to be listenin’ close. The stranger told him he’d forfeited his soul to Satan with his own mouth, and he was Satan’s creature now and the Devil’d do with him as he liked. And he told him to get up. He kind of crawled around and collected his missing bits, and most of us blew chunks at that point if we hadn’t done it already. There were two fellows went stark staring mad from what they saw that night. If I didn’t believe in the Devil’s doings and black magic before then, I surely learned better. And before I knew it, he was standin’ up again and looking more or less normal, except for his eyes.”

“What was wrong with his eyes?”

“They were green before, ma’am, but they weren’t anything like that shade of green. Gave me the cold shivers and they still do.”

“I…know what you mean. What did he do once he had been put back together?”

“Well, then the stranger led him to the black bike, only it had gone white for some reason, and told him to get on it and ride. He’d got his wish to ride ‘til doomsday, and he had a job to do somewhere. He looked like he understood the deal better than any of us did, and he took off on that bike and left his own bike in its wreck on the road. He’d loved that bike like a woman. When the cops got there, the stranger was gone and no one knew how or where. They told us we were drunken fools and they left it at that. But everyone ‘round here knows who he is and what he does, and he’s done it ever since and never aged a day. That’s the Undertaker.”

“My God…”

“But I guess you asked me another question than that,” remarked Aitch, a twinkle in his eye. “You want to know how he’s supposed to get *out* of the mess he’s in, not just how he got *in* it.”

“Yes. Why did Satan impose a condition like that? Just to torment him?”

“Satan? What makes you think that part was the Devil’s?”

“Um…I guess I assumed so. Or he said something to that effect. It’s not?”

“It ain’t. He’d been the way he is for ten years before he ever knew there was a way out. I heard him in in the yard one night speaking to someone I couldn’t see, and I could swear he was crying. Got down on his knees and everything. I thought he’d gone nuts, but it turned out he was speaking to a messenger from the other side. Come to tell him he could be redeemed some day, and this was how. They’d bargained the Devil down and got him a chance, she said. He curses that angel now and calls her a lying bitch when he’s good and drunk, because it was a false hope, naturally. There is no one like that. No woman’s ever going to fall in love with the messenger of Death.”

I found his certainty rather ludicrous. Was he a woman? “Then you don’t know who this woman could be? I thought it must be someone he knew.”

He shrugged. “’Taker don’t have much to do with women, at least living ones. I never heard of him being acquainted with any real close. Though I also never heard of him, ah, treatin’ a woman dishonorable, like he’s done to you. Frankly, aside from beatin’ the tar out’ve anybody gets in his way on the job, he keeps pretty much on the straight an’ narrow.”

“I saw him beat someone--well, someone other than you.” Aitch grimaced slightly. “But it wasn’t on the job. Now that I think about it, he might have done it because the man was insulting me.”

Aitch’s eyebrows went up. “No shit--pardon my language, ma’am. He did that?”

“Yes. It was at the Last Chance, as a matter of fact. A man he called Rattlesnake started yelling at him and calling me names, because he thought I was one of the dead people ‘Taker carries to Hell, I guess. But then after they’d fought, Rattlesnake tried to tell ‘Taker to leave me behind, because I wasn’t rightfully his. There wasn’t anything Rattlesnake could do about it, though, because he’d been too badly beaten.”

I didn’t like the look on Aitch’s face one bit; it was far too calculating and pleased. “Stepped out of line, did he? It’s his night for that.”

“But wouldn’t you like him to marry this woman, whomever she might turn out to be? Won’t he leave you alone if he succeeds?”

Aitch put a hand on the wall at the level of his head and a mere yard away from me, leaning against the hand and hooking the other thumb in one belt loop. The pose displayed his thickly muscled torso very well. “I’m not sure. None of us ever thought much about that comin’ to pass. He’d be free from the Devil, but what goes down after that I ain’t got a clue.”

He laughed shortly. “Maybe he goes and crashes his bike again to get it over with, which isn’t real likely. More like, he moves in on a permanent basis. Or he locks us all inside and sets the place on fire; I wouldn’t put it past him. So it might not be much of an improvement from our point of view.”

“Your wife thought I might be the one. She asked me if I was in love with him.”

“Did she?” He looked slightly startled, but I had the impression that he was acting. Almost certainly his wife had reported her conversation with me. “But he’s treated you bad.”

“Yes, he has, and I’m not faithful in any case. I shot my husband and my lover dead this morning.”

“No shit,” said Aitch, his face lighting up. “You *are* a tough lady.” I saw that I had removed a doubt; he clenched his fists and shadow-boxed in a moment of irrepressible joy. “Hey, I’ve got something to show you. Where’s your gun?”

“Right here in my purse.” I drew the revolver out.

He held out his hand and I let him take it. Popping the cylinder, he ejected the cartridges and examined the two empty casings. “Mind if I take the brass? I’m something of a hand-loader.”

“Be my guest.” Aitch crossed to the workbench and put down the gun and the cartridges. “What kinds of cartridges do you build?”

“Mostly .308s for my Winchester. Long-range for hunting. But I’ve got some handgun rounds in this cabinet.” He opened one and pointed to a box on a shelf, stepping back as if he expected me to take it out. “It’s that box, there--the one with the tape around it.”

“That’s a little high for me to reach.”

Aitch looked around for a stool, but there wasn’t one. “Uh…OK, how about I lift you up and you grab the box?” He held out his arms.

“Huh? Why?” Was he trying to get his hands on me?

“Hey!” he admonished me, palms out in a gesture of injured innocence. “I ain’t that kind of guy, OK? It’s just that--well, I guess I should probably show you. So you’ll see what this is about.”

Aitch turned to the shelf and picked up the box. I heard a strange sound from him and his teeth gritted, then he dropped the box into my hand. “There it is, so hold on to it.” Turning over his hand, he showed me his palm and fingers. The lines of the box stood out red and seared, the skin blistering as I watched. “That’s why.”

“Oh, my God!” I nearly dropped the box myself, but it was neither hot nor caustic--it was only a small cardboard box, filled with something heavy that clinked. “What happened?”

Aitch grimaced and closed his hand around his injury. “It’s the cartridges, ma’am. They burn me right through the box and through any weapon they’re loaded into. In other words, I can’t fire them and have a prayer of hittin’ anything. Even a glove’s no help.”

“Then why make them? How did you make them? What on earth are they?”

“They’re silver, but that ain’t why they burn. I cast the bullets out’ve some old jewelry of my wife’s and made the cartridges, and then I took ‘em to a priest and asked him to bless ‘em. He didn’t really want to, you understand, but I kind of persuaded him. It wasn’t easy getting ‘em home, I’ll tell ya; I was laid up for weeks.”

“A priest blessed them, and they *hurt* you?”

“Yep. They’ll kill undead, see? That’s why I made ‘em.”

“They’ll kill…’Taker.” My heart gave a great thump.

“Yes, they’ll kill the Undertaker.” His mouth curled in an intimate, triumphant smile. “Naturally they’re a little lightweight compared to lead, and the hollow points won’t mushroom much. They’ll have the same effect on him that ordinary bullets have on an ordinary man, though. Aside from the burnin’ thing, that is. That ought to make up for any ballistic shortcomings the silver’s got.”

He shivered slightly, backing away from me. “Blessed objects are like poison to us. I don’t even like having ‘em in the same room with me, which is why they’re out here.”

And his wife said that their family didn’t believe in ‘that kind of shit’? I opened the box and looked at the cartridges. Three dozen assorted: six each of six different calibers. I saw sets of .308 rifle ammunition, .22 long, .45 ACP, .38, nine-millimeter Parabellum, and .32. “It looks like you didn’t know what sort of gun would be firing these.”

“No, I didn’t, so I put ‘em together in some common calibers. There’s a full load of .32s there. If you got *those* in your revolver, you’ll have no worries. I know you’ve got the grit to use that gun.” He looked me in the eye with transparent sincerity. “I’ll feel better knowin’ you have these. You can take care of yourself now.”

“I guess I can.” I picked up my gun and put the six cartridges in one by one, then smacked the cylinder home and spun it. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. So if he tries anything again…”

“You think I ought to use the gun again.”

“You might even do him a favor, ma’am. It’s not like he confides in me, but I know he’s given up hope. All he truly wants any more…is to rest. Destroy his body, and his soul goes free.” He made it sound like an act of compassion; I wondered if his wife had told him about all my crimes.

“Free? To where?” I closed the gun in my purse again.

“I don’t know. I can’t know if he’s condemned, but I can tell you that there won’t be anybody to take him to Hell, because he’s the Hellrider. The job’s going to be vacant again, at least for a while. So maybe he’ll just fade away into oblivion. That’s what he wants anyway.”

“If you say so.” I left the purse sitting on the workbench and looked around the barn. “You don’t have any animals.”

“No.” Aitch made a wry face. “They don’t like being around us. Every one of them went crazy and died in a few days after we came home undead, and any others we bring here do the same. I wouldn’t mind having a few chickens for the eggs and meat, but no dice.”

I heard barking in the front yard a good distance away. “Your dogs don’t seem to mind you.”

“The *dogs*…?” He let out a breathy laugh. “They look like dogs, yeah.”

“…Oh.”

“They’re not ours. They just watch the souls he brings here, to keep ‘em from escaping. No smarter than dogs, but they know their job. Like we do, though we complain about it plenty. I know why my family’s here--it’s to serve ‘Taker.” He looked at me. “It’s the Devil that did this to us, just like it was done to him. My wife and my in-laws don’t think so, but I know there’s nothing else that would make us this way.” He glanced at the burn on his hand. “‘Taker needs a home base, so he was provided one. We’re the crew and he’s the captain of the ship, and no one can sign off and go ashore.”

“How can you stand this?” I asked with a wrench in my stomach. “Existing like this. Knowing you’re dead. Having to cater to him. Nothing changes or grows…what do you have to look forward to?”

Aitch shrugged philosophically. “Nothing, I suppose. The damn house is starting to fall apart, so that keeps me busy. I don’t want us to end up sleeping in tents, but some day the termites are going to get the better of me.” He mimed spraying bugs.

I laughed a little. “It’s been fifty years?”

“Almost. I ran the car into the ditch six weeks after ‘Taker started doing his job.” He smiled back. “I’d been married only a month. I hafta admit my wife is starting to let it get on her nerves.”

“She doesn’t seem happy.”

“She ain’t. I do my best, but it’s not enough. Reckon I’m a little old-fashioned--” he grinned-- “but a woman needs some kids to keep her occupied.” I closed my eyes with sudden heartsickness, and Aitch stooped down to look in my face. “What’s wrong, ma’am?”

“Nothing.” I felt the tears begin to flow and put a hand up to shield myself. She *had* told him about all my crimes… “Y-you son of a--”

“God damn--I’m sorry.” He reached out and enfolded me, drawing me against his chest. I stiffened. “C’mon, I didn’t mean it like that.” I looked up into his face and saw suddenly unsheathed desire there. “I’ll make it better, sweetheart,” Aitch murmured, bending to kiss my cheek. His tongue flickered out to smooth the tears away. “Come with me.”

“N-no…”

“Come on.” His mouth moved over mine. “It’ll be good.”

“For you, maybe. Getting tired of doing it to the same woman after only fifty years? How sad.” I shoved him hard and broke out of his arms. He made a remonstrative expression and reached for me. “Don’t touch me! You seem to have forgotten something!” I started to lunge for my purse on the workbench as Aitch seized my wrists.

“Now be reasonable, ma’am--”

Someone slammed a fist into one of the barn doors, sending it flying open, and both of us jumped. “Get away from my woman, you son of a bitch,” said Deadman in fury. I turned and saw his huge silhouette in the doorway, coat sweeping around his legs with the violence of his movement. “Step back from her. Right now.”

Part Fourteen

“I’m goin’,” said Aitch, releasing me and putting up his hands. “I’m not interfering with your woman, OK?”

The rider came straight at him until they stood chest to chest. “Like hell you’re not. I know you.” He overtopped Aitch by half a head, and they stared at each other, Aitch with malicious innocence, Deadman with bald hostility. “Known you for way too hell of a long time, you snake in the woodpile!”

“I’m not afraid of you, ‘Taker. It’s what my wife would do to me if I dipped my wick anywhere else, right? I’d be more afraid of an angry woman than of any man, if I was you.” Aitch smiled at me with a hint of cruel glee, which reminded me of his wife. “See ya.”

He sidestepped the rider and left. I recalled hearing the roused dogs a few minutes before and realized Aitch had meant to let Deadman find me in a clinch with him; he was hoping to precipitate a confrontation between us and provoke me to use my gun.

To my surprise, Deadman turned on me with undiminished fury. “You let him kiss you.”

“Let him? About as much as I let you!”

“Yeah, and you like it that way. Don’t ya?” He grabbed the front of my shirt. “You like getting forced? You oughta like this, then.” Deadman yanked me against him, seized my hair and slammed his mouth down on mine.

My lips throbbed with the fierce pressure of his kiss; a tickle began between my legs. Though I pushed against his chest, my head whirled and the pit of my stomach felt hollow with appetite. The rider grabbed my buttocks and I bit the corner of his mouth and tasted blood. His head jerked back, but his teeth were set in an avid smile.

“You little bitch!” Deadman growled, bending to kiss me again. He wrenched my lips open with his and his tongue surged into my mouth. I let out a moan of longing and began to breathe like a furnace bellows, my body going hot, twisting around his. Lacing my hands in his hair, I pulled it out of its braid and took it in both fists.

The rider grabbed the battery lantern, seized me around the waist and lifted me, carrying me into one of the stalls. Hanging the lantern on a nail, he sat me on a covered feed bin and leaned into me, kissing me savagely as my legs went around his waist.

Grinding his hips into my crotch, he dry-humped me until my back hit the wall, then nipped my throat and pulled me back against him. “Baby…” he muttered. He kneaded my breasts and kissed the underside of my jaw, then stood back, shed his coat and unbuckled his belt. “Strip, girl.”

I slid off the feed bin and watched him unsnap his leather vest and open his fly, his cock surging upwards when he freed it from his clothing. I did nothing until he started to speak again, then began to open the buttons of my shirt. He paused to watch, his face changing to keen attentiveness as he followed my fingers with his eyes. I exposed my bra and slowly shrugged the shirt off, dropping it on his coat. Unhooking my bra, I dropped it as well and felt my breasts relax slightly to their natural contour.

Deadman wet his lips with a slow caress of his tongue, and when I unsnapped my jeans he put a hand on his erection and stroked it. I kept my eyes on his cock as I wriggled my hips out of the jeans and pushed them down my legs.

The tickling sensation between my legs intensified; I bent over and stepped out of the jeans, then put my thumbs into my panties and pulled them off. I stood naked in front of him, the harsh light of the lantern streaming across my skin and throwing my breasts and the inward curve of my groin into deep, shadowed relief. Drawing my long hair over my shoulders, I let it fall down like a cape, veiling my body in its darkness.

For a few moments Deadman’s chest rose and fell under his open vest, his gaze roaming over my body. I put my hands on my breasts and lifted them under the curtain of hair, squeezing the nipples forward and brushing them with my thumbs. His whole body vibrated. “Yeah. Touch yourself,” he said low.

I kept one hand on my breasts and gradually slid the other down my torso, stopping to circle a fingertip in my navel as if I had misunderstood him. Deadman smiled crookedly and met my eyes, then looked at my groin. I let the hand continue to its destination, stroked the hair up and down, brushing it away from the lips of my vulva, dampened my forefinger with saliva and slipped it into the narrow slit.

He snarled silently, eyes following my every move. As I stroked my moistening folds and parted the lips to let him see what I was doing, he slowly jerked off in the same rhythm, the skin tightening and relaxing over the shaft and head of his cock.

With a fingernail I scratched hard across the upper curve of one of my breasts and drew blood; the rider’s eyes widened as I smeared the blood across my chest and stroked the stained tips of my fingers over my nipples. His fist clenched on his penis and he let out a gasp. I was so wet by now that my fingers made a sloshing sound in my vulva.

Suddenly he grabbed both my hands, his face reddening, and plunged my sticky fingers into his mouth. He sucked them clean of both blood and juices, licked the stinging scratch on my breast and pushed on my shoulders to force me down.

Kicking the clothes into a pile, I knelt on them and looked up. The rider shoved his jeans down past his buttocks and took my chin in one hand. I opened my mouth and let him impel his cock inside, the head so large it strained my lips.

He tasted sharp and salty, with a hint of semen from the droplet that had formed at the tip of his penis. With only a few strokes in the wet interior of my mouth he was groaning out loud, his hands in my hair and his hips pumping.