Cullen Bunn's Blog, page 33

Captain America and…

Old farts like myself may remember the days of Captain America and the Falcon. Those were just some fine, fun comic books. Well, I'm being given my shot at writing some fun superhero adventures when I take over Captain America and…

And who, you ask?

Well, to start with, it'll be Captain America and Hawkeye (with the amazing Alessandro Vitti on artistic duties). That story will comprise 4 issues, starting with issue #629 in April. After that, it becomes Captain America and Iron Man. After that, it becomes… shhh…it's a secret. This series will give me the incredible opportunity to work with a ton of great characters and a ton of great artists. What's not to love? I hope you folks will follow me on this adventure.

Countless Haints, Pt. 10

Madi thought she was farther away from home than she had ever been before.

That wasn't true, of course. Every now and then, Pa had taken her into the nearby town of Ahmen's Landing. Usually, she just waited in the truck while he ducked into the feed store or the hardware supply. She would sit there, watching the townsfolk—the women chatting as they exited the beauty shop, the men gathering outside the diner, the kids her age laughing and goofing off as they strolled past. Once, one of the boys had looked her way and smiled even though he was walking with a girl who must have been his girlfriend. Madi felt her face flush and she gasped aloud. In the instant when their eyes met—in that second before Madi forced herself to look away—she felt like the prettiest girl in all the world… and she was certain that he was the most handsome boy that ever lived. And then he was gone, continuing on his way, throwing his arm around his girl, talking loudly and boisterously with his friends.

A couple of times, Madi had accompanied her father to the grocery. The small store with its crowded, dusty shelves and rumbling refrigeration units seemed like a magical place to the girl. She could have spent hours browsing those shelves, looking at canned food and boxes of cereal and packets of juice mix. The colors and the images amazed her. But Pa always hurried along, like he didn't want to be seen with her. Madi had to admit, some of the other customers looked at her strangely, not with malice or distaste, but with a glimmer of familiarity. Madi always left the store with a couple of bags of groceries, a tattered paperback book or a few out-of-date magazines, and the distinct the impression that the townsfolk wanted to talk to her… but they were afraid.

Ahmen's Landing.

How far away was town? At least a few miles, she guessed, maybe as many as a couple of dozen. On foot, with someone chasing her through the woods, it might as well have been on the other side of the—

"Madi!"

Pa's voice cut through the night—loud and clear and close. The sound of it sent a shockwave through Madi's bones, and she stumbled and almost lost her footing.

She whirled around, scanning the darkness. For a few dreadfully slow seconds, she saw nothing, heard nothing, and she wondered if her mind might have been playing tricks on her, if the sounds of the forest weren't coming together in such a way as to make her think she'd heard her father.

"Madi! Stop right there!"

As he called out again, Madi spotted him in the shadows. He threaded his way through the trees, a shadow among shadows, moving toward her quickly.

"Don't move!" he cried.

Madi had never known her father to have a quick temper. He had never been a cruel or mean-spirited man. But she had seen him angry from time to time, not necessarily with her, but maybe with life in general. She recognized the knife-like edge of anger in the man's voice when she heard it.

And she heard it now.

Pa was angry.

"Run."

From the satchel at her side, the boy's skin hissed.

"Run!"

And she ran, turning away from her father and scrambling into the darkness, slipping in the leaves and pine straw and almost falling face first to the ground, but pushing herself forward, through the trees, down a hillside, over a cluster of large rocks that pushed their way out of the forest floor. She heard her father behind her—his bellowing cry, his breath coming in rugged gasps, his heavy footsteps coming closer, but she didn't dare look back. She willed her legs to pump faster, and the world around her seemed to blur into nothing but mist and gloom and the painful sting of branches slapping at her, scratching her face, trying to drag her down.

"Stop!" Pa called, and it sounded like he was just a couple of steps behind her. He no longer sounded like himself, though. Instead, his voice was deep and rough and bestial. "Madi! Listen to me!"

His fingertips grasped at her shoulders, and she almost fell again. His hand caught hold of her arm, jerking her to a stop. Madi cried out in pain. It felt like he had ripped her arm out of it socket. The satchel fell from her shoulder, thumping to the ground, as Madi was forcibly yanked around to face her father. She tried not to scream, tired not to sob, but she couldn't help herself.

"Dammit, girl!"

His face was a mask of anger, and sweat dripped from his nose. His breath came in hot blasts that washed across Madi. He grabbed her—hard—by both shoulders and pulled her close. She knew he was going to kill her right then and there. He was going to put his big, sweaty hands around her throat and squeeze until he choked the life out of her.

"Dammit!" he spat again. "Why make this any harder than it has to be?"

"Please," Madi whined, "I don't want to–"

"Don't you say it! Don't you dare say another word! You think anyone wants to die? You think anyone—lease of all me—wants to do what has to be done?"

"Why?" Madi tried to pull away, but her father only seemed to draw her in closer. His hands moved up to her throat, his fingers crawling across her skin. His touch seemed to sear her flesh. "Why are you doing this?"

"It's good that you don't know, girl." Pa's chin trembled as if he was on the verge of weeping. "It's good that you're gone before you realize what you are."

His fingers closed around her throat.

He squeezed.

The Inner Circle

My pal and co-creator of The Sixth Gun, Brian Hurtt, may kill me for posting this.

Brian is one of those guys that, no matter how awesome he is, he always thinks he can do better. And–yeah–he's grown a lot as an artist in the 17 years since he did this work, but it's still pretty great stuff! When I uncovered the artwork in some old files, I just knew I had to share.

This was technically my first collaboration with Brian… not in comics… but in board games.

Years ago, small group of people, including myself, decided to put together a horror-themed board game called The Inner Circle. I believe we called ourselves "Thieves Guild Games." The game itself was a lot like Arkham Horror, I guess, with each player taking the role of a character (vampires, werewolves, witches, ghosts, and other supernatural types) and moving around the game board (which looked like a city), collecting cards, and  trying to reach the Inner Circle to accomplish some individual goal. We had the rules figured out, the characters created, and we just needed artwork. Brian was among the small group of artists we contacted to bring the game to life.

He was tasked with creating artwork for game cards with names like "Ankh" and "Shaman" and "Directive From Below" and "Blood-Sucking Lawyer." Below are just a few of the pieces he did. I have some of the artwork that others contributed, too, but I don't know how to reach any of the artists. Brian's the only one who stuck with me after all this time.

Sometimes I think that if the game had been in development now, during the age of Kickstarter, it might have actually reached publication. Alas, it's now just another one of those things that might have been, having fallen victim to lack of funding, inter-personal drama, and other idea killers.

Still, a fun walk down memory lane. Hope you enjoy.

"Diabolical, Fanatical Occultist," "Atlantean Crystal," and "That Mobster Guy"

"Blood-sucking Lawyer," "Shaman," and "Ankh"

"Ritual Sacrifice," "Shadows," "Dr. Sam Yamimoto," and–I think–"Directive From Below"

Fear Itself: The Fearless Covers

Here are a few new covers for Fear Itself: The Fearless by the amazing Art Adams! Issue 6 comes out this week!

Issue 6 – Does Val need the Avengers? Or do they need her?

Issue 7 – Claws vs. a mean streak a mile wide

Issue 8 – Bring on the bad guys!

Where did the time go?

2011 was a big year for me. I was finally able to give my dream of writing full-time a go. The time flew by, and sometimes I need to stop and think about all the projects I worked on. I'm sure I'll miss some things, but here's how I spent my time over the past year:

Scripted 12 or so issues of The Sixth Gun.
Scripted 4 issues of Fear Itself: The Deep.
Scripted 2 Fear Itself tie-in issues: Fear Itself: FF and Fear Itself: Black Widow.
Scripted 12 issues of Fear Itself: The Fearless.
Scripted the Spider-Man: Season One graphic novel.
Scripted a few books for SmarterComics.
Scripted 2 issues of a new limited series for Oni Press (to be announced soon).
Scripted 4 issues of a new limited series for Marvel (to be announced soon).
Scripted 4 issues for other Marvel projects (to be announced soon).
Started work on Crooked Hills Book 2.

All in all, not a bad year. I'm greedy, though, and I want to do MORE! Sprinkled throughout 2011 was a lot of brainstorming and daydreaming and outlining for new projects.  I just want to tell stories… in whatever form they may take.This year, I'm hoping to do as much (if not a little more) in comics AND focus on prose a little more. I've been away too long.

Of course, I'm going to have to make some sacrifices. I'm going to go back to writing late at night a little bit again. That means watching less TV and fewer movies. I'll give myself a night or two, but that's it. I'm going to work a little more on the weekends, too. I'll also need to really evaluate the conventions I can go to. This year, I expect to go to fewer shows than last year. Not only are they expensive, but they take time away from writing. I love meeting fans and talking comics, though, so I can't go cold turkey.

This isn't really a resolution. I'm not sure resolutions work (although Mike Oliveri posted a great article on the subject here.) But I believe in goal-setting. This year, I'm gonna knock down goals like a toddler demolishing a building block tower. Not even the end of the world will stop me.

Here's to kicking ass this year, folks!

In Case You Blinked – 12/29/2011

Here are a few items that have popped up around the web that might be of interest.

Comic Book Resources has posted a new interview with me about Fear Itself: The Fearless.
I spoke with Mark Justice and the Pod of Horror about Crooked Hills, The Sixth Gun, Fear Itself: The Fearless and a bunch of other stuff.
I also spent some time talking about writing and The Sixth Gun on Fictional Frontiers.

Now… from the realm of brutal honesty and "It's about damn time"…
It's that time of year when "Best Of" Lists start popping up all over the internet. I'm not going to be modest here. I think The Sixth Gun got robbed of many a nod last year. I've seen a bunch of lists that have popped up this year that are woefully forgetful of my little western/fantasy mash-up. I'm proud of the book. I believe it's one of the best on the market. I could be more humble, sure, but where has that gotten me so far?
Way back during the 1986 Oscars, Paul Hogan made a speech that has stuck with me ever since. Here it is as a point of reference:

Yeah, I feel ya, Crocodile Dundee.

Anyhow, this year, the super-keen website Four Colors & The Truth has posted a list of the Best Comics of the Year and the Best Graphic Novels of the Year. Take a look. The Sixth Gun and The Tooth both make an appearance. Also, CBR is counting down the Top 100 Comics of the Year, and The Sixth Gun comes in at #28! There are some pretty great books on the list, and it's nice to be ranked among them!

Them What Ails Ya: A Sixth Gun Christmas Yarn, Part 4

There's a reason the cannibals didn't come a-looking at the sound of gunfire in the valley.

An awful reason.

Directly, we spotted the cave Boone Friedricks and his men had been using as a hideout. It was a gaping maw in the rock wall, and bits of bone and clothing–cast offs from their victims–littered the ground leading up to the cave.

The horrid odor of decay came from within, but I didn't see sign of a sentry or lookout.

The stranger motioned for me to drop back a step or two. He pulled one of his revolvers and inched closer to the warren. The idea of walking into that pitch-black hole in the ground didn't appeal to me one bit. The stranger must've had the same notion. After peering into the cave for a few seconds, he turned to me.

"Fetch one of those bones and some scraps of cloth," he whispered. "Make a torch."

As I set about the grim task, I wondered just whose clothes… whose bones… would be lighting our way.

"Stay a couple of steps behind me with that fire." The gunslinger drew his second pistol. "Don't get close enough to blind me. Hold it off to the side a bit, too. I don't want to be back-lit. The light'll make us both easier targets as it is."

The cave was a lot deeper than I expected. The tunnel wound down and off to the side, like a giant serpent had burrowed its way through the stone. The torch guttered in the wind.

We hadn't taken more than a dozen steps when a gunshot rang out from somewhere up ahead.

I flinched. The stranger didn't.

Another gunshot thundered in the dark, and I thought I saw a muzzle flash chase shadows across the tunnel walls.

Time passed slowly as we waited… watching… listening…

A figure staggered into view–tall and bulky with shaggy hair. He held a gun, and he was aiming at something low to the ground behind him. He pulled the trigger, and in the flash I saw his face was a mask of fright. He clutched his stomach with his free hand. Blood covered his lips and chin.

He spotted us, too, and his bloody mouth gaped open in surprise. His teeth were razor sharp.

His gun hand hung limply at this side now, the smoking pistol pointed at the floor. He stumbled towards us, a couple of steps, no more.

"Sinclair," he muttered. "You–"

The stranger–I reckon his name was Sinclair–snapped his own gun up in the blink of an eye and blew the cannibal to Kingdom Come before he could finish his sentence.

He moved quick now, dropping down next to the dead man and searching the body. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't find, and he spat out a curse. "Come on," he said, and he sprang to his feet and plunged into the darkness.

"What do you think he was shooting at?" I asked, but I had my answer soon enough.

I heard something.

Something wet.

Something meaty.

That's the only way to describe it.

As the torchlight flooded through the tunnel, I gasped.

"God Almighty!"

I won't one to blaspheme, but no other exclamation seemed quite right.

This … thing squirmed on the ground. It was about the size of a large dog, hairless, skinless, without any distinguishable face. It was a mass of twitching muscle and bone, flopping about of its own accord. It had been shot a couple of times, and from the bullet holes pumped blood. But it kept on moving, wriggling, like it was trying to unfold itself like the petals of a flower.

It smelled like rotten eggs and bacon grease.

"What is it? I asked.

Sinclair didn't answer. He just looked at it for a moment, then moved along.

It was worse up ahead. Much worse.

We entered a sprawling chamber. The torchlight licked at the rough-hewn walls, the columns of stone. Scattered around the room were some of the "gifts" the folks from Newcomb's Wild West Extravaganza had given Friedricks and his men.

Among the debris were dozens of empty green bottles.

"This'll cure them what ails ya," Ezra had said.

Three cannibals were sprawled on the floor. I knew they were dead right away. They were too pale, too still. Blood covered their mouths. Their bellies were swollen and distended.

"It'll drive the foul spirits from your body like your granny chasing cats from the kitchen!"

In the deep crevices and pockets of dark the torch couldn't touch, something flapped and flopped, a gristled, meaty kind of noise. I thought of stepping closer, taking a look, but I was too scared to force my legs to work. The hair stood on end on the backs of my arms. My nostrils burned at the overwhelming smell of Old Ezra's medicine.

My first thought was that the cannibals had drunk down Ezra's tonic, and it had driven the hungry spirits from their bodies. Only the spirits, they hadn't died. I found no comfort in the notion, though, as it meant the vile things lurking outside my field of vision were demons made flesh.

One of the dead men had something sticking out of his mouth.

I stepped closer, shoving the torch towards the cannibal's face.

Fingers–human fingers–jutted out from between his lips, and the way his throat was swollen up and bruised, I knew those fingers were attached to an arm pushing its way up from the man's gullet.

The fingers twitched.

The flopping, flapping creatures in the darkness moved closer. I heard them slithering on the stone, heard their nails scraping the rock. Their shapes became more distinct. Some were formless masses like the thing we'd seen in the tunnel. Others were vaguely human in size and shape. Their blood-soaked flesh glistened.

I knew they weren't demons at all.

"You've done come too late."

The voice came from the other side of the chamber, and even though it was no more than a whisper, it shocked me like cannon fire. Boone Friedricks stepped into our light. If his men had been large, Boone himself was massive–big the way things from Biblical times were big. He was hunched over, though, and every couple of seconds he hacked up a mouthful of blood. Despite the cold, he wore no shirt. His stomach was swollen and something boney moved inside his gut.

Sinclair's twin pistols snapped towards him like a compass needle pointing north.

"If you've come to kill me," Friedricks said, "you're too late."

"Killing you is fairly high on my list." Sinclair stepped towards the man. "But I didn't track you down for just that purpose."

"You still after this?" Friedricks dug in his pants pocket, pulled an ugly necklace out. It was no more than a hideous clay totem on a strip of old leather. "You've come a long way for this old thing."

"I know someone who'll pay good money for that," Sinclair said. "And I knew one of you no-counts must've taken it after what you did to that shaman."

The shapes in the darkness inched closer. They were closing in around us, slowly. I could hear them breathing, a rattling noise from their throats … or what passed for throats.

"I don't have no use for this." Friedricks looked at the necklace. "Supposed to be good luck, but looks like that's a bunch of bunk."

He eyed his dead companions. His tongue snaked out, slithered across his razor-like teeth. He turned his gaze towards the numerous bottles, glinting in the torchlight.

"Those people from the camp… they poisoned us… passed that bilge on to us…"

Sinclair kept one gun trained on Friedricks. He dropped the other into the holster. He reached out towards the cannibal.

"Just give me the necklace," he said, "and we'll leave you be."

"What?" I asked.

"Look at him, boy. Look around you. He's as good as dead."

The misshapen figures moved closer. Some of them had faces-slavering, hideous faces, but faces just the same. I recognized some of them. People from camp. People who'd been tied to the sacrificial pole. Emily… Samuel

Darcy…

Jessie.

I shuddered, and a sob escaped my throat.

"They came back up," Friedrick said. "We ate them, by God, and we drank that tonic-water down, and it brought them back to life… It brought what was left of them back to life inside us…"

He groaned and clutched his stomach. The thing inside him pushed against the walls of his belly, stretching the skin tight, trying to force its way out.

And I knew what… who… was growing in his stomach.

Old Ezra.

"The necklace," Sinclair urged.

"Take it." Friedricks tossed the totem at Sinclair, and the gunslinger snatched it out of the air. "Take it and go."

Tucking the necklace in his vest pocket, Sinclair turned away from the cannibal. He eyes the squirming, shambling figures cautiously, then looked towards me.

"He's finished," he said. "Let's go while we still can."

I watched the hideous, twisted faces of my friends… my family… all around me. I hadn't done a thing to save them. I hadn't done a thing to avenge them.

I may not have been quick on the draw like Sinclair. There might not have been any magic in Colt McGregor's pistol.

But I put a hole right between Boone Friedricks' eyes.

And he died without any trouble at all.

* * *

I waited.

Sinclair didn't.

He left without much of a goodbye, not that I expected one.

The fleshy, bloody things gathered around me. At first, I thought they might kill me. There was a kind of malice in their eyes. They might have ripped me to shreds, too, if not for me killing Friedricks the way I did. Maybe they saw that as an act of atonement.

The thing in Friedricks' belly continued to squirm and kick. Eventually I used a knife to slice the cannibal open. A fleshy mass spilled out, and over the next few hours, it uncurled and grew into something resembling my friend

Ezra. At first it wobbled on its legs like a newborn colt, and it mewled with a voice that was as much beast as it was infant. Soon enough, it found its footing and it settled into a solemn, grim silence.

And then they started to shamble out into the night.

Maybe they were the hunger spirits made flesh… Maybe they were the people from camp brought back from the dead. More than likely, they were a little of both, conjured up by the potion and all mixed up to the point I couldn't tell where the evil spirit ended and the living dead began.

I knew where they were heading, of course, with their hearts full of anger and malice. They were slow, especially in the cold, and I could've outdistanced them without problem. I could have slipped past them and raced back to camp and warned those folks sitting around the Christmas tree hoping for a miracle to save them.

But I didn't.

Ezra and Jessie and all the rest, they walked again, and that was miracle enough on a cold night like tonight.

I felt a stab of guilt for the camp. Not everyone deserved what was coming for them. They were just cowards, like me. But I'd made my peace, paid my penance. I'd been judged under the eyes of those twisted creatures, and I'd been left to live another day for the trouble. The others–down in the valley praying for a Christmas miracle–they'd have to do the same.

I followed the creatures to the foot of the hills, watched them march in the direction of camp. Their bloody footprints trailed off into what may as well have been forever.

I walked the other way.

Them What Ails Ya: A Sixth Gun Christmas Yarn, Part 3

Ezra cried out in the dark.

"I don't speak lightly of miracles, friends! Miracles are too few and far between, and to treat them with an air of triviality … why, that's a fool's business!"

I'd heard those words-well-rehearsed to part rubes from their money-a thousand times in a thousand mud-hole towns. But hearing them at that moment, after all that had happened, reminded me of happier times, back when a bunch of rickety wagons felt like home, and I had friends and family and hot meals and a warm bed-

But Ezra was dead. So was my brother.

And I didn't have a home, not any more.

I was dreaming-I knew it-but I couldn't wake up. I didn't want to wake up. A good dream can damn near fool you into thinking you've died and gone to Heaven.

"… I've traveled far and wide, through lands civilized and savage, to find the perfect fixings for this here tonic …"

I'll admit, I'd never so much as tasted the potion. The stink of it-like rotten eggs and bacon grease-put me off. Nor had I been allowed to watch Ezra brew the stuff in his wagon stocked with strange-smelling roots and jars of colorful powders. But Jessie told me the primary ingredient of the tonic was whiskey, and a lot of it. The way Ezra near pickled himself with the stuff, I believed it.

"… And if this elixir ain't a genuine miracle, then I don't know if such a thing truly exists! One sip, friends, and you'll feel strong as an ox, healthy as a horse, and -dare I say-positively virile!"

Ezra's voice grew distant, like he was calling from the bottom of a deep well.

"This'll cure them what ails ya, folks! It'll drive the foul spirits from your body like your granny chasing cats from the kitchen!"

The shadows swallowed up the old man's voice, and he was gone.

The dream ended.

* * *

Sensation oozed back into my body as I awoke. A deep chill had settled in the meat of my bones. Every breath felt like I was inhaling snow. Maybe I should've been thankful for that. I'd been cut open like a Christmas goose, and I imagine the pain might've been unbearable if not for the numbing cold.

I opened my eyes …

And a dead man stared back at me.

Frank Cartwright-the cannibal who'd tried to kill me-lay not two feet away. His devil's eyes were clouded over. His skin was as pallid as a sheet phantom. His bluish lips looked like a pair of frozen slugs, and behind them I spied the sharp tips of his teeth.

I jumped up, and a lance of pain shot through my stomach, almost knocking me right back down. Somehow, I kept from screaming-just barely.

"Easy now." A firm, steadying hand grasped my shoulder. The stranger's voice was deep, and his accent betrayed a Southern upbringing. "Most of your cuts weren't that deep, and I patched you up best I could. I'm no sawbones, though. Wouldn't take much to tear open that dressing and start you bleeding again."

I ran my hands under my ripped and bloodied shirt. My belly was wrapped in bandages.

I glanced at Frank Cartwright, who lay still as a coffin nail. It looked like the stranger had searched the dead man's body-emptied his pockets, removed his gun belt, undone his shirt, even pulled off his boots.

I wondered if his ghoulish pursuits had yielded results.

I didn't ask what he was searching for, though, and I didn't ask the stranger's name. I had a sneaking suspicion I wouldn't have gotten an answer to either question.

Cartwright's too-pale eyes followed me. I shivered, partly because of the cold, partly because of the dead man's fixed stare.

"I wouldn't worry about him." The stranger's words were dry. "He doesn't have much fight left in him."

The gunslinger looked the way you might have suspected, the way men of his ilk were portrayed in dime novels-dangerous, menacing. Shadows crawled across his face. His eyes seemed to catch the feeble moonlight and hold onto it like a fly in a spider's web.

I can't say how long I was out. An hour, maybe less. I'd been dragged-along with the dead man-up into the hills. Large boulders and outcroppings of jagged stone offered a little protection from the frigid, gusting winds and the sweeping snow. Covered in ice crystals, the rocks glistened. Beneath me, the hard stone ground tried to leech what little body heat I had left. Above me, the sky was a churning stew of thick clouds waiting to dump a pure blizzard.

I struggled to my feet. My legs were unsteady, and my head pounded.

A saddle and bags lay on the ground nearby. From the looks of it, the stranger had been riding for days, and he had supplies aplenty to stay in the wilds for some time. A large stallion stood at the edge of the campsite. Its coat was as pitch as the night itself, and the animal was so still and quiet that it was almost invisible. It was the kind of horse I pictured a ghost riding in a campfire story.

Speaking of campfires, the stranger hadn't started one. The camp was cold, dark. There wasn't even a single stick of kindling to be seen.

I started to complain, but all that I could stammer was, "C-c-cold."

"So you can talk after all." He smirked. "I was beginning to wonder if Frank hadn't cut your tongue from your mouth before I killed him. Move around a bit if you're cold. That'll get your blood pumping. Afraid I can't risk a fire. I'd guess Friedricks and his men are keeping a lookout. I'm surprised the gunshots didn't bring them scurrying out of hiding like rats in high water. They'd spot us for sure if I started a blaze, and they might even have a rifle or two up there. "

He gazed into the hills, and I looked, too. I didn't see a thing, but imagining those cannibals staring down on me with their gleaming eyes and chattering fish-teeth didn't do a thing to make me feel any warmer.

"Why are you tracking them?" I asked at last. "You chasing a bounty?"

"Not exactly."

One of his pistols near jumped into his hand, and I couldn't help but stagger back a step. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the gun open, checked the chamber, and returned the weapon to its holster in the blink of an eye. He repeated the act with his other pistol. Then he looked at me, sizing me up.

"I noticed a bunch of circled wagons a ways back. That where you're from?"

"Yes, sir."

What he'd seen was the final resting place of Newcomb and Judd's Wild West Extravaganza. Once upon a time, it was the finest congress of cowboys, painted ladies, rough riders, and magicians to ever draw a crowd. That was before Mr. Judd died with consumption, of course, leaving that heartless cur Newcomb as sole owner.

"I reckon you got stuck in the snowstorm." He nudged Cartwright's body with the toe of his boot. "Bad luck making camp just in time for this lot to find you. Men like Friedricks, they don't pass up easy meat. Now that they've found you, they'll hide out in the hills, watching like coyotes or buzzards. They'll pick every one of you clean to the bone before they're done."

I didn't mention Newcomb's arrangement with the cannibals.

The stranger had his secret, and I had mine … for the time being.

"You're going to kill them," I said, "ain't you?"

The stranger's stark eyes peered at me. After a time, he spoke, his words as cold as the deepest winter frost.

"I suppose I am."

"Let me help you then." I couldn't help but feel a rush of sudden excitement. "I don't even want no part of any reward money. Those bastards killed my friend … killed my brother … and I aim to see them dead. I have a gun-"

My fingers strayed to my belt where Colt McGregor's pistol should've been. The weapon was missing, and I suddenly remembered dropping the revolver in the snow. Had it been left behind? I glanced frantically around the camp.

"Looking for this?"

The stranger drew McGregor's pistol from his own bullet-studded belt. He turned the gun over in his hand deftly, then tossed it to me. The weapon spun in the air, glinting, and I caught it in both hands. The gun felt heavier than I remembered, and I almost dropped it once again.

"You don't strike me as someone who goes heeled often," the stranger said. "Where'd you get the six-shooter, kid?"

I looked down, embarrassed. "I stole it, I reckon."

"So, you're a killer and a thief, is that it?"

There was no judgment in his words.

"I may not be a gunfighter." I gripped McGregor's pistol tightly. "But this gun once belonged to the deadliest shootist to ever pull a trigger. I figured-"

He sensed where I was head and interrupted me.

"Son, I know a thing or two about magic guns … and that ain't one of them."

My gut told me the stranger knew what he was talking about. The gun seemed to gain twenty pounds in my hands. My shoulders sagged.

"Just the same," I said, "I'm gonna make those men pay."

"Men …" He nearly spat the word from his mouth. "Let me ask you something, boy. Did you get a good look at Cartwright's teeth?"

"I saw them up close and personal."

"And did they look like teeth that belonged in the mouth of a normal man?"

I looked at Cartwright, then back at the stranger. "What is he then, if not a man?"

"There are a lot of stories." The stranger shrugged. "Most of them don't hold water. But the bad stories, the really frightening ones … More often than not there's at least a little truth to them. There's a legend that says when one man eats the flesh of another, then that man invites an evil spirit to take up in his soul. It's like a hungry worm, this spirit, wriggling around inside its host, and it wants nothing more than to taste human flesh again. And what the spirit wants, the host wants."

"And Friedricks and his men, they've got these things inside them?"

"Maybe so. During the war, they did some awful things, and now it might be catching up with them. They're changing, becoming less like men and more like the spirits growing inside them."

"You're saying they're …" I didn't want to speak the word. "… monsters."

"I'm saying you'll be walking into a world of trouble if you come with me."

"I ain't scared," I lied.

Maybe the gunfighter knew there was no sense in arguing with me. If he left me behind, I'd just follow him. Or maybe he was just coppering his chances by bringing an extra gun … and an extra body along.

Just then, a strong gust cut between the rocks, and Cartwright's shirt blew open.

There was something wrong with the dead man's stomach. Several large, dark bruises covered his pale flesh. From each of the bruises radiated numerous winding veins, like black rivers across his skin. His belly was distended, like that of a snake that had just raided an overfull chicken nest. Something knobby and boney pressed against the skin from within.

"What is that?" I asked. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," the stranger answered. "Maybe he was sick."

But that didn't look like no disease I'd ever heard about.

"Forget about that," the stranger said. "You'd best get real comfortable with that revolver of yours … and fast. We're heading up into the hills shortly, and I expect there'll be … bloodshed."

I barely heard him. I couldn't take my eyes off the horrible bruises and protrusions on Cartwright's flesh.

It looked like something had been trying to force its way out of the dead man's guts.

* * *

Here's what I didn't tell the stranger about Newcomb and the cannibals:

Not long after the second person was taken from camp, Newcomb, who saw himself as a shepherd, came up with a plan he thought would help his flock survive until the thaw. Dressed in one of his finest black suits, he called the camp to meeting, where he stood on one of the barking stages and addressed the crowd.

"We've already lost a dear, dear friend in Ezra," he started.

My blood boiled at that, seeing how Newcomb had never kept his hatred of Old Ezra a secret.

"And now," he continued, "our sweet–" He paused, searching his memory for the girl's name. "–Emily has been taken from us as well."

Cries for action rose from the crowd, but the big boss raised a pudgy hand and waved for silence. He'd been barking since long before I was born, and those old skills came easy to him as he spoke to the carnies gathered before him.

"If we fight back, those men will murder every last one of us. If we try to run, they'll catch us and gun us down right there in the snow."

The crowd moaned with despair.

"But all is not lost! We might not be able to slay the dragon, and we might not be able to escape its fiery breath, but we can make offerings to appease the beast lest we all suffer a gruesome fate!"

I didn't have a clue what he was going on about, and neither did anyone else. That's the way Newcomb liked it, I figured. He took our confusion and our anger and our fear and worked us up into a frenzy until he had near about everyone agreeing with every word he said… whether they understood it or not.

"I'm not saying this won't be painful," he said. "We must all make sacrifices. But at least the camp might thrive, albeit with grief and sorrow in our hearts!"

And so we started the lottery.

Within a few days, a tree trunk post had been raised at the outskirts of camp, and everyone had scrawled their name on a slip of paper gathered in Newcomb's old top hat. Only Newcomb himself was allowed to draw a name, and he did so every few days.

The lottery was wrong, but no one spoke up against it.

They knew better.

We marched our friends and family out to that post and left them tied out there, waiting to be snatched up and eaten. Sometimes, we left gifts, too–blankets, canned fruit, heirlooms and other valuables–all in hopes the cannibals wouldn't attack us outright.

Awful as it was, it might've worked… up until the point my brother got the idea Newcomb wasn't drawing names at random at all but was giving up people who crossed him.

Then, of course, Jessie's name was drawn.

Like I said, Jessie screamed when they dragged him out to the post, and no one lifted a finger to help him, myself included. We wept and we looked away and we prayed we weren't next. But we didn't help. Everyone knew Newcomb was up to no good, but nobody did a damn thing.

In that way, we were all in it with him.

* * *

"It's after midnight," I realized. "Christmas Eve."

"Ain't that something," the stranger said. "Hush up now."

We crept along a zig-zagging path leading into the hills. The stranger took the lead, and I followed close behind. The stranger didn't make a sound as he slipped along the path. He darted from one patch of shadow to the next. If I took my eyes off him for long, I might've lost him completely. Me, I shuffled along, trying to be as quiet as could despite my chattering teeth and shivering muscles.

Wind swept down the pass, casting sheets of snow in our faces, trying to buffet us back. I grabbed my coat collar in one hand, pulling it tightly closed. My eyes were dry. My nose ran, and the snot froze to my upper lip.

Up ahead, the cannibals waited.

As we walked along, I kicked something in the snow. There was a strange clattering sound, and for a split second I feared Friedrick had set a booby trap and I had stumbled right into it. But no pit opened up beneath me. No deadfall crashed on top of me. Something gleamed in the shadows.

There along the rock wall lay a small green bottle. I recognized it right away, and I hurried to where I'd kicked it. Scooping it up, I saw the bottle was empty, but the rotten stink of Ezra's tonic was still on it.

"What is it?" the stranger asked.

"Medicine," I said. "Or at least it was. My friend, he made the stuff. 'It'll cure them what ails ya,' he used to say. The cannibals must've stolen some of it during one of their raids."

The truth was, we'd more than likely given them the tonic, left it like a Christmas gift at the sacrificial post.

I tucked the bottle into my jacket, and we walked on.

We walked no more than a dozen more yards when an awful smell assaulted my nostrils.

Rotten meat.

The stranger's hands dropped to the handles of his six-shooters.

"This is it, boy. One more step and there's no turning back. Remember what I told you. I don't know how these men got started down their path. A lot of folks did bad things during the war. They're changing, though, and Boone, he'll be the worst. He might not die so easily."

I thought of Jessie and Ezra and all them others who didn't get to live to see Christmas this year.

"Let's go," I said.

And we did.

Them What Ails Ya: A Sixth Gun Christmas Yarn, Part 2

It didn't take me long to find one of them murderous bastards.

I had a good notion as to where Friedricks and his band might be hiding out. Up there in the hills not too terribly far from camp, there was a series of tunnels. Jessie and I went exploring up there when the weather was warmer, and on more than one occasion I'd stolen away with one of the camp girls for a kiss and a hug up in the shadows of those caves. The snow had hit hard and fast, almost as if the cannibals had brought the foul weather with them. If they were looking for a place to hole up until the thaw, the camp might've been there best choice, but I reckon they didn't want to live amongst their food. The caves were the likely second choice.

Trudging across the snow, I glanced behind me and saw the path of my footsteps trailing back towards camp. Part of me wanted to turn and hike back in that direction. But another part of me wanted to keep marching on. Even after I killed those bastards-assuming I survived-I wanted to just keep on walking, leaving a trail of footprints leading on into forever.

I'd had it up to my gullet with Mr. Newcomb and his cruel ways. The camp wasn't a home to me, not any more. With Ezra and Jessie gone, I didn't have much of anything to return to. I think I decided then and there that I won't never going back.

The snow was kicking up again, and I was near about blind out there in the white, but up ahead, I could make out the hills and the caves on the horizon. I pulled McGregor's pistol from my belt, tested the weight. I didn't feel that charge of electricity this time, but I figured it would come back when I needed it.

Six bullets. Six bullets for six killers.

With a little luck and a little magic from the gun, that's all I'd need.

For half a second there, I felt like a dyed-in-the-wool killer my own self. Might've kept on feeling that way with every step closer to the caves, too, if I hadn't been caught unawares.

I rounded an outcropping of rock, and almost walked smack into the ugliest man I'd ever met. I ain't kidding. He was so ugly he could've chased a buzzard off a gut wagon. He was skinny and filthy and scraggly, and his pale flesh was covered in nasty boils. All of Friedricks' men were dirty and sickly-looking, but this fella might've been the worst. His eyes were almost as pale as the snow-devil's eyes, Jessie would've called them. He was hitching up his breeches as I ran into him. He must've been finishing up some personal business. He had a gun on his sagging, unbuckled belt, but he didn't go for it.

I almost thought I'd gotten the drop on him. I brought the sharpshooter's gun up, but my hand seemed to be moving too slow, like my bones and muscles were frozen. As the gun came up, I kept willing the magic to spring to life, to give me the strength and speed I needed. But I didn't have no such luck.

Like I said, he didn't go for his own gun. Instead, he moved with an animal quickness and yanked an Arkansas toothpick out from I-don't-know-where. His breath gave a frosty blast, and he cackled as he slashed at my face with the knife. I'd like to say I wasn't scared, but I squeaked right loud and jumped back. I didn't fall, but I sure almost did. The gun slipped right out of my fingers as I dodged the blade, and it thumped into the snow.

The killer waved the knife back and forth. The point of the blade reminded me of the head of one of them cobras the camp's snake charmer used to tame. The pigsticker was like a living thing, waiting for the right place to strike.

I couldn't move. I wanted to, but fear held me in place.

The killer smiled.

His teeth were sharp. My gut reaction was that they looked like an animal's teeth. But they reminded me of something else, too. Years ago, Jessie and I had caught a garfish in the creek. Was one of the meanest looking things I'd ever seen, and its long snout was lined with dozens of haphazardly placed, needle-sharp fangs. The killer's teeth were kind of like that.

They damn sure weren't human.

"What you doing out here, boy?" His bloated, gray tongue snaked out of his mouth, slithered across his sharp, yellowed teeth. His breath plumed in the chilly air, like he was sending up smoke signals. "Armed with that there six-shooter, you come out here looking for trouble?"

I glanced across the frozen ground to where the gun lay. No more than a couple of yards away, but it might as well have been a thousand miles. I knew if I so much as twitched the wrong way, the killer's knife would plunge into my neck, and I'd be done for. He felt flushed and hot, despite the weather, and I couldn't help but tremble with fear.

"I didn't come out here looking for no trouble myself." The killer sucked at his teeth. "You came from that camp, didn't you?"

I swallowed down my fear. I figured if I could keep him talking, I might catch a lucky break. I nodded.

"You know how it is then, don't you? You spend your every waking hour with the same folks, sooner or later, you need to slip away, get a little time to yourself, clear your head. Am I right?"

I nodded again. I slight smile curled the corner's of the killer's lips, and he sucked his teeth once more. I didn't like to think about what he was trying to dislodge. He looked back towards me, his smile slipping away.

"But like I said, you came out here looking for trouble." He looked towards my gun. "I'd guess that there smoke-wagon's meant for me, along with them others I'm riding with, too."

I couldn't help myself. The words jumped from my mouth like a toad from a hot skillet.

"You killed my friends, my brother."

"Hell, son. If I went around gunning down everybody what killed one of my brothers, I'd never have a moment's peace, and that ain't even taking into consideration I'd have to eat the barrel of my own pistol for what I done to young Jasper." He coughed out a laugh, a halo of frosty vapors exploding from his lips. "And you thought you might be able to get the drop on all six of us, is that right? You never stood a chance, boy. Boone would've skinned you alive before you even realized what was happening to you."

Now the cold seeped into my bones again.

The killer leaned in close, as if sharing a secret. "But I guess I ain't gonna tell Boone about finding you out here."

I blinked, unsure of what the man had just said. "Y-you're not?"

"Hell, no. It ain't none of Boone's concern what I find when I'm out enjoying a little alone time."

The killer's grin widened then, wider than I thought possible, almost like his entire head was splitting open, and a graveyard stink oozed from his mouth in a cloud of frost, and I saw bits of ragged meat between his teeth.

"If I keep this little meeting to myself," he said, "it just means more for me."

He took a step towards me. I flinched back, looking towards the gun. It didn't matter if I'd make it or not, I had to make a grab for the pistol. He might have killed me before I reached the weapon, but at least I'd die fighting. I threw myself towards the gun, but even as I landed-hard-in the snow, I felt his hand clamp around my ankle, and he started hauling me backwards with a strength I didn't expect.

I rolled over, kicking at him, and he fell upon me. His sharp teeth snapped at my face, and I turned my head to avoid getting my nose bitten off. Rancid slobber fell across my face. He was punching me in the belly over and over again.

No, not punching, I realized.

He was stabbing me.

I felt the icy cold of the blade slicing into my flesh. The warmth of my blood.

I cried out, trying to push him back.

Just then, a voice called out-

"Frank Cartwright!"

-And the killer immediately released me. He jumped to his feet, turning. His bloody knife lay forgotten on the ground. I scurried away, wiping freezing snow and ice and spit from my face. I could move and I could breathe, and I figured the cuts in my stomach might not be as bad as I thought. I scrambled to my feet, and I saw blood in the snow. I dared not look at my stomach, though.

A figure in black strode through the snow. He was tall and lean, and his gait was sure and steady, like no amount of snow or ice or freezing cold could sway him from his purpose.

It was the walk of a gunfighter.

I couldn't make out his features. A flurry of snow whipped around him, and the derby hat he wore cast a shadow across his face. But the killer-Frank Cartwirght-he seemed to recognize him straight away, and his smile turned to a sneer.

"I was wondering when you were gonna show yourself again," Cartwright growled.

A muscle along his jaw line twitched nervously. His hand inched towards the pistol at his side.

The wind howled, and a sheet of snow whipped between the two men.

The rapport of a gun cracked through the cold night air. The sudden smell of gun smoke stung my nostrils and made my eyes water.

I have seen some fast gunmen in my time. Up until that moment, I had always believed Colt McGregor to be the fastest man who ever drew breath. But Cartwright made Colt-even when he was in his prime-look slow and feeble. His hand snapped to his hip and back up in the blink of an eye.

But near as I could tell, his finger never touched the trigger.

The killer staggered, and toppled backwards. Frosty steam no longer streamed from his mouth, but instead boiled up from a bloody hole right through his murderous heart.

I blinked in disbelief as the gunfighter approached. I'd seen men die before, sure, but I'd never seen such an efficient killing. It was downright professional.

Glistening blood oozed through the snowy ground, spreading like a crimson blanket around Frank Cartwright's body. I took a step backwards, away from the spreading blood. It was about that time that I looked down and remembered not all the blood belonged to the killer. I remembered the pigsticker. I remembered the killer driving the weapon into my stomach. The frigid cold had numbed me to the stab wounds in my belly, but as soon as I saw my own blood staining my shirt and running down my legs to my boots, I started feeling light-headed.

He killed me after all, I thought.

And about that time, my eyes rolled back into my skull and I passed out into the cold and darkness.

Them What Ails Ya: A Sixth Gun Christmas Yarn, Part 1

A couple of years ago, I wrote a Christmas story featuring one of Drake Sinclair's adventures before the events of The Sixth Gun. To firmly root the tale in the comic book tradition, Brian Hurtt and I also put together a bookend comic, and Brian supplied some stellar artwork to spruce up the story along the way. So, in honor of the holiday, I'm posting the story's four chapters here over the next few days. If you haven't read it yet, I hope you enjoy it. If you've already read this Christmas yarn, you might want to check it out again to give your holiday spirit a jolt. After all, nothing says "Merry Christmas!" quite so well as cannibals.





"If old Ezra could read minds and foretell the future and such, how come he didn't know he was gonna get himself ate by cannibals?"

That's how my brother, Jessie, saw things, and I reckon it was difficult to argue with his reasoning no matter how bad I wanted to do just that. Even after all the peculiar things we'd seen over the years, Jessie was ever the skeptic, especially when it came to Ezra. Me, on the other hand, I believed the old codger's tales of learning mind-reading from a medicine man, hypnosis from a Creole voodoo priest, and potion-making from a beautiful French witch. According to my brother, that made me no better than a rube paying two-bits for a palm reading. But I never needed a lick of proof in regards to Ezra's abilities. I don't know much about faith, but sometimes you just got to go with your gut.

So how come Ezra didn't see his death coming?

The old man once said, "It ain't the province of man to know the time and place of his own demise, although ther're some who risk plumb-awful magicks to discern that very thing." His demeanor grew dark and brooding then, like he was dwelling on something he could hardly bear to think about. "But once those steps are taken… well, then that man ain't got nothing on his hands but time to regret what he's done, all for some inkling of events that can't be changed. It don't matter two spits how much foresight you have, when it's your time to die, there ain't nothing to be done about it… Nor can you do anything to change when you're gonna come back."

At the time, I didn't think much of Ezra's cryptic rambling. The old man liked his drink, and was prone to strange rantings when he'd tipped back a few shots. But things started to make a little more sense to me after he was killed, and after the events that unfolded on that Christmas Eve …

Well, let's just say it wan't Ezra's whiskey talking, after all.

Way I figure it, Ezra had known Boone Friedricks and his gang was coming, knew his time was growing short. He'd grown quiet and sullen a few days earlier, and he won't to be seen unless it was with a near-empty bottle of his special elixir in hand. Maybe his thoughts in those final days were plagued with visions of the gnashing of teeth and the carving of flesh and the screaming that don't never seem to stop.

"It ain't the province of man to know the time and place of his own demise," he had said.

But—by God—he knew, and I shudder to think what foul bargains he'd made in order to obtain such knowledge. I reckon it would have been a kindness on his part if he'd warned the rest of us of the dark days to come. If we'd been prepared, maybe we could've avoided the tragedy that befell us. Maybe I wouldn't have seen fit to wander out into the cold and snow, a shooting iron strapped around my waist and my mind set on revenge.

Jessie might've called me a damn fool or worse for traipsing off after Boone Friedricks and his men. He might've been right, too, but I don't think he or anybody else could blame me.

My brother got ate by cannibals, too. All told, they had killed six people—counting Ezra and my brother—over the course of two weeks. Just dragged them off into the hills and did Lord knows what to them before they devoured their flesh. Sometimes, you could hear them screaming out there in the icy cold. I won't never forget Jessie's screams, not until the day I die, just like I won't never forget my shame at not doing something sooner.

I was no gunman, though, not in those days, and I calculate I might have ended up worse than dead if it weren't for the stranger—a dark figure striding across a plain of white with the wind whipping snow into phantom shapes all around him. When I first saw him, I thought he was a dark angel come to claim me. And he did bring death with him—wore it on his hip and carried it in his heart—but not for me.

The stranger was there with me when Ezra and Jessie and all the others came back from the dead—a genuine Christmas miracle, although I'm more inclined to call it a nightmare.

This is how it happened.

* * *

Climbing into the sharpshooter's wagon was like stirring up a rattlesnake's nest of memories.

I hoisted myself into the wagon, and suddenly, it weren't the dead of winter anymore, and it weren't the dead of night, neither. Warmth—or at least the distant recollection of warmth—flooded back into my frostbit fingers and toes, and I smelled the first wildflowers of spring along the open road, the rich stink of the horses and the animal pens, the putrid odor of Ezra's potions a-brewing, and the aroma of cinnamon nuts roasting. And it was no longer the memories of screams that echoed in my ears, because suddenly I could hear Old Ezra himself, barking to the crowd about his special elixir.

"And I'm here to tell you friends—and I do consider each and every one of you good souls a dear friend, so you know I wouldn't steer ya wrong—this here tonic will cure what ails ya! The nature of the ailment… well, that's your business, and you're entitled to your privacy. Looking out amongst you, I can pretty much guess that this group's got all manner of worries, concerns, and consternations!"

Laughter then, carried away on the wind.

"But it don't matter because this is a miracle tonic, and it'll damn near cure anything! Bad skin! Bad teeth! The piles! The back door trots! This brew's as much a great equalizer for the sick as a barking iron's a great equalizer for the gunslinger! Ya have my personal guarantee, friends! This tonic will purge the bad spirits out from your body, sure as I'm standing here before you today!"

Memories of better times, that's all, but I would've gladly sat there for hours, savoring those bygone days.

Soon enough, though, I snapped out of it and set about my task. If Mr. Newcomb caught me snooping around Colt McGregor's wagon, near about the best I could hope for was one Hell of a drubbing. More than likely, I'd find myself in the same predicament as Ezra and Jessie and all them others—namely, sacrificed to Boone Friedricks and his band of murderers. Newcomb kept the wagon locked up tight ever since Colt ran afoul of Daisy the Dancing Bear and ended up buried in an unmarked roadside grave for his troubles. Newcomb had claimed the wagon and its contents as his own property, just as he'd claimed the whole camp, and he didn't take kindly to anyone challenging his decrees.

I glanced around camp as I pulled the wagon door shut behind me. From the looks of it, no one had noticed me pick the old padlock and slip inside. The camp was quiet, and the circled wagons were dark. Several inches of glistening snow covered the ground, further muffling all sound. In the center of camp stood a tall evergreen tree decorated with bits of colored yarn, tiny figures made of straw, and strips of old carnival tents cut into ribbons. Even with all that had happened, folks still thought they might experience a little joy and hope, what with Christmas being just a couple of days away. Far as I was concerned, though, they were grasping at straws, and the tree—with the sad-looking little straw men and the ribbons tossing feebly in the breeze—looked more like a funeral marker than anything else.

Hell! I thought. For all we know, them flesh-eaters'll come back into camp again before the holiday was over. Maybe they'll want another of us to serve as their own Christmas feast!

I turned my attention to the contents of the dead man's wagon. There, amongst dusty crates full of props and racks full of musty old costumes, I found the small, wooden case. It was shoved underneath a scarred-up saddle, and as I dragged it out, every crate and box in the wagon seemed to shift, like moving one small piece would bring the whole place crashing down around me. I moved a little more slowly, grabbed the box without any major calamity, then jumped out of the wagon and scurried off into the shadows with my prize.

Inside the box I found McGregor's pearl-handled Colt revolver. The gun gleamed in the darkness, and as I grasped the handle, I could've sworn I felt a jolt of greased lightning jump through my fingers. There was magic in that six-shooter, I just knew it. I'd seen Colt shoot the feathers off a crow's ass at a thousand paces and at the wink of an eye. I'd seen him perform such feats with that gun—feats I wouldn't have thought possible. Like I said, I didn't know much about guns and about shooting and about killing, but I figured I could use whatever magic was left in that gun to help me.

To help me put those cannibals in the ground once and for all.