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"When Thousands Fled In Terror"
Feb. 27th, 2023 06:55 pm"When Thousands Fled In Terror"
5/4- 5/5/2013
I.
Just before midnight, Johnny Packard pulled his Harley into the garage next to the Provenzano's venerable Oldsmobile and pulled the sliding door down so it locked into place. Having a secure place to leave his bike was one reason why he had chosen this house to rent a room. He stretched and sighed wearily, left his helmet hanging from a handlebar and grabbed his black Stetson out of the saddlebag. He would never leave it out of sight. The cursed Darthan token still tucked in its beaded hatband was what made him the Brimstone Kid in actuality as well as name.
Standing five feet five in his boots and weighing no more than a hundred and fifty pounds, Johnny was a wiry energetic man. He seemed to be about thirty, but exposure to the elements and a rough lifestyle had given him a weathered look. The shaggy red hair and deepset green eyes gave his lean face a distinctive look. When he had pulled in off the street, he had seen that no lights were on in the house, meaning Mr and Mrs Provenzano had gone to bed for the night. That was fine with him. He was in no mood to sit and chat with them.
Memories from his previous life had started coming back.
Walking as quietly as he could, the Kid went through the connecting door, across the kitchen and into his rented room at the rear of the house. This had been the room of the Provenzano's son Charles before he had gotten married and moved out of state. It was close to both the downstairs bathroom and the kitchen, which Johnny had been given free use of. He closed the door behind him and did not turn on the light but simply sat down on the bed which was within reach.
In the darkness, the Brimstone Kid tugged off his boots and unbuttoned his denim jacket. He had been wearing two gunbelts across his chest in an X under that jacket, each holstering a heavy Colt .45 revolver. Getting them off was a relief. Dropping the jacket on the floor next to the bed and placing the gunbelts on top of it, he groped for the nightstand and placed his hat where he could instantly grab it.
Finally, Johnny stretched out on top of the covers and folded his arms behind his head. All day, he had been getting images in his head and they were connecting now into a narrative. This had happened several times since his Preincarnation, and he had always welcomed remembering what he still regarded as his real life. But this time, he was uneasy and apprehensive without knowing why.
Lying in the dark, letting thoughts wash over him without resisting, Johnny felt that the time in his memories was after the turn of the century, a decade after 1900. He caught a reference to the war about to break in Europe, which meant maybe 1913 or 1914. He himself seemed to be about fifty, wearing Eastern clothes including a bowler hat he found himself toying with.
Where was he though? Not New York City, not even the Northeast. Maybe Missouri? St Louis seemed right. He began to remember running down dark streets where gas lampposts were scattered far apart, he felt again the pain of a bruising brawl with two big men who tackled him from a shadowy doorway. There were images of bright gunflashes in the night. What had been going on? He had gotten his fool self in hot water all his life. Was this how he had died?
Then, sharp and horribly vivid, came the sight of a skeleton in a coarse burlap robe, moving about as if alive, grinning with skinless jaws and clapping bony hands together. No. Wait. He had one better glimpse as the apparition held up a torch. In that light, the contours of a normal body could seen as a vague outline. The monster was a human being, but somehow every part of him except the bones was invisible.
Johny shuddered. Now he could remember. The Skeleton. A deadly sorcerer, responsible for many deaths and much misery. He saw himself standing over the horror's outstretched body with bright arterial blood spreading out on the robe. Johnny felt himself holstering one of his Peacemakers beneath his Colt, its barrel still hot. "Yore done for this time, amigo, make no mistake about that," his voice said.
"You fool!" came a hollow ghoulish voice in reply. "The final victory shall be mine. I had time to lay down my most powerful curse. It is Darthan magick of the darkest kind, drawing on that which suffers beneath the Burning Pyramid..."
"What'dya mean by that, ugly?" he had said. "Talk sense."
A wet coughing spell convulsed the warlock. The skull spat up blood and struggled to speak. "You will not be around to see it, hellbound one. My spell will grow and deepen for a full hundred years. Then the world of Humans shall fall. Every last one will die as they deserve!" He gasped and wheezed.
"Godammit, NOW yore gonna die? When I need ya to talk? Skeleton, what curse? What are yuh talking about?"
The skull coughed up more blood, turning to one sides. "The Wall Between the Worlds. A fiend from Hell itself, freed at last.. in one hundred years from this night... Blood will run in rivers..." Then the grisly head lolled to one side and the death rattle sounded.
Suddenly sitting up in the dark, breathing heavily, Johnny Packard rolled over and leaped to his feet. He had to go. Right now. He would leave a note for Mr and Mrs Provenzano and grab only a few needful items. The nearest airport was in Denver, he could get there in a hour and see what the next flight to New York City was. He would find his former teammates in the KDF, and the Dire Wolf, warn them of what he had recalled. But he had a sinking feeling even they would not be able to stop the coming disaster.
( the rest of the story )
5/4- 5/5/2013
I.
Just before midnight, Johnny Packard pulled his Harley into the garage next to the Provenzano's venerable Oldsmobile and pulled the sliding door down so it locked into place. Having a secure place to leave his bike was one reason why he had chosen this house to rent a room. He stretched and sighed wearily, left his helmet hanging from a handlebar and grabbed his black Stetson out of the saddlebag. He would never leave it out of sight. The cursed Darthan token still tucked in its beaded hatband was what made him the Brimstone Kid in actuality as well as name.
Standing five feet five in his boots and weighing no more than a hundred and fifty pounds, Johnny was a wiry energetic man. He seemed to be about thirty, but exposure to the elements and a rough lifestyle had given him a weathered look. The shaggy red hair and deepset green eyes gave his lean face a distinctive look. When he had pulled in off the street, he had seen that no lights were on in the house, meaning Mr and Mrs Provenzano had gone to bed for the night. That was fine with him. He was in no mood to sit and chat with them.
Memories from his previous life had started coming back.
Walking as quietly as he could, the Kid went through the connecting door, across the kitchen and into his rented room at the rear of the house. This had been the room of the Provenzano's son Charles before he had gotten married and moved out of state. It was close to both the downstairs bathroom and the kitchen, which Johnny had been given free use of. He closed the door behind him and did not turn on the light but simply sat down on the bed which was within reach.
In the darkness, the Brimstone Kid tugged off his boots and unbuttoned his denim jacket. He had been wearing two gunbelts across his chest in an X under that jacket, each holstering a heavy Colt .45 revolver. Getting them off was a relief. Dropping the jacket on the floor next to the bed and placing the gunbelts on top of it, he groped for the nightstand and placed his hat where he could instantly grab it.
Finally, Johnny stretched out on top of the covers and folded his arms behind his head. All day, he had been getting images in his head and they were connecting now into a narrative. This had happened several times since his Preincarnation, and he had always welcomed remembering what he still regarded as his real life. But this time, he was uneasy and apprehensive without knowing why.
Lying in the dark, letting thoughts wash over him without resisting, Johnny felt that the time in his memories was after the turn of the century, a decade after 1900. He caught a reference to the war about to break in Europe, which meant maybe 1913 or 1914. He himself seemed to be about fifty, wearing Eastern clothes including a bowler hat he found himself toying with.
Where was he though? Not New York City, not even the Northeast. Maybe Missouri? St Louis seemed right. He began to remember running down dark streets where gas lampposts were scattered far apart, he felt again the pain of a bruising brawl with two big men who tackled him from a shadowy doorway. There were images of bright gunflashes in the night. What had been going on? He had gotten his fool self in hot water all his life. Was this how he had died?
Then, sharp and horribly vivid, came the sight of a skeleton in a coarse burlap robe, moving about as if alive, grinning with skinless jaws and clapping bony hands together. No. Wait. He had one better glimpse as the apparition held up a torch. In that light, the contours of a normal body could seen as a vague outline. The monster was a human being, but somehow every part of him except the bones was invisible.
Johny shuddered. Now he could remember. The Skeleton. A deadly sorcerer, responsible for many deaths and much misery. He saw himself standing over the horror's outstretched body with bright arterial blood spreading out on the robe. Johnny felt himself holstering one of his Peacemakers beneath his Colt, its barrel still hot. "Yore done for this time, amigo, make no mistake about that," his voice said.
"You fool!" came a hollow ghoulish voice in reply. "The final victory shall be mine. I had time to lay down my most powerful curse. It is Darthan magick of the darkest kind, drawing on that which suffers beneath the Burning Pyramid..."
"What'dya mean by that, ugly?" he had said. "Talk sense."
A wet coughing spell convulsed the warlock. The skull spat up blood and struggled to speak. "You will not be around to see it, hellbound one. My spell will grow and deepen for a full hundred years. Then the world of Humans shall fall. Every last one will die as they deserve!" He gasped and wheezed.
"Godammit, NOW yore gonna die? When I need ya to talk? Skeleton, what curse? What are yuh talking about?"
The skull coughed up more blood, turning to one sides. "The Wall Between the Worlds. A fiend from Hell itself, freed at last.. in one hundred years from this night... Blood will run in rivers..." Then the grisly head lolled to one side and the death rattle sounded.
Suddenly sitting up in the dark, breathing heavily, Johnny Packard rolled over and leaped to his feet. He had to go. Right now. He would leave a note for Mr and Mrs Provenzano and grab only a few needful items. The nearest airport was in Denver, he could get there in a hour and see what the next flight to New York City was. He would find his former teammates in the KDF, and the Dire Wolf, warn them of what he had recalled. But he had a sinking feeling even they would not be able to stop the coming disaster.
( the rest of the story )
