Parallel Universe RP: Hell in Houston
 

"G'night, Rev!" Alex Calcuway tipped his hat to Reverend Gillespie. Having just confessed his sins, the boy felt in a particularly nice mood.

"Good night, Al. And try not to drink so much at the Yellow Rose again tonight, else I fear the Lord might start to be less keen on forgivin' ya." The fat old reverend said merrily, brushing some dirt off of his black shirt as the wind kicked up outside the church.

Alex whistled as he walked off. Maybe he'd cut back on the drinks tonight and go spend some time with his wife. A few wouldn't be so bad though. He noticed a strange man wearing all black with a wide rimmed hat just across the road next to the book store staring at the church. The man was in his mid 20's and looked fairly pale. He suddenly made his way across the street, not seeming to be prompted by anything in particular.

"Good evening, Father." Alex heard the soft voice say before he was out of earshot.

"Good evenin', my son. What is it that you need from me?" Reverend Gillespie said, his tone notably tired.

The man smiled, and for a moment, the reverend thought he felt something terribly unnerving happen. "Oh, not much. It won't take long, I trust you." The man said softly, putting his arm over the reverend's shoulder and walking into the church.


The following day:

Ike Wadsworth was a terribly religious fellow. He was convinced Satan was around every corner, in the mind of every man, and under the clothes of every woman. He woke up at 6 AM, read the bible for an hour, got dressed, and went off to the church to pray for God to show every sinner in Houston some guidance. More often than not, he would get there before Reverend Gillespie. The wrinkled old Ike had passed a young woman who had winked at him by accident (He had told her she could try winking in hell when Satan burned her eyelids off), a young boy who had shot past his head with a slingshot (He had expanded the youth's vocabulary), and a man selling a cure-it-all had tried his ass off to get him to buy some of his product (Ike bought some to pour on the man's head, and then said "You're right! It does solve every problem you have! It's made you finally shut up!"). He sighed. It was going to be one hell of a day.

"Dear Lord-" He began a prayer as he opened the doors to the church with a creak.

The words had never been more appropriate.

The reverend was clearly visible on the wall over the crucifix, stripped naked and a bloody mess. His eyes had been gouged out, his intestines stretched out to touch the floor. His right hand was shoved into his mouth, detached from his wrist, the individual tendons hanging out of his mouth like rubbery strings. He had been nailed to the wall with railroad spikes, each through one of his forearms and one through his feet. His body was covered in deep, nasty wounds, his thighs split open down to the bone and his chest a crosshatching of gory slashes. Above him was written on the wall in blood:

THIS IS GOD'S HOUSE

The old man's body was found outside the church an hour later, dead from a heart attack.

OOC: Couldn't find much info on railway lines back then, but lots of historical information, didn't know there was a railway strike in 1877

Jericho watched the land scape flow by like so much water as he traveled the rail line. Traveling by train always fascinated him, the way the steam engine worked to move such a large metal snake along the tracks, faster than most horses can run. The entire thing seemed like magic until you looked into it, which was not an easy thing to do.

Jericho flicked up the newspaper he had purchased at the last stop. The articles on the cover were talking about railway strikes and riots. The militia had been called in to quell them and ended up killing some men. It was a tragedy to be sure, but nothing supernatural about it. Though by reading the paper you'd think they were all possessed by mad spirits.

The paper made the usual reports of mutilated cattle and the occasional missing person. Nothing too terribly out of the ordinary for frontier land, just now the newspapers were talking about it more. Calling it demons and spirits. Jericho snorted lightly, then glanced over the paper at the man seated across from him. The man continued to snore contentedly so Jericho returned to his paper.

Jericho didn't really believe Minions of Satan were roaming the world. Satan was a thing to be feared and any man who didn't fear him was crazy, but to think God would let him onto earth was just as crazy. This sort of thing usually ended up just being a back of wild dogs, or mountain lions, or Indians going wild on their damned herb smoke. Give Jericho good healthy tobacco any day.

In the distance he could see the sprawl of a city. Their stop wasn't far off now. He was headed to Houston to meet Reverend Gillespie. Supposedly the man was a real know it all about demons and would be telling him where to go to kill them. The thought made Jericho sigh. So far he had been sent around to three different reverends, each time he hadn't been able to turn up a Coyote's squat, let alone demons.

Oh Jericho had seen the bodies, he'd heard the descriptions, he'd even seen a few foot prints. Nothing however, had convinced him, a god fearing man, that he was looking for anything supernatural.

Jericho did see something of note inside his newspaper however. Apparently an entire family disappeared without a trace from a prospering farm. The animals too. Not something that one would normally see, however it did lend credence to his crazy Redskin theory. Probably thinking they can steal the American lands. Well when they got caught they would have another thing coming.

Finally the whistle blew signaling they were coming into the station. Jericho folded up his newspaper and put it into his bag. The whistle had woken the man across from him, who pulled out an old beat up pocket watch to check the time. The man looked like he had seen better years and larger funds. Probably a prospector who hit a dry spell and spent all he had left on new plots. Jericho had seen it a lot where he came from. Thats why he was happy making guns, people always wanted them and always needed them fixed. Not the best money, but it was steady when he could find the work.

When the train stopped Jericho left and went over to the horse car to supervise the unloading of his own Barley. The Horse had seen better days himself. He was getting old and would likely have to be put to pasture soon. For now however he soothed the horse's nerves, which didn't need much soothing, and led him away. The horse had been on trains a few times, though he didn't much care for the cramped spaces or the smells.

Jericho pulled out an apple and let Barley eat it happily, which he loaded his saddle and packs on. He didn't get onto his horse however. It was better to let him save his strength for when it was actually needed, besides after so much time on a train he needed to stretch his legs. The walk to the chaple would do him good. He asked a kindly looking woman with a runny nosed child for directions. She squinted up at him, and eyes his guns warily; but when she saw his fine looking golden cross she gave him directions.

The walk through town was uneventful, that is to say uneventful until he got close. He noticed the crowd right off. It wasn't a sunday so there was no reason for such a swarm. Jericho figured there was probably a criminal come to ask for gods forgiveness or some drunk old 49er cursing gods name. Either way it was likely the man would go to hell when he died. Mounting, more to watch his gear than anything else, he rode slowly through the crowd. He was able to see the men in front of the doors, deputies by the color flashing on their chests. A red faced man with a white mustache was trying to get the crowd to disperse to no avail. Jericho hailed him and was told to move along like the rest. When he was finally able to get the man to listen he explained he was a Registered demon hunter and had an appointment with Reverend Gillespie.

The man shook his head as though saddened and told him to head around the back and talk to the sheriff. He did so nodding and bidding the man a good day. Jericho lent a hand and called out for the crowd to get going on his way through them again. The sight of such a heavily armed man telling them to move a long stirred a few feat, but not nearly enough. He made his way to the back of the building and dismounted, patting Barley affectionately. the sheriff stood with a couple of other men. They seemed to be waiting for someone.

"Morning gents, I'm Jericho Van Asgard. I've got an appointment with Reverend Gillespie. Do you happen to know where I can find him." Jericho said pleasantly.

A sour look came over the sheriffs face. He looked the man up and down and explained he was now deceased.

"Ah, that is a shame, I'm a demon hunter just assigned to him. What happened?"

The sheriff just shook his head and pointed to the back door. Jericho looked at him, puzzled, then tied up Barley to a horse pole, and went on inside.

The church looked like most churches did, maybe a little better funded, but what struck Jericho was the smell. It was the sickly sweet smell that came with the death of something or someone. Jericho got inside the main chapel and at first didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Then the bright red caught his attention.

THIS IS GOD'S HOUSE

It was written in a scrawl, and below it was a sight that froze his bones.

He stumbled out the back door, vomiting loudly into a nearby gutter. One of the men snickered a little but quieted at a look from the Sheriff.

"Who...Who would do that to a man?" Jericho managed to get out between gulps of water from his canteen.

"Who...Who would do that to a man?"

"Who would do that to a priest? That is an even better question." Natalia Kalestrian had walked out the church to find yet another man vomiting after looking at the demons' lastest victim. She was starting to believe that it really was demons; she didn't want to think that humans could do this to each other. The bodies she had seen in South Bend had given her nightmares for weeks.

She had gotten into Houston by stagecoach early that morning. She had been hesitant to leave South Bend, but she felt that people would be more likely able to do something about the demon problem in a big city than a small town. Imagine her surprise when, after a long and dusty journey, she came into the city to find the very person she was coming to meet viciously slaughtered. It was going to be a long day.

This is God's house. She thought. Would demons be able to write? Were they learning new tricks? Or was this a ploy to make others believe that humans were responsible?

"I'm Dr. Kalestrian." She said to the newcomer. She had not been living in Texas very long, and she still sounded like she was from Philadelphia. "You sound like you're not from around here, either. Were you one of the people coming to help with the problem?"

“Carson!” the buyer said, “I hear you had a pretty interesting run this year.”

Carson nodded. “Yeah…the cattle were real skittish this year…it was a real pain to heard them down.”

“Rumor has it you have a girl in your group.” The seller said.

Carson laughed. “Oh, yeah, we had a girl. She was a big help, too.”

“How much did you pay her?”

“Didn’t have to pay her anything…she just offered her services to get to Houston.” Carson said.

The buyer gave Carson a crocked smile and chuckled. “Services, eh?”

Carson rolled his eyes, sighed, and smacked the seller with his hat. “Not that kind of services, Ben you old pervert.”

“Alright then, Saint Carson…what kind of services did she offer?”

Carson sighed, and scratched his head. “You know, for all this time I’ve been traveling with her, I’m still not sure what she’s suppose to be. One time, one of my boys fell into a rattler pit…got bit almost a dozen times…she broke out her little pouch, gave him some medicine, and he was right as rain the next day. A while later, a pack of coyotes got into the herd....one of them must been rabid, bit my prize bull. Didn’t know it was rabid until he went berserk. Gored one of my best men right off his horse and trampled him. The other boys shot it, but it just kept comin’. Then Emily rides over on her little black horse, cuts into that bull with this small little knife…before that bull took four more steps, it was dead.”

Ben, the seller, scratched his beard. “So…she could heal and kill, eh? Did she say what she wanted to come into Houston for?”

“She said she wanted to meet a priest…something about a hunting trip.”

Old Ben’s eyes widened. “Father Gillespie?”

“Yeah, that was it! Why do you ask?”

“’Cause your little miss something special might of come a long way for nothing…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Emily wasn’t really used to a town as big as Houston, but she was smart enough not to do anything stupid. She led her horse, Coal, along the road, heading for where Mr. Carson said that the local church was.

The closer she got, however, the thicker the crowds got. She heard whispers that a local Reverend had been killed…in horrible fashion. One man claimed that it was certainly the work of a demon.

Emily worked her way through the crowd. Off to the side, a man was huddled over a pool of vomit…his Emily assumed. She reached into her pouch, and pulled out a small herb as he walked over. “Here,” she said, “Chew on this…it doesn’t have the best taste, but it should settle your stomach.”

She looked around. The crowd wanting to know what was going on. The sheriff and his deputies keeping them back, while making a point not to look inside.

Emily sighed, and lowered her head. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to get to met with Father Gillespie, and that I really don’t want to know what happened to him?” she muttered softly.

OOC: It occurs to me I never mentioned how I wore my weapons. Pistol at each hip. The shot gun is in a holster horizontally along his lower back. His rifle sits in a holster on his horse. His bandoleers cross his chest with bullets for his shot gun and rifle. While he has a bag just behind each Pistol containing the boxes of ammo for those guns.

Jericho thanked the woman and was immediately abashed to have vomited in front of one. The water he had drunk refreshed his mouth after the taste of bile. However the black root she had him chew on tasted almost as nasty. Bitter and sour and kind of spicy. He had a feeling if he ate a lot of it he'd just vomit again so he sucked on it. It did seem to help.

Jericho became even more abashed to see that another woman was present. He just couldn't catch a break that day it seemed. The whole ordeal was not very becoming of a gentleman like himself. Well a gentleman after a fashion. Jericho pulled out an old leather cigarette case. Pulling free a hand rolled stick he followed it up with a beat up lighter. After a couple flicks he got the flame up and began puffing away. Sucking in the smoke around the bitter root. The combination was a bit of heaven and hell, after a fashion. Jericho didn't smoke often, but when he did he enjoyed it.

The First woman he had noticed, the one that had given him the root. Was quite a bit shorter than him, almost two whole feet. Though he decided she was pretty in a simple kind of way. Like the sort of woman you'd see growing up on a farm nearby. Not really much of a bit city, or even a town girl. Though she was armed which suggested she at least new her business.

The second woman, the one that had actually introduced herself as a Dr. 'Kalstrane' or something to that nature. Had an more northern accent much like himself, though she was obviously from the east USA while Jericho was from West. She was a good bit taller than the other woman, but still much shorter than Jericho, though Jericho was very large when compared to men not to mention women. She looked educated though, with her glasses and straight posture. Like a woman who had money, or did growing up.

Jericho decided he had a better chance with the short one.

He dusted off his hand on his pants and, then held it out to the Doctor. "I'm Jericho Van Asgard, I come from a little gold mining city called Prosper in California. Doc Kalstrane was it?" He looked over to the herb offering woman and spoke to her almost in the same breath. "Thanks that herb seems to be working like magic, though it could just be the smoke, I didn't catch your name though." He gave her his best show smile. His mother had warned him against smile too much with women. Said it showed his hand before the cards were dealt, but he could never seem to stop himself.

Morning broke and far from the hustle and bustle of Houston a man could be seen burying something next to a lone tree.

After pushing a final mound over the body Bison picked some of the dirt into his hand, he clutched it tightly for a moment before releasing it into the wind. As the wind caught the dirt and carried it away he noticed a tint of dark red in the former tan shale of the land.

All the while his lips danced silently, Wakan Tanka, the great spirit which guides us all needs no words to be spoken for it to listen. Still Bison felt the words needed speaking.

Little Rock had been his friend and his family since before Bison could remember, placing Little Rock into the loving arms of the earth had been his last wish.

As Bison rode away atop Little Rock's painted steed Sunday he tried to put that place far behind him. The odd fang of his friend's killer slapping gently against his chest he wished he could have done more for him. The fang still bore the blood of Little Rock, it had been pried from his chest only a few hours earlier and Bison saw no reason to wash it clean. Not until the beast that put it there was dead. Wakan Tanka did not walk the path of vengeance, but it did not forbade it either.

Bison rode towards Houston for no other reason then what he, Little Rock and the others had faced was evil. And the white man had brought all the evils of the world Bison knew to their lands. This demon wolf must simply be a new evil they brought with them.

As he drew closer into town he saw the only friend in his life he knew for certain was still alive, he was being hassled by some of the white men at the cities border. Bison let out a shrill calling whistle and Moka the coyote turned its back on the white men and ran to his side. The white men looked disturbed by the sight of Bison.

He simply puffed his chest and set his shoulders wider apart, to his chagrin the wool of his coat itched against his skin. He shifted uncomfortably and continued on into the city at a slow trot with Moka following close behind. The men did little more then watch him ride by.

It wasn't long before Bison reached the Church, where the crowd whom could not see the scene inside the church found a new one at their backs. A woman screamed, a man shouted accusations about the new injun in town others agreed. Bison was tired, he'd been on the run from the US military for a few days before running from the demon dogs, he'd just buried his best friend and now he was being shouted at in a language he understood but could not reply in kind. He had to find some way to speak to them in a way that they would understand.

Bison raised his rifle over their heads and fired into the air.

Emily returned Jericho’s smile, but had to struggle not to sigh. You’d think at least one could pretend he’s seen a woman before. she thought to herself.

“Emily Reubens, from Virginia City, Montana. Nothing magic about the root…you learn to use what you have to when there ain’t too much in medical supplies. I came all the way here to talk to Reverend Gillespie about become a demon hunter, but it looks like-”

It was about then that Bison fired his shot. With a yelp, Emily hit the ground, but managed to keep a grip on Coal’s bridle, keeping the startled horse from bolting. With her other hand, she pulled her revolver. “What was that?!”

Clark had made it into Houston earlier in the day, and had found out about the Reverend's body earlier than the other demon hunters. Tired from his long trek to the city, the demon hunter had decided to take it easy around the back and get some water. His scarred face and worn, dirty clothes couldn't hide his experience, and that always got him looks. Looks he wasn't too happy to get, but he really should have been dead a long time ago.

Looking over this new group, he could tell they hadn't seen anything like this before. Seeing them question what was going on definitely made it easier gauge their experience in their field, but that was a topic for later. Right now he had to see what was with that gunshot. After calming them down and introducing himself, of course.

"That, little miss, was a gunshot. And if you're huntin' demons, that's the least of yer worries. Sorry to be rude, but I couldn't help overhearin'." Clark could tell that it was a bad first impression from the looks on their faces, but what had to be done had to be done. "Clark Delrune, at yer service. Guess ya could say I'm the experienced one of the bunch... if y'll all believe me. Anyway, might as well sort this mess out. 'Scuse me fer bein' rude, and all that."

Definitely not the best time to be making a rushed introduction and exit, but better than nothing. Knowing a criminal's life, the ex-bandit knew this was probably a misunderstanding. And walking around to the front of the church didn't help with that deduction. Scattering crowd, sheriff's men drawing revolvers, Indian man with a coyote at his side and the still smoking rifle in his hand...

"I don't think you boys want to be killin' a confused man, now. Might as well put them guns away, 'fore anyone gets hurt." The sheriff's men, suriprised by Clark's (second) sudden entrance, turned and pointed their guns at him. A bad move on their part, but people weren't his targets today. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, no need fer the guns, boys."

OOC: Ok, so a little hasty on my part, intro-wise, but I guess it gets things started a little faster. Can't shoot a bunch of police, though, so...

Jericho was pleased to get a smile back from the little lady. He listened intently as she spoke.
She was cut off by a gunshot. Jericho retracted his hand and grabbed a hold of his pistol as quick as a whip though he didn't draw. There were three armed law men by them and two more out front. So Jericho figured what ever the trouble it wouldn't be his place to put it right. He was surprised to hear one inside of town however. Or at least, so early in the day.

It was then that yet another man came around the building to address them. Jericho was just happy it wasn't another woman. He looked like he'd seen combat. The scars on his face seemed to accentuate his features rather than mar them. Though it still looked like he should be dead. Some men had all the luck. His clothes were comfortable and worn, 'functional' is what Jericho's dad had liked to call them. His guns looked like your average colts. Well that is, to the untrained eyes. Jericho's eyes were far from untrained so he immediately noted the differences. You could tell a lot about a man from the guns he wore. They were stationed low on his hips, right at hand reach. The half of the guns he could see told him they were twin colt single action army. Swing out obviously sense there wasn't a top break in it and no blast cap to suggest back loading. This man liked to be able to draw his weapons fast, which meant he expected to have reason to use them. A dangerous man indeed.

The rifle on his back he dismissed as ordinary, it didn't look like it had seen as much use as the handguns at any rate.

Jericho walked over and helped the young miss up. Her horse didn't seem to mind the gunshot much so he left it alone. "Now now, don't go ruining that pretty dress of yours with dirt." He said cheerfully. He took note of her gun too now that it was fully drawn. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before, the Schofield Revolver, it was a masterpiece in its time, and still a fine gun. Though soon, he knew, the new Smith and Wesson release would be making a relic out of those. Thinking fondly of his friend that had helped get him the pair he wore. "A fine looking piece there miss Reubens. I'd be happy to get that bend out of the barrel for you later." He turned around at that and strode around the church to see what the goings on were.

He got there right behind the sheriff who was calling down his deputes. Jericho looked on at the Indian. He was sitting atop a painted horse, with a mean looking dog just behind it. Well he thought it was a dog at first. He realized quick it was too big and skinny. The coyote as it turned out, looked as tame as any hound dog he'd ever seen. He wore traditional looking clothes, though his blue jacket had a suspiciously fine cut to it. Though there was no law against fine clothes. Though he thought the jacket looked vaguely familiar. something white was glinting from a cord around his neck too, but he couldn't make it out from the distance. All in all the man didn't look like much more of a threat than any of the others looking at him with guns in hand.

Apparently Clark had said something because eyes seemed to be half on him. Jericho wasn't sure what it had been, so he decided to progress things a bit more. Clearly the Indian had fired the shot, what with his rifle in the air. He walked over the sheriff. "Now Sir I know what we're all thinking, but remember the killer was able to write in English. Now I don't know about you but I aint met an Indian that could write. I heard tell some can but even so I never have met one."

Jericho put his hands up, away from his guns and walked over to the Indian. The coyote barred his teeth but did not growl. It was sinister none the less. Perhaps more so. When he got close to the Red skinned man he spoke to him. "Do you speak English?" He inquired. The Indian just stared at him with tired eyes. The dust on him and his horse suggested they had been on the road a long time. He spoke again a bit louder and slower. "Can...you...understand...what...we...are...saying?" Jericho continued. The Coyote started growling when Jericho raised his voice, but the Indian just whistled once and it settled down. Jericho gave the Indian a scrutinous look, then turned around and walked back over to the sheriff talking along the way. "Yup, Dumb Indian can't even speak English. So I doubt he can write it. Still though, that Coyote looks a bit mean. Might want to send the man away."

Clark stood back as Jericho took control of the situation. After all, having guns pointed at you didn't help trying to explain anything. But, in truth, Clark didn't think this Indian had to be sent away. After all, he had just wanted to get a crowd of people away from him. And that fang hanging from his chest... He'd seen fangs like that before, and they'd been mere inches away from his face.

"Well, we could send him away... or maybe we could help him find the owner of that fang. That don't look like no coyote or wolf fang to me. Probably belongs to somethin' nastier... somethin' that would mutilate and crucify a priest."

With his hint said, Clark just waited for a response, hopefully from Bison. After all, if this man had the scent of the demon, their jobs would be a hell of a lot easier.