The Gunslinger and the Crypt（2）
The creature surged upward from the stone coffin, sending centuries of dust cascading through the flickering torchlight. It was towering, draped in tattered burial shrouds that fluttered like the wings of a dying vulture. Flesh, stretched impossibly tight over bone, gleamed grey in the dim light. Its eyes were twin embers, burning with a cold, malignant fury.
BANG!
The roar of Jack’s Colt shattered the ancient silence. The heavy lead slug slammed straight into the beast’s chest, tearing through yellowed linen and dried skin.
The creature didn't flinch. It barely even swayed.
"Lead?" the thing hissed, a chilling sound like dry leaves scraping across tomb floors. "You bring the toys of mortals into the threshold of eternity?"
Before Jack could cock the hammer for a second shot, the creature lashed out. A withered arm swept forward with blinding speed. Jack threw himself to the left, rolling across the stone floor as a phantom wind crashed into the wall behind him, blasting ancient symbols into flying granite dust.
He came up on one knee, dust stinging his eyes, Colt leveled again.
"Fair enough," Jack grunted, his throat raw from the smog of gunsmoke and crypt dust. "Bullets don't work. Good to know."
The entity stepped out of the sarcophagus, its tall, skeletal frame looming over the gunfighter. "I am Malakor, Lord of the Crimson Ash. For three thousand years, I have slept beneath these sands. And you, worm, have broken the seal."
Malakor raised a clawed hand. The air around Jack began to grow impossibly heavy, crushing down on his shoulders like a mountain of stone. His boots creaked against the floor. Every breath felt like inhaling liquid lead.
Think, Jack, think, he told himself, sweat running down his weather-beaten cheek. Every beast has a weakness. Outlaws, bears, or undead kings.
His eyes darted around the chamber. The ancient symbols carved into the sarcophagus—they were glowing now, pulsing with a faint, violet light whenever Malakor channelled his unnatural power. But one section of the lid, where Jack had accidentally tripped the click, remained dark. A broken mechanism.
"Your blood will feed the sands," Malakor chanted, stepping closer, his burning eyes fixed on Jack's face.
"Maybe so," Jack wheezed, his knuckles white as he forced his arm upward. "But where I come from... we always pay for our drinks."
Instead of firing at the monster, Jack aimed upward. He pulled the trigger, fanning the hammer three times in rapid succession.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The heavy bullets didn't hit Malakor—they struck the ancient stone stalactite hanging directly above the sarcophagus, right where the vault’s support arch converged. The ceiling cracked with a sound like thunder. Massive chunks of stone rained down, smashing into the altar and shattering the fragile power grid of glowing runes.
Malakor shrieked—a sound of pure rage as his magical grip snapped.
Jack didn't wait to see the rest. He lunged toward the narrow exit tunnel, sliding under a falling slab of rock just as half the cavern ceiling caved in, burying the sarcophagus in tons of rubble.
The dust cloud blinded him, choked him, but he scrambled to his feet and ran. Behind him, beneath the tons of fallen stone, a muffled, roaring curse echoed through the deep earth:
"This is not over, Gunslinger..."
Jack emerged into the cool desert night, chest heaving, dust streaming off his duster. Dusty nickered nervously, tossing her head near the mesquite tree.
Jack slowed to a walk, holstering his smoking Colt. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his pack, and lit another cigarette with a slightly shaking hand. He took a deep, long drag, looking back at the dark, silent mouth of the cave.
"Yeah," Jack muttered into the night, exhaling a plume of blue smoke toward the stars. "It never is."
(To be continued...)