The Book of Death (Bourbon Kid 4)

the breeze, had been totally
neutralised. For the longest time he felt like he was walking the wrong way on
a conveyor belt. The scenery didn’t change and the horizon seemed to come no
closer. All that surrounded him was the deserted wastelands of the Devil’s
Graveyard. And everything seemed to be polished in an almost blinding white
sheen. The only sound was that of his boots on the highway beneath his feet.
Everything had been muted out. Even his breathing was silent.
    Finally after an indeterminable
length of time he spotted something up ahead by the roadside directly beneath
the sun. It was a large building with a thatched roof. Within seconds of
catching sight of it his life moved into fast-forward. The horizon raced
towards him and the faint white clouds zipped by overhead all in less than two
steps along the highway. And just like that, he found himself outside a large
roadside bar with a solitary Harley Davidson parked outside. From the outside
it looked very similar to the kind of bar found in Santa Mondega. Was this
place part of his imagination? It looked like a typical gunslinger saloon. Kind
of a cross between the Tapioca and the Nightjar, but ten times the size of the
either of them and even less inviting. But this was undoubtedly the place to he
was meant to be. He was going to have to go in.
    The name of the bar shone
brightly in red neon letters on a large signpost above the entrance out front.

 
    PURGATORY

 
    He walked up a dirt and gravel
covered pathway towards a pair of traditional old Wild West swinging wooden
saloon doors at the entrance. A gentle murmuring noise from within the bar grew
louder with every step he took. The murmur soon became a loud buzz of voices.
People were inside, drinking and conversing. He felt a sense of trepidation as
he approached. He had no idea who or what he would find in this place, but it
sounded busy and it looked like the kind of place where the Bourbon Kid would
fit in. Unfortunately, right now he still felt like JD. Maybe that would change
once he was inside? One thing he sensed was a distinct possibility that some
killing would be called for. The time to test out those good ol’ murderous
skills might be near.
    He reached the saloon doors and
paused for a moment. He peered over them and saw a large propeller fan hanging
from the ceiling above the bar. Several feet beneath it he could see the heads
of a crowd of drinkers, mostly men, but of all ages, shapes and sizes. He
pressed both of his hands up against the doors and pushed them open. Then he
stepped into the bar.
    The second he set foot in the place,
it turned deathly quiet. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to
stare at the newcomer holding the doors of their bar open. They stood there
like statues, no one moving an inch. JD took another step forward and let his
hands back down to his sides. The saloon doors swung back shut behind him and
flapped back and forth on their springs until they came to a stop. Still no one
moved.
    Directly in front of him there
was a narrow opening through the crowd of drinkers. It led up to the bar where
a lone barman was waiting for his newest customer to walk up and order a drink.
JD walked slowly through the crowd, noting the angry looks from the men
standing on both sides of him. Everyone’s gaze followed him as he approached
the bar. He glanced at some of the faces either side of him as he walked. These
were faces he recognised.
    Faces of people he’d killed.
    There were many other faces he
didn’t recognise, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he hadn’t killed them
too. The Bourbon Kid had slaughtered a lot of people, and not all of them had
been significant enough to remember.
    He could feel the eyes of all
the other drinkers burning into the back of his head as he reached the bar. The
bartender, a rather shifty-looking guy with straggly black hair hanging over
his face, had been wiping the bartop with a towel. At the sight of JD he tossed
the rag onto a shelf behind him. This bartender was another face he recognised.
And it wasn’t one that was pleased to see him. It was Berkley the bartender
from the Nightjar in Santa Mondega. The Bourbon Kid had shot him in the face
shortly after downing a glass of his finest bourbon one night. He remembered
the incident with Berkley well because upon arriving in the Nightjar he had
seen the dead body of his old arm wrestling adversary Rodeo Rex. Rex had been
curiously positioned on top of a large