Deadlands - Adventure - DN10 - Worms!.pdf - Scenariusze - sensei_13

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Worms!

Fiction & A dv

ddv entur

entur e b

e b y:

y: John Goff

Editing & Lay out:

out: Barry Doyle, Shane Hensley

& Hal Mangold

CCover Art:

er Art: Kevin Sharpe with Matthew Tice

Logo:

Logo: Ron Spencer

Interior Art:

Logo:

Interior Art: Paul Daly

Interior Art:

CCov er Design:

er Design: Matthew Tice

Maps:

Maps: Barry Doyle

Pinnacle Entertainment Group, Inc.

www.peginc.com

Deadlands, Weird West, Dime Novel, the Great Rail Wars, the Deadlands logo, the Pinnacle logo,

and the Pinnacle starburst are all Trademarks of Pinnacle Entertainment Group, Inc.

Printed in the USA.

Visit our website at www.peginc.com for regular free updates.

Deadlands: The Weird West created by Shane Lacy Hensley.

This electronic book is copyright Pinnacle Entertainment Group.

Redistribution by print or by file is strictly prohibited.

Add 1 to all Page Number References to account for the cover of this Ebook.

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d dv

y y:

Fiction & A

entur

e b

out:

Editing & La

out:

CCo

er Art:

C Co

er Design:

Maps:

Worms!

Chapter One

When he felt the rumbling underfoot, Jonas first thought some

fool was trying his hand at mining again. Used to be there was

so much dynamiting going on in the area that the ground shook

constantly, but the shaking today was something altogether

deadlier. Jonas knew this was true when something thick and

sinuous snaked up the farmer’s left leg and began to squeeze.

One look at the snake-like thing sent his mind careening over

the edge of panic. His only thoughts became those of escape.

He lurched forward, but the creature’s grip was too strong to

break. Stumbling, he fell face first onto the hard desert soil. He

felt another one of those things wrap itself around his waist. He

was fighting to draw a breath as the restraints drew tighter.

Jonas managed to push himself to his hands and knees and

tried to crawl. A third creature seized him by the neck. Together,

the things began to pull him backward. Jonas fought to resist the

drag with all four limbs. The rocky ground tore at his clothing

and skin. Blood began to ooze from his hands and he felt at

least one of his fingernails snap off as he clawed at the dirt.

The thing around his neck had tightened, cutting off nearly all

his air. His struggles weakened as he felt himself losing

consciousness. Then he caught sight of his hoe off to his right.

If he could just catch hold of it, he could beat these things back.

He stretched his right arm toward the handle, but it was out of

reach. The old farmer knew the hoe was his last hope, so he

took a gamble and lunged forward.

He lost.

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Worms!

The grip on his leg tightened as he moved, pulling him off

balance. He collapsed once again to the ground. The strength

ebbed from his limbs. As he was dragged backward, Jonas barely

felt the hard, rocky soil he’d tilled for years scrape against his

face.

As his consciousness faded, he had the strangest sensation

of being pulled down.

Into darkness.

Chapter Two

It was like swimming upstream in a flood, but from

somewhere he found the strength to keep fighting. He could

almost feel the surface, it was so near. If he could shake off the

other’s grasp, even for only a moment, he knew he could break

free and escape. Reaching deep inside himself, he tapped into

reserves he doubted he’d touched in years and made one more

determined push. This time it was all or nothing.

Suddenly, the resistance broke. The freedom was so profound

it felt as though he floated up the last bit, separating him from

the outside. Slowly, his surroundings came into focus and Ronan

realized he was once again in control of his own body.

Immediately he felt the blasting heat of a desert sun at

midday. Squinting against a bright glare, he found himself

swaying groggily in a saddle atop a horse he didn’t recognize. He

was riding through rocky desert hills, but he had no idea exactly

which one. There were a lot of deserts in the West—all he knew

was that he was in one of them.

His mount was heading for a range of mountains, but Ronan

didn’t recognize any landmarks. He had no luck looking behind

either; a featureless plain of blistering dirt and rock stretched off

as far into the distance as he could see. Even the sun was no

help. Until later in the day, he wouldn’t even know what direction

he was riding.

Ronan finally accepted the fact he was lost, and began to take

stock of himself. There was a large, dried bloodstain on his

shirt. Ronan found no wound on his own body, but that didn’t

mean the blood wasn’t his. His undead body healed far faster

than a normal man’s, so it was possible he had been wounded

and already recovered. However, he found no hole or tears in his

shirt, so he suspected the blood belonged to someone else.

A quick check showed his pistol was loaded, but his cartridge

belt was nearly empty. He doubted the other had used the

rounds for plinking whiskey bottles. The missing bullets, the

bloodstain, and the unfamiliar horse seemed to indicate trouble

was somewhere out there in the desert behind him. Sure, it was

trouble the other thing had started—but that thing wore his face,

so it was his trouble now.

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Worms!

As always he had little recollection of what had happened

while the other had been in control. Only fragments of memory

remained, and those were filled with the sound of screams and

the smell of gunpowder. Whatever had happened, Ronan was

sure it had been bad. He also knew he’d best keep riding the

direction he was headed. His unwanted alter-ego had a strong

sense of self-preservation—it wanted to keep his body alive as

much as he did.

But, as they say, the Devil is in the details. While the creature

inside him cared about Ronan’s continued existence, it cared

little for those around him. For example, his “borrowed” horse.

The animal had been ridden hard without rest—days from the

looks of it. He could tell it would be lucky to make it another

mile before dropping out from under him.

As he dismounted, he considered that the other might have

let him regain control. After all, it looked like a long walk to the

next town, and he suspected the creature enjoyed the thought of

him stumbling across the rocky hills for days. Digging through

the saddlebags on the dying horse, he found another shirt. It was

dirty, but at least it wasn’t caked in blood. Unfortunately, there

was nothing else of value.

Well, Ronan thought as he drew his pistol, I might as well eat

first. Moments later, a single shot echoed across the low hills.

Chapter Three

It was a good three days later when Ronan walked into the

town. Calling it a town was a compliment—there weren’t more

than a dozen buildings and most of those looked to be private

homes. A sign on the outskirts proudly proclaimed “Welcome to

Hilton Springs” in peeling letters. Unfortunately, there was no

indication of the state. For all Ronan knew, he could be in Texas,

California, or Utah.

His feet were sore and his throat dry, but the town had the

one building he’d been hoping to find—a saloon. Named simply

“Daly’s,” the saloon was one of the few in the small community

that braved the heights above a single story. And, like every

other structure in Hilton Springs, it was only a short distance

from the edge of the town. At least he wouldn’t have to spend

too long on the street; a stranger walking into this isolated

hamlet from the desert was bound to raise some eyebrows.

Entering the saloon, Ronan fixed his eyes on the bar and tried

to ignore the other customers hiding from the heat of the day.

He crossed the open floor and pulled up a stool.

“Whiskey,” he said and dug into his pockets for the little

money he had left.

Whatever else happened, the other had spent most of his

money. Ronan had found he was down to less than five dollars.

Page 6

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