World Ender
By Hazel B. West
(Based on the song “The World Ender” by Lord Huron)
The sun set over the desert.
Wyatt Conners, the newly-minted marshal leaned against his shovel as he stared at the three freshly dug graves in the ground. The light of the setting sun caused the three wooden crosses to cast ominous shadows across the turned dirt. He reached up and rubbed his face with a dirty hand.
“D— shame,” he muttered to his deputy. The words meant nothing, they couldn’t express what he felt about the death of his former partner and Morgan’s family.
The other man nodded and took the shovel from Conners, giving his shoulder a brief pat in solidarity before heading off back to the wagon. There wasn’t even a house left, only smoldering wreckage. The smoke was still cloying and heavy in the air.
Conners took off his hat and glanced at the graves again.
“I’ll get him, Matt. That’s my vow to you.” It was all he could do, and it wasn’t enough.
He turned around and headed for his horse.
Night fell on the three graves.
*
He woke to darkness.
Matthew Morgan pulled air into his lungs, no more smoke there to choke him. His hand grasped at his chest, feeling the dry, tacky blood and the hole where the bullet had struck him, ending his life as memories flashed behind his eyelids…
Morgan and Conners watched as the man dropped through the gallows. Thomas Mayhew. They’d spent the better part of a month tracking down the Mayhew gang, and finally caught the younger of the two brothers. It was a good day seeing him on the gallows.
“I don’t usually say this, but I’m not at all sorry to see him go,” Conners said quietly to the marshal.
Morgan nodded in agreement.
“After the murders…what he did to those women…” Conners shook his head, trailing off as the two solemnly remembered the horrors they had seen during their investigation.
As the hanged man’s struggling ceased to twitches, Morgan’s eyes shifted over to where Cyrus Mayhew was standing off to one side with the rest of his crew. It was only technicality that they weren’t all hanging for the crimes of the boss’s younger brother.
“You think he’ll make trouble,” Conners said. It was not a question.
Morgan’s jaw was set. “Wouldn’t you if it was your brother with a necktie like that?”
Conners shook his head. “I hope I never see the day I have a brother like that.”
Mayhew’s eyes met Morgan’s across the square and there was darkness there, a promise.
Yes, Morgan was certain he would make trouble. It was only a matter of when and where.
Morgan’s eyes were blurry at first, but he blinked to clear them, trying to see his surroundings, make sense of them. Stars swirled unnaturally overhead, a dizzying vortex. It was like nothing he had ever seen before.
He slowly sat up, hands pressing into the ground, fingers digging into the sand underneath of him, finding some comfort in something solid.
Where was he?
Morgan parted with Conners and rode back to his farm for the night. He put his horse away and entered the house through the kitchen.
Madeline stood at the stove, not having heard him come in. Morgan smiled and crept up behind her, snagging her around the waist.
She startled before she realized it was him and giggled. “Matt, don’t scare me like that!”
“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” he said and leaned over to kiss her jaw tenderly.
She smiled but extricated herself from his arms gently. “Supper will burn if you keep that up. Go clean up, it’s almost ready.”
“Where’s Sarah?”
“In the parlor. Can you tell her to get ready for supper?”
Matthew left the kitchen and entered the parlor to see a beautiful blond girl sitting on the floor playing with her dolls. She looked up when he came in and shot to her feet.
“Papa! You’re home!”
He caught her and swung her up into his arms. “That’s right, and it’s time for supper. Let’s both go get washed up, or your mama will be mad at us.”
She giggled and Morgan forgot for a moment about the hanging and the trouble that Cyrus Mayhew was planning.
Morgan continued to stare around the strange place, until he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. He spun back around to see what it was.
A figure stood about ten yards off, back turned. It was a man, dressed in black, long coat billowing in a breeze that Morgan couldn’t feel, dark hair tossing, giving him a wild and eerie look.
Morgan scrambled to his feet.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice trembling.
“Who am I?” the dark figure answered. His voice was low, gravely and monotone.
A chill went through Morgan, only heightened as the figure continued to speak, his back still turned.
“My friends call me Wrath.” The voice carried easily through the night and though there was a steady wind, it made no sound, yet somehow its silence fit with this strange place out of time.
“My enemies,” the figure continued. “They call me, ‘no, stop, please have mercy’.” The figure began to turn, head low. “But they all agree that I am Vengeance.”
He turned fully and lifted his head.
Morgan staggered back with a cry caught in his throat. The figure’s eyes glowed with an unnatural light.
This was no man.
They came at dawn. Morgan had only just gotten up, leaving Madeline sleeping in bed with a soft kiss to her cheek before he dressed and went to the stables.
His horse nickered, the only warning his got before the barrel of a gun pressed into his ribs.
“Don’t move.”
He thought about reaching for his own gun, but this close, there was no way he would get out without taking a bullet. So instead, he raised his hands.
Another man came up and grabbed his gun from its holster. They were both Mayhew’s, Morgan recognized them.
“What is this? What do you wan—”
He was hit over the head and fell unconscious into a pile of hay.
*
He came to to the smell of smoke on the wind.
Morgan crawled to his feet and rushed out of the barn, staggering and catching himself on the doorframe as he caught sight of his house.
“No. NO!” he screamed.
He ran toward the blaze. “Madeline! Sarah!”
Someone intercepted him, and he recognized the figure as one of Cyrus’ men. He fought, but he was caught from behind by another and before he could fight them off again, the butt of a rifle planted itself in his stomach, folding him over.
They dragged him to where Cyrus Mayhew was standing off to one side, watching the house burn. Morgan could only stare at him in helpless fury.
“We got him, sir.”
Mayhew finally looked up at Morgan, holding a gun in his hand.
“Why are you doing this, Cyrus?” Morgan demanded. “They did nothing to you! Where is my family?!”
“You know why,” Mayhew said.
“Revenge?” Morgan cried. “Your brother was a bad man and he died for his crimes. He was a loose cannon that would have given you trouble in the long run. You know that.”
“He was still kin,” Mayhew said simply. “And you know how it works, Marshal. An eye for an eye.”
The other men were adding more torches to the fire even though it was already blazing. Morgan saw the doors and windows boarded up. Anyone in that house would have no chance of escaping.
He fought the grip the men had on him.
“Mayhew! Don’t do this! Not like this! You want satisfaction? I’ll give it to you.”
Mayhew simply smiled. “No. It’s easier to do it like this. And really, as you can see, it’s too late for your precious wife and daughter.”
“Madeline! Sarah!” Morgan screamed before he was hit across the back of the head again.
Dazed, he was shoved to his knees by the lackeys and could only watch helplessly, struggling, as his house burned down before his eyes. The roof caved in with a huge crack and plume of flame. He could feel the heat from where he sat, desolate.
Cyrus reached down and yanked the marshal star off of Morgan’s vest, throwing it away in the dirt.
“I’m the only law in this town, son. Too bad it took you this long to realize that.”
Morgan fought, but Cyrus pointed the gun at him coldly and squeezed the trigger.
A shot rang out and Morgan was slammed back into the dirt. Everything was numb and stained red. He gasped, but only choked on blood that bubbled up from his lungs. Smoke filled the air and he could only watch through tear-filled eyes as his house burned to the ground.
Then it was only darkness.
“What is your name, boy?”
Morgan tried to find his voice, his heart beating quickly in his chest…or, no…it wasn’t. It should have been, but there was nothing there after all.
And it was then he finally realized that he was dead.
“What is your name?” the dark figure asked again.
Morgan wet his lips. “Matthew Morgan,” he finally managed. “Are—what are you? Some sort of devil?”
The man—thing—smiled as if amused but didn’t answer his question. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is why you are standing here right now instead of moving on. You have unfinished business, Matthew Morgan. And I mean to help you finish it.”
“Cyrus Mayhew,” Morgan said, a growl in his voice.
The being inclined his head in acknowledgement. “What happened to you and your family was not right. He must be taken down.”
“How do I do it?” Morgan asked. “I mean…I’m—I’m dead, aren’t I?”
The man-shaped thing cocked his head to one side. “You are in between. That is what this place is. Between time and space. Life and death.”
Morgan glanced up at the swirling stars again and shivered. “Send me back.”
“I can do that. I can send you back to get your revenge. But you have to understand that there will be conditions.”
“What conditions?” Matthew demanded.
“You will live, but it will not be a mortal life. If I send you back, you will be my earthly messenger. You will do work in my name—Vengeance.” His eyes glowed again as he said it. “You will never bleed. You will never age, and you will never again feel the embrace of the grave. Your purpose will be to see that everyone who was involved with killing your family pays their dues.”
Morgan straightened his shoulders. “And what happens then?”
The being cocked his head. “When you finish your calling, I will come to you again and I will have a question to ask. It is up to you what you say then.”
Morgan remembered Mayhew’s face as he watched his men set fire to his house. How the man had coldly put a bullet into Morgan’s chest.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
The being nodded, as if having expected the answer all along. “Then go back, Matthew Morgan.”
He reached out and grabbed Morgan’s wrist. His grip burned white hot, the same as the being’s eyes, and Morgan cried out as he felt an unnatural sensation tugging him forward…
His fist punched through the dirt as if yanked upright by a terrific force and he shoved his way through the loose soil, gasping for breath.
He squeezed through the dirt and collapsed onto the ground, rolling over onto his back to look up at the sky, panting.
Moonlight beamed down on him, and the stars were overhead, no longer swirling.
He was back.
He sat up, and looked at the grave he had crawled out of. There were two others beside it.
He pulled himself to his feet and stood in front of them.
“He’ll pay for what he did,” he whispered to Madeleine and Sarah. “I’ll be sure of that.”
His wrist stung in the cool night breeze and Morgan glanced down, yanking his sleeve up to see a burn mark in the shape of a handprint wrapped around his wrist. A shiver went down his spine, but one of anticipation, not fear.
He touched his fingers to his lips and then pressed the tips to each of the crosses before he turned around and strode off through the desert.
*
There was one light on in the house when Morgan rapped on the door. He heard the sound of feet striding across the floor before the door was opened.
Conners’s figure was silhouetted in the dim light from further in the house, the outline of a gun in his hand at his side, but even in the shadows, Morgan could see his face was white as a sheet.
“Holy—” Conners choked out then stopped as if realizing there was nothing at all holy about the man standing in front of him.
“Hello, Wyatt,” Morgan said, stepping forward.
Conners’s gun went up, hand shaking in a way Morgan had never seen before from his stoic partner.
“Y-you’re dead.”
“Not anymore.”
“I buried you!”
“Yeah, and I came back,” Morgan said, reaching out and gripping the other man’s wrist, pushing the gun down. “And I need your help.”
*
Conners was still pale as they sat at the table, cups of coffee in front of them. Morgan didn’t drink his, but he wrapped his hands around it, using the warmth to remind himself that he could feel something.
Conners ran a hand over his face as Morgan finished explaining what had happened.
“I don’t even know what to say. You know how crazy that sounds right? And yet, you were dead. I buried you myself.”
Morgan nodded and rolled up his sleeve, showing the strange handprint burn there. “It was real, far as I can tell. Trust me, I’m just as much in shock as you are.”
Conners took a deep breath. “So it’s all on you then? Taking out Cyrus?”
“Not yet,” Morgan said darkly. He’d thought about it on the way here and had decided exactly how he was going to go about this. “I want him scared. I want him to know what’s coming. I’m gonna take out his men one by one until he’s the only one left. Then I’ll come for him.”
Conners shuddered as if he saw something in Morgan’s face that scared him. And he probably did.
“Then when do we start?”
“Right now,” Morgan said and stood up from the table. “I’m gonna need some guns and ammo.”
Conners nodded and went to his own gun cabinet. He returned with the weapons and bullets, then reached up for the star on his vest, unpinning it. “Here, this is yours…”
“Keep it,” Morgan said. “I don’t operate by that law anymore. I’ve been sworn in by another.”
Conners swallowed hard and repined the star. “Matt. I’m sorry.”
Morgan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded, and picked up a Colt Lightning from the table, shucking a bullet into the action with a swift, one-handed, practiced jerk. “Someone’s gonna be sorry.”
Then he walked out the door, leaving his partner behind with an unreadable expression on his face.
*
The saloon wasn’t very full this time of night but there were still a few men in there.
Among them, several of Mayhew’s men.
Morgan and Conners stood outside, watching through the window as the sound of rowdy speech echoed out into the night.
“What’s the plan, Matt?” Conners asked, taking his pistol from his belt.
Morgan simply walked forward the kicked the door in.
As the door crashed off its hinges, the saloon became silent, and everyone looked up to see Morgan standing there, Conners appearing behind him a second later.
It took only a second for the occupants to recognize him.
“M-Marshall Morgan,” the bartender breathed. “I—I thought you were dead…Mr. Conners said…”
The men from Mayhew’s gang were already getting up, reaching for weapons.
“Matt—”
Conners’s warning came a second after Morgan started moving. He spun, bringing the Colt up and firing off a shot, hitting one of the men directly in the chest, sending him falling backwards over a table.
Two more came up, launching themselves at him, and Morgan turned to slam the butt of the gun into one of their heads, while the other came at him with a knife.
The knife struck Morgan between the ribs and stuck there as he staggered backward from the blow.
Everyone in the saloon stopped what they were doing. Mayhew’s man stared at the knife, for a long second, then his eyes slowly turned upward to Morgan’s face, confused at the fact that he hadn’t fallen over yet.
Morgan felt the blow, but the pain was minimal. He simply smiled and reached down to yank the blade from his body. No blood spilled out. He didn’t have a beating heart. How could he bleed?
Mayhew’s man turned white as a ghost. He took a staggering step back, his knees buckling in fear, as Morgan thrust the knife into the man’s chest. He choked, and collapsed, twitching slightly.
Morgan then turned to the man he had knocked down and dragged the terrified human to his feet.
“W-what are you?” he trembled.
“I am Vengeance,” Morgan said and, though he didn’t know it at the time, his face turned to a grotesque visage of a skull, eyes deep and dark and empty. “Tell Cyrus Mayhew I’m coming for him.”
The man fainted dead away, and Morgan dropped him to the ground with a thud. He turned to the bartender, tipped his hat. “Sorry for the mess.” Then he walked out of the saloon into the night, leaving behind the stunned patrons and his rattled partner.
*
The next night, Matthew Morgan once again took his gun and went hunting.
He found more of Cyrus’s men in town. He shot all but one, leaving him to send the warning to Mayhew.
Conners didn’t come with him that night, and Morgan didn’t ask him to. This was his mission. This was his vendetta.
And he was getting closer every day to his final target.
*
Cyrus Mayhew was terrified.
He would never show it, but he was. Over the last few days, he had woken up to news of more and more of his men dead, but always one left to tell some horrifying tale that Marshall Morgan had climbed out of his grave and was out for vengeance.
A rational part of Cyrus told him not to believe that, but another part, the part that told him something was not at all natural about this, reminded him that he shouldn’t be so quick to judge.
He was waiting for his right-hand man, Smollett, to come back from the bank. He was leaving town—it seemed like the smartest thing to do considering the circumstances—but it was already dark, and Smollett had yet to return.
That was when he heard a hue and cry from the town.
Cyrus raced out to see what was going on, and saw the townsfolk gathered around a skittish horse that they were trying to stop. He pushed forward just as someone caught hold of the beast, and hauled a body off of it.
It fell at Cyrus’s feet.
It was Smollett.
His eyes were open and staring in some unseen terror and a knife was stabbed through his chest, pinning a note to him.
You can’t run from me, Cyrus.
Cyrus Mayhew felt a chill go down his spine as if someone had walked on his grave.
“Look!” someone shouted.
Everyone turned to look at the hills outside the town, where a fire had burst into life. A fire in the shape of the letter M.
Cyrus didn’t know if it was for Morgan or Mayhew, but it didn’t really matter. The meaning was still the same.
His knees felt weak as he raced back to his house to pack.
*
Cyrus Mayhew came in the door to see the dark figure standing in the corner.
He cried out, as Morgan appeared from the shadows, eyes flat and dark, a knife held casually in his hand.
“Please…no…” Cyrus said, cowering backward.
“You didn’t give my family that mercy,” Morgan said in a dark tone. “Why should I give it to you?”
Cyrus was shaking, but he still managed to snatch the revolver from his holster and empty all six bullets into Morgan’s chest.
The man—or whatever he was now—barely took a step back. In fact, he took a step forward. Toward Cyrus.
The man fell backwards, throwing his gun in desperation as terror washed over him like a cold rain.
Morgan grabbed his outstretched arm and snapped his wrist in one swift, inhuman move. Cyrus screamed as he was wrenched around and slammed against the wall. Morgan’s other hand was around his throat, raising him up until his feet no longer touched the ground.
Cyrus choked, grasping at the clenched fist with his good hand, vision darkening.
And that was when Morgan released him, letting him drop to his feet and slamming him back against the wall with a hand to his chest.
“Please,” Cyrus gasped. “Just let me go. I’ll…I’ll give you anything.”
“You already took the only thing I ever wanted,” Morgan snarled and his face contorted into the image of a skull. Cyrus screamed and then cried out again in shock as Morgan slammed the knife he had been carrying into the palm of Cyrus’s good hand, pinning him to the wall.
“I’ve come to make you pay for what you took,” Morgan said, and reached into his pocket.
Cyrus watched in eye-widening terror as Morgan lit a match and threw it onto a pile of kindling he had left in the darkness of Cyrus’s house. It lit with a whoomp and Morgan watched it for several seconds before he turned back to Cyrus.
“You had better hope I don’t see you again the other side of hell,” he said then strode out the door.
The last thing Cyrus heard was the sound of nails being driven into the doorjamb and then the pounding of horse hooves leaving the property.
After that it was just flames.
*
Matthew Morgan stood beside the graves in his backyard. Two still occupied, one not.
He thought of crawling back into it. Perhaps that was what he was supposed to do, now that his vengeance had been realized.
An unnatural silence stole across the night and Morgan felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. He turned and saw the dark figure who had sent him back.
“I finished,” Morgan said. “He’s dead. They’re all dead.”
“I know,” the being said, looking up with his eerie eyes, seeming to be cast in more shadow than was normal, the tails of his coat playing around his ankles in a nonexistent breeze. “I came to offer you a deal.”
“I thought you already offered me one?”
“An opportunity then,” the dark man said, cocking his head. “To continue your work. Vengeance does not reach everyone it should. It has been a long time since I’ve had a messenger to do my work for me. This world is full of pain and suffering and people who cannot help themselves.”
“And I can help them?” Morgan asked.
A small smile quirked the being’s lips. “Yes. Is that what you would like to do?”
Morgan thought, staring back at his empty grave. He could take peace in death, or he could help others in the same position he had been in.
He turned to the dark figure beside him and gave one small nod. “I will do it.”
The figure inclined his head. “Then go, Bringer of Vengeance, Ender of Worlds. Do my work.”
And Morgan tipped his hat, and climbed into his saddle and as the sun rose, he rode off into the desert, the Bringer of Vengeance and Ender of Worlds.
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