Deadlands Tales: Revel in the Devil

The brothel wagon sat angled in the road, rear wheels sunk deep where cobblestone gave way to gravel and spore-thick mud. Rain came down steady—not hard, just persistent—each drop adding to the puddles pooling black between the stones. The air tasted of salt and rot, that coastal-marsh mix that never left the edge territories. Fungal growth clung to the wagon’s undercarriage, pale threads working into the wood grain, and the whole thing listed slightly to the left like it knew its wheels wouldn’t hold much longer.

Henarick stepped down from the back, boots finding the muck with a wet thunk. He scratched at his crotch through dirty black pants, fingers working the worn fabric as he looked up. Grey clouds hung low, rain sliding off his flat cap in steady streams that ran down the brass rims of his road goggles, over the rough pale skin of his jaw. Oak-brown leather backpack in his left hand. Right hand tugging his long black coat over his shoulder—leaving it open, dark brown vest and grey shirt underneath showing through.

He half-turned, head tilting back, rain running down the bridge of his nose. Blue eyes all charm and mischief caught the dim light. “That—Love, was a fine tussle.” His voice came out gravel wrapped in silk, rough edges smoothed by practiced delivery. “Fresher than some air filters too. If you’d been any louder, you might’ve summoned the dead.”

A giggle echoed back from inside the wagon, high and breathless. “You’d save me, Heni!”

The wagon lurched forward, wheels grinding through gravel. Henarick strapped his backpack across his shoulders, the weight settling familiar against his spine. Right hand reached back behind his coat, fingers finding the light metal half-mask hooked to his belt. Ugly thing. Functional. Wool, cotton, and burlap filters housed in slits along the face plate. Leather straps with a buckle. He brought it around, buckled it firm against his jaw and cheeks, the filters pressing against his mouth. Breath came harder now—filtered, mechanical. His right hand reached over his shoulder, pulled the dark grey scarf poking out of his backpack, tied it around his neck—loose knot, ends hanging down his chest. Wooden cane in hand. He started walking south.

The cemetery ruins sat on the horizon, jagged art deco spires poking up like broken teeth. Between here and there: salt marshes, ruined urban sprawl, fungal overgrowth clinging to every vertical surface. The air hung thick, wet, tasting of brine and spore. Henarick pulled his goggles down over his eyes, the world going amber-tinted through the scratched lenses. He scratched at the facial fuzz between goggle rim and mask edge, skin itching from the rain and pressure.

The edge of the mega-city ruin came into sight. Skeletal towers. Collapsed arches. Art deco facades crumbling into themselves, goth curves and geometric patterns half-eaten by fungal bloom. Like the bones of a dead god laid bare.

Henarick froze.

Ear catching something—movement. Light. Fast. Pat-pat-pat-pat in the wet drizzle, off to the right, moving east.

Cane came up in his right hand. He flipped it, catching the handle at the bottom, turning it into a club. Left hand peeled back his coat, palm resting on the grip of the long-barrel six-shooter holstered on his hip. Blue eyes scanning through amber-tinted lenses. Nothing visible. But I heard it.

The sound came again. Pat-pat-pat-pat. Fast. Light. Moving.

Henarick moved after it. Careful. Shadow-like. Keeping low. Downwind. Boots finding the puddles quiet, weight distributed, cane held ready.

He pressed against the corner of a desiccated art deco building. Goth arches overhead, hanging with fungal growth—long pale threads dripping with moisture, swaying slightly in the breeze. He braced his left foot, pressing hard against the wall, leaning forward. Peering slow around the corner.

Fifty meters ahead. Small frame crouched between two ruined cars in the street. Henarick glassed up, eyes scanning the building facades, the windows, the rooflines. Hmm.

He knelt. Slow. Gentle. Picked up a rock—fist-sized, wet, heavy. Gave it a toss. It hit a rust-crusted car with a dull clank, metal on metal.

The little frame jerked. Head snapping up, movements rapid, twitching. Curious. A soft guttural moan escaped its throat.

*Figured. Poor little shit. Howler.*

The child-infected gave a sudden jolt, a soft mangled wail escaping as it sprinted for a large building complex ahead. Feet spattering in the muck. Pat-pat, pat-pat-pat. Fast. Panicked.

Henarick turned, heading the other direction. “Nope.” He muttered through his mask, breath filtering out in short bursts. “A nest with a howler is usually a large one. And in this weather? That shit ain’t going to burn.”

Right hand slid the cane between his fingers, flipping it back into a walking cane. He kept moving.

The ruined urban landscape and salt marshes gave way to spore muck and mud roads as Henarick reached the cemetery edge. Rusted cars sat half-buried in fungal growth, metal frames completely overtaken, pale threads and blooms growing thick. Bare art deco buildings climbed higher in the distance, skeletal structures reaching up until the old skyscrapers poked out on the horizon like bones.

Henarick found a fire escape. Old metal frame, riveted joints, rust flaking off in his hands as he grabbed the lowest rung. He started climbing. The frame rattled with each step, groaning, bolts shifting in their housings. The whole thing swayed slightly as he ascended.

Dirty black boots sank into wet muck and gravel stone as he stepped onto the roof. Cane sinking in with a *shik*. Henarick looked east toward the coast, tracking the distance between the sun and horizon through the grey overcast. “Ah, still got hours. Excellent!”

He breathed deep through his mask, walking casual across the rooftops. Jumping the alley gaps—measuring distance, planting his lead foot, pushing off, landing solid on the other side. Walking across the art deco arches, boots finding purchase on wet stone and rusted iron frameworks.

The sounds of infected grew louder in the streets below. Deeper he went, the more they echoed up from the urban canyons. Henarick looked over the edge. Shufflers. Fumbling. Falling in the muck. Slow. Nothing to be careful about.

Then he noticed it.

Across the street. Mostly closed garage door. A door still boarded on the outside. Front window long smashed, iron bars holding boards that blocked the view inside.

“Oh. Yes.” Henarick mused, voice going gruff under his mask. “She’s beautiful. Wonder what’s under her skirt?”

He made his way across the buildings, moving further down until he could cross on an arch that spanned the street. Made his way back.

The ruined mechanic’s shop had no roof access except the fire escape—half-destroyed, hanging at an angle. Henarick went to spit. Stopped. *Oh, that would have been nasty.* He realized he still had his mask on.

He tested the fire escape. Gave it a shake. Metal groaned. Bolts shifted. “Well—if cooch and hooch didn’t come with a risk to a man’s life, no man would have motivation.”

Deep breath. He climbed onto the fire escape.

*By Alura’s short skirt, I swear if—*

A bolt gave. The fire escape lurched toward the opposite building, leaning hard against the wall with a metallic screech.

“FUCK ME!”

Henarick’s head banged against the rail with a dull clang. He caught himself sharp and quick, right hand pulling his revolver, left bracing against the twisted metal. He waited.

Three shufflers edged their way into the alley. Slow. Following the sound. Heads lolling. Arms hanging limp.

*No. Not yet.*

A Runner’s head popped around the corner. Jolted. Twitching rapidly in every direction. Fungus-covered hands gripping the corner, fingertips decayed to bone. It huff-barked at the shufflers, herding them forward into the alley.

*There you are.*

The Runner continued edging the shufflers forward. Slowly it passed underneath, head and ears scanning the alley, mycelium threads twitching along its neck and shoulders.

Henarick holstered his revolver. Passed his cane into his left hand. Right hand reaching back into his coat, fingers finding the grip of the short kopis sheathed at his back. He drew it slow—blade sliding free with barely a whisper of metal on leather.

The Runner passed directly beneath.

Henarick took his feet off the railing, sliding through the gap between twisted metal. Falling.

The Runner looked up right as Henarick crashed into it. Kopis burying in its head with a wet squelch and crunch, fungal matter splitting, ichor spraying. They hit the ground hard.

“Ahh. That hurt more than it should have.”

Henarick wheezed, picking himself up. Cane held by the club handle in his left hand. Short kopis in his right, ichor dripping from the blade. He took a fighting stance—feet shoulder-width, knees bent, weight balanced.

The shufflers moved into a heavy jog.

Henarick went low. Left hand reaching with the cane, hooking the first shuffler’s back leg, pulling. It fell forward, face-first into the muck. Kopis came down, splitting its head in one clean motion—blade biting through fungal growth and skull, stopping only when it hit wet stone beneath.

He pushed forward in the same motion. Shoulder barging the second shuffler. Right hand coming back across, blade cutting half through its right leg at the knee. Elbow cocked like a loaded gun, he drove the kopis tip into its face, blade punching through the eye socket. Stepped sideways.

Spun. Left arm out, cane hitting the third shuffler in the jaw with a dull crack. It fell sideways into the muck.

A second Runner doubled into the alley. Hearing the commotion. Snarling. Spitting. Mycelium threads along its arms twitching, sensing motion.

Henarick gave it a nasty look. Stomped on the back of the fallen shuffler’s head—skull crunching under his boot. Right hand still holding the kopis, he whipped his left hand up high. The cane made a sharp whistling sound—air rushing through the carved holes in the wooden handle.

The Runner skipped to a stop, following the sound, head jerking toward it.

Henarick’s right was already moving. Kopis flashed across. The Runner’s head folded backward at the neck, nearly severed, ichor running down its chest. The body slumped.

Henarick took a breath, checking himself over. “Nothing like a good bar fight.” He said, amused. “I’m sure you lads agreed.”

The back entrance to the mechanic shop had been knocked inward long ago. The door half-rotted to fragile chunks, resting in the muck at the bottom, lying flat on the floor inside. Henarick stepped to the corner of the doorframe. Shoulder braced against the wall. Listening.

Soft sounds of movement inside. Multiple sources. Shuffling. Dragging.

His eye peeked around. Pitch black.

He shifted back. “I’m no hunter, but a gentleman still has his methods.”

Henarick leaned his cane against the wall. Leaned forward, reaching around the doorframe, fingers finding the fungal growth clinging to the frame. He scooped ichor from the bloom—thick, creamy, sticky—brought it back around. *Thick and creamy, eh?*

Reaching into the front pouch on his belt, he pulled a small glass vial with a melt cap and a fuse. *Yes, this will do.*

Hand went into a side pocket in his coat. He pulled a pair of tongs with flint on one end, a metal striker on the other. Sharp squeeze. Click-click-click. Sparks took. The fuse caught, ember glowing.

He tossed it into the dark.

“Shame, really. Might have been some good stuff, but—”

The bottle of oil exploded with a sharp pop and *whoosh*. Flames caught the fungal ichor. The building roared. Screeching and crashing echoed from within. The shufflers in the street answered back—moaning, wailing, drawn to the sound.

Henarick retreated down the alley, cursing inwardly, grudgingly climbing another fire escape. He waited patiently on the roof of another building, watching the flames. Legs dangling over the side. Cane resting casually next to him. Watching the shufflers in the street edge toward the fire. Smirking at the occasional sound of roars and screeches as they caught flame.

Henarick looked to track the sun, looking east to the coast, then following the sky. “Ah, fuck. Dark soon.”

He stood. Headed for the fire escape.

Boots hit muck with a thunk. Henarick headed for the building—fire mostly burnt out now, still burning slowly in places, smoke rising in lazy columns. He slid his cane into a loop on his backpack, pulled his revolver with his left hand, keeping his kopis in his right. Stepped in.

A group of small infected lay in the office room, burnt to a crisp. Goblins had nested here—child versions of Runners, faster, meaner. The main area had burnt away the boards on the windows. Multiple shufflers lay against the bars, caught and half-cooked, fungal flesh charred black and splitting, ichor pooled beneath them.

“Well—I’d say that worked a treat.”

He spun, heading for a steel door that had held during the fire. Ear against the door. No sound of movement. He pulled the release lever. It didn’t budge. He yanked—hard. The lever groaned in protest, metal on metal grinding, slowly coming free. The door swung open fast.

Henarick fell inward into the garage with a yelp.

He blinked, lying on his back on the concrete floor. *Glad no one saw that. Guess it’s clear.*

He stood, dusting himself off. It was dark—only light coming from the door behind him. Henarick dropped to one knee, reaching into his belt, pulling a candle and the tongs. Click-click-click. The candle lit, flame flickering.

Henarick’s eyes bulged. A wicked grin spreading across his face beneath his mask. “By Alura’s short skirt bent in front of me, I do see the gate to utopia!”

He skipped forward. The old steam car sat rusted but looked to be in working order—with fixing. “Oh, the fun times you’ll bring—Wait!”

A shadow danced on the back wall in the candlelight. Two long vertical lines. Small horizontal lines in even spaces.

He went to the back wall opposite the door. A ladder. Leading up.

“OH, FUCK ME!”

He kicked the ladder. It rattled but held sturdy. He put the candle down, started climbing.

The roof access hatch refused to budge. Henarick braced with one arm, climbed another rung, used his legs to push. The hatch pushed through the roof muck with a *slooch*, air rushing in—fresh, wet, tasting of rain and spore.

“Should’ve checked, should’ve checked, should’ve checked… Fuck, Henarick. Amateur.”

He cursed himself. Instantly his mood perked up, remembering the treasure back down the ladder. He slid down, the light from the hatch giving a much better view now.

Someone had once lived here. Old bunk frame riveted to the wall, mattress long disintegrated into mold and rusted wire frame. Storage crates stacked against one wall. An old grated table with tools scattered across it—wrenches, screwdrivers, what looked like gun parts. And the prize: the old steam car.

Henarick stepped closer, candle held high. The flickering light danced across the machine like it was alive.

*Gods, she was a beauty once.*

Stripped-down chassis sitting on four sorry-looking wheels, most of the rubber long rotted away to cracked rings of canvas and wire. The ladder frame was still straight enough—heavy riveted steel with that old pre-Fall craftsmanship you just didn’t see anymore. But the bodywork was mostly gone, just a few twisted aluminum panels clinging on like dead skin.

He ran a gloved hand along the boiler. The copper tubing green with age, spotted with corrosion, patina thick in the joints. “Monotube flash boiler.” He muttered, tapping it with a knuckle. It gave a dull, healthy ring. “That’s something. Pressure vessel looks solid, but the superheater coils… half of ’em are split or missing. Gonna need fresh copper and a lot of swearing.”

Moving around to the rear, he crouched beside the furnace. The firebox was intact, but the grate had half-collapsed, metal bars bent and broken. The forced-draft blower was nowhere to be seen—just a rusted mounting bracket and a snapped drive belt hanging like a dead snake.

“Coal… probably both at some point. Shame the ash pan’s cracked clean through. Easy fix, but she’ll smoke like a bastard until I sort it.”

Henarick straightened, circling to the front again. The turbine housing sat proud behind the boiler, its casing dented but not breached. He gave the shaft a gentle wiggle. It turned with a gritty complaint—bearing surfaces grinding, dry, needing oil and cleaning.

“Impulse turbine, or close enough. Blades are probably chewed to hell inside, but the casing’s good. That’s the heart right there.”

His eyes drifted to the electric side of the beast—the part that made his grin widen like a madman. A heavy wooden crate bolted behind the driver’s seat was half-rotted, but inside he could see the dull gleam of big cylindrical capacitors. Oil-filled cans stacked in series. Some of the terminals were corroded solid, green and white crust built up thick. At least three cans had split their seams, electrolyte long leaked out into a sticky black crust on the floor.

“Bloody hell. Someone knew what they were doing.”

Dynamo still mounted on the turbine shaft. Commutator green but salvageable. The motors though…

He dropped to his knees, peering underneath. Two big series-wound traction motors sat on the rear axle. One looked mostly whole. The other missing its end bell and half its brushes. Wiring was a nightmare—brittle, cloth-insulated cables chewed by rats or time. Connectors either missing or fused into green lumps. The capacitor bank itself had clearly taken a hit. Several bus bars were snapped clean off.

Henarick stood up, brushing rust from his coat. Let out a low whistle.

“Alright, girl. You’ve seen better decades, though those wide wheels give you some nice curves. Boiler’s got potential. Furnace needs a full rebuild. Turbine wants new blades and bearings. And the electric side… well, half the capacitors are dead, the motors are half-gutted, and the wiring looks like it lost a fight with a blender.”

He patted the rusted hood affectionately, already seeing her roaring back to life in his mind—steam hissing, capacitors crackling, that beautiful hybrid snarl when the electric motors kicked in.

“But you’re mine now. And I’ve got time. Lots of time.”

Henarick blew out the candle, tucked it away, headed back toward the ladder with a spring in his step he hadn’t felt in months. The sun was dying outside, but down here in the dark garage, something had just been born again.

He paused at the bottom rung, glancing back at the silent machine.

“First things first… we’re getting you some new wheels and a name. Can’t have a legend without a proper name, can we?”

Henarick looked around the garage. Dusty workbenches. Tool racks half-empty. Old grease stains on the concrete floor, patterns where other equipment used to sit. “I’ll be stuck here a while. Guess this place is now home. Let’s get started.”

He pulled the metal door shut with a groan, metal scraping on the frame. Reset the lever to lock. The mechanism clicked into place.

The soft hum of a very happy man echoed out into the deadlands.

Fin.