Cover Copy
WELCOME TO DAMNATION . . .
where every living soul is as dead as a doornail. Except one.
Buddy Baker is a dead man. Literally. After gunning down more men than Billy the Kid—and being hung by a rope necktie for his crimes—the jolly, fast-drawing fugitive reckoned he’d earned himself a nonstop ticket to hell. Instead, he finds himself in Damnation: a gun-slinging ghost town located somewhere between heaven and hell.
There are no laws in Damnation. Only two simple rules: If you get shot, you go directly to hell. If you stay alive without shooting anyone for one year, you just might get into heaven.
Hardened outlaws pass the time in the saloon playing poker and wagering on who will get sent to hell next, while trying not to anger the town’s reclusive vampire or the quarrelsome werewolves. Buddy winds up in everyone’s crosshairs after swearing to protect a pretty gal who arrives in Damnation pregnant. Her child might end up a warm-blooded meal for the supernatural residents, or it could be a demon spawn on a mission to destroy them all.
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Books by Clark Casey
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Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Dawn in Damnation
Clark Casey
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
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Copyright © 2017 by Clark Casey
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First Electronic Edition:
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0496-3
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0496-X
First Print Edition: October 2017
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0498-7
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0498-6
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
Many thanks for the support and advice of Jennifer Brinsdon, Daniel DeCicco, and my mother, and also for the copyediting of Patricia Abramo, Susan Forste, and Debby Schwartz.
Dedicated to my father.
May he find a cozy saloon in the afterlife where he can play cards.
Isaiah Berlin Quote
“Total liberty for wolves is death to the lambs.”
―Isaiah Berlin
Chapter 1
Fre…
“What happened?” asked the young man with a nickel-sized bullet hole in his temple.
“Well, what’s the last thing you remember?” I asked him.
“Was playin’ cards with some cowpuncher. Drew a flush, and he ’cused me a cheatin’. So I reached for my Colt. Reckon he did the same.”
“My guess is he was faster.”
The newbie had that stunned look they all got in their eyes when they first arrived. He was hardly old enough to grow a proper beard. Just another cowpoke born in a shitty little town who’d rustled some steer, made it with a few whores, then died over a two-dollar pot.
“So’s this hell?” His voice quavered. Probably already browned his britches with fear shit.
“Not quite,” I told him.
“Purgatory then?” He tried to put on a brave face.
“Kinda… the opposite, ’spose you could say.”
“Huh?”
“Well, imagine if you was like a stone in a creek bed. After you die, a panhandler scoops you up with a bunch of other muck and runs you through his sifter. All the stuff that falls through goes straight to hell. The rest gotta be cleaned off to see if it’s worth keeping. So you might say you’re just here till the panhandler finds out whether or not you got any shine to ya.”
“Is this hell’s sifter?”
“Folks call it Damnation.”
“Who’s the panhandler?” he asked, “God?”
“Dunno.” I shrugged.
He gave the room a squinty eye, trying to reckon if it wasn’t all just a dream. The Foggy Dew had the same creaky chairs and sticky tables you’d find in any other saloon, though a little less flair perhaps. No trinkets on the mantel, just a simple dusty place to drink. Some cried when they found out where they were. Others were overjoyed they hadn’t ended up someplace worse. The kid didn’t look too impressed.
“What’s there to do ’round here?” he asked.
“Drink, play cards… wait.”
“For what?”
“Till you go to hell, of course.”
“How’s that happen?”
“Get yourself shot again, you’ll likely find out. Otherwise, you could be here a spell.”
“How long?”
“Fella in the corner was at Valley Forge with General Washington. Most don’t last a year. Some don’t make it an hour.”
“Anybody ever come back from hell?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“How ya even know they got there?”
“Hmm… Have to ask Sal that one, when he’s got a moment.”
As the suppertime crowd shuffled in, Sal was busy filling glasses. The bar was lined three deep with bullet-ridden outlaws. One thing you couldn’t kill was a man’s thirst.
“Say, you got any whores ’round here?” the kid asked.
“Whores go to heaven.”
“Ain’t what churchgoers say.”
“Got some of them here.” I pointed to the neatly dressed folks playing gin rummy in the corner. “Least the outspoken variety.”
While we were chewing