Deadbolt

[Supercape]

Reputation

Origin Vignette

Deadbolt

Edited Thursday at 08:05 PM by Supercape

[Supercape]

Reputation Table

 

Knowledge [History]

DC 15

Deadbolt is a quasi-mythological figure dating back from the 19^th Century, with sightings talking of a zombie hunting undead and other supernatural creatures.

DC 20

The rumours and stories originate from native American tales / shamanism.

DC 25

Deadbolt is attached to the moon (and moon gods). He is most frequently seen at full moon.

DC 30

Obscure texts and verbal histories refer to Rufus Redhill, a thief of the late 19^th Century, who lost his soul stealing an ancient cursed artifact. It was he who became Deadbolt.

 

Knowledge [Arcane]

DC 20

Deadbolt is a zombie who still has his soul, and can become almost living again.

DC 25

Deadbolt is particularly vulnerable to Native American Shamanistic Practices.

DC 30

A line of salt will keep away his bone – bolts.

Knowledge [Current Events]

DC 20

Deadbolt superspeeds across North and South America, generally seeming to prefer the wide open Praerie for his activity.

 

Knowledge [Theology and Philosophy]

DC 30

Some of the fragments of history and mythology indicate that Deadbolt has been empowered by a Lunar diety/dieties, an obscure one at that, that traces a line from Native American worship back to Mayan and Aztec cultures. 

Edited Thursday at 12:25 AM by Supercape

[Supercape]

The Origin of Deadbolt

 

Mid 19^th Century

 

Rufus Redwell sat outside the Saloon, scratching the white-flecked bristles on his chin, He was forty years of age, but looked and felt ten years older. Hard living will do that to a man. He didn’t drink; least, didn’t drink more than the next cowboy, he smoked in moderation, from a good pipe. Didn’t succumb to the poppy, either. But riding and camping and cold winters would take it out of a man.

 

He wasn’t the best cowboy, but it he wasn’t the worst neither. He could ride, he could shoot, he could manage a cow or a buffalo. But he wasn’t great at it; it didn’t come natural, like it did to some. But one thing he could do well was pick a lock.

He had been practicing since he was a kid. His father, a heavy drinking man with a big smile and, on occasion, a big fist, was a locksmith. His mother, a Navarjo woman with a penchant for fine clothes, encourage Rufus to take up the trade with his father.

 

Maybe he should have. But kids rebel, and Rufus was no exception. He could pick a lock like nobody else he knew. And that meant one profession, and one profession only. A thief.

 

And across a cobbled road stood a bank.

 

It was not the biggest or brightest bank in the country, or even the state. But Rufus did not care for those much anyhow. The Locks could be tricky, and the security more so. Best to aim only so high, lest one overshot. This bank looked antiquated, its paint chipped and sun-bleached, the wood splintered. Bored guards, smoking outside on regular breaks to ease their throbbing feet and full bladders. A teller inside who looked like he would run at the first sign of trouble.

Probably the manager upstairs, drinking fine whiskey in a leather chair.

 

The attraction of this bank was not merely its meagre security, but the whisper that someone – a scholar named Armitage – had deposited some “treasure” within the vault. Nobody knew what it was; perhaps Incan gold. Armitage was an antiquarian, by all accounts. A rich antiquarian, which, to Rufus mind, was the best type of antiquarian.

 

He stood up, kicked the dust of his worn boots and tapped the revolved slung at his hip. Hardly used, and he hoped to God that he wouldn’t need it today. But the West was still wild, and he would rather have a shooter than be without. You just never knew.

 

Not from the front, no. He had scouted the place – first thing a thief did. Back entrance was better than the front, but better still was the window on the first floor around the back. Climb up the tree, lean out, jimmy it open. Least, that was how he planned. Turned out the tree was half rotten. He put one foot through a lower branch, and crunched his tail bone on the fall.

 

He spat onto the earth, gritted his teeth, and got up again. Man got no business lying in the dirt and moping. That could come later, over a double whiskey. Climb again, balance… and this was the nerve-shredding bit; crawling along a creaking branch to the window. To his relief, it held his weight. Opening the window was a piece of cake in comparison.

Inside, the bank manager was drinking, like Rufus thought he would be. Reading a newspaper – fancy of him. His seat was wood, not leather, but still – Rufus had made a pretty good guess.

 

“What the darnation…” started the manager, dressed in crisp suit and white shirt. Rufus didn’t hesitate; cracked the man on the skull with the grip of his revolver. Guy went out like a light. Clearly bank managers weren’t made of the grit that cowboys did. Rufus didn’t feel bad; came with the job, violence. Besides, the man would live, and he was a bank manager. Not the kind of occupation that dressed you in sympathy. A priest, nun or doctor, maybe. Although in Rufus experience, maybe not, too. Every profession had a drop of cruelty.

 

He crept down stairs, each step creaking more than it should, more than he wanted. But turned out nonbody was paying much attention to the stairs. Some old lady complaining at the tellers desk. Good distraction.

 

Down to the back of the bank, and there it was. Forged steel, black, gold lettering. Looked pretty standard. Thick door, oiled hinges, and a sturdy deadbolt.

 

Deadbolt. He liked the name. Maybe he’d use it one day. Good name for a thief.

 

The tools of the trade, also known as lockpicks, did their work. Click-click click-whirr, and then the door was open, sliding open on the greased hinges with barely a groan. Rufus saluted his luck; today was a good day.

 

Or maybe not. The safe was empty.

 

But not quite. Empty of money, perhaps, but in the gloom and shadow, an artifact lay. The property, Rufus assumed, of the strange antiquarian Armitage. It was wooden, painted in whites and blues, almost ghost like in its appearance. Just under a foot high, its build human, its features fearful. A wide, circular mouth, toothless, wide eyes, angry. A pudgy nose and bush like hair. Hands large, with long nails.

 

With nothing else to show for the day, Rufus picked it up. Perhaps he could sell it to some professor or other fool. Maybe even ransom it back to Armitage. ‘Twould be a bitter pill to walk away from this day with empty purse.

 

As he picked it up, there was a soft zephyr of cold breeze. How? The rooms windows were closed, and the walls had no cracks. Then, the statuette turned to ash and dust, to ghostly white particles that slipped through his empty fingers.

 

Then, spectral laughter. From where? The corner, the roof, from the sky? No, from everywhere, ringing in his ears.

 

His skin turned taut, yellow, dead. He felt his face dry like bones, his flesh turn putrid before his eyes. ‘Twas as if his body had squeezed out his soul, leaving only a husk of a man. But a husk that moved!

 

A zombie!

 

In the blink of an eye he was at the window. Then, he hit the ground once more – it hurt less this time. Maybe not hurt at all. Screaming an unholy scream, he gazed at the moon above. A moon that drove its light into the ragged remains of his soul, that propelled him.

 

Deadbolt was dead, but also alive. His zombie flesh ran through the town and into the bleak prarie beyond, to the spectral world of ghouls, werewolves and ghosts.

[Supercape]

20 Questions – Deadbolt

Asked by the Moon itself, in a feverish dream. Or was it….?

 

1.      Where are you from?

Little town called Hawkwood, right in the middle of the States.

 

2.      How would you describe your appearance?

Weatherbeaten cowboy, dressed like a cowboy, acting like one too. Except, when my soul ain’t in my body, my flesh looks like a corpse and my eyes glow blue.

 

3.      Does your have any distinguishing speech characteristics?

Antiquated style of speakin’ and I spit and cuss, too.

 

4.      What is your mission?

Mine, is survivin’

 

But thing is, to survive, I need to protect the land from ghosts, ghouls, beasts and mean men. That’s cos I’m kinda dead, and its only my mission that keeps my alive.

 

5. What are your greatest strength?

               Speed. Fastest Zombie in the west.

 

6.      What is your greatest weakness?

Temptation’ – I cant look at a lock without wanting to pick it. Once a thief…

 

7.      How would you describe your mental and emotional state?

Cynical and bitter about life, but on the other hand, grateful to be alive at all.

8.      What do you fear the most?

Death (true type). Although less that I used to, since I’m kinda dead already.

 

9.      What is your greatest ambition?

Redemption and getting my soul back.

 

10.   How do you feel about the modern world?

People in it don’t know how lucky they are. Don’t have to fear hunger, cold, or a hundred and one types of illness.

 

11. Does you have any prejudices?

I grew up in a different time, ain’t going to be free of prejudice, but on the other hand I move with the time. Still got a hard time hittin’ a woman. But tell you one thing, even back in the day, I always thought the nig—the black people got a hard deal. Never liked that, but as you can see, I can slip up with my language, even if the spirit is willing.

 

12.   Where do your loyalties lie?

To myself. What other loyalty is there? End of the day, everybody is loyal to themselves first and only.

 

13.   Does your hero have a lover or partner?

Nope. Too free wheelin’ and too dead.

 

14.   Does you have a family?

No, and never will now. I hope.

 

15.   How would the people closest to you describe you?

Scoundrel. A no good scoundrel and a no good thief. But I never shot the sheriff, or his deputy.

 

16.   Are you a role model?

Only to thieves. Wouldn’t want any kid following in my dirty firststeps.

 

17.   How spiritual is your hero?

Mebbe I believe in Jesus. But he don’t believe in a rotten sinner like me, no matter what the priests tell you.

 

18.  Are you part of a team?

Mebbe. The Graveyard Shift, we might be callin ourselves. Bunch of creepy undead trying to make the world less awful.

 

19.  How does you feel about aliens and superheroes on earth?

Seems to me like a whole lot of sticks of dynamite in a smoking fire. Dangerous place to be.

 

20.  What are you going to do when you wake up?

Run across the prairie, hunting the undead. Keep going to till I forget this dream…