ASHES OF THE DEAD:
BUCKET OF BLOOD
A
novel by
Jake Miller
eBook edition
v1.0
Ashes
of the Dead: Bucket of Blood. Copyright © 2014 by Jake Miller.
All
Rights Reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This
is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or
undead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Cover
design by Andrew Kightlinger.
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Chapter 2: The Rising Dead
Near the
outskirts of the Washoe village, an old woman scraped bits of dried meat and
hair from the surface of a stretched deer hide that had been staked in the
ground. The sun would soon turn this hide into leather, which the tribe needed
for a number of things. She moved loose strands of hair from her forehead and
tucked them behind her ear as she continued her work. Her years were beyond
count and her tender hands showed many signs of aging, but the Washoe people cherished
all who worked hard under the burning sun. As she reached for a sharp bone
tool, something caught her eye, a Washoe warrior riding slowly into the
village. He was hunched over and clutched his stomach, and blood oozed between
his clenched fingers. Two other men saw him and came running out of the
village. The old woman watched the rider lose consciousness and fall from his
horse as the two men rushed passed her. The three of them ran to the warrior’s
aid and carried him into a nearby hut. The old woman sent a small boy to fetch
the shaman, a healer whose skill had earned him great admiration among the
Washoe people.
Word soon
reached Essa-queta about the injured warrior and he rushed into the healer’s tent
to speak with him. The warrior had left with Essa-queta’s son, who hadn’t yet
returned to the village. The pale warrior lay on his back, and breathed hard
from the loss of blood. The old woman dripped cool water on his forehead as she
attempted to break his fever.
Essa-queta
kneeled down next to the warrior. “What happened?” he asked, placing a hand on
his shoulder. The warrior looked at Essa-queta with fear in his eyes. He was
afraid to tell the Chieftain what had happened, but knew that these might very
well be his last moments alive.
“We confronted
the white men.” He said, and then coughed up blood and wrenched painfully. The
woman leaned forward and wiped his mouth. The pain from his wound was getting
worse and it was becoming harder to speak. “They attacked us…” he took a few
deep breaths, “…and we had no time to react.”
Essa-queta
lifted the bandage from his wound and inspected the damage. It was a clean
bullet hole that passed all the way through his abdomen. It was a slow bleed,
but one that would never stop. He could already smell death on him. The old
woman shook her head as he looked to her. Even with all his skill, this was
something the shaman wouldn’t be able to heal. The warrior tried to sit
upright, but the pain was too much for him to bear and he fell back onto the
floor mat.
“Where is Itza-chu?”
the chieftain asked.
The warrior
winced and coughed up more blood. He was trying his best to speak but the pain
was overwhelming.
“Where is my
son?” he asked again, and became fearful from what the warrior might tell him.
“He was shot…by
the white men. He tried to fight them back and they shot him again.”
Essa-queta grabbed
the warrior’s hand and braced himself against the bad news that he hoped he
would never hear about his oldest child. “He's dead,” the warrior murmured.
The warrior’s
head fell back as he passed out from pain and blood loss. Essa-queta stared
blankly at the floor. A few moments passed before he was able to rise to his
feet. He stepped back in shock and left the warrior behind inside the hut.
He passed by
several people in complete silence as he walked to the edge of the village. The
day had grown hot as the sun moved across the sky, but Essa-queta could feel
his skin tighten and a cold chill moved across his shoulders and down his
spine. His jaw tightened in a spasm as he fell to his knees, overwhelmed by the
cruel agony that this news had brought him. His hands began to shake
uncontrollably as he held back tears, so he clenched his fists and pounded them
into the dirt, trying to beat the pain from his soul. Again and again he threw
his fists against the ground and yelled from despair.
His loss turned
to misery. And his misery turned to anger, a deep anger that boiled over and
exploded out of him. “Fools!” he
yelled as he threw his head back and screamed at the gods. “Fools…”
• • •
The sun drifted
smoothly behind white cloud banks that had steadily grown across the sky all
afternoon. Rebecca Forred drove a small horse-drawn cart down a winding dirt
road outside of town. The cart rattled as the wheels jumped back-and-forth
between ruts in the road, and shook Rebecca forcefully in the spring-loaded
driver’s seat. She passed by the cemetery and snapped the reins to urge the
horses onward. The cemetery had always made her uneasy, especially when she was
alone. Thunder rolled in the distance and it began to rain as she cleared a
small hill and turned down a long driveway after she passed a sign that read: Doctor’s Office, this way. It was a
crudely drawn hand with an outstretched finger that pointed down the driveway
toward a white two-story house with blue shutters. A beautiful green garden was
nestled next to the house behind a white fence, surrounded at the base by
chicken wire.
She pulled the
cart up to the barn and tied the horses to a bright blue railing with steel
rivets that held it in place. The barn was less than a year old, constructed of
heavy pine and cedar, and was something that the good doctor had paid a high
price for to please his wife. She pulled the supplies down from the driver’s
seat and walked toward the house. As she approached the front door, a greasy
miner exited the office. He held his jaw and moaned in pain as he stumbled to
his horse. She paid no attention to the man and stepped inside the door. After
passing through the waiting area, she entered a cramped office in the back.
The room was
small and smelled like cheap disinfectant. A pair of steel pliers rested on a
metal tray next to a freshly pulled bloody tooth on a white piece of gauze, the
cause of the miner’s pain. Her husband, Dr. Andrew Forred, was sitting at his
desk, with his glasses perched on his nose and busily writing in a notebook. He
was only a man of forty, but Andrew looked old and worn as he sat hunched over
at his desk. These last few years had been hard on him.
Andrew briefly
peered above his glasses at his wife, and then continued writing. “How was
town?” he said, never taking his eyes off the notebook for more than a few
seconds at a time.
“Fine. I ran
into a man on the street today. He was quite unsavory.”
“That's nice
dear,” he commented, obviously not listening to her. He continued taking notes
and pushed his glasses back up his nose. Rebecca had tried in the past to
understand her husband, always finding new things that they could talk about.
But lately he had grown more and more despondent, and used his work as an
excuse to spend time away from her. When they moved out west to Virginia City
he had promised her a life on the prairie. It was something she had dreamt about
since she was a little girl. But the town had grown three-fold since gold and
silver were found here nearly two years ago, and Andrew couldn’t keep up with
the demand.
“How was your
day in the office?” she asked him.
“Like any other
I suppose,” he said, without ever putting down his pen.
Rebecca stared
at him and wondered if he cared that she was even home. She turned and walked
through a side door and stepped inside the house. After placing the supplies on
the kitchen table she walked into the bedroom and unzipped her leather boots,
and then kicked them across the room. She slipped off her stockings and rubbed
her toes deep into a thick soft rug in front of the bed. After she changed into
a silk blouse and an old pair of jeans, she walked back downstairs barefoot and
put the supplies away in the pantry, a large bag of raw flour and sacks of dried
beans. She made herself a glass of sweet tea and stepped out onto the back
porch to watch the sunset. Her husband was still working as she took a moment
by herself to reflect on her thoughts. Thin folds of gray clouds were moving in
from the North, trailing a black curtain of rain beneath them. She watched as
her horses grazed peacefully in the back pasture, and sipped her tea as a flash
of lightening cut across the front of the incoming storm.
• • •
The sky grew
dark above the Washoe village as a young boy ran down a dirt path and carried a
dried deer bladder full of water. He left the village and turned a sharp corner
by a large Oak tree, half dead from a bolt of lightening. He hurdled over a
broken rock and sloshed water on the ground, and then turned on the path to a
steep hill, which he dashed over in a few quick steps. He continued down the
hillside into a deep ravine and turned into a clearing. In front of him sat a
large round hut with thick smoke pouring ominously from several holes in the
roof. He paused at a distance to catch his breath and stole a sip of water from
the bladder.
Two Washoe men
stood on either side of the door, one tall and the other surprisingly fat for
what little he ate. They stood guard and held long sharpened spears at their
sides, but neither had ever seen a real battle. The boy approached them
cautiously and coughed to make sure that they weren’t caught off guard in the
growing darkness. He handed the tall Washoe man the bladder of water, and then
stood in front of the door waiting to see inside. The fat one stepped in front
of him with his spear held out, ready to back hand him if needed.
“Go back!” he
scolded. He was deadly serious and glared at the boy. “Go!” He waved his hand,
trying to scare him away like a stray dog.
The boy waited
for a moment longer, but soon realized that the two men were nothing but
serious. He knew that he had to become a man before he could take part in these
sacred rituals. His father had warned him that only men who were trained in the
ancient ways could witness them without having their eyes plucked from their
sockets. So he finally relented and ran back over the hill and turned toward
the village where he belonged.
The tall man
opened the leather door of the hut and stepped inside. A great fire burned
brightly at the center, surrounded by smooth stones that had shallow
depressions carved into their surfaces. It was very hot and humid inside the
hut, which was used as a ceremonial sweat lodge. It took a moment for his eyes
to adjust to the darkness as he stood by the door waiting. From behind the fire
he heard shallow and guttural chanting, the droning of spiritual incantations.
His eyes
finally adjusted and he saw a very old man sitting on the ground on the other
side of the fire. His eyes were closed as he waved his hands through the air. A
large white buffalo skull sat atop his shaved head and his face was painted
half red and half black, with several small animal skulls strung around his
neck. The shaman was known to many as a spiritual healer and highly regarded
among the Washoe people, but some also feared him as a dark magician who could
speak with the dead.
The man bent
over and poured water into the depressions on the hot stones, which steamed and
hissed, throwing more humidity into the air. He stepped back and watched the
shaman, mesmerized by his words.
“Daednuae mortui
unstae, daednuae mortui unstae. Estan id a daednuae. Daednuae mortui unstae,
daednuae mortui unstae,” he chanted in a tongue that the man had never heard
before, an ancient language that only a handful remembered, and even fewer
dared to speak.
The fire seemed
to grow larger in front of the Shaman. It turned a deep shade of red and spit hot
embers into the air. He threw his hand into the hot flames and held it above
the smoldering coals, but they did not burn him. As he held it there, the fire
turned from red to bright purple and he withdrew his hand from the flames. His
incantations became faster and faster, his arm movements more pronounced. “Daednuae
unstae! Daednuae unstae!” he said as he started to shake and sway
back-and-forth with his arms high in the air.
Fear crept
inside the man and he dropped the bladder, threw back the leather door, and ran
out of the hut as fast as he could. The other man followed behind him and ran up
the hill as fast as his fat legs could carry him, and they both disappeared
into the darkness.
The clouds grew
dark in the sky as it started to rain. Strange blue lightening cracked and
illuminated the village below in a thin halo of light. As the foul clouds
twisted and churned into a mass of evil, a cold wind began to blow and the
cruel hand of the devil reached down from the sky. As his finger touched the
ground, the Shaman grew louder and louder.
“Daednuae
unstae! Daednuae unstae!!” He threw his arms to one side and then the other. His
body shook violently. Lightening cracked again, now purple and orange. The
Shaman stopped, frozen in place at the end of his evil prayer. He opened his
eyes, which had turned completely white.
“Daednuae--, daednuae--, daednuae--,”
he repeated over and over, stuck in a trance. He had become a conduit of pure
evil and had brought forth terrible sin upon the earth.
• • •
The pouring
rain had softened the dirt in the cemetery outside of town. The moist ground
bulged upward in front of a broken headstone that was tilted to one side and
marked a grave beneath an old tree. Rotten fingers broke through the soil and
dug their cracked yellow fingernails through the dirt. An arm appeared, twisted
and deformed, and then the other arm appeared, followed by the head with a
gaping maw and rotten black teeth. It was an undead man, raised from the earth by the shaman’s unholy words. The
exposed undead torso pulled itself from the grave and a flash of lightening
reflected in its black lifeless eyes, set deep into its skull. It stumbled to
its feet and stood for a moment to take in the surroundings and slowly turned
its head from one side to the other. Rotten skin hung loosely from its bones
and the foul stench of death lingered in the air. Its eyes fell upon a
farmhouse in the distance, with yellow light pouring from the windows. The
undead man lurched forward with a desperate moan. The undead curse had begun.
Inside the
farmhouse Rebecca was busy preparing dinner. She placed two large white plates
on the dining table, both covered in food and garnished with fresh parsley.
Andrew was already sitting in his chair reading a thick leather-bound book with
his glasses perched at the end of his nose. She placed a wine glass in front of
him, but he placed his hand over the glass before she could pour from the
bottle.
“Just water
tonight, please,” he said, glancing up from the pages. He cracked a half-smile
at her and went back to reading.
Rebecca sat
down across from him and poured the wine for herself instead. She drank half of
it in one gulp, Andrew didn’t even notice. She topped off her glass again and
continued to drink.
Andrew cut into
his steak with the book still in his lap, and watched as red juice pooled around
the warm meat. He took a bite and sighed. The steak was cooked to perfection,
but it still couldn’t cure his apathy. He continued to read his book while
eating the juicy steak. He didn’t have much to talk about tonight and was
consumed by his own thoughts.
Rain continued
to beat against the window as they sat in silence. Lightening flashed and
illuminated a silhouette walking across the field outside, but only for a
moment. Neither of them seemed to notice it and they continued their taciturn
dinner.
Rebecca put
down her fork and finally broke the heavy silence. “How was your day?” she
asked, trying to get him to talk to her.
Andrew still
hadn’t put the book down as he ate. “Oh…it was just another day. Treated some
workers from the mine…not much other than that.” He forked another piece of
steak and continued eating.
Lighting flashed
again and the silhouetted figure moved closer, its grotesque evil form outlined
in the rain. Loud thunder cracked and the horses in the barn started to whinny.
Rebecca looked out of the window and worried that her horses would get spooked
and hurt themselves inside the stalls.
“I hope the
horses will be okay,” she said, fingering the edge of her cloth napkin
anxiously.
Andrew turned a
page in his book, still not paying much attention to her. “It’s only a little
rain,” he said reassuringly. “I’m sure that they’ll be just fine.”
“Maybe I’ll go
check on them after dinner,” she commented. “Can you come with me?”
“Sure,” he
said.
She returned to
her meal and continued to delicately cut her steak into small pieces. Lightening
flashed again, brighter than ever, and this time Rebecca could see the man
right outside the window. She jumped up startled and knocked over her chair. The
undead man smashed through the window and broke through the glass with his hand
and face.
“Oh my god!”
Rebecca screamed as she stumbled backward and fell over the chair.
Andrew jumped up
from his chair and sprinted out of the dining room as the undead man began to
crawl through the window. Its movements were slow and awkward. Broken glass sliced
through his rotten skin and black blood leaked from his veins onto Rebecca’s
plush rug, but he could feel no pain. He reached out for Rebecca’s leg as she lay
there struggling to get up and grabbed hold of a shoe. She tried to kick away
his hand, but he held tight and pulled her leg toward himself, mouth agape and
ready to bite.
“Andrew!” she
screamed as the undead man clawed at her skin.
Rebecca's shoe finally
slipped off and freed her from his decaying hand, but the undead man crawled toward
her and cornered her behind the kitchen table. “Please…no! Andrew!” she yelled just as Andrew reappeared through
the doorway with a double-barrel shotgun.
“Rebecca, get down!”
She ducked as he unloaded the ten-gauge into the undead's chest, which knocked it
back against the wall, but only for a moment. It kept coming toward her. It was relentless.
It reached for
her again, but Rebecca kicked it in the face and broke loose rotten teeth that
hung crooked in its yawning mouth. It moved in again and grabbed hold of her
shoulder and sunk its teeth deep into her neck, ripping flesh and tendons free.
She screamed as blood sprayed the wall and bubbled from her lips. She punched
it in the jaw, but it was no use as the undead man lunged in for another bite.
Andrew dropped
the shotgun and tackled the undead man off of Rebecca. He turned and dragged
her from the room as she clutched her ragged neck, still screaming in agony and
bleeding profusely. He pulled her across the living room, leaving a red path of
fresh blood in their wake as her dress smeared it across the wooden floor. He
quickly checked her wound and ripped off a piece of his shirt, and then pressed
it firmly against her neck. Her eyes began to widen from shock as she continued
to lose blood. Andrew held her shoulder and gently kissed her on the forehead.
He stepped back
into the dining room just as the undead man rose to its feet. The shotgun lay
on the table between them, both of the spent barrels still smoking. He pulled
out two shells from his pocket and grabbed the shotgun. He reloaded it as
quickly as he could. The undead man began to move around the table toward him,
snarling and moaning. One of the shotgun shells slipped from his grasp and
bounced off the table onto the floor. He had never been good with a gun, but with
this thing it was hard to miss. With only one shell in the chamber he cocked it
shut, and then blew a hole straight through the undead man’s forehead, spraying
the wall with fragments of skull and black brain. The undead man fell to the
floor with half of its head blown off, finally motionless.
Andrew dropped
the shotgun and ran back into the living room where Rebecca lay bleeding. She
was deadly pale and the entire side of her dress was now soaked crimson red,
like a porcelain doll that had been dipped into a bucket of watercolor paint. He
picked her up in both arms and sprinted through the house, and then burst into his
office as she still clutched her neck. He threw her onto the exam table and
pressed clean gauze against her neck. Her breathing had become rapid and
shallow. Her eyes widened and her pupils dilated as she tried to speak. Andrew
leaned closer, straining to hear the words coming from her lips, but they were
muffled and he couldn’t make them out. Her breathing slowed, then stopped, and
her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Her body became limp and she died in
his arms.
Andrew stepped
back and fell defeated into his chair. He put his face into his hands, now
trembling uncontrollably.
The lightening
had ceased, but rain continued to beat against the office window, coming down
in sheets and carried sideways by the north wind. Andrew walked over to the
window and stared into the rolling darkness as tears streaked down his cheeks.
Behind him,
Rebecca's hand twitched and her fingers curled into a twisted ball. Her fingers
relaxed and her arm began to move. She sat upright with torn flesh hanging from
her neck. Her body had been bled dry and pale skin was held tightly against her
bones. Her eyes were now lifeless and black.
She slid off of
the table and knocked over a tray, which clattered to the floor. Andrew turned
and saw Rebecca standing there. He was speechless. She stared at him for a
moment, empty and drained of emotion.
“Rebecca…” he said under his breath, but
she only looked at him with her dead eyes.
She lunged
forward, now hungry for flesh. Her hand grabbed the bottom of his shirt, but Andrew
pulled away and ran out of the office. He slammed the office door shut behind
him and grabbed a nearby chair, and then rammed it under the door handle. The undead
Rebecca beat against the door from the other side, which cracked and began to
splinter. Andrew walked into the dining room as she continued to rip through
the thin wooden door. He grabbed the shotgun off of the dining room table and
snatched the fallen shell from the floor. He returned to the living room and
reloaded the gun just as Rebecca’s arm broke through. She reached out for him
and clawed wildly through the air. Through his tears Andrew cocked the shotgun
and flipped over the safety.
“I’m sorry,” he
said to her as he raised the gun to his shoulder and took aim.
• • •
The Gunman stood
in his cramped room and splashed his face with water from a white ceramic
basin. He looked into a cracked mirror, crudely fixed to the wall, barely large
enough to reflect his whole face. He rubbed his hand over his smooth cheek,
appreciating the feel of a clean shave.
He grabbed a
washcloth and dipped it into the hot water, and then wrung it over his head. After
washing his half-naked body he threw the dirty washcloth into the basin, which
was now full of grey water. It had been three weeks since he had a bath and it
took more soap than he thought it would to clean his filthy skin. She had
always poured him a hot bath on the porch when he was done working in the field.
Nothing was better than hot soapy water to cleanse his soul after a long day in
the sun. But that was over and she would never pour him a bath again.
He pulled on a
new shirt he had bought from down the street and slid a small table against the
wall. He sat down and adjusted a kerosene lamp that burned overhead, dimly
lighting his workspace, and then removed both of his revolvers from their
holsters and placed them on the table in front of him. He efficiently
disassembled them, placing each part in a precise and specific pattern, and then
pulled out a clean rag from his satchel and applied fresh oil, cleaning each
part methodically.
Once the pieces
were cleaned and shining, he reassembled the guns, and wiped them down with the
oily rag. He chambered new bullets and slid the revolvers back into place.
After hanging the holstered weapons over the corner of his bed, the Gunman lay
down on top of the sheets and closed his eyes, hoping for a few moments of
sleep before dinner.
• • •
The sun was
passing beyond the horizon and the purple-orange glow of twilight crept through
the streets. Most of the stores in town were now closed and the streets emptied
as people returned home for the night.
Just outside of
town a man rode down a dirt road at a furious pace. The horse's nostrils flared
as it breathed heavy and its hooves pounded through the mud. The man whipped
the horse’s side and urged it to run faster, pushing it to the limit. He rode
like a demon with the devil close on his heels.
Back inside the
Bucket of Blood, the piano played loudly and the parlor was filled with
laughter and cigar smoke. Many people loitered throughout the saloon, some
drinking, others gambling. A woman sat at the bar and spilled beer from her
glass onto the floor as she laughed obnoxiously. The man next to her finished
his whiskey and scolded her for being so careless, then reached into his pocket
and pulled out more money for her to refill her drink.
Emmett was hard
at work behind the bar pouring drinks. His daughter, Rose, moved behind the
counter and opened the till, getting change for the young couple that had drank
too much already. She had black hair and soft olive skin. She was strong and
beautiful, a desert flower.
She handed them
their money and turned to grab drinks from her father, and then swiftly carried
them through the parlor to several men playing poker. Another young woman,
Allison Miller, was busy cleaning the table next to them.
“Busy night,
huh?” she said to Rose as she wiped breadcrumbs into her apron.
Rose grabbed an
empty beer glass from the table and cracked a smile at her. “Just wait until
tomorrow night.”
“What do you
mean?”
“The shift
changes at the mine. Everybody will be ready for a drink.”
“Good tips?”
Allison asked her.
“The best!” she
said smiling even more. “Especially after the miners have been drinking all
night.”
The two of them
returned to the bar where Emmett was wiping down the counter. This was
Allison’s first night working in the saloon, and she had anxiously followed
Rose around all evening, watching her work.
Emmett turned
to Rose as she passed behind the bar and handed her two full glasses of beer.
“Here you go, dear. Another round for the table in back.” He looked at Allison,
who was just starting to get the hang of things. “So how’s the first night?”
“I didn’t know
how busy this place could get,” she commented.
“Just wait til’
tomorrow night. But don’t worry, Rose will show you how it’s done.” He said as
he turned to pour more drinks.
Rose smiled at
her again. “Take these to the men in the back room,” she said. “And don’t leave
until you get a good tip,” she winked.
• • •
The Gunman lay
on the bed with his eyes closed. His breathing was slow and steady. He hadn’t
yet fallen asleep. He had spent too many nights sleeping on the hard ground to
get comfortable on the feather mattress. Just as he started to slip into a
dream, he heard the faint rhythm of the rider approaching from a distance. The
horse’s footsteps grew louder and the Gunman moved to the window to peer into
the night. He could see the man riding hard into town as he whipped the horse
again, cut hard around a corner, and entered Main Street at break-neck pace.
The Gunman
grabbed a revolver hanging from the bedpost. He cocked it and returned to the
window as the rider turned toward the Bucket of Blood. The Gunman threw on his
shirt and unlocked the door, and then peered into the hallway, which carried
the noise from the parlor below. He stepped back into the room and buckled both
guns around his waist, and dressed in a long overcoat to help conceal them. He
had made enemies in the past and had always feared their retribution. Something
told him deep inside that this man wasn’t one of them, but he had to be sure.
He walked
carefully toward the end of the hallway and paused by the railing overlooking
the parlor below. The saloon doors ripped open as the rider fell through the
doorway onto the floor. He was drenched from rain and his back was caked in mud.
The piano music stopped and the room grew silent. It was Andrew Forred.
He lay there on
the floor and could barely catch his breath from riding so hard into town,
unable to speak. Water was dripping from his clothes and started to pool
underneath him. He tried to pick himself up off of the ground, but he was too
weak. His legs buckled again as he stood and he fell down to his knees.
“Dr. Forred!”
Rose yelled from behind the bar. She ran forward and grabbed him before he could
fall on his face, and then threw his arm over her shoulder.
Andrew turned
to her. “She's dead…killed…I killed her,” he said to her in a quaking voice. He
shook his head in disbelief. “I had to.
There was no other choice.”
Rose turned to
a large man sitting at the bar. “Cutler, give me a hand.”
The barber, now
dressed in a buttoned-down shirt and brown pants, quickly stepped from his
stool. He grabbed the doctor's other arm and helped him stand upright. They moved
him over to the bar where he was able to sit down. Emmett brought him a large
glass of water, but Andrew only pushed it away.
“Whiskey,” he
said harshly.
Emmett looked
at Rose, astonished that he had asked. The doctor always abstained from hard
liquor. “Sure doc, whatever you want,” Emmett said, turning to grab a new
bottle.
The Gunman stood
above them at the end of the second floor hallway, hidden in the shadows, and
listened to the conversation below. He rested a hand on one of his guns, still
tense with anticipation.
Emmett poured a
shot and the doctor snatched the glass and swallowed it as soon as it touched
his lips. His hand shook uncontrollably.
He slammed the
empty glass back onto the bar. “Another,” he demanded.
“You sure?”
Emmett questioned.
“Another!” Andrew
said to him and slammed his fist against the counter.
Emmett poured
him another shot, but this time he gingerly placed it to his lips and sipped, savoring
the sharp liquid on his tongue. His hand stopped shaking as the whiskey began
to take effect.
Emmett replaced
the bottle below the counter and turned back to Andrew. “Doc, what happened out
there?” he asked.
Andrew set his
half empty glass down and rotated it in his hands, staring into the amber
liquid that swirled at the bottom. “Rebecca was attacked.” He sipped his
whiskey again, nervously remembering the horrible events. “We were just eating
dinner. Somebody…a man...he just attacked her. He…he bit her.” Andrew had now gained their full attention.
“Say what now?”
Cutler asked, not quite sure that he had heard him right.
Emmett leaned
into the counter. “A man? Who?”
“He attacked
her.” Andrew looked down at his glass, and then took another sip. “I don’t know
who he was, but he killed her.”
“I thought you
said you killed her?” Emmett asked, now confused by Andrew’s recollection.
Andrew looked
to Emmett. His eyes burned with anger. “I did. She came back….” He took another
sip of the whiskey. “…after she died.”
• • •
A cold darkness
swept across the cemetery as gray clouds moved into the sky, shaking the ground
with thunder. Lightning flashed through the blackness, illuminating a maze of
headstones, and the rain began to pour once again.
A thin hand broke
through the soil, a woman's hand, but twisted and rotten. Her head appeared, and
then her torso. She stumbled out of the wet ground, barefoot, and wore an
ankle-length dress now stained from the mud. The undead whore stared blankly
toward the distant town. She lurched forward and pulled her broken foot across
the ground behind her, her outstretched arm guiding the way.
An undead boy
followed close behind her and they moved slow and methodically through the headstones,
both hungry for flesh.
Lightening
flashed again across the black sky and illuminated the entire cemetery, which
swarmed with the undead, their numbers swelling beyond count. The undead horde moved
out of the cemetery and started toward the sleeping town, an unholy pilgrimage
of death.
• • •
Rose and Cutler
helped Andrew down the second floor hallway. Rose pulled out a spare set of
keys and opened an empty room and Cutler helped him get inside. He led Andrew
toward the bed as Rose grabbed a lantern down from the wall. She pulled off the
glass bulb and lit a match against the table, and then started the cotton wick
and adjusted the brightness. She lifted the sheets off of the bed as Cutler lay
Andrew down. He passed out immediately when his head touched the pillow, his
clothes still wet from his ride through the rainstorm.
Rose leaned
over him and placed a wet washcloth on his forehead, and then looked at Cutler.
“What should we do?”
“I don't know. I'm
as confused as you are.” He started to pace at the end of the bed.
“He wasn't
making any sense,” she said.
“I know.” He
stood there for moment and stared at the floor. “I'll get the Sheriff. He'll
know what to do with him.”
Rose twisted
the washcloth over an empty bucket and placed it back onto his forehead. “Okay.”
She turned down the lamp and pulled a sheet over Andrew. “We'll let him rest
for now, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave this room.” They left the doctor behind
so he could sleep and headed back to the parlor.
The Gunman slipped
behind a table in the corner with a freshly poured mug of beer in his hand. He sat
there and sipped on the bitter foam, watching the crowd throughout the saloon. The
piano began to play again and men and women laughed, getting drunker and louder
as the night moved on, like nothing had happened.
The Gunman drank
deep from his mug and his eyes caught Rose and Cutler as they descended the
stairs and entered the parlor from the hotel above. He watched Rose walk behind
the bar and pour a beer for Cutler. She moved gracefully behind the bar and
seemed full of confidence, which made him uncomfortable. He set his half
drunken glass of beer on the table, and then moved toward the door and stepped
outside onto the saloon boardwalk.
The rain had
ceased and the clouds began to clear. A full moon smoldered on the street,
reflecting on shallow black pools of rainwater.
The Gunman
pulled out a small bag from his back pocket, opened it, and carefully fingered out
some stale tobacco. He rolled a modest cigarette and lit it with a broken match
he had kept in his front shirt pocket. After taking a long smooth drag on the
cigarette his eyes brightened, dilated, and gray smoke enveloped his head and
dissipated into the cool night air.
He took another
long drag from the cigarette and watched as three figures moved across the
street and onto the boardwalk. It was the mine owner Jack Richards with two men
in tow, Aaron and Clay, who followed him like well-trained dogs. The Gunman
watched them carefully, his cigarette burning brightly in the shadows. Jack and
the other two stopped just outside the Bucket of Blood. He could see Jack say
something to Clay, obviously angry with him. They all stepped inside, moved through
the parlor, and disappeared into a private room in the back.
Back inside the
saloon, Emmett continued to work hard behind the bar as he poured drinks and
entertained a couple of miners who were drunk on peach wine. Rose stepped
behind the bar and poured herself a beer, blew away the foam, and took a deep
drink. She smiled at her father, acknowledging the foam on her lips, and then
wiped it off with the back of her hand.
“I went home and
put Caleb to bed. He should be good for the night.”
“Thanks, sweet
pea,” he said kindly. “You do too much for me. I sure appreciate you lookin'
after your brother like this.”
"It's no
problem, dad. Really," she said. "Besides, Elijah was the one
watching after him all day. He's the one you should be thanking." She
smiled and took another sip.
Emmett sighed
and leaned against the bar as he stared into Rose's eyes. "I wish your
mother could be here to see how much you two have grown," he said.
Before she
could respond, someone dropped a glass across the parlor and it smashed to the
ground. Rose put down her beer and grabbed a rag, but Emmett stopped her. “No, I
got it.” He winked at her, and then grabbed the rag out of her hand. “Better
finish your drink. I have a feeling it's going to be a long night.”
She took
another sip and smiled, savoring the moment as Emmett turned and left the bar
to clean up the broken glass and spilled beer. As Rose finished the dregs of
her beer, the saloon doors opened and a tall slender man strolled in with a
badge on his chest, Sheriff Timothy Pickett. He was a man in his fifties,
wearing a white cowboy hat, sharp black boots and well-ironed pants.
Rose pulled a
tall glass of golden beer, poured off the foam, and placed it on the counter
just as Pickett reached the bar. He tipped his hat, like any gentleman would to
such a beautiful young woman, and grabbed the beer.
“Thanks, dear,”
he said with a sweet smile. He took a deep drink, and then wiped beer from his gray
mustache. “Boy…now that's a good beer,” he commented, holding the beer up to
the light as cool beads of condensation ran across his hand. He took another
long drink and wiped his mustache, again. “How's the doc?”
“Better I
suppose.” She cleaned a dirty glass and placed it on a small shelf behind her.
“He’s still in shock, sleeping upstairs in one of the rooms.” She sighed and
grabbed another dirty glass. “Did you check out his story?”
Pickett nodded
and took an even bigger drink. “Yup. Sure did.”
“And?”
“Oh. Um. Well…looks
like the doc wasn't lying.”
“Oh my god. So,
Rebecca really is dead?”
“I sent Deputy Markley
down there to take care of the body.”
Rose placed
both hands on the counter and braced herself against the bad news. “This is
horrible.”
“Ain’t it
though?” Pickett took another drink.
Rose followed
his lead and poured another small beer for herself. “What should we do?” she
asked, and drank the beer in one long gulp.
“Well…not much
you can do at this point.” He finished off the beer and wiped his mustache one
last time. “Though, I’ll admit that the doc certainly has a few questions to
answer.” He rubbed his wet fingers on his shirt and placed a coin on the counter.
“But that can wait til' mornin'.”
He turned to
leave, but paused. “By the way, I heard some stranger had a run-in with a few
of the boys earlier. Got into some kind of scuffle here in the bar.”
“Yes. He's
staying here for the night.”
“Where is he
now?” he asked. “I need to talk to him before he leaves town.”
“Haven't seen
him for a while.”
“Well, alright.
Stay safe, dear.”
“Good night,
Tim.”
“Good night,
Rose.” Pickett tipped his hat and left the saloon, but not before taking one
last glance around the parlor. Like any good Sheriff, he always kept an extra
eye on the people in the saloon, more to make sure they wouldn’t hurt
themselves than anything else.
• • •
The Gunman
meandered farther down the boardwalk, hung his arms over a low railing, and stared
at the brilliant full moon hanging low against the blackened sky. The clouds
had cleared and the dark silence overtook him. He used this quiet moment to
reflect deeply on his own thoughts.
He heard
footsteps on the boardwalk behind him, so he slid his fingers against the cold
grip of his revolver and slowly cocked it. He was on edge and couldn’t shake
the feeling that he had earlier.
The figure
moved closer behind him and remained in the shadows. The footsteps stopped. The
Gunman didn’t move. The cigarette clung to his moist lips and hung loosely from
his mouth.
“You left your
drink on the table,” Rose said, holding the Gunman’s beer.
He turned
around and saw Rose standing there on the boardwalk. He removed his hand from
the gun and hung his arms back over the railing. Rose stepped out from the
shadows into the moonlight. Her hair was messy and her dress was wrinkled from
hard work. But she was beautiful. Stunningly
beautiful.
“I wasn't
thirsty.”
She smirked.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she said, taking a step closer to him.
“Far from it.” He
flicked the cigarette into the street and watched it smolder in the darkness.
She stared at
the side of his face, his chiseled jawline, dark locks of hair that curled onto
the back of his neck. He was ruggedly handsome and she shifted her weight back
and forth from one foot to the other, uncomfortably trying to push the
conversation forward. “You’re not much for talking, are you?”
“Nope.”
Rose pulled a
shawl over her shoulders, stepping even closer to him. “Here’s your beer.”
He turned and
took the beer from her tender hand. Their fingers touched for a brief moment
and she felt a chill run up her arm and down her spine.
“Where are you
from?” she asked him.
He took a sip
of the stale beer. “A long way from here. But I’m just passin' through.”
“I see. Some of
the folks here think you're trouble.”
“Like I said, just
passin' through,” he said and finished the remaining beer.
“Oh,” she said,
not wanting to ask him too many questions, knowing that it made him uncomfortable.
She continued to stare at him, looking straight into his eyes. “I can take that
glass if you’d like,” she offered. He casually handed her the empty glass.
She looked at
him for a moment longer and realized that he wasn’t much more for conversation.
“I'll see you around,” she said and turned to walk back to the saloon. The
Gunman watched her in silence, stunned by her beauty. He regretted not talking
to her more and turned back to the railing as he returned to his turbid thoughts.
Emmett waited for
Rose in the doorway, wondering where she had disappeared to. “You alright?”
“Of course I am.
Why?”
“Just checkin'.”
Rose turned
back to the Gunman. A freshly rolled cigarette was already hanging from his
mouth. “Oh. Him.” She smiled and placed her hand on Emmett’s shoulder. “I can
handle myself, dad.” She kissed him gently on the cheek and stepped back inside.
Emmett took a
moment to survey the Gunman, then retreated back into the saloon.
• • •
Deputy Gerald
Markley drove an old wooden cart down a twisted road. A body lay in the back,
Rebecca’s undead body, wrapped in a white bed sheet and stained red with blood.
When the deputy had entered the Forred home he found Rebecca in the doorway,
her head completely blown off. They had been friends since she had helped his
wife find a good job in town, and he hung his head low as he pushed the cart
forward down the road, unable to comprehend how Andrew could have done such a
horrible thing to her. Nothing like this had ever happened in the small town.
Sure, people had been shot during a scuffle in the street, but nobody had ever
killed in cold blood, not like this.
Clouds swallowed
the moon and surrounded the Deputy in darkness. He slowed the cart and peered
down the road. He knew this road well, but the deep black night seemed to have
a strange effect on him. He was a grown man, well over thirty, but something
about the night had always scared him.
Markley could
see a farmhouse sitting in the distance with yellow light emanating from the
windows. He whipped the horses and pushed the cart forward down the road,
hoping to make it back to town as soon as he could.
As he passed
closer to the house he heard the sound of breaking
glass echo from inside, followed by a scream,
and then complete silence.
He stopped the cart
and jumped to the ground. He pulled his gun and cocked it as he moved toward
the Miller’s house. Deputy or not, Markley handled his gun with unsteady hands,
like a schoolboy who had just found his father’s pistol. He snuck up to the
front porch near a row of thick bushes and hid behind them. The front door was broken
down and the windows had been smashed to pieces. He slowly stepped onto the
porch and peered through a window.
He froze in
place, horrified, and sweat began to pour from his forehead. The gun shook
violently in his hand as his heartbeat penetrated his senses. What he saw was
beyond any nightmare he could possibly imagine. He leaned closer to the window,
a witness to unbelievable carnage and blood lust. Several undead were inside
the Miller's dining room, devouring the entire Miller family, their bodies
strewn everywhere.
The father lay sprawled
across the table with his intestines draped across a freshly cooked roast beef
dinner. An undead farmer was face-deep in his stomach, consuming his innards.
The mother lay in the doorway on her face, ripped apart by an undead boy. The
two young daughters lay next to the table, a tender buffet for three undead.
And Allison Miller, Roses’ best friend, was in the kitchen, her half-eaten liver
hanging from the mouth of the undead whore.
Markley's jaw
quivered in fear. He stepped back from window and slowly turned, ready to run
away from this madness, but he stopped instantly when he saw an undead man on
the porch in front of him, head cocked, eyeing him hungrily. Before he knew
what was happening the undead lunged for his neck. Markley still had the pistol
in his hand and he shoved it deep into the undead’s gut and fired three times,
but nothing happened. The undead man bit into his shoulder and tore away a mouth-full
of flesh. Markley pointed the pistol at its temple and fired the remaining
three bullets, showering the porch with undead brain, and then ran back to the
cart in a panic.
He leapt onto
the cart and whipped the horses forward, steering wildly back toward town. He
used one hand to hold the reins and clutched his shoulder with the other as
blood ran down his arm. He could see the glowing lights of the small town in
the distance and whipped the horses again, continuing to gain speed. As he
turned onto Main Street, he overcorrected, and lost control of the cart. The
horses broke free and the cart smashed into the front of the general store,
throwing Markley forward out of the seat.
The Gunman heard
the commotion and stepped from the boardwalk into the street. Cutler, Rose,
Johnny and Mason all exited the saloon behind him, with several others in tow. The
sound of the smashing cart had drawn them out of the saloon and they stared
down the street, trying to figure out what had happened.
“Oh my god!”
Rose screamed when she saw Markley slumped over the front of the cart, not
moving. She bolted toward him, followed closely by the others.
Markley tried
desperately to push himself up, but stumbled, and fell from the cart and landed
face-first in the dirt. Rose grabbed him and helped turn him over onto his back.
“What
happened?” she asked him.
Markley spit
blood into the dirt and held his gut. He had started to enter shock and
couldn’t answer her.
Rose turned to
the others, who just there stood watching. “Somebody help me!” she pleaded.
Johnny moved in
and grabbed Markley’s arm.
“We need to
take him inside,” she told him.
Johnny quickly
inspected his injured shoulder. “He's bleeding real bad. He needs the doctor!”
Cutler stepped
in and helped them get Markley to his feet. “The doc is indisposed at the
moment. Just help get him inside dammit.”
Rose and Johnny
held Markley upright and started walking toward the saloon. As the Gunman
looked on, considering the situation, and wondering what the hell had happened,
something caught his eye at the far end of town, moving slowly down the road.
Three undead
emerged from the darkness and shuffled toward them. Their clothes were ragged
and torn, their teeth rotten black. Decaying skin hung loosely from their
bones. He turned and pulled a revolver, cocked and ready, unsure of what to do.
Cutler could
see them as well. “What the hell?”
Before anybody could
react, an undead man lunged onto Mason and bit into his chest. It tore flesh
from his ribcage and ravenously dug at the wound with its ragged fingers. Mason
struggled against the undead man, but couldn’t push him away. “Jesus Christ! Get
him off me!”
Cutler kicked
the undead in the side, knocking it back into the dirt. It turned and snarled,
then bit at the air, dirt plastering its decaying face.
It moved to
attack again and boom! Cutler
flinched as the undead fell to the ground, shot in the chest. The Gunman stood
next to him holding his revolver as smoke poured from the barrel. The undead
man kept moving and tried to stand upright. It stumbled back onto Mason and bit
into his thigh, blood gushing from its mangled jowls.
“Ahhh!!!” Mason
screamed as it tore into the muscle and ripped away more flesh.
Cutler fired
his revolver and hit the undead man in the gut, but it kept attacking,
ravenously tearing into Mason's leg. It was unstoppable. The Gunman fired again
and the bullet entered the undead man’s temple and passed straight through its
skull. Putrid black brain sprayed the dirt and fragments of bone ricocheted off
a nearby building. The other two undead staggered straight for Rose, Johnny and
Deputy Markley, snarling and moaning as they slowly moved across the street
toward them.
The Gunman spun
on his heels and fired, sending a bullet that split an undead's forehead. Cutler
fired as well, and hit a second undead in the neck. The Gunman shot again, striking
the third undead in the head.
Johnny
continued toward the saloon with Markley’s arm over his shoulder. “Holy shit!”
But Cutler
waved them forward. “Keep moving! Get him inside!” He turned to the Gunman. All
three of the undead lay in the dirt, motionless with lead in their brains.
“What the hell is going on?”
But the Gunman
could only shake his head as he reloaded his revolver, empty brass shells
falling onto the street.
Several people began
to step out of nearby buildings, concerned from all the shooting. A thick haze
of gun smoke filled the air, penetrated by lamplights that faintly brightened
the street. The full moon passed behind a patch of clouds and blanketed them in
a veil of darkness.
Sheriff Pickett
jogged toward them, gun drawn and eyes aflame. He saw the bodies with brains
splattered in the dirt. “I need answers! What the hell happened?”
The Gunman
holstered his weapon and turned to the Sheriff. “They attacked us.”
“Bullshit!”
Pickett
overturned an undead with his boot. “This man was unarmed.” He inspected
closer. “You shot him straight through the head!”
Cutler held
pressure to Mason's bleeding chest with a handkerchief and used his other hand
to stabilize the bleeding from his thigh. “They attacked Mason. And something
happened to the Deputy.” Cutler picked up Mason and started walking back to the
saloon with him cradled in his arms. “He's inside with Rose,” he told the Sheriff,
motioning with his head.
Pickett still glared
at the Gunman and holstered his weapon, knowing that he had a lot of questions
to answer, but that could wait, and everyone had already stepped back into the
saloon.
Inside, Rose helped
Cutler with Mason and held a bar towel against his chest as he bled on a table
and moaned in pain. Cutler took off his belt and bound it tightly around Mason’s
thigh. He notched the belt tighter and blood oozed from the deep wounds, and
Mason squirmed in agony.
“Hold still,”
Rose told him as she lifted the bloody towel from his chest to check the wound,
but blood gushed instantly and she quickly replaced it.
“Go get the
doctor,” she told Cutler.
“I’m not sure he’s
up to it, Rose.”
“Just get him.
He’ll know what to do. He’s gonna die if the doctor doesn’t help.”
Cutler conceded
and ran up the stairs as fast as his thick legs would carry him. Rose continued
to hold pressure against the wound, trying desperately to prevent him from
bleeding to death. Deputy Markley sat nearby on a bar stool, staring at the
floor. He was still in shock from his ordeal with the undead, and the gruesome
images of the Miller family continued to flash through his mind. Rose turned to
him. “Can you hand me that towel?” she asked.
Markley’s gaze was
still caught on the floor and he didn’t respond. Mason took deep breaths and
gasped for air. He grew pale from blood loss and his lips had lost their color.
“Deputy
Markley,” she said, straining to get his attention.
He looked up
from his stupor, pulled out of the daze. “Oh…yes, sorry.” He grabbed the clean
towel and passed it to Rose, who replaced the blood-soaked towel on Mason’s
chest and continued to hold pressure.
Johnny appeared
out of a back room with a stack of fresh white towels in his hands. “What in
the hell is going on around here?” He said as he set the towels next to Mason.
Rose grabbed a
clean towel from the stack and used it to wipe blood from her face. “I don’t
know. None of this makes any sense.”
“First the doc
and his wife were attacked…and now Mason?” he said, and sat down next to the deputy.
“What the hell was wrong with those people in the street?”
“They looked
sick,” she responded.
“I don’t know,
Rose. I haven’t seen too many dead men in my life, but they sure as hell fit
the bill.”
“How could they
be dead? That doesn’t make any sense,” she stated.
“I don’t know
exactly what I saw out there…but it felt evil,” Johnny said, and handed her
another clean towel. “Their skin was just hanging from their bones, like it had
rotted some.”
On the other
side of the parlor, the Gunman stepped over to a window and glanced through the
wooden slats. Outside, several townspeople had gathered around the undead
bodies and began to inspect them with caution. One of the men had kneeled down
and was looking at the bullet hole through the undead’s temple.
Deputy Markley
was still sitting in his stool at the bar, trying his best to regain his
composure, but he couldn’t get rid of the awful images in his mind. “Horrible--,” he spoke under his breath.
“Just horrible--,” he repeated.
The Gunman
turned to Markley, very interested in what he had to say.
“What I saw was
horrible. Those people--.” Markley could only shake his head at the thought.
“What people?”
interjected Sheriff Pickett.
“I don’t know
who they were…but they were eating them.”
“Excuse me?
What are you talking about, son.” Pickett stepped closer to Markley and slapped
his hands together, trying to get his attention. “Markley!” he exclaimed.
Markley snapped
out of it and nearly fell from his chair. “Sorry, Sheriff.” He leveled his eyes
at Pickett. “The Miller's. They're all dead. All of them. There were people in their home--, I…I can’t explain
it…but they were eating them.”
Rose turned
away from the bar and shook her head in disbelief.
“My god, no--.”
She said, eyes welling with tears.
“What do you
mean, eating them?” the Sheriff
probed.
“That’s exactly
what I saw. It was awful.”
Rose fell
backward and stumbled into a chair. “No!” She sat down and began to cry into
her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Johnny placed his hand on her shoulder and
tried to console her grief.
Cutler appeared
with Andrew from the second floor. He was still pale, but seemed fully recovered
from the initial shock of Rebecca’s death. He walked over to the table where
Mason lay and lifted the towel off of his chest, and then checked the wound on his
thigh. Johnny could tell from the look on his face that it was bad.
“What's wrong?”
Johnny asked anxiously.
“His wounds are
deep. He's bleeding from an artery in his leg, and I don't have any surgical
equipment here.” He notched the belt tighter around Mason's leg. “I’m sorry,
but he’s lost a lot of blood, and there's not much I can do.”
“But, we can
take him to your office, right?”
“No, we'd be
too late,” Andrew told him, and replaced the towel on Mason’s chest. “I'm…I’m
sorry. I really am.”
Andrew walked
over to the bar where Emmett and Markley were still sitting.
“Can you get me
a whiskey?” he asked.
“Um, sure doc,”
Emmett responded.
Andrew turned
to Markley. “What happened, deputy?”
“It was awful.
Some lunatics attacked the Miller's--, killed em'. I was just able to get away.”
“No. I mean
what happened to your shoulder?” Andrew said, pointing to his bloody shirt.
Markley looked
down at his shoulder, just now remembering the injury. “Oh…that. One of them
bastards bit me, before I could get a shot off. Just attacked me. Don't make no
sense.”
Emmett handed
Andrew a whiskey just as a woman screamed outside the saloon.
The Gunman spun
and ran back to the window, his revolver cocked and already in his hand. Several
people ran down the street and disappeared around the next corner into
darkness. More screams emanated from outside, followed by gunshots.
Pickett and the
Gunman both stepped onto the boardwalk. At the end of the street several people
lay dead in the dirt with undead already feasting on their corpses.
“Get inside!”
Pickett yelled at a few people standing in the street, pulling out his
revolver.
The Gunman
fired and an undead's head exploded on impact. He fired again and the bullet
pierced another undead's eye socket. More undead appeared down the street,
chasing after people and grabbing them with their decaying hands. One of the
undead sunk his teeth deep into a woman’s thigh, another tore flesh from her neck,
and yet another ripped into her stomach, pulling apart her skin and digging inside.
She screamed in sheer agony as the three undead began to eat her alive, blood
seeping into the dirt.
Pickett
couldn’t believe his eyes. He fired as an undead approached. The bullet
careened straight through its forehead and took it down instantly. “Jesus
Christ,” he said as he fired again.
The Gunman let
loose four more bullets and all of them met their targets, penetrating skulls, and
painting the street with exploded brain. More townspeople were assaulted, and the
undead numbers continued to swell as they turned into undead themselves,
transforming before his eyes.
Across the
street from the Gunman and Pickett, a woman and her son cowered behind some
barrels, the undead horde getting closer to them every second. She held her
child close and covered his eyes, trying to block him from seeing the carnage that
surrounded them in the street.
The Gunman
fired and stopped an undead from ripping the two apart. “Cover me,” he told the
Sheriff as he fired again, taking down two more undead with a single shot, and
then moved across the street. He continued to fire with precision, and three
more undead fell to the ground, his revolvers now emptied. An undead woman heaved
toward him as he paused in the middle of the street and reloaded without
hesitation. It was an effortless task he completed in seconds, empty brass
shells falling to his feet. The undead woman was nearly upon him and he fired
and struck her through the forehead, and she fell only inches from him.
“Hurry!”
Pickett yelled at him.
Undead continued
to enter the street and they started to break through windows, and tear down makeshift
barricades that had been hastily constructed, ripping into people that cowered
in the dark.
The Gunman reached
the opposite end of the street and grabbed the woman and the young boy. “Come
with me,” he told them. He took the boy’s hand and threw him over his shoulder,
and then grabbed the woman's arm and shuffled back across the street.
Pickett fired wildly
from the other boardwalk and covered their escape. Several more townspeople ran
down the street looking for shelter. “Into the saloon!” Pickett reloaded and
waved them inside the Bucket of Blood. He fired again as more undead approached
them, ready to kill. “Quickly!”
Everybody from
the nearby street ran inside the saloon and Pickett slammed the door behind
them.
Inside the
saloon, tables and chairs had already been lodged against the windows, and a
number of people had crammed inside, trying to escape the slaughter.
“Out of the
way!” Cutler yelled.
Pickett and the
Gunman jumped to the side as Eric and Cutler slid the piano against the door, just
in time as several undead smashed against the outside and clawed at the boards,
desperately trying to get in.
The Gunman
handed the boy to his mother. “Here,” he said.
“Thank you--,”
the woman said through tears, “Thank you so much.”
The Gunman
could only nod as he started to reload his revolvers. “Don't mention it.” He
turned to Cutler, who busied himself securing a long wooden table behind the
piano. “That won't hold them for long.” He finished reloading his revolvers and
placed the empty shells into his front shirt pocket. “We have to move upstairs.
Get to higher ground.”
“Good idea,”
Pickett responded from behind him.
“Sounds good to
me,” Cutler added. “But I’m not sure if all of these people will fit up there.
There’s just not enough room.”
“And what about
the people outside?” Johnny asked. “We have to do something about them.”
“Sorry, son. There's
nothing we can do about that now,” the Sheriff told him. “They’re on their
own.” Pickett finished reloading his revolver with sweat dripping from his brow.
His previously well-ironed pants were now soiled and bloody.
“But you’re the
Sheriff,” Johnny said, “Can’t you do something?”
“I’m sorry. We
have to secure the saloon before things get outta’ hand,” he told him.
Johnny conceded
the point and started to help Eric and Cutler with the barricade.
The Gunman peeked through a crack in the window into the dead world
outside. “If we are going to make it through the night, we need to reinforce
these windows, and bar all of the doors.” The risen undead continued to feed
outside and sonorous moaning echoed through the streets. The Gunman now faced
them in the only way he knew how, with two loaded guns at his side.
####
I hope you enjoyed this sample from Ashes of the Dead: Bucket of Blood (Book 1)
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