Bookshelf Battle

As Slade broke a chair across the church floor, he decided he wasn’t going to be helpless again.

Never again.

“What the hell are you doing?” Gunther asked.

The raspy voiced marshall was back.

“I need wood,” Slade said as he gathered up the chair pieces.  “And lots of it.  Sorry Reverend. I’ve got to bust up your church.”

The Reverend looked around his church.  From wall to wall, it was coated with a thick layer of blood, guts and bullet holes.

“In for a penny in for a pound I suppose,” the Reverend said as he sipped his bourbon.

The group followed Slade’s lead, smashing up furniture and collecting the pieces.

“Gunther,” Slade said.  “You and I are going to take Blythe head on.”

“Worst plan I’ve ever heard,” Gunther said.  “But I don’t have a better one.”

“Bonnie,” Slade said.

“Don’t worry,” Miss Bonnie said.  “I’ll be right there with you boys.”

“No you won’t,” Slade said.  “Chance is in the livery.  There’s gotta be a wagon there.”

“Mine,” Doc said as he wiggled around in his ropes.  “I’ll gladly let you have it.”

“Obliged,” Slade said.  “Bonnie. Gunther and I will stick with you until we find Doc’s wagon. Then I need you to get every one out of town.”

“Oh no,” Miss Bonnie protested.  “You’re not going to cut me out of this just because I’m a woman.  I can kill a zombie just as good as you.”

“I know you can,” Slade said.

Slade noticed Sarah was listening.  The widow was also drinking small sips out of the Reverend’s bourbon bottle in what was most likely her first dalliance with booze in her entire life.

“That’s why I need you to do this for me, Miss Lassiter.”

That “Miss Lassiter” startled Miss Bonnie, reminding her that amidst all the chaos, she still needed to pretend that she and Slade were mere acquaintances for Sarah’s sake.

“There’s no one here I trust more to get my future wife to safety than you.”

Miss Bonnie felt a strong urge to tell Slade where to stick his request but upon seeing Sarah looking so lost and terrified, she knew she had to help her.

“I’ll do it,”  Miss Bonnie said.  “Where will we go?”

“Standing Eagle’s tribe,” Slade replied.  “They have an alliance with a tribe twenty miles south.  I reckon the Chief will send his people there once he sees all hell break loose.  They may hate my guts but they won’t turn away a wagon filled with three women, an old preacher and a boy.”

“What?” Miles asked.

“We’ll never be able to repay you or your father, Miles,” Slade said.  “But dog monster or no, you’re just a kid.”

“Werewolf,” Miles protested.  “And I’m stronger than any of you.”

“Not up for discussion,” Slade said.  “And besides…Miss Lassiter will need a dog mon…a werewolf…to help her keep everyone safe.”

“Mister Slade,” Doc said.  “Prey tell, in your glorious plan, where do I fit in?”

“You don’t,” Slade said. 

“I don’t?”  Doc asked.

“I’ll cut you loose before we leave,” Slade said.  “You can shoot yourself or whatever you feel you need to do.”

“Shoot myself?”  Doc scoffed. 

“You didn’t have any reservations about offing yourself before,” Gunther said.

“But I have since made a fully recovery,” Doc said.  “Indeed, my eyes may be a gruesome sight but otherwise I am full of vim, vigor and vitality.  Put me to use and I shall prove myself worthy.”

“I can’t risk it,” Slade said.  “You bite me or Gunther and Blythe gets away.  Bite Sarah or Miss Lassiter and I’ll have to hunt you down and shoot you myself.”

“Oh how very dramatic,” Doc said.  “Fine.  But know, good sir, that when the history of this ordeal is written, it will be noted that you kept America from being saved by Doctor Elias T. Faraday of Boston, Massachusetts…”

Gunther stuffed a bandana in Doc’s mouth and gagged him by tying the ends around the back of the doctor’s head.

“Mmmphh!”

“Finally,” the old man said.  “I’ve been waiting all night for him to shut up.”

Slade scooped up a pile of splintered furniture wood and headed outside, where he dumped his bundle in the middle of the road.  Curious about what was happening, Sarah stood by the door frame and watched as everyone else dragged out pieces of wood to build the pile higher and higher.

To the Reverend’s surprise, Slade snatched the bourbon bottle right of his hand and doused the pile with it.

“Sorry Reverend,” Slade said.

“I’ve got more,” the preacher replied.

The marshal struck a match and tossed it in, setting the pile ablaze. 

“Miles,” Slade said.  “I need your blanket.”

Being naked in front of people was a fate most werewolves had grown accustomed to but Miles was still an amateur werewolf and he didn’t particularly care for it.  Quickly, he handed the blanket over, then assumed his furry form to keep warm.

“Son,” Gunther said as he looked up at Miles’ yellow eyes.  “I don’t mean to be rude or nothing but where the hell does your pecker go when you do that?”

The werewolf shrugged his enormous shoulders.

“Take an end,” Slade said to Gunther, who obliged.  Together, they held the blanket above the flames.

“Now,” Slade said.  He and his deputy moved the blanket away and a cloud of smoke rose into the air.

“What are you doing?” Gunther asked.

“I’m telling a friend I’m sorry,” Slade replied.