A zombified Clem Buchanan scratched his head, bewildered by the gun barrel he was staring down.
Zombie Clem slapped the side of the weapon. Nothing happened. He shook it. Rattled it. Wrapped his teeth around the steel and ground them back and forth.
The zombie stared at the barrel again, pulled the trigger and…POW! His brains were splattered all over the surrounding zombies.
At Highwater Station, Blythe had assembled his own personal undead goon squad. In life, they had been Buchanan Boys, random cowpokes, assorted townsfolk, and of course, Miss Bonnie’s working girls.
Now they were about to become a zombie fighting force.
Mayhew and the other werewolf conductors armed the zombies, placing pistols and rifles into the creatures’ boney hands. Under normal circumstances, arming a zombie isn’t the smartest, or safest idea.
Pow…Pow…Pow! Two more zombies blew their own heads off. That last pow was made when one of the zombies accidentally shot one of the werewolves in the leg. Said werewolf clawed the offending zombie in half.
Hovering several feet above his decrepit soldiers, Blythe pressed his fingers against his temples, lost himself briefly in meditation and finally, took control of the motley crew.
What had once been a brood of ignorant monsters quickly became a highly functional regiment. The zombies snapped to attention, formed lines, and rested the ends of their rifles on their shoulders.
The vampire drifted through the air into town.
“Forward march,” he ordered.
They did just that, marching lockstep in perfect formation behind their master.