And now the part all 3.5 of us have been waiting for – Slade’s big fight against Blythe on a fast moving train.
I’m not sure action translates well into books.
On a movie screen, you can see an explosion.
In a book, I’m not sure what an author can really do other than write, “There was an explosion.”
Oh well. This next part is going to be action packed, so please advise me on how to make it better.
Hey 3.5 Readers.
I originally said I was going to try to write three books and then edit and publish them one right after the other. I realize now how long that will take. After 6 months, I have 80,000 words and I’m not done yet. If I wait, it’ll be years before I get anything published. I don’t want to rush anything but I now realize that I will have to think of the best ways to drop bread crumbs in this book for future books and then as I write the future books, I’ll have to just deal if it ends up there was something I wish I had added in Zombed.
To that end, I’ll need to do a rewrite.
As I rewrite, I’ll need to do a lot of things. For example, I’ll need to create:
I don’t want to put a ton of time in it or have it distract from my main operations here at Bookshelf Battle, but I do think all of these things would be helpful to a rewrite and I don’t see why they couldn’t become content that the 3.5 people who buy the book might enjoy.
I could add the occasional interview with a zombie and/or a western author.
What ideas do you 3.5 readers have for such a blog?
And which WordPress theme would look good for a Western blog?
Blythe has loaded his vile army of the undead aboard a train headed East, schemes to backstab his furry friends and enlists the aid of a strange vampire colleague for some sinister doings.
The vampire lawyer makes Slade an offer he can refuse, but in turn, the counselor refuses to take no for an answer.
Blythe separates Slade’s women. Will our hero be able to save them both before it is too late?
Gunther wishes his boots were off.
Chapter 95 Chapter 96 Chapter 97
Chapter 98 Chapter 99 Chapter 100
“Fuck those werewolves,” Blythe said. “Once we take D.C. I ought to have the whole lot of them shot.”
Blythe sat on a red velvet couch in a small, cozy cabin. Devoid of any windows, the only light came from a few lit candles sitting on a table.
Sounds of lip smacking filled the room.
“Without humans to contend with, those hairy bastards will no doubt start strutting about in their werewolf forms all day long,” Blythe said. “And before you know it, they’ll be challenging us.”
Blythe waited for a response. Upon hearing none, he kept talking.
“I’ll be damned if everything I’ve worked for is going to be lost to a bunch of smelly dog men,” Blythe said.
The lip smacking continued.
“I say we as soon as we don’t need them anymore we line them up and shoot the whole lot of them in their ugly heads,” Blythe said. “Silver bullets all around.”
Blythe patiently waited for a response. Hearing none, he continued. “Oh, but I suppose the board will get their knickers in a twist over that idea too. They’ll tell me we need to make nicey-nice with our furry compatriots.”
The room grew quiet…and then…more lip smacking.
“Lamont?” Blythe asked. “Lamont, are you evening listening to me?”
From the other side of the couch, a response came in the form of a male with a cockney British accent.
“Sorry Guvnah,” the voice said. “A bit indisposed I is.”
The lifeless body of young woman dropped to the floor. Blythe took a candle and inspected her face. Pale. Drained of all color. Two holes in her neck.
Blythe looked to his right to see Lamar wiping his blood drenched lips on his shirt sleeve.
Lamont was big and brooding. Broad shouldered and muscular, with little more than black stubble covering his head.
“I didn’t offer you no gravy,” Lamar said as he retracted his fangs. “Was that wicked?”
“A trifle rude but I’m not hungry,” Blythe replied. “Did you hear a word I said?”
“Bob’s your Uncle, I did, I did,” Lamont replied. “Bit of a sticky wicket that business. A fluffy dog be a vamp’s best mate today but it could bite the hand wot feed it tomorrow, yeah? ‘Aint not use for a bollocks dodger but you might bide your ticks till it do the biting err right’s on your side, wot wot?”
“I have no idea what you’re saying half the time, Lamont,” Blythe replied. “But no matter. I need you to do a job for me.”
“A bit o’ the cat o’ nine tails, is it?” Lamont asked. “Flog your gullivah? Get down to brass tacks and make some brown bread, ay? Butcher’s hook for the ducks and geese. Might make me a bit knackered I nose but who is I to Barnaby Rudge?”
Blythe’s eyes widened with confusion. “Will you just grab your tool kit already?”
“Right-o,” Lamont said as he opened a closet. He removed a large tin box, set it up on the table and opened it.
Knives of all different shapes and sizes. Corkscrews. Surgical tools.
“Blood bags it is?” Lamont inquired.
That question, Blythe understood. “Blood bags it is,” he replied.
Blythe pointed to an open box car and a swarm of zombies crawled inside. They filled it to capacity, climbing on top of each other like animals, unconcerned about the tight quarters.
Loading operations dragged on for quite some time. Once every car was filled with the undead, there were a few hundred zombies left.
“Go free,” Blythe told them.
The few zombies closest to Blythe emitted groans of confusion. “Uggh?”
“I release you,” Blythe said. “You’re free range zombies now. Go West, young zombies. Eat many brains. Murder many humans. Make more zombies to spread the chaos.”
The zombies looked at each other and exchanged “Ugghs.”
“Shoo,” Blythe said as he waved goodbye to them. “Off you go.”
Slowly, the undead turned and trudged away.
Blythe watched until he sensed the presence of a werewolf standing next to him. This particular werewolf was wearing a large grey and white striped engineer’s cap.
“I trust everything’s in order, Mr. Cobb?”
The werewolf snorted. Together, Blythe and Mr. Cobb walked past the line of cars towards the locomotive.
“Very precious cargo we’re carrying here,” Blythe said. “You’re certain you’re up to the challenge of transporting our grand army safely?”
Another snort.
The pair kept walking. Mr. Cobb showed Blythe into the engine room, where a team of werewolves busily pulled levers, turned cranks and tended to various gadgets.
Three more werewolves entered, each carrying a bag of coal, which they stacked next to a large iron furnace.
Mr. Cobb roared and all the werewolves stopped what they were doing and snapped to attention.
“A fine operation you’re running here, Mr. Cobb,” Blythe said.
The vampire walked past each werewolf, inspecting them as a general would his troops.
“You know werewolves,” Blythe said. “I have given it some consideration and in light of your great contributions to the Legion Corporation’s imminent hostile takeover of the U.S. government, I have decided that if this train crosses over the Mississippi River and successfully into Eastern territory I’ll double…”
Blythe scratched his chin. “Nay, triple! I will triple your salaries from hereon.”
The werewolves barked and woofed their joy.
“Now, now,” Blythe said. “Think nothing of it. Let it never be said that vampires do not appreciate the werewolves’ loyalty to the cause.”
Yup. We’re in decimal points because I decided that more stuff needed to be added prior to Gunther’s untimely demise.
Channelling Boyz II Men – “It’s so harrrd, to say goodbyyyye….to Gunther.”
Namely, we needed a zombies being loaded into the train scene. Can’t have a zombie train without zombies being loaded into it.
And if Blythe is taking one of Slade’s women on his train, another baddie will have to take custody of Slade’s other woman, right?
Mo women mo problems.
100 Chapters, 3.5 readers. 100 Chapters.
Slade needs to catch a train, have a fight with a damn vampire, and then things get wrapped up and then the future is foreshadowed and then boom! Cut…print…await my fat ass check from Jeff Bezos.
OK maybe it won’t be that easy, but we’re getting there, 3.5 readers. We’re getting there.
The crowd’s mumblings eventually worked their way back to Doc and Annabelle.
“Women and children only.”
“Come on,” Annabelle said. “We’ll find another way.”
“No,” Doc replied. “My dear I can’t deny you safe passage across the Mississippi River on my account.”
“But we’re in this together,” Annabelle said.
“And we still will be, in a way,” Doc replied. He reached into his pocket, produced the two documents he’d been carrying and handed them to Annabelle.
Annabelle squinted at the words. She hadn’t been through much schooling.
“Last..will and…what?”
“My last will and testament,” Doc said. “My dear, when I got into the miracle cure-all business, my financial standing was transformed overnight. I went from pauper to prince in an instant but you see, I made so much in the way of cash that I didn’t feel comfortable carrying it all on my person.”
Annabelle listened. Fearful that untrustworthy characters were lurking in the crowd, Doc led Annabelle away from the rabble.
“At each major city I stopped, I enlisted the assistance of men from the revered Pinkerton Detective Agency to transport my money and deposit it in an account I set up in the First Bank of Chicago.”
“Darling,” Doc said. “In my will I have left the entire sum of my wealth to my beloved wife…”
The ditzy prostitute slapped Doc’s face before he could finish. “You’re married?! You never told me that you…”
Annabelle furrowed her brow at the small chunk of Doc’s flesh that had come off in her hand. She pressed it back into Doc’s cheek.
“Maybe I can just put it back,” she said.
“No just leave it,” Doc replied.
Annabelle let the piece of rotten flesh drop to the ground.
“Let’s be honest, my love,” Doc said. “My condition is worsening and even if I could cross that bridge at your side, I would eventually become a danger to you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and you’d no longer have a life…for I will lose control of myself and devour your brains when you least expect it.”
“Then we’ll go out together,” Annabelle said. “My brains are your brains.”
“No,” Doc said. “For the world needs cocaine and gynecology and you must promise me that you’ll spread the news of the curative properties of both across the globe in my stead.”
Annabelle stammered. “But…”
Doc clutched Annabelle’s shoulders and looked Annabelle in the eyes. In the dim moonlight, Annabelle was able to see that Doc’s face had turned gray and the left side was drooping, practically sagging away.
“From the well-to-do royal circles of London to the lowliest village of the Congo, you must tell everyone that daily doses of cocaine are required for robust health and that women can stave off the mysterious horrors of their nether regions through regular examinations…you must promise me.”
“I promise,” Annabelle said.
“The money in my account will be more than enough to fund your world travels,” Doc said. “And should the bank manager protest you need only show him my will in which you are named my sole heir.”
Doc pointed to the second document.
“And should any scheming members of my family protest your claim, I have taken the liberty of preparing this certificate of marriage…”
“Marriage?” Annabelle asked.
“Indeed,” Doc answered. “This certificate states that you and I were joined in the bonds of holy matrimony two days ago. The Reverend was kind enough to falsely claim that he officiated the ceremony by affixing his signature. And Mr. Slade graciously signed as a witness.”
Doc pointed to an empty line. “That is for you, my dear. Sign it, if you’ll have me and in the eyes of the law, we shall be considered husband and wife. I know earlier this afternoon you said that premise did not appeal to you but…”
Annabelle cried and hugged the good doctor. “Oh Doc. You’re the best fake zombie husband a girl could ever ask for…”
“And you are the finest fraudulent wife a nearly undead man could ever dream of,” Doc replied.
Though she’d been gentle, one of Doc’s ribs cracked under the pressure of Annabelle’s hug.
“I’m sorry,” Annabelle said.
“Quite all right,” Doc replied. “I’m rotting from the inside out as it would seem.”
Unconcerned about the safety of his bones, Doc pulled Annabelle back to continue the embrace for awhile longer.
“Do be careful not to lose these documents, my dear,” Doc said. “For with them in hand, your claim to my fortune will be iron clad.”
“I don’t want your money, Doc,” Annabelle said. “I just want you.”
“And I, you my dear,” Doc replied. “But this is bigger than both of us now. The needs of two people hardly matter when compared to the world’s need for cocaine and vaginal inspections and I know you will do me proud in both endeavors.”
Major Culpepper’s men stood on the Missouri side of the Sturtevant Bridge, rifles drawn and pointed at a large crowd of people who were undeterred.
The Major himself withdrew his saber and rattled it wildly in the air.
“Back, you rabble! Back, I say!”
An angry farmer wearing a straw hat let the Major have it. “You can’t send us back there! There’s nothing to go back to!”
An elderly woman with three teeth chimed in. “We’ll all be eaten alive by dead folk if you turn us away!”
“Can’t any of you filth read?” Culpepper asked as he pointed his saber to the lone piece of paper that Corporal Bartlett had tacked to a tree. “The president has declared that you are all to be presumed to be zombies and shot if you attempt to cross. My hands are tied. Disperse immediately.”
A weeping woman wrapped in a shawl held up a crying infant wrapped in a blanket.
“Please sir,” she begged. “At least take my baby so that he might have a chance.”
The major’s glare at the fussy baby was interrupted when the corporal tapped him on the shoulder.
“What is it, Corporal?” an annoyed Major asked.
“A word sir?”
The Major nodded and walked a few feet back onto the bridge with the Corporal, leaving his men to keep the crowd at bay.
“Sir,” the Corporal said. “Can’t we take the baby?”
“That was the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen, Bartlett,” the Major said. “For all I know it could be a zombie.”
“Clearly none of these people are zombies,” Bartlett said.
“Oh, and I suppose you’re an expert on the subject now?” the Major asked. “There’s nothing clear about it, Bartlett. We know very little about zombies. Any one of these people could be carriers of the dreaded zombie contagion. What am I supposed to say to the Eastern seaboard when it gets wiped out? ‘Oh sorry, Eastern seaboard, but Bartlett tripped over his vagina when it was time to secure the Sturtevant Bridge?’”
“But sir…”
“No buts about it, Corporal,” the Major said. “Our orders are to deny passage to anyone who attempts to cross this bridge and that’s all there is to it.”
“But sir surely you could exercise some discretion,” the Corporal said.
“What are you on about?”
“This is a confusing situation, isn’t it?” Bartlett asked. “No one’s keeping track of the time. We let the people cross. We blow up the bridge. Who’s to say they didn’t all cross before we even got here? I’ll swear on a stack of bibles I never saw them if we ever get court martialed.”
The Major looked at the woman holding the baby. He surveyed the crowd. So many young frightened faces. Children clutching their parents.
“Bah,” the Major said. “Blast you, Bartlett. I suppose no one could judge me too harshly if I save the women and children but I swear I’ll lop off your balls and stick them in a jar on my mantle if this ever comes back on me.”
“That’s fair, sir,” Bartlett replied.
“Robards!” the Major shouted.
The Major’s demolition expert was crouched over a bundle of dynamite, carefully tying it to a support beam.
A flick of ash fell on the bundle. Robards looked up to see a smoking private.
“Are you trying to make us all go kerblooey?” Robards asked as he stood up and smacked the smoke out of the private’s hands. “Get some sense, numb nuts!”
“Robards,” the Major repeated as he drew closer. “How long?”
“Depends,” Robards replied. “You want it done fast or you want it done right?”
“I want the whole damn thing blown to smithereens so I can get back to camp and take a shit,” the Major said.
Robards took off his hat and scratched his head. “Bout an hour.”
“Very well,” the Major said.
Culpepper and Bartlett walked back to the line of soldiers standing between the crowd and the bridge.
“Attention rabble,” the Major shouted. “In one hour’s time, all women and children will be allowed to cross. Men will be expected to return West to fight the zombie menace with honor and die with dignity. Say your goodbyes. There will be no further discussion of the subject.”
Various angry groans and complaints emanated from the crowd as the people talked amongst themselves.
Culpepper and Bartlett headed back onto the bridge.
“God help us if even one of these people is a zombie, Bartlett,” the Major said.
“Sir,” the Corporal replied. “I am absolutely positive that none of these people are zombies.”
The crowd stretched back for a quarter mile. Doc and Annabelle arrived on Hercules, unable to pass through the mob.
“Look at all these people,” Annabelle said.
“Yes,” Doc whispered. He pulled up his collar, turned down the brim of his hat, and pointed his head downward. “I do hope none of them suspect that I am a zombie.”
Hey 3.5 Readers. Since I expect to have Book 1 done soon and will probably jump into a draft of Book 2 for a little while before performing a major rewrite of Book 1, I’d be curious to know whether or not you like the direction I’ll be going in Book 2 – “Undead Man’s Hand.”
It’s part prequel as there are characters who learn a zombie apocalypse is coming. Given the results of Book 1, they obviously fail to convince anyone to do anything about it.
But post Western zombie apocalypse, there will be quite a Calamity Jane vs. Zombies vs. Zombie Wild Bill Hickok showdown. That part of the book will be a sequel.
So it is half prequel, half sequel.
My idea for this book is basically what steered me in the direction of introducing the Legion Corporation in the first book. Initially, Zombed was going to be a stand alone in which Doc just turned everyone into zombies by feeding them too much cocaine.
Give me your input, 3.5
Deadwood, Dakota Territory. 1876.
James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok is one of a young nation’s earliest celebrities, having found fame and fortune as a notorious gunslinger.
Historians have long maintained that Hickok’s life came to an abrupt end when the coward Jack McCall stormed into a saloon and shot Hickok in the back, a bitter resolution to a dispute over a poker game gone awry.
Aces over eights. Many a so-called expert has claimed that Hickok was holding a pair of aces and a pair of eights when he died. Thus, the “Dead Man’s Hand” has long been considered the unluckiest hand in the game of poker, a foreshadowing of impending doom for anyone who draws it.
In truth, Hickok, in secret, was a prolific vampire hunter. While the public was aware of the dangerous human desperadoes he put six feet under, he kept his fight against the fanged to himself for quite some time.
But upon learning of a plot by the Legion Corporation, an evil railroad company overseen by America’s most vicious vampires, to conquer the United States, Hickok finds it necessary to seek the assistance of his two closest confidantes, female gunfighter Martha “Calamity Jane” Cannary and straight-laced businessman Charlie Utter.
Alas, before Hickok is able to share much of his secret, the villainous vampire Lady Blackwood (name probably to be changed) glamours McCall into shooting Hickok in the back in order to protect the truth about the Legion Corporation’s true purpose from coming to light.
But it doesn’t go as she planned, for witnesses on the scene were mistaken about the hand that Hickok had been holding. It wasn’t aces over eights but rather eight aces, each card printed with a drawing of a different member of Legion’s board of directors.
Jane has her own personal demons, an addiction to alcohol and a colorful vocabulary among them. But her loyalty to her mentor sends her on a quest to warn various Western lawmen of the impending zombie apocalypse, from Deadwood’s own Sheriff Seth Bullock to Marshal Wyatt Earp himself.
Will Utter join her crusade and give Jane’s incredible tales of vampires and zombies the credibility they need? Or will he ignore it all and retreat to the orderly, proper life he prefers?
Even worse, when Hickok’s body goes missing, and a masked man reminiscent of Hickok goes on a bank robbing spree across country, it becomes clear that Lady Blackwood has turned the West’s greatest hero into her own personal zombie puppet.
Thus, Jane is forced with the grim duty of having to put to rest the body of the man who believed in her when no one else would.
It all leads to an epic showdown in Deadwood, a lawless gold rush mining camp turned makeshift town filled with cutthroats, liars, cheats, scoundrels, and even worse, politicians.
Several of Deadwood’s most prominent (and unsavory) residents will stop by, including the aptly named Al Swearengen. Saloon keeper and one of North America’s first organized crime bosses, Al may or may not be playing both sides against each other for his own personal profit.
It’s going to be awesome and you should totally give Bookshelf Q. Battler your money.
Bookshelf Battle 