Tag Archives: amwriting

Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 45

shutterstock_131233601-copyWhack! Whack! Whack!

Aunt Lu buried her meat cleaver into a slab of beef and took a break, just long enough to spot Charlie and the Reverend carrying Jane’s sleepy carcass into the lobby.

“Good God Almighty,” Lu said as she met them. “Is Jane alright?”

Jane interrupted her snoring long enough to sing to herself.

“John Brown’s body lie a-molderin’ in the grave! Something, something’s marching…marching on…”

And she was out again.

“About as good as she ever is,” Charlie replied.

“Mercy,” Aunt Lu said. “She does like to start celebrating early doesn’t she?”

“Not sure she ever stops,” Charlie said.

Aunt Lu returned to her cafe. Charlie, with his arms locked underneath Jane’s armpits, and the Reverend, with his hands grasping Jane’s ankles, slowly carried their cargo upstairs, being careful to not bonk her head along the wall on the way.

“Is Miss Jane a believer? the Reverend asked.

“Pardon?”

“Have you ever heard her invoke the word of the Lord?” the Reverend inquired.

“She takes the Lord’s name in vein just about every hour on the hour,” Charlie replied. “Does that count?”

“Not as such,” the Reverend said. “But I do hate to see Miss Jane in this condition. I wonder if I could appeal to her with the good book?”

Upon reaching Jane’s room, Charlie sneaked one hand into Jane’s vest pocket, snagged her key and unlocked the door.

“You’re welcome to try,” Charlie said. “I fear she may just tell you where to stick your good book though, Reverend.”

Charlie and the Reverend hoisted Jane onto her bed.

“Many I have reached out to with the word of the Lord have done just that,” the Reverend said. “But once in a great while I’ll find that someone listens. Those people make my work worth it.”
Charlie struck a match and lit a candle, providing the room with dim illumination. He tugged on one of Jane’s boots until it was off, then did the same with the other. He set the footwear down neatly in a corner, then covered Jane up with an old, tattered blanket.
The Reverend looked around the room. There were no decorations, or pictures, or even much in the way of furniture. Just a bed, a table, and lots and lots of empty glass booze bottles…and one book.

“Perhaps Miss Jane is more pious than you think?” the Reverend asked as he held up the book.

Printed on the cover were the words, “Holy Bible.”

Charlie smirked, took the book from the Reverend, opened it up and pointed to some writing scrawled across the front page.

“For Jane,

May you pay more attention to this than I did and become all the better for it.

J.B. Hickok, 1868”

“Lovely gift,” the Reverend said as he set the bible down. “Certainly she must be a believer if she has held onto it all these years?”

“She’s um…very loyal to Bill,” Charlie said.

Jane shifted about. “Bill?”

“Shhh,” Charlie said. “Its ok.”

“Does Bill….need my help?”

“No,” Charlie said. “He’s fine. Go to sleep, now.”

Charlie waited a moment until Jane was out.

“Miss Jane looks rather peaceful like this,” the Reverend said.

“Yes,” Charlie replied as he blew out the candle. “Shame she’ll soon open up her mouth and ruin it.”

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Do People Read Anymore?

I’m worried people don’t read anymore.

I wish I had some stats on how often people read.

But I feel like with all the streaming media and tons and tons of TV shows that no one can keep up with, reading is going out of style.

Naturally, as an aspiring author this worries me.

What say you, 3.5 readers? Do people read anymore?

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Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 41

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“You’re quitting immediately and that’s final,” Martha said.

Maggie was having a good time, sitting on her father’s shoulders as she watched fireworks explode in the air in all sorts of pretty colors.

Bullock, on the other hand, was feeling and looking exceptionally morose.

“A man can’t go back on his word,” Bullock said, the matter not being anywhere near final in his estimation.

“Oh don’t give me that,” Martha replied. “You’ve held the job less than a day. Quit tomorrow and no one will say a word about it.”

“I signed up for a year,” Bullock said. “I’ll give this town a year.”

Maggie clapped as a firework burst into a bright green blaze.

“You’ll give this your life,” Martha said.

“Maybe,” Bullock replied.

Another burst. This one orange.

“And ours,” Martha said.

“I’ll never let that happen,” Bullock said.

A purple burst.

“Seth,” Martha said. “I know you. You’ll never turn a blind eye to this Swearengen man’s crimes and yet it sounds like the entire town will turn on you if you ever cross him. If remain the sheriff and avoid doing the job, you’ll hate yourself. If you do your job, we’ll all be dead. Take…the…star…off.”

Bullock smiled as he felt his hat lift off of his head. He couldn’t see it but he could tell by the giggles that Maggie had swiped it.

“You really think that will fit you?” Bullock asked his daughter.

“Where did the boom booms go?” Maggie asked, the hat covering her entire head.

Martha grinned as she took the hat off of Maggie’s head and returned it to her husband’s cranium.

Six bursts, one right after the other. Purple, green, orange, red, white, and blue.

The husband and wife joined hats.

“Why are you making me be an ogre?” Martha asked.

“I’m not,” Bullock replied. “That’s not you, just like me backing down wouldn’t be me.”

“Ugh,” Martha said. “Mule headed stubbornness.”

“Its what you love about me,” Bullock said.

“Says you,” Martha replied. “You’re fooling yourself if you think you can be the sheriff you want to be in this town and still keep us all alive.”

Bullock looked up at the veranda of the Gem Theater. Al was down to the last butt of his cigar. Across the night air, their eyes locked.

Al straightened out his hand and brought it up to his forehead in a mocking salute. Bullock nodded.

“It’ll be slow,” Bullock said. “And it will take a long time, but somehow, I’ll turn this town around.”

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Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 21

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“Rip that tooth right the fuck out,” Al said.

“They’re all gone,” Mike said.

“I can see one right there,” Al replied.

Poor Andy Clement, a short haired man in his early thirties, was tied to the same chair in Al’s office that the late Pat Farley had been tied to the day before. All but one of his teeth were laid out on Al’s desk and Al was determined to get that last one.

“Where?” Mike asked as he held Mike’s mouth open.

“You don’t see that?” Al asked. “It’s clear as fucking day.”

“Oh,” Mike said as he picked up a pair of rusty, blood soaked pliers off of Al’s desk. “Hold on.”

“Noooo!” Andy cried. “Al I’ve told you everything I know I swear.”

“Famous last words from a malicious little prick trying to fuck me over and save his life at the same time,” Al said. “You’re not going to do both so what’s it going to be?”

“If I knew something else I’d tell you,” Andy said.

“Let us lay out the facts,” Al said. “Pat, that stinking filth bag, told me that you took my shit and now you are telling me that you did not take my shit. Either he lied to me or you’re lying to me right now. Which is it?”

“He lied!” Andy shouted. “He lied, I swear!”

“Tell me something useful and you might save your last chomper,” Al said.

Andy’s face was soaked with a mixture of tears, blood and sweat. “He…he…uhh…”

“What?” Al asked. “Be a fucking man already!”

“He took it!” Andy said. “He fucking took it and sold it and he was laughing the whole time, Al! I tried to stop him but he was all like, ‘No fuck Al I hate him and stop being such a good fucking friend to Al for trying to stop me Andy.”

Al stroked his chin and looked at Mike. “You buy it?”

Mike shook his head no.

“Pull it out,” Al commanded.

Al turned away and took a seat behind his desk, pouring himself a scotch as he watch his young protege yank out Andy’s one last tooth. The screams, the cries, the sheer terror on Andy’s face, the chilling efficiency with which Mike did his dirty work, none of it went unnoticed.

“You brought this on yourself, Andy,” Al said as Mike dropped the last tooth on Al’s desk.

The barkeep took a sip of scotch. “A mystery for the ages. Was I fucked by Pat? By you, Andy? Or did you two twats collude to fuck me together?”

Andy was struggling to breathe. “Maybe…it was…someone else.”

“Maybe,” Al said. “Shit I hadn’t even considered that possibility. The plot fucking thickens.”

Al coughed. At first it was a little. Then it was a lot. Soon it was a fit. His face turned red.

“You all right, Al?” Mike asked.

Al stopped coughing. “I’m fine,” Al replied as he closed his eyes. “Booze went down the wrong pipe I guess. Goddamn it I’m so done with this bullshit.”

BLAM!

Startled, Al opened his eyes and jumped out of his chair to see that the right side of Andy’s face had been blown off. Mike was standing off to the right and once again holding a smoking revolver.

“What the fuck was that?!” Al shouted.

“What?” Mike asked. “You said you were done!”

“I meant it figuratively, you dopey fuck!” Al shouted. “The whole mess exhausted me is what I was trying to say but I wasn’t actually done. I had more questions for the stupid prick!”

“I’m sorry Al,” Mike said as he holstered his gun.

“What did I tell you yesterday?” Al asked.

“Not to shoot a man in the back of the head when you’re sitting in front of him,” Mike said. “That’s why I did it from over here.”

“Well I guess you’re not that stupid but I meant the other thing,” Al said.

Mike shrugged his shoulders.

“I think!” Al shouted. “You do!”

“Oh,” Mike said. “Right.”
“You’re fucking right I’m right,” Al said. “And do not do the fucking doing until I tell you to do it! You got it?”

“I got it,” Mike said.

Al walked over to Mike, rested his hands on the young man’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Jesus H. Christ, kid. You got guts and you remind me a lot of myself when I was your age but you have got to learn how to take a fucking order.”

Mike nodded.

“No more killing people in my office,” Al said. “It makes a giant, unnecessary mess. I’m still finding little chunks of Pat’s brain everywhere.”

“I thought I got ‘em all,” Mike said.

“And yet they persevere,” Al said.

Al downed the last of his scotch and pounded the shot glass down on the desk. “Clean this shit up. I gotta get back to the bar. Mitsy pours suds about as good as she fucks, slowly and with a lousy attitude.”

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Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 16

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Bill’s room was filled with books. They stuffed his shelves. More were stacked up on the floor. Dusty tomes on the occult and supernatural. Titles such as “Zombiology: The Physicality of the Undead,” “Lattimore’s Treatise on the Vampiric Species,” “Werewolves in the New World,” and “Witchcraft: A Brief History,” just to name a few.

Hand drawn sketches hanged on the wall. Pointy fanged vampires. Hairy werewolves. Fair haired witches. The majority of the sketches were of zombies. Hideous, brain chomping zombies.

Bill stepped into the room. A few seconds passed until he noticed Jericho hadn’t followed suit.

The gunslinger looked at the doorway. Jericho stood in the hall, knocking on an invisible barrier that prevented his entry.

“Oh right,” Bill said. “I invite you in.”

With that, the barrier was gone and Jericho stepped inside. Bill closed the door and locked it.

Jericho looked around the room, spying all the sketches and books. “You certainly have educated yourself, Mr. Hickok.”

The guest pulled Lattimore’s Treatise off of Bill’s shelf and perused it. “A first edition Lattimore. Impressive.”

“Expensive,” Bill replied.

“And here I thought the Legion Corporation’s Board of Directors had managed to burn every copy and convince the public that Lattimore was stark raving mad,” Jericho said as he returned the book to the shelf. “Then again, all of these authors were either murdered, publicly maligned into ruin, or bought off to cease further publications.”

Jericho took a peak at Bill’s copy of Zombiology. “I suppose that’s why you’ve kept mum on your knowledge of the occult?” Jericho asked as he closed the book and shelved it. “You fear the Legion Corporation will defame your reputation and rob you of your celebrity status?”

Bill stood there, defiantly stone faced.

“Perhaps it is your life you’re more concerned about?” Jericho asked.

No response.

Jericho wagged his pointer finger at Bill. “Ah. You fear for those you love.”

“Enough chatter,” Bill said. “Are you the real deal?”

Jericho opened his mouth. Click! His fangs popped out.

Bill motioned to a full length mirror in the back corner of the room. Jericho stepped in front of it. As soon as he did, the mirror reflected not the image of a man, but that of an invisible being. No face. No hands. It was as if a hat and suit were hovering in the air on their own.

“Satisfied?” Jericho asked.

“Yup,” Bill said as he gestured to a lumpy sofa behind a coffee table. Jericho sat down. Bill took a comfortable chair to the right of the table.

Bill drew one of his revolvers and pointed it in the vampire’s direction. “Just so we’re clear, this is filled with six silver-tips. I can shoot the wings off a horse fly at a hundred paces so putting one through your black, useless heart from this range would be as easy as pie for me.”

“Oh my,” Jericho replied. “Your paranoia is unnecessary but understood. Have you the payment?”

Bill fished a small netted bag out of his pocket and plopped it down on the arm of his chair. The vampire stared longingly at the golden coins.

“Have you the goods?” Bill asked.

The vampire reached for his pocket. Bill cocked the hammer of his revolver. “Slowly,” Bill urged.

“Of course,” the vampire said as he timidly put his hand into his pocket. He removed a deck of cards, flipped it over, and spread them out across the table.

“Just as you requested in our letters,” Jericho said. “At a glance, a simple deck of playing cards, nothing out of the ordinary for a legendary gambler to be carrying.”

Bill kept his gun pointed at the vampire as he leaned closer to look the cards over.

“But at a closer inspection,” Jericho continued. “You can see that the face cards and the aces feature renderings and the names of the Legion Corporation’s Board of Directors, as well as their most trusted associates.”

Bill nodded.

“It took me a great deal of time and expense to have this printed for you,” Jericho said.

If Bill was grateful to the vampire for that, he didn’t let it show. “Why?”

“Pardon?” the vampire asked.

“You sought me out,” Bill said. “Looking to make a deal. I know shit heels have no problem turning on other shit heels, but I want to know the specific reason behind your betrayal.”

Jericho smiled. “Very simple. I have long been a loyal soldier to the Legion’s cause. I have done their dirty work. Carried out their directives without question. Bided my time as younger vampires who have accomplished less than I have were promoted to higher stations than I. All of that I have endured but what I can no longer stand is…the mockery.”

Bill sat silently, waiting for the explanation.

“Vampires do possess extraordinary healing powers,” Jericho said. “But alas, we do not heal to the most robust version of ourselves possible. Instead, we remain stuck in the condition we were when we were turned. Thus, the scars on my face will never disappear. As you can imagine, amongst a group of beings whose looks remain perpetually youthful and beautiful, I am the butt of many a joke. The Chairman won’t even allow me a medallion so that I can enjoy the sun’s warmth.”

“There are no vampires who look old?” Bill asked.

“There are,” Jericho replied. “A number of the elderly have been turned. However, few have had the misfortune of having been turned whilst looking as I do.”

Jericho stacked the deck and handed it to Bill. The gunslinger took it, then tossed the bag of coins at the vampire, who caught it effortlessly.

“Why are you so inquisitive as to my reasoning?” Jericho asked.

“I trust no vampire,” Bill said. “And you reaching out to me seems like a good trap.”

“It does,” Jericho said. “And I have no way of assuring you that it isn’t. I can assure you though that you have purchased the betrayal of enough vampires that word has begun to circulate and the Board may very well be onto you.”

Bill stood up and put the deck into his coat pocket. “We’re done here. Take a walk.”

Jericho remained seated. “Excuse me?”

“Our business is over,” Bill said. “So unless you’ve got any other information worth a shekel or two, move along.”

“But it’s daytime,” Jericho said.

“Not my problem,” Bill said.

An agitated Jericho stood up. “Common courtesy dictates that you let me stay until nightfall.”

“Bloodsuckers don’t get common anything,” Bill said. “I renounce my invitation.”

As soon as those four words poured out of Bill’s mouth, Jericho flew out of the room and into the hallway as if some kind of invisible force was pushing him. His hand desperately clinged to the bag of coins.

Bill walked over to his side of the door. Enraged, Jericho pounded his fists on the invisible barrier that separated him from Bill.

“And just where am I supposed to go?” Jericho asked.

“The lobby,” Bill said.

“Like a common peasant?” Jericho snapped.

Bill reached through the doorway. For him, there was no invisible barrier at all. He yanked the bag of coins out of Jericho’s hand and slammed the door.

Outside, Jericho pounded his fists against the door. “Damn you Bill Hickok! Damn you to Hell!”

With a smirk on his face, Bill tossed the bag of coins into the air then caught it. “Dumb ass vampires. Twelve of them hoodwinked with the same bag.”

Bill pulled one of the coins out of the bag and peeled off the golden foil to reveal a circular chocolate disk. He took a bite out of it. “Mmm. Still good too.”

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Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 10

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Night fell and the Bullocks were lying under the stars, which was ironic, since they were inside their house. There was a hole in the roof large enough for a person to crawl through.

Maggie was sound asleep. She was an accomplished fidgeter. Every few minutes, she contorted herself into a new position, which usually ended up with Martha get whacked in the nose or Bullock taking a tiny foot to the face.

They didn’t mind because it was their little one. Plus, sleep evaded them. An owl perched himself on the roof and made sure of it.

“Hoo…hoo.”

Bullock had recounted his meeting with the town fathers to Martha earlier in the evening. The discussion turned into a blow out fight. They’d been quiet for hours until finally Martha addressed the issue once more.

“It’s out of the question.”

“It’s just for a year,” Bullock said.

“A lot can happen in a year,” Martha replied.

“Yes,” Bullock said. “As in I save up a lot of money so I can buy some land and build a home on the outskirts of town – far, far away from all of these people.”

“Or you get shot,” Martha said. “Again. Only this time you’re not as lucky.”

“Make up your mind, woman,” Bullock said. “First you hate this place and are sore at me for bringing you here. Now you don’t want me to take a chance that could fix it.”

“I can learn to…”

The owl interrupted. “Hoo…hoo…”

“…get used to this place. But I don’t want to learn to get along without you.”

Bullock grinned. Then he was bonked upside the head by Maggie’s foot again. But then his grin continued.

“Come on, girl,” Bullock said as he put his arm around his wife. “You know you can’t get rid of me that easy.”

“Hoo…hoo…”

“I bet I could shoot it,” Bullock said.

Martha fought against her desire to be mad and laughed. “You could not.”

“I bet you I could,” Bullock said. “Right between its beady eyes.”

“Hoo…hoo.”

“You!” Bullock shouted up at the ceiling, which only exacerbated Martha’s laughter. “You, you glorified pillow stuffing!”

Bullock reached down to the floor, picked up his boot, and tossed it high, right up at the roof. It made a thud sound as it hit the ceiling before it fell to the floor again. There was a ruffling of feathers and then…blissful silence.

“Did you get it?” Martha asked.

“Hoo…hoo.”

In their exhaustion, both Bullocks found this to be hysterical. Someone else did not.

The Bullocks’ elderly neighbor with the stomach problem livened things up with some gun fire.

“Shut the fuck up, bird!” the old man yelled.

More gun shots until finally the owl screeched and flew away.

“You folks all right over there?” the old man asked.

Bullock and Martha looked at each other, trying their best not to laugh until Bullock shouted, “Yup!”

“I didn’t get any of you, did I?” the old man asked.

“Nope!” Bullock shouted. “We’re fine.”

A few moments of quiet followed by, “Name’s Chester by the way.”

“Thanks Chester!” Bullock shouted. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight, neighbor!” Chester yelled back.

After the hysterics died down, Bullock stroked Martha’s hair. “What was I thinking? We can stay here forever.”

“We can stay anywhere forever as long as it keeps you alive,” Martha said.

“I suppose.”

Quite abruptly, Maggie repositioned herself upright, socking both parents in the face with her hands in the process as she splayed out and made herself comfortable.

Bullock squeezed his daughter’s hand.

“Then again,” Bullock said. “If one year is what it takes to give this little girl a nice yard to play in…”

Martha’s good mood turned sour fast. “Do what you want.”

“I hate to say it but I expect I will,” Bullock replied.

Martha rolled over and turned her back to her husband. “I don’t know that I’ll wait for you the next time…”

“The next time, what?” Bullock asked.

“The next time you do some fool thing that makes bad men chase out of our home in the middle of the night,” Martha said.

“Oh,” Bullock said as he closed his eyes. “Nope. You should definitely not wait if it comes to that.”

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Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 2

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Bullock and Abner raced through the dirt roads of Helena until they finally reached the Bullock family’s small, modest home.

The Sheriff ran inside. “Martha!”

Frantically, he set down his shotgun, pulled a matchbook out of his pocket and lit a candle sitting in a decorative holder on the kitchen table. Then, he picked up the candle and opened his bedroom door. He called his wife’s name again. “Martha!”

Mrs. Bullock was a looker with brown eyes and dark, curly hair, which at the moment, was hidden under a bonnet. Slowly, she stirred.

“Hmm?”

Bullock set the candle down and tromped around the room. “Where is the…ahh!”

He pulled an old leather bag out of his closet, set it down on the edge of the bed, then haphazardly packed it. A couple shirts, a few sentimental knick knacks and then…

“Fuck it!” Bullock shouted as he smacked the bag onto the floor, letting its contents spill all over. “Martha!”

Bullock grabbed his wife’s shoulders and vigorously jiggled her up and down. No better plan came to his mind other than to repeat his beloved’s name over and over again.

“Martha! Martha! Martha!”

“Unghh.” Martha sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “What? What is it?”

“Do you remember how I’ve always talked about how great it would be to quit the law and take my buddy Sol up on his offer to become a partner in his hardware store in Deadwood?”

Martha closed her eyes and rolled over. “It’s a nice idea, dear. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

“That’s just it,” Bullock said.

Gunshots broke Martha’s slumber. A bullet tore through the wall and Martha sat up just in time to see it shatter a vase sitting on a table just a few feet away from her husband.

“We’re doing that now,” Bullock said.

Bullock grabbed hold of his wife and dove to the floor with her just in time to avoid a barrage. Seven or eight bullets in all. The Bullock home was becoming Swiss Cheese.

Martha was furious. “What…did…you…do?”

Floyd shouted loud enough for the whole world to hear. “Get the fuck out here, Bullock!”

“Just a little disagreement with the constituents, hon.”

Like a pair of snakes, Mr. and Mrs. Bullock shimmied on their bellies out of their bedroom and across a small hallway to another bedroom.

“Disagreement my ass!” Martha said.

“Magsie girl!” Bullock cried.

Maggie, a Daddy’s girl if there ever was one with long curly hair like her mother’s, sprang out of bed.

“Daddy!”

Bullock scooped her up and awkwardly crouch walked into the hallway. Several feet away, bullets shattered the glass in the sitting room window. Maggie shrieked loud enough that she would have broken the window had it not already been in pieces.

“Shhh. It’s ok sweetie.” Bullock retreated back into the room and passed his daughter off to Martha.

The Sheriff drew his pistol then looked his wife in the eye. He put his finger to his mouth to warn her to be quiet, then pointed to the left. Smart woman that she was, Martha instantly figured it out. Bullock wanted her to head to the pantry, where there was a back door.

Bullock counted down with his fingers. 1…2…3.

Blam! Blam! Blam! Bullock aimed for the broken window and laid down covering fire, keeping Floyd and his boys busy outside as Martha ran to the pantry, clutching Maggie tight.

Blam! Blam! Blam! Bullock was out.

Back in the pantry, Martha opened the door and whistled. Naturally, Abner responded to all Bullock family member whistles. In happier times, Maggie found this fact to be absolutely hilarious and made use of it often.

Bullock shimmied his way to the sitting room under another barrage of fire.

“Floyd!” he shouted.

“Hold your fire!” Floyd ordered his boys.

Bullock rummaged around in a drawer until he found an old bottle of Kentucky bourbon. Good stuff. Mrs. Bullock wasn’t keen on him drinking so he kept it for special occasions only.

He figured this qualified.

“I’m coming out!” Bullock shouted.

“Right now, Bullock!” Floyd hollered. “Stop fucking around!”

Bullock ran back to the bedroom, popped the cork out of the bottle, doused a handkerchief with booze, then stuffed it into the neck. He lit it up, then returned to the sitting room.

“I’m unarmed,” Bullock said as he picked the shotgun up off the table.

“Stop stalling!”

“OK,” Bullock said.

The Sheriff crouched next to the front door and put his hand on the knob. The flame was chugging now.

He opened the door, hurled the cocktail into the air and as soon as it was right over Floyd and the boys’ stupid heads, he gave it both barrels.

Kaboom! An immense explosion. Floyd and a few of his henchmen caught fire and fell to the ground in agony.

Floyd grabbed his face. It was burnt to a crisp. “Get him!” he screamed as he rolled around, trying desperately to put himself out.

It was a race. Floyd’s handful of unscathed goons running around the side of the house vs. Bullock running through the house.

Bullock found his missus already saddled up on Abner, holding onto Maggie, who was seated snugly in front of her.

The Sheriff hopped on the back of his steed and Martha snapped the reigns. Abner ran off into the woods.

Floyd’s flunkies followed on foot for awhile, taking blind potshots until, due to their laziness and lack of leadership, gave up and turned back.

And so, there they were. All three members of the Bullock family, divest of their home and all of their worldly possessions, riding through a forest in the middle of the night, the two females still in their nightgowns.

“You weren’t supposed to wait,” Bullock said.

“I know,” Martha replied.

“I wish you hadn’t,” Bullock said.

“I know,” Martha repeated.

“But I’m glad you did.”

And for the trifecta…”I know.”

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How the West Was Zombed – Complete

 

shutterstock_32022656927Holy shit.

7 months.

136 Chapters and an Epilogue.

110,972 words.

And finally, after so many, many, many years of started and stopped attempts at a novel, I have finally, finally, FINALLY finished my first rough draft of a novel ever.

Plenty of work to go, but at this point, my characters came, saw, and did what they needed to do.

I can’t believe it.

There were so many times this year I thought this was a ridiculous waste of time. (I suppose the jury is still out on that.)

But I kept at it. And over time, the words added up.

Thank you, 3.5 readers. Your comments and clicks kept me going.

And thanks TA Henry. I grew to look forward to read your comments daily.  Even during times when it sounded like you wanted to reach through the computer and slap me, I realized it was only because you cared.

Time to rest up a bit. Relax. Chill out.  If you haven’t yet, please read it. Tell me what you think. What you like. What you don’t like.

I think I will let it sit for awhile and maybe even start a rough draft of Zombie Western #2 – Dead Man’s Hand (or possibly Undead Man’s Hand) before going back and rewriting the first draft.

Honestly, that was the hard part.  Realizing along the way that I goofed, or things in the beginning would need to be changed, and avoiding the temptation to rewrite but rather, just imagine in my mind that what I needed to happen just happened, for if you start rewriting, you’ll rewrite forever, because by the end of the story, you might change your mind about what needs to happen a hundred times.

Thank you 3.5 readers. You are truly great 3.5 readers. I can’t wait to publish this and sell it on Amazon and make a cool $10.47 ($2.99 X 3.5 readers = time well spent.)

 

 

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How the West Was Zombed – Epilogue

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Wisconsin

The hunter was a sturdy man with brown hair and a mustache. His spectacles made him look like he belonged in a library yet his frame was built for the frontier.

A rainstorm earlier that day turned the forest floor to mud. He trudged along for awhile until he saw it – a fresh bear track.

He knelt down and examined it. “Hmm. Yes.”

He pushed a finger into the dirt then sniffed it. “Fresh. You couldn’t have gotten far you rapscallion.”

The hunter rose to his feet and pressed on, deep into the forest, rifle in his hands at the ready.

Surrounded by nature, he felt at home. At peace. He stopped momentarily to close his eyes and allow the fresh air to fill his lungs. Alas, his respite was interrupted.

“Master Roosevelt!” called an old man. “Master Roosevelt!”

Disgusted, Roosevelt did his best to ignore his unexpected visitor and followed the line of bear tracks.

“Master Roosevelt!” the old man called. “Please take pity and slow your pace, sir!”

Roosevelt did no such thing. Eventually, the old man caught up to him and huffed and puffed as he struggled to keep up.

“How did you even find me, Humphrey?” Roosevelt asked.

“Your esteemed father, sir,” Humphrey answered. “He bid me to find for you and not to dare show my face at your family’s estate until I do so. I’ve made inquiries at every trading post and tavern in the vicinity until I finally met some fur traders who did some business with you and pointed me in this direction.”

“Blasted Frenchmen!” Roosevelt said. “And what news do you bring, man?”

Humphrey withdrew a crinkled up piece of paper from his pocket and started to read. “A letter from your father, sir. Dear Theodore…”

“Summarize the most salient points,” Roosevelt said.

“In short,” Humphrey said. “Your father bids that you cease these adventures that you are always going on, that you stop, and I quote, ‘trying to be the wild jungle man from Borneo’ and come home to take your place at the family business as you were always meant to.”

“Balderdash!” Roosevelt cried. He stopped, which provided Humphrey with great relief, as he needed a rest. “Look around you, Humphrey. Have you ever seen a land as beautiful as this?”

“It was beautiful for the first few moments, sir,” Humphrey said. “But between the multiple blisters on my feet and voluminous insect bites on my person, I must say the beauty has lost its appeal to me.”

Much to Humphrey’s chagrin, Roosevelt started walking again. Humphrey continued his pursuit.

“Well, you’ll just have to disappoint him, Humphrey,” Roosevelt said. “For I shall never return to New York. My home is here in the great outdoors.”

“Master Roosevelt,” Humphrey said. “Most assuredly, it is beyond my lowly station to say this but I have served you since you were a mere babe so might I inquire, am I wrong in feeling that you and I have a rapport that would allow me to speak freely?”

“You are correct in feeling that way, Humphrey,” Roosevelt said.

“Excellent,” Humphrey said. “Sir, might I then inquire as to whether or not these expeditions of yours are more about proving to the schoolyard bullies of your youth that you are no longer the asthmatic bookworm they so enjoyed making sport of and that you are instead, now a specimen of vim and vigor?”

“Of course not, Humphrey,” Roosevelt replied. “Don’t waste my time with such poppycock.”

“I apologize, sir,” Humphrey said. “My only point was that I hope you know that you have proven your worthiness to all who love you and therefore opinions of those from days long gone by should be of little consequence.”

“I’ve never given those ruffians a second thought,” Roosevelt said.

The forest floor ended and turned into a ten foot drop which in turn, became a steep embankment that went on for as far as the eye could see.

Humphrey persisted. “Even so sir, I must insist…”

“Shh!” Roosevelt spotted it. A majestic black bear resting on its hindquarters straight below.

Roosevelt dropped to the ground, flat on his stomach in a prone position.

“Please sir…”

Without taking his eyes off his prey, the hunter reached up, grabbed hold of Humphrey’s coat and pulled on it until the old man relented and joined his master in the muck.

“Sir, your father will be very cross…”

“Not another word,” Roosevelt whispered angrily.

The hunter trained the sights of his rifle at the bear’s head.

“I’ve got you now, bear.”

Roosevelt pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing. His gun was jammed.

“Blast,” Roosevelt said as he stood up.

“Most unfortunate, sir,” Humphrey said. “But if we could now make our way to the nearest train station…”

Roosevelt drew a long knife out of a sheath on his belt, then rested his free hand on his man servant’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Humphrey.”

Without giving it a second thought, Roosevelt threw himself off the cliff and landed on his quarry’s back.

The bear roared as Roosevelt grabbed hold of its fur. “I’ll have none of your back-sass, bear!”

Roosevelt raised his knife high in the air only to drop it when the bear bucked about wildly. The hunter held on with all his might until the bear reared backward and threw his attacker off.

The bear hauled a paw back and swiped at Roosevelt, who rolled out of the way just in time.

Roosevelt rolled up his sleeves and took a boxer’s stance. “Ahh, so it’s fisticuffs, is it?”

The bear rose up on its hind lags to stand at its full length, then slapped its two front paws down at Roosevelt, who dodged certain death yet again.

“You’ve asked for it now, bear!” Roosevelt shouted as he landed a punch right into the bear’s nose. “Don’t say you weren’t warned!”

The bear’s roar echoed throughout the forest. It’s teeth were sharp. It’s breath reeked. Roosevelt was unfazed as he sailed an upper cut right into the bear’s jaw, followed by a good solid left hook.

“Relent, bear!” Roosevelt shouted. “This will only get worse for you!”

The bear charged. Roosevelt ducked out of the way then grabbed hold of the bear’s side and climbed onto its back.

The embankment grew steeper and steeper. The bear kept running until it reached such a fast pace that it was unable to stop. With Roosevelt holding on for dear life, the bear just kept running until…SMASH!

The bear’s face planted into the side of a brick wall. Its neck snapped. Its body collapsed. It was no more.

Roosevelt inspected his kill. Moments later, Humphrey arrived on the scene.

“Oh Master Roosevelt! Thank goodness you’re all right.”

“What do you think, Humphrey?” Roosevelt asked. “Shall I just mount the head on the wall in my den next to the wild boar or turn the entire carcass into a lovely throw rug?”

“Your wall is already cluttered with many the head of a wild beast, sir,” Humphrey said. “And I thought you said you weren’t going home.”

“I never said I wouldn’t visit.”

Roosevelt looked up at the wall. It went on farther than he could see.

“Humphrey?”

“Yes sir?”

“What in God’s name is this monstrosity?”

“Oh yes,” Humphrey said. “You’ve been away from civilization for quite some time. You see, the West has been zombed sir and…”

“What?” Roosevelt asked. “It’s been what?”

“Zombed,” Humphrey repeated. “Filled with dead men who continue to walk long after they’ve expired.”

Roosevelt squinted his eyes at Humphrey. “Preposterous!”

“Indeed, yet quite true, sir.”

Roosevelt looked around. Hundreds of workmen hustled about, carrying tools, bricks, lumber and building materials. Twenty feet down the wall, a large scaffold had been erected and workers were building the wall even taller.

The hunter and his servant walked along the side of the wall for awhile until they saw two soldiers manning a post at the top of the wall.

“Hold on,” Roosevelt said. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. You there!”

The first guard turned around. “Who goes there?”

“Theodore Roosevelt,” the hunter replied. “As a citizen of these United States, I demand to know what’s going on!”

“Fuck off,” was the first guard’s reply.

Outraged, Roosevelt grabbed a long ladder that was resting against the side of the wall and straightened it so that it reached where the two guards were standing.

“Hold it steady, Humphrey!”

“Master Roosevelt, I do not think this is such a good idea.”

As he watched his master climb up the ladder, Humphrey gave up on arguing and held the ladder with both hands.

Roosevelt reached the top of the wall and stood up. “Gentlemen. This fortification has blocked my passage to the Mississippi River. I demand you remove it at once!”

“Can’t,” the first guard replied.

“Why not?” Roosevelt asked.

“Zombies,” the second guard said.

“Zombies?” Roosevelt asked.

The first guard handed Roosevelt a spy glass. “Have a look see.”

Roosevelt peered through the spy glass at the shoreline, where three particularly disgusting zombies tromped toward the wall. The guards opened fire, bursting their hideous heads open.

“You’re killing them!” Roosevelt said.

“They’re already dead,” the first guard said.

“We’re just putting them out of their misery,” the second guard added.

“My word,” Roosevelt said. “In all my life I have never seen such wretched creatures. How did this happen?”

“I haven’t got the time or the patience to explain it to you,” the first guard said.

“Help!”

Roosevelt looked through the spy glass again. A young couple, a man and a woman, drifted across the river on a raft made out of logs tied together.

“Turn back!” the first guard shouted.

“We can’t!” the young man shouted from his raft. “There’s fucking zombies over there!”

The first guard fired a warning shot that landed in the water a foot away from the raft. “The next one’s at your head!”

“What are you doing, man?” Roosevelt asked. “Those people are in need of help!”

“We’ve got our orders,” the first guard said. “Everyone from across the river is either a zombie or a suspected zombie and is to be treated as such. No exceptions.”

“This is an outrage,” Roosevelt said.

“Climb back down or we’ll throw you off,” the second guard said.

“No,” Roosevelt said. “Sirs, I shall have you know that as a member in good standing of the Republican party, I protest what you are doing here.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” the first guard said. “A Republican!”

“Bunch of bleeding heart do-gooders,” the second guard said.

“Yes!” Roosevelt said. “Bleeding heart do-gooders are we, for the Grand Ole Party carries the mantle of Lincoln, who fought boldly and gave his life to abolish the dreadful institution of slavery. Our party cares so much for the downtrodden masses that we lobbied for equal rights protections for them in the Constitution.”

“I don’t got all day to listen to your Republican nonsense,” the first guard sense.

“And yet listen to it you shall, sir,” Roosevelt said. “For the Republicans have earned their status as champions of all poor, unfortunate souls and so ingrained is our place in the American psyche that I dare say that even one hundred and fifty years from now, whenever people ask, ‘Who will help those in the minority?’ the answer will most assuredly be, ‘the Republican party!'”

“I’ve heard enough,” the first guard said. “Down you go.”

“This is not right, sir,” Roosevelt said. “The people across that wall need our assistance. The proper response for government is to utilize its resources to help them, not to build a wall and turn them away.”

The guards pointed their guns at Roosevelt.

“Fine!” Roosevelt started to climb down the ladder, but not without adding. “But do not think for one moment you have heard the last word about this from me, sirs!”

Moments later, Roosevelt reached the ground. He did not skip a beat. He stormed off. Humphrey followed.

“Something amiss, sir?”

Roosevelt turned around, stared at the wall, and tossed his hands into the air. “I have now found my true purpose in life, Humphrey. As God as my witness, I shall rise through the ranks of politics, ascending even to the Presidency of the United States if need be and I shall not rest until this wall has been torn down and the full might of our army is dispatched to bring an end to all zombies from sea to shining sea.”

“A most noble calling, sir,” Humphrey said.

“Indeed,” Roosevelt said as he walked away. “Skin my bear and meet me at the nearest train station, will you?”

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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 130

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Slade’s childhood home was just as he remembered it. Small and cozy, not entirely sturdy. The floorboards creaked as he and Miss Bonnie followed Tobias inside and took seats around a table.

Tobias rummaged around in a drawer for awhile, then pulled out a dusty scrapbook and set it in front of Slade.

Miss Bonnie looked over Slade’s shoulder as he turned the pages. They were filled with yellow, weathered newspaper articles.

“Marshal Slade Foils Stage Coach Heist”

“Scooter Givens Brought to Justice Thanks to Marshal Slade.”

“Governor Credits Marshal Slade in Ending Bank Robbery Spree”

It went on and on.

“Kinda starts to add up when you see it all together,” Slade said.

“You’ve been through some shit,” Miss Bonnie noted.

Tobias looked over Slade’s other shoulder and rattled off the cities mentioned in the articles. “Denver, Carson City, Omaha, Dodge City, boy howdy, the Marshal’s Service sent you everywhere!”

“Why’d they send you to Highwater?” Miss Bonnie asked. “Were they punishing you for something?”

“I asked for the post,” Slade said. “Thought it’d be quiet.”

Slade flipped through the pages. “Who made this?”

“Pa,” Tobias said.

“Don’t recall him being much of a reader,” Slade said.

“No he doesn’t know his letters,” Tobias said. “But my Ma used to read the paper to him and then when the fever got her I started reading it to him.”

Slade grunted. “Hmm.”

Tobias grunted back, but his was more in the form of a question. “Hmm?”

“Did you write letters to me for him?” Slade asked.

“I sure did,” Tobias said. “Every time there was an article about you in the paper, he was so proud he’d tell me what he wanted to say and I’d write it down and clean it up and send it to the Marshal’s office in the city you were in.”

Slade grunted again. “Hmm. I knew he must have had some help. Those letters seemed way too…”

“Poetic?” Tobias asked. “Flowery?”

“I was going to say intelligent.”

“Hmm,” Tobias grunted.

These grunts were not lost on Miss Bonnie. She reached over and grabbed Tobias’ fancy Mayor hat.

“Can I just…” She slid it off to reveal that like Slade, Tobias had a thick mane of brown hair.

“Oh my God,” Miss Bonnie said as she yanked Slade’s hat off to reveal his hair. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”

Slade and Tobias eyeballed each other and grunted in unison, “Hmm.”

“The old man never mentioned you in those letters,” Slade said.

“No,” Tobias replied. “I asked him to but he was worried you’d be sore if you found out he remarried. He…”

Slade closed the scrapbook.

“He told me about what happened,” Tobias said. “What he did. Hell, he never let on but I heard him up late crying about it most nights.”

“Where is he?” Slade asked.

Tobias said as he sprang out of his chair. “Come on! You got to see him.”

Slade looked at Miss Bonnie. “Go on,” she said. “Get reacquainted first then I’ll say hello.”

Tobias led the way upstairs. The rickety stairs creaked all the way.

They reached a door and Tobias put his hand on the knob.

“Wait,” he said. “There’s something I ought to tell you first.”

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