Tag Archives: Fiction

Apr 16 2016
5 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 77

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Lady Blackwood stood in the deep, dark void in the middle of the circle of fire, surrounded by the flames that went on forever and waited…and waited…and waited.

Such was the chairman’s style.  He was much too important to see anyone on time.

The fire dissipated and the lady found herself in a finely decorated reception area.  Polished wooden floors, magnificent artwork on the walls, the only thing that threw off the room’s atmosphere was the drooling bug-eyed goblin perched on top of the desk.

Fabrizio had no use for chairs, preferring to squat on his haunches like a frog and allow his arms to dangle in front of him.  He may have been a scrawny, pointy-eared, snaggletoothed little freak, but as the chairman’s personal secretary, he guarded his boss’ interests zealously.

“Does ye have an appointment?” Fabrizio squeaked.

“I don’t need one, fool,” the Lady replied haughtily. “I’m the vice-chairwoman.”

Fabrizio closed his left eye and leaned in to study the lady’s face with his right. “Be ye really the vice-chairwoman or be ye an assassin in her guise?”

“I’m a mental construct, worm,” the lady said. “My body isn’t even here.”

“Yes, yes, but one can never be too careful with the chairman’s well-being,” the goblin said.  “Disrobe for a cavity search, please.”

Unamused, Lady Blackwood backhanded the twerp’s face, launching him across the room until he smacked into a wall.  She opened up a door behind Fabrizio’s desk and proceeded to strut down a lengthy hallway.  Suits of armor from various cultures and time periods were lined up against the walls.

“Wait!” the goblin cried as he scurried after her.  He wrapped his arms and legs around the lady’s left leg but his insignificant frame wasn’t enough to slow her down.  She kept walking with the puny mongrel still attached.

“Before the chairman you can see you must answer my riddles three!”

“Unhand me, lecher!”

The lady kicked her leg until the goblin fell off and skittered across the marble floor.

The goblin threw himself before the lady’s feat and groveled in a most unpleasant and pathetic manner.

“Please!  You must let me announce ye or the chairman will have my hide!”

The lady rolled her eyes.  “Very well.”

The goblin and the vampire reached the large iron doors leading into the Chairman’s chamber.  Fabrizio leaped into the air, grabbed the door handle with his claws, planted his feet against the door and struggled wildly until it budged.

The little beast entered.  Lady Blackwood listened to the goblin’s muffled announcement.

“The vice-chairman here to see you, oh illustrious one!”

The chairman’s reply was a booming, guttural bellow, so loud that the wind produced knocked both doors open and caused the lady’s hair to flap in the breeze.

The goblin walked out tipsily, looking like he’d just lost a three round prizefight.

“Is he in a good mood?” the Lady asked.

“Better than usual,” the goblin replied.

Lady Blackwood entered the chamber.  The doors slammed shut behind her.

Surrounded by bookshelves filled with copious volumes of forgotten lore, the chairman sat behind a glorious oak desk in a leather bound chair.  From the lady’s point of view, all that was visible were the large, curled ram’s horns poking out from above the top of the chair, and a red right hand clutching a cigar.

The chairman’s voice was a low baritone.  “Our name is legion…”

The lady curtseyed and gave the expected response, “For we are many.”

“Why do you disturb me?” the Chairman inquired.

On Earth, Lady Blackwood feared no one but here in the underworld, it was hard even for a wealthy aristocratic bloodsucker to not be nervous in the chairman’s presence.

She chose her words carefully.  “Henry is poised to conquer America in your name but the board’s incompetence stands in the way.”

The cigar disappeared.  Smoke rings raised high above the leather chair.  The red hand dropped down again.

“Did I appoint intelligent agents capable of acting in my stead, or squabbling children unable to resolve their disputes without crying to daddy?”

“I do not cry,” the lady said.  “I merely beseech your intervention.”

“What would you have me do?” the Chairman asked.

“Nullify the board’s demands that Henry toy with Slade,” the lady said. “Allow Henry to remove Slade from the equation without delay.”

The chairman shifted his cigar to his left hand and drummed his long fingernails on the desk with his right.

“I have been imprisoned in the realm of the damned since time immemorial,” the chairman said. “Waiting for a being such as Henry with the ambition to plot an invasion of this magnitude and the cunning to see it through to execution.”

Lady Blackwood was pleased to hear those words.  “Then I implore you to…”

The red hand raised in a sign for the lady to be silent.  She obliged.

“I have also waited since time immemorial for someone with Henry’s ingenuity with cruelty.  Our esteemed counselor is an artist who paints with human suffering the way others do with watercolors.”

“I’m sure he would be pleased to hear you speak so highly of him,” the lady said.

“I have waited here for millennia and can do so for countless more if need be,” the Chairman said. “If the invasion fails, I can wait for another.  But I do not know when another being with Henry’s acumen for turning honest men into heartless slaves will come again.  If there is even a slight chance that Slade could be the one that allows me to feel sunlight on my skin and dirt under my feet, then I will take it.”

“But..”

“I will take it,” the Chairman repeated.  Lady Blackwood knew it wasn’t a good idea to argue the point further.

“Very well,” she said.

“While we are on the subject of the board’s incompetence,” the Chairman said. “Let us discuss yours.”

“Mine?” the Lady asked, incredulously.

“Even with the greatest gunslinger who ever lived as your personal puppet, you still have not been able to best a drunk bitch and her dandified partner,” the Chairman said.

“Miss Canary has proven to be an unfortunate challenge,” the Lady said.

“Her contemporaries have been writing off her warnings about our operation as little more than the ravings of a mad alcoholic,” the Chairman said.  “But win or lose, the result of Henry’s invasion will be that people will listen to her.  She knows your name.  She knows the board of directors’ names.  She will share them…with men who will hunt all of you down and leave you no peace.”

“She will be stopped,” the Lady said.

“Will she?” the chairman asked. “An observation, Vice-Chairwoman. Your ineptitude put the safety of the entire board in jeopardy…”

“A traitor put them in jeopardy.”

“A traitor in your employ,” the Chairman noted.  “And yet at no time did any of the board members come to see me with complaints about you.”

The lady hanged her head low, something she never did to any man or beast on Earth.

“Loyalty, Vice-Chair,” the Chairman said. “It has a place, even amongst us.  That will be all.”

Lady Blackwood knew enough about the Chairman to realize that would, indeed be all and it would be hazardous to her health to discuss the issue further.

“Good day, chairman,” the lady said.

“Vice-chairwoman,” the Chairman replied.

The room disappeared.  The lady was in the black void again.  She closed her eyes and awoke frozen stiff with blood red eyes, stark naked in the middle of a brothel. 

She regained movement and her eyes returned to normal.  Two naked prostitutes who rivaled her beauty laid in bed, waiting for her return.  They both took turns smoking opium from a hookah, and had been doing so for so long they hadn’t even noticed their client’s previously immobile state.

“Come back to bed,” one of the girls said as she patted the mattress.

The lady pulled her robe from a hook and put it on.

“No,” she said.  “I have work to do.”

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Apr 16 2016
5 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 76

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Along the banks of the Illinois side of the Mississippi River, soldiers in neatly pressed blue uniforms hustled out of the backs of covered wagons and began unloading piles of bricks near the shoreline.

Their commanding officer, Major Nathaniel Culpepper, barked orders all the while.

“Step lively, men!  There’s no time to waste!”

Culpepper was tall and muscular, with a chiseled jaw that could cut glass and long blonde locks flowing out from underneath his officer’s hat.  His assistant in this endeavor, Corporal Cecil Bartlett, was quite the opposite.  Short and a tad portly, he looked at his superior through a pair of wire-framed spectacles.

“Permission to speak freely sir?”  the Corporal asked.

“Granted,” the Major said.

“I don’t think this is possible,” the Corporal lamented.

“Anything’s possible with a little elbow grease and good old fashioned American know how, Corporal. Quit being such a sissy mary.”

“But a structure taller than the Great Wall of China to run the entire length of the Mississippi River?” the Corporal asked.  “With all due respect, the President must be out of his mind.”

“Crazy times require even crazier measures, Corporal,” the Major replied.  “Our diplomats have reported that the Canucks are already building their wall and you better believe the Mexicans are fortifying the southern border as we speak.  We can’t be the only imbeciles standing around with our dicks in our hands without a wall, can we?”

“I suppose not, sir,” the Corporal said.

A goldbricking private leaned up against one of the wagons to sneak a smoke break.  The Major spotted this and became so furious that spittle shot out of his mouth as he provided the loafer with a copious verbal tongue lashing.

“You there!  Get back to work you lowlife degenerate or so help me I will cut out your eyes and send them to your three cent whore of a mother!”

The private dropped his smoke and got to work.  The Major looked at the Corporal.

“Is it me or are the men getting lazier and lazier?”

“Morale’s low sir,” the Corporal said.  “It was a long ride. Couldn’t we have waited until morning?”

“The blasted zombies wait for no man and neither will we,” the Major said. 

The Corporal scratched his thinning hair.  “It’s just that…”

“What, what?” the Major squawked. “Out with it already man.”

“This is a Herculean effort,” the Corporal said.  “Every man on the East side of the Mississippi River conscripted into building an incredible fortress. Vast amounts of wealth and materials confiscated to make it happen. It’ll take so long to build it and the sentries that will have to be posted just in case any stragglers manage to get across…”

“Make a point all ready, man!” the Major commanded.

“I just can’t help but think that all of these resources wouldn’t be put to a better use by sending one large force across the river to put down the zombie menace once and for all,” the Corporal said.

“Put down the zombie menace?” the Major asked.  “Preposterous.  You’ve heard the witness reports.  The survivors who were lucky enough to make it East have all described the same bizarre phenomena.  Dead men biting live men and turning them into dead men.  You can’t defeat an enemy that is able to turn you into the enemy, Corporal.  That’s just common sense.”

The Corporal sighed and looked across the river.  “Maybe.  But cutting off our countrymen instead of trying to rescue them.  It just seems so…cowardly.”

“More like heroic if you ask me,” the Major said.  “Those poor bastards will all be dead soon and their problems will be over.  We, on the other hand, will have to live with what we’ve done forever.  But war is hell, Corporal, so either grow a pair or put on a dress.”

Three more wagons arrived.  The Major and the Corporal walked over to meet them.

A gruff, black bearded private with a soot covered face by the name of Robards hopped off the wagon and saluted the major.

“Got your goodies here safe and sound, sir,” the private said.

The Major poked his head into the back of the wagon to see boxes upon boxes, all stacked neatly and all marked, “TNT.”

“Excellent,” the Major said.  “Corporal!”

“Sir?”

“Gather twenty stout men,” the Major said.  “We have a date with the Sturtevant Bridge.”

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Feb 15 2016
1 Comment
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Parts 1-4

 

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Bookshelf Q. Battler, Blogger-In-Chief

Bookshelf Q. Battler has locked himself away in BQB HQ, tapping away at the keyboard to write, “How the West Was Zombed” the first in what he hopes to be a lucrative series of “Zombie Western” novels, because he lives to make his 3.5 readers happy, and also because he wants to be paid.

But mostly, he’s doing this to satisfy the Mighty Potentate, the evil alien overlord who has charged BQB with writing novels awesome enough to convince the masses to abandon reality television, which the Mighty Potentate despises greatly.

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All Hail the Mighty Potentate.

If you like it or hate it, either way, give BQB your feedback.  Your comments help BQB improve his writing and we need BQB to become a better writer so that he can write a book that will save the world from a takeover by the Mighty Potentate.

PART 1 – The Stand

Marshal Rainier Slade, a genuine stoic who’d prefer to shoot a fella as soon as look at him, is the only man in Highwater willing to face the dastardly Buchanan Boys.  Reluctantly, he’s joined by his elderly deputy Gunther and the fast talking snake oil salesman Doctor Elias T. Faraday, who thinks the move would be good publicity.

When a misunderstanding occurs between Slade and Standing Eagle, Chief of a nearby Native American tribe, the Chief translates as his shaman, Wandering Snake, delivers an ominous curse.

Part 2 – Werewolves and Women

Miss Bonnie, owner, proprietor, and prostitute-in-charge of the Bonnie Lass, is the only woman, nay, the only person alive that Slade is willing to come out of his shell for.  The rest of the time, he puts on a raspy voice, angry faced persona to the world, figuring that’s the only way for a lawman to survive.

The Marshal fumbles a proposal but still makes it clear that he’d like a relationship with Miss Bonnie.  She declines, only to rethink that decision when Slade defends her honor.

Slade finds a new love interest in Sarah Farquhar, a widow who has just moved to town after purchasing a large stretch of farmland.  The Widow Farquhar doesn’t hesitate in pursuing Slade as Miss Bonnie did, but she’s not perfect.  Slade continues to yearn for Miss Bonnie and has concerns about the Widow’s bible thumping ways, her decree that all sexual activity occur through a hole in a bed sheet in particular.

The Marshal throws caution to the wind and successfully proposes to the Widow Farquhar, only to learn Miss Bonnie has the hots for him too late.

Meanwhile, former slave turned werewolf Joseph Freeman and his teenage son, Miles, also a werewolf, arrive in town.  Joseph is looking for work and takes a job assisting Slade and Gunther watch the Buchanan Boys until Judge Sampson arrives to conduct their trial.

All the while, strange reports of monsters are afoot.

Part 3 – The Trial

Judge Sampson, a by the book jurist who’d hang his own mother for stealing a piece of candy, is about to sentence the Buchanan Boys to their doom at the end of a rope when a newcomer arrives in his courtroom.

“Simple country lawyer” Henry Alan Blythe displays a supernatural ability to get people to submit to his will.  He convinces the Judge to let the Buchanan Boys off the hook.

Enraged at the injustice, Slade turns in his star.  Gunther does so as well out of loyalty, though less forcefully as concerns about ripping his vest get in the way.

Part 4 – History Repeats Itself

Joe Freeman’s past haunts him again and again and his longstanding feud with Blythe is about to come to a head.

Blythe, a villainous vampire/counsel for the Legion Corporation’s board of vampire directors, has dreamed up a scheme to conquer the United States with a zombie army that responds to his will.

But the board’s bureaucratic maneuvering threatens to throw his plan off the rails.  His bosses want him to toy with Slade and Freeman, rather than kill them outright.

 

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Feb 11 2016
2 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 31

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1880

Of all the farmers in Highwater, Phil Tucker was by far the laziest. He rarely mucked out his pig pen and while a certain amount of slop is to be expected, most farmers take it upon themselves to grab a rake and tidy up before their neighbors feel like they’re ready to drop dead from the stench.

Even worse, Tucker just threw the pig’s food directly onto the pig poop so there was a fair amount of poop that had been eaten, digested, and turned into poop again.

Super poop, if you will.

Miles held his nose and stepped up backwards onto the pen’s fence. He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and fell backward into a pool of brown, disgusting, fly ridden, liquefied poop.

Slowly, he emerged with the mess dripping off of him. A few snorting pigs waddled over to check the intruder out but he shooed them away.

The youngster brushed himself off, removing what he could from his face and skin. His clothes, on the other hand, were beyond ruined.

“The things I do for family,” he said.

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Feb 11 2016
14 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 30

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1870

History has an uncanny way in which it repeats itself. Eleven years had passed since Joe discovered the monster that dwelled within him. For a time, he found money. Happiness. Success. A wife. A son. A home.

Alas, when he found himself in the middle of a dank, dark dungeon, his hands and feet bound to a stone table by silver chains, he began to realize that compared to his new master, Lorante had been a teetotaler.

An iron door opened and two werewolves lumbered in, their heads just barely scraping the ceiling. Blythe stepped into the room as merry as could be, as if he were off to a stroll in a park and not a torture session.

Joe struggled but the silver burned his skin. The more he moved, the worse it got.

Blythe looked down and wagged a finger in his captive’s face. “Bad dog. Bad, bad dog.”

The counselor turned to one of his wolves. “Mr. Hewett, have at it.”

Hewett dragged his claws across Joe’s chest, forcing the prisoner to cry out in pain. Then as quickly as Joe’s wound was made, it was gone. Nothing but bare skin remained.

“Joseph, I had a soul once,” Blythe said. “I can remember what it was like to be in the terrible position of caring. ‘Waah I want love. Waah I don’t like being sad. Waah I don’t want to kill anyone.’”

Blythe nodded at Hewett. A hot blast of air shot out of Hewett’s snout as he slashed Joe’s stomach again, producing even more agony.

“I blame myself for this, Joseph,” Blythe said. “Really, I do. I trained you poorly.  Somehow, you thought the only thing your new position required of you was to just stand around and keep me safe.”

Blythe chucked. “And somehow…you got the silly idea in your head that my orders are optional. Again, Mr. Hewett.”

Another slash. Another scream.

“Would you like to tell me what you were thinking?” Blythe asked.

“They were just…people. Innocent people,” Joe said.

Another wag of the finger from Blythe. “That’s that pesky soul of yours talking. You see them as people and I see them as blood bags. And not just any blood bags. Excellent physical specimens. Good health and breeding. Procured at some expense for the board of directors’ pleasure and you just opened up their cell doors and let them walk away.”

Splat. A giant loogie hit Blythe right in the face. Hewett took that as an invitation to slash the prisoner again.

“Just kill me and get it over with,” Joe said.

Blythe wiped the spit off his face with a handkerchief. “If it were up to me I would let you off so easily but I have a board of directors to answer to and our chairman is a real bastard in particular. Mr. Becker, if you please.”

Becker ducked his furry head under the door frame and left the room.

“Have you ever read the works of Plato, Joseph?” Blythe asked.

“Is that a trick question?” Joe replied.

“Not at all,” Blythe said. “I never read them myself but that’s only because I had the chance to listen to him speak about them in person. He theorized that there were three classes of people: gold, silver, and bronze.”

Hewett, used to his boss’s tendency to prattle on, leaned up against the wall to rest.

“The gold class, they’re the thinkers. The politicians. The business tycoons. The big picture people,” Blythe said. “The silver class, they protect the world that the golds create and the bronze? They’re the lowly grunts who do the work that’s beneath the silver and gold.”

“I wish I could kill myself just so I wouldn’t have to listen to you anymore,” Joe said.

“The humans follow this system,” Blythe said. “And evil follows this system as well. At the very bottom of our food chain is the pathetic zombie. No soul. No brains. Mindless instruments of destruction who just bite and eat and destroy whatever is in their way. They’re ultimately useless until given some direction.”

Blythe pointed to the silver chains. “You’re a silver, Joseph. An unfortunate analogy seeing as what silver actually does to beings like us but an apt one just the same. Werewolves have been tasked with the noble duty of guarding the property of vampires since the dawn of time. We don’t ask you to think. We just ask you to do.”

The counselor stroked his hand through Joe’s hair just as one would a well-behaved puppy.

“Did I not take care of you, Joseph?” Blythe asked. “Provide you with a generous wage? Raise you to a higher station in life? And did I not protect you from those humans who’d protest that your shade of color disqualifies you from either? There is no one else on this planet who could have offered you the life I did and you thanked me by making me look like a fool in front of the board.”

Joe stared at the ceiling, praying for a swift resolution.

Becker returned with Lydia slung over his shoulder. He set her down. This time around, she was very, very scared.

Joe wrenched at the chains but that only made him scream. “HOW?!”

Blythe grinned. “Thought you hid her from me did you? Oh Joseph, the eyes, as they say, truly are the window to the soul and once you allowed me to look into yours I knew your achilles’ heal was your family.”

Lydia shrieked as Blythe pulled her body close to his. The counselor opened his mouth and hissed like a snake as two sharp fangs popped out. He used them to bite open a vein in his wrist.

“Henry, please,” Joe said. “This is between us. She did nothing to you. Let her go.”

“The board has already made a ruling, Joseph,” Blythe said as his blood dripped all over Lydia’s dress. “I am but a cog in a greater machine.”

The vampire wrapped his hand around Lydia’s mouth.

“Open,” Blythe said.

Lydia struggled and then relented. Drip…drip…drip went the vampire blood down her throat.

Joe lost control and yanked at the chains with all his might, the silver searing into his flesh.

“Your love and I are bonded now,” Blythe said. “A greater connection exists between us for my blood flows in her veins. It calls out to me, yearning for my guidance. My direction. My control.”

Joe’s eyes turned yellow. The beast fought to take over his body but the silver chains held it at bay.

“Of course,” Blythe said. “She’s burdened by that pesky soul of hers that tells her not to listen to me so let’s relieve her of that, shall we?”

A shot rang out, smashing its way through Lydia’s heart. Once she fell to the ground, Blythe set a smoking revolver down on a small table.

Had any humans been in the room, Joe’s roar would have popped their eardrums.

“Oh enough of the theatrics,” Blythe said. “Her soul’s in a much better place.”

Joe couldn’t see it but he could hear Lydia grown. Then she snarled. Ever so slowly, she rose to her feet. Her eyes were blank white, the retinas completely gone. Her movements were mechanical.  She had become a gruesome automaton.

Unsure of her steps, Lydia walked like a toddler towards Joe, then sunk her teeth into her husband’s shoulder. She snapped off a piece of flesh and devoured it, blood dripping from her lips. Joe’s flesh grew back immediately.

“I can’t be damned twice,” Joe said. “You killed her for nothing! NOTHING!”

“Did I?” Joe asked. “Mr. Becker.”

The werewolf henchman exited the room. Lydia moved into Joe’s neck for another bite but Blythe stretched out his hand in a “stop” motion.

“Down girl,” Blythe commanded.

Lydia instantly complied and stood quietly, staring at the wall.

Becker returned with little Miles wrapped up in his paw. The boy was merely five years old and petrified for his life. He was set on the floor and he immediately scurried underneath the table his father was laid out on.

“Please,” Joe said, reduced to sobbing. “Just kill me.”

“If I had any emotions I’d sympathize with you Joseph,” Blythe said. “I truly would.”

Blythe stared at the bullet in his hand. It was remarkably shiny. A glint of candlelight bounced off of it. The vampire loaded it into the pistol then set it on the smaller table by the door.

“I’ll let you figure this out,” Blythe said. “The bullet’s silver in case you’d like to take personal responsibility for what you’ve done and call it quits. If not, well, you know what to do. The board has declared that either your head or hers will be sufficient to consider your debt repaid.”

Hewett and Becker got in front of their boss and formed one gigantic hairy wall of protection. Blythe reached for a lever on the wall, yanked it down, and Joe was released.

Joe lept from the table and charged at his captors.

Blythe snapped his fingers. “Feed at will, dear,” was his last order to Lydia.

Hewett backhanded Joe to the ground and the trio escaped, locking the iron door behind them.

Joe stood up to find the undead body of the woman  he loved on the floor, desperately clawing her hand underneath the table, attempting to snatch a crying Miles.

“Lydia,” Joe said.

Lydia waved her arm under the table furiously.

“Miles,” Joe said.

“Papa?”

“Stop…” Joe caught his breathe. “Stop that crying now. Mama’s just playing a game with you.”

“She is?” Miles asked.

“Yes,” Joe said.

“Silly Mama,” Miles said. The boy sniffed and the crying stopped. “What are we playing?”

Joe grabbed Lydia by the waist and pulled her away from the table but like a wild animal she kicked and growled.

“LYDIA STOP!”

It was no use. She wrestled herself out of Joe’s grip and dove to the bottom of the table again, the boy’s delicious flesh the only thing on her mind.

Joe grabbed the revolver. “Hide and seek,” Joe told Miles.

“I’m losing,” Miles said. “Mama keeps finding me.”

“I know,” Joe said as he pulled Lydia away again. She shrieked and waled, digging her nails into Joe’s sides and ripping her teeth into the arm he used to hold her with.

“You just have to try harder,” Joe said. “Close your eyes and count to ten.”

The little boy’s voice counted. “One…two…three…”

“Stick your fingers in your ears and sing a song,” Joe said.

Lydia’s teeth cut Joe’s arm all the way to the bone. He fought through it as he raised the revolver to his wife’s temple.

“Then she’ll hear me and find me!” Miles said.

“Nah,” Joe replied. “Mama’s sneaky. She’ll ask you where you are and if you can’t hear then you can’t tell her.”

“Oh,” Miles said. “Row row row your boat…”

Joe kissed his wife on the cheek. She snapped her teeth at his face.

“I love you,” Joe said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Joe pulled the trigger. The shot tore through Lydia’s brain and her undead body went limp. Gently, Joe laid her down on the table he’d been held on. He wolfed out, punched the iron door off its hinges, then morphed back into human form.

Miles was still singing. “…merrily merrily merrily…”

Joe picked up Lydia and carried her in his arms. He walked out of the room, down a dimly lit hallway, and found another cell. He laid his wife down again, then returned to collect his son.

He reached under the table and pulled Miles out.

“Where’s Mama?” Miles asked as Joe grabbed the boy by the hand and led him down the hallway.

“Her turn to hide now,” Joe said. “She’s hiding pretty good so I think it’ll be awhile before we find her.”

“Oh,” Miles said. “Why are you naked?”

“Lost my pants,” Joe said.

“I lose mine sometimes too,” Miles said. “Mama always finds ‘em for me. She’s a good Mama.”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Yeah she is.”

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Feb 08 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Part 3 – The Trial

A day of reckoning comes for the Buchanan Boys.  Judge Sampson comes to town and is hankering to pass out some hangings.

But “simple country lawyer” Henry Allan Blythe and his werewolf lackeys have other plans in mind.

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Chapter 21         Chapter 22      Chapter 23

Chapter 24        Chapter 25      Chapter 26

Chapter 27        Chapter 28

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Feb 05 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 21

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A full week had passed since the capture of Smelly Jack and his villainous brood.  Rifle in hand, Slade led the processional. The town’s nosey citizens poured out of their shops and homes to watch the chained up criminals march toward the courthouse.

Knox took the left flank.  Gunther and Joe took the right.  The young Knoxes brought up the rear.

Jack was performing for the crowd.  “What a crying shame that an innocent man and his kin get railroaded just for passin’ through town!”

An old lady pelt him in the head with a rotten tomato.  He laughed it off.

“You people aint much on hospitality, I’ll tell you that!”

Swears, insults, obscene gestures and all kinds of abuse were heaped on the Buchanan Boys.  Jack reveled in it.  He even broke out into song.

“Nobody knows…the trouble I seen!  Nobody knows…my sorrow!”

Jack eyeballed Joe.  “Hey boy!  BOY!  That’s that song you people would sing whenever the mass gave you a good whuppin?”

Joe was too classy to respond.

“Swing low…sweet chariot…comin’ for to carry me home!  Oh the massa whupped my balls good and now I swing low….”

“That’s enough,” Gunther said.

“HEY MARSHAL!” Jack shouted.

Slade just kept on walking.

“Marshal! Aint it enough to run a man up the river on false accusations?!  You gotta have me watched by a dirty nig…”

Gunther stuck his foot in front of Jack’s, tripping the bigmouth up and launching him into the ground face first, taking a few of his brother-cousins with him.

“Damn Jack,” Gunther said with a wink to Joe.  “Better watch your step.”

 

 

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Feb 05 2016
4 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 20

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Midnight.  The criminals snored and shifted in their seats.  Smelly Jack was having a difficult time drifting off seeing as how he was chained to two of his brother-cousins.  Slade and Gunther were outside on the porch.  The oldest Knox was fast asleep.  The two younger Knoxes were locked in a heated debate about whether or not Jesse James was an outlaw or a hero.

Joe walked to the pulpit, which Miles was using as a desk to draw his latest masterpiece.

“Are we leaving?” the boy asked.

Joe answered his son’s question with a question. “I’m that obvious?”

“I can smell your fear,” Miles replied without looking up.  This time he was working on a pirate ship, complete with sails, masts, cannons, and little pirates on deck.

“You don’t smell so brave either,” Joe said.  “I don’t know anyone who could at a time like this.”

“Should we go now or in the morning?” Miles asked.

“Neither,” Joe answered.  “I gave my word I’d help watch these men until their trial and a man’s only as good as his word.  As soon as that’s over, we’ll be moving on.”

“That’s too bad,” Miles said. “The people are nice.”

“I reckon,” Joe said.

“Mr. Beauregard’s funny,” Miles said. “The Marshal doesn’t talk much. Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “Maybe his mother taught him that if he can’t think of something nice to say about someone then he shouldn’t say anything at all.  He probably met too many people who fit the bill.”

“Where will we go?” Miles asked.

“Thought about down Mehico way but I hate the heat.  Canada will suit us fine.”

Miles looked up from his artwork.  “Pa, shouldn’t we just outright tell them?”

Joe chuckled. “Son, people talk a good game about ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night but seeing is believing.  Unfortunately for most folk, by the time they see it and believe it, it’s already too late.”

“What do you think the Legion is up to?” Miles asked.

“No good.”

“Duh,” Miles said. “But what?”

“No clue.  But it’s big.  Bigger than anything they’ve ever tried before.”

“Shouldn’t we help?” Miles asked.

“No,” Joe said. “We’ve done our part.  And we’ve already lost too much.”

 

 

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Feb 01 2016
10 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 13

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Gunther was about to head inside when two more new arrivals paid him a visit. Joe and Miles Freeman, fully clothed and well rested. They’d slept outdoors plenty of times before, and in worse places than underneath a water tower.

“Hello sir,” Joe said.

“Howdy,” Gunther said. “What can I do you for?”

The old man knew he phrased that question wrong, but he thought it was funny.

“I heard talk about town that you caught some criminals,” Joe said.

“You heard right,” Gunther replied. “The Buchanan Boys. Worst piles of pig shit the devil ever created. They make them James-Younger peckerwoods look like a bunch of pissants.”

Joe was not scared off by that statement. “And I heard you were looking for help watching them.”

Gunther studied the father and son. They seemed respectable enough but an idea popped into the old man’s mind.

“Actually,” Gunther said. “What if I were to tell you that can wait and I need a man to help me stand up to another gang of miscreants headed this way?”

No hesitation from Joe. “Just point me in the right direction.”

“Just a test,” Gunther said.

“Huh?” Joe asked.

“Nevermind,” Gunther said as shook Joe’s hand. “You’re hired.”

The Knoxes were more than enough to keep the Buchanan Boys in line, but Gunther had a hunch his new acquaintances were in need of a good deed and if he could charge it off to the Marshal’s Service, all the better.

“Joe Freeman,” Joe said.

“Gunther Beauregard,” the Deputy replied. “This your son?”

“Miles,” Joe said. “Yes. Oh, but don’t worry. He won’t cause any trouble.”

Gunther squinted at the youngster.

“You ever kill a man?” Gunther asked.

“No,” Miles answered.

“Been in a fistfight?”

“No.”

“Been shot?”

“No.”

“Fought in a duel?”

“No.”

Joe laughed as he realized what Gunther was up to.

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Christ, son,” Gunther said. “You ‘aint lived much of a life, have you?”

“I’m only fifteen.”

“Well, that’s no excuse.”

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Feb 01 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 11

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Dawn came and Slade sat on the steps of the church’s front porch, staring at his mother’s ring and torturing himself with that age old question everyone in love faces whenever romance doesn’t go their way.

“What could I have done differently?”

Gunther interrupted the pontification session by loudly chomping on an apple and dropping a telegram on the Marshal’s lap.

“Straight off the telegraph,” the Deputy said. “What do you make of it?”

Slade took a look:

United Exchange Telegraph Service

FROM: Josiah Uxley, U.S. Marshall

Denver, Colorado

TO: All U.S. Marshals in Good Standing
Warning <STOP> Infestation of monsters in Colorado <STOP> All is lost <STOP> Monsters are being hauled East <STOP> Abandon posts and save yourselves <STOP>

Slade crumpled up the telegram and made a pantomime gesture as if he were taking a big drink.

“Them Colorado boys dipped into the moonshine and had themselves a good time?” Gunther asked.

The boss nodded.

Gunther winced under the rising sun. “That’s what I thought too. Then again, I wonder if it’s some kind of test. Trick us into leaving and then we get the axe. Either way, I sent a message back asking what the hell this is all about.”

Slade grunted his assent.

The old timer parked himself next to Slade and produced from a sheath he wore on his belt a foot long knife. Crossbar handle. Curved end. Anyone introduced to it would not have walked away.

Gunther went to work, whittling a block of wood.

“Is it me or is your face longer than usual?” Gunther asked.

Grunt.

Slade realized he was still holding the ring. It was too late to avoid detection by putting  it away.

“What’s that?” Gunther asked.

Grunt.

“Oh slap me in the ass and call me Sally!” Gunther said. “You proposed to that redheaded spitfire!”

Cigar chomp.

Gunther nudged Slade with his elbow. “Didn’t you? Come on now…”

Silence.

“Huh,” Gunther said as his wood shavings hit the ground. “And since you’re here with a puss on your face and the ring’s in your hand instead of on Miss Bonnie’s finger…”

“Yup,” Slade said.

“Oh boy.”

A minute or two passed. Gunther kept whittling. Slade kept sulking.

“You want to tell me the details?” the old man asked.

Exasperated, Slade tucked the ring into his pocket.

“Well how am I supposed to help you if you won’t tell me what happened?” Gunther asked.

Slade just stared blankly at his boots.

“What exactly did you say to her?” Gunther asked.

Slade didn’t respond to that inquiry, nor did he respond to:

Did you get down on one knee?

Were you all fancy about it or did you just throw the ring at her?

Did she look happy?

Did she laugh at you?

Was she at least nice about it?

Did she let you down easy?

The Marshal held up under interrogation for a half-hour until finally his Deputy cracked the case.

“You didn’t really ask her did you?”

Slade shifted and looked the other way.

“Ah,” Gunther said. “That’s it. You were chicken.”

Few things got the Marshal talking like an accusation of cowardice, but even then, the response was sparse.

“Was not.”

“So,” Gunther said, “Since you’re being stubborn I’ll have to deduce that you didn’t ask her outright but some state of affairs transpired that led you to believe that Miss Bonnie wouldn’t be interested in being locked in the bonds of holy matrimony with you forever and ever.”

The two just sat there.

“Why I don’t know because you’re such a gifted conversationalist,” Gunther said. “It’s Miss Bonnie’s loss for sure.”

Slade shook his head. Gunther rolled his eyes.

“Goddamnit, son. Out with it! Did you ask her or not?”

Through gritted teeth, the Marshal’s reply was as raspy as ever. “I asked enough…and she answered enough.”

“Oh,” Gunther said as he turned back to his whittling. “Well why didn’t you say so?”

Slade felt relief, believing the interrogation was over until the old man started up again.

“You know, Rain,” Gunther said. “Women say a lot of things. They hem and they haw and they say they’ll never do this or they’ll never do that but give ‘em an actual honest to God decision to make and they might just surprise you.”

A confused look took over Slade’s face.

“Get your ass back there, get down on one knee and ask her proper,” Gunther said. “She says yes, good. She says no, well, at least you know.”

Slade struck a match, held it to his cigar until it was lit, then puffed.

“No.”

Gunther nodded. “Well, you were there. I wasn’t. If you think she’s a lost cause then so be it. No use grousing over it though. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

A stage coach rolled up the road and came to a stop at Anderson’s General Store. The coach man got down, opened the door and a delicate hand took his. Out stepped a raven haired beauty, dressed all in black.

Dumbstruck, Slade’s mouth gaped open just wide enough for his cigar to fall out.

Gunther sheathed his blade.

“Speaking of…”

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