Tag Archives: history

Apr 18 2016
4 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 81

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“Do you think he’ll answer?” Miss Bonnie asked as she watched the flames dance.

“I don’t know,” Slade said.  “He was mighty sore at me.  And I let Gunther flap the blanket for awhile so he probably did some of that fake Injun talk shit.  The Chief hates that.”

The marshall and the redhead watched the bonfire for a time.  Slade reached for Miss Bonnie’s hand and held it. 

“I love you Bonnie.”

They were words that Slade had never spoken to another woman before. And though many women are often touched by such a warm gesture, Miss Bonnie grumbled a curt reply.

“I don’t blame you.”

A few beats skipped until she finally relented.  “I love you too.”

More fire watching.

Slade rubbed his thumb back and forth over the back of Miss Bonnie’s hand.

“When this is over, you and I have to be together,” Slade said.

“Your fiancé might have something to say about that,” Miss Bonnie said.

“I don’t care,” Slade said.  He grimaced then added, “I do care. I don’t want to hurt her. But my whole life I’ve been pretending to be someone I’m not and if I make it out alive I’m not going to do it anymore, not with her, not with anybody.”

“Rain,” Miss Bonnie said. “I’m too exhausted to be your discount head shrinker so just spill it.”

“When I was twelve I hid under the bed while a bandit shot my Ma dead,” Slade said.  “My Pa sent me away because he was disgusted with me.  I’ve been trying to prove myself ever since, shooting and stringing up every criminal I could get my hands on, talking in a tough guy voice that isn’t even mine.  None of it matters.  None of it makes me feel any tougher.  Whatever I do, I’ll still be that boy hiding under the bed.”

“That’s awful,” Miss Bonnie said.

Silence.

“Now you think less of me,” Slade said.

“No,” Miss Bonnie replied.  “I’ve done bad things.”

Slade held his left hand up in a stop motion. “Please. Everyone knows your ‘bad things,’ Bonnie.  Roscoe Crandall tells everyone who’ll listen.  I don’t care about that.”

“I shot my husband,” Miss Bonnie blurted out, abruptly.

Slade was taken aback.  “What?”

“I was married,” Miss Bonnie said. “To a man who started out nice then turned into a real horse’s ass.  Beat me half to death so many times I lost count so one day I got tired of it and I just up and shot him.”

Slade fumbled for a response.  He couldn’t think of one.

“It was him or me,” Miss Bonnie said. “And I chose me.”

“That explains a lot,” Slade said.

“I suppose,” Miss Bonnie said.

“Those dog monsters you killed,” Slade said. “All those zombies you shot up like they were nothing.  Your offer to shoot Doc…”

“OK,” Miss Bonnie said.

“…your stubborn bull-headedness…your cold demeanor when it comes to romance…your money grubbing tendencies…”

“OK!” Miss Bonnie repeated.

Slade put his arm around his lady love.  “I don’t care.”

The pair stayed like that for awhile until Slade started up again. 

“A year ago Pa wrote me a letter,” Slade said.  “Read an article in the paper about me and one of the outlaws I dragged in.  Told me he was sorry.  Said I’m welcome to come visit him if I were so inclined.”

“Fuck him,” Miss Bonnie said.  “You were twelve and couldn’t have done any better had you been an adult.”

“I know,” Slade said. “But hearing it from him might put my mind at ease.  Nothing else has.” 

“Do what you want then,” Miss Bonnie said.

“Come with me,” Slade said.

Miss Bonnie scrunched up her face. “What?”

“To Arizona,” Slade said.  “This town’s in ruins. There’s nothing left for us here.”

“I’m not going to be ‘the other woman,’” Miss Bonnie said.

“You’ll be the only woman,” Slade replied. “Once this is over, I’ll sit Sarah down, spill my guts, and take my licks.  Then we can be together.”

“I…I don’t…”  Miss Bonnie stammered.

“Just think about it,” Slade said.  “And in case I die….”

Without warning, the marshall scooped Miss Bonnie up in his arms, dipped her, then kissed her passionately.  The redhead let her guard down and returned the favor.  Tongues were surely touched.  Spit was definitely swapped.

Once the smooching subsided, Slade finished his thought. “…I don’t want to go without having done that.”

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The couple’s hearts sank as they heard a pair of hands applauding them from behind their backs. 

There was a witness to their illicit secret, one with blank eyes that served as mirrors, reflecting the bonfire’s flames.

“Bravo!” Doc said between claps. “Bravissimo! Encore! Encore, I say!”

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Apr 17 2016
1 Comment
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 79

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Standing Eagle and a dozen of his warriors galloped their horses to the top of a hill overlooking the valley that contained Highwater below.  Wandering Snake trained his spy glass on the smoke signals as they rose into the air.

The tribe’s shaman translated the signals out loud.  “Attention…Injuns…”

The Chief slapped his forehead.  “Oh spirits give me strength.  They’re even racist in code.”

“White men…in heap big trouble…”

“There,” Standing Eagle said. “Right there.  That is a vicious stereotype.  None of us use the word ‘heap’ to describe anything.”

Screeching Owl, one of the tribe’s younger warriors, rode his steed up to the group and peered at the puffs of smoke rising above the town.

“Sorry I am late,” Owl said. “Wow.  That’s a heap many smoke clouds.”

Eagle looked to Snake, who shrugged his shoulders.  “Oh fine. So one of us uses the word ‘heap’ in place of ‘many’ or ‘very’ and to the white man that means we all do it.  I swear the white man judges every other group based solely on its dumbest member.  Owl!”

Owl turned his gaze to the Chief.  “Chief?”

“Stop saying ‘heap!’”

Owl nodded. “I’m heap sorr…I’m very sorry.”

Snake continued the translation.  “Monsters have…overrun…town.  Soon will…take over…country.  Please…send help…so we can defeat…leader of monsters.”

“Give me that,” Eagle said as he grabbed Snake’s spy glass and trained it about the town.  Wherever he looked, he saw buildings on fire, half-eaten bodies in the streets, and dead men traipsing about.

“What in the…Snake!”

“Chief?”

“What’s going on down there?” Eagle asked.

The shaman lit up a stick that was doused with sweet smelling incense, the aroma of which he believed would ward off evil.

“The spirits are angry.”

Eagle kept using the spy glass to take in different views of the carnage until he spotted old man Knox and his boys standing on the back of a flipped over cart, shooting every last bullet they had at a throng of zombies until they were torn apart, severed limbs being tossed everywhere.

“The white men need help,” Eagle said as he handed the spy glass back to the shaman.

Like his namesake, Charging Bobcat was lean and wiry.  His hair was styled in a mohawk, with tattoos inked along the shorn sides of his head.  A feather dangled from his ear.

“Let the white men die, Eagle,” Bobcat said.  “This is likely their doing.  Some sort of experiment they did to ‘improve’ over Mother Nature’s wishes coming back to bite them…literally.”

“Right,” Eagle said.  “Start a fire and send them my response.  ‘Dear White Men.  So sorry that another group just showed up one day and started taking all of your shit even though you all had clearly been there for awhile.  We have no idea what that’s like…”

Snake shook his head.

“What?” Eagle asked.  “Too much sarcasm?”

The shaman peered once more at the town through his telescope.  “Spirits would say that the evil of others is no excuse for you to commit evil.  Those in need must be helped by those who can.”

“Damn it, Snake,” Eagle said.

“Eagle!!!”

The Chief turned his attention to his scout, Crafty Fox, who was quickly galloping in from the south side of the mountain, flanked on either side by two more scouts.

There was a look of terror on Fox’s face.

“Come quickly!”

Eagle and his braves followed the scouts to the South side of the mountain.  Though they were all battle tested fighters, the warriors’ mouths gaped in awe at the sight that unfolded before their eyes.

Lines of werewolves marched in formation from the West, snapping whips across the backs of the zombies ahead of them, herding them toward Highwater.  It was a massive army, thousands in total.

Eagle was calm and resolute in his orders.  “All of you.  Return to the village.  Gather the women, children and the elderly and seek refuge with our friends in the south.”

“And what of you?”  Bobcat asked.

“I will do what I always do,” the Chief said.  “I will stand.”

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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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Apr 13 2016
1 Comment
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 73

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Doc stared at the ropes binding him to a chair.

“Is this really necessary?” Doc asked.  “None of you are in any imminent peril from me I assure you.”

“That’s exactly what a zombie would want us to believe,” Miss Bonnie said as she looped another coil of rope around the doctor and tied it up tight.  “Lull us into thinking everything’s peachy keen then before we knew it he’s chomping on our brains before you can whistle dixie.”

“Why are you talking?” the Reverend asked.  “The other zombies didn’t talk.  They just grunted.

“Hmmm,” Slade said as he stepped over, Sarah still attached to his side.

“Like that,” the Reverend added.

“Those peepers of yours are sending a chill up my spine, Doc,” Gunther said.  “This is for your own good until we know what’s going on with you.”

“It’s either this or we put you down like a dog,” Miss Bonnie said.

Anabelle rubbed her hand across Doc’s cheek.  “How do you feel?”

“Never better, my dear,” Doc said.  “Like I’m a young buck again.  Even better.  Better than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.  I feel like I could run for miles and lift enormous weights over my head.  I dare say I even feel better than I do when I am under the effects of cocaine.”

Miles was a boy again and wearing his blanket like a cloak once more. 

“Can you make heads or tails of this, youngun?” Gunther asked.

“Nope,”  Miles said.  “He looks like a zombie.  But he talks so much…”

“Well shit,” Gunther said.  “He was like that before.  Why did all those varmints vamoose?”

Miles walked over to the doorless frame and stepped onto the porch.  Miss Bonnie and Gunther joined.  The trio watched as scores of zombies all lumbered toward the opposite side of town.

“Blythe’s calling them,” Miles said.  “And that’s not good.  If you think they were bad on their own, wait until he gets them organized.”

Gunther poked his head through the door frame and spied the bride.

“Miss Sarah.  Do you think I could borrow your beau?”

Sarah shook her head furiously.  “No.”

“You’ll be fine, Miss Sarah,” Gunther said.  “I guarantee it.  We’re all going to be right here…”

Gunther nodded at Miles.  “And we even got a dog monster on our side.”

“Werewolf,” Miles said.

“No,” Sarah said, clutching Slade even tighter, practically cutting off the circulation in his arm.

Anabelle grabbed one of Sarah’s arms and the Reverend grabbed the other.  Together, they gently pried her off of Slade.

“Miss Sarah,” the Reverend said.  “At times like these, do you know what I find most comforting?”

“The good book?” Sarah asked.

“Bourbon!” the Reverend said.  “Let’s go find my stash.”

“Rain!” Sarah shouted.  “Rain you’re not going away are you?”

“No,” Slade said.

“Promise me you won’t leave me.”

“I…I promise.”

The trio of Slade, Gunther and Miss Bonnie found a bit of privacy out on the front porch.

“Well, what’s the plan, marshall?”  Gunther asked.

“Marshall?” Slade asked.  “I turned in my star.”

“No one gives a shit about that star, Rain,” Gunther said.  “We’re the only law this town has and you’re still the marshal as far as I’m concerned.”

Miss Bonnie nodded.  “He’s right.  What’s our next move, marshall?”

Slade’s voice was raspy as ever as he looked at Gunther.  “You want to fight now?  You’re the one who always wants to run away from everything.”

The old man’s face turned bright red with rage.

“Damn it, boy,” Gunther said.  “I do not run away from everything.  I run away from some things.  There’s a big damn difference.”

“There is?” Slade asked, curious at this side of Gunther he’d never seen before.

“Yeah there is,” Gunther said.  “I wasn’t a shrinking violet by any stretch when it was my turn to do my part to keep the union together. And I did more than my fair share of fighting in Texas before you were even a twitch in your Daddy’s pecker.”

“Texas?”  Miss Bonnie asked.

“You’re darn tootin’,” Gunther said.

“Bullshit,” Slade said.

Gunther unsheathed his knife and handed it to Slade.  “Read that handle motherfucker.”

Slade squinted at the handle and looked shocked when he saw two engraved words. 

“James Bowie.”

“Colonel Jim Bowie of the Texas Volunteer Army,” Gunther said as he snatched the knife back.  “Trusted me with the very first sticker he ever invented.  Commanded me to get it the hell out of the Alamo before Santa Anna could get his grubby mitts on it.  He trusted me with it on account of how many Mexicans I killed, thank you very much.”

“You never said anything,” Slade said.

“I never needed to say anything,” Gunther said.  “I don’t need to sashay around with a sour puss on my face and a cigar in my yap the way you do just to prove to the world that I got a big swingin’ dick.  This knife and my memories are the only proof I need.”

“He’s got you there, Rain,” Miss Bonnie said.

“What?” Slade asked.

“You put on airs,”  the redhead said.

“I do not.”

“You do,” Miss Bonnie said.  “You got this tough guy act you put on around everyone but me.”

“But you?” Gunther asked Miss Bonnie.

“He’s a real sweet teddy bear,” Miss Bonnie said.  “Aint you?” she asked Slade.

Slade’s forehead vein was throbbing.  With full rasp he declared, “I am not a teddy bear.”

“Look,” Gunther said.  “I don’t run from every fight.  Just the fights that aren’t worth dying for.  Only a dumb ass would let himself get shot trying to save a town full of ungrateful yahoos from getting their shit stolen from a scumbag like Smelly Jack.”

The old man pulled bullet after bullet off of his belt and one by one, inserted them into the chamber of his pistol.

“But when I was just a bit older than Miles in there I saw a chance to make a life for myself in a free Texas so I took it,” Gunther said.  “It didn’t work out the way I’d hoped but at least I came back here knowing I’d earned a great man’s respect.  And years later when there was chance to keep the North and South from going their separate ways?  You better believe that was a cause worth fighting for.”

Slade chewed on the end of his cigar.  The old timer pointed at the zombies trudging away down the road.

“And even though the odds are a million to one against a victory here,” Gunther said. “If there’s even a slim chance that I can keep the United States of America from becoming stepped on by a bloodsucking son of a bitch’s boot heel, then you best believe I’m going to take it.”

Miss Bonnie cocked her shotgun.  “That was beautiful Gunther.  Rain, let him hear your real voice.”

Slade flashed Miss Bonnie a look of total betrayal.  “What?” he grunted.

“Go on,” Miss Bonnie said.  “Gunther shared.  Now you share.  This is how you make friends.”

“I don’t want to,”  Slade said, gruffly.

Miss Bonnie stomped her foot. “Rainier Slade, this man is the best friend you will ever have and you will let him hear your real voice right this instant!”

Slade rolled his eyes then cleared his throat.  He started talking normally, with his real voice, the one he only shared with Miss Bonnie.

It wasn’t womanly.  Or all that intolerable.  But as it turned out, Slade’s regular tone was just the slightest bit…nasal.

“This is how I talk.”

Gunther leaned back and looked Slade in the eye.  “Really?”

“Really.”

“Fuck,” Gunther said.

The old man slapped the marshal’s back.  “Like I said, boy.  As long as you’re convinced your dick swings, no one else’s opinion matters.”

Gunther moved near the door frame.  “If you want to fight, we’ll fight.  If you want to run, we’ll run.  No shame in it under the circumstances. It’s easy for me to say let’s fight because I’ve done all my living already but you two are just getting started.  Whatever you decide, I’m with you, marshall.”

Slade tipped the end of his Stetson.  “Thank you…deputy.”

The old man walked into the church but then poked his head back outside.

“But seriously, get that frog back in your throat.  You’re going to kill the morale in here.”

“Got it,” Slade said.

Slade and Miss Bonnie sat on the edge of the porch.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Slade said.

“Please,” Miss Bonnie said.  “I’ve known that old buzzard longer than you and I’ve never seen him go on about another man the way he does about you.  He doesn’t care what you sound like.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been through,” Slade said. 

“Are you ever going to tell me?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“Maybe,” Slade said.  “When you tell me why a cancan girl can drop a slew of zombies and offer to blow off Doc’s head without breaking a sweat.”

Miss Bonnie stood up.  “Touche,” she said as she walked into the church.  “I’ll let you think.”

All alone, Slade laid back and stared up at the stars.  “Yeah.  Let me think.”

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Apr 09 2016
20 Comments
Zombie Western

Old West Gun Question

Hey 3.5 Readers.

Writing How the West Was Zombed has made me realize I don’t know a lot about guns, be they from the past or the present.  Kind of difficult as I’m not really a gun person.  I’m clumsy and accident prone, thus fairly certain I’d shoot myself if I ever had one.

It dawned on me it might be worth a trip to a gun range for an afternoon some day if I’m going to persist in my attempts to become a novelist, seeing as how characters often end up shooting guns no matter what time period the novel is set in.

But I’m certain I would shoot myself in the foot so studying the subject from afar will have to do.

But I’ve seen something in many cowboy movies that I’d like to incorporate into the novel but I don’t understand it.

Below is a video of the infamous “Shootout at the OK Corral” scene from Tombstone starring Val Kilmer as Doc Holliday and Kurt Russell as Wyatt Earp.

Tombstone – 1993 – Posted by Thell Reed, Gunman on Youtube

See around 1:40 where Val Kilmer as Doc Holliday slaps the back of his gun a bunch of times real fast?  Clint Eastwood did that in his movies too.

Why did they slap the back of their guns so fast?  I assume it was some kind of a trick to make the gun shoot faster.  If you’re a gun person, please explain it to me.

I’ve searched the Interwebs and alas, there’s not much info about old West shooting.

Part of me wonders how much I need to learn, another part wonders if the reader cares to know much more than a zombie was shot.

By the way, this movie is badass.  Can’t believe it is so old now I remember watching it when it came out like it was yesterday.  This was probably one of Val’s best performances.

Rewatching it this year made me realize I needed to keep pressing on with writing Zombed. Westerns seemed like they were going out of style even in the 1990’s though movies like this one still managed to keep people interested.

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Feb 25 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

Chapter 50 – How the West Was Zombed

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“Gentlemen, place your bets!”

Over a hundred people came out to watch Slade square off against Smelly Jack. They lined up along both sides of the street, looking for a good spot to watch the fight. Blake saw an opportunity to make some dough. He waved a stack of bills in the air.

“What’s the action?” Townsend asked.

“Jack’s a shoo-in,” Blake said. “But the odds of Slade living through this are a thousand to one!”

Townsend forked over a ten spot. “Put it on Jack.”

“You got it,” Blake said. “Place your bets! Place your bets!”

Blake worked his way through the crowd, accepting money from all the would be gamblers. Slade’s action didn’t get many takers, but there were a few who believed in him enough to stake their money on him.

The impromptu bookie found himself next to Gunther, who stood outside the church next to Doc and Annabelle.

“Place your bets?” Blake asked.

“You best get to steppin’ before I whup your ass,” Gunther said.

“Yes,” Doc said. “Quite right! Have you no decency, sir? Lives are at stake! Shoo! Shoo! Away with you lest I box your ears!”

Blake walked on. Doc followed him until he was out of Gunther’s earshot. The self-described genius tucked a hundred dollars into Blake’s hand.

“All of it on Mr. Buchanan,” Doc said.

“You got it,” Blake said.

“And this never happened, sir.”

Doc turned around to find a displeased Annabelle had followed him.

“I thought you and Slade were friends,” Annabelle said.

“We most assuredly are, my dear,” Doc said. “Thick as thieves you might say. But business is business and if I’m able to turn a profit that would certainly cushion the blow of losing my dear, dear friend.”

“You don’t think Slade will win?” Annabelle asked.

“Oh no,” Doc said. “Not at all. You see, basic principles of mathematics suggest the best course of action is to go with the odds and well, when it comes down to it, Mr. Buchanan has sent more people to their graves than Slade.”

“You have got to be the smartest man alive,” Annabelle said.

“Oh I don’t know about that, my dear,” Doc said. “I’m in the top five, certainly. Right next to Edison, who I consider one of my few intellectual peers.”

Smelly Jack and Slade took their positions, roughly fifty paces from one another. Both men hovered their hands over their hardware.

“ANY LAST WORDS SLADE?” Jack shouted.

“Yup,” Slade said.

Jack and his boys laughed. “Yeah?” Jack said. “What is it?”

Slade pulled the cigar out of his mouth, doused it out with his thumb then tucked it into his pocket to save for later.

“Your mother must be the only woman who ever popped thirty assholes out of her pussy.”

The crowd erupted in a collective gasp, but Jack held it together. He squinted his eyes at Slade. Slade squinted back. Beads of sweat dripped off of Jack’s forehead. Slade’s remained dry.

And then it all happened within seconds. Each man drew at the exact same time. Who shot first? No one may never know. Slade felt the wake of Jack’s bullet as it sailed just inches past his head. Jack, on the other hand, really felt Slade’s bullet as it exploded his chest. Blood spewed from the gaping wound.

The outlaw’s lifeless body hit the ground. The crowd went into an uproar. No one could believe it. Smelly Jack Buchanan, one of the worst criminals in the west, was dead.

Gunther beamed a grin typically reserved for the face of a proud father. He ran out, grabbed Slade’s hand and raised it high in the air. Even Slade flashed a rare smile.

The crowd cheered. A pissed off Blake unleashed a torrent of obscenity over all the money he’d have to pay out to the handful of people who had bet on Slade.

“Are you sore you lost your scratch?” Annabelle said.

“Oh no,” Doc said. “It’s only money, my dear. Easy come, easy go.”

The good doctor joined the duo and shook Slade’s hand. “Bravo, sir! Bravo! I believed in you whole heartedly!”

Frank and Buck Buchanan stood over their leader’s body. Rufus ran his hand over Jack’s face, closing the eyes. The trio stepped forward. A hush silence fell over the crowd.

“This isn’t over, Slade,” Rufus said.

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Feb 21 2016
5 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – A Note on Chapter 43

If anyone has any theories about the price of an hour of a prostitute’s time in 1880 (times twice a week on average for six months) I’m all ears.

I attempted to figure it out and having no luck, decided to be vague about it.

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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 08 2016
1 Comment
Zombie Western

A Note on the Next Chapter of How the West Was Zombed

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Hello.  I’m Bookshelf Q. Battler, Noted Nerdventurer, Magic Bookshelf Caretaker, and Champion Yeti Fighter.

How is it possible that a werewolf was once a slave?

That’s a fine question.  After all, wouldn’t he just slash the shit out of the slave master and walk away?

Well.  You know, I never intended to put myself in a position where I felt the need to write a chapter in which a slave turns into a werewolf and slashes the shit out of the master, but…here I am.

I did my best to handle the sensitive subject matter in a non-offensive way.  The 1800’s were terrible times.  My intent was to neither exploit nor sugar coat it.

Keep in mind the next part of this book is called “History Repeats Itself.”  That means the chapter after this one coming up won’t be much better.

But I think there might be an actual zombie so…hey, zombies!

And if you are offended – a) I’m very sorry and b) The master gets slashed up by a damn werewolf.

You could almost say its a historical revenge fantasy, just like how Quentin Tarantino was nominated for an Oscar for his movie about Hitler and the Nazis getting burnt to death in a theater.

Where’s my Oscar?  Oh right.  I’m not pretty.

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