Bookshelf Battle

Helena, Montana

May 5, 1876

Approximately Four Years Before the West Was Zombed.

“It’s not too late, law man. Just let me go and you won’t have to die.”

Seth Bullock, the young handsome sheriff of Lewis and Clark County, had been trying to get some shut-eye all night, but the prisoner in the cage in the back corner of his office wouldn’t allow it.

“You hear me, tin horn?” the prisoner asked. “My boys are coming for you.”

Bullock leaned back in his chair, threw his feet up on his desk, and tipped his hat over his eyes.

“You know Bullock when I shot at you, it wasn’t personal.”

“Whatever you say, Clell.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Nope,” Bullock said from underneath his hat. “You just decided it was more important to you that I die than you give up that horse you were rustling.”

“Just business,” Clell said. “Your shoulder still hurt?”

“Only when I do anything,” Bullock replied.

“Shit,” Clell said. “I’m sorry. But you think your shoulder is worth my life?”

Bullock took his feet off the desk and let his chair plop down. He brushed his hand through his brown hair then put his hat on.

The Sheriff looked over at his prisoner. Clell Watson’s eyes were bloodshot. His face was haggard as he hadn’t slept for days. Even criminals have worries.

“Verdict’s been rendered,” Bullock said. “Nothing personal.”

“God damn, Seth Bullock,” Clell said. “You got some big brass clackers I’ll give you that.”

The voices of angry men traveled from the street, through the air, and into Bullock’s ears. The Sheriff stood up, pulled his suspenders over his shoulders then stepped out onto the front porch of his office.

A dozen men were marching Bullock’s way, lighting up the night sky with blazing torches. Leading up the mob was Floyd Larson, the leader of a gang of rustlers who’d been pinching horses and cattle all over the Northwest.

“Sheriff!” Floyd shouted as he and his flunkies reached the office. “I’m calling you out!”

Bullock scoffed. If Floyd’s bellowing was supposed to scare him, it clearly wasn’t. “Go home Floyd.”

“Send out Clell and I will,” Floyd said.

“Can’t,” Bullock said. “He’s got a date with the hangman at dawn. The judge has spoken.”

Floyd’s face was grizzled. Leathery from too much time in the sun. And he had the kind of miserable voice that could cut through a man’s soul if he had to listen to it for too long.

“Thirteen versus one, Bullock,” Floyd said. “The odds aren’t in your favor. Let him go and we’ll let you live. Fuck around for much longer and we’ll skin you alive and take him anyway.”

“Aw son of a bitch,” Bullock said. “Well, when you put it that way.”

Bullock started for the door then stopped to look back at Floyd. “You promise if I bring him out, you won’t hurt me?”

“You’ve got my word,” Floyd said.

“God damn it. Hold on.”

Bullock retreated back into his office. Floyd and his boys chuckled and traded jokes about the sheriff’s manliness, implying that he was a pussy, a pansy, a wimp and so on.

A few minutes later, Bullock emerged from his office, but Clell wasn’t free. Rather, he had a gag in his mouth, a noose around his neck, and Bullock’s left hand on his shoulder, pushing him down the porch steps.

In Bullock’s right hand? One big ass double-barreled shotgun.

“What are you doing, Bullock?!” Floyd shouted.

“Get back!” Bullock flailed the shotgun around, making sure everyone of Floyd’s lackies got a good look at it. “First one to try anything loses his head.”

“We had a deal!” Floyd shouted.

“Fuck you and your deal,” Bullock replied. “All you did was move this shit heel’s hanging up six hours.”

Bullock moved the shotgun to his left hand, then took the noose off of Clell. Hanging from the side of the building was a metal pole that held a sign that read, “Seth Bullock: County Sherif.”

Said sheriff twirled the noose around in the air over his head three times then let it fly over the sign and watched it fall back down to the ground.

Floyd and his boys were restless. They kept looking for their opportunity. Bullock knew the second he let that shotgun drop an inch, they’d rush him. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

With the shotgun still pointed at the mob, Bullock put the noose back around Clell’s neck.

“Clell Watson,” Bullock said. “For the crimes of horse theft and shooting an officer of the law, you have been sentenced to death by hanging. Do you have any last words?”

Bullock removed Clell’s gag.

“Fuck your mother.”

“That was lovely,” Bullock said.

“Come on you fucking women!” Clell shouted. “Jump him! He can’t shoot all of you!”

Floyd was vexed. “Yeah but…he’ll shoot someone.”

Bullock grabbed the other end of the rope and pulled until Clell’s feet were dangling in the air. The prisoner’s eyes bugged out of his head as his face turned purple.

“Fuck…gack…fuck you, Floyd! So fucking…stupid!”

“Jesus Christ, Bullock,” Floyd said. “You could have just shot him and run out the back door.”

“Yeah,” Bullock said. “But what point would that have proved?”

Bullock whistled to signal Abner, his well-trained, intensely loyal horse. It took less than a minute for his loyal steed to gallop up to his owner from around back.

“You’re a dead man, Bullock,” Floyd warned. “A dead man!”

Bullock kept a tight grip on that rope, and an even tighter grip on that shotgun until Clell gasped his last breathe. Ever the professional, Bullock opted not to allow Clell to drop to the ground with a thud but rather, lowered the horse thief slowly until his body was on the ground.

The sheriff pointed his shotgun at the mob and mounted his horse.

“You just signed your own death warrant,” Floyd said. “I hope it was worth it.”

Bullock kept his shotgun pointed at the rabble. He kicked his spurs against Abner’s sides and his steed began to trot down the road.

“You know what?” Bullock asked. “It was.”

“I can’t,” Slade said. “I’m sorry. I made a promise to someone important to me that I’d try to die with my boots on.”

Earp smirked. “Noble thought. Easier said than done. Who’d you promise that to?”

“My Deputy.”

“Gunther Beauregard?”

“You know him?” Slade asked.

“Our paths crossed a few times,” Earp said. “Good man. I was sorry to hear he died. Forty years as a U.S. Marshal and he never once demanded credit, hogged the attention or even sought a promotion. Never bothered a man unless he bothered him first. If there were more Gunther Beauregards in the world, my job would become unnecessary and you wouldn’t hear a complaint from me.”

Earp stood up. Everyone else followed.

“I’m sorry,” Slade said. “You came all this way for nothing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Earp said as he picked up the star.

Earp tipped his hat at Miss Bonnie. “Ma’am.”

“Marshal,” she replied.

Earp slapped Tobias on the shoulder. “It’s that hat or pussy, son. Make a choice because you’ll never have both.”

Slade picked up the deck of cards then walked Earp outside, where the greatest lawman in the West’s horse was tied to a post.

“Funny thing you said about pussy,” Slade said. “You must think I’m one.”

“Oh hell no, Slade,” Earp said. “I don’t think anyone can call the man who stopped the United States from being overthrown by a damn vampire and his army of zombies a pussy. Practical is more like it and now that I know you spent some time with Gunther it makes sense.”

“I just don’t want to disappoint you,” Slade said. “The last ten years since I became a Marshal, all I’ve ever done is try to be like you.”

Earp scoffed. “Shit. Don’t be like me. Even I don’t want to be like me.”

Slade looked Earp in the eye. “You ever feel like, when you do this job, that you’re at war with who you are on the inside and who you need to be on the outside in order to win?”

“Nope,” Earp replied. “If a man deserves it, I’ll shoot him dead then fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.”

“I try to pretend I’m like that,” Slade said. “But every man I’ve ever shot deserved it and they all haunt me. I used to walk around pretending like they don’t. Sometimes I feel like I still need to.”

Earp put his hand out. Slade shook it.

“Good,” Earp said. “Then there’s hope for you yet.”

Hope. That was a big word for Slade. He was once convinced he was out of it, but now he was feeling like he had it more and more every day. Even a man he admired saw it in him.

Earp continued. “Sure, when we all start out in the Marshal’s service, a lot of men have to pretend like they breathe fire and shit daggers but once they earn their reputation as a good law man, they can act however they want. You foiled a Legion plot that was years in the making, Slade. You’ve earned the right to just be yourself.”

Slade let out a sigh of relief as though Earp’s words brought him great comfort. “Do you really shit daggers?”

“Sure do,” Earp replied. “Makes a mess out of the outhouse.”

Earp took the star in his hand and pinned it to Slade’s shirt.

“But I…”

“While you’re talking about yourself,” Earp said. “Let me tell you about a side of yourself you haven’t met yet. See, my brothers and I all agreed that once we retired from the law and left Dodge City, we were never going to pick up a star ever again. We were going to become businessmen in Tombstone and live the good life. We did our part. We earned some happiness. But sure enough, just when you think you’ve left all the assholes behind you, new ones arise, dirtier and smellier than ever. And try as you might to say that you don’t give a shit, that it’s not your problem, you know deep down inside that you care and sooner or later, you’ll pick up that star and fight those assholes again because if you don’t, no one else will.”

Slade looked at the star, then back to Earp.

“Do what you please with it, Slade,” Earp said. “Wear it on your shirt proudly. Take it off, throw it in a drawer and never look at it again. Live your life. Love your woman. Love your young’un. But on top of the vampires, zombies and werewolves, there are still plenty of human shit heels who will be happy to attack this nice town you’ve got here and when that day comes, you’ll need to do what you need to do. That star will make it nice and legal, whatever that means these days.”

Earp untied his horse then climbed up into the saddle. Slade shuffled through the deck and held up the Chairman’s card.

“Marshal Earp,” Slade said.

Earp corrected him. “Wyatt.”

“Wyatt,” Slade said. “Get the rest of them and I’ll ride with you against him.”

Earp tipped his hat at Slade. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“How long has he been like this?” Slade asked.

“Three months,” Tobias said. “A whole herd tore through town and he got bit.”

Lars had been chained to the bed. His eyes were blank. His body had been ravaged, whether from age, or zombification, Slade wasn’t sure, but he assumed a combination of both.

A red bandana covered his mouth, but his teeth scraped together as Slade took a step closer.

As he reviewed his father’s condition, he had but one question for Tobias. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Tobias said. “I was hoping maybe he’d change back to normal. Maybe this was temporary, like when you get sick and then you get better.”

Lars growled loudly and attempted to sit up but his chains held him down.

“Then when I realized that wasn’t going to happen I…I just couldn’t do it.”

Slade watched as his father tossed about.

“Everyday I woke up and told myself this will be the day that I take care of it,” Tobias said. “But I never do.”

Slade pulled Gunther’s knife out of its sheath, then approached the bed. “You ok with this?”

Tobias’ eyes welled up. “Yes…it should be family but…I don’t want to watch.”

He headed for the door, but stopped to say, “Love you, Pa.” Then he left.

Slade’s eyes were just as teary as his brother’s. He grabbed a clump of his father’s hair to hold his head steady, poked the knife into his father’s ear, then pushed. Hard.

“Love you, Pa.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Living alone on a farm amidst a zombified land was proving to be a most undesirable existence for the Widow Farquhar, but she did her best to get by.

In her best black dress, she knelt at the side of her bed and prayed.

“Oh Lord. Forgive me for those vile words I said. Though Rain and his filthy whore are disgusting animals and deserve to burn in a pit of hellfire forever and ever, I know it was my duty to turn the other cheek. May you grant me…”

Thump. Thump. Thump. A hand was pounding on her front door.

“…mercy.”

Sarah inched closer to the front door and then heard that terrifying demand.

“Brrrrrrains.”

“Goodness!” Sarah scurried back to her bed and buried her face in her hands.

More sounds. Clip clops of horse feet. A gun blast.

A thud.

Thinking she’d been saved, Sarah looked up.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She buried her head again.

“Hello?” came a male voice from the other side of the door. It was a soft voice. Gentle.

Another thump. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

Sarah walked to the door. “Yes?”

“Oh thank goodness,” the man said. “I was traveling by your home and happened to notice this dastardly zombie knocking on your door and I feared the worst. Are you all right, ma’am?”

“I’m fine,” Sarah replied. “Thank you.”

A pause.

“Might I come in?” the man asked. “I’d feel better if I checked on you is all.”

Sarah bit her lip as she pondered this request. “I don’t know. You’re not a vagrant are you?”

“No.”

“Aimless drifter?”

“No.”

“Rapist?”

“No.”

“Murderer?”

“Only of zombies.”

Sarah tapped her foot. “Alcoholic?”

“Never!”

“Are you ethnic?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t think so,” the man replied.

“Very well.” Sarah turned the knob.

She expected some doddering old fogey but instead, was pleasantly surprised to come face to face with a tall, strong, blonde haired, blue eyed adonis, dressed in his best Sunday suit.

“Oh my.” Sarah clasped her hand over her heart in a vain attempt to stop it from fluttering.

“Good day, ma’am,” the man said.

Sarah looked at the ground, where a zombie with half its head blown off was leaking blood all over the dirt.

“Pesky little devils, aren’t they?” the man asked.

“They certainly are,” Sarah said.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” the man. “I best be on my way as it would be surely inappropriate of me to chat with another man’s wife.”

The man headed for a wagon he’d left in Sarah’s yard.

Sarah stumbled over the zombie carcass as she chased after him.

“But I’m not married!” she cried.

The man spun around in his tracks. “Not married, you say?”

“Widowed.”

“Dear me,” the man said. “I do apologize for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said as she walked inside. “Do come in, will you?”

“If you insist.  I could use a rest,” the man said as he took a seat at Sarah’s table. “I have been riding for quite some time.”

Sarah took a seat across from her guest.

“If I may be so bold I am surprised a woman of your enchanting beauty finds herself alone,” the man said.

“Oh,” Sarah said. She grinned and then wagged her finger playfully at the man. “I’ll have none of that now!”

The man leaned over the table and smiled coyly. “And yet I’d have it all.”

Sarah grimaced for a moment, and then her frown gave way to laughter. “Oh you!”

“I’m sorry,” the man said. “Oh that was terrible wasn’t it?”

“If you must know why I’m alone…”

Sarah paused. The man was a stranger. The idea of sharing anything personal with him seemed unwise, but she was feeling so very lonely.

“I had a fiance,” Sarah said.

“Had?!” the man asked, as if Sarah had just delivered a titillating piece of gossip. “Do tell.”

“He was unfaithful to me,” Sarah said. She looked around as if to check if anyone was listening and then leaned over the table and whispered, “with a prostitute!”

The man clutched his heart and recoiled back in his chair as if he’d just been slapped in the face. He gasped. “No!”

“Yes!” Sarah replied.

“That cad!”

“Can you believe it?” Sarah asked.

“I cannot,” the man said. “Ma’am, I’ve only known you a short spell but if you’ll allow me I’ll say that this fellow sounds lowlier than a dog for not recognizing how lucky he was to have had you and any and all diseases he contracts from that Jezebel are well deserved.”

Sarah blinked as if she were trying to wake up from a dream. “I was thinking the same thing. It’s like you read my mind.”

“Where are my manners?” the man asked as he stretched out his hand. “Phineas Throckmorten. And you are?”

Timidly, Sarah put her hand out. “Sarah Farquhar.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sarah.”

Phineas kissed Sarah’s hand, then instantly pushed himself back in his chair. His face went flush.

“I’m sorry,” Phineas said. “I’m not sure what just came over me. Oh, here you were kind enough to invite me into your home and I start carrying on like some kind of perverse Frenchman…”

Phineas stood up. “Farewell, ma’am. Do accept my apology and I won’t darken your doorstep any longer…”

Sarah stopped her guest from leaving. “No,” she said. “It was…quite all right.”

“Oh,” Phineas said. “Even so, I shall be sure to beg the Lord’s forgiveness at evening prayer.”

The Cheshire cat never flashed a smile wider than Sarah did that day.

“Prayer?” she asked.

“Morning, noon and night,” Phineas replied. “Oh if only I had the time to pray more.”

Sarah picked her bible off the table and showed it to Phineas.

“A fellow devotee of the good book,” Phineas said.

“Yes,” Sarah said. She was bubblier than a schoolgirl at this point.

“I always carry mine with me,” Phineas said. He reached into his coat and pulled out a leather bound book, but the cover did not read, “Holy Bible.” Instead, it read, “The Book of Mormon.”

Sarah made an expression as if she’d just been run over by a flagellant horse.

“Oh,” she said as she sat back down.

“Something the matter?” Phineas asked as he joined her.

“It’s just that…”

Phineas waited patiently for an answer.

“I’m feeling rather fond of you,” Sarah said.

“And I, you,” Phineas replied.

“But I’m a Christian so it could never work,” Sarah said.

“Ah!” Phineas shouted as he wagged a triumphant finger in the air. “But that’s where you are wrong, my dear, for I too am a Christian!”

“You are?” Sarah asked.

“Indeed!” Phineas declared. “Tell me, do you adhere to the teaching of the Old Testament?”

“Of course,” Sarah said.

“As do I,” Phineas replied. “And the New Testment?”

“Certainly,” Sarah said.

“As do I,” Phineas repeated. “And in addition to those two sacred texts, I also follow the lessons set forth in the Book of Mormon.”

“The Book of Mormon?” Sarah asked.

“Yes,” Phineas said. “The Old Testament tells us the stories of the sufferings of the Hebrew people and how God took pity on them by burning them and drowning them and such.”

“Correct,” Sarah said.

“And the New Testament was all about how Jesus died for our sins,” Phineas said.

“Naturally,” Sarah replied.

“And the Book of Mormon continues the story after Jesus died and came back to life,” Phineas explained.

“It does?” Sarah asked.

“It does,” Phineas said. “It’s one more sequel to make a trilogy. Every good book series needs a trilogy.”

Sarah frowned. “This all sounds very suspect.”

“Oh no,” Phineas said. “Read it and you’ll learn all about how Jesus and his people came to the Americas long before any of us did.”

“Came to the Americas?” Sarah asked.

“Of course!” Phineas said. “The natives of these lands are all descendants of Judea.”

Sarah sighed. “Now I know you are pulling my leg, sir. The natives don’t look very Jewish to me.”

“Have you ever seen a Jew before?” Phineas asked.

“Well…no.”

“Neither have I!” Phineas proudly declared. “So who am I to question Joseph Smith?”

“Joseph Smith?” Sarah asked.

“The founder of our church,” Phineas said. “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. He found the words of the Prophet Mormon etched into gold plates buried in a hill in New York and was kind enough to translate them into a book so that we could all be educated in the further adventures of our Lord.”

“He did?” Sarah asked.

Phineas nodded.

“Goodness,” Sarah replied. “Well, I’ve never known a religious man to lie to people before.”

“Nor have I,” Phineas said. “Oh Sarah, I hope you’ll read it. You’re too lovely a women to be stuck in Second Class Heaven.”

Sarah was shocked. “Second class heaven?”

“Oh,” Phineas said. “You see there are three glories or levels of heaven. Right now you’re bound for the second level, or Terrestial Glory. That’s where people go if they are good followers of Christ of any denomination, as you clearly are. But to get into the Celestial Glory, the highest level of heaven, you must be a Mormon and marry a Mormon I’m afraid.”

Sarah’s mouth opened wide. “But I want to be in first class heaven!”

“I don’t blame you, my dear,” Phineas said. “Between you and I, the service in second-class heaven is lousy.”

“What about third-class heaven?” Sarah asked.

“It’s strictly for the riff raff,” Phineas explained. “People who weren’t religious, didn’t believe in Christ, but in general, tried their best to live decent lives and didn’t do anything too terrible. I’d say your fiance and his prostitute might end up there but their sins will most likely land them in Hell.”

“So you believe in Hell?” Sarah asked.

“What good is a religion if bad people aren’t being tossed into Hell?” Phineas asked.

Sarah rested her chin in her hands and gazed into Phineas’ blue eyes. “Your logic is impeccable.”

“I know,” Phineas said.

“And to think all this time I knew none of this.”

“It can be unsettling at first for a new comer whose eyes have been opened for the first time,” Phineas said.

Phineas collected his book and stood up. “Come with me!”

“What?” Sarah asked.

“To Utah!” Phineas declared. “Where my people have congregated because dirty sinners and non-believers try to shoot us and hang us wherever we go!”

“They do?” Sarah asked.

“It is to be expected,” Phineas said. “Non-believers would rather root around in their sinful muck then listen to our good words.”

“Of course,” Sarah said. “But oh…I couldn’t leave my farm.”

“Oh but you should,” Phineas said. “It isn’t safe in these parts. I had to leave my farm when it was attacked and alas…”

Phineas’ blue eyes welled up with tears. Sarah grew very concerned and rubbed her guest’s back. “There…there. What is it?”

“My wives,” Phineas said. “They were all turned into zombies.”

“Oh, how awful!” Sarah said. “Wait. Did you say, ‘wives?!’”

Phineas ignored the question. “I know we have only just met, Sarah, but I feel such a strong connection to you, as if the good Lord willed me to find you.

Sarah stood up and held Phineas’ hand. “I…I feel the same way.”

“When my wives were turned into foul undead monsters I never thought I’d love again until I met you,” Phineas said.

“There,” Sarah said. “You said it again. You must be very tired because you keep saying ‘wives’ plural.”

Phineas ignored the inquiry yet again. “To Utah we go!”

“Ohhhh….” Sarah looked around the empty house. The prospect of being alone with no man to protect her from zombies weighed heavily on her mind until finally she grabbed her bible and relented. “You’ve talked me into it!”

“Splendid,” Phineas said.

Phineas and Sarah walked hand in hand toward the wagon.

Sarah stopped. “Wait. There is one problem.”

“What is it?” Phineas asked.

“It pertains to a very unseemly topic,” Sarah said.

“My dear,” Phineas said. “There is nothing you could say that could make me think any less of you.”

Sarah leaned up on her tippy toes and whispered into Phineas’ ear.

“Uh huh,” Phineas said as he listened. “Right. Oh…oh goodness…yes…yes…through a hole in a bedsheet? Yes…not a problem!”

“Not a problem?” Sarah asked.

Phineas undid his belt buckle.

“What are you doing?!” Sarah protested.

“You’ll see.” Phineas dropped his pants and unbuttoned his shirt to reveal that he was wearing what appeared to be clean, white long-johns underneath his clothes.

Sarah was puzzled.

“Magic underwear!” Phineas declared.

“Magic underwear?” Sarah asked.

“Indeed!” Phineas said. “Comfortable. Form-fitting. They protect your body from sin and more importantly, they’re easily adjustable so that husbands and wives can lay together without a hole in a bed sheet.”

Sarah was beaming. “Mormons are geniuses!”

“That we are,” Phineas said as he pulled up his pants. He buttoned his shirt then helped Sarah into the passenger’s seat of his wagon.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Sarah said. “I’m not one to throw caution to the wind.”

Phineas took his seat, snapped the reigns, and his horse took off. “Fear not for the rest of your days, my dear, for I shall take excellent care of you.”

Sarah cried.

“What?” Phineas asked.

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for a man to say that to me!”

Phineas put one arm around Sarah and pulled her in close next to him. “Oh how precious you are.”

Thump. Thump. Thump. “Gack…ack!”

“What was that?” Sarah asked.

“What was what?” Phineas asked.

Sarah heard several groans coming from inside the wagon, followed by a strained female voice asking for, “brrrraaaains.”

“That!” Sarah said.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Phineas said.

“Grrrr,” came a second female voice. “Brrraaains.”

Sarah freed herself from Phineas’ arm. “Now I distinctly heard something…”

“No!” Phineas shouted. “There’s no need to look back there.”

Sarah took hold of a wooden slat and pushed it to the left, to open a small pass-through slot. She peered inside the wagon to see six women, all young, ranging in ages from twenty to thirty, and to her shock, all zombies.

The widow closed the slot.

“Your wives,” Sarah said. “Plural?”

Phineas’ face turned red. “Yes. I was going to tell you…”

Sarah folded her arms and leaned back in her seat. She listened to the melodic clip clopping of horse feet for awhile as she pondered her dilemma, then shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh well. You’re still the best man I’ve ever met.”