Tag Archives: writing

Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 33

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“Kill it,” the Queen said.

“My Queen, if I may…”

“You may not, Sir Francis,” the Queen said. “The thought that I ever considered this…this…’thing’ a friend fills me with dread. I won’t have it alive so that it can continue to plot and scheme against the realm.”

“Your Majesty,” Sir Francis said. “I implore you to consider how rare it is to have a vampire in captivity. Allow me a fortnight to question her. Who knows how many vampires have infiltrated the highest levels of society? Why, any member of the trusted aristocracy could in secret, be a vile bloodsucker.”

“Well, that’s nothing new, is it?” Sir Walter asked.

The Queen sighed heavily. “I’m loathe to ask this but Sir Walter, do you have counsel on this matter?”

“I do,” Sir Walter said as he held up Lady Beatrice’s medallion. “Give her back her trinket tomorrow morning then haul her ass outside for the whole world to see. When everyone’s watching, rip her bauble off and let her cook. The vampires will know we’re onto them and run scared.”

“I must protest,” Sir Francis said. “To do as Sir Walter advises would be to lose our advantage. The Legion does not know we have one of their own and thus we’ll be able to use the information we receive from our prisoner to strike when they least suspect it.”

“Bah,” Sir Walter scoffed. “The wench will give you nothing.”

The Queen tapped her chin as she considered the dueling opinions. Finally, she sought a tie breaker.

“Archbishop. What say you?”

The holy man looked at the prisoner. Her head was hung low, her face covered by her hair.

“Sir Francis and Sir Walter are both very wise,” the archbishop said. “However, there is so much evil in this creature. To allow it to live much longer is to court disaster.”

The Queen stood up. By reflex, all three advisors bowed.

“The matter is settled. Get this abomination out of my sight. Sir Francis, you shall have the rest of the evening to question her. If she hasn’t provided any useful information by sunrise, Sir Walter shall carry out his plan.”

Sir Francis frowned. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

The Queen stepped across the room until she reached the vampire. The knights tightened their grips on her.

“Beatrice,” the Queen said.

The lady lifted her head.

“Was there ever a time when you were truly my friend?”

The lady snickered. “I’d sooner befriend a lowly human than I would a dog, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth turned so as to avoid looking at the lady any further. “Take her away.”

Lady Beatrice refused to stand, so the knights gripped the lady under her arms and dragged her away. The Queen’s three advisors followed.

“God save the Queen!” Lady Beatrice shouted. “Because father is coming for her!”

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Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Expensive,” Bill replied.

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

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

Bill stood there, defiantly stone faced.

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

No response.

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

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

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

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

“Satisfied?” Jericho asked.

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

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

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

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

“Have you the goods?” Bill asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Bill nodded.

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

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

“Pardon?” the vampire asked.

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

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

Bill sat silently, waiting for the explanation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jericho remained seated. “Excuse me?”

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

“But it’s daytime,” Jericho said.

“Not my problem,” Bill said.

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

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

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

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

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

“The lobby,” Bill said.

“Like a common peasant?” Jericho snapped.

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

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

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

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

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Laziness

I’m failing you miserably, 3.5 readers.  I think this novel and the next one are going to go well though.  Taking characters out of history helps me keep it grounded and organized so I don’t go completely off the rails.

I don’t seem to have time to blog and write the book, though I don’t want the blog characters to go by the wayside.  I’ll have to get them back on the blog soon.

I have a tendency to judge and/or push myself too much.  I don’t know. I feel like life is short I try not to think this way but I do it anyway – I often beat myself over the head that I haven’t like, accomplished anything really great.  I hope these novels will be it, though I know maybe that jinxes it.

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Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 13

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Jane never took the time to learn her opponent’s name. She was too busy straddling his chest and socking him the face – a left hook, a right jab, repeat. This went on for awhile until the ne’er-do-well managed to push her off and spring to his feet.

This gave him the upper hand. He drew his pistol and stood over Jane, pointing it at her.

“Guess we’ll just skip that kiss then and get right to it,” the bandit said. “Never seen a woman in trousers before. Take ‘em off.”

Little did this degenerate know that Jane’s boot clad foot was, as luck would have it, positioned in just the right way to deliver a good hard kick to…

“My balls!” Without thinking, the bandit dropped his piece to grab, well, his other piece, then dropped to the ground.

“No thanks,” Jane said. “I’ve already had enough disappointment for one life.”

The loaded pistol sat there in the dirt. Jane and her opponent locked eyes just before they both reached for it.

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Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 2

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

The Sheriff ran inside. “Martha!”

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

“Martha! Martha! Martha!”

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

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

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

“That’s just it,” Bullock said.

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

“We’re doing that now,” Bullock said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Disagreement my ass!” Martha said.

“Magsie girl!” Bullock cried.

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

“Daddy!”

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

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

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

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

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

Blam! Blam! Blam! Bullock was out.

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

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

“Floyd!” he shouted.

“Hold your fire!” Floyd ordered his boys.

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

He figured this qualified.

“I’m coming out!” Bullock shouted.

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

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

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

“Stop stalling!”

“OK,” Bullock said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” Martha replied.

“I wish you hadn’t,” Bullock said.

“I know,” Martha repeated.

“But I’m glad you did.”

And for the trifecta…”I know.”

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How the West Was Zombed – Complete

 

shutterstock_32022656927Holy shit.

7 months.

136 Chapters and an Epilogue.

110,972 words.

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

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

I can’t believe it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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How the West Was Zombed – Epilogue

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Wisconsin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Summarize the most salient points,” Roosevelt said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please sir…”

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

“Sir, your father will be very cross…”

“Not another word,” Roosevelt whispered angrily.

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

“I’ve got you now, bear.”

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

“Blast,” Roosevelt said as he stood up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never said I wouldn’t visit.”

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

“Humphrey?”

“Yes sir?”

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

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

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

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

Roosevelt squinted his eyes at Humphrey. “Preposterous!”

“Indeed, yet quite true, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hold it steady, Humphrey!”

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

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

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

“Can’t,” the first guard replied.

“Why not?” Roosevelt asked.

“Zombies,” the second guard said.

“Zombies?” Roosevelt asked.

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

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

“You’re killing them!” Roosevelt said.

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

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

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

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

“Help!”

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

“Turn back!” the first guard shouted.

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

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

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

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

“This is an outrage,” Roosevelt said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guards pointed their guns at Roosevelt.

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

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

“Something amiss, sir?”

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

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

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

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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 133

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Slade had spent most of his life coming to grips with the fact that on the inside, he wasn’t a tough guy at all. His machismo was an act, a theoretical veil that he had to put on to scare away the villains of the world. It worked but he suffered knowing that it was thin and could be easily pierced at any time.

U.S. Marshal Wyatt Earp, on the other hand, was the real deal. He didn’t fake the rasp in his voice. It was one hundred percent genuine, as if he began each day by chewing on a bucket of rocks for breakfast.

Slade and Tobias sat on a lumpy couch. Earp sat across a table from the brothers in a comfortable chair.

Ferdinand, Tobias’ wrinkly old hound dog, slept under the table.

“Oh my Lord,” Miss Bonnie said as she waddled into the sitting room with a plate of cookies. “A celebrity in our home.”

Miss Bonnie held the plate in front of the guest’s face. He took one. “Much obliged.”

The redhead set the plate down on the table. Slade and Tobias each took one.

“You’ll need something to drink,” Miss Bonnie said as she waddled out of the room.

“Quite a catch you’ve got there, Slade,” Earp said.

“You should visit more often,” Slade replied. “This is the first time she’s ever served me anything since…since…well, forever, come to think of it.”

Earp, Slade and Tobias all bit into their cookies, chewed for awhile, and then, in unison, they all gagged and threw their treats under the table. Ferdinand helped himself.

“I hope she’s good in the sack because that was the worst fucking cookie I’ve ever had in my life,” Earp said.

Out of any other man, Slade would have considered that statement to be fighting words but this was Wyatt Earp, the goddamn Chuck Norris of the nineteenth century. When he spoke, people listened. And whatever he said, it was invariably awesome without fail.

Miss Bonnie returned with a nice cool glass of lemonade and handed it to Earp. That he was happy to see after his long ride. He gulped half of it down right away.

“You’ve outdone yourself ma’am.”

“Do you want another cookie?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“Oh I couldn’t,” Earp said. “I’m stuffed.”

“Scooch!” Miss Bonnie ordered the Slade brothers. They each moved to opposite ends of the couch to make way for the redhead.

“Dear,” Slade said. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of lemonade.”

“The kitchen’s right there,” Miss Bonnie said as she pointed at the doorway.

Slade briefly closed his eyes, sucked back his agitation, then remembered that he was still in the presence of goddamn Wyatt Earp.

Earp leaned forward.

“Now that the pleasantries have been dispensed with, let’s get down to business. As you’re all aware…”

Earp stopped and stared at Tobias’ hat.

“Is he going to wear that dumb ass hat the entire time?” Earp asked.

Slade turned to Tobias for an answer. “It’s my mayor hat.”

“It’s his mayor hat,” Slade said. “Kind of a tradition.”

Earp shook his head in disbelief. “All right then. As you’re all aware, the Federal government of the United States of America has essentially told everyone West of the Mississippi River to fuck a donkey with a dry dick.”

Tobias scratched a pencil across a piece of paper and repeated Earp’s words. “With…a…dry…”

Earp knocked the pencil out of Tobias’ hand. “Stop taking notes, boy, and just pay attention. Rather than help us in our time of need, those brie cheese sniffing Yankee fucks stationed soldiers all along the Eastern side of the Mississippi, and then went to work on building a wall to keep us out.”

Earp sipped his lemonade. “To make matters worse, those Eastern pricks still expect us to stick with them. The president has declared that we’ll all be considered traitors if we form our own country. Federal office holders in the West are expected to keep working without pay and any monies owed to Washington, collectors are supposed to collect and hold in trust for the U.S. government until the zombies are defeated.”

“They can’t expect us to abide by those rules forever,” Slade said.

“Of course not,” Earp said. “Defeat the zombies but we won’t help you but we want to tell you how to run your lives from beyond a fucking wall and take all your money when the zombies are gone? Hell, that’s like going through all the trouble to trap yourself a woman then letting a stranger fuck her.”

Earp set his glass on the table and nodded at Miss Bonnie. “Apologies, ma’am.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Miss Bonnie said.

“Federal office holders across the West have either quit or begun selling their power for bribes,” Earp said. “More so than usual. If you thought this place was lawless before…”

“We aint seen nothing yet,” Slade said.

“Exactly,” Earp said. “Slade, you’re looking at one of the last few assholes left who is still doing his job in this zombie infested hellhole and…”

“…you want me to be an asshole too?” Slade asked.

Earp tapped knowingly at the side of his nose. “You got it.”

Slade looked at his redheaded advisor to get a sense of what she thought of that premise but couldn’t get a read.

“But before you give me an answer, you best find out what you’re getting into,” Earp said.

“I already killed a vampire,” Slade said.

“Son,” Wyatt said. “That’s just the tip of the tit.”

Earp slid back in his chair. “It brings me great shame to say this but, I could have prevented the West from being zombed.”

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What’s up 3.5 readers?

I have nothing to say today 3.5 readers. Feel free to tell me something interesting.

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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 129

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Slade had been using his regular voice for a year, but now the rasp was back with a vengeance.

“Who the fuck are you?” Sawbuck asked.

It’d been twenty years since Slade had last seen Sawbuck. The outlaw’s hair had turned gray. His face was wrinkled and leathery, but Slade still recognized him.

Slade puffed on his cigar. “I’m the man that’s going to kill you.”

“Is that so?” Sawbuck asked.

“Yup,” Slade replied.

Clovis and Slim wrenched their hooks out of the zombie, allowing it to drop to the ground. They stepped aside.

“Do I know you, bushwacker?” Sawbuck asked.

“Nope,” Slade replied. “But I know you.”

Sawbuck sneered and tossed Tobias aside. “Lots of people know me. You a bounty hunter?”

“Nope,” Slade replied.

“The law?”

“Nope,” Slade said.

“Then who the hell are you?” Sawbuck asked.

“An interested party,” Slade said.

“Huh,” Sawbuck said. “Well, Mr. Interested Party, if you want to challenge me, it’s your funeral. Here are the rules. You step back fifty paces that-a-way. I’ll step fifty paces back and on the count of three we…”

“Draw,” Slade said as he raised his rifle and shot Sawbuck right through the throat. The outlaw’s face could not contain his shock as he collapsed.

Along his journey, Slade managed to find two Colt pistols to replace the one he’d lost. He dropped his rifle, then drew one of the pistols and walked over to Sawbuck’s carcass and kicked him over onto his back.
Sawbuck clutched his throat as blood sprayed out of it.

“The…rules!”

The last thing Sawbuck ever saw was Slade pointing his Colt at his face.

The last thing Sawbuck ever heard?

“You don’t get rules.”

One…two…three…four…five…six.

Sawbuck was beyond dead and his face was the same consistency of raw hamburger.

“Hey!” Clovis yelled.

Annoyed, Slade holstered his empty pistol, then drew a fully loaded one and pointed it at Clovis and Slim, who instantly threw their hands up.

“Oh shit!” Clovis shouted as he and his hefty accomplice beat a trail out of town.

Slade holstered his pistol and stared down at Sawbuck’s corpse until Miss Bonnie joined him.

“Feel any better?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Did you think you would?”

“Kinda.”

“I’m sorry,” Miss Bonnie said.

“It’s ok.”

“I thought you weren’t going to use that dumb raspy voice anymore,” Miss Bonnie said.

Slade returned to his regular tone. “Oh. Right.”

Tobias dusted himself off. “Holy shit, Mister! I never thought I’d see the day that someone stood up to Sawbuck Sam. Thank you.”

The young mayor stretched out his hand. Slade took it and tried not to stare at top of Tobias’ ridiculous hat as it flopped up and down during the handshake.

“You travelers or something?” Tobias asked.

“Traveled all the way to be here,” Slade said.

Tobias smiled. “More people? This town sure could use them.”

“Good,” Slade said as he picked up his rifle.

“What’s your name, friend?” Tobias asked.

“Slade. Rainer Slade.”

Tobias didn’t just smile. He glowed. He wrapped his arms around Slade and attached himself to his new hero like a barnacle.

Slade and Bonnie traded confused looks.

“Welcome home, brother!” Tobias cried.

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