Tag Archives: zombies

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
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Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Part 6 – Miles Freeman, Amateur Werewolf

When Blythe’s evil werewolves attack the Bonnie Lass Saloon, Highwater finds itself in the grip of a terrifying zombie outbreak.

But for young Miles Freeman, there’s no time to feel sorry for himself when he loses his father.

Miss Bonnie needs his help…and Blythe’s wolves are on the hunt.

Somehow, Miles will have to figure out how to use his werewolf powers to save the day.

It won’t be easy for him.  After all, he might be a werewolf…but he isn’t a very good one.

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Chapter 54             Chapter 55         Chapter 56

Chapter 57              Chapter 58        Chapter 59

Chapter 60             Chapter 61         Chapter 62

Chapter 63             Chapter 64         Chapter 65

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Apr 13 2016
5 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 75

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As Slade broke a chair across the church floor, he decided he wasn’t going to be helpless again.

Never again.

“What the hell are you doing?” Gunther asked.

The raspy voiced marshall was back.

“I need wood,” Slade said as he gathered up the chair pieces.  “And lots of it.  Sorry Reverend. I’ve got to bust up your church.”

The Reverend looked around his church.  From wall to wall, it was coated with a thick layer of blood, guts and bullet holes.

“In for a penny in for a pound I suppose,” the Reverend said as he sipped his bourbon.

The group followed Slade’s lead, smashing up furniture and collecting the pieces.

“Gunther,” Slade said.  “You and I are going to take Blythe head on.”

“Worst plan I’ve ever heard,” Gunther said.  “But I don’t have a better one.”

“Bonnie,” Slade said.

“Don’t worry,” Miss Bonnie said.  “I’ll be right there with you boys.”

“No you won’t,” Slade said.  “Chance is in the livery.  There’s gotta be a wagon there.”

“Mine,” Doc said as he wiggled around in his ropes.  “I’ll gladly let you have it.”

“Obliged,” Slade said.  “Bonnie. Gunther and I will stick with you until we find Doc’s wagon. Then I need you to get every one out of town.”

“Oh no,” Miss Bonnie protested.  “You’re not going to cut me out of this just because I’m a woman.  I can kill a zombie just as good as you.”

“I know you can,” Slade said.

Slade noticed Sarah was listening.  The widow was also drinking small sips out of the Reverend’s bourbon bottle in what was most likely her first dalliance with booze in her entire life.

“That’s why I need you to do this for me, Miss Lassiter.”

That “Miss Lassiter” startled Miss Bonnie, reminding her that amidst all the chaos, she still needed to pretend that she and Slade were mere acquaintances for Sarah’s sake.

“There’s no one here I trust more to get my future wife to safety than you.”

Miss Bonnie felt a strong urge to tell Slade where to stick his request but upon seeing Sarah looking so lost and terrified, she knew she had to help her.

“I’ll do it,”  Miss Bonnie said.  “Where will we go?”

“Standing Eagle’s tribe,” Slade replied.  “They have an alliance with a tribe twenty miles south.  I reckon the Chief will send his people there once he sees all hell break loose.  They may hate my guts but they won’t turn away a wagon filled with three women, an old preacher and a boy.”

“What?” Miles asked.

“We’ll never be able to repay you or your father, Miles,” Slade said.  “But dog monster or no, you’re just a kid.”

“Werewolf,” Miles protested.  “And I’m stronger than any of you.”

“Not up for discussion,” Slade said.  “And besides…Miss Lassiter will need a dog mon…a werewolf…to help her keep everyone safe.”

“Mister Slade,” Doc said.  “Prey tell, in your glorious plan, where do I fit in?”

“You don’t,” Slade said. 

“I don’t?”  Doc asked.

“I’ll cut you loose before we leave,” Slade said.  “You can shoot yourself or whatever you feel you need to do.”

“Shoot myself?”  Doc scoffed. 

“You didn’t have any reservations about offing yourself before,” Gunther said.

“But I have since made a fully recovery,” Doc said.  “Indeed, my eyes may be a gruesome sight but otherwise I am full of vim, vigor and vitality.  Put me to use and I shall prove myself worthy.”

“I can’t risk it,” Slade said.  “You bite me or Gunther and Blythe gets away.  Bite Sarah or Miss Lassiter and I’ll have to hunt you down and shoot you myself.”

“Oh how very dramatic,” Doc said.  “Fine.  But know, good sir, that when the history of this ordeal is written, it will be noted that you kept America from being saved by Doctor Elias T. Faraday of Boston, Massachusetts…”

Gunther stuffed a bandana in Doc’s mouth and gagged him by tying the ends around the back of the doctor’s head.

“Mmmphh!”

“Finally,” the old man said.  “I’ve been waiting all night for him to shut up.”

Slade scooped up a pile of splintered furniture wood and headed outside, where he dumped his bundle in the middle of the road.  Curious about what was happening, Sarah stood by the door frame and watched as everyone else dragged out pieces of wood to build the pile higher and higher.

To the Reverend’s surprise, Slade snatched the bourbon bottle right of his hand and doused the pile with it.

“Sorry Reverend,” Slade said.

“I’ve got more,” the preacher replied.

The marshal struck a match and tossed it in, setting the pile ablaze. 

“Miles,” Slade said.  “I need your blanket.”

Being naked in front of people was a fate most werewolves had grown accustomed to but Miles was still an amateur werewolf and he didn’t particularly care for it.  Quickly, he handed the blanket over, then assumed his furry form to keep warm.

“Son,” Gunther said as he looked up at Miles’ yellow eyes.  “I don’t mean to be rude or nothing but where the hell does your pecker go when you do that?”

The werewolf shrugged his enormous shoulders.

“Take an end,” Slade said to Gunther, who obliged.  Together, they held the blanket above the flames.

“Now,” Slade said.  He and his deputy moved the blanket away and a cloud of smoke rose into the air.

“What are you doing?” Gunther asked.

“I’m telling a friend I’m sorry,” Slade replied.

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Apr 13 2016
8 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 74

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Zombies.  Werewolves.  Vampires. 

They made Slade feel helpless and he didn’t like it one bit.  He’d spent his entire adult life building himself into the kind of man who helped others and didn’t need any help himself.  As he laid there on the church’s front porch, his mind traveled back to the last time he felt this useless.

He was twelve years old, hiding under a bed in his family’s tiny house just outside Tucson, Arizona. He was shaking uncontrollably.  Gretchen, his mother, slid the wedding ring off of her finger and tucked it into his hand.

Green eyes peaking under the bed and a request to “keep this safe for Mama.”  Those are the last memories Slade had of her.

Downstairs, a fist was pounding on the door.  An angry voice.  “Open up!”

The door creaked open.  Footsteps.  A scuffle.  “You holding out on us, bitch?”

“No,” Gretchen said.  “Please take whatever you want.”

Slade remained as still as possible as he listened to the sounds of his house being torn apart.

“They aint got shit,” a second man said.  “Sam’s gonna be pissed.”

A third voice.  “What’s the hold up?”

It was Sawbuck Sam Donovan himself.  Like Smelly Jack Buchanan, Sam was another pile of human garbage working his way through the West, stealing whatever he could get his hands on and killing whoever got in his way.

“She aint got nothin’ Sam,” the first voice said.

“Horse shit,” Sam said.  “Everyone always has something.  What have you got bitch?”

“Please,” Gretchen said.  “My husband and I…we’re very poor but whatever you want please take it.”

“Aw fuck it,” Sam said.  Two gunshots.   All three men left.  Sam started shouting threats to the townsfolk outside.

“Unless you want to end up like this bitch, you all best start fetching your goods and bringing them out right now!”

Slade waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Nearly half a day had passed before he worked up the courage to head downstairs.

There, he found his mother, a hole in her forehead, blood covering her face, her green eyes blankly staring up at the ceiling.

He put her wedding ring in his pocket, sat down on the floor next to her, and held her hand.  He wanted to cry but he couldn’t.  He felt numb.

There he stayed for two more days until his father came home.  Lars Slade was a cattleman and he’d been out on a drive.  Tall, thin, and bearded, he was a serious man of few words.

Lars loved his wife and saw to a proper burial.  Once the preacher had finished the service and the casket was in the ground, father and son just stood there silently for awhile.

Finally, Lars spoke.  Rather than look at his son directly, he just kept his focus on Gretchen’s head stone.

“I realize this may be an awful way to feel,” Lars said to his boy.  “But I’ll never be able to look at you the same way again.”

Lars pulled a few bills out of his pocket and pressed them into his son’s hand.  “I left you in charge and as the man of the house you did nothing.”

Slade watched his father walk away from him and listened to the last word’s he’d ever hear from his old man.

“You’re a gutless coward and you’re no son of mine.”

Young Slade stood by his mother’s grave awhile longer, trying to convince himself that this entire experience had been a bad dream, but it wasn’t.  It was real.  And hope for a better tomorrow was no longer a concept he could comprehend.

After six years of working every odd job imaginable, he joined the Marshall’s Service, which he took as a license to shoot and/or hang ever miserable law breaking desperado he could get his hands on.  It didn’t matter who they were.  He always imagined they were Sawbuck Sam Donovan.

Alas, none of Slade’s subsequent heroism ever made him feel like he’d paid the debt he felt he owed to his mother, nor did any of it make him feel like his father would ever accept him again.

Happiness.  Hope.  Feelings he was sure he’d never know.  But at least being a Marshall meant never feeling helpless…never feeling like it was necessary to hide under a bed.

Yes, as Slade laid on the porch in front of the church, he developed an intense hatred for zombies, vampires and werewolves.  They had made him feel helpless for the first time in a long time.

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Apr 13 2016
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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 13 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 72

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Blythe stood on the train platform as three conductors approached from the town.  One of them, a large burly man with long sideburns, stepped forward and presented the vampire with a severed werewolf head.

“This was all we found,” the burly man said.

The vampire took the head, held it up against the moonlight, and gazed upon it whilst providing his best impression of a forlorn Hamlet.

“Alas, poor Mr. Hewitt.  I knew him well, Mr. Mayhew. I can’t say he was a man of infinite jest or excellent fancy, but he did bear much of our little enterprise on his back.”

“I’m sorry sir,”  Mayhew replied.

Blythe dropped the head then kicked it down the road into town as if it were a ball.

“No use crying over spilled milk,” Blythe said.  “What of Mr. Becker?”

“No sign of him,” Mayhew said.

“Two of my best soldiers gone,” Blythe said.  “You have big shoes to fill, Mr. Mayhew.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Mayhew said.  “Shall we go after them?”

“No,” Blythe replied.  “I’ll see to this matter personally.  Guard this train with your lives, gentleman.  The fate of the new world order depends on it.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Mayhew and his comrades flexed their muscles, busted out of their uniforms and assumed their werewolf forms, taking up positions in front of the locomotive.

Blythe closed his eyes and levitated three feet above the platform.  When his eyelids opened, his eyes were blood red.  No retinas.  Just red.

Like a maestro conducting a symphony, the vampire swirled his hands around, ever so daintily.

“Come to me, my pets.”

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Apr 13 2016
5 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 71

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The front door crashed open under the weight of an incoming zombie horde.  Over a dozen undead townsfolk in various states of decomposition entered.  Some were missing limbs, eyes, jaws, or some other part.  Not a one of them was fully intact.

Slade drew his twin pistols and popped heads left and right.  Gunther joined in with his sidearm, as Miss Bonnie did with her shotgun.

It was a bloodbath.  Guts galore.  Body parts, internal organs, pieces of bone and chunks of brain spewed all over the house of worship.

Despite being three sheets to the wind, the Reverend still retained the good sense to grab Sarah by the hand and lead her to the back of the room, where they took cover behind the pulpit.

Anabelle had never fired a gun before but figured now was as good a time as any to give it a try.  She picked up one of the rifles Bonnie had delivered off of the table, racked up a bullet, and pointed it at a zombie head.  She exploded the creature’s skull but being unused to the weapon’s kickback, she was knocked butt first to the ground.

She turned her attention to Doc, who was still lying face down on the floor.  The prostitute yanked on the good doctor’s arm, attempting to move him to safety all by herself.  He proved too heavy for her petite frame, but she kept pulling anyway.

Miles wolfed out, growing to his massive hairy form.  He spied more zombies pouring in through the broken window.  The werewolf clawed through a few intruders, then plugged the window with his body.  He could feel teeth biting into his hide.  It would have meant instant death for anyone else, but for him, it was mildly annoying.  Like mosquitos that wouldn’t go away.

To the right of the pulpit, there was a door that led to a hallway which in turn led to a number of rooms and a backdoor.  A terrified Slade craned his neck back as the sounds of wood being smashed came from that direction, followed by more groans.

Gunther heard the noise too. “Go!” he said to Slade. 

Miss Bonnie.  Sarah.  Miss Bonnie.  Sarah.  As per usual, Slade’s mind was torn between his two ladies.  But he trusted Gunther.  And Miss Bonnie was racking up quite a body count of her own. Meanwhile Sarah only had the Reverend or in other words, basically had no one.

It’s been said that the Winchester rifle is the gun that won the West.  It was revolutionary for its time, giving a marksman the ability to shoot as fast as he could pull a handle.

Slade picked up the rifle that Annabelle had dropped and aimed it at the door toward the back of the room.  A zombie trudged in.  Slade yanked that handle, racked up a bullet and bam.  That zombie was headless, its corpse plopping down on the floor.

The ex-marshall kept moving forward.  With expert precision, he popped another head.  Then another.  His spent casings clinked across the floor.

Sarah was beyond consolation, but the Reverend did his best anyway, quoting every uplifting bible verse he could think of to keep her spirits up.

Slade racked up another bullet but…bam.  The zombie head he was aiming for exploded before he pulled his trigger.  He looked to his right and Doc was up on his feet, giving the incoming zombies a barrage from his guns.

“Have at thee, knaves!”  Doc cried as he sent more and more of the undead to their doom.

Werewolf Miles cocked his head to the right in confusion as he felt the teeth stop biting him.  He looked out the window.  His attackers were walking away. 

Miss Bonnie and Gunther had whittled their horde down to three.  Those creatures also turned and walked for the door, only to become easy sport as the old man and the red head picked them off.

Slade took out the last zombie at the back of the church then ran to his bride.  Sarah flinged herself at Slade and squeezed him hard, holding on for dear life.

Doc shook his wrists and his spring loaded guns retracted up underneath his sleeves. 

“Monsters with the good sense to retreat when they are outmatched?” Doc asked.  “I say, just as one puzzle is solved, another presents itself.”

The good doctor helped Annabelle up.  “Are you all right my dear?”

“I think so but…”

Anabelle took one look at Doc and shrieked.

Slade attempted to investigate but Sarah kept her grip.  She had become a widow shaped barnacle attached to Slade’s hip.

Gunther and Miss Bonnie took a look at Doc’s eyes.  They were all white.  Completely blank.  Devoid of any color whatsoever.  Though his flesh had yet to rot, his new peepers made him look like the zombies that had just torn the place apart.

The old man and the redhead pointed their guns at Doc.  Slade wiggled one hand free from his bride and got Doc in his sights with one of his pistols.

“Was it something I said?”  Doc asked.

“Doc,” Annabelle said.

“Yes?” the good doctor asked.

Timidly, Anabelle handed Doc a compact mirror.

“You need to have a look.”

Doc took the compact.  “Good Heavens, people.  I know I don’t strike the most handsome visage but is that any reason to…”

He opened it up and took a look.  “Oh bother.”

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Apr 10 2016
18 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 70

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“An immunity,” Doc said.  “Lad, as we speak, there are renowned scientists who are studying the concept that exposure of the body to minute doses of a disease could, in fact, build up the body’s defenses against said disease.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Miss Bonnie said.

“It does sound stupid Doc,” Gunther said.  “Get yourself sick to keep from getting sick?”

“A bold gambit to be sure but one that is espoused by the likes of Mr. Louis Pasteur,” Doc said.

“Who?”  Miss Bonnie asked.

“That shit head that told everyone they got to boil their milk,” Gunther replied.

“Oh,” Miss Bonnie said. “Fuck him there aint nothing wrong with milk.”

Doc erupted into a long coughing spell.  His throat settled down and he kept on.

“Imagine your body is a bare knuckle boxer and the disease an opponent,” Gunther said.  “Would a boxer not fair better against an opponent it has briefly fought before?  Said boxer would learn all of its opponent’s strengths and weaknesses and be better prepared for a full bout, would he not?”

Slade chomped on his cigar.  “But the opponent might just knock you the hell out in the first go around.”

“Possibly,” Doc said. “But unlikely if the match were short.”

Gunther looked at the spilled elixir coating the floor.

“Shit Doc,” Gunther said. “You’ve been guzzling this shit for as long as I’ve known you.  Short match my ass.”

Gunther pointed at Townsend.  “And if one bite was all took to turn this prick then I’m surprised you’re not a zombie already.”

“Ah,” Doc said as he slowly raised a finger, as if the small gesture was a great task in his weakened condition. “But as young Miles has indicated there are supernatural aspects at play.  I have never been one to espouse that science and religion are diametrically opposed forces but rather, science can be turned to for an explanation of what religion cannot enlighten us on and vice versa.”

Miles nodded.  “Vampires have been known to trick people into drinking their blood,” the boys said.  “Drinking it doesn’t kill a person and the soul fights the vampire’s will for as long as the person lives.  The person who drank it unwittingly would never even know what happened unless someone tells him.”

Doc stroked his beard.  “I would have to study samples of vampire blood in a laboratory to be certain, but I theorize that while ingesting vampire’s blood into one’s stomach causes no physical harm to the subject until the obvious post mortem zombification, the injection of this supernatural contagion directly into the bloodstream via a zombie bite is such a shock to the system that it instantly kills the victim and subsequently zombifies them.”

Gunther, Slade and Miss Bonnie exchanged confused looks.

“Translation?” Gunther asked.

“Don’t let a zombie bite you,” Miles said.

“Yes,” Doc said.  “Oh how I admire the ability of youth to put matters more succinctly than a man as learned as I.  At any rate, I have been a regular consumer of the vampire blood infused elixir for many weeks now, since the day I formed my lamentable partnership with Mr. Blythe.  Ergo, so much vampire’s blood now courses through my veins that it kept Mr. Townsend’s bite from instantly killing me but…”

Annabelle pouted.  Doc looked away from her.

“The more concentrated form of the contagion delivered into my system during my ill fated counter with Frank Buchanan’s tooth is slowly working against me” Doc said.  “Slowed by the copious amounts of vampire’s blood in my body yet in due course, I shall eventually become an undead man.”

The group stood around Doc quietly.  Miss Bonnie raised her barrel.  Gunther pushed it down again.

“Am I going to have to take that away from you?” Gunther asked.

“He just said he’s going to become a zombie!” Miss Bonnie said.

Anabelle knelt down and hugged Doc, who grimaced in pain at the contact.  “He’s not a zombie yet.”

The prostitute gently held Doc’s head in her hands.  “I don’t know how but we’re going to fix this.”

“My dear…”

“No,” Anabelle said.  “As long as you’re alive and not a zombie, there’s still hope.  Isn’t there?”

Doc’s eyes pointed downward.

“Well,” Annabelle said.  “Isn’t there?”

“In theory,” Doc said.

“I’ll take it,” Annabelle replied.

“So what?” Miss Bonnie asked.  “We just wait until he turns and bites one of us?”

“Damn it, Miss Bonnie,” Gunther said.  “In my entire life I have never left a man behind when he needed me and I’m not going to start now.”

Miss Bonnie looked at Slade, who, in his mind, went to work coming with the most diplomatic answer he could come up with.

“He’s still alive,” Slade said.  The ex-marshall looked at Miles.  “Anyone ever come back from becoming one of these things?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard of,” Miles replied.

Doc shifted back in his chair and looked up at Annabelle.

“Oh my dear,” Doc said.  “How I wish I had known you longer but alas, the curtain most close early on the show of my life, the best act of which was certainly the day I met you.  Miss Lassiter is correct and she should be allowed to dispatch me posthaste.  Until she does, I am a threat to everyone in this room.”

Anabelle wept.  “Doc…no.”

Gunther put a hand on Doc’s shoulder.  “Is that what you really want, Doc?”

“It is my good man.”

Gunther shook his head and walked back next to Slade.  Annabelle kissed Doc and looked him in the eyes.

“Please…” she begged.

“It is for the best, my dear,” Doc said.  “We will always have that thing.”

Anabelle gave her man one final kiss then backed away.

“Do you wish me to read you your last rites, son?” the Reverend asked.

“No,” Doc replied.  “I’d prefer to have the matter over with.”  Doc looked at Miss Bonnie and closed his eyes.  “Fire at will, Miss Lassiter.”

Slade put his hand down on Miss Bonnie’s barrel this time.  “Maybe I should do it,” Slade said.  “Killing a man is a hell of a thing.  It’ll haunt you forever, whether it was justified or not.”

“I got it,” Miss Bonnie replied, coldly.

Miss Bonnie raised her weapon and took aim at Doc’s head.  Everyone watched as she maintained her line of sight until finally, she put her shotgun down.

“Son of a bitch,” Miss Bonnie said.  “I can’t do it with him all alive and dopey looking and everything.”

Doc opened his eyes.  He flicked his right wrist and his spring loaded gun popped out from underneath his sleeve.

“You are a kinder woman than I presumed, Miss Lassiter,” Doc said.  “And I can see now it was selfish of me to ask one of you to commit this heinous deed.”

Slowly, Doc rose up out of the chair and onto his feet, his body shaking and struggling to hold up his own weight.

“Adieu, my friends,” Doc said.  His arm trembled as brought the pistol to his temple.  “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

Before Doc even pulled the trigger, he crashed face first into the floor.

Gunther, Slade and Anabelle all crouched around him.

“What the hell was that?” Gunther asked.

“I think he’s still breathing,” Annabelle said.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  Multiple fists pounded on the church door.  The sound of hungry growls poured in through the broken window.

Miss Bonnie pointed her shotgun at the door.  “We’ve got bigger problems.”

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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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