Those Poor, Poor Bastards (Dead West Book 1)

by Tim Marquitz

  Pa beat at it with one fist and reached into the wagon with the other. He brought out a cast iron frying pan and clobbered the deadun in the head until he—it?—stopped moving.

  Manning pulled it off, and Nina’s stomach sank at her father’s grimace.

  “I think my goddamn foot’s broke.”

  Manning took a quick peek and nodded but made no other comment.

  Nina peered up the street. A smoky haze covered much of the ground, dozens of deaduns drawing closer, backlit by the hungry flames. A woman with loose strands of mucus hanging from her nose led the pack. She glared from eyes the color of black quartz. This one seemed different than the others.

  “I see you,” the woman croaked, reaching with cracked, black fingernails.

  Nina had a bead on her but hesitated. They could speak?

  Manning shot the woman in the face, blowing brainy detritus into the pack behind her. Without batting an eye, he yelled, “Let’s get around the other side of the wagon. Help me with your father.”

  Manning grabbed Pa beneath the arms and Nina behind his knees. They situated him into a standing position, leaning against the wooden flatbed. She and Manning flanked him and put their weapons on the side rail, laying out all the extra rounds they had.

  “We got about twenty seconds,” Manning said with a surprising amount of calm as he checked the rifle he’d pilfered from the wagon. “So get ready.”

  Turned out to be less than that as one of the deaduns, a dandy of a man with a button-up coat and sprung collar, tried climbing over the crushed wagon to get at them. Pa put a bullet square in his chest, knocking him back off the wagon, but the dandy came on, tripping and falling into the canvas between the wagon’s ribs. Pa’s gun sparked again and the man’s head blossomed like a split melon, soaking the canvas red.

  Nina shook her head. Deaduns were tough but none too bright, that was for sure.

  “Gotta get ‘em in the head,” Manning shouted. “Closest ones first.” He popped off a shot. Nina and Pa followed suit, picking targets and firing. Nina fed off the two men’s calm deliberation, sighting one creature after another and emptying her six rounds.

  Pop! A bullet blew the top off a blond girl’s head.

  Pop! Another round demolished a man’s jaw in a cloud of bone and blood, and Nina watched his head roll off his shoulders and down his chest, leaving a trail of slime behind. A boy, no older than twelve lurched forward.

  She swallowed down her moral compunctions. It’s them or us.

  The air snapped with gunfire, her vision obscured by clouds of black powder and gun smoke. She reloaded, emptied, and reloaded again. There was no sign of letting up. Droves of deaduns came from every direction, their moans swelling into a chorus of bloodthirsty need that drowned out the gunfire.

  “We can’t stay here,” Manning finally yelled. “Lincoln, are you able to walk?” The gunfighter—for evidently that’s what he was, Nina reckoned, as he was fast as lightning and never missed—fired his final rifle shot and snatched up one of his dragoons.

  Pa tried some weight on his foot and flashed his teeth. “Dern it!” He looked at Nina and took a breath. “If I gotta, I gotta. Let’s scoot.”

  Nina put down one more closing deadun, pulled her pouch over her shoulder, and got under Pa’s arm. They took three steps before his weight bore them to the ground. Nina struggled to pull him up but he pushed her away. His blue-gray eyes held hers with a familiar determination, a look that told her he wouldn’t be disobeyed.

  “Nina, you’ve got to go. Both of you.”

  “That ain’t happenin’.” She shook her head. “Now come on before they’re on us.”

  “Nina, leave me be.”

  She frowned and stood, shot a black man in a pair of worker’s overalls coming around the wagon. The top of his skull flew up like a patch of shoveled earth, yet more of the moaning bastards crushed in behind him.

  With two rounds left and no time to reload, Nina knew they’d had it. She glanced at Manning, who fired another shot and looked her in the eyes. He was half leaning—ready to bolt—but something kept him rooted. She didn’t have time to ponder it.

  “I’m not goin’!” Nina hollered at her pa. She bent down and lifted him by the arm. “You’re all I got. Now get your ass under cover.”

  Nina helped Pa drag-crawl back to the wagon, and she went for the long-handled ax. Manning stood nearby, holding his rifle by the barrel. He winked and gave her a crooked smile before taking a huge swing at another big, lumbering Negro deadun coming around the side. The pointed edge of the stock smashed him in the temple and dropped him like a tipped cow. The bastard was so big, he made a decent barricade; two snarling Chinamen in their blood-spattered blue pajamas fell over him, and Manning dispatched them with brutal blows to the backs of their skulls from the rifle’s butt.

  A pang of regret lodged in Nina’s throat as she hefted the ax. She’d spent most of her growing years hunting and gutting animals, so her hands were strong and capable, but these weren’t no rabbit or fox. She gave herself plenty of room and squared off with the dozen or so coming around on her side.

  “Alright, you bastards, let’s go.”

  The first one was a bullet-riddled Chinaman, so she cut low and half severed his neck, just managing to shut her eyes as his blood sprayed her face. A reverse swing finished the job, dropping him lop-headed and lifeless against the wagon wheel. She continued like that; breathing, cutting, killing, feeling the impact of the ax head against skulls, crushing bone and brains like putrid melons. A strange sense of calm overtook her. It was easy when you knew you were done and dead. Panic fell away like dirt after a bath. She felt pure, powerful.

  A young girl in gore-stained finery stepped over the five or six bodies at Nina’s feet, getting in too close for comfort. Nina couldn’t swing on her so she used the haft of the ax to push her away, her boots slipping in the mud and blood. She nearly went down, but recovered just in time to block the groping, snarling child-thing. The girl slipped and fell, too. Nina swore and buried her ax in the poor child’s face. She swore again, angry for having to kill another kid, but she had about two damn seconds to think about it as the moaning hordes kept coming.

  After she felled four or five more, her arms and hands ached. Her legs shook from trying to stay upright in the slop. Shots went off behind her. Sounded like Pa’s Cooper. She was too exhausted to look back, check on Manning. The realization struck home; she couldn’t run away even if she wanted to.

  A tall woman with mucky auburn tresses and a black corset—probably one of the Pussy Palace whores—kicked one of the hacked up bodies aside and stumbled forward, mumbling gibberish and dripping runnels of drool from her chin.

  “Ma,” Nina whispered as she clumsily brought up her ax, tears in her eyes from all this ferocious and terrible madness that transcended every nightmare she’d ever had. “I’m sorry...”

  The woman’s head suddenly pitched sideways, a gush of gore exiting the new hole there. Her groin jerked and her semi-white bloomers flowered with blood. Nina looked around in bewilderment as the woman collapsed.

  A familiar-looking man ran up. Through the grime on his face she recognized that screw-mouth and predatory eyes: the mean Southerner from just before all this shit started. He came hooting and hollering like he’d just found him a tick of Comstock silver. “Hell yeah!” Meany slammed his foot down on the dead woman’s chest. “Sorry, ma’am, but you done been cunt shot! Woo!”

  Another man strode up with considerably less bustle, giving off the same vigor, only his rowdiness was toned down a notch; in fact, his demeanor seemed downright cool, his mustached lips wrapped around a billowing cigar. He had a rough jaw and big ears, and there was no mistaking these two for brothers, only this one dressed cleaner; matching pants and vest and a flat-topped hat. Remarkably spotless, given the circumstances.

  The brothers cocked and fired into the groaning crowd, their Spencer carbines blazing, dropping deaduns in an impressive display of marksman
ship.

  The second fellow relaxed his shooting pose and looked back where they’d come from. “Goddamn it, Nancy, pony up already, girl!” Then he turned and noticed Nina for the first time, narrowed his eyes. “Whoa, now. Heads up, George.”

  Meany, who appeared to be named George, glanced at Nina, then his face balled up before a grin widened it, and his eyes crawled her up and down. “Lookee! That’s the half-breed bitch socked me one in the beezer.”

  Nina fixed a hard gaze on both of them and hefted her ax. “I’ll do it again you fellas don’t get a move on.”

  The brothers glanced at one another, then Mean George spat and leveled his carbine right at her.

  Chapter Four

  “That right?” Mean George had his barrel pointed at Nina’s head, then he smirked and lowered it. “Maybe I’ll cunt-shoot you, too.”

  “You best back off, son.” Pa trained his pistol on the man. Nina didn’t know how many shots he had left, but they wouldn’t stand a chance against those Spencers.

  Mean George scooted closer, eyes spitting fire. “I’ll square you both away right now. Put a bullet in your pa’s head, and you...” He licked his lips and pumped his hips. “...can have a different kind of bullet.”

  “You best aim that fucking Spencer elsewhere.” Manning came around with one dragoon on the deaduns, the other on Mean George.

  Nina smiled, although she was scared shitless. “You might get me, but one of mine’s sure to return the favor.”

  The cleaner one with the cigar elbowed George hard in the shoulder.

  He twisted in protest, nearly dropping his rifle. “Ouch, Mase! That fuckin’ hurt.”

  “George, why don’t you go see what’s keepin’ Nancy and Jasmine. See if they been et.”

  “But—”

  “Just find them lackadaisies and let me do the fuckin’ talkin’! These here are regular folk, and they don’t need you gratin’ on ‘em.” A deadun loped out of the shadows and Mason lifted his rifle and ended its existence. He glared at George, who dejectedly kicked at the mud and stomped off.

  Mason tipped his hat. “Sorry about that, folks. My name is Mason Daggett, and that was my brother, George.”

  “Mister Daggett,” Pa leveraged himself against one of the axles to stand straighter, taller. It pained Nina to see him having to talk up to another man. “If you and you brother got some kind of ill intent, you best take it on down the way and find yourselves another place to hole up.”

  Mason looked around. “You call this holed up?”

  “Better than nothing. We plan on moving east shortly.”

  “Look, these afflicted bastards are all over the place. Ain’t no safer at the other end of town, what with everything burnin’ to the ground. And I see you got your own troubles here. Might be good to stand together.” He paused while Manning turned and bashed a deadun’s skull. It burst like an overripe melon, its stink swirling in the air. “At least for now.”

  Pa gave the man a good stare, but Nina knew they had no choice. They needed those rifles on their side. Who knew what else those fellas had stashed away somewhere?

  “Fine,” Pa said. “But either one of you lay a hand on my daughter, I’ll shoot your nuts off before I kill you.”

  “Perish the thought. We’re Southern gentlemen.” Mason Daggett took his pistol out and dumped a couple more deaduns into the mud. “So what should I call you kindly folks?”

  Manning dispatched another that got a little too close for comfort. “Why don’t we thin the herd and leave introductions for later?”

  “Fair enough.” Mason put his shoulder against the side of the wagon, dropped two more with his pistol, then craned his neck to peer back the way he’d come, evidently looking for his brother.

  Nina went to the rail. She helped Pa stand and reloaded her Colt. “I don’t like these fellas,” she said low.

  He nodded. “We’ll keep an eye on ‘em.”

  The pile of corpses was growing into a mangled flesh barricade. The deaduns were forced to go around, between, and over bodies stacked two or three high, arms and legs intertwined in a bloody mess of brains and entrails. It was easy pickings now, but wouldn’t be for long. Soon they’d be surrounded.

  The fire had crossed the divide and burned on both sides of the street. The heat was becoming almost unbearable on Manning’s side. Hard to say how it would feel once they were hemmed in.

  Nina banged off two shots when a commotion rolled in behind her. Two half-dressed women in striped stockings pushed a wheelbarrow, one to a handle, and set it down with a clatter. One woman was a busty, wide-eyed blond with tear-streaked mascara stains around her eyes; the other was a long-legged black woman with skin like coffee and cream and hair falling in soft, bushy curls around her face. She had striking, light green eyes, and was possibly the most curious and stunning woman Nina had ever seen. Belts of ammunition were slung over their shoulders. Dirt stained their cheap dresses, and mud covered their boots. Nina caught a whiff of cheap perfume. Not entirely a bad thing compared to what they’d smelled out here.

  Mean George was with them.

  Nina looked into the wheelbarrow and saw a treasure trove: several boxes of pistol cartridges, a few worn-looking pistols, bottles of whiskey, and at least two other rifles, one a Spencer.

  George jerked his thumb back in the direction they’d just come from. “I found ‘em stuck in a rut back there. Spilled half our shit.”

  “Did not!” the blond hollered, her voice penetrating Nina’s ears. “You assholes left us. Told you not to leave us—”

  George took a step and backhanded her across the face. “Shut the fuck up, Nancy. That fuckin’ mouth of yours...it’s a wonder you did any fuckin’ business. Make a man’s cock shrivel right up.”

  Nancy pulled a one-shot pistol from her bodice and pointed it at Mean George. She sniffled. “I told you not to fuckin’ hit me.”

  “Jesus whore on a hot plate, Nancy,” George said, grinning and holding his arms wide in mock submission. “You know it ain’t my fault. It’s that goddamn clattering voice of yours. Sounds like one of those fancy poodle dogs.”

  “One more time, George…”

  Nina was torn between which one to shoot, but she figured the deaduns would be most ideal for now.

  Mason took one of the Spencers out of the wheelbarrow and tossed it to Nina. He threw another rifle to Manning. “Alright, folks, glad you’re here and getting along fine. How’s about we worry about the ones that ain’t alive!” He looked at Nina. “You run out of bullets, you pass the magazine to one of these cocksuckin’ whores, and they’ll hand you a full one right back. Loads in through the stock like this.” Mason pulled a long, spring-loaded cylinder out of the stock and raised his eyebrows.

  Nina nodded. “Got it.”

  Manning hefted his rifle. “How much you figure you got?”

  “About five or six-hundred rounds. Give or take.”

  Pa fired a couple rounds and shouted over his shoulder. “If ya’ll are done conversin’, maybe you could turn your attention to the task at hand?”

  They took up positions, forming a wall of lead shot and black powder determination. Five gun barrels pointed west up Main Street, chambers loaded and locked, hammers cocked.

  “We draw the line right here,” Mason shouted.

  “Eat shit, you dead cocksuckers!” George added, taking aim.

  Nina and Manning exchanged a look. James shrugged and hefted his weapon.

  They fired at will, peppering the shambling forms with bullets, watching them drop into the mud. Nina’s ears rang. A black powder cloud got so thick the deaduns became fire-tinged silhouettes in the street. Nina aimed for what she thought were heads, lumps of shadow atop hitching shoulders. She emptied the Spencer, unlatched the magazine from its place in the gun stock, and exchanged magazines with Nancy.

  They took down fifty or more of the things in just a few minutes. Bodies littered the street and boardwalks on either side. The fires claimed some, and Nina
about gagged on the scents of cooked hair and rancid flesh. A mist of red spray hung in the air from the concussion of lead against skull, mingling with the colored fog, creating a beautiful and terrifying scene, like some mirror image of Hell on Earth. But even with the tremendous firepower, the deaduns still came. Some were even going around the buildings and approaching through side alleys.

  “Hold!” Manning shouted.

  As the smoke cleared, Nina caught something further back in the deaduns’ ranks. A mysterious, non-shambling individual of apparent nefarious intent. At least that’s what Nina took from the gestures the thing made; shooing some of the deaduns out and around the defenses, drawing some back, and urging others forward. Some kind of hellish director. She’d bet the thing had full-on black eyes, too.

  She remembered that woman who’d come at her speaking words, actual words, before Manning put her down. Was some singular intelligence behind all this? Nina sighted on the thing in question and put a bullet through its brain, watching it fall away with grim satisfaction.

  “I said, hold!”

  “Sorry,” Nina mumbled.

  “It ain’t enough,” Mason said. “The fire might keep ‘em from flankin’ us, but eventually we’ll be overrun. We need to get out of here. Any place we can hole up?”

  Nina heard a cry from behind her. She twisted to see one of those dead dog things dragging Nancy away through the mud. The blond struggled, screaming, hitting it with her fists, but the mongrel clenched her tight, pulling with uncanny strength. “Help!”

  Jasmine hefted a long, heavy pistol and fired, taking off a chunk of Nancy’s shoulder. The black girl fired again, ripping through the side of Nancy’s throat in a gush of blood. Nancy disappeared, twitching and gurgling, into the fog.

  “No! Goddamn it!” Jasmine screamed. She threw the gun down, and sobbed into her hands.

  Nina leaned her rifle against the wheelbarrow and put her arm around Jasmine’s shoulders. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt the need to, and it looked as if nobody else was going to console the poor thing. “Ain’t nothing else you could have done.” Nina thought it sounded paltry, but what could she say? She had just blown her friend away.