by Angela Scott
WANTED: DEAD OR UNDEAD
(The Zombie West Series – Book 1)
By Angela Scott
www.EvolvedPub.com
Copyright © 2012 Angela Scott
Cover Art Copyright © 2012 Staci Perkins and Mallory Rock
~~~~~~~~~~
Edited by Melissa Sawatsky and Lane Diamond
eBook License Notes:
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Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.
Dedication:
For Diana,
For forcing me to take Grand Canyon-like leaps, and
refusing to let me do anything less.
Table of Contents
Prologue – The Night Knew No Difference
Chapter 1 – Marked
Chapter 2 – Related to Zombies
Chapter 3 – Zombies Hate Snow
Chapter 4 – Bacon and Eggs
Chapter 5 – The Makings of a Posse
Chapter 6 – Lavender
Chapter 7 – KilKenny Cats
Chapter 8 – Miniature Rises and Valleys
Chapter 9 – Uglies and Nutters
Chapter 10 – Lonely Boys
Chapter 11 – Trapped with a Madman
Chapter 12 – Milk and Honey
Chapter 13 – Can a Woman Forget Her Suckling Child?
Chapter 14 – The Right Thing
Chapter 15 – Damned
Chapter 16 – Others
Chapter 17 – Wanted
Chapter 18 – Family
Chapter 19 – Hand Gestures
Chapter 20 – Wild Card
Chapter 21 – Sticky
Chapter 22 – Love You Forever
Chapter 23 – Butterflies and Bats
Chapter 24 – Don't Let Go
Chapter 25 – Snowmen and Swords
Chapter 26 – Not Like You
Chapter 27 – Hewn Down
Chapter 28 – A Line of Concern
Chapter 29 – The Truth
Chapter 30 – Dangerous
About the Author
Coming Soon: Desert Flower
Also From Angela Scott
More from Evolved Publishing
Prologue – The Night Knew No Difference
Elisabeth walked the path to the streambed with precise, careful steps. The moon provided enough light to go by as she navigated the familiar brush and rocks. She held a metal pail in one hand, and her father's pistol, pointed toward the ground, in the other.
At the end of the path, she placed the gun on a small boulder and knelt to dip the bucket into the stream. Frigid water trickled over her fingers as she clung to the handle, waiting for it to fill. She struggled to her feet on the muddy bank, weighed down by the heavy bucket, but she found her footing and stood in the slippery mess.
"Elisabeth!"
She stopped moving and the bucket slapped against her thigh, soaking her dress. Tortured sounds came from the direction of the cabin—screams and cries intertwined—and wrapped their frozen fingers around her.
"Elisabeth!"
She threw the bucket down, grabbed the gun, and ran toward the sound of her brothers' squeals. Sharp rocks tore at her bare feet as she leapt over fallen trunks, clutching the pistol in her white-knuckled grasp.
The deer carcass her father had hung in the barn could have brought a mountain lion or wolves to the premises, but most likely, the smoke from the chimney had attracted unwanted attention from the Natives in the area. Attacks were common. The Smiths on the other side of the hill had been burned out of their cabin just a few months before.
Elisabeth cleared the trees and scanned the grounds around her home. Nothing—no Natives, no animals—only the swirl of smoke that escaped the chimney and the yellow, flickering glow of firelight that illuminated the windows. Silence blanketed the cabin and surrounding woods, which frightened her more than the sound of her brothers' screams and cries. She stood, gun raised, panting heavily as her fingers trembled on the trigger.
"Ma?" She took a hesitant step forward. "Pa?"
No answer.
"Peter? William?"
She half expected her brothers to come running through the open door and tackle her about the waist, but they didn't. Instead, she heard the sound of a wooden chair being dragged across the floorboards. Furniture tumbled. Dishes crashed. A shadow crossed in front of the window.
Elisabeth cocked the gun and pointed it toward the sky, afraid of accidentally shooting her mother or brothers in a panic. She lifted her foot and placed it on the bottom step.
"You a'right?" She softly placed one foot in front of the other on the weather-beaten boards until she reached the landing. "Ma?"
The door stood open a crack, but not enough to see inside. As she stepped forward to push the door wide, a sticky wetness seeped between her toes. Blood oozed over the threshold onto the porch and Elisabeth stood squarely in the middle of it. She opened her mouth to scream, but clasped her free hand over it and allowed only whimpers to escape through the spaces between her fingers.
She plowed through the door and wielded the gun like the sharpshooter her father had trained her to be. He would have been proud to witness his daughter's steady hand wrapped around the Remington revolver, if he weren't looking down the barrel of it instead. His cloudy eyes stared up at her as he knelt over the dismembered, gutted body of her mother. No sound crossed over Elisabeth's lips, though her mind exploded with terror and her knees threatened to buckle.
She didn't doubt her pa's guilt for a second. Blood drenched him, dripping from his hands, face, and mouth. He threw his head back and grunted, displeased by the interruption. The inhuman sound forced her to take a step back. That man was not her pa. He was hardly a man at all. He reminded her of a wild animal in the forest, feasting on fallen prey. Her mother? Fallen prey?
"Pa?" The word choked her. She couldn't breathe. On crooked limbs, he worked his way to a crouching position, cocked his head to the side, and pinned his gaze on her. He stood and dragged himself forward—one step, then another.
"Pa, no!" Tears wet her cheeks. The man who had hugged his family just hours earlier, who swung each of the boys around until they fell laughing and dizzy on the ground, had vanished. He had called her li'l girl, even though she was no longer little. The hideous monster that slowly lugged itself toward her had replaced the man she knew and loved.
"Please, Pa, don't!"
He snapped his head from side to side and roared a guttural response. Her mother's blood fell from his tongue and lips, splattering the floor at his feet. He reached his arm forward, and Elisabeth didn't hesitate—she wound her finger around the trigger and pulled.
The bullet ripped through his shoulder and his arm fell limp at his side. If anything, the injury stunned him, but didn't alter his progression. He continued his slow, agonizing path toward her. She fired again. The bullet penetrated his right eye and went clear on through, lodging itself in the wall behind him. His knees bowe
d and he wobbled briefly before collapsing in a broken mess on the wooden floor.
She continued to hold the gun in her hands, but squeezed her eyes shut. This can't be happening. This can't be happening. Her shoulders shook as sobs ripped through her chest and heart. Now she turned to throw her head back and yell into the night, to release the pain and fear that threatened to destroy her.
The sound of whimpering from the loft caused her eyes to fly open. She'd forgotten about the boys.
"Peter! William!" She stepped over her father's broken body and refused to look at her mother's remains as she moved past. "It's okay," she called to them. They must be terrified, hiding in the loft above her. "It's okay now. Everything's gonna be a'right. Come on down."
"Beth?"
She released a sob from her constricted throat upon hearing the sound of her brother's voice. "Peter!" She climbed up the bottom rungs of the ladder. "It's okay now. No one's gonna hurt you."
He poked his blond head over the edge of the loft and peered down at her. "I don't feel so good, Beth." Beads of sweat dotted his brow as he wrapped his arms around his stomach. "Pa bit me."
Elisabeth climbed the remaining rungs to reach her brother. He sat on his haunches, rocking in pain. He leaned to the side and retched dark blood onto the floor.
"It hurts!" He removed his arms from around his belly, exposing a gaping hole beneath his bloodied nightshirt.
She grabbed the closest thing she could find—his discarded jacket—and balled it up before pressing it into his abdomen. Why is this happening? It doesn't make sense.
"It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be fine." She looked around the loft, panicked. "Where's William?"
Peter shook his head and nodded toward the shadows. "Willie's sick, too."
She crawled on her hands and knees toward the huddled figure in the corner. "William, you okay? You hurt?" She held her hand out toward her frightened brother. "I know you're scared, but it's a'right now. It's a'right."
The ten-year-old boy lunged forward, leaving her mere seconds to pull her hand back to escape his snapping jaws. He wore the same crazed expression she'd seen on her pa's face.
She fell backwards and scooted away from him, but William sprang forward again and gripped her ankle. He opened his mouth, ready to clamp down, but she kicked at him with her other foot until he released his hold. Once free, she pushed past Peter and climbed part way down the ladder before jumping off and landing on the floor below.
"Peter!" she yelled up at him. "Jump down to me! Come on! Jump!" The sick little boy, still pressing the increasingly bloodied jacket to his stomach, launched himself over the side and Elisabeth caught him.
"Don't look!" she told him, and Peter pushed his face into her shoulder to avoid the gruesome scene of their parents' deaths.
She carried him out the door and ran toward the barn with Peter wrapped firmly around her torso. He dug his fingers into her shoulders, while his tiny body shook and grew hotter by the moment. His warm blood seeped through her dress. She didn't have much time. God, help me! she silently prayed. I can't do this on my own.
The town was ten miles away, and she would have to hitch up the wagon in order to get her brother to help safely—balancing him on a horse would be near impossible—but it would take too much precious time. Time she didn't have.
"It's okay, Peter. Just hang in there."
He let out a low, throaty hum and she quickened her pace. If she didn't hurry, she would lose him, too.
Elisabeth struggled to hold onto her brother while fumbling with the wooden latch that held the barn door closed. As she shifted his weight to her hip, his sharp baby teeth clamped down on her tender flesh and a searing pain engulfed her shoulder. He shook his head like a dog refusing to release its bone.
She cried out, begging him to stop. Agonizing pain radiated down the length of her arm and her fingers splayed to the point of near breaking. She grabbed the back of his head and tugged at his hair in an attempt to pull him off, but his strength rivaled that of a full grown man.
She spun around and slammed his body against the barn door, trying to knock him off with force. He clung to her with greater resolve and tightened his fingers around her upper arms. When she slammed her brother's body into the barn door for a second time, it splintered and flew open, but the boy seemed unaffected. She wound her left hand around Peter's twisted face, pushed her fingers into his eye sockets, and began to pry him off her. He screamed out briefly, but his vice-like jaws clamped onto her shoulder once more and she lost all feeling in her arm.
She stumbled into the barn, searching for anything she could use to strike him. A burning pain flowed through her veins and stiffened her joints and muscles, shortening her steps. Her eyes began to blur, and she blinked in an effort to restore her vision. Her mouth dried up, as though her body was reabsorbing itself, and her stomach growled and rolled.
Without warning, Peter's head snapped upright. He cried out as his body went rigid, and his grip on her arm slackened. He slipped from her body and sunk to the earth at her feet, crying as his arms and legs jutted out and retracted.
She couldn't see him clearly, but heard everything—his moans, his cries, the sound of him choking to death. She stumbled backward, clutching her useless arm to ease her own pain. When her brother lay still, Elisabeth fell to her knees and looked heavenward.
Crickets chirped in rhythm and an owl hooted its warning off in the distance. The night knew no difference.
Chapter 1 – Marked
Trace cast a downward glance at the five cards in his hand—two queens, a pair of deuces, and a five of spades that did him no good. The old bugger who sat on the opposite side of the table chewed the end of his unlit cigar while he kept his good eye fixed on Trace—a dusty eye patch covered the other. Trace could tell he was bluffing.
"I raise." He slid a stack of coins into the middle of the table and increased the pot by an additional hundred dollars, fifty dollars more than the other man's bet. The old gambler arched a wrinkled brow as he reviewed his own hand once again. Trace remained neutral and waited for the old timer to decide whether to match Trace's bet or fold.
The gambler added another fifty dollars to the growing pile and took two new cards from the dealer. Trace watched the old man's face as he studied his cards, and was rewarded with a quick twitch of the jaw line—a sure sign the old man had nothing. Trace held onto his pair of queens, threw away the other three cards, and nodded to the dealer, who gave him three cards off the top of the deck.
Trace slipped them into his hand without looking. "I'm in."
The old man placed his cards face down on the table and spit a chunk of cigar on the floor. "You sure you want to do that, son?" He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his protruding belly. The butt of his pistol stuck out of the holster at his side.
Trace had seen many gamblers make the same move and it didn't faze him. "I said I was in."
The gambler chortled under his breath. "I see your mama raised a foolish child. Ain't she proud?"
Trace kept his expression blank and didn't say a word.
The old man tossed a few more bills on the pile and topped it off with a gold pocket watch. "Lay 'em down, boy."
Trace trained his eyes on the gambler and turned each card over in succession—queen, queen, three of hearts, queen, queen. He didn't need to look down to know what they were.
The old man stood and directed his colt peacemaker at Trace's chest, toppling his chair in the process. "You're cheatin'!"
The dealer stepped back from the table, and several men in the vicinity cleared out of the way. An awkward hush fell over the room in anticipation of gun fire.
"No, sir, not a cheater. Just lucky today, is all."
The gambler pulled back the hammer on his pistol. "You feel lucky now?"
Before Trace could reply, the saloon doors slammed open against the wooden walls and rattled on their hinges. Everyone's attention turned toward the creature that dragged itself
forward on stiff legs, drooling blood. Its milky eyes scanned the room before it threw back its head, raised its arms, and growled toward the ceiling.
"That's Bill Johnson!" Miss Krissee called from the balcony above. She pulled a Derringer pistol from the garter encircling her leg and aimed it over the railing.
Trace looked up at Miss Krissee; dark ringlets fell over her bare shoulders and her lips were the color of cherries. Rumor had it nearly all the men in town had visited her at least once, though few admitted to it. Indeed, she was quite a looker, but Trace disregarded women who shared their wares so easily.
"Someone should go fetch the doc." A cowboy at the bar made the suggestion, but no one moved to do so.
"It's too late for that." Miss Krissee shook her head. "He's already dead. Just look at him."
Sunken features, decaying flesh and teeth that ground and snapped against themselves—Bill was dead all right. Sure, he walked around grunting, but that was only a technicality.
Zombie Bill lunged at the man closest to the door, ripped a chunk of flesh from the screaming man's neck, and howled as warm blood gurgled between his teeth.
"He's got it a'right!" someone yelled.
Beer bottles and whisky jugs exploded from ill-aimed bullets. Wood chips showered down from the rafters and the air filled with the metallic smell of gun smoke. Trace fired a shot or two of his own, but decided his best option was to find some sort of shelter—drunks made horrible shooters. He pushed the poker table over on its side and hunkered down behind it. It was better than nothing.
The old poker player crouched beside him. "Don't go thinking we're through just 'cause a zombie walked in here and stopped me from killing you."
Trace shook his head. "No, sir, I figured we were just having ourselves an intermission." He aimed his gun over the top of the table and watched Zombie Bill continue forward, his body riddled with bullet holes. The dead man wouldn't die.
"God, help us!" Slap Jack yelled from his safe position behind the bar. The bartender pointed his pistol at the zombie, his hands shaking from old age. Even in the best of circumstances, Slap Jack's aim proved dangerous, and Trace became more thankful for the thick wooden table every minute.
