Wanted: Dead or Undead (Zombie West)

by Angela Scott

  "Hey, now." He held his hands up, still clutching his portion of the rabbit meat. "I didn't mean anything by it, I swear. You eat as fast as you need to, okay?"

  By the look on his face, her reaction genuinely surprised him. He brought his hands down and proceeded to eat once more, as if he knew full well she wouldn't shoot. She holstered the gun and sat down, angry as a bobcat. Why couldn't she bring herself to kill this guy?

  "I'm gonna eat your rabbit, but I don't wanna talk to you no more."

  He nodded. "Sounds fair. Besides, every time I open my mouth you're real quick to want to put a bullet through it."

  This cowboy annoyed her to no end, but he presented no real threat. He was too soft and polite to be a true frontiersman, yet not rugged enough to be a bandit or an outlaw. A city boy, most likely. If he wanted to hurt her and steal her belongings, he would've done it already and kept the rabbit to himself.

  She watched him for any signs of ulterior motives, but every time he caught her staring, he'd flash a stupid grin. Yeah, she could take him if it came to that. It didn't matter how many times he turned his lips up in an asinine smile. If he made one wrong move, she'd lodge a bullet in his skull so fast he'd be standing at the pearly gates, scratching his head, wondering what the hell happened.

  Chapter 3 – Zombies Hate Snow

  Trace watched her while she slept on her side with one arm tucked under her head. She looked rather peaceful, pleasant even, except for the pistol clutched in her hand. He actually found her quite attractive, but he'd never do anything ungentlemanly. He had other plans, and pushing himself upon her romantically wouldn't get him to his ultimate goal—the reward.

  He couldn't be positive that Red was the girl in the faded photograph on the wanted poster, but his gut insisted she was. He couldn't drag her back to Sundance at this point. He'd get them both strung up if he did that. Nope, he'd have to get her to the next town and collect his hefty reward there.

  Until then, he'd have to play it cool. He could always tie her up, but hell, she kind of scared him. Bounty hunters did crazy stuff like hog-tying people, or clonking them on the head, but that wasn't his thing. Breaking a pony with kindness yielded much better results than whipping the beast into submission. And Red didn't look like the submissive type at all.

  She tossed and turned in her sleep, and her restlessness made him nervous. He wished she'd just settle already. More than anything, he wished her finger didn't seem so homey on that trigger. He placed more wood on the fire to keep himself warm and to deter curious animals from investigating their camp.

  Trace looked up at the stars. He usually avoided sleeping out in the open—towns with small hotel rooms were much more his style—but if the girl found the rock-hard ground good enough to sleep on, then he wouldn't complain.

  Red adjusted in her sleep, moaning as she found a more comfortable position, but never once let go of her gun. Trace held his breath the entire time she moved; it would be difficult to dodge a sleeping girl's bullet. He'd told her he'd leave at first light, but the longer he sat there watching her, the more he wanted to stay. It would be easier to keep an eye on her that way.

  "What're you looking at?"

  He hadn't noticed her open eyes staring back at him. "Nothin', ma'am. Just tired, I guess. My mind's drifting."

  Red stretched her hands over her head and yawned, still clasping the pistol. "I'll take over the watch now."

  "You sure? If you're still tired, I can watch for another hour or so." He preferred to stay awake, aware of the fact that he couldn't have been the only one to take note of the weathered wanted poster. Surely others would put two and two together. Then again, Sundance didn't host the brightest bunch of men.

  "If your mind's drifting off, then that'll do neither of us any good, now will it?" She eyed him with an unreadable expression.

  "What do you do out here all on your own? How do you sleep?"

  Red pushed the coals around with a stick and brought the fire back to a blaze. "I don't. Not really, anyway."

  "Maybe you'd feel better staying in town instead of way out here on your own. You'd get better sleep." Trace pulled off his worn boots and sat them next to his hat. "I can't say enough about a comfortable bed and the next town should have plenty. I'd be glad to put you up in a hotel for a good night's rest." He'd do it, too. Right before he handed her over to the sheriff.

  "I never stay in town. They're too noisy with too many people. The more people there are, the higher the chance that one of them is infected." She gazed up at the clear night sky full of twinkling stars, and then looked him square in the eye. "My only threat out here happens to be you."

  "You're wrong, Red. I'm no threat. I promise you that." He slipped inside his bedroll and turned on his side to face her. "I haven't given you any reason not to trust me. I told you my intentions were honest."

  She pondered that for a moment, which he took as a good sign. "I don't plan on liking you, Cowboy. So don't even try to win me over."

  Obviously, he still had a lot of work to do, but he enjoyed a good challenge. "I'm sorry to hear that. It's part of my nature to be friendly. I'll do my best to be more rotten if you like."

  He settled back in his bedroll as her blank expression broke into a partial grin. She looked downright pretty when she smiled—a beautiful outlaw.

  ***

  Trace woke to the smell of coffee brewing. Red was also cooking some sliced potatoes and the remainder of the rabbit meat over the fire.

  "I hope you don't mind, but I helped myself to some of your supplies. Aside from some stale biscuits, I didn't have much to offer you from my own stash."

  His breath caught at the idea of her rummaging through his things. If she'd found the folded-up wanted poster, he'd be dead right about now.

  "No, I don't mind." Trace sat up and stretched. His back ached and he couldn't quite work out the painful kink in his neck. "It smells good."

  First light had come and gone. If Red had wanted him to leave, she could have woken him up at sunrise and sent him on his way.

  "After breakfast, we go our separate ways," she said, as if reading his mind. "I travel alone."

  He was a fool to think it would have been so easy. Trace nodded, slipped from his bedroll, and turned his boots over to make sure nothing had crawled into them during the night. Thankfully, they were empty.

  "How long until breakfast is ready?"

  "Ten, fifteen minutes, I reckon."

  "Plenty of time for me to clean up a little, then?"

  Red shrugged.

  Trace put the bedroll away and pulled out a shaving kit. He balanced the small, cracked mirror in the crook of a tree and set up his shaving station. He much preferred to get his shaves in town, but for now he would have to do it himself. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of Red watching him as he used the straight-edge razor.

  "My father used to have one of those."

  He turned to look at her, his face still half-covered in white foam. "Where is your father?"

  "He's dead." Red stared into the pan as she stirred the contents around.

  Trace set his razor aside. "I'm sure sorry to hear that."

  He waited for a moment, wondering if she'd say anything more. When she didn't, he went back to shaving, but continued to steal glances at her in the mirror.

  "Where's your family?"

  An opening. She wouldn't have asked if she didn't want to know. He reminded himself to take baby steps.

  Trace wiped the remaining foam from his face with a small towel, left his shaving supplies where they were, and sat down next to her. "I never had much of a family. My parents died of cholera when I was a kid, and I grew up in an orphanage in Illinois. I took off at fourteen, and I've been on my own ever since. How about you? Where's the rest of your family?"

  "I don't like to talk about that." Red shook her head and fixed her green eyes on him.

  The sullen look he read in her features saddened him, but at the same time it provided evidence of the vu
lnerability he'd been looking for. "I understand. So if it's not to your family, then where are you headed?"

  "I have an older brother who joined the Cavalry during a zombie uprising a couple years back. I hope to track him down, but so far I haven't had much luck." She swallowed hard. "More than likely, he's dead. I've heard stories."

  Trace had heard those same stories. Zombies were harmless in small numbers; bullets and swords held back their ravenous desire to eat human flesh. But zombie mobs were entirely different. Several Cavalry units still fought, trying to gain some kind of hold on the epidemic, but the zombie population grew every day.

  "Yeah, I'll never forget reading President Garfield's address in the paper: You're on your own and good luck." Red's brother had probably died a long time ago, but Trace would never say that to her. "What are you gonna do once you find him?"

  She shrugged. "Head north, I guess. I heard cool weather really slows the zombies down. They don't like snow."

  "I guess I shouldn't head to California then, unless I plan to live in the high Sierras, huh?"

  Again, she shrugged. "I don't know if it's true or not." She plated up the grub and handed one to him.

  "Well, it sounds plausible to me. I'd place a bet on it."

  She looked up and caught his eye, but said nothing.

  He ate the last of his breakfast, but chose to prolong the inevitable by pouring himself another cup of black coffee. He liked it with a little milk, but milk was a rarity these days. Zombies ate anything that moved—horse, cow, sheep, dog. Fortunately, the animals never "turned." They either died immediately or shortly afterwards from their injuries. Everyone knew that a bitten animal was a tainted animal. No one ate the meat, no matter how close to starvation. That meat smelled different.

  "Thank you for your hospitality." Trace held his hand out to her. "Breakfast was wonderful, but I found your company even more so."

  He expected her to aim her gun at him once more, but it sat safely in its holster at her waist. That had to mean something.

  "I best be off." He gathered up his things and rearranged them in his pack. He'd never gain her trust if he didn't stick to his word, so he'd just circle around and follow her from a safe distance.

  "Here." He handed her a burlap bag full of various edible items. "Take this to tide you over until you can get more supplies."

  She made no move to take it. Man, she's stubborn.

  "Suit yourself." He laid the sack on the ground. "I'm leaving it here in case you change your mind. Sure would be a waste to leave perfectly good food behind." He placed his foot in the stirrup, swung himself up on his horse, and tipped his hat at her. "Thanks again."

  He gave his horse a gentle kick in the ribs and left Red to stare after him.

  Chapter 4 – Bacon and Eggs

  Darkness had fallen and Red felt on edge. Even though she sat high in the saddle, she couldn't see far into the distance, so her other senses had to compensate. She listened for footsteps, the sound of a breaking branch, or the unmistakable smell of a zombie—rotting fish dipped in outhouse waste, with a hint of syrupy sweetness.

  Cowboy had actually smelled rather nice. She noticed that about him right away. Most men had a good month's worth of filth and body odor working against them, but he obviously took great pride in his cleanliness if he made time to shave even at camp. She sniffed her own armpits and recoiled at the stench. She wouldn't go so far as to say she stunk like a zombie, but close enough. Maybe in the next town she'd use her small amount of money to buy herself a bath—a warm one in a big ol' tub with bubbles. No frigid river baths this time.

  "Hey, Classy," she whispered to her horse, "looks like we'll be sleeping out here tonight."

  It was late and she'd been riding for miles. Junipers and pines stood scattered randomly about, but she'd hoped to find a ridge line of some sort. It was safer and more practical to sleep on a hill or mountainside than on the open plains. The infected didn't climb very well, but they often walked the flatlands.

  Red pulled back on the reins and slowed her horse. "You're a good girl, yes you are." She rubbed Classy's neck. "Thanks for carrying me all this way."

  She dismounted, tied a rope between two trees, and attached the horse to it, making sure Classy had plenty of brush and grass to nibble on.

  She hadn't taken a break for a meal since breakfast, aside from a short rest along a river for her horse to take a drink. She started a fire, and small swirls of smoke rose up through the thin branches above. Although moving on would have been preferable, her rumbling stomach demanded attention. She stopped and listened for any unnatural sounds, but only an occasional coyote baying in the distance broke the silence.

  The bag of food Cowboy had left for her hung from her saddle horn. She hadn't wanted to take it, but like he'd said, it would've been wasteful to leave it behind. She untied the small rope that cinched the bag closed and stared at the contents in wonder—dried fruit, jerky, sausage, a slab of bacon, some flatbread, three whole potatoes, several handfuls of red and white beans, two eggs that somehow hadn't busted open, and an onion. If the food wasn't enough to make her feel rotten for being unkind to the man, the small stack of rolled bills nestled in the middle certainly did.

  She sighed and chose not to wallow over it. Nothing could be done about it now, and the bacon begged to be fried. She pulled a skillet from her supplies and warmed it over the fire. Hardly able to contain herself, she cooked up half the bacon and used the fat to fry an egg as well. It was the best meal she'd had in a long time, not counting the rabbit.

  She'd just finished eating when Classy neighed loudly and yanked her head against the tether, straining for freedom. If the horse hadn't been tied up, she would have bolted.

  "What is it, girl?"

  Classy's behavior could only mean one thing. Red gripped her guns. When the thick smell of decay assailed her nose, she jumped to her feet. There was no mistaking that smell, but the darkness made it impossible to know how many zombies approached her camp.

  She trained her guns on the sound of movement to her left, listening and waiting. Given the minimal noise, only one or two zombies approached, at most. Manageable.

  Classy was having a fit, but zombies always went for the humans first. They only turned to animals when their appetites left them no other option. By saving herself, Red would ultimately save her horse.

  A decrepit, rotting corpse dragged itself into her line of sight. She took stock: right arm missing, left ankle broken with bones protruding from the skin, eyes cloudy, and facial and rib bones quite visible. She couldn't tell its gender, but it appeared to have gone without sustenance for quite some time. More than likely, it had laid itself out on the plains and withered away while waiting for some unlucky soul to wander by. Unfortunately for the zombie, Red wasn't unlucky.

  She raised her gun and put one bullet through the forehead, another through the neck. She liked it that way: the first shot for the kill, the second for certainty. Quick and easy. The zombie crumpled into a heap and lay there unmoving while she continued to listen. Silence, except for nature's peaceful sounds. Still, Red waited a few seconds more before lowering her guns and putting them in her holsters.

  She gathered her items, repacked everything, and retied Classy to a tree a little farther from the camp. She slipped some nice, good quality gloves on. They were three weeks old—three weeks! A new record. She sighed as she moved her fingers around inside the firm leather, and even raised the gloves to her nose. They still smelled new. Well, she knew how she'd use part of her new-found wealth. This would make pair number seventy-six.

  Red had disposed of dead zombies often enough to know that putting it off only made matters worse. She grabbed the corpse by the feet—broken ankle and all—and dragged it to the fire pit. Zombies, especially the more decayed ones, weighed little more than a child. Most of the time, she could manage on her own.

  She'd once gunned down a recently turned, overweight zombie priest. His weight had played to her disadvantag
e; one look and she knew the zombie wasn't going anywhere. Instead, she built a fire around him in the middle of Main Street. She didn't like to make a show of it—tried to give the zombies a little respect in their official deaths—but the fat priest had given her no choice. The townsfolk watched the grizzly cremation as if it were some circus show, but Red refused to take part in that kind of gawking. She'd mounted her horse and left the townsfolk to clean up the remains.

  This zombie, however, had very little muscle mass, and Red easily maneuvered the body into position next to the fire. She gathered more brush and branches to bring the fire to a nice roar, rolled the dead zombie on top of it, and watched until the body blazed.

  "Rest in peace." She sighed. If she were ever turned, she hoped someone would have the decency to do the same for her.

  ***

  Trace kept a safe distance and followed Red along a parallel path, just north of her own. He lost sight of her a few times and it made him nervous, but it couldn't be helped. As they progressed, trees occasionally obscured his view, or mighty river crossings demanded all his attention, but once she returned to his line of vision, he settled into a comfortable rhythm.

  When she set up camp for the night, he did the same about a mile away. He wanted to build a fire—the chill air cut deep—but she'd likely spot it, and would probably kill him before he could reveal his identity. He spread his bedroll under a couple of scrawny trees for cover, and kept his lantern burning low.

  The sound of gunfire echoed over the distance, one right after another, and he scrambled to his feet with a pistol clutched in his hand. He ran toward her, jumping over sage brush and rocks while the moonlight illuminated his way. The gunshots had most likely been fired by her, but he prepared himself for anything.

  Not even halfway to her camp, the rot attacked his nostrils. As she bent over and dragged the dead zombie toward her fire, Trace pulled back, slowed his gait, and spun his head around to check for any sign of additional walkers in the area. Zombies rarely wandered this far out in the middle of nowhere—bandits and outlaws would have seemed more likely.