by Pete Clark
“This very night,” interjected Boone, who was tired and was getting a little slap happy.
“No,” Morgan cut back in, giving Boone the kind of look that would shut him up for the remainder of the story and continued.
“It was 1584 and Elizabeth, the queen at the time, wanted to establish a settlement in what we would call the northern Carolina territory.”
Boone wanted to bitch about how now they had come too far south and would have to go north again, but he thought Morgan would stab him, cook him, and eat him so he remained silent.
“They started a settlement and they struggled, of course. At first, several local Indians helped them. But the colonists were greedy, looked down on the Indians for the most part, and did not repay the favor. Things started to go worse and worse for the colonists. They had angered the Indian tribes by burning down a village for retaliation of theft, which may have been a misunderstanding. This likely angered the Croatan and led them not only to stop aiding the colonists, but to harass them occasionally with raids as well. Attempts were made by the colonists to have peaceful meetings with the Croatan, but the Indians refused as there was indeed lots of bad blood between them.
‘Realizing that their lives were in danger from both the elements and more directly from the Croatan, the colonists convinced their leader to sail back to England to petition that they be allowed to return or at least be given significant aid. White, who had been in charge of the colony, left over 100 people behind in the hope that they could hold out until his return. It was 1587. Due to a number of issues ranging from bad weather, piracy, and the Spanish Armada, White and the assistance did not return until three years had passed - in 1590. Upon his return, the entire colony had disappeared. There was no trace of anyone nor were there any clues except upon a single post of the fort that still stood. Carved onto that post was the word ‘Croatoan.’“
“That is creepy,” said Boone. “So now we know the origin of the word, but how does it tie into the origin of the rippers?
“What the hell do I know about that? You said a word. I knew what you were talking about and I told you. I haven’t a clue about this other situation. But nobody ever found evidence of the colonists. Perhaps, if you head over to Roanoke, you can continue your detective work.”
“He makes a good point. I can come along. I think it’s fair to say that we all have a vested interest in solving your little mystery,” said Marion.
“Ugh, I just came from the north. But if I must, then I must. I need to figure out where these things came from so we can figure out how to stop more of them. Morgan, you feel like taking a trip?” Boone asked.
“No.”
“You’ll probably get a chance to kill a bunch of rippers and maybe a few random British guys.”
“Fine. Why not? The war probably won’t start for a year anyway. I’ll be bored in the meantime. What with all the money I have and the sitting around and such. Sure, I’ll go track down your Indians and see if they know where the rippers came from. But if I don’t get to kill something, then I’m shooting both of you.”
****
Prescott hadn’t heard anything about de Lavoir. The Sons of Liberty had not been in contact with him and he hadn’t been able to uncover anything new. Other than the fact that young women kept being murdered savagely at night with their necks ripped open. It matched the pattern of whom he guessed was de Lavoir, but with the recent influx of so many more rippers over the past six months, they could have been killed by something else. Prescott didn’t think so, though. He could feel it was the same guy. He wasn’t one for mysticism, but he knew he was right. Besides, how the hell could they not find a random French guy in Boston in 1774? Everyone should know this guy, so how come nobody did?
He had decided to meet with Revere. Although Revere was not much of a detective, he did have solid contacts and maybe he could follow up with Dawes’ initial probe into the situation by talking to some of his Sons of Liberty buddies.
“So Paul,” Prescott began. “I can’t seem to get a lead on this de Lavoir. I talked to Gill months ago and haven’t heard anything. I need you to poke them and get me an answer.”
“The Sons are a little preoccupied right now with a significant move to instill a little giddy-up in the nation’s thirst for rebellion. It hasn’t been that tough, considering the steadily tightening grip of those British pigs. We are also planning a major symbolic move to ignite the spark we need.”
“There is already too much of a spark. Have you not noticed all of the rippers rampaging in ever growing numbers? You need to stop a war, not start one. There are too many rippers, not enough hunters, and the war isn’t even on yet. It’s been too long since rippers have been this multitudinous; people are not prepared for this.”
“Multitudinous? Nice.”
“Get your head out of your ass, Revere. This is serious. I don’t care what kind of party your Sons of Liberty guys are on about. I need you to get a hold of Sam Adams. He is the key.”
“You don’t have access to Adams. Almost nobody does. He’s as busy as it gets and the Brits want him dead. They’re looking to get anything on him. He isn’t gonna poke around for your de Lavoir guy. Besides, he isn’t in the Sons of Liberty.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to? I know damn well he’s in the Sons. Everyone does.”
“Listen. I’m your friend, but you can’t say things like that, and the Sons can’t help you out. You’re sounding obsessed about this. There is too much else going on. If you need help with something else, let me know, but not with this.” Revere got up and walked out the door.
That did not go as well as Prescott had wanted. The good news is that Revere was not exactly the trickiest or wisest guy in town. Prescott would just follow him until he managed to find Adams. He needed Adams’ connections. If he had to hold him at sword point, he would get what he needed.
Revere strolled casually into the street. It was raining hard and he had decided to light a lantern that he carried with him. That guy and his lanterns. Prescott wasn’t about to complain, though, as the lantern made it easy to follow him. This would be a giant waste of time if he was just heading home as Prescott already knew where Revere lived. He knew where Adams lived as well, but he could never seem to catch sight of him coming or going. While walking slowly along the shadow of a smoke shop and keeping an eye on Revere, an alligator crawled out of the side alley and seemed interested in eating Prescott. He had to be quiet and so he drew his sword, sidestepped the gator’s lunge, and speared him through the top of the head. The alligator died quickly. The odd thing was that this was not really a ripper. Sure, it was a strange creature, but Prescott could not remember a story of just an animal in the wrong part of the world. What kind of wrinkle was this? Things were really started to get out of control.
Prescott looked up. He could still see Revere’s lantern swinging along the street a ways up ahead. He didn’t want to lose him. He figured that, if he was spotted, he could just tell Revere he forgot to ask him something. He took off at a bit of a run and rapidly closed the gap. As he slowed down, he realized that the guy with the lantern was dressed differently than he had been before. Just as he started to realize he was in trouble, the blackjack smashed into Prescott’s skull, ending his evening.
****
Prescott was slowly regaining consciousness. He didn’t open his eyes and he tried not to move. He did not know where he was or if anyone was watching him. He began to realize that his wrists were tied to a chair on which he was sitting. The room smelled musty and dank; he was probably in a basement that was wet from the rain. He could not have been out for long.
A voice interrupted his thoughts. “You might as well open your eyes. We know you’re awake.”
Prescott obeyed. He looked up to see half a dozen men around him. The guy in charge was standing right in front of him. “Adams.”
****
You wouldn’t think that a hundred zombies could move so quickly in a group, but you
’d be surprised. Marion was the best horsemen of the three, but they were all over 40 and past their best horse-riding years. It didn’t matter though. These zombie bastards were going to try and eat them, no matter how many excuses they had.
“Why are they so fast?” Boone yelled as his stinky hat’s tail flapped in the wind.
“Shut up and head for that barn,” Morgan said.
“That never works. People always get eaten in barns.” Marion still knew how to spot a trap. “Do not go to the barn.”
Boone rode straight for the barn and inside. Morgan sped along the outside of the barn and disappeared around the back. Marion pulled up in front. The surprisingly speedy zombies were charging fast. Marion peeked into the barn and spied a lit lamp on the interior wall. Bingo, he may have said, if he had known what it meant. He grabbed the lamp and rode into the barn leaving the huge doors wide open.
Ahead of him, Boone had dismounted and found an axe. He was trying to smash and exit out the back. Marion dismounted as well. He joined him and they managed to make a pretty good sized hole just as the zombies were at the entrance. They shoved their confused horses through and then Marion gave Boone a nod; he went on through. Marion waited until the barn was full to bursting with the brain-eating bastards. He then chucked the lantern into one of the many dry hay piles. It went up immediately. Marion scampered out the entrance where his horse was waiting. He jumped on and thought about how awesome he was with traps.
Morgan came charging in holding a rope. He handed one end of the fifty odd foot rope to Boone and commanded him to follow. They rode around to the front of the barn. Many zombies were burning, but others were getting out and still more had never gotten in. Morgan and Boone each got on opposite sides and pulled the rope taut between them before they rode at the herd. The rope knocked the confused beasties back and, as the two horsemen rode past the sides of the barn, the zombies were forced into the growing flames. Only a few were left uncrispified and they easily took care of them.
“Fine work, Marion,” said Morgan.
“They don’t call me the Swamp Fox for nothing,” Marion said.
“I never heard anybody call you that before,” said Boone.
Nobody had, thought Marion. But he really liked the sound of it and it was tough to get a good nickname going. The moment after tricking a hundred living dead into a burning barn seemed like as good a time as any to get it started.
“I have to be honest.” Morgan lit his pipe. “This here northern piece of Carolina is positively lousy with zombies.”
“I don’t think we have much further to go. Roanoke Island, or whatever they call it, isn’t much more than a couple days’ ride from here. I’m sure we can get a hold of some local Croatan who can help us learn the lore.” Marion looked around. He was also noticing the increase in rippers. Hopefully the war would hold off until they could figure out how to solve the problem.
****
Benjamin Franklin was an inventor, a diplomat, and a leader of men. He had spent a large portion of his life enjoying what it had to offer, but he was also active in politics and many other avenues of society. He had traveled to France, a country that he loved visiting, in an effort to secure some potential military and economic support from them in the event that America had to go to war with England. He was quite busy trying to arrange and take part in crucial meetings and attempting to establish the needs of America, while also trying to show that it was a country with great strength and promise. He had to show the French that America both needed help, but also did not need it. It was a real pain in the ass; he sure as hell didn’t need the added benefit of being stalked.
Franklin was old. He didn’t walk or hear or see as well as he once did. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t tell when some clumsy French son of a whore was trying to follow him around. Franklin dipped down a small side walkway and pinned himself to the wall. As his follower came “carefully” around the corner, Franklin whacked him on the noggin with his cane. The guy went down. He was older than Franklin expected, probably close to fifty. He had no weapon out, but he was armed. Franklin pushed his cane up against the guy’s neck.
“Why are you following me? What’s your name? Where the hell is the Palace of Louis XV?”
Three questions at once were somewhat overwhelming for the man. But with a few more whacks of the stick and much repetition of said questions, Franklin managed to gain some insight.
“My name is Marchand. I am not here to hurt you and it seems if I were, I would not succeed. I have been assigned by a special force of our government to watch out for you. There could be some people out to get you, so to speak, and I am here to keep you safe.”
“A man is only as safe as his wisdom will allow,” said Franklin.
“Quoi?” Marchand asked.
“The path to safety is only lit with the glow of our minds.”
“Je ne comprends pas.”
“Safety is an illusion that is dispelled as soon as we set foot into the reality of life.”
“Je suis desolé.”
“You are not helping. You are an idiot. Go away.” Franklin began to walk off. He figured that, being French, this man would now slink off and go eat a baguette. Hmm, that might be nice, Franklin thought. As he looked around in the hopes of finding a brasserie or whatever they called bread shops, he could not help but notice that this Marchand fellow was still after him. He stopped and called out to him.
“Sir, you are not protecting me. I can take care of myself; you are only drawing attention. I am simply killing time until I have a meeting tomorrow. Nothing will happen to me.”
Nothing ironically jumped out at him yet.
Marchand retorted. “But sir, it is my duty. I mean no harm. I simply wish to accompany you in the event that you have any difficulties. I myself know why you are here. I also have quite a bit of information that you may find useful, if you care to spend some of your leisure time with me.”
“I’m not sure that is a great idea.”
“I also know where there is very good cheap wine.”
“Lead on, oh gentleman of France. Benjamin Franklin is at your service.”
Upon hearing the name, a figure in a nearby crowd of fruit shoppers stirred. He eyed the men and, as they walked off toward the promise of cheap wine, he followed.
****
Prescott was not in the type of mood that was conducive to being tied to a chair. In the corner, among the other men in the room, he noticed Paul Revere.
“Revere? What is this about? I thought we were friends?”
“Keep quiet,” Adams said. “We aren’t exactly in a soundproof area.”
“Why should I care if people hear me? You think I’m just going to be quiet because you ask? Just sit around like a good boy and wait for the legendary Sam Adams to slit my throat?”
Revere stepped forward. “It isn’t like that. You need to listen and-”
“Don’t waste your time talking to this hot head. He isn’t the kind of man we need apparently. I thought you were more stable, Prescott. I guess we shouldn’t have brought you in after all.”
Adams glared at him. He was an older man in his early fifties but he cut a sharp and imposing figure. He was a powerful presence and one could argue that he was the unofficial leader of the American push toward revolution. He was a wealthy and powerful media magnate and connected all the way from the highest politicians to the lowliest underworld thugs. This was the man who could help Prescott find de Lavoir. But, as he had him tied to a chair, assistance seemed unlikely.
“Listen Adams, I know you’re connected, but trust me when I say you are screwing with the wrong guy.” Prescott pulled a little on his bonds, testing their firmness. They were pretty damn firm.
“I know exactly whom I have. You’re a self-styled monster hunter. You think you’re special because you kill rippers. Everyone around here kills rippers. That isn’t important anymore. We have a much larger situation. We have a war on the horizon, a war that we need to fi
ght. But without the proper support from all the colonies, we can’t win. We need to spur vengeance. We need an attack that the people can get behind.” Adams was getting pretty worked up.
“Even if you get support, do you really think we can beat the British in a war? They have the most powerful military on earth. We don’t even have an army. Even if the war does go well, surely you can’t be foolish enough not to see that the amount and strength of the rippers is tied to conflict. Whether we win or lose a war, we will be overrun with freaky as hell monsters.”
“Settle down. Against my better judgment, I am going to let you in on a secret or two. First off, Franklin is in France trying to work out an alliance with them in case of the inevitable event of war.”
“Really? You want to ally yourself with the French?” Prescott was thinking just how stupid these guys were. They didn’t bother to tie his feet or to secure the chair to the floor.
“I wouldn’t mock the French. It seems as if it’s a Frenchman who is eluding you,” Adams mocked.
“So you do know him?”
‘Not exactly, but I have heard of the name de Lavoir. However, hold off on that for now. If Franklin can secure some kind of promise from the French, then our mission becomes clear. We need a symbol. Something to show the people of this nation just what we can do, some small victory that we can get behind. And let me tell you, Prescott. We are in the final stages of planning. It’s big and also small, but we think it will be just the trick to get this war underway.”
“I guess you really haven’t been listening to anything. Or do you just not mind that the rippers will destroy everything?” Two guards on his left were awfully close. This was going to be too easy.
“We have a lead on the rippers as well,” Adams admitted.
“Yeah, well, so do I. In fact, a couple of friends of mine are probably on the cusp of figuring out how to solve the problem, but they won’t be able to if you start this damn war.” Prescott braced himself.
“We can’t wait. We refuse to wait. Liberty waits for no one.” Adams idiotically lifted his finger in the air as though saluting some unseen crowd.
