Straight Outta Tombstone

by David Boop

  “Maybe they’re not graves after all,” suggested Larissa. “Maybe buried treasure. Could be Fountain had something hidden out here and didn’t want you to have a cut.”

  The idea stung, but he preferred it to chasing undead monsters. “Whoever left that trail seems to have gone to Tularosa. I think we’ll find our answers there.”

  “Agreed.” Larissa fed the wolf again and they followed the trail into the small town which huddled against the Sacramento Mountains, as though afraid of what would happen next.

  * * *

  Billy and Larissa roared into Tularosa half an hour after the sun set. As they continued through the middle of town, people poured out of a saloon. Instead of stopping to ogle the wolf, they ran past, some screaming. Larissa turned the key, shutting off the wolf’s engine and dismounted, drawing her six-gun. Billy followed.

  Pushing through the saloon’s batwing doors, they took in the sight of overturned chairs and tables. Broken glass reflected the room’s gas lamps. In the center of it all, young Henry Fountain held a saloon girl in a frighteningly intimate pose, suckling her neck.

  Before they could react, the stranger with red hair appeared on the upstairs landing. He vaulted over the railing. Landing on his feet, he rushed to the child, pulled him from the saloon girl and hurled him toward the bar. Billy cringed, certain the boy would be crippled for life. The girl had a wound on her neck similar to Billy’s.

  Larissa fired at the red-headed stranger. He spun around and dropped to the floor.

  Just as Billy and Larissa moved forward, Henry bolted to his feet, blood dribbling down his chin. “Heya, Billy! Catch me if you can!” He pushed between Billy and Larissa and ran out to the street. The two whirled around to give chase. As they did, the red-headed stranger stirred. Billy hung back as Larissa rushed out the door.

  The red-headed stranger sat up, revealing a bloody hole in his upper chest. He should be dead, bleeding out, but he struggled to his feet. So much for the professor’s theory that a vampire could be stopped by bullets. Billy strode over to him. “Who are you? What were you trying to do to Henry?”

  “He is dangerous and must be controlled. Unchecked, he could bring doom to the world!” The red-headed stranger seemed to gain strength with each word.

  “What is he? Some kind of vampire like in that book Carmilla?”

  The stranger smiled, revealing a pair of fangs, like a dog’s. “Ah, you know Carmilla. Then you know what kind of monster we’re dealing with.”

  “We?” Billy narrowed his gaze. “Looks like you’re the same kind of monster, maybe worse, hurling little boys around.”

  “Vampire, yes. Monster, no.” The stranger rose to his feet. The hole in his chest closed before Billy’s eyes. “Like Carmilla, he is a child turned into a vampire with a child’s lack of discipline. He must be used carefully.”

  Billy grabbed the stranger’s arm. “What have you done with his father?”

  The stranger shook himself free and sneered. “He’s in room two, curled up in a heap, feeling sorry for himself.”

  Just then, Larissa returned to the saloon. “I can’t find him anywhere.” She stopped and aimed her six-gun at the stranger. Before she could utter another word, he pushed past her. She followed him back into the street.

  Billy walked over to the saloon girl. She moaned and her eyelids fluttered. He thought she’d recover. Henry might be dangerous, but had he actually killed anyone? The stranger said he lacked discipline. There was only one person who could give that to the boy. Billy ran up the stairs. He entered the room and sure enough, Albert J. Fountain, former Texas lieutenant governor, attorney-at-law, and newspaperman, sat on the floor, hugging his legs, rocking back and forth.

  “Mr. Fountain,” said Billy, “you’ve got to tell me what’s happened.”

  Fountain looked up and blinked. “Billy? You’re alive?”

  “Yes, sir. What happened to us out in the dunes?”

  Fountain laughed and tears streamed down his pallid cheeks. The laugh grew in volume, turning hysterical and revealing fangs. Billy sucked in a breath.

  No doubt about it, the red-headed stranger somehow turned both father and son into vampires. Billy smacked the attorney. “Damn it, man. Get a grip!”

  Fountain fell silent, his eyes wide and staring.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” demanded Billy.

  Fountain sputtered. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he managed at last. “Just me. I was the only one who should have been turned. I wanted you to take the boy back home to his ma.”

  “You wanted to become a monster? I don’t get it.”

  Fountain snuffled, but his eyes cleared. “It doesn’t matter how long you live. Death always comes too soon. I wanted to watch Henry grow up.”

  Billy frowned, remembering how close he came to being hung for murder. He understood all too well. “Who’s the red-headed dude?”

  “He’s called Rosen. He does certain jobs for the governor.”

  Billy could guess what kinds of jobs. Hired gun—or more like hired fang. “So you didn’t mean for Henry to become a vampire?”

  Fountain sighed. “Rosen was supposed to knock you out and take me away—make it look like a kidnapping.” He held his head. “What happened is a blur. He attacked me, turned me into a vampire right then. I remember insatiable hunger. I turned on my Henry…my precious boy.” Fountain began rocking again.

  Billy grabbed his arm. “Stay with me, Mr. Fountain.”

  Fountain slammed his eyes shut. “I remember pulling my boy close, grieving. Next thing I remember was seeing my little boy drinking your blood.”

  Billy reached up and touched the wound at his neck.

  “Sunrise approached. We dug graves to hide.”

  Lightning flashed around the thick velvet curtains despite the cloudless skies outside. Billy ran to the window and pushed the curtain aside. Rosen chased Henry across Tularosa’s flat rooftops. On the street below, Larissa followed them on the wolf. She swiveled the strange-looking gun around. Lightning arced, barely missing Rosen, who dove off the building.

  Henry turned and looked right at Billy from across the street. “There you are!” he called. “Come and get me!”

  Billy turned on his heel. “Mr. Fountain, you’ve got to do something. If you don’t, either that vampire’s gonna use Henry for his own purposes or Larissa’s gonna vaporize him. I’m not sure which.”

  “Rosen says Henry will never grow up. He will never know right from wrong.”

  Billy stepped forward and grabbed Fountain by the lapels of his jacket and hoisted him to his feet. “Of course, he lacks discipline. He’s a little boy. You’re his pa! What are you going to do?”

  Fountain gaped as though Billy had struck him again. After a moment, he gathered his wits and nodded. They returned to the window together. Outside, Henry ran to the edge of a building and jumped off. Larissa opened the wolf’s throttle, rode to the next street and made a sharp turn.

  “We’ve gotta do something, Mr. Fountain.”

  Fountain nodded. “I’ll meet you downstairs.” He pushed open the window and leapt to the street below.

  Billy ran from the room, down the stairs, and through the wreckage of the saloon. When he pushed through the batwing doors, he found Albert Fountain standing in the middle of the street, illuminated by the moonlight. “Henry Fountain, you come to your father right now!”

  A moment later young Henry rushed around the corner of a building and jumped into his father’s arms. At the end of the street, Larissa whipped around the corner and stopped, sending up a spray of gravel. She aimed her lightning gun at the father and son.

  Rosen appeared at the other end of the street.

  Billy leapt from the boardwalk and stood between the Fountains and Larissa.

  “Stand aside, Billy,” called Larissa. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but they’re not human. Let me finish this.”

  Billy shook his head. “Marshal Seaton, I was hired to pro
tect the Fountains and I aim to see that job through. If you want to kill them, you’ll have to kill me, too.” Billy drew his six-gun, but didn’t point it. He turned around. Rosen strolled up to the father and son.

  “The boy will go with me,” growled the red-headed vampire.

  “I imagine an immortal boy would be real handy in your line of work. What do you want him for? Decoy? Innocent-looking accomplice?” Billy turned his head and spat. “He and his father get to leave real peaceable like, or else I’ll step away and let Larissa burn you down.”

  Rosen’s mouth ticked upward. “I don’t fear the girl’s gun.”

  Larissa’s face was unreadable. Her eyes flicked from the Fountains to Rosen.

  Billy looked at Fountain, holding his son. “Sir, I’d advise you to get out of here. I don’t know how long I can hold Marshal Seaton off.”

  Fountain nodded and set his son down. He took his hand and the two began walking away. Henry turned. “Billy, will I ever see you again?”

  Billy smiled. “Maybe. Learn what you can from your pa.”

  Rosen snarled and turned to follow.

  Billy leapt out of the way and Larissa pulled the trigger. A lightning bolt caught the red-headed vampire, leaving ashes and a greasy smear in the sand. She aimed the gun at Fountain and his son. “You two keep walking until you get to Texas. If I hear about vampires in New Mexico territory, I’ll come gunning for you.”

  Albert Fountain nodded. “Come along, now, Henry.” With that, the two continued down the street.

  Larissa brought the wolf up next to Billy and glared at him.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That was right good of you.”

  “Don’t know if it was smart,” she said. “Why’d you protect them?”

  “Henry Fountain may have attacked me and the saloon girl, but he didn’t kill either one of us. Albert Fountain’s a good man, I think he can find a way to make this vampire thing work and teach his son to do the same. A boy needs his pa.” Billy holstered his six-gun and took a step closer to the wolf.

  Larissa shook her finger at Billy. “Oh no you don’t. You’ve made enough trouble. Find your own ride back to Cruces.” With that, she opened the wolf’s throttle, leaving Billy to cower in a shower of gravel and dust.

  HIGH MIDNIGHT

  A Dan Shamble, Zombie PI Adventure

  KEVIN J. ANDERSON

  Gunfire rang out in the Unnatural Quarter—one loud shot, then five more in quick succession.

  The audience, both humans and monsters, applauded and whistled. The ghost of the Old West gunslinger, Deadeye One-Eye, had nailed all six target playing cards that hung by clothespins on a wire, right through the Ace of Spades. He shifted his eyepatch in triumph; depth perception did not seem to be necessary for his aim.

  “Golly!” said Mild Bill, twirling his spectral handlebar mustache. “And he was only listed as a midrange gunslinger ghost.” He stood with a bowlegged stance, putting his hands on his spectral hips as if he imagined holsters there.

  “All right, I’m impressed,” I said, standing next to him at the edge of the performance area in the fake Western town erected for the show. I couldn’t shoot that well with my .38—not when I was alive, and not now that I’m undead. As a zombie detective I might be stiffer, but that didn’t mean my aim was steadier.

  While the spectators continued to cheer, the ghost of the outlaw gunslinger twirled his pearl-handled ghost Colt revolver and slid it into a shimmering translucent holster. Maybe intangible firearms were easier to twirl than real ones.

  Since it was the weekend and late in the evening, I took time off from Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations so we could go see Mild Bill’s Wild West Show, an extravagant, if kitschy, affair that the ghost saloon owner had sponsored. And since Robin Deyer, my human lawyer partner, had worked with Mild Bill to take care of all the necessary contracts and waivers, she insisted that attending the show was part of our job. Half the population of the Unnatural Quarter had decided to come out as well.

  “It’s bound to be a financial success, Beaux,” said Sheyenne, my ghost girlfriend, as she intangibly snuggled up to me. “The Wild West Show could become a regular thing in the Quarter.”

  “Why yes, Miss Sheyenne,” I said in a long drawl and tipped my fedora as if it were a cowboy hat, sliding it down to cover the bullet hole in the center of my forehead, from when I’d been killed a few years back.

  I’d been a reasonably successful human detective in the Unnatural Quarter, solving the usual run of oddball and mundane cases for the humans and monsters that lived there. After I was killed on a case and then rose from the grave—thereby changing my job title from human detective to zombie detective—business had really picked up.

  The Wild West Show continued. Deadeye One-Eye took a break to reload his six-shooter with ghost bullets, and the dance hall girls came out—vampire girls from the Full Moon Brothel. The ladies of the night (but weren’t all vampire women ladies of the night?) enjoyed dressing up in flouncy old-fashioned Western dresses. A female werewolf capped each side of the line, and they bounced out kicking and stepping high in an untrained version of the cancan—which I wasn’t sure was historically accurate…but what do I know? My knowledge of the Old West came from TV reruns, and mid-twentieth-century television programming wasn’t known for its veracity.

  “Whoo hoo, go dance hall girls!” shouted McGoo—Officer Toby McGoohan, my Best Human Friend. As a beat cop, he had been transferred from a human precinct to the Unnatural Quarter for telling non–politically correct jokes. We helped each other out on cases.

  I was surprised by his enthusiastic wolf whistles. “You never showed any interest in the Full Moon ladies before, McGoo.”

  “Still no interest,” he said. “I have enough trouble with human women. I don’t need to get involved with Unnaturals.”

  Robin frowned skeptically at him. “You have trouble with human women? I’ve never heard you talk about even getting a date.”

  A flush suffused his freckled face. “And that is exactly my trouble.”

  After the dance hall girls exited the stage, a troop of ghost cowboys galloped out on wild and unruly nightmares—fiery-eyed black horses that looked frightening and difficult to control, yet the ghost riders rode bareback as they twirled lariats over their heads.

  Someone had loosed a minotaur into the performance area, and the big bullheaded creature stumbled around with a look of abject confusion. When the ghost cowboys thundered toward the minotaur, he bleated and huffed in alarm. They twirled their ropes and dropped the lassoes around him, cinched him tight, and tied him up, ankles and wrists. The minotaur crashed to the dusty performance ground—again, to much applause.

  The minotaur bellowed, “I was just looking for the concession stand.”

  Next to us, the ghost of Mild Bill let out a belly laugh. “Yesirree, you never can guess what might happen at one of my shows. Lordy!” When he grinned, he showed off bad, brown teeth from chewing ghost tobacco.

  Mild Bill owned the New Deadwood Saloon, which had been decorated like an Old West watering hole. He claimed to be the actual ghost of Wild Bill Hickok, but he had mellowed with age, and now he preferred to be called Mild Bill.

  Enthusiastic about his Wild West Show, Bill had rented a cursed Indian burial ground for the venue, and hired Robin to work out the real-estate paperwork and the lease. During negotiations, Robin discovered that the owners could not prove that the burial ground had any legitimate curses, and therefore could not charge extra, so Mild Bill had gotten a reduced rate.

  Our Robin always insists that Unnaturals are treated fairly under the law.

  After the roped-up minotaur was dragged away from the field, Deadeye One-Eye came back into the middle of the wide dirt main street, twirled his Colt again, and started shooting cigars from the mouths of two volunteer mummies, who trembled as the ends of the stogies were blasted into fragments. Sheyenne, Robin, and McGoo joined in the cheers.

  The gunslinger fired his pistols
into the air. “And that’s just a warm-up for tonight’s late show, folks.” He had a sinister undertone in his voice. “If y’all think I’m good, wait ’til the rest of my gang comes at high midnight. Moondance McClantock and the boys can shoot circles around me—if they’re feeling their oats, they can even shoot triangles.” The audience applauded as he sauntered away.

  Finished with his act, the ghost of Deadeye One-Eye came up to where we were standing at the edge of the performance field. Even with his eye patch, his eyesight couldn’t be as bad as his teeth. Despite his unfortunate dental condition, he wasn’t shy about showing off his smile. The ghost gunslinger tipped his hat at Sheyenne and Robin, then he fixed his single eye on me. “Dan Chambeaux, Zombie Detective.” Somehow, he made my name into a sneer.

  I acted professional. “I’m surprised you pronounced my name correctly. Most people call me Shamble.”

  “I know who you are, Chambeaux—but maybe you don’t.” He showed off his preposterous teeth in a snaggly snarl rather than a grin. “Are you aware your great-great-umpty-ump grandpappy, Dirk Chambeaux, was the most hated marshal in these parts, give or take a state or two? He was a feared man, made a lot of enemies.”

  McGoo nudged me with an elbow. “Hey Shamble, law enforcement is in your blood.”

  “My blood these days is embalming fluid,” I said.

  Deadeye One-Eye gave me a careful assessment before striding off. “See you later tonight—at high midnight.”

  “What did he mean by that?” Robin asked.

  “No idea.”

  During the preparations for the Wild West Show, I had watched Robin go through excruciating negotiations and legal convolutions. The ghosts of the McClantock outlaw gang had a ruthless talent representative, and affable Mild Bill was a babe in the woods when it came to making a deal with a cutthroat agent—literally a cutthroat, because he was an accused serial killer, although it was never proven. The agent claimed the gunslinger ghosts were in high demand and tried to extract an outrageous appearance fee. Deadeye One-Eye, though, was a free agent, and he had quickly come to terms for a far lower fee, for which he had been resoundingly criticized by his gang because his concession had affected their collective bargaining power.