by Jake
ASHES OF THE DEAD:
BUCKET OF BLOOD
A novel by
Jake Miller
ASHES OF THE DEAD:
BUCKET OF BLOOD
A novel by
Jake Miller
eBook edition
v1.0
Ashes of the Dead: Bucket of Blood. Copyright © 2014 by Jake Miller.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or undead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Andrew Kightlinger.
https://twitter.com/AndrewKight
Like Ashes of the Dead on Facebook
https://www.facebook.com/Ashesofdead
Or subscribe to the Ashes of the Dead blog
http://ashesofthedead.blogspot.com
About the Author
Jake Miller was born and raised in Pierre, South Dakota. He graduated from Black Hills State University with a B.S. in Biology and Chemistry, and is currently an MD/PhD student at the Sanford School of Medicine of the University of South Dakota in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where his lives with his wife, Chandra, a fellow book lover.
Connect with Me
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JakeNMiller
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Jake-Miller-Writer/
LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/jake-miller/2b/1a6/390
Subscribe to my blog: http://ashesofthedead.blogspot.com
If you like Ashes of the Dead - Bucket of Blood, please review it when you’re done. Thank you.
Table of Contents
The Gunman
The Rising Dead
Under Siege
Jumping Rooftops
Escape Into the Darkness
The Washoe
The Bucket of Blood
The Death of Jack Richards
Foreword
Why this obsession with zombies and the undead? Is society drawn to the macabre? To the senseless violence? No. It is because we fear the loss of our humanity. We see ourselves in zombies.
- A.K.
“For God looked upon their evil twisted form,
and the angels of light cast these demons down upon the Earth,
through a chasm of hell fire,
to feast upon the flesh of the living”
-Unknown survivor
The Gunman
The vast wasteland fell in all directions, desolate and lifeless. Dry grass and shrubs dotted the godforsaken surroundings, and the rising sun crept upward on the horizon, bathing the earth in pale morning light. The relentless cruel wind blew in from the North, sucking moisture and life from everything that it touched. Like a sharp blade scraped across the land, it killed everything in its path. A new day had begun, harsh and unyielding.
A rusted shovel impaled the cracked earth, removing the top layer of dry dirt. It swung again, piercing the freshly exposed soil. The man holding the shovel now stood in a shallow hole, shoveling dirt onto a small pile next to him. Behind him, the rising sun moved even higher against the sky, and tormented him with the heat of a day that had only just begun. Silhouetted in an orange halo, he stood there for a moment measuring the growing hole with his gaze. He stood tall. And lean. A lone figure against a backdrop of despair and grief. His gaunt chiseled face had leathered from years of living in the baking sun. His rough hands held the handle of the shovel with an iron grip, strengthened from the life he had lived in this rugged country. He bent over again and continued digging, removing soil from a patch of land that could barely support any form of life. Even the drought-resistant local vegetation had not grown there for a decade. Some said that this land was cursed. That nothing would grow there, except fear and doubt. They were right, and he hated them for that.
The mound of dirt continued to grow as the man removed shovel-full after shovel-full. He pulled out an old worn handkerchief and wiped sweat from his brow, and then slipped it into his back pocket. He rechecked the size of the hole and continued to dig, this time working at the edges to make it a little longer. The hole started to take shape. Three feet wide and five-and-a-half feet long. A small shallow grave.
The blazing sun continued to move even higher behind him, burning his neck and extinguishing any hope he had of passing through the day without the fear of what may come. He speared the shovel into the dirt mound and wiped greasy beads of sweat from his forehead, then turned and disappeared toward a small neglected homestead farther up the hill. An old rectangular fence line marked what used to be a small yard, now broken and in disrepair. Inside, arranged gracefully on the dining table, was a woman’s body wrapped neatly in a stark white bed sheet. He walked over to a small side table tucked in the corner and poured a glass of water from a tall hand-made pitcher. He sat down next to the body, calmly sipping on water and staring out of the window at the bleak landscape that surrounded him. It was a dead world that had festered in his mind, pushed him to the limits of human resolve and tested his sanity. The heat of the day was slowly creeping into the small home, penetrating the thin wooden walls that he had erected so many years ago. The unbearable silence of an empty home weighed heavy on his mind. It wasn’t long ago that she had hoped for children, playing and scrambling across these wooden floors, now worn and cracked with age. Faint outlines of his dirty boot prints marked the floor. But he couldn’t worry about that right now. She had always cleaned the floors, delicately sweeping out the bits of dirt through an open door way, singing as she worked inside the home. Their home.
The man gently picked up the body, cradling it in both arms, and carefully walked back down the hill toward the freshly dug grave. He laid the body down and stepped back into the hole, pausing for a moment to make sure she would fit. A pair of women’s lavender boots stuck out from one end of the bed sheet. Size 8. Recently cleaned and polished. He reached down and covered them, and then picked up the body and gingerly placed it into the grave. He adjusted the sheet, smoothing out all of the wrinkles and any sign of imperfection. The morning she died he had gone into their bedroom and taken this sheet from the bed in which they had spent so many nights together. He had carefully slipped the boots onto her lifeless feet and wrapped her in the bed sheet, knowing that these things had served their purpose, and they would now decay beneath the earth along with everything he had loved.
As the sun continued to beat down upon him, he covered the body with dirt and smoothed the surface with the edge of the shovel. His job was done. Everything that he knew was now lost and buried. He picked up a makeshift cross, fashioned out of cedar branches found in the dry creek bed that hadn’t flowed since last spring. He used the end of the shovel to pound it into the ground at the head of the grave, and then carved the name into it with a rusted buck knife. Jane Marshall.
He walked into the bedroom and retrieved a clean shirt from the dresser and a new handkerchief, and then poured the rest of the water into a clay basin and rinsed his face, cleaning off the sweat and grime from the morning’s chore. He put on a worn pair of leather boots that had seen every square inch of this land. Placing fence posts, tending cattle, and building a life. Now they would take him away from this desolate land and help him seek a new life out west. From the bottom drawer of a wooden dresser he retrieved an exquisitely decorated oak box. Inside, wrapped in clean red velvet, were two Colt revolvers with silver handles. They were perfectly weighted for his hands, a true extension of his arms when he held them. He slid them into holsters that hung at his sides and walked into another room. He reappeared carrying
a heavy leather satchel over one shoulder, and then walked out back to a wooden gate where a chestnut horse was grazing peacefully on the last bit of hay that this dead land could afford. It only took a few minutes to tack-up his wife’s horse and fit the saddle. He adjusted the straps and cinched them tight around the girth, and then climbed into the saddle and spurred the mare forward. He took off at a gallop and rode hard toward the horizon. A thick cloud of dust hung on the path behind him as he disappeared into a mirage that engulfed his senses and consumed him.
• • •
The Virginia City Mining Company had built a deep pit that scarred the land and filled the air with a haze of dirt. The dust hung loosely over the work site, polluting the lungs of men who worked sixteen-hour days extracting gold, silver and platinum. Mules worked to their death hauling loads of freshly split rock out of the mine, and broke their whip-marked backs to remove these precious metals from the earth. The open pit was encircled by a network of walkways and wooden stairs that descended deep into the mine, spiraling around until they disappeared into tunnels that spider-webbed out to where the men worked deep underground. The men who worked in this mine lived in a camp composed of makeshift shelters and tents. For them, poor living conditions were well worth the consistent paycheck that they spent on liquor and female companionship. For many people in town the miners were nothing but trouble. These men would often drink and fight, earning themselves a night in the local jail, until they sobered up, paid a small fine and went back to work. For others, the economic boom was well worth the trouble. The town had grown quickly, and with it came all of the evils that followed men with money.
A gangly young man came sprinting out of the tunnels with a worried look on his face. He threw down the lantern that had guided his way out of the darkness and continued running up a series of wooden stairways. He turned a sharp corner and nearly slipped, but caught himself on a roughly built wooden railing. The next set of stairs he took two at a time, using the railing to pull himself upward. In his other arm, he carried a long object wrapped in a dirty piece of cloth. He reached the edge of the open pit and continued running down a boardwalk that ended near a small makeshift structure.
He stopped just outside of the small office and placed his hands on his knees, desperately trying to catch his breath.
“Mr. Richards--,” he said, nearly out of breath and panting loudly, gripping a stitch in his side. But no one answered.
“Mr. Richards!” he yelled, carefully holding out the long object.
The young man waited outside for a few moments, finally catching his breath from the steep run out of the mine. He stood upright as the wooden door cracked open and a tall dark man stepped out, neatly dressed and well groomed. His hair was slicked to one side and he wore a gray and black tailored suit, with a gold chain attached to a handcrafted watch that rested in his jacket pocket. He was noticeably rich, and carried himself like any man would who owned a gold mine. This was Jack Richards, a powerful land baron who made his living using people to push himself to the top. He only cared about himself, and money. Mostly money.
“What, boy?” he barked at him, pulling out and checking the gold watch, like he was already late for something.
“Mr. Richards. Sir. They--, they found something. In the mine.”
Aaron handed the object to Jack, who promptly unwrapped it, already pissed that he was pulled away from something he thought was more important. It was a human femur. He held it out farther away when he realized what it was, as if it would give him a disease. He twisted it around and examined it at a distance.
Another man stepped out from inside the office. He was much younger than Jack with clean-cut hair and a blonde beard flecked with orange. This was Clay, Jack’s right-hand man and second in command. He made sure that everybody did their job, and if they didn’t, he made sure that they were punished accordingly. Clay took the long bone and held it carefully, holding it up to the light and rotating it around in his hands.
“This is human. Where did they find this?” Clay asked.
“In the new shaft on the north side of the mine. Where we found all that silver last month,” Aaron said.
Jack took the femur and covered it with the small piece of cloth and tucked it under his arm. “Who else knows about this?” he asked.
“Just a few of us. But--, the whole area is covered in bones, sir. Must be Indian,” Aaron speculated.
Jack glanced over to Clay, shooting him a knowing look.
“Alright, son. Don't tell anybody else about this. Keep your mouth shut.”
Aaron looked at both of them for a moment, like a well-trained dog expecting a treat for good behavior. Then he spun on his heels, nearly tripping over his own feet and ran off back toward the mine. Jack turned to Clay and handed him the femur with a deep furrow in his brow.
“You know what to do. Move the remains. Keep digging.”
Jack moved back toward the office, but paused in the doorway. “Nobody finds out,” he demanded, then disappeared back into the dark office and slammed the thin wooden door behind him.
• • •
On a distant hillside overlooking the mine, three mounted Washoe warriors sat in silence, watching as several men worked diligently to remove human remains from the open pit. They carelessly tossed the remains into assorted barrels in the back of a wagon. The men had no respect for the dead as they ripped their bones out of the earth and removed them from their final resting place, laughing and making jokes as they worked. One of the men climbed into the back of the wagon when they were done and sealed the barrels shut. When he was finished he moved to the driver’s seat, grabbed the reins, and whipped the mules forward. The mules struggled against the heavy loaded wagon as they dug their feet into the dirt and pushed hard. The man whipped again as the mules reached the steepest part of the embankment out of the pit, but they soon cleared the load and continued down a dirt road. The three other men, now armed with rifles, joined the wagon on horseback and the party disappeared over a small hill to take the remains to a location where they would never be found again.
Angered beyond reason, one of the warriors turned his horse and rode off, and the others followed close behind. They left the hillside and rode fast across an open plain, descended a steep hill and maneuvered toward a dry riverbed, which they followed for several hours. When they reached the edge of their territory, they left the riverbed and crested a long hill. A winding single-track dirt path led them to a lively village that sat at the base of the hill, hidden in a bowl surrounded by steep cliffs. A natural barrier, these cliffs prevented any attack on the village, unless it was a head-on assault.
A young Washoe boy ran down the winding trail to meet the approaching riders. They reined their horses and stopped short of him. The warrior in front dismounted from his horse in a single swift movement, landing in front of the boy. He was tall and well built, with a long black ponytail bound together with thick leather. This was the Chieftain’s son, Itza-chu.
“Where is father?” he demanded, as he spoke in the native tongue of his people.
The young boy pointed to a large warm-weather hut near the center of the village, constructed out of cedar planks and deer skin. Smoke was rising from a hole in the roof, and billowed upward into a white pillar that dissipated into a calm wind.
Itza-chu ran over to his father’s palatial hut and threw back the leather door. A large fire roared in the center. Dried herbs and flowers hung on the walls, and filled the hut with a soothing aroma that took hold of him and calmed his nerves. Next to the fire, his father sat cross-legged with closed eyes as he chanted an ancient prayer, and rocked back-and-forth with his hands moving through the air above his head.
“Father…” Itza-chu murmured. But Essa-queta didn’t answer. Itza-chu sat down next to the fire across from his father and waited for him to finish. Essa-queta was a man of great faith and continued his prayer without pause. Itza-chu grew annoyed and shifted around on his haunches, and stared at his father
unblinking.
When Essa-queta had finished, he opened his eyes and calmly looked at his son, who was glaring back at him from across the fire. He was a stern man, with a long face and dark eyes. His long hair was loose and draped across his shoulders, as it always was when he prayed to the gods.
“You seem troubled,” he presumed.
“Yes,” he answered, finally getting his chance to speak. “The white men who dig at the mine have uncovered a grave site.”
“I see.”
“A grave of our ancestors,” Itza-chu said, becoming more agitated.
Essa-queta sat in silence and collected his thoughts about the situation. He possessed great wisdom and never took any decision lightly. His son, on the other hand, was still young and quick to take action, often without thinking of the consequences.
“They disgrace their remains!” Itza-chu yelled, having grown more impatient with his father’s silence. “Their lust for gold has offended us! Offended our ancestors!”
“Calm yourself,” Essa-queta demanded. He reached for a dry log from a stack beside him and placed it into the burning fire. Fresh flames licked the raw fuel and turned the dry bark into black fingers of burnt wood that curled around themselves, and slowly turned into new orange coals at the bottom of the pit. Golden embers spiraled up from the growing fire and disappeared through the hole in the roof. The fire grew hot and the radiant energy drew beads of sweat from Itza-chu's forehead.
“I will not live forever my son. And someday--, you will take my place.”
Essa-queta turned and pulled a bundle of sage from a hand-woven basket from behind him. He threw it onto the fire and wafted the pungent smoke with his hands, inhaling deeply.
