by Jake
“I don't know. I'm as confused as you are.” He started to pace at the end of the bed.
“He wasn't making any sense,” she said.
“I know.” He stood there for moment and stared at the floor. “I'll get the Sheriff. He'll know what to do with him.”
Rose twisted the washcloth over an empty bucket and placed it back onto his forehead. “Okay.” She turned down the lamp and pulled a sheet over Andrew. “We'll let him rest for now, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave this room.” They left the doctor behind so he could sleep and headed back to the parlor.
The Gunman slipped behind a table in the corner with a freshly poured mug of beer in his hand. He sat there and sipped on the bitter foam, watching the crowd throughout the saloon. The piano began to play again and men and women laughed, getting drunker and louder as the night moved on, like nothing had happened.
The Gunman drank deep from his mug and his eyes caught Rose and Cutler as they descended the stairs and entered the parlor from the hotel above. He watched Rose walk behind the bar and pour a beer for Cutler. She moved gracefully behind the bar and seemed full of confidence, which made him uncomfortable. He set his half drunken glass of beer on the table, and then moved toward the door and stepped outside onto the saloon boardwalk.
The rain had ceased and the clouds began to clear. A full moon smoldered on the street, reflecting on shallow black pools of rainwater.
The Gunman pulled out a small bag from his back pocket, opened it, and carefully fingered out some stale tobacco. He rolled a modest cigarette and lit it with a broken match he had kept in his front shirt pocket. After taking a long smooth drag on the cigarette his eyes brightened, dilated, and gray smoke enveloped his head and dissipated into the cool night air.
He took another long drag from the cigarette and watched as three figures moved across the street and onto the boardwalk. It was the mine owner Jack Richards with two men in tow, Aaron and Clay, who followed him like well-trained dogs. The Gunman watched them carefully, his cigarette burning brightly in the shadows. Jack and the other two stopped just outside the Bucket of Blood. He could see Jack say something to Clay, obviously angry with him. They all stepped inside, moved through the parlor, and disappeared into a private room in the back.
Back inside the saloon, Emmett continued to work hard behind the bar as he poured drinks and entertained a couple of miners who were drunk on peach wine. Rose stepped behind the bar and poured herself a beer, blew away the foam, and took a deep drink. She smiled at her father, acknowledging the foam on her lips, and then wiped it off with the back of her hand.
“I went home and put Caleb to bed. He should be good for the night.”
“Thanks, sweet pea,” he said kindly. “You do too much for me. I sure appreciate you lookin' after your brother like this.”
"It's no problem, dad. Really," she said. "Besides, Elijah was the one watching after him all day. He's the one you should be thanking." She smiled and took another sip.
Emmett sighed and leaned against the bar as he stared into Rose's eyes. "I wish your mother could be here to see how much you two have grown," he said.
Before she could respond, someone dropped a glass across the parlor and it smashed to the ground. Rose put down her beer and grabbed a rag, but Emmett stopped her. “No, I got it.” He winked at her, and then grabbed the rag out of her hand. “Better finish your drink. I have a feeling it's going to be a long night.”
She took another sip and smiled, savoring the moment as Emmett turned and left the bar to clean up the broken glass and spilled beer. As Rose finished the dregs of her beer, the saloon doors opened and a tall slender man strolled in with a badge on his chest, Sheriff Timothy Pickett. He was a man in his fifties, wearing a white cowboy hat, sharp black boots and well-ironed pants.
Rose pulled a tall glass of golden beer, poured off the foam, and placed it on the counter just as Pickett reached the bar. He tipped his hat, like any gentleman would to such a beautiful young woman, and grabbed the beer.
“Thanks, dear,” he said with a sweet smile. He took a deep drink, and then wiped beer from his gray mustache. “Boy…now that's a good beer,” he commented, holding the beer up to the light as cool beads of condensation ran across his hand. He took another long drink and wiped his mustache, again. “How's the doc?”
“Better I suppose.” She cleaned a dirty glass and placed it on a small shelf behind her. “He’s still in shock, sleeping upstairs in one of the rooms.” She sighed and grabbed another dirty glass. “Did you check out his story?”
Pickett nodded and took an even bigger drink. “Yup. Sure did.”
“And?”
“Oh. Um. Well…looks like the doc wasn't lying.”
“Oh my god. So, Rebecca really is dead?”
“I sent Deputy Markley down there to take care of the body.”
Rose placed both hands on the counter and braced herself against the bad news. “This is horrible.”
“Ain’t it though?” Pickett took another drink.
Rose followed his lead and poured another small beer for herself. “What should we do?” she asked, and drank the beer in one long gulp.
“Well…not much you can do at this point.” He finished off the beer and wiped his mustache one last time. “Though, I’ll admit that the doc certainly has a few questions to answer.” He rubbed his wet fingers on his shirt and placed a coin on the counter. “But that can wait til' mornin'.”
He turned to leave, but paused. “By the way, I heard some stranger had a run-in with a few of the boys earlier. Got into some kind of scuffle here in the bar.”
“Yes. He's staying here for the night.”
“Where is he now?” he asked. “I need to talk to him before he leaves town.”
“Haven't seen him for a while.”
“Well, alright. Stay safe, dear.”
“Good night, Tim.”
“Good night, Rose.” Pickett tipped his hat and left the saloon, but not before taking one last glance around the parlor. Like any good Sheriff, he always kept an extra eye on the people in the saloon, more to make sure they wouldn’t hurt themselves than anything else.
• • •
The Gunman meandered farther down the boardwalk, hung his arms over a low railing, and stared at the brilliant full moon hanging low against the blackened sky. The clouds had cleared and the dark silence overtook him. He used this quiet moment to reflect deeply on his own thoughts.
He heard footsteps on the boardwalk behind him, so he slid his fingers against the cold grip of his revolver and slowly cocked it. He was on edge and couldn’t shake the feeling that he had earlier.
The figure moved closer behind him and remained in the shadows. The footsteps stopped. The Gunman didn’t move. The cigarette clung to his moist lips and hung loosely from his mouth.
“You left your drink on the table,” Rose said, holding the Gunman’s beer.
He turned around and saw Rose standing there on the boardwalk. He removed his hand from the gun and hung his arms back over the railing. Rose stepped out from the shadows into the moonlight. Her hair was messy and her dress was wrinkled from hard work. But she was beautiful. Stunningly beautiful.
“I wasn't thirsty.”
She smirked. “You’re not from around here, are you?” she said, taking a step closer to him.
“Far from it.” He flicked the cigarette into the street and watched it smolder in the darkness.
She stared at the side of his face, his chiseled jawline, dark locks of hair that curled onto the back of his neck. He was ruggedly handsome and she shifted her weight back and forth from one foot to the other, uncomfortably trying to push the conversation forward. “You’re not much for talking, are you?”
“Nope.”
Rose pulled a shawl over her shoulders, stepping even closer to him. “Here’s your beer.”
He turned and took the beer from her tender hand. Their fingers touched for a brief moment and she felt a chill run up h
er arm and down her spine.
“Where are you from?” she asked him.
He took a sip of the stale beer. “A long way from here. But I’m just passin' through.”
“I see. Some of the folks here think you're trouble.”
“Like I said, just passin' through,” he said and finished the remaining beer.
“Oh,” she said, not wanting to ask him too many questions, knowing that it made him uncomfortable. She continued to stare at him, looking straight into his eyes. “I can take that glass if you’d like,” she offered. He casually handed her the empty glass.
She looked at him for a moment longer and realized that he wasn’t much more for conversation. “I'll see you around,” she said and turned to walk back to the saloon. The Gunman watched her in silence, stunned by her beauty. He regretted not talking to her more and turned back to the railing as he returned to his turbid thoughts.
Emmett waited for Rose in the doorway, wondering where she had disappeared to. “You alright?”
“Of course I am. Why?”
“Just checkin'.”
Rose turned back to the Gunman. A freshly rolled cigarette was already hanging from his mouth. “Oh. Him.” She smiled and placed her hand on Emmett’s shoulder. “I can handle myself, dad.” She kissed him gently on the cheek and stepped back inside.
Emmett took a moment to survey the Gunman, then retreated back into the saloon.
• • •
Deputy Gerald Markley drove an old wooden cart down a twisted road. A body lay in the back, Rebecca’s undead body, wrapped in a white bed sheet and stained red with blood. When the deputy had entered the Forred home he found Rebecca in the doorway, her head completely blown off. They had been friends since she had helped his wife find a good job in town, and he hung his head low as he pushed the cart forward down the road, unable to comprehend how Andrew could have done such a horrible thing to her. Nothing like this had ever happened in the small town. Sure, people had been shot during a scuffle in the street, but nobody had ever killed in cold blood, not like this.
Clouds swallowed the moon and surrounded the Deputy in darkness. He slowed the cart and peered down the road. He knew this road well, but the deep black night seemed to have a strange effect on him. He was a grown man, well over thirty, but something about the night had always scared him.
Markley could see a farmhouse sitting in the distance with yellow light emanating from the windows. He whipped the horses and pushed the cart forward down the road, hoping to make it back to town as soon as he could.
As he passed closer to the house he heard the sound of breaking glass echo from inside, followed by a scream, and then complete silence.
He stopped the cart and jumped to the ground. He pulled his gun and cocked it as he moved toward the Miller’s house. Deputy or not, Markley handled his gun with unsteady hands, like a schoolboy who had just found his father’s pistol. He snuck up to the front porch near a row of thick bushes and hid behind them. The front door was broken down and the windows had been smashed to pieces. He slowly stepped onto the porch and peered through a window.
He froze in place, horrified, and sweat began to pour from his forehead. The gun shook violently in his hand as his heartbeat penetrated his senses. What he saw was beyond any nightmare he could possibly imagine. He leaned closer to the window, a witness to unbelievable carnage and blood lust. Several undead were inside the Miller's dining room, devouring the entire Miller family, their bodies strewn everywhere.
The father lay sprawled across the table with his intestines draped across a freshly cooked roast beef dinner. An undead farmer was face-deep in his stomach, consuming his innards. The mother lay in the doorway on her face, ripped apart by an undead boy. The two young daughters lay next to the table, a tender buffet for three undead. And Allison Miller, Roses’ best friend, was in the kitchen, her half-eaten liver hanging from the mouth of the undead whore.
Markley's jaw quivered in fear. He stepped back from window and slowly turned, ready to run away from this madness, but he stopped instantly when he saw an undead man on the porch in front of him, head cocked, eyeing him hungrily. Before he knew what was happening the undead lunged for his neck. Markley still had the pistol in his hand and he shoved it deep into the undead’s gut and fired three times, but nothing happened. The undead man bit into his shoulder and tore away a mouth-full of flesh. Markley pointed the pistol at its temple and fired the remaining three bullets, showering the porch with undead brain, and then ran back to the cart in a panic.
He leapt onto the cart and whipped the horses forward, steering wildly back toward town. He used one hand to hold the reins and clutched his shoulder with the other as blood ran down his arm. He could see the glowing lights of the small town in the distance and whipped the horses again, continuing to gain speed. As he turned onto Main Street, he overcorrected, and lost control of the cart. The horses broke free and the cart smashed into the front of the general store, throwing Markley forward out of the seat.
The Gunman heard the commotion and stepped from the boardwalk into the street. Cutler, Rose, Johnny and Mason all exited the saloon behind him, with several others in tow. The sound of the smashing cart had drawn them out of the saloon and they stared down the street, trying to figure out what had happened.
“Oh my god!” Rose screamed when she saw Markley slumped over the front of the cart, not moving. She bolted toward him, followed closely by the others.
Markley tried desperately to push himself up, but stumbled, and fell from the cart and landed face-first in the dirt. Rose grabbed him and helped turn him over onto his back.
“What happened?” she asked him.
Markley spit blood into the dirt and held his gut. He had started to enter shock and couldn’t answer her.
Rose turned to the others, who just there stood watching. “Somebody help me!” she pleaded.
Johnny moved in and grabbed Markley’s arm.
“We need to take him inside,” she told him.
Johnny quickly inspected his injured shoulder. “He's bleeding real bad. He needs the doctor!”
Cutler stepped in and helped them get Markley to his feet. “The doc is indisposed at the moment. Just help get him inside dammit.”
Rose and Johnny held Markley upright and started walking toward the saloon. As the Gunman looked on, considering the situation, and wondering what the hell had happened, something caught his eye at the far end of town, moving slowly down the road.
Three undead emerged from the darkness and shuffled toward them. Their clothes were ragged and torn, their teeth rotten black. Decaying skin hung loosely from their bones. He turned and pulled a revolver, cocked and ready, unsure of what to do.
Cutler could see them as well. “What the hell?”
Before anybody could react, an undead man lunged onto Mason and bit into his chest. It tore flesh from his ribcage and ravenously dug at the wound with its ragged fingers. Mason struggled against the undead man, but couldn’t push him away. “Jesus Christ! Get him off me!”
Cutler kicked the undead in the side, knocking it back into the dirt. It turned and snarled, then bit at the air, dirt plastering its decaying face.
It moved to attack again and boom! Cutler flinched as the undead fell to the ground, shot in the chest. The Gunman stood next to him holding his revolver as smoke poured from the barrel. The undead man kept moving and tried to stand upright. It stumbled back onto Mason and bit into his thigh, blood gushing from its mangled jowls.
“Ahhh!!!” Mason screamed as it tore into the muscle and ripped away more flesh.
Cutler fired his revolver and hit the undead man in the gut, but it kept attacking, ravenously tearing into Mason's leg. It was unstoppable. The Gunman fired again and the bullet entered the undead man’s temple and passed straight through its skull. Putrid black brain sprayed the dirt and fragments of bone ricocheted off a nearby building. The other two undead staggered straight for Rose, Johnny and Deputy Markley, snarling and moa
ning as they slowly moved across the street toward them.
The Gunman spun on his heels and fired, sending a bullet that split an undead's forehead. Cutler fired as well, and hit a second undead in the neck. The Gunman shot again, striking the third undead in the head.
Johnny continued toward the saloon with Markley’s arm over his shoulder. “Holy shit!”
But Cutler waved them forward. “Keep moving! Get him inside!” He turned to the Gunman. All three of the undead lay in the dirt, motionless with lead in their brains. “What the hell is going on?”
But the Gunman could only shake his head as he reloaded his revolver, empty brass shells falling onto the street.
Several people began to step out of nearby buildings, concerned from all the shooting. A thick haze of gun smoke filled the air, penetrated by lamplights that faintly brightened the street. The full moon passed behind a patch of clouds and blanketed them in a veil of darkness.
Sheriff Pickett jogged toward them, gun drawn and eyes aflame. He saw the bodies with brains splattered in the dirt. “I need answers! What the hell happened?”
The Gunman holstered his weapon and turned to the Sheriff. “They attacked us.”
“Bullshit!”
Pickett overturned an undead with his boot. “This man was unarmed.” He inspected closer. “You shot him straight through the head!”
Cutler held pressure to Mason's bleeding chest with a handkerchief and used his other hand to stabilize the bleeding from his thigh. “They attacked Mason. And something happened to the Deputy.” Cutler picked up Mason and started walking back to the saloon with him cradled in his arms. “He's inside with Rose,” he told the Sheriff, motioning with his head.
Pickett still glared at the Gunman and holstered his weapon, knowing that he had a lot of questions to answer, but that could wait, and everyone had already stepped back into the saloon.
Inside, Rose helped Cutler with Mason and held a bar towel against his chest as he bled on a table and moaned in pain. Cutler took off his belt and bound it tightly around Mason’s thigh. He notched the belt tighter and blood oozed from the deep wounds, and Mason squirmed in agony.
