Ashes of the Dead - Bucket of Blood

by Jake

  “Then I suppose our rescue is gonna be a little more interesting.”

  “Should I wake the others?” he asked.

  “Yes--, but quietly.”

  He turned to leave. “Eric--,” Rose said.

  “Yeah?”

  “How many bullets you got left?”

  “Enough,” he told her. Eric smiled and made his way over to Sig and touched his shoulder, slowly waking him from a deep sleep.

  “What's going on?” he grumbled.

  Eric pointed over the to window where several undead now stood, silhouetted by the glowing night sky behind them. “We have company,” Eric told him.

  Sig pulled out his glasses from a front pocket and slipped them on, and then looked through another window where he could see several undead wandering outside.

  “My god--,” he said, and then adjusted his glasses, getting a better look at the undead. “What do we do now?”

  “Stay put. Keep away from the windows. Wait for the others to come for us.”

  “And if that doesn't work?” the old man questioned.

  “Then we pray.”

  • • •

  The Gunman and the others scaled a steep hillside, grabbing bushes and shrubs, pulling themselves toward the top.

  “Alright…” Pickett said, panting hard, “…the village should be…” he pulled hard on a branch, “…just over this hill.”

  They crested the hilltop, only to see black pillars of smoke rising in the distance.

  “What the hell is that?” Andrew asked.

  They stood for a moment overlooking the valley below, trying to assess the situation that fell before them.

  “Looks like the ‘uglies’ from last night found someone else instead,” he told them.

  Far below, tucked into a cliffside, was the Washoe village, surrounded by several large bonfires. The Gunman and the others descended the hill and headed straight for the village. A thin winding trail led them through a deep cut that ran along an embankment. They passed a series of steep walls that hid the village from view as they dipped into a chain of narrow bowls.

  They approached the village slowly when it came into view, staying low and moving behind shrubs and mounds of vegetation. Black smoke hung thick in the air, tinged with the smell of death and burning flesh. They hid behind two fallen oak trees, where they had a clear view of the entire village. They saw a Washoe man dragging bodies toward a large bon fire. A young boy followed close behind him, dragging a bloodstained burlap sack. The man heaved one of the bodies into the fire and the immense pile of burning remains grew larger. He grabbed the sack from the boy and started pulling out body parts, obviously undead body parts, and began tossing them into the flames, one-by-one.

  On the other side of the village, a young woman, crouched on her knees, held the body of her dead child, sobbing horribly. She rocked back-and-forth with his body, cradling him into her chest. The scene was beyond belief. The undead had attacked them in the night, catching them off guard and killing nearly everyone.

  “What do we do?” Cutler asked.

  Pickett shook his head in disbelief. “Nothin'. Let's make our way round--, get back to town as soon as we can,” he suggested.

  “Sounds good to me,” the Gunman said. “There’s nothing we can do for them.”

  “Guys--,” Andrew said.

  “I agree,” Pickett added.

  “Guys!” Andrew continued.

  “What?” Cutler said, and then turned around to see Andrew on his knees, with a spear pointed at his throat, held by a Washoe warrior, deadly serious and ready to kill.

  “Oh,” Cutler said.

  The Gunman went for his revolver, but two more Washoe warriors appeared behind them, both holding sharp spears at his chest. He relented, and they all put their hands in the air, ready to surrender.

  “Now what?” Cutler asked.

  “Don't worry. I'll handle this,” Pickett said confidently.

  After tightly binding their hands behind their backs, the three warriors directed the men toward the center of the village and forced them to kneel on the hard ground facing Essa-queta's hut. Two of the warriors remained behind them, with weapons pointed straight at their backs, while the third fetched the Chieftain. Essa-queta stepped out of his hut, his left arm bloodied and secured in a makeshift sling. The few remaining villagers that had survived the undead attack had gathered around them, awaiting the Chieftain’s judgment.

  “What are they gonna do to us?” Andrew asked, twitching nervously.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” Pickett told him.

  Essa-queta paced back-and-forth and looked at each one of them, scanning their faces.

  “Hello…we come…in peace,” Pickett stuttered, speaking louder as if that would help the Chieftain understand him.

  Essa-queta continued to pace in front of them. “You have disgraced our ancestors by removing them from eternal rest,” he said in Washoe. “Their souls now wander in the afterlife, unbalanced.” He paused, getting angrier by the second. “You have kicked us off of our lands. My people starve…struggling to survive. And now…you have cursed us all. You must pay for your wanton recklessness.”

  Pickett looked at him with absolutely no idea of what he just said.

  “He looks…really angry,” Andrew said.

  “Yup,” Pickett responded.

  Cutler shifted his weight around, a sharp rock digging into one of his knees. “We do not mean you any harm. We are not the ones who have offended your ancestors,” he said, speaking in perfect Washoe.

  The others looked at him, completely dumbfounded that he could speak their language.

  “We need your help,” Cutler continued.

  Essa-queta approached Cutler and stood in front of him, very interested in what he had to say, yet still unsure if he would let them live.

  “Continue,” the Chieftain said.

  “Our people need our help. We have to get back to them.”

  “You are foolish. There is only one way to end this,” he said, and kneeled before him and pulled out a long sharp knife, and then pointed it at Cutler's sternum.

  “Wait,” the Gunman protested.

  “We must kill those who brought this curse upon us,” Essa-queta insisted, and pressed the knifepoint into Cutler’s chest, threatening to kill him.

  “Wait.”

  Essa-queta pulled back the knife, but only an inch. He turned to the Gunman, waiting for him to speak.

  “Tell him if they help us…” the Gunman said to Cutler, “…that we'll kill the man who started all of this.”

  “What?” Cutler asked.

  But before Cutler could translate, Essa-queta withdrew the knife, walked behind Cutler and cut his bonds. The warriors followed suit and cut the others free. Essa-queta walked over to the Gunman, now speaking in broken English. “Our people have a long history with the white man. A long history of deceit...and mistrust.”

  “You can trust me,” the Gunman assured him. “You can trust us.”

  “I have no other choice,” Essa-queta responded, then whistled loudly. He reached out and shook the Gunman's hand with his uninjured arm. “Our fate is the same. As is our enemy.”

  A young Washoe woman appeared with several horses, already prepared to travel.

  “Well hell, what are we waiting for?” Cutler announced.

  • • •

  Rose had kept watch all night, looking between two boards nailed across the window. Her eyes were bloodshot and deep bags hung beneath them. The undead still lingered outside the church, but now only wandered in circles or stood in a catatonic state. Their initial attack against the church hadn’t lasted more than an hour, and as night passed they slowly withdrew from the church, but many still remained outside.

  She dropped her head, nearly falling asleep from exhaustion, but fought it hard, rubbing her eyes with both hands. Her head fell again, bobbing up and down as she continued to struggle.

  Eric sat nearby staring at the floorboards
and noticed her fighting to keep awake. “Why don't you get some sleep? I'll keep watch...wake you if anything happens,” he said.

  Rose nodded without protest and picked up her shotgun, and then slid her tired body into a pew and fell fast asleep. Eric sat down in her chair and took the lookout. Like Rose, he hadn’t slept much during the night, and also struggled to stay awake as his head fell listlessly.

  • • •

  Rose lay in a pew, and had slept hard for almost an hour.

  Bang.

  She twitched, writhing on the pew from the loud noise. Nearby, Eric slept soundly, slouched against the wall and dreaming hard. His lookout hadn’t lasted more then a few minutes before he decided to call it quits, overtaken by pure exhaustion.

  Bang. Bang. Rose awakened and bolted upright. She looked around with groggy eyes, struggling to focus them in the morning light.

  Bang. On the other side of the church, Beth pulled down pews and furniture from the barricade in front of the church entrance.

  “Beth! What are you doing?!” she yelled.

  But Beth paid no attention to her and continued to tear down the barricade and worked frantically to clear a path to the front doors. Rose grabbed Eric by the collar and shook him. “Wake up!”

  Eric jumped, ready for anything. He reached for his revolver, but it was missing from the holster. “What the--,” he said, still waking up and trying to stand on unsteady legs.

  Bang. He looked across the church just as Beth pulled down another pew from the stack. Only a few pieces of furniture remained, and Eric and Rose rushed toward her as she reached for another pew.

  “Beth. Stop,” Rose said.

  Beth turned, tears in her eyes, holding Eric’s gun. “Don't…try…to stop me,” she demanded.

  Rose raised her shotgun and pointed it at her. “Beth--, put down the gun.”

  Beth reached into her front pocket and pulled out two shotgun shells, and then dropped them on the floor and grabbed Eric's gun with both hands. Rose cracked open her shotgun and saw that both chambers were empty. Beth had stolen the shells while she slept.

  “You can’t stop me,” Beth said, cocking the gun, both hands shaking. “We're all gonna die. It’s only a matter of time. I have to keep my children safe,” she cried, tears running down her red cheeks.

  Sig joined them and tried his best to calm her down. “Beth, you don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, putting his hand out and trying to get her to come toward him. “Put down the gun,” he told her gently.

  Eric stepped forward, but Beth swung the gun on him. “I said--,” and Sig leapt and reached for the gun, but Beth fired.

  “No!” Rose yelled.

  Sig fell to his knees clutching his stomach and fell over on his side as blood started to pool beneath him.

  “Get back!” Beth yelled. “All of you,” now more agitated than ever.

  Beth reached behind her and pulled away the last piece of furniture. She cracked open the door, still holding the gun on them. “Alright children.” Beth took a step out of the door and pulled her children close behind her. Rose and Eric could only stand there while Sig bled to death, afraid that Beth would fire on them if they tried to help him.

  Beth finally turned away and ran into the street with her children, but the way was blocked by undead who had been attracted to the noise. She turned and tried to run the other way, pulling her children behind her, but the undead had surrounded her. There was no escape from them. She pulled her children in close and covered their eyes with her dress. She kissed them each on the forehead and aimed the gun at the closest undead.

  Rose and Eric watched through the open doorway as Beth fired into the swarm of undead that pulsated around her. She spun around and kept firing, then disappeared into the horde and screamed as the undead closed in and tore her and the children to pieces. Rose and Eric could only watch in the doorway, helpless to stop the undead as they dug into her with their rotten fingers. An undead woman saw them watching and lurched toward them. Several more undead followed close behind, and moved toward the church with blood lust in their vapid eyes. They had tasted flesh, which only provoked their ravenous nature.

  Eric reached for the open door and pried it shut, then started shoving furniture back against the doors, trying to rebuild the barricade that Beth had so needlessly torn down. “Help me!” Eric shouted.

  “Hold on,” Rose told him as she scrambled to pick up the shotgun shells from the floor. She quickly loaded them into her shotgun and snapped it shut. Undead slammed against the front door and started breaking through the windows, reaching into the church and trapping them like rats. Rose grabbed one of the heavy pews and pulled it over to the barricade, then helped Eric lift it into place.

  “What do we do?” he said as they threw another pew in front of the doors.

  “I have an idea,” she said, and grabbed her shotgun with a desperate look on her face.

  The Bucket of Blood

  Essa-queta led the charge along with three Washoe warriors, followed closely by the Gunman and his companions. They raced along a ridge, riding as fast as they could. It was hard for them to keep up with the Washoe, who were keen horsemen and seemed to know every rock that covered this land. Even with an injured arm, Essa-queta rode like the wind and would look back every few minutes to make sure that the others didn't fall too far behind. He had been raised on horseback his entire life, fifty long years on the prairie.

  They cleared the ridge and descended into a deep ravine, and then followed the riverbed for several miles. After an hour of hard riding they left the winding path and crossed an arid grassland that stretched on as far as the eye could see. They pushed the horses to their limit, but were determined to reach the town as soon as they could. They found the road at the edge of the grassland and turned onto it, knowing that it would take them straight into town.

  With the sun at their backs they reached the outskirts of the town and left their horses tied to an old abandoned wagon. They snuck along a thick line of dead trees that once formed part of a shelterbelt to the north of town, intended to block the harsh wind.

  The Gunman, Cutler and Essa-queta crawled on their bellies through knee-high grass and kept as low as possible. The Gunman inched forward to a tuft of Big Bluestem grass and pushed it out of the way.

  Down below they could see dozens of undead roaming the streets, with no sign of human life, or any life for that matter. On the far side of town, the church was completely surrounded by undead, and looked as if they would raze it to the ground.

  “Shit. No way we can fight our way through that many,” Cutler said.

  The Gunman pushed the grass back into place and turned to him. “We’ll have to. There’s no other way.”

  “Distraction,” Essa-queta said in Washoe.

  “What?” the Gunman asked, not understanding him.

  “Distract them,” Cutler translated. “Lure them away from the church.”

  The Gunman nodded, agreeing that it was their best option. He turned and followed Essa-queta and crawled back down the hill, but Cutler crawled forward and moved grass out of the way, taking one last look at the undead below. “Excellent.”

  • • •

  The Gunman and the others crept along a building, keeping their eyes sharp around every corner with their revolvers ready. They moved across a street and slipped through an abandoned alley. There were no undead in sight, and those that they had seen from the hillside had all but disappeared from the main part of town.

  When the Gunman thought he had found a safe place to stop he turned to the others behind him. “Okay. Here's the deal,” he said as he holstered a revolver. “Cutler, Pearce and the Chief are going to lure those things away from the church.”

  Pearce looked a little surprised at this news. Cutler handed him a gun and some bullets. Pearce nodded and shoved the gun in his belt, understanding that he was going to have to use it this time, no exceptions.

  “Sheriff, Andrew, you three…” he sai
d, now pointing at the three Washoe warriors, “…and I will get them outta’ the church after the undead are lured away.”

  They all nodded in agreement, each accepting their duties. The Gunman wiped sweat off his forehead as he glanced at the burning yellow sun that was set high in the sky above them. “After you lure them away, get the horses and meet us on the far side of town.”

  “Psssst...hey, pssst...” somebody said from above them.

  The Gunman looked up and saw Jay poking his head out of the hayloft.

  “Holy shit. Jay!” Cutler said.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jay asked.

  “Rescue mission,” Cutler said.

  “Better rescue me too while you're at it,” Jay added. He spit out a wad of tobacco, picked some remnants out of his teeth, then put in a fresh wad. “I've been stuck up here for two damn days. Just me and the horses,” he complained. “Smells like shit up here,” he said smiling, and then readjusted the tobacco deeper into his cheek with a dirty finger. “And I'm almost outta tobacco, god dammit.”

  “Jay. Can you see the church from up there?” the Gunman asked.

  Jay blocked out the bright sun with his hand and peered over toward the church on the far side of town. “Hell of a sight. I’m pretty sure all them nasty things are headed over there.”

  “Headed to the church?”

  “Yup. Hell…streets are fairly clear from what I can tell.”

  “Shit,” Cutler said.

  “Get our horses ready, Jay. Take them to the far side of that hill and wait for us there,” the Gunman said.

  “Alright,” Jay said as he spit into the hay. “See you fellas on the other side.”

  • • •

  Cutler, Pearce and Essa-queta made their way down a boardwalk, moving from one doorway to the next. They moved as silent as possible with their guns drawn but there were no undead in sight. This made Pearce uneasy and he kept searching for them anxiously. They had spent the previous two days running from the undead, and now they were nowhere to be found. Something must have drawn them away and cleared the streets of their implacable lust for human flesh.