Bodacious Creed: a Steampunk Zombie Western (The Adventures of Bodacious Creed Book 1)

by Jonathan Fesmire

  Marjory nodded.

  “No need to get all worked up. Breathe easy.” Anna put her arm around Marjory’s shoulders. “Next time, put the lid over it immediately to squelch the fire. Now, go get a rag and clean this up, and you'll be good to get back to work.”

  “Thank you.” Marjory looked toward the sky.

  “That’s right, head up,” Anna said. “I think we have a new phrase for fucking up a simple task, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  Anna patted Marjory on the back. “Tossing the bacon.”

  For Anna, meetings with Mayor William Cooper had always proven pleasant. With his thick white hair and long beard, he might have stepped out of the Bible or come to visit from the North Pole. Known for opening the Cooper Brothers Mercantile Store on Main Street, the mayor had been a stand-up citizen since coming to Santa Cruz in eighteen forty-nine.

  Anna met with a politician here, and a business owner there, just after The House of Amber Doves had reopened seven months prior. She hoped to help the city’s women find jobs besides teaching, sewing, cooking, cleaning, and prostitution, and gently nudged potential employers in that direction. Mayor Cooper had hired a few women to work in the mercantile.

  On the evening of the second, Anna focused on what she would say to him at dinner. Would he go out of his way to talk to the U.S. Marshals for her, perhaps change Nelsen’s mind?

  At five, Jonny drew Anna a bath. When she came in, curly hair done up atop her head, and dropped her robe, Jonny embraced her. One hand grasped her buttocks while the other rested between her shoulder blades.

  “I have to hurry, Jonny,” she said with a laugh and kissed his neck. “Later. Love you.”

  He kissed her forehead and left her to relax. She sank into the warm water and rested her palms against the cool porcelain edges. Once she stepped out of the tub, water dripped down her tan skin, over a body that men used to drop brothel coins to fondle. Now, she felt happy to share that with Jonny alone.

  At her vanity in the bedroom, Anna applied light blue around her eyes and pinched her cheeks to bring out the color. It always seemed wiser to not wear much makeup when meeting with Cooper or Morgan, as few women except for prostitutes did up their faces.

  Anna dressed in a subdued pink dress with red trim along the skirt layers and picked out a leather corset. She stepped downstairs into her laboratory, saw that Jonny wasn’t there, then headed into the parlor.

  The dining room bustled with girls showing their legs past the knees, while men ate, drank, and gambled. Whiskey Zombie Collective played a trail song Anna had not heard, probably an original tune, complete with singing, fiddle, and snappy banjo. Anna caught the eye of Isabelle, a tall French woman with wavy hair as black as Anna's own. Slender, and in her middle thirties, Isabelle wasn't to every man's taste, but those customers who visited her were loyal.

  Anna waved her over. “I don't see Jonny anywhere. Would you do up my corset?”

  “Your lover left not twenty minutes ago, Anna.”

  Isabelle helped squeeze Anna into the leather bodice, and after, Anna strode to Ott's stable. Marjory’s father had already saddled Espiritu for her. As Anna mounted, she felt lucky for knowing the Smullens.

  The madam of Amber Doves rode sidesaddle down Soquel Avenue, past the Cooper Brothers Mercantile Store, and along Main Street toward the bridge that crossed the San Lorenzo River. The sun felt nice on her face as Espiritu trotted along dirt streets, packed tight by the wheels of a thousand buggies and even more horses.

  Across the bridge, she arrived at El Cuarto Trasero, a one-story restaurant popular among the well-to-do. Known mostly for its steak, the establishment also served a plethora of fresh local fish and farm-grown vegetables. Sometimes, Anna indulged and asked for a bowl of ice cream.

  The head waiter led Anna through the crowd of the Santa Cruz elite. She recognized ranchers, farmers, and a man and wife living off the fortune he had made in Santa Cruz during the gold rush of eighteen forty-nine. She held back a knowing smirk when she spotted Luis Mierdino, a rancher who had never married but, for reasons mysterious to her, visited women at Plowshares rather than at Amber Doves. Anna always found his surname funny. Roughly translated from Spanish, Mierdino meant “little shit.” The tale went that Mierdino's father or grandfather—it depended on who told the story—had started selling manure from his many beef cows. A rival rancher had started calling him “Mierdino.” Luis's progenitor had embraced it and made it their family name.

  El Cuarto Trasero smelled of filet mignon, potatoes au gratin, seared tuna, and other specialties of the house. Anna realized she had last eaten in the morning. She could put away a hearty meal on occasion, but when her nerves were heated, she sometimes forgot to eat.

  The head waiter led her to an alcove by a grand window.

  “William, how are you this sunny evening?” Anna asked as Mayor Cooper stood.

  Cooper gave her a kindly smile and took her hand in his sturdy grip. “I am doing very well. We have plenty of work preparing for our grand American Centennial.” He rounded the table and pulled out her chair.

  They discussed the upcoming celebration of the one-hundredth birthday of the United States, and Cooper marveled at how in just a short hundred years it had changed, growing from thirteen colonies to thirty-seven states. During the conversation, they ordered dinner. Cooper ordered chicken with glazed chestnuts and Anna asked for the same.

  Anna agreed to send some of the doves to the festivities, which would please townsfolk and visitors alike, and perhaps some would pay for company after the fireworks.

  When the conversation died down Cooper shut his eyes and chewed a bite of chicken as though in bliss.

  To Anna, that meant the best moment had arrived to ask her question. “I want to arrange a meeting with Marshal James Creed. Can you help me?”

  “Do you? You’ll have some of your ladies at the fireworks. If he wants that sort of company, I imagine he’ll seek it there or directly at your establishment.”

  “That’s not why.” Anna took a deep breath. “I have followed his career for years. I just want to meet him.”

  “He’s a hero to you, then?” Cooper wiped his white beard with his napkin.

  “Does that surprise you?” Anna asked. “How many murderers has he caught? Stagecoach and bank robbers? He's a North-Eastern man who has made it his duty to protect those he can in our lawless part of the world.”

  The mayor began to speak. “I wouldn't say lawless...”

  “You wouldn't call Santa Cruz lawless? I’m sorry, but there’ve been a murder or more every month, and robberies all the time. Our local and federal marshals are overworked.”

  “Fair point,” Cooper admitted.

  “Creed is a hero.”

  Mayor Cooper nodded and took the opportunity to pour Anna and himself another glass of wine, finishing the bottle.

  “You want something from him?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “I ask with no judgment, Anna,” the mayor said. “I’ve been a businessman for most of my life, and usually, those of us who run places, be they a mercantile, stable, or brothel want to further our businesses.”

  “Not in this case.”

  “Well, then,” said Cooper. “I'll talk to him tomorrow, see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.” Anna ate her last bite of chicken and sipped the red wine. She wished she could skip ahead in time to see her father. Until Cooper had arranged a meeting, her nerves would have the better of her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The morning of July third, the sun crested the hills and within an hour, chased off the fog. James Creed arrived at the marshal post, shirt, vest, and trousers crisp, and brown hair and short beard combed. For years, his life had been one case after the next across the western states and territories. Professionalism. That’s what gave him stability in a chaotic, sad world.

  He felt both glad and dismayed working with his old partner, Ben Nelsen. After he’d left Texas,
he never expected to see him or, for that matter, Heidi, again. He loved them both, yet he had to push past that. The night before he had dinner at their place, a cabin among the redwoods east of town. All remained gracious, but he would turn them down if they asked again. He could remain, well, professional, with Ben. He refused to endure the ache of seeing his former partner, and his former lover, together.

  When he entered, several mugs of black coffee steamed by a carafe on the desk. Ben and the head marshal, Bert McClary, laughed over a joke Creed had missed.

  “Jim, good to see you.” Ben patted him on the shoulder. “Are you ready to go after Corwin Blake today?”

  Creed squared his shoulders and tilted his head. At more than six feet tall, he stood nearly a head over the other men. “You know the answer to that.”

  “Good.” Ben took a half-full mug of coffee and drank, “It's my contention that Corwin Blake is in holed up somewhere in Railroad Flats.”

  “As clever a shit as Blake?” asked McClary. “That would be like hiding in plain sight.”

  Creed shook his head. He had checked in with the local marshal post earlier and felt unsatisfied with their work. “No, I think Ben’s right. Marshal Bateman has deputies all over Santa Cruz, but they hardly pay a mind to Railroad Flats.”

  “That's because we've been handling the Flats,” said McClary. “Several of Bateman's deputies were killed down there. Too inexperienced. That why we came to Santa Cruz in the first place.”

  “Ah,” Creed answered with a nod.

  McClary continued, “Ben and I patrol the Flats ourselves. We've been in most every building.”

  “You have a city map, Bert?”

  The head marshal stroked his peppered beard in thought, then stepped behind the desk. “I’ll do you one better. I’ve got a map of the Flats.” He sat, scooted the chair back, and removed a map from a drawer.

  Creed took it from him, unfolded it, and slapped it onto the desk. The other men could talk all day about their small city. Creed needed a visual reference.

  “You patrol this area, then,” Creed said, waving his hand over the map. “And the local law takes care of the rest of town, yet there are still abundant thefts and homicides.”

  “Yes.” McClary glanced out the window. “We’re working on it. Corwin Blake could be the worst killer we’ve had. The Flats, though? Do you have anything solid placing him there?”

  “I have some leads,” Ben said. “I sent Stanley to the flats last night.”

  “Did you now?” McClary glared at Ben.

  “I did, in plain clothes. He was grateful to get out from behind that desk. Since he's new, not many, if anyone, in Railroad Flats were bound to recognize him. If Creed and I had gone in yesterday, all mouths would have clamped shut.” Creed had met Stanley Ross upon his arrival two days before, a friendly young man, if naïve.

  “Right,” said Creed. “He drummed up some leads?”

  “Heard the name Corwin Blake itself. People there are scared. Got a place name, too. Seems Blake’s been seen at Iron Nelly's, on Westbrook, all times of the day.”

  McClary’s gaze softened. “I guess you do have something.”

  Creed placed his hands on the desk and studied the map. The Railroad from which the area took its name had its station toward the end of the Santa Cruz Municipal Wharf. Creed had taken it from San Francisco two days prior. Railroad workers, many of them Chinese, some farm hands, factory workers, and shop owners, lived in the area.

  “It’s a shame Marshal Bateman couldn't do better in the Flats,” said Creed. “Why were his deputies killed there?”

  McClary shrugged. “Inexperienced is all.”

  “I mean what motive did their killers have? Are they hiding something?”

  “Sure, themselves. There was a string of stagecoach robberies months back. We eventually rounded up most of the gang in the hills and in the Flats. More than one deputy ended up on the wrong end of a shootout.” McClary tapped near the middle of the map at a place about two blocks from the beach. “Iron Nelly's is right here. It's a busy saloon for the area. I'm surprised Corwin Blake would show his face there.”

  “Blake’s the type to tempt fate.” Creed crossed his arms.

  The door opened, and Mayor William Cooper stepped in. “Corwin Blake?” he intoned. “Are you saying that killer has come to Santa Cruz, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

  Creed extended his hand to Cooper, whose thick white eyebrows furrowed with concern.

  “We're mighty sorry about that, Mr. Mayor,” Creed said. “It's policy to let the local leaders know.”

  “You two haven't met, I assume,” said Nelsen. “Mayor Cooper, this is U.S. Marshal James Creed.”

  The mayor stepped forward on sure feet. “It is an honor to meet you, sir. I've heard stories.”

  “Most of them are probably just that.” Creed received the mayor’s warm, sturdy handshake.

  “Not true,” said Ben Nelsen. “I worked with James for two years in Dallas. He's better than his reputation.”

  “So,” said Cooper, in a deep voice that matched his looks. “Corwin Blake.”

  What could Creed say to put the mayor’s mind at ease? Maybe nothing. Creed felt uneasy most of the time and the only thing that gave him focus was stopping outlaws like Blake. “I've followed Blake all the way from Nevada. His latest crimes were in San Francisco, where he robbed several homes. In the first, he wounded the husband and got away. In the second, he killed a woman. Finally, he robbed and burned down a house with the family still inside.” Creed went silent for a moment to help maintain his stoic composure. “A witness saw him south of San Francisco early last week, so I did my own investigation and learned that he was heading to Santa Cruz. Apparently, he has contacts down here, cohorts, though I wasn't able to get any names.”

  “We need you to stop him,” Mayor Cooper said. “If anything happens to the people I serve...”

  What did the mayor intend to do? Creed looked out the window and collected his wits. Cooper was understandably frightened. “I intend to,” Creed answered. “I'm ashamed to admit that he's gotten away from me more than once already. I draw the line here.”

  “Keep me informed,” Cooper said. “Truth is, though, I came to speak with you, Marshal Creed, about another matter entirely.”

  “Oh?”

  Before the mayor could go on, McClary interrupted, “We need to wrap this briefing up first, Mayor Cooper.”

  Cooper frowned, but nodded and stepped outside. The three men decided on a simple plan. Creed and Nelsen would go to Railroad Flats immediately. Nelsen had a few informants there, more than could be said for Bateman, and he would speak to them. Armed with cash and the knowledge that Blake had been seen at Iron Nelly's, he figured they would uncover some secrets.

  Despite the poverty in Railroad Flats, the area had one pleasantry: a crisp ocean breeze. Creed enjoyed a deep breath of the cool, salt-tinged air and rode his spotted white horse, Johann.

  These weeks, chasing Blake around San Francisco, then learning of his flight to Santa Cruz, had tensed Creed’s shoulders and legs. At night, sleep took hours to arrive. He had taken to having a glass of whiskey at night to calm his nerves and take the past off his mind.

  He and Nelsen rode south on Center Street into the Flats. Unlike down Main Street or Pacific Avenue, the buildings here seemed mismatched in color and decoration, but uniform in style. Some were whitewashed, some polished, some painted green or blue. Most stood two stories tall. Creed slowed Johann to a trot and Nelsen followed suit with his steed.

  A sense of unease followed Creed, and it took him a moment to place it. The Flats, though ostensibly full of criminals, seemed peaceful enough this time of day. His mind, however, kept going back to the talk he’d had, just before he and Nelsen headed out, with Mayor Cooper. It seemed a local business woman, a madam, wanted to meet him. Creed hadn't visited a lady of the evening since before he had met his long-dead wife.

  The request to see him wasn’t unusua
l. Wherever Creed went, influential people of all sorts wanted to meet him. Yet this woman’s name struck him as odd. Anna Lynn Boyd.

  Boyd had been his wife's maiden name, and they'd had a daughter together, Laura Ann Creed. The first and last name were spooky, but Laura Ann had died in the same explosive fire that had killed his wife. In a way, Creed felt that his true life had ended that day. Because of the reminder alone, had almost turned down the madam’s invitation.

  “If we catch Blake today,” Creed had told the mayor, “I'll be heading out early tomorrow. There will be no time. If not, I'll be busy hunting down for the bastard.”

  Yet Mayor Cooper had shaken his head. “On the Centennial? How often does our glorious nation turn hundred years old? Stay for the fireworks.”

  “Then what?” Creed asked.

  “After that, take Miss Boyd up on her offer of dinner. She's a bright and fascinating woman. I've always enjoyed our talks.”

  Creed had accepted, reluctantly.

  “Here,” said Nelsen, and Creed broke out of his reverie.

  “What?” Creed rubbed his hand along his forehead, thinking how he should have been paying attention to the streets, the names of businesses, the wino down the road, the men with guns slung low on their hips. He always liked how Marshal Bill Hickock required town visitors to turn in their firearms while in Deadwood, and wondered why most other sheriffs and marshals didn’t do the same.

  Nelsen slid off his horse and tethered it to a post in front of a small, whitewashed shop. The sign above the door proclaimed it, “The Clock House.”

  “Officially,” Nelsen said as Creed hitched Johann to the post, “this place sells clocks that run on tiny steam engines.”

  “And unofficially?”

  Nelsen leaned closer to Creed and whispered, “Various black-market gadgets. They’re harmless, or we’d have to shut the shop down.”

  Creed had run across such items elsewhere, useful or entertaining bits of new technology. The California Technological Rights Act, authored by Miles Morgan's lawyers, made such inventions illegal if the inventor didn't work directly with one of Morgan’s big businesses, or pay hefty fees to the government.