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

by Jonathan Fesmire

  Upstairs, Anna stripped, relieved herself, and drew a bath. The pump felt stubborn in her hands, but she filled the tub and climbed in. She didn't bother with bath salts, a frequent luxury of hers. As she lay in the water she dozed on and off, memories from the long day working their way through her mind. She slipped deeper and woke abruptly when she breathed water into her nose.

  Coughing, she sat up. Jonny entered wearing his beige long johns and patted her back until she breathed clearly.

  Eyes half-closed, Jonny gazed at her hair, one hand on her back, one along the rim of the tub.

  “Do you think I take you for granted, Jonny?”

  He shook his head but gazed into the water. Anna wondered if he wished he could see more, or if he was just enjoying the view.

  “Good.” She kissed him and pushed back his hair for a look at the implant behind his ear. Was it continuing to heal his brain? It seemed strange to her that, while he could signal yes or no, he couldn't talk. They had tried learning sign together, but he seemed unable to retain any of it. Still, he could design machinery and often looked over her theories. He could understand her, yet had lost the ability to produce language.

  Anna took Jonny's free hand and placed it over her right breast. He gazed into her eyes as she kissed him again. As he kissed back, he wrapped an arm around her and squeezed her breast with his other hand. Water sloshed over the side of the tub. Anna stood and Jonny’s hand trailed down her hip to her thigh. Though tired, she could not deny how her body craved him.

  She grabbed a towel, handed it to him, and went to their bedroom. He followed and dried her off. As the pressure of his hands moved the cloth over her breasts, belly, and thighs, Anna grew more excited. He dried her back from the front, reaching around her, brushing his lips on her breasts as he moved downward.

  After they made love, Anna slept like the dead.

  In the morning, Anna rose before Jonny. She dressed in a simple brown skirt, cheap boots, and a blouse that would give her good range of movement for working. She went to the basement and stood beside her father's body.

  He had grown paler.

  The nerves in her gut tingling, Anna held her breath and checked the switches and lights. She touched his skin, which had warmed slightly, then pulled at the flesh on his arm and discovered it pliant. Why had his complexion gone so fair?

  Anna recalled the animal they had resurrected many months ago, a white cat. Under its fur, its skin had also grown pale. She had named it Math, after the Celtic god Mathonwy. Math had regained its health and lived in the basement until the day it disappeared. Anna still worried that the feline had died, or that someone had found it with its silvery healing unit.

  She placed her hands on the table and breathed slowly to let her anxiety pass. Paler skin seemed a part of the process. In the novel Jonny has just finished, Frankenstein, had the monster gone pale, too? She couldn’t recall but remembered stories straight from the occult beliefs in New Orleans about walking corpses. What was the word?

  Zombie.

  Is that what Math had been, what Creed would become?

  While Anna had shared the healing ether alloy with Morgan, she had kept the subtleties of resurrection between her, Jonny, and Zero. Among her parlor girls, her old friend Maybelle had become her confidante, but even she remained clueless about the technology. Until Anna had a better idea of its implications, she thought it best to keep the knowledge in her small family.

  Anna opened her father’s eyelids and a fit of crying hit her like blacksmith's hammer. His eyes had a glaze over them, and what appeared to be a black mold growing over the surface. The damage must have set in between his death and when they had put the healing unit in his chest. The heart, she thought she could handle, but his eyes?

  Anna collapsed to the floor. He used to gaze at her with those blue eyes when she was a child. They conveyed thoughtfulness and love and made his smiles and laughter real.

  After a few minutes her sobs lessened, and though still unable to stop shaking, she stood. She and Jonny would have to replace Creed’s eyes, attaching steely eyes to his optic nerves.

  Since he had been dead for a full night without the healing unit, she wondered if his brain could be revived at all. Still, it had restored other tissues, so why not the brain?

  After all these months, Jonny still had brain damage, true enough. Yet he had suffered a horrible blow to the head. Creed had not. For now, she could only wait.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Every day for the next two weeks, Anna wished she could wake her father and see him whole again. The thought only increased her stress, so she frequently reminded herself to be patient. Her medical machines and implants would keep Creed between life and death while his body healed.

  She kept busy with laboratory work during that period. The afternoon of Saturday, July eighth, after the turmoil of seeing her father’s eyes, she had enlisted Zero’s help, and together madam and steely had disassembled the dog models from the graveyard. Had the groundskeeper reported them? Probably to Miles Morgan for replacements.

  Since Anna had helped design the canine automatons, taking them apart came easily. A metal mesh, far finer than chainmail, covered their bellies like a rough skin, protecting internal circuitry and allowing them a free range of movement. This, she could re-purpose to create a pump for Creed's heart unit.

  Through July twentieth, life became a blur. Jonny and Zero helped design and assemble Creed’s new heart. In time, it would convert heat from his body into the energy it needed to pump blood. For the moment, she had to attach a small ether engine to get it started.

  On July twenty-first, Anna performed surgery on her father's chest. The healing ether could keep his tissues in a living state, but to resurrect him, his blood would have to flow. Tight catgut stitches merged mesh and muscle as she and Jonny gave Creed a new heart.

  Once done, with the rib separators removed, Anna also stitched his left pectoralis major, then the skin around the two readouts. Those resided in a circular plate the size of her palm, covered with a curve of thick glass. In four spots, she bolted it to Creed’s ribs.

  The engine unit hung from the side, and Anna flipped its switch to start her father’s heart. She placed her hand on his chest and felt the steady pumping. The readout meter rose, showing exactly sixty beats per minute. Anna pressed her forefinger to his wrist. After several seconds, she felt a pulse there as well.

  Anna shut off the leather straps but kept them in place. Jonny wheeled over a drip feeder that usually stayed in one of the cabinets, and Anna inserted the needle into a vein in Creed’s right arm. The liquid contained nutrients, as Creed’s body would now need food. She pulled the plug attached to the head unit, had Zero check the screws to ensure they were tight, and flipped on the internal ether power.

  That night, in what proved to be the most difficult of Creed’s surgeries, Anna and Jonny removed Creed's eyes. In their place, the couple installed a pair taken from one of the steely dogs. Anna had spent much of the day modifying them, but even without adjustments, they had the advantage of night vision.

  In bed, Anna dreamed of corpses pulling themselves from graves, dirt falling from shoulders in clumps, mechanical parts jutting from all over their rotting, naked forms. One old woman had a steely arm. A man had gears embedded in his face.

  Anna ran until she screamed herself awake and stared into the darkness. One of Jonny’s arms was draped across his belly. She ran her hand over it for comfort.

  Through the door came a woman’s voice. It was Charlotte Southerd, who had just turned eighteen. “Miss Boyd? Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

  “No,” Anna called. “Go away, I'm fine.”

  Anna expected to spend more time in the lab on the twenty-second, but as much as she wanted to check on Creed, she also dreaded the thought. She bathed, dressed in an ordinary gray gown and boots, and went outside through the saloon to take in some sunshine.

  “Good morning, Santa Cruz.” As the sun peeked
over buildings, men rode this way and that along Pacific, heading to work on the railroad, ranches, or one of Morgan’s factories. Several tipped their hats to her and she waved back.

  As she turned to enter the saloon, she caught sight of a new poster, next to the one for Blake. It read, “Deputies Wanted. Fair pay and work. See Marshal Walton Bateman.”

  She passed the bar where Karla worked. “Anna, could you help me with—”

  “In a bit.” Anna proceeded to her room and down to the laboratory where she checked on Creed.

  His chest lifted and fell as he breathed. His pulse, currently determined by the heart unit, pumped along at sixty beats per minute. If she wanted to, she could have roused him then, and part of her felt ready. She could get Jonny, they could hit the right switches, and her father would awaken, more or less alive. Anna ran her fingers through his hair and looked at the brain unit. Had it done what it should?

  “Dammit, if I don't do it now, I might never.” All her hopes rested on his waking up normal, but better to dive in head first, as Santa Cruz beach visitors said.

  Upstairs she shook Jonny. He stretched, legs jerking a few times. Anna gave him a quick kiss before shimmying out of her dress and putting on laboratory clothes. “It's time to wake him.”

  Jonny stripped out of his pajamas to don jeans, a bib shirt, and boots.

  Anna descended first and stared at her father under the Tesla lights. Jonny shut the trapdoor behind him and when he got to the table, gave Anna a quizzical look.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  James Creed stood behind the bar in Iron Nelly's cleaning one of his revolvers. The cylinder had a ragged hole, as though a bullet had exploded in the chamber. Only a gunsmith could fix it. He set it aside and checked his second six-shooter, its barrel glinting under the Tesla bulbs. This one appeared in good shape but radiated sadness. Could guns feel? Could they fix each other?

  He placed both on the bar and stared at them, their sleek curves and edges. How long had he been alone here, anyway? Creed looked around as a hazy light shined through gray curtains. Time for a beer. He found a mug, which might not have been there until just that second, next to the guns, and drank from it. He nearly spat out the beer, it tasted so bitter, but he managed to force it down and pushed the mug aside.

  Pain hit his chest. He doubled over, pressing his forehead into the rounded edge of the bar.

  “Stop!” His voice made no sound. He felt knives in his chest where he had been shot. Shot? When? Who had shot him?

  Sweat, tears, and spit sprinkled the wooden surface and his guns as he raised his head. The pain left but blood dripped on the counter. Creed touched his forehead. Had he cut himself? A fist-sized mass of meat floated before him. He staggered back and reached for his chest. His hand came back drenched with blood, and the dead heart fell to the floor.

  Creed had to move.

  He rushed to one of the front doors and gripped the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He pulled with all his strength, one foot braced against the wall. He kicked the handle hoping to jar the bolt out of place

  Further pain shot into Creed’s right temple as though someone were hammering nails through skin and muscle, into bone. With a searing headache, he tumbled down the stairs and screamed, grasping his forehead. He wanted to tear his hair out, skin with it, take away the part of him causing so much pain.

  At last it, too, faded. Creed staggered to the far side of the bar and pulled down a bottle of whiskey. The label read “Marshal's Special.” He pried out the cork and gulped the alcohol down. Strangely, it didn't burn his throat, but the pain in his head faded. He looked at the label again, and this time it said, “Boyd's One Dollar Mind Whiskey.” He kept drinking until he slumped behind the bar, the bottle in his lap. His vision blurred.

  Creed sat at a saloon table. It seemed to him something had happened ages ago, something about pain, about his chest. He unbuttoned his shirt. No wound, just smooth skin and bristles of chest hair. Not just smooth skin, but pale. The saloon was playing with his mind. When had he arrived here? He couldn’t remember. Maybe he would if he looked out on the street. So, he stood, went to the curtains, and pushed them aside.

  James Creed screamed. Agony filled his eyes and flared into his skull as though trying to tear apart his brain. He turned, staggered, and crashed into a table, but he knew only the pain, as though Hell itself thrived in his head.

  He pressed his hands to his eyes but that did no good. Behind the lids appeared the faces of dozens of men he had put behind bars. Darkness and light washed across each other and he saw some of them hanging for their crimes, their faces bloated. Next came men who had tried to kill him, young and old, baby faced and haggard.

  His own screams echoed around him as the room shook, and he heard bottles shattering.

  At last, mercifully, the pain stopped. Creed lay on his back feeling nothing.

  Eventually, he found that he had been staring at the back wall, now empty of bottles. He stood and gazed at the doors. This time, he wouldn’t let pain hold him back. He approached, ready to step outside.

  Light flooded Creed’s vision. He tried to cover his eyes but something held down his arms. He pulled harder and felt such panic that he thrashed against whatever was holding him. To get ahold of his emotions, he squinted and gazed at his body.

  A linen sheet covered most of him, but underneath he wore nothing. A series of leather straps held him against a table. Beyond him, but blurry, he thought he saw white walls, shelves, cabinets, and piles of odd steel shapes.

  Also, he wasn't alone.

  A young woman in a simple tan blouse stood to one side, and a young man in an off-white bib shirt stood at the other. Creed's upper lip twitched and he shut his eyes. He smelled, faintly, burned honey—no, blacksmithing coal—and a whiff of alcohol.

  Creed wanted to remain calm, though his nerves tingled in his belly and chest. He expected to feel his heart rushing, but it kept a steady pace.

  “Let me out.” His voice came out a croak.

  He looked at the stunned woman, then the young man, and recognized neither, yet he had a feeling he should know the lady. Eyes closed again, he tried to remember how he had arrived here. A saloon. Was he still in Texas? No. San Francisco?

  “Marshal Creed.” Despite the harsh light, the woman’s eyes had dilated wide. “That's who you are. Do you remember?”

  “What do you want from me?” he tried to ask, but his voice came out raspy and unintelligible.

  The woman kept her gaze on him. “Jonny, get him a cup of water, please.” Her companion went up a staircase.

  Looking back at her, the name Laura came to him, but that didn't seem right. It seemed very wrong, in fact. Laura, that was someone who had died. He tried to remember more, but even the name fled his thoughts.

  Frustrated, he jerked his head against the bonds. The room, the woman, the restraints, all screamed danger. As he tried to pull himself up against the thick leather, Creed glimpsed his chest.

  Curved glass and metal shined from his skin, above his heart, and smoke rose from it. It thumped steadily. His vision was sharper, his heart mechanical. Creed breathed quickly, as though he had just run a mile. “What did you do to me?”

  The right side of his skull ached, too, and he wanted to touch his head when creaking gears to his left caught his attention.

  There stood a metal man. Creed stared in terror and pulled repeatedly at the restraints.

  “Everything is going to be all right, Marshal,” the woman said as the young man descended the stairwell. “You've had an accident. We're here to help.”

  Creed had to get out.

  First, the metal man. Creed mustered his strength and pulled hard on the right arm restraint. Wood cracked, and he pulled harder.

  Then came a sharp pinch in his neck and his strength left him.

  Creed’s muscles went slack and his eyes shut. His chest rose with each breath. Zero pulled its arm back and re
tracted the needle. Gazing at her father’s face, Anna held her hand under his nose to feel his breath. With each moment, it slowed until calm. Anna took his left hand and stroked it, feeling the roughness on the back, the smoothness on the palm. The constant healing ether had turned the burns into reddish scar tissue. She opened and closed his fingers and found his skin flexible and lifelike.

  “I wish I knew what he was thinking,” Anna said. “If he was thinking.”

  Over the course of healing him, she had grown used to him lying in apparent peace. His skin had grown paler, bordering on white, yet he was essentially alive.

  Anna checked the two circular readouts on his chest unit, where the stitched skin had already begun growing together. The hands indicated that the device had pumped faster as he became enraged, as it should. She retrieved a screwdriver and removed the miniature steam engine from its port. As she turned it off, a final puff of whiteness escaped. Now that he had been enlivened, his own physical energy would keep the heart pumping.

  The table had a small crack by his right arm, where he had pulled hard on the straps. This construction should have withstood the strength of any man. Unexpectedly, it seemed the process had made Creed stronger.

  “We're not going to treat you like Frankenstein's creature. You hear that, Marshal Creed? You're not a monster.” Anna stroked her father's undamaged cheek then used a corner of the sheet covering him to wipe the spittle from his lips. “I won't abandon you.” She refused to believe he had become mindless. A zombie.

  Anna sent Jonny upstairs to do what he pleased. She thought he would likely start reading another book. “I'll sound an alarm if I need you, but he should wake up soon and it would be best if he sees just me.” She had Zero stand by the forge room and against the wall.

  Though Anna hated waiting, she thought it wise to stay with Creed. She checked his heart and head readings. She paced in thought and dimmed the light. Every ten minutes, she fed him sips of water. She considered rolling the information arch, the portion that connected to the top of the operating table above the patient’s head, back into place, but decided against it. After a few hours, she sat in a rocking chair, ten feet where Creed lay, watching him.