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

by Jonathan Fesmire

  When Creed failed to pry open the jaw with one hand, he grabbed a plate edge on the metal head. He wrapped his legs around Bernard’s lower body and pulled, baring his teeth with the strain.

  Cantrell had seen Creed run as fast as a horse. Here, he moved like lightning. Tales said Creed had a fast draw and was impossible to shoot, yet this put all the descriptions to shame. He hadn’t seen the marshal move at all. His hand gripped Bernard’s jaw, then suddenly was at the side of its head.

  Just under the din of their cries came the low creak of metal.

  Yet—Cantrell hoped, at least—Bernard had Creed distracted. He could imagine the marshal firing at him if he approached. Cantrell took a thick needle from his pouch and removed the protective cap, an idea he had come up with after Anna’s big steely had laid him out with a poke of its finger.

  Cantrell got to his knees. Bernard’s bolts screeched in their sockets and its lights flickered and Creed cried louder, perhaps as Bernard gripped tighter. On hands and knees, Cantrell rushed toward them and pushed the needle into Creed's neck.

  Bodacious Creed turned his furious gaze on El Tiburón, who nearly let go of the needle but managed to press the plunger. He tried to scramble back but Creed's hand grasped his wrist and Cantrell screamed. Though he wore thin steel plating under his shirt like medieval armor, nothing protected his wrists. In terror, he felt the hardness, the power in the marshal’s hand. He tried to jerk away but that only sharpened the agony.

  Just when it felt his bones would snap, Creed’s grip opened and his head hit the ground. Bernard snarled for another few seconds, then let go and backed away.

  Though Cantrell wanted to check his automaton for bent plating or shorn bolts, he had no idea how long the tranquilizer would last. The doctor he had bought it from, a block north of the Cooper Brothers Mercantile, said that amount would put down an elephant and kill a man. Cantrell figured it would last a couple of hours.

  The bounty hunter stood and rubbed his aching wrist, suspecting that if Creed had wanted to, he could have ripped the hand clean off. It felt perhaps bruised, but nothing was broken. He could manage.

  Cantrell put Creed's hat and mask into the marshal's pack, slung that over his shoulder, and lifted Creed in both arms. Creed was nearly as tall as Cantrell, and though lean, he felt especially heavy. Dense, like lead. Still, Cantrell was more robust than most men. He carried Creed through the tunnels with the steely in front of him, lighting and leading the way.

  Outside, the bounty hunter tied Creed's wrists together, legs and feet together, and his arms against his torso. He ordered Malcolm to kneel, and with the steed’s back low enough, he heaved Creed across the rump, just behind the saddle. He tied Creed as securely as he could, mounted, and headed back toward town, Bernard trotting behind.

  Gregg would be waiting for him to deliver Creed, but he doubted his employer would feel satisfied.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Creed shook off the exhaustion and paralysis from his deep yet troubled sleep. Someone, far away, shouted in distress. Eyes still shut, he realized that he lay on his side, a hard mattress beneath him, his hands behind his back. He pulled at them and felt the hard rings of handcuffs.

  Shouts echoed and he caught the scents of piss, alcohol, and sweat. He struggled to open his eyes. “Ah… fuck!” he yelled, and his lids snapped open. Mechanical heart pounding, he swung his feet to the ground and sat.

  Creed was on a wooden bed with a thin mattress, pillow, and no blankets. Another glance revealed the rest. Two rows of jail cells and he was locked in one. He looked out the barred window above his bed and saw only darkness beyond.

  El Tiburón. Rob Cantrell and his steely hound. That had been a quick fight, and the automaton had given Cantrell the upper hand. The bounty hunter had turned him in for the reward.

  “Get me away from him!” cried the voice that had forced Creed out of sleep. He had felt little pain since his resurrection, yet now his head throbbed as though it would split open. His right arm felt as though in a vice. The hound. He meant to reach up and rub his forehead but found his wrists held fast behind his back.

  “He's awake! C'mon, don't leave me in here with him!”

  Creed recognized that voice. He forced himself to stand, wavered at first, then stepped to the bars and looked along the row. It contained six cells, three on either side the central path. Creed was locked in the third cell on one side, the other prisoner in the first cell on the other. Though he saw the man clearly, his mind had gone fuzzy, so it took a few seconds to recognize Edward Hartgraul.

  “Quiet!” shouted Creed. “That’s enough from you.” He found it ironic he should get locked up with the first man he had brought in since starting his new quest for justice. Then again, Hartgraul probably spent several nights a week in one jailhouse or the other.

  By all accounts, including what he’d seen for himself, Edward Hartgraul was a terrible brothel owner. The rare distinction of benevolent hustler of prostitutes belonged to Anna Boyd. As for Hartgraul, Creed heard the man spied on his doves while they entertained, beat them if they didn’t fuck enough johns, and gave them as little as possible out of their earnings.

  The pimp continued yelling and banging on the wall. Creed pulled at his wrists again and felt the chain go taut. He knew the government hadn’t put a bounty on him for bringing in outlaws. He’d done nothing a bounty hunter couldn’t get away with. Hell, one could make an argument that he was still a U.S. marshal.

  Like the stranger in the forest, the one with the big steely, they wanted to study the machinery that made him fast and strong, and that kept him alive. They wanted Anna’s technology for themselves.

  A voice called from behind the hallway door. “Stop the noise in there! Can't a man have his coffee?”

  Hartgraul stopped banging, but the heaviness of his breathing carried through the cell block. Then, the door swung open, letting in the smells of eggs, bacon, and toast. In walked a marshal Creed didn’t recognize, with a white van dike and peppered gray hair, hat shoved squarely on his head, his marshal's uniform freshly pressed.

  Creed hated feeling vulnerable, cuffed at the wrists, without his guns, coat, or mask. He couldn't stand it when parents abused their children, the rich took advantage of the poor, or when criminals preyed on society, and he hated feeling trapped himself.

  “Well, Ed,” the man said in a drawl, “have you slept it off yet?”

  Hartgraul went quiet as he noticed the marshal. “Yes, Marshal Orange. Got a fierce ache in my skull, but I ain't drunk.”

  Creed considered his own headache and realized it was already fading, perhaps another benefit of his strange resurrection.

  “Maybe next time you won't be rowdy in the streets.” Orange crossed his arms and cocked his head. “You never know who might share the jail with you.”

  Hartgraul gave a pitiful laugh and glanced at Creed. When their eyes met, the pimp looked back at the living marshal, who took the ring of keys off his belt and went through it slowly. Even from across the room Creed saw that just one key looked made for the jail cells, but Orange took his time while Hartgraul held tightly onto the bars.

  Orange unlocked the cell with a rattle and pulled it open. “Get the hell back to your establishment. We're watching you, Ed.”

  Hartgraul hurried out. Creed thought the other would follow, but the marshal instead stared at him. “Bodacious Creed. Bodacious. Take bold and audacious, and what do you get? You, I guess. Who are you, really?”

  Creed watched him approach.

  “Don't want to talk to me? Ain't I a fellow marshal?”

  Creed slowly nodded then spoke in his gravelly voice. “Don't have much to say. Why don’t you tell me why the service was offering a reward for my capture?”

  Orange swallowed and the pupils of his gray eyes widened. “If I thought you were James Creed,” he said, “I might.” He sauntered up to the bars and held onto them, but eyed Creed warily.

  “Who else would I be?” Creed knew w
hat to expect. Before dying, he had believed in the basic tenets of Christianity. Yet there had been nothing between his death at the hands of Corwin Blake and Anna Boyd reviving his body. No tunnel of light, no angels, no shimmering gates. There hadn’t even been darkness. First, he had been on the ground in pain. Then, in the dream version of Iron Nelly’s. He felt sure, if he’d experienced Heaven or Hell, he would have had some recollection.

  Anna had given him a second chance at the only life he would ever get. Still, he longed for the nothingness. He hadn’t asked to return.

  In Orange’s gaze, Creed saw the fervor of a man who believed everything he learned in church, read Revelation at breakfast, and took the stories literally.

  “You’re no man. You certainly ain't James Creed. You're a demon, spawn of the devil himself.”

  The marshal flinched as Creed laughed. “You’re going to think what you're going to think. Meanwhile, there's a real criminal out there you seem to be ignoring. Remember Corwin Blake?”

  “He fled Santa Cruz. There was a bank heist up in Fresno a few days back. We just got word of it today, and people are saying it's Blake's doing. Oh, we're after him, but here, we're on more of a holy mission.”

  “Is that the official stance, or yours?”

  “It amounts to the same.”

  “I've been dead, remember?” Creed said. “There was nothing. Those days I was gone, I didn’t exist, not until machinery brought me back.” He blinked his eyes to emphasize his steely side. “You're thinking all wrong. Shouldn't you have a good reason to believe in your god?”

  The marshal banged the bars. “You're a liar, like the devil that spawned you.”

  “Try thinking for yourself, Marshal.”

  “That's enough!” Orange leveled his gun at Creed's head.

  Creed's anger flared and he wrenched his arms apart. The chains snapped. One thick link flew and cracked against the wall. Creed reached through the bars, grabbed the marshal’s arm, and twisted it. The gun clattered against the wooden floor and Orange moaned in agony. When Creed let go, Orange staggered back, rubbing his wrist. Before Orange could make another move, Creed knelt, grabbed the gun, and stepped back.

  The hall door opened and in strode someone Creed recognized, Marshal Hector Peake. He had worked with this man before but had no set opinion on him. Peake came off as aloof and full of false sincerity, yet he followed the law and kept his word.

  He glanced at the gun in Creed’s hand then glared at Orange. “What in the hell are you up to?”

  Marshal Orange remained silent, lips in a petulant pout.

  “Get out,” Peake said. Orange skulked out the door.

  “You mind giving me that pistol?” Peake held out his hand.

  Creed turned the grip toward Peake and passed it through the bars.

  “I didn't choose him if you were wondering. Boris Orange has his own ideas, but he served a term as town marshal before joining the service. Did he call you a demon? He's been mumbling about that all morning. I consider myself a godly man, but there ain't never been any demons walking the Earth. Now, have you guessed why you're here?”

  Creed stared into Peake’s eyes. “Somebody wants to know what makes me tick.”

  “I think you’re right, so we’ve been ordered to send you to San Francisco. That’s all I know.”

  “You’re Okay with that?”

  “James,” Peake said, “if it were up to me, I'd let you out. Better, I'd reinstate you as a marshal. Pass your wrists through so I can take those off.”

  This was the Hector Peake that Creed knew, a man who followed orders and made excuses. Yes, a marshal had to follow the dictates of superiors, but a good one at least questioned those he found ethically ambiguous. Creed put his hands through the bars and Peake removed his key chain from his belt, quickly selecting the handcuff key.

  As Peake removed the cuffs, Creed spoke. “Blake is still out there, and take my word, crime will rise with me put away. I think you get that, Peake. You might be able to capture him, but you’d have a far better chance with my help.”

  Peake frowned but said nothing. With the cuffs, broken chains hanging from his hands, he went out the door back to the offices. With the other cells empty, Creed held onto two bars and pulled as hard as he could, undead muscles straining, the feeling of blood moving faster through his veins. After a minute, he stopped and tried another spot. No use. The chain links on the cuffs had popped apart where soldered. These bars were solid and far thicker. Still, he knew the marshals wouldn’t set him free. He had to find a way out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Anna woke up the morning of Wednesday, August ninth, with Jonny's arm draped over her naked body, his right hand resting on her breasts, his chest and lean belly pressed against her back. She turned over and kissed him awake. When his eyes fluttered open, he was smiling. They made love, a welcome diversion from the slough of worries that had weighed on her mind since Creed's return. When they finished, Jonny relaxed in the bed, eyes closed, a sheen of sweat on his chest, and Anna kissed his forehead.

  She had plenty to do today. Poor Zero still needed some work done after the break-in. It bothered her that she didn't know who had taken the mechanical brain.

  Hopefully, Creed would let her know soon where he was hiding out. He wasn't going to stop going after the Santa Cruz underground. She wished he would lie low for a while, maybe get out of the city altogether. But that wasn't like the man she had come to admire from afar. Creed was a man of justice.

  The cacophony coming from the saloon caught Anna’s attention, a loud discord of voices, instruments, claps, and stamps. The bedroom clock read seven twenty, and she thought the saloon hadn’t been this noisy since Creed’s first appearance after his resurrection.

  She sniffed her armpit and knew she had better hurry with a bath, then get out there. Cowboys and ranchers might get to stink, but not a woman of influence. Anna pumped the lukewarm water and bathed. After she got out and dried, she brushed the tangles from her ebony hair and left it hanging to her shoulders.

  Anna slipped into a tight blue and pink dress and pulled on socks and boots. A minute later, she walked through the hall to the saloon and looked over the crowd in surprise.

  The House of Amber Doves was standing room only, filled with the usual men and more. Ranch hands, factory and railroad workers, and cowboys were there, but also some women, and shop owners, along with Anna’s doves and other people from all over town. Those who had managed to procure tables ate breakfasts of hash browns, ham, eggs, bacon, and the occasional mutton steak, guzzling coffee and ale. Most of those standing nursed a drink, and everyone was talking.

  Anna paused in the hallway, taking a moment to sort her thoughts. Had the time come to hire another cook? Could Pedro and Marjory handle this crowd? How much would her girls make today? And why in the hell was everyone here? She eased past bustling bodies as best she could, even caught a whistle or two as she went by, and pushed open the swinging kitchen door.

  Inside, Pedro had what looked like four orders on the grill, and Marjory mashed potatoes in a big bowl on a counter.

  Eliza, one of Anna's most popular doves but also a fair waitress, whisked past her bringing a tray of food to the saloon. Georgia, a tall, beautiful, part negro working girl with bouncy black hair, poured coffee into three mugs.

  Hattie nearly bumped into Anna from behind as she came from the dining area. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, then called back to Pedro, “One taters 'n eggs, one taters, eggs, n' bacon.”

  These were the doves best at cooking and waiting tables, and Anna appreciated their initiative that morning, even though they could all make more upstairs in their own rooms than in the kitchen.

  Anna grasped Hattie's arm, giving the dove a little jump, and asked, “What in the world is going on? Why are so many here?”

  “Seems this is where they all decided to come to talk,” Hattie said, “'bout what happened late last night.”

  Anna felt dread rise from he
r belly, as though she’d taken a punch. Hattie started to turn, but Anna grabbed her other arm. “What news?”

  “That bounty hunter, El Tiburón, dragged Creed to jail yesterday. I'm surprised there ain't been a bar fight with so many in here on one side or t'other.”

  Anna released her hold. “Don’t let me keep you.” As Hattie went back to the saloon, Anna’s mind raced. Some duplicitous double-dealer had caught and turned in her father for the bounty. Anna worked her way to the front door and down the steps. Folks even stood on the porch and in the road, and as she left, she finally made out what people were saying. While some talk covered the mundane, like the weather, child rearing, and whom a man or two hoped to bed at The House of Amber Doves, most discussed Creed. It was like a rundown of the last month: his death, his return, the criminals he had put away, and his unusual speed and strength. Some whispered about his mask and his scarred, pale face.

  Anna had to do something. He didn't belong in jail. What did the marshals plan? Would they find Blake, as Creed was trying to do, or were they interested only in what kept Creed alive?

  She would head to the new federal post and demand to see him. Everyone in Santa Cruz knew she regarded him as a hero. Perhaps her influence in town would carry some weight.

  At Smullen’s Stables and Livery, Anna strode down the row where Ott kept Espiritu, her boots crunching hay into the dirt. The air smelled of horse musk and manure.

  As she neared her steed she heard a familiar female voice that seemed out of place in the stable. “They wouldn't tell me anything, wouldn't even let me see him.”

  Anna looked around and realized the woman had to be in the next row over. The speaker sounded distraught and therefore loud, which made sense. Otherwise, Anna wouldn't have been able to hear her over the neighs, whinnies, and shifting horses.

  Down the long row was a crossing pathway, so Anna took it and headed toward the voice.

  Ott spoke as well. “At least you tried. I don't see what else can be done.”