CHAPTER THIRTY
After reading Anna’s message, Creed tore the paper into tiny pieces and let them drift from the small window above his bunk until the breeze deposited them among the blades of grass. Peake brought him a meal of chicken, potatoes, and corn, and at sundown, Creed laid down and hoped for sleep. He had grown used to dozing during the day and patrolling at night. Creed slept, now and then waking for a few minutes as the day became darker, then turned to night.
“When you’re free, stay with us,” it had read. Creed rubbed his beard. Yes, perhaps the time had come to give Anna and Jonny that level of trust.
He thought that a drink would drown his ruminations about what his life had become, and his ongoing wish to return to quiet death. He knew neither Orange nor Peake would give him so much as a jigger of moonshine, so he turned his thoughts back to life before reanimation. He thought of Heidi from his time in Texas, her tender skin, her lips that could be stern or yielding. That brought up a blur of criminals from stagecoach robbers to rapists. Then Blake, an indiscriminate murderer who always got away.
Creed looked out at the stars and placed the time a bit past midnight. He lay back down. With his keen hearing and the fact that Peake had left the door open a crack, Creed heard the marshals talking about Bill Hickok, the marshal of Deadwood, South Dakota. He recognized Stanley Ross’s excited voice, along with those of Peake and Orange. It seemed that Hickock had nearly been shot on August second. Without a doubt he would have died, a bullet in his head, except that the saloon’s guard steely had tackled the shooter.
Another memory flickered in Creed's mind at the mention of Hickock. Before Blake had killed him, Creed had planned on telling Bateman to have everyone in town check their guns in with the local marshal’s office. Hickok himself had used the policy in Deadwood to prevent gun fights.
As if to punctuate the importance of such an idea, two gunshots cracked outside. Creed sprung to his feet just as two more bangs followed.
He stood on the bed and peered out the window, but saw only the grass and the back sides of other buildings. The urge to investigate swept over him and he slammed his fist into the wall. Marshal Bateman was ineffective and the U.S. marshals seemed interested in little more than Creed himself. Maybe someone had fired in the air in drunken revelry. He looked down with his head against the wall and breathed through the sense of urgency. Let the marshals take care of it.
The main door slammed fully shut, and the voices went dim. What were the three in there doing?
About twenty minutes later, arguing voices came from the main office, then orders barked, and a slew of heavy footfalls. Though he heard the sounds more loudly than he would have before, the thick barrier still muffled the exact words.
Creed stepped to his cell door. “What’s happening in there?” The rabble did not die down, so he called again. “Let me help!”
When the door finally opened, he expected to see one of the two aggravating new marshals. Instead, Bateman entered.
“What's happening? Where were the shots from?” Creed asked.
This was the first time that Bateman had seen Creed since his reanimation, and he looked at him, hands shaking. “There's been a massacre,” Bateman stated. “Edward Hartgraul. You know who that is. That first night you came back you caught him beating a girl.”
“Is he dead, or did he do the killing?”
The local marshal glanced into the noisy office. Creed now heard them clearly, planning a large manhunt for the killer. “Neither. Hartgraul survived by wrapping swatches of his dead wife’s dress around his own slit throat.”
“Bateman!” shouted Boris Orange. “Having a pow-wow with the prisoner? Get back here. We need to find the killer. Now.”
“I'm just sorry you can't help us.” Bateman went back into the office and shut the heavy door.
“Peake! Let me out, and let me help!” No one came, so he planted his fists on his hips and paced. Was the killer Blake? Someone else? He yearned to catch him and hated his imprisonment.
Peake watched as his posse rode off, including Deputy Marshal Stanley Ross and Rob Cantrell. Two men remained, the cowboys who reported the crime. One had seen a pale, aging, naked woman with machine parts on her head outside the Horseheart Saloon. After hearing the gunshots, he had convinced his friend to ride to the federal marshal post to report it. Neither had sobered up.
Aaron, the ranch hand who had spoken with the woman, stood with his sleeves rolled up, sweat stains under his arms, tapping his boot heel. He smelled of armpit odor, beer, and dirt. “You couldn’t miss her. Scraggly hair. Uh, probably black hair. Hard to tell by the street lights. That metal doodad on her head. Butt naked, full bush.” His friend punched his shoulder at that. “Toned muscles, like maybe she does a lot of yard work. Tight bottom.”
“All right, enough,” said Peake. The deputies had every bit of that information except for the tight ass, and he doubted her strong buttocks would make a difference in finding her.
“The thing is,” Aaron said, gazing upward thoughtfully, “I almost recognized her, just don’t know from where. I’m trying to imagine what her face would’ve looked like without those sunken eyes. I knew Luis and Rico. We both used to work on that ranch. And Nan, she seemed decent enough—”
His companion, Harvey, interrupted. “They were all fucking coots. Nan was the meanest biddy I ever met. She’s why I went to Plowshares only once then switched to Amber Doves.”
“Head on out,” Peake told them. “See what you can find, and be careful. And no more drinking tonight or you’ll be useless.” Though he had deputized them, he suspected they would just go home at that point. The marshals had plenty of deputies after the naked woman already.
A moment after the men left, Orange came in with his palms on the butts of his guns.
Peake pointed at his subordinate. “You need to get out there and search now. Have the men to check the main streets, the Flats, everywhere.”
“What about the other whorehouses?” Orange asked.
“You got any tokens for The House of Amber Doves, you can use them when you have time off.”
“No, I mean she attacked one, she might—”
“Damn, you’re right.” Peake took his seat behind the desk and pressed his palms to his temples. “Good idea. Amber Doves is the only other one, right? Get on that, Boris. Stop those two I just sent out. Have them go with you.”
“Wait there!” Orange called to the men. “I need you to come with me.” He opened the closet behind Peake’s desk where they kept rifles, and Peake closed his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts.
The front window shattered and something thumped against the floor. Peake jerked to his feet and heard the hissing before he spotted the red sticks and burning fuse. He skirted the desk, grabbed the dynamite, and hurled it back the way it had come.
Orange barreled from the closet, rifle in hand, as the boom ripped through the air. Dust rose and hovered over the street like fog.
Peake staggered back. Did Aaron and Harvey have time to mount their horses and gallop off? A short man entered through the main door, pistol drawn and pointed at Orange, but the marshal aimed the rifle at the man’s head and fired. Peake recoiled at the sound, expecting to see a splatter of blood and bone.
The intruder didn’t flinch as two gun blasts resounded, one a split-second after the other.
Beside Peake, Orange collapsed.
Two other men, both older and bigger than the first, entered with pistols drawn. Peake scrambled behind the desk and looked at Orange. His fellow marshal lay dead, blood pooling around his head like a halo.
Peake’s mind caught up. The small man who had killed Orange was Corwin Blake.
Orange’s body slid past the desk, but Peake didn’t check to see who was dragging it. Carefully, he gazed around the left side, though he was a right-handed shooter, when a gunshot rang and a bullet buzzed past his ear. The marshal pulled back.
“You two, guard this one.” The tenor voice carr
ied a slight whine. Keys—Orange’s, no doubt—jingled as a man grunted vague agreement. The lock to the cell block door clicked and the door thudded against the wall.
Peake eased to the other side of the desk but knew that either Blake or his second man would be watching. Boot falls echoed in the cell block. Two sets of feet, two men. Peake rubbed his forehead and wished Creed had his guns, as absurd as that would have seemed a minute ago.
A buzz then a thump reverberated through the cell block, and Peake chanced a look over the desk. One of Blake’s men, a thick-necked guard with straggly hair, gun still trained at the desk, was staring down the hall.
Peake fired.
The man’s arm flailed upward, and his gun hit the ceiling then bounced on the floor. A wave of blood and chunks of pink leaped from his hand and out the shattered window. Just as Peake ducked, he saw that he had blown off several fingers.
“Fuck! Fucking fucker!” The man screamed and Peake heard him run into the cell block hall.
“Leave it alone. We got what we came for.” Blake’s voice lost its childish tone.
“Fuck that, Blake!”
Peake heard pounding feet and something dragging across the wooden floor.
“Took your eyes off him, did you?” Blake asked. “Idiot. Wrap up that hand then help us carry him.”
“How can I carry—”
“You’ll do it or I’ll shoot you in the head! Now you, get him in here!”
Peake chanced another look. One of Blake’s men dragged Creed by the legs then let them drop. The other held his damaged hand, wrapped in a blood-soaked bandana, to his chest.
How had they knocked Creed unconscious? For that matter, Peake wondered how Cantrell had managed the same. He shut his jaw tightly, knowing they would come for him next. Blake didn’t leave witnesses. He had noted where Blake stood, so perhaps he would get a clean shot.
The marshal lowered his head, cocked his gun, and rose.
Just as he did, Creed came to life.
With a heavy boot, Creed kicked Blake hard in the crotch. The outlaw’s superhuman powers didn’t extend to his testicles. Blake’s knees hit the hard floor and he screamed, holding his privates.
Creed rolled, grabbed the legs of the man Peake had shot, and pulled him down. Quick as thought, he took the man’s second gun and turned it on Blake.
As Blake’s other accomplice raised his pistol, Peake shot him. “Ah, shit!” The man’s arm jerked back and as Peake prepared to fire again, the man bolted out the door.
Creed fired, but Blake jumped to his feet, unharmed, and shot back. The speed of these gunfighters! Peake could scarcely believe it. Still, compared to Creed, Blake was like a runner next to a train. Before Peake knew it, Creed was on his feet. Blake punched the contraption at Creed’s temple and the larger man reeled.
Blake rushed out the door, shaking his fist. Creed flew behind him, and as Peake went to the entrance to watch, more gunfire rang. The dust had settled. Harvey and Aaron were gone; to Peake’s relief, the men had managed to escape.
The gunfighters, though, moved like leopards. They were already a block north, Creed about to catch up with the outlaw.
Dirt billowed in the road in front of Creed. He rushed through it but flew back at an explosion. He covered his mouth and nose in the crook of his arm, coughing, while Blake’s boot falls began to fade. Creed stood and walked through the grit to where the air cleared. A dust bomb with a secondary explosion, something new.
Creed ran along Center Street, sure he would not see Blake. Perhaps the killer was hiding behind a building or a barrel, peeking out and laughing at him. Creed jogged up the road another block, but all signs of Corwin Blake had vanished. The ground was too boot, hoof, and wheel trodden to take footprints. The illegal technology market in Santa Cruz provided Blake with some nice toys, probably even items Anna wouldn’t recognize.
He looked back at the outpost two blocks south, where Peake watched him from the steps. After all that happened, he had nothing to fear from the marshal. Peake had held his own, and for that had earned Creed’s respect. As Creed jogged back to the post, Peake continued to stare, and as the gunfighter ascended the stairs, he backed away.
Creed stepped over the corpse of Boris Orange, closed his eyes, and gave a nod of respect. He took his own belongings from a closet shelf. With a frown, Creed donned the heavy mask and his hat, strapped his gun belts across his hips, strapped his dagger into his right boot, put on his ammo belts, and pulled on his duster. Satisfied, he went out the front door without a look back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Cantrell waited under the awning of Barrels, a general store that sold mostly dry goods, across from The House of Amber Doves. The other deputies had gone elsewhere in search of the Plowshares killer, but Cantrell figured she had killed at one brothel, and would likely attack the other. Plowshares was blocks away, not miles, so he wondered why she hadn't arrived. Could his intuition have misled him? Maybe she had stopped in some alley to calm her nerves or had lost her way. From the drunk cowboy's description, she sounded fucking insane.
Minutes ago, gunshots had blasted to the west. His first instinct was to ride there to investigate. However, surely other deputies would rush to the scene. Cantrell had a hunch everyone in Boyd’s brothel was in danger. The warm, damp night, with clouds creeping across the sky, felt like one for murder.
Though he expected her to come, his gut dropped when he spotted her staggering along Pacific Avenue, naked and pale, hands and torso stained with blood. Her scraggly hair hung to her shoulders but one patch must have been shaved. There, a shining bulge hugged her skull.
He drew his Lawkeeper. An electrical burst to the machinery just might take her down. The specialized gun had one tranquilizer dart as well, but not as powerful as what he had used on Creed. As she ambled along, Cantrell unslung Bernard, currently in sphere shape, from his saddle.
Though he had glanced away for mere seconds, when he looked back, the woman was running.
“Fuck!” Cantrell dropped Bernard and his gun, bolted forward, and tackled her. They crashed to the stairs. She struck him in the ribs. He rolled and retched with the shock, but refused to relent. When Cantrell struggled to stand, the zombie slugged him in the gut.
He staggered back and tried to breathe, and she leaped. Now he hit the ground first, the woman on top of him. The next instant her long nails swept toward his face.
Had Cantrell been religious, he would have considered the next moment a miracle. Her nails scarcely touched his cheek when a metallic force slammed into her.
First, he thought it was Bernard. Cantrell rolled over, chest, back, and belly aching, and he managed to stand up. He spotted not Bernard, but a larger canine steely. A wolf model. He’d seen them in the first Morgan’s catalog, but they went off the market after a few months.
The woman kicked the beast. It flipped and landed on its back. Horse hooves pounded in swift approach. Three riders in black stopped near him and leaped from the mounts.
Not deputies. Who were the newcomers? Underground, probably, members of Maxwell Gregg’s gang. Cantrell reached for his Colt but realized he couldn’t take them alone. He went to Bernard as fast as the pain would let him and opened its casing.
The steely unfolded in seconds as Cantrell picked up his Lawkeeper. He managed a long breath then dashed for the horses. “To me!” he shouted and heard the welcome bark of his automaton.
He tossed the Lawkeeper from his right hand to his left but before he could draw his six-shooter, new pain swept his body. As he hit the ground, Bernard leaped over him. One of the three riders faced him, his own Prietto and Sons Lawkeeper in hand. Cantrell lay frozen from the electrical shock.
The man dashed for his horse, Bernard at his heels. Cantrell struggled to rise. How many times could he fall in fifteen seconds? He had a strange urge to laugh. Yet now he knew the agony of that electrical current. Guilt hit him for how he’d jolted Boyd’s partner unconscious outside her laboratory.
&nb
sp; The horsemen raced away as Cantrell, helpless, watched. One rider held the woman on his saddle, holding her ghostly body close. Bernard ran after them.
A tall figure in black, tails of his long coat flying behind, ran past him in pursuit of the kidnappers.
Creed.
Questions raced through Cantrell’s mind. Who were those men? How had Creed gotten free? As Creed and the strangers sped into the distance, Bernard trotted back. Cantrell looked from the bordello to the shop, and it seemed surreal that moments ago there’d been a wild zombie woman, bandits, and a wolf steely with him.
The strangers had been fast. Were they undead, like Creed and the zombie woman? No, they surely had illegal machinery, in defiance of the California Technological Rights Act. Had such technology been for sale in a Morgan’s store, Cantrell would have bought it himself.
Bernard stood beside him, tail between its legs. Cantrell patted it on the back. “It’s all right. You did well. Do you have the scent?”
The steely panted, a ridiculous action meant to give the impression of a living hound. After a moment it sniffed the ground, then trotted back up the road.
After the riders escaped, Creed ran along the riverbank and approached The House of Amber Doves from an alley off Main Street. He didn't dare run back along Pacific after spotting El Tiburón. The man had taken him in once with that hound. Creed felt ill-prepared to face them again. Luck had favored him when the steely turned tail as Creed continued chasing the kidnappers.
For the second time that evening, a cloud of dust had stymied him. One of the riders had tossed an explosive over his shoulder, and Creed coughed as it dislodged grit from the road. The taste of dirt filled his mouth, and the particles irritated his eyelids. It took a couple of minutes for his tear ducts to wet and clean his metal eyes.
He arrived at the back door to Amber Doves, where Anna waited.
“How did you know I’d be here?” he asked.
“I spotted the row out front.”
Bodacious Creed: a Steampunk Zombie Western (The Adventures of Bodacious Creed Book 1) Page 19
