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

by Jonathan Fesmire

  Of course, and she clearly knew he would return to the back of the bordello. Anna opened the door, looked in, and signaled for him to hurry. He went through to her bedroom. Anna shut the doors and stood with him near her vanity.

  “Was that Margarita Fullerton?” Anna asked. “No, you wouldn’t know her. She was the madam here before I bought the place. That was her, I know it. Someone got hold of my research.” Anna’s breath quickened and her hands shook.

  Creed grasped her shoulders. “I don’t think so. I think someone, probably the man who tried to capture me, got the idea from you. From this.” He pointed at his head unit.

  “Math.”

  “What? He used math?”

  “No,” Anna said. “Never mind. What’s happening out there? There’ve been gunshots.”

  “That woman murdered some people at Hartgraul’s brothel.” Creed watched her eyes widen. “She’s gone insane. And now the underground has her.”

  “From Plowshares to Amber Doves.” Anna went to her vanity and staggered once. She sat on her bed instead. “She'd been holed up in her house for months. Would you check on her? If she’s safe at home, we’ll know it was someone else, that in the dark, as haggard as that woman looked, maybe it wasn’t her, after all.”

  Creed raised his eyebrows.

  “Look,” Anna said, “someone used my technology to change her. But they have it wrong, you see? Margarita was strict, catty, but a killer? No.

  “This is what I was afraid of, that my work would get stolen and misused. That poor white cat. It went missing. I bet someone found it.” This made no sense to Creed, but when she gazed into his eyes, he decided to not pursue the matter. “Whoever did this can raise the dead, but they don’t have the correct parameters. They’re like Victor Frankenstein, and they made a monster.”

  “She must have hated Hartgraul,” said Creed.

  “Yes, she did.”

  At Fullerton’s place, Creed would either find her alive or find clues, perhaps even something to help him infiltrate the underground. “If Hartgraul lives and can speak, he'll be able to identify her to the marshals. Right now,” Creed said, “We may be the only ones on that trail. Give me directions to her place. I need to go tonight.”

  “And you'll come back here?” Anna asked.

  “Of course.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Creed stepped through the forest and finally saw the Fullerton place clearly. The night had just begun to cool, but the clearing still smelled of the surrounding redwoods and warm grass. The moon had been full five nights ago, on August fourth, so it still reflected enough of the sun’s luminescence to highlight the imposing mansion. It appeared gray and soulless, no lights, either bulbs or candles, shining from inside.

  As Creed saw it, he had two options: head straight for the front door two hundred yards ahead, or look around the house. The latter might give him an idea of what to expect. He circled left to a side of the building with no doors and crept closer.

  Creed took his time moving along the wall. He looked over the windows and up at the second story, which was smaller than the first. The wind rustled branches and leaves, nearly covering the sound of his footfalls. The grove smelled of pine needles and grass. Against the wall, he spotted a round steam engine, the same model now prominent on most affluent businesses and homes.

  Light reflected off the ground beneath a window. When he reached it, he found the glass shattered outward. Jagged edges held to the frame, and shards of varied sizes rested between blades of grass at his feet. Nothing else littered the ground, not a shred of fabric, though he supposed blood might be tough to see with the absence of color.

  Creed grabbed the sill with his left hand and pulled himself up. He braced his feet against the wall, reached in, careful to avoid glass, and unlatched the window. The drapes fluttered against his fingers. With one hand, he pushed the frame up enough to climb in safely.

  He stood and took in the room. Beside him, a chair lay on its side, surely what someone had used to break the glass. A long, flowery couch with two matching chairs rested on a Persian carpet. To the right two bookcases covered in books and knickknacks framed an open doorway. To the left sat a tall, open cabinet, its shelves empty, and beside it, a rolling cart.

  In the center of the room sat an operating table. Now, he felt certain he would never find Fullerton safe here. She was, without a doubt, the Plowshares killer, and here, someone had bolted metal into her head.

  Across from the table lay a man on his back. He might have been enjoying a snooze on the floor, arms stretched out, the draft of night air blowing through the window, helping his slumber.

  Yet his throat appeared rough and bloody. When Creed knelt beside the body he frowned at the ragged wound. Even with his night vision, Creed needed to see better. He found the lever on the closest lamp, designed to look like a short streetlamp, near the couch, and turned on the light. It shined across the carpeted living room and the operating area.

  The dead man appeared to be in his forties, a bit gray at the temples, the hint of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. He wore a white bib shirt, sleeves rolled up, a black vest, brown pants, and laced, leather shoes. Blood had clotted into his short beard and the thick puddle of blood around his head looked tacky. Creed lifted one of the man’s hands and checked the fingernails. Underneath, he found bits of pale flesh. Standing, Creed looked over the body and estimated his height to be about five feet seven inches.

  Creed went to the operating table. One of the arm straps hung too short, its end ragged. Fullerton must have torn free. The table’s upper portion had straps for her torso and her other arm, and these had broken buckles. Only the belts to hold her feet in place swung free with no damage. Evidently, she had enough presence of mind to unbuckle them manually before breaking the window with the chair.

  He looked back to her point of escape and noticed, on the wall next to the window, a bloody hand print.

  Had Fullerton wanted this? Strapped to an operating table in her own home? Why would someone perform operations like this on a woman of means? If a criminal wanted to experiment with resurrection, wouldn’t it make more sense to lure in wanders, stragglers, hobos, or others no one would likely miss?

  Creed stared at the table for nearly a minute, and understanding hit him. He still longed for the grave. He hadn’t asked for resurrection but had died in the line of duty. For now, he had a purpose, but after he brought in Blake?

  Fullerton, however, had craved life but was dying. Of what, he had no idea, but she wanted to live. Somehow, she had contacted a man who promised to save her, for money.

  He looked around the room for loose, plain paper. Scientists and doctors always took notes, so there had to be something.

  The search led him across the living room, through a kitchen, and into a study. Here, like in the living room, drapes covered the windows. Between them was a single door, leading outside. Against the wall to the right, he found a desk with the generous writing area and many doors and drawers, and beside it, a lamp matching those in the living room. He flipped a lever on its side, turning on the bulb.

  Creed always imagined these fancy desks to hold secrets, panels one could shift to find hidden compartments. On the desk was a bottle of ink with a stopper and a clean pen beside it. He tried to open the first drawer right under the desk and found it locked. No matter. What lawman worth his salt did not know some of the tricks of the criminal? From an inside coat pocket, he retrieved a flat, wooden box of lock picking tools he had liberated from one of his arrests. After a moment of fiddling with the tumblers, he pulled the small door open.

  There, he found blank paper and a ledger. He grabbed a sheet, but on his way back to the living room stopped. What was in the book? He returned and opened it. Centered on the first page and handwritten in black ink were two words, “Fullerton Work.”

  Creed flipped through and realized he had found exactly the sort of evidence he needed. The pages included mechanical diagrams, skull
drawings, and instructions for attaching the contraption to a person's head. He felt his own, which Anna had told him was meant to revive his brain and keep it working.

  After taking in dozens of drawings, he read some of the text and found he understood little. He kept flipping through and about halfway into the notebook, found an entirely different section full of legal notes. This one made more sense to him. The scientist was preparing for a legal battle. The writer wanted to get out of a contract with Morgan’s Automatons and get around the California Technological Rights Act.

  After all this shady work, the man now lay dead in Fullerton’s living room. Or, was that an assistant?

  Creed closed the ledger. There would be time later to look over this with Anna. The longer he waited, the less chance there would be of a catching a good print.

  Back in the living room, ledger tucked in his coat beside his lock picking kit, Creed pressed the blank sheet of paper against the handprint on the wall. He ran his fist along it slowly, rubbing side to side, hoping to lift enough blood to give an accurate print. He doubted that Fullerton had her prints on record anywhere, but it made sense to capture it just in case.

  His keen ears picked up a new sound and his chest and belly tingled with unease. Someone was there, in the house.

  Creed pulled the paper off the wall, put it between two pages of the ledger, and slipped the book back in the coat pocket. He went through the hall toward the kitchen, leaving the lights on, then drew his right pistol and listened. Growling, coming from the front of the house.

  He crept that way, gun raised, hoping he moved quietly enough. Past the kitchen, he exited into a long hall that led straight to the front room. The door was shut, so for a few minutes, he remained still. The snarling sound rose, and he felt sure no human had made it.

  A dog, perhaps. Had Cantrell and his steely tracked him here from outside The House of Amber Doves?

  Creed threw open the door.

  In the foyer, fancy chairs sat around a table with a lacy tablecloth. The growl persisted. No, more than one, muted, coming from below.

  Creed turned back instead. Off the hallway, stairs led to the second story. Next to them, he found a locked door. Out came his lock picking tools, and within seconds, Creed had the door open. The animal noises were instantly louder and layered atop them came a series of squeaks.

  He stepped down the staircase, pistol held across his chest. Though he half expected dogs to rush toward him in the darkness, nothing did. At the bottom of the stairs, he rounded a corner. With no light shining from upstairs, even his enhanced eyes registered mostly black.

  Remaining still, Creed looked one way then the other. In this way, his vision sketched out a hallway before him six or seven feet long. He stepped forward, feeling the wall with his free hand. Soon, he pressed his fingers to the door in front of him. The sounds came from behind it, and in addition, he heard shaking and rattling. Creed pushed the door open, then felt along the inside wall beside the door until he found a switch. He shoved it upward.

  Throat rumbling became rough growls, and growling became snarls. Creed smelled shit and fur, and he looked over the scene with surprise and disgust. Cages lined the walls of the short, rectangular room. In the ground cages, he counted six dogs. Two mutts looked mostly bull terrier, and three others closest to greyhounds. The last wasn’t a dog at all, but a coyote.

  The dogs strained toward Creed against the crisscrossed bars, while the coyote glanced from the other canines to the gunfighter as though anxious. All six had at least one mechanical apparatus attached somewhere on its body.

  A hanging shelf jutted from the back wall, and squeaking issued from the wire cages atop it. There, maybe a dozen large, brown rats peered at him with tiny red eyes. As fur bristled, Creed realized their skin had gone white. Each had a small ether unit bolted to its skull.

  Creed looked at the coyote. A paneled, steel head unit sat at the base of its skull. Down its back, two metal rings were clamped to its spine. Its left, front leg was missing, and it sported a steel replacement.

  Something moved in his peripheral vision and Creed looked to his right where he found another hanging shelf at the same level as the other. He shut his eyes for a few seconds to regain his composure. These trapped, zombie animals had put his nerves so on edge he had missed the white cat in its own cage. Creed approached, and it looked straight at him. No head unit for this one. Instead, it had a penny-sized generator bolted to its left upper leg, nested in its fur. There was something different about this animal. It hissed and extended a claw, but seemed lucid.

  Creed figured he had learned enough. Apparently, the scientist had experimented on these animals first, then attempted to resurrect Fullerton. Had all of them been dead? The cat appeared to have some scarring underneath its matted fur, around its face. Creed holstered his pistol, flipped open the cat’s cage, and reached in.

  “That’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. I know, yes. The dogs are scary, aren’t they?” The hissing stopped, and the feline sniffed Creed’s fingers. Its head jerked back, it sniffed again, then it let him lift it. As he held it under one arm, the cat rested its paws on Creed’s shoulder.

  He took another look back at the coyote. That one seemed different from the rest, too. The dogs just kept snarling, but the coyote regarded him with melancholy, yellow eyes. He felt sorry for the lonely animal, but flipped the light switch, shut the door, and followed the dim path up the stairs and back to the foyer.

  The double-doors rattled with the unmistakable sound of a key in the lock. Creed drew his pistol but backed into the hallway.

  A lanky man and a middle-aged woman, wearing the same black attire as the criminals Creed had chased outside Amber Doves, stepped in.

  Even with the white cat in his arm, Creed figured he could take these two out. They probably had the same syndicate gadgets as the others, but he had the element of surprise. The syndicate had taken Fullerton, and these two had come to clean up. That raised a question about the scientist. Had he been working with the syndicate?

  Creed squatted beneath the stairway.

  “Didn't figure any lights would be on.” The woman’s voice was husky.

  The man answered, “Just as well.”

  Boot falls move into the hall, then to the living room.

  “Oh, fuck,” The man whistled. “Looks like the assistant didn't quite have this procedure down.”

  “The procedure of not letting a zombie get away? No kidding.”

  The white cat began to purr and squirm against Creed's shoulder. He feared the others would hear it, or worse, it would begin mewing. Then again, the strangers were ignoring the constant growls from the basement. At least Creed had learned something. The dead man was just an assistant. Where was the doctor, then?

  From the shadows behind the stairs, Creed watched the man approach. The former marshal held the cat to his chest, his free hand hovering over a gun. In the dimness, the stranger didn’t see him, and instead ascended the stairs, the woman following.

  Creed let out his breath slowly, stepped to the front door, and headed back into the forest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Cantrell’s grip tightened on the reins, making his leather gloves bite into his hands. About two blocks from The House of Amber Doves, Bernard stopped and looked in several directions, its tail hanging. No doubt the criminals went one way, and Creed another. The metal canine sniffed along the sides of the road and against buildings, then approached Cantrell and waited.

  Though the kidnappers had used a dust bomb to blind Creed, Cantrell felt sure they had continued north along Pacific Avenue. However, they may have circled around, back to the Flats. As they approached the clock tower, Cantrell decided this might be a good time to check in with the marshals. Perhaps he could bring a few deputies with him. He whistled to Bernard and they headed along Mission Street to Center, Malcolm’s hooves thumping against the road, its nostrils puffing with each breath.

  Half a block from the
post, he spotted Peake and Stanley Ross carrying someone down the stairs to a cart, drawn by two brown horses.

  The gunfire. In his determination to protect Amber Doves and catch the Plowshares killer, Cantrell had forced himself not to think about the shots. No wonder Creed had managed to escape. Without a word, he rode to the post, dismounted, and helped them load the body of Boris Orange into the cart. Someone had shot a wide hole in the man’s forehead.

  “Good to have you here, Robert.” Peake spoke in a choked whisper. With the body loaded, they latched the back of the wagon and the driver headed east. Peake and the young deputy marshal clomped up the stairs and into the office, Cantrell following.

  Blood soaked into the boards where Cantrell presumed Orange had been shot, and glass from the broken front window littered the floor. The bounty hunter grasped Peake’s shoulder. “What the fuck happened?”

  “Corwin Blake happened. He took advantage of our confusion and came for Creed.”

  “I saw Creed, by Amber Doves.”

  “Yes, he got away,” Peake answered.

  They exchanged stories. No other deputies had yet returned with news, probably because they had none. Cantrell asked for Ross to come with him, but Peake refused. Instead, they talked for a good hour trying to put together clues.

  After their conversation, Cantrell rode south on Center Street. He had an idea that Anna Boyd might know the identity of the Plowshares killer, but he had risked enough earlier just waiting outside her brothel. She hadn’t seen him when he broke into her laboratory, but her partner had, and so had her automaton. Why hadn’t the younger man identified him? Sometimes the electrical shock from his Lawkeeper stole a person’s most recent memories. Still, better to let another deputy question her.

  As he passed the local marshal’s post, which was dark inside and undoubtedly locked, Cantrell spotted lights moving toward him from the Flats.

  “Bernard, follow.” He had Malcolm canter to the left side of the road and entered the large grove of trees between Center Street and where Pacific Avenue curved to meet it. He hoped that from there he could get a good look at whatever was happening up the street without being heard or spotted.