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

by Jonathan Fesmire

  The living room also had an oaken table for six, and he finished his breakfast there. Melba would retrieve the dishes later and bring them to the kitchen. Gregg gazed at the crumbs and bits of jam on the plate, the moist interior of the mug, and felt the anger rise again. No, that was before Blake had freed their zombie dogs and run off. Melba wasn’t welcome back without the killer.

  Someone knocked. Gregg placed his hands on the table to calm himself, breathed in the clean air, then answered the door. The lean youngster on the other side was Ben, one of Roseberry’s bunch.

  “Morning, Mr. Gregg, sir. It's about Bill. He hasn't come back.”

  “I’m not worried about Bill. He knows his business.” Gregg pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the ache building behind his forehead. He had told Bill and Melba not to return, but he still wanted to know what they might have found. “Keep me informed. Have you found any of the dogs?”

  “Not yet.”

  Gregg's mouth twitched and he had to take a slow breath. “Keep looking.”

  “Sir, all three of us need to sleep—”

  “Then earn it.”

  The young man went up the stairs and Gregg went the other direction down the hall. His quarter-mile walk to the morgue would give him time to collect his nerves, and perhaps the exercise would take away his headache.

  He did feel better by the time he reached the door. He nodded to the guard and went in. To Gregg’s surprise, Gilmore stood in the center of the room conversing with his latest patient.

  Nancy Hartgraul lay on the autopsy table, strapped down and shaking.

  “He's alive?” Her voice sounded husky, yet resonant, as though death had altered its harmonics.

  Gilmore gave Gregg a nod before looking back at Nancy. The leader of The Evil Eye Syndicate remained quiet. He walked along the wall to observe.

  “The killer cut him badly,” Gilmore admitted. “He's with a doctor now. Word has it he's healing. It's—”

  Nancy interrupted, “A miracle.”

  “I would have said amazing, but you might call it that.”

  “Son of a bitch. It figures he’d live.”

  Gregg chuckled and watched her in awe. Not only could Nancy speak, she seemed positively lucid. Was this how Anna Boyd felt when she woke James Creed? And what about Boyd? Creed had no doubt brought the risen dogs to her. What had she learned from Gilmore’s brain gadgets? He shook his head, letting that worry go. Better Boyd, who could already raise the dead, than some new player.

  Nancy managed to turn her head enough to see Gregg. “Howdy, Max. You seen any of my girls lately? How are they?”

  “I was with Susie last night. She seems well.”

  As the madam of Plowshares returned to her conversation with Gilmore, Gregg reflected on his latest romp with the prostitute. He decided to send for her again. “I’ll check in on you tonight,” he called back, striding from the room.

  When he was no more than twenty feet down the hallway, screaming came from the morgue.

  Gregg tensed and froze. He heard the door open and the guard shout before he managed to turn around and stagger through. Hand shaking, the leader of the Syndicate reached for his pistol.

  Nancy crouched atop Gilmore on the cold, plank floor, and blood streamed down one side of his face. The straps lay open, the buckles bent. Medical tools littered the floor by the overturned cart, and the madam of Plowshares held a surgical blade, deep red with the doctor’s blood. The deactivation device lay a good ten feet from Gilmore.

  The guard brought up his gun, but Gregg had already managed to aim. He shot, and the bang left his ears ringing. Nancy flung the blade at him then toppled over. Luckily for Gregg, he slipped and hit the ground as the scalpel flew past him.

  He hadn’t been in a proper fight since his stagecoach robbing days and felt embarrassed by his nervous reaction. Still, he got to his feet and rushed to Gilmore. Smoke rose from Nancy’s open head unit. Somehow, he had made a clean hit.

  “That cunt!” Gilmore screamed, taking hold of Gregg's arm as though it was his only lifeline. He kept his other hand over his face. “She stabbed me in the eye!”

  Many hours earlier, Creed hitched the horse carrying the unconscious man and undead greyhound outside The House of Amber Doves. He peeked in through the back door, saw no one at the bar, and carried the dog into Anna’s room and down to the basement. Anna and Jonny lay half out of the blankets, sleeping. Coconino, taking its master’s lead, remained quiet.

  Creed retrieved the big man next. The stranger had to weigh a good two hundred twenty pounds at about six feet tall. This time, as Creed entered the bedroom, Jonny snorted awake.

  “Big dog.” Creed noted the sarcasm in Jonny’s voice.

  “Probably the right word.” The former marshal stepped carefully down the stairs, the stranger’s arms hanging limply. “He tried to snatch the last dog from under me.”

  Coconino padded past Creed down the stairs, nails and steel leg clicking and clacking on the ground. Creed had set the greyhound on the operating table, so he placed the man, slumped, against the far wall. Soon, Jonny’s and Anna’s softer footfalls came.

  “Him? Roseberry?” said Jonny, and removed the man’s bandanna, revealing a rough face with a short brown beard.

  Anna laughed. “Well, holy shit. I didn’t ever expect to see Bill Roseberry again. He and Jonny don’t exactly get along.”

  “He’s w-with the Syndicate?” Jonny asked.

  “And after the dog.” Creed pointed to the operating table. “It’s still alive. Bill, did you say? He somehow deactivated it.”

  Anna gave the unconscious animal a weary look. “Good.”

  Creed lifted the black bandanna, folded it once more, and tied it around Roseberry's eyes.

  “Zero,” Anna called, “sedate this man, and the dog, just in case.” Zero marched forward, feet clanking and gears whirring, then bent down and gave Roseberry a shot in the shoulder before stepping back and doing the same with the canine.

  Anna crossed her arms. “Jonny, some rope please?”

  He retrieved a large roll from a supply cabinet.

  “Got a chair to tie him to?” Creed asked.

  “Better. Tie him up and we’ll get this done.”

  Creed took the rough rope from Jonny. He bound Roseberry’s arms behind his back and his legs together. The madam called to Zero and had the steely lift Roseberry and hold him in place. Up went the unconscious man into the steely’s massive metal arms.

  “You might be holding him awhile, Zero.” Of course, this would prove no problem for the automaton. Bill’s head fell back against Zero’s shoulder and his feet dangled.

  Anna patted her hips through her nightdress as she looked from Roseberry to the greyhound. She sauntered to the stairs and signaled for Jonny and Creed to follow. They went, and Coconino fell in line behind Creed.

  Upstairs, Jonny left the room for the saloon. Anna sat on the bed and Creed took the chair at her vanity. Beside him, Coconino crouched on the floor.

  “I wonder how much he knows,” Anna said.

  “Enough to strengthen our hand, I reckon.” Creed stared at Anna. For a long moment, she matched his gaze, but then looked away, lips pressed flat. “Who are you, Anna Lynn Boyd?

  “An admirer. You know that.” Her eyes wandered the walls and flashed briefly back to Creed.

  He studied her face, how she held her hands in her lap, the way her posture softened. What was she hiding?

  “That's all? You’re the brothel madam who secretly started the steely revolution, and you just happened to admire me, one of many great marshals?”

  “You were always the best.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “It’s my opinion,” Anna said. “Course I admire you. I've been through enough to understand the importance of justice.”

  Jonny entered with a meal for Creed, half a roasted chicken, diced potatoes, with sliced, fried jalapenos, and a bowl of scraps for Coconino. Maybelle sauntered
in next with three mugs of beer. Creed took one, and she gave him a pleasant nod and smile.

  Johnny and Anna took the other mugs and Anna introduced the marshal to the helpful dove.

  “I’ll be out there if you need me, Anna,” said Maybelle. “Unless we get a randy guest. Good night.” She closed the door gently behind her.

  “Are we keeping Bill?” Johnny asked “It’s… not right.”

  Creed lowered his brows in thought. “Why not? Because the marshals won't like it?”

  “Unlawful d-detention.”

  Anna placed her hand over his. “It’ll be short term, Jonny. No torture, just questions. Though I suppose being held by a giant steely can’t be too comfortable. After what he did to you, he deserves a lot worse.”

  “I’ll see his lies. In the morning, he and I will talk.” Creed took a large bite of chicken and popped two jalapenos into his mouth with it. The heat seemed to bring out the flavor despite his diminished sense of taste. Coconino had already finished its bowl and had curled up to sleep.

  “Not you.” Anna watched the door, eyebrows lowered. “Maybelle will be our voice.”

  “He already saw me out there.” Creed sipped his beer.

  Anna leaned back. “She can be quite alluring. Seductive, I’d say. Might help. Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got a man to interrogate tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Shortly after midnight, the morning of August sixteenth, Corwin Blake stood in the small, forested grove where Center Street met Main Street. He thought Creed was probably in Railroad Flats. Blake scratched the whiskers on his chin. He’d been allowed to shave when using the washroom, with steely or human supervision, of course, but over the last few days itchy stubble had grown out. A shame he had killed Drew. Had the other guards survived? He hoped so, though the thought of those dogs jumping them still struck him as riotous, like something out of a Vaudeville show.

  Blake didn’t dare enter the Flats for fear that Creed, or maybe worse, Gregg’s men, would capture him, maybe kill him. Of course, if he snuck up on a Syndicate man first, he could knock him out or kill him, take some of his gadgets, and climb a roof. That would give him a better vantage point.

  A plaintive whine came from behind him and Blake turned, pistol drawn. There stood a lean, black greyhound. “Ah, one of you? Where are your friends? Never mind. Get. Go on!” Blake frowned at the tumor-like lump on its head.

  The dog stepped back with a low growl, keeping its gaze on the outlaw. Its tail flicked back and forth like the bar of a metronome.

  “Get outta here!” Blake kicked its flank and the impact sent pain up his leg. The animal was tough! Even so, it ran up Center Street, away from Blake and the flats. It looked back once. Blake imagined it’s eyebrows bowed in, making one of those pouting faces only a dog or a child can manage, but that just made him angry. Blake took an aggressive step forward, and the mutt yipped and loped away.

  Still, it had found him and hadn’t attacked. Why? Blake went to the edge of the grove to make sure it kept going. It walked under the light of a streetlamp, head hung, before continuing up the road.

  Beyond the dog, a tall man in black rode toward the Flats at a trot. As they drew closer, Blake’s heart pounded. Tall, all in black. Creed? No. He lacked Creed’s posture, his stiff demeanor. One of Gregg’s men, more likely.

  First, the horse plodded along the road, and suddenly the man whipped its reins. “Yah!” Sniffing the dirt between this stranger and Blake, the mutt glanced toward the shout then turned and bolted straight for the grove.

  Blake scuttled deeper among the trees and the zombie dog whooshed past him. As the horseman entered, Blake slipped behind a tree. The horse maneuvered through the thicket as though raised in a forest, galloping after the greyhound.

  Blake let thoughts of caution drop. This was the most exciting thing he’d seen since his last attack on the U.S. marshals. He broke through the trees, racing after them as they flew up Cedar Street. The dog went from growling to whining and back while the hooves pounded.

  After more than a block, the rider slowed and dismounted. Blake jogged along until he was about a block away, and walked another half block before ducking behind a watering trough. The Syndicate man—and Blake felt sure that’s what he was—had eased into shadows and faced away, as though watching something.

  Peeking over the trough, Blake saw it. The greyhound stood on Maple Street, growling at another man, this one holding a rifle. A child’s, or a woman’s, sobs came from the same place, though Blake saw only the armed man. The corner building hid whoever was with him from the outlaw’s sight.

  Without warning, the Syndicate man sprinted at the greyhound and grabbed the animal around the middle. Blake started and his skin went cold as Bodacious Creed dashed into view. What did Creed have with him? A coyote, of all things, with a metal leg.

  Dust flew in a double explosion. As it cleared, Blake saw the coyote standing over the would-be dognapper. Creed fired one of his long-barreled guns, then punched the man in the face. Why kill him then punch him? Then Blake understood. Startle, then knock out cold. A strange tactic. Blake would have murdered the stranger and been done with it.

  It also seemed odd that the greyhound lay motionless beside the unconscious Syndicate man. After Creed spoke to the citizen with the rifle, along with a woman and child who came into view, he hauled both the dog and the Syndicate member onto the back of the horse and tied them there. How strong was he? Blake nearly whistled in amazement. He ducked behind the trough and clamped his hand over his mouth.

  Moments later, Creed rode by at a trot. When he was a half a block away, Blake snuck out and watched Creed move north on Pacific Avenue. He felt unsafe running after him. If Creed’s strength had grown, what about his hearing? Still, he had to know where the zombie was taking them.

  He ran after, and while Creed moved far ahead, the outlaw spotted him turning right on Soquel Avenue. Blake took a moment to catch his breath, not so much from running, but from his excitement, then dashed up the road. He could make a detour through Smullen’s Stables and Livery. At this hour, the owner—Smullen, he assumed—would no doubt be sleeping in their upstairs home.

  A few horses whinnied as he entered. Blake sneezed once at the dry smell of hay and manure, and as he wiped his nose on his sleeve, he glanced over at Soquel Avenue.

  The Syndicate man’s horse, which Creed had just been riding, stood hitched behind The House of Amber Doves. Blake jogged along the stable passage leading to the road, looked each way to make sure no one saw him, then ran to the horse. He drew his gun. Creed could come out any moment and blow his head off, but his curiosity had him in its grip. Blake looked over the horse and nondescript saddle and figured Creed had taken the Syndicate man and the half-dead dog into the bordello.

  “Taking the doves through the back door, marshal?” Blake chuckled to himself but dashed back to the stables. So, while Creed haunted Santa Cruz at night, this was where he returned. He would have to come back out sometime, and when he did, Blake would shoot him in the skull.

  The outlaw waited there, listening to the shifting horses and smelling their musk, oats, and droppings for another hour. At last, he groaned. He hated doing nothing. No matter. He knew Creed’s hideout. The old gunfighter would have to emerge the next night.

  Around three in the morning, Creed left with Coconino to bury the final zombie dog. Anna and Jonny had strapped it to the operating table and switched on its head unit, but the greyhound remained lifeless. She thought that for the best. No need to let the thing suffer in its mostly thoughtless undead state, so she removed the metal bulge from its skull and set it aside.

  Staring at Roseberry, the man who had nearly killed Jonny and cause the brain damage that made her man mute for the better part of a year, Anna realized it would be inhumane to leave him hanging in Zero’s metal arms. She hated him, but she didn’t want to start hating herself. So, she had Zero lay him on the second operating table, and when she tied the unconsciou
s criminal down, she made the straps extra tight and did so with a smile.

  Anna bathed after, canine blood swirling from her hands into the water like tiny hurricanes. She and Jonny went to sleep with the window slightly open. After smelling so much death, she wanted to sleep with a draft of fresh air.

  She awoke when Creed returned. With the soft light coming through the window, she glanced at the clock. Seven sixteen. Though she wanted to sleep, she donned a simple brown dress and boots and brought back a plate of runny, fried eggs and crisp bacon for Creed. In the kitchen, Pedro said he was pleased to see her up and about, but Anna answered that she felt a little better, but needed more rest in her room.

  “Have you checked on our friend downstairs?” Creed asked, sitting on the bed and tossing Coconino a strip of bacon. The coyote leaped and caught it in its mouth.

  “We gave him a strong sedative. He’s probably still sound asleep. I wonder if he likes bondage? I hope not.” She put her hands on her hips. “Now I want to check on him. I’m too anxious to sleep anyway. I’ll be in the laboratory.”

  Anna opened the trapdoor and from the darkness below came a string of mumbled words, like an incantation. Roseberry had woken in the dark and had no idea where he was. Anna quietly shut the hatch and left to find Maybelle. Fortunately, her confidante was already awake, dressed, and brushing light rouge to her cheeks. They blushed a brighter shade when Anna explained why she needed help.

  “You didn’t ever have him as a john, did you? Or talk to him?”

  “I remember when he hurt Jonny,” Maybelle said. “I know who he is, but no, we never had relations. Don’t think we ever talked.”

  Back in her bedroom, Anna again opened the trapdoor. The moment she and Maybelle started down the stairs, Roseberry started shouting.

  “Who’s there? What do you want? Help me!”

  Maybelle stood a few steps away from Roseberry and looked back at Anna. The madam didn’t care for the disturbed expression Maybelle wore, so she shrugged as if to say, “How else could we handle this?”