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

by Jonathan Fesmire

  When the marshals rode off, Cantrell stayed behind with a promise to follow shortly. He watched the cart waver along the road. Bateman rode to its left, Peake to its right, with the posse taking up the rear. Cantrell studied Creed’s eyes. Though metal, he read the man’s grief. Perhaps it was the tears or the red glow, but they seemed more expressive than ever.

  “If I can do anything, you let me know,” Cantrell said.

  “You got your reward for Blake?”

  “They're informing my wife in San Francisco. She’s to pick up the rewards for Blake and Roseberry.”

  “Good. And you're staying for the rest?”

  “I promised I would.”

  Creed nodded gravely. “Maxwell Gregg. Heilong. It's time to take the fight to him.”

  Outside Crowder’s Mortuary, Marshal Peake, Bateman, and the deputies waited, horses huffing, for less than three minutes for Cantrell to arrive. Once he spotted the bounty hunter turn the corner a half block away, Peake dismounted his dapple gray horse, Jack. The rain had grown stronger, now a heavy drizzle, and a low fog formed. Peake rubbed his arms against the chill as he approached the building, narrow at the front but deeper inside, and pulled the strap hanging by the door. The bell jingled.

  How soon would Creed arrive to guard the place? Was the zombie already watching?

  Crowder pulled the door open, his gaze first curious, then perplexed, his gray hair and mutton chops disheveled. No doubt, he had just risen from bed. He scratched his chest through his cotton nightshirt and squinted against the lamplight. In his right hand, he held his Colt Peacemaker, pointed toward Peake’s belly.

  “There will be no need for that, friend,” said Peake, raising his hands. “Sorry to wake you.”

  “Marshals? What’s going on?” Crowder asked. Cantrell approached carrying Heidi’s body.

  Crowder’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “Those were the gunshots I heard, then. Who would kill that sweet lady?” He stepped back, giving Cantrell room to enter. The big man walked past him, face solemn. “Please, set her on one of the tables back there.”

  Peake turned to the others. “Bateman, come on in with me. The rest of you, wait out here.”

  As he and Bateman entered, Cantrell stepped back outside. The mortuary felt mildly warmer than the street, but chilly fog wafted in as rain drops pattered on the roof. Peake summarized the evening’s events for the mortician.

  “That’s horrible,” said Crowder as Cantrell came in with the body of the unidentified woman in black. Crowder followed him into the morgue. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me. These days it’s just going to attract another body theft.” He turned on the overhead lights, placed his gun on a shelf, pointed to two lower drawers, and asked Cantrell to move the bodies into them.

  “You’ll be fine,” said Peake. “You have a guardian angel tonight. Creed will be watching this place.”

  Crowder’s eyebrows remained furrowed, his shoulders slumped, but he nodded. “But Corwin Blake. He’s really dead?”

  “Really and truly,” said Peake, and he walked Crowder outside to show him the body.

  The mortician whistled and straightened up. “That’s something.”

  Back in the main room, Peake and Bateman looked over the coffins, some in oak, some redwood, many with fancy carvings. They selected a small, utilitarian casket for Blake.

  The deputies set the coffin on the ground, lowered Blake’s limp corpse into it, shut the lid, and slid the box unceremoniously back into the cart.

  Bateman went back to his horse while Peake and Crowder made a payment arrangement. After Crowder shut the door, Cantrell walked the head U.S. marshal back to his horse.

  “I’m staying here until Creed arrives,” Cantrell said. “We don’t want to leave a window with no guard.”

  “I agree with that.” Peake tipped his hat to the bounty hunter, mounted Jack, and the marshals and posse rode away.

  The fog rose and the drizzling rain continued to fall. By the time they made it back to the federal marshal post, the buildings across the street, from The Grand Western to adjacent homes, resembled a watercolor in which the paints had mixed into unwanted browns. Deputies hauled Blake’s coffin into a jail cell and locked the steel door. Peake sent a wire via Morse code to the primary San Francisco post. It read, “Please respond regarding Corwin Blake ASAP.”

  Twenty minutes later a message tapped in. “Message received. Aunt agrees. Sending Marshal Gray. Expect by noon.”

  Peake gathered the deputies in the front office. “This post has been attacked twice in just this and last month. I don’t like our chances for a peaceful night. If any of you wants to go home now, I won’t hold it against you. If you stay, you’ll receive double pay. Yes, that includes you, Stanley.”

  All stayed except for Bateman, who went back to the local marshal post. The deputies, all good men of Santa Cruz, took shifts in twos that night. There were three beds in the marshals’ bunkhouse, accessed around the main building, which included his bed, Boris Orange’s, and Stanley Ross’s. Peake let the men sleep in them, while he slept in an unlocked cell.

  When Peake staggered out of the jail block at seven ten in the morning on August seventeenth, Robert Cantrell sat behind the desk leaning back in the seat, book in hand. Peake tilted his head to read the title. “How is that one?” he asked.

  “A Tale of Two Cities? Excellent. My third time reading it.”

  Aaron, the deputy who had interacted with Margarita Fullerton about a week back, slumped in a chair by the window, sleeping.

  “He did his best,” Cantrell said.

  Peake crossed the street to The Grand Western. The fog had receded, but rain still sprinkled onto his shoulders and hat. He returned with two mugs of coffee, light with cream and sugar. Back at the post, he passed one to Cantrell, took a long drink of his, and shook Aaron awake, then sent the man to the wharf.

  “What do you want me to do again?”

  “Commandeer a shipping car on the three-thirty train to San Francisco.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “I’ll write an official letter. Ask to speak to the conductor. He’ll know what to do from there.”

  After Aaron left, Peake explained the plan to Cantrell. Marshal Gray would arrive from San Francisco on the ten in the morning train. Gray would then have time to stretch his legs and have an early dinner while Peake and a few deputies loaded Blake’s coffin into the shipping car. When the train departed for San Francisco, Gray would remain with the casket until it reached Blake’s aunt.

  Peake stood in the doorway, took a long drink of his coffee, and smiled. With Blake dead and the post intact, it seemed nothing could go wrong.

  Shortly after Cantrell followed the marshals on the night of August sixteenth, Creed changed from his bloody clothes to a clean, identical set, including his second duster. To his knowledge, none of Anna’s workers had seen him enter the building from the back, but he wondered if it mattered. Nothing seemed important aside from protecting Heidi’s body and, eventually, capturing the man who had without a doubt given Blake sanctuary, Maxwell Gregg.

  Before he left, Anna embraced him. He put his arms around her but would not let his grief break him down.

  He spent the night on Crowder’s roof, which sloped toward the street. Though fog rose to the second story of the surrounding buildings, Creed’s superior vision cut through the haze. Of course, a roof was no place for a coyote, so he had left Coconino behind.

  Gaze keen on the city, ears listening for anyone approaching, Creed realized something. With the marshals as allies, he had no reason not to ride Johann once Heidi’s body was safely in the ground beside her husband’s.

  Even with allies like Anna and Jonny, and with Coconino’s companionship, Creed’s sadness had grown since his resurrection. In his heart, he wanted to protect the innocent and bring justice to the guilty. Yet he also wanted… what? Family, perhaps. He had no offspring. What woman would love a corpse? Yes, some looked at him with w
onder, maybe even affection, but as an idea, not as a man.

  Grief visited him often that night, along with its partner, regret. Creed wished he had married Heidi years ago. He wished she hadn’t been on Soquel Avenue. Could he have taken different actions? Should he have heard Blake and the woman waiting nearby? No, even with his hearing, they had been too quiet. There was nothing Creed could have done, but that didn’t stop his mind from retreading her death.

  In time the fog faded, the rain lessened, and the sun broke over the hills. Still, Creed intended to remain awake until Heidi’s funeral. He pulled some beef jerky and a flask of water from his coat pocket and ate.

  An hour later he spotted several men riding northward up Pacific Avenue, Cantrell leading them. Creed scaled down the outside of the building and waited.

  Malcolm’s horseshoes clopped the earth as Cantrell approached. “How are you managing?”

  “All right, I reckon,” said Creed.

  “I'll be watching during the day. Me and these men.” Cantrell gestured back to the other two deputies as they dismounted their steeds.

  Behind his mask, Creed let out a sigh. He could sleep after all. “Thank you.”

  “Heidi’s funeral is scheduled for three in the afternoon.” Cantrell looked at the mortuary. “You think he's awake yet? Well, I'll find out. Miss Boyd said she insists on paying for the service.”

  Creed straightened his shoulders and gave a curt nod. He looked away to hide the tears still hanging in his steel eyes.

  Creed had never believed in signs or omens. Still, he thought it appropriate that the heavens should cry at Heidi Nelsen’s funeral. He stood under a willow tree, where water weighed down its leaves and fell in heavy drops.

  Many of Heidi's friends had attended Resurrection Bible Church with her. Most, Creed felt certain, would feel terrified if Creed approached. Their beliefs gave them little leeway in how they perceived him. Though Heidi had seen past his appearance and understood that science had brought him back, the others might see him as a demon made flesh. Creed had no intention of making the day worse for them, so he watched from behind the willow, its trunk and drooping branches covering him.

  A young woman no older than Anna, clearly a member of Heidi’s church, read the eulogy. She spoke of Heidi’s generosity, her dedication as a wife, and how she had helped when church members were sick.

  “He did this to her,” the woman said, voice rising through the sound of rain. “Creed. Her husband worked with him when he was alive, so she thought he must be good in death. A grievous mistake! He’s demonic. We all know this! That Blake, he never would have been there last night if not for the monster in our city.”

  To Creed’s surprise, a man in the crowd, a woman and young boy standing with him, shouted, “It’s easy to curse what you don’t know! ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Sally, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Shakespeare. You should read him. There are more books than the Bible, you know.”

  Creed’s eyes whirred as he zoomed his view in on the crowd. He felt certain the speaker was the man whose family he had helped two nights prior. Anna was there as well, whispering to Jonny, face blazing with anger. Creed leaned his head against the tree trunk. Perhaps Anna should never have brought him back. Maybe Cantrell would have stopped Blake sooner. Sally had been right. Had Creed remained dead, Heidi would have lived.

  As six men carefully let down the long ropes and lowered Heidi’s casket into the ground, Creed wondered what the papers would report. Would the official record remain factual? Would it blame him?

  “Records.” Creed uttered the word and Bill Roseberry came to mind. The man had said that records would do them no good. What had that meant?

  James Creed blew a final kiss toward Heidi Nelsen and walked toward the gate, no longer giving a damn about what anyone had to say.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Cash Gray had worked for the U.S. Marshal Service for eleven years. After the War Between the States, President Johnson had ordered the marshals in the southern states—whose duty it often had been to return runaway slaves before the war—to facilitate the transition of the former Confederacy away from slavery. To help in that mission, he had gladly joined.

  At sixty, he had the honor of watching one of the most brutal killers to have come out of California, Corwin Blake. Said criminal now occupied a plain wooden coffin, and Gray had to sit in a single shipping car aboard the three-thirty train from Santa Cruz to San Francisco to make sure no one bothered the body.

  After the train arrived in Santa Cruz the morning of August seventeenth, he had breakfast at The House of Amber Doves. Leaning over his omelet and mashed potatoes, Gray looked from one working woman to another, all in their fancy, frilled dresses, tight around their hips. The scents of a half-dozen perfumes mingled with those from the kitchen. He had been a widower for two years. Officially on duty or not, he enjoyed a woman’s company as much as any man, and he had time to spare. He bought two tokens and a dove working the bar, Karla, took him up to her room.

  After, he gave her the second token for great service and left the brothel smiling, belly full, body relaxed. At two in the afternoon, he met with Marshal Peake outside the freight car, where four deputies carried the casket through the door. By three fifteen he sat on one of the car’s few seats, the only one next to a window, the coffin tied to the floor with hemp ropes.

  In the next car up, people talked and laughed, happily settling in for the voyage. Gray crossed his arms, knowing he was in for a dull ride.

  According to his pocket watch, at three thirty on the nose, the train chugged out of the station. As it accelerated, Gray watched the ocean roll away, the backsides of buildings speeding by, and soon the train traveled to the hills on its way to Scotts Valley. The ca-clack, ca-clack of wheels continued over the voices of passengers. He shut his eyes and imagined his time between Karla’s legs. The romp had relaxed him, all right. Perhaps too much? Who would steal a body from a train? Gray gripped his pocket watch and closed his eyes.

  The marshal snapped awake to sounds of shouting and instinctively popped open his pocket watch. It was barely five minutes to four. Just twenty-five minutes on the rails, and someone had started a yelling match. Nothing the Southern Pacific couldn’t handle. He yawned and leaned back again.

  A crash, a bang, and a cry came almost at once and shocked him to full consciousness. Though Gray had broken up dozens of fights, he had a duty: to stay with Blake’s body. He ground his teeth and looked with contempt at the casket. It was tied to the floor, safe as could be.

  When a scream came from the car ahead, he rushed through the freight car door, hopped to the passenger car, opened its door, and stepped in. Across the train car, two men in sharp traveling clothes swung fists at each other, an uppercut here, a jab there. Both had curly brown hair, and the one on the left stood several inches taller.

  “God dammit.” Gray went past the sitting travelers, grabbed the taller man by the shoulders, and pulled him back. They were probably in their late twenties, but to Grey, they seemed little more than children. “Don't make me draw my gun in a moving train!” He glanced at the passengers. “Where's the next stop?”

  “Scotts Valley,” said a seated woman. “But we're going straight to San Francisco.”

  “How close is Scotts Valley?” Gray asked.

  “We're almost there.”

  The taller man lunged toward the other. Even at sixty years old, Gray had remained strong and stubborn. He wrapped his arms around the man’s chest and yanked him back. Meanwhile, two men stood and held the other brawler’s arms.

  “Somebody go tell the conductor to stop in Scotts Valley. These men are getting off.”

  “I got to get to San Francisco!” shouted the tall one, still struggling.

  “The two of you calm down and take another train. Now, both of you, sit.”

  The fighters exchanged a look, as though conferring, and took their seats. The shorter slumped, then straightened up.


  “Brothers?” Gray asked, and when the shorter man rolled his eyes, the marshal knew he had guessed right. Let them get something to eat in Scotts Valley and talk about their sibling rivalry.

  In minutes, the train slowed, the whistle blew its pleasant yet disharmonious blast, and the train chugged to a stop. The train stop came into view beyond he curtain-draped windows. A few travelers talked quietly, but Gray kept his eyes on the young men until the conductor arrived and helped escort them off.

  Evergreen-covered hills surrounded the town. Perhaps the view would ease their minds. Gray talked to them for another several minutes, telling them they couldn’t start fights on trains and expect to stay on. He bid them a good day and climbed back aboard.

  As the train started, Gray went back to his watch. The ropes around the casket looked a bit loose, probably from movement during the journey, so the marshal tightened them and took his seat. A waiter brought his meal a half hour later, and the rest of the trip was uneventful. He even managed to sleep for the last hour of the journey.

  In the late afternoon, after Heidi’s funeral, James Creed approached City Hall, a beige, two-story edifice with swooping railings and open doors. A guard steely stood beside the stairs and looked at him. “Are you in need of directions?” it asked.

  “I didn’t think you could talk.”

  The steely stood still for several seconds before answering, “Some Auto Sapients can speak. Our abilities vary according to our duties.”

  “I see. I don’t need directions. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Creed strode up the stairs and inside, an elderly man and a younger woman worked behind a counter. The arms of the man’s glasses hid within his short, peppered hair. Through round lenses he read from a book, running his finger along the page. Creed placed the woman in her early forties, with wrinkles forming around her eyes and lips, her hair a graying blond. She stood behind the man, looking over the tall bookcase behind the counter.