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

by Jonathan Fesmire

  They both turned their attention to Creed at the same moment. The elderly man staggered back, dropped his book, and jerked when it hit the floor with a thump.

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “What do you need, sir?”

  “City records, specifically, on Railroad Flats. I need its history, maps, property records. Property records first.”

  “Someone needs to be in there with you,” said the man.

  “Come with me, then,” Creed said.

  “I, the...”

  “Oh, for Heaven sake.” The woman stepped out and waved for Creed to follow her. He tipped his hat to the man and followed the lady through a hallway of dark, polished walls to a room with two long tables and a dozen chairs, one wall covered in books, another with shorter shelves containing rolled parchments. It had that dusty book smell exclusive to libraries and record rooms.

  He found the woman pleasing, her body voluptuous, blond hair hanging in a long braid. Beautiful. She looked just enough like Heidi. A pang of sadness came to Creed’s chest, but he shook it off. He would see this through for Anna, for the citizens of Santa Cruz, and for Heidi as well.

  The clerk first retrieved a book, then a parchment, and placed them on a table. “This here,” she said, placing her fingers on the book cover, “is full of maps of individual buildings. They were all constructed within a few years of each other during the gold rush. This parchment is a map of the entire Flats area. Do you want the book of deeds, too?”

  Creed sat and unrolled the parchment. The paper was still mostly white, and therefore not more than a few years old. He looked at the woman with a smile, then realized she wouldn’t see it under his mask. “I would appreciate that.”

  She combed the shelves as Creed looked over the map. A minute later, she placed another book beside him and left the room. He raised an eyebrow, wondering if the old man at the front would berate her for not staying with him, but paid it no more mind. Perhaps he spooked her. Better to not dwell on it.

  Studying the map, Creed soon realized he knew everything on it already. The map simply gave street names and a range of addresses, but he could name each business.

  Creed opened the book of deeds and with dismay, saw it had no table of contents. He realized he shouldn’t have expected one. The book contained signed papers, probably duplicates or triplicates, but still official documents that had been bound into this reference. In fact, he thought that City Hall probably added paperwork periodically, such as when a building sold. He would have to peruse each page if he hoped to find anything helpful. He had a hunch, though, that he should start with Iron Nelly’s.

  He turned each page, skimming addresses and locations, and found the saloon in the center of the book. He had been right. There were two deeds for the business, one from the original owner, and one after it sold to…

  If Creed still had his human heart, it would have lurched. For deed holder, the paperwork read, “Maxwell Gregg.”

  Creed shut his eyes to think. It seemed sloppy for the outlaw to use his own name on the paperwork. Still, while he and Cantrell knew Gregg as the leader of the Syndicate, to Creed’s knowledge, the man had no arrests. The former marshal read the rest of the deed. Gregg had bought the business in eighteen sixty-four, a time when likely no one knew who he was.

  “Well, Mr. Roseberry,” Creed whispered, “there’s a record.”

  “Pardon?”

  Creed glanced at the clerk as she took a seat at the other table, quill and notebook in hand, not afraid of him after all. “You brighten my day, ma'am.”

  She grinned and twirled the hair at her temple.

  Next, Creed pushed aside the deeds and flipped through the book of local maps. Rich in information, it included street addresses, architects, construction companies, and expertly rendered blueprints for each building. They included plumbing, but not power generators. Those were too new.

  The more he looked over the maps, the more he worried he would find nothing. Finally, the woman said, “It'll be dark soon, and we need to close. I'm sorry, Marshal Creed.”

  He gazed out the window. Though the Tesla bulbs kept the room lit, the sunlight outside had faded. “I need a few more minutes,” he said.

  “You have that, but not more.”

  Was Gregg’s name, written in thick script in the deed book, all he had? Creed could investigate Iron Nelly’s again. Yet there had to be more. What did the buildings have in common? Anything? He pressed his palm to his forehead. Each was built in the same general style with the same three architects.

  “What am I missing?” He wondered if he should leave after all, perhaps do some thinking at The House of Amber Doves. In the laboratory, he could make it dark, and quiet. Down there—

  Creed turned to the clerk. “Do many buildings in these parts have basements?”

  “I think some. I could look through the rows with you but not today. I have a family to get home to, you know.”

  “Have you looked through them before yourself? What about Railroad Flats?”

  “I haven't looked at those maps for a good twelve years, when I started here. Back then, I wanted to learn all I could about Santa Cruz. The Flats? As I recall, almost all the buildings there had basements. Quite a bit of industry during that time. The owners use them for storage.”

  Creed stood abruptly and the woman started. “Sorry to alarm you. You’ve helped me more than you know.”

  He rested the tip of an index finger against the book of architecture. At some point in the last twelve years, someone had tampered with it. Someone, maybe Gregg, maybe another member of the Syndicate, had removed and replaced pages, and rebound the book. Now, it showed no basements at all.

  While Creed looked over the records in City Hall, in one of those missing basements, Maxwell Gregg knocked on Dr. Gilmore’s bedroom door. He rubbed his hands together as he waited. Of course, Gilmore had to be asleep after the wound and the booze. Their other doctor, in fact a former Yankee field medic from the War Between the States, had made Gilmore drink enough whiskey to knock Gregg himself out twice over, then had cleaned Gilmore’s eye socket and applied bandages.

  Gregg needed Gilmore’s expertise and refused to wait. Bill Roseberry sat in Marshal Bateman’s jail, a situation that made Gregg’s stomach churn with nervousness. Gregg had approached Roseberry because he was strong and loyal and because the man had nowhere else to go, and though the man wasn’t stupid, he knew secrets. Would he talk? Probably not. He claimed to know things about Luis Mierdino that he never revealed, even to Gregg.

  Yes, Roseberry would probably keep his secrets, but could he be sure?

  Then, there was the matter of his own sister, just a Jane Doe to the locals. Gregg, who had remained safe from the law for years had become a wanted man. He couldn’t claim her body. Besides, Melba had abandoned Gregg to help Blake, and it had gotten her shot in the head.

  Still, out of all this, perhaps Gregg would gain a more compliant Corwin Blake.

  When the doctor didn't answer on the second knock, Gregg unlocked the thick wooden door and walked in. The room had a faint, rank odor of heavy sweat and alcohol. He flipped on the overhead light and sat on the bed next to the snoring man.

  He patted Gilmore’s cheek, first gently, then, when the doctor merely grunted, he slapped him.

  “What... Fuck, ow!”

  Gilmore's left hand went up to cover his eye, though the socket was packed with bandages, with a thick white cloth wrapped tightly around his head.

  “I need you to do something, now.”

  “My head...”

  Greg waved a hand. “Yes, you probably have a hangover in addition to the pain from your wound. I would let you sleep, except that you’re the only person who can do what I need to be done.”

  Gilmore reached to his night table, eyes shut, patted around, and grabbed the whiskey bottle. He forced himself to sit and took a long swig.

  “What’s happened?”

  Gregg felt a twinge of pride. Gilmore had already begun
adjusting to life in the Syndicate. He would need a thick skin for what Gregg had to tell him.

  “We know where Blake is, and my sister.”

  “Dead?” asked Gilmore with no hint of irony.

  Gregg blinked, startled. “As a matter fact. Creed and El Tiburón. Word has it the latter collected the bounty on Blake. The marshals sent him on a train to San Francisco today.”

  “A reward and a train ride home. Not a bad deal.”

  “No, they sent Blake’s body back. The bounty hunter is still here. Blake has an aunt there, estranged, from what he told us, but legally she has the right to bury him. Word is, a different body is due to arrive in San Francisco.” Gregg laughed.

  “What?” Gilmore stared at him with his good eye before wincing and taking another drink.

  “All planned, of course. Blake’s body just arrived here, and we’ve got it in our morgue. See, Melba was shot in the head, Blake, in the heart. Like Creed. He’s ready for you. He’s missing a finger on his left hand, but otherwise—”

  “After what happened with that Hartgraul bitch? Why do you think he’ll be any better? The man was insane in life.”

  “You got other hearts working. As far as sanity, you were close with Hartgraul. You can do it this time, I have no doubt.” Of course, Gregg had plenty of doubts. Yet even if Gilmore couldn’t bring Blake back sane, perhaps they could use the new zombie as a weapon.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Creed and El Tiburón have been looking for us for a month.”

  “So, let them keep looking.” Gilmore leaned back, palm to forehead.

  “It’s just a matter of time before they find us. Not only Creed and El Tiburón will be looking. So will the marshals. Controlled, Blake can take care of them all. Hell, he almost did anyway. I lost two of my lieutenants in the last two days. We focus Blake and we can turn this around.”

  Gilmore started to nod. “You remember one of those canines, the coyote?”

  “People say they’ve seen Creed with it,” said Maxwell Gregg.

  “I found it wounded, gave it a new leg, and fixed its spine. Unlike the others, it was alive. The only reason it needed the attachment to its brain was so it could control that leg, and to bypass part of its spinal cord with wires. Its behavior changed too, though. See, I used relevant parts from a steely dog’s circuitry. It acts more like a domesticated animal than a wild coyote.

  “For Blake, I can try some circuits from a guard unit. However,” Gilmore said, setting down the bottle, “I’m not going to wake him up.”

  “Don't worry. We’ll have armed men in there with you, redundant switches to shut Blake's machinery down, whatever you need. You do this, and I'll increase your personal royalties from our endeavor by two percent.”

  “Ten percent.”

  Gregg wanted to grin widely but restricted himself to a tight smile. “I’ll take that deal.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Creed entered The Grand Western, glanced down the hallway toward the restaurant, ignored the man at the counter, and ascended the curving staircase. He arrived on the third story a moment later and knocked hard on the door to room three hundred six. It swung open and for an instant, the bedroom appeared empty. Cantrell stood against the wall by the frame, Lawkeeper held at his shoulder.

  “God damn it, Creed. Why'd you knock like that? I didn't know what to think.”

  “How should I have knocked?” As Cantrell holstered his gun Creed stepped in and shut the door.

  “Not as hard as you punch.”

  “I pulled my punches on you,” Creed answered. “The criminal underground, Robert. It is literally under the ground.”

  “What do you mean?” Cantrell closed the cover of a book on the table and sat on the bed. “Like caves?”

  “Basements. Throughout Railroad Flats.” As Creed explained what he’d discovered at City Hall, Cantrell listened, arms crossed, his expression moving from surprise to deep anger. Creed took the chair. “I want you to come with me to Iron Nelly's.”

  “Very well. What about your wild friend?”

  “Coconino will stay with Anna and Jonny for now. He's been incredibly obedient, a good companion, but I don't know what he'll do in this circumstance.”

  “We should leave the horses at Smullen’s,” said Cantrell. “Less chance of them getting stolen.”

  “Who would dare?”

  “James, the Syndicate knows we’re after them. They’d do it just to cause us trouble.”

  So, minutes later, the gunfighters strolled through the flats, coattails trailing, one’s eyes glowing crimson. Men returning home from the railroad stepped out of the street and into nearby shops as they passed. When they entered Iron Nelly’s, Creed took the door on the right, Cantrell, the left. The patrons all turned from their drinks and games of Faro, and as Creed swept toward the bar several cursed loudly and one gasped, grasping his chest.

  The Tesla bulbs had been turned low, and the saloon felt like a mausoleum and smelled of beer, armpits, farts, and dust. Those playing cards held their hands in close. Above the breathing, one man slurped his beer.

  Creed recognized one of the two men working the bar. Jason Nash wore a deep frown. Behind Creed came the creak of leather, the whisper of sleeves shifting. He drew his pistols and spun around.

  Three of the men—and Creed counted eleven—had their hands on the grips of their guns. As Creed glowered, Cantrell had his own Colt out and moved its aim slowly across the room.

  “Drop your weapons,” said the bounty hunter. “This is marshal business. Go to the wall and stand there with your hands up. This won’t take long but believe me, we’ll remember your faces.”

  “If it ain't one thing, it's t'other, dammit,” said a hunched man who looked to be in his eighties. The poor old fellow had probably lived in Santa Cruz since its founding and just wanted a drink. Eight guns, by Creed’s count, fell to the floor. The elder dropped a hunting knife. Without further complaint, every customer walked, strode, or shuffled to the wall.

  Cantrell stood at the side of the bar with his gun pointed upward, watching the assembled men.

  Creed holstered his pistols and turned to the bartender. “We’re looking for Maxwell Gregg.”

  Nash’s hands shook and his lips wavered from a frown to a surface smile. Creed understood immediately that the man felt stuck between two formidable forces, one consisting of Bodacious Creed, El Tiburón, and the marshals, the other, Maxwell Gregg and the Syndicate.

  The bartender’s companion, possibly an apprentice, hands raised like the men against the wall, took a step backward toward the liquor shelf. When Creed’s metallic gaze flashed toward him, he gasped and stopped moving.

  “Maxwell Gregg is a customer,” said the bartender. “What do you want with him?”

  Creed’s upper lip twitched. This liar had led him into a trap set by Gregg. “When I came in more than a month ago, before I died, you told me he was called Heilong, yet you knew his name then, too. Besides, he’s not a customer. As a matter of public record, he’s the owner.”

  Several customers issued a muffled gasp. “Did you know that?” asked one voice. “Had no idea,” said another. “Would’ve found another saloon—”

  “Another saloon?” Creed asked without turning his gaze from the bartender. “Why?”

  “I don’t trust him,” said the customer.

  “He doesn’t own Iron Nelly’s, I do, and I work for myself—”

  In an instant, Creed held his gun inches from the bartender’s forehead. “I just lost someone I care about very much because of that son of a bitch. You damned liar. You're going to tell me where he is or I’ll blow your head off.”

  “Give it a minute, James.” Worry tinged Cantrell’s voice. “Let the man think.”

  The apprentice, hands still held high, leaped for the door behind the bar. Creed aimed toward him, but the youth escaped through the door, and though Creed could have shot him easily, he let the youngster go. Swinging the muzzle of his pist
ol back to the bartender’s head, Creed cocked the trigger.

  Cantrell went behind the bar and pointed his own pistol through the door.

  “I’ll shoot!” called a voice from the back room.

  “Who do you reckon is faster?” Creed asked the bartender, loudly enough that all could hear. “My friend, or yours?” A flash of pure, hot emotion filled Creed’s chest and rose to his throat.

  The bartender's gaze flitted to Cantrell and back. “Look, if I tell you—”

  One of the front doors cracked open and a firearm boomed.

  Creed grabbed Nash by the collar and looked back. A short, heavyset man in unremarkable clothing pointed a shotgun at Creed. The bartender gasped, clearly understanding if the man fired, he would hit them both.

  “We don't want blood in here,” said the new entrant. “Mr. Creed, Mr. Cantrell, holster your weapons and leave.”

  Creed felt certain he could shoot the newcomer before the man could fire again, but they hadn’t come for a gunfight. They had planned on intimidation for information, but Creed thought he had taken it too far. Was this stranger alone? Creed listened and heard feet shuffling outside. The rifleman had backup.

  Since his resurrection, Creed had killed exactly one person, the Jane Doe who had murdered Heidi. He had no intention to let anyone die that day, let alone shoot anyone else. He tightened his grip on Nash’s collar, forced his frustration away with a shake of his head, and let go.

  Creed kept his gaze on the man with the shotgun and holstered his pistol. Cantrell looked at Creed as though bemoaning their predicament, then put away his Colt.

  The stranger stood before the left door, so the lawmen went to the right, hands raised. The man kept his weapon trained on them until they stepped outside. There, three others, all in the plain, black clothing of Syndicate men with hats pulled low and bandanas covering the lower half of their faces, stood with guns drawn.

  “Come on.” Cantrell winked at Creed and tilted his hat to the gunmen. He and Creed went north, back toward town, and after they turned a corner, the bounty hunter said. “That was rougher than I expected.”