Just enough light came from below for him to find the next lever. Blake flipped it while the others came up from behind, Mierdino first, then the mindless ones, then Nancy, and the stark shine of a single bulb flooded the room. A variety of folded shirts and trousers rested on shelves along one wall, and a rack of dresses of various colors hung at the other. The room smelled of cedar. Blake recalled the clothes storage room at the orphanage where he’d grown up. They had used cedar balls there to keep moths away.
Thunder cracked and rolled outside, and rain pattered hard on shingles. Blake hadn’t been able to hear the weather from below, but it seemed a storm had come in.
With the others following, he strode out the storage room door. They entered just what he expected, a clothing store, the racks little more than silhouettes. The light of streetlamps flickered outside heavy windows.
Blake swept through the shop, turned two deadbolts on the front door, and let his crew outside. First, he wondered if they could find horses, then changed his mind. Why bother? Mierdino and the others seemed as likely to bite into horseflesh as to ride it.
The street was empty of people. Most residents probably wanted to stay out of the rain, though might Blake’s prior escape have spooked them? He couldn’t recall where he had emerged into the road last time, but he faintly remembered a pack of wild dogs.
Navigating the Flats, night or day, rain or shine, was easy. You could go south toward the bay and the ocean, or north toward the rest of the city. Blake headed north with his zombie crew. While Nancy and Mierdino walked like ordinary people, the others lurched along.
“Gilmore's devices ain’t consistent in quality, I guess,” said Blake.
Near the center of Railroad Flats, Blake looked along a more brightly lit street. A crowd of men had gathered half-way down. He held his arms to the sides and his cohorts stopped behind him. The rain had already soaked his hair and shirt, so Blake put his hand over his eyes and squinted to improve his view.
He frowned, searching his memory, and at last came up with the name of the building where the crowd had gathered. Iron Nelly’s.
“That’s where I led Creed away from before the bastard shot me. Busy crowd tonight.” A thought filled him with momentary excitement. Was Creed there? He stepped forward and looked over each man. No, he couldn’t be. Though a couple of the men approached six feet tall, none quite matched Creed’s height.
Still, he had a good idea how to bring Creed to him. If there was a crowd here, they might spot him and his new gang. Better, he thought, to find an alley.
“This way,” Blake said, turning back, looking for a narrow road. Yet each building butted up against the next.
Mierdino and the stupid ones growled. When Blake spun around, only Nancy followed. The others were running for the crowd.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Blake’s boots pounded against the loosening mud and splashed in a puddle while he and Nancy dashed toward Iron Nelly's. They ducked under an awning that blocked most of the lamp light and watched.
Mierdino ripped open a young man’s shirt and dug his nails into the skin beneath. As the deputy screamed, not even reaching for his weapon, the shortest zombie yanked one of the man’s arms. It gave a loud pop as it left the shoulder socket. The other mindless zombie tackled an older man and pounded his head into the ground.
“Oh God!” someone shouted, no doubt taking in their pale skin and bloody faces of the zombies. Someone else cried, “Fuck!”
Several deputies drew their guns, and a couple fired. Blake shook with excitement. In the commotion, would they misfire and shoot each other? The zombies turned to new victims. They tore at faces, pulled men down by their heads, arms, and legs, and bit the same appendages before jumping at other men.
More bullets flew. Mierdino’s arm jerked back before he leaped at another man. The others took shots to the legs and belly. They flinched and staggered, but kept attacking. Some of the deputies stayed down, while others struggled to their feet, bruised or bleeding.
The shortest zombie laughed, voice hitching like a donkey’s, and Blake whooped and chuckled. The rain came down harder and the wind picked up, but the outlaw didn’t mind. He felt vibrant as he reached for his gun.
Nancy ran past Blake, and his surprise snapped him back from temptation. He dashed forward and tackled her. When they hit the ground his gut seized, but he forced himself to yell into her ear, “No! Creed ain't there.”
She clawed at the ground, mud covering her fingers.
“You want to kill Boyd, don’t you?”
Nancy’s fingernails dug into the earth and she pulled herself forward, dragging Blake with her. The rain chilled his back through his cotton shirt. “Listen to me! I want to kill Creed. You want Boyd. Let's go get her! We'll hit Amber Doves.”
With a grunt, Nancy stopped pulling. “You mean it?”
“’Course. Creed’s bound to show up there.”
“Why do you want to kill him so much?” she asked, panting. That seemed good. If she could ask a question like that, she was thinking like a person.
“First, to stop him from coming after me. Now, because I killed him once. Should I ever have to kill someone twice? Also, the fucker shot me in the leg and kicked me in the nuts.”
“Let me up.”
Unsure what she might try, Blake stood, reached down, and helped Nancy to her feet. Screams and gunfire echoed from buildings as the zombie attack went on just twenty feet away.
Blake held Nancy’s hand as they ran up the road toward Pacific Avenue. He didn’t let go until they rounded the block.
Johann galloped ahead of Malcolm along Ocean Street. Each drop of rain that hit the ground seemed to flash in the light of the streetlamps. Creed pressed his hat tighter on his head and glanced at the tracker.
What he saw surprised him and filled his chest with dread. He pulled the reins and Johann slowed to a stop, hooves splashing in puddles.
Cantrell came to an abrupt stop next to him. “What are you doing? The gunshots—”
“I know. This is pointing northwest—”
“It’s probably another rat. The men need us!”
“No. Look at the distance.” Creed heard the distress in his own voice. “It’s pointing to the bordello.” In an instant, Creed weighed the situation. At Iron Nelly’s, they had a good thirty armed men. Anna’s brothel had no such protection. A zombie was there, or close. That meant someone the Syndicate had resurrected, possibly even Corwin Blake.
Creed turned, found an alley, and urged Johann to race toward the brothel, tension gripping his gut. He couldn’t let anything happen to the people there. Especially Anna.
His enhanced hearing caught Cantrell mumbling, “Fuck it.” Malcolm’s splashing hoofbeats pounded behind him.
Blake embraced his new existence. He had joined the undead. Technology had achieved what witchcraft only could in stories. Zombies in New Orleans? Absurd. Séances? Bullshit. The emptiness of death had destroyed Blake’s belief in anything supernatural.
He and Nancy bounded up Pacific Avenue with no need for horses or Syndicate leg bracers, and he felt more alive than ever: more than when he’d murdered in San Francisco, more than when he’d bombed the Marshal Post, even more than when he’d killed Creed.
His skin tingled under his wet shirt and jeans, a welcome chill that urged him on. Half a block from Amber Doves, he began to slow and came to a stop in front of the three-story building. Light shined through windows dripping with rain.
Blake drew a gun. Just behind him, Nancy panted, either from the run or bloodlust. “Follow my lead, Nan. You’ll have your moment.”
Blake pulled on his goggles and checked the bullet chamber. Two of the six had been spent. He loaded more from the ammunition belt.
Music came from the saloon, a man crooning, the picking of a banjo, and the strumming of a guitar.
One look at Nancy intensely staring at the front door told him she was ready, yet Blake holstered the pistol in thought. “She can’
t run fast, like us. C’mon.”
Blake found the door to Smullen’s enormous stable locked. All the doors had been open the night he followed Creed, but maybe after the shootout, the owner had decided to practice some caution. If this one was locked, the others would be as well. He reached for his revolver, then thought about his new strength. Blake gripped the water-slick handle and pulled.
With a crack, wood broke, the black iron handle came free, and Blake shoved open the door. The goggles helped him see dozens of steeds in their stalls, some shifting, some still and sleeping. As he strode in he heard Nancy mumbling behind him, and half-way along lights flashed on. He pulled the goggles down to his neck and quickly selected two horses, one black, one dark brown. Moments later, he walked them out of the stable and hitched them to the post behind the brothel.
The zombies strode around to the front. There, Blake flexed his fists, drew a gun, patted Nancy on the shoulder, and went inside.
“Anna Boyd, I’m here for you!” Blake cried. He glanced around the large room, the stairs, and the banister, and counted five patrons, all men too old for a raid on Iron Nelly’s. A dozen whores milled about the saloon, a couple looking down from the railing. The musical group, consisting of five men and one woman, stopped playing and stared. From the back room came the smell of burning wood, maybe pine logs in the hearth, and from the kitchen, an assortment of cooking meats, but Blake took in the scent of people and licked his lips.
Nancy stepped in behind him and one of the women screamed. Blake glanced back at his companion with her off-white face and dark-rimmed eyes. Well, between the two of them, the whores had plenty to scream about.
“Hands in the air, now,” Blake intoned. The musicians put their instruments on the floor and did as asked. The johns and whores all raised their hands, too. Blake scanned the room and spotted one woman in a red dress with white trim. Curly black hair fell to her tan shoulders.
“It’s gotta be you.” He pointed the gun at her like a school teacher gesturing at a chalk board.
“I’m Anna. You leave these folks alone.”
“Nancy, grab her,” Blake said. “Don’t kill her!”
People scattered, knocking over chairs and food as the zombie madam dashed across the room. She grasped Anna’s throat.
“Shit!” Blake cried, jumping back. Two steelies ran from the stairway, one toward Nancy, one toward him. How had he missed them? “Fuck, no… stop!”
The automatons crashed to the floor, heads twitching. Something inside them, maybe behind their chest plates, scraped like a knife on a whetstone. Blake looked from one to the other.
Gunfire cracked and Nancy’s head flinched. In the door frame beside the bar stood a clean-shaven blond man, about Blake’s age, cocking his pistol again.
Blake fired just above the stranger’s head. “Drop the gun.”
“Do it, Jonny,” said Anna.
Nancy staggered back, put her hand against her head, and held the bloody palm toward Blake.
“He just grazed ya. Now take her out back!”
Jonny aimed at the outlaw, but Blake simply raised his eyebrows. Jaw tight, Jonny looked from him to Anna, gritted his teeth, and dropped the pistol.
Blake crossed the room with a smile, his Colt trained on the young man every second. He then pressed the muzzle against Jonny’s chest. “Fancy on her, huh? You want her to live? Tell Creed we’re heading north. We’ll see him in the woods.”
He cocked the pistol, gratified when Jonny, still staring into his eyes, shivered. “Bang.” Laughing, Blake dashed out the back door.
There, he found Nancy cinching a knot as she finished tying Anna’s hands behind her back. Blake and Nancy then lifted her onto one steed, and Anna cringed. Like a smart girl, though, she cooperated. Nancy mounted behind her and grabbed the reins.
“Where?” Nancy asked.
“I heard there’s an abandoned mansion a few miles north. You know of it?”
Blake mounted the second horse and pulled his goggles back over his eyes. With a closed-mouthed sneer, Nancy nodded and led the way.
As Marshal Bateman rushed out the door, there came more shouts, gunfire, and an atonal voice cried, “Let’s go get her!”
Bateman knelt over a wounded deputy, wondering who the shout referred to. He had seen three attackers, all male. No time to think about it. He examined the teeth marks on the deputy’s cheek. The man’s pulse and breath, steaming out into the cold night, showed that he lived, but lay unconscious.
Three pale men attacked the others, biting, knocking down, choosing new victims at random. Bateman drew a gun on instinct and fired. One of the attackers, a robust man, flailed and went down.
Other shots fired and a second later, all three mad men—zombies, it seemed—lay on the earth. Stanley Ross walked up to one that was squirming and put a bullet in its skull.
Bateman surveyed the carnage. Besides the zombies, four deputies had been killed. Five were wounded. The three undead lay in the dirt among the deputies. It took him only a few moments to identify them. He had shot the largest, Luis Mierdino, in the head.
The other zombies, formerly Rico Olimo and Lyle Hushbarger, had taken shots to the guts, arms, and legs, before those fatal wounds to their brains.
After the initial burst of gunfire in Iron Nelly’s, the saloon had gone quiet. Bateman dashed to the door, pistol raised. Best to avoid the windows. As he opened his mouth to give the outdoor deputies instructions, more shots came from inside.
Bateman shut his eyes. He wanted to run. Instead, he screamed, feeling his fear and rage, then looked over the men. “Listen to me! We’re going to win!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
As Johann galloped at top speed, Creed could barely follow the tracker’s dial. Shots came from Amber Doves, and he kicked the horse’s flank, but just as they were about a block away, the dial sharply shifted straight north. Creed pulled Johann to a stop, his nervous anger now gripping his throat.
“Check Amber Doves, then follow me up north!” he called to Cantrell. The bounty hunter slowed at Soquel Avenue. Creed whipped the reins and urged Johann up Main Street. To his dismay, the numbers on the tracker kept rising. He guessed the signal came from Pacific, so he turned down a side street and crossed over. Either the other zombie was running slightly faster than Creed could, or had acquired a horse. Johann had begun to tire.
Creed slowed his breath and listened, though it took concentration to differentiate distant sounds from that of the rain and his horse’s heavy breathing. People looked out from their windows above. Creed wished he could read their minds to have some idea what lay ahead. What had they seen?
The tracker placed the signal at more than two thousand feet and increasing. He thought he heard other hoofbeats, but felt unsure, and the motion of his steed made it impossible for him to focus on who might be half a mile ahead. From behind came the sounds of hooves and another horse breathing heavily. Cantrell and Malcolm. Did that mean all was well at Amber Doves? Creed wished he knew.
At Iron Nelly's, Marshal Bateman rushed down the stairs, into mayhem. Gunfire exploded from behind upended tables, where customers crouched beside deputies. Men in coal-black attire appeared and vanished from behind the bar to take shots. One thin, black-clad man rounded the bar and shot around the room. He jerked back as a bullet hit him, but did not fall.
From behind a table, Peake screamed, “Get down!” Bateman realized the shout was meant for him. He dived beside the federal marshal. The hit shocked Bateman’s diaphragm and he struggled to breathe. No fresh air for him, though. The room smelled of gunpowder, sweat, and blood.
More men rushed in the front doors from outside. Peake held a hand toward them as though he could push them back. “Wait!” Three fell to gun blasts.
Bateman wished he could cut off his hearing completely. At least the gunfire had deafened him enough that the cries sounded distant, as though he had fallen into a story about a gunfight, not the real thing.
As Bateman’s breat
h returned, Peake fired again above the table. “Got one that time!”
Still, men continued to enter, and Bateman saw why. The Syndicate men shot them after they came in about ten feet before they had time to duck. That way, those outside, still trying to suss out the situation inside, decided they could enter safely.
Bateman had to warn them. He dashed for the closest door, over a couple of bodies. He shoved the new man entering outside, and went with him, then slammed the door. “Stay out here!” A deputy closed the second entrance as well.
Window panes between the doors shattered. Some men ducked and others stood to the sides of the window as more bullets whizzed past.
What had happened to Bodacious Creed and El Tiburón? With their prowess and speed, the men might have had a chance. Bateman ran a hand down his face. He knew he had been an ineffective marshal. He had never intended it that way. Then, a resurrected lawman had come in and arrested more criminals in a month than he had in years. Maybe if Bateman had worked harder, asked for federal help before, they could have routed out the Syndicate.
Still, moments before he'd found the courage to stop men from entering the kill zone. He had to do more.
Bateman knelt under the broken panes and chanced a look in. He recognized a Syndicate man as the one who had taken a bullet and scarcely flinched. No doubt, he wore some sort of armor plating under his clothes. Another Syndicate man lay between an overturned table and the bar.
Biting his lower lip until he tasted blood, Bateman stared at the armored man and fired.
The criminal’s head jerked back and he fell, blood and brain matter splashing out the back of his skull against whiskey bottles and the mirror. His gun bounced once on the bar and hit the floor.
Glass crashed around the local marshal. With enough of the windows blown out, his men saw inside clearly. Several stepped back and fired inside. Bateman didn't dare peek over the frame now with all the bullets flying, but his men held their ground.
Bodacious Creed: a Steampunk Zombie Western (The Adventures of Bodacious Creed Book 1) Page 35
