by Ray Wallace
All right. I've been informed that they are ready to disperse the gas. Apparently there will be no time for questions. I've told you all that I can anyway. If I say any more they'd probably hand me over to the vampires.
Now I really must be going.
And so I will now say goodbye, and from the bottom of my heart I thank each and every one of you for your sacrifice.
- SHOWDOWN IN ZOMBIE TOWN -
Author's note: I'm sure it was through reading Joe Lansdale-one of my favorite writers-that I encountered the idea of the zombie western. And a damn fine idea it is, too. Cowboys, saloons, stagecoaches, and the walking dead. What's not to like? At some point it crossed my mind that, hey, I wouldn't mind writing one of them there zombie westerns myself! It started with the image of a dying man on a horse riding into town. And the rest of it went something like this...
*
The dying man rode into town on a white horse and a rainy day. Lolling dangerously in the saddle, he charged down Main Street, the hooves of his mount throwing great clumps of mud into the air. People watched in puzzlement from beneath the wooden awnings that lined the fronts of shops and houses to either side of the street as horse and rider raced by. Even Sheriff Buckingham - or "Buck," as he was known by most of the locals - stood watching from the porch in front of the jailhouse, his attention commanded by the spectacle that had suddenly come to the quiet little town where his word was law.
Can't see him gettin' much further, thought Buck.
He knew all too well the look of an animal on its last leg. More than once, he'd had the unfortunate experience of riding a horse into the ground. Not something he was particularly proud of. But in his past there had been the occasional desperate situation. And sometimes they did, indeed, call for desperate measures.
Moments later, the horse pulled up short then collapsed in front of the town's lone saloon. The rider, who had been so precariously perched atop the exhausted animal's back, was thrown a short distance away. He came to rest lying face-up on the sodden ground, blinking slowly, seemingly unconcerned with the rain falling into his eyes. His hat lay near his outstretched right hand and his booted left foot was turned at an odd angle, obviously broken. The small crowd that soon gathered there could hear the man moaning in great discomfort, his breath coming in ragged gasps. After getting a good look at the fallen rider, none of those standing nearby could be certain as to the greater cause of his agony. Was it the injured ankle, no doubt a source of considerable pain, or the terrible affliction that had tinged the skin of his face with such a deathly pallor, had pulled the flesh so tight against the bones beneath, that had left his eyes, yellow and sickly, bulging from their sockets?
"Oh, what's that smell?" asked one of the ladies near the crowd's inner circle. For, indeed, the man did stink, his body giving forth an odor reminiscent of a slab of meat left out in the sun or of a shallow grave rudely disturbed by vultures.
"Stand back, stand back," said a voice full of authority. The crowd obeyed with haste, shuffling a few steps away from fallen horse and rider, eager to distance itself from the unpleasant aroma. Sheriff Buckingham approached the man lying in the road. "Somebody go and wake up Evans," he said. The town doctor was a renowned drunk, often had to be roused from an inebriated slumber to perform his duties. "Tell him it's important."
Then the young sheriff crouched down next to the moaning man, the back of his hand pressed up underneath his nose to help block the smell.
"Hey there," said the sheriff. The stranger just kept looking up into the sky. "Hey, friend." No reaction. The sheriff reached out with a powerfully built arm and gently prodded the man's shoulder. "Help is coming," he said.
The stranger's head swiveled until he locked eyes with the sheriff. The man licked his thin, white lips, his tongue a pale and withered thing. "Too late..." he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Nah, we've got a good doc. He'll fix you up good as new." Even as he said the words he knew how ridiculous they sounded. "What's your name?"
"Doesn't... matter..." said the dying man. "Listen..."
"Okay, sure."
The man paused for a few moments, as if gathering his remaining strength. Then: "Saul... Valley..."
Another, even longer pause.
Buck waited.
"Sacred... land..." the stranger finally said. Then he closed his eyes, offered one last, tortured exhalation then breathed no more.
The sheriff placed his fingers on the man's neck. No pulse. "Goddamn Evans," he muttered.
Standing, he looked around at those gathered there. "All right, everybody," he said. "You can all - "
Something grabbed his pant leg.
He looked down, saw that the dead man was not so dead after all. He tried to pull his leg free of the man's grasp, realized that he couldn't, was surprised at the strength that held him. Surprise quickly gave way to shock and fear as the man opened his mouth wide and pulled himself toward Buck's leg apparently ready to take a big ol' bite.
Without thinking, the sheriff grabbed one of the pair of pistols hanging at his hip and fired once into the stranger's head which snapped back into the muddy ground. Immediately the grip on his pant leg loosened and the man was still once again.
The sheriff stood there breathing heavily for a few moments before shouting, "Somebody get that good-for-nothing doctor!" When nobody immediately moved he added, "Now!"
As the crowd started to disperse the rain fell harder and a clap of thunder rumbled across the sky.
*
When Evans finally emerged from the back room Buck could see that he was in a bad way. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his hands were trembling.
"Holy Jesus hanging on the cross, do I need a drink," said the old sawbones as he headed for the corner of the room that served as the house's kitchen, opened one of the cabinets there. "How about you?" he asked as he grabbed a pair of glasses and a bottle half-filled with a dark liquid.
"Yeah, I reckon I could use one too," said Buck as he walked over and joined Evans at the kitchen table.
They sat there without speaking for a time, Buck sipping at his drink, the old doc imbibing with a bit more gusto. The only sounds were those of the rain pattering on the roof of the house, of it dripping into pots and pans set on the floor as it leaked through the ceiling in places.
"Never seen anything like it," Evans eventually said. "The guy's all gone to rot inside, like he's been dead a long, long time."
Buck took a swallow of whiskey, cleared his throat. "Now how is that possible? I was far from the only person saw him ride into town just this afternoon."
Evans shrugged his thin shoulders. "Not sure. Disease. Some kind I haven't seen before. Or..." He shook his head, drained the rest of his glass, refilled it.
"Or..." said Buck, not sure he was going to like what he was about to hear.
"His dying words... What you told me..."
Beneath all the gray whiskers and the bushy eyebrows the old fellow's face had a haunted look to it.
"Saul Valley," Buck offered. "Sacred land."
Evans nodded. "Could be some sort of curse." Again, he shook his head. "I know it sounds crazy..."
Buck leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Yeah, it sounds crazy all right." He finished his drink, set his glass on the table and got to his feet. "But I was thinking the same damn thing."
With that he wished the doc a good evening and walked outside into the rain and the darkness.
*
Sheriff Buckingham led a posse of five mounted men out of town the following afternoon. The rains had stopped, at least for the time being, but the sky was dark and full of clouds. None of the riders doubted that they would encounter some type of stormy weather along the two day journey ahead.
That morning Buck had called a town meeting, had announced his intentions to travel to Saul Valley, to find out if the people there were in need of aid. Or to discover if something was going on there which might pose a threat to the people of his
own town. He had called for volunteers to accompany him, had chosen the most able-bodied among them. A few hours later found him headed west atop a sturdy mount, a gleaming pair of pistols at his hips and a shotgun strapped across his back.
The group rode in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts, wondering what they might find when they reached their destination. Nearly every one of them had been there when the dead man had tried to take a bite out of Buck's leg, and those who weren't had heard the story at least a dozen times since it had happened. It was the town's priest, Father McClarty, who'd given a name to what had happened.
"Some sort of zombie, if you ask me," he'd said at the meeting in his thick Irish accent. "Spent a couple of years among the heathens down in Haiti. Saw a couple men called back from the dead while I was there." He crossed himself. "Where do you think I got these gray streaks in my hair? Devil's work, for sure. And if those savages were capable of such a thing, then I imagine a few of the Indian tribes out in these parts might be too. Could be a twisted form of that earth magic they like to do. And Saul Valley... If it was built on land considered sacred... Like a burial mound or something... Well, I don't think there'd be any shortage of redskins looking for a little revenge."
Buck wasn't sure what to make of all that. It sounded crazy but seeing that dead guy latch onto his leg... That had been pretty crazy too. And since Doc Evans had been unable to come up with a better explanation it was the one he'd decided to work with, at least until something else came along.
Zombies. The living dead. The one he'd encountered seemed to have had a bit of an appetite too.
Where there was one there might be others. The very idea sent a chill thoughout his body. He reached down and patted one of the pistols at his side. Nothing a few bullets can't fix, he tried to reassure himself.
*
As they neared Saul Valley, the sun, a malevolent burning disk, rode high in a cloudless sky. The expected rains which they had indeed encountered the day before now seemed a distant memory. The air was hot and dry, like when standing near a furnace. The horses were laboring. They would need water soon.
"Strange weather," said Jeremiah, the blacksmith's son, from where he rode near the middle of the pack.
"Strange times," replied the sheriff.
And then they crested a rise and cantered down into the valley after which the town they'd come to visit had been named.
Saul Valley was a town twice the size of the one they'd left behind. It had a jailhouse, two saloons, a brothel, a mill powered by a nearby stream, two chapels - one for the Protestants, one for the Catholics - with cemeteries nearby, a smithy, a hotel, and a general store at either end. Buck had been there three times before - once accompanying a stagecoach loaded with valuables, the other times transporting prisoners - and the place had been a hive of activity with riders, stages, and pedestrians all vying for space along the main thoroughfare that cut through the heart of the town. Not today. That same street was now completely deserted, a number of horses lying dead along the way where they'd been left tied to posts or hitched to carriages, unable to reach any water. Vultures fed on the carrion. Flies rose in great swarms from the dead animals. The stink was a terrible thing. At the center of town Buck brought the group to a stop, turned his horse around to face the other men.
"Davey, Pete, Elijah," he said. "Find some water for the horses." He dismounted, handed the reins to one of the riders. "Jeremiah, come with me."
"Where we going?" asked the young man, an obvious edge of anxiety in his voice.
"Pay the sheriff a visit. Find out what the hell's going on around here."
The two of them walked over to the jailhouse. The silence that surrounded them, that permeated the town, was unnerving to say the least. Buck tried to think of something to say, some small quip that might help to lighten the dark mood that had him and his young companion in its grip. Nothing came to mind. Instead, as they stepped up onto the porch that fronted the jailhouse, he said, "Stay behind me. Keep your eyes open and your pistol ready." Then they went inside.
The jailhouse here resembled the one where Buck tended to his business, accept this one was slightly larger. It was all mostly one big room. There were a couple of desks with chairs, a rack for coats and hats, some shelves atop which sat a few boxes of ammunition, and a lantern, now extinguished. At the back of the room there were two cells, side by side, separated by a brick wall. The cell door to the left was hanging open. In the lighting streaming in through the open doorway and the two small windows set into the front wall of the building, Buck could detect movement in the open cell. He pulled out his pistol, took a few steps in that direction. A stench similar to what he'd encountered outside wafted from the cell.
"Sheriff Johnson?" he asked. On his previous visits to Saul Valley, Buck had found that Bill Johnson, who was infamous for his gruff demeanor, had treated him quite well. The older man had been full of good advice - "Keep an eye on the quiet ones, they're always the most dangerous." - and if he had not exactly taken Buck in as a trusted confidante he had at least shown him a level of respect he reserved only for the handful of people he felt deserved it.
"Sheriff?" asked Buck again. Now he stood just before that open doorway which led in through the row of steel bars bolted into floor and ceiling at the front of the cell. The awful smell intensified. Buck tried not to breathe as he took in the sight of the man kneeling at the back of the cell, facing away from Buck, making odd little jerking movements and moaning. For a moment it looked as if the man was praying or weeping over the other man lying on his back on a cot attached to the wall there. But then Buck started to make sense of the sounds he heard, the ripping, the dripping, the chewing. And he realized that the kneeling man was eating from the torso of the other man who was obviously, thankfully, quite dead.
In disgust, Buck took an involuntary step backward. His eyes flicked down and there he saw Bill Johnson's trademark white hat where it had fallen to the floor of the cell.
"Sheriff!" The word was torn from Buck's throat. This time the kneeling man turned, and Buck could see that, yes, it was definitely Bill Johnson with his seamed face and the scar on his cheek, his thick, gray sideburns, and that bushy moustache now matted with gore. A loop of something long and red and wet dangled from his teeth which he bared in a snarl.
"Oh, Jesus God," he heard Jeremiah say from behind him.
Buck raised his gun, pointed it at Sheriff Johnson's face. His finger tightened on the trigger.
From outside there came the sound of screaming.
His men!
Once, a few years back, while serving as a corporal in the U.S. Army, he'd led a patrol in search of a gang of cattle thieves. His group had been ambushed. He'd barely escaped with his life, the only survivor. The fact that he'd been unable to save the others had racked him with guilt. It was that memory that made him turn, push Jeremiah aside, and hurry back outside.
For a moment what he saw there defied all reason.
The townsfolk had decided to make an appearance. Apparently they'd been hiding. Waiting. And it seemed that they were as crazed, and hungry, as their sheriff. There were thirty of them, at least. One of his own men was already down. From the way he screamed Buck thought it might be Pete. Half a dozen of the locals were gathered around him in a tight circle, on their knees, tearing handfuls of intestine and meat and other unidentifiable pieces of viscera free then stuffing the revolting morsels into their mouths. Horrified, Buck watched as Davey Mulhannen, son of the widow Mulhannen who had run Mulhannen General ever since her husband's death some five years back, was tackled by a pair of - Alright, might as well go ahead and use the word, Buck, 'cause that's what these people are. - "zombies" who were quickly joined by others in biting and scratching and pulling at the flesh and face and limbs of the poor boy. Zombies, yes, for only something brought back from the dead could be capable of such atrocities, Buck figured.
There came a shout from across the road then the sound of three quick pistol sh
ots rang out. That would be Elijah, thought Buck even as one of those bullets managed to make its way through the crowd and come so close to hitting Buck that he heard the whizzzz of the bullet speeding past his ear. There was a sound like someone taking a fist to the face directly behind Buck and he turned just in time to watch Jeremiah fall over backward, a gaping hole where his left eye had been. Good God, what madness is this? Buck wondered. Then he thought no more for a time as a killing rage, a sudden lust for revenge settled over him and he went about the work of bringing an end to the insanity on display before him as quickly and efficiently as possible.
With a pistol in each hand he stepped out into the street and started to fire his weapons. After realizing that bullets aimed into either the back or the chest of a zombie had little effect, he recalled the dying man who'd ridden into his town, the way the bullet in the brain had put him down once and for all. After that he aimed for the head. And the dead began to litter the street.
It was a massacre. The zombies were rather slow, awkward, seemed to lack some fundamental control of their own bodies. They didn't walk so much as shamble. Running seemed quite beyond them. And Buck's aim was true. While in the army, his marksman skills had been above average. And now his anger had fine tuned his skills to the point of near super human perfection. With each shot, two at the most, a zombie went down. But there were so many of them. It wasn't long before his pistols were empty, the barrels hot and smoking. So he pulled the shotgun off of his back, used its wide spray to open a path right through the heart of the undead mob. A head exploded. An arm was blown off at the shoulder. A hole big enough for him to stick his fist through was opened in the midsection of a teenaged girl in a filthy pink dress. There, at the other side of the street, his horse and those of his posse were tied to a hitching post. They were whinnying, eyes wide and rolling with fear. Elijah was nowhere to be found. Whether dead or run off Buck didn't know. What he did know was that his saddlebags held more ammunition. Within moments his pistols were reloaded and he was back to the task of laying low the dead.
