Massacre at Lonesome Ridge: A Zombie Western (11 page)

"It's all right. Take your time." It was clear that the sheriff had dealt with tragedy before. He was calm and patient, giving Abby time to compose herself. He didn't push for details, but let them flow.

"We were almost done when we heard a scream, an animal. It came from the barn. Pa said it was the cattle. I thought maybe some coyotes had broke into the barn or something. They've taken the calves before. We grabbed the shotguns and ran out there. Ma took the others into the bedroom just in case in was bandits."

She stopped as the scene at the barn played out in her mind. Connor prodded her to continue, so she did. "Pa opened the door... It wasn't a coyote. It was a man, a couple men. They were... they weren't..." She took a deep breath and described the men to the sheriff. When she finished, tears rolled down her face.

He sat there, silent and brooding for a very long time. She was fine with that. She didn't want to talk anymore anyway.

"Connor." Doc Whitman's voice came softly from the doorway.

Abby looked up. He wouldn't meet her eyes. Connor rose to follow the doctor from the room, but Abby was up and through the doorway before they could stop her. She ran into the operating room.

"Wyatt," she whispered frantically. She grabbed his hand. It was cold. Too cold. "Wyatt, wake up." She shook his shoulder gently. His body jiggled with the movement and his arm flopped limply off the table. She longed to scream at him, to beg him to wake up, but she didn't want to wake Hannah. She wasn't ready to put her littlest sister through that kind of pain.

A pair of hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her away. She swung around and buried her face in the doctor's chest. "I'm sorry, Abigail," he said as he stroked her hair, but she couldn't hear him over the sound of her own grief.

Charity stared at the stars overhead. The men Little Bear tasked as scouts had been gone for three days. That meant that the farm they found was at least a day's walk away. She pondered for a moment. Dixonville was in the other direction. She knew Lonesome Ridge was a few days' ride that way.

David had taken her there once. There were lots of townsfolk there, more than double the number at Dixonville. The railroad ran right through it, making it the most important town in the area. And she couldn't deny that the sheriff was pretty cute. It would make a good place for the start of her new empire.

Charity tapped her chin. "I like that idea," she mused aloud.

She turned and looked at the men and women milling around outside in the dark. They weren't a real army. Not yet. But they were a start.

"A start," she muttered before walking back up the stairs.

Walton had consigned himself to his fate and sat with his legs draped over the edge of the far end of the porch. She pulled the door open as quietly as she could and locked it tight behind her. Then she went into the kitchen and found the big butcher's knife sitting on the table where Isabelle had left it. She tested its weight in her hand and ran a finger across the blade. It cut a fine slit in her thumb, parting the gray skin like it was butter.

Charity's lips pulled into a tight smile. "Perfect," she whispered.

With the knife firmly in hand, she tiptoed across the hallway into the sitting room. The top of Little Bear's head was visible above the chair in front of the fire. With Walton was outside with the other mindless drones, the young man was alone.

Indecision tore at her. She could take him now, slam the knife into his head and end it all. Or she could give him a chance to change, to bow to her rule. The small shred of loyalty she felt to him won out. She walked around the chair and stood in front of him with the knife dangling in her hand.

She waited for him to look up. He wouldn't. He knew she was there, of that she had no doubt. His non-reaction made her second guess herself, but she was committed to her course of action.

"Things need to change around here," she said. "We're not scavengers. We shouldn't have to hide anymore. It's time we take control and make ourselves known." She raised her voice as loud as it would go without yelling. She could already hear the shuffling noises outside the window before she finished speaking.

"No." Little Bear shook his head. "No." His voice was soft. It did not carry like hers, and his hands gripped the arms of the chair so hard the wood creaked.

"Your time is done," she said. "You are ineffective."

"No," he said again. His tone was pleading, sad. He already sounded defeated. It threw her off, shook her nerves. It poked at her confidence and made her second guess herself even more.

They stared at each other for a full minute, her with her gray-blue eyes and him with his red pits. Then he was in the air, flying toward her with incredible speed. An animalistic snarl erupted in his throat as his hands reached for her.

Charity brought the knife up and slashed at his wrist as a scream burst forth from her lungs. He growled and yanked his injured arm away, spitting words she didn't understand at her. As he bumped into the chair, she spun aside and put as much distance between them as she could. With a howl, he grabbed the chair and tossed it in her direction. It flew past her and smashed into the wall with such force that it shattered into pieces. A broken leg rolled to a stop by Little Bear's feet and he snatched it up as he lunged toward her again. He swung the leg at her like a club and it shattered across her shoulder. She bit down on a cry and stumbled to the other side of the fireplace.

Little Bear smelled her pain and leapt across the space between them. As he did, she slashed upward and drew a long, bloodless gash across his neck and face. He crashed into her and they toppled to the ground. The butcher’s knife tumbled from her hands and spun away, out of reach. He tore at her with teeth and nails, aiming for her throat and face. She held him at bay with one hand as the other scrabbled for the knife. Her fingernails dug deep grooves in the ground even as they peeled away from her skin. She fought for every inch as Little Bear ripped chunks of skin from her neck and back.

Finally her fingers touched the wooden handle of the knife. She screamed as she threw herself forward with every bit of strength she had. Her hand slipped around the handle as her body twisted sideways. Pulling herself onto her back, she kicked out with both feet. They planted squarely into his stomach and he stumbled back, slamming into the fireplace with an audible crack.

Charity didn't hesitate. She launched herself to her feet and threw herself at Little Bear. He brought his hands up to protect his head, but the blade, combined with the force of her attack, sliced through his arm, separating hand from wrist. The knife bounced off his skull, but dazed him just long enough. She pulled it back and smashed it back down. It buried deep into his skull.

He stumbled back a step. He held up his hands as she followed. "Charity," he whispered. His voice held such deep betrayal and sadness, she almost stopped, but she pushed aside any feelings of fear and guilt.

She grabbed the knife's handle again and yanked as hard as she could. The blade came free with a loud slurp. She raised it high and smashed into the wound that was already there. Little Bear's head split wide open. Gray, squishy matter dripped from the hole. Her opponent grunted, but Charity didn't stop. She let go of the knife, leaving it in his brain. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled until she heard the telltale pop and he sagged into her. Only then did she release him and step back.

He dropped to the ground like a sack of flour. His body twitched twice and then lay still. She stared at him for several moments before she leaned over and ripped the knife from his skull with a slurp.

"Gross," she mumbled as she wiped it off on his shirt.

Charity walked to the window. Several of the others, including Walton, stood there staring through the glass with gaping mouths. She set the knife on the window sill and returned their stares. The moon was bright and it lit the area well. She smirked. They were hers, all hers. She left the knife where it was and went out onto the porch.

"Listen to me." She yelled just loud enough for her voice to echo out across the area between the house and the barn. Those who were not at the window stopped milling about and turned toward her. Slowly, they gathered at the base of the stairs. David stood in front, staring up at her like a lost puppy. When they were all there, she raised her hands. "Listen. Little Bear is dead. He is no longer your leader. I am."

She paused, giving them time to react. They didn't even flinch.

Her smirk grew into a full fledged smile. "That's right. You know who your true ruler is. And you know what we need to do. We are not meant to hide away in the darkness, afraid of mere humans. We are better than them, stronger. They are our cattle, we are the masters. It is time for us to go out and take what we deserve." She paused again. And still she received no reaction. This time she was a little annoyed. "I am your queen. You will do whatever I say, do you understand?"

A few people nodded.

She growled. "Say 'yes, my queen'."

"Yes, my queen."

"Louder!"

The roar echoed across the plains. "Yes, my queen!"

Charity grinned and pointed toward Dixonville. "Go that way. Tomorrow, we show the world who we are."

The horde began walking down the road. She called Walton and David over to her. "You are now my lieutenants. I will tell you what to do and you tell the others, got it?"

The men nodded.

She was about to dismiss them when a thought occurred to her. "Walton, is it true that no one has ever escaped?"

The soldier hesitated, clearly still unsure about the sudden change in leadership. "Little Bear said we weren't to talk about it."

Charity snarled as her hand shot out and smacked him across the ear. "Little Bear is dead. I am in charge now. Tell me."

The soldier cowered before her and cupped his ear, even though it didn't hurt. "There was one," Walton mumbled. "Her name was Summer Rain. She was with him when they turned me. She did not like the way he ran things. They fought. She left in the middle of the night one night. We were not allowed to stop her."

"Who was she? Was she important to him?"

He hesitated again, until she raised her hand. "They were to be married," he stammered quickly.

Charity's eyebrow shot up. "Married? How interesting. So there's another group of us out there." Ignoring the others, she stood on the porch and watched as her new army filed out of ranch, heading toward the first town she intended to conquer.

Abby's shoulders shook as she sobbed into Doc Whitman's chest. "Shh," he whispered as he stroked her hair. He shot a look at Connor and shook his head.

Eva tapped him on the shoulder. “Let me help.”

The doctor stepped away from Abby and let his nurse take over. She cooed softly as she settled Abby into a chair beside her dead brother. Tears spilled down Eva's cheeks as she watched her former future sister-in-law slip her fingers into Wyatt's hand. The nurse placed her hand over Abby's and squeezed them both tight.

Connor walked over to stand beside the doctor in the doorway. "It makes no sense," Doc Whitman whispered to the sheriff. "That wound should not have been putrefied that fast. Not in the few hours since he was attacked. And he didn't bleed out enough to kill him, either. It's all very perplexing.” He stroked the stubble that was growing on his chin “It had to be that bite. It was poison of some sort. It had to be. What did she say? Was it really a human?"

The sheriff nodded. "If the story hadn't come from Abigail Crawford, I never would have believed it. She swears they were dead, walking dead."

The doctor laughed, a disbelieving snort. He stared at Connor with humor in his eyes. "Dead? Abigail said that?"

Connor didn't share in his mirth. "Yep. She said their skin was gray. She and her pa went to the barn when they heard the animals screaming. They attacked Abraham, tore him apart. With their teeth. Same with her ma and Madeleine."

Doc Whitman shook his head. His forehead was knit with refusal to believe an impossible story. He waved a hand at Wyatt. "And they bit the boy? Causing that? Not possible. Not just impossible. Completely ridiculous. I can't believe a story like that would come from Abigail Crawford."

Connor crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame as he stared at the pale figure on the table. "I want to agree with you, but I can't. I've got a terrible feeling. Like I've never had. We're in something here, doc. I don't know what yet, but it ain't good."

The doctor pressed his lips together as he watched the trio at the table. He didn't want to admit it to anyone, much less himself, but was afraid that Connor might be right.

Abby's fingers gripped Wyatt's tightly, clinging to what little hope she had left, praying to anyone who would listen that he would wake up. She squeezed his fingers so hard it made her hand hurt. "Please, Wyatt,” she begged as tears rolled down her face in heavy streams. “Please."

His fingers moved and he squeezed back.

Abby jerked away and gasped. Her eyes were wide as she stared at her hand. The tears stopped as her brain tried to process the impossible. Wyatt's fingers had moved. She was sure of it.

"What is it?" Eva arm was around Abby's shoulders and she eyed her with concern.

"Wyatt?" Abigail stood up and leaned over her brother. His eyes were still closed and his skin had taken on a cold, gray pallor. "Wyatt?" she whispered as her hand hovered near his shoulder, but she couldn't work up the courage to actually touch him.

His eyes popped open. Abby slapped her hand to her mouth as the sliver of hope in her chest flared to life. She reached for him, ready to grab her brother up in the biggest hug she could manage. Then she saw his eyes, those dull, dead eyes. Her heart lodged in her throat. She stumbled backward. Her foot caught on the chair right behind her and she fell head over heels. Her warning shout came out in an incomprehensible burst of air as she hit the ground hard.

“
Wyatt!” Eva's joyful shout echoed off the walls. She leaned over Wyatt as Connor pushed himself away from the wall. Abby's reaction set his alarm bells blaring and his hand flew toward his gun. It was halfway from its holster when the young man on the table grabbed at the nurse.

“
Wyatt,” she breathed with relief as she reached forward to touch his face. Her relief quickly turned into a blood curdling scream as he yanked her to him and sank his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck.

"Get him off her!" Doc Whitman screamed at no one in particular. He raced forward and grabbed a handful of the boy's shirt. He jerked the smaller man backward away from the nurse. Wyatt snarled at the intruder. He spun around and shoved the doctor with all the strength he could muster. Doc Whitman flew backward and smashed into the wall with a crack.

Eva was scrambling away from the table, but Wyatt spun and launched himself at her again. His teeth sank into her shoulder as their bodies collided. They went down together in a screaming, snarling mass of limbs and blood. Eva's head smashed against the corner of the table, sending a shower of blood across the floor. She was silenced mid-scream. Wyatt landed on top of her and tore a chunk of flesh from her shoulder. He looked up at Connor with blood dripping down his chin as he calmly munched on his meal.

The sheriff's hand wobbled as he pointed the gun at the boy. His finger twitched on the trigger, but he couldn't force himself to pull it back. It took him three tries to put enough pressure on it. The gun finally went off when Wyatt leaned down for another bite. It tore through his side.

A pained growl escaped around the lump of Eva's neck he still had in his mouth. He turned his head slowly and stared at the gun, then he dropped the meat and leapt at Connor's hand. The gun barked loudly. Wyatt tumbled from the air. He landed on the ground with a hole in the middle of his forehead.

Abby was curled up in the corner with her arms over her head and Doc Whitman lay groaning on the ground as Connor stepped over the boy's body. His fiancée was sprawled on the floor beside him. Her head was turned at an impossible angle and her eyes were wide and lifeless. Blood pooled underneath her, pouring from the holes Wyatt had torn in her flesh.

"Oh God, Eva." Doc Whitman's breathless whisper came from behind Connor. The sheriff watched as the doctor crawled across the floor to kneel beside the young woman. He lifted her wrist and checked her pulse, but they both knew it was unnecessary.

"Connor!" Amos burst through the door to the house with his gun drawn. Several armed men flowed in behind him.

He ignored them all and raised his Peacemaker. He pointed it at the girl with a hand that had finally steadied. He fired once, twice. Both shots hit her right between the eyes.

Abigail screamed. A matching scream echoed down from upstairs. "Connor!" Amos shouted again, even as Doc Whitman yelled. "What the hell, Connor? She was dead!"

The doctor fell beside his nurse and stroked her face. Connor looked back at Wyatt's still form. "So was he," he said. It was an effort to talk. Every part of him felt like it was made of stone. Even breathing was a chore. When he moved, it was in slow motion. He wondered briefly if he was dreaming, or possibly drowning.

A flicker of movement caught his eye and he raised his pistol as he turned. Abby was standing in the corner. "Were you bit?"

She shook her head fiercely and stared at him with eyes as wide as wagon wheels. "No." Her voice was a soft, strangled whisper.

Connor's eyes narrowed at her. He let them stray up and down her body. "Turn around," he demanded and gestured with his pistol.

She did as she was told. The only blood on her was the blood she had come in with. He nodded his head toward the stairs. "Go check on Hannah. Get her and come right back down."

Abby pushed away from the wall and scampered out the door. She took the long way around the table to avoid both Connor and the fallen bodies. As she pounded up the stairs, Amos walked up beside him.

"Holy hell, Connor," he said as he ran a hand through his tousled hair. He had forgotten his hat in his rush to take care of the horses. He still had his gun out and held it in a shaky hand. "What the hell happened?"

Connor blinked once, twice. Then he glanced at Doc Whitman. The man was leaning against the table with his head in his hands. There was no blood on him that Connor could see. The other men stood near the door, confused and afraid.

The sheriff holstered his gun and walked over to the chair Abby had tripped over. He set it upright and swung a leg over to settle in it backwards. He leaned an arm on the back and rested his head in his hand. His entire body shook. "I don't know, Amos. I don't fucking know."

****

Abigail Crawford raced up the stairs, desperate to get away from the carnage in the room below. Her little brother, the boy she had always adored and cared for, had turned into one of the things that had killed her father, mother, and older sister. He had attacked Eva, his wife-to-be, just like those creatures had. Abby had looked in Wyatt's eyes. They were dull, lifeless. They were not the vibrant eyes of her brother, always laughing, always looking for mischief and full of love for his family and Eva. They were the eyes of a mad beast, looking for only destruction and blood.

There were two rooms at the top of the stairs, one door on either side. The one on the right was wide open. Inside was a small bed, a dresser, and a night stand. Nothing more. The door on the left was closed. Soft whimpers escaped under the door. Abby went into the room on the right and sank onto the bed. She glanced behind her. On the night stand were two pictures. In the first one, a young Eva stood smiling with her mother. In the other, taken just a few months before at a social, Eva and Wyatt grinned like newlyweds, even though the wedding was still months off.

Abby's heart wrenched in her chest. She had known Eva since the nurse was a little girl. She had been close friends with her older sister before Rachel married and moved back east. Abby had been overjoyed when Wyatt and Eva were finally engaged.

The young woman doubled over and covered her face with her hands. Her breath caught in her throat and she struggled to breathe. Her chest hurt. For a terrified moment, she feared she was turning into one of those vile creatures, but no, it was pain of a different kind. It was the pain of intense loss. Her heart was breaking over the deaths of so many people so close to her. She was wounded, even though her scars would be deep inside, invisible to everyone but her.

Tears welled up and poured down her face, bearing some of the pain away with them. She sat there on the bed of her dead friend for several minutes, taking deep breaths, trying to compose herself. It would do no good to let Hannah see her like that. Hannah needed her to be strong. Hannah needed her to be a rock.

****

Hannah Crawford cowered in the corner of the doctor's bedroom, between the dresser and the wall, with a shaving razor clenched tightly in her hands. She'd heard the screams, she'd heard the gunshots. She had lost her mind for a moment and let her screams, her fear, mingle with the shouts downstairs. Then she snapped her lips shut. If those creatures found them, if they killed the sheriff and Abby and the doctor, they would come looking for her next. She would not go out like that. She refused. Her family thought her weak, she knew that. She was young and quiet and thoughtful, but she wasn't stupid. Pa had taught her privately how to shoot. She was better than Abby, though neither of them would ever tell her older sister. She had also practiced with knives in the barn. She preferred them over the loud, ungainly guns. With a knife, she could hit a spot the size of a silver dollar from halfway across the barn nearly every time. She wasn't weak. She was a survivor, and she wouldn't go down without a fight.

When the door opened, she leapt to her feet and drew back the razor blade. She nearly threw it, until she saw Abby's dark hair and tear-stained face standing in the doorway.

"Hannah?" Abby's eyes were wide as she stared at her little sister.

Hannah took a step forward. "Wyatt?" she whispered. She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it out loud.

Abby was silent for a moment as she looked from Hannah's face to her hands and back again. Hannah glanced down. She still held the razor blade, open and pointed right at Abby. She snapped it shut and tucked it into her pocket. Abby ran the few steps to cross the room and bundled Hannah into her arms. She stroked her younger sister's hair.

"I'm so sorry, Hannah. I'm so sorry."

The two girls allowed the grief to wash over them and tears rolled down both of their faces.

"Wyatt," Hannah whispered again, but this time it wasn't a question.

Abby nodded. "And Eva."

Hannah pulled back and stared at Abby. "Eva?"

Abby took her hand and led her to the bed. They sat down. "He turned into... one of those things. Those things that attacked Ma and Pa and Maddy. He..."

Hannah's shoulders hitched as a sob broke from her chest. It was the pain of loss and anger and fear all bundled into one. She looked at her older sister with watery eyes. "Those things are still out there, Abby."

"I know." Abby's shoulders slumped.

"They could follow our trail."

Abby's lips pressed together in a tight line and she nodded again.

"They could come here. They could come to town." She reached her hand into her pocket and gripped the razor blade tightly.