Massacre at Lonesome Ridge: A Zombie Western (9 page)

Little Bear beckoned for Charity to move next to David. Her body was still weak and shaking, but she dragged herself across the floor until she was next to her husband. He stared at her. Not at her, but at the blood covering her mouth and dress. The strange hunger in his eyes both excited and terrified her. It was the same hunger she felt when she saw Isabelle.

"You are not like the others." The translator settled back onto the floor by Little Bear's side and relayed his words.

Charity looked up at the young man's empty eyes. "What others?"

He waved a hand at David and the soldier. "The others like us. The other turned ones."

She shook her head. "I don't..." Her brain was clouded, like she had been drinking too much wine.

Little Bear reached out and brushed a hand over her hair to smooth some of the knots. "Do not worry, my dear child. You will understand all soon enough."

Charity felt sluggish and confused, but a little worm of thought niggled at the back of her mind, forcing its way forward. He had called her a child. He was patronizing her. She was pretty sure she was older than him by several years, yet he spoke to her as if he was her elder, a grandfather coddling his young ignorant granddaughter. It was the way Catherine had, the way David began to after they moved out west, and she hated it with every fiber of her being.

She stiffened and pulled her head away so he couldn't touch her without stretching. "Please explain to me what is going on." Her voice had dropped an octave and she put a sharp edge on it.

He sat back in the chair and steepled his fingers. He didn't seem to notice her change in demeanor. "Very well, my child. It is a long story, with much pain. Are you sure you want to hear all of it?"

"We have time." She rose and pulled her chair over. She would not sit on the floor like a dog. She took her time arranging her skirts before turning her attention to him.

The corners of Little Bear's mouth flickered. Was it a smile? A frown? She couldn't tell without the expression in his eyes to guide her.

"It started several months ago,” he began. At times he spoke in his own language and Walton, the soldier sitting on the floor beside him, had to translate. “I don't know exactly how long. A band of men came while I was away from my village. They were mostly soldiers who ran away during the war. They were disgraced, and what little mercy they had was torn away by the harsh life they led. The men killed everyone in my village, my whole family. It was all gone, burned to the ground. Barely a dozen of us remained, mostly those who had not been there when it began.”

He paused as his voice cracked. Charity waited for him to continue. “My grandfather was the village shaman. I was to follow in his footsteps, and he had taught me how to contact the spirits. I used what knowledge I could remember and attempted a ceremony. I called upon them for help, to make those awful men pay for what they had done. The spirits did answer, but not in the way I expected. Their gift was both a blessing and a curse. They gave me the ability to seek my revenge, but at a horrible price."

He was silent for awhile. His nostrils flared and his jaw was set in a tight line. "What you see, the gray skin, the dull eyes, it is both a tool for vengeance and the cruelest form of torture."

"What are we?"

He smiled sadly. "I do not know, to be honest. We are beyond the living. We are greater than them. We do not feel much pain, unless it is very intense. We do not feel cold, though it makes us slower. We are stronger, and at night when the sun has gone down, we are faster. But we must eat."

"We feed on people? The living?"

He nodded. "We feed on living flesh. It sustains us. People, animals, anything will do. We have discovered that humans taste the best and provide the most energy. But I prefer animal flesh."

Charity stared at him. Their conversation was so surreal, so impossible. Her eyes darted to David. "Are you the leader? Is that why they listen to you, why they act like trained dogs?"

Little Bear laughed. It was a hollow, low sound that sent shivers up Charity's spine. "You are a very inquisitive one. Yes, I am the leader. I was the first to be given this... gift, if you will. Unlike the others, I have retained all my abilities, all my memories. My mind is clear, it is sharp."

The young woman shot a glance at her husband. "And what of the others? How are they different?"

"They are..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Few of those who have been turned are fully themselves. They lack memories. They are listless and slow to respond unless there is fresh meat around. Many do not know who they are or where they came from. They are simply beasts who wander in search of food. Unless they have direction. They follow directions very well. They obey without question. Only twice have I had to kill a creature who did not respond, who let the power of hunger overtake them. The others seemed to understand that and they feared me even more. The fear works to my advantage."

"David?" Charity called her husband's name. He was still staring at her, at the blood on her face and neck, but he did not immediately respond to her call. "David," she said again, more firmly. She waved a hand in front of his face and he lifted his head slowly until his dull eyes met hers.

"He did not know his name. Your maid told us. He is like a newborn pup, untrained, confused. I had to stop him from doing to you what you did to your maidservant."

Charity shook her head as pictures of her past life flashed in front of her eyes. Sitting on her father's knee as a child, crying at her mother's side at his death, the pain and anger she felt, the embarrassment. Meeting David for the first time, the joy of finally being released from the poverty, at finally becoming part of the society she adored, and the devastation when she realized it was all being taken away again. She remembered David's betrayal as he slowly turned against her, treating her like she was inferior instead of his wife and equal. She remembered the shock and fear of the night before when she awoke to find him at her bedside, when he lunged at her, when he attacked her and turned her into whatever it was that they were.

A hand went unbidden to the wound on her neck. She brushed it gently with her fingers. "Are we dead?"

Little Bear cocked his head. "We are turned."

Charity frowned at him for a moment as she remembered an article she read a few months back in one of the newspapers she subscribed to that was shipped out regularly on the train. It was about a woman in some jungle in some far off place Charity had never heard of who was dead and came back to life. She snorted now as she had then. "Impossible," she said, shaking her head.

She could feel Little Bear's curiosity as he stared at her with those empty, soulless eyes. He was looking at her in his own way. Judging her, appraising her. It made her skin crawl and she had an almost unstoppable urge to hide behind her chair. Instead, she lifted her chin and stared back into the big red pits in the middle of his face.

The corners of his lips twitched again. This time it was definitely a smile. "What is impossible, my dear child, is you. You seem to have suffered none of the effects of this... disease, we will call it."

His continued hesitation at naming what had happened to them gave Charity an idea. "You've never had to explain this to anyone before, have you?"

Little Bear folded his hands in his lap. "No. I have not. I have thought about it often, pondered through the effects with each new convert, but I have not had the opportunity to discuss it with another person."

"Until now."

He nodded once. "Until now."

Charity pressed her lips together. Her mind was working furiously. Her fear and confusion were receding rapidly, pushed back by the cool and intelligent side of her brain. She was in a very interesting position. A very interesting position indeed. "How many of us are there?"

Little Bear smiled. "A good number. Not too many to feed, but enough so that we do not have to worry about being overrun. I choose my targets carefully, and I am even more careful with those who we allow to turn."

"Why? Why not just turn everyone? If they're all like David, why do we need to worry?"

The man laughed again. "We cannot turn everyone. We need to eat. Some are injured in such a way that they cannot be turned. If their neck or back is broken or their skull crushed, they will not turn. And a smaller band can travel easier without worrying about being spotted or attacked."

Charity raised an eyebrow at him. "Attacked? You said we were stronger and faster. We should not fear being attacked. We should not fear anyone."

Little Bear's lips pressed into a line for a moment before he spoke. "You are still young, my child. You do not understand. It is better this way. Trust me."

He said 'trust me' like a father would tell his child to trust him, basically scolding her for questioning his leadership. Irritation and rebellion boiled up into Charity's throat, but she forced it back down. Instead, she forced a puppydog smile to her face. "You are right. I am still young and I do not understand all of this yet. Will you teach me?"

His hard face broke into a grin. "Of course. You will be my student, I will be your teacher. Together we will run this ragtag band of converts." He rose from his chair and held out his hand. "Come, I will show you the herd."

Charity slipped her hand into his and let him lead her out onto the porch. "Come, David, Walton." Her husband and the soldier rose from their positions and shuffled along behind the pair. Little Bear pushed open the screen door and beckoned for Charity to walk through.

It was quiet outside. Not even the wind stirred. The sun was hot and in the sky. Charity took Little Bear's offered arm and together they stepped off the porch. Her skin immediately began to sting. The intense heat pulled the moisture from her skin as they walked. She now understood the cracks she had seen on Walton and Little Bear's faces and hands. She lowered her head and let her hair fall around her face to offer a little protection.

"Ah, yes. The sun does not like us. We must move around when it is weakest or it sucks our energy. I have had more than one man fall from its vicious heat."

Charity cut a glance at Little Bear, but said nothing. Her lips were already starting to burn as she hurried along. Her eyes went wide as they passed the corral. It was empty of horses, but pools of sticky blood seeped into the cracked earth. She tried not to think of the animals she had cared for and allowed him to lead her to the closest barn. As they approached, she could hear noises from inside. The shuffling and moaning grew louder when Walton opened the door.

There was a large group of men and women just inside the barn, but they moved aside as the doors opened, crowding out of the rays of sun that burst through the opening. Walton closed the doors behind them, but the others stayed where they were, leaving a gap of several feet between the crowd and the newcomers. The stairs to the hay loft were to the right and Little Bear led Charity toward them. Others shuffled out of the way. Two large men who looked much like Little Bear were standing at the base of the stairs, blocking it. When Little Bear and Charity reached them, he nodded to them,

“
Gray Wolf, North Wind, please step aside.”

The men immediately moved off the stairs to let them pass. Walton followed them up to the loft, but David stayed below with the rest of the crowd.

Little Bear led Charity to the edge of the platform. She gasped as she looked out over the barn. There must have been nearly thirty of the creatures. The barn had once been home to their numerous horses, but all she could see now were occasional bones among the crowd. "Are there more in the other barns?" she asked as she surveyed the crowd below. They were all staring up at her. It didn't make her nervous as she would have expected. It made her excited.

"No. They have been barricaded for the moment, to protect the animals."

She turned to him. "Why?"

"To prolong the food supply. We will stay here for awhile to regroup and plan. We will need to eat during that time."

Charity nodded. "I see."

Little Bear smiled at her. "Give me your hand." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Trust me," he said.

She took his offered hand and he held it up. The shuffling and moans from below stopped. "Heed my words," he bellowed to the masses below. "Today dawns a new era. Behold, your new queen!"

And just like that, Charity's hope for her future renewed and her new life began.

Connor McClane's shoulders drooped with relief as he pushed open the swinging doors to the saloon. It had been a long, stressful day full of robbery accusations, street brawls, and dead horses. On days like these, he almost wished he had forsaken a life in the west and gone east after the death of his bride-to-be. The only things that kept him in Lonesome Ridge were the convincing pleas of his older sister.

"Evenin', sheriff." Neil Avery inclined his head as Connor settled onto his typical seat at the bar. It was like a second home to him and he reveled in its comfort. A glass half full of amber liquid waited for him and he knocked it back in one quick gulp. Avery had it filled again before it even hit the wood. "Rough day, Connor?"

McClane grunted. "The worst." He threw back the next shot and closed his eyes as it burned its way down his throat. He should have been a bartender, he thought. All day access to free booze and free women.

"Ah, it ain't all bad," Avery was saying. "You've had harder days, sheriff. Like with your sister, and Lydia."

Connor's nostrils flared. Leave it to Neil to make a bad day worse. The sheriff was convinced that the man did it just so Connor would drink more. Not like he didn't drink enough as it was already. He was pretty sure he could have bought the saloon by now. "Yeah, I have." He tapped the empty glass on the bar. "You're slow today."

The bartender flashed him a grin and poured another shot into the glass. "Been busy."

"So I figured. My jail is filled with drunkards who decided to mess up my streets earlier today. Thanks for that."

Avery winked at him as he filled another patron's glass. "My pleasure. Wouldn't want ya to be out of a job, now would I?"

Connor grunted again and wrapped his hands around his drink. He was half a bottle in when Avery leaned against the bar in front of him. "The Gaines boys were in the other day."

The sheriff raised an eyebrow at the bartender in warning before purposefully ignoring him and focusing on his favorite pastime. Neil wasn't deterred. "It was just Jeremiah and Jasper. Jed wasn't with them. Pro'lly out causin' all sorts o' trouble, that one. Jedidiah always was a right devil. His mama couldn't keep him in check, no matter how hard she tried. He was the death o' her, I'm sure of it."

Connor clenched his teeth together so tightly they creaked. His hands shook as he gripped the glass. The liquid inside splashed onto his fingers and he forced himself to relax. It would do no good to cut himself on a broken glass.

"Di'n he kill yer woman all them years ago?" Old Man Richards plopped himself down on the stool next to Connor. A vile stench wafted over the area, so strong it made the sheriff nearly gag.

"You have an aversion to water, Richards?" Connor parried the question with one of his own.

The old man tossed the sheriff a look as dirty as he was before raising his arm to sniff under it. Connor immediately regretted asking the question. The smell intensified to the point of nearly being intolerable.

"What you talkin' 'bout? I smell dandy." Richards snatched the bottle from the bartender's hand and took a swig. "Them Gaines boys, though. Them boys'll stink the right stink outta ye. That Jer... Jerma... Jermamiah. At's 'is name. Jermamiah. The ugly'n. Course'n 'e's better'n 'at kid. Whatsisname. The little one. Jester? Jister?"

"Jasper." Connor beckoned to Avery and the bartender pulled another bottle from a shelf underneath. The liquid was slightly darker in color and Connor's mouth watered just looking at it.

"Yeah, Jaster. Lil' know-it-all, anyway. Thinkin' 'e's better'n me, better'n ever'ne. Stupid kid." Richards made a swipe for the new bottle, but Connor jerked it out of reach before his grubby fingers could even brush the glass. "Aww, dun' be like that, sher'f. 'At's th' good stuff. Share 'n share alike, they say. Be a good fella and pours us a little here, sher'f." He shoved his empty glass toward Connor and grinned a toothless grin.

McClane sighed as he poured a sip into the glass. "How long have you been in here?"

"Uh..." The old man scratched his head in thought. Dirt drifted from his scalp onto his shoulder. "Dunno. Couple hours, I reckon. Not long."

He listed to the side as he pulled his glass back to him. The dirt toppled off his shoulder onto Connor's jacket. The sheriff shook it off as his nose curled involuntarily and he scooted to the far side of his stool.

"Neil, he's done. No more."

Avery tipped his nonexistent hat and pulled the nearly empty bottle away from the old man, along with his completely empty glass.

"Aww, c'mon, sher'f. 'At ain't fair! I'm jus' try'n' t' 'ave a little fun, s'all." He leaned off his stool and rested his arm on the sheriff's shoulder, putting his mouth dangerously close to Connor's ear. "You un'erstand, doncha?. Fellas like you 'n me, we're the same, ya see? We both... life's shit on us but good, sher'f. I got me a no good woman who ain't worth no good. An' you, you ain't got no woman 't'all. 'At no good Jedi... Jebi... 'At no good Gaines boy, he done take her from ya, jus' like the other'n took my damn dog. Them boys, they no good. Not worth a damn bit o' good, I tells ya."

The door to the saloon opened and the young deputy walked in. Connor breathed a sigh of relief. He wished he hadn't when he got a lungful of the old man's stench.

"Amos," he called as he raised a hand.

The young man trotted over. "Yeah, sheriff?"

"Why don't you escort Mr. Richards here back to the jailhouse? Tuck him up all nice and cozy in the empty cell and let him get some rest."

The man rolled off the sheriff's arm and almost off the back of the bar stool. "Aww, but sher'f, we was havin' such a good talk. We was bondin' an' all 'at."

"Come on, Mr. Richards," Amos said as he tucked his arm underneath the old man's. He had to turn his head away and coughed a couple times as he pulled him from the stool. "Let's get you rested up."

Connor watched as Amos led the old man from the bar and the doors closed behind them. Then he turned back to his bottle. Just you and me now, he thought as he wrapped his hands around it. This was the good stuff, not the typical cheap swill he drank. He needed something strong after that conversation. Images played through his head, memories that weren't real, nightmares that had haunted him for so many years.

Lydia Prince was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. He loved her from the moment he laid eyes on her, and she quickly became his world. When he was promoted to deputy, he'd spent every last penny he had to buy her the nicest engagement ring he could afford. He was just nineteen, still young and stupid, and he had his entire life planned out ahead of him. Sheriff Anders was getting on in years and soon he would retire. Connor would become sheriff and together he and Lydia would raise a beautiful, happy family. Six kids. Three boys, three girls, just like she wanted. They would grow old gracefully and he would pass on the star and spend the rest of his days rocking on the front porch with his gorgeous wife, watching his grandkids race around the yard.

The bottle moved from his hands. "Avery's special whiskey? Uh oh." Connor's head rolled to the side to glare at the intruder. Cora grinned at him. "Bad day, little brother?"

He shrugged as he took in her appearance. Emerald dress that fell off the shoulders, way too much paint on her face. He blinked at her and his eyelids felt heavy. His eyes trailed to the bottle she held in her hand. It was nearly gone. Only a few sips were left in the bottom.

"Hey," he complained as he reached for it. " 'At's mine. You drank too much." His lips were fat and his tongue stuck in his mouth as he spoke.

Cora's laugh held no humor as she pulled the bottle further out of his reach. He propped himself against the bar and tried to grab it from her. His hands felt like lead. She swatted his arm playfully. "That was all you, dear boy."

He tried to protest as she put the bottle to her lips and drank down what was left, but his teeth collided with his tongue and he couldn't get the words out. His finger wiggled in a feeble attempt to scold her.

She grinned at him, but her eyes didn't twinkle like they usually did. "Oops, sorry. All gone." She was mad, and he knew it. She slid the bottle to the bartender and fixed the man with a glare that Connor was sure he wasn't supposed to see. Avery took the bottle and avoided Cora's gaze like it was a viper's bite. He scooted as far down the bar as he could and busied himself with wiping a spot that was already clean. "Come on," Cora said to her brother. "Let's get you home."

The world didn't want to stay upright as Connor let Cora lead him out into the night. It took them three times as long as it should have to get to the jailhouse and Cora's beautiful shoes were scuffed with marks from Connor's boots, but they made it one piece. She took off his coat and gun belt and hung them by the door as he lay on the stairs and waited for her to finish. It wasn't the first time she'd had to help him home, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. Next, she pulled his hat off his head. He didn't have the energy to hold his head up and his skull banged into the stairs behind him.

He groaned and rubbed the quickly growing lump behind his ear. "Ow," he moaned as she pulled him into a standing position. She hefted him up and they stumbled up the stairs. Snores could be heard from the closed door on the right. "Amos is such a good boy," Connor muttered as the door tried to turn sideways.

"Yes, he is." Cora turned him around so he was facing the open door to his bedroom. She half dragged him across the floor and dropped him unceremoniously onto the bed. He was snoring before she had his boots off.

****

Hours later, Connor snorted and jerked awake. The dream he had every night pulled him from a deep sleep and ruined any chance he had at going back there. It was always the same.

A cloud of dust billowed up from the trail that curved around the hill. Connor stood up and the grin plastered on his face grew bigger. Lydia was coming home. She had been gone for over a month visiting her dying grandfather in a town far away. Now he was gone and she was coming home. To him, to Connor.

The stage coach came into view. The top was laden with trunks and bags. Two men sat in front, one driving, one carrying a loaded shotgun. Connor looked around. Where was his horse? He was sure it had been right there. He shrugged and started down the hill on foot. He was halfway to the trail when several horses broke from the trees on the other side of the road.

Connor reached for his gun, but all he found was empty air. He stopped and stared at his waist. His belt was gone. He glanced back up the hill, but didn't see it anywhere. It had just disappeared.

A shot echoed off the hills behind him. He turned back toward the stage coach in time to see the man holding the shotgun tumble from the seat. He landed on the ground in front of the wheel and it ran him over as he screamed. The driver pulled the horses to a stop and the attackers surrounded the stage coach. Connor tried to shout at the men. He tried to run toward them, to draw their attention, to make them stop, but he was rooted in place. His feet were chunks of immovable stone and his throat was sealed shut. He waved his arms, but no one paid any attention to him.

He watched as the passengers were pulled from inside the stage coach. Lydia, her mother, and her father stood in a line beside the stage coach. Her father's change purse was taken from him, as was her mother's jewelry. The trunks were dropped to the ground and searched for valuables. Then one of the men stepped up to Lydia. He put his hands on her and pulled her to him. She resisted. She beat against him with her fists. The man backhanded her. She fell to the ground and he kicked her in the ribs.

Connor screamed, but the scream was inside his head. No sound left his mouth.

The man kicked her again and again until she was spitting up blood. Her mother and father were screaming. Connor could hear their cries from where he stood. But they weren't moving, either. They couldn't stop the man. He turned and looked up at the hill behind him, at Connor.

Jed Gaines grinned as their eyes met. It was a vicious, evil grin, full of sick joy and hate. Connor had seen that grin before, when they were boys. They were playing down by the river and found an injured doe. She had a broken leg and couldn't walk. Connor pulled his knife and was going to put her out of her misery, but Jed stopped him. He wanted to play with her. He had that same grin then. Connor could only watch for a few minutes before he had to leave. He left Jed there by the river with the doe. He heard her cries halfway back to town.

And now Lydia was the doe. She was lying broken on the ground and her cries ripped through Connor's head. Jed waved at him and pulled his gun. He pointed it at Lydia. Connor clenched his teeth and waited for what was to come, what always came. But instead, Jed's gun slipped from his hand and drool dribbled from his mouth. He didn't shoot the girl like he always had in previous dreams. This time, he snarled and turned on her. His teeth sank into the soft flesh at her throat even as his companions threw themselves at her parents. Blood sprayed into the air in thick columns.

"No!" Connor shot up in bed. He was drenched in sweat and breathing heavy. He sank back onto the pillow and sighed. "Shit," he said as he ran a hand through his sopping wet hair.

With a groan, he rolled to a seated position and rested his head in his hands. It had been years since he had had a solid night's sleep, and that wasn't all because Amos was snoring like a steam engine in the room across the hall. The dream was always the same, ever since he heard rumors that Jed Gaines and his brothers were involved in the attack on the stage coach that killed Lydia and her parents. But this time...