Wanted: Dead or Undead (Zombie West) (12 page)

A twig snapped in the distance and brought her upright. She
released her breath and the heaviness in her chest lifted. Red turned and
smiled at the kids. "Well, let's go see if they brought anything special
for you two."

She expected them to jump to their feet and tear out of the
cave, but they sat motionless with wide, terrified eyes flicking back and forth
from the cave opening to her. Neither of them said a word.

Red whipped her head around and took in a sharp breath.

A swarm of decrepit souls crashed through the trees just a
few yards away, clambering over rocks in the direction of the cave. Their jaws
cracked and stretched while their cloudy eyes fixated on her and the kids. There
were so many—too many—and she and the kids had nowhere to run or hide.

Classy neighed and bolted to avoid the onslaught of zombies.
Lasso barked repeatedly and snapped at the air, but the walkers were unfazed by
the furry creature.

"Get to the back!" she yelled at the kids.
"Now!"

Rivers yanked Fisher's arm and pulled him to the far corner,
while Red grabbed her weapons and prepared to take on the horde herself.

As the zombies shuffled closer, she fired the rifle and took
each rotting corpse down as fast as she could. Twenty-five bullets, spread over
three guns, wouldn't be enough, but she continued to shoot, hoping for a
miracle. Giving up wasn't an option.

Her ears rang from the shots vibrating off the rock walls,
intermixed with her fluid curses and the children's terrified cries. She held
her hands steady and fought back the fear that threatened to overtake her. If
it weren't for the kids, it would've been easy to give in.

Rivers huddled in the back of the cave, shielding Fisher
with her own body. "Don't let them bite me!" she cried. "
Please
,
don't let them bite me!"

Red shot the last of her bullets into the heads of a few
zombies that threatened to enter the cave. Rivers' cries pushed Red onward even
after the bullets were long gone, and she crushed zombie skulls with the butt
of her rifle, using all the force she could muster.

The undead crumbled to the ground and created a pile at the
mouth of the cave, but more came crawling on all fours over the scattered
bodies, sniffing the air, growling through broken jaws. The children cried, the
zombies shrieked, and Red continued to smash her rifle down on bone.

When it became slick with blood, she threw the gun to the
side, and with a war cry of her own, grabbed one zombie and snapped its neck
with one quick twist. Then she snapped another, and another. She yelled out
when one clamped its crooked jaws onto her arm and another pierced her leg with
its jagged teeth. The vile venom flowed through her blood stream and attacked her
organs, cells, tissue, and nerves.

Her pained cries only exacerbated Rivers' fearful pleas. The
girl screamed, "Don't let them bite me!"

Despite the pain from the liquid heat, Red continued to snap
necks even as she lost feeling in her arms and the twitching began. The zombies
who had bit her foamed at the mouth and regurgitating their insides, as her
blood killed them. The numbness crept down her arms and legs and her vision
blurred, then disappeared all together. Her tongue thickened and soon she couldn't
speak.

She pried one set of zombie fingers from her arm, kicked at
another to free herself, and stumbled backward, blindly groping the cave walls.
She threw herself on top of the kids and pushed them into the corner, hoping to
spare them from feeling anything but her weight.

If the bites must come, let them come to her.

***

Inside her belly, it breathed. Its feelers reached out from
her core, snaked itself through her veins, and wrapped itself around her spine.
It had a hold of every bone in her body, and the ability to crush her if it so
desired.

But it waited.

It toyed with her and dragged out the misery, extending her
hell as it licked the inside of her temples. Tainted blood rushed to every part
of her aching body and seeped into her cells. Blackness distorted everything as
she fell deeper into the fiery abyss. It scorched her from the inside out. Her
heart fought tirelessly to pump the thickness that flowed through it. The
sulfuric smell ate away at her senses.

I can't do this anymore.

The beast inside her squeezed a little tighter. She gave in
and allowed it to drag her all the way under.

With everything packed and ready to go, Wen and Trace
hitched up the horses and climbed to the seat. They hadn't acquired enough to
see them through the winter, but with the wild crowd Trace had found in town,
they had a whole lot more than he expected.

"I hope she has dinner on the go," Wen said.
"I'm feeling rather peckish."

"Sorry about that." Trace gave the reins a snap
and the horses started forward.

The horses weren't used to pulling anything behind them, and
balked at it, but after a few yards they gave in and pulled the wagon smoothly.

"I didn't think we'd be gone all day." Trace shook
his head. "I don't like the idea of Red and the kids being on their own
for so long, but taking them into town with us would have been the wrong thing
to do."

Wen settled in the seat beside him. "Yeah, it was
better to leave them behind."

"He's still looking for her."

"How do you know for certain?"

Trace pulled out the crumpled poster and handed it to Wen,
who smoothed it out.

Wen sat quiet for a minute while studying the drawing.
"This ain't good. This ain't good at all."

"Notice he wants her alive. Two thousand dollars to
bring her in unharmed." Trace rested his elbows on his knees. "People
will be riding all over the country looking for Red. It's a lot of money."

"Well, we ain't gonna let that happen, are we?"
Wen folded the poster, handed it back, and placed his hand on Trace's shoulder.
"We're family now. And I won't let anyone mess with my family."

Family?
The concept excited him and scared him at the
same time. Excited him, because he'd never had a family before. He'd always
pretty much been on his own. Scared him, because now he stood a great chance of
losing them.

It was all so unfamiliar—Red, the kids, even Wen. He'd been
so focused on survival that he hadn't considered his companions as much more
than that—companions. Except for Red. He wanted to be with her in every sense
of the word. He just wished she'd open herself up to him.

At times, he felt them connecting, drawing closer. At other
times, she pulled away and left him to wonder at his foolishness in trying.

***

Trace smelled it before they even drew close to the cave.
Rot and decay wafted down the mountain and enveloped them. The overpowering
odor made bile rise to his throat, but he swallowed the burning taste away.

Before he could pull the wagon to a stop, Wen jumped off and
ran full speed up the wild terrain. Obviously, he smelled it, too.

Trace heard Lasso barking, but nothing else. No children. No
Red. He yanked on the reins to stop the horses and the wagon, and jumped off to
climb up the hillside after Wen.

"Red! Red!" He couldn't feel the rocks he
scrambled over, or the trees and brush he pushed through. Everything was out of
focus except for one thing—Red and the kids.

"Please be okay. Please be okay." He repeated the
phrase over and over, as if doing so would make it a reality.

Wen stopped suddenly, and Trace just about slammed into him
as the cave came into view. Bodies littered the cave's entrance and created a
wall that obstructed the men's ability to see inside. Some of the dead
continued to foam at the mouth, while others stared up with cloudy eyes and a bullet
lodged in the middle of their foreheads.

"Red! Rivers!" Wen yelled, as he began to heave
aside the rotting corpses.

Trace pulled himself together, dove toward the bodies, and
joined in Wen's frantic excavation. There were so many of them.

"Red!" he called out
.
"Red!"

Silence.

After clearing the pile of bodies away from the entrance,
they found more inside the cave. Red had put up quite a fight fending them
off—crushed skulls and severed limbs littered the floor. Trace and Wen pitched
them like ragdolls onto the pile accumulating outside.

"Rivers! Fisher!" Trace fought against his
churning stomach. "Say something! Please say something!"

Come on, come on, come on!

Then he heard it—whimpering, faint, yet distinct. Someone
was alive inside the cave.

The boy rocked on the ground with his arms over his head
while small, pitiful sounds escaped his lips. Beside him, Rivers and Red lay
unconscious and drenched in blood. Rivers' bare legs and arms revealed a few bites
that bubbled on her skin.

Face down next to the girl, with one arm tossed across
Rivers' belly, Red's back oozed a bloody, foaming mess that soaked through what
little remained of her shredded shirt. Puncture wounds, scratches, and deep
bites peeked through the strips of cloth.

Trace had seen men lashed—struck repeatedly with jagged
leather straps that tore their flesh open—as a punishment for their crimes, but
Red's wounds were by far the worst he'd ever seen.

"She's burning up!" Wen pressed his hand over the
wound on Rivers' arm, but blood continued to flow through the cracks of his
fingers. "What do we do?"

"I don't know," Trace said. Rivers didn't look too
bad, but Red.... He couldn't imagine her coming back from this. "Carry
Rivers to the wagon and then come get the boy."

"Look at them! We can't move 'em!"

"We sure as hell can't stay here!"

Trace pulled his shirt over his head and pressed it to Red's
back to staunch the flow of blood. It soaked his shirt in a matter of seconds;
she was losing too much.

"Come on, Red," he whispered near her ear.
"Help me out here. Help me,
please
."

He watched Wen scoop the girl in his arms. Unsure of what to
do, he lifted Red and carried her out of the cave and down the hillside as
quickly as he could. Her slick, warm blood coated his hands and arms, and her
skin burned against his chest, hotter than any human could possibly withstand.
Yet she was still alive.

"Don't die, Red." He pressed his lips to her
forehead, but quickly withdrew them from the scorching heat. "Don't you
dare die on me."

Wen laid Rivers on the ground, jumped into the back of the
wagon, and removed the tarp that covered the supplies. He folded it haphazardly
to make a bed out of it, and pushed the boxes and crates aside to make room for
their ailing companions.

"Hand her to me." Wen held out his arms, and Trace
handed Red over to him.

Once Wen had placed her carefully on her stomach, leaving
her back exposed, Trace handed Rivers up to him. The two of them lay
unconscious, side-by-side, and Trace couldn't help but think they might lose
them both. He pushed the thought aside and determined not to let that happen.

Wen bolted over the edge of the wagon and ran back up the
hill to retrieve the boy. Red's horse was long gone, but when Wen returned with
Fisher in his arms, Lasso came running after.

They needed to find a safe, warm place, but they couldn't
turn to anyone without exposing the girls' secret and putting them in even
greater danger. It was up to him and Wen to keep them alive.

***

"I promised I'd shoot her." Wen looked over his
shoulder at Trace, who sat between the girls, bathing their heads with a cloth.

"I know."

"I should do it, too. I should. She looks like
hell."

Trace didn't say anything. It would be easy—place a pillow
over her face, shoot her in the head, end her misery—except he couldn't do it.
If he had any chance of helping her pull through, he wanted to take it.
Selfish, perhaps, but he couldn't give up on her. Not yet.

"I made a promise. I usually keep my promises, but I
don't think I can do it." He shook his head. "I don't think I can shoot
her."

"I know."

"If she pulls through, which I pray she does, she's
gonna shoot us both."

Trace brushed back the sweat-soaked hair from Red's face.
"I know." He didn't care. She could yell and scream all she wanted.
She could put a bullet in his belly. He just needed her to live.

"I'm not going to shoot her."

"Good."

"But if she gets worse—I will."

If she got worse, Trace would step aside and let him.

It appeared as a mirage—a lava rock structure rising out of
the desert. The military fort was a place of rest for the weary traveler.

Trace couldn't imagine anyone less weary than the five of
them. "You see anything?"

He stood in the bed of the wagon and watched for signs of
life—smoke, movement, or anything to suggest the fort was either occupied or
abandoned. He couldn't see much indication either way.

"Nope," Wen said. "The walls are too
high."

"Anyone in the towers?"

"Not that I can see."

"I hate not knowing what's in there." Trace shook
his head and nibbled at his lower lip.

No smoke rose from the fort, which was a good thing. If
people were inside, they'd have fires burning in order to keep warm or prepare
their meals. However, lack of smoke didn't guarantee anything. A shelter this
large with eighteen-foot walls that appeared indestructible couldn't have just
been left abandoned. With enough food and supplies, the fort seemed an ideal
place to wait out the plague. Surely, they weren't the first ones to have come
upon it.

Wen's eyes narrowed in concentration. "What do ya
think? Should we go check it out?"

Trace released his breath and considered their options.
"The girls need a safe place to rest and recover, but if there are people
down there, we're not going to receive the welcome we'd like once they catch a
glimpse of what we have in our wagon."

Red's and Rivers' wounds had healed some and they'd stopped
bleeding, but the sores still oozed. Both looked horrible—pale, sweaty,
feverish—and the fact they remained unconscious didn't help. No one in their
right mind would let them in with Red and Rivers looking so sick.

It was strange how their bodies mended themselves, little by
little, with each passing hour. They'd come out of it, just as Red had before.
He just had to give it some time.

If people had indeed taken refuge inside the fort, and if
they were smart, they'd keep the mammoth-sized gates closed.

"If no one can see what we're carrying, then once we
get inside, we'll go from there." Wen nodded with determination.

"I don't know." Trace wasn't so sure. "Hiding
them to gain entrance is one thing, but if they find out once we're inside...
well, I don't want to take that chance. If we get into a shootout with two of
our members sick and a third only six years old, the odds would not be in our
favor."

Fisher sat between them on the wagon and looked from one man
to the other, his eyes wide. They tried to engage him—to pull him out of what
could only be shock—but other than the occasional whimper, he remained silent.
He didn't tell them if he was hungry, cold, or in need of anything; it was up
to them to make sure he didn't starve or freeze to death.

It pained Trace to see the boy in this condition, but until
Red and Rivers were settled in a place where they could recover, Fisher would
have to take a back seat. He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and gave it
a little squeeze.

"Maybe I should go down and scout out the situation
first," Trace said. "I can wave you in if it looks safe. If not, I'll
just see if they can spare a few blankets and tell them I'm headed north. I
don't want to put any of us in danger if we don't need to."

Wen nodded. "Good luck."

Trace turned away and rolled his eyes. Either he would go
down and find the place empty, or he wouldn't. Luck had nothing to do with it.

"If you hear any shots, take off." Trace checked
his pistols, making sure each chamber had a bullet. "Don't worry about me.
Just get them out of here as quick as you can."

Again, Wen nodded. "Be careful."

Trace tucked his guns into their holsters, pulled his jacket
on to conceal them, and started toward the massive structure. Lasso tried to
follow him, but he shooed him back. "Stay here, boy." The dog cocked
his head to the side and lifted his ears. "Stay with them." Lasso
stood a few yards in front of the wagon with his tail stilled, watching Trace
go.

He expected to see someone in one of the two towers that
faced him with a gun aimed in his direction, but the lookouts appeared to be
empty. His walk up to the fort proved rather uneventful.

Trace pushed against the thick, wooden gates on the eastern
side, but they didn't budge. He thought about knocking, but quickly dismissed
it. A horde of sleeping zombies might be on the other side, and he didn't want
to unleash well-contained flesh eaters. If both sets of doors were locked from
the outside, he'd return to Wen and they'd move along. Whatever was locked
inside should probably stay that way.

A slight breeze whistled past his ears as sagebrush tumbled
by, which added to the already foreboding silence that surrounded him. A crow
cawed overhead and Trace whipped around, his nerves getting the best of him.

Damn it. Pull it together.

He shook it off and walked around the circumference of the
structure, close to the rock walls and out of the line of vision from the
towers. The west-facing doors also appeared to be shut, but on closer
inspection, Trace noticed a stone, no bigger than a walnut, jammed into the
crack where the doors met.

Clever. Very clever.

Zombies possessed no capability for cleverness, and since no
undead fingers reached through the crack or growled at him from inside, the
fort must be zombie-free.

But someone had been here. Whoever had planted that rock
between the doors would be back. If Trace and his companions were inside before
then, the fort would be theirs, and the original squatters wouldn't take it
back without a fight.

All was fair in love and war, and there weren't no war like
a zombie plague.

He gazed over the western plains for any sign of life, and
saw nothing except rolling tumbleweed and brush swaying in the slight breeze.
He pulled out one of his pistols and nudged the huge door open, just enough to
squeeze inside.

A dozen or so smaller rooms and outbuildings surrounded a
large, open courtyard. A few shade trees dropped fruit, and a garden in the northeast
corner still had plenty of vegetables left to give. Two goats, a lamb, several
chickens, and a cow ate in their open stalls, hardly paying attention as Trace
moseyed past. There was also a bunkhouse, water well, kitchen, and blacksmith
shop. But he fancied the telegraph station most. He didn't know if it still
transmitted messages, but the possibility excited him.

He walked around the courtyard, watching for signs of a
threat, and opened several doors and scouted out the empty rooms. When he happened
upon the captain's quarters, he found an old man asleep on the double bed
inside. He stepped back, aimed his gun at the old man, and cleared his throat
to rouse him, but the man continued sleeping. He tried once again with the same
result. The third time, he kicked the side of the bed, and the old man's eyes
flew open in horror when he saw Trace standing there with a gun trained on him.

The man raised his hands, but didn't sit up.

"Are there more of you?"

The old man nodded.

"How many?"

He held up one finger.

Trace liked those odds. He could take them both out if
necessary, but perhaps they'd be reasonable and it wouldn't come to that.

"Step out of the bed very slowly. Keep your hands up
and don't try anything stupid."

The old man's hands trembled and he adamantly shook his
head. Trace again asked him to stand up, but the old man continued to shake his
head.

"Now!" Trace had no patience for the man's
defiance. His companion could return at any point and put a bullet in Trace's
back. "I need you to get out of that bed."

The old man curled his shaky fingers and pointed across the
room toward a set of homemade crutches leaning against the wall.

Damn it
, Trace thought. He'd yelled at an invalid.
"You can't get out of bed, can you?"

The old man shook his head.

"You're not much of a talker, either."

The old man touched his lips and shook his head again.

Trace let out his breath. The old man appeared incapable of
caring for himself, and posed no threat. It looked as though Trace would be
responsible for yet another lame, dependent person if they took over the fort—a
price he would gladly pay.

"Okay, I'm not gonna hurt you. No one's gonna hurt you.
But I have a family waiting for me out there"—Trace nodded toward the
exit—"and they need a place to stay and rest awhile. That's all we need,
just a safe place to rest. So I'm gonna go get them now, and I promise that no
one's gonna hurt you."

The old man began to make hand gestures, placing his hands
high above him and then dropping them to his heart over and over. Trace had no
idea what the old guy was trying to tell him. Was he praying to God? Telling
Trace thank you?

"Not sure what you're saying, mister, but I'll be back.
We're good people and mean no harm. We just need a place to stay, that's
all." Trace hoped that by repeating himself, the old man would realize he
meant what he said. "I'll be right back."

He left the old man, scaled the wooden ladder up to the
tower facing Wen and the wagon, and looked as far as he could for any sign of
movement in either direction.

Nothing.

He took off his black hat, found Wen in the distance, and
waved it back and forth. Wen waved his hat in response.

***

Wen pulled the wagon into the inner court, jumped off, and
helped Trace shut and bar the heavy doors into place. Trace had already locked
up the other set of doors as well. No one was getting in—zombies, intruders, or
even the person who had left the old man behind.

"We're sure lucky this place is empty," Wen said,
as he helped Fisher down from the wagon and set the boy on his feet.

"It's not." Trace pointed to the captain's
quarters. "There's an old man in there. Harmless. Bedridden. He said
there's one more person, someone who went outside the walls for some reason.
They'll be mighty upset about being shut out when they get back."

"It could've been worse," Wen said. "The
place could've been packed with people."

"It actually went far better than I imagined."

Trace removed the blanket that covered Red and Rivers.
Except for an increased amount of sweat on their brows, they appeared to be in
much the same condition.

Trace lifted Rivers and handed her down to Wen. "Pick a
room and put her inside. Make her comfortable."

Wen nodded.

Trace turned to Fisher. "In that room over
there"—he indicated the old man's sleeping quarters—"you'll find an
older gentleman. He doesn't say much and can't get out of bed, but I bet he'd
love to meet you. Why don't you go keep him company and see if there's anything
he needs, okay?"

The boy hesitated, then tucked his hands into the pockets of
his pants and walked in the direction of the old man's room with Lasso on his
heels. Part way across the courtyard, Fisher looked back at Trace.

"Go on, now. He's harmless, I promise. You can both be
silent together." A man who couldn't talk and a boy who wouldn't—a perfect
pair.

With Fisher out of the way for a moment, Trace carried Red
into one of the vacant rooms and laid her face down on the lumpy mattress. It
was a nice enough room, with a washbasin and pitcher, dresser, wardrobe,
fireplace, and a single window looking out onto the courtyard. If she were
awake, Red would probably complain it was too feminine.

He touched the back of his hand to her rather warm forehead.
He needed to cool her down and find fresh clothes for her, something besides
the shredded, bloodied mess she wore.

"You need water?" Wen stood inside the door.
"I'm going to get some for Rivers. She's fevering again."

Trace nodded. "That would be great."

"How's she doing?"

"No worse than before. Let's get them settled, and then
make sure the boy and the old man are fed and the horses are taken care
of."

Wen left to retrieve the water, and Trace searched the chest
of drawers. He found very little of use in there, but the wardrobe held a lot
of useful items. Wen returned and poured cool water into the porcelain basin.

"Here." Trace tossed Wen a nightgown. "You
can use that for Rivers. Get her out of her soiled clothes."

Wen took it and left Trace alone with Red.

The open sores seethed and blistered on her skin, and even
though he'd cleaned off most of the blood the day before, it didn't look any
less horrific. As tenderly as he could, he peeled her shirt away from the
festering wounds. The material clung on, and he soaked it with water before
prying it from her skin. He didn't want to add to her injuries, but she didn't
move or protest.

"I'm sorry, Red." He removed the remaining portion
of her shirt and actually tore the sleeves from her arms. "I'm trying to
give you as much dignity as I can."

After removing her clothes, he dipped the strips of her old
shirt in the water bowl and gently dabbed at the wounds in order to clean her
back. In one of the drawers, he found a large piece of linen, most likely used
as a table covering or material for sewing undergarments. He tore it into wide
strips and draped them over Red's back, covering the gaping flesh. Medicine of
some sort, to expedite the healing process, would be nice. He'd explore the
fort later to see what might be available.

He covered her with a lightweight quilt, but didn't clothe
her, since he would need to clean and redress her wounds later. He could
imagine her cursing and accusing him of stealing her clothes again.  He hoped
within a day or two, her back would have healed sufficiently enough for him to
slip a nightdress on her.

"Get better." He kissed the corner of her mouth.
"I'm giving you no other option."