Wanted: Dead or Undead (Zombie West) (3 page)

"How about this then. Another game. High card."
Trace motioned to the scattered bills and coins on the saloon floor. "One
card. That's all. Or do we take this argument outside?" He swept aside his
jacket to reveal the Schofield holstered and ready on his hip. "What do
you say?"

Trace didn't want to kill him—that hadn't been a part of his
plan—but if he must, he could lodge a bullet in that man's skull before the old
man pulled his gun out of the holster.

"A'right then." The old gambler cleared his
throat. "But I pick the deck of cards."

"Of course."

The old man picked up a deck from a nearby table and Trace
helped him right their own. He fanned the cards across the top and invited the
old man to pick a card. He pulled one from the middle and slapped it face up on
the table. A queen of spades.

Nice card
, Trace thought.
Tough to beat
. With
an eight in fifty-one chance of pulling a higher card, he took a moment to hold
his hands over the cards as if the right one would send an invisible vibration
up through his fingers. He picked up a card, held it briefly from the sight of
the others, and placed it on the table for all to see.

A six of spades.

A man standing behind Trace slapped him on the back.
"Nice try, kid."

He tipped his hat at the old gambler. "Appears it
wasn't my lucky day after all."

He smiled and walked out of the saloon alive. He could have
won, but chose not to. It would've only invited more trouble, and he didn't
have time for trouble. Of course, the old man didn't know—no one knew, in
fact—that Trace had marked every card in the saloon.

He hated leaving such a large pot behind, but something
about that red-haired girl made him believe he hadn't lost entirely.

The small fire spit red-hot embers into the darkened sky.
They cracked and snapped in the night like a miniature fireworks show. She
placed another log on the fire and swung the metal hook holding the small pot
over the heat. It wasn't much—beans again—but it would do for now. She'd hoped
to restock her supplies in the last town, but with all the zombie commotion and
that jackass of a man calling her a liar, it was more prudent to get out of
there and make do.

She leaned forward and stirred the steaming beans before she
removed the pot from the hook, and settled back on her bedroll to eat her
meager meal. The bushes rustled and she flipped onto her belly, pulling both of
her Quickdraws from their holsters.

"Hold up! Don't shoot!" A man revealed himself
with hands raised as he led a buckskin quarter horse into the clearing. He
looked familiar, but whether that was a good thing or not, she couldn't quite
recall.

"Stop right there! That's plenty far enough." She
refused to lower her guns until she placed him.

He did as she asked and kept his distance. "Ma'am, I
mean you no harm."

"That's what most outlaws say before they stick a knife
in your side and rob you."

He shook his head. "I swear, ma'am, I ain't no outlaw."

"And your word is as good as what?"

"When you put it that way, I guess it ain't worth much,
but I promise my intentions are pure. I'd just like to share your fire, is all.
I hoped you'd oblige me with your hospitality."

She pulled back the hammers. "No one's that polite
without a reason. What d'ya want?"

"Nothing." He raised his arms a smidge higher.
"Honest. I can toss you my guns if you like. You can hold on to them for
safe keeping, if it'll make you feel better."

"I suggest you leave your hands where I can see them.
If you so much as make a move to reach for your gun, I'll shoot ya."

"Then I'm not reaching, even if I feel a scratch comin'
on."

She didn't like this cowboy. His humor made her even more
cautious. "What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"My arms are gettin' pretty tired. Mind if I put them
down now?"

"Lower 'em and I'll shoot."

His horse stomped at the ground and reared its head. Her own
Red Dun fidgeted in response and snorted at the newcomers.

"You didn't answer my question," she continued.
"Why you here?"

"I guess the honest answer would be that I'm here
looking for you."

She stood, but kept the barrels of her guns trained on him.
"Why?"

"Actually, I'm not exactly sure myself. I saw you kill
those zombies in the bar back in Sundance and was impressed. I was heading this
way and thought you might like some company. If not, I'll move on. But I swear,
ma'am, I'm not here to hurt you. That's not the kind of man I am."

She raised her brows. "What kind of man are you?"

"Well, right now, I'm a bit of a terrified one."
He cleared his throat and nodded to her guns. "I'm also a hungry one. Your
fire looks mighty invitin'."

"It's not. This here's a private fire."

"Must get awful lonely out here on your own."

The fire crackled in the silence, as she considered his
assumption. "I'm used to it."

"Just one night. I'll leave at the crack of dawn, I
promise." He nodded toward the toppled bowl of beans in the dirt beside
her. "I have a skinned rabbit. Nothin' better than rabbit cooked over an
open flame."

She loved rabbit.

"Hell, my arms are tired. Shoot me if you want."
He dropped them to his side.

Her fingers ached to pull the trigger, but something stopped
her from following through. It would be foolish to let this stranger come near
her. Very foolish.

"You bit?" It was a perfectly reasonable question.

He narrowed his eyes, apparently unsure of her meaning, and
then realization dawned across his face. "Nope. I'm not bit. Completely
infection free."

"Show me your arms."

He unbuttoned one shirtsleeve and rolled it up. She motioned
for him to come closer, but held up her hand when he stood two arm lengths
away. No bite marks.

"Other one."

He rolled up the other sleeve as well. Again, no sign of
teeth marks.

If he'd been bitten, the sweats and shaking would be evident
by now—a good three-hour ride from Sundance.

"Okay. I get half the rabbit."

He smiled. "Sure thing." Once she holstered her
guns, he moved in and reached out his hand. "My name is—"

"No! No names. I don't care who you are."

"Fair enough." He slipped the dead rabbit from his
pack. "But I'm partial to names, so I guess I'll have to come up with one
for you."

"I wish you—"

"Red. I'll just call you Red. You know, for all that
hair."

She didn't like him much at all.
Red—how original
. She
should've just shot him and avoided the trouble. Maybe it wasn't too late to
change her mind. His horse carried several bulging supply bags that looked
mighty fine.

She sat back on her bedroll and kept her eyes trained on him
as he skewered the rabbit and placed it over the fire. He didn't look all that
dangerous. She could take him in a gunfight. Her stomach growled and she
clasped her hands over it.

"Where you from?" He stoked the fire with more
kindling and looked up at her.

"Does it matter?"

He took the black Stetson off his head and placed it on the
ground. "I guess it doesn't. Just thought it'd be a good conversation
starter."

"I'm not one for talking."

"I gather."

"The rabbit almost done?"

He glanced at her and smiled. "If you like it still
kickin'."

She could smell the fatty drippings as they fell on the
burning embers below. It reminded her of home, of how her older brother Davis
used to set up snares for them. He was quite the hunter, almost as good as her
pa. Her mother would create various meals from the meat—stews, soups, and fried
rabbit with homemade biscuits and sauce.

"When's the last time you ate?"

"What?" His question pulled her back into the
present.

"Ate? When did you last eat?"

"Well, I was just about to before you showed up."

"No, before that. I can hear your stomach rumbling from
here."

She slapped her hands over her belly and tried to settle her
noisy gut. "Not that it's any of your business, but yesterday morning. I
had a cup of coffee and some bread."

"Jeez, Red, you should really try to pack some more
meat on that tiny frame. Winter's comin', you know."

"Thanks for the advice, Cowboy. I'll be sure to take it
into consideration the next time someone scares the bowl of beans out of my
hands."

He held a rabbit leg out to her. "Here. You look like
you can't wait any longer."

"I can wait."

"Come on. Ladies first."

She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head.
"Who said I was a lady?"

He lifted the rabbit leg to his mouth and took a bite.
"You trying to prove you're tougher than me? Because I've already figured
that out."

He ripped off another leg and held it out to her. "Go
on, eat the darn thing."

What was she trying to prove? She didn't even know herself.
She snatched the rabbit leg and proceeded to pick the bones clean. She even
snapped them in half and sucked the marrow. Apparently, starvation had turned
her from a civilized person into an animal, but she didn't need to impress him.

"You related to zombies or something?" He smiled
from the other side of the flickering flames and watched her eat. "I mean,
the way you're attacking that rabbit, it makes me wonder."

She threw down the bones, pulled out her gun, and aimed it
at his head. "Git out of here! I don't want you here no more!"

"Hey, now." He held his hands up, still clutching
his portion of the rabbit meat. "I didn't mean anything by it, I swear.
You eat as fast as you need to, okay?"

By the look on his face, her reaction genuinely surprised
him. He brought his hands down and proceeded to eat once more, as if he knew
full well she wouldn't shoot. She holstered the gun and sat down, angry as a
bobcat. Why couldn't she bring herself to kill this guy?

"I'm gonna eat your rabbit, but I don't wanna talk to
you no more."

He nodded. "Sounds fair. Besides, every time I open my
mouth you're real quick to want to put a bullet through it."

This cowboy annoyed her to no end, but he presented no real
threat. He was too soft and polite to be a true frontiersman, yet not rugged
enough to be a bandit or an outlaw. A city boy, most likely. If he wanted to
hurt her and steal her belongings, he would've done it already and kept the
rabbit to himself.

She watched him for any signs of ulterior motives, but every
time he caught her staring, he'd flash a stupid grin. Yeah, she could take him
if it came to that. It didn't matter how many times he turned his lips up in an
asinine smile. If he made one wrong move, she'd lodge a bullet in his skull so
fast he'd be standing at the pearly gates, scratching his head, wondering what
the hell happened.

Trace watched her while she slept on her side with one arm
tucked under her head. She looked rather peaceful, pleasant even, except for
the pistol clutched in her hand. He actually found her quite attractive, but
he'd never do anything ungentlemanly. He had other plans, and pushing himself
upon her romantically wouldn't get him to his ultimate goal—the reward.

He couldn't be positive that Red was the girl in the faded
photograph on the wanted poster, but his gut insisted she was. He couldn't drag
her back to Sundance at this point. He'd get them both strung up if he did
that. Nope, he'd have to get her to the next town and collect his hefty reward
there.

Until then, he'd have to play it cool. He could always tie
her up, but hell, she kind of scared him. Bounty hunters did crazy stuff like
hog-tying people, or clonking them on the head, but that wasn't his thing.
Breaking a pony with kindness yielded much better results than whipping the
beast into submission. And Red didn't look like the submissive type at all.

She tossed and turned in her sleep, and her restlessness
made him nervous. He wished she'd just settle already. More than anything, he
wished her finger didn't seem so homey on that trigger. He placed more wood on
the fire to keep himself warm and to deter curious animals from investigating
their camp.

Trace looked up at the stars. He usually avoided sleeping
out in the open—towns with small hotel rooms were much more his style—but if
the girl found the rock-hard ground good enough to sleep on, then he wouldn't
complain.

Red adjusted in her sleep, moaning as she found a more
comfortable position, but never once let go of her gun. Trace held his breath
the entire time she moved; it would be difficult to dodge a sleeping girl's
bullet. He'd told her he'd leave at first light, but the longer he sat there
watching her, the more he wanted to stay. It would be easier to keep an eye on
her that way.

"What're you looking at?"

He hadn't noticed her open eyes staring back at him.
"Nothin', ma'am. Just tired, I guess. My mind's drifting."

Red stretched her hands over her head and yawned, still
clasping the pistol. "I'll take over the watch now."

"You sure? If you're still tired, I can watch for
another hour or so." He preferred to stay awake, aware of the fact that he
couldn't have been the only one to take note of the weathered wanted poster.
Surely others would put two and two together. Then again, Sundance didn't host
the brightest bunch of men.

"If your mind's drifting off, then that'll do neither
of us any good, now will it?" She eyed him with an unreadable expression.

"What do you do out here all on your own? How do you
sleep?"

Red pushed the coals around with a stick and brought the
fire back to a blaze. "I don't. Not really, anyway."

"Maybe you'd feel better staying in town instead of way
out here on your own. You'd get better sleep." Trace pulled off his worn
boots and sat them next to his hat. "I can't say enough about a
comfortable bed and the next town should have plenty. I'd be glad to put you up
in a hotel for a good night's rest." He'd do it, too. Right before he
handed her over to the sheriff.

"I never stay in town. They're too noisy with too many
people. The more people there are, the higher the chance that one of them is
infected." She gazed up at the clear night sky full of twinkling stars,
and then looked him square in the eye. "My only threat out here happens to
be you."

"You're wrong, Red. I'm no threat. I promise you
that." He slipped inside his bedroll and turned on his side to face her.
"I haven't given you any reason not to trust me. I told you my intentions
were honest."

She pondered that for a moment, which he took as a good
sign. "I don't plan on liking you, Cowboy. So don't even try to win me
over."

Obviously, he still had a lot of work to do, but he enjoyed
a good challenge. "I'm sorry to hear that. It's part of my nature to be
friendly. I'll do my best to be more rotten if you like."

He settled back in his bedroll as her blank expression broke
into a partial grin. She looked downright pretty when she smiled—a beautiful
outlaw.

***

Trace woke to the smell of coffee brewing. Red was also
cooking some sliced potatoes and the remainder of the rabbit meat over the
fire.

"I hope you don't mind, but I helped myself to some of
your supplies. Aside from some stale biscuits, I didn't have much to offer you
from my own stash."

His breath caught at the idea of her rummaging through his
things. If she'd found the folded-up wanted poster, he'd be dead right about
now.

"No, I don't mind." Trace sat up and stretched.
His back ached and he couldn't quite work out the painful kink in his neck.
"It smells good."

First light had come and gone. If Red had wanted him to
leave, she could have woken him up at sunrise and sent him on his way.

"After breakfast, we go our separate ways," she
said, as if reading his mind. "I travel alone."

He was a fool to think it would have been so easy. Trace
nodded, slipped from his bedroll, and turned his boots over to make sure nothing
had crawled into them during the night. Thankfully, they were empty.

"How long until breakfast is ready?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes, I reckon."

"Plenty of time for me to clean up a little,
then?"

Red shrugged.

Trace put the bedroll away and pulled out a shaving kit. He
balanced the small, cracked mirror in the crook of a tree and set up his
shaving station. He much preferred to get his shaves in town, but for now he
would have to do it himself. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of Red
watching him as he used the straight-edge razor.

"My father used to have one of those."

He turned to look at her, his face still half-covered in
white foam. "Where is your father?"

"He's dead." Red stared into the pan as she
stirred the contents around.

Trace set his razor aside. "I'm sure sorry to hear
that."

He waited for a moment, wondering if she'd say anything
more. When she didn't, he went back to shaving, but continued to steal glances
at her in the mirror.

"Where's your family?"

An opening. She wouldn't have asked if she didn't want to
know. He reminded himself to take baby steps.

Trace wiped the remaining foam from his face with a small
towel, left his shaving supplies where they were, and sat down next to her.
"I never had much of a family. My parents died of cholera when I was a
kid, and I grew up in an orphanage in Illinois. I took off at fourteen, and
I've been on my own ever since. How about you? Where's the rest of your
family?"

"I don't like to talk about that." Red shook her
head and fixed her green eyes on him.

The sullen look he read in her features saddened him, but at
the same time it provided evidence of the vulnerability he'd been looking for.
"I understand. So if it's not to your family, then where are you
headed?"

"I have an older brother who joined the Cavalry during
a zombie uprising a couple years back. I hope to track him down, but so far I
haven't had much luck." She swallowed hard. "More than likely, he's
dead. I've heard stories."

Trace had heard those same stories. Zombies were harmless in
small numbers; bullets and swords held back their ravenous desire to eat human
flesh. But zombie mobs were entirely different. Several Cavalry units still
fought, trying to gain some kind of hold on the epidemic, but the zombie
population grew every day.

"Yeah, I'll never forget reading President Garfield's
address in the paper:
You're on your own and good luck
." Red's
brother had probably died a long time ago, but Trace would never say that to
her. "What are you gonna do once you find him?"

She shrugged. "Head north, I guess. I heard cool
weather really slows the zombies down. They don't like snow."

"I guess I shouldn't head to California then, unless I
plan to live in the high Sierras, huh?"

Again, she shrugged. "I don't know if it's true or
not." She plated up the grub and handed one to him.

"Well, it sounds plausible to me. I'd place a bet on
it."

She looked up and caught his eye, but said nothing.

He ate the last of his breakfast, but chose to prolong the
inevitable by pouring himself another cup of black coffee. He liked it with a
little milk, but milk was a rarity these days. Zombies ate anything that
moved—horse, cow, sheep, dog. Fortunately, the animals never
"turned." They either died immediately or shortly afterwards from
their injuries. Everyone knew that a bitten animal was a tainted animal. No one
ate the meat, no matter how close to starvation. That meat smelled different.

"Thank you for your hospitality." Trace held his
hand out to her. "Breakfast was wonderful, but I found your company even
more so."

He expected her to aim her gun at him once more, but it sat
safely in its holster at her waist. That had to mean something.

"I best be off." He gathered up his things and
rearranged them in his pack. He'd never gain her trust if he didn't stick to
his word, so he'd just circle around and follow her from a safe distance.

"Here." He handed her a burlap bag full of various
edible items. "Take this to tide you over until you can get more
supplies."

She made no move to take it.
Man, she's stubborn.

"Suit yourself." He laid the sack on the ground.
"I'm leaving it here in case you change your mind. Sure would be a waste
to leave perfectly good food behind." He placed his foot in the stirrup,
swung himself up on his horse, and tipped his hat at her. "Thanks again."

He gave his horse a gentle kick in the ribs and left Red to
stare after him.