Wanted: Dead or Undead (Zombie West) (6 page)

She smelled real nice, too. Like flowers. He didn't mention
this, figuring it wasn't the time for compliments. Even so, he couldn't help
but lower his face into her hair and audibly breathe the scent in. He hadn't
smelled lavender in a long time, and it smelled amazing on her.

Her tears slowed in their progression, and she relaxed her
body against his. When she tried to free herself from his hold, he refused to
let go. "No. You need this."

She wove her arms around his waist and wet his neck with her
tears once again. He couldn't help but wonder what caused her to cry like this.
A nightmare couldn't have caused so many tears. There must be something else,
but this wasn't the time to ask.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so
sorry."

"Don't be."

After he answered, Trace realized she wasn't apologizing to
him.

The early morning light filtered through the holes in the
canvas covering the wagon. Red knew she should climb from the warmth of her bed
and join the men outside. They needed to prepare breakfast, pack their things,
and start pressing onward. Nonetheless, she couldn't find the will to extract
herself from the comfort of the down-filled blanket that enveloped her.

Someone pulled back the canvas flap, and she assumed Cowboy
had come to check on her once more. He'd kept tabs on her throughout the night
and insisted she didn't need to take a turn keeping watch. After last night,
she decided to be more tolerant of him. She had no idea what to think about it,
and hoped he didn't read too much into the way she behaved.

Yet, as the canvas flap opened, her anticipation betrayed a
truth she fought hard to ignore; she liked him. And she hadn't liked anyone in
a very long time.

Red sat up, but her smile quickly faded when the partial
visage of a woman peered in at her. The zombie's lips and gums pulled to one
side and revealed the grotesque, viscous inner workings of its jaw and
flickering tongue. It thrashed its arms in a mad attempt to grab her and
growled in annoyance at its failure.

A rapid succession of gunfire blasted through the morning
air. The booms echoed and bounced off the valley walls, sending her senses
whirling. The men outside shouted and cussed, but the zombie continued to stand
in the opening, unharmed and unaffected. It worked its angled body over the
edge of the wagon, one boney limb at a time. The shots were not directed at
this zombie, which meant there was more than one in the camp.

She rolled onto her side, grabbed her Colts, and sent two
bullets into its skull as its fleshless hand clamped down on her ankle. She
didn't have time to recover before a second walker appeared, pulled at the
canvas, and tore a portion of it from the frame. She fired two more bullets at
its head. The contents exploded over the interior of the wagon, splattering her
with bloody brain matter, undoing the effort of her bath the previous night. A
string of unladylike curses ran across her lips as she wiped the nastiness from
her face.

Red pushed one dead body aside and shoved the other onto the
ground, as she swung herself over the tail end and crouched between two wagons
to survey the situation. A dozen or more zombies maneuvered their rotted,
mangled bodies between the wagons or crawled beneath the wagon beds. Several
more lay dead, their heads shot clear through by Wen's and Cowboy's precise
bullets. The men held their own, firing rifles as quickly and accurately as
possible. Zombies fell, but more ambled into the camp to take their place.

Red slipped easily into the middle, firing her pistols, but
she needed her shotgun and more ammunition to continue the fight. She took down
two walkers as she moved toward her pile of supplies. She reached it just in
time to throw down her empty pistols and pick up her sawed-off shotgun. Aim.
Finger the trigger. Fire. Turn to the left. Repeat. In an instant, she took out
the ones that posed the greatest threat, the ones too close for her liking.

The zombies kept on coming, undeterred by their fallen
comrades. They clambered over one another and stepped on the dead as they
pushed their way between the wagons. Gunfire came from behind, and she hoped
Cowboy and Wen held their own. She had more than enough zombies to contend
with. When the shotgun clicked empty, she grabbed her rifle and kept on firing,
making each bullet count. She couldn't waste a single one.

Red lost track of how many bullets she'd fired, until the
dreaded click of an empty chamber. She knelt on the ground, with an eye on the
approaching mob, and slipped her hand inside one of her saddlebags in a frantic
search for more ammunition, but came up empty.

Damn it
.

She searched the other saddlebag, and though the cool metal
cartridges graced her fingertips, she had to let them go. The zombies fell upon
her. Swinging the rifle above her head, she slammed the butt of the weapon into
the face of the closest walker, breaking its bloody jaw, but failing to hinder
its progress. She swung again and connected with its skull, which bust open and
sent the zombie sprawling to the ground at her feet. One down, but six more
ready to destroy her, each aiming for a limb, an organ, a bit of flesh, a chunk
of her existence.

"Reload." Wen yelled. The blade of his machete
sung through the air and sliced through the neck of the nearest zombie,
separating the head from its body. "Do it! Now!"

He beheaded two more as she grabbed a handful of bullets and
jammed them into the rifle, her hands shakier than normal. She cocked the gun
in one swift movement and fired just left of Wen, taking down the decomposed
walker.

"Jeez, watch it!" Wen eyed her as if she was
crazy.

To prove she was a better shot than both of the men, she
fired once more to the right of Wen, within inches of his shoulder, sending a
bullet into the zombie he planned to decapitate.

He whipped around. "Okay, I get it!"

No more time for games. She rolled onto her side and fired
more bullets as the band of walking dead crept nearer. Wen sliced through heads
with a skill that impressed her, and held them at bay while she reloaded—a team
effort she highly appreciated.

Red had no idea what Cowboy was up to, but heard him firing
off shots of his own. She worked with Wen to kill the crowd of wagon zombies
that advanced upon them. Mothers, fathers, teamsters, small children—it didn't
matter. Sentiment had no place in zombie annihilation. She didn't miss a single
target, as each forehead was penetrated and the dilapidated bodies collapsed to
the ground.

When no more approached from her direction, she waited for a
second to be sure, and then rolled onto her belly to take on any coming from
behind. Only there weren't any. A pleasant, yet unexpected surprise. Cowboy
stood there, watching and waiting with his rifle raised. Wen held his machete
across his chest, ready as well. Silence prevailed, but for the sound of their
own rapid breathing. As quickly as it had begun, it ended, but none of them
were willing to let their guard down just yet.

"Everyone okay?" Cowboy asked, the butt of his
rifle still pressed against his shoulder. "Anyone bit? Hurt?"

Wen shook his head. "I'm good. I'm real good."

Red slowly stood, her rifle shaking in her hands. "I'm
good too."

"Perfect." Cowboy lowered his weapon and smiled.
"Couldn't have gone better."

"We need to burn the bodies. Pile them. Set them
ablaze. But"—she indicated the bloody mess that covered her from head to
toe with an unnatural tremble in her fingers—"I need to get this off of
me."

Cowboy scanned her body and lingered on her bare legs poking
out from under her night shirt.

"Go." He turned away out of respect. "We'll
keep an eye out and start putting them in a pile. Get cleaned up."

Red stepped over the zombie corpses littering her path and
returned to the wagon that had provided such peace the night before. Her hands
twitched more now, but she managed to toss the remaining dead zombie out onto
the ground before sinking onto a clean area of the mattress.

She inched up the bottom of her soiled night shirt to reveal
what she knew was there all along—a gaping hole on her thigh, several inches
deep. The bite mark bubbled and spilled red, foamy droplets onto the mattress
below. She didn't know which zombie had bit her or when it happened, not that
the details mattered, only that the pain was excruciating and its liquid heat
radiated through her veins. She balled her fist and punched the mattress once,
then twice more.

Damn it.

With nothing more to do, she leaned her head back against
the side of the wagon and waited.

***

Trace couldn't believe it. Not just one or two zombies, but
thirty-eight.
Hot damn
! The three of them had fought like Kilkenny cats
and came off victorious.
That
was something worth bragging about;
dragging the bodies into a pile, not so much. He could hardly stand the awful
stench that wafted from the rotting bodies. Zombies smelled horrid at any time,
but dead,
really
dead....

Wen had the right idea. He tied a bandana around his nose
and mouth, and handed a second one to Trace. It helped some, but the smell
still made his eyes water and nose run.

They prepared to set the bodies ablaze, but they couldn't do
that until they'd saddled, readied, and packed the horses to go. Wen explained
that the smell of burning zombie flesh was far worse than what they experienced
now. Multiply it by thirty-eight and they'd all be vomiting their guts out.

Trace packed his horse while Wen arranged wood and brush
around the bodies to ensure each one would catch hold of the flames and create
a bonfire. Trace packed enough supplies to keep the three of them comfortable
and fed until they reached the next town. He also found plenty of ammunition
among the wagons to replace what they'd spent that afternoon—a blessing he
couldn't deny.

Red still hadn't emerged from the wagon. He proceeded to
saddle her horse and pack some supplies for her, growing irritated with her
prolonged bath. He didn't want to linger in the area any longer than required.

Wen wiped the sweat from his forehead with the arm of his
shirt. "Maybe you should go check on her or something."

"Yeah, I guess I should."

Trace approached her wagon and heard very little movement
inside—a moan and then a deep intake of breath.

"Hey, you okay in there? Everything good?"

Red raised the torn flap and shoved several
"womanly" items toward him. "Can you pack these for me?"

Trace took a brush, comb, and bar of soap from her.
"You don't look so good." He worried at her blotchy face, more pasty
white than normal.

"I haven't eaten anything this morning and my stomach
hurts, but I'll be fine. I'm almost ready." She smiled at him. "Can
you give me another moment?"

"Sure." He couldn't say no to a smile like that,
but wondered what was taking her so long. "Five more minutes. Then we have
to pony up."

Red nodded and slipped her head back inside the wagon.

Women. He'd never understand them, but he really wanted to
figure this particular one out, wanted poster or not.

When she finally made her way to him and Wen, she appeared
to be in pretty rough shape, staggering and sweating as though the midday sun
beat down upon her.

"You sure you're a'right?"

"I will be." She nodded. "I just need a
little something to eat. Maybe a drink of water, too."

Wen fumbled around in the saddlebags, none of which were
technically his, and handed Red a piece of jerky and a canteen of water. He
even uncorked it for her.

Trace noticed her hands shaking, but chose not to mention
it. "Wen, why don't you take Red's horse and she can ride with me.
A'right?"

Wen gave him a concerned look before nodding agreement. She
didn't complain or demand otherwise, which bothered him. It was
uncharacteristic for her to follow his lead without a fight.

He helped her climb onto his horse and then swung himself up
behind her. He reached around her waist, took the reins, and steered his horse
a short distance away as Wen started the bonfire. The flames took hold and
licked at the pile of dead bodies—a quick burn that would leave little behind.

Good riddance
, Trace thought. He gave his horse the
go-ahead, and with Wen close on his heels, they left the circle of wagons and
heap of fiery bodies behind.

Red's body slumped against Trace, and he tightened his grip
on her. Heat radiated through her clothing as she burned with fever. She was
sicker than she'd let on, and getting worse.

He lowered his head and placed his lips on her brow, gently
brushing them against her—hot, just as he figured.
Damn, this isn't good.

"What are you doin'?" She jerked her head from his
touch.

"Not kissing you, that's for sure." He raised the
back of his hand to her forehead and touched her skin once again. "You're
burning up with fever, Red. We need to find you some help."

"No," she insisted. "I'm fine. I just need to
rest is all."

He yanked the reins on his horse to stop their progress. Wen
caught up, pulled Red's horse alongside, and looked at the two of them with
trepidation on his face. "She getting worse?"

Trace nodded. "She's on fire. We need to find a place
to set up camp. Hopefully near a river or something to cool her down."

"It's only a few more hours to town. Maybe they have a
doctor there," Wen suggested.

"No!" She became rigid in Trace's arms. "You
take me to a doctor and I'll shoot the both of you. That's a promise."

"Okay, okay." It encouraged him that she still had
some fight in her. "Settle down. No doctor, it is. But we can't keep going
like this. Your fever's getting worse. We need to find a place to stay for the
night, or at least until your fever breaks."

"What if it doesn't break?" Wen asked, staring
directly at Trace over the top of Red's head, a thick coat of accusation
punctuating his words.

Trace wondered the same thing—hated himself for it—but it
couldn't be helped.

"She said she wasn't bit—"
She wouldn't lie
about something like that, would she?

"Sorry." Wen raised his gun and aimed it directly
at Red's head. "But I don't believe her."

"What the hell are ya doing? Put that away." Trace
held his hand up in a futile attempt at deflection.

"I know you like her an' all, but you can't ignore the
obvious. Once someone's bit, it's over." Wen cursed. "We've been
riding for two hours now, two hours! She could turn any second."

Trace noticed Wen's hand was steady as he directed his gun
at the woman he held in his arms. His face began to soften a little, but he
didn't lower his gun.

"I don't want to kill her. You have to know that. But
it's the humane thing to do."

"Please." Red tugged on Trace's arm. "Let me
down."

With great reservation, he loosened his grip on her and kept
his eye on Wen as she worked her tired body off the horse. She tumbled forward
and went down on one knee. Trace made a move to help her, but she climbed to
her feet and wobbled on unsteady legs with her arms wrapped around her middle
as though she might vomit.

"Just leave me here," she said. "Leave me my
gun, a few supplies, and go. You can have my horse."

Wen cocked his pistol, and Trace instinctually drew his own
from its holster and aimed it over Red's head at Wen. "Don't make me kill
you. I like you and I'd hate to have to put a bullet in your skull."

"Hell, I like you too, but we can't be traveling with a
zombie!"

"Stop it!" Red held up her trembling hands.
"Stop it, both of you! Please."

Then she shocked them both as she undid her pants and
removed them one leg at a time, while she kept her head down and avoided their
eyes. When she reached up and began to unbutton her shirt, Trace had to stop
her.

"Wait a minute. What are you—" he couldn't finish.
She was out of her mind
.

Her shirt and undergarments fell into a crumpled pile at her
feet, and Trace's eyes widened in a mixture of surprise and horror. He'd never
seen such a thing, and as Wen lowered his gun, it became apparent that he
hadn't either.

Red stood before them with teeth marks of all shapes, sizes,
and depths—healed over but visible—dotting her otherwise perfect body. Her
shoulders trembled and she hung her head, as she used her hands and arms to
shield her more intimate parts. A dozen or more scars ran along her upper arms,
shoulders, back, and thighs, creating a maze of suffering that covered her pink
flesh in miniature rises and valleys. One open wound, fresh and bleeding, oozed
from the makeshift bandage wrapped around her thigh.

She'd been bit.

Trace continued to stare. He didn't know whether to be
delighted about the possibility that she'd survived being bitten, or horrified
to witness her pain and embarrassment. Nothing had prepared him for this, and
he was unsure what to do with this newfound knowledge. The inflated reward on
the wanted poster now made perfect sense.

"Don't you dare shoot her," he said to Wen.
"Don't you dare!"

Wen shook his head. "I'm not planning to."

Red swayed, and before Trace could climb from his horse to
catch her, she collapsed to the ground. He clambered from his horse and knelt
next to her, feeling for a pulse, a breath, anything. When he found a weak
pulse, a great sense of relief washed over him.

He looked up at Wen. "She's still alive."

Wen nodded and slipped off his horse. "That's
good."

Trace could tell he meant it, too. Wen tossed him a blanket,
and Trace wrapped it around her unconscious form.

"I need your help to get her onto my horse." Trace
lifted Red and placed her in Wen's arms.

Wen hesitated briefly, but took her and even rocked her
slightly as he waited for Trace to mount his horse. It was hard to balance a
nearly naked, unconscious girl and manage his horse at the same time, but
having no other way, he'd make it work.

"Let's go." He gave his horse a slight nudge in
the ribs to set it galloping.

***

They set up camp just above a tree-lined ridge, high enough
that zombies would struggle to climb it, and with enough trees to make it
difficult for other potential intruders to see their fire. Even though Trace
believed it relatively safe, he continued to stand watch over his fellow
travelers as they slept, with his pistol at the ready.

He walked around the outer circle of their camp, listening.
Everything stood silent, except for the sounds of nature and Wen's unconscious
snores. This was good. He'd come to learn that when nature fell quiet, he
needed to worry.

He knelt next to Red and pushed back the damp strands of
hair from her forehead. She was still warm to the touch, but not nearly as hot
as before.

Red opened her green eyes and looked up at him. She didn't
say a word, only blinked in confusion, staring wide-eyed through her fever and
delirium.

"It's okay. Get some sleep." He took a cloth, dipped
it in a pan of cool water, and wrung out the excess before lifting one ragdoll
arm and running the cloth over it. She closed her eyes once more.

Wen had voiced his concerns to Trace when they first made
camp. "I know she survived before," he'd said. "But what if this
bite is the one? What if this bite flips her to the other side? Then
what?"

He'd promised Wen that he wouldn't let anything happen to
him. "If she seems to get worse, I'll shoot her myself. I give you my
word."

The whole concept of Red's condition baffled them both, but
only she knew what her body was capable of withstanding. He had to believe that
since she'd survived before, she'd do so again. She had to.

Her eyes flew open and she focused on him with crazy intent.
She bolted upright and grasped his arm with such force, his skin pinched and
bruised beneath her fingertips. His heart thumped in his chest as he stared
into her wild eyes. He instinctively reached for his gun with his free hand.
Damn
it!
She's turning. She's turning!

"Don't tell." Her voice rumbled low and rough as
her grip tightened around his arm. Trace winced.
Do zombies talk? Do they? Remember!

"Don't tell," she repeated. Her hand slipped away
and she fell back against the blankets, her body limp and unconscious, as if
nothing had happened.

Trace sat back on his haunches, unsure of what he'd just
witnessed, but whatever it was, it scared him something awful. He scooted away
to put some much needed distance between them.

He worked his battered arm out of his jacket, rolled up his
shirtsleeve to the elbow, and touched the purpling skin of his forearm.
Damn.

***

Red rolled her head to the side and clenched her eyes shut
as a sharp pain welled inside her skull. It built until it reached a crescendo
and then tapered off. She blinked several times in an attempt to right herself,
but the fog refused to lift. A dull ache pulled at her stomach and her head
throbbed, protesting her every move. She kept her eyes closed for a moment
longer. Once again, she'd managed to survive the hell that terrorized her body
and mind—the aftermath of a zombie bite.

She recalled that in the midst of the boiling heat that
crept through her veins and the pain that assaulted her body, she'd begged for
mercy and invited death to relieve her of her burden. Yet here she lay, like
all the times before, changed, but not turned, stuck in a world full of misery
and pain.

Just once, she'd like to not wake up at all.

In some respects, she envied the walking dead, their fate
already sealed. They turned and it was over. No more pain. No more worry or
fear. Every bite took her close to the edge, dragged her to the brink of
turning, but something inside her fought back every time.

Red opened her eyes and looked through her distorted lenses,
trying to make sense of what had happened. Trees. Lots of trees overhead. The
leaves swayed in rhythm with the breeze. Sunlight trickled through the
crisscross of branches. She shifted her head to the left, taking her time.

Wen slept nearby, and Cowboy sat by the fire with his back
to her.

She didn't recognize this place and had no idea how she got
here. The last thing she remembered....
What's the last thing I remember?
The events of the previous day blurred and ran together.

She placed both hands on the ground beside her and worked
herself up into a sitting position. Her muscles screamed and her head pounded,
but she pushed through it and took in the surroundings. She noticed the pan
full of water beside her, the cloth, and the canteen. They'd been taking care
of her. This realization brought a slight smile to her lips. No one had taken
care of her before.

The wool blanket that covered her slipped to her waist and
when the cool air met her warm skin, a different kind of terror settled in. She
was naked and surrounded by complete strangers—two men, no less.

Red snatched the blanket to her chest."Where are my
clothes?" She forced the raspy words through her parched lips, and
tightened the blanket around herself.

Cowboy turned to face her, surprise and happiness clearly
displayed on his face, which confused her even more. "Hey, you're awake.
How're you feeling?" He smiled as he approached her.

"My clothes? Where are they?" Panic welled up
inside her.
What do they know? What did they see?

The smile on Cowboy's face gave way to concern. "It's
okay—"

"It's not okay! Where are my goddamn clothes?"

"Okay, okay." Cowboy stopped and raised his hands.
"Let me get them for you."

Red lifted the blanket away from her body and looked
down—not a stitch of clothing.
Oh, my…!
She pulled the blanket tighter.
If her legs worked right and she didn't still feel like throwing up, she
would've grabbed that blanket and run for the hills.

Cowboy returned and held out a pile of clothes. She snatched
them from his outstretched hands.

"Why did you take my clothes? What's wrong with
you?"

He looked down at her, confused. "Whoa, just a minute!
I didn't take your clothes.
You
took off your clothes. You stood in
front of me and Wen and got buck-naked."

She shook her head. That didn't make sense. She'd never do
that,
ever
. Though it did sound vaguely familiar. A dream perhaps? It
didn't matter. Whether they stole her clothes, or she took them off freely,
they'd witnessed her secret.

"What... what do you plan to do with me?"

Cowboy shook his head. "Plan to do with you? I don't know
what you're talking about."

Wen sat up, stirred out of sleep by the conversation.
"What's going on? Is she feeling better?"

Cowboy shrugged his shoulders. "She's acting weird. Not
making much sense."

Red held onto her blanket and clothes and backed away from
both of them.
Where are my guns?
She spun her head from side to side,
pain bouncing off the walls of her skull. She steadied herself to keep from
falling to the earth.
What have they done with my guns?

Naked and unarmed. She couldn't have been more vulnerable.
"Stay away from me!" she yelled. "Don't come any closer."

"We didn't hurt you and we're not gonna hurt you."
Cowboy tried to approach her, but she just moved farther away, so he stopped.

"You saw me naked!" They knew she was a freak of
nature—a highly dangerous piece of information for them to have.

"You didn't give us a choice. We didn't ask you to take
your clothes off. You did that on your own!"

Red shook her head. She must have been out of her mind to
strip down and risk everything by showing these men—these strangers—her hideous
scars. It didn't make any sense.

"So what are you going to do to me now?" She
looked from Cowboy to Wen and back again.

If they tried to dismantle her piece by piece to discover
why she lived when others couldn't, or sold her to someone who would, then she
could blame only herself. She shouldn't have been traveling with them in the
first place, but had disregarded her internal warnings.