Wanted: Dead or Undead (Zombie West) (8 page)

Red assessed the borders surrounding the town. They were
good—well constructed. Men guarded the gates from the rooftops, which appeared
even better. Nevertheless, everything the officials had done to protect the
small town—including the doctor with his thermometer—provided only a temporary
fix.

The zombies would eventually sniff out the healthy human
meat. They would come.

She'd been concerned when they first approached the town and
found the doctor waiting. She'd quickly tried to come up with a plan to avoid
the thermometer and its results, but when she watched him read Wen and Trace's
temperatures, it became clear the "doctor" didn't know much about
medicine. She opened her mouth and allowed him to slip the tiny tool under her
tongue without saying a word.

 The normal temperature for the human body averaged 98.6
degrees. Red ran a consistent 100.9—not a high-grade temperature, but a
temperature all the same. Fortunately, the doctor had whipped it out of her
mouth before it could provide an accurate reading. He barely glanced at it
before shaking the mercury down and shoving it into the mouth of the next
person in line. The townspeople had placed their faith in a foolish man, and
the happy, naïve settlement would suffer because of it.

She walked along the wooden pathway that led from one store
to the next with the dog at her heels. Yellow light from hurricane lamps
spilled out of the windows and into the darkened streets. She glanced up at the
men on the rooftops, stoic in their duty, and at the townsfolk who went about
their business, content to believe those same men could actually save them.

She would've found Cowboy and Wen and insisted that they
leave right now, but as the sun went down, the town's officials sealed its only
exit. She felt trapped, and the morning couldn't come too soon for her liking.

Outside the saloon, she found a bench and sat down. The dog
placed its head in her lap and she rubbed the spot between his ears. She heard
Cowboy's voice as he played cards—a wasteful and deadly pastime. Whether people
won by means of intelligence or through tricks and deceit, they usually found
themselves with a bullet between the eyes.

Red didn't much care for cards, though she did enjoy the
occasional drink. She debated whether or not to head in for a shot of something
to calm her nerves, but with so many men inside—drunken men—she needed to be on
her toes, and didn't want to be standing on them tipsy.

A low, distinct laugh from inside the saloon caught Red's
attention. She stopped caressing the dog, and he looked up at her for an
explanation. When he didn't receive one, he curled up at her feet. She was
about to dismiss it as the work of an overactive mind, but when the laughter
resounded once more, her breath locked within her chest and her whole body went
rigid as she balled her hands into fists.

He was here. Inside.

No!
How is it even possible?

She stumbled to her feet and stood near the swinging doors
to see for herself. His dark hair, graying at the temples, and his mustache
trimmed and balanced above his lip, made him easy to spot. It was him, sure
enough, casually playing cards with Cowboy, drinking liquor, and laughing as
though all was right with the world. Except it wasn't.

She turned away from the door and leaned against the
building.
This can't be happening
.
It's just a coincidence.
Even
as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. He was searching for her, just like
he'd said he would.

Red closed her eyes.
I watched him die. I watched the
zombies attack him. They attacked him!

He shouldn't be alive. Unless... her eyes flew open as the
realization set in. He did what he'd set out to do.

Red looked up and down the street; she needed to get out of
there
now
. She was trapped inside the boundaries of the town with a
madman.

She pulled her hat down tighter over her head and crossed
the road. The dog followed in step beside her, and she never felt more grateful
for his company. She walked behind a row of buildings, looking for a possible
escape. There were bound to be holes in the barrier that surrounded the town
that she could squeeze through, but even so, that meant leaving behind her
horse and supplies. She wouldn't last long without them—not in the desert,
anyway.

"Come on, boy." She rounded the side of the post
office and started for the hotel, the dog still trailing behind her. She'd stay
hidden away, like Cowboy had wanted, and when morning came, she'd leave—with or
without the men.

She crossed the road, keeping to the shadows, when a hand
clasped onto her arm and dragged her forward at a hurried pace. Red spun
around, forcing the release of his grip on her. She stood her ground—legs
parted, hands formed into fists—ready for the pending attack.

"Don't hit me!" Cowboy said. "It's just
me."

She punched him in the shoulder anyway. "Don't ever do
that. You scared me to death."

He didn't respond, but grabbed her hand and continued to
drag her toward The Grand Palace hotel. She took two steps to each one of his.
When they entered the inn, he didn't even tell the dog to stay outside, but
allowed him to follow them up the stairs. He opened the door to his room and
hastily pushed her inside.

After he shut and locked the door, he turned and faced her.
"You're staying here tonight. No arguments." He went to the window
and pulled the drapes closed.

"What's going on?" She needed to know what he
knew.

"There's a man down at the saloon that seems a little
odd. I'd just feel better knowing you're here with me. I don't trust him."

Red sat on the edge of the bed. She wasn't sure how much to
tell him, or if she should tell him anything. She still didn't know how far she
could trust him. The man at the saloon had proved to be a turncoat, and so could
Cowboy.

A knock sounded on the door and they both jumped up and
reached for their guns at the same time.

"Hey, it's me," Wen called from the hallway.
"You in there?"

Red relaxed a little at the sound of Wen's voice, and Cowboy
opened the door.

Wen stepped inside and squatted to give the dog some
affection, oblivious to the tension in the room. "I was worried about you,
fella. Thought you'd left us for good." The dog wagged his tail as Wen
rubbed his belly. "How did you get him inside?"

Cowboy shut and locked the door once again. "He
followed me up the stairs. No one said a word."

"What a good dog." Wen rubbed the dog's head
before rising to his feet. "He needs a name. I like Bo. What do you
think?"

"I don't think it matters," Cowboy said.
"We've got bigger issues to deal with."

Wen looked at him in confusion. "Like what? What's
going on?"

"There's a man down at the saloon." Cowboy glanced
at Red and then back to Wen. "He's a strange one. Has some weird ideas
that rubbed me the wrong way. Red's staying with me tonight."

Wen smiled like a schoolboy and bobbed his head. "Nice.
I'll have to try that line on the ladies sometime."

Cowboy stepped closer to Wen. "Don't disrespect Red
like that. I'm serious. I just want to make sure she's safe. Nothing else is
going on here."

She sat back and watched him lecture Wen, with a sense of
gratitude rising within her. Perhaps she'd been too quick to judge him.

Wen nodded with a serious expression. "I'm sorry. It
won't happen again."

"It's okay." Red attempted to relieve Wen of his
embarrassment. "And by the way, the dog's name is Lasso. I already named
him."

Cowboy looked at Red with resignation. "Are you
serious? The dog gets to have a name, but you don't want to know mine? Isn't
that a little odd?"

"No. It's fitting."

Cowboy pointed his finger at her. "Oh, I see how it is.
You're just toying with me now, trying to get under my skin, aren't ya?"

"So what's the plan?" Wen attempted to change the
direction of the conversation.

Cowboy glanced back and forth between them. "Well, we
leave at dawn. You and I will get supplies and prepare the horses. Red will
stay here until we're ready to go."

Wen nodded. "Sounds good."

"Speaking of horses, Wen, we need to get you one of
your own. Doubling up is a strain on the horse and makes it mighty difficult to
take off in a hurry."

"I agree," Wen said. "But—"

Cowboy shook his head. "No buts. You need a horse and
it just so happens I found the means to get you one."

"So you lucked out at the card table tonight?" Red
took off her hat and set it on the bed beside her. The thought of spending the
night in the same town as John Gatherum didn't seem as frightening with Cowboy
and Wen on her side.

Cowboy smiled. "Luck had nothing to do with it."
He pointed to his head. "It's all about knowing when to hold 'em, when to
fold 'em, and when to walk away."

***

Cowboy blew out the candle flame, inviting darkness. He lay
on top of the covers beside her. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Part truth and part lie. She
should've felt uncomfortable with him lying so close to her, but he made her
feel safe, just as he had back at the wagons.

Nevertheless, John Gatherum nagged at her mind and refused
to let her rest. She wanted to kill him. He might survive zombies, but being
"different" didn't protect him from bullets, and she wanted to put a
bullet in John's head for everything he'd put her through. Unfortunately, she
couldn't kill him in a protected town like this one. They'd string her up. Her
best bet was to leave, and if she happened to cross paths with him again in a
less conspicuous place, she'd kill him. If the end of the world came, leaving
only a few survivors, he mustn't be one of them. She'd see to that personally.

"Everything's gonna be okay," Cowboy whispered in
her ear. "I won't let anything happen to you tonight—no bad dreams, no
strange men. Just me."

"I appreciate that."

"So, you wanna know my name?"

Red couldn't help but smile. "No. I'm perfectly happy
not knowing it."

"That's too bad, because I think you'd like it. You
might even find it sexy."

She rolled onto her side and saw the outline of his body
lying next to hers, one arm tucked under his head. "Is that so?"

"Yep, that's so. If I told you my name, I bet you'd
agree."

She brushed her fingers over the whiskers on his jaw line.
"I bet you have a nice name."

"Oh, I do." He turned onto his side and faced her.
The space between them diminished as his leg touched hers. "I'd really
like to know yours as well."

"Maybe someday." She smiled in the darkness, gave
his cheek a quick pat, and rolled back onto her other side. "But not
today."

Leaving town proved uneventful. No need to shoot their way
out, as Trace had expected. The guards simply opened the gate at dawn and
Trace, Wen, and Red rode away. Easy.

Red had tucked her fiery locks beneath her hat and pulled
her coat collar up around the sides of her face. She wrapped the horse's reins
tightly around her right hand, which unnaturally whitened her knuckles, and
rested her left hand on her pistol. She'd been rather quiet all morning,
avoiding making eye contact with anyone.

Maybe she knew more about the man in the saloon than she let
on, which wouldn't have come as a surprise to Trace. The man certainly knew a
lot about her, although he never mentioned her by name. He was forthcoming with
his own, though—John Gatherum from Pennsylvania. When Trace asked what brought
him out west, John said he was searching for his mentally unbalanced wife—a
pretty, red-haired girl with a temper and misconstrued ideas of grandeur. She
thought she could survive a zombie bite.

The other men at the table had roared with laughter when
John made his claims. "Your wife's nuts," one man said. "I hope
you find her before the dead do. They'd be more than happy to prove her
wrong."

John had nodded and looked over at Trace with an intense
stare. Trace forced a smile and pretended to laugh along with the others, as
John proceeded to tell the men of his plans to put Red in her place. Although
he never came out and said exactly what those plans entailed, Trace could
easily imagine.

In that moment, Trace knew he wouldn't be handing Red over
to anybody. He just couldn't do it.

If that man was Red's husband, then Trace was a zombie's
uncle. Red would never have married a man like that—he didn't seem her type.
Her type was a man more like... well... himself.

But as he watched Red now, with her head lowered and face
hidden, he couldn't help but wonder. She'd gone to an awful lot of trouble to
hide herself from him, and that had to mean something.

The wanted poster burned a hole in the side pocket of his
saddlebag. He would get rid of it at the first opportunity. Money or no money,
he wasn't handing her over to that man.

***

Trace caught sight of swirling smoke that floated above the
tree line. They followed it, hoping for a place to rest and water the horses.
Where there was smoke, there had to be humans.

They came upon a small log cabin that sat pleasantly tucked
within the majestic mountain landscape. Large pine and juniper trees surrounded
it on all sides and kept it hidden from view. It appeared untouched by the
world and its problems. Under different circumstances, this would be the kind
of place Trace would want to live, perhaps with a lake or pond nearby for
fishing. An ideal home.

"What do ya think?" he asked his companions.
"It looks normal enough to me."

"Sometimes when things look normal, it's all an
illusion." Red shrugged her shoulders.

Trace stared at her for a moment, picking up on the subtext.

A petite young girl with blond hair emerged from the cabin.
She walked around the side to a stack of wood, piled a bunch of logs into her
arms, and carried them back inside—a child sent to complete a chore.

"Looks good to me," Wen said. "I think we
should see if they could use any help in exchange for some hospitality."

"I agree." Trace looked over at Red, who didn't
say a word. "But first, I need to talk to Red alone for a minute, if you
don't mind?"

Wen nodded, and rode his horse a little ways off to give
them some privacy.

"Everything okay?" Red asked when they were alone.

"That's what I was gonna ask you." He just came
out with it. "That man in town—he said he was your husband."

The expression on her face didn't change. No hint of
surprise or guilt. Nothing.

He didn't know what to make of it. "Please tell me it
ain't true."

Red took a deep breath and slowly released it. "It
ain't true."

Oh, thank God
. He couldn't have imagined sending her
back to that man, yet he didn't think he could continue traveling with another
man's wife either. That would have been a dangerous thing to do.

"So, why would he say he's your husband if he's
not?"

She slumped in her saddle, holding onto the horn.
"Because, excluding myself, there are only three people who know my
secret, and he's one of them. John Gatherum will do and say just about anything
to get what he wants, and right now, he wants me."

"And from what I gather, you don't want to be
found?"

Red shook her head and looked at him. "Honestly, I had
no idea he was looking for me. But now that I know—"

"You can't possibly want to go back and find him."
Trace had to stop her. "If there's something you feel you need to say to
him, I'd suggest you just let it go. He seems rather crazy to me and not the
talking type."

She vigorously shook her head, keeping her eyes on him all
the while. "Who said anything about talking? I plan on killing him."

Killing John Gatherum sounded like a good idea, and kind of
reasonable under the circumstances. "All right then, what do we do?"

"
We
don't do anything.
I'll
take care of
it when the time comes." With that, she maneuvered her horse down the
hillside in the direction of the cabin.

***

The smell of bread baking inside the cabin nearly brought
Trace to his knees. Fresh bread—there was nothing better. He couldn't remember
the last time he ate bread warm out of the oven with a brown crust and light,
spongy middle.

"Would you like some milk, too?" The woman who
owned the cabin offered him a cup. She smelled like warm honey and cinnamon.
"I have some in a pitcher, if you'd like."

Trace was dumbfounded. Milk. Fresh milk. "You have a
cow?" The idea of that amazed him. Most people no longer had access to
livestock, and those who did have them had to take great precautions to keep
them alive. The walkers would eat anything that moved if there was no other
option. They preferred humans, but farm animals would do just fine.

"We've been able to save one." She motioned to her
children—a boy of about five and the girl they saw earlier. "For the
children's sake."

Trace poured himself a cup full and drank the warm liquid.
He looked around the table and noticed a frothy milk moustache lining Wen's
upper lip. Red, on the other hand, didn't partake in the treat. She simply tore
small pieces off her slice of bread and placed them into her mouth.

The children sat quietly eating their buttered bread while
they watched the three strangers. He found most kids annoying, but these two
seemed all right. The girl kept eyeing him strangely, but for a little bread
and milk he'd put up with pretty much anything.

"Where's your husband?" Red asked. "You're
not out here all by yourself, are you?"

The woman wiped her hands on her apron and smiled.
"Unfortunately, we are. My husband died earlier this year, and with
nowhere else to go, we just stayed on. It's our home. We built it ourselves
when we moved out west, and I can't imagine leaving."

"Aren't you worried about zombies? They're everywhere,
you know." Wen slathered creamy butter over another piece of bread.
"You need to be careful."

"We prefer to call them the 'unfortunates.' It sounds
less"—she nodded toward her children—"frightening. And yes, I'm
worried. But we're careful."

The girl stared at Trace from across the table, her eyes
unblinking. Something was wrong with that kid. "Thanks for allowing us to
rest here for a bit and for sharing your food. We're truly grateful."

The woman smiled sweetly. "We don't get many visitors
out this way, so it's us who should be thanking you."

The girl spilled her milk. It ran across the table and over
the edge, forming a small white puddle on the floor.

Red jumped to help her, but the mother just smiled at her
daughter and dabbed at the mess with a cloth. "Be more careful," she
told her.

The girl didn't say a word, and the little boy climbed from
the table and proceeded to play with a wooden train in the corner. He didn't
look up at them again.

"Is there anything we can do for you while we're here?
Any work that needs doin'?" Wen asked. "We'd love to help."

"Oh, you don't need to do that." The woman started
to clear the table. "But it's kind of you to offer."

"No really," Trace said. "We can chop wood or
work on any projects that need fixing. Really, we'd like to do something."

She looked around. "Well, I do have this wagon in the
barn that needs a wheel replaced, and there're a few dishes that need washing,
but really, we're fine. It was just nice to share our table with you all. I'd
hate to put you out."

"You're not putting us out—"

"I'll help Wen with the wagon," Red jumped up,
interrupting Trace. "I guess that leaves the dishes for you." She
grinned.

Trace just nodded. There was no point arguing with her,
though he wanted to something fierce. Dishes were a woman's chore.

"Rivers," the mother addressed the girl.
"Help with the dishes and I'll show our guests to the barn. Fisher, stay here."
She pointed to the boy who didn't even acknowledge her.

The girl pulled her hair back into a ponytail and lifted a
large pot off the wood-burning stove. "It's hot," she said as she
handed it to Trace to pour in the metal wash bin.

Those were the first words either of the children had
uttered. For a while there, he'd wondered if they were both mute.

"Rivers?" he said, trying to make conversation.
"That's a pretty name. Different, but pretty."

"My pa named me. He liked to go fishing when he was
alive." She nodded toward her brother, who pushed the train back and
forth, over and over. "That's why his name's Fisher."

He nodded and rolled up his sleeves, ready to get to work on
the small pile of pots and pans. "They're both good names."

Rivers placed her hand on his arm to stop him from washing
the dishes. The ten-year-old girl's grip took him by surprise, reminding him of
Red's inhuman strength the night of her fever. He looked down to see her tiny
hand squeezing the feeling out of his arm.

"You need to go," she said.

"We'll be going as soon as we finish the—"

She shook her head and gripped his arm tighter. "No.
You need to go now."

Her eyes filled up with tears. She motioned for him to lower
his head, so he bent to her level. She might have ripped his arm off otherwise.

Her voice lowered to a whisper. "You're not safe
here."

"What's going on, Rivers? What aren't you telling
me?"

"Just go. Go save your friends and get out of
here."

This kid was no normal little girl—not with a grip like
that—and the intensity with which she spoke frightened him. This was exactly
why he didn't care much for kids.

Rivers released his arm and gave him a forceful shove toward
the door. "Go!"

He made to leave, intent on taking the girl's advice.
Something wasn't right here and she did her best to warn him.

A loud thump came from the next room and Trace froze. The
repeated banging grew louder and louder, followed by the agitated wail of a
baby—a baby in dire distress.

He looked at Rivers. She stood motionless and stared at the
closed door. Fisher stopped playing with the train, tucked his head into his
lap, and began to rock back and forth.

Trace approached the door—he couldn't just ignore a
screaming infant. He touched the handle and—

Rivers snatched his hand. "Don't do it. Don't go in
there!"

He opened the door, and Rivers stepped away. "I warned
you," she said.

Fisher began to whimper, and Rivers went to him, covering
his small body with her own. "It's okay. It's okay."

The thick smell of blood hit him like a punch to the
stomach. The rancid air was suffocating and his gag reflex threatened to make
him vomit. He covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm to diffuse
it.

A wooden cradle, pressed up against the far wall, rocked
viciously side-to-side as the occupant waved its tiny arms over the top
railing. The howls were almost deafening.

What in the hell?

Miniature hands reached up and clasped the side of the
cradle. The baby slowly pulled itself to a standing position on bowed legs.
When its cloudy eyes fixed on Trace, the baby shook the cradle harder, tossed
back its baldhead, and growled with desire. The baby wanted him.

Holy...!

Blood and entrails littered the floor in a coagulated
coating. The skull of an animal, a human hand, and various other pieces and
parts. They were
feeding
it.
They're keeping it alive!

He turned to leave, determined to find Red and Wen and get
the hell out of there, but he came face-to-face with the mother, who watched
him with a blank expression.

She didn't have to say anything. The Winchester .44 rifle
aimed at his chest told him everything he needed to know.