Wanted: Dead or Undead (Zombie West)

by Angela Scott

  The saloon doors swung open once more and the apparition of a fiery angel wielding a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun appeared in the door frame. Her hair glowed in the evening sun, and the smoky room accentuated her ethereal presence. She took a couple of steps inside, spurs clinking against the wooden planks, and anchored two shells to the back of the zombie's skull. Once emptied, she tossed the shotgun aside, removed two pistols from the holsters on her hips, and fired them as well.

  Where Bill's head used to be, nothing but fleshy, pink pulp on a broken stem remained. Mangled, he continued to stand on crooked legs, until the red-haired cowgirl lifted her boot and gave him a swift kick in the back. The zombie wobbled and tumbled over, more dead than it had been moments before.

  "He bit me!" The poor man Bill had attacked withered on the floor, his hand pressed over his oozing neck and his eyes wild with fear. "He bit me!"

  The angel with flaming red hair reloaded, aimed, and shot that man dead as well.

  "What did you go and do that fer?" a cowboy protested. "We might've been able to save him."

  Trace sneered at the cowboy. That dead man would have crunched his jaws on some poor sap in a matter of hours, and spread the disease even further.

  "What a shame," Hank mumbled from his place at the end of the bar. He'd watched the earlier commotion while perched on the same stool, finishing his liquor. "Thought we had the town protected." He swooned on the stool, nearly falling over, but caught himself. "Ya know, even with all them wooden fences we staked around the outskirts"—hiccup—"guess we're not as immune to the plague as we thought, are we boys?"

  "Hank's got a point," Slap Jack said, putting his pistol back under the bar. "Anyone can walk into town feeling pretty healthy and fit, not knowing the virus is destroying their internal organs. Unless we strip everyone from head to toe, we'll never be certain. We need a better plan."

  Trace barely listened to the conversation around him as he focused on the red-haired girl. Something about her rang familiar, but he couldn't quite place how he knew her. She sauntered past the dead bodies and through the crowd of inebriated cowboys. For a passing moment, she locked her eyes on him with a blank stare. He couldn't turn away. Even if he couldn't quite place her in his mind, he was instinctually drawn to her, and he always trusted his gut. It had never steered him wrong before. Well, not when it counted, anyway.

  The girl propped her foot up on the brass railing that ran the bottom length of the bar, and slammed down several coins on the counter. "Pour me an Old Grand Daddy."

  If the men's jaws hadn't been hanging before, they surely were now. She was putting on a show, but he smirked a little at her sass, regardless.

  "Girlie, you sure you ain't wanting a glass of milk instead? Maybe some cookies?" The men roared with laughter at Slap Jack's joke, a dig at her youth.

  Trace didn't laugh. He'd been on the receiving end of a few such jokes himself and didn't find it funny, especially since she'd succeeded in killing a zombie when no one else could.

  The girl reached across the bar, took hold of the old man's shirt, and pressed the barrel of her pistol under his chin. "Pour my order."

  The men hushed.

  She couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen, but held her gun in a way that showed she'd mastered the weapon. No doubt she'd fire it if pushed.

  Slap Jack raised his hands. "A'right, a'right. Jus' havin' a bit o' fun."

  While she waited for the old man to pour her drink, she turned to face her audience and rested her elbows on the bar behind her. "I can tell ya right now, there's no point in havin' a plan. The disease is spreading across the country faster and wider than you can imagine. The whole town of Smithfield—gone. Men, women, and children. The place is a ghost town now, except for a few walkers. And, if y'all recall, they'd put up fences, too."

  A few men shook their heads at her. "That ain't true," one man countered. "I's jus' there last month and the place was running like normal."

  "A lot can happen in a month." She turned her back on them once more.

  "Then what's it you suggest we do?" Hank put his bottle down long enough to pose the question. "We can't just sit here and do nothin'."

  The girl raised her glass and tossed it back. She let her breath out slowly, as though dealing with a bunch of idiots. Trace continued to be amused by her confident demeanor.

  "One more." She set her empty glass down on the bar. "Well, for one thing, I suggest y'all keep a loaded gun on ya at all times, even while sleeping and taking a piss, and make sure to aim for the head—a bullet in the gut ain't gonna do a thing. And second... well, there ain't no second thing. Keep a gun handy. That's about all ya can do."

  The men grumbled.

  "She don't know nothin'," said a large man wearing buckskin pants, a coon cap, and a beard that hung part way down his chest. He looked directly at the girl. "Ain't that right? You know nothin'. I bet that zombie was your first kill. You jus' got lucky, huh, li'l girl?"

  Trace saw her clutch the empty shot glass and waited for her to aim it at the ignorant man's head, but she did no such thing. She kept calm and approached the man with an air of utter confidence, staring him straight in the eye.

  "How many you killed?"

  "Zombies?"

  She nodded.

  "I've killed a handful or so."

  "Five?" She raised her brow.

  He looked at the cowboy to his left and then back at her. "I reckon so. Maybe more."

  "So, shall we say six? Or should we give you the benefit of the doubt and say seven? Better yet, let's round it up to an even dozen. That sound fair?"

  The man nodded in agreement, but Trace could sense a trap.

  "Let's not even count that man over there." She pointed to Bill's victim, lying dead near the entrance. "He wasn't a full-blown zombie, yet. We all know he would've been, but for the sake of argument, we'll let that one slide. So, your friend Bill there makes ninety-and-nine for me."

  She removed a small, pearl-handled dagger from its sleeve and carved a quick notch in her belt, which was riddled with tiny holes.

  Trace had no quarrel believing her. Everything about the wild-haired girl rang authentic, from her dust-covered chaps to her weather-beaten hat. She could've exaggerated, but he didn't think so. Of all the zombies walking North America, he'd killed exactly... zero. His belt looked as polished as ever.

  The mountain man threw his head back and laughed. "A pretty li'l thing like you? Killing all them zombies?" He lowered his head and peered at her with a sinister expression on his face. "I don't believe you."

  "Never said you had to."

  He clasped her forearm with his grimy hand and pulled her firmly to his chest, his weathered face only inches from hers.

  Trace stood, ready to step in if necessary.

  She yanked her arm back and smashed the palm of her hand into the man's pudgy nose. The crack of the break echoed through the room and silenced the already stunned group of men. She sent an elbow into the man's chin, to make a final point.

  "Damn, girl!" The mountain man held his nose as blood trickled down his beard.

  "Hey, mister," Miss Krissee called down from the railing above. She leaned her arms against the railing and her large chest nearly tumbled out of her corset. "You wantin' to get frisky? Do it with someone who won't put up a fight. It'll only cost ya three dollars."

  A few men chuckled, but the red-haired girl didn't look the least bit amused. She finished her drink and headed for the door. Before stepping outside, she turned to no one in particular. "Make sure you burn the bodies. If you don't, the smell will just about kill ya."

  As Trace watched her walk through the swinging doors, it dawned on him how he knew her. Damn. He couldn't just stand there and watch the girl disappear. He took a step forward, but the old gambler grabbed his arm.

  "You forgettin' we're not through here?"

  Trace felt a wave of disappointment as he watched the girl swing herself up on her horse and head for the town's borders.
"Didn't forget," he lied. "Just hoped after such a crazy moment, I would've found you in a more forgiving mood."

  "I'm not too keen on forgivin'." The old man placed his hand on the butt of his gun. "You're a cheater."

  "I would have to disagree." Trace slid his hands over his own pistols. "I played a fair game. The cards just happened to be in my favor. You wouldn't want to shoot an innocent man, now would you?"

  The old man narrowed his gaze, but didn't remove his hand from the gun. Trace flicked his eyes toward the girl now riding off across the desert plains.

  "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.

  Chapter 2 – Related to Zombies

  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!"