Wanted: Dead or Undead (Zombie West)

by Angela Scott

  Done bathing, she tossed the water outside, put on the clean undergarments and a fresh shirt, and climbed under the blankets. She double-checked to make sure both of her Colts were loaded and within reach, and kept her vest-pocket pistol next to her pillow. The guns must be handy and ready, always.

  Even though Cowboy and Wen planned to take the first watch of the night, she found it difficult to close her eyes and fall asleep. For Red, surrendering to sleep without worry or fear had died with her family.

  When she finally shut her eyes, horrific images played out behind her closed lids, as they did every night. Someone's mother, father, son or daughter murdered by her hand. They weren't to blame for contracting an illness that destroyed their bodies and minds. At one time, they held their loved ones close and hoped for a better future, just like those fortunate enough not to be infected. She couldn't forget that. She wouldn't. Even if others did.

  The worst images were those of the people she'd loved most, turned into something she no longer recognized, a creature she had to kill so the person she loved could find eternal rest. And, ultimately, so she could survive.

  Red opened her eyes and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall down her cheeks.

  ***

  Trace had found it almost amusing to sit by and watch Red prepare her own dinner over the fire after he refused to plate any of his meal for her. He'd intentionally turned his body away, angling to keep her on the outskirts of his conversation with Wen. If she thought he was a jackass, he may as well behave like one. She hadn't played nice either and had it coming.

  Trace almost buckled when he watched her struggle to carry the water-filled tub to the wagon. He fought the instinct to jump up and help—something a non-jackass would do—but he held back and let her handle it on her own. The invisible tally board had him ahead by two.

  Wen added another kink in the chain of uncertainties, but he decided to extract as much information from him as he could. He said very little and allowed Wen to talk all he wanted, prodding him with a question now and again. Sometimes that was all a person needed—a chance to talk and be heard.

  "I didn't realize things were so bad on the East Coast. I kinda hoped the plague was localized and the rest of the country was unaffected. Guess it was a good thing I ran into you both." Wen poked the fire with a stick and stirred up the embers.

  Trace nodded. "I guess so. Good thing we met."

  He began to think it might be beneficial to align himself with Wen and create camaraderie of sorts to keep the girl safe. Two men watching over one stubborn woman just might work. Perhaps he'd even split the reward with him as well.

  While they talked, Trace cast his gaze toward the covered wagon Red occupied. The lantern inside the wagon illuminated her silhouette through the cream-colored canvas, and he watched her remove her clothing, run her hands through her hair, and lift and lower her arms as she washed them. She'd be horrified to know he was witnessing her bathing waltz.

  Wen had his back to her and didn't notice anything. Fortunate, since Trace couldn't help his distracted stares.

  When she extinguished the lantern, casting the wagon into darkness, he wasn't sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed. A bit of both.

  "...ghost towns. You'll find a lot of those between here and the California border. People are packing up and heading for safer ground."

  Trace only picked up part of what Wen said, but nodded his head anyway. "Safer ground? Where?" He'd not found safer ground anywhere.

  Wen shook his head. "Just a figure of speech. There's no such place. People want hope, and if they think they'll find it in Canada or Mexico, well, they've got to try. I mean, if you heard Southeast Asia was infection free, you'd sell your left arm to catch a boat ride there, right? I know I would."

  He was probably right. Up until recently, Trace hadn't realized how dire the situation actually was. The walking dead, the invisible plague, people eating other people—he'd heard about it and seen a few zombie killings, but he'd otherwise been living his life as usual. Apparently, residents of the Midwest didn't have a clue about how bad things were on the coasts, or that the plague was making its way to the middle of the country at such a rapid pace.

  "You know what, though?" Wen went on. "Even the rich are finding it difficult to escape the sickness. Money doesn't buy what it used to."

  Trace glanced toward Red's wagon again. He wondered what the devaluation of money meant for him, and for the girl. Just then, a shrill of terror echoed through the silent camp. Both men jumped to their feet, guns drawn and eyes wide, scanning the camp for signs of an intrusion. The surrounding darkness made it difficult to see, but Trace was sure the cries had come from Red's wagon. He darted in that direction with Wen close behind, compelled by an instinct to protect her.

  Trace threw back the canvas flap, and the yellow glow from Wen's lantern revealed Red's wild, terrified eyes. No intruder, just a scared girl staring back at them with a look of such panic and fear that his determination to keep her at bay dissolved. Red scooted to the far corner of the wagon and hid her face, out of fright or embarrassment.

  The two men glanced at one another, uncertain and awkward, unsure of what to do.

  "Go away." Her cries softened into painful whimpers. "Just go away."

  "What's wrong?" Wen asked. "You hurt?"

  "No. I'm fine. Please leave me alone."

  Her shoulders trembled, and she took quick intakes of breath, which proved she was anything but all right. Trace couldn't leave her in this state.

  He looked over at Wen. "Why don't you go back to keeping an eye out? I'm going to sit with Red for a minute."

  Wen gave him a thoughtful nod before disappearing with the lantern, leaving them shrouded in darkness.

  "Mind if I come in?" Trace made no move to enter the wagon without her permission. He wanted to comfort her, but she slept with guns, and he didn't want to get shot in the head for his effort.

  "I'm okay." Her entire body shook and gave away the lie. "Please just go. I'm fine. Really."

  "You're not fine. Can I come in?"

  "I'd rather you didn't."

  He pulled the canvas flap to the side and climbed into the wagon. "You didn't say no."

  "I'm saying no now." Red swallowed, her face hidden behind damp curls. She looked so young and vulnerable, nothing like the tough, mouthy girl he'd come to know. She did have a soft side after all.

  He smiled and shook his head in defiance. "It's a little too late. I'm already inside." He knelt down and reached out to brush his thumb over her wet cheek, wiping away a trail of tears. Definitely soft.

  For some reason, this act had the opposite effect than he intended; it made her cry even more, and he questioned whether or not he'd done the right thing by touching her. The more she tried to pull herself together, the more tears fell, and crying women always left him confused and at a loss. Should he hug 'em? Leave 'em alone?

  "Hey." He decided on the former, pulled her toward him, and held her. "It's okay. Cry all you want."

  He expected her to push him away, and he would've let go had she done so, but she didn't. Instead, she folded her body into his and buried her face in his neck, her warm tears wetting his skin. It surprised him, but he didn't mind. Not at all.

  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."

&
nbsp; "Don't be."

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

  Chapter 7 – KilKenny Cats

  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 o
ne 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.