by JJ Zep
I picked up one of the boxes, rattled it, and heard a faint jingle from within. I stripped back the security tape, removed one of the vials and held it up. The firelight gave it a slightly greenish tinge, but I knew exactly was it was – Blueberry Hill.
There were some thirty boxes of the stuff, Virgil Pratt’s secret stash, and his way of controlling his zombie army and maintaining some modicum of humanity himself. Without their daily dose of this stuff, the Dead Men would soon revert, turn on each other and on Pratt and Tucci.
I opened the trapdoor and started pushing boxes through, hearing them clatter down the stairs. I removed a single plastic vial from the last box and pocketed it. I’d seen the effect this stuff had on humans, and if there was no other choice, if I ended up backed into a corner, it would allow me to make a last stand and inflict maximum damage on them.
When the last box was gone I closed the trapdoor and covered it with the mat. Then I turned towards the door, fired off a burst at the lock, applied my boot to it and stepped into the bar room.
The saloon was lit by flame, drenched in shadow and half-filled with smoke. It was also empty, except for the piano player who bizarrely was still belting out a Scott Joplin rag. The man spotted me, stopped playing and gently put down the lid of the upright piano. Then he flew up and charged across the room, lips drawn back to reveal broken, jagged teeth. I lifted the AK and waited till he was nearly upon me before putting two bullets in his brain.
It was then that I noticed a man slumped on the floor, his hands tied to a pillar. I hurried in that direction expecting it to be Nate, but it wasn’t, it was Pastor Ray.
The preacher had taken a severe beating and even in the half-light of the saloon I could see that he was done for. He’d been stripped naked and his torso was blackened with congealed blood. He’d suffered deep bite wounds to his throat and chest. But worse still were the facial injures. His nose looked to have been chewed off and there was a bloody stump where one of his ears should have been. Ray tried to speak but no sound came and I could see why. In the darkened maw his tongue seemed to be missing.
He looked at me, then and cast his eyes upwards in what I assumed was a religious gesture. I nodded solemnly, but Ray persisted, this time widening his eyes to make his point. I thought he might be indicating the upper floor of the saloon and I pointed in that direction and Ray nodded.
I was about to head towards the staircase when Ray managed a faint grunt, like someone clearing their throat. He looked towards the AK, widened his eyes then looked at me and I understood right away what he wanted. This man had so often been my nemesis, but he’d followed a principle he believed in and I respected him for that. As though he was reading my thoughts, Ray nodded and then closed his eyes. I lifted my rifle and ended his suffering.
At that exact moment Hooley’s Browning fell silent and the only sound was the crackle of the flames and the whoosh of heat-driven winds.
I made my way upstairs and began searching the rooms. The first two were dark and dusty, their ancient furnishings concealed under ghostly white sheets.
In the third, I found Nate, stripped naked and tied to a bed. The room was dim, lit only by a kerosene lamp, and with the drapes drawn. Still I could see the extent on Nate’s terrible injuries. The gunshot wound to his shoulder, the bite marks to his face and neck and the horrific mutilations inflicted further down.
I walked across and sat on the bed next to the lifeless body of the man I’d come to consider a friend. Nate eyes were still open and I closed them and said a silent farewell.
It was then I heard the door creak shut behind me, and I turned to see Zelda. The beautiful lady zombie I’d described to Cal and Hooley was wearing a black see-through negligee with silk stockings and suspenders.
“Hello lover,” she whispered in a dark seductive voice.
For a moment I froze, and then I went for the .38 I had stuffed into my waistband. But Zelda was too fast and before I had the weapon raised she grabbed my hand and twisted it. I felt pain flare instantly and heard a sound like dry kindling snapping. The revolver fell from my grasp and skidded across floor.
Zelda pushed me slowly back onto the bed, pinning me under her weight. She brought her face closer to mine and I could smell her putrid breath and see the flame of the kerosene lamp reflected in her insane eyes. She pealed back her lips to reveal over-sized incisors and moved her mouth steadily towards my throat. Pinned down by Zelda and wedged between her and Nate, I tried to push myself upward with my weaker left hand but I was powerless to move. Zelda moved closer and I could feel her run her cold tongue along my jugular.
I closed my eyes anticipating the bite and then I heard a loud crack as the bedstead, its ancient frame unable to take the weight of all three of us, collapsed. Zelda momentarily released her grip and I rolled away and crawled in the direction the .38 had gone. I saw it under the dressing table and without thinking I reached with my shattered right hand. The pain was instantaneous and exquisite. I looked frantically towards Zelda and saw that the bed had collapsed on her leg, trapping her. At that moment she worked herself free and got slowly to her feet.
I was wedged half under the dressing table, lying on my side and unable to reach the gun. With my left hand I gripped the edge of the table and started to pull myself up. I felt something warm against my hand and then Zelda suddenly grunted and hurtled across the bed towards me. My hand closed on the kerosene lamp and as she moved in I smashed it into her face.
Zelda’s face and hair were immediately engulfed in flame and she fell back, beating at the fire and emitting a high-pitched shriek that reminded me of a nail being levered from timber. She crashed back into the drapes pulling them down and setting them ablaze.
While she still lie writhing on the floor I picked up the .38 and finished her. Then I slung the AK over my shoulder. I knew I’d have a hard time firing it one handed, but I didn’t want to be caught short of firepower when I needed it. I crept out onto the landing with the .38 at the ready. The bar room still looked empty and I stepped towards the banister for a better look. I heard a footfall behind me and turned just too late to prevent myself being pushed. Then the railing gave way and I was falling.
twenty
One moment I was standing at the banister, the next I was plummeting towards the floor. At the last instant I managed a half-roll, and I hit one of the gaming tables shoulder first, which helped to break my fall and possibly saved my life. Still the pain that flashed down my arm and flared in my damaged wrist was worse than anything I’d felt since my altercation with a Dodge pickup back in Kentucky. And I was pretty sure I’d cracked a couple of ribs in the fall.
“Get him up!” Someone shouted and I was hauled to my feet. The bar room was now filled with smoke, but I could make out a figure framed in the doorway, backlit by the flames beyond. “Well, bring him here you dimwits,” the man said, and I recognized the voice of Stanley Tucci.
“Well, well, well,” Tucci said as I was dragged towards him, “I might have known. Chris Collins, you crafty son of a bitch! How the hell are you?” He gave me a friendly slap on the arm and when he saw me flinch he looked down at my hand, “Ouch, you’ve done yourself some damage there, my friend. Let’s see if we can make you a bit more uncomfortable.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed and I had to dig deep to prevent myself from crying out.
“Come on outside,” Tucci said. “There’s an old acquaintance you might want to pay your respects to.”
Tucci’s goons pushed me through the batwing doors out onto the porch. The street looked like it had been hit by a firestorm. The buildings over the road had all but been destroyed and the road surface was scattered with the smoldering remains of motorcycles and men. Cal and Hooley had done their jobs well.
I looked up towards the church and saw that it too was burning and I hoped that Hooley had been able to get himself, and the people inside, to safety.
The fire suddenly flared across the road and, to my left, a figure separated itself from the
shadows. Virgil Pratt stepped forward, looking every bit the sideshow cowboy. That was, if you could look past his face. Virgil was not having a good face day. The shirt buttoned to the top only partially hid the suppurating wounds that stained his collar a bloody brown. His face was haggard and drawn and he looked to have aged twenty years. Worse still was the bluish tinge to his complexion, visible even in the firelight.
“Thought you done for me back in Tulsa didn’t you?” Virgil said. “We’ll I’m still here, despite what that bitch Zelda tried to do to me. Ol’ Virge is still kickin’ ass and taking names. And I’m still the fastest gun in the west.” He drew his weapon with the same lightening speed I’d seen before, blew on the barrel and the holstered it. “Stanley” he said, “I think I need a cocktail.”
“No fucking way Virgil,” Tucci said, “It’s only been two hours, you’ll burn yourself out, you keep drinking that stuff like it’s RC Cola.”
“Shut the fuck up, Stanley, I’m still heading up this outfit, last time I looked.”
“Virgil, I have to strongly advise…”
“Advise this dickwad,” Virgil said and drew his gun.
Tucci threw is arms up to protect his face in an involuntary action and Virgil started laughing. “Just so as you know who’s the big kahuna around here.” he said, holstering his gun. “Now get me some of that goo-goo juice.”
Tucci nodded and one of his men ran back into the saloon. Over the road one of the last remaining structures collapsed as the fire started to burn itself out.
“Pretty fucking stupid torching your own town, Collins,” Virgil said. “Seemed like a nice little place, too. Could have settled here myself, raised a few little Z brats with Zelda.” He chuckled at the thought then shouted suddenly, “Where’s my fucking goo-goo juice?”
The man came running back out of the saloon. He stopped and whispered something to Tucci, “What the fuck!” Tucci exploded, “Don’t tell me that shit! Go look again! Fucking idiot!”
“But…” the man started to say then thought better of it. He walked reluctantly back inside.
“What’s happening, Stanley? Why the fuck am I waiting?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tucci said, then, “Oh, fuck it!” He turned and walked briskly into the saloon himself.
Virgil turned to me. “I been thinking, Collins, of a special kind of death for you. Here’s what I got so far. Come sun up, when we muster the men for their morning shot of prune juice, I’m gonna strap you down to a table right here in the middle of the road. Then I’m going to walk them past you single file and let each one have an itty bitty nibble, what you think?”
“I think you’re…” I started, but then Tucci came running towards us, “Tell me you moved it!” he demanded of Virgil.
“I ain’t moved…Moved what?”
“The BH-17, Blueberry Hill, goo-goo juice, whatever you want to call it. It’s gone!”
“Gone? What do you mean gone?”
“Gone! Missing, vanished, disappeared. Fucking gone! Do I have to spell it out for you!”
“How the fuck is that possible?” Virgil said, and then an idea seemed to occur to him and he turned to me. “Collins,” he hissed, with a smile that was more terrifying than any Z I’d ever seen.
twenty one
“Yeah, I’ve got your stuff,” I said. I was strapped to a chair with my hands behind me, which was becoming a familiar position when I was around Virgil and Tucci.
“Well, that’s a start,” Tucci said, “Where is it?”
“Oh it’s close. Very close”
“Cut the crap,” Virgil said, “You tell us where it is and we’ll finish you quick, maybe even let you go.”
“And if I don’t.”
“Ain’t no don’t,” Virgil said, “You’ll tell us, any which way.”
“Nah,” I said, “Think I’ll pass.”
Virgil drew his six-shooter, turned it around and swaggered towards me, holding the gun like a club.
“On the other hand,” I said, “I might tell you, in exchange for certain guarantees.”
“What guarantees?” Virgil asked, pathetic hope in his voice.
“The guarantee that right after you I tell you, you shoot Stan Ritz here in the head and then yourself.”
“I’ve had enough of this shit,” Virgil said. He raised the gun and brought it down against my skull. A fireworks display seemed to go off in my head, followed by pain that started dull and ended razor sharp. I felt blood trickle down my forehead. “How’s that do ya?” Virgil said, “I got more in that locker.”
“Gimme some,” I said.
This time he took a roundhouse swing, connecting with my cheekbone. I heard a crunch and the hammer ripped though the flesh before coming to a jarring halt against my nose. The chair teetered for a moment and then crashed over. The pain in my ribs, my damaged wrist and in the new injuries inflicted by Virgil lit up instantaneously, like the biggest jackpot in Vegas. I hit the deck, and the vial of Blueberry Hill slid from my pocket. Virgil stooped and picked it up.
“Well, looky here,” he said. “Looks like Ol’ Chris has been holding out on us all along.”
He held the vial up to the light, admiring it like it was a rare and beautiful artifact. Then he unscrewed the top, glugged down a mouthful, belched and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
“Go easy on that stuff, Virgil,” Tucci warned, but Pratt ignored him and took another slug before screwing the top back on and dropping the vial into his breast pocket. “Now where was we, oh yeah, where’s the rest of my stuff?”
“Probably, right under your nose,” I said, and then Tucci exploded.
“Jesus Christ, Collins, do you understand the shit you’re in? In less than one fucking hour these men will be gathering for their fix. Do you know what will happen if they don’t get it? You’ll have two hundred Z’s pouring into this saloon looking for blood. They’ll tear you limb from limb!”
“You reckon this room will hold two hundred,” I said.
“Aw for chrissakes, just shoot him Virgil, this is useless.”
“No need,” said Virgil, now regaining his composure as the Blueberry Hill took hold, “He’s already told us where it is. And why shoot him when we can feed him to the boys later?”
“What?” Tucci said, “I told you to go easy on the blue, you’ve really fucking flipped this time. Where did he…”
“Right under your nose, isn’t that what, he said? I’ll bet ya dollars to donuts he’s hidden it under the fucking floorboards. Not so clever are you now, Mr. Chris fucking Collins?”
“You, You.” Tucci said addressing his men “get checking these floorboards. Pry up any that are loose. You, get outside and find something to lift up the other boards. Move!”
The man rushed towards the door then stopped suddenly. “Boss, you’re going to want to see this.”
“Do I have to do everything around here?” Tucci shouted and walked quickly across the room. As he did one of the windows at the front of the saloon shattered.
Tucci looked through the broken pane and from my position I could see what he saw. The Dead Men were gathering, and they were hungry.
twenty two
“Close the doors!” Tucci shouted, “Get some furniture in front of them and get those windows shuttered! Virgil, let’s go, there’s got to be a back way!”
Virgil stood in the middle of the saloon, legs apart like a western gunfighter. He took the vial from his pocket and downed the rest of its contents, “Let ‘em come,” he said, “I’m ready.”
“Fuck this!” Tucci said and headed for the back door.
From the front of the room, now came the sound of the high pitched, insanity inducing humming that Z’s tend to make with they’re in a mob. The sound of it set my teeth on edge and for the first time I realized that I was going to die unless I acted fast. I struggled against my bonds and they were fast and secure, cutting into my wrists and sending pain jangling up my arm.
Virgil was standing in the m
iddle of the room, drawing his six-shooter, firing a shot towards the shuttered windows and then re-holstering. His men were trying to barricade the entrance but they were fighting a losing battle as the doors started to bulge open. I could see hands pushing through, reaching.
One of the shutters seemed to explode inward, and angry, hungry faces appeared there. Virgil drew his six-shooter and fired in that direction and now his men opened up with automatic weapons. The faces of the Z’s at the window seemed to explode, but as they fell, they were replaced by more and more.
Tucci came running back into the barroom. “They’re round the back,“ he screamed, “Jesus Christ, they’ve got us surrounded!”
“Stan,” I shouted at him, but he seemed not to hear.
One of the Z’s made it through the window and was cut down as another of the shutters flew open. Tucci picked up my AK and fired off a burst, and there was a spray of red against the jagged glass. At the front door the first of the Z’s pushed his head through and got a bullet in the face for his troubles.
“Stan!” I shouted again, and this time he turned in my direction, my AK in his hand.
“You!” he said, “This is all your fault! He raised the rifle to his shoulder and I braced myself for the shot. The noise in the room seemed to crank up a notch, and the movement seemed to become slow motion, I could hear the bam-bam-bam of Virgil’s six-shooter, and the clatter of automatic gunfire and smashing glass. Then I heard another sound, the screech of furniture being dragged across a wooden floor, as the barricade started to shift.
“Wait!” I screamed at Tucci. “I can get us out!”
Tucci seemed for a moment confused, like a man who’s resigned himself to dying, and then is suddenly thrown a lifeline. He stood and blinked him eyes and then he dropped the AK and ran in my direction and fell to his knees. He produced a switchblade from an ankle sheath and started hacking at my bonds.