Ashes of the Dead - Bucket of Blood

by Jake

  Jumping Rooftops

  A sun-bleached wooden board on the Bucket of Blood rooftop shifted loosely from side-to-side, the rusted nails not wanting to let it go easily. The board popped upright, and then another board beside it, and light poured upward through the hole. A hand appeared and more boards were ripped away, allowing Eric’s head to appear. He quickly scanned the surroundings and looked back down into the room below.

  “All clear,” he said quietly. He pulled himself up the rest of the way and reached back down to help the others climb up. First the Gunman and Cutler, followed by Pickett, Pearce and Andrew.

  Staying as low as possible they made their way toward the edge of the roof. Cutler peaked into the alley and saw two undead wandering below, trying unsuccessfully to get into the adjacent building. He turned back to the others and placed a finger over his lips, showing them to stay quiet. “We need to find something to crawl across, it’s too far to jump,” he whispered.

  Pickett crawled away and soon returned with the boards that Eric had wrenched loose from the rooftop. “These should work.”

  “Are you kidding?” Eric hissed. “Those won't hold us.”

  “Have more faith, son…” Cutler said, with a shit-eating grin, “…since you're going first.

  They slid the boards silently across the wide gap above the alley. Eric slowly began to make his way across, the wood bowing and creaking beneath his weight. He looked back at the others, unsure that the boards would hold him, but they only urged him forward. He looked down at the undead below him as he dangled above the alley, knowing that this wasn’t how he wanted to die, so he pushed onward, shuffling across one inch at a time. As soon as he had traversed the gap, the others began to crawl across, one-by-one. The boards bent farther and farther, cracking under their weight. Pearce was last to move across the ever-weakening boards.

  “Alright, father,” Cutler whispered, and waved him onward.

  Pearce sat poised on the ledge, with his feet dangling over the side, but he hesitated to move. He watched the undead below for a moment longer, making sure that he hadn’t been discovered. He crossed himself with the rosary and started to crawl across. He moved slowly on the quaking boards, inching himself forward. But as he neared the middle, the boards started to crack and split in half. Pearce leapt the remaining distance, just as the boards buckled beneath him, and Cutler grabbed his arm. The broken pieces fell onto an undead below.

  “Gotcha!” Cutler said, holding Pearce as he dangled above the alley.

  The undead noticed him hanging there and reached upward for his feet as Cutler lifted him up, just in time. Pearce sat there for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

  “That was close,” Cutler said.

  Pearce nodded in agreement as Cutler helped him to his feet. “Thank you, son.”

  “No problem.”

  They made their way to the other side of the roof, silhouetted by glowing moonlight. They stood in front of the gap separating them from the next rooftop, an easy leap of only a few feet, and everybody made it across effortlessly, even Father Pearce. They moved quickly across the rooftop and jumped to the next building, finally reaching the end of the road. They had reached the edge of the last building on the block and there were no more rooftops to hide on.

  “We'll have to cross the road to the next set of buildings,” Pickett told them.

  “But we’ll be exposed,” the Gunman said.

  “It’s the only way.”

  “How will we get down safely?” Eric asked.

  “Chop our way in,” Cutler said as he untied the bloodstained axe that was strapped to his back.

  “We have to be quiet…” the Gunman said, but Cutler swung the axe and broke through the roof in a single stroke, not waiting for him to finish. He winked at the Gunman and tied the axe back over his shoulder. The Gunman only shrugged at this. “Good enough.”

  Cutler grabbed Eric and lowered him through the hole into a storage room full of dried food and supplies. He quickly scanned the room, squinting in the darkness. “All clear,” he whispered as he slid over a barrel, allowing the others to climb down.

  The Gunman holstered his revolver and grabbed a butcher’s knife from the counter, and turned to Cutler. “We don't want to alarm any of our friends outside.”

  The others followed his lead and grabbed knifes, and Cutler wielded his axe. Father Pearce couldn’t seem to find anything, so he grabbed a rolling pin, still covered in flour from its last use. Cutler furrowed his brow, as if he was asking: are you really going to use that? Pearce shrugged and put it down, then grabbed an iron poker next to a wood-fire stove instead. Cutler grinned widely. “Better...much better.”

  The Gunman cracked open the storage room door, but stiffened. On the other side of the door, roaming around inside of the general store, were three undead. He turned to the others, placed a finger over his lips and readied his butcher's knife. The others nodded, preparing themselves to attack. The Gunman threw open the door, bolted out of the storeroom and jumped over the counter. He plunged his knife deep into the closest undead's neck. He hacked again, spraying filthy blood on his face, and the undead fell to the ground but continued to claw for his neck.

  Cutler was right behind him and beheaded the second undead with one swing of his axe. The Gunman continued hacking at the first undead’s neck until it was completely severed, and then kicked away the head. As the Gunman leaned over the torso it continued to move and flail its arms violently, even without the head. He stabbed the undead body in the chest repeatedly, until it finally stopped, and lay motionless between his legs.

  The third undead shuffled toward the Gunman from behind, and Cutler swung his axe, but Father Pearce plunged his poker deep into the undead's eye. Black blood sprayed his face and the undead fell to the ground with the poker still sticking from its eye socket.

  “Thanks,” Cutler said.

  “Don't mention it.” Pearce stepped onto the undead woman's forehead and wrenched the poker loose, and wiped it on his sleeve. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his face. “Just protecting my flock.”

  Andrew bent over and began to inspect one of the undead bodies. He carefully examined it the best he could without touching it. “Interesting.”

  “What?” Pickett asked, and stepped closer to the body.

  “Well, this man's body was already decomposed.”

  “What do you mean? Decompose?”

  “Like rotting meat.” He looked even closer at the body and lifted open the shirt. “Things only decompose when they're dead,” he said as he inspected its chest.

  “But he is dead,” Eric said. “We just killed him.”

  “No. He was already dead. Long before today.”

  “That doesn't make any sense,” Pickett added.

  “None of this makes any sense.” Andrew began to press his hands against the undead’s abdomen, palpating in a circular motion. “Hand me your knife, Sheriff.”

  Pickett hesitantly held out the blade, handle first. “What are you gonna do with it?” he questioned as Andrew took it from him.

  “I need to check something, might give us some answers,” he told him, and then plunged the knife deep into the undead’s gut and started to saw length-wise.

  “Jesus!” Eric cried. “What are you doing?”

  Andrew didn’t answer and continued with the knife until the undead’s gut was fully exposed. He set the knife aside and grabbed hold of the stomach, pulling it out and starting to inspect it with his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “Just what I suspected.”

  “Suspected what?” the Gunman asked.

  “Here, I’ll show you.” Andrew used the sharp blade to slice open the stomach, spilling the contents out onto the wooden floor. “The stomach was distended, yet none of the contents have been digested.”

  “And…what does that mean,” Eric asked, plugging his nose from the pungent smell, but still interested in what the doctor had to say.

  “Well, it
means that everything this thing has eaten over the past two days has remained in the stomach, undigested, and suggesting that it's been dead the entire time.”

  “But those things are still moving…walking even,” Pickett said.

  “Exactly.”

  But before he could examine it any closer, pots and pans fell in a closet, banging together and making a tremendous noise as they fell against the hard floor. The men steadied themselves and readied their weapons to attack more undead. Cutler approached the closet door with the others close behind him. He ripped the door open and raised his axe, and began to swing, but stopped mid-stroke and stared into the closet.

  “What is it?” Pickett asked him, unable to see inside with Cutler's large frame in his way.

  Cutler lowered his axe to his side. “Come see for yourself, Sheriff.”

  The Gunman and Pickett moved into the doorway and saw a young boy hiding in the corner, caked in blood, his eyes red. It was Caleb Dawsen, Rose’s younger brother, completely unrecognizable.

  “Is…is he like the others?” Eric asked.

  Cutler shook his head and walked away toward the back storage room. Pickett crouched down, reaching out his hand to the boy. “It's okay. We're not going to hurt you.” Caleb recoiled as Pickett inched closer. “We're the good guys, son,” he said as he winked from underneath his hat.

  Caleb had a wild look in his eyes and hadn’t slept since the day before. He clutched a ragged teddy bear next to his chest, the one he had since childhood, now dirty and torn and coated with blood. He slowly reached out and grabbed Pickett's hand, and then followed him out of the closet, still unsure if it was safe to come out. “Are…are there more of them?" he asked.

  Pickett smiled at him. “You're safe now.”

  Cutler reappeared from the storage room, holding fresh ammo under his arm and a sack full of food in the other. “Found this in the back.” He handed out ammo to everybody, and then reached into the bag and pulled out some stale bread and handed it to Caleb. “Thought you’d be hungry, little man.” He patted Caleb on the back, who bit into the bread ravenously, still holding the teddy bear close to his chest. Cutler followed the Gunman to the front of the store, where they could see undead roaming the street outside, aimlessly looking for food.

  “We have to find a way out of here,” the Gunman said.

  “There's a back door that opens to the alley. Might be our safest bet,” Cutler said.

  The Gunman grabbed a handful of bullets from the box Cutler had found in the storeroom, and began to load them into his holster. “Okay. Lets go.”

  • • •

  The Gunman led the way through the alley, followed closely by Pearce, Andrew and Eric. Pickett held Caleb's hand and kept a close eye on him. Cutler brought up the rear, holding his axe ready and often walking backward and peering into the darkness behind them. For a barber who had spent the last three years cutting hair, he sure seemed able to handle himself in a fight.

  They reached the end of the alley, and the Gunman peered around the corner and checked both ways down the street. Then he floated across the street in complete silence. He made it to the opposite alley and waved the others across. First Pearce and Eric, followed closely by Andrew, Pickett and Caleb. Cutler took off sprinting, but stopped dead in the middle of the road. Several undead at the far end of the street had spotted him.

  “Shit.”

  The Gunman waved him onward. “Hurry!”

  Father Pearce knocked out a window with his poker and crawled through the broken glass. Eric, Andrew, Pickett and Caleb all followed behind him, while the Gunman and Cutler stood in the alley, armed and ready, waiting for the undead to attack.

  The undead entered the far end of the alley and shuffled straight for them. The Gunman and Cutler launched toward them and began to dismember the undead. They hacked at necks, stabbed skulls, and kept as silent as possible. Cutler chopped off an undead's leg with the axe and sliced through its neck. Putrid blood soaked into the dirt. Once finished, the Gunman and Cutler stood in the alley surrounded by undead effluence. An undead torso still moved, reaching out for them and trying to crawl closer. Cutler stepped toward it and swung the axe, quickly removing the head, and kicked it into a puddle of bloody mud. Its eyes continued to look around and twitch uncontrollably, so Cutler pulled out a long knife and stabbed it in the forehead.

  They stood there for a moment longer, making sure nothing else was coming, and then crawled through the window and escaped into the building, finding refuge, if only for the moment.

  • • •

  The moon had passed behind a finger of gray clouds, and the inside of the building was filled with darkness. The street had grown quiet again, occupied only by the undead. The others were waiting for Cutler and the Gunman inside.

  “Nice work,” Andrew said.

  “Thanks,” Cutler acknowledged.

  “Now what?” Eric asked. “We can't move an inch from this building without being seen.

  “The kid's right,” Father Pearce added. “We’re surrounded by those demons…the spawn of hell itself.”

  They sat for a moment scratching their heads. There were too many undead roaming the streets, and moving from one building to the other was going to be difficult, even if they remained in the shadows. The Gunman leaned against the wall and wiped the knife on his pants, smearing undead blood across his thigh. No clear solution had presented itself, and the only thing he could think of was trying to shoot his way through town, the only thing he had ever been good at.

  “You men seem a little lost,” Jack Richards said, stepping through a doorway into the room. He held a revolver in one hand and a knife in the other, dirty and splattered with blood. Clay and Aaron stepped behind him, both fully armed, and just as bloody.

  “Hello, Jack,” Pickett said.

  “Sheriff,” Jack said, tipping his hat. Jack walked into the room and holstered his gun. He turned over an empty box and sat on it, and then crossed his legs and leaned back against the wall, holding his hands behind his head. “I might just know your way out of here,” he said to them confidently.

  “Oh yeah, and what would that be?” Cutler questioned.

  “Nothing that will be easy of course,” Jack said as he pulled out a new cigar.

  “We're all ears, Jack,” Pickett said.

  “There is an old mining shaft that runs underneath the far side of town.”

  “The old Ross mine?”

  “Yup. That's the one.” Jack said, knowingly. He cut off the end of the cigar, struck a match on the box, and lit it while he inhaled deeply.

  “I thought it was abandoned,” Cutler mentioned.

  “Yup.”

  “Well that can't be safe,” Eric stated.

  “Nope,” Jack said slyly. He inhaled deeply again, and shifted his weight against the wall. “Of course…we have that little problem of getting passed our friends outside. The ones that are a little over-ripe, if you know what I mean.” He took another puff from the cigar and slowly exhaled. “But now that you’ve arrived, I'm sure we won't have any trouble making our way across town.”

  “What about the others?” Eric asked.

  “What others?”

  “We left a group of people back in the saloon. Needed to go out and search for food and water,” Pickett said.

  “I'm sure they'll manage.”

  “No. We have to go back for them,” Eric demanded.

  The Gunman put his proverbial foot down. “We go back for the others. Then we make our way to the mine shaft.” The Gunman was skeptical of Jack’s intentions and knew that he shouldn’t be trusted, but at this point there was no other option but to follow his lead.

  Jack smothered the cigar on the table next to him and put the remainder in his front pocket. “Alright boss. We do it your way.” He stood up from the box and cracked his back. “What are we waiting for?”

  • • •

  The worn floorboards creaked under her weight as Rose wandered down the hallway
, checking on people in different rooms, and always keeping an eye out the window. Elijah was sitting at the far end of the hallway, with a bloody club in one hand, and a half empty bottle of whiskey in the other.

  “Hello, Miss Dawsen,” he said calmly, the heavy smell of alcohol lingering on his breath.

  Rose sat down next to him and Elijah held out the bottle for her. She took a drink, wiped her lips and passed it back.

  “Things gettin' real crazy roun' here,” he said with a sigh. He took another swig of whiskey, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Rose laid her head back against the wall and closed her heavy eyes, finally feeling like she deserved some rest, but the harsh chorus of undead moaning flowed down the hallway. Like an unholy symphony, it was a cacophony of death. This made her restless and uneasy. With the men gone she felt like it was her duty to stay awake and alert, to keep an eye on everyone and make sure that nothing happened.

  Elijah continued to ramble, talking to himself more than anything. “I just don't know, Miss Dawsen. God must be real mad at us for sumthin’…real mad indeed.” He took another drink and finished the dregs of the bottle, and then rubbed a patch of dried blood on his club. “If help ain’t comin’, I ain’t sure what we gonna do. Sure as hell ain’t no way to get all these people outta’ here.”

  Rose stood up and touched Elijah's shoulder. “Help will come,” she said reassuringly.

  “I sure hope so, Miss Dawsen,” he said.

  She smiled dryly and continued her patrol down the hallway, but paused in the next doorway. An old woman was sitting on the bed with her husband’s pale face resting firmly in her lap. He was clutching the bed sheets and breathing hard. Rose entered and sat on the end of the bed. “How is he doing?”