Bodacious Creed: a Steampunk Zombie Western (The Adventures of Bodacious Creed Book 1)

by Jonathan Fesmire

  Behind the desk, gazing through a simple microscope and fastening a screw into what appeared to be a watch was a middle-aged Chinese man with a wispy black beard.

  “Good morning, Ace,” said Nelsen. As the proprietor looked up from his work, Nelson gestured toward his partner. “James Creed, this is Ace Feng. Ace, Marshal Creed.”

  “You're Bodacious Creed?” said Feng in impeccable English. They shook hands.

  “Marshal Creed is fine,” Creed answered.

  “Do you know why we're here?” Nelsen asked.

  Feng stepped back from his microscope and set down a small screwdriver. “I can't say that I do.” The many clocks on the wall, small and large, ticked in time, punctuating each second.

  “So, no new stories. Nothing about a murderer come to town?”

  “A murderer? Murders happen here from time to time, I’m sad to say, Ben. You know that as well as I. Maybe we could prevent another. The Flats have eyes. And ears.” His face went stern.

  “There's no one here but us,” said Creed. Still, he looked around wondering if someone might be listening in from another room or with a spying device in the walls.

  “We want to prevent anyone from being killed,” said Nelsen, “including you.”

  Creed put his hands on the counter and leaned in. “We’re looking for Corwin Blake. What do you know? The sooner you tell us, the sooner we'll be out of here.”

  Feng nodded. Creed felt relieved that the man was responding better to his factual, direct approach than to Nelsen's flair for drama.

  “I saw him myself, along Cliff Street.”

  “What about Iron Nelly's?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard he’s been there. He doesn't seem afraid of the law.”

  Nelsen gave Feng two dollars. As he and Creed unhitched their horses, Nelsen said, “It might be a trap.”

  “If Blake wants to give chase, this time, we'll catch him.” The Marshals rode their steeds at a trot south, toward the beach.

  The front of Iron Nelly’s reminded Creed of the eye of a fly, the wall painted such a dark brown it was nearly black, the large central window split into dozens of panes. To each side of the dust-covered window stood a closed, whitewashed door. Creed went ahead of Nelsen, entering through the door on the right.

  On either side, stairs led down into a saloon where men sat gambling at half a dozen tables. The musk of tobacco smoke dulled all other scents. Curtains had been pulled aside from the window, but the dingy glass made the light hazy. The bar, across the room from the marshals, had a rack of liquor behind it and a door to Creed’s right.

  A man of middling height tended the bar and puffed a pipe. He spoke with a younger man who stood behind the bar, probably learning the trade.

  For nine twenty on a Monday morning, Creed found the saloon surprisingly full. A cool draft blew through the doors, battling the summer heat. Hadn’t Ben told him that most of the Railroad Flats residents were Chinese, or former slaves come out west? Most men here were white or Mexican, so probably local business owners.

  Nelsen approached the bar, and the bartender gave him a smile. “Marshal Nelson, you haven't been in for a drink in a while.”

  “No, not in a while, Jason,” Nelsen agreed. “No time for a drink today, though. We're on a case.”

  The room quieted, so Creed leaned against the bar but gazed back at the patrons. Though they tried to hide it, they were listening in.

  “Oh?” Jason intoned.

  “You know what he's talking about.” Creed straightened and affected a stern expression.

  Jason stared into Creed’s eyes for a moment, blew a puff of smoke, then tilted his head to the side and looked down the bar. “I don’t, Marshal.”

  Creed followed his gaze to the three men sitting several feet away. He folded in the thumb and pinky of his left hand and tapped the bar first with his index finger, then middle finger, then ring, without looking away from Jason. Closest man, middle, or farthest?

  Jason tapped his right ring finger across from Creed’s hand.

  “So, you can't help?” Creed turned and looked over everyone in the bar. None matched Blake’s description, so who sat down the bar, the man Jason had pointed out?

  “I never said I couldn’t help. You haven’t said what you’re looking for,” said Jason.

  The man Jason had indicated stood. While Blake was just a couple inches taller than five feet, this man was about five feet, eight inches. Not Blake in disguise, then. So, who was he?

  The stranger headed to the door in his long brown coat, collar up, black derby pressed low over clipped brown locks. Creed glimpsed the man’s profile as he went by. Clean shaven, around forty, and unremarkable.

  As the man ascended the stairs, Creed rushed toward him. The plain man stepped outside seconds before Creed made it to the door.

  Outside, Creed spotted the man at the end of the street. “How did he get so far—” Creed forced away the thought and ran in pursuit as the stranger, coat tails flapping behind, turned left on Beach Street. He had no time to unhitch Johann.

  On Beach, Creed spotted the man fleeing to the next corner. How? Creed glanced back, relieved to see Nelson behind him, and they both rushed after the stranger.

  “That's Cliff Street,” Nelsen said. “C'mon!”

  On Cliff, the man rounded left. Might Blake be there, where Feng had seen him? Nelsen drew his Colt.

  Half a block up Cliff, the heal of a boot slipped through a doorway.

  Long, two-story buildings lined the street, and the marshals hurried past them to the one the stranger had entered. Creed drew his pistol beside the entrance and gave Nelsen a nod.

  He pushed open the door, gun pointed inside. “Hands up!”

  The stranger stood with his back to them, hat off, facing a window. A glance showed Creed two nude paintings on the walls, each of women lying suggestively in lavish beds, and polished baroque chairs around a table. A stairwell led upward to the left.

  The man slicked back his hair at the graying temples, then clasped his hands behind his back.

  “He said hands up,” Nelsen snapped.

  Creed cocked the pistol.

  Their quarry remained silent. If not for his breathing, Creed would have questioned if they faced a man at all. Then the stranger spoke, his voice a steely tenor. “I didn’t realize that leaving a saloon was a federal crime, marshals.”

  Creed stepped closer. Who behaved this way? Hair prickled across his arms. “We're after Corwin Blake.”

  “Yeehaw!” came a youthful cry that Creed knew too well. He shuffled back and glanced up the stairs as Nelsen took them two by two. The cheer was illogical, inane, something a kid might yell at a rodeo.

  Outside, Blake dashed past the window with a salute.

  “He's out back! After him!” Creed wheeled around to find the door shut.

  Dread surged in his gut when he smelled fire. Smoke flowed through the floorboards and cracks in the walls. Nelsen stumbled down the stairs.

  The stranger laughed, and when Creed turned, he had vanished. The marshal pulled on the door handle. In the half-second it took him to find it locked, the air went white. He could kick the door in, plenty of training there, or he could go through the window. Better glass than solid wood.

  Creed turned, coughing, the smell like a bad campfire. Had the stranger set the building alight just to trap them? With a heavy boot, he shattered the window, then smashed the glass along the edges with his gun barrel.

  He stuck his head out hoping for a breath of seaside air but coughed again. Dizzy, he forced himself through and landed in the narrow alley. Nelsen tumbled beside him a moment later, hacking.

  Finally able to breathe, faintness subsiding, Creed spotted Blake at the end of the narrow road, waving at him.

  “Howdy, Marshal Creed.” Remaining wisps of smoke blew past Blake’s overly blond hair. “Sure is nice to see—”

  Creed shot the brown rancher’s hat off Corwin Blake's obnoxious head.

  “Shit!
” Blake dashed around the corner, toward Cliff Street, with Creed a moment behind. His and Nelson’s boots pounded dirt.

  A quarter block behind the outlaw, Creed aimed as he ran. No way he could get off a good shot from there. Suppose the bullet went through a window and hit an innocent? Frustrated, Creed held onto his pistol.

  Blake curved right onto Beach Street. The crashing waves joined the pounding of Creed’s heart as he struggled to keep up with the young man. He soon turned onto Westbrook. Creed gritted his teeth. Everything seemed a joke to Blake. Running from the law. Burglary. Murder.

  Creed and Nelsen turned onto Westbrook just as Blake planted himself on the saddle of Nelsen’s horse. Reins in hand, he looked back and waved at the marshals.

  Once, a criminal had tried to steal Johann and had been bucked off straight through a window. Had Blake heard the story? Was that why he’d chosen Nelsen’s ride?

  Johann wouldn’t allow any rider besides Creed on its back unless accompanied by its master. As they reached the steed, Creed shouted back to Nelsen. “Hop on behind me!”

  Blake raced away. While Nelsen had a fast horse, Johann was faster. Creed's left foot caught the stirrup and his right hand grabbed the saddle horn. Up in less than a second, he reached back and grabbed Nelsen's hand. Their partnership felt like it had never ended, lawmen in synchronicity. Nelsen was behind Creed in an instant.

  Johann galloped so fast sandy dust billowed from the hard ground. Sweat beaded on Creed's forehead. Nelsen had his arms around Creed's chest as he looked past Creed's left shoulder.

  Farther along Cliff, Blake turned another corner. Creed kicked against Johann's flanks. When they turned, he pulled on the reins, bringing his stallion to a halt.

  On this block of tall buildings, Nelsen's horse trotted away without a rider.

  A lean Chinese man left a shop. He raised his hands with a gasp as Creed lifted his gun. The marshal looked around, then up. To his right, nearing the roof of a three-story building went Corwin Blake. He scaled the wall like a tarantula.

  “Come down, Blake.” Creed leveled his gun, but Johann's movement, though slight, threw off his aim. Creed slid out of the saddle and his boots clomped on the ground. Nelsen dropped beside him. When Creed looked up again, Blake had one arm over the roof and a foot pushing off a window frame. “Now, Corwin Blake!”

  The outlaw laughed as he swung his other arm over and pulled his body up. Creed took aim and fired. In his side vision, the Chinese man flinched at the loud crack.

  Red splashed from Blake's right thigh. “Fucker!” he yelled. Before Creed could place another shot, Blake made it onto the roof.

  “I'll circle round the building,” Creed said, mounting Johann. “Go in there, see if there are stairs to the roof.”

  Gun held by his hip, Nelsen entered the building. “U.S. Marshal. Where's the stairwell? Does it go to the roof?” Creed noticed this was a flower shop, a bit of beauty in an otherwise drab piece of the Flats. Roses, tulips, orchids, and periwinkles filled hanging pots.

  Two voices, a man's and a woman's, spoke in Chinese. Then the woman said, “Yes, stairs are there. Hatch at the roof.”

  With Creed astride, Johann trotted briskly around the building. Though Creed knew his aim would be faulty, he pointed his gun toward the roof. If Blake tried to descend on the opposite side, he’d spot him. Might Blake jump? Possibly, but the buildings here stood a good ten feet apart. He doubted Blake could make it to another with a bullet in him.

  After half a minute Nelsen looked down from the roof. “He ain't up here.”

  If Blake wasn't, then what was? Creed wanted to investigate himself, but no, he had better stay with Johann. With Creed gone, Blake might just shoot the horse dead.

  “Get down here, then,” Creed called up. “Tell me what you saw.”

  Creed circled to the front. The skinny Chinese man he'd seen still stood there, watching. Creed rode up to him and asked, “Hello, friend. Maybe you can help us. Did you recognize that man that climbed this building?”

  The store proprietor shook his head and adjusted his trousers. “I didn't see anyone, just you and him.” He nodded past Creed as Nelsen stepped out of the flower shop. “You gave me a scare. Was that your horse running away? Don't you want to find it?”

  “Yeah,” said Nelsen. “Yeah, I want that. You didn't see a man, about nineteen years of age, scaling that wall?”

  “No. Scaling the wall? Sounds like roach claws.”

  Creed remembered hearing about such a gadget but had never dealt with a wall-climbing outlaw before.

  “What's your name, sir?” Creed asked.

  The man frowned and glanced toward the roof of the neighboring building. “Shan Chi.”

  “Well, Shan, I'm Marshal James Creed. You come tell us if you see, or remember anything.”

  Shan gave a curt nod, then left without so much as a good day.

  “He won't, even if he learns something,” said Nelsen. “I think he was telling the truth. Don't think he saw Blake up there, but he's not going to want to put himself in danger by coming to us.”

  “I had to give him the option,” Creed said. “What did you see?”

  Hands on hips, Nelsen looked Creed in the eyes. “A streak of blood, then big drops, then nothing but some bits of cloth stuck in the shingles. He tied off that wound fast, I guess. I don't know where he went. Do you reckon he could have jumped to another building?”

  “I wouldn't have thought so, but roach claws? God knows what else he's got.” Creed gazed up at the surrounding buildings. “He'll have to go somewhere to get the bullet removed. Let’s go—”

  “We're not going to find him right now,” Nelsen said. “You got lucky shooting him.”

  “That wasn't luck. It was good aim.”

  “Granted. I'm just saying, he's slippery. He's playing with us. We'll have to raise a posse, come back tomorrow.”

  “Your horse,” Creed asked, “will she go back to the station?”

  “She will.”

  “Good. We're returning to the room where they smoked us out, see what we can find.”

  Soon, they reached the strange building. While the smoke had dissipated, the rough scent lingered. “Wait right here,” Creed said after they dismounted, handing Nelsen Johann's reins. He found the door locked, as he'd expected, so he kicked hard right beside the handle.

  The door banged open. The paintings, chairs, and table were gone. Even the window had been replaced.

  “What in the damned hell?” Creed drew his pistol and stepping in.

  Nelsen stood in the doorway, holding the reins tight. “What in the world, Jim?”

  “That's what I'm wondering.” Creed studied the floor beside the window. Sure enough, tiny shards of glass glittered from cracks in the polished wood. He saw none in the alley, however. “Stay right here, Ben. Keep an eye out for anyone who might approach this way or outside that window.”

  Upstairs, Creed found a bedroom with just a bed frame, plus a small bathroom with a pump to fill the porcelain tub. Creed looked over the rooms for a good five minutes, but someone had cleaned this place like new.

  Creed tramped downstairs and tried to pry a board from the wall. Unable to do so with hands alone, he took his cavalry saber from the scabbard beside his saddle. He edged it in between boards, long ways, near a nail, and began to pull. As Nelsen watched from the doorway, the metal creaked in wood and the board moved back. Creed put on his leather gloves and pulled hard, one foot securing him on the ground, the other against the wall, and the board jerked free.

  Several open pipe ends, black with soot, faced him. “Well, we didn't imagine it.”

  “Didn't think we had,” Nelsen answered.

  Creed looked at the back of the board and found it had grooves going up and down from the vents to let the smoke enter the room more efficiently.

  “The stranger probably ran upstairs while we were stumbling our way out, had a crew come here and clean up while we were after Blake.”

  �
��It's been what, ten minutes?” Nelsen asked.

  “Times are changing, partner. This man has an abundance of technology, and is seriously fucking with us.” He brushed his gloves together then tied them to his belt. “Time to head back. We need a posse.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rob Cantrell stood on the Santa Cruz Municipal Wharf looking over the beach and crashing waves, sunlight sparkling in the ocean’s white foam. Along a railing, fishermen tended thick fishing poles and gutted their catches on outdoor tables. Up along the cliffs to the east, Cantrell had enjoyed a fuller view, but the bay came as a welcome sight from any direction. On the wharf, he had the best view of Monterey in the far distance and of nearby Railroad Flats. He had a feeling that here, he’d capture his prey.

  He had already retrieved his saddlebags from the train, among them the large metal ball that was deceptively light. This rough sphere was his most expensive possession, even more so than Malcolm, his well-bred steed, which still waited in the horse car.

  Cantrell, known as El Tiburón by many, cared little for trains. Had there been no hurry, he would have ridden Malcolm down the coast, but he had learned the night before that Corwin Blake had come to Santa Cruz. How reputable might the rumor prove? He couldn’t say, but years of hunting down outlaws had given the bounty hunter a good sense for what leads to follow. Besides, the federal marshals were taking the rumor seriously, a better indication than most.

  Many thought of Railroad Flats as a slum. From his vantage point on the wharf, Cantrell had another name for it. Seedy. Poverty often bred crime. If Blake had any connections, they'd likely be down there.

  “Mr. Rob Cantrell!” shouted a voice from the horse car. He went toward it, hefting his saddle bags and the metal ball, which his daughter, Emma, had named Bernard.

  As a railroad worker led Malcolm, a chestnut Spanish horse, down the plank to the wharf, Cantrell was reminded that he wouldn't find trains so bad if not for how Malcolm handled them. The horse was shaking so strongly it nearly stepped off the plank too soon. But it made it to the ground and he walked it along the wharf a bit toward land before putting on the heavy saddle bags and Bernard. He then mounted and gently patted the animal's mane. The shaking subsided.