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

by Jonathan Fesmire

  “How do you know the code I used to write you that note? I didn't even realize it was such until a few days ago. Didn't notice it was different than English.”

  Anna wondered if he could hear her racing heart. “I deciphered it.”

  “Really?” Creed’s voice carried his incredulity.

  “Sir, I invented the brain circuitry for steelies, and I brought you back to life.”

  His steely eyes narrowed, then he nodded, conceding the point.

  “The man that tried to kidnap you. Who was he?” she asked.

  “I don't know. He had a large automaton. Not as big as yours there, but bigger than the one it's working on.” He pointed to Zero and Lucky. “I remember, he came in, and I lost consciousness. I didn’t recognize him.”

  “Shit,” Anna said. “He must be part of the criminal underground. They made Blake disappear, right? That's what I figure. They've got all sorts of illegal technology, maybe even spies working for Miles Morgan.”

  “You don't think Morgan's Automatons might have done this?”

  “No. Miles would be aghast at the thought of bringing someone back to life. I hope, I really hope, he doesn't realize I brought you back.”

  Creed held Anna's gaze. “Could be a lot of money in resurrection.”

  “I know. That’s why I haven’t shared the technology. It’s not easy to reverse engineer, either.” The thought of resurrection becoming common terrified her. What might it mean for society? “Let's worry about one thing at a time. Like Blake.”

  Creed straightened his hat. “I've found no leads.”

  “No one has. Do you know that one of the best bounty hunters in the West is also after him?”

  Creed answered, “Cantrell. El Tiburón. Hell, I would be happy to work with him to take Blake down, if I thought I could trust him. He has the advantage of being alive. Fully alive.”

  “The man who tried to kidnap you. Do you think that was Blake?”

  “No. This man was older than me, bearded,” Creed said. “The runt is part of something bigger. This underground you mentioned. I’ve heard it called ‘the syndicate.’ Nobody seems to know more. And now people are hunting me. Normally, that’s nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “That's why we made sure you can't be tracked. More people may be after you soon. There’s a reward of one-thousand dollars to bring you in.”

  “You and I,” said Creed, “we’ll trade notes to keep in touch.”

  “Where would we leave them?”

  “I can get over here sometimes,” Creed said, “so you won't have to go out of your way and look suspicious. They might know about you as well.”

  “My bedroom window, then,” said Anna. “I'll leave it open a crack, enough for you to drop me a note. I can pin an envelope to the side of the window inside, so no one will see it, but so you can just reach in and pry it out with the tips of your fingers.”

  “One more thing,” Creed said. “Where’s Johann, my horse?”

  “At Smullen’s stable, waiting for you, whenever you’re able to retrieve him. I’m happy to pay the fees.”

  “Good, and thank you. Now, young lady,” he said, and that made her shiver, “you'd best sleep. I'll be on my way after nightfall.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  That night after dark, James Creed left Amber Doves through the alley, mask on, coat collar up, and hat pulled low. Moonlight graced the eaves of buildings, and streetlamps lit the ground. Enough people had seen him by now that few doubted his return to life. Though he wanted to retrieve Johann, he thought it safer for them to remain apart, at least for a time. Creed had to avoid being seen and to make it back to Heidi’s without incident.

  She filled his thoughts, and surprising details flashed in his mind. Creed had no doubt about their past relationship. While serving in Texas, she had been his lover. He couldn't say for how long, as his memories lacked a sense of time and continuity, but he could estimate when some took place by thinking about how they related to each other.

  After their affair had fallen apart, Creed’s own partner with the marshal service, Bennett Nelsen, had swept in and become her new love. Shortly after, Creed had moved on.

  Their past no longer concerned Creed. Even if he had romantic feelings for Heidi, he felt split between wanting to protect the innocent from the likes of Blake and wanting the peacefulness of death. No doubt, Heidi was worried about him. He had to let her know he hadn’t abandoned her, or Santa Cruz.

  The more lucid his thoughts, the more Creed saw the implications of his vigilantism. Criminals now sought him. What about those who helped him? He thought Anna and Jonny safe enough for now, but what about Heidi?

  Creed climbed the hill to the east and ran through the forest, soon spotting her cabin past thick redwood trunks. Why was her front door open? He picked up his pace and found that the curtains in the window overlooking the porch were askew. Drawing both Austin Equalizers, Creed circled around to get a look inside. No light shone out, but his night vision revealed gray shapes: a pillow and books on the floor, the carpet pulled up and tossed aside, and a kitchen chair tipped on its back.

  Standing still, Creed caught the sounds of wind rustling branches, crickets chirping, and a squirrel scampering up a tree. He ascended the steps slowly, then went through the door. Inside, he held a gun in each direction and split his vision to take in everything at once.

  He saw no one in the ransacked cabin.

  Had Heidi been here? If so, had she escaped, or had the intruders taken her?

  Creed holstered his pistols, found her mechanical torch on the floor, and looked around the room. Her rifle was missing from its usual spot by the door. Strewn across the floor were his extra clothes and rucksack. They must have told whoever had done this one thing: Creed slept here. They didn’t want the shirts, pants, or socks, just the knowledge.

  It had to be the criminal underground, the syndicate. They must have guessed that Creed was staying here and came to verify. Or they knew and had come to kill or capture him.

  He had to assume they had taken his friend. What if they had killed Heidi? Better to not consider that, though murder would fit Blake’s modus operandi. The man he and Ben had seen in the saloon and smoky building, though, Heilong, didn't strike Creed as the kind to kill outright.

  If they meant to use her to draw him in, they had no idea what they were in for.

  Though the streetlamps shined just brightly enough to mimic twilight, Creed stuck to shadows when he reached Railroad Flats. His pack hung at his side, slung over one shoulder. The ocean breeze smelled of salt and carried the conflicting scents of a dozen dinners. So far, the marshals had kept their distance from him, but now that they had put a price on his head, he thought it best to move in secret. He had turned in numerous men, and a few women, for drunken fighting, theft, and attempted murder. Marshals and deputies alike had even thanked him.

  That night, he had to tell them that Heidi was missing. Going to either post might be unsafe, so he looked for a deputy.

  He checked his pocket watch, which read ten thirty-two. Time to look for the main areas deputies patrolled. On each street, a few citizens went about their business, perhaps walking to or away from Iron Nelly’s, or leaving the wharf after a day of fishing or working for the railroad. Creed kept his head down, hands in pockets, and few gave him a second glance.

  At last, he spotted a man wearing a deputy’s badge.

  Creed stepped into the dirt road ten yards from the man and waited for the other to notice him. The deputy walked with a mild swagger, nodding at passersby. He finally looked straight ahead and stopped. Creed recognized him from Bateman’s post.

  “Evening, Rivera,” Creed intoned. The former marshal stood with his hands behind his back.

  “And to you, Creed.” Lonzo squinted. “I like your mask.”

  “Someone kidnapped Heidi Nelson, widow of U.S. Marshal Bennett Nelson. I need you to tell the others.”

  Lonzo stepped back. Though he had encountered C
reed many times, he seemed nervous. “She's all right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mrs. Nelson showed up at the local marshal post on her own about a half hour ago.”

  A half hour, mused Creed. That would have been the same time he had arrived at her home. On horseback, the marshals, local and federal, were probably just getting to her place. If he'd arrived a little later, he would have seen them.

  “You were there?” Creed asked.

  “No, I was here. Bateman came here to gather some of us up to investigate.”

  Creed studied Lonzo’s face under the street lights but caught no telltale signs of lying like facial twitches or a false grin.

  “She wasn't hurt?”

  “Not that Bateman said. Why would anyone target her place, do you think?” Lonzo asked.

  With a tip of his hat, Creed said, “Good night.” He turned and ran.

  The gunshot rang like thunder and pain hit Creed in the center of his left shoulder blade. He sensed it had come from a different direction than Lonzo. He wheeled around, his left pistol drawn and shot back at the newcomer. An instant later he drew his right pistol and pointed it toward Lonzo Rivera. The deputy who had fired, a tall young man with wisps of brown hair probably meant to be a beard, dropped his gun and dived behind a watering trough.

  Lonzo raised his hands, but his gun still hung in its holster. Creed took it as a good sign the man hadn’t drawn on him. Only about a second had passed, and Creed could scarcely feel the bullet in his back. A good thing, he thought, it hadn’t hit his ammunition belt under his coat. He dashed off, fast as a horse at a gallop. Deep in the forested area where Heidi lived, he thought he might find a place to regroup.

  Heads turned as he sped past on busy streets, but as soon as he reached an area empty of people he leaped, caught the edge of a roof, and climbed atop a one-story building. He lay flat, looking out over the roads until convinced that no one was following. He dropped down on the building's other side and stuck to shadows and alleyways. He went past the cemetery on Ocean Street and passed several ranches, then veered east.

  The Santa Cruz Gold Rush, decades past, had built up the area and encouraged industry. No one had found gold for years. Miles Morgan now had iron mines, where they gathered raw metals to make steel, but most of the gold had been discovered in the hills to the north-east, where Creed headed.

  He had missed the full moon on the fifth, but the waning gibbous moon cast plenty of light, which filtered through the redwoods and pines. Though all appeared gray, he saw with perfect clarity. The woods smelled dry and pungent.

  Creed removed his coat, ammunition belts, vest, and shirt. The bullet in his back had begun bothering him, sending jolts of pain up from his left shoulder blade. His shirt sported very little blood around the hole, and less still had gotten onto his vest or coat, an effect of his resurrection. He removed a large knife from where he had strapped it into his boot, reached over his shoulder with it, and by feel, pried out the bullet. As he returned the blade, he spotted the flattened piece of metal on the ground. He picked it up and stared in surprise. It should have shattered his shoulder blade. His bones must have hardened, another unexpected benefit of resurrection. He dropped the bullet in his pocket and put his clothes back on.

  It took Creed another hour to reach the flat side of a steep mountain, and another to find an old mine. He figured he was now closer to the community of Scotts Valley than to Santa Cruz.

  A makeshift barricade of wood pounded into the mountainside blocked the mine entrance. Creed pried several thick boards free, realizing that most men wouldn't have been able to accomplish that without tools. He squeezed through and pulled the boards back in place.

  With any luck, the cave would provide a place for him to hide out, rest, and think, without endangering anyone else.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Two hundred dollars to retrieve a steely brain unit from a secret laboratory. Cantrell hated the deal, but the little he received for working as a deputy scarcely paid for his meals and room at The Grand Western. His wife and daughter would need that money soon, and though he hated the idea of helping criminals, he needed the payment.

  On August fourth, he rode down to Railroad Flats to ask questions. Maybe Gregg had been honest with him, maybe not. Before going against his own principles, he wanted to learn more.

  No one claimed to know the name Maxwell Gregg, though twitches in their lips and eyes told Cantrell a different story. Even bribes didn’t help, not that he had much to offer. Bernard’s growls set a few people on edge but elicited no information. He kept asking over the next few days, even while working in the capacity of a deputy to the newly-arrived federal marshals, still with no luck.

  The night of August seventh, he decided in favor of making the two-hundred dollars for his family.

  He checked the tracker Gregg had given him, which remained dead. Creed had not been activated. If the laboratory was real, Creed could be in it, but unconscious. That would mean at most Cantrell would have to deal with Anna and the big steely Gregg mentioned.

  The bounty hunter went far down the alley behind The House of Amber Doves to think. When darkness fell, he spotted a dark figure departing the bordello.

  Tall man, long coat, black hat, with a purposeful stride. Bodacious Creed.

  Cantrell pulled the tracker from an inside coat pocket. Under the moonlight, he saw well enough. The readings rested at neutral. Either it had broken, or it could no longer track James Creed. Either way, the former marshal leaving The House of Amber Doves suggested that Gregg had told the truth. Perhaps Cantrell would find an underground laboratory.

  The time of evening had come when single men would be filing into The House of Amber Doves looking for time with warm, soft, naked women. With the work day over for many, they would spend a chunk of their wages chasing away loneliness. Would Anna Boyd be in the saloon arranging these liaisons? The bounty hunter hoped so.

  Cantrell waited another ten minutes before leaving the alley and hitching Malcolm to a post down Soquel Avenue. He then headed back toward Pacific, and as he crossed the street, watched a group of work-weary men enter the bordello. Past the porch on the Soquel Avenue side, he reentered the alley.

  From a pouch on his belt, he removed two lock picks. They clinked in the keyhole as he aligned the tumblers, then turned. A chilling breeze came off the ocean, carrying with it a hint of dead fish. He reflected on the fact that he had no disguise. He had seen no one taller than his own six feet, four inches in Santa Cruz, nor as broad of shoulder. Anyone who saw him could name him.

  No use worrying about what he couldn’t control. He had come as prepared as possible, a black bandana covering his beard, his Colt Peacemaker in his right holster, his Prietto and Sons Lawkeeper in his left. In his shirt pocket, he had packed a small bottle and handkerchief, and in his coat, the devices Gregg had provided him with.

  As he peeked through the door, he smelled steak and seafood, perhaps salmon, and a mixed hint of perfumes, sweat, and the suspicious fire from the hearth. Lusty voices and laughter nearly drowned out the tuning of stringed instruments.

  Straight ahead he spotted the bar and he cursed to himself. He should have remembered its relationship to the hallway. The buxom woman working it, however, strolled into the kitchen. A second later, a lady with black hair, wearing a red dress, swept by. Could that have been Anna? He had a moment to enter her room, so he stepped in, eased the door shut with his boot, and quickly worked the lock to the next door. He tried to shrug away the guilt that gripped his belly, and he glanced toward the bar several times. Unlocking this door took longer than it might have had he felt calm, but at last, he turned the nob, stepped in, and shut it behind him.

  Cantrell concentrated on breathing quietly. He felt confident that no one had spotted him, but his nerves made his heart rush. Darkness filled Anna’s room, save for faint light through the curtains, and the air smelled of roses. Cantrell listened and from just in front of him, he hea
rd breathing.

  “Shit,” Cantrell mouthed.

  His eyes had adjusted to the darkness outside, but the minute or so spent working the lock in the bordello had negated that. He waited until he could better make out shapes in the darkness. Finally, he saw one door to the left, one to the right, a vanity with a mirror and chair, a nightstand with a lamp, and Anna’s large bed with a big clock on the wall behind it.

  Cantrell snuck up beside the sleeping woman, her curly black hair lying like a blanket across the pillow and partly over her cheek. “Sorry,” he whispered, and pulled the bottle and handkerchief from his pocket. He undid the stopper, held the cloth against the opening, and turned it over.

  Anna Boyd had been friendly to him. No, kind. Though he hated doing this to her, his family came first. Besides, this would just make her sleep a little longer. He needed one steely brain that, according to Gregg, didn’t belong to her, anyway.

  Reluctantly, Cantrell pressed the handkerchief to her face. Anna jerked her head to the side several times, then relaxed.

  Cantrell turned on the lamp and squinted, but when he eased the small lever back, the light dimmed. His attention went to the foot of the bed. If Anna did have an underground laboratory, there had to be a trapdoor to it. He pulled the throw rug, with its pattern of red and blue tulips, out of the way.

  “I'll be damned.” Cantrell figured that most could look at the floor for hours without seeing the difference, but he spotted it immediately. The boards rested in such a way that, to him, the trapdoor stood out. It took him a minute to find the lock panel, but once he did, he picked the lock with ease and lifted the door.