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

by Jonathan Fesmire

  “Hey there, Bill,” Maybelle intoned.

  Roseberry went quiet and stopped struggling. “Who is that?”

  Anna whispered in Maybelle’s ear, and the dove started asking Roseberry questions. Jonny, bleary-eyed, came down the stairs with Creed following.

  “How many of you are there? What do you want with me?” Roseberry balled his hands into fists. “Where’s Creed?”

  “I’m here.”

  After that, he let Maybelle do the talking. For the first hour, Roseberry tried to convince them he had just returned to town. After another, Maybelle got him to say the name of the underground organization: The Evil Eye Syndicate, and that the man called Heilong, which meant black dragon in Mandarin, had recruited him. Anna and Creed exchanged a glance. They already knew the man’s real name was Maxwell Gregg.

  Roseberry refused to reveal any more. He must have decided Gregg would do worse to him than Maybelle and Creed, or maybe his excitement had run its course. He began to flirt with Maybelle, answering questions with questions, asking where he could find her if they ever let him go. She soon dropped her charming tone.

  At eleven ten, Creed showed Anna his pocket watch and pantomimed eating with a fork. He pointed to Roseberry. Yes, they had to feed their “guest.” She patted her belly, feeling hunger pangs herself.

  Jonny went upstairs and returned ten minutes later with two plates of food on a tray. After another short trip, they had five plates of toasted rye bread with scrambled eggs and five mugs of coffee, as quick a meal as any could manage.

  Maybelle fed Roseberry from one plate and ate from another. “There you are, Bill. Now, you know I don't want to keep you here. I really don't. Aren’t these delicious eggs?”

  “They’re all right,” he said with food in his cheek.

  “I put your seat up. Isn’t that nice?”

  “You got a nice voice. Sexy,” Bill said. “I’m thirsty.”

  She brought a mug of black coffee to his lips and helped him drink.

  “I got to piss, too.”

  “Charming. And you can, but we need answers.”

  Roseberry shook his head and chuckled. “Bad idea for me.”

  When they finished eating, Anna waved for them all to talk upstairs. Watching Roseberry, even hearing his voice, made her want to slap him. She marched up to her room, not caring at all what Roseberry thought of her banging footsteps. Creed came last and shut the trapdoor.

  “We c-can’t… keep him long.” Jonny’s mouth was a line, his eyes pensive. “He won’t talk.”

  “He’d better,” Anna answered.

  Jonny shook his head. “I’ll get Cantrell. He can—”

  Creed interrupted. “You want him to turn Roseberry in.”

  “Yes.”

  “We can’t just do that.” Anna crossed arms and gazed at the closed hatch.

  “Jonny’s right,” Creed said. “We’re better than this.” Maybelle nodded agreement.

  Anna closed her eyes, frustrated that the two most important men in her life and her best woman friend opposed her. “Without a doubt they have Gilmore, who brought Margarita back. I can’t begin to describe what this technology could do in the wrong hands. You know where it is right now? In exactly the wrong hands!”

  “He’s not going to talk anyway,” Creed said. “He won’t speak to the law. Better he’s in their custody. Let them blame me for his capture. Robert can tell them he found Roseberry unconscious in the street. That’ll keep you out of it.”

  “Ten more minutes,” Anna said. “I know he probably won’t say anything helpful. I get that.”

  Creed stroked his beard and slowly nodded. “I don’t see the harm in ten more minutes.”

  Anna turned to her confidante. “Maybelle, when we go back down, ask if he's failed to kill anybody lately. Asked him if he's going to run off like a coward if you let him go.”

  The dove tilted her head in thought for a moment, then gave Anna a knowing smile. “Do you think that’ll work?”

  “We can try.” Anna reopened the door and they all descended. She looked at Creed as he stood there, arms crossed, and thought he seemed tired. Of course. He would normally be asleep by eight in the morning or so, and wake up around four.

  Maybelle stepped up beside Roseberry. “You’ve told us the name of your little group.”

  “Little.” Roseberry smirked.

  “They make some impressive technology. Illegally. No surprise there, is it? We found some nice bits on you. Those dust bombs, those rings around your thighs that I guess help you run? The doodad with the switch, the one you used to kill the dog.”

  “Well, it was already dead, anyway. Why do you care?”

  Maybelle ignored this. “You and yours should be allowed to invent what you like. The law isn’t always right.”

  “Creed,” Roseberry said, “what are you after? The letter of the law? You want to support Morgan’s monopoly?”

  “I want Blake.” Creed’s voice was like a hammer and Roseberry flinched. “I want to stop your master, Maxwell Gregg, from raising the dead. I’m one too many.”

  Anna watched the pained expression cover Creed’s face, the downturned lips, the squinting eyes, and wanted to wrap her arms around him. He was not too many. He was exactly the right number. Moments ago, she thought he looked sleepy. Now, she thought the weariness went deeper.

  “Marshal Creed will find them, one way or another,” said Maybelle. “You can stay here, tied to a table, or you can get a comfy cell.”

  “What charge do the marshals have against me?”

  “Did you forget? The attempted murder of Jonathan Johns. You’re still wanted, Bill,” Maybelle said. “Did you know he can talk again? I thought everyone knew that.”

  Roseberry's jaw clenched and he threw his head back, banging it against the table. “Fuck! Fuck shit fuck! That’ll leave a lump.” He bowed his head, breathing hard, his cool demeanor gone. “Bring me to the marshals then. I’ve got nothing to say to you. Look for the Syndicate all you want. You’ll find nothing. No records, no tattletales. You, Creed, El Tiburón. Not in a hundred years.”

  Anna glanced at Creed, who was now gazing at the wall. Something had clicked in his mind, but what?

  She sent Jonny to get Cantrell, and the group adjourned in her bedroom. Creed went to his room, where Coconino slept. When Anna stepped in, he was lying on the bed, his hat on a shelf, his eyes shut.

  “What about Cantrell? Do you want to talk to him?” she asked.

  “He won’t come until nightfall. Won’t want to haul Roseberry over to the marshals in the daytime. At night, there will be fewer curious eyes.”

  Until dark, Creed and Coconino slept, Maybelle worked, and Jonny, after returning, worked at the bar. Anna’s bullet wound hardly ached anymore, and she had already left the room twice that morning. The other women would expect to see her out and about soon.

  Anna had too much on her mind. She lay on her bed to think, and woke to the sound of tapping at her window. She stared, wondering if she had imagined it, when a voice said, “Miss Boyd, I came as asked.”

  She got out of bed, rushed to the back door, and let Rob Cantrell in. When they entered her and Jonny’s bedroom, Creed already stood there, hat and mask back on, Coconino sitting beside him.

  “Tell me how it goes,” he told the bounty hunter.

  “There’s a reward,” Anna said. “Two-hundred fifty dollars. Remind them.”

  A grin flickered across Cantrell’s face. “I’ll do that. Is that horse out back his?”

  “Yes,” Creed answered.

  “I’ll bring that to them, too.”

  Downstairs, Anna had Zero give Roseberry another dose of the sedative, then the men carried him upstairs. From the window, she watched them tie Roseberry to his own horse. Cantrell mounted Malcolm, grasped the other steed’s reins, and rode slowly away.

  When Creed came back in, Anna said, “I wish we could’ve gotten more from Bill.”

  “The marshals have gotten noth
ing out of the men I’ve brought in since you… revived me. No reason to think Roseberry would say much more.”

  “You might have ideas, though.” Anna stared at his metal eyes. “You’re thinking.”

  “That I am.”

  Jonny brought them food, including a bowl of chicken scraps for Coconino, and they ate together, saying little. Creed didn’t mind. During hours of questioning, Roseberry had managed to tell them nothing they didn’t know. However, Creed went over his last words. He sensed an answer within them.

  After eating, Creed stepped outside to a chilly night. Grey clouds hung overhead rendering the crescent moon little more than a hazy glow. Through the grill of his mask, Creed’s breath hit the cool air as steam.

  Coconino stepped beside him and Creed knelt to scratch behind its ears. He glanced toward the stables. Though he was leaving the bordello a little later than on most nights, there stood Heidi Nelsen, just by the side entrance and a row of grazing horses, the bright streetlamp casting shadows down her body.

  Creed gave her a nod, though he figured she would wait there for twenty seconds or so, then retreat to her room. He adjusted his long coat to give her a moment to decide. Would she leave, or finally approach? Coconino yipped at him as if to say, “Let’s go!”

  The former marshal frowned but agreed with his companion. Heidi wasn’t about to come talk to him. “Let’s go, then,” he told Coconino.

  Yet Heidi surprised him. As they walked down the alley, away from the stable, he heard her footsteps. He turned, watched her crossing the street, and he walked toward her, matching her stride. Heidi wrung her hands, and he worried that if he moved too quickly, she may depart again.

  Heidi was half way across Soquel Avenue when Creed reached the road. A smile graced her face. At last, they would talk.

  Two shots thundered from the left. Heidi screamed and hit the ground on her belly. Instinct overpowered Creed’s shock and he ran to her. Shivering and groaning in pain, Heidi rolled over to reveal two circles of blood on her belly, spreading across the cornflower blue dress.

  It was a trap. In an instant he knew, but he had already entered it. Someone had seen Heidi there, must have guessed she was waiting for him, and that he would step into the street. He drew his left revolver and aimed toward Main Street. Two figures, guns drawn, strode forward, and Creed stared at the first.

  Corwin Blake.

  The instant before either could fire, a shot cracked from behind Creed. Blake’s left hand went to his chest. He staggered, crimson spreading over his fingers, but he kept his gaze trained on his enemy.

  Blake’s ally was a woman in men’s clothing. She aimed past Creed while Blake cried in rage. Creed bent to the side a split-second before Blake fired. As the air whisked past his ear, Creed aimed at the woman. He pulled the trigger.

  Blood splashed from her head and she dropped. An instant later, another shot rang out, and Blake’s middle finger vanished from his left hand. He fell, his pistol skittering on the earth.

  “Damn those bastards to hell!” came Cantrell’s voice.

  Heidi grabbed Creed’s arm. “I'm sorry James.” Her blood left smudges on his coat. “I should have... should've come to you before. Now I—”

  “Hey now, Heidi.” Creed removed a glove and put his hand to her cheek. “It's not the end. Anna can fix you.” Heidi smelled faintly of lavender perfume. The last time he had known her to wear any fragrance, he realized, they had just begun their romance, many years earlier.

  “I’ll get bandages,” said Cantrell, and his boot falls pounded toward the stables.

  Heidi shook her head. “No. Not that, and don’t leave me!”

  Creed reached behind his head, unbuckled the straps, and removed his mask. He set it aside.

  “You don’t look scary.”

  “Where’s that coming from?” Creed asked.

  “I said… no, you look… so handsome. You know I… I love you, James. Always… have…”

  Creed put both hands over her wound, though he could tell it was too late. Blood surrounded her. Its warmth soaked through the knees of his pants. He folded the front of her dress over and pressed the extra fabric against the wound. Heidi cried out then breathed against the pain.

  “Let Anna help you.”

  “No. I can be with Ben…”

  He wanted to shout at her what he understood, what he had experienced when he had died. Nothing. She wouldn’t see Ben, would reach neither Heaven nor Hell. She would be gone. He had told her, already, though, during those days at her cabin. All that proved, she said, was that he didn’t remember.

  Rob dropped to a kneel on her other side with a bundle of bandage cloth. Creed stared at her abdomen. Blood had already soaked through to his hands. Anna had survived her belly wound, but this, it was too much, two shots at such short range. Nevertheless, Creed removed his hands and lifted her by the shoulders. Cantrell swiftly and skillfully wrapped the long bandage around her midsection.

  They eased her down into the crimson pool.

  “No Anna, then, no gadgets. No resurrection.” The bandages showed some red at the site of the wounds, but it had stopped spreading. “Anna can remove the bullets, stitch you up.”

  Heidi nodded, her eyes easing shut. “I reckon that's all right…”

  “Don't you close your eyes!” Creed grasped her shoulders, yet her breathing slowed. “Heidi? Heidi!”

  He felt for her pulse against her neck. Creed thought about his death. Nothing. He recalled Roseberry’s words about the Syndicate. They would find nothing. Against Heidi’s throat, he felt nothing.

  A sadness almost unfamiliar to Creed overtook him. He broke down sobbing. Though his tears were few, his grief was overwhelming.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Cantrell held onto Creed’s arm, as though they were old friends. As he stood, Anna ran out from the back of the bordello. She embraced Creed silently, and Cantrell ran his hand across his own face. Such a mess. Such a horrible, tragic mess. He had to report this to the marshals, but would they arrest Creed again?

  As if to solve his dilemma, Anna looked up at him, eyes glistening. “Report this, and get help. Robert, we have three dead here. You must.”

  “I know.” As Cantrell rushed to Malcolm, several prostitutes came around the front of The House of Amber Doves, most gasping, one screaming, another bowing her head and holding onto her midsection as though she would vomit.

  Cantrell returned nearly thirty minutes later with Hector Peake, Bateman, and a small posse of deputies. Sprinkling rain turned the ground darker with each drop. Creed sat cross-legged and lifted Heidi into his arms, cradling her. The crowd had grown, and Cantrell guessed most of the prostitutes were there, along with the stable owner, johns young and old, and members of the musical group that often played in the saloon. They all stood back, giving Creed and the dead ample space.

  Creed looked up and made no attempt to escape. Peake, Ross, and another deputy dismounted, and the cart driver pulled his horses to a stop. “You don't want to try taking me again, Peake.” The red glow seemed to intensify in Creed’s steel eyes. With his mask back on and Heidi’s blood smudged across it, Creed made even Cantrell shiver.

  Peake couldn’t hide the slight tremor in his voice. “I've been going over a lot, and Robert here told us that you were working together. If you’re here to stop the madness in Santa Cruz, we can work with you, too.”

  Creed nodded and went back to gazing at Heidi Nelsen’s face.

  Cantrell recounted the gunfight to the marshals, drawing more gasps and chatter from the crowd. He approached Creed and asked, “Do you have anything to add? Does that cover everything?”

  “Well enough.” Creed spoke at hardly above a whisper.

  Peake stepped into the crowd and asked questions. Had anyone witnessed the gunfight? No one had. What had they heard? Gunfire and shouts. Cantrell didn’t think Peake’s method of asking the onlookers reliable, but their answers matched his experience, so he said nothing.

&nbs
p; “You need to disperse!” Peake called. “Miss Boyd, may they all go into your establishment?”

  Anna answered, “Most of them work for me or are regulars.”

  “Please serve a round of drinks for them all, courtesy of the U.S. Marshal Service.” He frowned briefly as the crowd shuffled up the stairs, as though he had expected cheers. Anna whispered something in Creed’s ear before following the crowd.

  Two deputies lifted Blake, but as the body sagged, Cantrell helped them carry the corpse to the cart. Then, they retrieved the dead woman.

  When they wound up at either end of Heidi and reached down to take her from Creed’s arms, Cantrell held out a hand and called, “Wait!”

  “What are you doing?” Creed’s voice cut the air, and they each stepped back. He then lay her in the drying puddle of her own blood, as gently as one would a newborn, stood, and picked her up again, one arm under her legs, one around her shoulders, and carried her.

  “She shouldn’t have to ride with her killer.” Still, he placed her in the cart and stepped away. “If anyone steals these bodies, they’ll answer to me.”

  “We thought of that,” said Marshal Peake, approaching Creed. “We're going to keep Corwin Blake in a coffin, in a jail cell for the night. He has an aunt in San Francisco. We already sent a telegraph to the post there for her to be notified. His remains will go into her possession. Unless she objects, we’ll ship the body tomorrow.”

  “What about the others?” Cantrell asked. “Aren't they as likely to be taken?”

  “There's another mortician on the far side of town. We'll take them there.”

  Creed spoke up. “Bring them to Crowder's. It wasn't his fault the Syndicate took the others.”

  “Syndicate? What’s that? Is this about the myth of a criminal underground?”

  “It’s not a myth.” Creed straightened up to his full height and stared at the marshal. “And who else would've stolen bodies? I’ll stand watch, out of sight, all night and day if I must. Make Heidi’s funeral arrangements for tomorrow. Bury her next to Ben, if possible.”