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

by Jonathan Fesmire

  Little made sense to Blake, but it didn’t matter. Yet, if Gregg and his doctor had resurrected him… He gazed at the drawers, then shut the door and went to them, past the operating tables. There were three rows of four columns, and he had been in the far right, top drawer.

  Blake gasped with excitement and clenched his fists. Did they have Creed in one?

  Starting with the top row, he opened each, hands shaking with excitement. No Creed. He went to the second row, and in the first drawer, found someone.

  There lay a man, skin white as a whore’s bloomers, probably in his late thirties, with a trimmed brown beard. His cheeks and the sides of his forehead, where bone touched skin, appeared blue. Blake took off his left glove and looked at his own hand, missing its middle finger. He had gone just as pale. Like Blake, the man had an oblong device bolted to his head. Blake put the glove back on, then played with the contraption and managed to slide a small plate open.

  A faint orange glow broke through cracks inside, lighting a switch. Blake flipped it.

  The man sat abruptly and grabbed Blake’s hand, teeth gnashing.

  Blake wrenched back his arm then slugged the stranger. His fist cracked against the man’s jaw. The stranger fell back for a moment, then growled and reached for the outlaw again. Though Blake wished he could flip the switch, he stood back, hand dropping for his gun, only to find a dust bomb.

  The zombie in the drawer went quiet, then sat up and looked at Blake, expressionless.

  “What’s this about?” Blake whispered. He eased closer and reached for the man’s head switch, but the zombie kept staring. “All right, then. Come with me.”

  As though trying human thought for the first time, the zombie narrowed its eyes for a moment, then slid his legs over the side and stood.

  Blake opened the next drawer, where a woman in a simple brown dress that matched her hair, her arms over her modest chest. He patted his own clean shirt. It seemed they had changed all their zombies into new clothes.

  Like him, she had healing contraptions belted to her arms. He patted her dress and felt them around her legs as well. After removing all four, he checked the metal thing on her head. This time, he found the panel easily and pulled it away. He flipped the switch and stepped back. About two seconds later, the woman stared up at him.

  “Why's it so cold?” Her voice rasped.

  “This is where they put you.”

  “You mean that doctor? Gilmore, I think was his name.” She barked a laugh. “Guess I can't blame him. I stabbed him in the eye.”

  Blake cracked a wide grin. “You did that?” He tapped on his own head doodad. “You see? They did the same thing to me. I need to ask you something.”

  Eyebrows lowered, she asked, “What?”

  “Will you follow me? Do as I ask? Our friend here seems willing.” He cocked a thumb back at the first zombie.

  The woman looked him over. “Sure, I can do that.”

  “I'm Corwin Blake.”

  “I'm Nancy.”

  “The Plowshares madam?” Blake asked.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  “What do you think about the madam from Amber Doves?”

  “I hate the bitch.”

  “Keep that in mind.”

  Nancy emerged, shivering, from her drawer, and Blake found two others, both Mexican. One was small, skinny, and even shorter than Blake, the other a heavyset fellow, with a broad chest and thick arms. The small one knelt before Blake without a word. The other seemed nearly as smart as Nancy and introduced himself as Luis Mierdino.

  “Mierdino? What is that, like a shit dinosaur?” asked Blake.

  Mierdino’s expression remained stoic.

  “Well, you four. We’re getting out of here, and I’m in charge. Let’s go raise some hell.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  At dusk, at about the same time Blake was waking up in the Syndicate morgue, Creed entered Smullen’s Stables and Livery. Ott nodded at the gunfighter with a smile.

  “You’ve always been free to take and return Johann as you wish.” Ott opened a switchboard and looked over it before flicking the small lever for Johann’s light.

  “Free to, but not safe to, until now,” Creed answered.

  Johann whinnied and stamped a hoof as he approached. The gunfighter removed his mask and, under the light of a bright Tesla bulb, he pressed his face to Johann’s and stroked the animal’s mane. He thought it best for his old friend to see his face despite his pale skin, cheek scar, and steel eyes.

  “Good to see you, too, partner.”

  He strapped on his mask and soon rode Johann toward the grove where Pacific and Center met, rain spattering his hat and jacket. The warmth of joy filled his chest at the feeling of his steed carrying him down the road.

  In the grove, he found Cantrell waiting. For about ten minutes, they talked over the roar of the rain, the musk of wet fur coming off their horses.

  Creed reached into his duster. “I’ve got something that’ll help.” Before he had left The House of Amber Doves for the evening, Anna and Jonny had given him a new device. “This will go around Johann’s neck.”

  Cantrell slipped on his night goggles and Creed unfolded the leather belt and pointed to the circular device in its center.

  “Looks like a compass,” Cantrell said.

  “It is, but it’s more. This tracks any unit like this, attached to a functioning brain.” Creed removed his hat and tapped his own head unit. Shoving the hat back on, he continued. “They adjusted it so it’s not set to track me or Coconino, just the closest zombie.”

  “If they’re bringing back Blake and those others, you’d think that arrow would point toward the Flats.” With a tilt of his head, Cantrell frowned deeply. “Not, let’s see, northeast.”

  “We don’t know how big that basement network is.”

  “You think it’s a network?”

  “If I were the one hiding all those basements, I’d connect them,” said Creed.

  “What about Iron Nelly’s? The marshals are heading there soon.”

  Creed put the belt around Johann’s neck and buckled it at the nape. “We’d best see to this first, especially if they managed to resurrect Blake.”

  “I told Peake that you and I would meet, then go straight there.” Cantrell looked toward the Flats, water dripping from the brim of his hat.

  “Then you go ahead,” said Creed. “I don’t want to make you a liar.”

  “I can't let you do this alone, James.”

  Creed patted Johann’s flank, stepped in a stirrup, and mounted. Anna’s tracker gave off a faint glow beneath the central plate, allowing him to read it. The numbers rotated up slightly to show that the target had moved a few feet. “Very well,” Creed said. “It’s about a mile away. Mount up.”

  As they rode, Creed watched the numbers ticking down on the tracking compass. They soon arrived at a residential road, all homes and no shops, many with log exteriors. The tracker’s arrow pointed at one such house, and the numbers indicated twenty-two feet.

  The men dismounted. Near the door, Creed listened to the soft voices within. Light wavered behind the curtains. He knocked.

  An elderly man in red flannel pajamas answered. “Marshal Creed!” The surprise on his face gave him the look of an excited child. “Can I help you somehow?”

  “I'm Deputy Cantrell.” The bounty hunter stepped forward. “We think there’s something dangerous in your home. Might we have a look?”

  The man shifted his gaze to an old woman in a nightdress, sitting at a round table. A candle flickered there, lighting the pack of playing cards on the tablecloth and those she held. It seemed the couple enjoyed a life without electric lights or steam generators, or perhaps they couldn’t afford such things.

  “Come in.” The old man stepped aside, and the gunfighters entered.

  Creed approached a dividing wall he estimated at about twenty-two feet from where he’d left Johann, while Cantrell looked behind it. The bounty hunter c
ame back around and said, “Nobody here.”

  “There’s scratching.” Creed put his ear to the wall, then looked down. “I know what it is.” He pulled aside the couch and at the base of the wall found a hole in the shape of a semi-circle, about two inches across.

  “Could you spare some cheese?”

  “Rats in the floor again?” The man hobbled past the wall and came back with a slice of aged cheddar. Creed set the morsel in front of the hole.

  He held up a finger as a sign for everyone to stay quiet. It took nearly a minute, but at last, a skinny rat emerged, took the cheese in its tiny paws, and began backing away.

  The old man gasped as, within a split second, Creed grabbed it around the belly and took hold of the metal bit drilled into the rodent’s head. It squealed, opened its jaw, and turned its incisors toward Creed’s finger. The gunfighter ripped the small brain unit free. Pieces of white flesh, skull, and gray brain matter clung to the small machine.

  “Holy God!” the man exclaimed. “What the hell was that?”

  “Nothing good.” Creed stuffed the unit into a pocket as the animal’s blood trickled over his glove. “Thank you, sir, ma'am, for your time.”

  Outside, Creed looked over the small corpse and spotted no other machinery. He tossed the body into a bush. “I can't believe I forgot the rats.” In frustration, he mounted Johann and gripped the reins tightly. The tracker’s arrow now pointed toward Railroad Flats and read five-thousand eight-hundred seventy-six feet.

  “I hope this isn’t another rodent,” he said. “We’d best get out there, now.” The moment Cantrell sat in his saddle, they galloped off.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Up the road from Iron Nelly’s, Marshals Peake and Bateman led their posse on foot. Peake stopped, looked down, letting the water fall from his hat, then called for the men to stop. He turned and found them watching him, the streetlamps behind outlining the posse like the setting sun would the cypress trees along the coast.

  Peake wished that Creed and Cantrell had joined them, but he wanted to get into the saloon and have a look as soon as he could. Still, he had thirty armed deputies. Perhaps they wouldn’t find a single basement. Perhaps Creed was mistaken about the Railroad Flats. And, just perhaps, this Syndicate didn’t exist at all or was a small group of thieves.

  “This is what we’re going to do,” Peake said, loudly enough for all present to hear. “Marshal Bateman and I are going into the saloon with ten of you. The other twenty will stand guard outside. We’ll take control of the situation inside, probably just the usual crowd of drunks. I’ll present the bartender with the warrant.

  “If all goes as I hope, we’ll have a look. There’s probably nothing to this story but a lot of rumor and misunderstandings.”

  “What about the man with the shotgun?” someone called from the group. “You don’t think Bodacious Creed and El Tiburón lied about that, do you?”

  Peake frowned as he looked for the speaker, but decided it didn’t matter who had asked the question. “I don’t think they lied. I think Iron Nelly’s may have a basement, and have something illegal back there, maybe some illegal gadgets. I don’t think there’s a large conspiracy. I think it’s a small group.”

  “And if it’s not?” came the same voice.

  “Then we’ll handle it. That’s why we gathered so many of you.” Peake wanted no more questions, so he didn’t ask for them, but he waited a good ten seconds, looking over the deputies, in case one wanted to speak. Most of them had their arms crossed against the rain and cold.

  “Let’s go,” Peake said.

  Outside Iron Nelly’s, Bateman, more familiar with the men of Santa Cruz, selected ten of them to accompany the marshals inside. Peake took a deep breath, focused on the task ahead, and opened the door.

  “Holy shit,” a drunk whispered as the marshals and deputies went down the steps into the dim saloon. Outside, thunder rolled.

  Peake wrinkled his nose at the smell of alcohol-infused sweat. “Barkeep, turn the lights up. The rest of you, leave your weapons on your tables and go stand against that wall.”

  “Two fucking days in a row,” one old man mumbled but hobbled to the side of the room with the others. A few men set their guns, and one a hunting knife, on the tables.

  The bartender’s assistant pushed the light lever higher and the room became bright enough to recognize faces. Meanwhile, the deputies spread out in the saloon.

  “Marshal,” said the bartender. Peake had never met the man, but he and Bateman both wore their uniforms, Peake’s badge federal, Bateman’s, local. “I told Creed and the bounty hunter that we’ve served Maxwell Gregg. We don’t work with him. I honestly don’t know where he is.”

  Peake did not want to get into an argument with the man. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket, opened it, and placed it on the counter. “This is a warrant to search your back room and wherever it might lead.”

  “What are you going on about?” asked the bartender, but Peake couldn’t dismiss the man’s worried frown.

  “This isn’t for you to question. It’s a legal warrant. Open that door immediately.” The sound of Peake’s heart beat in his ears, and above that, he heard several guns cocking. He looked back. A few of his own deputies had drawn and were aiming at the barkeep.

  The bartender’s assistant said, “Very well. I’ll get it.” He stepped to the door behind and to the side of the bar, hands raised, slowly reached for the handle, and opened it to a pitch-dark room. “I’m going to get the light,” he said, reaching inside.

  That instant, shots and a scream came from outside. Peake’s hand went to his gun and he cried, “Steady, everyone!”

  Something banged against one of the doors. From outside, men cried, “Fuck,” “What?” and “Oh God!”

  Two of Peake’s deputies dashed behind the bar, one shoving the assistant aside.

  “Stay together!” yelled Bateman.

  Gunfire rang all around, first muting Peake’s hearing, then punctuating the silence. Men in all black emerged from the back room, pistols blazing.

  As deputies screamed and yelled, Bateman turned to Peake. “I’ll lead ‘em outside!” The local marshal ran out the entry.

  Peake pushed a table over. “Take cover!”

  Blake and his new companions traversed two whitewashed hallways before coming to a door. The zombie with the light brown hair and the short, Mexican one started growling, lips twitching, and they rushed to it.

  “Shit,” Blake whispered. He grabbed them both by the hips and tried to pull them back, but they scratched at the barrier and struggled against him. The shortest one stamped his boots—Blake had made sure all had their shoes back on—and whined in protest.

  Mierdino sniffed the air. “There’s someone in there. He smells… madre de Dios… he smells sabroso.”

  Blake could smell it as well, a mix of body odor and something else. It took him a moment to discern two scents: blood and raw meat. When Gregg and the doctor had first awakened him, his sense of smell was dull. Even now, the world seemed largely free of odor, except for that wafting from underneath the door.

  Human sweat. Human muscle. Looking at his two mindless followers clawing at the door, Blake cringed. Yet Mierdino was right. The person on the other side, whoever it might be, smelled delicious.

  Surely the living human heard the scratching. Or, had they already fled, maybe climbed stairs to the surface? Blake threw the door open. The scratching zombies shoved into the room where a guard in Syndicate black—Gregg seemed to have them everywhere—sat at a small table, head resting on his folded arms, a half-empty bottle of whiskey to his right. The Tesla bulb was off, so only the light from the hallway illuminated the post.

  As Blake had hoped, stairs led to a trapdoor above.

  The guard jerked awake, tumbled from his chair, and drew a gun. As he struggled to hold it steady, Blake’s mindless followers shoved the table aside. One grabbed the man by the back of the head and sunk teeth into hi
s tanned cheek. The other twisted the arm holding the gun and bit into his hand. Blake jerked back at the crunch and the scream, then laughed.

  Mierdino rushed toward them. Blake hoped the rancher would pull the others off the guard. Instead, he tugged down the sleeve on the man’s free arm and bit into the thick muscle.

  Nancy growled, and Blake grabbed her shoulder. “Keep it together.”

  “Right.” She stared at the outlaw’s face, panting.

  “Get off him!” Blake cried to the attackers. “Now!” Part of him wanted to find a thick slab of the guard and to chow down on as well, but another part felt disgusted.

  The guard’s scream became a gurgle as the first zombie bit into his throat, and blood gushed free to spread over the wooden floor.

  “I said now!”

  Mierdino and the others froze. At that moment, Blake sensed their minds. If he closed his eyes, he would still know where each was, even if they moved, just as he knew intuitively the location of each leg and toe, arm and finger, in relation to the rest of his body. Something in the bulk of metal bolted to his head, he decided, had to be the source of this new power. It explained why they obeyed him, and maybe why he had been able to wake himself inside the refrigerated drawer.

  The three turned to him, blood coating their lips, chins, and hands. The white man watched him with eyes wide, no hint of desire on his face, while the shorter Mexican zombie twitched, glancing toward the dead guard, and Mierdino straightened himself up, frowning, as though uncertain what he had done.

  “There may be others to attack, but you have to do as I say.” Blake had wanted a gun, and here, he found two Colt forty-fives, standard issue for the Syndicate, holstered on the man’s hips. Blake removed the man’s belt and put it on with both holsters and guns. He removed the man’s ammo belt with its tight line of bullets and slipped his head and right arm through it, so it hung around his body, off his left shoulder.

  “Time to get up there.” Blake pointed toward the ceiling. He patted the guard’s pockets and found a keyring, went up the steps, unlocked the trapdoor, and climbed into a dark room.