Head Dead West

by Oliver Atlas

  I shrug. “Why not? And South? Won’t he want to join us?”

  East chuckles. “He doesn’t have a stomach for watching other people kill zombies.”

  I cock a brow dubiously. “South’s a humanitarian?”

  “Not quite.” East’s chuckle darkens. “He merely prefers killing things himself.”

  We make our way through town in mute silence, my heart pumping, East’s spurs jangling. By the time we reach the southern edge of town, the grandstands are packed. East surveys the crowd before striding up to a young couple. He stares at the young man for two seconds before the fellow grabs his wife’s hand and gets up.

  “Please,” says the young man, gesturing to the seats. “Take ours.”

  East tips his hat, takes the man’s popcorn, and sits down. After a moment’s awkwardness, I sit as well.

  Across the moat, a quarter mile due south, an armored truck ploughs through the zombie hordes, making figure eights, leaving a pile of chum in its wake. From near and far, zombies begin flocking to the chum-line, hunching into it with ravening fervor.

  Meanwhile, a convoy of trucks approaches the chum lines from the west of the town. It stops about half-way between the moat and the zombie swarms. Around forty people get out of the trucks and stand with their backs to us, shoulder-to-shoulder. The afternoon sun casts their shadows long.

  An unseen P.A. blares without warning: “Welcome to an Outbreak Festival favorite, the Lobe Lopping. Each challenger will have twenty-one minutes to collect as many zombie lobes as possible. During that time, anything goes. The one rule is that challengers may not attack one another with weapons. Hand-to-hand combat, however, is allowed. Any violators will be shot.”

  As if on cue, the crowd breaks into a roar.

  The P.A. blares back: “Are you ready?”

  The crowd’s roar swells. Across the way, one of the gunners on back of a truck waves a flag.

  “Then Loppers . . . get ready . . . get set . . . GO!”

  The challengers are off, sprinting across the remaining prairie toward the distracted line of dead-heads. I grab for my spotting scope, trying to find Yaverts. At first it’s impossible. The only people I can really distinguish are the women. Most are lighter and faster than their male competitors, and reach the line quicker, their long knives immediately slicing at zombie ears and stuffing them in their special competition satchels. At first the zombies don’t react—they’re too engrossed with the chum line. One woman manages to take both ears from three dead-heads before a man in a brown hat arrives, rips away her satchel, and shoves her straight into the mess. The zombies take new notice and tear her to shreds.

  The crowd goes wild and begins to chant.

  “Yaverts! Yaverts! Yaverts!”

  I take another look. The man in the brown hat . . . he pushes in another woman after taking her satchel. Then a man. Then another. Given the distance and the afternoon shadows, I can’t see his face, but I know the crowd must be right. That has to be Rickard Yaverts.

  Two of the other competitors catch on to Yaverts’ tactic and attack him. The first lowers his shoulder and lunges but Yaverts side steps and flips the man into the swarm. The crowd hushes for a moment in suspense and when he screams they erupt again with their chant. Suddenly intimidated, the second man lunges with his knife. A sniper shot rings out and he spins around before dropping dead.

  “NO WEAPONS!” shouts the crowd in chaotic unison.

  Yaverts grabs up the man’s satchel and transfers its contents into his own. He quickly does the same with the other half-dozen that he’s pilfered.

  It’s hard to know how well anyone else is doing. I’ve only been watching Yaverts. Other competitors begin attempting his backstabbing tactics, but with less success. Everyone is on guard now, and anyone who attacks another competitor is likely to get snared in a fruitless wrestling match. What’s more, the chum is running out. The zombies begin clawing the ground, scooping dirt into their mouths, desperate to gnash the last chum-soaked molecule. But others begin to turn on their assailants. At first, a zombie here, a zombie there, and soon, whole pockets of them. They break off and begin chasing the challengers nearest them. By the time the announcer calls the five-minute warning, only a quarter of the competitors are left.

  “Yaverts! Yaverts! Yaverts!”

  “What do you make of the people’s champion?” asks East, without turning away from the field.

  I don’t know what to say. I’m gaping. The remaining challengers have all apparently decided their only chance of winning is to steal Yaverts’ satchel. Yaverts, meanwhile, has managed to sever a zombie head, which he holds out in front of himself by the hair. His nearest attacker ignores the strange threat and throws a punch. Yaverts rolls with it, takes it in the shoulder, and thrusts the biting head into the man’s throat. The crowd hushes again, waiting for the man’s scream, but this time no scream comes. No scream can come. The man drops throatless and Yaverts runs for the trucks. He’s the farthest west, the nearest to them, but the zombie hordes have finally abandoned the shallow trench that only minutes before was the chum line. They flood north, manic, charged with chum-lust, faster than they should be, pushing the fleeing challengers toward the moat, their ranks fanning across the southern horizon.

  The living dead tide has broken too fast. Even the frenzied crowd knows it. Their chant of “Yaverts!” peters, and everyone watches the final few challengers run for their lives.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Smart Mouth

  Yaverts is a big man, and hardly a runner. His nearest foe quickly catches him. She leaps onto his back, scratching and biting, clawing blindly at his eyes and satchel. Yaverts grabs her by the hair and rips her off. He stumbles—manages to keep his feet—and runs on, glancing behind.

  They’re near the moat now, nearer by the second. A man nearly Yaverts’ size is only fifty feet behind him and gaining. I can’t imagine anyone else being foolish enough to risk tangling with Yaverts. But who knows? Lobe Loppers probably aren’t known for their rational powers.

  Yaverts appears to be an exception. He ferrets something from his breast pocket and flings it thirty feet in front of him, northwest near the edge of the moat.

  An awed excitement runs through the crowd. Chum. Chum. Chum.

  Although I’m clearly a greenhorn when it comes to Lobe Lopping tactics, it only takes a second to understand what the crowd has already anticipated. The line of zombies, which has been blindly north-moving, suddenly collapses as they all take a beeline for the object ahead of Yaverts. Many of the dead-heads even reach an alarming speed—nearly Screamer speed—dashing for the chum. I’m baffled. It seems that Yaverts has potentially sealed his own fate—and that of every challenger behind him. The zombies will now seal off their escape west, pinning them to the moat.

  Unless . . .

  Yaverts pours on his own burst of hidden speed and leaps past the chum a second before the first zombies skid to it, dive on it, tear at it, and begin piling onto one another. The next challenger, only another five seconds behind, is too late. He tries to skirt the zombies but the pile has already cut him off. He ploughs through one, two, three, but the fourth slows him just long enough for a fifth and sixth to snag his arm and a leg. The man shrieks and slashes with his knife before vanishing with a gurgle.

  The other challengers lurch to a halt. They give up the hope of making it to Yaverts or the trucks and sprint eastward, away from the chum and the swelling mosh pit of zombies.

  “Not bad,” rasps East, watching Yaverts strut toward the nearest truck. “It will be a shame to see Rick Yaverts go.”

  “’Go’?” I ask, raising my voice above the crowd, which has started chanting the bounty hunter’s name again. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind,” says East. Somehow, he doesn’t need to raise his voice for me to hear. “That’s not your worry. What is your worry is that badge you’re wearing. You see, my friend, South doesn’t think you deserve it.”

  I scan the crowd
instinctively, searching for the other Ranger. “Wow,” I say, finding no one. “That’s incredibly astute for a man who has never met me. What does your friend want me to do?”

  East extends a pale hand. “Turn it in.”

  “What if I say no?”

  The pale man’s black eyes narrow. The slightest sneer catches the corners of his mouth. “No?”

  He stands.

  I stand.

  His gun hand goes loose. “I order you as a Ranger of the Oregon Territory: hand over your badge.”

  I pause, offering a pained smile. “I order you as a Ranger of the Oregon Territory: hand over your badge.”

  “My badge? I don’t want to kill you,” grits East.

  His eyes make it plain enough that he’s lying. He doesn’t want to kill me here. Even a Ranger would have trouble explaining an unprovoked slaying of a fellow Ranger—not to mention the champion of the Hero’s Crossing.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Do you think I don’t deserve the badge?”

  A confused frown takes East’s face. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Why doesn’t it? Why can’t South tell me himself? If he’s such a good judge of who deserves the badge, shouldn’t he be man enough to take it himself? Seems like that’s the only way for him to prove he knows what he’s talking about.”

  “South doesn’t bother talking. He doesn’t bother proving anything. If he wants your badge, he’ll shoot you in the back and take it.”

  I chuckle with some embellished condescension. “Or he’ll send his lapdog to fetch it. So tell me, East: if you’re just another Ranger’s gopher, how is it you deserve your badge?”

  His right eye starts twitching. I can see I’ve almost certainly gone too far. His right hand—his gun hand—is twitching too.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I say, unable to stop my reckless mouth. “You tell South to come back when I’m not looking, and then, if he’s Ranger enough to shoot me in the back, he can take my badge. And I’ll make sure to have a milk bone in my breast pocket too, just for you.”

  East’s face bleeds flush. I’m as good as dead.

  “Mr. Prose!” A group of young women approach us, led by Skiss. “Would you mind escorting us back to the mansion?” she asks. “There’s still another two hours before the evening Moat Push and we thought we’d catch a light supper.”

  The seven ladies crowded behind her all nod eagerly. Half of them are dressed in gaudy silks and bat their sultry, painted eyes. The other half wear simple brown pants and shirts and no makeup. It’s an odd contrast, especially amongst call girls, but each woman is dazzling. Almost as dazzling as the timing of their interruption.

  “Ladies!” I cry. “It would be a great honor!” Stepping away from the fuming Van Vandercain, I hold out each of my arms. Skiss takes one, and an ebony-skinned girl wearing far too much eye shadow and showing far too much cleavage takes the other. The remaining women crowd in behind.

  “Have you ladies met Oregon’s famous Eastern Ranger?” I ask. “Well, let me introduce you. Ladies, meet Van Vanderlame. Van Vanderlame, meet—”

  “Vandercain. My name is Vandercain.”

  “Cain! Right! The ancient literary figure who murdered his brother out of jealousy and spite. I don’t know how I got that mixed up with lame, when it fits you so plainly. I’m sorry, Eastie. It seems I really don’t deserve the honor of introducing you.”

  The ladies all seem to know better than to laugh openly. Instead, they duck their heads and adopt their best demure, embarrassed smiles.

  “So nice to meet you, sir,” offers Skiss to the fuming man in white. “Perhaps we’ll see you tomorrow night at the Champion’s Gala.”

  “Perhaps,” says East, taking her hand and giving it a stiff kiss. He catches me with dagger eyes.

  With that, East turns and strides away into the crowd.

  “I can’t believe you called him Eastie,” breathes Skiss as we stroll back through town. Horses clatter by on the road as folks make for a saloon to talk over the day’s excitement before returning for the Moat Push. We pass the jail where the Mayor and Sheriff stand, conferring. Distracted, the Mayor waves hello, the Sheriff glares, and I notice that the pair of ominous horses is gone. “Van Vandercain is a snake,” Skiss continues. “He’s such a snake, he makes Rickard Yaverts look like a saint. To tell you the truth, I can’t believe he didn’t gun you down right then and there.”

  I don’t confess this to Skiss, but I can’t believe it either. He must have something on his mind that’s more important than ego, something he doesn’t want to put at risk even in exchange for putting me in my place. And given the pride I could see in the man’s eyes, it’s hard to imagine what that something might be. I shrug and force a chuckle. “Maybe I intimidated him. Or maybe he didn’t want to get blood on your dresses.”

  Half of the girls laugh and paw at me—aren’t I adorable, aren’t I incorrigible? The other half remain quiet. They must be Madame Rogger’s trainees, women who don’t yet know how to trick a man into feeling in control. If I do need someone to guard my room while I sleep, I wonder if a trainee would work. I certainly feel more comfortable around women who don’t pretend to be everything the average bohunk would typically want. For me, part of staying sharp means a commitment to brutal honesty. In practice, that means surrounding myself with honest people, people who aren’t trained or paid to tell me what they think I want to hear.

  The thought of having Skiss with me in the dark of night, whispering on about what a shortsighted part of me might like to hear . . . when I’m tired and edgy and secretly upset that Milly is being such an idiot . . . blindly trusting Damon, putting her life and mine—and possibly Dr. Schlozfield’s life on the line—well, I’d feel much safer being with a bad actor tonight.

  I’m about to begin politely asking about that possibility when we catch sight of Milly and Damon coming down the gangplank of the Grand Hotel. They cross the street to meet us.

  “Blake Prose,” says Milly, shaking her head as she takes in my entourage. “You’ve really found your niche in life, haven’t you?”

  I try to keep my laugh smooth, but I can tell she’s mocking me, and an irritated undertone creeps in anyway. “What do you mean, Milly?”

  “I mean, it’s one thing that in the span of a day my poor backslidden Boy of Noble Desire went from one temptress to four. But it’s truly amazing you managed to take up company with four nuns as well. You really are conflicted, aren’t you?”

  “Nuns?” I wonder if I look as dumb as I feel.

  “Yes, Blake,” says Milly, with a smirk that matches Damon’s. “Real, bona fide nuns.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Just Desserts

  I turn to face the four modestly dressed young women. “Nuns?”

  The tallest of them, a statuesque brunette, rolls her eyes. “Apparently any woman unattached to a man is a nun.” She looks past me to Milly. “Still a little rankled, Ms. Ruse?”

  Milly replies with a miffed pursing of her lips.

  “You two . . . know each other?” I ask.

  “Yeah, she dropped by our—”

  “Blake!” snaps Milly. “Don’t you have a task you’re supposed to be attending to?”

  “What?” I cry, but then it hits me.

  Yaverts.

  With East breathing down my neck and the atrocious spectacle of the Lobe Lopping, I’d forgotten I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on him. My shoulders go rigid as I remember I should be trying to find Jenny, too.

  With a huff, I raise my hands. “Sorry, Milly. It was just—”

  “Just what? I don’t care. Just do it, okay?” She shakes her head in disbelief and takes Damon’s hand. “Some of us have work to attend to. If you ever get around to attending to your own duties and discover anything, meet us here. Room 33. Otherwise, thanks for nothing.”

  The two stroll away, deliberating in hushed voices.

  When, I wonder, did Milly become such a royal jerk?

  “What
a bitch,” says the buxom girl who had been at my right during our walk. “Don’t give her a second thought, handsome.”

  “Gemma’s right, Mr. Prose,” says Skiss, taking my arm again. “You deserve better.”

  I can only shake my head. I don’t know what I deserve.

  The statuesque woman joins me with a puzzled expression. “Yeah. She’s a strange one. She came by our booth this morning asking about a little girl. When I told her there was only one little girl in town, the one traveling with that Yaverts character, she got all excited and intense, wanting to know where they were staying, if the girl looked all right, that kind of thing. But then she saw her boyfriend coming and she snapped.”

  “Whoa!” I say, holding up my hand. “You know where Yaverts is staying?”

  “Of course. He’s across town at The Stable.”

  “And the girl is with him?”

  “Oh yes. We check three times a day to make sure she’s safe.”

  “And Milly knows this?”

  The woman frowns. “No. Like I was saying, right when I was telling her all this, she snapped.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She saw her boyfriend coming and started yelling at us for pushing religion on people. She said she was going straight to ODOZ to report us. I even showed her our permit and she tore it up, right in front of me. Then, just as the guy arrived, she grabbed his hand and stormed off grumbling.” The nun gives me a look as though I might suffer from the same kind of oddness. “Do you know her very well?”

  “Ha,” I scoff. “Apparently not.”

  That earns me plenty of sympathy from the ladies, even the so-called nuns. Now that I’ve discovered Yaverts’ and Jenny’s whereabouts, I feel wildly at ease. I ask the ladies from Portland all kinds of questions. It turns out the four of them came specifically for the Outbreak Festival, to campaign against the trafficking of young women for sex, which increases during such holidays. The tall woman, Hope, shares that the only people in town who really want to bother about protecting women are the call girls. The Mayor and the Sheriff gave the matter a bunch of lip service and almost no action. Madame Rogger, on the other hand, took them in, provided them with room and board, and even had a dozen or so of her more artistically inclined girls draw up posters meant to call out traffickers and solicitors. As we pass the doctor’s office, they show me the poster that the doctor chose for them to hang on his porch. It portrays the white silhouette of a little girl stretching a shattering line of paper dolls across a red background. The simple elegance of the image wars internally with the ugly loss it represents.