Ashes of the Dead - Bucket of Blood Page 13

  They reached the end of the next street, turned a corner and saw the church, surrounded by undead, every undead in town. There were at least a hundred, maybe more, throbbing around the outside of the church. Several windows were broken in and undead crawled through them. The front doors had been smashed down and the undead had started to make their way into the church. From were they stood, they couldn’t see any sign of Rose and the others. Cutler’s heart sank, but he was determined to finish what they had started.

  “Alright. Let's do this,” he said, and walked across the street toward the pulsating horde of undead. He stood in the middle of the street and raised his gun, taking aim at the nearest undead. It turned toward him, sensing his presence, and Cutler shot it straight through the skull, then stood there waiting.

  The entire legion of undead turned around and started walking straight toward him. Cutler continued to fire at the undead and took down four more with detached precision. He spun on his heels and walked the other way, and then turned around the corner, where Pearce and Essa-queta were waiting.

  “It's working,” he said to Pearce.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “What else? Let’s get the fuck outta here!”

  Cutler, Pearce and Essa-queta retreated down the street, with an entire army of undead following close behind them.

  The Gunman, Pickett, Andrew and the three Washoe Warriors turned a corner at the far end of the street. They watched as the undead left the church behind, lured away by Cutler's pure brazenness and huge brass balls. “Hell of a thing,” the Gunman said.

  They ran down the street and carefully approached the front of the church. The heavy front doors were smashed in and partly ripped from their hinges, hanging limply in the doorway.

  “We’re too late,” Pickett said, seeing no sign of life inside the church.

  The Gunman stepped inside with both guns drawn. All of the windows had been broken through and the barricades had been ripped down. Dried blood had pooled on the floorboards and seeped into the cracks. All that remained of Sig were scraps of his clothing.

  “Nobody is left,” Pickett said, “We're too late.” He sat in a pew and lowered his head into his hands.

  The Gunman walked across to the other side of the church and then stared at the altar. The withered effigy of Jesus Christ looked down on him, hands nailed to the cross, a bleeding wound on his side, and tears in his eyes. The Gunman hated the sight of him, and wanted to rip him from the wall and break him in half.

  Bang.

  The Gunman turned his head. Bang. Bang. Now looking at the hole in the floor. He moved toward it with Andrew and Pickett close at his side.

  “Careful,” Andrew told him.

  Bang. Bang.

  They looked into the pit and saw that the hole had been covered with a makeshift barricade, hastily constructed over the entrance to the mineshaft. The Gunman holstered his revolver and stepped into the hole. “Help me,” he asked the others.

  Andrew and Pickett climbed down next to him and they grabbed onto the heavy slab of wood and lifted hard, revealing Rose and the other survivors, hiding cleverly inside the dark tunnel.

  “We were wondering how long it would take you to figure out we were down here,” Rose said, smiling at him impishly.

  “Well I never…smart girl,” Pickett said.

  The Gunman reached down and grabbed Rose by the hand, and lifted her into his arms. There was a moment between them, but only a moment. The Gunman stood aside and continued to help the other people out of the tunnel as Rose looked on.

  • • •

  Cutler, Pearce and Essa-queta rounded a corner with their undead friends close behind. They turned into an alley and crossed toward another street, but their path was already blocked by several undead.

  “Shit,” Cutler said.

  They turned back and hid inside a shallow doorway as the undead closed in on both sides.

  “What do we do?” Essa-queta asked them.

  “I have no idea,” Cutler answered.

  Pearce pulled out his revolver. “We finish this,” he said.

  “How?”

  “Lure them into the saloon. It's the only building big enough to fit them all in.

  “Okay--,” Cutler said skeptically, “Then what?”

  “Then we burn it to the ground,” Pearce said darkly.

  Cutler grinned widely, liking the plan more than any other he had heard up to this point. “Excellent.”

  Pearce stood and pulled off his clerical collar, then dropped it on the ground. They left the doorway, making sure the undead could clearly see them in the street, and then turned toward the Bucket of Blood saloon.

  • • •

  When the streets were clear of the undead, the Gunman and Rose led everybody toward the outskirts of town.

  Jay waited for them on the hillside with a small band of horses, squinting in the sunlight with a fresh wad of tobacco already tucked in his cheek. The Gunman walked up to Larken, rubbed her nose and scratched her neck. It was a welcomed reunion between two old friends.

  “A friend of yours?” Rose asked.

  “We’ve been through a lot together,” he said.

  Rose smiled and stroked Larken's neck and watched the Gunman caress the other side. She sensed a deep bond between the two. “I see.”

  The Gunman tightened the saddle on Larken and checked the stirrups, then grabbed the reins and mounted her.

  “What are you doing?” Rose asked. “You’re leaving us?”

  “I’m going to finish this,” he said and kicked Larken in the side and rode off without another word, to kill Jack Richards.

  • • •

  Cutler and Essa-queta busied themselves barricading a few windows inside the saloon. Pearce stood nearby in the doorway, waiting as the undead slowly approached. Cutler finished securing a rope to the second floor that they could use to escape, then joined Pearce in the doorway. “Alright. That should do it.”

  The undead were nearly upon them, and the street swarmed with their rotten corpses.

  “Okay. I want you and the Chief to go ahead and climb up there,” Pearce told him.

  “Not without you,” Cutler countered.

  “Give me some extra bullets. I'll hold them off…as long as I can.”

  Cutler hesitantly reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of bullets and gave them to Pearce. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll be fine,” he said, rolling up his sleeves.

  Cutler grabbed the rope and climbed up to the second floor with Essa-queta right behind him. “See you on the other side, Father,” he said, then disappeared down the hallway and escaped through the ceiling.

  The first undead entered the saloon. It saw Pearce standing behind the bar and moved straight for him. Another entered, and then another. Soon thirty undead stumbled through the saloon, moving hungrily toward Pearce. He checked the revolver and cocked it anxiously.

  “When the thousand years are over, Satan will be released from his prison,” he said, preaching to an unholy congregation. He took aim, both hands shaking. He fired and shot an undead in the forehead. He fired again, hitting an undead in the neck. Then corrected his aim and shot it through the eye.

  “And I beheld another beast coming up out of the Earth...” More undead entered the saloon, fighting their way through the clogged doorway. He shot another undead in the face. “...and he had two horns like a lamb, and he spoke as a dragon.” He fired again and again. Then reloaded his weapon. He started shooting more randomly, hitting an undead in the chest, and striking another in the shoulder, others in the limbs. He fumbled bullets onto the counter. There were only three left. He calmly loaded them and shot an undead through the nose.

  “And whosoever was not found written in the book of life...” he shot a final undead in the cheek. “...was cast into the lake of fire!!!” Pearce fired across the saloon and struck a whiskey barrel, which ignited from a nearby lantern that he had placed below it, and burst in
to fire, flames licking the dry wooden walls.

  Cutler and Essa-queta slammed the front door shut and slid a bench in front of it, then retreated down the street. The windows burst from the heat and wood cracked loudly. Smoke poured from the roof, and the entire saloon became a raging inferno, burning everything inside. They stood for a moment in the street, watching it burn, knowing that they would never see Father Pearce again.

  The Death of Jack Richards

  The Gunman squatted behind a pile of rocks, holding his guns cocked and ready, and scanned the mine for any sign of Jack. He angled around a rock, keeping low, then descended toward Jack's office.

  Inside, Jack ruffled through papers on his desk, shoving some into a leather satchel. He turned to a large steel strongbox behind the desk and quickly turned the lock. He pushed down a handle and pulled open the heavy door, revealing thousands of dollars in refined gold, silver, and cash. His eyes brightened and he shoved an armload into the bag. He double-checked if there was any more room, just enough for a few more gold pieces he thought, then shoved more in. He buckled the satchel and threw it over his shoulder, shifting his weight under the heavy bag. He pocketed a few more pieces of silver from the strongbox and turned to see the Gunman standing in the doorway, watching him carefully. Jack froze and slowly moved a hand toward his revolver, delicately fingering the fine ivory handle.

  “Your move, son,” Jack said. They stared at each other for a few moments, trying to guess what the other was thinking. “Or…” Jack motioned over his shoulder, “…I could just leave. And you can have whatever's leftover in the safe behind me.”

  The Gunman could see into the open safe behind Jack. Thousands of dollars remained, the leftovers from what he couldn’t fit into his bag, but he lifted his revolver and pointed it straight at Jacks' chest, cocking it loudly.

  “Now…lets be reasonable. I mean…we can do this the easy way…” he pleaded, and raised his arms into the air.

  “I prefer the other way,” the Gunman said.

  Click.

  The Gunman felt the cold steel of another revolver pointed firmly into his neck, held by Clay, who now stood behind him in the doorway. “Set down your gun. Nice and easy.”

  The Gunman didn’t move, still holding his revolver on Jack.

  “I said…” Clay pushed the barrel even harder, “…put down your Colt, Gunman.”

  The Gunman relented and dropped the gun to the floor, and then raised his hands into the air, slightly, not wanting to give up too easily. Clay grabbed the Gunman's second revolver and shoved it into his belt, grinning widely. “On your knees.”

  The Gunman clenched his teeth, hardened his face, and looked straight into Jack's eyes.

  “Do it,” Clay insisted.

  Jack stepped forward, drew his gun, and pointed it at the Gunman's gut. “I suggest you listen. He ain't got the same patience as me.”

  The Gunman moved down on one knee, then the other, as slow as possible. He had never kneeled before anybody, but knew that he had been beat and out gunned. Jack took another step toward the Gunman and cocked his revolver. “You should of stayed put…right next to that pretty girl. Nothing bad would of happened to you, but now it's gonna.” He aimed his gun straight at the Gunman's chest, ready to fire. “You came into the wrong town, son. My town. Now you'll pay…”

  Boom. A rifle shot rang out and the bullet clipped Clay in he back. “Ahhhh!!!” he screamed and fell to his knees. Another rifle shot hit Clay in the neck, spraying blood on the wall. He fell forward on his face as he clutched his neck, and was dead in seconds.

  The Gunman leapt forward for his gun, but Jack fired and shot him in the side. More rifle fire echoed from the hillside. The window burst and sprayed glass through the office. Bullets pierced the wall, struck the desk and ricocheted off the safe. Jack crawled behind the desk as shattered glass rained down on his head. He grabbed the satchel and scurried out of a back door, then disappeared toward the open pit of the mine.

  On a far hillside, Cutler lay prone in the grass, with the Gunman's rifle in his hands. “Hey partner!” he yelled toward the office, which was now riddled with bullet holes. “You alright?!”

  The Gunman lifted his hand from his side, his palm covered in blood. “Never better!” he answered.

  Cutler propped himself up and trotted down the hill toward Jack's office, cocking another round into the chamber as he ran. He stepped into the doorway holding the rifle to his shoulder. “Where's Jack?”

  The Gunman pulled himself up and grabbed his gun off the floor. “Ran out the back. Toward the mine.”

  Cutler kicked Clay's lifeless body. He was definitely dead. The Gunman rolled him over and retrieved his second revolver out of Clay’s belt. He rechecked the bullet wound on his side and Cutler saw that he was bleeding badly. “Shit. You gonna be alright?”

  “I'll live. Let's go.” The Gunman and Cutler left Jack's office and ran toward the open pit, guns drawn and fury in their eyes.

  On the other side of the mine, Jack ran down an embankment, but tripped and fell to the ground. He rolled through the dirt and landed face-first in a shallow puddle of mud. He pushed himself up and wiped muddy water from his face, and then reached back for his satchel, which had ripped open during the fall, spilling gold and cash into the mud. “Damn.”

  He scrambled to pick up as much of it as possible, moving on his hands and knees and dragging the satchel behind him through the mud.

  The Gunman and Cutler moved behind a mining cart, then ran behind a small shack, staying low and scanning their surroundings.

  “Cover me,” Cutler told him. “I'm going to move around to the other side. Flush him toward you.”

  The Gunman nodded and Cutler slipped away, then disappeared around a rock pile and continued around the far side of the open pit. Thick grey clouds moved across the sky and blotted out the midday sun. The mine took on an eerie glow as soft raindrops struck the Gunman’s sunburnt cheek. As soon as Cutler was out of sight the Gunman worked his way forward, trying to find a better vantage point above the mine.

  Far down below, Jack continued pulling gold out of the mud. After the satchel was nearly full he turned to see an undead miner with a long singed beard and burnt face. It stared at him from the shadows of a tunnel entrance. The undead miner staggered toward him with its arm outstretched and head cocked. It had chewed its own lips off and gnashed its teeth hungrily. It clawed at the air and moved forward awkwardly. Jack pulled his gun and shot the undead in the chest.

  Another undead miner came out of the tunnel behind the first, drawn by the loud gunfire. Jack fired again, and again. His aim was terrible and he only managed to strike the second undead in the chest and arms. He fired a fourth time, but missed completely and a rock behind it exploded. He hoisted the heavy satchel back over his shoulder and started to make a run for it, but several more undead had emerged from other tunnels and blocked his way.

  He spun in a circle and cursed loudly, then shot the closest undead in the neck. He turned wildly and shot another, but the undead miners kept coming. He checked his gun, but it was now empty. He pulled more bullets out of his belt and reloaded as fast as he could, but fumbled one to the ground. “Shit.”

  He pulled the bullet out of the mud and blew off the debris, then loaded it quickly and shot an undead through the forehead, finally striking his target. He fired again, hitting one in the eye.

  A shot rang out over the mine and struck Jack in the thigh. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees, and then grabbed his thigh with both hands as warm blood soaked into his pants and ran down his leg. He looked to the top of the open pit and saw the Gunman standing near the edge, arm outstretched, holding a smoking revolver. It was an impossible shot for any man to make, but not for him. Not the Gunman.

  The undead surrounded him completely and grew closer by the second. Jack slipped another bullet into his gun and shot one more through the nose, and then disappeared into a swarm of undead, each ready to bite and tear him apart. But
another shot rang out and Jack's face was sprayed with blood. The undead man closest to him fell to the ground with a bullet hole through his temple. A second shot echoed across the open pit and another undead fell to the ground, then another, and another.

  Jack was surrounded by fallen undead, all shot through the head and taken down only seconds before killing him. The Gunman stood motionless at the top of the open pit, both revolvers smoking in his steel hands, completely emptied.

  “No,” Jack whispered to himself, then turned away and scrambled on his hands and knees, crawling over cracked rocks and debris, desperately trying to escape. He pulled his leg clumsily through the mud, leaving behind a thin trail of blood.

  The Gunman reloaded and walked slowly toward Jack as he stalked his prey. This took a moment, but he relished the anticipation. He was a keen hunter ready to kill.

  Jack reached the edge of a steep embankment, impossible to scale with his injured leg, and turned to Gunman, holding his hand out in front of him, pleading for his life. “Please…I beg you. There’s more money--.”

  Bam!

  Jack's head flew back as a bullet ripped through his forehead. The Gunman stood there for another moment, staring at Jack’s lifeless body. The satchel was open, spilling gold and cash onto the ground in front of him.

  • • •

  The Gunman and Cutler rode back toward town, Jack's heavy satchel strapped to Larken's side. They rode quickly across the landscape and pushed their horses until they were within sight of town. They trotted down Main Street and turned toward the saloon.

  Rose and the townspeople stood in front of the Bucket of Blood, which had completely burned down, leaving only smoldering ashes. Several undead bodies had been piled in the street, what remained of the undead forces. The Gunman dismounted and held his side tightly, still bleeding and in pain.

  Rose saw that he was injured and came running toward him. “What happened?” She asked.