Ashes of the Dead - Bucket of Blood Read online

  Inside the farmhouse Rebecca was busy preparing dinner. She placed two large white plates on the dining table, both covered in food and garnished with fresh parsley. Andrew was already sitting in his chair reading a thick leather-bound book with his glasses perched at the end of his nose. She placed a wine glass in front of him, but he placed his hand over the glass before she could pour from the bottle.

  “Just water tonight, please,” he said, glancing up from the pages. He cracked a half-smile at her and went back to reading.

  Rebecca sat down across from him and poured the wine for herself instead. She drank half of it in one gulp, Andrew didn’t even notice. She topped off her glass again and continued to drink.

  Andrew cut into his steak with the book still in his lap, and watched as red juice pooled around the warm meat. He took a bite and sighed. The steak was cooked to perfection, but it still couldn’t cure his apathy. He continued to read his book while eating the juicy steak. He didn’t have much to talk about tonight and was consumed by his own thoughts.

  Rain continued to beat against the window as they sat in silence. Lightening flashed and illuminated a silhouette walking across the field outside, but only for a moment. Neither of them seemed to notice it and they continued their taciturn dinner.

  Rebecca put down her fork and finally broke the heavy silence. “How was your day?” she asked, trying to get him to talk to her.

  Andrew still hadn’t put the book down as he ate. “Oh…it was just another day. Treated some workers from the mine…not much other than that.” He forked another piece of steak and continued eating.

  Lighting flashed again and the silhouetted figure moved closer, its grotesque evil form outlined in the rain. Loud thunder cracked and the horses in the barn started to whinny. Rebecca looked out of the window and worried that her horses would get spooked and hurt themselves inside the stalls.

  “I hope the horses will be okay,” she said, fingering the edge of her cloth napkin anxiously.

  Andrew turned a page in his book, still not paying much attention to her. “It’s only a little rain,” he said reassuringly. “I’m sure that they’ll be just fine.”

  “Maybe I’ll go check on them after dinner,” she commented. “Can you come with me?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  She returned to her meal and continued to delicately cut her steak into small pieces. Lightening flashed again, brighter than ever, and this time Rebecca could see the man right outside the window. She jumped up startled and knocked over her chair. The undead man smashed through the window and broke through the glass with his hand and face.

  “Oh my god!” Rebecca screamed as she stumbled backward and fell over the chair.

  Andrew jumped up from his chair and sprinted out of the dining room as the undead man began to crawl through the window. Its movements were slow and awkward. Broken glass sliced through his rotten skin and black blood leaked from his veins onto Rebecca’s plush rug, but he could feel no pain. He reached out for Rebecca’s leg as she lay there struggling to get up and grabbed hold of a shoe. She tried to kick away his hand, but he held tight and pulled her leg toward himself, mouth agape and ready to bite.

  “Andrew!” she screamed as the undead man clawed at her skin.

  Rebecca's shoe finally slipped off and freed her from his decaying hand, but the undead man crawled toward her and cornered her behind the kitchen table. “Please…no! Andrew!” she yelled just as Andrew reappeared through the doorway with a double-barrel shotgun.

  “Rebecca, get down!” She ducked as he unloaded the ten-gauge into the undead's chest, which knocked it back against the wall, but only for a moment. It kept coming toward her. It was relentless.

  It reached for her again, but Rebecca kicked it in the face and broke loose rotten teeth that hung crooked in its yawning mouth. It moved in again and grabbed hold of her shoulder and sunk its teeth deep into her neck, ripping flesh and tendons free. She screamed as blood sprayed the wall and bubbled from her lips. She punched it in the jaw, but it was no use as the undead man lunged in for another bite.

  Andrew dropped the shotgun and tackled the undead man off of Rebecca. He turned and dragged her from the room as she clutched her ragged neck, still screaming in agony and bleeding profusely. He pulled her across the living room, leaving a red path of fresh blood in their wake as her dress smeared it across the wooden floor. He quickly checked her wound and ripped off a piece of his shirt, and then pressed it firmly against her neck. Her eyes began to widen from shock as she continued to lose blood. Andrew held her shoulder and gently kissed her on the forehead.

  He stepped back into the dining room just as the undead man rose to its feet. The shotgun lay on the table between them, both of the spent barrels still smoking. He pulled out two shells from his pocket and grabbed the shotgun. He reloaded it as quickly as he could. The undead man began to move around the table toward him, snarling and moaning. One of the shotgun shells slipped from his grasp and bounced off the table onto the floor. He had never been good with a gun, but with this thing it was hard to miss. With only one shell in the chamber he cocked it shut, and then blew a hole straight through the undead man’s forehead, spraying the wall with fragments of skull and black brain. The undead man fell to the floor with half of its head blown off, finally motionless.

  Andrew dropped the shotgun and ran back into the living room where Rebecca lay bleeding. She was deadly pale and the entire side of her dress was now soaked crimson red, like a porcelain doll that had been dipped into a bucket of watercolor paint. He picked her up in both arms and sprinted through the house, and then burst into his office as she still clutched her neck. He threw her onto the exam table and pressed clean gauze against her neck. Her breathing had become rapid and shallow. Her eyes widened and her pupils dilated as she tried to speak. Andrew leaned closer, straining to hear the words coming from her lips, but they were muffled and he couldn’t make them out. Her breathing slowed, then stopped, and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Her body became limp and she died in his arms.

  Andrew stepped back and fell defeated into his chair. He put his face into his hands, now trembling uncontrollably.

  The lightening had ceased, but rain continued to beat against the office window, coming down in sheets and carried sideways by the north wind. Andrew walked over to the window and stared into the rolling darkness as tears streaked down his cheeks.

  Behind him, Rebecca's hand twitched and her fingers curled into a twisted ball. Her fingers relaxed and her arm began to move. She sat upright with torn flesh hanging from her neck. Her body had been bled dry and pale skin was held tightly against her bones. Her eyes were now lifeless and black.

  She slid off of the table and knocked over a tray, which clattered to the floor. Andrew turned and saw Rebecca standing there. He was speechless. She stared at him for a moment, empty and drained of emotion.

  “Rebecca…” he said under his breath, but she only looked at him with her dead eyes.

  She lunged forward, now hungry for flesh. Her hand grabbed the bottom of his shirt, but Andrew pulled away and ran out of the office. He slammed the office door shut behind him and grabbed a nearby chair, and then rammed it under the door handle. The undead Rebecca beat against the door from the other side, which cracked and began to splinter. Andrew walked into the dining room as she continued to rip through the thin wooden door. He grabbed the shotgun off of the dining room table and snatched the fallen shell from the floor. He returned to the living room and reloaded the gun just as Rebecca’s arm broke through. She reached out for him and clawed wildly through the air. Through his tears Andrew cocked the shotgun and flipped over the safety.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to her as he raised the gun to his shoulder and took aim.

  • • •

  The Gunman stood in his cramped room and splashed his face with water from a white ceramic basin. He looked into a cracked mirror, crudely fixed to the wall, barely large enough to reflect his whole face
. He rubbed his hand over his smooth cheek, appreciating the feel of a clean shave.

  He grabbed a washcloth and dipped it into the hot water, and then wrung it over his head. After washing his half-naked body he threw the dirty washcloth into the basin, which was now full of grey water. It had been three weeks since he had a bath and it took more soap than he thought it would to clean his filthy skin. She had always poured him a hot bath on the porch when he was done working in the field. Nothing was better than hot soapy water to cleanse his soul after a long day in the sun. But that was over and she would never pour him a bath again.

  He pulled on a new shirt he had bought from down the street and slid a small table against the wall. He sat down and adjusted a kerosene lamp that burned overhead, dimly lighting his workspace, and then removed both of his revolvers from their holsters and placed them on the table in front of him. He efficiently disassembled them, placing each part in a precise and specific pattern, and then pulled out a clean rag from his satchel and applied fresh oil, cleaning each part methodically.

  Once the pieces were cleaned and shining, he reassembled the guns, and wiped them down with the oily rag. He chambered new bullets and slid the revolvers back into place. After hanging the holstered weapons over the corner of his bed, the Gunman lay down on top of the sheets and closed his eyes, hoping for a few moments of sleep before dinner.

  • • •

  The sun was passing beyond the horizon and the purple-orange glow of twilight crept through the streets. Most of the stores in town were now closed and the streets emptied as people returned home for the night.

  Just outside of town a man rode down a dirt road at a furious pace. The horse's nostrils flared as it breathed heavy and its hooves pounded through the mud. The man whipped the horse’s side and urged it to run faster, pushing it to the limit. He rode like a demon with the devil close on his heels.

  Back inside the Bucket of Blood, the piano played loudly and the parlor was filled with laughter and cigar smoke. Many people loitered throughout the saloon, some drinking, others gambling. A woman sat at the bar and spilled beer from her glass onto the floor as she laughed obnoxiously. The man next to her finished his whiskey and scolded her for being so careless, then reached into his pocket and pulled out more money for her to refill her drink.

  Emmett was hard at work behind the bar pouring drinks. His daughter, Rose, moved behind the counter and opened the till, getting change for the young couple that had drank too much already. She had black hair and soft olive skin. She was strong and beautiful, a desert flower.

  She handed them their money and turned to grab drinks from her father, and then swiftly carried them through the parlor to several men playing poker. Another young woman, Allison Miller, was busy cleaning the table next to them.

  “Busy night, huh?” she said to Rose as she wiped breadcrumbs into her apron.

  Rose grabbed an empty beer glass from the table and cracked a smile at her. “Just wait until tomorrow night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The shift changes at the mine. Everybody will be ready for a drink.”

  “Good tips?” Allison asked her.

  “The best!” she said smiling even more. “Especially after the miners have been drinking all night.”

  The two of them returned to the bar where Emmett was wiping down the counter. This was Allison’s first night working in the saloon, and she had anxiously followed Rose around all evening, watching her work.

  Emmett turned to Rose as she passed behind the bar and handed her two full glasses of beer. “Here you go, dear. Another round for the table in back.” He looked at Allison, who was just starting to get the hang of things. “So how’s the first night?”

  “I didn’t know how busy this place could get,” she commented.

  “Just wait til’ tomorrow night. But don’t worry, Rose will show you how it’s done.” He said as he turned to pour more drinks.

  Rose smiled at her again. “Take these to the men in the back room,” she said. “And don’t leave until you get a good tip,” she winked.

  • • •

  The Gunman lay on the bed with his eyes closed. His breathing was slow and steady. He hadn’t yet fallen asleep. He had spent too many nights sleeping on the hard ground to get comfortable on the feather mattress. Just as he started to slip into a dream, he heard the faint rhythm of the rider approaching from a distance. The horse’s footsteps grew louder and the Gunman moved to the window to peer into the night. He could see the man riding hard into town as he whipped the horse again, cut hard around a corner, and entered Main Street at break-neck pace.

  The Gunman grabbed a revolver hanging from the bedpost. He cocked it and returned to the window as the rider turned toward the Bucket of Blood. The Gunman threw on his shirt and unlocked the door, and then peered into the hallway, which carried the noise from the parlor below. He stepped back into the room and buckled both guns around his waist, and dressed in a long overcoat to help conceal them. He had made enemies in the past and had always feared their retribution. Something told him deep inside that this man wasn’t one of them, but he had to be sure.

  He walked carefully toward the end of the hallway and paused by the railing overlooking the parlor below. The saloon doors ripped open as the rider fell through the doorway onto the floor. He was drenched from rain and his back was caked in mud. The piano music stopped and the room grew silent. It was Andrew Forred.

  He lay there on the floor and could barely catch his breath from riding so hard into town, unable to speak. Water was dripping from his clothes and started to pool underneath him. He tried to pick himself up off of the ground, but he was too weak. His legs buckled again as he stood and he fell down to his knees.

  “Dr. Forred!” Rose yelled from behind the bar. She ran forward and grabbed him before he could fall on his face, and then threw his arm over her shoulder.

  Andrew turned to her. “She's dead…killed…I killed her,” he said to her in a quaking voice. He shook his head in disbelief. “I had to. There was no other choice.”

  Rose turned to a large man sitting at the bar. “Cutler, give me a hand.”

  The barber, now dressed in a buttoned-down shirt and brown pants, quickly stepped from his stool. He grabbed the doctor's other arm and helped him stand upright. They moved him over to the bar where he was able to sit down. Emmett brought him a large glass of water, but Andrew only pushed it away.

  “Whiskey,” he said harshly.

  Emmett looked at Rose, astonished that he had asked. The doctor always abstained from hard liquor. “Sure doc, whatever you want,” Emmett said, turning to grab a new bottle.

  The Gunman stood above them at the end of the second floor hallway, hidden in the shadows, and listened to the conversation below. He rested a hand on one of his guns, still tense with anticipation.

  Emmett poured a shot and the doctor snatched the glass and swallowed it as soon as it touched his lips. His hand shook uncontrollably.

  He slammed the empty glass back onto the bar. “Another,” he demanded.

  “You sure?” Emmett questioned.

  “Another!” Andrew said to him and slammed his fist against the counter.

  Emmett poured him another shot, but this time he gingerly placed it to his lips and sipped, savoring the sharp liquid on his tongue. His hand stopped shaking as the whiskey began to take effect.

  Emmett replaced the bottle below the counter and turned back to Andrew. “Doc, what happened out there?” he asked.

  Andrew set his half empty glass down and rotated it in his hands, staring into the amber liquid that swirled at the bottom. “Rebecca was attacked.” He sipped his whiskey again, nervously remembering the horrible events. “We were just eating dinner. Somebody…a man...he just attacked her. He…he bit her.” Andrew had now gained their full attention.

  “Say what now?” Cutler asked, not quite sure that he had heard him right.

  Emmett leaned into the counter. “A man? Who?�
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  “He attacked her.” Andrew looked down at his glass, and then took another sip. “I don’t know who he was, but he killed her.”

  “I thought you said you killed her?” Emmett asked, now confused by Andrew’s recollection.

  Andrew looked to Emmett. His eyes burned with anger. “I did. She came back….” He took another sip of the whiskey. “…after she died.”

  • • •

  A cold darkness swept across the cemetery as gray clouds moved into the sky, shaking the ground with thunder. Lightning flashed through the blackness, illuminating a maze of headstones, and the rain began to pour once again.

  A thin hand broke through the soil, a woman's hand, but twisted and rotten. Her head appeared, and then her torso. She stumbled out of the wet ground, barefoot, and wore an ankle-length dress now stained from the mud. The undead whore stared blankly toward the distant town. She lurched forward and pulled her broken foot across the ground behind her, her outstretched arm guiding the way.

  An undead boy followed close behind her and they moved slow and methodically through the headstones, both hungry for flesh.

  Lightening flashed again across the black sky and illuminated the entire cemetery, which swarmed with the undead, their numbers swelling beyond count. The undead horde moved out of the cemetery and started toward the sleeping town, an unholy pilgrimage of death.

  • • •

  Rose and Cutler helped Andrew down the second floor hallway. Rose pulled out a spare set of keys and opened an empty room and Cutler helped him get inside. He led Andrew toward the bed as Rose grabbed a lantern down from the wall. She pulled off the glass bulb and lit a match against the table, and then started the cotton wick and adjusted the brightness. She lifted the sheets off of the bed as Cutler lay Andrew down. He passed out immediately when his head touched the pillow, his clothes still wet from his ride through the rainstorm.

  Rose leaned over him and placed a wet washcloth on his forehead, and then looked at Cutler. “What should we do?”