Vivisepulture (35 page)

“So, can you give her something? Just to take the edge off?” 

Geordie sighed. “Paul, it’s just_” 

“Please, Geordie. Do it for me. Just this once.”

Geordie looked again at Kitty, noticing the bruises on her face, her bust nose, the tiny little puncture holes between the tattoos on her arms. 

He sighed, stood up, moved back into the bedroom, reached under the bed, fumbling in the dark, finally retrieving a small polythene packet. He brought the packet back to the living area, handed it to Paul.  

Paul took the package, looked at it, looked at Kitty, then back to Geordie. He smiled. “Thanks,” he whispered. 

He stood up, looking over to Kitty, who sat her glass down and got up. Her head was hanging low. It was like her shoulders were too weak to carry it. “Come on,” Paul said to her, his voice less gentle. He nodded at Geordie, smiled more weakly this time, then moved towards the door. 

Geordie followed to let them out.

Paul stood by the door, allowing Kitty to exit. He waited until she was halfway  down the stairs then turned.

“She called me ‘Daddy,” he said quietly to Geordie. There was pride in his voice.

“And so she should,” Geordie said. “You
are
her pop.” He placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “And you look after her.” 

Paul McBride shrugged, offered an embarrassed smile. He allowed himself to be human, just for a single  moment. Then it was gone, game face returning. 

Geordie removed his hand from the other man’s shoulder. 

“I’ll see you later,” Paul said. 

He left, following Kitty down the stairs.   

Geordie closed the door then stood for a while, digesting all that had happened. 

He returned to his bedroom, retrieved his wiretap.     

Back in the VR, Geordie accessed the menu for the game he was playing. He chose OPTIONS and then CHARACTERS. He removed the avatar that he’d made for Dolly Bird, his chosen damsel in distress. He replaced it with an avatar for Kitty McBride. 

Geordie wanted Kitty to play the dame in this next game. She would stand on the stage wearing the ripped skirt and bloodied blouse. She would call out for his help and he would swing on that chandelier and scoop her up in his arms. 

And maybe – just maybe - his gameplay would improve when saving someone who needed saving...

ZOMBIE GUNFIGHTER

by

GUY N SMITH

Sheriff Black stirred uneasily as a gunshot echoed from down the street, his chair creaking beneath his bulk. He opened his eyes, groaned aloud at the disturbance to his fitful dose.

Two more shots, then three in quick succession. There was a lot of hollering, too. That’d be the Circle D boys just hit town for sure, hell-raising. Nothing to worry about, you couldn’t blame ‘em for letting off steam after a month on the trail. Anyway, J.C Dawson always paid up for any damage done by his cowboys.

More shooting, spasmodic this time. The slightly muffled reports told him that they came from the Longhorn saloon. No point in going down there, nothing he could do would stop it. Let ‘em have their fun. Anyhow, Deputy Borg was on street duty tonight. Good experience for the kid, he had to learn.

Then came the sound of running footsteps, mounting the wooden steps outside. Somebody in an all-fired hurry. Black groaned, swung his booted feet off the desk as the door burst open, revealing a lanky youth with a tin star on his vest, his features screwed up in anguish that bordered on panic. Deputy Borg.

“Black,” the other gasped, “you gotta come. Fast. Jack Skeet’s shootin’ up the Longhorn.”

“Drunk again, I guess,” the sheriff made no move to rise. “Somethin’ you gotta get used to, boy. Jack Skeet’s a gentleman ninety-nine percent of the time. The other one percent is when he’s hit the bottle and shoots up one of the saloons. He always pays for the damage when he sobers up. Nobody gets hurt, he sees to that. He’s the fastest and surest gunman this side o’ the Rio.”

“Yeah, but…”

“No buts about it. And don’t forget one thing. Last Spring he cleaned up that bunch of Paiute renegades all on his own. All fifteen of ‘em ‘cept Black Snake, that old medicine man who controlled ‘em. Where’n the blazes he is now, Gawd only knows. Escaped Skeet’s ambush at Kent’s Crossing. You and me an’ a posse ’d been chasin’ that gang for months, every isolated rancher lived in fear of ‘em. Skeet did our job for us an’ did it well. Don’t you forget that. That’s why I’m not goin’ down to the Longhorn to pistol whip Jack and lock him up.” Not because I’m scared o’ Jack Skeet like everybody else in these parts. 

“But…” Borg swallowed, “It’s not like that, Black. The Circle D crowd are in the Longhorn and…”

“And they’ll just join in the shoot-up.”

“No, Black. They’ve got Skeet. One of ‘em got him from behind with a chair leg, knocked him stone cold. They’ve had enough of him like every saloon keeper and store owner and everybody here in this town. They’re draggin’ him down the street, gonna lynch him on the first tree they come across!”

Sheriff Black sat up suddenly. He didn’t stand for any lynchings on his patch. The only hangings were when Circuit Judge Frome paid his monthly visits to the court house.

“We’d better get down there, deputy,” he strapped on his gun-belt, picked up the double – barrelled sawn-off Greener 10-bore from the corner. “I’ll speak to J.C, tell him to calm his boys down.”

“J.C ‘s with ‘em, “ Borg almost screamed. “He’s leadin’ the lynch party.”

Black stepped outside, his deputy at his heels. Crowds thronged the street, they were chanting “string up Jack Skeet!”

The sheriff pushed his way through, cursing those who obstructed him.

“You keep outta this, sheriff. This town’s had enough o’ Jack Skeet.”

Up ahead he saw the lynch mob dragging the semi-conscious Skeet, his booted feet stirring up dust in his wake. J.C was there, all right, urging his men on, pointing to the gnarled cedar tree which stood at the end of the main street.

“Now you see here, J.C.” Black shouted above the raucous din as he caught up with them. “You hang Skeet and I’ll arrest you for murder, your boys, too.”

“Go chase a ringtail, Black!” Dawson’s expression was ugly, he had been drinking hard, too. “This is the end of the road for Jack Skeet!”

Rough hands pushed the sheriff, sent him staggering back. He lost his balance, sprawled in the dusty road. Looking up he caught a brief glimpse of Skeet. The gunman still had his black, short-brimmed hat on his head, accentuating the pallid high cheek-boned features beneath it. A slit of a mouth, no pleading, no hint of fear.

His black clothes were dust stained, he still wore his gun-belt. Black trousers to match the rest of his attire. Scary, even in his present predicament.

“Stop it!”
Black’s shout was drowned out, the mob was going crazy. One of them had a rope, deft hands fashioning a noose. Others held Skeet upright as it was looped over his head, pulled tight.

Those thin lips snarled hatred, defiance. If I could get to my gun the road would be strewn with bodies. But he could not get to his gun, for a neckerchief bound his wrists tightly behind his back.

They lifted him up, sat him astride a big wild-eyed roan. One of them had a quirt, raised it aloft.

“Stop. In the name of the law!”

Nobody heard Sheriff Black’s final demand. Somebody had kicked the Greener from him. He reached for his Colt but his holster was empty.

Helplessly he watched as the roan snorted, charged away, left Jack Skeet swinging there, his short neck now stretched and scrawny.

Cheering. More gun shots in the air. Then the lynchers and their audience slowly drifted away.

Sheriff Black lay there, only his pride hurt. He looked around for his deputy but there was no sign of young Borg.

“Damn the lot of you!” He snarled.

He lifted his head, met the dead gaze of Jack Skeet who was still swinging gently, still wearing that black hat.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” the sheriff fought back a sob. “I tried to stop ‘em but there were too many of ‘em. Nothin’ I could do. You believe me, don’t you?”

Eventually he hauled himself to his feet and without a backward glance made his way down the now deserted street. In the Longhorn a honky-tonk was playing, folks were singing. Night life was returning to normal.

In the morning Sheriff Black would return with Joe Lawton, the undertaker. They would cut Skeet down, give him a decent burial. At least they owed him that for the Paiutes he had cleaned up.

….

Shortly after daylight the following morning Sheriff Black led the way up the street, Lawton at his heels and Deputy Borg bringing up the rear, leading a scraggy mare over which to drape the corpse.

The small township slept. They had had their fun last night and J.C Dawson and his cowboys had ridden out.

As they approached the ancient, twisted cedar Black halted, stared in disbelief.
There was no sign of the dangling Jack Skeet, not even his hat lying in the dust. No rope. Nothing. 

It was like it had all been a booze-fuelled nightmare, had never really happened.

“You sure they lynched him?” the undertaker was cynical, annoyed at being dragged from his bed. “This some kinda sick joke, Sheriff?”

“It’s no joke,” Black answered but he had no explanation to offer. He almost expected Jack Skeet to come riding in, seeking revenge on those who had hanged and humiliated him.

“We’d best go back,” Sheriff Black shivered but not because of the cold morning air.

….

Black Snake, the wizened Paiute witch doctor, returned to his cave in the nearby mountains shortly before dawn broke, the body of Jack Skeet slung across his shoulders. A super human effort had been needed to carry the corpse up the steep slope but his step never faltered. His strength and powers were beyond that of an ordinary human being.

He ducked for the entrance was low and narrow, the interior rock strew and cramped. A narrow tunnel led from the rear, a dim glow visible from beyond the sharp bend.

Black Snake’s barefooted progress never faltered, the soles of his feet seemingly impervious to the sharp stones which littered the floor. A second bend and then he emerged into a larger, high roofed cavern where a smouldering fire lit up the interior with a wan, flickering light.

A dozen or so human forms were propped up against the far wall, ragged clothing soiled with dirt, bare, grimed feet out stretched. Their features were hideous to behold, flesh rotting, eyes sunken into what might have been empty sockets.

A place of the dead, the smoky atmosphere nauseating with the stench of decomposition. Yet these forms lived, heads thrust forward at the medicine man’s entry, grunts emitting from foul, cavernous mouths.

Black Snake lowered his burden to the rough floor, spread its arms and legs out, removed the hat to reveal jet black hair neatly parted in the centre. Dead eyes stared up at him.

The grunted greetings of those beyond turned to bestial snarls, throaty growls. Several attempted to rise but an upraised hand stayed them, a command which they found impossible to disobey. Muttering unintelligibly they fell back against the rocky wall of the cave.

“Stay!” He spoke in the Paiute tongue. “He is mine. And yours when the time comes. We need him If we are to avenge ourselves upon the whites who slaughter our people. Be still and quiet!”

They obeyed, their mutterings dying away until the only sounds in that hidden place were those made by the old Indian as he prepared his rites. It would not be easy to perform them on a white man for the other had never had faith in the Old One. Yet somehow he would do it and this man known as ‘he-who-loves-to-kill’ amongst the tribes would rise from the dead just as this band of renegades had. The living dead would triumph.

Black Snake went about his task, a bag of bones that rattled as they were shaken out on the ground, pungent herb leaves that were rubbed with his bony fingers and placed in a stone pot to boil on the smouldering embers.

It would be many hours before he knew whether or not he had succeeded in bringing the dead back to life. Just as he had raised up these gruesome warriors from their mass grave after Skeet’s ambush at Kent’s Crossing.

His toothless lips parted in a smile as he worked. His revenge on the whites in their small town beyond the canyon would be terrible to behold. Yet he knew that he must be patient.

…

“Beats me who took Skeet’s body and why,” Deputy Borg spoke his thoughts aloud.

“Most things beat you, deputy,” Sheriff Black swung his feet down from the desk, reached behind him where his gun-belt hung on a bent nail. “Tonight both of us are going out on street patrol just to make sure there’s no more trouble of any kind. Once these cowpokes get a taste of blood they’ll go lookin’ for it again and there’s no knowin’ who they might string up next. Skeet kept a lotta would-be gunslingers in hand, they were damned scared of him. Same goes for the Paiutes. Now there’s only you’n me to keep ‘em in check and judgin’ by your performance last night I guess it all falls on me.

Borg dropped his gaze, shuffled his feet.

“And in the mornin’,” Black buckled on his .44s, stood with arms akimbo. “You’n me are takin’ a ride out to the Circle D ranch. I’m gonna serve a warrant on J.C Dawson for incitin’ that lynchin’ and on Calloway and Fletcher for hangin’ Jack Skeet. They’ll be charged with murder. Circuit Judge Frome is due next week. There could well be another hangin’.”

The deputy licked his dry lips. Things were getting worse by the day.

Suddenly shots rang out somewhere down the long main street, rapid fire that emptied the cylinder of a six-shooter in as many seconds.

“Gawd Almighty, what’s goin’ on now,” Black jammed his hat on his head, loosened his Colt navy .44s in their holsters. He grabbed up the Greener 10-bore, handed it to his deputy. “Here, take this, and don’t be afraid to use it of you have to. Cut a swathe through ‘em whoever they are.”