Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ The Murder of Hundreds ( Chapter 4 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence...Just be prepared for the amount of violence and utter chaos.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.

Shampoo: Ooh...well, if you find out that movie's name, let me know. I wouldn't want to copy. >.< But I was so inspired by that game! XD Plus, I can worm in a romance in the midst of all this chaos...I feel better that way. Le sigh...But I'm glad it's interesting!

I'm_Alive: Man, I was fixing these documents til late into the night! >.< I may have to go over some stuff and fix what I did, but...hm. I thought I labeled everything correctly...thanks! I wouldn't mind having my mistakes pointed out---helps me get the story straight, and won't confuse you readers! XD But thanks so much for leaving your continued input on my fics---I appreciate you both! (hugs)

Chapter Four:
The Murder of Hundreds


Hotstreak was smoking a cheroot, staring out at the town–night had fallen, and he and the others were going to prepare for the long trek back to the Hawkins’ Ranch.

But his mind was focused on the boy he’d encountered–he just couldn’t get him out of his head. His mind was just stuck on seeing the pretty boy, wanting to know more about him. Wanting to see him, again. He felt bad for being responsible for his beating–it made him flinch to think about it. Hearing those sharp cracks and hearing his pain-filled screams; it bothered him to know that it happened regularly, according to the man that worked the correl. How could they just hear those screams and go on with their lives?

Exhaling heavily, he took the cheroot out of his mouth, studying it. He heard the horses, tied nearby, give a few restless snorts and neighs, and he looked at them, watching as his horse stamped the dirt, tossing his head. Hotstreak glanced around, looking for some brat that was bothering them, or for any dangerous, threatening animals. The town was pretty active, through; he doubted any wolves, bears or mountain lions would come in this far. The place was crawling with humans.

He sighed, flicking his eyes in the direction of Alva’s saloon, hearing the bright, cheerful music, the swell of laughter and shouts–the place was brightly lit. He wondered if the boy was working, now. Moving along with that hesitant gait, his shoulders hunched–Hotstreak had to wonder what possessed his buyers to pay for that bundle of insecurity? How could they prey on someone that didn’t want it?

Yes, the boy was pretty–he wouldn’t deny that, now. He did have a soft way about him, the sort of behavior that told him he was out of his league, here. That he was lost, misguided–how could anybody like him choose to work that profession....? Unless he was forced to.

Hotstreak had to wonder if that was the case, and tried to search his memory in that he’d seen this boy, before. The boy was awfully young–sixteen, he recalled. If he lived around here, Hotstreak was sure that he’d notice him–he came into town very rarely, but he often saw many people, and caught up on his gossip from the women that he visited, especially from Maria. But then again, the idea of a male whore was still new–those that talked about it were speaking in tones of fascination, utter disgust and a sort of pity that a male would lower himself for that profession.

Leaning against the porch support, Hotstreak wondered what had happened between them. He really couldn’t recall anything after sitting at the bar, and waking up to the man pounding at the door. It was a complete black-out. But it made his cheeks burn with some embarrassment as he wondered how he ‘performed’.

It wasn’t a running joke, with him, on his ‘stamina and endurance’. He had trouble staying up, and shooting too early.

That’s why it burned him whenever people laughed and joked about that sort of thing. Here he was, all rugged and manly, intimidating to others, and he couldn’t even hold his load long enough to satisfy a woman. It was enough to make him feel wholly shamed, embarrassed–mortified, he lowered his hat, as if people knew what he was thinking about.

But then again...the boy hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t teased him, nor giving him a knowing look. Quite frankly, Hotstreak figured he was quite happy that the redhead hadn’t lasted long.

Still, he considered to stay flushed as he struggled to pull himself out of those wretched thoughts.

A couple of people meandering on the streets caught his attention–they walked with a sort of drunken sway, their heads lowered, as if they hadn’t an idea of where they were going or what they were doing.

He felt a chill race up his spine, then frowned as he watched them. He noted that their clothes were dirty–in some areas, torn.

That’s when the hairs on the back of his neck and arms rose, and he straightened away from the post. His breath came in short, tight clips, eyes widening as he stared at them–movement in his peripheral vision told him there were more people coming in–all of them were just as jerky as the ones he was seeing. They were coming in from the north, beyond the correl, coming in from the darkness beyond town. That’s what was making the animals restless.

The cheroot fell to the worn wooden planks of the sidewalk, and he backed away from the street, feeling absolutely horrified as he watched more and more people, along with animals in the same condition, start to pull in from the darkness.

“S-shit!” he uttered, his voice thick with fear and apprehension. Virgil heard him swear, and came out curiously, settling his chaps around his thighs. “F-fuck me! Oh, fuck no, this ain’t happenin’! Not here!”

“What?” Virgil asked, staring at the sight of people and animal. “Wow. Where they all comin’ from? Man, must’ve been a tough trip. We got us an exodus goin’ on, here?”

Frantic, Hotstreak was pulling at his hat, anxiously moving away from the street. Once his back hit the wall, though, he was jolted out of his panic. He grabbed Virgil, shaking him roughly, much to the man’s consternation.

“Get your shit–! Get your shit, let’s get out of here! Now!”

“What’s goin’ on? What got your panties all in a twist?” Virgil asked, managing to shove away from him, a startled expression on his face.

Hotstreak ignored him, racing into the boardinghouse, shouting at the other Hawkins’ hands to hurry up–that they had to go. Once done, he grabbed his pack, every movement frantic, his breath coming in tight gasps. Virgil was still standing where he left him, staring at him as if he’d grown a second head.

Hotstreak grabbed his bandanna, snarling, “Those people right there? They’re fuckin’ dead, Virgil. And they’re mean when you try to fight back.”

Pushing away from him, he was making his way to his horse, Virgil blinking in clueless factor as he turned, watching him move, then looking at the crowd of people. He realized, as the other hands joined them with some confusion, that there was more.

Then the screams started.

010101010110

Richie stared with a sense of numb detachment at the floor. His back was intensely sore, stinging with new and open wounds, but he couldn’t reach back to tend to them, himself. He kept thinking about the cowboy, hating that he was starting to let go of his hopes for escape. The more he thought of escape, the more he thought of the ways Junior punished him. The more he thought of making it back home, the more he began to wonder if his parents would accept him after what had been done.

He was starting to dread the moment Casey and his friends would come tromping into his room. He didn’t want another group scene–he didn’t want to face another punishment. But he kept second guessing his escape choices. Thinking of the consequences after he was caught.

Closing his eyes, he drew in a trembling breath. He had to seriously weigh his options: stay here and allow several men to gang bang him, or try for escape.

Richie thought of the cowboy; unable to completely drive him from his mind. He felt miserable in that he wouldn’t see him, again; but a little warm in remembering his voice, of being so close to him. He closed his eyes, recalling the way the man had held his wrist so firmly; he could hurt him, he was very sure of it–but he felt that the man was capable of so much more.

He sighed quietly, rising from his bed, to rub anxiously at his arms. He’d scrapped another shirt that fell ruin to yet another lashing; it had been the last of his clothes that his mother had gotten for him. He looked over at the three shirts that Teresa had paid for, and frowned as he wondered which one he should wear–if he should even bother. The men taking him wouldn’t care what he was wearing, as long as it granted them easy access to his body. He looked over at the door, hearing the faint sounds of screams. They were distinct, and nothing like a whore’s screams, nor those of men brawling. But real screams, screams of fear and utter fright. Adding to the noises were those of animals–squealing and shrieking in pure, unbridled fear.

He didn’t know what to think–the music in the parlor below stopped abruptly, and he heard many men go silent. At the hasty tromping of boots on wood, of people clamoring to move from one end of the saloon to the other, he found himself moving toward the window, clearing it as best as he could to look out.

It looked as if the trickle of people that normally wandered the streets were moving into a very obvious flow. More and more were coming in from the north–pouring into the town as if they were all migrating from somewhere.

The odd thing was...everyone seemed drunk. It was as if none had any real direction, as if they were walking...only to keep up with the others. They weren’t interested in looking around them–and the animals that were moving along with them were behaving in the same manner. But he needed his glasses–something was very wrong with those animals. They didn’t look...complete.

Curiosity had him tilting his head, and he watched the scores of humans move through the worn roads, scattering in random directions. More screams began to sound, and he realized he recognized one of the women as those belonging to the saloon. A slow trickle of terror had him pressing his face against the glass, watching as doors throughout the area were forced open by these wandering people. That gunshots, frantic and wild, were now sounding throughout the entire area.

Starting to truly feel scared, he moved to the door, pulling at the knob–but it was locked tight. Moving back to the window, he stared out–he saw three of those moving people descend upon a man drunkenly moving through the streets. At first he thought they were hassling him–but the man began to scream, that high pitched sound of panic and human agony. He didn’t see what it was that was making that man scream that way.

Massive terror was starting to stretch throughout the area, and the wild clamor down below turned into a massive confusion of people running, shouting–of guns firing simultaneously. He didn’t register the shouts–screams of scared humans alarmed at things that were disturbing.

Whichever, Richie panicked in that he couldn’t get out of the room. The stairs were being ascended, the wood creaking under weight–and there were people moving through the hall outside his room, and women were screaming–he had a right to be scared. He hadn’t an idea what was going on. What had people screaming and running?

His door was tried, and there came the sound of pounding upon the wood. Whirling, he saw that people were looking into his room–that’s when he began looking for his glasses. Something about those faces weren’t looking right...

He frantically took out his valuable pair from underneath the floorboard, no matter who was watching him. The wood protested its treatment as the banging grew–shoving his glasses onto his face, he looked back at the window, and found himself stilling with complete and utter disbelief.
Some of them were missing their eyes–some had their jaws hanging loosely from their skulls; skin stretched and ripped in layers around their faces–these people weren’t alive.

The door continued to protest as the banging grew louder–the window creaked as various hands pressed upon it.

He couldn’t escape–! Though some course of superhuman effort, he looked away from the window, looking down at the floorboard. Something came to him, then, and in desperation, he began picking at the other floorboards around that empty space. Charged with adrenaline, wanting to get away from that ghastly scene, he began tearing up the planks easily–tossing them aside, widening the hole. Dust was flying as the walls were pounded upon, as screams, shouts, and the obvious noises of people trying to run in every direction at once from the horror that had fallen upon them clouded the air.

Richie had fitted himself in that hole, kicking fiercely at the next set of floorboards, the ceiling that covered the kitchen below, when the door broke. Glancing up, panting with his efforts, Richie saw a group of people stumble into his room, falling onto the floor in a clutter of haphazard clumsiness. The stench was overwhelming–these corpses had rotted in the sun.

He screamed in pure terror as he saw sightless eyes turn toward him, as bones clattered as they fell to the floor, as bodies started to move in reanimation, moving when they shouldn’t. The floorboards gave away, and he didn’t have the time to gather breath to scream again as he fell from the ceiling and landed into the kitchen below. He hit hard on his bottom, giving a pained squeak as he rested there for a moment–but the chaos was still continuing.

It made his heart race upon hearing the fear and the agony in those screams–a woman was shrieking non stop, and when it suddenly stopped, abruptly choked, that sent waves of nausea throughout his body. He ran out from the kitchen, not bothering to look around him–just raced out into the hall, and out into the courtyard. There were more people here, all of them those that were not dead–they were merely walking about, aimless.

He was careful to avoid them, breathing heavily as he started toward the street, at the same time trying to avoid Junior and his cronies. Successfully, he maneuvered past and through the walking crowd of undead, hearing horses squeal and panic, hearing more gunshots and screams. The street was in utter chaos–people were being taken down to the dirt by small groups of dead, and it seemed that once a person was taken down, those undead swarmed them all.

Horses were running with their riders dangling lifelessly against their backs, and the moment the animals bumped into the walking undead, they, too, were brought down by growing swarms of people. One horse, dragging its rider along behind it, hooves kicking it with every movement, slammed into a group of walking dead. Hands, various people–they simply struck out, grabbing a hold of moving legs, onto the horse’s mane, tail–as the animal bucked and jumped, trying to continue moving, more people swarmed it.

Before Richie’s shocked eyes, that group brought the animal down. He was utterly stunned to watch as a man leant forward, into the animal’s bulging stomach, and began to bite. The very fact that this human was biting the animal, others following suit as the animal squealed and screamed, struggling to rise again, made Richie very still. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, even as blood began to spurt into the air with crazy color, as the horse’s eyes seemed to widen with utter terror. Several more people fell onto the animal, one of them charging for its thick throat.

Hearing the animal’s squeals of death and destruction had Richie panicking, moving. Cleverly realizing that he was fine if he kept from touching the undead, he strained to avoid contact with the walking, looking for a way to hide–or at least get out of town.

A few riders were clamoring in from the darkness, their high pitched wails and screams overtaking all that was occurring here. Pausing, mostly out of fright, Richie watched them enter town. Their steeds were horses, deer, elk–anything that could carry the frightening riders in black. The odd thing was, those animals were missing a great majority of their hides, muscle–in some areas, their bones caught the gleam of the moon above. Innards were trailing over the dirt–he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Those riders plowed through anyone in their path, swinging what looked to be rifles and machetes around. Undead, panicked living–anything in their path was either mowed down by their rides, or taken down by their weapons. Richie noticed that if the undead were bumped, they tried to swarm those vicious riders with the same intent they had going on with the stampeding living. One of those riders grew close, sweeping his machete from side to side–knocking off heads, sending blood flying, his steed panting heavily as it stormed through the crowd.

The rider’s long jacket flapped behind him, and he was covered in head-to-toe in a funny sort of material–something slick, but heavy enough to emit a particular stench that touched him even above all the other smells. The rider’s eyes were barely visible beneath its hat, but they glowed an eerie red–and it was missing all its facial features. To Richie, it seemed as if it were a skeleton dressed in outrageous clothing.

But it had more mind than the zombies–spotting him, the rider gave a loud shriek that sent most of the undead bowing forward, their hands moving toward their ears; eerily, while the sound was distracting, it wasn’t enough for Richie to feel pain at the volume. It affected mostly the undead. The rider shifted the horse’s path, mowing down fleeing whores and a couple of drunken cowboys that spilled out from Alva’s saloon.

Realizing that it was heading for him, cackling madly, Richie turned and began running, careful to avoid touching the walking undead. The horse emitted a barking shriek, mowing down everything in its path as its rider cackled with glee, swinging that machete around.

Not really thinking, Richie ducked into a side shop, slamming into a couple of people that were standing there. Gasping, panicked that they were the dead, he threw himself off from them, scrambled backwards, and headed back out. By this time, the rider had swept past, knocking the head off an undead miner as he reached out for its mount. More riders of the same style were tearing through the street, moving in the same manner through the crowds.
The animals that were moving about varied in appearance–there were dogs, cats, deer, raccoons; even birds. They flitted through the air, strangely losing their feathers, falling into violent descents when they were no longer able to keep themselves up there. The animals weren’t attacking unless provoked in the same manner as the undead–it was strange to see a deer gnawing down on a screaming whore, somebody he didn’t recognize.

He bumped into a couple of people, and poured on the speed once he realized who he’d bumped. He wasn’t sure where he was going, where he was going to find safety. He heard the enraged roars of those men that were after him, their jaws dangling in haphazard fashion, their arms outstretched.

More blasts from rapid gunfire had several undead falling before him. He just barely avoided touching them as his pursuers switched motive, attacking those on the dirt. Amid the wretched growls, squealing and sounds of flesh being torn from bone, he raced on.

A rider rode by, Richie feeling the swift cut in air as a rifle butt missed him by scant inches. The inhuman thing cackled in delight as it turned its mount, chasing after him. The mount, a full grown deer with a massive spread of antlers, snorted as its thin legs and small hooves pounded the dirt underneath, carelessly running over fallen people in its path.

Looking over his shoulder, Richie saw the rider catching up, the deer lowering his antlers, charging at him. He wasn’t going to make it–! He swept to the side, tripping over a mewling kitten, slamming into the dirt as the rifle butt and antlers missed him once more. The kitten, however, reared on him angrily, screeching as it dug its small claws into his boot, teeth gnashing into his jeans. Richie gave a startled sound, kicking both feet, managing to kick the dead thing off of him–enraging it even more.

Not even bothering to feel as ridiculous as he looked, trying to escape a deranged kitten, Richie shot to his feet and began running once more–only that rider had enough time to turn, in the process of charging at him with that same wild cackle.

Richie wasn’t sure what he was hit with–by that rifle butt, or that deer’s massive antlers–but he was sent flying back into the street, slamming into a small crowd of people that were in the midst of tearing apart a drunken sodbuster. Chaos descended, and he fought wildly for his life, screaming in fear the entire time as hands clamped down onto his arms, as ruined faces peered at him.

The sodbuster, missing half his face, propelled only by his drunken rage, managed to throw them all off of him, blasting his revolver in wild abandon. Richie was tossed a couple of feet away, those undead losing their grip. As startled horror told him he was free, he was up and running again, zigzagging through the chaos, hearing screams, shouts, cries and the unholy sounds of bodies being torn apart.

Several houses were in flame–the heat cut through the cool air, filled the night with building smoke. Glass shattered as windows were broken–small explosions caused by temporary oil containers broke through the screaming monotony. Wood was torn apart in mad frenzy, buildings being torn, literally, at the seams.
Animals screamed, people cried–the streets were filled with chaos.

He didn’t know where to go–everywhere he turned, there was either a rider or a swarm of undead milling around. He lost track of the panicked living–he just wanted to get out, but it seemed that more and more undead were tracking into town, cutting off all available escape routes.

He found himself lurching into the doorway of an open shop, the neighboring shack next door bright with flames. The wall nearest it was starting to blacken, smoking, and he coughed violently, trying to figure out an escape route as smoke filled the shack. A woman was racing by, naked, breasts flopping about as several undead charged after her.

A dog was mauling a frightened horse, its rider trying frantically to get it off his steed.

There were kids of undetermined nationality running by, their frantic mother holding onto their hands, crying as she tried directing them through the chaos.

He clutched the doorway, gasping for breath, coughing as the smoke grew worse. A rider shot by, one of those children in his arms. He didn’t want to know what was going to happen to her, squeezing his eyes shut as the child’s frantic screams merged with the chaos in the street.

Finally, driven out by the heat and smoke, Richie shot back out into the street, spying a clearing through an alleyway–beyond that, there was nothing. He shot for that route, hearing the exclaiming cackle of a rider. Panting heavily, he ran as fast as he could through the alley, hearing the thin walls echo with the animal’s hooves pounding against the dirt. He shot out through the alley, seeing that he was in the clear–that straight ahead of him was the welcoming timberline that flowed directly into the ‘hostile’ mountains.

Looking back behind him, he saw the rider, riding a fast moving gelding, hold up what looked to be a cleaver–it was aiming to throw it at him. Richie kept running, throwing terrified glances at the rider with almost every step. The rider flung the dangerous item at him, and luck had him tripping at that particular instant, over something in the dirt. The cleaver landed inches from his sprawled form, then rolled in the dust.

The rider shifted its horse’s path, and intended to mow him down that way. Richie knew he wasn’t fast enough to escape that, and could only watch in horror as the horse gained precious inches toward him, nostrils flaring with each hard pant.

A shot gun blast had the rider flying off its ride, the animal screeching with surprise, wheeling away from the current path it was taking. The rider, dressed in similar clothing as the first Richie had seen, hit the dirt in a spectacular show of dirt and flapping black. The animal kicked and bucked, angrily charging the group of riders that were riding toward it.

Richie picked himself up from the ground, and chose to continue running for the timberline, too distressed to see if those riders were friend or foe.

The demonic rider blasted from his horse gave a wild cackle, facing the group of men that were coming its way–its arms were outstretched, skeletal hands out wide, eyes glowing a bright red. As they neared, it was withdrawing a sleek, handsome shotgun from a hidden position behind it. This gun was wide barreled, long–the butt shaped and carved from what looked to be the edge of a sword. It caught the gleam of the moon as it brandished the weapon, firing once into the group.

A horse squealed, a rider shouting in agony as he fell from his ride, and more blasts of the gun rang out. The rider caught the spray of pellets, knocked backward, but it continued to stand, brandishing its weapon once more with another cackle of glee.

A blast from another gun sent the rider’s head flying from its shoulders. The body flopped lifelessly onto the ground, gun falling from its curled hand.

Richie, meanwhile, found himself wrenched from the ground, giving an awkward, protesting shout as the rider of a pale white horse caught up to him, holding him in place. He was then shoved towards another horse, this one a pretty Palomino, the rider easy to recognize as he jerked him from the dirt and maneuvered behind him. Without thinking too much, Richie held tightly onto the waist of Alva Junior, who was screaming orders at his group of cronies–some of which held the other whores from the saloon. The elder Alva was busy reloading his weapon, screaming orders for one of the men to grab that rider’s weapon.

It was ridiculous to think that the older Alva and the younger one were trying to rescue their moneymakers in the chaos the undead were causing.

Either way, he was rescued.