Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ Blayne and Blood, Inc. ( Chapter 7 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Kangorr looked at Hotstreak questioningly. All years apart had suddenly felt like nothing. “You gotta home to go?”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 03.04.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 7.3K | Visits: 419 | Status: Completed
Kangorr looked at Hotstreak questioningly. All years apart had suddenly felt like nothing. “You gotta home to go?”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 03.04.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 7.3K | Visits: 419 | Status: Completed
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: Thank ya!
I’m Alive: Wow, you sure get me thinking, chick. Sharon is still missing–who’s to know what happened? (Until I write it...XD) As for Virgil, he seems the type to hold a grudge for awhile, until someone beans him in the head for a realization. This story is starting to overwhelm my mind with all its plans...future chapters...@_@
Chapter Seven:
Blayne and Blood, Inc.
The town, by the time Charger and Hotstreak came back, was in the same sort of shambles that the ranch was. Bodies were strewn everywhere–most of the growing settlement had burnt to the ground. The stench of rotting bodies, bloated from the sun, wafted in with the afternoon breeze. Smoldering ruins continued to glow orange beneath blackened ashes. On the rail line nearby, there was a group of boxcars, missing most of their sides, and smoking, scorching the sky with black.
The horse had been growing steadily agitated as they neared the settlement, and it took a lot for Hotstreak to control him. Ears flattened, nostrils flaring, Charger put up a fight at first–but finally settled after a few minutes, sullenly walking forward with his head high, eyes wide and wild as the stench grew steadily stronger the closer they neared.
The silence was eerie.
It seemed as if Charger’s hooves hitting the dirt was the only thing that broadcasted life. Staring warily around him, Hotstreak rode with a tired sort of appearance, not wanting to blink for an instant. It had been over two days...nearly four. More than enough time to have those bodies reanimated and looking to destroy. He was at a loss of what to do–he didn’t want to go back to the ranch; guilt tore at him, making him wince, doubling over slightly.
He couldn’t help but feel entirely responsible for the deaths of those that he’d learned to love and trust. Seeing Robert as part of the undead hurt–that man had been kind and caring, deserving respect for the work that he did, and for what he planned on accomplishing. He had worked hard to provide well for his two children–as a minority, he’d deserved that expansion of timber land and his ranch and cattle grounds. He had worked hard, honestly–kind to those that needed work or help with something that had brought them down.
Robert had given him a chance, and he’d worked hard to repay him.
Then...his past caught up to him. In this.
He pulled Charger to a stop, staring at the ruins before him. Turning right, he could head toward the corrals in the north end of town–near Alva’s saloon. Toward the left, he could head into the south end, where the majority of settlers had taken residence. That was also the way towards friendly territory, into charted lands.
He found himself staring at the north end, trying to pick out Alva’s saloon. He had a fleeting thought in that he should have stopped to make sure that boy had gotten away; maybe he wouldn’t be alone, now. But he clamped his teeth, locking his back teeth hard. He hadn’t even thought of that when he’d pushed Virgil and the others to move–he’d thought mainly of his own fear and anxiety; wanting to save himself, and spare himself the trouble of wading all over again through the mess of zombies.
He had to wonder if the boy had escaped–or if he’d find his body, lying among the others. A sort of intense curiosity gripped him, then. He had to know. He maneuvered Charger into that direction, apprehensively taking in the remnants of the town. There was something clanging in the distance–but he placed it as a window shutter hanging by its hinges, caught on the wind that had picked up, sweeping dust through the quiet streets.
There weren’t even any animals salvaging about, like they normally would. As he passed one particular alley, he spied a dead rider and its ride, lying haphazardly over someone’s overturned outhouse. He paused, considering the rider’s jacket and hat–knowing full well the benefits of that alien skin.
010101010110
“It took seven shots to bring him down!” Blayne exclaimed, rather in amazement.
Both he and Francis were staring down at a fallen rider–the black teen had aimed correctly for the rider’s face when they’d learned that their bullets bounced right off its coat and hat. The thin brim and tie looked worn, but comfortably new in that it didn’t hold any shape to it–as if the skeleton hadn’t fitted it onto its smooth, round head.
The rider had been harassing them ever since their arrival into their sixth town. But both boys had grown used to the chaotic, and oftentimes scary battle with the gruesome creatures. They’d merely taken their time, trying to figure out ways to take the thing out–trying to kill its ride (which had been a high-spirited gelding that was missing half of the left section of its head) hadn’t proven very useful, until Blayne had figured out how to hack the bones of its legs to their advantage.
Once the ride had fallen, squealing with indignant reproach, Francis had put an end to its harassment by managing to get close enough to hack a well-used axe through the center of its skull, while Blayne charged in close to fire his newly discovered six-shooters at the rider.
Now, standing victoriously over the rider, both of them were taking in the thing’s appearance; it was a skeleton, pure and simple. Riding and cackling evilly, it had seemed fleshy and rounded, thick and strong–but now, it was a gleaming heap of sunbleached bones with a bullet hole on the side of its head. It looked as if it had been wearing those clothes for years–but the material hadn’t faded a bit.
Francis shifted nervously. “What you gonna do with it?”
Blayne had a concentrating expression on his face. “Take it’s clothes,” he decided, crouching and doing just that, while Francis gaped.
A few minutes later, Blayne set the thin brim hat over his head, adjusting it and fitting it to his shape. Francis was leaning on the axe, giving him a skeptic look. “That makes you look like yer wearin’ some sorta potato sack, man,” he complained. “It looks hot as hell.”
“Kinda,” Blayne admitted, picking at the sleeves. The material was nothing he’d ever felt, or seen, before. It gleamed lightly, smooth hairs so dense and thick that it almost resembled the back of an otter’s pelt. It was shaped into a trench, and stitched handsomely with what looked to be some sort of animal gut. It was entirely fluid–fitting atop of his clothes and skin like that of a body hugging shirt. “It’s light. Real light. An...I dunno.”
Both of them admired it for a few moments, then Blayne received a glint in his eye. He turned toward Francis, who still wasn’t sure of his friend’s fashion sense. “Shoot me,” he declared, hands akimbo.
“What? You gotta be trippin’,” Francis scoffed, straightening. But then he realized Blayne was looking pretty serious. “You for real?”
“Yeah! I mean...when we were shootin’ at him, he wasn’t fazed, none! Shoot me! With these six-shooters.”
Blayne hefted one of them from his hip and passed it over to him. Francis took the gun with a highly doubtful expression, not bothering to fit it in his hand–holding it by the barrel. Blayne turned his back to him, sweating nervously, hands clenched. But he was just determined to see what the jacket could do. He had seen those rounds bounce right off the hide!
“I ain’t gonna do it, man,” Francis said, shaking his head. “I ain’t gonna! What if you...what if you die?”
“Then we know that it don’t work,” Blayne declared, frowning at him. “How we gonna know stuff if’n we don’t try, Stone? How we gonna know? Just do it–shoot me where I might heal easily.”
“Nah, I don’t wanna. I mean...no. Yer outta yer mind, man! Sun got to ya, or yer turnin’ like Aron!”
Blayne sighed in exasperation, snatching the gun from him. Not bothering to give himself pause, or think more of the action, he pointed the gun at himself and fired. Francis screamed, so startled by the action that he jumped back, axe hitting the dirt with a loud boomf!
But Blayne still stood. And the close-range shot had done nothing to the front of his coat.
Both boys stayed in sightless reaction until the slow drip!-drip!-drip! caught their attention. Yellow droplets dripped from the back of the front of the coat, dripping into the dirt. Swallowed with a light fluff of dust.
They grinned at each other, then laughed.
010101010110
Blayne had been riskier than him–watching those things closely, studying their weaknesses and noting their strengths. Using all that he’d gathered into fighting back. Both he and Francis were a team for awhile–both of them wearing the clothes of various riders, protected from just about anything with those magical hide pelts. They had no idea what sort of animal wore them until they ran into the same town Caine was using as a sort of headquarters...
But he didn’t want to think about that, anymore.
He left Charger, trusting him to stay put as he walked over to the fallen rider. Seeing that it had been taken down between the eyes. Good shot, he thought vaguely, stripping the skeleton–bones cluttered to the dirt with hollow noise as he took the jacket and hat–tossing his own aside. He also loaded up on the weapons that it had left behind–those weapons that were half knives, half shotgun–and the ammo strapped around sunbleached hipbones. He strapped those around his own body, and kicked the dead animal as he walked back to Charger.
He let the big stallion sniff at the pelts–it made any horse nervous, sending them into fits of nervousness. Despite his challenging personality, Charger was still bothered by the alien scent. He tossed his head, wrenching the reins out of Hotstreak’s hand and ran away.
“You fuckin’ MUTT–!” he started to yell, then quieted. His voice had seemed to penetrate the silence with obscene decibel, and it made him tense. Charger merely neighed and flicked his tail before disappearing down a street.
By the time Hotstreak caught up to him, the stallion was nosing around the correl that it remembered. Quietly, Hotstreak stared up at the ruins of the saloon, staring at the room he knew the boy had used. The stairs were still there–half the building was still there. Including that room. Glancing around himself, he made sure Charger was occupied, and climbed the creaky stairway, fondly stroking the right arm of his jacket.
The material was light–but it adapted well against the cold and the heat, shifting temperature when appropriate. The shoulders were dotted with faint gray splotches, and the stitches were a dark green. It was finely crafted–just as fine as a fur coat, adaptable for men. Tough as leather, and strong as stone–they were also fireproof, and nearly weightless in water. Fine material, if one didn’t try to consider what sort of animal possessed it. They were better off not knowing.
Once he reached the second floor, he found himself hesitating. The town was extremely silent, save for that banging window shutter–he could hear the wind whistling through various spaces throughout the street. Fire raged somewhere–he could still smell smoke. Not that of smoldering flames, but fire that had fuel. The sun faded for an instant, causing him to look up, seeing the huge plume of smoke that reached up to touch the bright blue sky. He squinted his eyes, wondering where it was coming from–he hadn’t seen it earlier.
The wind caused the door, which had been open, to creak open, startling him. Jerking to a start, he looked over to see that room revealed to him. Quietly, he walked forward, cautiously walking in. There was a fine coat of dust everywhere he looked–there were a small pile of floorboards near the bed–pulled up, revealing a hole that led straight down to the kitchen below. He had to wonder if that was how the boy had escaped–felt some hope build in his chest. A strange feeling for a total but enigmatic stranger, and he had to question himself in why he felt so much for the boy.
One recall of those amber eyes had him looking away from the hole, looking around the room with silent wonder. The bed had been torn apart–those undead had been thorough in looking for prey. Once agitated, they just seemed to go wild, ripping apart anything in their path for blood. Shelves had been torn down–it was just a shack of a room, with barely enough space for a bed and those space holders, but–his eye caught sight of something just under the window. A black leather bag. Curiosity had him walking toward it, leaning down to pick it up. It was slightly heavy, and he winced as he dropped it. Crouching, he opened the top, revealing many leather bound books within. He couldn’t read that well–only what he had to. But these were no interest of him, and he started to shove them aside.
Until he thought of the boy, wondering just how valuable those books were to him. Perhaps they were all his treasures; all he had for comfort while waiting for a customer to pay for him. Suddenly, they were valuable to Hotstreak, as well. But he couldn’t take all of them. With a grim sort of frustration, oddly amused that he was going through such lengths, he began pulling them all out. Sorting through them, wondering what the value was on every one. Flipping through them, all of them looked the same.
With a broad-shouldered shrug, he set aside three of the thickest ones, and a slim red volume. He set the other books in a neat pile underneath the bed, and packed the four back into the leather bag. He left the room, exhaling heavily as he descended the stairway. Looking over at Charger, he noted that the stallion’s ears were raised, and his face was pointed beyond the saloon–staring attentively at something that was surely out of place. Hurrying towards him, Hotstreak glanced over his shoulder, seeing that there was someone walking amongst the gore and destruction of the street.
Charger was agitated by the smell of his clothing, jerking his head back as Hotstreak tied the leather bag among those he had packed on his back. Speaking quietly to him, he stood next to him, soothing him with a hand on his neck. Charger examined the coat and hat once more, and snorted, obviously disliking both. His teeth snared the shoulder area, and shook slightly before releasing, snorting once more with a fair toss of his head.
While Hotstreak waited for him to somewhat approve enough so that he could mount him, he watched that person walk. From what he could see, they were short–almost child-like. Dressed in shiny material and having something funny with their hair. They were carefully moving through the masses of bodies, both animal and human alike, in the street. Occasionally dropping to rummage or pick something up. Apprehensive, Hotstreak realized that that sort of behavior wasn’t zombie related. It was that of a scavenger, a man.
A survivor?
Unsure, he mounted Charger, intending to ride over to investigate–and paused once he recognized the familiar feel of a gun barrel against his temple. The sharp click of a bullet loaded into the chamber. The smell of gunpowder.
He blinked in startled surprise, wondering why Charger himself hadn’t bothered with alerting him of this person’s proximity. But one glance forward told him that the stallion was occupied with munching on sugar cubes propped atop one of the fenceposts.
“Traitor,” he muttered, frowning glumly.
“Bang,” came a cool, low voice, purred in a sort of way that had his neck tingling. Not in arousal–but in how cool it was. His eyes darted to the side, and he was startled to see a black man perched atop of the correl, a rapid-fire, unrecognizable multi-round shotgun pointed right at his face. The design, the steel and cool lining had him earnestly astonished at the technology, distracted more by the gun than the man.
Who was dressed like him in a similar manner–wearing the pelt and hat of a fallen rider.
He forced himself to look at the man, who looked a little disappointed in that he was too slow to react to his arrival. Glumly, the gun was retracted.
“You ain’t no fun, man,” he muttered, in that same, cool voice. As if he were never ruffled.
He rose into a standing position, Hotstreak noticing that he was wearing more of that pelt all over–in a strange sort of coverall that covered all of his body, save the area around his shoulders and collarbone–that was covered with a bright white shirt, a couple of crosses hanging in upside-down manner from twine around his neck. His boots were a shiny leather Hotstreak hadn’t seen, before. Melted like butter against his legs, ending in steel-toed points, the heels fashioned in a more rounder, broader way.
Strapped around his chest were ammunition he wasn’t familiar with–at his hips were two wicked scythes that were used for cutting fields, but they were fashioned in a way that the rounded knobs of each handle had the face of skeletons on them. The handles were wrapped in twine, and the blades were tucked safely within molded leather. Over his jacket, strapped like a backpack, were twin rifles.
All he could do was gape–this man radiated cool.
“You live here?” the man asked him, frowning at him. It looked as if his face was permanently etched with a scowl–the hat hung low so that it cut across his brow, and there was something eerily familiar about his features that Hotstreak stared at him blankly, trying to picture this man in his memory.
The man grew tired of his dumb silence, and whapped the back of his head with one half-gloved hand. “You deaf, man? Can you talk? Speak-a da Engrish?”
“I–I–yeah, I speak English!” Hotstreak finally stuttered, straightening his hat as Charger gave a sound that almost disputed his claim. “Who the fuck are you?”
“None o’ yo damn buziness,” the man drawled, his accent very unfamiliar. He placed his hands on his hips and sneered down at him. They were both the same height–Hotstreak was sure of this. Almost the same size–save his own shoulders were broader, his chest bigger. But this man was a match for strength–he could tell. “We came too late for this place, eh? Just a train too...late...but it looked pretty shitty, anyway. Didn’t look as if it’d last another year...”
Hotstreak didn’t know what to say–looking away from him and scanning what remained of Alva’s town. That person he’d spotted earlier had grown closer during the exchange–it was a man. A small, slender man wearing funny looking clothes. And...if his eyes weren’t playing tricks with him...he had purple hair.
“Just another shithole that’s prolly better off,” the man muttered, rubbing his chin. Hotstreak could swear he’d seen that action before–he just couldn’t think where! “Lotsa people died–prolly would burn this entire valley down to the ground if we set them all on fire.”
He knew what to do–! Hotstreak was amazed, jerking his head into a nod. “Yeah...yeah, but there ain’t nothin’ around for miles. It might be okay.”
The man looked down at him, then leapt off the fence in a motion that could only be described as fluid. His jacket barely moved, and all his equipment barely made a sound. Charger was startled to see the man walking past him, having never heard or sensed him do so. Hotstreak couldn’t help but be awed by this man, who was walking toward the funny looking one. He pushed Charger forward.
“Where you from?” he asked, almost eagerly, admiring the cool saunter the man had. The way he moved as if he were all liquid.
“Don’t remember.”
“Well...how do you know how to get rid of all them?” Hotstreak pressed, keeping Charger alongside him.
“Man...we just do.”
“Who’s we?”
A chin jutted forward in the form of a point, gesturing at the other man. “Me. Shiv. And Kangorr. I go by Ebon. Sorta...we sorta just wanderers, man. That’s all.”
“Just three of you?” Hotstreak exclaimed in amazement. “Dressed like that? Whatcha’ll get to to look like that, like ya’ll know what yer doin’?”
Ebon gave him a look of disgust. “Slow down, man. Chill. You in shock?”
“No. Just...I guess, kinda in awe. I had no idea other people knew what to do with this.”
The man paused, then continued walking. “You know of zombies? You obviously know the Mad Men. ‘S what we call them guys on horseback. Cuz they all mad. In da head....”
Before Hotstreak could explain how, what and why, the purple haired man was charging forward, giggling in a mad sort of way.
“Look at all this cash, man!” he exclaimed, his words thick with a foreign accent. His ‘l’s were pronounced as r’s, and his words were stunted–as if he were tripping over every one. A little high pitched, squeaky, like a teenager’s, he spoke with animated features that were quite upbeat and friendly.
As he hurried closer, Hotstreak could see that this one was dressed funny–he hadn’t seen this sort of dress, before.
He wore a shirt made out of silk, spotted with gold crests. It was held together by material-based toggles, and the sleeves, collar and waist band was all black fabric that was highlighted briefly with every moment he made. His pants were made of a sort of puffy material, gathered around his ankles–he wore white socks, and slippers that were made out of the same material as that of his shirt. He wore thin silver hoops at his earlobes–strapped over his back were a pair of thin, curved swords with light gold handles. Beautiful weapons–but incredibly distracting.
He had a cloth bag slung over one shoulder, made out of what looked to be bedsheets. In it was full of treasures he’d apparently picked from the dead. He showed the black man a handful of gold and nickel coins, giggling again as he tossed on a woman’s bonnet to shield his features from the sun.
“What are you going to do with that?” Ebon asked, exasperated, swiping the pretty cotton bonnet off his head. “We don’t need cash where we’re going! We ain’t needed that in a long ass time, you idiot!”
“Aw...but...still! What if we get lucky?”
One arm swept out, and a finger pointed angrily at the dirt. With a reluctant sigh, the coins fell from slender hands.
The Asian looked down for a moment, and seemed to notice Hotstreak for the first time. He leapt back instantly, with a sort of relieved expression on his face. “Wow! I thought you were Kangorr!”
“Shut up, man. Your English is so bad, he prolly had no idea what you just said.”
“Ah–! I meant...cool!”
The black man sighed, and looked up at Hotstreak. “You the only survivor, man?”
Hotstreak thought about the ranch, and the others. He shrugged. “Basically. Been lookin’ to get out of here, but...just thought I’d check the place out before I head out.”
Ebon shook his head. “Ain’t no where to go, man. Through this area, Caine and his crew have everything under their control. They spreading East ward, now. They got the entire Spanish territory under their hands–spread toward Mexico. Every one they come to, they kill.”
The Asian, Shiv, shook his head excitedly. “Everyone! No one lives!”
“No one. ‘Cept in their army.”
Hotstreak stared at them, feeling wholly empty all of a sudden. Unable to imagine that amount of control Caine and his ‘master’ had. The West had expanded with so many settlers and prospectors that it seemed impossibly to fathom–that it had been conquered.
“The Indians...?”
“Ain’t no one safe from the zombies, man. Even them! No guns, no nothin’–! What, they try to chase away Ghouls and Hounds with them bows an’ arrows? Ain’t shit. They drop just as easily as these poor fools.”
Hotstreak thought of the Indians he’d befriended through the years, licking his dry lips. He knew the creatures that Ebon spoke of, and recalled them with a distinct remembrance that had him shivering slightly.
“Ain’t no one safe,” the black man repeated, Shiv accentuated this with a rapid shake of his head.
“No one,” he repeated in his stunted English.
Hotstreak thought of eight years ago–when he could have ended all this by killing Caine, and that mummified infant. The one that squealed and squeaked when it shouldn’t have. But it wasn’t something he could have done–he had been young...inexperienced. Stunned by the new arrival of zombies and otherworldly creatures.
A hand hit his thigh, and Shiv danced out of the way before Charger could bite him. Ebon gave Hotstreak a frown. Something about the black man made the stallion hesitate to take a chunk out of him. It was a little surprising in that Charger didn’t try. Hotstreak jiggled the reins, as if that would tell him whether or not the stallion was okay.
“You okay? You sure you ain’t in shock?” Ebon asked, having hit him.
“...Y-yeah. Just...thinking. About...about things.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, thinking of the many nights he’d gotten drunk just to block out the things he’d seen. “You say there was three of you?”
“Yeah. Me, Shiv and Kangorr.”
“...What kinda name is that?” Hotstreak asked skeptically.
“Dunno. Just calls him by what he wanna be called.” Ebon shrugged. “Ain’t no business of mine what he wanna be named. What’s yours, by the way?”
Hotstreak told them, and both men looked at him skeptically. “W-what’s that for?” Shiv asked curiously, sounding out the name with clumsy lips.
The redhead flushed, ducking his head in a bashed manner. “Gotta temper on me. Guess I was named after that.”
Ebon continued to give him a skeptic look, then finally gave a slow grin. “What’s your real name, man?”
“...Something stupid. I don’t want to repeat it. But I ain’t from here. From down Orleans...where all this shit started.”
Both of them looked interested, exchanging looks of curiosity before Ebon faced him again. “Really? That’s where Kangorr’s, from. Got that same sorta drawl.”
Something touched the back of his ear, and Hotstreak flicked at it. “Huh.”
Ebon jerked, as if he just remembered something. He patted Shiv across the head with the palm of his head. “Got the matches, man? We gonna burn this entire town, down.”
Amber eyes crossed his vision, and Hotstreak shook his head. “No. Wait. I–I don’t live here. But I know someone that did. I...I came back to see if–if he’d lived.”
“What’s he look like?” Shiv asked lifting both eyebrows. He had such a funny looking face–his black eyes slanted in a foreign way, but wide enough to express a sort of mania that seemed unbecoming. Sort of cute, in a way.
Hotstreak thought of the boy, trying to recall everything. “Blond...hair right here. Kinda–kinda gangly. Not that tall.”
Ebon scoffed, then shrugged. “Whatever. But Kangorr already burning the other side of town. We’ll let you look down this street. Meet us back here when you’re done.”
Hotstreak looked at them, unsure whether to trust them, or not. He didn’t know them–he didn’t know their motives. But he just wanted to see if that boy had survived–or if he was one of those lying dead in the streets. Quickly, he nudged Charger forward, casting the two men a wary glance, but the Asian was talking with a sort of giggle, and Ebon looked amused.
Hotstreak swore he saw that man, before.
Everyone lay in various stages of death–flesh torn, bones broken, blood everywhere. Old, young, men and women...if they hadn’t been taken down by zombies, they had been taken out by the animals that were part of it all. If it wasn’t manual force, it was those weapons those riders used. Every body was gruesome, and it made his stomach turn.
He put his hand to his mouth, trying to control his body as Charger trotted with noticeable agitation through the streets of gore. He paused at a few bodies, but none of the slim blonds was the one he was looking for. Each one he came to, he felt that immense, welling dread in the pit of his stomach, until he caught sight of the unfamiliar strangers’ faces. Still, even as he felt relieved that he hadn’t come onto the boy just yet, his mind was still wondering if he’d even looked in the right places. Confusion had sent everyone into a panic–people had been running in and out of buildings, throughout the streets; trying to escape the horrors that were chasing them.
He could be anywhere.
Still, he had to hope that the boy had gotten away–if he was desperate enough to rip through the floor to escape, then he may have the right instincts in avoiding certain and gruesome death.
Smoke drifted his way, and he sought to ignore it, turning up another major dirt road, Charger chewing anxiously at his bit.
By then, the smoke had built too thick and the flames were spreading too quick for him to continue. But every body he came to wasn’t the one that he was searching for. With a sort of relieved, empty feeling, he headed back through town and for the corrals. Then he had to pause once he came to an alley–catching sight of something that he hadn’t even thought of seeing. So preoccupied with the death of Robert and the ranch, of the amber-eyed boy, he hadn’t even thought of Maria and her brood.
There was a woman lying in the alley, stripped of her outer layer of skin. It looked as if dogs had gotten to her before anything else, but he had a faint chill up his spine in that he knew canines weren't responsible for the gory mess.
The long, lush hair was brown and full–curled at the ends. Hotstreak didn’t want to know if that was her–didn’t want to think of what had happened to her children. No...their children. The ones he never got to know.
Regret and intense guilt hit him, making him double once more. He had had kids–and hadn’t bothered with them. Just dropped off an occasional surprise–he didn’t even know what they sounded like. They’d been asleep every time he’d dropped by. He would leave before seeing them.
He’d had kids–and hadn’t made the effort to get to know them.
Feeling entirely low, he headed away from the alley. Bodies were starting to reanimate–lifting from the ground with those guttural moans. Charger was skittish, but Hotstreak wasn’t bothered. He was still able to maneuver around them with his mount. He pulled out a rifle from the case packed amongst those bags he had. Charger would have to get used to the creatures if they were going to encounter them more...
He started shooting, casually–as if he were target practicing. Charger was used to guns going off by his head, and started at the first shot–but grew somewhat comforted once the horse realized his master was shooting down the bodies that were rising to threaten them. Hotstreak lost himself in the action, numbly recalling that this zombie had been one of the bankers; that this one worked the postal service; that this one once hit on him the second time he’d come into town, years back. This one had only been five years old; this one had shit on his pants when Hotstreak had caught him out in the valley, beaver hunting. All these faces were familiar to him–he’d heard them talk, heard them laugh, shout, smile.
It was simply depressing to know that their bodies were being used in such ugly manner.
He had to wonder who these three men were, and how they knew so much about zombies. He wasn’t sure of their intentions, but he had to guess that they were the ‘good guys’. That they would know to burn the bodies before reanimation left him pretty confident in that they had familiar experience with this. He was suspicious of them–he didn’t know why.
But maybe he was just hesitant to accept it, after losing his ‘second’ family. He was still a little numb in that he’d lost Robert and the others–with Virgil hating him, understandably–and he still felt that agonizing guilt deep in his belly. But at the same time, he wanted to move on–if he dwelled on it...who knows what would happen?
What if those men were willing to let him join them? Would he do it? Would he want to keep immersing himself into the damn zombie business?
He didn’t want to–he’d run away the first time, overwhelmed by the continuous slaying of zombies and creatures with Blayne. It had seemed there was no point to it, back then–seeing bodies that were supposed to be dead attacking him. If they didn’t know where they were all coming from...how this was all happening...where Caine was...then how were two teenage boys supposed to fix it all?
He’d ran away after the third encounter with Caine and didn’t want to go back. Merely hid, hopped and ducked to avoid that responsibility. And...because he had...Robert and the others suffered.
He resolved himself to fix it, thinking about that.
Strange as it was, but if there was another person out there that had struck and stayed with him all this time...then he had a right to jump back into things...to fix it. If that boy was still alive and out there...then Hotstreak felt he had to fix it before he, too, died from the attack.
He was willing to believe that the boy was still alive somewhere out there.
If those men offered him a position with their ranks, he would take it. For the boy, of course. And for revenge against those that killed Robert and the others. He had to take responsibility! And if they didn’t...well, he would then look for the boy. That was how he decided on his future.
He had to know more about those men.
He assisted with the fire by jumping off Charger, lighting a match to a woman’s ruffled dress. He encouraged the flames by fanning them onto another body, Charger neighing nervously as he pranced, agitated by the smells, the smoke, and the bodies that were slowly taking notice of them. Jumping back onto his horse, he moved out of there, heading back to the corrals, taking casual shots at the bodies in his way.
Ebon and Shiv were still there, with three mounts standing nearby–Ebon picking at his teeth with the crosses, and Shiv looking through his bag of treasures. There was a third man with them, and as he neared, Hotstreak’s eyes widened with disbelief, as did the other’s.
“Blayne?!” he exclaimed, completely surprised and shocked.
“Francis?!” Blayne exclaimed, just as startled.
They both stared at each other in considerable amazement–Blayne had grown out of his gangly and youthful appearance into that of a man. Not quite as tall as he, probably just under six feet, he was packed with muscle in shoulders, chest and thighs. He wore the same identifying jacket and hat, only his jacket was shorter, waist length. His pants were leather, and he wore a sort of vest from both the pelt and leather. His boots were similar to Ebon, but with more tread at the bottom. He was outfitted with various weaponry–from a couple of rifles on his back, to rider weapons at his hips, to a large tomahawk strapped to his thigh, and straps of ammo here and there. He also wore a small, leather pack on his back that fitted easily between the two rifles.
This man was easily recognizable as his childhood friend–just incredibly bad-ass as a man. There was a certain strength that he exuded just standing there–as if he’d seen it all and then some.
His facial features had matured, but he’d grown a goatee, his braid was longer–grazing his waist–and he wore glasses that were easily recognizable for the blind. Only this man wasn’t blind, shifting the glasses upward to blink incredulous eyes as he stared at Hotstreak with the same measuring consideration.
“Francis? Blayne?” Both Ebon and Shiv questioned, with disbelieving looks on their faces. Both mentioned men grew abashed, both of them hunching in brief embarrassment at their given names.
Then Hotstreak realized where he’d seen Ebon, before–only it wasn’t Ebon. He looked at him with some excitement. “You know of a man named Adam Evans?”
Ebon about jerked violently, shoulders hunching upward, face displaying his surprise. Shiv and Kangorr looked at him in question.
“You look just like him!” Hotstreak continued, feeling elated that he’d realized the similarities. Both men were almost eerily the same, save for a few differences here and there. “Do ya?”
Ebon seemed to sulk, glaring at him before turning away. Shiv tilted his head. “Aw...he’s pouting! So cute...”
Kangorr snickered, looking at a confused Hotstreak. He studied him just as Hotstreak had with him a few moments ago. “Hey, man. Long time no see. Howzit?”
“Okay...just...never thought I’d see ya again. Thought’cha’all were off chasin’ zombies. Savin’ the world.”
“Still am.” Kangorr was amused, looking entirely like an older version of the gangly youth he had been. “Just...been weighed down a bit by these two losers. Last I heard of you, you were holding up trains going through the Panhandle...”
“Yeah, but that got old kinda quick.” Hotstreak didn’t want to talk about it. And Charger was getting restless with the growing smells of rotting human flesh. More moans and screams were sounding throughout the thick walls of smoke and flames. Structures were starting to fall. As embers tossed into the air, Kangorr sighed, looking around himself.
“Well...we’re done, here. Let’s head back out,” he announced, gesturing at their mounts tied nearby. Ebon and Shiv headed toward the animals as Kangorr easily climbed atop of his, a healthy, large-boned Arabian with spotted buttocks, similar to that of a Palomino.
Seeing that horse made Hotstreak think sadly of Virgil.
Kangorr looked at Hotstreak questioningly. All years apart had suddenly felt like nothing. “You gotta home to go?”
“...Nah. Not anymore,” Hotstreak said with a heavy sigh.
“Roll with us.”
“...Fine. Whatever. For now, at least.”
Kangorr gave a lopsided grin, Ebon and Shiv looking a little curious in that Hotstreak was accepted so easily by their ‘leader’. It had taken them awhile to get into the man’s trust, and this redhead was accepted just like that? They exchanged looks, but said nothing. Ebon mounted his auburn-colored gelding, and Shiv hopped easily onto his white and black spotted mare. Kangorr lead the way out of town, the others following closely.
The small settlement continued to burn, decorating the sky with black smoke.
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: Thank ya!
I’m Alive: Wow, you sure get me thinking, chick. Sharon is still missing–who’s to know what happened? (Until I write it...XD) As for Virgil, he seems the type to hold a grudge for awhile, until someone beans him in the head for a realization. This story is starting to overwhelm my mind with all its plans...future chapters...@_@
Chapter Seven:
Blayne and Blood, Inc.
The town, by the time Charger and Hotstreak came back, was in the same sort of shambles that the ranch was. Bodies were strewn everywhere–most of the growing settlement had burnt to the ground. The stench of rotting bodies, bloated from the sun, wafted in with the afternoon breeze. Smoldering ruins continued to glow orange beneath blackened ashes. On the rail line nearby, there was a group of boxcars, missing most of their sides, and smoking, scorching the sky with black.
The horse had been growing steadily agitated as they neared the settlement, and it took a lot for Hotstreak to control him. Ears flattened, nostrils flaring, Charger put up a fight at first–but finally settled after a few minutes, sullenly walking forward with his head high, eyes wide and wild as the stench grew steadily stronger the closer they neared.
The silence was eerie.
It seemed as if Charger’s hooves hitting the dirt was the only thing that broadcasted life. Staring warily around him, Hotstreak rode with a tired sort of appearance, not wanting to blink for an instant. It had been over two days...nearly four. More than enough time to have those bodies reanimated and looking to destroy. He was at a loss of what to do–he didn’t want to go back to the ranch; guilt tore at him, making him wince, doubling over slightly.
He couldn’t help but feel entirely responsible for the deaths of those that he’d learned to love and trust. Seeing Robert as part of the undead hurt–that man had been kind and caring, deserving respect for the work that he did, and for what he planned on accomplishing. He had worked hard to provide well for his two children–as a minority, he’d deserved that expansion of timber land and his ranch and cattle grounds. He had worked hard, honestly–kind to those that needed work or help with something that had brought them down.
Robert had given him a chance, and he’d worked hard to repay him.
Then...his past caught up to him. In this.
He pulled Charger to a stop, staring at the ruins before him. Turning right, he could head toward the corrals in the north end of town–near Alva’s saloon. Toward the left, he could head into the south end, where the majority of settlers had taken residence. That was also the way towards friendly territory, into charted lands.
He found himself staring at the north end, trying to pick out Alva’s saloon. He had a fleeting thought in that he should have stopped to make sure that boy had gotten away; maybe he wouldn’t be alone, now. But he clamped his teeth, locking his back teeth hard. He hadn’t even thought of that when he’d pushed Virgil and the others to move–he’d thought mainly of his own fear and anxiety; wanting to save himself, and spare himself the trouble of wading all over again through the mess of zombies.
He had to wonder if the boy had escaped–or if he’d find his body, lying among the others. A sort of intense curiosity gripped him, then. He had to know. He maneuvered Charger into that direction, apprehensively taking in the remnants of the town. There was something clanging in the distance–but he placed it as a window shutter hanging by its hinges, caught on the wind that had picked up, sweeping dust through the quiet streets.
There weren’t even any animals salvaging about, like they normally would. As he passed one particular alley, he spied a dead rider and its ride, lying haphazardly over someone’s overturned outhouse. He paused, considering the rider’s jacket and hat–knowing full well the benefits of that alien skin.
010101010110
“It took seven shots to bring him down!” Blayne exclaimed, rather in amazement.
Both he and Francis were staring down at a fallen rider–the black teen had aimed correctly for the rider’s face when they’d learned that their bullets bounced right off its coat and hat. The thin brim and tie looked worn, but comfortably new in that it didn’t hold any shape to it–as if the skeleton hadn’t fitted it onto its smooth, round head.
The rider had been harassing them ever since their arrival into their sixth town. But both boys had grown used to the chaotic, and oftentimes scary battle with the gruesome creatures. They’d merely taken their time, trying to figure out ways to take the thing out–trying to kill its ride (which had been a high-spirited gelding that was missing half of the left section of its head) hadn’t proven very useful, until Blayne had figured out how to hack the bones of its legs to their advantage.
Once the ride had fallen, squealing with indignant reproach, Francis had put an end to its harassment by managing to get close enough to hack a well-used axe through the center of its skull, while Blayne charged in close to fire his newly discovered six-shooters at the rider.
Now, standing victoriously over the rider, both of them were taking in the thing’s appearance; it was a skeleton, pure and simple. Riding and cackling evilly, it had seemed fleshy and rounded, thick and strong–but now, it was a gleaming heap of sunbleached bones with a bullet hole on the side of its head. It looked as if it had been wearing those clothes for years–but the material hadn’t faded a bit.
Francis shifted nervously. “What you gonna do with it?”
Blayne had a concentrating expression on his face. “Take it’s clothes,” he decided, crouching and doing just that, while Francis gaped.
A few minutes later, Blayne set the thin brim hat over his head, adjusting it and fitting it to his shape. Francis was leaning on the axe, giving him a skeptic look. “That makes you look like yer wearin’ some sorta potato sack, man,” he complained. “It looks hot as hell.”
“Kinda,” Blayne admitted, picking at the sleeves. The material was nothing he’d ever felt, or seen, before. It gleamed lightly, smooth hairs so dense and thick that it almost resembled the back of an otter’s pelt. It was shaped into a trench, and stitched handsomely with what looked to be some sort of animal gut. It was entirely fluid–fitting atop of his clothes and skin like that of a body hugging shirt. “It’s light. Real light. An...I dunno.”
Both of them admired it for a few moments, then Blayne received a glint in his eye. He turned toward Francis, who still wasn’t sure of his friend’s fashion sense. “Shoot me,” he declared, hands akimbo.
“What? You gotta be trippin’,” Francis scoffed, straightening. But then he realized Blayne was looking pretty serious. “You for real?”
“Yeah! I mean...when we were shootin’ at him, he wasn’t fazed, none! Shoot me! With these six-shooters.”
Blayne hefted one of them from his hip and passed it over to him. Francis took the gun with a highly doubtful expression, not bothering to fit it in his hand–holding it by the barrel. Blayne turned his back to him, sweating nervously, hands clenched. But he was just determined to see what the jacket could do. He had seen those rounds bounce right off the hide!
“I ain’t gonna do it, man,” Francis said, shaking his head. “I ain’t gonna! What if you...what if you die?”
“Then we know that it don’t work,” Blayne declared, frowning at him. “How we gonna know stuff if’n we don’t try, Stone? How we gonna know? Just do it–shoot me where I might heal easily.”
“Nah, I don’t wanna. I mean...no. Yer outta yer mind, man! Sun got to ya, or yer turnin’ like Aron!”
Blayne sighed in exasperation, snatching the gun from him. Not bothering to give himself pause, or think more of the action, he pointed the gun at himself and fired. Francis screamed, so startled by the action that he jumped back, axe hitting the dirt with a loud boomf!
But Blayne still stood. And the close-range shot had done nothing to the front of his coat.
Both boys stayed in sightless reaction until the slow drip!-drip!-drip! caught their attention. Yellow droplets dripped from the back of the front of the coat, dripping into the dirt. Swallowed with a light fluff of dust.
They grinned at each other, then laughed.
010101010110
Blayne had been riskier than him–watching those things closely, studying their weaknesses and noting their strengths. Using all that he’d gathered into fighting back. Both he and Francis were a team for awhile–both of them wearing the clothes of various riders, protected from just about anything with those magical hide pelts. They had no idea what sort of animal wore them until they ran into the same town Caine was using as a sort of headquarters...
But he didn’t want to think about that, anymore.
He left Charger, trusting him to stay put as he walked over to the fallen rider. Seeing that it had been taken down between the eyes. Good shot, he thought vaguely, stripping the skeleton–bones cluttered to the dirt with hollow noise as he took the jacket and hat–tossing his own aside. He also loaded up on the weapons that it had left behind–those weapons that were half knives, half shotgun–and the ammo strapped around sunbleached hipbones. He strapped those around his own body, and kicked the dead animal as he walked back to Charger.
He let the big stallion sniff at the pelts–it made any horse nervous, sending them into fits of nervousness. Despite his challenging personality, Charger was still bothered by the alien scent. He tossed his head, wrenching the reins out of Hotstreak’s hand and ran away.
“You fuckin’ MUTT–!” he started to yell, then quieted. His voice had seemed to penetrate the silence with obscene decibel, and it made him tense. Charger merely neighed and flicked his tail before disappearing down a street.
By the time Hotstreak caught up to him, the stallion was nosing around the correl that it remembered. Quietly, Hotstreak stared up at the ruins of the saloon, staring at the room he knew the boy had used. The stairs were still there–half the building was still there. Including that room. Glancing around himself, he made sure Charger was occupied, and climbed the creaky stairway, fondly stroking the right arm of his jacket.
The material was light–but it adapted well against the cold and the heat, shifting temperature when appropriate. The shoulders were dotted with faint gray splotches, and the stitches were a dark green. It was finely crafted–just as fine as a fur coat, adaptable for men. Tough as leather, and strong as stone–they were also fireproof, and nearly weightless in water. Fine material, if one didn’t try to consider what sort of animal possessed it. They were better off not knowing.
Once he reached the second floor, he found himself hesitating. The town was extremely silent, save for that banging window shutter–he could hear the wind whistling through various spaces throughout the street. Fire raged somewhere–he could still smell smoke. Not that of smoldering flames, but fire that had fuel. The sun faded for an instant, causing him to look up, seeing the huge plume of smoke that reached up to touch the bright blue sky. He squinted his eyes, wondering where it was coming from–he hadn’t seen it earlier.
The wind caused the door, which had been open, to creak open, startling him. Jerking to a start, he looked over to see that room revealed to him. Quietly, he walked forward, cautiously walking in. There was a fine coat of dust everywhere he looked–there were a small pile of floorboards near the bed–pulled up, revealing a hole that led straight down to the kitchen below. He had to wonder if that was how the boy had escaped–felt some hope build in his chest. A strange feeling for a total but enigmatic stranger, and he had to question himself in why he felt so much for the boy.
One recall of those amber eyes had him looking away from the hole, looking around the room with silent wonder. The bed had been torn apart–those undead had been thorough in looking for prey. Once agitated, they just seemed to go wild, ripping apart anything in their path for blood. Shelves had been torn down–it was just a shack of a room, with barely enough space for a bed and those space holders, but–his eye caught sight of something just under the window. A black leather bag. Curiosity had him walking toward it, leaning down to pick it up. It was slightly heavy, and he winced as he dropped it. Crouching, he opened the top, revealing many leather bound books within. He couldn’t read that well–only what he had to. But these were no interest of him, and he started to shove them aside.
Until he thought of the boy, wondering just how valuable those books were to him. Perhaps they were all his treasures; all he had for comfort while waiting for a customer to pay for him. Suddenly, they were valuable to Hotstreak, as well. But he couldn’t take all of them. With a grim sort of frustration, oddly amused that he was going through such lengths, he began pulling them all out. Sorting through them, wondering what the value was on every one. Flipping through them, all of them looked the same.
With a broad-shouldered shrug, he set aside three of the thickest ones, and a slim red volume. He set the other books in a neat pile underneath the bed, and packed the four back into the leather bag. He left the room, exhaling heavily as he descended the stairway. Looking over at Charger, he noted that the stallion’s ears were raised, and his face was pointed beyond the saloon–staring attentively at something that was surely out of place. Hurrying towards him, Hotstreak glanced over his shoulder, seeing that there was someone walking amongst the gore and destruction of the street.
Charger was agitated by the smell of his clothing, jerking his head back as Hotstreak tied the leather bag among those he had packed on his back. Speaking quietly to him, he stood next to him, soothing him with a hand on his neck. Charger examined the coat and hat once more, and snorted, obviously disliking both. His teeth snared the shoulder area, and shook slightly before releasing, snorting once more with a fair toss of his head.
While Hotstreak waited for him to somewhat approve enough so that he could mount him, he watched that person walk. From what he could see, they were short–almost child-like. Dressed in shiny material and having something funny with their hair. They were carefully moving through the masses of bodies, both animal and human alike, in the street. Occasionally dropping to rummage or pick something up. Apprehensive, Hotstreak realized that that sort of behavior wasn’t zombie related. It was that of a scavenger, a man.
A survivor?
Unsure, he mounted Charger, intending to ride over to investigate–and paused once he recognized the familiar feel of a gun barrel against his temple. The sharp click of a bullet loaded into the chamber. The smell of gunpowder.
He blinked in startled surprise, wondering why Charger himself hadn’t bothered with alerting him of this person’s proximity. But one glance forward told him that the stallion was occupied with munching on sugar cubes propped atop one of the fenceposts.
“Traitor,” he muttered, frowning glumly.
“Bang,” came a cool, low voice, purred in a sort of way that had his neck tingling. Not in arousal–but in how cool it was. His eyes darted to the side, and he was startled to see a black man perched atop of the correl, a rapid-fire, unrecognizable multi-round shotgun pointed right at his face. The design, the steel and cool lining had him earnestly astonished at the technology, distracted more by the gun than the man.
Who was dressed like him in a similar manner–wearing the pelt and hat of a fallen rider.
He forced himself to look at the man, who looked a little disappointed in that he was too slow to react to his arrival. Glumly, the gun was retracted.
“You ain’t no fun, man,” he muttered, in that same, cool voice. As if he were never ruffled.
He rose into a standing position, Hotstreak noticing that he was wearing more of that pelt all over–in a strange sort of coverall that covered all of his body, save the area around his shoulders and collarbone–that was covered with a bright white shirt, a couple of crosses hanging in upside-down manner from twine around his neck. His boots were a shiny leather Hotstreak hadn’t seen, before. Melted like butter against his legs, ending in steel-toed points, the heels fashioned in a more rounder, broader way.
Strapped around his chest were ammunition he wasn’t familiar with–at his hips were two wicked scythes that were used for cutting fields, but they were fashioned in a way that the rounded knobs of each handle had the face of skeletons on them. The handles were wrapped in twine, and the blades were tucked safely within molded leather. Over his jacket, strapped like a backpack, were twin rifles.
All he could do was gape–this man radiated cool.
“You live here?” the man asked him, frowning at him. It looked as if his face was permanently etched with a scowl–the hat hung low so that it cut across his brow, and there was something eerily familiar about his features that Hotstreak stared at him blankly, trying to picture this man in his memory.
The man grew tired of his dumb silence, and whapped the back of his head with one half-gloved hand. “You deaf, man? Can you talk? Speak-a da Engrish?”
“I–I–yeah, I speak English!” Hotstreak finally stuttered, straightening his hat as Charger gave a sound that almost disputed his claim. “Who the fuck are you?”
“None o’ yo damn buziness,” the man drawled, his accent very unfamiliar. He placed his hands on his hips and sneered down at him. They were both the same height–Hotstreak was sure of this. Almost the same size–save his own shoulders were broader, his chest bigger. But this man was a match for strength–he could tell. “We came too late for this place, eh? Just a train too...late...but it looked pretty shitty, anyway. Didn’t look as if it’d last another year...”
Hotstreak didn’t know what to say–looking away from him and scanning what remained of Alva’s town. That person he’d spotted earlier had grown closer during the exchange–it was a man. A small, slender man wearing funny looking clothes. And...if his eyes weren’t playing tricks with him...he had purple hair.
“Just another shithole that’s prolly better off,” the man muttered, rubbing his chin. Hotstreak could swear he’d seen that action before–he just couldn’t think where! “Lotsa people died–prolly would burn this entire valley down to the ground if we set them all on fire.”
He knew what to do–! Hotstreak was amazed, jerking his head into a nod. “Yeah...yeah, but there ain’t nothin’ around for miles. It might be okay.”
The man looked down at him, then leapt off the fence in a motion that could only be described as fluid. His jacket barely moved, and all his equipment barely made a sound. Charger was startled to see the man walking past him, having never heard or sensed him do so. Hotstreak couldn’t help but be awed by this man, who was walking toward the funny looking one. He pushed Charger forward.
“Where you from?” he asked, almost eagerly, admiring the cool saunter the man had. The way he moved as if he were all liquid.
“Don’t remember.”
“Well...how do you know how to get rid of all them?” Hotstreak pressed, keeping Charger alongside him.
“Man...we just do.”
“Who’s we?”
A chin jutted forward in the form of a point, gesturing at the other man. “Me. Shiv. And Kangorr. I go by Ebon. Sorta...we sorta just wanderers, man. That’s all.”
“Just three of you?” Hotstreak exclaimed in amazement. “Dressed like that? Whatcha’ll get to to look like that, like ya’ll know what yer doin’?”
Ebon gave him a look of disgust. “Slow down, man. Chill. You in shock?”
“No. Just...I guess, kinda in awe. I had no idea other people knew what to do with this.”
The man paused, then continued walking. “You know of zombies? You obviously know the Mad Men. ‘S what we call them guys on horseback. Cuz they all mad. In da head....”
Before Hotstreak could explain how, what and why, the purple haired man was charging forward, giggling in a mad sort of way.
“Look at all this cash, man!” he exclaimed, his words thick with a foreign accent. His ‘l’s were pronounced as r’s, and his words were stunted–as if he were tripping over every one. A little high pitched, squeaky, like a teenager’s, he spoke with animated features that were quite upbeat and friendly.
As he hurried closer, Hotstreak could see that this one was dressed funny–he hadn’t seen this sort of dress, before.
He wore a shirt made out of silk, spotted with gold crests. It was held together by material-based toggles, and the sleeves, collar and waist band was all black fabric that was highlighted briefly with every moment he made. His pants were made of a sort of puffy material, gathered around his ankles–he wore white socks, and slippers that were made out of the same material as that of his shirt. He wore thin silver hoops at his earlobes–strapped over his back were a pair of thin, curved swords with light gold handles. Beautiful weapons–but incredibly distracting.
He had a cloth bag slung over one shoulder, made out of what looked to be bedsheets. In it was full of treasures he’d apparently picked from the dead. He showed the black man a handful of gold and nickel coins, giggling again as he tossed on a woman’s bonnet to shield his features from the sun.
“What are you going to do with that?” Ebon asked, exasperated, swiping the pretty cotton bonnet off his head. “We don’t need cash where we’re going! We ain’t needed that in a long ass time, you idiot!”
“Aw...but...still! What if we get lucky?”
One arm swept out, and a finger pointed angrily at the dirt. With a reluctant sigh, the coins fell from slender hands.
The Asian looked down for a moment, and seemed to notice Hotstreak for the first time. He leapt back instantly, with a sort of relieved expression on his face. “Wow! I thought you were Kangorr!”
“Shut up, man. Your English is so bad, he prolly had no idea what you just said.”
“Ah–! I meant...cool!”
The black man sighed, and looked up at Hotstreak. “You the only survivor, man?”
Hotstreak thought about the ranch, and the others. He shrugged. “Basically. Been lookin’ to get out of here, but...just thought I’d check the place out before I head out.”
Ebon shook his head. “Ain’t no where to go, man. Through this area, Caine and his crew have everything under their control. They spreading East ward, now. They got the entire Spanish territory under their hands–spread toward Mexico. Every one they come to, they kill.”
The Asian, Shiv, shook his head excitedly. “Everyone! No one lives!”
“No one. ‘Cept in their army.”
Hotstreak stared at them, feeling wholly empty all of a sudden. Unable to imagine that amount of control Caine and his ‘master’ had. The West had expanded with so many settlers and prospectors that it seemed impossibly to fathom–that it had been conquered.
“The Indians...?”
“Ain’t no one safe from the zombies, man. Even them! No guns, no nothin’–! What, they try to chase away Ghouls and Hounds with them bows an’ arrows? Ain’t shit. They drop just as easily as these poor fools.”
Hotstreak thought of the Indians he’d befriended through the years, licking his dry lips. He knew the creatures that Ebon spoke of, and recalled them with a distinct remembrance that had him shivering slightly.
“Ain’t no one safe,” the black man repeated, Shiv accentuated this with a rapid shake of his head.
“No one,” he repeated in his stunted English.
Hotstreak thought of eight years ago–when he could have ended all this by killing Caine, and that mummified infant. The one that squealed and squeaked when it shouldn’t have. But it wasn’t something he could have done–he had been young...inexperienced. Stunned by the new arrival of zombies and otherworldly creatures.
A hand hit his thigh, and Shiv danced out of the way before Charger could bite him. Ebon gave Hotstreak a frown. Something about the black man made the stallion hesitate to take a chunk out of him. It was a little surprising in that Charger didn’t try. Hotstreak jiggled the reins, as if that would tell him whether or not the stallion was okay.
“You okay? You sure you ain’t in shock?” Ebon asked, having hit him.
“...Y-yeah. Just...thinking. About...about things.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, thinking of the many nights he’d gotten drunk just to block out the things he’d seen. “You say there was three of you?”
“Yeah. Me, Shiv and Kangorr.”
“...What kinda name is that?” Hotstreak asked skeptically.
“Dunno. Just calls him by what he wanna be called.” Ebon shrugged. “Ain’t no business of mine what he wanna be named. What’s yours, by the way?”
Hotstreak told them, and both men looked at him skeptically. “W-what’s that for?” Shiv asked curiously, sounding out the name with clumsy lips.
The redhead flushed, ducking his head in a bashed manner. “Gotta temper on me. Guess I was named after that.”
Ebon continued to give him a skeptic look, then finally gave a slow grin. “What’s your real name, man?”
“...Something stupid. I don’t want to repeat it. But I ain’t from here. From down Orleans...where all this shit started.”
Both of them looked interested, exchanging looks of curiosity before Ebon faced him again. “Really? That’s where Kangorr’s, from. Got that same sorta drawl.”
Something touched the back of his ear, and Hotstreak flicked at it. “Huh.”
Ebon jerked, as if he just remembered something. He patted Shiv across the head with the palm of his head. “Got the matches, man? We gonna burn this entire town, down.”
Amber eyes crossed his vision, and Hotstreak shook his head. “No. Wait. I–I don’t live here. But I know someone that did. I...I came back to see if–if he’d lived.”
“What’s he look like?” Shiv asked lifting both eyebrows. He had such a funny looking face–his black eyes slanted in a foreign way, but wide enough to express a sort of mania that seemed unbecoming. Sort of cute, in a way.
Hotstreak thought of the boy, trying to recall everything. “Blond...hair right here. Kinda–kinda gangly. Not that tall.”
Ebon scoffed, then shrugged. “Whatever. But Kangorr already burning the other side of town. We’ll let you look down this street. Meet us back here when you’re done.”
Hotstreak looked at them, unsure whether to trust them, or not. He didn’t know them–he didn’t know their motives. But he just wanted to see if that boy had survived–or if he was one of those lying dead in the streets. Quickly, he nudged Charger forward, casting the two men a wary glance, but the Asian was talking with a sort of giggle, and Ebon looked amused.
Hotstreak swore he saw that man, before.
Everyone lay in various stages of death–flesh torn, bones broken, blood everywhere. Old, young, men and women...if they hadn’t been taken down by zombies, they had been taken out by the animals that were part of it all. If it wasn’t manual force, it was those weapons those riders used. Every body was gruesome, and it made his stomach turn.
He put his hand to his mouth, trying to control his body as Charger trotted with noticeable agitation through the streets of gore. He paused at a few bodies, but none of the slim blonds was the one he was looking for. Each one he came to, he felt that immense, welling dread in the pit of his stomach, until he caught sight of the unfamiliar strangers’ faces. Still, even as he felt relieved that he hadn’t come onto the boy just yet, his mind was still wondering if he’d even looked in the right places. Confusion had sent everyone into a panic–people had been running in and out of buildings, throughout the streets; trying to escape the horrors that were chasing them.
He could be anywhere.
Still, he had to hope that the boy had gotten away–if he was desperate enough to rip through the floor to escape, then he may have the right instincts in avoiding certain and gruesome death.
Smoke drifted his way, and he sought to ignore it, turning up another major dirt road, Charger chewing anxiously at his bit.
By then, the smoke had built too thick and the flames were spreading too quick for him to continue. But every body he came to wasn’t the one that he was searching for. With a sort of relieved, empty feeling, he headed back through town and for the corrals. Then he had to pause once he came to an alley–catching sight of something that he hadn’t even thought of seeing. So preoccupied with the death of Robert and the ranch, of the amber-eyed boy, he hadn’t even thought of Maria and her brood.
There was a woman lying in the alley, stripped of her outer layer of skin. It looked as if dogs had gotten to her before anything else, but he had a faint chill up his spine in that he knew canines weren't responsible for the gory mess.
The long, lush hair was brown and full–curled at the ends. Hotstreak didn’t want to know if that was her–didn’t want to think of what had happened to her children. No...their children. The ones he never got to know.
Regret and intense guilt hit him, making him double once more. He had had kids–and hadn’t bothered with them. Just dropped off an occasional surprise–he didn’t even know what they sounded like. They’d been asleep every time he’d dropped by. He would leave before seeing them.
He’d had kids–and hadn’t made the effort to get to know them.
Feeling entirely low, he headed away from the alley. Bodies were starting to reanimate–lifting from the ground with those guttural moans. Charger was skittish, but Hotstreak wasn’t bothered. He was still able to maneuver around them with his mount. He pulled out a rifle from the case packed amongst those bags he had. Charger would have to get used to the creatures if they were going to encounter them more...
He started shooting, casually–as if he were target practicing. Charger was used to guns going off by his head, and started at the first shot–but grew somewhat comforted once the horse realized his master was shooting down the bodies that were rising to threaten them. Hotstreak lost himself in the action, numbly recalling that this zombie had been one of the bankers; that this one worked the postal service; that this one once hit on him the second time he’d come into town, years back. This one had only been five years old; this one had shit on his pants when Hotstreak had caught him out in the valley, beaver hunting. All these faces were familiar to him–he’d heard them talk, heard them laugh, shout, smile.
It was simply depressing to know that their bodies were being used in such ugly manner.
He had to wonder who these three men were, and how they knew so much about zombies. He wasn’t sure of their intentions, but he had to guess that they were the ‘good guys’. That they would know to burn the bodies before reanimation left him pretty confident in that they had familiar experience with this. He was suspicious of them–he didn’t know why.
But maybe he was just hesitant to accept it, after losing his ‘second’ family. He was still a little numb in that he’d lost Robert and the others–with Virgil hating him, understandably–and he still felt that agonizing guilt deep in his belly. But at the same time, he wanted to move on–if he dwelled on it...who knows what would happen?
What if those men were willing to let him join them? Would he do it? Would he want to keep immersing himself into the damn zombie business?
He didn’t want to–he’d run away the first time, overwhelmed by the continuous slaying of zombies and creatures with Blayne. It had seemed there was no point to it, back then–seeing bodies that were supposed to be dead attacking him. If they didn’t know where they were all coming from...how this was all happening...where Caine was...then how were two teenage boys supposed to fix it all?
He’d ran away after the third encounter with Caine and didn’t want to go back. Merely hid, hopped and ducked to avoid that responsibility. And...because he had...Robert and the others suffered.
He resolved himself to fix it, thinking about that.
Strange as it was, but if there was another person out there that had struck and stayed with him all this time...then he had a right to jump back into things...to fix it. If that boy was still alive and out there...then Hotstreak felt he had to fix it before he, too, died from the attack.
He was willing to believe that the boy was still alive somewhere out there.
If those men offered him a position with their ranks, he would take it. For the boy, of course. And for revenge against those that killed Robert and the others. He had to take responsibility! And if they didn’t...well, he would then look for the boy. That was how he decided on his future.
He had to know more about those men.
He assisted with the fire by jumping off Charger, lighting a match to a woman’s ruffled dress. He encouraged the flames by fanning them onto another body, Charger neighing nervously as he pranced, agitated by the smells, the smoke, and the bodies that were slowly taking notice of them. Jumping back onto his horse, he moved out of there, heading back to the corrals, taking casual shots at the bodies in his way.
Ebon and Shiv were still there, with three mounts standing nearby–Ebon picking at his teeth with the crosses, and Shiv looking through his bag of treasures. There was a third man with them, and as he neared, Hotstreak’s eyes widened with disbelief, as did the other’s.
“Blayne?!” he exclaimed, completely surprised and shocked.
“Francis?!” Blayne exclaimed, just as startled.
They both stared at each other in considerable amazement–Blayne had grown out of his gangly and youthful appearance into that of a man. Not quite as tall as he, probably just under six feet, he was packed with muscle in shoulders, chest and thighs. He wore the same identifying jacket and hat, only his jacket was shorter, waist length. His pants were leather, and he wore a sort of vest from both the pelt and leather. His boots were similar to Ebon, but with more tread at the bottom. He was outfitted with various weaponry–from a couple of rifles on his back, to rider weapons at his hips, to a large tomahawk strapped to his thigh, and straps of ammo here and there. He also wore a small, leather pack on his back that fitted easily between the two rifles.
This man was easily recognizable as his childhood friend–just incredibly bad-ass as a man. There was a certain strength that he exuded just standing there–as if he’d seen it all and then some.
His facial features had matured, but he’d grown a goatee, his braid was longer–grazing his waist–and he wore glasses that were easily recognizable for the blind. Only this man wasn’t blind, shifting the glasses upward to blink incredulous eyes as he stared at Hotstreak with the same measuring consideration.
“Francis? Blayne?” Both Ebon and Shiv questioned, with disbelieving looks on their faces. Both mentioned men grew abashed, both of them hunching in brief embarrassment at their given names.
Then Hotstreak realized where he’d seen Ebon, before–only it wasn’t Ebon. He looked at him with some excitement. “You know of a man named Adam Evans?”
Ebon about jerked violently, shoulders hunching upward, face displaying his surprise. Shiv and Kangorr looked at him in question.
“You look just like him!” Hotstreak continued, feeling elated that he’d realized the similarities. Both men were almost eerily the same, save for a few differences here and there. “Do ya?”
Ebon seemed to sulk, glaring at him before turning away. Shiv tilted his head. “Aw...he’s pouting! So cute...”
Kangorr snickered, looking at a confused Hotstreak. He studied him just as Hotstreak had with him a few moments ago. “Hey, man. Long time no see. Howzit?”
“Okay...just...never thought I’d see ya again. Thought’cha’all were off chasin’ zombies. Savin’ the world.”
“Still am.” Kangorr was amused, looking entirely like an older version of the gangly youth he had been. “Just...been weighed down a bit by these two losers. Last I heard of you, you were holding up trains going through the Panhandle...”
“Yeah, but that got old kinda quick.” Hotstreak didn’t want to talk about it. And Charger was getting restless with the growing smells of rotting human flesh. More moans and screams were sounding throughout the thick walls of smoke and flames. Structures were starting to fall. As embers tossed into the air, Kangorr sighed, looking around himself.
“Well...we’re done, here. Let’s head back out,” he announced, gesturing at their mounts tied nearby. Ebon and Shiv headed toward the animals as Kangorr easily climbed atop of his, a healthy, large-boned Arabian with spotted buttocks, similar to that of a Palomino.
Seeing that horse made Hotstreak think sadly of Virgil.
Kangorr looked at Hotstreak questioningly. All years apart had suddenly felt like nothing. “You gotta home to go?”
“...Nah. Not anymore,” Hotstreak said with a heavy sigh.
“Roll with us.”
“...Fine. Whatever. For now, at least.”
Kangorr gave a lopsided grin, Ebon and Shiv looking a little curious in that Hotstreak was accepted so easily by their ‘leader’. It had taken them awhile to get into the man’s trust, and this redhead was accepted just like that? They exchanged looks, but said nothing. Ebon mounted his auburn-colored gelding, and Shiv hopped easily onto his white and black spotted mare. Kangorr lead the way out of town, the others following closely.
The small settlement continued to burn, decorating the sky with black smoke.