Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ Runner's Valley, Pt. I ( Chapter 10 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Manga-Chick 
He gestured angrily at the kid. “He ain’t gonna live very long! He been bit—he’s gonna die, anyway!”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 04.17.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 6.9K | Visits: 338 | Status: Completed
He gestured angrily at the kid. “He ain’t gonna live very long! He been bit—he’s gonna die, anyway!”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 04.17.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 6.9K | Visits: 338 | 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.
Chapter Ten:
Runner's Valley, Pt. I
By the time Richie confessed what really happened, they were out of that rocky canyon. Junior punched him just for lying to him, but he held himself back from any further abuse as he began to realize how the situation could change for the lot of them.
Perhaps no one else knew of the zombie’s prompted rages; perhaps no one else knew of those creatures. If this boy could watch and learn, give them the information needed to overcome and defeat the attacks, people would have to follow them. Ideas and thoughts of design hit him, and it was all he could do to keep himself from racing to his father to share them. Alva would be entirely grateful for that–he could use it, himself.
Alva would acknowledge him, then. Would realize that Junior could be used more than a cronie.
“If we hurry, we kin git back there before daddy sends out a search party,” he said, mainly to himself. Navigating along the cow trail that led down the hill, Junior was growing more and more excited as he thought of how Alva would respect him a little more. “They’ll be lookin’ for me, y’know? We need alla us to git along.”
Richie had no doubt that he was right–he figured that Alva was very concerned for his son’s disappearance. He hoped they sent someone, though. He’d be grateful for a ride. His blisters hadn’t healed all the way, and his feet were killing him. Plus, with all the actions of the horse ride earlier, his arms were bothering him fiercely.
He wondered if they were getting infected...
They made their way down the hill, Richie directing them through the timberline, heading further down into the valley. He remembered the way they’d come, so he wasn’t worried about that–he was just worried about any other creature attacking them suddenly from the darkness. It was so quiet, that it seemed to him the pair of them made as much noise as a pack of elephants would.
The moon provided just enough light to show them the way, and by the time they’d come into sight of the town, both of them were panting and tired. It was a solid flat leading back to the town, so nothing was in their way when they looked.
The house they’d settled in was the only one brightly lit in the surrounding darkness. It was at the very edge of town limits.
But as they looked...they couldn’t see any lights.
Junior wasn’t worried–he figured they were just laying low. Catching his breath, he began to hurry in that direction, inwardly cursing his jeans as they clung to his skin, making him reek of urine. Richie kept up close behind him, making him stumble a few times, but as they neared the house, Junior grew less and less concerned for his actions and more excited to share his plans with his father.
By the time they’d reached the house, the pair of them knew something was horribly wrong. The horses, the carts, the activity–they were gone.
The house was as abandoned as it had been before.
Junior gaped up at the silent, dark house before dropping his rife and ammo bag, racing for the door. Richie stared at the correl, where the horses had been tethered, bewildered. Had Alva completely panicked and gathered everyone and everything up and set out to find his son? Without much light, he couldn’t tell which direction they had taken; but he knew the cowboys would have found their horses’ trail and followed them. So...if they had...wouldn’t they have run into them on the way back down?
He turned, fretting, picking up the rifle and ammo bag and hurried after Junior. The house seemed ominous and intensely creepy–he could hear the older man racing about, shouting for his cronies and for his father
Richie held tightly onto the rifle and began walking around, wandering aimlessly–until he realized that every window was broken. There were walls littered with gunshots, scorches of gunpowder.
They’d been attacked.
He thought hastily of the zombies in the valley further out, those creatures–he heard doors slamming, realizing that Junior was looking through every room.
Alva hadn’t sent a search party, because they’d left the place in a haste. Under attack.
But by what?
He wandered into the kitchen, then throughout the rest of the first floor of the house. Occasionally, he’d pick up something that would be useful: a couple of unspent shells, a blanket. He found a couple of thick candles, someone’s bottle of liquor, and a pack full of dry rations.
By the time Junior came back down, tromping in a morose way, Richie had gathered at least a good three days’ supplies. He was seated on the rocking chair looking out the front window when Junior found him; looking intensely depressed.
For awhile, nobody said anything. Junior nursed the bottle of liquor while Richie kept watch with the rifle. He was curious as to where they’d gone, but he figured once daylight hit them, they’d look for their tracks.
Later, Junior set the bottle down, and looked over at his companion. Richie had fallen asleep in the chair, and the younger Alva gave a sneering look of contempt at the kid. He really couldn’t stand the chit–the New York boy was wussy, completely clueless and annoying in the sense that Junior felt responsibility for him.
He had responsibility for all the whores–but this one completely aggravated him. He thought of the constant punishments that he had to dish out before the zombie attacks. How the boy just wouldn’t listen–he was always trying to rebel against the rules.
Junior didn’t have that much patience, nor was he the sort to be kind and compassionate. His father had raised him to be strict, tough–to assert himself. And Junior took to that quite eagerly. He had asserted his control and dominance, and it got him the position that demanded respect.
Of course, he was blind to the way people thought of him–as long as he got his way, and as long as his father needed him, it didn’t matter at all.
He rose from his chair, feeling unsteady and buzzed. He had to wonder where the others had gone–his father wouldn’t just leave him...would he? Would he just–?
But Junior didn’t want to think that way. He was certain that they, while under attack, were looking for him. Searching for the pair of them because Alva wouldn’t want to lose his boy. Nor his property. He knew Alva was concerned, for him. He knew his father wouldn’t just...leave him.
He knew he had to look for them, to let them know they were all right. He needed to see the tracks in daylight, though. He couldn’t find them at night. But the more time passed, the longer the space between them.
He chewed anxiously at his nails, looking over at the boy once more. Richie would just slow him down–he wasn’t an experienced rider, and Junior didn’t feel like smacking him around constantly while they searched.
He figured on leaving him–there was nothing around these parts, anyway. He figured the kid would be safe here. It would be a quick trip–then he remembered he hadn’t any horse. He cursed quietly, not enjoying the thought of walking/running after the others. He’d be so...vulnerable. Exposed. And while he felt a little more confidence in what Richie had pointed out to him earlier, he just felt safer on the back of a horse. He anxiously worked his hand, looking over at the boy once more.
He’d noticed the slight limping, the sickly expression that was slowly working its way on that pale face.
Even if the creatures didn’t do him in, Junior wondered what sort of sickness was drawing the kid down. He wondered about those bites.
Pacing in agitation, he tried to convince himself that looking for the others was a better choice than sticking around. Maybe they weren’t going over the mountain, like Alva had wanted. Maybe they were heading back to the other town–he thought instantly of the animals he’d seen back there. The horses–the small herds of livestock. They hadn’t stopped there because the lack of people had threatened Alva’s comfort.
Drumming his fingertips atop of his lips, he shot another nervous look at Richie. If he left now...it was a day’s ride, possibly a two-day hike...he should be back...
He didn’t feel like arguing or convincing the boy of his plan. Junior simply packed all the supplies the kid had gathered, tossed it on his back, and took the rifle.
Determined, he hurried out of the house and headed in the direction of the closest town.
010101010110
Richie woke with a start; he didn’t remember falling asleep. Sitting up, he saw that the morning light lit everything in the house–indeed, it was quite disastrous.
Everything was thrown about in a haste, the walls were marked with blood, gunshots and various fluids (he wasn’t sure what), and the floors were colored, literally, with trails of innards and blood.
He rose slowly from his chair, unsure of where Junior was. For a few moments, he wondered if he’d left him, too.
Panic hit him suddenly, and he raced outside, calling for him. Hearing nothing, he raced back inside, shouting for him.
Mid-afternoon found Richie sitting glumly on the front porch. He was entirely alone–Junior was no where to be found. He really hadn’t any idea where the man had gone; he wasn’t sure if he should go search for him throughout the town, or stay put, where he himself was easily found.
He was unarmed–he figured Junior took the gun and ammo with him.
The day passed by slowly. Richie eventually left the house, wandering quietly up and down the streets, looking for someone or something–maybe a horse. Maybe more supplies.
But he knew he and the others had combed the town thoroughly, picking up everything that they’d need for their small group. Still, it didn’t hurt to walk into various houses, looking for things.
That night, he sat on the front porch, wrapped in a blanket–still waiting for Junior to come back. The town’s eerie silence was getting to him–he wished for some sort of noise, some sort of chaos. The silence was intensely more maddening than the bloody chaos. It was the heavy expectation of waiting for something–of knowing that he was entirely alone that made him a little stir-crazy.
The next morning, he began searching for food. Since there wasn’t any at the house, he began looking through town for something left behind. When he couldn’t find anything, he searched the corrals for lizards; but he couldn’t bring himself to actually try and eat one when he caught it. Just seeing the poor thing squirming in his hand made him intensely nauseous.
By late afternoon, he gave up.
He was growing more and more miserable; he’d gone two days without food, his feet were killing him, and his arms were getting infected.
He sat on the front porch, drizzling alcohol over the uglier bite marks along his forearms. A couple of them were puffy and smelled horridly. The smaller ones were achy to the touch. The stitches Teresa had used gave his skin a greenish color. Everything itched in a maddening sort of way that just wouldn’t stop. He scratched around the wounds, trying to ease it all, and listened for anything out of place within the silent town.
That night, he took to the bed he’d lain in days before. Staring up at the night sky that was visible, he watched the stars twinkle neatly up in their black-blue blanket. He was so used to the silence, the agonizing pull of it, that he started to relax. After all, if sound entered the picture, it meant that those things had returned, or Junior and the others had come back.
He figured if he heard nothing, he’d be safe.
He thought of his parents–wondering if they were okay. He wondered if they thought of him; if they worried about him. Just thinking about them brought a huge tear throughout his stomach and chest. He quickly muffled any shouts that may threaten to leave him, clutching his pillow and blanket to his face, struggling to keep himself together. He didn’t want to break apart; what if he did, and things heard him? Came after him? He hadn’t any weapons to defend himself.
That next morning, he was leaning over the horse’s water trough, gulping in river water from the hand pump when he heard noises coming from the center of town.
Afraid he’d been heard, he quickly shut the pump off, straining to hear what was making those sounds.
Hearing the fearsome growls, snorts and random pattering of heavy weight, Richie decided that he’d better hide. He raced back to the house, and quietly ascended the porch–once inside, he shut and locked the door. From there, he raced up the stairs and headed toward Alva’s previously held bedroom–it had a bigger window that overlooked the town. He crouched next to the window sill and peered out, looking for anything foreign and demonic.
He didn’t have to wait very long.
Those riders came into sight, first. Skeletons dressed in the pelts of those creatures, they rode their dead animals through the streets–doing nothing more than staying atop of their mounts. Their jaws bounced, teeth clicking together with each movement in a sort of rhythmic sound with the clomping of hooves. It didn’t look as if they were interested in their surroundings, riding just to get out of town.
Those creatures, the oddly shaped ones, were panting like dogs as they followed behind. Their tails left dragging marks through the dirt, their strange front feet making handprints with every step.
Richie watched the group, hardly daring to breathe–not wanting to move. They couldn’t possibly notice him in the position he was hiding, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. There were eight riders in all; six of those lumbering creatures. It was odd, though–the way their heads shifted, the way their mannerisms resembled those of dogs. They lifted their heads to sniff the air, or bothered one another with those strange sounds, their odd bodies emanating playful cheer as they bumped into each other. They were dog-like creatures, and he found some comfort in comparing them to animals that he was more familiar with.
Then, movement to his left caught his eye–something dark, something...in the air. Floating. Coasting with lazy intent from house to house, skimming over the windows. Richie wasn’t sure what it was, but seeing that it was coming towards his hiding spot, he wasn’t going to take any chances. With one last look at the floating blob, he scurried toward the massive bed and crawled underneath. By the time he was settled, that thing was floating over his window. It cast a very light shadow across the plain floor, and he watched the shadow dust along the windows, hairs rising atop of his arms and neck. He couldn’t imagine what it was, but he began thinking of spectres.
It was gone as quickly as it appeared, its shadow drifting off the edge of the window’s outline.
Richie was too scared to move–if that spectre had enough awareness to look for people through windows, what if it came back unexpectedly?
The dark of night found him still under the bed; his bladder was telling him he needed to relieve himself, but he was still too frightful of the things outside to want to leave. Hunger made his stomach rumble noisily–his various wounds were throbbing painfully. He felt exhausted and abandoned, with no real plan on what to do.
He closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to ignore the persistence of his bladder and the constant rumble of his tummy when a very loud slamming noise caused his entire body to jump in startled action. More slamming commenced, and intense fear shot through him. It was coming from inside the house, and he couldn’t suppress the whimpers of terror that escaped him at that moment.
He knew he had to get out–he had no luck against things that wanted to hurt him. His fingernails scraped against wood, and he pushed himself out from the bed, hearing the continuous slamming. He shot toward the window, searching hurriedly for the latch to open it. Once he found it, he shoved the window open, both sections slamming into the wood with loud clamps of sound.
The slamming stopped, and he peered out. He couldn’t see anything down there, around the outside–the moon was finally hidden away, leaving the valley in intense darkness.
But there was more freedom down there–he gave a panicked shout upon hearing the clomping of movement up the stairway, and his heart nearly leapt into his throat, knowing that whatever it was, it was coming after him. Without much further thought, he threw himself outside, catching onto the window sill.
His feet hit the overhang of the back porch, and he dropped onto it with a nervous cry. Wood protested his weight, but held strong as he began moving toward the edge, hearing the clomping noise move closer to the window.
With much clumsy movement, he was over the edge, dangling briefly before hitting the dirt with a muffled sound. He quickly climbed onto his feet, intending to make a mad run down the street when a black blob sailed through the night air, and landed neatly in front of him.
He gave a startled shout as the shadow straightened with liquid-like movements, intense shadow against darkness giving him the impression of a very large man.
A very large man with a gun.
He turned and quickly ran the other way, hearing the massive roar of an inhuman creature that discovered its prey. He couldn’t help but scream as he rounded the outhouse and ran madly for anything that could hide him.
The thing was quick–it ran after him with lengthening strides, screaming up a storm; words that were indistinguishable. Richie didn’t bother looking back–he just ran in panicked fashion for the nearest house.
The thing behind him stopped its run, and began firing at him.
Shouting again, Richie managed to avoid being hit, veering sharply to the right–he used the corner of the house to steer him along the wall, and he ran along the length, hearing the thing clomp after him, shouting with continued success.
Several more shots propelled him faster, and he rounded the corner of the house, stumbling into a small alley that would take him back onto the main street. The darkness made it hard for him to see where he was going–he was using maddened instinct to find escape. He started to turn a hard left when an incredible punch knocked his left leg out from under him. It managed to take his breath and any sense of coherent understanding away from him as well.
He slammed hard into the support post of the house’s porch railing, and that was all he remembered.
010101010110
His head was ringing so loudly that it prompted him awake. Discomfort was making his stomach severely unsettled, and his skin felt extremely hot, radiating fiercely throughout every bone and muscle. The world swirled and swayed, and as he grew conscious, the pain throbbed with a heavy ache that kept in tempo with his heartbeat.
Everything hurt–and everything burned with the same intensity.
Lack of energy kept him from moving very much, settled uncomfortably against the wooden post that he found himself sitting against. Blinking heavy eyelids, he realized that he wasn’t supposed to be that way. He’d fallen against it–not sat against it. Someone must have moved him... he thought of that thing, that shadow-man, and wondered if it had been it that moved him. But why? For what purpose?
His head throbbed, and his hands slowly reached up to hold onto it, to keep it from slipping from his neck. His leg was the most pained limb out of them all–remembering all that had happened, realizing he’d been shot, he paused in touching his head to look down at his leg. The telltale blood stain, the fact that a neat, round hole gaped at him from the small tear in his jeans told him that it had not been a dream. He reached down for it, holding the very outer edges, staring in disbelief at the wound.
It burned, throbbed, ached–it made him dizzy. As he pressed around it, blood oozed sullenly to the surface; it spilt around the edges of his torn jeans, darkening the color already set around it. Just touching it sent pain branches up his hip and down his knee. He felt it in the pit of his belly.
Gritting his teeth, he leant back against the post, staring ahead of him. Now what?
Did he just bleed to death, here? Wait for those things to come back and finish him off?
He didn’t have the energy to get up. Looking back down at the wound, he became aware of a stink that made his stomach tie in sudden knots. He thought of how Junior smelt coming off the mountain and sighed with trembling shame in that he’d peed his jeans as well.
Intense mortification and despair made him draw a deep breath in, ready to bawl–until he heard Junior’s voice in his mind, screaming at him for crying like a girl.
Immediately, he quelled the urge, and focused on his leg, instead. It seemed that with every movement, it was agony. He realized he couldn’t just sit there, though.
What if those animals came back?
It was nearing afternoon–he could tell from the shadows that drifted over the empty streets, from the height of the sun and the warmth that kept him from shivering.
It was cooler in the valley–if they were still in Alva’s town, it would have been unbearably warm and uncomfortable.
The silence was just as thick and interminable as it was before.
He listened to the slow throb of his heartbeat, and stared at the emptiness before him. He wondered when he’d die; wanted to hate Junior for leaving him. His fingers were sticky when he pulled them from his leg, and he looked down to watch his own blood dry on his palms.
He hadn’t seen so much of his blood, before. He’d had scrapes and the occasional childhood mishap here and there, but this was the real deal–this was his blood. Draining out from a bullet hole. Draining from bitemarks made by a possessed woman. Blood from men raping him, from being lashed, punched–he hadn’t ever imagined such horrors, before. But now that he was faced with it...it was a rather odd color. Why was blood red? Why not green? Or black? Or–?
He realized he was thinking irrationally, and clumsily unbuttoned his shirt, tearing off his sleeve, and ripping that apart to wrap above the wound–to stop the blood flow. His fingers were feeling tingly, but he ignored that, wrapping hastily and surely. He ripped his other sleeve off and yanked at his bandanna, pressing that over the wound and tying the material of his sleeve over it.
Exhaling heavily, he studied his work, wondering how in the world he was going to get up and move to doctor himself when he became aware of sounds.
He lifted his head, hearing the faint clomp of sound coming from somewhere behind him. Panic assailed him with intense reaction, and he stilled for a moment, pressed hard against the support post. There were riders; multiple riders. He caught his breath before he began to hyperventilate, thinking of the skeletons with pelts. He could never escape those. And he’d had no idea how fast those dog-creatures were.
What if there were more men with guns? Shadow men?
Or what if it were the others? Junior and the others?
Hope flared briefly, and he struggled to move. But pulling in his leg made blood spill with movement, and intense dizziness and nausea to hit him. He tried peering around the support post, but he couldn’t do so without completely moving his body. It hurt, making everything intensely heated and heavy when he did.
He struggled to stay conscious when a dark grey began clouding his vision, a heavy ringing overcrowding any other noise. His stomach seized, and every limb suddenly felt heavier than before. He breathed slowly, carefully, feeling the edges of his stomach push at his throat. He started to move, to look around the post when he lost control of his entire body, and he hit the dirt without realizing he’d fallen unconscious.
010101010110
The town was empty when they arrived. It was void of any bodies, of any indication that they had been attacked, recently. Judging from the lack of inactivity and from the lack of tracks, Kangorr figured they were much too late.
Shifting his hat atop of his head, he frowned as Shiv headed before them, talking rapidly in Chinese as he gestured about. Ebon shook his head sullenly, his horse looking as annoyed as he as they came to a stop.
“I hate when he talks like that,” he muttered. “Don’t know a word he’s sayin’. Could be cursin’ me, or some shit.”
“Heh.” Hotstreak looked around himself, guiding Charger forward. The horse, sensing that his master’s mood was a little more enlightened, snorted and reared in an effort to toss him. Hotstreak sent his heel into Charger’s side with an annoyed grunt.
The four of them tied their horses’ reins to the post outside of the only store, and headed in to look for supplies. It was obvious, from the moment they entered, that the place had already been depleted of anything useful.
With a sigh, Kangorr headed back out. “Let’s look at some of the houses. Sometimes, not everythin’s looked at.”
They split up, and took their time in looking throughout every available residence, tent and cart. Finding what little had been left behind, they began to drift together, finally deciding to head out of town.
Kangorr pointed up at the mountain range. “Over that valley there, is the state line. We head out that way. We pretty much covered every large settlement, here. Word is, that’s gold rush spot.”
“Mm, gold,” Shiv murmured, as if it were an edible food source.
Hotstreak rubbed at his face–he hadn’t shaved in days, and the scruff of hair was taking over what he’d kept clean-shaven. He figured that with a new life, came a new look. He was thinking of growing in a mustache, maybe a beard...with all this zombie invasion, no one would be looking for him, anyway. But it never hurt to have a different appearance.
As they rode on, he looked around the town. He heard Kangorr pointing out recent track marks of Hounds and Mad Men, but had already seen them. The houses were all in such nice states that it looked as if everyone had left in an according manner–not the panic and haste that he was used to seeing. He frowned, ushering Charger forward when Shiv trailed off with a contemplative string of sounds that no one understood.
Ebon stopped as well, Kangorr’s mind on other things, not paying attention to them.
“Aw,” Shiv cooed. “This one weren’t fast enough.”
“He dead?” Ebon asked, picking at his teeth. Hotstreak looked back with a bored expression, Kangorr continuing on his way out of town.
“Think so. He here awhile.”
Hotstreak saw that Shiv was looking over a body lying near a house, looking as if he’d been sitting against the post. He gave a noncommital sound, Charger’s tail whipping the air. “Well, git rid of it,” he said, giving a bored sigh. “Let’s just go.”
Shiv slid off his horse, folding his arms behind his back and peering close. He was frowning when he looked up. “Fresh!” he announced. Glancing around, he turned his back. “Maybe more survivors?”
“‘Fresh’?” Ebon questioned. “As in freshly dead? Or...?”
“No. Fresh,” Shiv repeated, giving him a puzzled look.
“...What’s ‘fresh’?” Ebon repeated, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “What is?”
“This kid! Fresh!”
“WHAT’S FRESH?!”
Hotstreak rolled his eyes, nudging Charger over. While the two yelled at each other, he dismounted, pulling out his pickaxe. He walked over, looking over the body with curious assessment. It was obvious that the kid was going to die, anyway. He could see the blood soaked jeans as he neared, and saw the lack of substance the kid had on his frame. He wondered if he were one of the former residents of the town–standing over him, he frowned at the hasty dressing over a hidden wound.
The kid was lying in an awkward position–as if he’d been sitting, and then just tilted over, face planting into the dirt, arms at his sides.
Shiv stopped arguing with Ebon to join him, tilting his head curiously. He used the toe of his shoe to nudge the kid’s head.
“Smells fresh,” he announced.
Hotstreak shrugged, feeling a little bad. He could smell the dried urine, the blood–it made him a little wary, in that the kid was still alive, had just died, or just on the throes of dying. He looked around, seeing footprints off to the right, dried blood in the dirt. It looked as if the kid were shot a few feet away, and he’d hit the house. He wondered if he’d broken his neck, or some other action did him in.
He took in the faded green shirt, the thin arms, and faded jeans, the worn boots. The kid was on the short side, gangly, with wrapped forearms. He wondered what had happened to cause that wrapping.
Apparently, Shiv was curious, too. He crouched, using one of his short swords to slice at the delicate wrapping.
He whistled. “Zombie bites!” he announced, shaking his head, slicing through the green material over his leg, studying the leg wound. “No good, anyway.”
Ebon adjusted his hat. “Just kill the bastard. Put ‘im outta his misery. Prolly turn anyway, man. Lookit them bites. Just get ridda him.”
“He’s alive?” Hotstreak asked him skeptically. What did vampires do?
“Yeah. Blood’s still fresh.” Ebon sniffed, then licked his lips. But he eyed the bitemarks with disgust. He shuddered.
Shiv gave a small squeal as he jumped away. “But I feel weird! What if he weren’t even bad?”
“There’s nothin’ here,” Kangorr called with some annoyance, finally noticing that he’d been riding alone. “Let’s keep rollin’. Wait...whatcha’ll lookin’ at?”
“A dead body...ew...it lives...” Shiv murmured, poking at one thin shoulder. The three watched the slight jerk of the limb in reaction to the pain, heard the slight grunt.
“He’s still alive,” Hotstreak pointed out dumbly.
“Well...kill ‘im anyway. He prolly won’t live long, anyway. We can’t take care’ah him. Just shoot him. He’ll prolly thank ya,” Kangorr grumbled. Hotstreak looked back at him, then off to the side, wondering when this incident had happened.
“...Do ya think he heard us?” Ebon wondered aloud.
There were a couple of stifled chuckles.
“Just shoot him. Stop yer gawkin’.”
“You do it. He might haunt me, later.”
“Like you believe in that.”
“No, I’m serious!”
“...Are you speakin’ English? Cuz–”
“Go to Hell. You understand that?”
“There’s no such thing as ‘Herr’. Go to Herr?”
“...Fuck you.”
“Just think of this, boys–what if, further down the road, this boy’s the one killin’ ya cuz ya’ll didn’t want to kill him? Eh? Think o’ it.” Kangorr nodded seriously, frowning at them as he picked out his canteen from his saddle bag.
“...You put it that way...”
Ebon and Hotstreak looked at each other, thinking about that as Shiv shrugged. He pulled out one of his swords, the metal glistening in the late afternoon sun. He handled the weight carefully.
“I think this needs sharpening,” he said, examining the blade. “I’ll end up hacking him. Teeny, tiny bits!”
Ebon yawned tiredly. “Just do it. Good for nothin’ railroad worker.”
Shiv whirled on him sharply. “You shut up. Negro.”
“Slant.”
“Nigger!”< br>
“Chink.”
Hotstreak sighed as Shiv lunged at Ebon, who quickly withdrew one of his scythes, deflecting the sword that threatened to chop off his head. The pair moved away from the body, so he figured he may as well as do the honors. Swinging the pickaxe lazily at his side, he looked back down at the kid.
More than likely, that gunshot wound had been the kid’s undoing. Ghouls were infamous for shooting their victims in disabling places, making them easier for Hounds to hunt. They were evil that way–torturing their victims before doing them in, or allowing someone else the honors. Kangorr had mentioned that Ghouls were the ‘bad’ men of the West, those that died rightfully because of all their wrong doings. With all their maliciousness, Hotstreak had agreed with them.
With a heavy sigh, he looked over the multiple bite marks along the forearms–it was an ugly mess. If the kid hadn’t died of blood loss, he would have died of infection, anyway. He was covered in dust, blood–features, hair, clothing and skin were covered in it. It was as if someone had rolled him around in dust before propping him against the post.
He crouched, reaching out to grip a handful of blond hair. He figured he’d give it a shot–assure himself that this wasn’t the boy. It was habit to do so, lately, and Kangorr had questioned him about it.
Lifting the head, Hotstreak peered at the profile, and felt a streak of recognizance hit him. He felt that dawning sensation of realization as he took in the rounded chin, the dark eyebrows. He was so startled that he dropped his head abruptly.
“Huh? Who’s ‘him’?” Shiv asked, turning away from Ebon.
Hotstreak realized he must’ve spoken aloud, embarrassed for the sudden attention the others were giving him. He couldn’t believe this stroke of luck! Finding the boy–the odds were so impossible–and yet, here he was...in a town miles away, amidst chaos–!
Kangorr was there, a concerned frown on his face as Hotstreak pushed his pickaxe aside and pulled Richie into a sitting position against the post.
“This the one you been lookin’ for?” Kangorr questioned, looking at the boy again. He gave a shake of his head. “He ain’t gonna make it, Red. He gonna turn, soon. Them zombie bites, they–!”
“Just–! Just–!” Hotstreak didn’t know what to do. He rose, feeling his head whirl, staring at the unconscious boy. It hit him, then–all this time, he’d been wondering and thinking about the boy, and now that he found him...now what?
Shiv sheathed his sword, giving him a frown, then the boy. “He family?” he questioned. “You don’t look related.”
“No...no, we ain’t.”
“Part of your...your other world?”
“Why you haveta know all this?” Ebon asked Shiv in disgust.
“I wanna know!”
“You don’t need ta know!”
“I just wanna–!”
Hotstreak waved his hands about to get their attention. “Just...just go! I’ll...I’ll figger this out. Jus’...just go.”
The three of them looked at him in disbelief.
“Huh? Wha–you wanna stay?” Kangorr asked, his voice hitching just a bit with his shock. He gestured angrily at the kid. “He ain’t gonna live very long! He been bit–he’s gonna die, anyway!”
Hotstreak threw him an annoyed expression, shaking his head. “No, just–I’ll just catch up. I’ll–I need to–”
Kangorr got it. “Ah. Ya just wanna make peace? Fine. Let’s go, boys. We got us a long road ahead of us.”
“You gonna stay here by self?” Shiv asked. He tossed a cautious glance around himself. “I don’t know, it’s tiny bit scary ‘round here...”
Hotstreak shrugged again, staring quietly at the boy, a little numb. He himself wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but...he had been thinking about him for so much...almost every moment...he had to do something.
He watched the others reluctantly leave, Kangorr announcing that they’d be over the mountain. For a moment, the man hesitated, giving his childhood friend a close look. Hotstreak had to look away, knowing what he was thinking–feeling a little guilty and shamed for it. Kangor was wondering if he were backing out, again.
Shying off from responsibility.
Hotstreak really didn’t know what he was doing.
He watched them ride away, Charger looking a little annoyed in that they were alone, once more. His horse whinnied in protest after the others, then seemed to shoot him a dirty look.
Hotstreak kicked dirt at him before turning, looking down at the unconscious kid.
He didn’t know what to do with him.
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.
Chapter Ten:
Runner's Valley, Pt. I
By the time Richie confessed what really happened, they were out of that rocky canyon. Junior punched him just for lying to him, but he held himself back from any further abuse as he began to realize how the situation could change for the lot of them.
Perhaps no one else knew of the zombie’s prompted rages; perhaps no one else knew of those creatures. If this boy could watch and learn, give them the information needed to overcome and defeat the attacks, people would have to follow them. Ideas and thoughts of design hit him, and it was all he could do to keep himself from racing to his father to share them. Alva would be entirely grateful for that–he could use it, himself.
Alva would acknowledge him, then. Would realize that Junior could be used more than a cronie.
“If we hurry, we kin git back there before daddy sends out a search party,” he said, mainly to himself. Navigating along the cow trail that led down the hill, Junior was growing more and more excited as he thought of how Alva would respect him a little more. “They’ll be lookin’ for me, y’know? We need alla us to git along.”
Richie had no doubt that he was right–he figured that Alva was very concerned for his son’s disappearance. He hoped they sent someone, though. He’d be grateful for a ride. His blisters hadn’t healed all the way, and his feet were killing him. Plus, with all the actions of the horse ride earlier, his arms were bothering him fiercely.
He wondered if they were getting infected...
They made their way down the hill, Richie directing them through the timberline, heading further down into the valley. He remembered the way they’d come, so he wasn’t worried about that–he was just worried about any other creature attacking them suddenly from the darkness. It was so quiet, that it seemed to him the pair of them made as much noise as a pack of elephants would.
The moon provided just enough light to show them the way, and by the time they’d come into sight of the town, both of them were panting and tired. It was a solid flat leading back to the town, so nothing was in their way when they looked.
The house they’d settled in was the only one brightly lit in the surrounding darkness. It was at the very edge of town limits.
But as they looked...they couldn’t see any lights.
Junior wasn’t worried–he figured they were just laying low. Catching his breath, he began to hurry in that direction, inwardly cursing his jeans as they clung to his skin, making him reek of urine. Richie kept up close behind him, making him stumble a few times, but as they neared the house, Junior grew less and less concerned for his actions and more excited to share his plans with his father.
By the time they’d reached the house, the pair of them knew something was horribly wrong. The horses, the carts, the activity–they were gone.
The house was as abandoned as it had been before.
Junior gaped up at the silent, dark house before dropping his rife and ammo bag, racing for the door. Richie stared at the correl, where the horses had been tethered, bewildered. Had Alva completely panicked and gathered everyone and everything up and set out to find his son? Without much light, he couldn’t tell which direction they had taken; but he knew the cowboys would have found their horses’ trail and followed them. So...if they had...wouldn’t they have run into them on the way back down?
He turned, fretting, picking up the rifle and ammo bag and hurried after Junior. The house seemed ominous and intensely creepy–he could hear the older man racing about, shouting for his cronies and for his father
Richie held tightly onto the rifle and began walking around, wandering aimlessly–until he realized that every window was broken. There were walls littered with gunshots, scorches of gunpowder.
They’d been attacked.
He thought hastily of the zombies in the valley further out, those creatures–he heard doors slamming, realizing that Junior was looking through every room.
Alva hadn’t sent a search party, because they’d left the place in a haste. Under attack.
But by what?
He wandered into the kitchen, then throughout the rest of the first floor of the house. Occasionally, he’d pick up something that would be useful: a couple of unspent shells, a blanket. He found a couple of thick candles, someone’s bottle of liquor, and a pack full of dry rations.
By the time Junior came back down, tromping in a morose way, Richie had gathered at least a good three days’ supplies. He was seated on the rocking chair looking out the front window when Junior found him; looking intensely depressed.
For awhile, nobody said anything. Junior nursed the bottle of liquor while Richie kept watch with the rifle. He was curious as to where they’d gone, but he figured once daylight hit them, they’d look for their tracks.
Later, Junior set the bottle down, and looked over at his companion. Richie had fallen asleep in the chair, and the younger Alva gave a sneering look of contempt at the kid. He really couldn’t stand the chit–the New York boy was wussy, completely clueless and annoying in the sense that Junior felt responsibility for him.
He had responsibility for all the whores–but this one completely aggravated him. He thought of the constant punishments that he had to dish out before the zombie attacks. How the boy just wouldn’t listen–he was always trying to rebel against the rules.
Junior didn’t have that much patience, nor was he the sort to be kind and compassionate. His father had raised him to be strict, tough–to assert himself. And Junior took to that quite eagerly. He had asserted his control and dominance, and it got him the position that demanded respect.
Of course, he was blind to the way people thought of him–as long as he got his way, and as long as his father needed him, it didn’t matter at all.
He rose from his chair, feeling unsteady and buzzed. He had to wonder where the others had gone–his father wouldn’t just leave him...would he? Would he just–?
But Junior didn’t want to think that way. He was certain that they, while under attack, were looking for him. Searching for the pair of them because Alva wouldn’t want to lose his boy. Nor his property. He knew Alva was concerned, for him. He knew his father wouldn’t just...leave him.
He knew he had to look for them, to let them know they were all right. He needed to see the tracks in daylight, though. He couldn’t find them at night. But the more time passed, the longer the space between them.
He chewed anxiously at his nails, looking over at the boy once more. Richie would just slow him down–he wasn’t an experienced rider, and Junior didn’t feel like smacking him around constantly while they searched.
He figured on leaving him–there was nothing around these parts, anyway. He figured the kid would be safe here. It would be a quick trip–then he remembered he hadn’t any horse. He cursed quietly, not enjoying the thought of walking/running after the others. He’d be so...vulnerable. Exposed. And while he felt a little more confidence in what Richie had pointed out to him earlier, he just felt safer on the back of a horse. He anxiously worked his hand, looking over at the boy once more.
He’d noticed the slight limping, the sickly expression that was slowly working its way on that pale face.
Even if the creatures didn’t do him in, Junior wondered what sort of sickness was drawing the kid down. He wondered about those bites.
Pacing in agitation, he tried to convince himself that looking for the others was a better choice than sticking around. Maybe they weren’t going over the mountain, like Alva had wanted. Maybe they were heading back to the other town–he thought instantly of the animals he’d seen back there. The horses–the small herds of livestock. They hadn’t stopped there because the lack of people had threatened Alva’s comfort.
Drumming his fingertips atop of his lips, he shot another nervous look at Richie. If he left now...it was a day’s ride, possibly a two-day hike...he should be back...
He didn’t feel like arguing or convincing the boy of his plan. Junior simply packed all the supplies the kid had gathered, tossed it on his back, and took the rifle.
Determined, he hurried out of the house and headed in the direction of the closest town.
010101010110
Richie woke with a start; he didn’t remember falling asleep. Sitting up, he saw that the morning light lit everything in the house–indeed, it was quite disastrous.
Everything was thrown about in a haste, the walls were marked with blood, gunshots and various fluids (he wasn’t sure what), and the floors were colored, literally, with trails of innards and blood.
He rose slowly from his chair, unsure of where Junior was. For a few moments, he wondered if he’d left him, too.
Panic hit him suddenly, and he raced outside, calling for him. Hearing nothing, he raced back inside, shouting for him.
Mid-afternoon found Richie sitting glumly on the front porch. He was entirely alone–Junior was no where to be found. He really hadn’t any idea where the man had gone; he wasn’t sure if he should go search for him throughout the town, or stay put, where he himself was easily found.
He was unarmed–he figured Junior took the gun and ammo with him.
The day passed by slowly. Richie eventually left the house, wandering quietly up and down the streets, looking for someone or something–maybe a horse. Maybe more supplies.
But he knew he and the others had combed the town thoroughly, picking up everything that they’d need for their small group. Still, it didn’t hurt to walk into various houses, looking for things.
That night, he sat on the front porch, wrapped in a blanket–still waiting for Junior to come back. The town’s eerie silence was getting to him–he wished for some sort of noise, some sort of chaos. The silence was intensely more maddening than the bloody chaos. It was the heavy expectation of waiting for something–of knowing that he was entirely alone that made him a little stir-crazy.
The next morning, he began searching for food. Since there wasn’t any at the house, he began looking through town for something left behind. When he couldn’t find anything, he searched the corrals for lizards; but he couldn’t bring himself to actually try and eat one when he caught it. Just seeing the poor thing squirming in his hand made him intensely nauseous.
By late afternoon, he gave up.
He was growing more and more miserable; he’d gone two days without food, his feet were killing him, and his arms were getting infected.
He sat on the front porch, drizzling alcohol over the uglier bite marks along his forearms. A couple of them were puffy and smelled horridly. The smaller ones were achy to the touch. The stitches Teresa had used gave his skin a greenish color. Everything itched in a maddening sort of way that just wouldn’t stop. He scratched around the wounds, trying to ease it all, and listened for anything out of place within the silent town.
That night, he took to the bed he’d lain in days before. Staring up at the night sky that was visible, he watched the stars twinkle neatly up in their black-blue blanket. He was so used to the silence, the agonizing pull of it, that he started to relax. After all, if sound entered the picture, it meant that those things had returned, or Junior and the others had come back.
He figured if he heard nothing, he’d be safe.
He thought of his parents–wondering if they were okay. He wondered if they thought of him; if they worried about him. Just thinking about them brought a huge tear throughout his stomach and chest. He quickly muffled any shouts that may threaten to leave him, clutching his pillow and blanket to his face, struggling to keep himself together. He didn’t want to break apart; what if he did, and things heard him? Came after him? He hadn’t any weapons to defend himself.
That next morning, he was leaning over the horse’s water trough, gulping in river water from the hand pump when he heard noises coming from the center of town.
Afraid he’d been heard, he quickly shut the pump off, straining to hear what was making those sounds.
Hearing the fearsome growls, snorts and random pattering of heavy weight, Richie decided that he’d better hide. He raced back to the house, and quietly ascended the porch–once inside, he shut and locked the door. From there, he raced up the stairs and headed toward Alva’s previously held bedroom–it had a bigger window that overlooked the town. He crouched next to the window sill and peered out, looking for anything foreign and demonic.
He didn’t have to wait very long.
Those riders came into sight, first. Skeletons dressed in the pelts of those creatures, they rode their dead animals through the streets–doing nothing more than staying atop of their mounts. Their jaws bounced, teeth clicking together with each movement in a sort of rhythmic sound with the clomping of hooves. It didn’t look as if they were interested in their surroundings, riding just to get out of town.
Those creatures, the oddly shaped ones, were panting like dogs as they followed behind. Their tails left dragging marks through the dirt, their strange front feet making handprints with every step.
Richie watched the group, hardly daring to breathe–not wanting to move. They couldn’t possibly notice him in the position he was hiding, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. There were eight riders in all; six of those lumbering creatures. It was odd, though–the way their heads shifted, the way their mannerisms resembled those of dogs. They lifted their heads to sniff the air, or bothered one another with those strange sounds, their odd bodies emanating playful cheer as they bumped into each other. They were dog-like creatures, and he found some comfort in comparing them to animals that he was more familiar with.
Then, movement to his left caught his eye–something dark, something...in the air. Floating. Coasting with lazy intent from house to house, skimming over the windows. Richie wasn’t sure what it was, but seeing that it was coming towards his hiding spot, he wasn’t going to take any chances. With one last look at the floating blob, he scurried toward the massive bed and crawled underneath. By the time he was settled, that thing was floating over his window. It cast a very light shadow across the plain floor, and he watched the shadow dust along the windows, hairs rising atop of his arms and neck. He couldn’t imagine what it was, but he began thinking of spectres.
It was gone as quickly as it appeared, its shadow drifting off the edge of the window’s outline.
Richie was too scared to move–if that spectre had enough awareness to look for people through windows, what if it came back unexpectedly?
The dark of night found him still under the bed; his bladder was telling him he needed to relieve himself, but he was still too frightful of the things outside to want to leave. Hunger made his stomach rumble noisily–his various wounds were throbbing painfully. He felt exhausted and abandoned, with no real plan on what to do.
He closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to ignore the persistence of his bladder and the constant rumble of his tummy when a very loud slamming noise caused his entire body to jump in startled action. More slamming commenced, and intense fear shot through him. It was coming from inside the house, and he couldn’t suppress the whimpers of terror that escaped him at that moment.
He knew he had to get out–he had no luck against things that wanted to hurt him. His fingernails scraped against wood, and he pushed himself out from the bed, hearing the continuous slamming. He shot toward the window, searching hurriedly for the latch to open it. Once he found it, he shoved the window open, both sections slamming into the wood with loud clamps of sound.
The slamming stopped, and he peered out. He couldn’t see anything down there, around the outside–the moon was finally hidden away, leaving the valley in intense darkness.
But there was more freedom down there–he gave a panicked shout upon hearing the clomping of movement up the stairway, and his heart nearly leapt into his throat, knowing that whatever it was, it was coming after him. Without much further thought, he threw himself outside, catching onto the window sill.
His feet hit the overhang of the back porch, and he dropped onto it with a nervous cry. Wood protested his weight, but held strong as he began moving toward the edge, hearing the clomping noise move closer to the window.
With much clumsy movement, he was over the edge, dangling briefly before hitting the dirt with a muffled sound. He quickly climbed onto his feet, intending to make a mad run down the street when a black blob sailed through the night air, and landed neatly in front of him.
He gave a startled shout as the shadow straightened with liquid-like movements, intense shadow against darkness giving him the impression of a very large man.
A very large man with a gun.
He turned and quickly ran the other way, hearing the massive roar of an inhuman creature that discovered its prey. He couldn’t help but scream as he rounded the outhouse and ran madly for anything that could hide him.
The thing was quick–it ran after him with lengthening strides, screaming up a storm; words that were indistinguishable. Richie didn’t bother looking back–he just ran in panicked fashion for the nearest house.
The thing behind him stopped its run, and began firing at him.
Shouting again, Richie managed to avoid being hit, veering sharply to the right–he used the corner of the house to steer him along the wall, and he ran along the length, hearing the thing clomp after him, shouting with continued success.
Several more shots propelled him faster, and he rounded the corner of the house, stumbling into a small alley that would take him back onto the main street. The darkness made it hard for him to see where he was going–he was using maddened instinct to find escape. He started to turn a hard left when an incredible punch knocked his left leg out from under him. It managed to take his breath and any sense of coherent understanding away from him as well.
He slammed hard into the support post of the house’s porch railing, and that was all he remembered.
010101010110
His head was ringing so loudly that it prompted him awake. Discomfort was making his stomach severely unsettled, and his skin felt extremely hot, radiating fiercely throughout every bone and muscle. The world swirled and swayed, and as he grew conscious, the pain throbbed with a heavy ache that kept in tempo with his heartbeat.
Everything hurt–and everything burned with the same intensity.
Lack of energy kept him from moving very much, settled uncomfortably against the wooden post that he found himself sitting against. Blinking heavy eyelids, he realized that he wasn’t supposed to be that way. He’d fallen against it–not sat against it. Someone must have moved him... he thought of that thing, that shadow-man, and wondered if it had been it that moved him. But why? For what purpose?
His head throbbed, and his hands slowly reached up to hold onto it, to keep it from slipping from his neck. His leg was the most pained limb out of them all–remembering all that had happened, realizing he’d been shot, he paused in touching his head to look down at his leg. The telltale blood stain, the fact that a neat, round hole gaped at him from the small tear in his jeans told him that it had not been a dream. He reached down for it, holding the very outer edges, staring in disbelief at the wound.
It burned, throbbed, ached–it made him dizzy. As he pressed around it, blood oozed sullenly to the surface; it spilt around the edges of his torn jeans, darkening the color already set around it. Just touching it sent pain branches up his hip and down his knee. He felt it in the pit of his belly.
Gritting his teeth, he leant back against the post, staring ahead of him. Now what?
Did he just bleed to death, here? Wait for those things to come back and finish him off?
He didn’t have the energy to get up. Looking back down at the wound, he became aware of a stink that made his stomach tie in sudden knots. He thought of how Junior smelt coming off the mountain and sighed with trembling shame in that he’d peed his jeans as well.
Intense mortification and despair made him draw a deep breath in, ready to bawl–until he heard Junior’s voice in his mind, screaming at him for crying like a girl.
Immediately, he quelled the urge, and focused on his leg, instead. It seemed that with every movement, it was agony. He realized he couldn’t just sit there, though.
What if those animals came back?
It was nearing afternoon–he could tell from the shadows that drifted over the empty streets, from the height of the sun and the warmth that kept him from shivering.
It was cooler in the valley–if they were still in Alva’s town, it would have been unbearably warm and uncomfortable.
The silence was just as thick and interminable as it was before.
He listened to the slow throb of his heartbeat, and stared at the emptiness before him. He wondered when he’d die; wanted to hate Junior for leaving him. His fingers were sticky when he pulled them from his leg, and he looked down to watch his own blood dry on his palms.
He hadn’t seen so much of his blood, before. He’d had scrapes and the occasional childhood mishap here and there, but this was the real deal–this was his blood. Draining out from a bullet hole. Draining from bitemarks made by a possessed woman. Blood from men raping him, from being lashed, punched–he hadn’t ever imagined such horrors, before. But now that he was faced with it...it was a rather odd color. Why was blood red? Why not green? Or black? Or–?
He realized he was thinking irrationally, and clumsily unbuttoned his shirt, tearing off his sleeve, and ripping that apart to wrap above the wound–to stop the blood flow. His fingers were feeling tingly, but he ignored that, wrapping hastily and surely. He ripped his other sleeve off and yanked at his bandanna, pressing that over the wound and tying the material of his sleeve over it.
Exhaling heavily, he studied his work, wondering how in the world he was going to get up and move to doctor himself when he became aware of sounds.
He lifted his head, hearing the faint clomp of sound coming from somewhere behind him. Panic assailed him with intense reaction, and he stilled for a moment, pressed hard against the support post. There were riders; multiple riders. He caught his breath before he began to hyperventilate, thinking of the skeletons with pelts. He could never escape those. And he’d had no idea how fast those dog-creatures were.
What if there were more men with guns? Shadow men?
Or what if it were the others? Junior and the others?
Hope flared briefly, and he struggled to move. But pulling in his leg made blood spill with movement, and intense dizziness and nausea to hit him. He tried peering around the support post, but he couldn’t do so without completely moving his body. It hurt, making everything intensely heated and heavy when he did.
He struggled to stay conscious when a dark grey began clouding his vision, a heavy ringing overcrowding any other noise. His stomach seized, and every limb suddenly felt heavier than before. He breathed slowly, carefully, feeling the edges of his stomach push at his throat. He started to move, to look around the post when he lost control of his entire body, and he hit the dirt without realizing he’d fallen unconscious.
010101010110
The town was empty when they arrived. It was void of any bodies, of any indication that they had been attacked, recently. Judging from the lack of inactivity and from the lack of tracks, Kangorr figured they were much too late.
Shifting his hat atop of his head, he frowned as Shiv headed before them, talking rapidly in Chinese as he gestured about. Ebon shook his head sullenly, his horse looking as annoyed as he as they came to a stop.
“I hate when he talks like that,” he muttered. “Don’t know a word he’s sayin’. Could be cursin’ me, or some shit.”
“Heh.” Hotstreak looked around himself, guiding Charger forward. The horse, sensing that his master’s mood was a little more enlightened, snorted and reared in an effort to toss him. Hotstreak sent his heel into Charger’s side with an annoyed grunt.
The four of them tied their horses’ reins to the post outside of the only store, and headed in to look for supplies. It was obvious, from the moment they entered, that the place had already been depleted of anything useful.
With a sigh, Kangorr headed back out. “Let’s look at some of the houses. Sometimes, not everythin’s looked at.”
They split up, and took their time in looking throughout every available residence, tent and cart. Finding what little had been left behind, they began to drift together, finally deciding to head out of town.
Kangorr pointed up at the mountain range. “Over that valley there, is the state line. We head out that way. We pretty much covered every large settlement, here. Word is, that’s gold rush spot.”
“Mm, gold,” Shiv murmured, as if it were an edible food source.
Hotstreak rubbed at his face–he hadn’t shaved in days, and the scruff of hair was taking over what he’d kept clean-shaven. He figured that with a new life, came a new look. He was thinking of growing in a mustache, maybe a beard...with all this zombie invasion, no one would be looking for him, anyway. But it never hurt to have a different appearance.
As they rode on, he looked around the town. He heard Kangorr pointing out recent track marks of Hounds and Mad Men, but had already seen them. The houses were all in such nice states that it looked as if everyone had left in an according manner–not the panic and haste that he was used to seeing. He frowned, ushering Charger forward when Shiv trailed off with a contemplative string of sounds that no one understood.
Ebon stopped as well, Kangorr’s mind on other things, not paying attention to them.
“Aw,” Shiv cooed. “This one weren’t fast enough.”
“He dead?” Ebon asked, picking at his teeth. Hotstreak looked back with a bored expression, Kangorr continuing on his way out of town.
“Think so. He here awhile.”
Hotstreak saw that Shiv was looking over a body lying near a house, looking as if he’d been sitting against the post. He gave a noncommital sound, Charger’s tail whipping the air. “Well, git rid of it,” he said, giving a bored sigh. “Let’s just go.”
Shiv slid off his horse, folding his arms behind his back and peering close. He was frowning when he looked up. “Fresh!” he announced. Glancing around, he turned his back. “Maybe more survivors?”
“‘Fresh’?” Ebon questioned. “As in freshly dead? Or...?”
“No. Fresh,” Shiv repeated, giving him a puzzled look.
“...What’s ‘fresh’?” Ebon repeated, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “What is?”
“This kid! Fresh!”
“WHAT’S FRESH?!”
Hotstreak rolled his eyes, nudging Charger over. While the two yelled at each other, he dismounted, pulling out his pickaxe. He walked over, looking over the body with curious assessment. It was obvious that the kid was going to die, anyway. He could see the blood soaked jeans as he neared, and saw the lack of substance the kid had on his frame. He wondered if he were one of the former residents of the town–standing over him, he frowned at the hasty dressing over a hidden wound.
The kid was lying in an awkward position–as if he’d been sitting, and then just tilted over, face planting into the dirt, arms at his sides.
Shiv stopped arguing with Ebon to join him, tilting his head curiously. He used the toe of his shoe to nudge the kid’s head.
“Smells fresh,” he announced.
Hotstreak shrugged, feeling a little bad. He could smell the dried urine, the blood–it made him a little wary, in that the kid was still alive, had just died, or just on the throes of dying. He looked around, seeing footprints off to the right, dried blood in the dirt. It looked as if the kid were shot a few feet away, and he’d hit the house. He wondered if he’d broken his neck, or some other action did him in.
He took in the faded green shirt, the thin arms, and faded jeans, the worn boots. The kid was on the short side, gangly, with wrapped forearms. He wondered what had happened to cause that wrapping.
Apparently, Shiv was curious, too. He crouched, using one of his short swords to slice at the delicate wrapping.
He whistled. “Zombie bites!” he announced, shaking his head, slicing through the green material over his leg, studying the leg wound. “No good, anyway.”
Ebon adjusted his hat. “Just kill the bastard. Put ‘im outta his misery. Prolly turn anyway, man. Lookit them bites. Just get ridda him.”
“He’s alive?” Hotstreak asked him skeptically. What did vampires do?
“Yeah. Blood’s still fresh.” Ebon sniffed, then licked his lips. But he eyed the bitemarks with disgust. He shuddered.
Shiv gave a small squeal as he jumped away. “But I feel weird! What if he weren’t even bad?”
“There’s nothin’ here,” Kangorr called with some annoyance, finally noticing that he’d been riding alone. “Let’s keep rollin’. Wait...whatcha’ll lookin’ at?”
“A dead body...ew...it lives...” Shiv murmured, poking at one thin shoulder. The three watched the slight jerk of the limb in reaction to the pain, heard the slight grunt.
“He’s still alive,” Hotstreak pointed out dumbly.
“Well...kill ‘im anyway. He prolly won’t live long, anyway. We can’t take care’ah him. Just shoot him. He’ll prolly thank ya,” Kangorr grumbled. Hotstreak looked back at him, then off to the side, wondering when this incident had happened.
“...Do ya think he heard us?” Ebon wondered aloud.
There were a couple of stifled chuckles.
“Just shoot him. Stop yer gawkin’.”
“You do it. He might haunt me, later.”
“Like you believe in that.”
“No, I’m serious!”
“...Are you speakin’ English? Cuz–”
“Go to Hell. You understand that?”
“There’s no such thing as ‘Herr’. Go to Herr?”
“...Fuck you.”
“Just think of this, boys–what if, further down the road, this boy’s the one killin’ ya cuz ya’ll didn’t want to kill him? Eh? Think o’ it.” Kangorr nodded seriously, frowning at them as he picked out his canteen from his saddle bag.
“...You put it that way...”
Ebon and Hotstreak looked at each other, thinking about that as Shiv shrugged. He pulled out one of his swords, the metal glistening in the late afternoon sun. He handled the weight carefully.
“I think this needs sharpening,” he said, examining the blade. “I’ll end up hacking him. Teeny, tiny bits!”
Ebon yawned tiredly. “Just do it. Good for nothin’ railroad worker.”
Shiv whirled on him sharply. “You shut up. Negro.”
“Slant.”
“Nigger!”< br>
“Chink.”
Hotstreak sighed as Shiv lunged at Ebon, who quickly withdrew one of his scythes, deflecting the sword that threatened to chop off his head. The pair moved away from the body, so he figured he may as well as do the honors. Swinging the pickaxe lazily at his side, he looked back down at the kid.
More than likely, that gunshot wound had been the kid’s undoing. Ghouls were infamous for shooting their victims in disabling places, making them easier for Hounds to hunt. They were evil that way–torturing their victims before doing them in, or allowing someone else the honors. Kangorr had mentioned that Ghouls were the ‘bad’ men of the West, those that died rightfully because of all their wrong doings. With all their maliciousness, Hotstreak had agreed with them.
With a heavy sigh, he looked over the multiple bite marks along the forearms–it was an ugly mess. If the kid hadn’t died of blood loss, he would have died of infection, anyway. He was covered in dust, blood–features, hair, clothing and skin were covered in it. It was as if someone had rolled him around in dust before propping him against the post.
He crouched, reaching out to grip a handful of blond hair. He figured he’d give it a shot–assure himself that this wasn’t the boy. It was habit to do so, lately, and Kangorr had questioned him about it.
Lifting the head, Hotstreak peered at the profile, and felt a streak of recognizance hit him. He felt that dawning sensation of realization as he took in the rounded chin, the dark eyebrows. He was so startled that he dropped his head abruptly.
“Huh? Who’s ‘him’?” Shiv asked, turning away from Ebon.
Hotstreak realized he must’ve spoken aloud, embarrassed for the sudden attention the others were giving him. He couldn’t believe this stroke of luck! Finding the boy–the odds were so impossible–and yet, here he was...in a town miles away, amidst chaos–!
Kangorr was there, a concerned frown on his face as Hotstreak pushed his pickaxe aside and pulled Richie into a sitting position against the post.
“This the one you been lookin’ for?” Kangorr questioned, looking at the boy again. He gave a shake of his head. “He ain’t gonna make it, Red. He gonna turn, soon. Them zombie bites, they–!”
“Just–! Just–!” Hotstreak didn’t know what to do. He rose, feeling his head whirl, staring at the unconscious boy. It hit him, then–all this time, he’d been wondering and thinking about the boy, and now that he found him...now what?
Shiv sheathed his sword, giving him a frown, then the boy. “He family?” he questioned. “You don’t look related.”
“No...no, we ain’t.”
“Part of your...your other world?”
“Why you haveta know all this?” Ebon asked Shiv in disgust.
“I wanna know!”
“You don’t need ta know!”
“I just wanna–!”
Hotstreak waved his hands about to get their attention. “Just...just go! I’ll...I’ll figger this out. Jus’...just go.”
The three of them looked at him in disbelief.
“Huh? Wha–you wanna stay?” Kangorr asked, his voice hitching just a bit with his shock. He gestured angrily at the kid. “He ain’t gonna live very long! He been bit–he’s gonna die, anyway!”
Hotstreak threw him an annoyed expression, shaking his head. “No, just–I’ll just catch up. I’ll–I need to–”
Kangorr got it. “Ah. Ya just wanna make peace? Fine. Let’s go, boys. We got us a long road ahead of us.”
“You gonna stay here by self?” Shiv asked. He tossed a cautious glance around himself. “I don’t know, it’s tiny bit scary ‘round here...”
Hotstreak shrugged again, staring quietly at the boy, a little numb. He himself wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but...he had been thinking about him for so much...almost every moment...he had to do something.
He watched the others reluctantly leave, Kangorr announcing that they’d be over the mountain. For a moment, the man hesitated, giving his childhood friend a close look. Hotstreak had to look away, knowing what he was thinking–feeling a little guilty and shamed for it. Kangor was wondering if he were backing out, again.
Shying off from responsibility.
Hotstreak really didn’t know what he was doing.
He watched them ride away, Charger looking a little annoyed in that they were alone, once more. His horse whinnied in protest after the others, then seemed to shoot him a dirty look.
Hotstreak kicked dirt at him before turning, looking down at the unconscious kid.
He didn’t know what to do with him.