Ashes of the Dead - Bucket of Blood (15 page)

Cutler grabbed the rope and climbed
up to the second floor with Essa-queta right behind him. “See you on the other side, Father,” he said, then disappeared down the hallway and escaped through the ceiling.

The first undead entered
the saloon. It saw Pearce standing behind the bar and moved straight for him. Another entered, and then another. Soon thirty undead stumbled through the saloon, moving hungrily toward Pearce. He checked the revolver and cocked it anxiously.

“
When the thousand years are over, Satan will be released from his prison,” he said, preaching to an unholy congregation. He took aim, both hands shaking. He fired and shot an undead in the forehead. He fired again, hitting an undead in the neck. Then corrected his aim and shot it through the eye.

“
And I beheld another beast coming up out of the Earth...” More undead entered the saloon, fighting their way through the clogged doorway. He shot another undead in the face. “...and he had two horns like a lamb, and he spoke as a dragon.” He fired again and again. Then reloaded his weapon. He started shooting more randomly, hitting an undead in the chest, and striking another in the shoulder, others in the limbs. He fumbled bullets onto the counter. There were only three left. He calmly loaded them and shot an undead through the nose.

“
And whosoever was not found written in the
book of
life
...” he shot a final undead in the cheek. “...was cast into the
lake of fire
!!!” Pearce fired across the saloon and struck a whiskey barrel, which ignited from a nearby lantern that he had placed below it, and burst into fire, flames licking the dry wooden walls.

Cutler and Essa-queta slam
med the front door shut and slid a bench in front of it, then retreated down the street. The windows burst from the heat and wood cracked loudly. Smoke poured from the roof, and the entire saloon became a raging inferno, burning everything inside. They stood for a moment in the street, watching it burn, knowing that they would never see Father Pearce again.

The Gunman squatted behind a pile of rocks, holding his guns cocked and ready, and scanned the mine for any sign of Jack. He angled around a rock, keeping low, then descended toward Jack's office.

Inside,
Jack ruffled through papers on his desk, shoving some into a leather satchel. He turned to a large steel strongbox behind the desk and quickly turned the lock. He pushed down a handle and pulled open the heavy door, revealing thousands of dollars in refined gold, silver, and cash. His eyes brightened and he shoved an armload into the bag. He double-checked if there was any more room, just enough for a few more gold pieces he thought, then shoved more in. He buckled the satchel and threw it over his shoulder, shifting his weight under the heavy bag. He pocketed a few more pieces of silver from the strongbox and turned to see the Gunman standing in the doorway, watching him carefully. Jack froze and slowly moved a hand toward his revolver, delicately fingering the fine ivory handle.

“Your move, son,” Jack said.
They stared at each other for a few moments, trying to guess what the other was thinking. “Or…” Jack motioned over his shoulder, “…I could just leave. And you can have whatever's leftover in the safe behind me.”

The
Gunman could see into the open safe behind Jack. Thousands of dollars remained, the leftovers from what he couldn’t fit into his bag, but he lifted his revolver and pointed it straight at Jacks' chest, cocking it loudly.

“Now…
lets be reasonable. I mean…we can do this the easy way…” he pleaded, and raised his arms into the air.

“I prefer the other way,” the Gunman said.

Click
.

The Gunman felt the cold steel of another r
evolver pointed firmly into his neck, held by Clay, who now stood behind him in the doorway. “Set down your gun. Nice and easy.”

The
Gunman didn’t move, still holding his revolver on Jack.

“I said…
” Clay pushed the barrel even harder, “…put down your Colt, Gunman.”

The Gunman relented and dropped
the gun to the floor, and then raised his hands into the air, slightly, not wanting to give up too easily. Clay grabbed the Gunman's second revolver and shoved it into his belt, grinning widely. “On your knees.”

The Gunman clenched
his teeth, hardened his face, and looked straight into Jack's eyes.

“
Do it
,” Clay insisted.

Jack stepped
forward, drew his gun, and pointed it at the Gunman's gut. “I suggest you listen. He ain't got the same patience as me.”

The
Gunman moved down on one knee, then the other, as slow as possible. He had never kneeled before anybody, but knew that he had been beat and out gunned. Jack took another step toward the Gunman and cocked his revolver. “You should of stayed put…right next to that pretty girl. Nothing bad would of happened to you, but now it's gonna.” He aimed his gun straight at the Gunman's chest, ready to fire. “You came into the wrong town, son. My town. Now you'll pay…”

Boom
. A rifle shot rang out and the bullet clipped Clay in he back. “Ahhhh!!!” he screamed and fell to his knees. Another rifle shot hit Clay in the neck, spraying blood on the wall. He fell forward on his face as he clutched his neck, and was dead in seconds.

The Gunman
leapt forward for his gun, but Jack fired and shot him in the side. More rifle fire echoed from the hillside. The window burst and sprayed glass through the office. Bullets pierced the wall, struck the desk and ricocheted off the safe. Jack crawled behind the desk as shattered glass rained down on his head. He grabbed the satchel and scurried out of a back door, then disappeared toward the open pit of the mine.

On a far hillside
, Cutler lay prone in the grass, with the Gunman's rifle in his hands. “Hey partner!” he yelled toward the office, which was now riddled with bullet holes. “You alright?!”

The Gunman lifted
his hand from his side, his palm covered in blood. “Never better!” he answered.

Cutler propped himself up and trotted
down the hill toward Jack's office, cocking another round into the chamber as he ran. He stepped into the doorway holding the rifle to his shoulder. “Where's Jack?”

The Gunman pulled himself up and grabbed
his gun off the floor. “Ran out the back. Toward the mine.”

Cutler kicked
Clay's lifeless body. He was definitely dead. The Gunman rolled him over and retrieved his second revolver out of Clay’s belt. He rechecked the bullet wound on his side and Cutler saw that he was bleeding badly. “
Shit
. You gonna be alright?”

“I'll live. L
et's go.” The Gunman and Cutler left Jack's office and ran toward the open pit, guns drawn and fury in their eyes.

On the other side of the mine,
Jack ran down an embankment, but tripped and fell to the ground. He rolled through the dirt and landed face-first in a shallow puddle of mud. He pushed himself up and wiped muddy water from his face, and then reached back for his satchel, which had ripped open during the fall, spilling gold and cash into the mud. “Damn.”

He scrambled
to pick up as much of it as possible, moving on his hands and knees and dragging the satchel behind him through the mud.

The
Gunman and Cutler moved behind a mining cart, then ran behind a small shack, staying low and scanning their surroundings.

“Cover me,” Cutler told him. “I'm going to move around to the other side. Flush him
toward you.”

The Gunman nodded and Cutler slipped away
, then disappeared around a rock pile and continued around the far side of the open pit. Thick grey clouds moved across the sky and blotted out the midday sun. The mine took on an eerie glow as soft raindrops struck the Gunman’s sunburnt cheek. As soon as Cutler was out of sight the Gunman worked his way forward, trying to find a better vantage point above the mine.

Far down below, Jack continued pulling gold out of the mud. After the satchel was nearly full he turned to see an undead miner
with a long singed beard and burnt face. It stared at him from the shadows of a tunnel entrance. The undead miner staggered toward him with its arm outstretched and head cocked. It had chewed its own lips off and gnashed its teeth hungrily. It clawed at the air and moved forward awkwardly. Jack pulled his gun and shot the undead in the chest.

Another undead
miner came out of the tunnel behind the first, drawn by the loud gunfire. Jack fired again, and again. His aim was terrible and he only managed to strike the second undead in the chest and arms. He fired a fourth time, but missed completely and a rock behind it exploded. He hoisted the heavy satchel back over his shoulder and started to make a run for it, but several more undead had emerged from other tunnels and blocked his way.

He spun in a circle and cursed loudly, then shot the closest undead in the neck. He t
urned wildly and shot another, but the undead miners kept coming. He checked his gun, but it was now empty. He pulled more bullets out of his belt and reloaded as fast as he could, but fumbled one to the ground. “
Shit
.”

He pulled the bullet out of the mud and blew of
f the debris, then loaded it quickly and shot an undead through the forehead, finally striking his target. He fired again, hitting one in the eye.

A shot rang out over the mine
and struck Jack in the thigh. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees, and then grabbed his thigh with both hands as warm blood soaked into his pants and ran down his leg. He looked to the top of the open pit and saw the Gunman standing near the edge, arm outstretched, holding a smoking revolver. It was an impossible shot for any man to make, but not for him. Not
the Gunman
.

The u
ndead surrounded him completely and grew closer by the second. Jack slipped another bullet into his gun and shot one more through the nose, and then disappeared into a swarm of undead, each ready to bite and tear him apart. But another shot rang out and Jack's face was sprayed with blood. The undead man closest to him fell to the ground with a bullet hole through his temple. A second shot echoed across the open pit and another undead fell to the ground, then another, and another.

Jack was surrounded by fallen undead, all shot through the head
and taken down only seconds before killing him. The Gunman stood motionless at the top of the open pit, both revolvers smoking in his steel hands, completely emptied.

“
No
,” Jack whispered to himself, then turned away and scrambled on his hands and knees, crawling over cracked rocks and debris, desperately trying to escape. He pulled his leg clumsily through the mud, leaving behind a thin trail of blood.

The Gunman
reloaded and walked slowly toward Jack as he stalked his prey. This took a moment, but he relished the anticipation. He was a keen hunter ready to kill.

Jack reached the edge of a steep embankment, impossible to scale with his injured leg, and turned to Gunman, holding his hand out in front of him, pleading for his life. “Please…I beg you. There’s more money--.”

Bam!

Jack's head flew back as a bullet
ripped through his forehead. The Gunman stood there for another moment, staring at Jack’s lifeless body. The satchel was open, spilling gold and cash onto the ground in front of him.

•  •  •

The Gunman and Cutler rode back toward town, Jack's heavy satchel strapped to Larken's side. They rode quickly across the landscape and pushed their horses until they were within sight of town. They trotted down Main Street and turned toward the saloon.

Rose and the
townspeople stood in front of the Bucket of Blood, which had completely burned down, leaving only smoldering ashes. Several undead bodies had been piled in the street, what remained of the undead forces. The Gunman dismounted and held his side tightly, still bleeding and in pain.

Rose saw that he was injured and came running
toward him. “What happened?” She asked.

“I'm fine. Don’t
worry about me. How are the others?”

“Safe. Thanks to you,” she said.

The Gunman stared into her eyes. He wanted to kiss her tender lips, but thought that it would cause too much pain, not from the wound on his side, but from the emotional toll. He smiled gently and grabbed her hand, then kissed it softly. It was all that he could muster for her at that moment. He turned away from her and unstrapped the satchel from Larken's back. He pulled out a wad of cash and shoved it into his saddlebag, then placed the satchel in front of Rose.

“What's this?” she
asked.

“Payment due,” he
said.

Rose cracked opened the satchel and her eyes grew wide when she saw the contents.

“For rebuilding,” he commented. “For everything that’s happened to you.”

She pulled him in and hugged him tightly, briefly resting
her head against his shoulder. He caressed the small of her back with his calloused hand, and pulled her in closer for a brief moment, then kissed her on the forehead. He turned and sauntered over to the boardwalk, then sat down on the edge, beaten, broken and exhausted. Cutler sat down next to him and patted him on the back.

“Well partner…one hellava an adventure,” he
said as he laughed.

“Yup,” the Gunman responded.

“We should do this again sometime.”

The Gunman laughed at this, the first laugh in a long while, and well deserved. He watched Rose while she spoke with a small group of
remaining survivors in the street. Emmett came over to her and put his arm around her, holding Caleb close to his side. Although much younger than himself, the Gunman couldn’t take his gaze off of her. But he knew that his journey was far from over. The battle against the undead had been won, and now it was time for everybody to go on with their lives, to move forward and rebuild. He stared at the ground and wrestled with these thoughts. He could stay here and make a new life, but he needed to move on. He needed to be on his own.

The townspeople had started to gather the undead bodies in the center of the street, throwing them haphazardly into a large pile, with the intention of burning them as soon as possible.

“Now what?” Cutler asked the Gunman.

The Gunman sighed and continued to stare at the moist dirt at his feet, kicking a small
pebble with his toe. He got up and shook Cutler's hand. Cutler nodded, acknowledging the Gunman's intentions. “I’ll see ya’ around, partner,” Cutler said.

The Gunman walked over to Rose and took her hand again
. He kissed it gently one last time, then tipped his hat and smiled. “Ma'am.” He turned to walk away from her.

“I never got your name,” she told him
, gently grabbing his forearm.

He paused, knowing that he hadn’t given
it to anybody. “William--, William Marshall.”