Ashes of the Dead - Bucket of Blood (5 page)

The
Gunman grabbed a revolver hanging from the bedpost. He cocked it and returned to the window as the rider turned toward the Bucket of Blood. The Gunman threw on his shirt and unlocked the door, and then peered into the hallway, which carried the noise from the parlor below. He stepped back into the room and buckled both guns around his waist, and dressed in a long overcoat to help conceal them. He had made enemies in the past and had always feared their retribution. Something told him deep inside that this man wasn’t one of them, but he had to be sure.

He
walked carefully toward the end of the hallway and paused by the railing overlooking the parlor below. The saloon doors ripped open as the rider fell through the doorway onto the floor. He was drenched from rain and his back was caked in mud. The piano music stopped and the room grew silent.
It was Andrew Forred
.

He
lay there on the floor and could barely catch his breath from riding so hard into town, unable to speak. Water was dripping from his clothes and started to pool underneath him. He tried to pick himself up off of the ground, but he was too weak. His legs buckled again as he stood and he fell down to his knees.

“
Dr. Forred!” Rose yelled from behind the bar. She ran forward and grabbed him before he could fall on his face, and then threw his arm over her shoulder.

Andrew turned to her. “She's dea
d…killed…I killed her,” he said to her in a quaking voice. He shook his head in disbelief. “
I had to
. There was no other choice.”

Rose turned
to a large man sitting at the bar. “Cutler, give me a hand.”

The
barber, now dressed in a buttoned-down shirt and brown pants, quickly stepped from his stool. He grabbed the doctor's other arm and helped him stand upright. They moved him over to the bar where he was able to sit down. Emmett brought him a large glass of water, but Andrew only pushed it away.

“Whiskey,”
he said harshly.

Emmett l
ooked at Rose, astonished that he had asked. The doctor always abstained from hard liquor. “Sure doc, whatever you want,” Emmett said, turning to grab a new bottle.

The
Gunman stood above them at the end of the second floor hallway, hidden in the shadows, and listened to the conversation below. He rested a hand on one of his guns, still tense with anticipation.

Emmett poured
a shot and the doctor snatched the glass and swallowed it as soon as it touched his lips. His hand shook uncontrollably.

He slammed the empty glass
back onto the bar. “Another,” he demanded.

“
You sure?” Emmett questioned.

“
Another!” Andrew said to him and slammed his fist against the counter.

Emmett poured him
another shot, but this time he gingerly placed it to his lips and sipped, savoring the sharp liquid on his tongue. His hand stopped shaking as the whiskey began to take effect.

Emmett replaced the bottle below the counter and turned back to Andrew. “Doc, what happened out there?
” he asked.

Andrew set his half empty glass down
and rotated it in his hands, staring into the amber liquid that swirled at the bottom. “Rebecca was attacked.” He sipped his whiskey again, nervously remembering the horrible events. “We were just eating dinner. Somebody…a man...he just attacked her. He…he
bit
her.” Andrew had now gained their full attention.

“
Say what now?” Cutler asked, not quite sure that he had heard him right.

Emmett leaned into the counter. “A man?
Who?”

“
He attacked her.” Andrew looked down at his glass, and then took another sip. “I don’t know who he was, but he killed her.”

“
I thought you said you killed her?” Emmett asked, now confused by Andrew’s recollection.

Andrew looked to Emmett. His eyes burned with anger. “
I did. She came back….” He took another sip of the whiskey. “…
after
she died.”

•  •  •

A cold darkness swept across the cemetery as gray clouds moved into the sky, shaking the ground with thunder. Lightning flashed through the blackness, illuminating a maze of headstones, and the rain began to pour once again.

A
thin hand broke through the soil, a woman's hand, but twisted and rotten. Her head appeared, and then her torso. She stumbled out of the wet ground, barefoot, and wore an ankle-length dress now stained from the mud. The undead whore stared blankly toward the distant town. She lurched forward and pulled her broken foot across the ground behind her, her outstretched arm guiding the way.

An
undead boy followed close behind her and they moved slow and methodically through the headstones, both hungry for flesh.

Lightening flashed
again across the black sky and illuminated the entire cemetery, which swarmed with the undead, their numbers swelling beyond count. The undead horde moved out of the cemetery and started toward the sleeping town, an unholy pilgrimage of death.

•  •  •

Rose and Cutler helped Andrew down the second floor hallway. Rose pulled out a spare set of keys and opened an empty room and Cutler helped him get inside. He led Andrew toward the bed as Rose grabbed a lantern down from the wall. She pulled off the glass bulb and lit a match against the table, and then started the cotton wick and adjusted the brightness. She lifted the sheets off of the bed as Cutler lay Andrew down. He passed out immediately when his head touched the pillow, his clothes still wet from his ride through the rainstorm.

Rose
leaned over him and placed a wet washcloth on his forehead, and then looked at Cutler. “What should we do?”

“
I don't know. I'm as confused as you are.” He started to pace at the end of the bed.

“He wasn't making any sense,” she said.

“I know.” He stood there for moment and stared at the floor. “I'll get the Sheriff. He'll know what to do with him.”

Rose twisted the
washcloth over an empty bucket and placed it back onto his forehead. “Okay.” She turned down the lamp and pulled a sheet over Andrew. “We'll let him rest for now, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave this room.” They left the doctor behind so he could sleep and headed back to the parlor.

The
Gunman slipped behind a table in the corner with a freshly poured mug of beer in his hand. He sat there and sipped on the bitter foam, watching the crowd throughout the saloon. The piano began to play again and men and women laughed, getting drunker and louder as the night moved on, like nothing had happened.

The
Gunman drank deep from his mug and his eyes caught Rose and Cutler as they descended the stairs and entered the parlor from the hotel above. He watched Rose walk behind the bar and pour a beer for Cutler. She moved gracefully behind the bar and seemed full of confidence, which made him uncomfortable. He set his half drunken glass of beer on the table, and then moved toward the door and stepped outside onto the saloon boardwalk.

The rain
had ceased and the clouds began to clear. A full moon smoldered on the street, reflecting on shallow black pools of rainwater.

The
Gunman pulled out a small bag from his back pocket, opened it, and carefully fingered out some stale tobacco. He rolled a modest cigarette and lit it with a broken match he had kept in his front shirt pocket. After taking a long smooth drag on the cigarette his eyes brightened, dilated, and gray smoke enveloped his head and dissipated into the cool night air.

He took another
long drag from the cigarette and watched as three figures moved across the street and onto the boardwalk. It was the mine owner Jack Richards with two men in tow, Aaron and Clay, who followed him like well-trained dogs. The Gunman watched them carefully, his cigarette burning brightly in the shadows. Jack and the other two stopped just outside the Bucket of Blood. He could see Jack say something to Clay, obviously angry with him. They all stepped inside, moved through the parlor, and disappeared into a private room in the back.

Back inside the saloon,
Emmett continued to work hard behind the bar as he poured drinks and entertained a couple of miners who were drunk on peach wine. Rose stepped behind the bar and poured herself a beer, blew away the foam, and took a deep drink. She smiled at her father, acknowledging the foam on her lips, and then wiped it off with the back of her hand.

“
I went home and put Caleb to bed. He should be good for the night.”

“
Thanks, sweet pea,” he said kindly. “You do too much for me. I sure appreciate you lookin' after your brother like this.”

"It's no problem, dad. Really," she said. "Besides, Elijah was the one watching after him all day. He's the one you should be thanking." She smiled and took another sip.

Emmett sighed and leaned against the bar as he stared into Rose's eyes. "I wish your mother could be here to see how much you two have grown," he said.

Before she could respond, s
omeone dropped a glass across the parlor and it smashed to the ground. Rose put down her beer and grabbed a rag, but Emmett stopped her. “No, I got it.” He winked at her, and then grabbed the rag out of her hand. “Better finish your drink. I have a feeling it's going to be a long night.”

She
took another sip and smiled, savoring the moment as Emmett turned and left the bar to clean up the broken glass and spilled beer. As Rose finished the dregs of her beer, the saloon doors opened and a tall slender man strolled in with a badge on his chest, Sheriff Timothy Pickett. He was a man in his fifties, wearing a white cowboy hat, sharp black boots and well-ironed pants.

Rose pulled
a tall glass of golden beer, poured off the foam, and placed it on the counter just as Pickett reached the bar. He tipped his hat, like any gentleman would to such a beautiful young woman, and grabbed the beer.

“Thanks
, dear,” he said with a sweet smile. He took a deep drink, and then wiped beer from his gray mustache. “Boy…now that's a good beer,” he commented, holding the beer up to the light as cool beads of condensation ran across his hand. He took another long drink and wiped his mustache, again. “How's the doc?”

“
Better I suppose.” She cleaned a dirty glass and placed it on a small shelf behind her. “He’s still in shock, sleeping upstairs in one of the rooms.” She sighed and grabbed another dirty glass. “Did you check out his story?”

Pickett nodded and took
an even bigger drink. “Yup. Sure did.”

“
And?”

“
Oh. Um. Well…looks like the doc wasn't lying.”

“
Oh my god. So, Rebecca really is dead?”

“
I sent Deputy Markley down there to take care of the body.”

Rose placed both hands on the counter and braced
herself against the bad news. “This is horrible.”

“
Ain’t it though?” Pickett took another drink.

Rose followed his lead and
poured another small beer for herself. “What should we do?” she asked, and drank the beer in one long gulp.

“
Well…not much you can do at this point.” He finished off the beer and wiped his mustache one last time. “Though, I’ll admit that the doc certainly has a few questions to answer.” He rubbed his wet fingers on his shirt and placed a coin on the counter. “But that can wait til' mornin'.”

He turned
to leave, but paused. “By the way, I heard some stranger had a run-in with a few of the boys earlier. Got into some kind of scuffle here in the bar.”

“Yes
. He's staying here for the night.”

“
Where is he now?” he asked. “I need to talk to him before he leaves town.”

“
Haven't seen him for a while.”

“
Well, alright. Stay safe, dear.”

“
Good night, Tim.”

“
Good night, Rose.” Pickett tipped his hat and left the saloon, but not before taking one last glance around the parlor. Like any good Sheriff, he always kept an extra eye on the people in the saloon, more to make sure they wouldn’t hurt themselves than anything else.

•  •  •

The Gunman meandered farther down the boardwalk, hung his arms over a low railing, and stared at the brilliant full moon hanging low against the blackened sky. The clouds had cleared and the dark silence overtook him. He used this quiet moment to reflect deeply on his own thoughts.

He
heard footsteps on the boardwalk behind him, so he slid his fingers against the cold grip of his revolver and slowly cocked it. He was on edge and couldn’t shake the feeling that he had earlier.

The figure moved
closer behind him and remained in the shadows. The footsteps stopped. The Gunman didn’t move. The cigarette clung to his moist lips and hung loosely from his mouth.