Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (13 page)

CHAPTER 18

Rip lay on his cot. The idea of sleep, rest, or relaxation seemed like a pipe dream once again. A thousand more thoughts flooded through his head. Not since he had first appeared in the post-apocalyptic world had he tried to digest so much information at once. If Casey was indeed able to hear what Crayon was saying, then she knew everything anyway. So why hide it? What did she have to lose or gain by not saying anything? Did she have an ulterior motive?

At this point, did it really fucking matter?

One more set of eyes certainly couldn’t hurt, and one more person in his corner wasn’t a bad thing. As Rip settled in for the night, his
give-a-shit
meter dropped to zero. He just needed sleep, and plenty of it. As he closed his eyes for the second time in the last ten minutes, drowsiness set in with a vengeance.

“Tough day, Rip?”

He didn’t have to open his eyes to tell who was standing over him.

“Crayon? Goddamnit, I just want to get some sleep, you fucker. Can this wait until morning?”

“No, it can’t, Rip.”

Crayon kicked the leg of the metal cot, rustling Rip awake. A flood of anger hit him once more. “You know, it really pisses me off that I can’t punch you. If you were this much of an asshole when you were alive, I don’t think you and I would have gotten along as well as we did. Why can’t you just be the guy who used to go fishing with me?”

Crayon knelt down in front of him. “You know I heard what you said to the girl. You want to know how to kill the Horseman? You want to know how to kill me?”

Rip shot up from the cot. He glared at Crayon, an indignant look that meant to get the point of his anger across. It did that just fine.

“Seeing as how you want your goddamned soul to be free so you can float on up to fuckin’ heaven, or whatever, then yes—it might help to know how to get rid of you,” Rip said. On his feet now, he continued. “It seems to me that you want an awful lot from me in exchange for my life, buddy. How do I know you’re not full of shit, just playing me for an idiot?”

“But you’re not an idiot. Are you, Rip?”

Rip quickly threw his finger in front of Crayon’s face. “You’re goddamn right I’m not an idiot. That’s why I want to know how to kill you. I think you want me to have some kind of fucking epiphany in Sleepy Hollow. I think you think that I
want
to die, that’s why you’re telling me all this bullshit about completing the curse. You think that I will do it so I can fuck off and die. You think you’re doing me a favor by filling my head with this bullshit nonsense. Well, let me tell you something, buddy—Geoffrey Irving ain’t goin’ down without a fight.”

“That’s good to know, Rip. It’s going to take everything you have to get past the undead between here and Sleepy Hollow. And yes, I will tell you how to kill the Horseman, not because I think you have some kind of suicidal ideation, but because I want you to put my soul to rest. Do you have any idea how difficult it is for me to exist like this?”

Rip lowered his hand. “Does it look like I give a shit how hard things are for
you
? Do you have any idea what you’re doing to
me
? I have had to come to terms with a lot of shit the last few days! My son is gone, my wife is dead, and you want me to do you a fucking favor! I have had about enough of your shit! Tell me how to kill the Horseman, and then get the fuck out of my head, get the fuck out of my face, and get the fuck out of my life!”

Crayon sat on the end of Rip’s olive green cot. His relaxed tone annoyed the shit out of Rip. This trait was likeable when Crayon was alive, but in death, it pissed Rip off to see his former friend being so cavalier about their circumstances.

“Did you know there is an old legend about a man like you?” Crayon asked.

The question caught him off guard. “What?”

“There is an old legend about a man who goes to sleep for a number of years and wakes up in a world that he doesn’t recognize. His wife is gone, his kids don’t know who he is, and everyone that he knows has forgotten about him. Is that what you feel like, Rip? That everyone has forgotten about the great Geoffrey Irving? That man is cursed to live out his days in obscurity and sorrow. Is that what you want? Or do you want to live forever?”

“No, I don’t want to live forever, Crayon. So why don’t you tell me how to kill the Horseman—to kill
you
—so I can get on with what little life I have left.”

Crayon blew out a long sigh. His friend, the man that he had chosen to save the world, just didn’t get it. He didn’t understand that there were certain things a man had to come to terms with, and his own mortality was one of them. It was best just to get to the point and tell him what he needed to know, and be done with the failed experiment that was Geoffrey Irving.

“I was buried in Sleepy Hollow, Rip. Before I joined the Army, it had been my hometown. I loved growing up there. I always said that I would go back there after the Army, but, well, you know how that went. I wanted to raise a family, retire, and live out my days in my hometown. It’s too bad that I just ended up being laid to rest there.”

Rip’s demeanor softened a little. He understood that Crayon wanted to live out the rest of his life in his hometown. Hell, Rip had been born in the hills of Southern West Virginia and raised by his maternal grandmother. His mother was a mess—when she was alive—and his father had abandoned him when he was only two years old. He’d spent the next ten years or so bouncing back and forth with grandparents, aunts and uncles, and other family members. By the time he’d made it to high school, he had become very uncaring about his so-called “family.” He eked out a high-school education, just to be able to join the military. With a below average ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) score, he was relegated to being a grunt, infantry ground-pounder. He wasn’t the smartest or kindest person on earth, but he was by no means stupid or incapable of caring.

“Just tell me how to kill the Horseman so I can end this shit for both of us.”

“My head. It was buried with my body, but it never leaves my grave.” Crayon chuckled, looking out with a blank stare. “I guess that was the Hadjis’ way of making sure that the Horseman couldn’t be killed so easy. Now that the Horseman has returned to Sleepy Hollow, it will be more heavily guarded. The undead will stop at nothing to keep you from killing them, and make no mistake, if you kill the Horseman, you will kill
all of them
. Destroy the head; it’s the only way.”

“So, I destroy your head and this shit ends. Sounds easy enough to me.” Rip waved nonchalantly and sat back down on his cot. He kicked his legs up and swung them toward the end of the bed, passing through Crayon’s ghost. “See you in Sleepy Hollow, brother. We leave in the morning.”

Crayon rose from the bed. “Good luck, Rip. You’re going to need it.”

Rip had already closed his eyes. “We’ll see about that, Crayon. We will see.”

CHAPTER 19

The next morning came too early for Master Sergeant Geoffrey Irving. The rest and recharging he needed wasn’t going to happen. Around six in the morning, the world came to life, loading up the battered deuce-and-a-half truck that was to be their transport. The hustle and bustle of early morning life was something that used to get Rip going in his enlisted days, but now it seemed just like everything else—a job. It was merely another task that needed to be completed.

“Wake up, sunshine.”

Rip slowly rolled over to the sound of Colonel Patterson’s voice. The colonel held something in both his hands, something that Rip had not seen in quite some time. The smell gave it away immediately.

“Sweet mother of God. Is that coffee?”

Patterson handed Rip a steaming mug of java with a wry smile. “Damn right it is. Some of the last bit that I have too, so don’t you dare let it go to waste, sergeant.”

Rip paused as he grabbed the mug. “Duly noted, sir. I could use a little wake-up juice right now. I’m not as young as I used to be, that’s for damn sure.”

“None of us are, Rip. That’s why it is so important that you get this day started off right.” Patterson waved Rip onward as he headed towards the door. “C’mon, the boys are loading up the truck as we speak. We need to go out and discuss the toys that I’m sending with you.”

Rip sipped the hot coffee. It was bitter and tasted a bit old, but old coffee was better than no coffee. “Toys?”

Colonel Patterson stepped outside into the early morning light. The worse-for-wear deuce-and-a-half truck was sitting directly in front of the bar, parked in the street. Several men milled about, mostly moving ammo cans and jerry cans full of fuel and water. On the top of the cab, Rip noted what appeared to be a large machine gun, an M2 Browning. It was one of the most versatile and deadly heavy machine guns in the United States military arsenal.

Rip pointed to the massive gun. “Is that a Ma Deuce?”

Patterson sipped his own mug of bitter wake-up call. “Damn right it is. I had some of the boys go over to Crane’s place last night and ‘relieve’ him of most of his worthwhile supplies. There’s plenty of food and water to get you across New York. The Ma Deuce only has about three hundred rounds, so be careful with what you have. I don’t expect to be stranded out in the middle of nowhere with no goddamn ammo.”

Rip raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming with us, sir?”

“You’re damn right I am. I’m getting tired of sitting around this place with my thumb up my ass. I think it’s about time I got out and got some fresh air.”

“Sir, don’t you think you should stay behind. These people are going to need a leader once the world starts coming back together.”

Colonel Patterson pulled a long drink from his coffee, and then threw the remnants out into the street. “That is if you decide to kill the Horseman, right?”

Rip was momentarily taken by surprise. Had the colonel overheard his conversation with Crayon? Was there any point in hiding it now?

“So you heard me…”

“Talking to that girl,” Patterson completed. “I don’t know what you plan on doing once you get there, but if it was me, I would kill that sonofabitch if it was the last thing I did on this earth.”

Rip looked down to his own cup of coffee and tossed the rest out in the street as Patterson had done moments before. He suddenly didn’t have the urge to partake in the morning caffeine. “It’s a lot to decide, sir. I know if I kill him that I will die in the process.” Rip chuckled humorlessly. “Bastard has got me in one hell of a predicament.”

Patterson clapped Rip on the shoulder. “Just do what feels right, sergeant. Now, let’s get the rest of this shit squared away so we can get on the road. I’m gettin’ antsy sitting here; too much goddamned caffeine.”

The two men started to head back inside when Hacker approached. “Rip, Colonel Patterson!”

“What is it, Hacker?”

“I think both of you ought to see this. We found some correspondence of some type belonging to Marshal Crane. It looks to be some kind of diary that he kept,” Hacker said. He handed the worn hardback notebook to Rip. Rip looked up at Hacker, puzzled. Hacker tapped the old notebook. “I think the last entry in there will explain a lot.”

Rip’s heart began to pound. He wasn’t one to get excited so easily, but the prospect of getting into the mind of Marshal Crane was a monumental piece of intel that he needed to go over. Rip thumbed through the book. There wasn’t an entry every day, but sporadically throughout the past several years. The handwriting in the beginning was in shorthand and difficult to read, but from what he could tell, it chronicled the beginning of the zombie outbreak. The first twenty pages or so detailed how Crane had recalled his company back to Fort Drum from the FTX in the Adirondacks, the very time that Rip had his first run in—and subsequent disappearance—with Crayon. Crane had noted that he’d had one MIA—Master Sergeant Geoffrey Irving Sr. A note was scribbled in the margins beside Rip’s name. He gripped the book, his nails digging into the binding.

MSG Geoffrey Irving Sr.—presumed deserter—thank God for small favors!

Rip popped his neck, the bones crunching and relieving the pressure. He continued thumbing through the book, arriving at the last entry in the timeworn journal.

May 7
th
, 2023

I have finally gotten some good luck and use out of that no-good bastard son of hers. It seems that the great Geoffrey Irving, Sr. has made an appearance after all! I don’t know where that piece of shit has been for the last ten years, but at least I finally have my bargaining chip. In lieu of his son, the Horseman now wants Irving Sr. as his tribute. I could give a shit less about that drunken fuck, so it is a windfall for me. Kill two birds with one stone and keep my immunity from the undead as well as the Horseman’s wrath. I don’t really give a shit what he does with either one of the Irvings. He has sent word through the Riders that Irving Sr. is to be brought to his resting place in Sleepy Hollow. I plan to make that happen with a little well-planned trickery of my own. All I have to do is make the drunken fuck care about his son again, and then kidnap the little bastard. Rip will come to save the day, and I won’t even have to lift a finger. Jeff will return with his father soon, and all will be revealed to both of them…

“It’s a goddamn trap!” Rip exclaimed. He slammed the book shut and waved it at Colonel Patterson. “The whole thing with my son was a setup. Crane meant to slip up about killing my wife in front of Jeff! He wanted to force some kind of bond between the two of us to make sure that I came to Sleepy Hollow!”

Patterson grabbed the book and thumbed through it himself. “We knew it was some kind of trap to begin with, Rip. Now we know what we are getting in to.” Patterson read the last entry in the journal, and then closed the book. “We have to assume that he knew we would find this. It could just be some kind of convoluted double-cross. To be honest, it’s a crapshoot either way.”

“I don’t even know what to make of it, sir. The whole thing was a lie to get me to feel something for Jeff, and I did. Now Crane has some kind of pact with the Horseman for immunity from him and the undead, and he’s using Jeff and me to make sure that it happens.”

Patterson handed the journal back to Rip. “We don’t have to go through with this, Rip. If you think that your son is in on the trap, then I say we let the bastards have him. If not, then we have to watch our ass. Sleepy Hollow is a setup for sure; it just remains to be seen how bad it’s going to get.”

Seabass walked up to the three men. He was outfitted with his tactical vest and M4, ready to kick some ass. “Sir, we’ve loaded the last of the supplies. We’re ready to take off when you are.”

Patterson nodded, and then turned to Rip. “It’s all yours, sergeant.”

Rip moved past the men, climbed onto the back of the deuce-and-a-half. He stood there for a few moments, looking over the men who were going to risk their lives, possibly for nothing at all. There were so many more questions that needed to be answered, and he didn’t know where to start. He looked down to the notebook in his hands, and then back to the men. He was going to have less than a dozen men at his disposal. Hacker, Witch, and Seabass were among them, as well as Clay, who was bandaged but ready to go. They were ready to die for the man that stood before them, a man that they had known for less than a week, but the bond of the brotherhood that came with being a soldier was stronger than blood. Take care of the man to your left, make sure that he made it home, and the man to your left would do the same for you.

“I don’t have the words to describe how much it means to me that you all have volunteered for this assignment. I can’t tell you that we will all make it back alive, but what I
can
tell you is that I will fight to the death to make sure that you do not die in vain. We are walking into a trap in Sleepy Hollow, the likes of which I have never seen before. I cannot honestly tell you what we will be walking in to, but I can promise you that it will test every fiber of your being as well as mine. There is no way in hell that I will let you down, and there is no way in hell that I will quit.”

Casey appeared out of the corner of his eye, clutching a suppressed MP5. Even the small nature of the 9mm submachine gun looked large in the hands of the sixteen-year-old girl. She gave a small smile and nodded. She was ready to go.

And so was Rip.

“Mount up! We have a lot of miles to go before Sleepy Hollow!”