Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (20 page)

CHAPTER 33

The outside of the Old Dutch Church of Sleepy Hollow was inconspicuous enough. The stone walls went about twenty feet up and then met with a barn-style roof, ending in a gazebo-looking steeple. In the surrounding area, it looked very much in place with the buildings around it. They all had a timeworn but regal look about them. The entire scene looked like an oil painting from the 1800s.

Except for the zombies.

Rip had wandered the last mile or so towards the church, still not entirely convinced of why. Crane’s convoluted plan kept rolling around in his head.

Crayon may be cursed, but he’s not fucking stupid.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Rip didn’t want to believe Crane, but what reason did he have to lie? Crane was damn near dead, spilling whatever secrets he had left, but why? There was no reason for him to give up his secrets about Katrina, Jeff, or the Horseman’s plan. Rip wanted to take the whole thing with a huge grain of salt, but something wouldn’t let him let it go. It was all too neat, too convenient, to believe. He was supposed to take the word of the man who had hated him for years and was in cahoots with a supernatural being that had kidnapped his son.

The whole thing gave him a headache.

There were a few things that he
did
know right now.

1. Crane was dead.
   
2. The Horseman had killed Katrina.
   
3. Crayon may have lied to him.
   

Other than that, he was clueless. As tired as he was from the journey, it was nothing compared to what lay at the destination. The thousands of zombies that had lined the road near the church were now converging on him. They made no action that suggested they were going to do anything just yet, but he didn’t figure they were there to make friends, either.

Unbeknownst to Rip, they had been following him since leaving Crane dead in the road a while back. The steady procession of decay and stench had followed him all the way to the Old Dutch Church of Sleepy Hollow. A gigantic mass of walking corpses huddled behind him, several hundred deep. Should he win the day and kill the Horseman, somehow, the undead would fall by the wayside, unable to stand without their leader and controller.

Right?

Rip wasn’t waiting around to find out.

M4 in hand, he stormed towards the church. Dirty, bloody, broken and determined, he kicked at the door. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would find on the other side of the it, but he was ill prepared to face what greeted him once he did.

The church was largely empty. The pews on either side of the building were still intact, looking the way they had been for the last ten years, undisturbed and still neatly arranged. The light inside the church was fading, but he could still make out three figures in the dwindling daylight.

The first figure—intimidating and headless—was the Horseman in his Dress Blues, black trench coat, and ceremonial sword. The headless master of the undead stood directly in front of the pulpit, waiting patiently as if he didn’t have anywhere to be for a hundred years. His hand rested on the sword, waiting for the moment to unsheathe it. The scene of Crayon’s former body standing directly in front of him sent an irritated chill down his spine.

He was one scary motherfucker.

Flanking the Horseman on either side were two hooded figures, kneeling. Their hands had been bound behind their backs and their heads hung low. Rip figured the one to the Horseman’s right to be Jeff. The figure was hooded, but Rip could still tell the outline of the muscular physique and height. The figure to the left was considerably smaller, probably around five foot six inches tall and a much smaller frame. The second figure was dressed in tattered, dirty clothing that was in stark contrast to Jeff’s. Jeff looked a little worse for wear, but the other figure looked as if they had been living in a cave for quite some time.

Welcome to the end of the line, Rip! I hope you enjoyed the last few days in my world, because it will be the last things you see before being sent to hell!
The Horseman’s voice pounded in Rip’s head, reverberating like a bass drum.

Rip didn’t bother responding. As soon as the Horseman began to speak, he raised his M4 and fired off every round that he had left. Bullets tore through the Horseman, sending bits of decayed flesh spattering against the wall behind him. Puffs of dirt flew from the impact of the 5.56mm rounds. The Horseman twitched and moved back a step, but stood his ground as the rounds tore into his chest.

A few seconds later, the bolt locked back on Rip’s M4, signaling the end of his ammo. The familiar smell of cordite hung in the air as the smoke from the barrel wisped in front of him. Rip grinned a demented smile.

This asshole doesn’t know who he’s fucking with,
he thought.

Rip lowered the rifle, fully expecting to see the headless monster lying in the middle of the aisle, wounded at the very least. . Crayon might have lied about his ability to kill the Horseman, but the satisfaction of firing into the headless bastard gave him a morbid pleasure. As the smoke settled, Rip realized he hadn’t made a dent in the undead leader.

The Horseman stood in the middle of the aisle, unflinching, only now he was clutching the sword. The shiny gold and brass that adorned the ceremonial weapon had long since lost its luster, but something told Rip that it would still be as sharp as it ever was. The Horseman stood with the sword in hand, beckoning the man in front of him to challenge.

Is that all you’ve got?

Rip threw the rifle down and charged like a man possessed.

He got to within a few steps of the headless ghoul before the Horseman made a move, but when he did, it nearly caved in Rip’s chest. The Horseman swung his free arm, connecting the backside of it with the center of Rip’s chest. Rip felt something crack in his chest as the air forcefully expelled from his lungs. He spiraled in the air for a moment before landing hard on his face. The impact from the backhand and the subsequent landing knocked nearly all the air from his lungs. He lay for a moment, desperately trying to get his body to work, but the lack of oxygen was preventing him from doing anything productive.

Before he could get to his feet, the Horseman stalked forward. The heavy thud of footsteps echoed through the church as he moved. With one swift motion, the Horseman grabbed Rip up by the throat and held him in the air.

Rip clawed at the Horseman’s iron grip as the leather-gloved hands slowly squeezed against his throat. His feet barely scraped the floor, and the world began to get fuzzy, like a TV losing reception. The Horseman pulled Rip towards him where his head should have been. Although there were no words coming from it, he could hear the voice.

Nothing you possess can kill me, Geoffrey Irving!

The Horseman threw Rip to the ground again, knocking over several pews as he tumbled through the mass of wooden benches. There was no hope of Rip catching himself as he flew to the floor, landing hard and cracking several more bones as he did. Once again, the Horseman stalked forward and grabbed him, dragging him back to the front of the church.

Now it is time for you to see, Geoffrey Irving! Now you will witness pain and suffering beyond your worst nightmares!

The Horseman dragged him by the leg as he tried in vain to right himself. Rip clawed at the wooden floor, trying to keep from being taken away, but to no avail. The Horseman was about to finish him off and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

The Horseman threw him again.

Rip bounced off the front of the pulpit, landing on his back as he fell to the floor. The world was getting very fuzzy now. He closed his eyes and waited for the moment when his life was supposed to flash before them, but it never came. The only thing that came to him was pain and the knowledge that, despite his best efforts and all of the blood, sweat and tears he had put in over the last week, it was all for naught. He’d failed as a husband, as a father, and as a friend. There were little in redeeming qualities left in him. Might as well just lie back and let the man who had once been his friend take him out of this hellhole of a world.

Rip did the only thing he could think of to do…

He prayed for the first time in thirty years.

He prayed that he would reunite with his family one day to prove to them that he was not the piece of shit drunkard that he had made himself out to be. He prayed for God to take pity on him and let him have the second chance that he knew he didn’t deserve… to be given the chance to be the man he should have been.

The Lord has a funny way of answering prayers.

“Geoffrey? Is that you?”

Rip slowly turned his head towards the sound. After the beating he had taken over the last few minutes, he was surprised to see that his vision still worked, albeit a little blurry. It was a female voice, one that he immediately recognized.

It can’t be!
he thought.

“K-Katrina? Is that you, baby?” Rip whispered hoarsely.

“Oh my God! You’re alive!” Katrina squeaked out.

I’m alive? You’ve been dead for eight years!

“How…”

The Horseman sheathed the sword and grabbed Rip by the back of the neck. The Horseman’s iron grip clamped down on the back of his neck and pulled him upright. With his free hand, the Horseman pulled the hoods from Katrina and Jeff, confirming who they were.

Jeff’s face was beaten almost as bad as Crane’s had been not an hour ago, but he was still in the fight. He looked up to his father with weary but determined eyes.

“Kill that motherfucker,” Jeff whispered.

Katrina looked as if she had aged twice what she should have. Her eyes were sunken and she looked like she weighed a little over a hundred pounds, if that. Her hair was frazzled and looked like she had grabbed a live power line. Despite all that was wrong with her, Rip still recognized and loved the woman who was behind all of the dirt and mange. She had been the love of his life, and his heart ached, knowing this would be the last time he would ever see her.

Now you will pay for the suffering that you brought upon me, Geoffrey Irving! Before you die, I want you to see your beloved wife and son massacred in front of you! And before you die, know that I was the one who took them from you!

“Fuck you, Crayon. You and your horse-riding bitch can kiss my ass!” Rip growled out, barely able to make a sound.

You always were too fucking stupid to get it, weren’t you, Rip? The Horseman and I have an understanding. We rule this world now, not you. Before you die, know that both the Horseman and I are one and the same. Crane was right, you know. I played you into thinking that you were going to kill me and save the fucking world. All of the living and the undead do my bidding, Geoffrey Irving! I am Death—the Horseman of the apocalypse!

The voice was not the Horseman’s, but Crayon’s. Rip’s dead friend had indeed played him and everyone around him for fools. One of the four horsemen of the apocalypse was standing in front of him.

The Horseman, Crayon, whoever Death had become, unsheathed the sword from the scabbard on his side. He raised it above Katrina’s head.

Say goodbye to your beloved Katrina!

Rip closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. There was nothing he could do. Helpless, he lay there and accepted his fate. He would soon be reunited with his wife and son, far away from the death and destruction of the living world. Light glinted ever so slightly off the blade as it was raised.

Several shots rang out.

At first, Rip couldn’t piece together what was happening, but the sword dropped from the Horseman’s hand… at least part of it did. The broken end of the blade stuck in the floor directly in front of him. As the Horseman turned to locate where the shots had come from, Rip sprang into action with what little bit of a second wind he could muster. Straining and calling upon every bit of strength he had left, he wrestled away from the Horseman’s grip and grabbed the broken shard of the sword.

“Die, you son of a bitch!” Rip screamed.

The broken sword cut into his hands, slicing them open. Rip felt no pain. He loosed the sword from the floor and swung with all his might at the Horseman’s arm behind him. The blade cut through the undead rider’s arm halfway between his elbow and shoulder, cutting it neatly off.

Rip didn’t stop there.

Swinging wildly, he aimed for the Horseman’s other arm, cutting it off just below the shoulder. The Horseman spun and tried to stop the blow, but it was too late. The other end of the sword that had been in his hand fell harmlessly to the floor, clattering against the wood.

Jeff rose from his kneeling position and speared headlong into the Horseman, knocking them both down in the process. Unable to stop his fall, the Horseman fell against the pews behind him. Jeff bounced off the Horseman and fell to the floor, his hands still tied behind his back. Rip quickly moved over to his son and cut the rope that held Jeff’s hands together. Father and son exchanged a quick glance.

“Kill him!” Jeff screamed.

Rip raised the broken end of the sword, intending to do just that.

If you kill me, you die yourself, Geoffrey Irving!

As much as he hated to admit it, Crayon/Horseman/Death had a good point. Rip lowered the sword. Jeff had taken the other end of the broken sword and cut loose the binds from Katrina. Mother and son exchanged a quick but passionate embrace. Jeff let go of his mother and turned back to his father, the broken sword still in his hand.