Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (5 page)

CHAPTER 5

Dad.

It was amazing how a single word could change the course of a person’s life. For Rip, it was the singular word that he thought (hoped?) he would never hear again. It was a reminder of something familiar and yet altogether alien to him. The boy—no, the
man,
that stood before him was most certainly his own. The striking good looks, the musculature, the ability to take someone his size to the ground—oh yeah, this was his son.

Rip stood, nearly breathless. Of all the things that he had to wrap his mind around in the last few hours, finding his son this fast was not one of them. It was no surprise that his son survived the end of the world. Even at the young age of eleven, he had shown promise in the extracurricular activities that his mother had insisted on; they kept the child’s mind away from Rip’s constant deployments. The boy had shown promise in karate from the time that he’d started at the age of eight. His mother thought it would be a good way to let some of his stresses out, and it kept the child from being a couch potato. She thought that it would be healthy for him to otherwise occupy his mind… and keep his father out of it. His name was, or
is
the same as Rip’s.

He is Geoffrey Irving, Jr.

“So you just gonna stand there like a broke-dick dog? Or you gonna start explaining where the hell you’ve been for the last ten years?”

Rip lowered the M4 and furrowed his brow. “Your mother teach you to talk to me like that, Junior?” Rip looked around. “Where is she at nowadays?”

Geoffrey Irving Jr. glared at his father. “No dad, she’s dead. She’s been dead for eight years, no thanks to you. She had a stroke arguing with someone over food; food that she was trying to get for me.”

Rip dropped his rifle to the ground. It clattered hard against the road, startling the Marshal’s men, as well as Jake. He stepped forward and confronted his son. The two men stood face to face, their noses nearly touching. Beads of sweat popped up on Rip’s brow and his face began to turn a bright red. He raised his right arm, as if he meant to backhand his son, but instead he pointed a crooked index finger at the boy.

“No thanks to
me
?
It wasn’t my fault that I passed out in that barren fucking shithole. I can’t believe my own son blames
me
for what happened.” Rip turned his head, facing the side of his son’s face. Irving Jr. just stared blankly ahead. Rip lowered his voice. “I wake up a couple hours ago and all of a sudden, the world is infested with goddamn zombies. The fucking world ended while I was knocked out for those ten years, and I am having a very fucking hard time coming to terms with it, so cut me some fucking slack. What the hell is
your
problem, boy?”

“First off, my name is Jeff. Second off, you have no right to get in
my
face over
your
drunk-ass problems.” Jeff met his father’s icy stare. “I bet you got shitfaced and passed out, didn’t you?”

Rip’s notoriously short temper could bear no more. With a surprising quickness, he landed a quick right hook against Jeff’s face, temporarily dazing him and knocking him back a few steps. The rest of the Marshal’s men caught Jeff as he stumbled backwards, propping him up and holding him back.

Jeff saw red. The rage burned in his eyes and the anger consumed him to his core. He would like nothing better than to slug his old man in the face, but his cohorts kept him from doing so. After what he’d had to endure over the last eight years, nothing would please him more. He’d had no parents, no family, and no help to get him through the world run by the walking dead. He had just turned thirteen when his mother died, and it still stung him to talk about her. After a few seconds, he stopped struggling against their grasp and righted himself. Running a hand across his lip, a small trickle of blood smeared across the back of it.

“You hit like a pussy, old man,” Jeff spat. “Why don’t you go over to the bar and have another one, you fucking lush.”

This time, Rip saw red. He wanted—no, he
needed
—to go over and beat some sense into his son. Thankfully, Jake stepped in front of Rip, planting a firm hand in the middle of his chest. Rip looked down, and then to Jake’s face. His face read
now’s not the time.
Rip gruffly shoved Jake’s hand away.

“This ain’t over, boy. Not by a fucking longshot. You go run back to Crane and you tell him that Rip Irving is alive and wants to talk to him. You tell him he better have a good goddamn explanation why he didn’t come looking for me. There are a lot of questions I need answered, starting with that asshole.”

Jeff laughed, as did the rest of Crane’s men. It seemed out of place for the situation, and there was a degree of disturbing pleasure with it.

Rip’s temper flared again. “What’s so goddamned funny?”

Jeff strode forward, the blood drying on his lip. He leaned forward, almost taunting. “I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you. He can explain to you why he was banging mom for all those years.”

Rip felt that old familiar feeling—the same as the first time he killed a man in combat. It was a way of dealing strictly with the problem at hand. It was a way to shut off his emotions, making him uncaring, unfeeling, and numb to the outside world. Rip could shut off the outside world and do horrible things, bottling it up inside and making the lines between right and wrong become very blurry. He was getting that feeling now, staring at his son—
his son!
The one person in this world that he knew, and the one person that wasn’t going to help him out. He gritted his teeth and swallowed hard, desperately trying to compartmentalize and remove the image of Crane having sex with Katrina. As with most things over the last few hours, it wasn’t working that well.

Now’s not the time, Rip. You’ve got bigger fish to fry right now.

Like hell I do! I’ve got a bone to pick with Crane!

Kill that motherfucker!

“C’mon fellas. Let’s get out of here before the great Geoffrey Irving has a goddamned seizure,” Jeff said. A few seconds later, Jeff was on his horse and moving out, away from Fort Drum. He had no further use for his belligerent father. Not that he had much use for him when he
was
around, but doubly so now. He’d managed to make it this far without Rip’s help, and he damn sure wasn’t going to ask for it now. Disgusted, he rode on by, staring daggers through his old man. “Don’t bother looking me up, you son of a bitch. You so much as get within my sight again, and I’ll shoot you myself,” Jeff said as he rode by.

Rip didn’t hear any of it. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He was locked in place by an invisible force of his own making. Sure, he’d been on too many deployments over the years, but he never imagined that Katrina would cheat on him. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she’d been taken by Crane. Maybe she just needed someone to take care of her and Geoffrey Jr.

Yeah, and maybe I’m a Chinese jet pilot.

“Well, seeing as how you’ve managed to get on Marshal Crane’s radar now, maybe we should delay that trip into town,” Jake said, getting back on his horse.

“No. Take me to see the Knights of New York.”

“Rip, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. The Knights may be at odds with Marshal Crane, but they don’t go looking for a fight against him if they don’t have to. The Knights are sorely outnumbered, so they keep to themselves. Not to mention, your son is one of Crane’s men; I don’t know if that will sit well with the Knights.”

Rip stuck his foot into the stirrup, hefting himself into the saddle. “Fine. Just point me in the right direction, Jake. I can find my own way.”

Jake sat for a moment, mulling over his choices. He didn’t want to get in between the Marshal and the Knights, but he felt like if he didn’t help Rip, no one would, especially due to the sergeant’s less-than-upbeat demeanor.

“Dammit, Rip. You’re going to get me killed, you know that?”

“You don’t have to go with me, Jake. You’ve already done more than the average person would have. Go back home to your family; God only knows that I can’t do the same with mine.”

Jake eased his horse around, heading towards Fort Drum. “C’mon, Rip. The least I can do is show you to Keith Patterson, he’s the Knights’ leader.”

Rip nodded. “Lead the way, Jake.”

After what he’d just seen, Jake was more than happy to be rid of the belligerent sergeant. There was something inside him that genuinely wanted to help, but the way Rip acted, it was difficult to sympathize with him. The man was obviously trying to come to terms with meeting his son, but it seemed that neither man wanted any kind of close connection. Jeff seemed like he was more than capable of taking care of himself, as did Rip. At least they shared that trait, because that was all they shared. The father/son bond was long gone… well, maybe not
gone
, but definitely on life support. Jake felt an odd mix of pity and annoyance. He decided to go with the former, trying to get inside Rip’s jumbled head.

“You know, just in the short time I’ve known you, I have a feeling that the world ended for you a long time before the undead took it over. You want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly. You saw for yourself; my son hates me.”

Jake spurred his horse forward, guiding the way to Fort Drum. “I don’t think he hates you. I think you have some issues that you need to work out with him, and I think it would do you some good to apologize to him.”

“Apologize for what, exactly? It’s not my fault that Crayon poisoned me.”

Jake frowned. That was the first time Rip mentioned Crayon out loud since downing the flask of… whatever it was. “What are you talking about? You said you got knocked out, not that you were poisoned. What exactly do you remember, Rip?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot. I remember it being cold,” Rip said, feigning his actual memories.

“Anyway, you should apologize to your son. For no reason. Just let him know that you didn’t forget about him while you were asleep.”

“I didn’t think about him; I didn’t think about anything, I guess. It all passed like a single night’s sleep, as far as I can remember.”

“You’re missing the point. Just swallow that mammoth-size pride of yours and apologize. He won’t care what for; he will just know that you’re there for him.”

Rip ignored the rest of Jake’s advice. What the hell did he know? He had
his
family, not to mention, a decent enough life outside the confines of Fort Drum. The respect and gratitude that Rip had for him began to wane. Katrina was dead and his son hated him. He’d woken up from a decade-long sleep to find out the world hadn’t done him any favors. The fact that it was overrun by the walking dead was now the least of his worries.

CHAPTER 6

It only took another fifteen minutes or so of riding to reach the main gate for Fort Drum. As they neared the entrance, Jake took the lead. Rip didn’t like being in the dark, but at the moment he didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of choice. Rip was searching for the words when Jake took care of that problem for him.

“Let me do the talking, Rip.”

Rip didn’t have a problem with that. All he wanted right now was to see a familiar face that
wasn’t
enormously pissed off at him. If the Knights were indeed some of the remnants of the Tenth Mountain, then it was reasonable to assume that he would know someone there. If he did, it would be a great way to reacquaint himself. Jake had done an admirable job so far, but there was plenty that he couldn’t answer. There were bound to be more military left, not just the Tenth Mountain, and it behooved him to find some of them. Maybe it would appease the voices in his head; maybe it was a way to find out what Crayon was talking about. Either way, it would give him something to work towards, and God only knows he needed that.

Jake rode a few yards ahead of him, greeting the guards and stating their business. Rip was certain that Jake wouldn’t give them the full story; they wouldn’t believe it anyway. Hell, Rip was living it and
he
didn’t half-believe it.

As Jake bartered their passage into town, Rip gauged his surroundings. The main gate had been heavily modified and fortified. There was a single guard shack, previously used by the MPs on post, along with a larger tower beside it. The larger tower looked to be a homemade contraption of a ladder on wheels with a tent at the top. The end of the world was evidently being very hard on the creativity of the men in charge. Rip shook his head in disgust. There was no way in hell he would let his men fall into the kind of squalor that was evident around him. The wall that made up the perimeter of Fort Drum looked to be in a little better shape, but not much. Plywood two-by-fours and sheet metal wouldn’t stop a bullet, but might stop the undead.

A few handshakes later, Jake motioned for Rip to follow. Rip’s horse did not let him down this time, following as it was directed. Once they were safely within the confines of Fort Drum, Jake explained their purpose and why the Marshals had let them pass.

“Since word doesn’t travel fast around here, I told them you were just passing through. The Marshals we ran into—including your son—haven’t made it back yet. So when we get to Keith Patterson, you’re gonna have to figure out a way to lie low for a while. The Marshals like to keep track of everyone in town, and that includes
you.
”

“So what’s gonna happen when they find out I’m here in town?”

“I suggest you figure that out before they do. Get in and out and take care of whatever you’re wanting to take care of.”

Rip sighed deeply. “Well, finding my son and learning that my wife is dead kind of puts a wrinkle in any plans I might have had.” He continued staring ahead, not entirely sure how to move forward. Jeff had always been the strong type; after all, he’d had to endure the constant deployments of his father, along with a home life that hadn’t been the best. Rip and his wife were usually at odds. When they weren’t fighting—and that wasn’t very often—then his father was drinking or gone to another third-world hellhole, unsure whether he would return or not. It had wreaked havoc on their life before, and now that the world had effectively ended, it was no different. Rip tried to absorb his son’s appearance, along with the fact that his wife was dead. As with most things in the last few hours, it wasn’t taking well.

Then the voices started again.

You should have known, Rip. I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you before.

Crayon?

Yeah, Rip. It’s me. We have a lot to talk about, old friend.

Have another drink, you fucking lush!

Crayon, who the hell is kicking around their goddamn clumsy feet in my head?

Not now, Rip, but soon.

“Here we are. The Knights’ headquarters, more or less.”

Rip shook off the jumbled mess of warring voices and looked up. The Knights’ headquarters was a place that Rip wanted to avoid… somewhere he didn’t have the greatest of memories. A place that had seen his life slowly drain down to the bottom of a bottle. The name of the place was Buster’s.

It was Rip’s favorite bar, or used to be, at least.

“Great,” he grumbled under his breath. Temptation at reach wasn’t the way he wanted to finish up his first day in the apocalypse.

The bar was the same as he remembered, just a little older and dirtier, but the whole world was that way now. Outside the bar sat some of the Knights, talking amongst one another. As Rip and Jake approached, the Knights collectively turned towards the men. All of them were sporting some sort of camouflage; there was a mishmash of ACU, woodland, and MultiCam patterns worn about them. Not only that, but they had a certain military bearing that Jake had noticed about Rip from the get-go. There was something about the way they carried themselves that gave them away as soldiers. Jake and Rip both dismounted and slowly strolled over to the group of Knights.

Rip was still unsure as to why the men called themselves the Knights of New York. From what he had learned from Jake, the Robin Hood-esque story that he gave seemed to fit. If the Knights were indeed remnants of the Tenth Mountain, they would be all for protecting the innocent and helping those in need. Rip was ready to help if he could, but first, he needed some more answers, and this would be the first stop of many, he figured.

Rip didn’t recognize the four men standing outside of the bar, but that didn’t mean they weren’t former soldiers with the Tenth Mountain. The division had six brigades and several thousand soldiers that bore the famous “Mountain” tab; it was an entirely likely possibility that he wouldn’t know
everyone.

“I have a man here that would like to see Keith Patterson,” Jake said, stepping in front of Rip and breaking the ice on conversation.

One of the men stepped forward. He was a bearded man of around thirty-five with short-cropped brown hair and a full beard that far exceeded the length of the hair on his head. He wore a faded MultiCam jacket with ACU pants that were a faded version of the former camouflage. As he stepped forward, Rip saw his weapon—a SCAR-17—a favorite amongst Special Forces and other black ops units.

“Who's askin'?”

Jake opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Rip. “I am. Master Sergeant Geoffrey Irving. Formerly of Third Brigade Spartans, Tenth Mountain. I need to speak with this Patterson fella.”

The man's stoic demeanor changed a little when Rip mentioned his Tenth Mountain affiliation. He grinned ever so slightly. “Well, in that case, you'll need to be addressing him as Colonel Patterson.”

Rip smiled dryly. “Will do. Can you get him for me?”

“C'mon, I'll show you to him. I need your friend to stay out here, though.”

Jake held his hands out. “Not a problem. Actually, I probably need to be getting back, Rip. The wife and daughter will want to know where I went for so long. If it's all the same, I’m going to head back home.”

Rip had started walking towards the entrance to the bar. He stopped and turned back to Jake. He was eternally grateful for what the man had done for him. He needed to thank him; he wasn’t sure that he would see him again, given the circumstances. “Gimme just a second... um... what is your name?”

The bearded man spat on the ground behind him. “Clayton, Samuel Clayton. Most the boys call me Clay.”

“All right, Clay. Gimme just a second. I owe this man a debt for bringing me here. The least I can do is thank him for what he's done.”

Clay spat again and nodded. “Take your time. We all owe someone a debt around here. I’ll be just inside the door when you’re ready.”

Rip turned back towards Jake. “I suppose I could just say 'thank you,' but I think it would fall tragically short of what I owe you, Jake.” Rip held out his hand. “Anything that I can do for you, I’m in your debt.”

Jake was surprised at how attached he had become to Rip. He’d known the man less than six hours, but he felt like he’d known him for much, much longer. He reached out to take the sergeant's hand, giving it a hearty shake. “You don’t owe me anything, Rip. Just promise me that you’ll take care of Tina and Casey if the need arises. You seem like a man that can and would keep his word, so that’s all I ask. You can keep the horse and the shirt.”

Rip returned the handshake. “Yes sir, I would, and thank you for your help. Take care, Jake Woods.”

“You too, Geoffrey Irving. I hope you find whatever it is that you’re looking for.”

Little did Rip know that it would be the last time he saw Jacob Woods alive.

He followed Clay into the derelict bar. Rip kept his M4 slung over his shoulder; there was no sense in showing himself as a threat to Colonel Patterson. Rip got the sense of the Knights as a biker gang from times before now. Nearly all the men he saw inside sported full-length beards and bandannas or baseball hats, complemented by camouflage uniforms of all shapes and sizes; each man also carried some sort of assault rifle. The men seemed to be a gruff but tight-knit bunch. Several conversations were slowed or stopped as Clay walked Rip through the individual groups of men. One man took a shot of whiskey, slamming it down on the bar as Rip walked by.

Clay led him to a small room in the back of the bar. Once they were out of sight of the others, the conversations and noise resumed. Jake was right, it felt a lot like the old west. Rip got the distinct feeling that before the end of the day, he was going to have to shoot someone. Clay put his hand against Rip's chest, holding him in place.

“Wait here a sec. I'll get the colonel.”

Clay stepped in front of Rip. He rapped his knuckles on the windowless door. A few seconds later, a man answered. He was tall with a commanding presence and appeared to be in his early sixties. He was the first man that Rip had seen who didn’t have a beard, or any facial hair for that matter. His appearance was complemented by short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair. Colonel Patterson was about six and a half feet tall, solidly built, but not overly muscular. In another life, he could have been the stunt double for Sam Elliot.

Clay motioned to Rip. “Colonel, this is Master Sergeant Geoffrey Irving, former Tenth Mountain.”

Colonel Patterson frowned, puzzled. “Tenth Mountain? The last one of you boys showed up about eight years ago. Where have
you
been, sergeant?”

“It’s a long story, sir, one that I would be more than happy to try and explain, but I’ll warn you in advance, it won’t be easy to believe.”

Colonel Patterson snorted slightly. “Son, the dead have come back to life. When zombies roam the planet, almost any story is believable. C’mon in.” His deep baritone voice furthered his Sam Elliot-like persona.

Colonel Patterson motioned Rip inside. “Thank you, Clay. That’ll be all.”

“Yes, sir,” Clay said, and excused himself.

Patterson motioned for Rip to have a seat as he took up residence behind an old oak desk. On the desk were few items—a small lamp with a faded American flag sticker on the side, a baseball with someone’s signature on it in a Lucite case, and a worn but still useable 1911 .45 pistol.

As Colonel Patterson sat down, he reached into a drawer on his right, procuring a pair of glasses and a very old-looking bottle of bourbon. As soon as Rip saw the bottle, his mouth watered. Patterson poured two fingers in each glass and pushed one towards Rip. Part of him didn’t want to take it, but a bigger part wanted to take the bottle away from Patterson and chug the whole damn thing down. The minority in him won out; he grabbed the glass, raised it to Patterson, and swallowed it down in one large gulp.

Then he motioned for another.

Colonel Patterson grinned and poured Rip two more fingers. “You said you had a story, sergeant. I’d like to hear it, if you don’t mind. We get quite a few of ’em around here, and none of ’em has a happy ending. I’m willing to bet yours doesn’t, either.”

Rip proceeded to start into an hour-long spiel of how he had come to his current state. He made sure not to include the parts of his story that had anything to do with Crayon, the voices, or anything else that he couldn’t rightly explain. There was just too much for him to try and dissect himself; he sure as hell wasn’t going to try and pass it off on someone else. As he continued regaling Colonel Patterson of his story, many more drinks were consumed and many more stories told, including ones that had nothing to do with the zombies. War stories weren’t limited to just war. Rip had Colonel Patterson convinced that he had just been knocked out and somehow miraculously survived. After a couple of drinks, the story became much more believable, even if Rip wasn’t that convincing. The haze of alcohol blurred the truth with lies.

Several hours passed. After a period of time, Rip left the confines of Colonel Patterson’s office in search of more to drink. He had to admit that he was surprised there was such an ample supply of booze left. He didn’t know if the Knights made their own or were just fans of rounding it up whenever they were given the opportunity. Either way, he didn’t care. After a few more drinks at the bar, he made friends with some of the Knights. His observation of a tight-knit group was spot-on. The men were easily drawn into conversation with him, and he found, after several drinks and stories, that he had more in common with them than he realized. Nearly all were Iraq or Afghanistan veterans and, aside from a handful, were former Tenth Mountain soldiers.