Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (8 page)

CHAPTER 10

Marshal Crane was lucky enough to duck and avoid the first shot from Jeff's pistol. It momentarily stunned him that his protégé had even pulled the sidearm, let alone taken a shot at him. At him!

Who the fuck does this kid think he is?

Crane had given him everything that he had desired since his mother died. Well, since he had killed that nosy bitch, at least.

Jeff, of course, had no idea that Crane had anything to do with the unfortunate death of his mother. Crane had been there at her passing, but never let on any indication that he'd anything to do with it. Crane was the one who found her, but was never suspected in any wrongdoing. The little bastard had covered his tracks quite well. Crane had always been beyond reproach. Even if he had done it purposely and with premeditation, it wouldn’t have mattered. No one was going to challenge his authority, not then, and not now.

Jeff vehemently fired several more shots, pulling his father toward him as he did. The 9mm jerked in his hand as he pulled the trigger as fast as he could, flinging spent brass out as it ran through his limited ammo. The Beretta held only fifteen rounds, and he didn't have any extra on him, so when he ran out, he better have a plan. He didn't expect any of the shots to land, but he needed to further distract Crane and the other Marshals. He had let emotion take over, not planning for the aftermath of the initial shot. Not that it mattered now; he sure as hell wouldn't be a Marshal anymore, not after today.

Jeff didn't have to lead his father much; Rip was well accustomed to being able to handle himself in a firefight. He instinctively ducked his head and followed Jeff's lead, hoping that his son had a solid plan for getting them out of the building in one piece.

He did not.

“Go! Go! Go!” Jeff screamed as the Beretta fired off the last of the fifteen rounds. The slide locked back, and Jeff threw it away. The only other firearm in the room was Rip's rifle, which leaned against the aluminum rollup door at the back of the warehouse, nearly fifty feet away. With no options and no ammo, Rip grabbed Jeff toward the racks off to his left. They provided little in the way of cover, but it was better than nothing.

Marshal Crane and the two guards gained their collective bearings and began to look for the fleeing pair. Crane raised his large Model 686 Smith and Wesson revolver and fired off all six rounds quickly at the men as he spotted them. None of the shots hit home, but it was better than standing there with his thumb up his ass, as his men were.

“Shoot them you goddamn idiots!” Crane screamed, shoving six more .357 magnum rounds into the revolver.

Both of the stunned Marshals snapped to, raising their rifles toward the racks. The pop of rifle fire soon filled the large warehouse, deafening all those inside. The 5.56mm rounds pinged off the metal racks and cracked wooden pallets, furthering the thunderous noise in the room.

In spite of the hammering noise all around him, Rip could still hear Crayon's disembodied voice in his head, and the news didn't sound good.

He's coming Rip.

Rip didn't need a second prompting. He quickly grabbed Jeff by the arm. “We have to get the fuck out of here, now!”

Jeff looked at his father and replied in as much of a smartass tone as he could muster, “No shit!”

“Crawl under the racks! Get to the door and grab my rifle! I'll distract these fuckers!”

“Goddammit, he killed Mom!”

Rip grabbed his son by the collar. “And he will pay for it, but not here and not now! We have to get back to the Knights and get some reinforcements!”

“I don’t think the…”

Jeff ducked down smartly, another round ricocheting off the metal above his head. When he looked back up, his father was already darting to the other side of the room. The space between the metal racks was about forty feet, but it may as well have been a mile. There was no way in hell that Rip was going to make it across unscathed. Jeff sprang into action, swiftly crawling under the remaining two racks toward the back door.

Meanwhile, Rip was halfway across the gap, between the racks, darting as fast as his legs would take him. He had managed to time it as the two lackeys of Marshal Crane were reloading, giving him a false sense of security as he ran. Crane, however, was slamming the chamber closed on the revolver again, when he spotted Rip. He quickly brought the gun up and tried to get a bead on him.

“Irving! You motherfucker!” Crane bellowed, his voice booming as the revolver fired once again.

Rip's luck was running out as he reached the other side of the warehouse. As he grabbed the metal rack, praying that Jeff had reached his rifle, he felt the round tear through his right bicep. At first, he didn't notice the pain; it just felt like a strong tug at his arm, but searing heat quickly followed. It wasn't until he tumbled down, nearly somersaulting as he tried to avoid more gunfire, that he saw the blood. It wasn't a mortal wound, and Rip had been shot before during two different deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan. It burned like hell, but it was a survivable wound. His rifle shooting would be all to hell for a while, but it wouldn't kill him.

More rifle rounds pelted the racks and wooden pallets, tearing them apart and raining splinters down on top of him. He leaned against the sturdiest section of the rack that he could find. Grabbing his arm tightly, he tried to stop the bleeding, which was still moderately flowing, despite his iron grip.

Dammit, Junior. Where the hell are you?

As if to answer his prayers, rounds began to come from behind him, causing the lackeys to duck away. Crane remained steadfast, popping off two more shots before darting away himself. Jeff had ducked down at the last two shots, temporarily losing sight of Crane. When he rose up again, Crane was nowhere to be seen.

Cordite and smoke hung in the air, obscuring his view. He searched for a few more seconds, intensely staring at the area where the three men had been. Neither Jeff nor Rip could hear anything; the steady staccato of gunfire had almost completely deadened their sense of hearing.

Rip was still kneeling down, his hand clamped on the considerable hole in his arm. Jeff grabbed his father up by his good arm, directing him toward the door at the back of the warehouse. They couldn't see either of the two men or Crane, so they took that as their sign to leave.

Rip nodded vigorously at Jeff as his son semi-dragged him to the door. He couldn't believe his luck, both good and bad up to this point. He had learned to take the good with the bad the last two days, and they seemed to even one another out regularly. He had managed to bond with his son, for what is was worth, over the last few minutes. The hatred was dissipated, replaced by the overwhelming need to survive, a key component of what life was like now. On the other hand, his wife was dead, no
killed,
by Crane. This was something he would have to take care of—the sooner the better. The bastard was gone, bolted out of the building like the coward he was.

He's coming, Rip, and I can’t stop him. Get the hell out of there, now!

That’s right, motherfucker! I’m coming to get you, you worthless fuck!

Jeff slung the rifle over his shoulder, half-carrying his father toward the door leading outside. He knew that it wouldn't be long before more of the Marshals came looking for him. The gunfire was indoors but bound to attract some more attention to them—attention that they didn't need. He kicked the door open and both men stepped outside.

Rip gained some of his bearings once he was outside in the fresh air. The cordite and smoke were gone from sight and smell, and the ringing was starting to let up in his ears.

“We better get the fuck out of Dodge. We need to get back to the Knights and rally the troops. I’m afraid that Crane is gonna take it out on Colonel Patterson and the boys,” Rip said, shifting to where he could stand on his own.

He was hesitant to say anything about the Horseman coming, but now wasn’t the time for being modest. He knew the Horseman wanted him and would stop at nothing to get hold of him, and that included killing the Knights and the innocents of Fort Drum.

“We need to stay out of sight; if they see us, we are gonna be in a world of shit,” Jeff said.

“The Horseman is coming, Jeff. We need to get the hell back to the Knights, fucking
pronto
.”

“I don’t think the Knights are going to be very receptive of me right now, Dad,”

There was that word again—
dad.
A word that, less than twenty-four hours ago, had a hell of a lot different meaning than it did now. Before, it had symbolized all that Rip had done wrong in the past, all the misgivings flooding back to him. Now, it was the bond that he had always wanted with his son, something that was sorely lacking until this very moment. It was a ray of light in a very dark moment, one that he desperately needed. Unfortunately, he did not have time to dwell on the present; there were many more problems coming, and quickly.

“How do you know the Horseman is coming?” Jeff asked.

“What’s the fastest way back to the Knights' headquarters?” Rip asked, ignoring his son’s question for the moment. There would be a time and a place for the explanation, but not here and not now.

“Without seeing any of the Marshals? I don’t think there is a way across town without seeing at least one of them. They don’t communicate well, but the word will get out fast, and if they see you with a big fucking hole in your arm, well, let’s just say it'll be less than pleasant for both of us.”

“Shit. Let’s just get a horse and haul ass back to the Knights. If the Marshals take potshots at us, we can at least alert the Knights. I’d say that gunfire coming from
inside
the walls is not something that happens all the time. How many rounds does the M4 have left?”

Jeff turned the rifle over, checking the chamber. The bolt was locked back, indicating the magazine was empty. He huffed at the empty chamber; the rifle was not being their friend at the moment.

“We’re out. So what’s the plan?” Jeff glanced around the exterior of the warehouse, looking for an escape when Clay’s horse sauntered around the corner. The four-legged steed slowly walked over to Rip and Jeff.

Rip eyed the horse longingly. “Oh, I fucking love your horse, Clay,” he said.

Jeff was already a few paces ahead of him. “Let’s not waste any time, old man.”

For the first time since he awoke, Rip genuinely smiled, in spite of the abysmal situation. It was a good sign, a sign that he might be able to handle the overwhelming circumstances that he faced. Jeff mounted the horse, and then helped his father do the same. Clay’s steed whinnied but held both men adequately.

“What the hell is that noise?” Rip asked as he situated himself on the horse.

Jeff strained his hearing. At first, he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, but after a few seconds, he discerned what it was. It wasn’t a good sign. It was an escalating whine; it sounded like an air raid was about to come down on the denizens of Fort Drum.

Jeff urged the horse forward. “Goddammit! They have an old World War II crank siren that they use for emergencies. They sound the siren when we have a breach. Either our gig is up, or we have an abnormal amount of zombies. Long story short—shit is about to go down.”

“Well, let’s not stick around to find out,” Rip said.

And with that, they were off.

CHAPTER 11

With a combined 350-plus pounds riding on its back, the horse wasn’t exactly getting up to full speed, but then again, they weren’t running from anyone… not yet at least. There were no Marshals in pursuit, no one hot on their heels, and that worried both men. They expected the inevitable chase scene to play out, with the Marshals giving pursuit, but no, nothing.

The antiquated siren continued its piercing wail, scattering people left and right as Jeff and Rip made their way through the market. Gone were the shopkeepers and shoppers alike; everyone was either ducking under cover or heading that way. Whatever the apparent reason for the warning, it wasn’t good.

Jeff urged the horse on, trying desperately to get within shouting distance of the Knights. He felt a bit like Paul Revere, feeling like he should be screaming
The British are coming!
, but he couldn’t rightly tell whoever might be listening
who
or
what
was
coming.

“I don’t think they are looking for us! There has to be something else going on! Something big!” Jeff yelled as the horse hit its stride, going a little faster, as if sensing the urgency of the moment.

“Just get us to the Knights! We won’t do much good with no ammo and me shot! We gotta get my arm bandaged, and fucking
pronto
!” Rip said.

“We’ve got another half mile or so to go, it’s not—”

Jeff was interrupted by the first shots to crack, and they sounded close, but they were not directed towards him or his father. The shots were coming from the main gate as they passed several Knights and Marshals occupying the makeshift guard tower and area in front of the gate.

That’s when Rip noticed what they were shooting at: zombies… dozens of them.

“Looks like we have a common enemy now! The Marshals and the Knights are holding back the zombies!” Jeff yelled over the din of gunfire.

“Yeah, but they need help! Get us to… Oh God!”

Throughout his ordeal, Rip had heard about the mysterious and nearly immortal Horseman, but it wasn’t until now that he finally got a glimpse of the infamous headless rider. The undead leader at last sauntered into view. The Horseman was dressed in the same clothes that Rip remembered Crayon being buried in.

The funeral had been in the waning months of a severe Fort Drum winter, so Crayon had been buried in his Army Service Uniform (ASU) or “Dress Blues” along with an Army-issue black trench coat that hung down nearly to his thighs. Even though Rip knew the man beneath the trench coat, he still felt a pang of fear that he wasn’t expecting. Crayon had been his best friend, perhaps his
only
friend, and it pained him greatly to be afraid of the man that he knew in life. Life, it seemed, was not the Horseman’s forte; he was very much deceased. Despite the clothing that he wore and the pristine condition that he’d been buried in, the clothes were dirty and somewhat tattered, giving him another angle on the look of intimidation. There was just something about the unkempt appearance of the black trench coat that gave him many more reasons to fear.

As they strode past the gate, the Horseman still clearly visible, the headless rider turned his attention to Rip. The Horseman slowly ambled his steed—as Casey had described, it was undead as well—to get a better “look” at the man that was supposed to be his destroyer.

The Horseman looked to Rip as he rode past, the world slowing down to a crawl for a brief moment, and reached his hand up in a gesture that would haunt Rip for the rest of his days. The Horseman slowly pointed towards him, his white gloves stained black, then brought his thumb to his throat, slicing across it in the universal gesture of
kill it
. He quickly pointed back to Rip, and the voice of the creature that stood before him echoed in his head.

Prior to this, he was well aware of the angry voice in his subconscious; now that he was in close physical proximity to it, the voice became infinitely more sinister. He could hear the vile voice of Crayon’s deceased body berating his mind.

You can’t hide from me forever, you drunken fuck! I will feast on your soul!

The words growled through his skull as if the Horseman was standing right beside him. In the short amount of time that he’d had someone else kicking around in his brain, it still surprised him when it happened. A cold shiver ran all over him at the sight of the Horseman. He knew deep down that it wasn’t Crayon’s true form, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of hatred towards his old friend. If it weren’t for him, then none of his current predicament would have ever taken place. He could have survived the apocalypse just fine, and maybe his wife would still be alive, but now he would never know.

The thought of his dead wife brought the actions of Major Crane to the surface. The son of a bitch had murdered his wife in cold blood, but to what end? Crane said that his wife had become nosy about something, but what? What could she have learned that would have caused Crane to kill her? There were once again too many questions and not enough—in fact, zero—answers. He was lost in his own mind, which sometimes didn’t even belong to him.

The next thing he knew, the wind was knocked out of him and he struggled to breathe. The world didn’t go black, but became very fuzzy, and it took him a moment to refocus. He was lying on his back and didn’t know why. The world sounded like he was trapped in a barrel. The horse was nowhere to be seen.

And neither was Jeff.

What the fuck?

What the hell just happened?

Rip struggled to regain his bearings.

He could still see the Horseman rearing his giant, undead steed. The sight of the ghoul gave him another fresh set of chills. He was completely helpless, lying in the middle of the road with no idea as to what the fuck was going on.

Until the barrel of a gun was in his face.

The cold steel of the Smith and Wesson Model 686 suddenly appeared. It pressed against the right side of his face, smashing the soft flesh inward. As the world became a little more focused, Rip turned and saw the despicable man holding it. Crane was knelt down with the revolver’s hammer pulled back.

Rip figured he was completely, utterly fucked.

His eyes wandered over to his right, and he saw Jeff.

He was being dragged away, fighting for every breath, every movement, by two of Crane’s lackeys. Rip raised his hand in a feeble gesture to reach his son. It was all he could do to get the arm off the ground. He was still losing blood, and the combination of blood loss and a hard landing was just about to take consciousness away from him.

Fleeting images of Crane rapidly stepping back, firing the .357 toward the main gate was the last thing he remembered.