Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (9 page)

CHAPTER 12

Rip woke with a start and a sharp inhale. The first thing he noticed was the hand on his chest, holding him down. It took him a moment to figure out that it was
not
Sam Elliot, but his dead ringer, Colonel Patterson.

“Easy, son. It ain’t gonna do you any good to tear your stiches out this soon.”

Colonel Patterson was sitting in front of him. The best that Rip could tell he was on an old canvas Army cot in Patterson’s office. The hole in his arm had been stitched and bandaged, but it still hurt like hell. Taking a .357 round through the arm was not the way he wanted to spend his afternoon. He tried to clear the fog of jumbled thoughts and get down to the nitty gritty of what had transpired. Several hours had passed, as evidenced by the late-evening sun that was setting outside the window.

Rip tried to sit up from the cot, but the pain in his back hindered his movement. Bruising and soreness had already begun to sink in on his back, shoulders, and ribs. The image of him lying on his back, the horse slowly trotting away brought back the incident.

Crane and his gun.

Jeff being dragged away.

Jeff.

The memory of Crane’s men taking his son away flooded back into his consciousness. Despite the pain, Rip sat up on the cot and propped himself upright.

Colonel Patterson handed him a glass of whiskey.

“It ain’t much, but it’s all we have for pain. I saw what happened to you last night, so take it easy. You might have a concussion; that’ll be the only one you get tonight.”

“Much obliged, colonel. Where is my son? Where is Jeff?” Rip got down to brass tacks.

Colonel Patterson stood, his joints popping as he did. Patterson was long overdue for retirement even before the world ended, and now that it had, he was wishing that he’d spent his days soaking up sun in the Bahamas. A favorite officer among his men, Colonel Patterson had fought the urge to run off to a tropical paradise in light of the welfare of his men. He wanted to see them through as long as his body would let him, and it hadn’t failed him yet.

Giving grim news had always been part of his job description. It was something he never relished doing, but realized the necessity. Closure was essential and most men wouldn’t stop until they got it in one form or another.

Rip was one of those men.

“Crane has him, but I don’t know where,” Patterson said solemnly. “I suppose you’re gonna run off and look for him, and I don’t blame you.”

Rip stood, his aching body not wanting to work for him. “You’re damn right I want to go, sir.”

Colonel Patterson’s demeanor changed, became lighter. “Well, then I have some good news for you, sergeant.”

Rip cocked an eyebrow.

Good news? This fucker has a screw loose.

Without a word, Patterson motioned for Rip to follow him into the main part of the bar. Rip slowly ambled his way off the cot and towards the door. What he saw there truly shocked him. Patterson entered the room, and someone called the room to attention.

Rip came out from behind of the timeworn colonel, rubbing his aching ribs. He found himself speechless for the second time in less than a week; this was a new record for him.

The room was full of men. Colonel Patterson’s Knights stood in the front, blocking the view of a dozen or so others. As the Knights parted, he could make out a few of the faces in the crowd. The other men wore black trench coats and skullcaps, and a red flag went up in Rip’s mind.

They were Crane’s Marshals, at least the ones that
hadn’t
dragged his son off to God knows where.

Rip’s brow furrowed. “What the fuck is all this?”

One of the Marshals stepped through the crowd and spoke.

“The Knights were helping us with the Horseman and his goddamned zombies when we saw Crane knock you and Jeff of that horse. Crane was gonna kill you, sergeant—you
and
your boy. We may not agree with the Knights on everything, but we damn sure don’t kill the innocent.”

“Well, that’s mighty fuckin’ nice of you, Marshal. You mind telling me how this figures in with me?”

The lone Marshal shuffled nervously. “We want to help you, if you’ll have us. We know where Crane is headed, but we don’t know what he’ll do to your boy. We may not be able to go with you, but we have plenty of supplies and gear to help.”

Rip’s pulse quickened. If Crane’s own men didn’t know what was going to go down, then it couldn’t be good. Something secret, something sinister was going to take place.

“So tell me. Where is he going with my son?”

“It’s a town about three hundred miles south of here. We’ve heard weird stories about the Horseman that have to do with that place.”

Rip’s pulse was hammering in his chest now. Crane and the Horseman in cahoots—that couldn’t be a good sign.

“What’s the name of the town?”

“Sleepy Hollow. The town is Sleepy Hollow, New York.”

CHAPTER 13

The men that sat around the table made up the leadership at Fort Drum, or at least what was left of it. The departure of Marshal Crane left a huge void in the leadership of the Marshals, a spot that Rip was more than capable and prepared to take. While the change of power was not unanimous, there were plenty of defectors from Crane’s camp. Crane himself had managed to take only six of his most loyal men with him to Sleepy Hollow, leaving more than a dozen leftovers at Rip’s disposal. He had use for their talents and planned to make sure those talents were put to
good
use.

Two of the men from the Marshals were Crane’s lieutenants. Both men had served in the regular Army back in the day, just not with Rip and the Tenth Mountain. Rip wasn’t ready to put his full trust in them just yet, but he didn’t have a choice whether they would be utilized. He needed men, and he needed plenty. Taking on the Horseman in his own territory was not something he could draw plans for. Add Crane to the mix, and the situation became more and more disagreeable. Alliances would have to be formed with the remaining Marshals, and unstable ones at that. More than likely, he would just have to trust them with the security at Fort Drum while Rip took care of things in Sleepy Hollow.

Rip nursed his sore arm; the stitches itched him to no end. It had been two days since the hasty sutures had closed the wound on his right bicep, and he wore the arm in a sling to accelerate the healing process some. If he planned to go after the Horseman, he would need to be in much better shape than he was now.

They sat in Colonel Patterson’s office, mulling over their choice of transportation. Several of the Knights—including Clay as their lead man—along with a handful of Marshals had made a run into nearby Watertown, the closest city to the base. Their mission was to try to salvage something useable for transportation and/or diesel fuel to use in the few vehicles left at Fort Drum. Now after five o’clock in the evening, the team had been gone all day to Watertown. They had no working radios for the group to carry, so they were going in blind to the area. Most of the men knew the area, but if anything went amiss, they would be high and dry with no communication. Rip had tried to make a case to accompany them to Watertown, but his ailing arm would not let him. Colonel Patterson assured him the men being sent would be the best for the job, and he should leave it to them to do the right thing.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Rip looked up to see Colonel Patterson. He had been absently turning his glass in a circle, deep in thought. The other men at the table had stopped their respective musings as well, focusing their attention on Rip.

“Just wondering about our scouting party. What are the odds of them finding something usable? I figured you all had cleaned out Watertown long before now, just wondering what’s left.”

Colonel Patterson sat forward, toward his desk. “We did, but we never had much use for large amounts of diesel or transport vehicles. We still got those LMTVs and some old deuce-and-a-half trucks to use if we need. You have to realize, if they do find fuel they will have to carry it back on horseback. Not an easy task for the men or the horses; it’ll slow ’em down getting’ back.”

“Not to mention the fact there are thousands of undead fuckers between here and there.”

Patterson grinned slightly. “Yeah, that too. I wouldn’t worry about the dead; my boys can handle themselves just fine.”

Rip sat up. “It’s not
your
boys that I’m worried about. Can we trust the Marshals?”

“I don’t reckon we have a reason
not
to. Their leader ran off with your son, all the while following the Horseman across the state to do God knows what. I’d say we can put a little trust in ’em, don’t you?”

“Colonel, I’ve lived in the post-apocalyptic world for a grand total of four days and I’ve been shot, beat, found out my wife was murdered, and attacked by zombies; forgive me if I’m leery on trust.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge them, sergeant. They’ve had just as bad a run at this world as you did; they have lived it longer, though. You can’t survive out there alone, and all of them know that. Some of them sided with Crane and the Marshals, others came to us; some realized they were on the wrong side but didn’t want to lose what little stability they had. When you make friends in this world, don’t forget ’em. Chances are they’ll be dead soon, so don’t take ’em for granted.”

“I just don’t like sitting here doing nothing. It’s been two days of waiting, two days of sitting here with my thumb up my ass and not taking action.” Rip looked away, absently staring out a window. “Just not my style, colonel.”

“Our crew is perfectly capable of handling themselves out there,” one of the former Marshals said. “Remember,
we
came to
you
to help. We didn’t have to come over here and do
shit
, but we did. I think that ought to speak towards what we are trying to accomplish here.”

Rip turned back to the Marshal, named Marcus, and raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what might that be? What exactly are you trying to accomplish, Marcus?”

Marcus leaned forward. “Trying to survive and help, just like we always have. We might not seem like it to you, but Colonel Patterson is right. We may have made some bad decisions with who we associate with, but we are good people and damn good soldiers.”

Rip got up and pushed his chair back. He glared at the former Marshal. “We will see, Marcus. We will see.”

Another hour passed. The sun began to set for the day. Rip was losing faith that the scouting team would make it back before dark, and in that case, they would not risk moving at night. The team would head back at first light in the morning, further delaying his departure to Sleepy Hollow.

Rip sauntered out into the street in front of Buster’s. As he leaned against a post in front of the bar, he fondly remembered the good ol’ days at his favorite watering hole, before it became the Knights’ headquarters. It was in this very pub that he’d met Katrina over twenty years ago. He smiled—something he hadn’t done in quite some time—as he looked back into the bar, reminiscing of the night he met her.

She was having a drink at the bar, alone. Rip, a young corporal that’d had too many to drink that night, wandered over to the barstool beside her, attempting to make small talk to the beautiful woman seated there. Rip, however, didn’t make it that far. He stumbled and fell face first into the front of the mahogany bar. Katrina, impressed by his tumble, giggled at him. It wasn’t until Rip stood up that she saw the tooth he was missing. Rip smiled a bloody grin, not feeling any pain. His soon-to-be wife took her cocktail napkin and gently wiped away the blood on his lip. Rip felt a heavy thump in his heart, something that he hadn’t felt before. It was love, and he wanted more of it.

From that day on, they were inseparable. Even through the first two deployments, they managed to stay by each other’s side. Rip loved her like no other person he had ever known.

It wasn’t until Rip lost Crayon that he began to lose his loved ones as well. Katrina became distant, his son wanted nothing to do with him, and there was little that he could do about it. He hated the creature that he became. The depression, the drinking, the hatred was just not him. It was a side of him that he kept from everyone that he cared about. Unlike the “kill” switch he could turn on and off, the depression and PTSD nagged him constantly.

Now that Jeff was gone, he wanted to let go of what little good that he had left. He wanted to be able to turn the switch off and keep it that way, to be as cold and as uncaring as the undead. There was little room left for him to be the compassionate, understanding type. If he ever wanted to see Jeff again, he would have to embrace his darker, more sinister side. In doing so, he would awaken the killer instinct deep within him, and it was difficult to tell if that instinct could be quelled once let loose.

In other words, you can teach a lion to hunt, but you can’t make him a housecat.

Fuck it. I’ve killed men for a lot less than what I’m gonna kill Crane for.

That’s right, you worthless fuck, come and get me!

Rip grinned.
The Horseman wants a war, so he’s gonna fucking get one!

Rip swiftly shook off the battle for his consciousness and looked up. A lone soldier approached him, but something seemed to be off about the way he walked. At first, Rip cursed himself for not having his M4 or his .45 handy, fearing the approaching man a zombie. He absently groped at his side, feeling for the pistol that was not there. As the man quickened towards him, Rip realized there was no way a zombie would have made it past the sentries posted at the main gate. The man had obviously been let in, and therefore didn’t look as if he deserved a double-tap to the head.

He needed help.

“Colonel! We’ve got a hurt man out here!”

Rip staggered forward, not because of his usual drunken state, but because maneuvering with one bad arm was more difficult than he anticipated, especially trying to move with any speed. Try as he might, it didn’t seem like he could get to the man fast enough.

Two Knights, along with Colonel Patterson, came out the front of Buster’s. The three men reached the wounded man as Rip realized who was ambling towards him.

It was Clay.

Clay fell into Rip, stumbling him back a bit as he did. Clay was covered in an assorted mess of blood, dirt, and sweat. Panting, he tried to mumble out a few words, but nothing coherent. He pawed at Rip’s chest, desperately trying to get his attention, which he already had. There was only one thing on Rip’s mind, and it seemed to be conducive to what Clay was trying to get out.

“Clay! What the hell happened? Where’s the rest of the squad? Did the Marshals do this?”

Rip laid Clay’s head down on the dusty ground as Colonel Patterson’s men tended to him. The wounds looked painful, but survivable.

“Did you get bit, Clay? Scratched?” one of the Knights asked.

Clay vehemently shook his head. “No. Riders… ambushed us outside town a few miles. Fucking zombies were everywhere.”

Rip’s heart rate quickened. “How far outside town? Did you happen to see Jake or his family out there? The guy who brought me to you?”

Clay coughed, a smattering of blood appearing on his lips and beard. “I don’t know. We were trying to get back with the fuel and were overrun. From the amount of Riders and zombies out there, I’d say your friend is in deep shit if he’s home.”

Rip snapped to Colonel Patterson. “We need that fuel, and we need to check on Jake and his family. Give me a couple men and my rifle and we can recon.”

“The dead tend not to be easy to sneak by, and you’re still injured, sergeant.”

Rip took his sling and removed it from its place, hastily flinging it over his head. The soreness in his bicep wouldn’t let him win any arm wrestling contests any time soon, but it was by no means lame. He flexed his arm, working out the stiffness. He moved his fingers and hand, opening and closing a fist quickly.

“My trigger hand works just fine, Colonel.”