Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (18 page)
CHAPTER 29
In spite of the dreary conditions, Rip was awake and ready to go. Any other day, Rip would have placed his happy ass in a recliner and watched the Bills play, but those days were long, long, gone. Instead of waking to Sunday football games, he awoke to a growling stomach and the feeling left in it that he couldn’t shake. Casey had left unceremoniously, one of his team was dead—not just dead but
fucking eaten,
and today was the day he was supposed to save the world.
Self-preservation is a motherfucker, though.
Had better days, eh Rip?
Rip perked up. “Crayon?”
Yeah, Rip. I wanted to let you know that I’m proud of you. Today is the day that you stop the end of the world. The zombies will fall once you kill the Horseman, and you will be remembered as the man who saved the world.
“I haven’t done anything yet, Crayon,” Rip said, exasperated. “And as far as I’m concerned, I haven’t made up my mind of what, exactly, I’m going to do. So don’t thank me yet.”
Regardless of what you do, remember one thing—you can’t save yourself.
Rip shook his head vehemently. “Thanks for reminding me, asshole.”
Rip finished stuffing his assault pack with the few items he’d brought with him. He watched as his cohorts did the same, shoving gear into their respective packs. No one said a word, but the mood was substantially broken compared to twenty-four hours ago. Dealing with the deaths of Clay and Witch were not easy, but compared to Casey’s departure, they were a cakewalk. How was a sixteen-year-old girl supposed to understand the intricacies of survival instinct? She had been raised in this world, yet seemed to hang on to the idealism and bleeding heart mindset that would have served her well in a political career ten years ago. Nowadays, negotiations were made on the sharp edge of a blade or the smoking end of a barrel.
The men worked in silence for a few more minutes before Rip started for the door. As he turned the handle to exit the house, he noticed his team was not with him. Rip looked over his shoulder in anticipation.
“Let’s go. We don’t have time to bury Clay, I’m sorry,” Rip said.
I’m sorry? What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck am I apologizing for?
Colonel Patterson strode up to Rip. Keeping his voice low, he offered some advice to the man who was supposed to destroy the evil in the world.
“It’s all right to be apologetic, sergeant. May be a little on the late side, but at least you’ve learned something from it. If you want to go after Casey, then me and the boys are all for it. I don’t know where to start, but something tells me she won’t have made it far. If you want to continue on to Sleepy Hollow, then the boys and I will do that, too.”
Rip nodded slowly. Throughout their entire ordeal, in thick and thin, Colonel Patterson had his back. Patterson was the commissioned officer that Rip needed a decade ago. He sure as hell did a better job at leading than Major Crane.
Rip realized he was at a crossroads. If he went after Casey, God knows what would happen to his son. On the other hand, Casey and her family had saved Rip from losing his mind and possibly his life. He owed it to Jake Woods to take care of Casey. He also owed it to Katrina to take care of Geoffrey Jr., his lone connection to what once was his life.
This was his life now. This hellhole was home.
“Geoffrey Jr. is whole reason she was here,” Rip said, his tone changing drastically. Something had broken inside him. Maybe it was his PTSD talking to him, maybe he was becoming bipolar, but something changed in him. A moment of clarity rushed into him. He knew what he had to do. It was evident from the way he was feeling now that it wasn’t just about him and saving the world, it wasn’t about saving his son’s life, it was about something altogether more important. He had become Casey’s de facto father. As much as he was Geoffrey Jr.’s father, he meant that much to Casey. He had hurt Casey, maybe beyond repair. It was something that he needed to take care of, but first he had a date with an asshole in Sleepy Hollow.
You’re going to die if you kill the Horseman, asshole. Fat lot of good you will do your son or Casey when that happens,
Rip thought.
“Might just have to fix that, then,” he said aloud, not meaning to.
Colonel Patterson frowned. “You all right, sergeant?”
Rip looked up, determination in his eyes. “You’re damn right I am. I know now what I have to do, colonel.”
Colonel Patterson grinned ever so slightly. “All right, then. Let’s go kill that sonofabitch Crane.”
* * *
A few minutes later, the group was outside in the depressing weather. Cold air, fog, and a light mist greeted them as they tossed their respective gear on the deuce-and-a-half. Despite the upbeat mood of the group, the weather was once again beating them down with unsympathetic tones.
Rip climbed into the driver’s seat, taking Clay’s place at the wheel. He wished there had been enough time for a proper burial for the soft-spoken man who had been another in a long line of helping hands. There was little time to dwell on the horrid death, and even less time to do something about it.
Rip couldn’t bring himself to be in too much of a hurry, despite the short timetable. For that matter, why did he have to be? His inevitable death at the hands of God knows what awaited him, and he wasn’t keen on dying just yet, but he seemed to be contradicting himself. The last twenty-four hours, he had tried pushing the team as far as he could as fast as he could and for what? So he could die a grisly death?
Fuck that.
Rip fired up the truck and ground the transmission as he shifted into first gear. It had been quite some time since had driven an old deuce-and-a-half, but it would come back to him soon enough. He accelerated the truck down the shoddy dirt road that they had travelled the day before. Once he reached the main paved road, he turned left and roared the two-and-a-half ton truck down the road. Time to punch in for the day.
Time to end this once and for all.
Several hours later, what little luck they had left ran out.
CHAPTER 30
Rip kicked the front bumper of the truck.
“Son of a bitch! Ten miles to go and this thing takes a giant shit on us? Fucking figures.”
The rest of the team had gathered around the broken-down truck. Colonel Patterson stood beside Rip, but Hacker and Seabass took up positions around their ride. The moans of the undead carried on the wind, but with the wooded areas around them, it was difficult to tell where they were coming from.
The rest of the day had been uneventful, but with an odd feeling hanging over them. During the last three hours, there had been no presence of the undead other than their smell. The fact of the missing zombies did not sit well with Rip. From what Danny had said, there was a shitload of zombies travelling with Crane and the Horseman. Rip was sure the Horseman would have his own army of the dead waiting on him after driving nearly to Sleepy Hollow with nothing. The horde in Utica might have been a preventative measure, but to Rip it felt like they were being hurried along, herded like cattle.
But then Rip noticed the remaining few of the dead walking towards him. Maybe they were the stragglers. He pointed to the road in front and behind them.
“Give me a perimeter. Hacker, you’re on point,” Rip ordered.
Hacker and Seabass split up, took their respective rifles, and scanned the area directly behind the truck. Both men could hear the lifeless, random sound of lost souls around them. The oppressive fog and unusually cool weather felt like an overbearing physical force holding them in place.
Rip smacked the truck’s hood again, disgusted. “Shit!” He fumbled around in his pocket and procured the worn map. He ran his finger along the route, occasionally glancing up to a crooked road sign in front of him.
“Looks like we are eight to ten miles away from Sleepy Hollow. I don’t know what time of day it is right now, but I’m certain we can make it before nightfall. These bastards know we’re coming, so it shouldn’t surprise us to have to shoot our way through the last few miles. As much as I hate to say it, we might have to leave the Ma Deuce, though.”
Colonel Patterson nodded. “We’ve made it this far, why not screw with us a little more.”
Rip frowned. “What do you mean?”
“There hasn’t been a single dead fucker in three hours, sergeant. I don’t know this Crayon fellow of yours very well, but I’m sure that he knows we will notice something like that. The Horseman is piling up the reinforcements and gonna take out the rest of us before he gets to you. You’re the key in this, Rip. I don’t know why, and after the last two days, I really don’t give a shit. I know that the only person who is gonna make it to Sleepy Hollow alive is
you
.”
Rip softened a bit. “Sir, I promise I will do everything that I can to make sure that…”
“Not necessary, son. I’ve had a good run; no sense in me trying to cheat death anymore.”
“Sir, you can’t just give up,” Rip replied.
Patterson clasped Rip on the shoulder. “Sergeant, I knew where this was going to lead to when we left. My job is nearly done; you’re the one who has to get there to stop this sonofabitch. You have to weigh the decision of killing the Horseman versus losing your son and your own life, just like I have to come to terms with the fact that I am too old for this world.”
For only the third time in his life, Geoffrey Irving began to well up with tears. The first time was when he married his wife, the second was when his son was born, and now—softened by age perhaps—he felt genuine sadness. Rip looked past where Colonel Patterson stood, to Seabass and Hacker. Even being the bastard that he was, he had come to respect and grow fond of the men that he had left. He felt a real bond with them. He felt awful about how things had played out with Casey as well. The girl was simply trying to not let the world around her become as horrible as it appeared. With the ghastly incident with Danny Murphy, she had tried to see the good in the situation, tried to see some sort of positivity in the abysmal state of affairs.
Rip brushed back tears. He peered into his own soul and saw that he was a broken man; how far broken remained to be seen, but he could admit it to himself now. Maybe that was the reason Crayon had chosen him, maybe he could see that there was a sweet spark of humanity left in the burned-out soldier. Crayon wanted the seasoned veteran to come to terms with the fact that he could not save himself, no matter what the outcome.
To hell with that… Geoffrey Irving knew exactly what he was going to do.
He was going to save the fucking day.
“Sarge! Might wanna come look at this!” Hacker hollered from behind the truck.
Rip exchanged a quick hug with Colonel Patterson. The colonel had obviously come to terms with his decisions; maybe it was time for Rip to gain a new outlook on things. He patted Patterson on the back and moved past him.
Hacker stood on the side of the derelict road in front of an old tree. Mother Nature had been much kinder to the area than man had in his prime, and the lush green surroundings were taking over where they had left off so many years ago. Without the Department of Transportation to hold back the constant growth, the road had become overgrown with weeds and the trees grew tall, reaching towards the heavens and spreading their branches across the road.
All except for one.
As Rip approached, he noticed the young rifleman standing in front of an old tree. What made the tree stand out was the jagged, black slash down the front of it. It had been struck by lightning some time ago. Although it stood more than 150 feet tall, it appeared to be very much dead.
Rip pointed to the massive tree. “Hey, I recognize this. It’s a tulip tree. My wife had one of these back in the day; I planted one in our backyard. She said that it could grow to be almost two hundred feet tall. Damn thing was a pain in the ass to trim once it got near the power lines, but it was beautiful when it bloomed,” Rip said, eyeing the tree. “This one looks like it has seen better days, though.”
Hacker pointed to the base of the massive tree. Where the lightning had struck, there was a large, gaping hole where the tree met the ground. At first, Rip didn’t notice it, but as he followed Hacker’s gaze, he saw.
There was a sign embedded in the bottom of the tree. A wooden plank with something written on it had been shoved into the space at the bottom.
Rip reached down and grabbed the old, wooden sign. Brushing away a few years’ worth of dirt and grime, the sign revealed its message. Rip held the plank and read the crude engraving etched into it out loud.
“It says, ‘In memory of Major John Andre, an accomplished man and a gallant officer.’ It’s signed by a Colonel John Laurens.” Rip turned over the plank in his hands, studying the old sign. As he flipped it over, he noticed something on the reverse side as well. “Hang on, there’s something on the other side, too.” He brushed aside more detritus from the wood and studied the markings.
“What does it say, sarge?” Hacker asked, nodding to the sign.
“I think the sign originally was supposed to be for this,” Rip said, pointing to the board. “Says here, ‘Old Dutch Church of Sleepy Hollow, 6 miles.’”
That’s where he is, Rip. That is where the Horseman is waiting.
You will pray for fire and brimstone by the time I am through with you!
Rip shook his head vehemently. Although Crayon had always been a relatively soothing voice in his head, his former friend’s words now sounded far off, as if he were too far away to hear him. The Horseman’s voice, however, was stronger than ever, jackhammering into his skull. The forceful voice, although inside his head, made him wince visibly.
“We’re getting close, aren’t we?” Hacker asked. The look on his face wa
s
simultaneously one of understanding and fear.
Rip pursed his lips and nodded. “Yep.”
“The voices again?” Hacker asked.
“Yeah. We are getting very close. I can almost feel the Horseman now. He’s in my head; sounds like a goddamned megaphone.”
“So what’s our move, sarge?”
Rip tossed the old plank back into the hollowed-out tree. “Truck is shot. And according to Crayon, the Old Dutch Church is where we will find the Horseman.”
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go get—”
“Contact!” Seabass yelled from the front of the truck.
From where Rip stood, he couldn’t see where Seabass aimed, but he could feel the eyes on him. He and Hacker sprinted to where the former Coast Guard swimmer stood. As he approached, no explanation was necessary.
Zombies lined both sides of the road.
Waiting.
And all eyes were on Rip.
Rip tromped up to Seabass, panting. Seabass still had his M4 raised, scanning back and forth.
Rip grabbed Seabass’ rifle and lowered it slowly.
“Don’t fire. Look. They’re waiting,” Rip observed.
“Waiting on what?” Colonel Patterson asked.
“I don’t know. I suggest we start walking before they change their mind, though,” Rip answered.
