Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (7 page)

CHAPTER 8

Rip passed out in a dreamless state for what seemed like ten minutes. The world had slowly receded away after Crayon disappeared into the darkness. He didn’t remember passing out but was certain that he had for some time; the next time he opened his eyes, the sun was starting to come up. It looked to be another beautiful day in upstate New York, much like his first day in the post-apocalyptic world. It was amazing how much the scenery and the weather played a part in keeping what little sanity Rip had left in check. Had it been like the last day he remembered before yesterday, things might have transpired differently. Not that life was doing him any favors at the moment; apparently, he was to be the savior of all mankind by defeating the headless reincarnation of his dead, cursed friend.

Shit was getting out of hand
real
quick.

Rip had felt this way before. Not the savior of humanity feeling, but one of a throbbing hangover. He moved purposely slow, opening his eyes just enough to see where he was going without letting the abundant sunshine in. It was far too early for that. He planted his hand on terra firma, just to make sure that when he rose, there would be something to fall back on if necessary. He wasn’t entirely sure how he would feel after his first drinking binge since waking up, and quite honestly, it was exactly how he remembered them.

Shitty.

Shielding his eyes from the rays of the sun with his free hand, he slowly got to his feet. The rest of the men of the Knights weren’t fully aware of the world just yet, either. Two of the men were standing on the wooden porch outside the bar, rifles at low ready. It wasn’t until that moment that Rip realized that he was still outside and slowly recalled the events of the night before. Crayon had appeared to him again… something about him being the Horseman, and something about killing him to set his soul free.
Oh, that’s right, he wants me to kill him so I end the zombie plague and set his soul free,
Rip thought.
Only I get to die in the process. Ain’t that just fuckin’ peachy?

Remember, Rip. No matter what you do, you can’t save yourself.
Those words rang very clearly from the night before. It was meant to be a wake-up call for him, but he didn’t quite get it. Why bring him back to face such horrible news like what he had been privy to so far, only to have him die eventually anyway? Rip was slowly beginning to understand what the words meant. His life was in the shitter long before the end of the world got here. His wife may as well have been dead; his son didn’t much care for him, his drinking, or constant deployments. At least the undead weren’t after him before. Would it have made any difference if they had? Probably not. He was meant to suffer for others, meant to be forsaken for a greater cause; he was the person chosen to be the rescuer of all mankind.

Well, fuck that. He didn’t want the job.

Rip was finally on his feet and starting to drag his bedraggled self towards the doors of the bar. A little hair of the dog would do the trick; maybe a Bloody Mary would ease his stomach and his mind. As he approached the doors of his favorite establishment of ill repute, three gunshots popped in the distance. Rip instinctively grabbed for his side, groping for the .45 that wasn’t there anymore. The shots had no sooner echoed away when several more rang out. For a world that was inhabited by the living dead, there seemed to be very little of them around. Since waking, the number of zombies that Rip had seen were limited to his first one and the ones that surrounded him and his son. The limited contact was probably for the best for him just yet. Even throughout the last twenty-four hours, he was still certain that he was dreaming the whole thing, as if he was going to wake up anytime and regale his soldiers with a tale too strange to make up. It would make a great story to share over a couple beers and a hearty laugh.

Once inside, he took up a seat at the bar. Two other Knights were sitting at the bar a few feet down from him. Neither man said anything. The Knights seemed to be the “strong but silent” type; none of them said much.

Rip glanced over to his left at the other Knights. He lowered his head onto the bar, crossed his arms, and let out a low moan. The “bartender,” such as he was, stepped in front of him and made a light chuckle.

“Hung over?” he asked.

Rip didn’t bother looking up and just gave the man a thumbs up from his resting position. The bartender turned around and began working on a hangover cure for him. A little homemade tomato juice from a glass Mason jar combined with some pepper and a shot of vodka were just the trick. He mixed the ingredients together and set the glass down in front of Rip.

Rip raised his head slightly and eyed the makeshift Bloody Mary curiously. He picked up the glass. “What? No celery?”

“Don’t press your luck, Knight,” the barkeep replied.

Rip had already downed half of the concoction. He finished the long swig and set the glass down. “I’m not a Knight; I’m just some guy who—”

The sound of horses stomping outside interrupted him before he could finish. A few words were exchanged in a normal tone at first, but after a few seconds became increasingly louder and more hostile. Angry words and threats were thrown around, and by the way it sounded, Rip was the subject of the discussion. He heard his name mentioned more than once.

Rip downed the last of his homemade Bloody Mary and placed the glass back on the bar. The Knights had been kind enough to put his pack and rifle on a table in the bar, so he grabbed the rifle. More angry shouting and shoving outside gave him more than a good reason to have it handy. He checked the chamber, revealing the dingy glint of brass from his aged ammo, and sauntered outside.

The first thing he noticed was Jeff. His son was one of several Marshals who were trying to barge their way past three Knights; one of whom was Clay.

“I don’t give a shit whose protection he’s under! He is coming with us! I have orders from Marshal Crane to secure him and bring him in for questioning!” Jeff’s voice rose over the din of shouting and commotion. As Rip exited the bar, his son vehemently pointed to his estranged father. “You are to accompany me to meet with Marshal Crane immediately!”

One of the Knights swatted Jeff’s hand down, promptly starting another round of vicious shoving and angry shouting. Rip did what he could to calm the melee, firing a single shot into the air. The unsuppressed boom of the 5.56mm shot startled those in attendance. Many reached for sidearms, some instinctively hit the ground, but all were surprised nonetheless. After a few seconds, the smell of cordite hung in the air, the crack of the shot still echoed, and all eyes were on Master Sergeant Geoffrey Irving Sr. He kept the rifle pointed upwards but lowered it to his hip.

“All right! None of you assholes is taking me anywhere! I will go and speak to Crane, but it’s because I need some goddamn answers!” Rip turned his attention to Jeff, not lowering his voice from shouting level. “And I’m not going anywhere without my rifle! Got it?”

Jeff slung one of the Knight’s hand away from him. Clay had grabbed it in an attempt to corral the youngster, but Jeff was having none of it.

“Whatever, old man. Get your shit together; we don’t have an extra horse, so you’re gonna have to bring your own,” Jeff said sarcastically.

Clay walked towards Rip. “Take mine, brother.”

“Thanks, Clay. I’ll take good care of her.”

Clay just let out a sly grin. “You’re damn right you will.”

CHAPTER 9

It took fifteen minutes to get across the breadth of Fort Drum. Rip rode Clay’s horse, flanked on either side by Jeff and several other Marshals. He was essentially a prisoner, but he still had his rifle slung across his back. He sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere unarmed. Crane’s men had given no indication that they meant him any harm, but he wasn’t taking any chances. They worked for that asshole, so by proxy, he was leery of them as much as he was Crane.

Rip didn’t speak the entire trip to see Crane. He didn’t have anything to say to these assholes, but he had a very large bone to pick with their leader.

The road in front of them opened up some, revealing the business district—such as it was—for Fort Drum. Several shacks selling everything from food to a mishmash of clothing items spread out in front of him. It felt and looked like the Old West; each store sold something different and unique, and each one tried to get his attention. Word had spread about the man who had been asleep for ten years, only to awaken in the zombie apocalypse. Rip carried that look about him, the look of someone who was seeing the world for the very first time. The people minding the shops took an extra few seconds to try to place his face, which none of them did. They didn’t recognize him, and he wasn’t familiar with any of them. He stared at the shops, desperately trying to see the condition of what they had to sell, but it wasn’t great. The food looked and smelled good enough, but the clothing left a lot to be desired. It was mostly a combination of tattered, old military clothing and store-bought—or store-raided—items.

The group passed through the market and to the end of the street. At the end of the street, marking the end of the markets was the former PX (Post Exchange). In its heyday, the PX was the Wal-Mart of the military world. A soldier could get everything from food and household items to TVs and an Xbox. Now it was the headquarters for Marshal Crane and his merry band of assholes. The front of the store was still boarded up with an amalgam of boards, aluminum siding, and tin roofing.

Rip didn’t see an entrance to the front of the store, but as if on cue, the Marshals led him to the loading docks. The docks were on the far left side of the building. The men rode over to the loading docks and dismounted, as did Rip. He cinched the rifle a little tighter as he was escorted into the building. The men walked in single-file, with Rip in the middle of them. He was more than apprehensive about meeting Crane, especially as outnumbered and outgunned as he was. The Knights had his back at the bar, but they were far away now, nowhere to be found. If Jake had been right about them, they kept to themselves; they knew they were outnumbered as well.

Once inside, Rip gauged his surroundings. They were in the warehouse area of the PX, evidenced by the large metal racks stacked with pallets. It looked as if Marshal Crane had his fair share of items at his disposal. There were cases of MREs (Meals, Ready to Eat), canned goods, dried goods, water, and a plethora of ammo cans. Crane looked as if he was stocking up for the end of the world.

Or maybe he was preparing for something worse.

Crane was sitting at a very nice mahogany table at the end of the racks. He had his feet kicked up, relaxing like he didn’t have a care in the world. As Rip approached, Jeff strode by him, not making eye contact or any sort of recognition. He simply ignored his father like he wasn’t there. Jeff held out his hand to stop his father from walking any farther forward.

“Wait here,” Jeff ordered.

Rip sarcastically saluted his son. “Yes sir, Marshal Junior.”

Jeff paused momentarily. The snide comment from his father hit him like a literal smack in the head, and he winced noticeably. He shook off the smartass remark and approached Marshal Crane, who still had not acknowledged Rip’s presence. As Jeff approached his desk, Crane swiveled around in a plush chair and eyed Master Sergeant Geoffrey Irving Sr. and his son. His eyes went wide at the sight.

“Why in the hell does he still have a rifle across his back? Get that goddamned thing away from him before he kills us all!” Crane said, pointing to Rip’s M4.

“I’m not giving up my rifle, Crane. I believe the saying ‘from my cold, dead hands’ comes to mind.”

Crane slid his hand to a holster on his right hip. Inside the holster was a Smith and Wesson Model 686 .357 revolver. “That can be arranged, sergeant. You are a guest here, Rip. My house, my rules.”

Jeff walked up to and stood in front of his father. He slowly reached for the sling on the M4. Rip swiftly caught his hand in an iron grip.

“You sure you want to do that, Junior?”

Jeff grabbed the sling with his other hand, and Rip let the rifle go willingly. Jeff took the M4 and propped it up against the aluminum rollup door beside the entrance. Rip watched as he set it down, noting its position and distance from him. It was a good fifty feet away—way out of his reach in the event that he needed to get to it fast. He didn’t figure that Crane would kill him, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he
could
die, for that matter. For all intents and purposes, he figured himself immortal, what with the Shaman’s elixir and his ten-year uninterrupted nap; he might just be unable to die.

Best not to rely on immortality just yet.

Jeff returned to his side, standing a few paces off to his left. Rip glanced over, and then brought his full attention to Marshal Crane. Crane had aged well, his features only slightly older than Rip remembered. The short-cropped military haircut was still there, although it now had a salt-and-pepper look instead of the dark-brown he remembered. Crane’s physique was surprisingly well defined as well. Rip was surprised that Crane hadn’t grown another five inches, given that his other features were much more chiseled for a man of his age. As it were, Crane stood just a little over six feet tall. He was dressed in the typical uniform of the Marshals, minus the blaze-orange cap.

“So, what the fuck do you want, Crane?”

Crane grinned devilishly; he spread his arms out in a mocking hug. “I just wanted to see how the newest member of our little community was doing. I heard you had one hell of a time the last few years.”

Fuck you, you little prick. I oughta take that revolver, put it in your mouth, and blow your face out of your asshole.
That’s what he wanted to say but held his tongue, for the moment.

“Yeah, took a little nap. I wake up and the world is infested with goddamn zombies, so yeah, it’s been a little rough.”

“Indeed!” Crane replied. “So what exactly happened to you that day on the mountain?”

“Let’s cut the shit, Crane. What do you want from me?” Rip asked, getting down to the point.

Again, Marshal Crane wasn’t giving an inch. “What do you mean? I simply want to know how you’ve been the last few years! I did very much miss you after you disappeared off the FTX in the Adirondacks.” Crane paced back and forth behind his desk, his arms folded. “I missed you so much that I took it upon myself to take care of your wife and son after you abandoned them. After all, that is what a good leader does, doesn’t he? He takes care of the families of the fallen warriors.”

Yeah, about that, asshole. What the fuck were you doing with Katrina?
Again, not the best time to say what he was thinking. Rip hadn’t gotten a straight answer about anything yet.

“Why were you with Katrina, Crane? Why her?” Rip felt his blood begin to boil.

“Why not? She was attractive, lonely, and she had just lost her dear, sweet husband,” Crane said sarcastically. “When the world ended, she needed someone to take care of Jeff, and I fit the bill nicely. I gave her everything she ever wanted in a man, unlike you. You’re just a worthless, drunk piece of shit that never gave a flying fuck about anyone but himself!” Crane’s voice and demeanor changed dramatically; he seemed like he had been holding that in for quite some time.

Well, that escalated quickly,
Rip thought. “I did what I could, you son of a bitch! It wasn’t my fault that my goddamned commanding officer kept volunteering us for deployments in some godforsaken shithole! If it weren’t for you, I would have been a hell of a lot better off!”

Crane jumped over his desk, much more nimble than Rip expected him to be. Crane had to be pushing fifty years old by now, but he moved with an uncanny quickness that caught Rip off guard. After clearing the desk with an amazingly quick leap, he swiftly drew his revolver from its holster. He didn’t aim it; he just kept it at his side, finger on the trigger. Crane stood about twenty feet in front Rip, his face turning red and twisted with rage. The façade of a warm welcome was completely dissipated, replaced by the genuine hatred that was so familiar to Rip. Crane had always hated him, but now it looked as if he might actually do something about it.

Rip stood fast, wishing that he’d never given up his rifle. He had nothing else to defend himself with, other than the knowledge that if the situation got out of hand, there would be nothing to stop him from literally choking the life out of Crane.

“The real reason I wanted to see you was to let you know before you die that it was me. I’m the one that killed that nosy bitch of yours. She got a little too curious, so I had to put that cunt in her place.”

Jeff stepped forward. Crane
killed
his mother? He had always been told that she’d had a stroke over an argument about food. He hadn’t been able to see the body after the fact, so he had assumed that it was something he was better off not seeing; it was better to remember her as she had lived, not what she looked like after she had died. He had come to terms with that.

“What did you just say?” Jeff asked, his voice barely audible.

Jeff paused, briefly.

He drew his pistol and fired.