Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle by Joseph Coley
Authors: Joseph Coley
Tags: Zombies
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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.
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
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.
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
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