GuNNhead

“You’re not going anywhere ‘Red’ Reed Thomson.” She draws another gun.
“M’am, you’re mistaken in my identity, and you’re doubly mistaken if you think it’s proper to pull a man’s own gun on him.” He puts his hands in the air. “But I don’t mean any harm, but I suggest you give it back. Season?” He looks over to her.
“He’s not lyin, Mags.”
“Yeah, and how would you know.”
“Because, when I was a young girl, he saved me. I knew I’d never forget his face, and especially not that gun of his you’re holding.”
“…Fine. It’s too gaudy for me anyway.” She holds the gun out to him.
“Thank’ya kindly.” As soon as he grabs it, he spins it around to hold it properly, turns, and fires into the darkness of the church doorway. With a fresh bullet hole between her eyes, the lipless and bloody Mrs. Astaire falls onto her husband and the sheriff. Kurt hands Maggie the sheriff’s gun.
“Find someone who can use this.” He walks through a space formed in the crowd, down mainstreet, and towards the gunsmith’s.

A few follow him, mostly of the older crowd. As Season catches up with him, more begin to follow them. The group of people start walking the few houses towards the gunsmiths, when it explodes.

The flames light enough of the surrounding area to see hundreds of the undead walking towards the small town. Kurt simply stands there for a few seconds in disbelief, processing. For the entire crowd, panic begins to set in. Kurt runs into the sheriff’s beside the gunsmith’s, and picks his holster up off the floor. Most scatter into their houses for their guns and safety with their loved ones. Others follow Kurt and Season into the late sheriff’s office. Maggie is one of them, with her saloon being the closest to the approaching hoard of the undead.

Inside, emotions rise again from those inside.
“Why is this happening?” Random townsfolk are confused.
“I don’t know, dammit!” Kurt’s still trying to think, and put his holster on.
“You have to know something! How did you solve this in your town?” Maggie still has questions, while Season calms down those in the back, also trying to think of a plan.
“They were drawn to my gunfire, but I never let em get too close. They’re here because of the fireworks, draws em in like bugs.”
“What are you– you damn old fool, it was your gun. The handle, it’s made of a rare red gem that wards off evil, or invites it in. It’s worth a fortune, at least six times your wanted poster.”
“Bah, Native legends say these rocks protect the ones who possess it, that’s all, some horsecrap like that. My father was a miner, he died in a cave-in when I was young; left me this gun. He made this here red stone into the handle of his favorite one.”
“Don’t you know anything more about the stone?”
“A private investor hired the mining company my dad worked for, they wanted the stones. But after only a couple of months there was nothing more being found. But the investor still paid, with full directional instructions, and so they kept digging. One day, they dug too far down.”
“Stop this, this isn’t getting us anywhere, if he knew anything, he’d have told us. We need to think of a plan.”
“No, no, it’s him, it’s not those damn fireworks, they’re following him!” A few in the crowd have formed some opinions.
“That doesn’t make sense, I’ve had this gun my entire damn life, this just started happening the past few days you damn morons. Everybody shut up and stop talking to me, I need to think. Shit!” He punches the wall. He pauses, and punches it again. He starts feeling the wall, and eventually finds what he’s looking for, sliding a panel open to reveal a huge cache of weapons.
“That sheriff was one crazy bastard.” He smiles.

This entry was posted on July 11, 2012 at 3:33 am and is filed under Fiction, Horror, Western. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.