Archive for the Horror Category

The Debris

Posted in Fiction, Horror on September 11, 2017 by GuNNhead

I woke up again. Ugh. Hungover, hollow, with a scowl I can no longer remove. I rupture out of bed, disgusted by being alive. I see a half-finished beer by my bedside, and end it. The warm, sallow liquid reminds me to grab another from my fridge. Its dispelled carbonation can no longer hide its true flavors, and so I make my way to the others. Breaking the cheap metal by its tab, a familiar fizz greets me, and I wash down the flavor of its fallen comrade. I trudge to the bathroom out of necessity, and try to avoid the mirror’s dark gaze as I wash my clammy hands. Leaving the room, I face my living room, but it’s difficult to think of much living that went on there. Do I bother sitting on the couch, the sun mocking me with its radiant douchebaggery, or do I sit at my computer in my blackened room, and avoid more of the world? I wish I could do neither, as I take another sip.

I walk over to my couch, and look at my coffee table littered with beer cans and plates I’ve re-used so many times I don’t remember what I first ate on them since I last cleaned them. My ashtray is overflowing, but I see one last cigarette sticking out of a pack, so I take it and light it. In my first puff, I think about how shit the day is, and in my exhale, how I wish it would just end. I turn around to enter my room, but pause for a moment. Fuck it, I’ll tidy up a bit. I look outside the window for a bit, and reflect on my decision. What’s the point? I take another look at my filth and squalor, and pick up a few cans, moving them to an empty case in the kitchen. After a few more trips of this I’m done my smoke, and put it out in the sink, throwing the butt in the trash. I take the final sip of my beer, and open another. Refreshed by its chilled stinging carbonation, I decide to head back to continue my attack on the detritus of the living room.

Ignoring the dishes, I set my focus on the trash behind my table, between it and the TV, the forgotten zone. I remove a few paper and plastic bags of sorts before making it to the end, and as I go to pick up the last paper bag I notice something sticking slightly out of it. A piece of fried chicken. A breast. When was the last time I had fried chicken? Last week? Two weeks ago? I see a small spider on top of it, and knew it had attracted other bugs, damnable ants. As I go to pick it up, however, I kick the bag, and the spider moves, and I begin to see others. Larger spiders, hiding in all sorts of places around my shelves near my TV. Their webs, small and unseeable if not for the sun. I back away, creeped out, but as my vision widens, I only see more spiders crawling out of their hiding places, larger and larger. I eye my bug-zapping flyswatter, only to see another arachnid has made it its nest, its large body resting comfortably on the handle. I make my way to the door to get my shoe, return and start swatting, but it’s of no use, there’s simply too many, and back up into my room, only to be met with a doorway clogged with more webs than I’ve ever experienced. I struggle to get it off of me, but to no avail. I keep trying to crush them with my shoe as the millions of tiny fangs dig into me, but have no leverage as it falls from my hand. I fall to the ground, and it all goes black.

An Ode to the Dearly Departed XV

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on August 22, 2012 by GuNNhead

In a few short seconds, she dies there on the ground. Van Sant uses his powers to raise her up. She mindlessly changes into the old gang member’s attire, and stands among them.
“Don’t worry, I’ll soon give your friend most of her mind back, but this is quite the delicate situation we have here, Mr. Kelvin, I do not know if you’re aware.”
“I am, it’s been explained to me; the nature of the stones. Seems even with all your power, we’re at a stalemate.”
“Not quite, I still have an army of the dead to wipe out the living.”
“But just not me, right?”
“Hahaha, right you are. But do you really think you can stop me? As long was we have the stones, we can’t kill each other, and so I’m trying to be diplomatic about this. Leave, never interfere with my plans again, and I leave this town and its remaining inhabitants alone, or, heck, any town you want. Won’t matter when I have the world.”
“I don’t like the smell of death.”
“Any other suggestions, then?”
“I end this here and now.”

The hundreds of dead bodies standing still begin to move, and they attack Six-Shooters, incapacitating them, then go after Lance Van Sant.

“What? No! This isn’t possible, you’ve never trained with the stone, you know nothing of it.”
“I may not have practiced the magic behind it, but I’ve had this stone by my side longer’n anyone. ‘Sides, Season here sure as shooting practiced, and us working together trumps your evil bullshit.”
“That’s right, Van Sant. You’re just some nobody who got too big for his britches. We were given the stones, I respected their power.”
“You still can’t kill me. I’ll only come back stronger.”
“Not as long as we have the stones, no, but that doesn’t mean we can’t neutralize your powers…”

One of the survivors breaks from the small group, picks up a shovel, and cracks him in the leg with it. He falls to the ground, having forgotten what pain felt like. Van Sant tries to get back up, red tendrils flickering around him, but it’s just not enough, his powers are gone. He crawls as much as he can, but the rest of the townsfolk pick up their weapons again too, and beat him to death. Once Van Sant dies, the Six-Shooters drop down dead.

Kurt and Season guide the zombies into the graveyard, and they are once again buried, allowed to rest in peace once more. The town of Harked Node is no longer a viable place to stay, along with many other towns in the region. The few survivors set out on their own, to try to find or make a new slice of life out of all this death. In their minds a few of them think of old tunes from their youth to say goodbye to the dead. Kurt remembers one well, but is distracted by thoughts of the possibilities of his ghostly new powers, to ride up in the sky. He blocks them out quickly, however, replacing these thoughts with an ode to the dearly departed.

An Ode to the Dearly Departed XIV

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on August 17, 2012 by GuNNhead

“But what about those wanted posters?”
“Heh, yeah, that was me actin on my own, wantin revenge. Never thought it’d turn out so pleasantly right here in the middle of nowhere.”
“So what’s takin your boss?”
“He’s a busy man, can’t be everywhere at once, so, he has some… surrogates like myself and my associates here he can talk through if need be.”
“And what’ll happen when he gets here?”
“Well, gosh, I dunno, I hope he kills you, though. I’m tired of you killin off mass numbers of this army of the dead we’ve been raisin from town to town. This place wasn’t even on the map, shamblers found it on they own. We was drawn to it as cause of a communication we got up on those old posters.”

They pause.
“Hear that? Sounds like a train.”
“Ain’t no tracks around here for who knows how far.”
Flint turns to his left, and looks to the sky, motioning for Kurt to do the same. They both see it. A red spectral locomotive, rocketing through the sky towards them. As it gets overhead, a lone man descends out from it, flowing around him is the same spectral red waves. He lands, and they begin to dissipate, licking like flames into the air.

“That’s twice now you’ve interrupted my plans, old hero. I did not think you’d be such trouble, but now, here we finally are.”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Lance Van Sant, and I’m the man in control of the stones, so I suggest you give me that gun willingly.”
“You know I won’t do that.”
“I do suppose you are correct with that one.” He turns to the Six-Shooters. “Men.” They all get off their horses, and take the weapons off Kurt’s group, tossing them aside into the crowd of zombies. The boss goes up and down the crowd, sniffing them. “Hmm, this one.” He points out Season, and she’s brought forward, held by one of the Six-Shooters. “Give me the gun, or I’ll kill her.” A rifle fires, and removes the Six-Shooter’s head, releasing Season. She stands in shock. Lance Van Sant turns, and sees Maggie from the top floor saloon window. “She was aiming for me, I’ll get her.” A group of zombies begin to move, they walk into the saloon, and soon emerge, dragging her out.
“You damn bastards, do you know how hard I worked to get where I was, this town?” She screams in anger, kicking at the dirt and the undead. They toss her to the ground at his feet.
“No worries young miss, we’re simply passing through. In fact, it was I being contacted by you that brought this town’s salvation.” He laughs. “‘Red’ Reed Thompson…” He turns to Kurt and Flint “What a name.” Turning back to Maggie, he smiles. “But you will be rewarded, even though I still have trouble believing my luck, I had no interest in this man, it really is a small world. Your reward, I can smell it on you, you want these fine red stones. Here you are, a gift, for a noble citizen, turning in an outlaw.” He hands her a necklace, a large red stone in the center. She puts it on.
“And now…” He holds up his hand in the air. Flint shoots her in the heart. Blood pours out the wound, coating her new clean attire. “We have a new gunman for the Six-Shooters. Gotta keep those numbers right, after all.”

An Ode to the Dearly Departed XIII

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on August 13, 2012 by GuNNhead

The townsfolk burst out of the Sheriff’s with Kurt leading the way, and begin mowing down undead after undead with a flurry of gunfire. For a good few moments, their grouping remains together, but upon clearing out enough of the invading undead to move around, they begin to split up, each with their own ideas. Some go into houses where they know there is more ammo, mainly Ma Perkins’ house. Her husband was an avid collector and marksman before his passing a few short months ago.

“Where in the Sam Hill do we go now?”
“The whole town’s surrounded, there’s nowhere to go, just keep firing!”
“Screw this,” says Maggie, as she pushes Season into a shambling undead and makes a run for her bar, “I can hold up just fine on my own!”
Kurt fires, and saves Season from being bitten, and Maggie makes it to the saloon doors. A body lurches out, vomiting bile upon her, she pushes her way back in, but that is all they see before having to focus on more pressing matters.

Gunshots ring out into the night, the small group finding small breathing times where the horde is less intense. “I’ve gotten through this once, and tarnation, I’ll do it again!” Times are spent climbing onto awnings to buy time, or to break in second-story windows after hearing the screams of other townsfolk in trouble after zombies burst in through the ground floor door. Morning starts to break, and a good number of the people are still alive. Having battled through most of the buildings, they’ve arrived back into the center of town in front of the chapel. Ammo is low, and many tools have been adapted into weapons. Fighting exhaustion and the remaining groups of straggling, dried-out undead, they hear what could be hope. Riders on horseback, could they be saved? No.

The graveyard starts to erupt, and old loved ones rise from their graves.
“How is this happening? Why didn’t this happen sooner?”
“I don’t think Harked Node was ever a real target, darlin. Now we’re dealin with real trouble.”
“What is it?”
“My bother.”

The Six-Shooters ride into town, right among the zombies, and stop yards away from the group. Kurt stands in front. The surrounding zombies stop their mindless onslaught, and encircle the group, standing still.
“Hah, so you are alive, dear younger brother.”
“Wish I could say the same for you, Flint, you rotting scum.”
“Haha, yeah, I bet you do, ‘cept you’re the one that killed me.”
“Too bad you’re too dumb to stay dead.”
“Too smart more like it, you’re just lucky I got orders not to shoot you dead back when we found ya.”
“You damn lapdog, who are you working for? What’s their endgame?”
“Ah, Kurt, you always were slow in catchin on. The endgame is to win, I always knew deep down people were doomed, the only way to win was to be closer to the ground than those shifty snakes were. If you couldn’t scam em, you should just upright kill em. Now, I have the best of it all, I’m six feet under ground, and got the grind of the century. Let me ask ya, who has all the gold once everyone is dead?”
“Nobody, you mad dog, it’ll be worthless. It’ll all be worthless.”
“Exactly, the hoards of undead kill everyone, then, y’see, my boss has a new plan for the whole west, and me and my guys are at the top.”
“So why wasn’t I made dead right away?”
“Dunno that, just know what the bossman said, “Can’t kill him directly,” though I do know you weren’t part of this plan, somethin to do with the stones now is all I know.” Flint gets off of his horse, and continues. “That gun’s rightfully mine, little brother. I wanted that gun, but father gave it to you, sayin I’d use it for misdeeds, even said that you was a better shot. That chaffed me something fierce, forced me into misdeeds. Luckily I had some friends, we eventually become the Six-Shooters. One day, a private investor wanted to hire us. They said to kill Kurtis Kelvin. We got 6 of these rare red stones just for accepting, and 60,000 each once it was done. I was overjoyed, woulda done it for free. But, it was our last living exploit, you saw to that, shot us dead. But we came back, as cause of the stones.”
“So what now? You want my gun?”
“I don’t want nothin from you, but my boss now sure does. Two towns now you fought for, shoulda just turn tail and run, live out your old age somewhere and die. Now you have to answer to the big guy.”

An Ode to the Dearly Departed XII

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on July 11, 2012 by 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.