Archive for the Horror Category

An Ode to the Dearly Departed XI

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on July 9, 2012 by GuNNhead

Kurt walks in closer to the late sheriff and gunsmith.
“Whoa whoa whoa, slow down there cowboy, where do you think you’re going?” Maggie holds her gun on him. He smiles, but more gunfire comes from Season. The ladies work in tandem, and the deceased boy’s parents, now members of the undead, fall to the ground on the path from the graveyard. When they turn back to Kurt, he has the Sheriff’s gun drawn, and the key to the gunsmiths.
“Now let’s talk about this like civilized adults.”
“Who the fuck are you and what’s going on?” A voice shouts from the assembled onlookers.
“I’m Kurtis Kelvin. Your town is about to be under attack, and I don’t know why or much else than that. If you have a gun and know how to use it, shoot them in the head. We’re going to the gunsmith’s so we have a fighting chance.”

Inside the gunsmith’s, Eric is hiding. But he’s been hearing someone else already inside the house. Trying his best to be brave, he gets out of the cupboard, and picks up a gun from the workbench. He lights a lantern and inspects the gun, making sure it’s loaded. Holding both, he makes his way around the house. From the workshop’s door, there are the stairs in front of him. He hears a commotion outside, and decides to check upstairs first. Three other rooms are on this floor, the storage room is the only door on his left, across from that is the powder room, and beside that is the bedroom. All of the doors are slightly open. Being a little creeped out by the bedroom, he checks the storage room first, even though it is a little further down the hall. He opens the door, holding the lantern ahead of him with his left hand; keeping his gun is in his other hand at the ready. He then slowly enters the room, and checks behind the door to make complete sure. He goes to check the powder room, and enters and leaves using the same process, leaving both doors wide open. Just the bedroom left. He takes a deep breath, and begins to open the door. Halfway through, he sees what was making the noise. There is a person leaning over the bed. He lifts the lantern higher, and they turn around.

“M-ma Perkins?” He lowers his gun slightly. “I thought you just came to lock up? Did you need– oh, that’s some pretty bloodied gauze on your hand there, do you–”

A gunshot goes off in the distance, and she lunges at him. Startled, he tries to step back, but stumbles on a loose floorboard. Hitting the ground, his gun slams out of his hand, he hits his head on the floor, and the lantern smashes at the foot of a door. The lantern’s trajectory has unleashed its flames inside the gun powder room. Eric does not get up, he has been knocked unconscious. In seconds Ma Perkins is at his throat, biting it open with her teeth, and feasting on his flesh.

An Ode to the Dearly Departed X

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on July 2, 2012 by GuNNhead

“Alright, then so be it, I solved this once. Let’s get in there, and get me a gun so I can get my own back… Hold on. I see something.” He creeps away down along the backs of buildings. On his way, he picks up a shovel, bringing it around up off the ground into a swinging position. He takes his one swing against this darkened figure in the night, walking along a path. Spinal disembowelment from behind with a shovel. With his swing of the shovel, he hits the zombie from behind, cutting through the spine, exploding its intestines onto the ground, eviscerating it. When it drops to the ground, he uses the shovel to remove its head.

Season comes running up behind him.
“What the shit — oh shit it’s old Gus!” But another person has seen this act as well:
“Stop right there.” It’s Maggie, her own gun drawn, and pointing at Kurt.
“Hold on, Mags,” shouts Season. She draws her gun as well.
“He just needs to get back in his cell and wait for morning.”
“He ain’t what you think he is, I know it.”
“Oh, I know what he is–”
“All y’all freeze, now!” The sheriff emerges from the celebration after the fireworks; a third gun drawn.
“Unless y’all folks count this shovel, I’m unarmed here.”
“The man has a point, Maggie, just put the gun down and we’ll get this sorted.”
“Alright, I’m a patient girl, I can wait. He is going back in jail, righ–” A gunshot. Nobody else fires. Season’s gun smokes. A small boy, now headless drops dead behind Kurt. A stunned silence.
“Well?” Season speaks up. Some of the townfolk are drawn to the situation’s gunfire.
“Alright. Dammit. Alright. I was just plannin on doin this myself, but it appears my hand has been forced by circumstance. I dunno where the apprentice is, but if Old Gus and that kid came back from the dead like I just saw they did, we’re gonna have to take some precautions. I already told Eric I need a favor of him, but I don’t think we have time to be searchin for the boy. He went by the graveyard not long ago. The Gunsmith is right in here.” He walks up the stairs to the church, and addresses the small group of people now gathered. Guns have been holstered.
“People, it seems we have here a big problem that I don’t know quite how to describe, delicately or otherwise, but we have a situation that requires a select few of us to bear arms in mass amounts, this here little town is in for something serious. I’m gonna get the preacher and the gunsmith, then we’ll get the mayor to officialize this.” He opens the door, and has his neck bitten open by father Astaire. As it is feasting, the young Miss Vicky bursts from the background of the crowd to the sheriff’s side. Kurt rushes to stop her, but Mr. Broming tumbles from the doorway, grabbing her and biting her flesh as well. Season fires a shot, taking out the Gunsmith.
“I never liked you, you judgmental piece of shit.” Maggie shoots the zombified pastor in the head, realizing what is happening, and finally getting a clear shot now that it was distracted. The bodies fall down the steps. Season nods at Kurt, and shoots the dying Sheriff and Miss Vicky in the head.

An Ode to the Dearly Departed IX

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on June 25, 2012 by GuNNhead

Season slowly creeps up the darkened stairs, fireworks popping in the distance. The shuffling gets louder. She hears a groan behind a door that’s slightly open. She knows no-one’s working right now, so she slowly pushes it open, but in a flash of light she is beset upon, and taken into the darkened room with nary a sound.

Just outside the graveyard, Eric stops by the pyre for the stranger, and sees the shadowed figures mourning their lost son. The mother is kneeling down on her son’s grave, the father stands closely over her. Something is wrong however, a flash of fireworks light reveals. The grave has been dug up. The mother is holding her son in her arms, sobbing. Then, screaming. The father begins to move, but Eric notices a hand raise out of the ground, and grab the father’s ankle, sending him tumbling down. Old Gus erupts from the ground, and begins to feast. The young apprentice takes off running back to the town.

In a room in the second floor of the saloon, Season’s mouth is let go of.
“Oh god please don’t eat me.”
“Don’t worry nothin about that, sweet-heart, just tell me where your little friend got my gun?”
“Who are you? What gun? What friend?”
“Red hair, red dress, a little taller than you. Seemed to think plenty of her self.”
“Oh, that’s just Maggie, she owns this place, got it from her dad.”
“Your friend Maggie stole my gun; walked into the Sheriff’s station not long after I got locked up, and took it. Laughed and left me there to rot.”
“She ain’t too trustworthy to men, but I don’t know a thing about any guns that ain’t my own. Don’t know why she’d want anything to do with some rando’s gun either.”
“This ain’t no time for games.”
“Way I see it, according to you, this is exactly the time for games.”
“How so?”
“Well, I have my gun pointed at your knee, you seem to be missing yours, so if you wanna walk outta here, stranger, lets just relax. I didn’t steal anything from you, I can understand your anger. Tell me about yourself, maybe?”

Outside, the Gunsmith’s apprentice is unable to find the Sheriff. Panicked, he uses his key to hide inside the locked gunsmith’s store beside the Sheriff’s office. He slams the door, and runs up the stairs of the residential main floor, and into the upstairs workshop. Guns line the walls. He hides in a cupboard.

A few jiggers and a conversation in a bedroom of the saloon has brought two strangers to an auspicious understanding. The fireworks have reached their zenith during the exchange and the town is quiet again.
“Why would these things come here though?”
“No telling, still don’t know why they attacked my old town. I reckoned they were after me, but the Six-Shooters seemed surprised to see me. Otherwise, these things, they seem pretty mindless, so I’d say they’re attracted to those dang fireworks. Alls I can say is that, whoever’s raising them up, they must have a pretty big reason.”
“Then it looks like we need to get your gun back, Kurt.” With no idea of where to go to find Maggie, they head out the back way.
“C’mon, the gunsmith’s shop is just by the Sheriff’s, but you wouldn’t guess it from the ground floor.” They sneak behind the buildings, and make it to the gunsmith’s. They hear some movement inside.
“What was that?”
“Must be the apprentice pickin up some things. Gunsmith’s sister was bitten today.”
“Bitten?”
“Yeah, it’s probably what you think.”

An Ode to the Dearly Departed VIII

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

The door closes with a loud slam. The Sheriff walks towards the center of town a bit, when Maggie cuts him off.
“Maggie, a big thanks to you, though I find your aid a bit out of the ordinary.”
“Too many crazy things been happening today, and I saw him sneakin ’round back; wanna feel safe in my own town, y’know? Plus, I should be gettin some of that bounty. How’s Gloria?”
“Hurm, um, well, that’ll be- I’m not sure how she is. I was about to head there now, see if they need help, I think Ma Perkins brought one of her some food. You just enjoy the fireworks, tend to your bar. Season’s probably bored dealing with the George and the few drunks who don’t enjoy the spectacle and dancing.” Maggie goes into the crowd watching fireworks, but keeps an eye on where Thron goes.

“Hello?” Sheriff Thron bellows into the Pastor’s house. Food all over the floor, but no-one’s in. He walks next door to the chapel, inside, there’s the gunsmith’s apprentice sitting in the pews.
“Eric, how are ya boy?”
“Oh, hey, Sheriff Hal, I’m alright, though I reckon I should be a bit more disturbed. Mrs. Astaire, I’ve never seen anyone like that. She nearly ate everything in the house before Mr. Astaire got back. Ravenous, a frightening crazy in her eyes, but don’t tell Mr. Astaire or Mr. Broming I said that.”
“Sure thing, kid, they in the back?”
“Yup, can I go now?”
“Yeah, go on and enjoy yourself.” He runs out the door. Thron heads to the back. The two men are sitting on either side of a bed in a small back room of the church.
“Howdy, fellers. I see she finally fell asleep?”
“Yup, musta needed a whole mess of food to help fight the infection.”
“The good lord will get us through this.”
“And Ma Perkins?”
“Brought some stew for her, nice and hearty. Took care of her for a bit, but Gloria wasn’t acting herself, Ma just had to go. Asked her to close up the shop instead to help me and the boy out.”
“Merle, ya mind if I grab you away for a sec? Somethin I gotta talk to you about, about the shop.”
“Couldn’t you have asked the boy?”
“‘Fraid it was a little big of a decision for him, but it’ll only be a moment.”
“I’m stayin right by my sister till she’s well. Darn peeved I wasn’t told until I went looking for my apprentice. If you gotta say somethin, say it here or go, the preacher’s about to do an exorcism.”
“Ah, nevermind it then, I’d reckon it can wait. Good luck.” The Sheriff leaves the two desperate men to allow them to try all they want. Life and death aren’t meant to be interfered with.

Outside, he stops on the front steps of the church, and sits with Eric, the gunsmith’s apprentice. They watch the fireworks for a bit and contemplate the day’s events.
“I’m gonna need a big favor of you Eric, but I also want you to check up on the Pipers first, bring em in to town. I think they’re still in the graveyard, mourning the loss of their boy.”
“Yeah, they are, I knew him; death is a weird thing, Mr. Thron. What’s this big favor?”
“I’m still mullin it over, run off now.”

Inside the saloon, Season stops tending the bar, hearing an odd shuffling noise upstairs between the explosions in the sky. She pours herself a shot of whiskey quickly for courage, and begins to go upstairs to inspect it.

An Ode to the Dearly Departed VII

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on June 18, 2012 by GuNNhead

He looks through the windows from the back alleys. From the first floor they’re all too dark, just appear to be houses, but he comes upon one house, and on the opposite wall, there is a large ammo supply shelf. Locked, but well labeled. He opens the window, and as he’s lowering himself in, a smell hits him; distracted, he slips on the wet floor. Water, nothing more. He gets up, and cracks open the doors to the ammo cabinet with the but of his gun. He refills his ammo, and starts back out the window.

“Don’t move… Alright, now remove that pistol you got there, and put your hands up. Turn around.” Responding to the voice’s commands with the cocking of a gun backing them up, he does so. With more light flooding in from the outside, he realizes that this isn’t the gunsmith’s, but the jail, and he’s facing the sheriff square in the eyes.
“It’s not what you think, somethin I can’t explain is goin on.”
“That’s too bad, because you really needed to be doin some explainin right now.” Sheriff Thron motions to the cell with his pistol. The stranger starts getting in the cell, knowing he’s beat.
“Hah, who knew it’d be this easy to make so much money, wanted men just linin up inside my jail.” He sifts through wanted posters. “There we go, ‘Red’ Reed Thomson, you’re quite the murderer.”
“That may look like me, but it ain’t me, I’m no murderer, in another life I used to be known as Kurtis Kelvin”
“Kurtis Kelvin, the famous lawdog? So, even though you’re a dead ringer for this here killer, comin to town after some psycho cannibal, you’re the youngest lawman there was, and damn near tamed the west before you were 20, before I was even born, before you were killed? You can understand your story don’t exactly match up to the facts.”
“Yeah, the lawman died, had to. Sometimes it’s all too much for one man.”
“What happened?”
“Settled far out, down in some nowhere town south of the border. I changed my name, and they stopped lookin, or so I thought. Guess they had more than one contingency, putting posters up in case I ever came back. Guess no place is far enough to escape the evil of man…”
“So what brings you here? Evil?”
“These damn dead, rose up outta the ground, outta the horizon, killed mosta everyone in the town while I’d gone for supplies. Someone knew I was there, had to. The buried came back, but not as they were. No, these things were decomposing, shambling wrecks. Even the ones those things ate up, or just the bit. The folks in my town ate each other, sheriff, all dead, mindless. Except for six of em. The Six Shooters, men I’d killed, all back again, a gang of outlaws. Now, unless dead men can bring themselves back to life, there’s no telling who’s in charge, commanding them, but they have the power to bring back the dead. No way the real Six Shooters would have just tossed me in a ravine, they’da shot me dead.”
“Well that’s just the loveliest story, what with knowing the laws, I hope you understand while I keep you locked up in here till we can get some facts sorted out.”