Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (4 page)

And then what, smartass? You gonna just grab his horse and ride off into the fucking sunset? You need to find out if your family is still alive. Priorities, dickhead.

“Who are you talking to, sergeant?”

“Call me Rip,” Rip said, buttoning the shirt and trying to figure out if he’d been thinking out loud. He was almost certain that he had but tried to change the subject quickly. “So, what else can you tell me about what the world is like nowadays?”

“She won’t be able to tell you as much as I can, Rip.” Jake appeared at the doorway leading back into the cabin. Casey looked as if she might be in trouble for telling him what little information she had. She looked down and away from Rip. Jake waved them both back inside. “C’mon. I’ll fill you in on what I can.”

Casey turned and, without a word, walked into the cabin. Rip followed. As he approached the door, Jake held a hand out to stop him. Rip looked down at the gesture, and then back to Jake.

“She’s already seen enough to give her nightmares for the next several lifetimes. I’d really rather not have her bringing it up.”

Rip was unfazed. “She seems like she handles it well. Besides, you’re the one that sent her out here.”

Jake slowly moved his hand aside. “Fair enough. Come inside. I don’t like staying exposed like this any more than I have to.”

Rip brusquely moved past Jake and inside the cabin. Part of him didn’t want to stay any longer than he had to, and part of him wanted to stay and get as much information as he could before heading out. He didn’t want to divulge any more accidental facts about the constant conflict going on in his mind. He wasn’t entirely sure who the other voice was that fought his own internal conscience. At first, it felt like Crayon giving him advice, but now he wasn’t so sure. Crayon wouldn’t have been as overbearing as the other influence. It was decidedly more arrogant and forceful—almost sinister. It wanted him to be away from Jake and the cabin. It wanted him out on the move, alone and unprotected.

But why?

There were too many questions, and not enough answers. Rip sat at the table once again, feeling like there was something being hidden from him. As he sat at the table, he looked around. There was very little in the way of decorations that he could see; a gun rack and a singular portrait hung on the wall. It was an odd choice for a decoration, he had to admit. As he stared at it, he tried to figure out what the meaning of the picture was.

It was a portrait of George Washington, but not the typical picture that he’d seen before. Most of the artwork that he’d seen of Washington was of him in a suit, looking very presidential. This one was of
General
Washington, as evidenced by the military uniform and the script below it that said so. Washington wore a blue coat and grasped a sabre in one hand. On his head was a hat cocked sideways a bit. It gave the former president and Founding Father a very regal, but commanding look. Rip pointed to the portrait as Jake walked by.

“What’s with the painting of George Washington?”

Jake sat down at the other end of the table and looked back to the picture. “It reminds me of the kind of person that we need nowadays. Washington was a military man, a Founding Father, and our first president. He exemplifies the traits needed to survive. He could defeat an enemy just as efficiently as he could work a treaty. He was as well versed in tactics as he was bureaucracy. He is the kind of person that I want to be—able to talk my way through a negotiation or hammer my opponent if necessary.”

“Impressive. How did you get this picture?”

Jake shuffled noticeably in his seat. His body language spoke of a man that had done something he wasn’t proud of, or he was hiding something. “I had to do some trading with some less-than-reputable types.”

Rip was intrigued. “Like who?”

Jake shuffled nervously again. “The kind of people who would take advantage of someone like you.”

“What do you mean?”

Jake sat forward, his hand out in front of him. “You don’t know enough about how things work to align yourself with the right people. They aren’t the type to just let people go if they change their mind.”

Rip was starting to get impatient. “Enlighten me.”

Jake paused for a moment. His eyes lit up at an epiphany that came to him. “How about I
show
you instead.” He got up from the table. “C’mon, let’s go to town”

CHAPTER 4

Rip was more than a little uncomfortable as he rode into what Jake had referred to as “town.” It wasn’t that he was afraid of what he might see or who he might meet; it was the fact that he hadn’t ridden a horse in quite a long time, like since he was nine. The stubborn animal wouldn’t go along with what he wanted it to do, and it was pissing him off. All he wanted was the animal to go forward—not left, not right, but fucking forward. It was as if the horse was doing it just out of spite. They had been riding for the better part of an hour, and the seat was not getting any more comfortable, nor was the horse getting any more pliable.

Rip kicked the flanks of the hardheaded animal. “C’mon, dammit! Just follow
him
!” He gestured towards Jake.

Jake calmly strode over on his own steed and tried to settle the nervous horse. “If you keep kicking her like that, she’s not gonna do you any favors.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what she does as long as she goes
straight
.”

Jake eased forward and patted the skittish horse on the side of the head. It shook its head and neighed, then resumed its progress forward.

Rip straightened himself and attempted something akin to braggadocio. “Bout damn time, horse. I was just about to get in your ass!”

Jake shot a disapproving glance towards Rip. “That attitude isn’t going to do you any favors when we get to town. There are people there that would just as soon shoot you as look at you. Think of the old west; that’ll give you a good indication what to expect.”

“What makes you think I’m not a gunslinger myself, Jake?”

“That’s the problem, sergeant. If you walk in there like you own the place, they will mow you down and not think twice about it. There’s no police, no law, no military, no one to answer to aside from Marshal Crane.”

An uneasy grumble in the pit of his stomach wasn’t the deer stew that he’d eaten earlier. He had a sneaking suspicion that Marshal Crane was going to turn out to be Major Crane, his less-than-capable commanding officer from Fort Drum. He must have been doing something noticeably downtrodden, because Jake picked up on it.

“You know him, don’t you?”

“I have an idea, yeah. If it’s the same one that I’m thinking of, then we might have an issue before we even meet.” Rip looked up, remembering some not-so-fond memories of Major Crane. “He was your basic run-of-the-mill officer. He didn’t mesh well with the rest of the unit, and he sure as hell didn’t like me.”

“I can’t imagine why…” Jake said sarcastically.

Rip shot him an indignant look. “Like I was saying, he didn’t like me. He was the reason that I was stuck at master sergeant instead of first sergeant. He didn’t want me taking control of the men in an official capacity. He’d done everything in his power to keep me away from a command position; he didn’t care for my methods. The men would follow me into hell if I asked them to, but they had a hard time not shooting him.”

Jake chuckled.

“You laugh, but accidents happen, Jake.”

Jake stopped laughing. Sergeant Irving wasn’t the kidding type.

Rip sensed the change in Jake’s demeanor so he changed the subject. “So, tell me about these ‘factions’ you were talking about.”

“There’s several. Most of them are harmless, but there are a few that are at each other’s throat all the time, and there is more than one religious cult.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, first off, don’t mess with the Marshal or any of his people. They’re the closest thing to law enforcement around, and they do
not
like to be messed with. Marshal Crane has some weird tactics, and he’s a complete egomaniac, so steer clear if you can.”

Yeah, that’ll happen. I need to talk to that fucker, maybe find out why Crayon visited me.

“Then you have the Knights of New York,” Jake continued. “They’re always at odds with the Marshal; consider them more of the
Robin Hood
-type. They try and help when and where they can. Most of them are former military, like yourself, and they seem to be generally good people. You should probably talk to their leader, a guy named Patterson.”

“I think we should talk to them first if we can. Anyone else?”

“The Riders. They follow the Horseman. They think the zombies are some kind of mystical creatures. They round ’em up instead of killing them, supposedly to offer to the Horseman as some kind of sacrifice. They’re some weird-ass people. The Riders tend not to come into town, and, again, are at odds with Marshal Crane and his boys. Aside from them, I’ve heard of some random mercenaries that we just call Henchmen. Not much to tell about them; I’ve never seen them in town, but if you run into them out in the woods, I’d shoot first and ask questions later.”

They cleared the wooded area and began their approach into town. From what Rip could tell, the town they were referring to was what remained of Fort Drum. There was a perimeter fence and solid walls around the base, making it an ideal spot to hole up, despite the fact that it wasn’t built like a prison. As they exited the woods, signs began to pop up for the base as well, confirming what he guessed. The road now seemed a little more familiar to him; he’d travelled it many times from his off-base housing on the way to Fort Drum. He’d never stopped on the way to work most mornings, most times driving straight through. It was amazing how much the landscape had changed over the last ten years.

Rip noticed the outskirts of Fort Drum after a few more minutes. Even if he didn’t know anything about the area, the shops along the route would give it away. Advertisements for liquor stores, strip clubs, and all manner of fast food joints still stood on the side of the road. It was a typical military installation, always something for the troops to do off post and after hours.

“Ah, shit. Speak of the devil…” Jake said.

Rip looked up at him, then towards what had caught his attention. A group on horseback was swiftly approaching. They did not appear to be in pursuit, more like a group on patrol. When Rip looked back over to Jake, he was holding his right hand up, his left hand still on the reins.

“What’re you doing?” Rip growled.

“I told you to play nice, sergeant. This is your first chance.” Jake squinted at the group as they approached, now a little less than fifty yards away. “They look like some of Marshal Crane’s men. They all wear blaze-orange skullcaps or toboggans and black leather, even in the summer. Makes ’em easier to spot.”

“Sounds like a bunch of gay guys trying to recreate the Village People.”

“I had a gay brother-in-law.”

Rip shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t scare the horses.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Rip nodded towards the group of men. “Time to make the introductions.”

Six men rode up on horseback. As Jake had pointed out, all six men wore black leather—either vests, biker jackets, or full-length dusters. Adorning their heads were the telltale blaze-orange knit caps. They looked a formidable force, despite their odd choice in clothing. Each man had an M4, with one exception; the odd man out carried what Rip recognized as an MK-14 Mod-0… a modernized version of the legendary M-14 rifle. It was primarily used by snipers who preferred the semi-auto fire rate as opposed to the bolt-action accuracy of a Remington 700. Each one wore a sidearm as well, mostly revolvers, and one semi-auto that looked like a 1911 .45.

They looked like they meant business.

Jake eased his steed forward and met the group of men. They evidently knew who Jake was, as evidenced by the way they greeted him. Small grins and more than one handshake were exchanged as he looked on. After a few more seconds of small talk, Jake looked back to Rip and nodded. He resumed his conversation with the Marshal’s men for another minute, and then held out an index finger, telling the men to wait for just a minute. He gestured to Rip to come forward. Rip attempted, his horse not wanting to cooperate once again. After a few jabs in the flanks, the stubborn animal moved beside Jake, in full view of the Marshal’s men.

“Gentlemen, meet Master Sergeant Geoffrey Irving, formerly of the Tenth Mountain.”

Rip nodded slightly at the men. Gauging from their reactions, none of the men recognized him, a definite positive sign. He didn’t want to risk running into someone from his past, someone who had a beef with him for one reason or another. Although the men before him were supposed to be “law enforcement,” he supposed—like many other things—that the term had undergone some changes over the years.

“Any of you guys know him?” Jake asked, as if reading Rip’s mind.

Some snickers and nods towards one man in the group.

The one man, however, dismounted his horse and was not one that he recognized. He slowly approached Rip, looking him over. He pointed to his M4.

“You mind handing that over, sergeant?”

Rip shuffled nervously in his saddle. “I might. Why do you want my rifle?”

There was something familiar about the young man in front of him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and very muscular. It was difficult for him to tell, but he looked to be around six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a chiseled face, and a lengthy goatee. Rip couldn’t put his finger on what was so recognizable about the man. Before he could put together a rational explanation, he was lying flat on his back, the rifle gone from him.

The young man had yanked the rifle, jerked Rip from the horse, and unceremoniously planted him on his ass. The M4 skittered away, and Jake watched as it was picked up by one of the Marshal’s men who had quietly dismounted.

Rip started to get up, only to be shoved down by the young man’s .357 revolver. He’d been in contact with the new face of humanity for less than five minutes and managed to get laid out already. He didn’t figure the day was going to get any better. He balled his fists as he lay there, wanting to leap up and beat the kid’s ass.

“Look here, buddy. I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but I am not someone to be fucked with. So if you don’t mind, would you kindly… GET THE FUCK OFF ME?”

“Contact on our six! Zulus!”

The young man jumped off Rip’s chest and aimed his revolver to their collective rear. A half-dozen shuffling zombies greeted them as they all turned towards the contact. Two of the Marshal’s men raised their rifles, firing off ill-placed rounds as their horses bucked.

Rip took the opportunity to scramble to his feet. He didn’t get up as fast as he thought he should but still managed to get to his rifle before the Marshal’s men noticed. He shouldered the weapon, ready to take out the approaching targets, when Jake hollered from his left.

“Zombies! Left side!”

Rip instinctively spun around to his left and saw the four zombies. Before Jake could retrieve the bow off his back, Rip had taken four well-placed shots and downed the approaching undead. He lowered his rifle as the Marshal’s men finally settled their horses and fired several more shots towards their rear. The entire bedlam lasted only fifteen seconds, but, to Rip, it felt like an eternity. Before the smoke settled, nearly a dozen zombies lay lifeless—permanently.

Rip stalked over to the man who had rudely removed him from his horse. He brusquely spun the youth around, shoving the business end of his M4 in the young man’s chest.

“As I was saying—I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I am not someone to be fucked with right now. I’ve had a pretty bad fucking day, and it’s not getting any better.”

Rip’s chest tightened; it felt like he had an elephant on it. The unsettlingly familiar face of the man wasn’t making him feel any better. The man grinned ever so slightly and put his hands up in surrender.

You fool! Don’t you recognize your own blood?

What the hell are you talking about?

The oppressive voice in his head was correct.

The young man slowly lowered his hands and pushed the rifle away from his chest.

“Hello, Dad.”