#7: Cowboys and Indians... and Zombies

[jackalope]

Ultimate Jonah Hex #7

Cowboys and Indians... and Zombies

The residue of gunpowder wafted in a small cloud of smoke, drifting from the end of his pistol's barrel. Hex looked out across the village. A surging torrent of Roamers stretched out into the horizon. From his position on top of what used to be the town's old mall, he could see no obvious way out. For now he was out of their reach, two stories above the brain-dead horde, but they were approaching, and would soon find a way to him, and when that happened there was no place to go. This 'Supa-Big-Mart' seemed to be the only building of any significance in this god-forsaken town. The next closest building was one story high, about 25 feet from where he stood. Much too far to jump, even on his horse. Hex spat, turning back to General, his horse.

Raising an eyebrow, he asked his companion, “You have any ideas?”

General seemed to shrug. The bounty-hunter turned back to sea of undead below. He tilted his hat down to cover his eyes from the bright evening sun. And it had all started so well.

* * *

“Savages.”

The word was drawn out and full of venom. The sound of a glass being placed on the table, then liquid flowing into it, mingled with the angry murmuring of Governor Turnbull, who turned with the glass in his hand and a scowl on his face, sat down. He sipped, his eye twitched. Holding up his hand, he turned his eyes away from Hex who sat opposite. “Now, Hex, I know you have some dealin' with them, even some affection for the Red-skin, but hear me. One Hundred and forty-six lives. That's how many dead bodies we got, three towns wiped out. Corpses – beheaded.”

“Jonah,” he continued, “You have history with the Indian, some respect placed in their ways an' traditions.” The old man downed the glass and slammed on to his desk, gazing up Hex, a darkness had fallen across his eyes. “Don't let it cloud ya, boy. If this is happening, stop it.”

Hex nodded gravely, unwilling to say anything. He stood and turned – leaving the room, and the old man to his brooding thoughts. As he moved past the two fat guards, one smiled a rotten smile at him. “Gonna kill sum Redskins huh Hex? I'm almost itchin' ta do join ya'.”

Hex didn't bother to turn around as he reached the service elevator. “Yer sure that's not just crabs?” Before the joke had penetrated the guard's thick skull, Jonah was descending.

Savages, Hex hated the word. He'd seen savages, hell he'd been savage, and the skin colour had little factor in it. To taint a whole people with such a word. Still, the Wastelands Tribes would kill to protect themselves, but three towns? It seemed unlikely. As he passed through the traders and the working girls, he looked down at his tomahawk. He'd had it so long; he tried to recall when he'd first been given it. Wandering through the desert wastes when he'd escaped from Mexico, he'd been found by some Apache scouts, unconscious and dehydrated. Taken and cared for, he had stayed with them for a number of years, before being cast back out into the wastes. The tomahawk had been a parting gift.

He crossed the dirt road, pot-marked by cracked concrete. The sun was hot and high in the sky, and people were reluctant to step out of the shade. Two horses dragged the chassis of a car, laden with shrivelled vegetables. It was hard to grow anything in the wastelands, unless you were rich enough to have one of those hydroponic step ups. Most of the land still held the radiation from the fallout, and yields were usually shrivelled, if anything grew at all. Folks in outlands mistrusted the vegetation, spouting claims of glowing potatoes and corn with real ears. Mothers often threatened children that if they did not eat their vegetables, their vegetables would eat them.

Sighing, he walked into the lobby of his apartment block. Squeaking up the stairs, he pushed open the door and smiled. The long legs of Tallulah bridged two seats, as she sat beside the open doors to the where the washing line was hung. She looked up with a sweat-laden brow. “It's hot,” she said, staring at him, “and you have a job you don't want to do.”

Hex nodded. He'd grown used to Tallulah's intuition with him. In fact he found it comforting. He was a man of few words, perhaps a few more with a woman like Tallulah, but on the whole not enough for most people. Her understanding of him, it meant a lot, he liked that he generally didn't have to explain himself.

She narrowed her eyes, “Why are you smiling?”

He took his hat off and sat down, lifting her feet to place them on his lap. Closing his eyes, he leaned back slightly. “There's a problem with the Native Tribes. I need to check it out.”

“Natives? I thought they kept to themselves, no one seems to mind them, do they?”

Hex shook his head. “People don' mind them 'cause they keep to themselves. Otherwise people 'round here hate them, resent the fact they seem to thrive in the wastes. No one gets they've been recoverin' fer over 250 years, pretty much since white men got here.”

Tallulah lifted her foot to Jonah's shoulder. “Are you sure you have to go? Can't someone...”

Hex looked to her. “Gotta be me, Rose. Just focus on when I get back, an' start packin'. Soon we'll be livin' in a climate controlled bubble, no more stinkin' hot days fer ya.”

* * *

Hex gazed around the roof of the mall. It was a giant car park; parts of the concrete flat had crumbled away leaving giant holes into the floor below, revealing the amassing roamers below. Like much of the waste, abandoned cars were scattered across the lots. The concrete spiral ramp that lead up to the car park had fallen away, meaning the only access by car was gone, but also it reduced the points at which the Wasteland zombies could get to him. Light was quickly fading, as was his ammunition. Few Roamers had found their way onto the roof, through the mostly destroyed staircases and ramps, but soon more would follow. Like ants, the roamers seemed to follow chemical signatures of one another, death, even of one of their own, seemed to draw others.

Hex looked at the body that lay wrapped off to the side, skinny, with the head covered in a brown sack. He sighed.

Making sure his entry blocks were still holding, Hex crawled under the nearest car. Most of the vehicles had been abandoned when the cheap fuel had run out, but some still had a miniscule amount left in them. With one an old plastic fuel canister beside him, the bounty hunter drew his knife and cut the fuel line. Petrol dribbled out, which he deftly caught in the bottle. He scrambled out and looked at General. The horse looked unimpressed. He sighed, only fifty more cars to check.

* * *

Hex guided General off the road, into the cactus filled wastes. He'd seen in a book a long time ago what the cacti used to look like. He'd found it strange. Here the things sprawled, looping in the sky and plunging back into the broken dirt. Spikes grew on them, some a foot long, and rumours had it that some even preyed on men. It wouldn't surprise him. Moving through the scrubland, he kept his eyes peeled for tracks. The Natives were fantastic at leaving no tracks, but often those they stalked were not.

After three days on the road, he hoped he was close. General was tiring, even though he didn't show it, Hex could tell. He had been moving off from the nearest village that had been slaughtered, trying to find the trail of the supposed red tribe that had committed it. Not much of it had remained.
Burned bodies and buildings were all that had been left. His heart had sunk when he had seen that some of the bodies did belong to children and women. He looked down at the Tomahawk. If it was one of the Native Tribes that had done this, something was very wrong.

General stopped, his ear flicking around. Warily, Jonah drew his pistol. The rocks ahead shifted, gravel slipping. Hex's weapons were drawn, aimed at the area. The scraping sound of more earth moving was followed by the emergence of two Roamers. One was once a woman, with clumps of scraggily blond hair hanging from what remained of her scalp. She let a guttural noise fall from her drooling mouth as she caught sight of mounted hunter. The second was huge, once a man, the creature now bore a skeleton smile where the skin had rotted away around the mouth. His bloated gut had been split open and putrid guts hung from the rotting wound.

The rancid pair lurched forward towards Hex, and with the next movement fell back. Two large wounds between each eye sockets. The bounty hunter eyed over the now unmoving corpses for signs of remaining undeath. Suddenly General shifted, his ears flicking, he turned on the spot. An echoing moan seemed to come from all around them. The horse snorted. The shapes of figures shuffled from the rocks and from nearby ditches. At least thirty of them, Hex counted.

“When it rains it pours,” he muttered.

The Roamers lumbered forwards. Hex emptied his guns, felling nine of them before his triggers clicked empty. The rotting things were closing. Hex circled General, flicking open his pistol to reload. Barely 20 feet had passed underneath before the horse reared up, knocking half the bullets from his hands. Hex held tight, another dozen of the Waste zombies approached from his escape point, a hunger purposefully driving their gnashing mouths towards him. Stupid fuck, Hex cursed internally, the sound had must have attracted them. Roamers did follow sound, but the precision at which these things had moved on him, it seemed mighty unlucky.

A one eyed roamer stumbled forward with a burst of movement. Hex's boot caved the attacker's face in. The bounty hunter let General move, hoping his ride's instincts would prove as honed as they had been in the past. As the horse weaved and kicked, Hex quickly reloaded. Every direction they moved, more and more of the undead appeared. He fired, clearing a path. Those behind them were gaining in speed, dragging flailing limbs and crawling with uncanny jerking movements. General turned, ducking under a looping cactus limb. Hex let loose another volley of quick shots, downing more, but it didn't seem enough. He snarled and lent into his horse's gallop. Thundering though the bronze sand, the hooves pounded the ground.

And skidded to a stop.

Hex and General looked out into the steep canyon below as a small rock dropped over the edge, falling for an eternal number of seconds before hitting the ground somewhere under. They turned back to the lumbering horde.

Hex patted General.

A war cry echoed out from the wastes. The horde rolled their heads around, another noise taking their attention. From the cacti, arrows flew out, piercing half a dozen of the Roamers. A tomahawk split the skull of another creature. Two feathered riders blurred by, firing again. A rifle shoots then another. A body leaps high into the orange sky and slams into the skulls of two of the zombies. Standing, Hex can see the man more clearly. Well muscled and wearing a huge, shaggy buffalo head, the figure turns and charges into the thick of the roaming dead.

* * *

Lit only by the waxing moon, Hex knelt down and pulled the sack off the tied man. An old man stared back at him, white wispy hair surrounding a black plate covering half of the senior's skull. A mix of switches and small dials pot marked the plate, stretching down to a black metal eye, containing a yellow iris that focused on Hex. The elderly figure smiled.

“This all can stop whenever you want, bounty hunter.” The old man waited for a moment, letting the restless moans punctuate his statement for dramatic effect. “Kill me or take me in, these creatures won’t stop until they rip you apart.”

“Appreciate the head's up.” Hex nodded. “I'll give you one; it's gonna' get rough.” He pulled the bag back over the old man's head, and tied it on. He lifted the old man, walking over to a red convertible and dropping him in the boot. A crunch of breaking wood caught his attention. A pale arm reached through the nearest blocked entrance. Hex looked to General. The horse seemed to nod. Ready.

* * *

As the corpses were beheaded, stopping the returned from returning once more, Hex holstered his six shooters and looked over the carnage. The huge Native American man stepped towards him, removing the large bison head to reveal a strong jawed man, with shaggy black hair. The man gave Hex a scornful glare. The bounty hunter considered giving an Apache greeting, but decided against it. If experience had taught Hex anything it was that the only thing worse than being an outsider with a group of strangers, was to pretend you weren't.

Hex tipped his hat. “Appreciate the assist.”

“Legend tells of a white boy who stayed with a tribe south of here.” The man took another step towards Jonah, making his hands tense near his holster. The huge man continued. “They say that death shot from his hands, and the ghosts of his victims followed him wherever he went.” The man stepped again and stopped, staring down at the unshaven white man. “They say he tried to run away with the chief's daughter, a girl who was already promised to a boy from another tribe...” With lightning speed the man suddenly held Hex's Tomahawk, “and when both tribes found out, they chased him off. This Tomahawk I aimed straight at your back.”

“A partin' gift.” Hex relaxed slightly as he finally placed the man from memory. The boy. The Chief's son from the other tribe was the man that stood before him now. “Flying Stag, how is White Fawn?”

The giant native American smiled. “More beautiful than your ugly face.” Hex waited an awkward moment for the axe to be returned. It shortly was and Flying Stag turned back to his men.

“They say you've been slayin' Wasters,” Hex tried in his most neutral voice.

“That so?” The Chief did not meet Jonah's eyes. “Did you get this from the Turnbull?” In absence of a reply Stag nodded. “It is funny, white men make fun of our names. You name yourself after animals? Stag? Wolf? But you white men, you are even more literal. Turn-bull, an accurate name. And you; Hex. You couldn't get more perfect.” Hex blinked, and the Chief sighed. “We killed them, hexed man, but not before they had become these, dead men.”

“All of 'em?” Hex watched Flying Stag nod gravely. “How?”

“An old white man,” said the Chief as his men started to create a pile which they could burn. “Calls himself Professor Deadhead. Our Wiseman has told us that he has found a way to bind the dead-that-walk, to control them. Even now he amasses an army, using our dead and yours.”

As the flames spread out over the rotting carcasses, Hex asked, “Where is he?”

“A place called ' Supa-Big-Mart'.”

* * *

Two Roamers were shot dead as Hex pushed a car in front of the breaking roof entrance. He lit the make shift rag torch and set the first car alight. With the thin layer of fuel covering its seat, it burned quickly. He leaned into to it, pushing it off the side of the roof into the Roamers below. They moved towards it, simultaneous drawn to the noise and light, and repelled by it. Hex moved to the next car on the other side of the roof. With both sides drawing attention, Hex got into the red Cadillac aligned in the centre of the car park. Turning the ignition, the engine stuttered, before revving into life. He turned back to General who was sitting nervously in the backseat.

“Yer ready?” He was sure the horse shook its head. Hex pulled on his seat belt.

As the zombies broke through the roof entrances and started to run at the vehicle, Hex floored it. The car skidded into high speed, heading straight towards a makeshift ramp that was set up next to the roof's front edge. Scrambling over the abandoned car, drawn by the sound and movement, or perhaps the Professor in the trunk, the hungry dead ran.

Hitting the ramp, the old car flew. Below those not consumed by the fire, looked up with a vacant awe as the vehicle passed overhead, briefly blocking out the large moon. General closed his eyes, unhappy with this form of transport. Hex gritted his teeth. The car arced up, until gravity started to pull on them. They braced themselves. The car hit the roof of the building across the road. The slightly angled red iron roof creaked as they tried to climb upwards. The wheels squeaked, turning desperately. The car shuddered.

“Ah, shit.”

The car dropped through the roof, crashing loudly though to the ground floor of what looked like a nail salon. Hex looked around. “Yer alright?” His horse blinked. Jonah thought this probably was a no. He led General out of the car, and heard the sounds of banging on the boarded up windows at the front of the store. The trunk having broke open with the crash, Hex drags the tied body up and lifts it onto the back of a slightly shaky horse.

The bounty hunter and horse moved through to the back of the building, searching in the near darkness for any back door. A sliver of light at the bottom of a wall suggested an escape.

The door flew off its frame with a mighty back kick from the horse. Hex ducked out, and used his tomahawk to silently dispatch a couple of Roamers who had found their way back here. With Prof. Deadhead on broadcast more would be coming. Hopping on General, he turned down the narrow side street, into the main car park of the mall. Two groaning once-children lolled their heads around and spotted him. A quickening shuffle towards him. More joined. Chance of remaining hidden = lost.

Hex preformed a quick turn, and ushered his horse into a canter. Followed by the dead, he thought, Flaying Stag was right. Pulling his gun, he shot down the nearest in front of him. One leapt on to his leg. It looked up at him with a remaining eye and made to bite his thigh. A bullet in the eye socket sent it falling. Another grabbed General's neck. The horse reared. Jonah held tight and brought the tomahawk down, slicing through the shoulder into the spine. Dropping off, the thing still screamed a hoarse noise.

Looking around, Hex spat. From all sides they were emerging. He wished he'd kept the plasma grenade. He unloaded the pistol ahead of him, carving a path which was quickly filled with more of the rotting. Come on, Hex thought. Come on! He slashed out with his axe. Roamers grabbed towards him. He kicked out. He noticed they somehow stayed a foot away from the back of the horse, focusing mainly on the front. Deadhead...

He grabbed the old Professor, pulling him around and removing the mask. The old man stared around at all of the Roamers. “My children...”

“Are they? Let's test that.” Hex held the old man old by the scruff of his neck. The creatures groaned at him, looking at him with blood red eyes, but unable to get any closer to him. Hex pulled him back. “Looks like yer my ticket out of here.”

* * *

Hex stopped when he reached the Buffalo headed man. Looking back down the canyon valley he could see the shambling hoard that had followed him this whole way. Flying Stag pulled off his mask and looked the bounty hunter over, then moved his attention to the old man, with half a cybernetic face, strapped to the neck of the horse.

“I see you found a way out of there.”

Hex nodded. “We're even now.” The Native American chief nodded.

A tribesman walked up to them. “Saganowhana, we're ready.”

“Good,” the Chief said. “You did well to lead them this way. We will give them the true death. They will return to the Earth.” With a gesture of his hand the valley was engulfed in a dark shadow. A volley of arrows rained down upon the Roamers, showering them until none were left standing.

The huge red skinned man waved Hex off. “The great Raven says you'll return someday, to find your true path.”

Hex waved his comment away as he started to ride off. “My true path involves a beautiful woman and a climate-controlled beach!” Hex called.

“Hex, when the bull comes, watch out for the horns.” But the rider could not hear.