Cowboys VS Zombies

Daisy Acres.  What a stupid name.  This skeletal town of vagabond remains with the stench of  a cows behind.  The only salvageable place is this hole in the wall bar where I can drown in the bottom of this homemade swill they call “beer”.  I'm done.  John Jacobs Smith is done.  I'm done with this life.  Everywhere I go I have to carry a gun.  Not that it's just any gun.  Sally is the best gun that's ever existed.  She never misses her mark.  Granted, she's a bit cold and heartless, but so are the whore's who attempt to warm my bed.  I look in the reflection of my mug at my mug.  What a face.  Jesus.  A scar from my hairline to my chin.  Only one good eye.  A face that hasn't seen a good razor in twenty years.  Not that my knife doesn't do too shabby of a job.  Ah, but I've got these beautiful eyes.  Ha.  Eye.  One bright blue eye.  Only made more pronounced by the unkempt, greasy brown hair that protrudes under my Stetson.  I'm done.  A better man than me needs to deal with this town. Needs to deal with the living dead.

Dammit.  How is this real?  How is this something we have to worry about?  When you put a bullet in someone, you expect them to stay dead.  Not get back up and try to eat you.  I put six bullets in David Harrison's chest.  Six!  For Christ's sake.  And yet the bastard still got up.  Hell, he ran at me like he was a new.  Thank god for fast thinking and an extended gun cylinder that holds an extra 3 bullets.  All three found their mark.  David's head looked like swiss cheese.  He was running so fast he died sliding to my feet.  I crushed what remained of his cranium under my boot, wiping it off in the dirt.  Then I left on my horse as fast I could. 

They were everywhere.  The dead walking the streets.  Some were slow and sluggish.  Others charged at me, but were met quickly with a shot between the eyes.  The brain.  Had to destroy the brain.  I have no problem killing the men, but I still cringe when I have to shoot a woman.  Or a child.  But they're all the same.  All beasts of the flesh.  Eager to devour me.  I finished my “beer” and moved around the bar to pour another one.  The bartender was still slumped against the cabinets his head down and emptied, the hole in the back of his head being proof.  I poured my drink, raised my glass, and drank to the bar keeps health.  Or lack there of.  Than I passed out.

They awakened my deep slumber with their shuffling feet and struggled breathing.  My hand was already absently fondling Sally as the shuffling grew closer and louder.  Three of them.  Slower ones this time.  They must of stumbled into the tavern as the result of so previous memory.  A reminder of a warmer time.  Thank god they still didn't realize there was a bar snack laying on the floor in wait for them.  But this tasty treat had a secret.  He came with some serious spice.  Gun powder flavored.  I arose shooting.  Three shots.  Bang, head.  Bang, head.  Bang, eye.  Close enough.  They slumped to the floor, now completely lifeless, but the shuffling sound didn't stop.  In fact, I heard a thumping sound in addition to the shuffling.  One downfall to killing the undead with a gun is the noise seems to attract unwanted guests of the same species.  It was time to get the hell out of dodge.  John! Now!

I ran out the back door to only find about a hundred, give or take a thousand, of those things only about 20 feet away.  It'd be fine, but the horse was around front and I wouldn't make it to him in time.  I ran to the front doors.  One huge problem with saloons is the architecture leaves something to be desired in the time of war.  Who ever thought a half sized door was a good idea was a few bricks short of a full stack.  There was already about 10 flesh eaters inside with a bunch not too much further away.  They were slow movers, but I only had 6 shots left without a reload.  The window.  My only chance.  I bolted forward and jumped, hiding my face as flew through the glass.  “Don't get up”, I said to my horse as I jumped on board.  I couldn't solve the undead issue in this town.  There were too many for me.  I'd need help, but for now I'll just have to flee.  I jerked the reigns in response of a quick get away, but no response did I get.  In fact, something felt strange.  I heard and felt a sluggish, slow, struggled breathing under my britches.  My horse slumped down to the ground, his intestines squishing out from under him as well as the undead passenger munching away.  Foot it is.  So I ran.  Still need help.  Still running.  One problem.  John Jacobs Smith was not your average cowboy.  I'm an outlaw, and therefore a wanted man.  Help was going to be hard to find when I would be dodging flesh eating undead and bullets all the same.  Oh well.  I'm dead otherwise, and so is the world.  It's a responsibility I have to meet.  John Jacobs Smith.  Zombie Killer.

<<<<< to be continued >>>>>