Free Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle by Joseph Coley Page A

the night before. It was meant to be a wake-up call for him, but he didn’t quite get it. Why bring him back to face such horrible news like what he had been privy to so far, only to have him die eventually anyway? Rip was slowly beginning to understand what the words meant. His life was in the shitter long before the end of the world got here. His wife may as well have been dead; his son didn’t much care for him, his drinking, or constant deployments. At least the undead weren’t after him before. Would it have made any difference if they had? Probably not. He was meant to suffer for others, meant to be forsaken for a greater cause; he was the person chosen to be the rescuer of all mankind.
    Well, fuck that. He didn’t want the job.
    Rip was finally on his feet and starting to drag his bedraggled self towards the doors of the bar. A little hair of the dog would do the trick; maybe a Bloody Mary would ease his stomach and his mind. As he approached the doors of his favorite establishment of ill repute, three gunshots popped in the distance. Rip instinctively grabbed for his side, groping for the .45 that wasn’t there anymore. The shots had no sooner echoed away when several more rang out. For a world that was inhabited by the living dead, there seemed to be very little of them around. Since waking, the number of zombies that Rip had seen were limited to his first one and the ones that surrounded him and his son. The limited contact was probably for the best for him just yet. Even throughout the last twenty-four hours, he was still certain that he was dreaming the whole thing, as if he was going to wake up anytime and regale his soldiers with a tale too strange to make up. It would make a great story to share over a couple beers and a hearty laugh.
    Once inside, he took up a seat at the bar. Two other Knights were sitting at the bar a few feet down from him. Neither man said anything. The Knights seemed to be the “strong but silent” type; none of them said much.
    Rip glanced over to his left at the other Knights. He lowered his head onto the bar, crossed his arms, and let out a low moan. The “bartender,” such as he was, stepped in front of him and made a light chuckle.
    “Hung over?” he asked.
    Rip didn’t bother looking up and just gave the man a thumbs up from his resting position. The bartender turned around and began working on a hangover cure for him. A little homemade tomato juice from a glass Mason jar combined with some pepper and a shot of vodka were just the trick. He mixed the ingredients together and set the glass down in front of Rip.
    Rip raised his head slightly and eyed the makeshift Bloody Mary curiously. He picked up the glass. “What? No celery?”
    “Don’t press your luck, Knight,” the barkeep replied.
    Rip had already downed half of the concoction. He finished the long swig and set the glass down. “I’m not a Knight; I’m just some guy who—”
    The sound of horses stomping outside interrupted him before he could finish. A few words were exchanged in a normal tone at first, but after a few seconds became increasingly louder and more hostile. Angry words and threats were thrown around, and by the way it sounded, Rip was the subject of the discussion. He heard his name mentioned more than once.
    Rip downed the last of his homemade Bloody Mary and placed the glass back on the bar. The Knights had been kind enough to put his pack and rifle on a table in the bar, so he grabbed the rifle. More angry shouting and shoving outside gave him more than a good reason to have it handy. He checked the chamber, revealing the dingy glint of brass from his aged ammo, and sauntered outside.
    The first thing he noticed was Jeff. His son was one of several Marshals who were trying to barge their way past three Knights; one of whom was Clay.
    “I don’t give a shit whose protection he’s under! He is coming with us! I have orders from Marshal Crane to secure him and bring him in for