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

questioning!” Jeff’s voice rose over the din of shouting and commotion. As Rip exited the bar, his son vehemently pointed to his estranged father. “You are to accompany me to meet with Marshal Crane immediately!”
    One of the Knights swatted Jeff’s hand down, promptly starting another round of vicious shoving and angry shouting. Rip did what he could to calm the melee, firing a single shot into the air. The unsuppressed boom of the 5.56mm shot startled those in attendance. Many reached for sidearms, some instinctively hit the ground, but all were surprised nonetheless. After a few seconds, the smell of cordite hung in the air, the crack of the shot still echoed, and all eyes were on Master Sergeant Geoffrey Irving Sr. He kept the rifle pointed upwards but lowered it to his hip.
    “All right! None of you assholes is taking me anywhere! I will go and speak to Crane, but it’s because I need some goddamn answers!” Rip turned his attention to Jeff, not lowering his voice from shouting level. “And I’m not going anywhere without my rifle! Got it?”
    Jeff slung one of the Knight’s hand away from him. Clay had grabbed it in an attempt to corral the youngster, but Jeff was having none of it.
    “Whatever, old man. Get your shit together; we don’t have an extra horse, so you’re gonna have to bring your own,” Jeff said sarcastically.
    Clay walked towards Rip. “Take mine, brother.”
    “Thanks, Clay. I’ll take good care of her.”
    Clay just let out a sly grin. “You’re damn right you will.”

CHAPTER 9
     
    It took fifteen minutes to get across the breadth of Fort Drum. Rip rode Clay’s horse, flanked on either side by Jeff and several other Marshals. He was essentially a prisoner, but he still had his rifle slung across his back. He sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere unarmed. Crane’s men had given no indication that they meant him any harm, but he wasn’t taking any chances. They worked for that asshole, so by proxy, he was leery of them as much as he was Crane.
    Rip didn’t speak the entire trip to see Crane. He didn’t have anything to say to these assholes, but he had a very large bone to pick with their leader.
    The road in front of them opened up some, revealing the business district—such as it was—for Fort Drum. Several shacks selling everything from food to a mishmash of clothing items spread out in front of him. It felt and looked like the Old West; each store sold something different and unique, and each one tried to get his attention. Word had spread about the man who had been asleep for ten years, only to awaken in the zombie apocalypse. Rip carried that look about him, the look of someone who was seeing the world for the very first time. The people minding the shops took an extra few seconds to try to place his face, which none of them did. They didn’t recognize him, and he wasn’t familiar with any of them. He stared at the shops, desperately trying to see the condition of what they had to sell, but it wasn’t great. The food looked and smelled good enough, but the clothing left a lot to be desired. It was mostly a combination of tattered, old military clothing and store-bought—or store-raided—items.
    The group passed through the market and to the end of the street. At the end of the street, marking the end of the markets was the former PX (Post Exchange). In its heyday, the PX was the Wal-Mart of the military world. A soldier could get everything from food and household items to TVs and an Xbox. Now it was the headquarters for Marshal Crane and his merry band of assholes. The front of the store was still boarded up with an amalgam of boards, aluminum siding, and tin roofing.
    Rip didn’t see an entrance to the front of the store, but as if on cue, the Marshals led him to the loading docks. The docks were on the far left side of the building. The men rode over to the loading docks and dismounted, as did Rip. He cinched the rifle a little tighter as he was escorted into