Zombie-Killer Bill

By E.M. MacCallum

In the wild west there are more than just one type of zombie and only one type of man to kill them.

Illegal zombies are infesting the west at an increasing, and concerning, rate. Government official, "Zombie-Killer Bill" is summoned to the Hansen Ranch where Legal zombies have been butchered, and "bits" have been stolen.

With an unlikely side-kick, Bill has to find out who is murdering Legal & Slave zombies and bring them to justice without coming face to face with his own bitter and illegal past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.M. MacCallum
• Release date: Oct 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994778222

E.M. MacCallum

E.M. likes long walks through book stores, anything Disney and stories featuring the fantastical, gothic or horrific.She grew up in southern Alberta, Canada.

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Copyright © 2015 by E.M. MacCallum

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in Canada

First Printing: 2011

Second Edition: 2015

Edited by Pembroke Sinclair

Cover Art: Philip R. Rogers

ISBN 978-0-9947782-2-2

www.emmaccallum.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CONCLUSION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

Astride his horse, he watched the milling zombies from the hilltop.

To Zombie-Killer Bill's knowledge, this was one of the better compounds he'd come across.

His blue shirt was ironed smooth beneath the sun-dyed leather duster; unmarred by stains and wrinkled imperfections. Polished chaps and boots shone in the early orange sunlight. If one didn't know any better, they’d assume he was prepared for church that Sunday.

Below, the extraordinarily green Minnesota Zombie Farm was littered with cornfields and dozens of sloth-like bodies. Though slow, they were efficient in their work. Slaves without conscience, without complaint or rebellion. That was the appeal of purchasing zombie slaves. They were docile, obedient, and dirt cheap to buy, clothe, and feed; if one were so inclined.

White tents and outdoor cots edged the flourishing fields. The tall, reinforced farmhouse faced the whole operation behind wrought-iron gates. A single watchtower stood just within the confines. It was rare for a Slave to turn violent, but it wasn’t unheard of. No one understood the details of the disease, which made precautions like the watchtower more prevalent over the last twelve years.

Shifting high in the saddle of his faithful horse, Bill saw one of the farm foremen — a human — waving at him. Bill nodded curtly, hoping that would be enough to be left alone. The zombies behind the farmhands picked the corn from the towering stalks, placing each carefully in a basket. Most were in good shape, each wearing clothes, though one or two sported life-long sunburns, their scarlet skin wrinkled and pinched.

The foreman shouted excitedly to another then waved at Bill again, this time with more exuberance. This time brandishing a slip of paper that served as a white flag for his attention.

Bill sighed heavily, feeling the dread that often came when associating with vibrant young people. The foreman ducked his head, holding his cowboy hat down and started an awkward, bull-legged jog up the hill.

Bill didn't bother riding the horse down to greet him. He never drew closer to the farm than this spot and he wasn't about to oblige the foreman by meeting him halfway. Just the idea of venturing closer made him queasy. After a minute, the foreman heaved a deep, strangled breath and lifted his head. He smiled brightly despite his being winded, revealing a row of straight white teeth.

Why, hello there, Bill. Haven't seen yah in nearly a month. Thought maybe we'd lost yah. He propped a fist just above his pistol-occupied holster. The boy squinted back towards the farm, wheezing. I'm better at ridin' a horse, he confessed with a wry smirk.

Zombie-Killer Bill's eyes could barely be seen under the shadow of his hat even from his perch. Scanning the young man wearily, the boy was far younger than he had expected. He couldn't be older than fifteen. How could a kid be expected to keep his composure around zombies? Even Slaves.

The horse stood perfectly still, unperturbed by the stranger's presence, though her guarded eyes watched him, and her body tensed. The uncomfortable silence stretched until the foreman removed his hat, still grinning. A tangle of golden hair was matted to his head in the heat. He squinted his cornflower blue eyes up into the sunlight at Bill.

Boss got a message this mornin'. 'Parently, people knew you'd be here. He flashed another cocky smile.

With the neatly folded paper in his hand, he held it up to Bill. The edges were crinkled, and the boy’s dirty fingerprints marred the white surface.

Taking it reluctantly from the foreman, Bill nodded in acknowledgement. Did you read it?

The foreman shook his head, the smirk sweeping from his face. No, sir, he said vehemently. Wouldn' do somethin' like that. He adjusted his stance, still squinting through yellow lashes, his handsome face pinched. In fact, I admire what you do, Bill. Been thinkin' about doin' some zombie huntin' myself come winter. Things slow down here purdy fast.

Zombie-Killer Bill's gaze finally snapped up from the folded letter, freezing the foreman in place.

The kid couldn’t see the icy gaze, but felt the chill and crossed his arms over his chest casually.

Bill grunted a reply, hoping his lack of enthusiasm would dissuade the childish fantasies.

I hear it's one helluva sport. 'Specially those Illegals, the boy chuckled nervously to himself. Upon hearing little from the zombie killer, he raised his pale eyebrows. What kind of pistol you use for them?

Bill sighed, exhausted just having to listen to the boy. I'd forget about zombie hunting if I were you.

Why? the boy asked without pause. I don't mean Slaves… he gestured to the farm behind him. "They're walkin' corpses. You tell them to stand still and they would let you put a bullet between their eyes."

Bill's nostrils flared, and he decided it best not to comment. He wasn't talking about Slave zombies either. There were far more dangerous Illegals out there, and half the ignorant youth were wanting to be heroes. Shooting down raging Illegals was one way for fame, but it wasn't pretty or easy. Most people died before they ever pulled their pistols. He ignored the boy and opened the folded note in his leather-gloved hand. It was a Morse code translation. He didn't realize some of the rural farms were becoming so advanced. The shifting boy caught his attention again. His mouth formed a thin, tight line of frustration.

Well… the young foreman said uncomfortably, returning the hat to his head. I best be back. Pa…I mean, Boss will be wonderin' where I went off to.

As he started back down the hill, his shoulders slumped, his head tilted down, and his walk was far less animated.

Bill lowered his eyes, satisfied with the boy’s disappointment. He skimmed over the letter again before tucking it away in his saddlebags behind him. He had a job waiting for him not a day's ride away from the Minnesota Zombie Farm. His eyes swept across the field one last time. Everything seemed peaceful, dull, and working in an orderly fashion. Like the boy had said, you tell a Slave to do something and they’d do it until they bled to death.

An elderly zombie stumbled, tripping over a stalk of corn to his shaky knees. A foreman waltzed over, hooking a hand under the zombie's arm. He hauled the old man back to his feet and spoke new orders. A girl in a shapeless pink dress pushed a wheelbarrow of corn from one of the numerous rows. The dress was stained with dirt and grime, hanging off her narrow body like a gunny sack. It wasn't torn or falling apart, which was more than some of the other zombies. Few went completely naked, but came close. The girl plodded along, dragging each step as if her feet were weighed