Bury ’Em Deep: A bone gnawing, chilling tale of Western Horror

By Ellie Douglas

The greatest cover-up in history is about to be unearthed.

 

With famine and disease spreading out of control, the death toll was the worst in recorded history. It was being described at first as the Black Death. Little did the world know at the time but it was much worse.

 

The living had to fight to stay alive. It was what they fought against that the world wasn't ready for. Corpses rose from out of the ground, rotted and putrid. Decaying masses herded quickly, devouring everything in their way.

 

It is now 1855 and a crew of fearless cowboys face off against what their ancestors failed to vanquish. Follow Gus, Cole, Hector, Fred, and Yahto as they do everything they can to eradicate the pestilence plaguing the Wild West.

 

To right the wrongs of their forefathers, they must purge the world of the undead.

 

Man took back what was rightfully theirs. Or did they?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellie Douglas
• Release date: Mar 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798723029620

Book preview

Bury ’Em Deep

Ellie Douglas

Copyright © 2019 by Ellie Douglas

ISBN:

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically, mechanically, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Published by Ellie Douglas, Auckland New Zealand

www.authorellie.com.co.nz

––––––––

Cover design by Michelle Douglas

https://www.authorellie.com/covers

TABLE OF CONTENTS

MANY, MANY YEARS AGO

1840—THE BEGINNING

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER—1855

BLOOD ON THE PLAINS

THE EARTH BREATHERS

EASTBOURNE TOWN BATTLE

MILTON

COLE

SHONESHO—SIX DAYS EARLIER

PRESENT-DAY—EIGHT HOURS EARLIER

WHAT LIES AHEAD

MANHUNT

TEST OF STRENGTH

TAKING OUT EARTH BREATHERS

EASTBOURNE’S CLEANUP

DANGER AROUND EVERY CORNER

WOLF CREEK

ON AND ON

OUTLAWS

TUCSON

FEVER

BUTTERFLY CREEK

TERRY TOWN

SHOWDOWN

SOME JUST DON’T MAKE IT

HOME SWEET HOME

No hour of life is wasted that is spent in the saddle.

Winston Churchill

MANY, MANY YEARS AGO

Milly could hear him crying–almost fully masked by the piles of rubble. Yet his voice somehow made it through all the ruins on top of him. Her eyes panned around and focused on the direction of the boy’s shouts.

I hear him. He’s calling out for his pa. She strained to listen and could hear the child’s pleas.

Pa, Pa! Help me, Pa.

Milly’s stomach dropped, and her head throbbed. She swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked tears from her eyes. There were wreckages of buildings in every direction. What used to be the trading post was now just wooden beams, one sandwiched on top of the other, smothering the kid somewhere under all of it. Fleeting thoughts of how he, or anyone, could survive that swarmed across her mind. It was a solemn reminder of everything lost in the earthquake after futile rescue efforts produced nothing more than dead bodies, one after the other.

It was a shock to still hear the boy’s cries when three days had passed since the quake.

No one knew who he was, or who the father he cried out for was. All anyone knew was that they needed to get him out. Many who had survived dug tirelessly, pulling away busted wood and rubbish to clear a path deep enough to find the boy. He had been buried under several layers of timber.

When a clearing became big enough, it allowed the rescuers to see he was trapped in a hole. When the earth had opened, part of the ground had split, and the boy had fallen in, inadvertently saving his life. They could see an arm poking through the jagged line. It stuck out, skyward, with bloodstained fingers and a thumb that was bent backwards. The boy’s tiny hand waved weakly back and forth while his whimper carried through that hole into the open, still pleading for his pa.

Shovels and pickaxes were used to dig around that cavity; extra care was made to prevent any cave-ins. The group dug slowly and methodically, making the hole large enough for the boy to be lifted out. He was covered in brown dust and dried blood. He was no older than seven. When he had been cleaned up, it took a while before anyone recognized him.

That’s Jacob Mills, the butcher’s son! cried one woman.

Milly anxiously looked around as the tremors still shook the very ground where she stood. She was worried another earthquake would hit, bigger than the one three days ago. She glimpsed the fear on all the surviving faces and was powerless to help. 

Badly bruised all over and with a twisted ankle, she headed back to her makeshift home, made of salvaged bits of wood. Holes in the ceiling cast pinpricks of dusty beams of light onto the dirty mattress below. If it rained, she would be drenched. Instead, she was covered in thick layers of dust that blew in from the destroyed houses and shops surrounding her shelter.

She hovered by the door, watching the townsfolk work. The once-lively town was now diminished to kindling. With each aftershock, she knew they all wondered the same thing. When would the next quake be?

Close by, a high-pitched scream from a neighboring shelter threw the survivors into a whole new nightmare. Seconds later, from that refuge, the woman’s wailing was followed by the rush of feet that stopped abruptly on the edge of Milly’s housing. Standing in a stoop, with severe deformities, were three almost unrecognizable souls. Susanna Price was one of them, but no one had a clue who the other two were. They were dressed in the remains of tailored suits. It was the trousers of one that had Milly’s heart racing. She knew that those particular pants hadn’t been made in a hundred years. Or more.

She carefully watched as the three sniffed at the air, homing in on something. It wasn’t until they raced forward that Milly knew what they had smelled. That little boy who’d been rescued just hours earlier was lying on a filthy mattress in the open, and nursing his wounds was Mrs. Crumbs, the town’s schoolteacher. Gillian Crumbs looked up when the sound of rushing and heavy, unnatural breathing got closer to her. She tried to shield herself but wasn’t fast enough. Susanna leapt over debris getting to Gillian. Knocking her to the ground, she sank her teeth into her face, ripping away the muscles and tissue like a vulture feasting on carrion. 

The other two dug into her lower body, biting away at her legs. Blood spilled to the ground and formed a pool under Gillian’s thrashing body. She screamed and kicked out, but it was too late—she was already dead.

Her bones cracked as her body morphed into something not of this world. Her right eye shifted up and somehow grew larger, while her left eye closed but bulged outward, as if ready to pop. Her mouth drooped, and some teeth fell out. Her right scapula lifted, separating it into place sideways with an ear-crushing snap. One knee twisted on itself, turning completely backward, while her foot on that same leg remained straight. Her other knee sagged downward, and the ankle on that leg pointed inward. Her once-luscious long hair fell out in clumps, giving her the most hideous of looks.

It was the sound that scared Milly the most—a type of starved grunt that gurgled through as if the misshapen bones inside of her were trapping it.

Moments later, she was eating the little boy who had desperately tried to roll himself away. She had grabbed him with now-malformed hands and pulled his weak body to her mouth. Taking chunks of flesh from his tiny frame, she bit into his chest and viciously yanked away his skin, spilling sinew and gunk to the ground under the squirming child. Without energy, he had no chance of escaping. He convulsed like a rabid dog, his tiny bones crackling like a forest fire before settling into new positions. Soon he was alive again, and his sights were on an injured dog. He went after the dog at a speed impossible for someone who’d been trapped without food and water for three days. The dog had no chance of fleeing. The little boy tore out its throat in a fierce frenzy. Its snout was savagely ripped away, chewed hungrily by the seven-year-old, shocking the onlookers who blindly fled in every direction, desperately trying to escape the others.

Milly backed into her temporary home and covered herself with the mattress. She could feel her body shaking and heard the vibrations of fracturing wood near her. Holding her breath, she calmed herself enough to stop trembling. The noise outside terrified her. The first big aftershock she felt was like a herd of buffalo rushing through town. On her back, she pushed herself as deeply into the floorboards as she could, pulling the mattress on top of her. She could still hear the screams and cries of the many survivors being slaughtered by other townsfolk.

After the first wave of quaking, her mind went to what was happening outside, until the unexpected deafening noise of timber, glass, and the nearby cliff rocks smashing to the ground caught her attention.

Her little shelter swayed and twisted as if it were made of feathers, and the walls and ceiling above her started to shift about wildly. Milly rolled onto her belly, praying the mattress would protect her. She cupped her head in her hands and braced herself as best she could. She could feel the ground under her shuddering violently, tossing her side to side like she was being thrown about in a turbulent river.

Milly’s body clenched when she heard the ceiling splinter before it crashed down on her, most of the wood missing her entirely, having busted and fallen to either side of her. The thin mattress protected her from what little debris fell on top of her. Most of it was splintered wood shards, nothing heavy, to her relief. It was her mind that panicked, worried that the earth would open up and she’d fall through. She squeezed her eyes shut and let the tears fall, smearing white streaks down her dirty face.

Outside, Milly could hear an avalanche in the distance. To her it sounded like thunder caught inside a tornado. After ten minutes, there was silence—no screaming, no rumbling of any kind. Briefly, she wondered about the creatures that were eating people and hoped they had been killed. She shoved off the mattress and rolled onto her back. Looking up, she could see the sky filled with plumes of red-brown, misty haze. She turned onto her knees first and noticed that the walls and the one door were no longer there. Her entire place had disintegrated. She stood, ignoring the pain in her ankle, and carefully hobbled through the rubble to the outside.

She looked to the south of the little town, and her heart sank. The only way in and out was now blocked by boulders the size of buildings, and on top of them were more rocks that reached as high as forty feet. She was trapped. The town was cut off from the world. Every other building and temporary housing had been reduced to tinder; every remaining bit of glass had been shattered. She couldn’t even see any horses. They had all run off.

She looked around nervously for any survivors, straining her ears to source out anything living. Two hours, she staggered around. When all hope was completely lost, she crumbled to the ground in a heap and sobbed. Abruptly, through her wailing, she could hear what sounded like someone coughing. She held her breath and listened, letting out her breath in a gasp.

Hello? she called out.

She stood up and released her ragged breath, then held it again, listening so hard she could hear her own heartbeat. Carefully, she breathed out and strained to listen over the eerie silence for any more signs of life.

To her left, under a pile of broken glass and wooden litter, she could hear a faint murmur, mimicking a cough of some kind. She spied a shovel and quickly hopped on one foot to the area. She noticed a massive crack along the ground, running all the way toward the fallen boulders. Panic consumed her; fear of the ground opening up made her spine shiver and goosebumps prick at her arms. After blinking away the thoughts, she focused on rescuing whoever was trapped.

I hear you! I’m gonna save you! Milly excitedly called, digging furiously at the lumber. Her hands were cut on the broken glass, and her blood dripped into the open hole. Another grumbling sound alerted her. I’m coming, she cried.

Sweat covered her forehead and dripped down her face, stinging her eyes. She wiped it away as she continued to pick, pull, yank, and toss away the scraps. Getting closer, she could now hear patchy breathing. It sounded like an old man. She didn’t want to be alone and continued to dig her way down. Five hours later, she had dug enough to see farther down. She turned onto her knees and looked downward but couldn’t see through the darkness.

Out of nowhere, an arm grabbed for her. Startled, she pulled herself away, then glanced at the damaged arm and rushed back over. Taking the arm in her hand, she pulled.

I got ya. Hold on to me. I’ll pull ya out.

She heaved hard, but the man was stuck. He made the oddest of sounds. Milly assumed he was badly hurt and continued trying to pull him out. Suddenly, she was the one being hauled downward. The man had twisted his arm around hers and yanked her hard enough that her upper body and head were now down in the opened earth. It was too dark to see anything.  

Hey, don’t pull me. I promise, I will get you out, Milly asserted, trying to pull herself back up.

The man let out a roar like some feral animal. At the same time, he dragged her farther downward until he had her all the way in.

The ground unexpectedly opened up deeper, and, together, they fell. Milly could feel her body being slammed into the rough dirt walls, bouncing around viciously. He never let go of her hand. She shrieked hysterically as the darkness encompassed her. She felt consumed by blindness, and with the unknown surrounding her, she tried to reach out with her left hand to grab onto something to stop her plummet. It was of no use—the walls were sharp with rocks and served only to slice through her fingers.

She struggled to free herself from the tight grip around her right arm. Failing to do so, she felt her arm being tugged viciously before she felt the sting of teeth gnawing away at her flesh. Milly could feel her skin being shredded from her bones like he was skinning her. She screeched from the burning pain and the panic from the endless fall. It felt like hours had gone by, but it had only taken three minutes to hit the bottom of the one-hundred-twenty-foot drop.

By the time they landed, Milly had transformed into an earth breather and was now buried with several others who had also been changed into creatures. She sniffed the air like a hungry wolf and grunted when the smell of life wasn’t found.

They would be buried there for the next two hundred fifty years, until a mining town was built in 1855. As the town rose up, the walls to their earth prison came crashing down. The earth breathers were free once more.

1840—THE BEGINNING

Please, Pa, read another story, Gus begged as he climbed out of his thin bed and scampered onto his pa’s knees.

Just one more, Fred said as he scooped up his seven-year-old and put him back in bed, tucked him in, and then lit his pipe.

Make it another real one, Pa.

All my stories are real, son, he said boldly. He puffed on his pipe and began his story.

Even the monsters, Pa?

Even the monsters. Best you hush down now. Otherwise, I can’t tell ya the story.

Gus turned to face his pa and propped a hand under his cheek while he watched the smoke from the pipe drift into the air. He listened intently and hoped his pa would talk about the black death. When he started to do just that, Gus grew more anxious to hear the end. The last time his pa had told this story, Gus had fallen asleep.

The thing is, Gus, the ‘black death’ was not what was written in the history books. Oh, no, son, the real truth was hidden from the world. The real reason millions of people throughout Eurasia, and eventually the Americas, died was—

Where we live?

Exactly.

Why, Pa? How did it come to America?

You see, son, there was talk of the plague having started by small insects, like fleas that lived off the black rats. But it wasn’t that. It was from black bats that had colonies in many caves around the world. Even caves right here where we live. These bats were what started the rumors of vampires. You remember that story, don’t you, son?

Yes, it is one of my favorites, Pa.

Well, these bats were infected with something far more sinister than anything the world had ever encountered. You see, the plague they carried wiped out so many of us. If a person was bitten, it made them sick. They died instantly but did not stay dead. It turned them mad, like rabies. Someone along the way decided that the world wasn’t ready for the truth, so they made up the story of the black death. There was no cure. The dead didn’t stay dead. That is why they are keeping it a secret. They didn’t want the world to panic, not after the rumors of vampires had already spread. It was once believed that if you had the plague, you turned into a vampire because those who died from it would rise up and bite you. They couldn’t die and would feast on anything living.

Pa, if they can’t die, then what happened to them? We don’t see them now, do we?

You’re a smart boy, Gus. A very intelligent man named Earl Carter found out one day, purely by accident, that they could die if you caused enough damage to their heads. Once word had gotten out that it was possible, people everywhere started killing the infected. But not all are dead, so to speak. Some of them are known to have been buried alive, and some were caught in mining avalanches.

Gus gasped at the thought. Pa, if they are buried alive, does that mean they can still come back and infect all of us?

It is true, son. If someone were to dig up the earth for a new house, a well, or even a railroad, they very well could be digging up the dead. They were called earth breathers because they had risen from the earth. Now, no one knows where they are buried. No maps were left behind, and there is no one alive left to tell us where they were. We don’t even know how many of them are out there in the world. It could be hundreds, or it could be millions.

Could it all be a lie, Pa?

Given the passage of time, it could be. But I have it on good authority that it is true.

Says who?

Your great-uncle, Wyatt. He was friends with another chap, Billy Jonas, and he was friends with the grandfather of a gunfighter named Ken Lockwood. It goes back a few more years, of course, but the story has never changed. My father told me. My granddaddy, Earl, told my daddy, and my daddy’s granddaddy told him. So, you can see it has been passed down for years and years from the very few who survived that era. Don’t be so quick to dismiss this, son. Just remember, if something ever rises out of the ground and tries to bite you, shoot it in the head and make sure you live to tell the story to your own kin.

So, you believe that story, Pa?

Yes, son, I do. You should as well.

Tell me another story. I want to hear about the gunfighter and Indians.

No more, son. I need my whiskey, and your mother will be waiting up for me. It’s your time to close those blue eyes of yours and get some sleep.

Yes, Pa.

Fred leaned down and gave Gus a kiss on the cheek. Before he tucked him in, he ruffled his bright-blond hair and then blew out the candle. Leaving the door slightly ajar, he retreated to the living room where Karin was waiting with a glass of whiskey for him.

I wish you wouldn’t tell him such stories.

He loves them, and I’m giving him history lessons.

Yes, but you have no real truth to the stories you tell him. It is all nonsense. You must stop filling his mind with this stuff. Karin hoisted up her long gown and sat carefully on the two-seater wooden couch. Her green eyes watched Fred as he stood by the fireplace in deep thought. His hand rested on the mantel while he held his glass in the other. For a moment, Karin reveled in her husband’s muscular form, the way his body moved like a wolf. Strong and rugged, she mused.

It is best to prepare the boy. I do believe what I was told to be true. Who are we to say it isn’t?

Is this why you insisted on teaching him to shoot from the age of three?

Yes. Now look at how good he is. He never misses a single target. Besides, what if the Indians come? Don’t you want him to be able to protect himself?

Of course, I do. Karin knew when to stop. She’d lost the battle before it even turned into one. She slipped off the couch gracefully and stood in front of Fred. Her eyes searched his for a moment before she leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss.

He took her in his arms and cradled her softly. His free hand roamed down her side and over her growing belly. You think this one will be a girl? he asked as he rubbed her stomach up and down. A large smile swept across his face, making his thick mustache jiggle about. It made Karin giggle.

I think, whatever it is, this baby is going to be huge. Just look at the size of me, Karin said as she demonstrated her extra weight with both her hands.

Fred chuckled and emptied his glass. Don’t be worried about this bump. You are gorgeous, no matter what.

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER—1855

It was a Friday afternoon, and the temperature had reached a high of 115 degrees. Gus had gone with his pa, Fred, on one of the biggest cattle drives ever. He looked down at his hands gripping the reins, noticing his blackened nails, scabbed knuckles, and blisters—painful reminders of the cattle drive. Earlier that day, he remembered the cows bawling, and as he rode in the back inhaling the dust, he felt a sense of pride. After an almost ten-mile drive, he and the other cowboys had started herding the cattle to a bedding ground, an area of grazing, and a watering hole. He was bitterly disappointed when no breeze came through to cool the herd or men. Finding shade was near impossible; he was dirty, sunburned, stained with sweat, and thirsty. But he had already learned the ways of not angering the men with mindless complaints, so he wouldn’t say anything. His stomach was impatient, but his manners were on par.

Just after sunset, he joined the others around the campfire and eagerly ate his beans and bacon. Some others had started singing. He didn’t know the words, so he pretended to sing. He caught his pa looking at him, and he smiled back with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. He fondly remembered other nights spent like this. However, when thunder rolled in the distance, and the gray wolves could be heard howling from the hilltops, he instantly recalled those nights when they had been scared and worried about a stampede. The life of a cowboy could shift quickly from calm and boring to potentially deadly. He felt his face tighten as he recalled one afternoon when one of the cowboys slipped from his horse and fell to the hooves of the herd. On that trip, Gus had learned the dangers of stampeding longhorns and had developed a keen sense to them happening. Knowing full well that the herd could suddenly panic, that meant the potential for a stampede—one with the rapidness and aggression of a rockslide. 

One of the men was laughing so hard it pulled Gus out of his reminiscing and into the conversation. He turned his attention to an underweight young cowboy who was asking the group a question.

So, men, what have you all missed while being away from home?

Roy fiddled with his hat, trying to hide his homesickness. He practically muffled, My wife. He then looked away from the group, hiding his face.

A proper meal, Horace said as he rubbed his tubby stomach while licking his top lip.

Whiskey and whores, chortled Benjamin.

Gus joined in. I miss my ma and sis.

Another man jumped into the conversation. For me, I miss my dog and the comfort of my bed.

Gus was surprised at how quickly the conversation shifted. He fidgeted in his seat briefly then turned when another cowboy spoke. A jumpy fella, with a noticeable scar across his right hand, expressed how scared of the Indians he was. Gus was about to answer, but his pa got in first. Gus watched him light a cigarette and take a deep puff before he turned to face the nervous man.

It is good to have a healthy respect for the redskins. You should have the same for the earth breathers.

Gus wanted to hear what the others would say, so he continued to observe. His eyes landed on the trail boss, Dwight. Gus had learned over the last few weeks that no one messed with Dwight, ’less they wanted to be punched in the face. He noticed on this evening, under the fiery blaze of the campfire, that his eyes were bloodshot and that they gleamed with a murderous look. He was a muscular man with a penchant for starting fights. Gus focused on the silver blade that the man was massaging with his fingers in a way to intimate Fred. Gus was ready for anything, except to take on that man. He anticipated a brawl and listened to what Dwight had to say.

Here we go again. You and your crusade to rescue the world, Fred. You ain’t got a lick of proof, and frankly, I don’t care. I think most here don’t.

Before Gus could retort, another man spoke up.

Speak for yourself, Dwight. I don’t mind the stories. What difference are Fred’s stories from those of yours, or others here? We all got tales to tell.

Gus opened his mouth to join in when Michael interrupted, Yeah, did ya hear what old man Tucker said about killin’ a bear with his own hands?

Suddenly, all the men laughed, and Gus found himself laughing too. After a moment, his smile turned into one of sadness and frustration. He couldn’t stop himself from opening up.

Come on, fellas. Pa cares about you and your families. Think about that before ya get all fired up. Some of the others gave Gus a disapproving look, which he took personally. I believe in my pa. It might pay you to hear him out. In the end, it’s your choice if you want to believe or not. What harm will it do to listen?

That got the others chatting, all at the same time. Gus glanced at his pa with a smile and received a thank you nod. When the men grew quieter, Gus changed the subject when he caught the angry glares of some around the campfire.  He knew if he provoked them any further, he’d be in for harder chores and possibly a beating. After all, he was the newbie on this drive.

Another man who hadn’t spoken pulled out a harmonica and started playing a song that Gus didn’t recognize. It was pleasant the way the soft melody filled the air. In an instant, the group started humming and singing along. The notes relaxed Gus, and he lay down, closed his eyes, and thought about the trail. He would never forget it. The sights he took in, putting up with and gaining courage from veteran drovers. Overcoming the longing for home was something he couldn’t surmount. Missing his mother and his sister dearly, he couldn’t wait to get home. His