Read Online Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle by Joseph Coley - Free Book Online
Authors: Joseph Coley
Tags: Zombies
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asshole!” Rip said, enraged. “You shoulda told me about Crane while we were over there! I could have ended that shithead and no one would have known about it, goddamnit! I would have buried that worthless fuck out in the desert!”
Crayon placed a reassuring hand on his longtime friend. Keeping his usual calm demeanor, Crayon tried to ease his friend. “It doesn’t matter now, Rip. I’m here to tell you exactly what you need to do.”
Rip’s brow furrowed. “Well, it’s about damn time. Remind me what the fuck I’m doing here, Crayon.”
Crayon sighed deeply. Explaining everything wasn’t going to work, so it was best to take it one step at a time. One very small step at a time. It was time to hit him with some bad news. Well, maybe hit him with some arguably worse news. Crayon looked his drunken friend in the eyes.
“Rip, I’m the Horseman.”
CHAPTER 7
Rip laughed his ass off. He threw his head back, knocking it hard against the wooden façade of the bar's makeshift porch. He guffawed as he rubbed the back of his head, not because he was in pain, just out of habit. He was three sheets to the wind and feeling no pain.
Crayon was still there, nonplussed.
"You're the Horseman? Goddamn, Crayon, I thought I was the crazy one! You mind explaining how that makes any fucking sense?"
Crayon kicked Rip on the side of the knee, aggravated that the man wasn’t taking him seriously. The man who he had chosen to save humanity was having a good ol' time just laughing like an idiot. He kicked Rip again, harder. This time it got his attention.
Rip looked at his leg in a drunken haze. Shitfaced or not, he was certain that his dead ghost of a friend wasn’t capable of actually hitting him. The pain in his knee said otherwise. Of course, Crayon had given him the shimmering flask of magical shit that put him in his current state, so maybe he did need to expand his possibilities.
“Look, goddamnit, it ain’t my fault you’re dead, and it damn sure ain’t my fault that you’re a horse-fucking goddamn zombie, either!”
Crayon knelt down in front of him. He grabbed Rip by the shoulders and held firmly. “No, Rip, it's not your fault, but you’re the only one who can do anything about this.”
“I'm not doing shit until you explain what the fuck you’re talking about,” Rip said, moving the leg that Crayon had kicked repeatedly. “And how the fuck are you kicking me?” He leaned forward, meeting Crayon eye-to-eye. “You’re a goddamn ghost, Crayon, in case you haven’t figured that out yet.”
I might be a ghost, but zombies have taken over the earth, Rip. Don’t you think you ought to expand your mind a little?
Rip let the bottle of cheap whiskey slide out of his hand. It rolled along the wooden floor and off the porch. “So it is you putting all those thoughts in my head. You should be a little more careful who you talk to like that, Crayon.” Rip attempted to stagger up, sliding his back against the wall and wriggling with his shoulders in a desperate attempt to stand. He slowly slid back down, too drunk to get up. “If you’re the Horseman and you can put those thoughts in my head, then who the fuck is the other asshole giving me directions, and why can’t you tell me something worth a shit.”
“I can’t do it all the time, and it's really random when I do. I have a hard time talking specifically to you. It’s like this; imagine you’re at a party with the music really loud and you’re trying to hear one conversation out of all the people that are there. You hear bits and pieces of everyone’s conversation, but not all of it, and not enough to make sense. I do much better when I can talk to you in person, so to speak. As for the other voice—that one is mine, too; or I should say, the Horseman's. When I died, my body and soul split. As you see me now is my soul, the Horseman is my body.”
Rip snorted. “So I’m hearing some kinda bipolar, split-personality shit from you.
Crayon placed a reassuring hand on his longtime friend. Keeping his usual calm demeanor, Crayon tried to ease his friend. “It doesn’t matter now, Rip. I’m here to tell you exactly what you need to do.”
Rip’s brow furrowed. “Well, it’s about damn time. Remind me what the fuck I’m doing here, Crayon.”
Crayon sighed deeply. Explaining everything wasn’t going to work, so it was best to take it one step at a time. One very small step at a time. It was time to hit him with some bad news. Well, maybe hit him with some arguably worse news. Crayon looked his drunken friend in the eyes.
“Rip, I’m the Horseman.”
CHAPTER 7
Rip laughed his ass off. He threw his head back, knocking it hard against the wooden façade of the bar's makeshift porch. He guffawed as he rubbed the back of his head, not because he was in pain, just out of habit. He was three sheets to the wind and feeling no pain.
Crayon was still there, nonplussed.
"You're the Horseman? Goddamn, Crayon, I thought I was the crazy one! You mind explaining how that makes any fucking sense?"
Crayon kicked Rip on the side of the knee, aggravated that the man wasn’t taking him seriously. The man who he had chosen to save humanity was having a good ol' time just laughing like an idiot. He kicked Rip again, harder. This time it got his attention.
Rip looked at his leg in a drunken haze. Shitfaced or not, he was certain that his dead ghost of a friend wasn’t capable of actually hitting him. The pain in his knee said otherwise. Of course, Crayon had given him the shimmering flask of magical shit that put him in his current state, so maybe he did need to expand his possibilities.
“Look, goddamnit, it ain’t my fault you’re dead, and it damn sure ain’t my fault that you’re a horse-fucking goddamn zombie, either!”
Crayon knelt down in front of him. He grabbed Rip by the shoulders and held firmly. “No, Rip, it's not your fault, but you’re the only one who can do anything about this.”
“I'm not doing shit until you explain what the fuck you’re talking about,” Rip said, moving the leg that Crayon had kicked repeatedly. “And how the fuck are you kicking me?” He leaned forward, meeting Crayon eye-to-eye. “You’re a goddamn ghost, Crayon, in case you haven’t figured that out yet.”
I might be a ghost, but zombies have taken over the earth, Rip. Don’t you think you ought to expand your mind a little?
Rip let the bottle of cheap whiskey slide out of his hand. It rolled along the wooden floor and off the porch. “So it is you putting all those thoughts in my head. You should be a little more careful who you talk to like that, Crayon.” Rip attempted to stagger up, sliding his back against the wall and wriggling with his shoulders in a desperate attempt to stand. He slowly slid back down, too drunk to get up. “If you’re the Horseman and you can put those thoughts in my head, then who the fuck is the other asshole giving me directions, and why can’t you tell me something worth a shit.”
“I can’t do it all the time, and it's really random when I do. I have a hard time talking specifically to you. It’s like this; imagine you’re at a party with the music really loud and you’re trying to hear one conversation out of all the people that are there. You hear bits and pieces of everyone’s conversation, but not all of it, and not enough to make sense. I do much better when I can talk to you in person, so to speak. As for the other voice—that one is mine, too; or I should say, the Horseman's. When I died, my body and soul split. As you see me now is my soul, the Horseman is my body.”
Rip snorted. “So I’m hearing some kinda bipolar, split-personality shit from you.
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