Read Online Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle by Joseph Coley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joseph Coley
Tags: Zombies
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How can you be the Horseman? Start making some sense, son, or I’m going back inside and getting another drink.”
Crayon sat beside his belligerent friend. “Do you remember what happened to me in Afghanistan?”
Rip felt a lump rise in his throat. Gritting his teeth, he answered, “Yeah, I remember. I remember tagging along with SEAL Team 8, kicking in the door of some mud-hut shithole, and killing three insurgents, only to find your body without your fucking head attached. So yeah, I remember, and thank you for bringing up a sore subject, asshole.”
“Hey, you weren’t the one who got captured and tortured for sixteen days, Rip. Those sons of bitches did shit to me that I wouldn’t do to my worst enemy… and let’s face it they were my worst enemy. I was beaten, burned, had my fingernails removed, my teeth pulled, water boarded, and the whole time, I didn’t tell them shit. They weren’t trying to get any useful information out of me; they just wanted to torture me. I was just a pawn in their little game. There was nothing I could say or do to stop them. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was there for one reason and one reason only—to be cursed.”
Rip raised his bottle. “Cursed? Well, congratu-fucking-lations, Crayon. They didn’t break you, and you saved the fucking day by not giving up the rest of us. I’d say being cursed is the least of your worries.”
“I didn’t say they didn’t break me, Rip.” Crayon looked down solemnly.
“What the hell do you mean, Crayon?”
“After two weeks of having them beat the shit out of me, there was a woman who came in to try and bandage me up a little bit. She was there to keep me alive and make sure I didn’t pass out between beatings. She was the closest thing that I had to a friend in that shithole.” Crayon lowered his voice. “After they left one night, she came in to fix me up. When she did, she told me that they were going to kill me if I didn’t tell them something. I told her that I didn’t care. She said, ‘You don’t have to die; you can live forever as a martyr.’ I really didn’t give a shit about being a martyr, but at the time, I didn’t want to die. She told me they were going to curse me as part of the zombie plague. They needed a soldier, and they needed someone to lead the undead, so they cursed me. That is where you come in, Rip.”
“Well, I’m not cursed, Crayon. At least not by you.”
“Yes, you are.”
Rip quickly stumbled to his feet, enraged. “What the fuck are you talking about? I know you’re the reason that I slept for ten years, but I am not cursed. You understand me?”
“Yes, you are, Rip. I didn’t have a choice; I had to make sure that I had someone to defeat the Horseman.”
Rip went to shove his friend in the chest, but forgetting Crayon was a ghost, he whiffed straight through his dead friend, falling face first on the ground behind him. Rip slowly rolled over on his back, dazed. He grabbed the whiskey bottle that had rolled off the porch. After taking another swig, he pointed to Crayon with the bottle.
“That’s a little unfair. You can kick me, but I can’t hit you. Fucking figures.”
Crayon grabbed Rip by the collar, hefting him up. A lesser man would have been knocked down by the smell of booze on Rip’s breath. As it were, Crayon thankfully could not smell it.
“See, not fucking fair.”
“Listen to me, Rip. When those Hadjis cut my head off, they cursed me. They cursed my soul to forever roam the earth until Armageddon. When that time came, my body would rise again like the undead and take out unholy vengeance on whoever was left. I was cursed as the leader of the zombies. They started the zombies to speed up Armageddon. There was so much more going on in those caves in Afghanistan than we ever knew, Rip. Those little bastards started the end of the world just to get revenge on the infidels. The zombie plague will never have a cure—it is pure mysticism,
Crayon sat beside his belligerent friend. “Do you remember what happened to me in Afghanistan?”
Rip felt a lump rise in his throat. Gritting his teeth, he answered, “Yeah, I remember. I remember tagging along with SEAL Team 8, kicking in the door of some mud-hut shithole, and killing three insurgents, only to find your body without your fucking head attached. So yeah, I remember, and thank you for bringing up a sore subject, asshole.”
“Hey, you weren’t the one who got captured and tortured for sixteen days, Rip. Those sons of bitches did shit to me that I wouldn’t do to my worst enemy… and let’s face it they were my worst enemy. I was beaten, burned, had my fingernails removed, my teeth pulled, water boarded, and the whole time, I didn’t tell them shit. They weren’t trying to get any useful information out of me; they just wanted to torture me. I was just a pawn in their little game. There was nothing I could say or do to stop them. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was there for one reason and one reason only—to be cursed.”
Rip raised his bottle. “Cursed? Well, congratu-fucking-lations, Crayon. They didn’t break you, and you saved the fucking day by not giving up the rest of us. I’d say being cursed is the least of your worries.”
“I didn’t say they didn’t break me, Rip.” Crayon looked down solemnly.
“What the hell do you mean, Crayon?”
“After two weeks of having them beat the shit out of me, there was a woman who came in to try and bandage me up a little bit. She was there to keep me alive and make sure I didn’t pass out between beatings. She was the closest thing that I had to a friend in that shithole.” Crayon lowered his voice. “After they left one night, she came in to fix me up. When she did, she told me that they were going to kill me if I didn’t tell them something. I told her that I didn’t care. She said, ‘You don’t have to die; you can live forever as a martyr.’ I really didn’t give a shit about being a martyr, but at the time, I didn’t want to die. She told me they were going to curse me as part of the zombie plague. They needed a soldier, and they needed someone to lead the undead, so they cursed me. That is where you come in, Rip.”
“Well, I’m not cursed, Crayon. At least not by you.”
“Yes, you are.”
Rip quickly stumbled to his feet, enraged. “What the fuck are you talking about? I know you’re the reason that I slept for ten years, but I am not cursed. You understand me?”
“Yes, you are, Rip. I didn’t have a choice; I had to make sure that I had someone to defeat the Horseman.”
Rip went to shove his friend in the chest, but forgetting Crayon was a ghost, he whiffed straight through his dead friend, falling face first on the ground behind him. Rip slowly rolled over on his back, dazed. He grabbed the whiskey bottle that had rolled off the porch. After taking another swig, he pointed to Crayon with the bottle.
“That’s a little unfair. You can kick me, but I can’t hit you. Fucking figures.”
Crayon grabbed Rip by the collar, hefting him up. A lesser man would have been knocked down by the smell of booze on Rip’s breath. As it were, Crayon thankfully could not smell it.
“See, not fucking fair.”
“Listen to me, Rip. When those Hadjis cut my head off, they cursed me. They cursed my soul to forever roam the earth until Armageddon. When that time came, my body would rise again like the undead and take out unholy vengeance on whoever was left. I was cursed as the leader of the zombies. They started the zombies to speed up Armageddon. There was so much more going on in those caves in Afghanistan than we ever knew, Rip. Those little bastards started the end of the world just to get revenge on the infidels. The zombie plague will never have a cure—it is pure mysticism,
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