God of My Dreams (Greek Heroes #1) ✅ Completed

Chapter Five: Cowboys and...Zombie Indians??

Cowboys and…Zombie Indians??

Gwen-Stacey pushed open the saloon doors and stepped inside. She spotted her man almost immediately. He was the only one inside dressed all in black, save for the shiny silver badge he wore over his left breast pocket.

“Marshal, I got me a score to settle with you. I reckon you better step outside so we can take care of our business,” she drawled out, loud and clear in the smoke-filled saloon.

Every head turned her way. The piano player instantly cut off his lively tune, the bartender stopped pouring whiskey, and everyone stopped their idle chatter. The marshal, seated at a table with three other lowlifes playing poker, glanced up as she made her way inside. 

“Me and you ain’t got nothin' to discuss Viola Holiday,” the Marshal replied easily, almost bored.

That was her name in this dream: Viola Holiday. But her demure name seemed at odds with her manly, western clothes. She wore rough, brown trousers, with a scratchy linen shirt and tight fitting vest. Her worn cowboy boots had small spurs on the back, and made a slight ting every time she took a step. Her chestnut colored hair was French braided close to her head, though fine wisps flew out along the side of her face.

She didn’t have a lick of make-up on, but she had something infinitely better: a well-oiled, dual leather gun belt. The belt’s buckle was wide across her hips, and fit like a glove. In each holster nestled a single action .45 caliber Colt Peace Maker. Her guns were so pretty they glinted in the midday sun, even if their ivory handles were a little dull from usage.   

She walked up to the bartender and nodded once. He slid a shot glass full of whiskey down to her. Her back to the men in the room, she lifted the glass to her mouth, “Well, see that’s where you and I disagree, Marshal. I think we got plenty to discuss.” She threw the whiskey back in one swallow then turned to face him. She kicked one leg behind her, and propped her elbows back on the bar.  

Leaning back a little, she studied the man who’d murdered her husband and stolen her farm. He was the vilest piece of trash to ever walk God’s green earth. A man so corrupt, so treacherous even the outlaws that raided this side of the border steered clear.  

For the last three years, Marshal Oaks was the man she’d been dreaming about killing for taking everything she ever loved away from her. She'd been left with nothing, except for a broken heart and her husband’s guns.

And today was judgment day.   

 

~ ~~

A freaking gunslinger! Seriously, how cool could one woman be?

Morpheus stood inside the saloon and watched Gwen-Stacey, or Viola Holiday for the moment, lean against the bar as she stuided the man she’d come here to kill. The piano man resumed his playing, but it was no longer the happy, jaunty tune it’d been before. This was a somber melody, something one might play at a wake.

Or a funeral.

The dream god couldn’t believe it. He’d expected something a little more…well, modern; perhaps another struggle with some other offending superhero. Nothing like this, this was not what he’d expected to find in here at all. Women didn’t usually dream about the Wild West, and if they did they were usually decked out in all kinds of petticoats, lace, and even a bustle or two. But not her. Gwen-Stacey, it seemed, was a woman full of surprises.

 And she looked pretty hot in a gun belt too.

Totally enthralled with the scene unfolding behind him Morpheus kept silent and watched.

~ ~~

As the sad music filled the air, Viola lifted a finger for another whiskey shot. Grabbing the glass from the bartender, she straightened and made her way over to the marshal. Gulping down her drink, she straddled over the last available chair at his table.

 “See Marshal, it looks to me like we got two choices here,” she said casually.

“Is that right?”

“Yep. You can step outside with me and handle your business like a man, or you can stay inside with your posse of fellow women here and finish your game in peace.” Viola let her eyes wander lazily among the four men who’d gone stiff as corpses at her insult and continued, “Now, I’m not one to judge a man, but seeing as how you’re the marshal and all, I would think such a decision would be relatively simple for a man like yourself.”

Marshal Oaks stared at her with beady eyes full of hate and she knew he was going to try and make her pay for the insult. He was not a man to suffer backtalk from women lightly. Good. She was ready for him. She gave him a sassy wink and a smile to goad him on.

“Looks like I can spare a moment to handle our business after all,” the Marshal grit out.

Just then a boy no older than ten or eleven ran inside the bar. He was covered in dirt and blood and looked like he’d seen the gates of hell open up itself.

“Marshal! Marshal! Come quick!” He yelled, eyes large and wild looking.

“What the hell are you carrying on about now Theo? I ain’t got time to waste on your bull…”

“Indians! Out by Hickman’s shed.”

“Apache?”

Theo shook his head and started to tremble. “No, Marshal. I don’t think these Indians are Apache. Or if they are, they ain't like any Apaches I've ever seen." 

“Boy, what sort of foolishness are you talking 'bout?”

“They’re already dead Marshal.” The boy looked as white as milk, “They're dead, but they ain’t staying down!”

And was when they heard the first screams rip through the saloon.  

~~ ~

Morpheus watched the insanity unfolding inside Gwen-Stacey’s dream with an excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time; expecting to watch a shoot-out out under the noonday sun like something out of an old western, it messed with his mind when she changed the order of her dream so dramatically.

Native American zombies in the Wild West…really??

True enough, the zombified Apaches burst through the saloon windows and doors like something out of Shaun of the Dead meets Fort Apache. It was both disturbingly funny and slightly terrifying to watch. But Gwen-Stacey didn’t miss a bit. She whipped out her dual peace makers and commenced to blasting away. Since they were only single shot pistols she had to cock the hammer back each time, so she used a few well placed kicks and elbows to provide enough distance to aim and shoot. As all the other terrified patrons either fell under the assault of the flesh-hungry warriors or blasted away helter-skelter, she was cool and precise, catching each one that attacked with a single head shot.

This was too good of an opportunity to pass up, so Morpheus god of dreams did something he hadn’t done in over three hundred years:

He joined in the fun.