Read Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle for Free Online Page A

version of the legendary M-14 rifle. It was primarily used by snipers who preferred the semi-auto fire rate as opposed to the bolt-action accuracy of a Remington 700. Each one wore a sidearm as well, mostly revolvers, and one semi-auto that looked like a 1911 .45.
    They looked like they meant business.
    Jake eased his steed forward and met the group of men. They evidently knew who Jake was, as evidenced by the way they greeted him. Small grins and more than one handshake were exchanged as he looked on. After a few more seconds of small talk, Jake looked back to Rip and nodded. He resumed his conversation with the Marshal’s men for another minute, and then held out an index finger, telling the men to wait for just a minute. He gestured to Rip to come forward. Rip attempted, his horse not wanting to cooperate once again. After a few jabs in the flanks, the stubborn animal moved beside Jake, in full view of the Marshal’s men.
    “Gentlemen, meet Master Sergeant Geoffrey Irving, formerly of the Tenth Mountain.”
    Rip nodded slightly at the men. Gauging from their reactions, none of the men recognized him, a definite positive sign. He didn’t want to risk running into someone from his past, someone who had a beef with him for one reason or another. Although the men before him were supposed to be “law enforcement,” he supposed—like many other things—that the term had undergone some changes over the years.
    “Any of you guys know him?” Jake asked, as if reading Rip’s mind.
    Some snickers and nods towards one man in the group.
    The one man, however, dismounted his horse and was not one that he recognized. He slowly approached Rip, looking him over. He pointed to his M4.
    “You mind handing that over, sergeant?”
    Rip shuffled nervously in his saddle. “I might. Why do you want my rifle?”
    There was something familiar about the young man in front of him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and very muscular. It was difficult for him to tell, but he looked to be around six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a chiseled face, and a lengthy goatee. Rip couldn’t put his finger on what was so recognizable about the man. Before he could put together a rational explanation, he was lying flat on his back, the rifle gone from him.
    The young man had yanked the rifle, jerked Rip from the horse, and unceremoniously planted him on his ass. The M4 skittered away, and Jake watched as it was picked up by one of the Marshal’s men who had quietly dismounted.
    Rip started to get up, only to be shoved down by the young man’s .357 revolver. He’d been in contact with the new face of humanity for less than five minutes and managed to get laid out already. He didn’t figure the day was going to get any better. He balled his fists as he lay there, wanting to leap up and beat the kid’s ass.
    “Look here, buddy. I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but I am not someone to be fucked with. So if you don’t mind, would you kindly… GET THE FUCK OFF ME?”
    “Contact on our six! Zulus!”
    The young man jumped off Rip’s chest and aimed his revolver to their collective rear. A half-dozen shuffling zombies greeted them as they all turned towards the contact. Two of the Marshal’s men raised their rifles, firing off ill-placed rounds as their horses bucked.
    Rip took the opportunity to scramble to his feet. He didn’t get up as fast as he thought he should but still managed to get to his rifle before the Marshal’s men noticed. He shouldered the weapon, ready to take out the approaching targets, when Jake hollered from his left.
    “Zombies! Left side!”
    Rip instinctively spun around to his left and saw the four zombies. Before Jake could retrieve the bow off his back, Rip had taken four well-placed shots and downed the approaching undead. He lowered his rifle as the Marshal’s men finally settled their horses and fired several more shots towards their rear. The entire bedlam lasted only fifteen seconds,