Read Pale Rider: Zombies versus Dinosaurs for Free Online

naps had undone many unprofessional
farmers. Other new farmers didn’t have the stomach to extract any
lingering blues. Sometimes fishing out a rotting blue from a well
or a half collapsed wall was hard work. After the heavy work was
done, followed by the gruesome work of killing, came the tedious
work of purification. Scrubbing blood in a full hazmat suit three
times, followed by spreading dirt and salt over the spot. I am not
sure if the salt had any effect, beyond a psychological one.
Throughout humanity, there was the idea that salt made the perfect
purifier.
    I had spent yesterday rationing my salts on a
blue that decided to hide in an outhouse of sorts. It was the last
structure I needed to check, and I had been dreading the task for
weeks. The blue was firmly trapped, but you don’t half complete a
job. After I had scrubbed for several hours, I made sure to add two
coats of dirt and salt, just in case. The next few months would be
smooth sailing on this job. With all the outlining buildings being
cleaned up, the only tasks left to do were to till the land and
keep an eye on the tree-line. The land was nearly finished being
reclaimed. By this time next year, a professional would be pulling
vegetables and fruits from the ground. It was hard work, but it was
almost complete.
    As I neared finishing turning up a section of
ground, I heard deep thunder claps that did not originate from the
cloudless sky. The solid rhythm of thuds announced a dino rider.
These guys were worse than the tax collectors, always causing so
much damn noise. It would serve this brash bastard if he were the
first to be eaten on my farm, so long as I wasn’t the second. The
triceratops pulled up a bit away from where I was working, then
halted. This practice was only polite. If those shambling monsters
wanted a day-time snack, they would walk to this man. That might
give me a chance to retreat and live another day. After 20-30
minutes of everyone standing still I made my way over to the
rider.
    “What is it?” I hissed at the rider.
    The man was dressed in a red pea-coat, minus
the sleeves. The color was a simple statement to those around him.
Blood, the single most lethal thing in this world, was nothing to
him. Death and life were both to be mocked openly. Below his pencil
thin blond mustache, his lips flexed into a practiced smile.
    “Are you the farmer of this land?” He swept
his hand across the horizon as if that simple gesture set the land
and containment markers.
    “I am” was my quick reply. I don’t waste
precious sound on frivolous people. His red coat seemed a waste,
but the sun glistened on a simple armor underneath. I knew that was
not a fashion statement.
    “My name is Jean. I am a rider as you can
see.” A few loving pats on the dinosaur’s neck helped illustrate
the bond he felt for his ride. “Are you Paul, the lower
farmer?”
    I hated when people said that phrase ‘ lower
farmer ‘. The proper terminology was ‘ unprofessional farmer ‘. I
didn’t farm lowland like a pure idiot. Blues with high ground were
always a problem.
    “I am Paul,” I said with a cautiously, slow
manner.
    The man dug into his side satchel and picked
out a small handful of papers. He then began to read them … out
loud, like a moron.
    “Paul, the pale rider, please sell me the
land under your feet right now. I will pay you half of the
professional rate and will include unclaimed land adjacent to this
area. It is twice as large as what you have now. If you agree,
please sign these papers. Jake Fruilton”
    Jean handed the documents to me and I read
them to verify. Part of me wondered if this pompous rider was
surprised I could read. I then signed and passed the papers
over.
    “Just like that?” Jean said in a shocked
manner as he fumbled to grab the papers back. “You're not going to
send a counter, or tear up the offer, or think on the matter
overnight?”
    I nodded and looked away. I was hoping the
brief gesture would shove him off