Blood Riders
Michael P. Spradlin
Language: English
Pages: 400
ISBN: 0062023098
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
“The history of the Old West written in blood and laced with dark humor, all set against a backdrop of ancient evil and a struggle for survival….You’re in for the ride of your life.”
—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of The Devil Colony
Already a New York Times bestselling author for his satiric, gore-soaked “songbooks” (It’s Beginning to Look a Lot like Zombies; Every Zombie Eats Somebody Sometime), author Michael P. Spradlin now dons a different hat and gallops hell for leather into a darker, wilder West. Blood Riders is the story of Civil War veteran Jonas R. Hollister, who’s recruited by the U.S. government to hunt down and destroy an ancient tribe of vampires that is terrorizing the frontier territories. An ingenious mash-up of western and dark fantasy—with an intriguing touch of American steampunk weaponry thrown in for good measure—Spradlin’s Blood Riders has Hollister joining up with real-life historical figures Samuel Colt and Alan Pinkerton and one of horror literature’s most famous monster hunters (Abraham Van Helsing from Bram Stoker’s Dracula) to rid the West of the undead scourge once and for all.
Hollister spurred his horse, pushing the nervous animal through the mass of men. Retreating to the south was out. “Forward! Move forward!” he shouted. He found some clear space and rode back and forth, exhorting his men. He wanted them to follow him into the orchard to fight their way through the retreating rebels. A few of his men saw him in the confusion and understood his order. But the chaos seemed insurmountable and he saw two more of his men go down. “Mac! Turn the men! Forward into
fingering his Colts. Winchester had concentrated mostly on long guns during his demonstrations, but his gunsmiths had made some modifications to an array of pistols as well. They had been similarly altered and now could fire a multitude of ammunition. Some of the bullets had small holes drilled into them, the hole filled with holy water and then sealed with wax. One of the most interesting weapons, besides the “Ass-Kicker,” of course, had been a large-bore single-barrel shotgun that shot a net
instead of charging. In shock, Hollister and Chee watched until they disappeared from sight. Their eyes went to the solitary figure on the horse. With the Indians gone, the woman dropped her head, slumping at the shoulders. Hollister wondered if she might be praying, but then she raised back up, stretching back and forth as if she had just woken from a nap. She turned the horse and slowly trotted back toward where the two confused and surprised men stood. Hollister couldn’t be sure, but
ahead. It would be good to have a plan in place. “If we can’t make it back to the train, you stay locked down. Send a wire to Pinkerton and have him send the army. And I mean the whole army. If those things are here, we’re going to need artillery, cavalry, the whole shebang,” Hollister said. “Chee, I’d like Dog to stay with Monkey Pete. We don’t know what we’re up against. I figure Dog could discourage just about anyone from taking an unauthorized tour of the train.” Dog had been
sawed-off shotgun lay on the floor beside the man; four empty shells showed he’d gone down fighting. But not well enough. “I’ve got a body here, Major,” he said. “He’s been dead a couple of days at least. Shotgun, it’s been fired.” Chee set his Henry on the bar and picked up the sawed-off. He racked it open. It was loaded with two unfired rounds. He slid it into his belt with a feeling he’d be firing it before too long. Hollister came around the bar at the other end and stooped to examine