The Hunger's Howl

by A. D. Popovich

  Chapter 29

  Zac Padilla thundered across the New Mexican desert like a Pony Express rider racing against time itself. The familiar landmarks flew past: the dried arroyos, the valleys, and the dwindling tributaries from winter’s snowmelt. After nine months of roundtrips from California to Texas, he knew the immigrant trails the way he had known FiDi, the Manhattan Financial District.

  “Gotcha,” Zac shouted into the wind when the familiar glint of train tracks glared ahead. He usually took the middle route through Arizona and New Mexico, avoiding the tracks until a thumbnail version of the Sandias adorned the eastern skyline. Then he rode north with keen awareness until he met the train tracks. Luckily for him, marauders didn’t waste time on lone riders.

  After his off-the-beaten-path Rio Grande crossing two days ago, his three-wagon party had been caught off guard by thieves, stealing their food supply and two horses. His twelve passengers could survive two days without food, but he needed to replace the stolen horses in order to continue their journey. Meanwhile, he was more concerned about his passengers’ safety while he was away. By horseback, it was a hard day’s ride to Last Chance. He could always count on fresh horses and food at the trading post.

  The marauders hadn’t stolen his custom-built wagons. And the best news of all, Zac still had the gold. After several roundtrips across the badlands, he’d learned to hide the gold in the wagon’s modified undercarriage. During a robbery, he played it dumb like a first-timer desperately seeking refuge in Texas, letting the marauders find the few pieces of gaudy jewelry planted for their benefit. He made a mental note to add a stash of freeze-dried food to the secret compartments for the next trip. He hated mistakes; mistakes were often fatal in the unforgiving desert.

  Zac had learned the hard way when leading his first caravan to Texas. Thieves preyed on the weary immigrants. And since he didn’t have an army, which would end up slowing him down in the long run, he’d learn to deal with it. Thieves, marauders, highway robbers, whatever one called them, stole valuables to bolster their Swiss Bank accounts, a.k.a. Last State Bank accounts until they had acquired enough money to buy a life in Last State.

  Only, the thieves didn’t know what Zac knew. Last State didn’t let every Joe Schmo into their elite country club. A special skill set was required, which changed as quickly as the defunct New York Stock Exchange had the day the bubble burst. Zac’s secret: his ever-growing network of contacts at Checkpoint Charlie and Last State.

  Zac had crossed the thin line himself with all those unethical insider trade deals before the economy had collapsed. Thinking back, it had been pure greed. The rich wanting to get richer, faster. Even the middle class had gambled their hard-earned retirement savings on risky trades or over-bought real estate. But, what goes up eventually crashes. When the bottom fell flat on its falsely inflated ass, even the innocent bystanders had paid the price, losing everything. After that, Zac had lived a Jack Kerouac lifestyle until returning to his family roots of farming and ranching, an honest life, not taking advantage of peoples’ greed or his own. It had been a tough lesson to learn.

  A schmoozer with the gift of gab, Zac had always figured how to manipulate the system. Sometimes he had an uncanny feeling everything he had learned and gone through during the pre-pandemic days had been basic training, preparing him for this new volatile world. After the pandemic, Zac had accepted his new role as Guide to Last State. Although, it had all started innocently enough—getting his family to safety.

  His remaining two brothers had joined him on the initial journey to confirm the growing urban legend: Texas had seceded from the Union and was the only safe state in the country. By the third trip, Zac had the algorithm down. Uncle Mario’s team of friends, family, and survivors supplied the horses and built durable wagons capable of handling the harsh terrains. While Zac hit the trails with a set of refugees, Mario’s team prepared dehydrated foods and ventured to towns in search of supplies, gold jewelry, and coins.

  Each time Zac had thought it was his last trip only to return to find a waiting list of people desperate to leave California. Their grassroots effort turned into an efficient, integrated system, which had been dubbed Underground Railroad to Last State. Word had spread quickly after a group of thugs turned warlords known as Ravers began taking over Northern and Central California by brutal force. Rumor had it, Ravers were extending their borders. He hadn’t realized there were so many survivors. People in the rural areas who had sheltered in place during the Nano Com-trail flu, as he called it, had the best odds of surviving—if they had stayed away from the cities.

  Zac made a roundtrip every fifty to sixty days, depending on the weather. And that was how life had been for him the past nine months. Always on the run, trying to outrun trouble before it caught up with him. And when trouble found him, he had always found a way to deal with it. He hadn’t lost a passenger yet.

  The trick, only take three wagons of people and an extra wagon for supplies. Depending on the horse, a two-yoked horse team could theoretically haul two-thousand to three-thousand pounds, averaging twenty miles per day. He kept the payload to roughly eighteen hundred pounds, making it easier on the horses, which in turn significantly increased their daily mileage. His caravans made much better time than the wagons over-packed like U-Hauls with useless life-long belongings.

  His custom wagons were stronger, lighter, and more durable than those used in the Gold Rush Era. The wheels and axels were the best modification of all, allowing much faster travel. Hay bales were stored on flat roofs for when there was no grazing vegetation for the horses. Plastic tubs stored food and supplies and could easily be arranged to make room for sleeping quarters.

  The water sources along his routes glowed like infrared rivers on the vivid map in his mind. Why—he didn’t questioned it; he’d always had the gift of foresight. Instead, he took it for granted. At any given point, he knew how many riding hours it took to get where he needed, so they didn’t haul much water until they reached the deserts. The high desert provided plenty of water if one knew where to look. And when it wasn’t feasible, they depended on the water barrels attached to the sides of the wagons. They even had their own charcoal water filtration system.

  A two-horse team for each wagon, plus his own horse. Eventually, they’d end up losing a wagon and a horse or two. It was all included in the plan, since half-way through the trip, they’d gone through roughly half of their supplies and no longer bothered with the fourth wagon, which they salvaged for crucial parts that might be needed later.

  It was a punch to the gut when he passed a five-plus wagon caravan attempting the arduous journey. He didn’t have the heart to tell them the bigger the convoy, the less chance of making it. Smaller was definitely easier to defend, easier to maintain, and easier to outrun the marauders. On his return trip from Checkpoint Charlie, he sold the wagons and horses to brokers in Boom Town, who in turn usually sold them to trading posts. Then he bought a fresh horse for the quick ride back to California. Yeah, he had networked the shit out of it. It was what he was good at.

  The metal train tracks flashed ahead. The late afternoon sun beat down on his hat, and sweat rolled down the back of his bandana-covered neck. It was April, and summer was closing in on the desert. He didn’t know how feasible it would be to cross the desert in the sweltering heat. Last summer, he’d been in Last State, buying passports, properties, and securing employment for his family. All that cost mucho dinero translated as gold, silver, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies.

  Zac wasn’t getting rich, not after greasing the greedy fingers of the network of people he bribed to look the other way when he broke a few rules, like leaving Last State with a guaranteed no muss, no fuss re-entry. As an official Last State citizen with a bribed high-security clearance, he re-entered without the mandatory ninety-day quarantine. A privileged status allowed if his payload occasionally included bioengineers, scientists, doctors, anyone Last State had a shortage of. A sticky situation at times, for he couldn
’t exactly refuse the occasional extraction missions requested by the Elites, not if he didn’t want to end up in Zoat. Besides, the high-asset extractions funded his trips.

  Zac hadn’t counted on this latest turn of events. Roving hordes. No one with any brains took the major roadways since they’d turned into a hellish exodus of man-eating hordes. On this trip, he’d run into hordes on the trails. How the hell had those bastards figured that one out? It made him realize the underlying horror of it all. Zombs are learning! The trail-trolling zombs were a gamechanger. He needed a revised plan for his next trip to Texas, or it just might be his last.

  As if the marauders weren’t bad enough, then there were the unscrupulous Toll Takers. Don’t get him started on that. Just another way to scam desperate people out of their gold. Toll Takers charged exorbitant fees to cross the bridges. But, he knew where to by-pass the bridges they claimed.

  Humanity. Will we ever learn? Zac saw it happening all over again in Last State. The greed, jealousy, wanting, controlling. Power. Instead of living a life of normalcy in Texas, he felt it his penance to help struggling survivors make it to the last safe place in the Lost States of America.

  His horse slowed. A small tributary glowed in his mind. His horse probably smelled it. Making good time, he’d make it to Last Chance before sunset. They could use a fifteen-minute breather. He stopped at the bank of a dwindling creek in a patch of juniper and pinyon trees for meager shade. He walked it out, loosening his muscles.

  Last Chance was as bad as it sounded. It had the look and feel of a Libyan swap-meet run by desperados. He had a few contacts there. But the head honcho at Last Chance changed frequently. People only stayed at the hellhole until they acquired assets to buy their way into Boom Town or Last State. Or died. And, if the hired guards stayed too long, hell, they just killed whoever had the most gold and disappeared into the night.

  A high-pitched whine came from behind him, from the west. He drew his weapon, ready. He reconned the approaching object with binocs. The sun’s glare wreaked havoc with his vision as waves of heat floated above the rails. Is that a carriage? A mirage he decided and refocused the lenses for a sharper image.

  “What the—” Crazed horses pulling a carriage careened its way along the lower bank of the tracks. Something must have spooked the horses. Several people held on to the outside of the carriage, in an apparent attempt to take control. The sun watered his eyes, and he couldn’t make it out.

  They obviously were in need of help. By the time he hopped onto his horse, the carriage raced past him. “What the hell?” It was covered with zombs. A young woman’s haunting expression stared blankly at him from the carriage’s window. Then she went back to knocking the zombs to the ground in an impossible fast-forward like speed.

  Zac yee-hawed his horse and took off after the carriage. He followed the trail of downed zombs the girl knocked to the ground, shooting each one dead in the head. Systematically. Reacting, not thinking. At least it wasn’t an entire horde, maybe ten.

  Only two zombs left. The carriage door swung open. The girl swung with it, dangling precariously over the fast-moving ground. “Hang on!” Zac bellowed, urging his horse faster. Strange, the two zombs dragging from the rear pulled themselves to the swinging door and ended up inside the carriage, ignoring the girl.

  “Jump.” His voice was muffled by the raging horses. The door swung vicariously. There was no way in hell he’d nail the zombs from his position. Too risky. Shooting the horses would be his last resort. When his horse finally caught up to the carriage, Zac leaned toward the girl and managed to hook his elbow around her waist. She refused to let go.

  The two zombs bounced around inside the carriage. With his foot holding the door open, he had a clearer shot. He let go of the girl. They lunged at him. Bang! Bang! He sniped each one in the head. They tumbled to the sand.

  The young woman still hung onto the swinging door with interlocked arms. Her expressionless face scared the hell out of him, staring at him with vacant eyes as if looking right through him. Was she turning? He didn’t want to think it. If there was one thing he couldn’t deal with, it was watching someone turn. It was best to put them out of their misery before they turned. He knew it.

  The best thing . . .

  Zac cocked the gun. Aimed it at the girl. Overwhelmed by his conscience. Man, you’ve got to do this . . . I can’t.

  She closed her eyes.

  He squeezed the trigger

  Click.

  Out of ammo. “Damn!” He always counted his shots. He forgot about the two rounds he’d wasted on the diamondback rattler. His foot lost hold of the door. It swung closed. She opened her eyes. Inside the carriage once again, she let go of the door. A hint of a smile swept across her lips. There had been a moment of cognizance.

  The stallions pounded ahead while the woman stared at him through the carriage’s window as if silently pleading for help. Then he noticed the wobble in the rear wheel. It was about to go. On impulse, he pulled his horse up to the carriage and then jumped into the driver’s seat. He yanked the reins hard, gradually reining them in, talking to the horses, soothing them down. At last, the horses panted to a stop.

  Zac yanked open the carriage door. “Were you bitten?” he asked gently.

  He didn’t see any bite marks on her arms. From the waist down, her entire nightgown was caked with dried blood. “Not good odds,” he mumbled. Don’t be foolish. Shoot her before she gets you. Something made him wait. “I’m Zac,” he said, trying to communicate. She could be in shock. “Don’t panic. I’m checking you for bite marks. Are you all right with that?”

  He didn’t wait for her answer. She was either shell-shocked or would turn on him any second. There was no time to waste. If zombs were in the vicinity, all the more reason to make it to Last Chance before nightfall. He lifted her gown to her blood-encrusted thighs. He turned her around slowly, lifting the gown to her back. Her buttocks to her feet were covered in dried blood. No bite marks. He had checked everywhere except her front torso.

  He easily lifted her to the ground by her underarms. Snatching his knife, he cut away at the nightgown until it fell to the ground in a crusty-bloody pile. He turned her around quickly. Her girlish breasts and slightly swollen belly were smeared with blood, with a line of blood trickling from her groin down her thighs to her calves. Ah, menstruating. It seemed like a lot of blood.

  Focussed again, Zac realized he had saved her life. An unexpected sensation of bliss overcame him as if it were her way of saying thanks. Man, keep it real. In her catatonic-like condition, she didn’t seem aware of anything. It was amazing how she had fought them off. We all do incredible things when it comes down to life or death. It was something he knew too well, flashing back to the early pandemic days.

  Despite the desert’s heat, the naked woman began shivering. He stepped inside the carriage, wishing he hadn’t when his shoes stuck to a mess of gory fluids. What happened in here? He snatched a black raincoat hanging on a hook and quickly dressed her. There was no time to clean her. He’d already lost valuable daylight.

  His horse had ambled to the creek, bucking and snorting. This horse didn’t do well with zombs. “Easy does it.” He was occupied with calming the horse when he had a peculiar sensation something was wrong. The woman jumped to her feet and pointed west with a blank-eyed stare and a silent scream, scaring the hell out of him.

  He saw them. Two zombs. Where they came from, he couldn’t say, but two zombs jumped into the carriage. “What the—” They hadn’t gone for him or the girl, which made him wonder again if she was in the between stages of turning. He grabbed a mag from his belt, smacked it into place, and shot the two bastards dead. Zomb dead.

  He glanced back at the young woman. Tears muddied her dirty cheeks. Zombs didn’t cry. Unless that’s something new? She jerked her head to the side. He followed her gaze. Three zombs froze in their tracks. They looked from the girl to him and then to the carriage. “The hell!” The zombs turned around and went wes
t. Running! He fired off a string of shots. They were too far away for his aim.

  It came to him. “Scouts.” He had wondered how the hordes were finding the caravans. They used scouts. Like ants. If zombs were smart enough to send scouts, then they were evolving at an alarming rate. It was a given; animals learned from experience. But, scouts stalking the trails, that took thinking. Communication. These might be the X-strains from the east coast. They were an extremely dangerous breed raging the east, which was why Last State had sealed its entire eastern border. How’d they get here?

  One thing he did know, zombs had a keen sense of smell for anything human. Especially human blood. And the carriage reeked of it. If those last three were reconnoitering the area, the horde was dangerously close to Last Chance. He didn’t want to be the one responsible for wiping out the ghetto-like settlement. Too many people relied on the trading post. And if a horde attacked at night with all those people . . .

  It was clear what he needed to do when all he wanted to do was hop on his horse and get out of there before more scouts mysteriously spawned. First, he should unharness the stallions. The harness had cut into their hides, and they didn’t have much life left in them. He couldn’t leave them there to die a horrid zomb death.

  “Damn.” The harness jammed. He grabbed the hacksaw from his saddle. He wasted valuable time cutting through the antique harness contraption, which looked like it had been liberated from a 15th century museum along with its goth-like carriage fit for a medieval queen.

  Zac checked on the young woman. She was still unresponsive. He dashed inside the carriage and grabbed two blankets and then doused them with a can of lighter fluid from his pack. He draped the blankets over the carriage, not wasting any time searching for valuables. They needed to get out of their pronto. His spider senses kicked in. Danger!

  Zac ignited the edges of the blanket with his handy dandy lighter and waited for the flames to take off. While he waited to make sure it didn’t fizzle out, he lifted the woman to her feet. She looked up at him with wide, innocent fawn-like eyes.