Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 3): Last State

by Popovich, A. D.

  Disguised as a man, dressed in her dingy overalls and stupid straw hat, Scarlett walked under the cottonwoods’ barren branches. The lingering humidity cut through the chilly December morning. She found Shari by the garage, revving the engine to a bluish-gray 1960s Ford truck with a camper shell on the back.

  According to Shari, most Zoners weren’t allowed vehicles. Public transit was the norm unless you were wealthy or lived in the Zhetto. Zac had obtained an official permit along with petrol rations for Shari’s monthly visits to the flea market. For the most part, Elites kept the oil for themselves, rationing it however they deemed necessary.

  “Be a dear. Load the rest of the crates in the back,” Shari said from behind the wheel. “My back isn’t cooperating with me today. We need the wheelbarrow as well.”

  After Scarlett quickly transferred the wheelbarrow of crates packed with amber tincture bottles and tins of dried teas into the back of the truck, she added the wheelbarrow. It seemed like an excessive amount of inventory for the few hours they would be at the market.

  Scarlett had barely sat down on the truck’s bench seat when Shari belted, “Hold on for your life. I’m taking the shortcut. I’m cutting the two-hour trip to ninety minutes. We’re getting a later start than usual. Need to set up my booth before the early morning crowd gets there.” The truck lurched into gear as Shari manhandled the old-time stick shift.

  Shari was a tough woman; Scarlett admired her spunk. “I’ll help as much as I can,” Scarlett said apologetically, feeling bad for showing up twenty minutes late. She had to stop second-guessing her decisions. Besides, she couldn’t hide in the cabin forever.

  Scarlett peered out the windows, pretending everything was normal while the truck trampled through the grassy plains. “So, people actually buy your tinctures?” Scarlett was amazed and wanted to know more. Shari was an herbalist and used to have her own mystical herbal shop in Oregon. Scarlett had always considered tinctures to be nothing more than folklore like the magical potions wizards and witches cast spells with in fantasy novels.

  “Oh, yes, I usually sell out. Zhetts don’t have access to medical care. Herbs are their only option.”

  “Do they actually work? I mean, it’s not a placebo thing?” Scarlett didn’t mean to insult her. She wanted to understand.

  “Herbs work splendidly if the diagnosis is correct. Eastern civilizations relied on them for centuries, not to mention native cultures all over Mother Earth. Herbs are more effective than most Western medicine, which was manipulated by Big Pharma. Ah, I won’t bore you if you’re not a believer. But, hey, if you come down with a malady, let me know your symptoms. I’m sure to have a concoction for it. Remind me to show you my herbal pharmacopeia pantry the next time I don’t have any guests.”

  “I love herbal teas like chamomile and green tea,” Scarlett reflected.

  “In general, tinctures are more potent and last longer than most of the teas in brick-and-mortar stores. First, there’s the quality of the actual plant itself. Organic only. Second, it’s how they are processed. Some herbs work better when preserved in alcohol. Others, apple cider vinegar, glycerin. Even honey.”

  Shari was a wealth of information. Scarlett had been helping Shari with her small greenhouse the past few weeks. She mused over the good fortune of finding an herbalist in the middle of the Texan panhandle after the downfall of modern society. What were the odds? Scarlett could almost hear the Silver Lady answering, “Fate, my dear. Think not, this is by chance.” Had it been Scarlett’s imagination or the elusive Silver Lady?

  “Every plant Spirit put on this planet has a use, medicinal or not. Take the simplest weed. Like chickweed. It’s packed with vitamins and minerals. Not only is it a diuretic, it also works as a laxative, a demulcent . . . Great for arthritis, sprains, and gout. The purple flowers you water in the greenhouse—Echinacea. It’s one of the best immune boosters.”

  “Where do you get the herbs you don’t grow?” Scarlett said, watching a rabbit run for cover into a tuft of winter-dried grasses.

  “I’ve made plenty of trade connections at the market. They know I pay well for the right herbs. My sources wild harvest herbs like Goldenseal and Honey Locust. When I get my hands-on Yaupon Holly, it’s a terrific day. I dry the leaves and stems and make a tea. But I don’t label it by its name. Otherwise, the poor plant would have been eradicated by now. As far as I know, it’s the only plant with caffeine that grows around here.”

  “The same effects as coffee?” Scarlett was surprised. Although California had started growing coffee, it would probably take a while to reactivate the farms. Southern California was full of Zs—if the entire state had burned down.

  “Oh, yes. It also lowers blood pressure. I’ve only gotten my hands on it a few times since I’ve been here. It grows down south. Chicory root makes a decent poor man’s coffee. I roast the roots. I forage for it in the cooler months here in Texas. And did you know the pesky Dandelion is a war chest of—”

  A shadow drifted over the truck. Scarlett bolted into alert mode.

  “Drone. Act normal. It will pass once it confirms our chips and the digital license plate.” Shari waved out the window while maneuvering the truck over the rutted dirt road.

  Scarlett bolstered her nerves. At least they had made it to an actual road. She no longer had the unreasonable sensation they were driving off the edge of a flat earth into an abyss of emptiness.

  The drone sped off toward the west. “Such a paradox, these high-tech drones in the Zhetto,” Shari said. “Thanks to the high-clearance plate Zac bought, they never hassle me. Forget the cities. They no longer exist. Everyone is stuck in the Dallas-Fort Worth metropolitan area.”

  Scarlett shuddered internally. A vision of angry and hungry creepers escaping Zoat and running across the plains blindsided her. Was it her imagination? She mentally turned down the volume a bit, but she needed to remain vigilant and listen for any warnings.

  “You seem nervous?” Shari said out of the blue.

  “A bit. So, how do the Zones work?” Scarlett needed a diversion, something to help ignore the vivid vision.

  “As you might guess. The A-zone is for Elites only. It’s the innermost Zone. The safest place to be. And the shit rolls downhill from there. And of course, you know which one we live in. Z is for Zhetto as in the ghetto. They say, you’re only allowed to live and work in the same zone, and special permission is required to leave your zone. They are very touchy about that. When I was staying at Zac’s place in K-zone, I tried to bluff my way into one of the ABC Zones to go to the Dallas Museum of Art.” She laughed. “Good thing Zac happened to be in town. Let’s just say, he had to bail me out of jail. Although, it was more like a bribe.”

  Scarlett imagined Zac and his irresistible cocky grin as he paid off the man in charge while Shari hexed him with the death stare. Her smile quickly faded when she realized the outer embankment of Zoat loomed in the distance. The hairs on her arms tingled.

  She recognized the spine-chilling yowling. The Hunger’s Howl. The whisperings of a thousand forlorn pleas inundated her, begging for release. All those un-dead souls trapped in Zoat, starving to death and yet unable to succumb to death. Who would do such a thing, imprison that many creepers in one area? It was morbid insanity. “Jeez Louise, why do people choose to live so close to Zoat.” She didn’t understand.

  “In the beginning, Last State needed laborers. They let in every Tom, Dick, and Harry, who wasn’t a Class-Z. There was some major reconstruction as you can imagine. Such as building Zoat. Then they realized they couldn’t contain all the minor outbreaks occurring over the entire state. For whatever reasons, they chose to secure the Dallas-Fort Worth area. Those who didn’t make the cut live in Zoat.”

  “The laborers?” Scarlett asked.

  “Pretty much. Except farmers, cattle ranchers, dairy farmers and the like. Those places are well-guarded. And the workers are treated more like prisoners than citizens.”

  “So, when the construction jobs s
topped—” Scarlett was starting to see the bigger picture.

  “That’s right. Last State has no place for that many laborers in the Zones. Most of them live in a ramshackle tent city at the tip of the panhandle, waiting in vain for construction jobs.”

  “Last State should train them. I mean, they are Americans,” Scarlett ranted. Life in Last State was turning out to be a colossal mistake. “People are stuck living in the Zhetto for the rest of their lives?”

  “Unless they know a guy like Zac. Someone who knows how to finagle the system and buy the upgrade. Which he has been known to do on occasion.”

  “Why does he risk it?” Scarlett snapped. Was she mad he might get caught and never find her?

  “Oh, that man has a set of steel balls. Well, you should know.” Shari eyed her knowingly.

  Scarlett resisted the urge to blush. “It seems like he’s taking too many risks. That’s all.”

  “Now, ain’t that the truth,” Shari said. “You know men. Sometimes they feel the need to prove something to everyone. Or to themselves. The underlying truth of it all, like you said the day we met, it could be his Soul Path. A Warrior-Savior complex. The whole yin and yang thing has him twisted up in a karmic knot. To do a lot a good you’ve got to do a little bad. Spirit is tricky like that. It’s usually the people you least expect. His heroics could be an attempt to right a really bad wrong. Or, hey, he could be just another testosterone thrill-seeker. You tell me.”

  Scarlett saw a little of each in Zac. He took too many chances and had saved dozens of people immigrating to Last State. But the real reason he took those chances was a mystery to her.

  They continued the trip in silence. Scarlett was too busy worrying about Twila to enjoy the ride. She’d been there for weeks. What if Zac never returned? Realistically, how long could she hide in the fringes of Last State with a gifted child? Her Soul Mission, according to the mystical Silver Lady, was to protect Twila and provide a normal life for her. So far, things hadn’t been too normal. “Zac, I need you,” she whispered to the etherworlds.

  “Here we are.” Shari pulled up behind a U-Haul truck. “Let me do the talking.” The U-Haul truck drove into the parking lot. Shari pulled up to the armed soldier. He scanned the front digital plates. Shari held out her hand, and then he scanned her. “My helper,” Shari pointed to Scarlett. He motioned her through.

  “So many people,” Scarlett commented. Anxiety took over her nerves when they entered a roped-off parking lot. “How many people come here?”

  “Hundreds. It’s getting bigger all the time. But the life expectancy for Zhetts isn’t long. Unless you’ve banked decades of good karma.” Shari stopped the truck next to a row of canopy tents. “I always reserve a ten-by-ten spot near the parking lot. That way, I don’t have to haul everything clear over to the opposite end. Shoppers usually arrive around nine a.m. The ones from the Zones usually arrive around noon. Zhetts know to get what they want before the Zoners arrive.”

  “I’ll unload the truck, and you can arrange your wares,” Scarlett said after they had popped open the canopy tent and set up the folding table.

  After Scarlett wheelbarrowed in the inventory, she uncrated the tinctures while Shari arranged them on the table. Setting up everything took a lot of work. She wondered how the older woman had managed it on her own.

  “It gets hectic. The crowds tend to come in waves. I don’t want to lose any sales today. By the way, we never talked business. I’ll pay you ten percent of the sales. I’m sure you could use some things,” Shari said.

  “Thank you, you’re too kind.” It was more than fair.

  “Howdy, Shotgun Shari. Thought you weren’t gonna make it. I missed you last month. I need a bottle of your stomach tonic,” a pudgy man hollered from the booth across from theirs.

  “Hey, Gunther. I’ll save you a bottle,” Shari hollered back.

  Scarlett finished hanging the plastic sign over the canopy’s entrance: Shotgun Shari’s Tinctures. “Love the name.”

  “Marketing is all it is. Makes me sound notorious and tough in these End Times. My flowery label in my prior life was Shari’s Flower Power.”

  End Times. Was that what was happening? Despite everything that had occurred since the pandemic, Scarlett still found it difficult to comprehend this was the end of mankind.

  “Believe . . .”

  Scarlett ignored the faint whisper. The first set of customers strolled between the aisles of booths. The jitters took over as a man made a beeline for their booth. It reminded Scarlett of the days she had sold smoked fish to the desperate immigrants in Last Chance, New Mexico. It seemed like eons ago.

  Customer after customer discreetly made their purchases. Most people seemed to know what they wanted. Now and then Shari grabbed a bottle from under the tablecloth-covered table. Did Shari dabble in the smuggling business?

  As the morning raced by, Scarlett basically watched for shoplifters while Shari interacted with the customers. Something for arthritis, something for headaches, depression, stress, stomach ailments, allergies, asthma, fatigue, bacterial infections, kidney, liver, and gallbladder issues, even upper respiratory infections like pneumonia. If the customer didn’t know what he needed, Shari was like a wise woman healer, listening to their symptoms and prescribing the herbal remedy. The strange thing was, Shari didn’t have to pitch her products; people seemed to trust that they worked. Scarlett was in awe of her.

  “My, it’s a busy day.” Shari fanned herself with a paper fan after the morning crowd died down. “People are stocking up before the rain and snow hit the panhandle.”

  “I overheard one of the customers talking,” Scarlett said. “Last State plans to open the flea market every weekend.” She was surprised Zoners would rather shop in the crazy Texan climate instead of inside a mall. One minute it was hot and muggy, the next the wind iced her bones.

  “That’s news to me,” Shari said. “This is probably your only chance to browse. Remember, don’t use your CitChip. There aren’t any LSCs loaded on it. Only Zac has access to it.” Shari handed her a pouch. “Here’s an advance. Each coin is minted with one-twentieth of an ounce of gold. The rest is silver. Start low, and don’t be afraid to walk away. If they don’t call you back, you can catch the vendor on your way back.”

  “Gold is illegal.” Scarlett frowned.

  “Here, everything’s legal as long as you don’t get caught.” Shari winked. “Go on. Blend in and act like you belong here.”

  Scarlett had certainly done her fair share of bargaining back at Last Chance. She gathered her wits and zipped up the oversized jacket Shari had given her. After re-stuffing her braids under the old straw hat, she pulled the hat down over her forehead.

  First, it was window shopping. Most of the vendors busied about restocking their tables, shelves, and racks for the next wave. She needed a pair of jeans, and so did Twila. She also wanted to find something special for Twila. She grudgingly walked past the fast-food vendors, their prices too high. She came to a booth of nuts. The peanut butter caught her attention. Twila loved peanut butter.

  “Two jars for fifty LSCs,” the vendor in a red plaid shirt announced. “Try a sample.”

  Scarlett took a cracker topped with peanut butter. “Thank you.” Scarlett walked away.

  “Final offer, two for forty LSCs,” the vendor barked.

  Scarlett kept walking.

  On impulse, Scarlett returned to the tent. “Three jars and three packages of the flatbread crackers for—” She laid one of the gold coins stamped with a large Z on the table.

  The man snatched the coin before the next customer walked by. He loaded her tote bag with a smile. “A pleasure doing business.”

  That was easier than she had anticipated. Time to look for clothes. Up ahead she spotted an Outfitters sign. They had a triple booth of clothing. She went through the tables stacked with clothes. Funny, no women’s clothing. She grabbed several of the smallest pairs of jeans and held them to her waist.

  “You wan
t to try them on?” a gruff voice shouted. “Over there.” The scrawny man pointed to a curtained-off area.

  She found two pairs of faded Levi’s and a small pair of boy’s jeans, which would have to do for Twila. She laid the jeans on the table.

  “I don’t think these ones will fit you?” The bearded man held up the small pair with both hands and eyed her with suspicion.

  “I’m making a knapsack out of it,” was all she said in a gravelly voice. It gave her a fabulous idea. She could sew clothes for Twila. Aunt Marge had taught her to sew when she was a teenager. Although, it had been ages since she had touched a sewing machine. She remembered seeing an antique pedal-operated Singer sewing machine stored in the garage. Her mind buzzed with ideas.

  “That will be two hundred LSCs,” he said with scanner in hand.

  Jeez Louise! She flashed her cutest dimpled smile and laid three gold coins on the table. “I’m not a Zoner,” she rebuffed. She certainly dressed the part of a Zhett.

  He gave her a quizzical look as if her gender confused him. He shrugged and scanned the left side of the table, perhaps to fool anyone who might be watching.

  “Thank you.” She grabbed the jeans. The vendor was already busy with his next customer.

  The market was getting busy again. She headed back and walked the opposite row of booths. Most the vendors sold food, clothing, and camping equipment. About every third or fourth booth displayed trinkets like music boxes, porcelain figurines, fancy clocks, and antiques, no doubt looted from abandoned homes.

  She came to a rather interesting double booth crammed with books and an odd assortment of collectible toys. She walked past it when the title Alice in Wonderland popped into her mind. Twila needed something to read. She dashed back to the booth. “Excuse me, do you happen to have a copy of Alice in Wonderland?”

  An older, spectacled man looked down his nose at her. “Hmm, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” he mumbled with his finger to his lips. She followed him to the bookshelf. “It must be your lucky day.” He handed her a special gold-edged edition.