by Chris Lowry
“You killed my brothers,” said the lead guy.
I wasn’t going to talk, not with guns aimed at my head. I needed to assess how stable they were, what they had planned, and not get shot. I didn’t like getting shot.
“Get up,” he told the kids.
They stood next to me on shaky legs, both holding on to me for support.
“Pull them guns out with your fingers,” he told Bem. “You keep your hands up.”
They hadn’t shot me yet, which meant he had something worse planned.
Bem pulled the first pistol out and dropped it. She slowly moved her hand to the second gun and kept going to the ground, flopping on the dirt.
The three guns tracked her down and off me.
I felt the Boy rip the gun from the small of my back. He sent three quick shots their way, nailing two and sending the third spinning. I got the pistol out and up before he recovered and finished him off.
“Are you okay?”
Bem sat up.
“Dad, we planned it.”
The Boy hustled to the fallen bodies and retrieved the pistols. He checked their pockets for bullets, but came up empty. Instead he held up a wad of cash folded into a rubber band roll.
“Why do you think they still carried cash?”
“Old habits die hard.”
Bem picked up the gun she pulled from my waist and kept it. I took the three from the boy and stuck one in front, one in back and kept the last one out. It had a full magazine and the safety on.
We were armed.
We had a Princess backpack full of food.
And I had a plan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
We went back to the marina next to the giant brick tower, but I didn't want to take the boat on the water after dark.
The kids needed food and rest.
So did I.
Once we were floating downriver, we could find islands to camp on, and fish for food, but I knew of at least two dams we would need to negotiate, as well as the six bridges that spanned the river in just the city of Little Rock.
Plus, I wanted to catch up with the kids and get them both behind a fence so they felt safe, at least for the night.
We needed rest, some food, and some time with each other.
"We'll spend the night at your school," I told them. "And take the boat at first light."
I let the Boy lead the way back to the school and watched as he shimmied up the gutter to the open window, and slither inside. He opened the locked door after a few seconds and I put him in charge of building a fire while I tried to clean up in what had once been the kitchen.
I could scrape the gray matter off, but the stains were set, so the jacket was a lost cause. I'd scrap it as soon as I could, but we would need all the layers we could get on the water.
When I walked back into the gym they made into a campground, the Boy had a small fire going and Em had two cans warming in the coals.
"I'm getting tired of beans," she used a pair of pliers to move a can in front of me, and the other in front of the Boy.
I spooned up a bite, then burned my fingers passing it back to her.
"We'll fish tomorrow. See if we can catch something fresh."
The promise of that seemed to satisfy her and she took a spoonful and passed the can back to me.
I made sure my bites were half sized, and that the boy ate all his. They noticed and appreciated it enough not to point it out.
"I wish I could have shot the second guy for you Dad."
I let him sit after dinner and wondered what he was thinking as we watched the fire die down. Emma curled up in a small ball and snoozed, the bottom of her feet against her brother's leg.
"You're fourteen son."
"Yeah, but when you were fourteen you told me you and uncle Doug were in the woods, building forts and booby traps and stuff."
What kind of parent tells their kid exactly what they did when they were fourteen? And more importantly, who knew the kid was listening!
He reminded me about my younger brother in California.
Doug and his family. Two kids and a wife. I wondered if he was alive, if they made it. He had lived in a big city since he was twenty-five, and LA had thirteen million people around it. Fighting out of that many Z was almost impossible.
But then I had crossed half the country and fought a few Z and we both had the same training. Maybe my will was stronger, and I knew I was angrier. We're talking Hulk smash size anger.
He was way more mellow than me. Laid back. More friends, more people who liked him, including our parents and steps.
It wasn't that I was unlikeable.
A lot of people liked my company before the end of the world. I had a few close friends, could keep up a conversation with a stranger, and was a fine leader according to the people who worked with me and the surveys they took.
But I knew I was a stand-offish fellow.
I blame it on running by myself in the woods for hours on end.
That's a lot of time for self-reflection and discovery. Some people called it living in your head, some people called it discovering your center. Who knows who was right.
I know that after eighteen miles of exertion, the walls fall down and every emotion, every feeling is exposed. I ran without music which left me with the words in my head and song snippets stuck on loop.
I came up with a couple of philosophies, probably regurgitated from some first-year classes at University.
No one is right, this much I knew. Everything gets filtered through a point of view.
My memory of having fun in the woods could be my brother’s nightmare of being dragged along doing something he hated. My feelings about my parents, even now thirty years later, could be wrong. Maybe they thought I was independent and nomadic and didn't want to be smothered.
All true things.
"Digging holes in the woods and fighting Z are not the same thing," I told him instead.
"I've been doing okay so far," there was a tinge of sulking in his voice.
It sounded a lot like me sometimes.
That made me smile, which made the set of his lips harder, and his eyebrows crinkle up. I snorted more.
"It's not funny."
"I know Boy. I know. And I'm so proud of you. You have no idea. I know how hard it's been. I know what you've had to do, what you're going to keep having to do. You made it. Your sister made it. That gives me hope."
"Hope for what Dad?" he pushed a branch further into the fire with the tip of his boot.
"We're going to find T. And I'm going to take you somewhere that we never had to fight a Z again."
"That's a pipe dream."
He was too young to be so cynical. But then maybe I had been too. The bane of having children is that for years they believe every word you say until a hormone dump makes them think everything is a lie.
It's why sixteen-year olds know everything, and just forget as they grow older.
I had been the same way. Part of that independence streak perhaps, or maybe the Boy got it from me, encoded in his DNA.
"It's a promise."
We sat and stared at the fire in silence, the crackle of the wood and pops of sap in the pine back the only sounds.
“I’m going to check the perimeter,” I stood up.
Bem stirred, but the Boy reached over and patted her leg and she drifted back to sleep.
“You should sleep too. We’re moving out at sunrise.”
He nodded and shifted down to the floor, careful that he didn’t disturb his sister. I watched him close his eyes and felt another wave of sadness.
It reminded me of something I had read a long time ago.
A soldier grabs sleep when he can, and learns to sleep anywhere. The Boy was a solider now in the Z war. I’d learn about what they had done to survive, because I had a million questions. I could ask when we were on the water and it would help the miles go by faster.
But I’d never tell them what I did, what I’d done.
/> The Boy had seen some of it, and it changed the way he looked at me.
I didn’t like it.
The door was secured shut, and I walked around to peer through the windows.
I glanced at the fence that surrounded the property, the view slightly distorted by the mismatched diamond patterns of the chain link outside and the security window stripes.
The Z stood against the fence, unmoving, staring at us, or maybe the orange glow that flickered through the window.
They didn’t moan, they didn’t shove, just stood in line and watched.
It was a weird feeling that made chills do a dance up and down my spine.
One of the Z looked like Jean.
THE END
Thank you for taking the time to read BATTLEFIELD Z – Zombie Blues Highway. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated. Thank you. Chris.
Ready for the next Adventure?
MARDI GRAS ZOMBIE
(FEBRUARY 2017)
Grab your copy here
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Chris Lowry is an avid adventurer and ultrarunning author. He divides his time between Florida, Arkansas and California where he trains for 100 mile Ultramarathons. He has completed over 68 races, including 18 marathon's and 12 Ultramarathons and is planning a Transcontinental Run across the United States from Los Angeles to New York City in 2017. He has kayaked the Mississippi River solo, and biked across the state of Florida. When not outdoors, he is producing and directing a documentary film about adventure and writing. His novels include the Battlefield Z series, the Marshal of Magic Series and the Shadowboxer Files. He loves good craft beer and meeting with reading clubs and running clubs, especially if the aforementioned beer is offered.
Are you a fan of Harry Dresden? Like the Iron Druid? You might fall in love with the Marshal of Magic.
Check out the first chapters below
CHAPTER ONE
A trio of witches gathered on the edge of a parking lot at an abandoned warehouse between the airport and downtown. The property had once housed a furniture supply store in the fifties, but was derelict for the past forty years. The time had not been kind.
Teenage vandals broke the windows with chunks of concrete and rock, which let in the elements. Rain, ice, snow and storms had worked their way through the wooden interior so that all that remained was the brick shell, and the occasional still standing wooden floor in the five-story building.
The homeless population of Memphis had scurried through the windows seeking any form of shelter from the harsh winds that roared down the Mississippi River. Some died in collapses, others were killed during infighting, and gang initiation rituals. It was a dead place, a dead building haunted by faded memories.
"Can you feel it?" whispered Hilda.
She was taller than average, beautiful in a cold ice queen manner, and stood in front of her two compatriots at a point of a triangle drizzled in blood on the cracked concrete.
"The ghosts are calling," answered the shorter one on the left.
She had long curly red hair that cascaded down to the small of her back and delicate features that made her look like the youngest, and a small silver necklace made of letters that read Cassidy, her name.
"This is going to be fantastic," growled Hilda in a husky rumble.
The third witch pulled a grimoire, a book of magic, from a messenger bag on her hip.
"This should be enough."
"It will be enough," said Hilda.
She bent down and scratched another symbol onto the ground in front of the triangle. She pulled a small penknife from a pocket on her dress and pricked her finger to infuse the rune with her lifeblood.
A breeze whistled across the lot, stirring up dust and debris.
"Now," she said.
Carla opened the grimoire to a marked page and ran her finger over the text. It was in Latin, written in a faded calligraphy in splotchy brown ink that barely stood out on the parchment.
"We call on thee."
Cassidy mouthed the words with her.
"Again," ordered Hilda.
"We call on thee," they said together.
It flowed into a chant, slow and melodic. Their voices blended in a vibrating harmony that echoed against the pockmarked brick and bounced back toward them.
Wind stirred again, and ghostly apparitions began to gather on the edge of the lot, leaking through the cracked windows in the building, surrounding the trio.
Carla set the grimoire down behind them and pulled a white rabbit out of her pouch.
It squirmed in her hands and she clenched down tighter.
Hilda reached back with one hand and Carla passed the rabbit to her.
She held up the passive bunny and sliced open it's throat with the penknife. She dripped the blood across the rune. Her voice joined the others as she drew a line from the rune to the tip of the triangle.
"We call on thee, we call on thee, we call on thee."
The blood reached the triangle and red light erupted from the rune to burn against the brick wall. Ghostly figures were drawn toward the light and sucked into it.
A black clawed hand reached through the portal and gripped an edge. It pulled the opening a little wider, enough for a second hand to jab through. Now it had two hands on the portal and ripped it open. A sound like fabric tearing accompanied by ghostly moans roared through the air.
A giant head emerged from the dark hole. A massive red face framed by ram's horns and a hyper muscular body, like a caricature of a comic book hero slid through the opening and rolled into a wary stance.
It flexed massive shoulders and turned it's head to the wind to sniff. It was nine feet tall, shoulders broad and defined, with a hairy pelt that ran down it's spiny back.
"Sullamaie," Hilda smiled.
She dropped the rabbit and unfastened her dress. It fell to the ground and puddled around her feet.
"Sullamaie," she said again.
The creature turned to face her and leered.
Hilda settled back on the concrete, her feet still at the point of the triangle. She opened her knees and invited the demon to take her.
"Sullamaie," Cassidy and Carla said with her.
The demon rumbled toward them. It kneeled in front of Hilda, planted a hand on the ground and jammed into her.
She bit back a scream.
The demon tilted back its head and roared.
It finished in a moment and rose.
Cassidy dropped her dress and kneeled on all fours into the triangle. The demon sniffed and moved to her next.
Her hair fell across Hilda's face as they stared at each other, eyes locked. Cassidy wasn't as strong and shrieked as the monster took her.
"Sullamaie," Hilda reached up and caressed the young witch's face.
"Sullamaie," said Carla.
The demon growled again and leered at Carla with bloodshot bulbous eyes.
She dropped her dress and fell forward on her hands and knees.
All three witches were in the triangle.
The beast moved to Carla and grabbed her waist with massive hands. She screamed too.
Cassidy and Hilda put their hands on top of hers as they chanted.
It finished again with a roar that split the night air. Carla collapsed beside her fallen coven. The witches stopped their chant.
The beast dug clawed fingertips into the ground gouging claw marks into the concrete as it was slowly drawn back into the portal. It bellowed in defiance.
A shadow darted across the parking lot and scooped up the Grimoire. Cassidy reached for the book thief.
"No," shouted Hilda.
Too late.
Cassidy's foot scuffed through the blood and broke the plane of the triangle.
The portal collapsed with the demon still on this side.
It roared and bounded toward the witches.
Hilda scrambled up.
"Fortress,"
she screamed and crossed her arms in an X in front of her naked chest.
The demon bounced off an invisible field. It roared again and ran for the edge of the parking lot.
"Damn," Hilda muttered.
She glanced at the thief as he disappeared through a hole in the fence on the opposite side of the parking lot.
"What do we do?" Cassidy asked.
She held her head down and refused to meet Hilda's burning gaze.
"The thief of course," she spat. "He has our property."
Carla held out their dirt encrusted dresses and they donned them.
"We can't summon Sullamaie without the grimoire," she said.
Cassidy nodded.
"He's going to do some damage."
Hilda caressed her stomach.
"Damage was the plan all along," she smiled.
CHAPTER TWO
He paused at the edge of the fence to look back over his shoulder. The witches were getting dressed. At least that's what he thought they were, witches or some other type of supernatural villain.
They had to be villains because what type of person summons a demon and then does that with them.
It couldn't be for any good purpose that was for damn sure.
Tyrone took off through the brush and bounded up on a railroad track.
He was less than a mile from downtown and the small pub where he was supposed to meet the man who hired him.
After the meeting, he had one plan.
Get the hell out of Dodge, because that giant bullheaded demon didn't make it back to the underworld or wherever else it had come from. It was currently running loose in Memphis, and the direction it was headed in took it straight to St. Jude's.
He wondered if he should call the police.
Wouldn't that be an ironic little kick?
A thief calling the cops to ask for help.
Technically it wouldn't be help. Tyrone would be warning them about a disaster in the making, though he wasn't sure they would believe him.
He wasn't quite ready to believe it himself even though he had watched the ritual and summoning with his own eyes.