“We can't just sit here and do nothing,” a man's voice behind us said. I turned to see a pensive-looking man holding his horse by the reins. Sonya sat on the back, unshackled. She'd been stripped of all her armor and was now in a thin shirt and underwear. Her eyes blazed with righteous anger as she watched the melee.
“Hold steady, Thomas,” the Marshal cautioned.
“Come on, Hudson,” Thomas pleaded. “They're dying down there, man. We've got to do something.”
“We can't risk losing any of us,” Hudson replied.
“So we're just going to sit and watch them all die?”
“They'll figure something out,” Hudson shot back in frustration. “They're military. They always have a backup plan.”
As if on cue the engine let out a roar, and white steam billowed from the front. The wheels began to turn and the train slowly lurched forward again, pushing through the chaos. Soldiers lifted uninjured men back into cars and they fired at the tide of undead monsters, now mostly congregated around dying cows and men like a swarm of hungry ants.
“You see?” Hudson turned to slack-jawed Thomas, who unintentionally let go of his horse. Without warning Sonya slid forward and grabbed the reins, letting out a high-pitched yell and kicking the animal into motion. They shot forward in a jump down the hillside and back toward the train, her hair flowing behind her. No one said anything. We all just stared in shock, as she deliberately rode back into the chaos.
Is she crazy, I wondered? Does she want revenge that bad? Or could it be that she is trying to escape?
Sonya reached the bottom of the embankment and galloped around a flank of leering undead, before guiding her stolen mare up and over a pile of squirming biters with a high, graceful jump.
“What the hell is she doing?” Thomas looked more confused than angry as the words escaped him.
“Whatever she's up to, she sure can ride,” Hudson said with unabashed admiration.
From behind us I heard the thundering of hooves. I turned to see six painted Indians bearing down on us with a small pack of horses right behind them. The leader came forward to meet Hudson, and he smiled.
“See you got extra horses with you, Harry,” Hudson called out.
“Looks like we're not getting any new additions to our livestock today,” Harry said in a voice like a frog's croak. “Bummer, dude.”
“Got that right,” Hudson bitterly agreed. “An unexpected military train cut off the herd we'd tracked and caused quite a backup of biters. We picked up some new friends in the mess. One of them is down there now on Thomas's mare.”
“You going after her?”
“Hell no,” Hudson laughed. “I was down there already to fetch these two. Barely made it out. Once is enough for me.”
“Then let's get out of here before they call for reinforcements,” Thomas suggested. “I'm not taking the blame for a herd of wild cattle derailing a military convoy.”
“Let's just give 'er a second,” Hudson smiled, pushing up the brim of his hat. “See what she does.”
I turned back, looking for Sonya. The train was pulling away now, gaining some speed. Sonya was climbing out of the last train car with something shiny in her hands. It took me a moment to realize what it was.
That's my katana! The recognition sent shock waves through me. If there was one thing I hated it was being separated from my blade. In the last twenty-four hours I'd had it happen several times. I vowed in my heart that I would get it back from her, that I wouldn't let anyone take it from me again.
“What is she doing with your sword?” Felicity sounded angrier than ever, as if Sonya had taken something special from her.
Before I could say anything more, Sonya made a running jump and landed on the back of the stolen mare. Gasps of astonishment came crashing over us from our rescuers at her graceful landing. She veered away from the train and came back in our direction. Within a few minutes she had climbed the hillside, lacing her fingers into the horse’s mane and holding herself upright by squeezing her thighs over the animal as it tore upward and away from the undead. Casually, she strutted over to us and handed me my sword.
“Can't leave without this,” she grinned.
I took it in my hands and stared down at it with new appreciation. I could feel Felicity burning a hole through me with her angry glare, but I ignored her. There would be time to deal with that later.
“Thank you,” I stammered, unable to express my deep felt gratitude with mere words. I'd have hugged her if Felicity weren’t there. “I owe you big time.”
“Looks like they're gone for now,” Hudson said. We turned and saw the steam engine picking up speed as it pulled away. I felt a sadness in my heart, because I knew that it was going to be harder to defend myself now.
You'll just have to get to Hueneme on your own, I thought. You've done it before. You can do it again.
“We kinda needed to be on that train,” I explained to the Marshal.
“Really?” He shook his head. “From the looks of things you were better off not going wherever they were taking you.”
“The cowboy's right,” Sonya agreed, whipping her long braids around. “Things will work out far better for us not arriving in chains like slaves.”
Easy for you to say, the thoughts ran in my head. You're a wanted fugitive who has now escaped military custody twice. Felicity and I still have a chance as long as Moto is in charge of things.
“Looks like you really know how to handle yourself,” Hudson said with a smile to Sonya. She patted the horse in reply.
“We understand one another,” Sonya said.
“Why don't the ladies ride together, and Thomas can take one of Harry's horses?”
Felicity turned to stare at him in shock, then me. When I didn't say anything, she climbed down and walked over to the horse. Sonya reached down her hand to help her up, but Felicity pushed it away.
“I've got this,” she insisted, using her arms to pull herself up onto the back of the horse.
“Well done,” Sonya approved. “Hang on to me securely. It's harder riding bareback than it looks.”
Hudson turned and rode out ahead, leaving the rest of our group behind us. I turned my head to see them follow, trying not to make eye contact with Felicity or Sonya.
We rode toward the far off mountains, and within a few minutes I could see a stretch of tiny houses dotting the landscape in the distance. We came upon a series of high barbwire fences that forced us to ride back and forth into a tangled maze of entrances, ensuring nothing could move directly through undetected. It reminded me of the way department stores used to create artificial barricades in front of entrances to impede the flow of traffic, forcing shoppers to view more items as they passed through. There were cowbells attached in various places, both on the poles and on the razor-sharp metal. I could see bits of rotting flesh still clinging to the front rows of wiring, along with pieces of tattered clothing, but nothing more as we moved further in to the property line.
“What's all this wiring for out in the middle of nowhere?” I became worried we might not be much better off where we were headed. There'd been an unusually high amount of zombies back at the crossing, especially for this desert area, and when they finished their lunch of soldiers and cows they'd probably be moving in this direction. “You get a lot of zombies this far out?”
“They don't usually come up this high,” the Marshal explained. “But when they do, the fencing catches 'em every time without fail.”
“Forget about the wiring, what's with the cowbells?” Felicity asked.
“Let's us know if we've got biters trapped in the wire,” Hudson said in a matter-of-fact tone. “The bells also serve as an advance warning system for us, in case something worse is heading our way. Most days the wind blows in toward town. That means we hear things long before they reach us. A biter caught in the barbwire makes a steady jingling noise as it tries to free itself. It's pretty easy to distinguish. If, on the other hand, a truck full of bad men were
to come barreling past our property lines, they'd not only get chewed up by the staggered fencing, but would also set off one hell of a racket in the process, allowing us to get our women and children to safety. I'm sure you've noticed by now, the living present far more dangers these days than the dead ever can.”
I gulped as I thought about all I had been through, and sagely nodded in agreement.
We rode on past wooden fences to the right of us that held cows, chickens, and pigs. There was even a goat, just like the petting zoo had at the county fair I'd once visited as a kid. To the left of us were fields with some kind of green vegetation growing.
“I'm surprised you can get plants to grow in these conditions,” I said. “Looks like the surface of the moon to the naked eye.”
“We don't grow much out here,” John laughed. “That's mostly prickly pear cactus. It can be eaten raw, or cooked into candies and jelly. No, most of what we grow is in the greenhouses over there.”
He pointed off in the distance to a line of white-tented structures.
“We grow onions, carrots, tomatoes, lettuce, radishes, peppers, beans, beets, broccoli, and more,” he proudly noted. “The original architects designed it to stay cool, and brought in loads of fertilizer to get it started. We've got a compost and recycling system in place now that keeps it running smoothly. I don't know how we'd have survived without all of this.”
We passed through another gate, this one made of wooden beams that forced us to make three turns, and rode into what looked like an Old Western mining town, passing a horse corral, and next to it a livery and blacksmith. A short, bearded man looked up from hammering horseshoes as we passed and nodded to Hudson, then went back to work. Turning the corner, we entered a bustling town looking like something from the turn of the century. There was a schoolhouse, an old saloon, a general store, and a butcher's shop. We rode past a large town meeting hall as well, coming to the end of the road and the town jail. Hudson hopped off his horse and tied it to the front, then walked up a small set of stairs to the two story wooden house next door. I turned to look back at the town, noticing a row of wooden houses out along the hillside standing in the mountains and snuggled in the shadows.
I looked up to see a line of riders approaching, which included Sonya and Felicity, Thomas and Harry, and the rest of the Indians. One by one they arrived and dismounted, walking forward to where I was now standing. Behind them some of the townsfolk had begun to gather, talking in whispers and pointing in our direction. I walked over to Felicity who looked upset, but let me put my arm around her. I turned back to the Marshal.
“Welcome to Gold Strike City,” he beamed, tipping his hat slightly with one hand as he flashed a row of crooked white teeth in a mock smile from behind his five o'clock shadow. “Let's get inside before the mob starts asking too many questions, and I'll fill you in on all you need to know.”
Chapter Eleven
“It was just an old ghost town,” Hudson explained, walking behind his desk and sitting down. The rest of us sat crammed on a wooden bench. We'd come inside and left the growing mob of concerned citizens outside to gossip in loud whispers. “Long forgotten and left to the elements. It lingered out here in the middle of nowhere for years, and no one gave it a second thought. The town was originally founded by mining company folk in an attempt to lure greedy prospectors, but most of them died at the hands of local Indians or got fed up and left within the first year.
“I object to that characterization of my people, dude,” Harry interrupted, looking pissed.
“You were born and raised in Detroit, pal,” Hudson chuckled. “Your band of patchwork Indians is made up of two of the whitest Mexicans I've ever seen, and a guy who has more relatives in Bombay than he does on Native American reservations. In fact, the only real Indian in your troupe is Mister Ash over there. Maybe he should be doing the objecting?”
“Mister Ash?”
“It's the short version of Ashkii,” he shrugged. “In Navajo it means entertainer. My parents were very supportive when I decided to take up acting.”
“You see? He don't mind.”
“Just take it easy, man,” Harry groaned. “That's all I'm saying. Just because the whole world went to hell in a hand basket doesn't mean we can just start throwing around racial stereotypes.”
“I'm just bringing them up to speed,” Hudson objected. “It's not like this is being logged down as the official history of the High Plains Indians.”
“Yeah well, that's how things start,” Harry grumbled. “The only pieces of history we have left now are the stories we tell each other. When the dust finally settles, I don't want to go back to hearing about fire water and scalping the white man.”
“Are you done?”
Hudson held up his hands in frustration, obviously wanting to move on to the rest of his story. Harry looked guilty as he realized he'd begun to rant and had led them off course, bringing all the attention of the room to himself, as the rest of us waited to hear what Hudson had to tell us. He rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh for an apology.
“Sorry man. Go ahead.”
“Okay. So as I was saying, the conditions were rough and, as you can see, we're a ways off from the railroad,” Hudson smirked, getting right back into his story-telling groove. He gestured with his hands, trying to add visual cues to his historical narration. “Then one day along comes Theodore Dudley Raymond, or as we liked to call him, Teddy Duds.”
“Duds Man,” Harry chimed in, nodding somberly.
“Duds Man,” Mister Ash parroted back.
“Who is the Duds Man?”
“Our Lord and Savior, pretty much,” Harry answered, pointing to a picture of a man on the wall in a bow tie and bowler hat smiling down at them. “God rest his soul.”
“He's responsible for our little piece of salvation,” Hudson rejoined. “Half black and half British, he never knew who his real parents were. He grew up in an orphanage in Liverpool, and went on to get a scholarship at Harvard. He set out to study law, and graduated at the top of his class. He opened his own law firm and began making a name suing people, building a huge empire using bus ads and daytime television spots, promising his clients astronomical payouts for everything from on-the-job injuries to car accidents to wrongful termination and sexual harassment.”
“Sounds like his darn obit, for crying out loud,” Harry hollered. “He was a genius. Well? Go on and tell 'em.”
Hudson looked like he was five seconds away from losing his cool with Harry-the-Painted-Indian, but he fought back his frustration and continued on.
“He made his big money suing the city of Los Angeles and the police department after he was pulled over one night on suspicion of drunk driving, and then beaten for resisting arrest. Later it came out that the racist cops forgot to read him his Miranda rights. They also forgot to check the car for recording devices, and the audio of the whole ugly incident made international news. The city settled for a huge sum, and Teddy Duds sold his practice at the same time for over twenty million dollars.”
“That's when he came out and bought up the land,” Harry reported, fixing a wild-eyed stare at them.
“He lived here too, while it was being restored. He grew up watching old Westerns in the orphanage, and yearned to live the dream of an American cowboy one day. Finally, flush with cash, he took his shot. He was the first Marshal in Gold Strike City, as well as the Mayor. That's why his picture still hangs on the wall.”
“He wanted to eventually create a theme park, but it never came together quite how he’d imagined,” Hudson added. “After pouring money into the town he ended up hiring a cast of actors to bring the Old West to life for him, which included a sheriff, a school teacher, wild Indians, and our very own cast of bad guys. He'd bus in tourists to show what it was like in the recreated wild west, and we all had to stay in character at all times. It never became as big as he’d wanted, but in the end I like to believe he was a happy man when he passed away. He's buried in the town c
emetery back by the hill, just as his last will and testament demanded.”
“So how did you all come to be in possession of the place?” The words were out of my mouth before I had time to
think about how rude I was being. They were telling me about an important man, someone they'd loved and respected and lost, someone they owed everything to in life, and I'd just glossed right over it. The truth was I was bone tired, exhausted from running for my life all night long. The three blows I'd taken to the head in the last twenty-four hours hadn't helped either. If Hudson or Harry were offended, they did a great job of not showing it.
“He didn't have no family, never married or had kids, so he had no one to leave Gold Strike City to when he passed away,” Harry quickly replied. “That's why he left it to us, the people who ran it day in and day out. We'd made sacrifices, you see. You can't imagine what it's like having to move to the middle of nowhere, and come out every morning to perform. It wears on you. It takes its toll. It's a labor of love. In the end, the only people left were those who had given up on their dream of acting and making it big in Hollywood, and were just fine with being stars in this forgotten show.”
“We're so sorry for your loss,” Felicity empathized, squeezing my hand, but looking around the room with genuine remorse. “He sounds like he was an amazing person.”
“He was a grand man and we owe him everything,” Hudson said with gratitude, respectfully pulling his hat off and placing it over his heart. “If it wasn't for him, we'd surely be dead by now. Most of us would have gone back to the cities in search of work, and we all know how that worked out for folks on Z Day.”
“Amen to that,” Harry shouted, taking out a small silver flask and sipping from it.
“When the trouble started, we didn't head for some government shelter or quarantine,” Hudson continued, giving Harry a disapproving look. “We packed up our kids and our stuff and we moved up here, away from the rest of the world. For a while it was an untouched paradise. We didn't see zombies, or even other people for that matter, for months. We didn't even think to put up the fencing until after the first walking corpse came ambling into town.”
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