Dark Paths: Apocalypse Riders

by Britten Thorne

  Soon they were on the road, putting more miles between her and the farm, between her and the survivors, whoever they may be. She yawned against his back; though she’d slept like a dead thing, she was still exhausted. Too much worry, too many emotions warring in her head. I wonder if people died from just being worn out. At least she could shoot - she imagined she’d feel that much worse if she was afraid for her life at every turn. Probably should be anyway.

  Call pulled the bike to a stop in the middle of nowhere in the mid-afternoon. The forests had given way to fields again, and there was no movement anywhere aside from the birds. “I’ll bet your still tired.”

  How’d he know? It felt like no amount of sleep would be enough. “I’m okay.”

  “Let’s park for a bit anyway. I’ll build a fire, cook up something hot for once.” He climbed off without waiting for an answer.

  He quickly got a little campfire going just off the road using some sticks he’d apparently been carrying in one of his bags, some newspaper scraps, and a lighter. She watched him work, appreciating his efficiency. They’d built plenty of campfires on the farm - especially when the weather was nice. Sometimes they’d sit around it to eat their evening meals if Father Speer was in a more informal mood. He’d even let the girls whisper and giggle amongst themselves… she shook the thought away. May as well fish for a little more information.

  “What’s your gang like?” she asked.

  “Club,” he said, “We were a club before the dead started walking and we still are.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t know the difference.”

  “We ain’t into any illegal shit,” he said. “I mean, now I guess there are no laws. But we have our own.”

  “Like what?”

  “The usual,” he shrugged, “Same old laws we followed in civilized society, ‘cept now we’re forced into more violence. Rival gangs, roving madmen. The apocalypse allowed some real pieces of shit to grab a little power and go hog wild.” He retrieved a can of baked beans from his bag and worked with his little can opener to peel off the lid as he spoke. “We try real hard not to kill the living, mind you, but sometimes they don’t leave you much choice. My guys have cleaned up after a whole bunch of rotten bastards. We’ve got a nice community going now. People we’ve saved, people who’ve found us.” He put the can right on the fire.

  She had to suppress a smile - she wasn’t really paying attention to his words. Instead she was focused on the way that he spoke - rough around the edges, peppered with curses, with a slight southern accent. It wasn’t at all like Father Speer’s way of speaking, making everything sound like a declaration, full of flowery phrases meant to awe and impress. Call just spoke like Call. Like a man that wasn’t trying to be something more than he was.

  “And wherever you’re all staying, it’s safe?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Our compound. We’ve got this, like, office complex. I guess it used to be some kinda business center. Got some doctor’s offices and stuff. It was already all fenced in so we just settled there and we keep strengthening that fence with junk we find and well, we’ve got plenty of space. You’ll see.”

  She sat on the ground across the fire from him, spoon drawn. Wearing a thick work glove, he pulled the can from the flames and set it aside between them. He was right, she thought as she dug in, It is nice to have something hot. They shared the can in silence, with Lia stealing glances at Call when she thought he wasn’t looking. He raised an amused eyebrow when he caught her.

  “Tell me about your friends,” Call prompted. “How’d a bunch of pretty young girls end up on that farm? Did y’all know each other before the corpses walked?”

  “No,” she whispered. She stared into the fire as she searched for an explanation that didn’t sound creepy. She didn’t want to make Father Speer sound crazy, even if he was, a little. “The minister and his son took us each in when we stumbled across the farmhouse.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Only you young things, though.”

  “I’m not that young,” she said, eyes flashing. “I mean, I’m only twenty. But I’m not a child.”

  “Just seems suspicious to me,” Call said, lighting another cigarette.

  “Father Speer was a good man,” she said, and corrected herself, “Is. He is a good man.”

  “Yeah. Gathering himself a harem. Nice guy.”

  Her eyes shot wide open. “We weren’t his harem! He only let virgins stay, he wasn’t gathering a bunch of girls to have sex with.” She clapped her hands over her mouth. I said too much. Way too much. Why did I do that?

  “Doesn’t sound much better,” Call said, poking the fire with a stick. “So he’s a religious nutter. Are you?”

  “No,” she said softly. “I don’t know.” She sighed. “I guess I’m not. I wasn’t very good, that’s for sure.”

  He smirked. “Little rulebreaker, were you?”

  “I tried not to be. I tried to do everything right.” She shook her head and muttered, “Maybe I am a nutter.”

  His voice was low. “What happened?”

  Stop talking, she told herself, but the words trickled out. “I kissed his son. Just once, behind the barn while he was away. I knew it was wrong. I don’t think either one of them ever forgave me. And then…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t…. So. Father Speer knew there was something wrong with me after that. Knew there was something rotten and sinful inside me. He wanted to help, but…” She swept her arm out in front of her. “The herd came.”

  “Girly, there ain’t a thing in the world wrong with wanting to kiss someone.”

  “But-”

  “No, listen.” He sat up straighter and leaned forward. The light from the campfire danced in his eyes. “What happened after you kissed that boy? Were you consumed by hellfire? Did lightning strike you down? Did you grow tumors on your body and hair on your ass?”

  She recoiled at his words. “What? No!”

  “Right. Nothing happened. If that minister got mad, that’s on him. That’s his own damn issue. Come here.” He indicated the space next to him.

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m gonna show you. You trust me, right? At least a little? Come sit next to me.”

  She had come to trust him “at least a little,” but she still wasn’t sure why she got up, knees shaking, and settled down at his side. Curiosity was another thing that got her into trouble.

  “Now look,” he said, “I’m gonna sit on my hands, so you know I ain’t gonna try anything.” He was sitting cross-legged, and he tucked them beneath his thighs. “Now. Kiss me.”

  She flinched. “No way!”

  “C’mon. Just lean on in and do it.”

  “Are you crazy?” She leaned away.

  “I’m proving that nothing bad’ll happen. Don’t be scared.” He smirked. “The idea’s in your head now, anyway. When a zombie bites your head off tomorrow, you’re gonna be thinking ‘gee I sure wish I’d kissed that handsome bastard.’ So c’mon.”

  It was a good argument. At least that’s what she told herself as she considered it, her eyes settling on his lips. She did want to. He’s right. We could die anytime. She gave in to the impulse and, frowning at her weakness, she leaned in and kissed him softly on the mouth. His lips were soft, and warm, and she thought, this is kinda nice, before she sat back up. She licked her lips, tasting just a hint of his own. Really nice.

  “See?” he said quietly. “No earthquakes.”

  Just the one in my chest. She couldn’t take her eyes off his face. His voice changed when he spoke again, his tone lower. “Kiss me again.”

  She did, with less hesitation. With a sharp breath, he angled his head and covered her lips with his. The gentle touch of his mouth and the warm heat of his lips woke something in her - something hot that blossomed and pooled at her center. She trembled and moved to sit back, but he followed. The kiss went from warm to scorching as his lips slid against hers, as his tongue darted out for a taste. She whined and h
e finally pulled back.

  “Sorry,” he said with a lopsided grin. She scrambled away, putting the campfire between them again. “Really, Lia. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. I’m the one that’s all wrong. She tried to slow her breathing, waiting for the blush that had turned her face red to fade.

  “Lia-”

  “It’s okay,” she repeated, “I’m fine.” But she wasn’t. She shook all over, and it wasn’t only with fear. She wanted to kiss him again. But I shouldn’t.

  He sighed. “We can stay here for an hour if you want to close your eyes for a bit. I’ll keep watch. We need to reach a proper shelter by sunset, though, so just an hour.”

  “Just an hour,” she repeated as she curled up on the ground, using her backpack as a pillow. It wasn’t very comfortable but it was better than waking with a mouthful of dirt. She closed her eyes. All she could see was his face close-up again. Not good. He’d planted the idea in her head all right - and two brief kisses weren’t enough to eradicate it.

  The next day was grayer but he was still in high spirits, laughing and trying to make her laugh, until they reached the destination of his first “job,” as he’d called it. They pulled up to an old farmhouse that looked as though it was once painted white. The two-story structure wasn’t much different than Father Speer’s and the sight of it gave her a flash of homesickness that didn’t last.

  He stopped the bike in the front driveway and sat for a moment. “Rest stop,” he explained, “We hide supplies here for when and if we need them later.” He was tense, as if he smelled something on the air. “Stay here,” he said when he finally dismounted. “Fire your gun if you see anything and I’ll come running.”

  “All right.” He was leaving her alone with the bike. It was a level of trust she didn’t expect. That or he’s betting that I don’t know how to drive the thing. She honestly didn’t have the first clue.

  He cautiously approached the run-down house, pausing to listen to the birds and the wind every few steps. Nothing seemed amiss to her, but then, she was unfamiliar with the place.

  She expected him to go in through the front but he passed the porch and approached a pair of cellar doors instead. He knocked - a pattern, some sort of code - then pulled the door upwards and disappeared down the steps and into the dark.

  Lia slid from the bike and stretched her legs. The space around her was pretty wide open - nothing would be sneaking up very easily. She took the rare moment alone as a chance to check the supplies in her bag. She hadn’t touched much - just clean undergarments, her toothbrush, the canteen she had dangling from the side - but Father Speer had drilled it into their heads. “Check your supplies, then check them again. Never let yourself be caught by surprise when you run out of food or clean socks or especially water. Count your ammo. Count every bullet.” She did so now - the boxes of bullets that would fit her pistol, her revolvers, her shotgun - even one box of bullets that she couldn’t use. “Keep everything you can. You never know when it might be useful.” She even counted the loose bullets she’d stuffed in her pockets before they’d fled the house.

  She nearly dropped a handful of them when she heard shouting coming from the cellar. Feet stomped heavily up the steps - one pair and then another. Uh oh. A cold ball of dread settled in her stomach. She stuffed the ammo back in her pocket and pulled her pistol with one smooth motion. The dead don’t use stairs.

  Two figures appeared from the ground - Call shoved a man ahead of him, sending him sprawling from the top step of the cellar out on the grass. He had his gun out; his face was twisted. “Stay down!” he shouted at the man.

  “Call?” Lia asked, aiming at the stranger. She was far enough away that the man wouldn’t have enough time to rush her before she could shoot him twice.

  “Keep that gun aimed,” he told her, striding towards the man. He kicked him as he tried to get up, then kicked him again and rolled him onto his back. The stranger shouted and tried to scramble backwards, away from Call’s wrath.

  Lia’s hands shook - they never shook when she aimed at corpses, but this? She wasn’t prepared for this. Call fell upon him with a knee on his chest and pressed his gun to his forehead. The man froze.

  Neither spoke. She could hear Call’s breathing, heavy as he struggled to remain in control. It was clear on his face, sweat mingling with pain and anger and crumbling resolve. She had to do something. “Don’t do it,” she said, failing to keep her voice steady. “Please don’t shoot him.”

  “He deserves it,” Call growled.

  “Please don’t kill the living, Call.”

  “He did.” Oh. His words hung in the air. Would it be so wrong to kill a killer? She didn’t know the situation. Who was she to interfere?

  “It might be right to kill him but it’ll tear you up, too.” Her voice cracked as she said it. She knew the truth of her words. She imagined he probably knew it just as well.

  Her plea reached him, though. Grimacing, he lowered his gun and pulled the man to his feet. “Where’s your bike?” he growled. It was then that Lia realized he was wearing a leather vest similar to Call’s - but when he turned to lead Call around the house, he revealed a different set of patches. The words “Satan’s Remains MC” surrounded a horned beast atop a pile of skulls. Rivals.

  “Come,” Call said over his shoulder, “Keep that gun up and keep away.” She followed at a distance, her hands finally steady. She wasn’t going to shoot him unless he tried to harm them; unless it was self-defense. The stranger gave her a wide-eyed look, but Call shoved him ahead and snarled, “Don’t you look at her.”

  The strange biker led them to his motorcycle and his supplies, spitting curses under his breath that Call ignored. She kept her distance.

  The stranger was putting on a brave face but he was visibly trembling. Rival or whatever, he'd done something that pissed Call off personally. Killed someone? Call patted him down and found no weapons. When he went through his bags, he found just one knife. He hurled the bags behind them.

  "Give me your colors," he said, his voice flat. The man shrugged off his vest and wordlessly handed them over. The ball of dread in Lia's stomach grew but she bit her tongue.

  Call slashed the vest twice with the knife, hurled it to the ground, and stamped on it. With his back to her, he unzipped his pants and pissed on it. The stranger's face turned red; his hands formed tight fists at his sides.

  "Don't you do a thing," Lia said to him. He glared at her.

  Call closed his pants. Tearing a piece of the soiled leather away, he opened the bike's gas tank and stuffed it inside.

  "No, no, no," the stranger groaned, "Come on, man."

  "Be glad it's just the hog. You deserve this yourself." Call pulled a lighter from his pocket and held it to the leather until it caught. "Back," he said, pointing them away. They walked back towards the house as the gas tank ignited and the whole bike went up in flames. A safe distance away from the blaze, Call retrieved the man’s bags and tossed them at his feet. Sweat trickled down her back, and it wasn’t just from the heat. What is he going to do with him?

  “You get one bag of supplies,” he said, indicating that the man should start packing. “We take the rest.” Lia breathed a sigh of relief as the man scrambled through his three bags, rearranging their contents until he had one stuffed as full as it could be. He started to sling it over his shoulder, but Call stopped him. Lia’s stomach sank again.

  “Lift your shirt,” Call said. He still had the man’s knife in his hand.

  “Call…”

  He silenced her with a look. The man opened his mouth to argue, but Call only lifted an eyebrow at him. With shaking hands, the man lifted his shirt to his shoulders, revealing a sparsely hairy torso covered in tattoos. “Show us your back,” Call told him.

  The stranger knew he was beat. He never said a thing, and Lia admired his bravery for it. He turned his back to them, revealed a black tattoo similar to the one that was on his vest.

>   The gun shook in her hands again. “Please don’t hurt him, Call.”

  “I should fucking kill him!” His words echoed in the empty air, answered only by birds. He lashed out with the knife. The man was silent when the blade bit into his skin the first time, slashing diagonally across his tattoo. Blood flew, spattering the grass and Call himself. The man cried out on the second slash as Call swiped him the other way, creating a big, bleeding X through the ink.

  The knife fell from Call’s hand. “Now you get the fuck out of here,” he snarled.

  The stranger lowered his shirt gingerly, muttering to himself, shaking. The fabric was immediately soaked dark with blood. He held his bag in his arms in front of him. He turned to Lia before he left, his face twisted with pain. “Thank you,” he said, then to Call, “You keep that girl as fucking safe as you can, man.”

  Call nodded. “Go.” Shuffling, shambling, bleeding through his shirt, the man made off towards the road.

  She finally lowered her gun. “Did you have to do that?” she asked, her voice wavering.

  “I had to kill him is what I had to do,” he said. “If he got the jump on me and didn’t shoot me outright, he would have burned the colors off my back first. Or fucking peeled them.” Imagining it made her feel ill. “He got off easy.” Call sighed. “Wait with my bike. I’m not done here.”

  With black smoke rising behind him, with the sky turning gray with smoke and clouds, she watched him pull a body from the cellar. She hung back, now. He laid it out and stood over it with his shoulders stiff and his fists clenched. We let a murderer go.

  He let a murderer go because of what I said.

  There was no doubt in her mind that he would have killed that Satan’s Remains biker if she hadn’t been there to talk him into stopping. But was it the right thing? She was beginning to suspect there was no “right thing,” no “good solution.” Things aren’t as simple as Father Speer wanted us to think.