The Longest Road (Book 1)

by Thompson, A. S.

  But Mr. Jones didn’t see the outbreak coming, and his investment, along with the city of Danton, was ruined.

  “Look alive, we’re coming up to it,” Steve said, pointing to a green traffic sign with white letters that read, “Welcome to Danton.”

  Danton wasn’t as small as they had assumed. According to the welcome sign, it was home to a few thousand people, but none of the multiethnic population was visible. From what the cousins could see, the citizens, wherever they were, were not happy with Mr. Jones’s newest real estate endeavor and bastardization of their fair desert town. Hundreds of picket signs and protest leaflets lay strewn about.

  Gigantic billboards lined the road leading into the city, showing digitalized pictures of what Danton would be transformed into. The quiet city would be systematically phased out, and corporate businesses would slowly integrate themselves until the original store owners could no longer compete. Within months, Danton would be totally replaced with strip malls, a new community of condos and houses replacing the old ones, a five star hotel with attached casino, and two competition golf courses. The rich got richer and the poor got kicked in the face: the American dream. On the outskirts, land was torn down and readied for the large-scale construction project. Tractors, dump trucks, and cranes sat unmoving next to a string of portable homes used by the construction managers.

  Steve’s eyes left the distant site and focused on the bag of Skittles he had swept off the seat earlier. He was still waking up, and thought the sugar would help do the trick. Although Skittles weren’t the best choice, they would still give him the quick energy rush he needed. Whenever entering into a potentially dangerous zone, he never liked to be less than 100% ready.

  Coyote Boulevard was the one and only street that ran for a mile and a half, lined on either side with various shops and businesses. Many of the buildings looked rundown, with their windows shattered; nearly every store was ransacked. The streets were flooded with garbage cans, crashed cars, and a few rotting bodies. A slight breeze kicked up the loose trash. Like so many towns before, riots had clearly swept through Danton.

  The RV and F-150 rolled down the street, scoping for any signs of an undead presence. A coyote bulleted through the street a few feet in front of the RV, causing Collin and Steve to jump back in their seats. Other than that, nothing moved.

  “Fuckin’ Coyote Boulevard is right,” Collin said, regaining his nerves.

  Steve nodded in agreement and tossed in a handful of Skittles.

  A few blocks down, Collin veered off the main road and pulled into the parking lot of a newly-established Wal-Mart.

  “Of course there’s a Wal-Mart. Where isn’t there one?” Collin said sarcastically under his breath. He navigated around the empty parking lot and backed into the loading dock. The space wasn’t the most strategically sound, but was probably the best they would find with the limited amount of options and daylight running out.

  A concrete wall about eight feet high enclosed the dock in an L shape. It divided the business from a residential neighborhood that was situated about 200 feet away. A metal gate on rollers closed off the dock, allowing trucks in while keeping delinquents out.

  Judging by the “FUCK WAL-MART” graffiti on the building, they had good reason for the security; apparently a few citizens of Danton didn’t appreciate corporate America coming into their town.

  To the group’s advantage, anything that tried to get in wouldn’t have an easy time getting past those barricades.

  Collin set the gear to park but kept the engine running. He turned and yelled to the back. “Hey, you guys ready? Hurry up!”

  The side door of the RV swung open, and two guys with rifles and small arms came staggering out, partially blinded by the bright afternoon sun. Billy and Alex took a moment to stretch.

  Billy was the oldest of the five cousins, and the uncontested brawn of the group. He had the physique of an NFL linebacker, and the mentality of one, too. His aggressive nature only made him more lethal when they encountered the infected. On a few occasions in the past, his brash attitude had nearly cost him.

  Alex came from a broken home in southern California to live alone with his dad a few hours north of New York City. At twenty years old, he was the youngest cousin, but he was closest to Billy in terms of friendship. Standing at 5’10”, he was lean but muscular, and his dark brown hair was covered by a weathered Anaheim Angeles hat. Since his family life wasn’t great, his idea of rebellion was growing out a very inconsistent beard, smoking the occasional clove cigarette, and fighting.

  Standing outside the RV, they brought out each other’s immaturity. Alex and Billy were a match made in anarchy heaven, and no one argued. Both wore matching military pants, complete with added gun holsters, which they had picked up from an outdoors store on the East Coast a few months back. Dust lined their black, all-purpose boots, and each wore unmarked shirts. They stood there, peeing on the ground, causing steam to rise up from the sunburned street. With their free hand, they proceeded to turn on their walkie-talkie earpieces.

  “Cully. Steve. Can you guys hear me?” Billy asked over the mic.

  “Hey, guys, check it out, A-L-E-X spelled in piss. That’s fucking comedy. You guys seeing this?” Alex chimed in, testing his mic.

  Inside the driver’s cabin, Steve and Collin shook their heads, laughing in spite of themselves at the ridiculous creation.

  “Yeah, Bill, we got you, and yeah, Alex, it looks great. Got enough for my name?” Collin called back, chuckling. “You guys know the drill, just the immediate area, and report back if you find anything.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ll be back in a bit,” Alex replied, zipping up his pants.

  Alex and Billy made sure their magazines were loaded, checked the chambers of their guns, and set off. In seconds, Alex had gone out of view into the residential neighborhood, and Billy had taken off to survey the buildings in the main street.

  “Steve, you should probably set up on the—” Collin began to say, but Steve was already up, loading his rifle, and heading out the door. “Roof,” he finished.

  Steve jumped from the cabin door, landing softly on the concrete. He hooked up his earpiece while making his way to the ladder on the back of the RV.

  Upon arriving at any location, the cousins scouted the area to make sure it was safe before setting up camp. A monotonous routine, but probably the single most important reason they had survived for so long.

  On his way up the scalding metal bars, Steve saw the other car and the five people inside, shivering from the air conditioning.

  I wish we could just get rid of these assholes, he thought while ascending.

  The sun showed no mercy as it beat down on Steve’s black T-shirt. He got to the top, took out a piece of Pink-Lemonade Bubblicious gum from his desert-camouflage military fatigues, and set up position near the front.

  Without a doubt, Steve was the best shot in the group. Maybe it was genetics, or maybe his refined skills came from having a father who took him to the shooting range since he was six. Either way, he could hit any target with lethal precision using any type of gun, which was the main reason he was normally on sniper or cover detail. He wasn’t cocky by any means; shooting just came naturally to him.

  “Seems all clear from up here, Collin,” he squawked through his mic. “But it’s hotter than hell.”

  “Yeah, the AC feels great in here. I’m almost too cold,” Collin replied with a snicker in his voice.

  Steve wiped a droplet of sweat from his brow. “What’s with this damn heat? Isn’t it supposed to be cold? It’s only April!”

  “Not like back home, is it? Arizona gets heat waves randomly.”

  “Do me a favor and remind me that I never want to live here.”

  “I don’t know. I might be able to see myself here. Well, maybe in Scottsdale or somewhere,” Collin called back. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Nope, not for me. I prefer the cold. And will do. Steve-out.”

  Five mi
nutes passed without a word from Billy or Alex. Collin began nervously fidgeting with the cord of the CB radio, waiting for an update.

  Still nothing came.

  Feeling thirsty, Collin got up to get a drink from the fridge. As he did, two gun shots broke the silence, and Billy came through on the radio.

  “Ahh! — Help! — Collin! Steve! Anyone! — They got me! — Ahh!”

  Collin scrambled as fast as he could to the front. He squeezed the transmit button on his mic. “Billy! Is everything okay? What’s happened? Where are you?”

  No response.

  “Steve! Do you see anything? Can you see Billy?”

  “No, I got nothing up here!” Steve called back quickly. “Did you hear those shots? It sounded close.”

  Suddenly, Billy’s voice came through the radio again. “I’m right — around — the corner — Help!”

  Collin grabbed his .357 off the dash and kicked open the driver door. Steve flung his rifle around his shoulder, put both feet on the sides of the ladder and slid down. The cousins hit the ground at the same time, looked at each other in panic, and then ran for the sliding gate entrance they had come through. Collin turned the corner first, skidding to a halt. Steve, only steps behind, expected conflict, but was just as stumped as Collin. In front of them, Billy and Alex hugged each other and fell to their knees, nearly dying of laughter.

  “What the hell is going on?” Collin asked.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” Steve added, looking around but seeing no threat.

  “Oh man, we totally got you guys!” both cried out in between laughs.

  “I don’t get it. So nothing’s wrong?”

  “Hell no! April fools! We knew you guys would come save the day,” Billy said, gasping for air, trying to regain some composure. “And I believe someone owes me a beer. That was less than ten-seconds, Alex.”

  “Damn! I bet Bill a beer that it’d take one of you more than ten-seconds to get here,” Alex chuckled as he passed by Steve and Collin, making his way back to the fridge in the RV. “Who’d of thought we’d get two Captain Americas?”

  Collin looked down at the digital readout on his watch. He was actually more surprised Billy and Alex knew it was in fact the first of April.

  “So this was all one big joke, huh? And you guys are okay?” Steve asked.

  “You guys are fucking jackasses, you know that? Making me run out in this hot-ass weather and shit,” Collin said, still annoyed. “Did you at least scout out the town?”

  “Yeah. It seems iffy. I found a few goners, but no zombs. I was on my way back, and that’s when I ran into Alex and we decided to pull that prank,” Billy answered, still finding humor in his “cry-wolf.”

  Alex rushed back with a beer for all of them and added his analysis as Billy finished. “I found some signs of walkers in the residential. What do you want to do, Collin?”

  Collin thought for a moment, contemplating the options, then spoke. “Okay, we’ll set up shop here. Billy, Alex, go do some further recon together, and see what you come up with. No more screwing around. And stop wasting ammo, damnit!”

  Both finished their beers and chucked the cans. After large, obnoxious burps, they wiped their mouths and left.

  As Collin turned to give Steve instructions, the F-150’s driver door swung open, and Dan Messy stepped out.

  Dan was a hick from some backwards town on the border of Arkansas and Oklahoma—the cousins didn’t care enough to have him repeat the name. He was the epitome of a southern redneck in character and looks, because he really did have a red neck. He wore shabby jeans that looked as though they hadn’t been washed in years, a Confederate-flag sleeveless T-shirt, and a beat-up black trucker hat that read “BADASS.” The hat itself covered up a textbook mullet, and he had a mouthful of decayed teeth. A Colt .45 six-shooter was holstered, barrel-down, in front of his groin.

  A week before, the cousins had run into Dan and his group at a fueling station on a lonely stretch of highway in northeastern Texas. After siphoning off as much fuel as they could, they had decided to stick together, since they were all heading west. Power in numbers.

  “What y’all doing down ov’der? Whaz going on?” Dan asked, launching some tobacco-filled spit onto the ground.

  “Just scouting out the area, Dan,” Collin answered, annoyed. Everything about Dan irritated Collin. He switched to a mimicking hillbilly accent and continued. “We don’t wanna done set up camp next to some, som-bitch zombies, now do we?”

  “Yeh, yer prolly right,” Dan said, completely oblivious to Collin’s mockery.

  By this time, the rest of the survivors had piled out from the F-150 and walked over to the corner where Collin and Steve were strategizing. They each shielded their eyes from the blinding sun and started to stretch their cramped bodies.

  Michelle Brown, Dan’s girlfriend, came out from the passenger side door first. A few years younger than Dan, she was every bit of five feet, had long, dirty-blond hair, and torn up jeans that she argued looked fashionable. Her teeth were slightly more improved than Dan’s, but not by much. After meeting her, the cousin’s had agreed that not all southern girls were belles.

  Dan’s best friend, Frank Shack, stepped out next, throwing a shotgun over his left shoulder while downing a can of Bud Light. If Dan came from the “dirty south,” then Frank came from the dirtiest of the dirty south. He was even more unkempt and ill-groomed than Dan, and his ego was only surpassed by his belt size. His body was riddled with anti-Semitic, neo-Nazi, and Confederate-pride tattoos. The cousins couldn’t bear the sight of him, though they did find humor in his wobble.

  Last, two Texas girls in their mid-twenties exited from the back seat. Jessica Paulson and Mandy Carter were, by anyone’s standards, beautiful. They hailed from a town about thirty minutes outside Austin. Physically, they were the opposite of the other three, but mentally, just as dumb.

  A few days ago, Dan had seen them broken down on a highway back in Texas and picked them up. Dan said he was being kind, but everyone knew they were just two hot pieces of eye candy. Michelle didn’t mind; she finally had girls to talk to.

  The cousins had no idea how all five of these idiots had survived this long—they flew in the face of Darwin and “survival of the fittest.”

  Collin wished Billy and Alex safe travels, then turned to face the newcomers. “Glad you guys could join the party,” Collin said dryly. “Okay, Steve, I want you and Shrek—”

  “It’s Shack,” Frank snapped coldly.

  Collin continued with a tiny smirk on his face. “Whatever,Shack, you two start setting up the perimeter.”

  They had been on the road for months, and had picked up a few survival tips along the way. Steve had dubbed this particular method the Noisemaker. Instead of parking out in the open and waiting to become zombie food, they had found that hooking up something as primitive as a string of cans or wind chimes would warn them if anything approached. Steve and Frank marched away and began unloading the equipment from Dan’s truck.

  Collin turned to the two Texas girls, ready to give them orders. Before he could get a word off, they noticed a clothing store across the street and bolted to it, ignoring any and all instruction.

  Mike, apparently too stoned to sleep, stepped out from the side door of the RV. He flipped the sun off for being too bright and lit up another joint.

  “Mike!” Collin shouted back to the RV door. “Hurry up after those dumb-ass girls before they get themselves killed. And if you find anything useful, bring it back.”

  Mike shuffled past them, puffing out a huge cloud of smoke and pumping his shotgun to make sure it was loaded. His radio earpiece dangled over his shoulder; he was either too hot or too stoned to put it on.

  Collin faced Dan and Michelle and finished his instructions. “Okay, you two will come with me. We need to look for supplies. We need water, nonperishable food—” he said before getting cut off.

  “Now why you gotsta go using fancy words in all?” Dan said, scratching his hea
d as though someone had just explained quantum physics to him. “Whatcha done mean by ‘no-peri-chip-cable’ food? You mean like Cheetos?”

  He’s fucking stupid! How has he survived this long? Collin thought to himself.

  Shaking his head at Dan’s redneck ignorance, Collin replied, “Just look for food and water. We also need to siphon off some gas, too. Got it? Good, now let’s go.”

  Collin and Dan grabbed a few large containers and plastic hosing to siphon gas with, and placed them in a nearby shopping cart. The three of them left with weapons out. Collin carried his .30 caliber custom Ruger rifle, Dan still had his Colt smashed in his waistline “gangster style,” and Michelle slid in a new magazine to her .22 handgun.

  They decided to take advantage of the fact that it was still light out and to save Wal-Mart for last, since it was the closest. They headed down Coyote Boulevard, surveying the various shops and checking every car for gas.

  1544 hours

  Mike dragged his feet getting to the department store.

  “This is too damn hot,” he said under his breath.

  He saw the girls climb through a shattered window and heard their screams of excitement. Deb’s Rack was the size of a small department store. It was only lit from the small amount of the sun’s rays that penetrated through the front windows.

  Jessica and Mandy stampeded through the clothing store, snatching whatever caught their eye. They were completely oblivious to the fact that at any moment an infected person could attack them. They ran around fearlessly, pulling down as many bathing suits, tops, pants, and shorts as they could. Maybe it was instinct, or perhaps the excitement of all-you-can-grab, free clothing, but they hurried as fast as they could to the dressing rooms.