The Feral Children [A Zombie Road Tale] Box Set | Books 1-3

by Simpson, David A.

  She looked at the sun halfway to the western horizon, estimated the time to be a little after three. A check of her watch indicated her guess was close. Three seventeen. It was important to be able to read the environment. She’d learned hard lessons about being unprepared. Mistakes she wouldn’t make again. Technology couldn’t be relied on anymore; it was gone and wasn’t coming back. Cunning and skill were the things that gave you an edge. Mother Earth was a harsh teacher but Swan embraced the lessons.

  She’d hadn’t picked up her iPad in months and didn’t miss it. Her home was in the wild. Her steel and her pack would protect her, Mother Earth would sustain her. She loved her brothers and sisters at the zoo, would die to defend them, but she cared nothing for the farming they were doing. She’d taken her turn tilling the soil. She’d hauled buckets of compost, sowed the seeds and weeded the garden but her heart wasn’t in it. Even though she enjoyed the fruits of their labor, she was happiest in the woods. She and Donny would bring the meat, the others could toil in the dirt.

  She whistled the pack to her side and struck off east. Their chase had revealed a farmhouse nestled in the woods far from the road she hadn’t explored. She’d taken to raiding abandoned homes for supplies and peering into the lives of those lost and forgotten. Sometimes, the houses still had zombies in them. She set them free and took them down with arrows as they spilled from the house, hungry and enraged. She returned their bodies to the earth and freed their tortured souls.

  The zombies trapped inside were fast, as fast as the ones on that first day at the zoo. Once she’d had to pick them off from the safety of a tree she scampered up inches ahead of their grasping hands and snapping jaws. That was before her wolves learned to kill quick and move on to the next, not savage the thing long after it was dead. They sensed the unnaturalness of them and had a deep hatred for the undead things. She’d learned to be more careful, to peek through windows so she wouldn’t be surprised when a houseful of them came streaming out when she kicked open the door.

  Sometimes, the houses held the remains of families who’d taken their own lives instead of facing the new reality where the dead roamed the earth. These homes she treated with the sanctity of a grave. She walked their empty halls, singing a song her mother had taught her to ease their soul’s passages to the other side. She took nothing from these homes, only a feeling of sadness. There was too much stuff out there to be disrespectful to those spirits. She paid a quiet respect to the fallen occupants, looked into the lives they once led and left the homes as she found them.

  In the empty houses though, she would spend hours walking through them, munching on something from the kitchen, studying the pictures of families. She raided the pantries. Looked under the beds and in the closets for things the tribe could use to survive. She flipped through dusty photo albums filled with yellowing pictures of smiling parents and happy children before the virus wiped them all out. She still felt the pangs of the loss of her own family, but it was just a dull ache now. The more time that passed, the harder it was to picture her parent’s faces.

  She could go home. She’d toyed with the thought many times. A couple of days and nights of swift footed travel would put her at the small eco-friendly homestead she’d shared with her mom and dad. She had no fear of the undead, of the wandering hordes that still migrated through from time to time. The sharp senses of the pack would allow her to avoid any large groups and she knew they could handle any small hordes quickly and quietly.

  She was more afraid of what might be wandering around the house she once called home. Her last contact with her mother was a frantic call from the highway, but the man who doted on her and called her his little Pocahontas had been home that day. She knew in her heart he was gone but if somehow, he’d managed to survive would he even recognize her now, with her war paint and budding chest that she tried to hide? His little girl was armed and armored, ran with a pack of wolves and bore the scars of battles fought and enemies vanquished. She was a killer of men. She wondered if he would be proud of who she’d become or appalled. Would he look at her with his kind green eyes and reassure her that she’d only done what she had to do to survive, or would he shake his head in disappointment knowing his daughter had taken lives? Both of her parents had abhorred violence of any kind. They couldn’t even stay in the room when she watched the National Geographic channel and a lion took down a zebra.

  She shook off the thought. It really didn’t matter at this point. In this world, you were either the predator or the prey. Besides, if he was in their home, it wasn’t him anymore. Just another monster that looked like him wearing his pajamas. Some things were best left unknown and she abandoned the thought. She had things to do.

  She whistled to the ranging wolves, corrected their course and picked up her own pace. Excitement of discovery coursed through her veins at the thought of the empty farmhouse. Maybe, just maybe, she’d get lucky and find a clue about where Gordon was in one of the homes she explored. A picture with friends or family, a dusty school yearbook with his ugly mug in it. Anything that would give her a hint of where to find the murderous bastard. He had to have some connection to this area, or he’d never have been there the day of the outbreak. Swan vowed she’d never stop looking until she found him.

  3

  Gordon

  Miles to the northeast of where Swan ran with her wolves, in the lavish gated community of Smith’s Landing, Gordon Lowery stared out of the bay window of his mansion. His, all his. His father was one of the wandering horde, a casualty from the first day of the outbreak. His cousin, Richard, was no longer able to contest his leadership. As a matter of fact, he knew right where Richard was and frequently relieved his bladder on his cousin’s undead corpse as it wandered aimlessly in the bottom of the pool. He clicked the remote on the cover and watched it slide open to reveal his collection of corpses. Careful to stop it at the halfway point so they couldn’t climb out, he took great satisfaction watching them. They were his lessers and a reminder to the living of what would happen to them if they crossed him. The only thing that could make his morning ritual more satisfying would be to see Kodiak and some of the other brats down there. Patience, he told himself. He would have his revenge eventually.

  He’d put his cousin in there and didn’t regret it one bit. It was a matter of survival. A simple business decision was how he thought of the whole ordeal. After the battle with the snotty little brats from Piedmont, Richard had planned for Gordon to be stumbling around the pool for their entertainment. Gordon had been faster though, smarter. He turned the tables on his cousin, buried a bullet in his guts and let the zombies do the rest.

  He gazed down at the dry swimming pool in the carefully manicured yard and watched the undead mill about aimlessly. Mindless and untiring. They raged and keened, tried to scale the smooth walls of the Olympic sized pool anytime anyone came close to it. They’d been next door in Richard’s pool when he first came to Smith’s Landing, his cousin had even put his own father in there. They’d disagreed on the proper way to act in a lawless world. The rape and pillaging were beneath a Lowery the senior Lowery had argued. Control the food and supplies and they’ll give it up voluntarily. Richard had disagreed. The strong take what they want.

  Gordon enjoyed the benefits of having a collection of the undead trapped like that. It was a great motivator for the rest of his gang whenever they wanted to grumble about his leadership style. He’d personally put Richard in there and made the other’s throw their buddy, Pole, in with him. The boy had been gangrenous, and his moaning and crying had finally gotten to Gordon. He’d taken over that night and solidified his reign while they all suffered from their wounds from the battle with the brats.

  Things were different under Gordon’s leadership. For one thing, he’d vacated Richards’s house. It smelled like a morgue and a landfill. The boys were slobs and the girls weren’t much better. Before he took charge, they partied and did whatever the boys told them to do. They didn’t have a choice. They were objects
to be used by whoever wanted them.

  After taking Richard out, Gordon changed the rules. My way or the highway he told them. Or more accurately, his way or the pool. Walk the plank, ye scurvy dog! He smiled at that. One of them had tested his resolve, he’d been dumb enough to say he wasn’t going to work in the yard like some slave. Gordon had told them he didn’t care how the rest of the compound looked, but his grounds would be kept in pristine condition or somebody would be going off the diving board. Jeremy had refused. Jeremy had taken a long walk off a short board. It had taken a few bullet holes in him to persuade him he didn’t have a choice. He had even tried to dive head first to break his neck so he wouldn’t be doomed to wander forever but the undead reaching for him broke his fall. Now he was another shambler wandering around the deep end of the pool. Even now with most of the world dead, appearances mattered to Gordon. His home showed it. His impeccable style of dress reinforced it.

  His father would have no choice but be proud of his ruthlessness. As it turned out, Gordon had more spine than his old man ever had. He didn’t hide behind his lawyers and accountants, he fought his own battles. Cowardly bastard, Gordon thought as he remembered the day of the outbreak and how his father had run off and left him behind to fend for himself.

  They’d kept Richard’s house as a makeshift hospital. A place where all the injured gang could heal or die. He needed them alive for his plans of revenge, at least some of them anyway. He didn’t care which ones it was. He had no love for any of them. They were Richard’s friends, not his. They were simply a means to an end.

  The burned-up girl they all called Squirrel had disappeared. No one knew when she left or where she went. She was just gone one morning. He was glad, she was a constant reminder of the failed attack and the sneaky ambush the kids had sprung on them. Gordon figured she was probably dead and devoured by now. Good riddance, she was horrid to look at.

  The surviving boys were tools to be used and discarded until something better came along. Something like the group up north whose radio chatter he had picked up while scanning the channels on a walkie talkie. They called themselves Soldiers of Anubis. He had tried to engage them but his handheld didn’t have the power to broadcast that far. It was only strong enough to pick up snippets now and then. Gordon was patient though. He had found a Ham radio in the basement of one of the other houses and was learning how to use it.

  The tribe of kids at the zoo were never far from his thoughts. He hated them.

  Hated them with a seething black hatred that bordered on obsession.

  Hated them for feeling sorry for him.

  Hated them for expecting him to get his hands dirty with those filthy animals.

  Hated them for casting him out. For rejecting him.

  Hated them for the crushing defeat they’d given him at the burnt-out church.

  Hated them because he couldn’t control them.

  No way would he hit them head on again, he’d be discreet next time. Those savage kids responded to force with even more force. They would get what they had coming when they least expected it. He’d find a way to take everything from them a piece at a time. He would have his revenge and take what he wanted and toy with them before they were crushed under his heel once and for all. He’d have that snooty little stuck up Harper as his personal toy and he’d cover the floor in his study with the hide of her giraffe.

  He watched as one of his gang walked the fences, stabbing the undead with a sharpened piece of rebar. He liked to keep a few undead at the gates. Kodiak had done the same thing and as much as hated the boy, he saw the wisdom in it. They were a great deterrent and early alarm system. Their keening wails and howls erupted in full force whenever they sensed anyone uninfected. They had to be managed though. Too many at the gates and they would push it down with the sheer weight of their numbers or trample each other in their eagerness to spread the virus, effectively creating a ramp that would let them spill over the wrought iron bars.

  He didn’t see any of the others outside. The rest of the crew had better be getting the other house in order. He didn’t go in there much since moving back into his own place, but when he did, he didn’t want to walk in filth. Filth was for the poor orphans hiding in a zoo. Filth was for nasty flea covered animals. He was a Lowery, and Lowery’s didn’t abide filth.

  They complained, but not too loudly, about his tight control of the drugs and alcohol. They’d partied nonstop since the end of the world and would have continued right on with it if he hadn’t stepped in and taken control. They muttered under their breath about how he rationed the food. Bitched and moaned over being forced to spend the winter in Richard’s trashed house whenever there were hundreds of other houses they could use. A house they had trashed. Unchecked, they’d have eaten themselves out of supplies before winter was half over. None of them were in any shape to plunder the other homes in the community and Gordon wasn’t going to haul it for them through the snow. He wasn’t some commoner. There was plenty of food in the house, if it was managed, but they never thought ahead of the moment they were in. He’d saved them from themselves and they should be grateful.

  Gordon didn’t care about their complaints. He was in charge. He didn’t want them in his house and he didn’t want them destroying the empty homes in the subdivision. They had nearly destroyed Richards home and no matter how clean they kept it now, it still looked like it belonged in the ghetto, not in the most prestigious gated community for hundreds of miles. They had spray painted graffiti, knocked holes in the plaster, destroyed the hardwood floors and carpets with cigarettes and whiskey spills and broken the finely crafted stair railings with their skateboards. He wasn’t going to let them tear up the rest of the houses, he had plans. His plans had backup plans. If one didn’t work out, he’d move onto the next. He was smart and calculating. He prided himself on his preparedness.

  One of his many contingency plans involved recruiting an army of survivors to follow his every command. He’d house them in the lavish homes in exchange for their loyalty if his plans to join the Anubis Society didn’t pan out.

  The few girls remaining were required to move into his house and most of the winter he’d had them all to himself. His power, and the only gun, allowed him to do anything he wanted. Everyone complied after he’d grabbed his own stepmother by the throat and backed her to the edge of the pool. He held her at the edge with one hand and threatened to drop her in with the zombies. Misty knew from the look in his eyes, he’d do it. After that, all of them were eager to do what he said.

  Gordon ran things tight and precise. No more partying, unless he wanted to party. The girls kept his house spotless and the liquor and pills were kept under lock and key. All the guns but his were locked in a safe, away from temptation in case anyone wanted to contest his leadership. He carried a .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson at all times. He liked the feel of the heavy revolver and how it solidified his reign over the others. If he’d had it during the battle, Kodiak would have been dead. The stupid bear would be dead. He’d have scattered them all like leaves in the wind and taken Harper. If only. He touched the butt lovingly. He could hear it whispering to him. Pull me out, let me roar. Let me show them fear and power. Our power! Oddly, the voice sounded like his father and it never shut up. It was always there. Always goading him to do whatever he wanted or berating him for nothing. There was no law, no consequence. Police cars weren’t going to show up with flashing lights to take him away. No one was going to hold him accountable for his actions. He was the law and the only law was whatever he said.

  Gordon would never take any crap from anyone again. He was in charge. King of an empire of the dead. Women to do his bidding and young men to fight his fights. No one would dare cross him if they knew what was good for them. No one, except those snotty brats at the zoo.

  During the long, cold winter days while the others convalesced and healed from their wounds, he pumped iron in his basement. It had taken a while for the injury to his wrist to heal but he worked around it.
He was sure it had been broken, but it turned out to just be a bad sprain. He worked through the pain with heavy wraps of sports tape and lighter weights until the day it didn’t hurt. Then he got serious with the weights. He supplemented his workouts with the steroids and muscle building proteins Richard had stashed in his room. The others grew soft from inactivity as their bones mended and gashes scarred over. He grew harder. Hours and hours in his basement gym worked his muscles into shape. He would remedy the other boys’ softness in time too. They would get back in shape. They wouldn’t stay blitzed out of their minds on drugs and alcohol. They would get in fighting form, or they would die trying because he wanted an army of warriors, not a bunch of frat boys thinking up new ways to get stoned.

  He’d been having trouble getting a decent night of sleep. If it wasn’t the scratching sound tormenting him, it was the voice. Sometimes he’d hear both at the same time and he wanted to claw his ears off. Every time he closed his eyes and more frequently when he was awake, he could hear them. The condescending voice of his father or the scratching sounds.

  The scratch, scratch, scratching of the store owner. Gordon had been trapped when the outbreak happened, confined to a tiny room with no escape and something dead wanted in. Jagged fingernails clawed at the office door for days. Then came the pulpy sound of fingers being worn away, blood and meat streaking and drying on the door. Then the scratching again. Bone on wood.

  Scratch.

  Scratch.

  Scratch.

  Endless. Hour after hour. Day after day. Week after week, the sound was always there. For months he listened and tried to keep quiet, hoped it would give up and go away. It never stopped. How long until the jagged bones clawed their way through the door one sliver at a time?