He heard voices outside the walls. It was the men who’d caged them. He couldn’t make out the words, just the sound of laughter. It made him angrier. He slid the old Zippo into his pocket and grasped his war hammer. He listened to the clank of the chain being removed from the door. He looked at Otis, motionless on the ground, and then tore his gaze away from his companion. The time for regret had passed. Now was a time for action.
He locked eyes with his brothers and sisters as weapons were readied. He hefted his war hammer high above his head; they nodded in agreement and raised their own weapons. He loosened his knife in its sheath so it would come out faster. When the blood spilling started, he wanted to be sure that he drew every drop that was due him.
When the townspeople lured them in with their empty promises, they hadn’t even tried to take his weapons from him or the others. They thought because the tribe was made up of kids that they were weak. They thought their guns made them superior. They thought because they were bigger, older and there were more of them they had the advantage. Others had thought that too. Others had been wrong. Others were dead.
He didn’t want to spill any more blood, but he would. He didn’t want any more ghosts following him around, but he would welcome their company if that’s what it took to protect his tribe.
The tribe spread out as sunlight started streaming in through the opening and silhouetted the two figures standing in the doorway. Animals and children melted into the shadows, ready to hack, slash and tear anyone who would do them harm. Except Otis. Otis lay where he’d fallen. His heart broke as he watched him from the corner of his eyes. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the haft of the hammer and readied himself. Rage coursed through him as he prepared himself for battle.
He tore his gaze from the fallen bear and brushed the long hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand. He growled low and deep as the two figures entered the barn.
1
The Road to Lakota
11 Months After the Outbreak
The plod of hooves and the tinkle of a cowbell were the only sounds on the deserted stretch of two-lane blacktop that ran through the lonely southeastern corner of Iowa. A few dried and weathered cornstalks still held out against the ravages of time. They stood crooked and bowed from the winds in the seemingly never-ending fields on both sides of the road where corn was once king. Miles and miles of the same view were behind them. Empty, desolate, and forgotten. Weeks gone from the home they had made. Weeks gone since they laid Murray in a hole on the banks of the river. Weeks gone from the wrath they had rained down on Gordon and his gang of thugs.
Power lines sagged to the ground where one storm or another had snapped off the poles. They lay across the road in places, but were more a nuisance than anything. Electricity had stopped moving through them more than a year ago and probably never would again. The dead didn’t need power. There was nothing to see except more of the same. It was miles and miles of nothing occasionally broken by an empty house and barns with flapping roofs. Things were falling apart fast with no one to make the small repairs. A corner of a roof sprung loose from a summer storm went unchecked and the wind worried at it relentlessly. Nails worked loose, tin blew free, rains poured in.
The road was desolate. The interstates were packed with cars in many places, but the back roads the tribe traveled had been ignored by the people fleeing the waves of undead. Mother Nature was slowly eroding all signs that man had once tilled the fertile soil. Prairie grass swayed in the breeze as far as the eye could see. Day by day it encroached on the roadway. Sprigs of grass clawed their way up through the cracks in the asphalt, driving them further apart. Rain washed down through the cracks and eroded the soil underneath the road bed. The painted lines down the center were so faded they could barely be seen. In a few more years the road would be lost, covered in grasses.
Farm equipment sat rusting in the fields or in barn yards. The most excitement they’d had was the zombie farmer trapped in the cab of a tractor just off the road. It had banged and keened against the glass when they passed. They stopped and watched out of curiosity. A summer spent in the oven like atmosphere of the tractor cab hadn’t been kind to the zombie. Its flesh fell off in chunks as it railed against the glass that kept it in. They’d made morbid jokes about how it must smell in there and Tobias said it was the equivalent of Crockpot Zombie. They left him in his prison and the sounds of mushy hands slapping on glass faded behind them.
Endless miles of barbed wire rusted and fence posts rotted. Tractors and combines sat in fields wasting away with harrows and plows hooked behind them that rested on flat tires and provided sanctuary for rabbits and field mice. Without man and his machines to beat it back the grass dominated the landscape like it once did when the Native Americans called this place home. Kodiak liked to imagine that someday maybe buffalo would once more roam these grasslands and tribes of nomads would follow them like they did before the land was settled, taking only what they needed to survive. That was the way it should be, order out of chaos.
Fresh meat had been scarce. They saw plenty of animals, but they were always far away, just specks on the horizon. The terrain was too open and neither Donny nor Swan knew how to hunt it. They’d honed their deadly skills in the forests surrounding Piedmont, not on the open plains. They watched hungrily as pheasant and quail flushed from the tall grass. Many times they’d seen deer or antelope dart from the grassy plains to disappear out of sight. Too far away for the deadly accuracy of Donny’s spear or an arrow from Swan’s bow. Too far away for even the wolves or panther to have a chance of catching them. It was hard to sneak up on prey that could smell and hear you coming for miles. It was impossible to spot an animal that was perfectly camouflaged in the tall grass. They did find a snake now and then but for the most part it was tough and tasteless. Still, it was meat, so they ate it when there was nothing else. Stomachs growled and children grumbled about the meager rations they had left. Backpacks and saddlebags hung flat and almost empty.
Hopes had been high when they spotted the hundreds of rail cars sitting idle on their tracks. Disappointment took its place when they discovered the cars were full of coal once destined for power plants and bug riddled grain that was fermented and rotten. Dreams of cases of canned goods and clothing that wasn’t worn and tattered from the miles and elements faded. The tribe pressed on. There was nothing behind them so they didn’t waste time worrying about what they didn’t find and refocused their efforts on what might be ahead.
They’d lived fairly good in the security of Piedmont Animal Sanctuary but those days were gone. Being burned out of their home and the murder of Murray erased any desire to try and rebuild. The ruins of the house would always be a painful reminder for all of them. The stories of Lakota drew them like a moth to the flame. The promise of hope and a chance to grow up without looking over their shoulders drew them like a magnet. Landon, Clara, and Caleb were already there thanks to the girls they had rescued from Gordon.
The tribe had loaded up with supplies from the food warehouse in Putnam but most of it was long gone. The bears, the wolves and the panther ate a lot and even with careful rationing, there wasn’t enough. They thought it would be easy to scavenge supplies on the road but it hadn’t been. Most of the farmhouses didn’t have cellars full of home canned goods. They had cupboards with a few weeks’ worth of groceries. One of the bears could eat everything in the house and still be hungry. They thought they could hunt for game but once the woodlands turned to prairie, the biggest thing they’d caught was a rabbit. Now it was a day to day struggle to keep food in their bellies.
Harpers giraffe grazed the grass on the shoulders of the road and Vanessa’s ostrich sought out seeds or insects to fill her belly. The carnivores that traveled with the tribe weren’t as lucky. There had been no fresh meat for them to feast on. They could go for days or even weeks without eating, relying on their fat stores to carry them through to the next meal, but even the mightiest of beasts had their limits and everyon
e was almost at theirs. The few rabbits and mice they managed to catch were just enough to leave them wanting more.
Kodiak swayed in his saddle atop Otis, the twelve-hundred-pound Grizzly bear that was his companion and most loyal friend. He was nearly asleep. He tried to shake off the tiredness, the fatigue of endless hours of travel through a deserted country where everything looked the same. He needed to be alert for signs of danger, but it was all he could do just to sit in the saddle. The tall grass that surrounded them could hold thousands of the undead or allow the Savage Ones perfect cover to attack them from downwind.
Fitful snatches of nightmares woke him sometimes in a cold sweat. More than once, images of Gordon’s zombified face pulled him from sleep as its jagged teeth lunged for him. Scenes of broken bones, shattered skulls, splayed open bellies and blood running like a river haunted him. There was always so much blood.
The weapons the tribe used were for killing up close. Sharp and pointy or blunt and heavy. They were silent and deadly. Unlike a bullet fired from a distance, you got to see the look of shock in your enemy’s eyes as you thrust your weapon into their bodies. You felt the suction of the wound on the blade when you ripped it free and smelled the coppery tang of blood in the air or tasted the spray of arterial blood on your tongue. You felt the bones collapse under the force of a war hammer or Morningstar and if you stopped to watch you saw the light fade from their eyes. It was harsh and brutal, but it was the only way to stay alive. Fight for what you have and what you love or watch it be destroyed. What their animals did was worse. Arms or legs were torn free, stomachs were ripped open and long coils of gray poured out. It was nothing like the carnage he’d seen on TV or video games. Not at all.
There was much death in their wake and it troubled him. The eternal question of why plagued him. Humans were an endangered species. Why were the last of them hell bent on destroying each other? He’d heard the stories from the traveler Bob about the towns and rebuilding. Places where there was plenty of food and security. Places of unity and cooperation. They sounded like fairy tales but was their own story any less fantastic? The stories filled him with hope and trepidation at the same time. He hadn’t seen these places with his own eyes. He hadn’t walked their streets, hadn’t seen a normal society with stores and schools and cars. All he’d seen in this new world was death and destruction. He wouldn’t believe one of those places existed until he saw it.
His conscience didn’t bother him, he’d been forced into a corner. He’d even considered giving up everything they’d built and moving away but they’d forced them into a fight. They had wanted it because they thought they couldn’t lose. He never wanted any of it to happen but there’d been no choice. They tried to live in isolation. Tried to carve something out of nothing with their meager supplies and hard work. Sweat and blisters, bug bites and sunburns, they’d pushed through it all to make their own little corner of the world. They were succeeding, doing fine and getting better until everything came to an end. It only took days to destroy what had taken a year to build.
Attacked by the Savage Ones, animals crazed from feeding on the undead and even more crazed humans it had all been trampled and burned to ash. Gordon’s final assault on their sanctuary had been the last straw. He and his gang had killed one of the tribe and torched their home. Without mercy, Gordon tortured and burned the purest soul Kodiak had ever known.
The death of Murray still weighed heavy on his heart. He’d been off gathering supplies at the warehouse with the rest of the tribe while Murray was at the mercy of that monster.
They kept to the back roads. One lane blacktop and gravel. It wasn’t the straightest line from one point to another but they wanted to avoid wandering hordes of the undead or gangs of men scavenging for supplies. They didn’t like their chances against heavily armed bands of men in their trucks and off road cars. They might shoot first and ask questions later.
The undead would follow where the scent of man was strongest. Mindless and merciless, they only existed to spread the zombie virus from infected to the uninfected. Scavenging opportunities on these forgotten roads were few and far between. This was once farmland. Before the outbreak, corn and grains covered tens of thousands of acres to feed a hungry nation. Houses on the long stretches of road were scattered and far apart. They’d attempted to get food from a few silos, but the corns and grains stored inside were rat and insect infested or rotted and fermented.
Kodiak still felt the decision to stay to all back roads was the right one, even though his growling stomach disagreed. He knew the interstates increased their chances of finding easy supplies, but also held the danger of encountering huge hordes of the undead. The tribe was in agreement, even though it added hundreds of miles to their trip. They would get to Lakota when they got there, they’d decided. Even with the longer route, they would make it before the winter snows started falling. None of them could forget the tales the mysterious stranger had told them about raiders and cannibals prowling the road.
Still, none of them had anticipated how hard the trip was going to be. They were going almost a thousand miles on foot based on the stories of an outsider they barely knew to a place that seemed too good to be true.
The state of Iowa was in a drought. Creeks that should have been filled with fish were dry rock beds and apple trees that should have been loaded down with juicy apples only held small, bitter worm-infested fruits that weren’t even suitable for the animals to eat. Tobias had tried cooking them down to make tarts. The boy had used up the last of their sugar and flour stocks to try and salvage something from nothing. Even Otis wouldn’t eat them, so they had to be terrible.
Kodiak looked over his shoulder at the cow that plodded along on a rope tied to Harper’s saddle. He contemplated butchering her for the hundredth time. She was skinny and malnourished, more bone and gristle than beef. The bones of her ribs and hips protruded sharply from her brown hide and her eyes sat sunken deep in her skull.
They’d found her wandering in a pasture that was nothing but bare dirt with a few sprigs of dead dry grass. Scattered bones littered the ground where a large herd had once grazed, back when the world was still alive. The trapped herd had overgrazed it, and then succumbed to starvation. Somehow, she’d survived when the others hadn’t and it just didn’t sit right with him to save her from certain death, only to slaughter her for the little bit of food she’d provide. Maybe they could put some weight on her, and she’d produce some milk or trade her for supplies to replenish their depleted stock. The idea of fresh milk caused his stomach to rumble in protest. It had been too long since they’d had any and he knew the rest of the tribe missed it as much as he did. I’d give anything for a big bowl of Captain Crunch and milk, he thought.
Boredom and monotony had set in on the long southwestern trek down the endless miles of blacktop. They were tired of playing I Spy and sharing their thoughts about what they were going to do first when they reached Lakota. Almost a month of travel and they still weren’t out of Iowa. It had been days since they’d passed through a town. The Welcome to Pineville, Iowa sign read population 217. It had been nothing more than a crossroads with a solitary caution light swaying in the breeze and there wasn’t a single pine tree in sight. The lone grocery store and gas station had been long looted and houses still filled with the undead curbed their desire to risks their necks for a can of chicken noodle soup, though with the way their supplies were dwindling it wouldn’t be long before they had to do something drastic.
The tink of a rock striking metal snapped Kodiak out of his lull. Tobias and Donny had been plucking rocks from the roadbed and throwing them at the road signs. He watched as the two boys raced through the tall grass into the ditch and he heard Tobias yell in excitement. He slid from the saddle strapped to Otis’ broad back and went to see what the fuss was.
Kodiak pushed his way through the gathered tribe and wiped the dust from the window of the tan Buick that sat forlornly in the ditch, its owner long since gone or turned into one
of the mindless undead. The fading paint matched the grass that surrounded it perfectly. The windows were covered in a thick layer of dust. Weeds had grown up tall around it and they’d not even seen it, only the errant aim of a rock had alerted them to its presence.
The back seat was full of plastic bags. Someone had been shopping the morning of the outbreak. Their misfortune could mean a much-needed meal for the tribe. Without hesitation, Kodiak smashed the window out of the car with his war hammer. Harper stepped beside him and pulled up on the door handle. It wasn’t locked.
“Oh,” he said sheepishly.
He stepped aside to let Harper see if there was anything they could salvage from the bags. Donny wasted no time getting into the driver’s compartment to search for loot.
The smell of decay wafted out of the car from the meats, milk and vegetables which had long ago rotted. It wasn’t bad enough to keep them out though. They’d smelled worse. They’d endured the stench of corpses bloated from the sun and heat. Smelled the sickly-sweet smell of animals ripped open in battle. This was nothing compared to one of Bert’s farts.
Rummaging through the bags she found several cans of soup along with some Ramen noodles, potted meat and Vienna sausages. Canned peaches and pineapple slices. Stale crackers and boxes of macaroni way past their expiration date were handled with reverence. This was food, much needed food, and they would make do. There wouldn’t be any complaining when it was parceled out. Maybe some jokes about how awful it tasted as they devoured the stale crackers, but they wouldn’t waste any of it. Other bags yielded some toilet paper, body wash and moisturizer, which earned a fist pump from Vanessa. Toilet paper was a precious commodity and the ebony skinned girl never missed an opportunity to add to her stash.
The Feral Children [A Zombie Road Tale] Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 56