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

by Simpson, David A.

  They rooted through every inch of the car. They checked the glove box, center console and under the seats. Ignored the change in the cup holders and the cellphone still plugged into its charger. The wallet full of cash and credit cards that lay open in the passenger seat was tossed aside. Worthless stuff. Anybody willing to risk it could wear all the gold necklaces and diamond rings they wanted. You couldn’t eat them though. Anybody could have a million dollars if they wanted to now. It wasn’t good for anything anymore but maybe wiping your butt or starting a fire.

  A half full disposable lighter and a cheap pocketknife were all they found that was worth keeping. Donny pocketed both items. He’d clean up the knife and put an edge on it. They’d made it a point to gather any items that might be worth trading whenever they finally encountered other people.

  Nervous and excited, they chattered among themselves about what it would be like to finally meet some other survivors and trade with them. They couldn’t wait to tell an enraptured crowd their stories as they gathered around to inspect the wares they’d pilfered along the way.

  Donny exited the car and popped the trunk. He smiled then bolted away in terror when he stuck his head inside. Nestled inside was a case of bottled water and four cans of Coca-Cola along with a nest full of wasps, angered at the disturbance which sent children and animal alike scattering from their fury.

  Tobias swatted at the wasps with the flat of his axe and stomped them as he knocked them from the air. He was stung twice but ignored it. He reached in the trunk and grabbed a Coke and popped the top. The rest of the twelve pack had exploded from the heat and covered the trunk in dried syrup.

  “Aah,” he exclaimed and belched loudly. “Still good and worth it,” he said as he eyed the swelling on his arm from the wasp’s stings.

  He handed the half empty can to his sister. She turned it up and drained it. She belched loudly, and then giggled. Tobias handed out the other three cans. The rest of the tribe shared them among themselves. No one drank more than their fair share before passing them along. It had been a while since they’d had a whole soda to themselves.

  The supplies went into the saddlebags on the animals and they moved on. They’d keep a sharper eye out for more vehicles hidden in the grass.

  “This was a good find,” Kodiak said as he tossed the empty Coke can away. “But it’s not enough. We’ll be in Missouri tomorrow if our luck holds out.”

  “Maybe the hunting will be better,” Swan muttered. “First set of woods we come across I’m getting us something more appetizing than that scrawny cow and a handful of old Saltines.”

  Donny signed at her. I’ll get a kill before you do. What you want to bet on it?

  Swan snorted. “Keep dreaming buddy.”

  Kodiak pulled out the map he’d marked up with Misty after they’d defeated Gordon. He put his finger on their location and ran it down southward. He pointed at a junction where the road they were on crossed a state highway.

  “I think it’s time we get on a bigger road, we’ll still stay away from the interstate but there should be better scavenging near a four lane. There will be more cars, houses and stores. Maybe even a big rig or two full of food.” His stomach growled at the mention of food. They nodded in agreement.

  “This is another few days or so away. There are some little towns between here and there. Maybe we can find us some decent clothes before we get to a settlement. I remember Bob mentioning a walled town right here.” He put his finger on a tiny spot marked Gallatin.

  “I’m not trading my armor for a dress.” Swan said. “They can like it or not. I don’t care.”

  Donny thumped his spear in agreement.

  “I’m not getting all fancied up for people I don’t know.” Tobias said.

  His coyote pelt poncho had been worked for many hours and was soft but resilient to bites. It was easy to move in and he could pull his arms inside to protect his pale skin from the sun. They had spent a lot of time working and living in their armor and rough leather clothes. It would feel strange, not to mention not nearly as safe, to go back to jeans and t-shirts.

  “I didn’t say we were going to put on our Sunday best.” Kodiak protested. “Just something a little less, you know, wild looking. Maybe some normal clothes or something.”

  “Meh.” Vanessa said. “I like my skins. Too bad if they don’t.”

  “You could at least put on a shirt.” Kodiak said. “You know city people won’t be used to seeing an African princess running around mostly topless.”

  “Then they don’t have to look.” She said and smiled, the tribal scars on her face shining under a sheen of sweat.

  “Maybe they can show us how to hunt the prairie.” Donny signed. “There must be some way to get the game. We’ve seen plenty but we can’t get close.”

  “True.” Swan said. “Wish we still had Murray. One of his books would have told us.”

  Her painted face turned into a snarl at the memory of what Gordon had done and her hands fell unconsciously to her tomahawks. She’d kill that bastard over and over again if she could.

  They got quiet at the reminder and started adjusting their gear, checking their mounts for any saddle chaffing and mounted up. It was settled. Even if they faced trouble on the bigger roads, they could handle it. They couldn’t watch their companions slowly starve.

  They were optimistic, surely the people of the plains would know how to hunt the grasslands. There had to be tricks to taking down the antelope and deer. Kodiak folded the map, tucked it away and fingered the memory bead braided into his hair. It was an oval of polished steel crafted from the melted steel of Murray’s wheelchair and smiled. Yeah, Murray would have had them eating well, knowledge gained from one of the thousands of survival books he’d downloaded.

  Chatter broke out among them as they started forward again. Supposedly these fortified towns had tall walls and most even had electricity and running water. They were filled with kindhearted people who were working hard to rebuild the country. Murray had spoken long hours with Bob and he had made it sound like paradise. There would be cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes, movies and real toilets.

  Sometimes they rode, sometimes they walked but they always kept moving. Kept picking them up and putting them down one step at a time. It was slow but they steadily ate up the miles, one after another. Hours later as they watched the sun drop in the western sky, the excitement of Gallatin had worn off as the day slowly dragged on. Each lost in their own thoughts, they focused on the ribbon of asphalt that seemed to stretch on forever.

  They had to seek shelter for the night. Even though they’d seen nothing of the Savage Ones and very few of the undead, sleeping out in the open was a last resort. They’d done it a few times but no one rested well when they were so exposed. Houses were few and far between on the long, lonely stretch of highway but they weren’t worried. This was farm country and they all had barns or equipment sheds. They preferred those rather than the houses. They didn’t smell as bad from the mold and mildew of wet carpets or the stench of the field mice warrens. Barns were built to get wet and dry out naturally, they were open and airy.

  From her perch on Bert’s tall back, Harper spied a grain silo in the distance and called it out to the tribe.

  “Another mile, maybe.” She said. “I see a few outbuildings, too. We’ll make it before dark.”

  “I hope the well has a hand pump.” Analise said. “I’m overdue for a shower.”

  Vanessa swung up on Ziggy and urged her into a run as they darted ahead to scout it out.

  2

  The Prophet

  Hundreds of miles away, headed in the opposite direction of the tribe, a solitary figure shuffled along like an old man although he had turned eighteen only a few months before. Sometimes he thought his name used to be Zack Scott, but he didn’t know for sure. Everything from before had become a hazy blur of muddled memories that were fuzzy at best. He remembered being with a group of friends that weren’t really his friends for a time.
They had called him Skull but that wasn’t his true name either. He wasn’t that person anymore. He was someone else.

  He’d been struck down by a band of wild children and reborn as something new. He called himself the Prophet now because it was the only name he could remember. The source of his downfall was also the source of his deliverance. The tribe of feral kids. They had been his enemy. He’d suffered at their hands, but he’d deserved it. He knew that now. They had hurt him but they had also shown mercy. He knew he wouldn’t have if the tables had been turned. Not back then, not when he’d been Skull, and the guilt gnawed away at him. Sometimes he didn’t know why he felt so remorseful, couldn’t remember the things he’d done to feel such shame but he knew they must be bad and he had earned what had happened. He’d had it coming.

  He knew he’d fought them three times, a mystical number that held power. The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. The maiden, the mother and the crone. Life, death, rebirth. Every time he had gone to war with them, they had struck him down. Once with a war hammer, once with tomahawks and once with a spear. Every time he’d taken a blow to the head, more damage had been done. His cracked skull had healed but something inside his head hadn’t.

  He didn’t know if they had names, he only remembered them as wrathful visions as they struck him down. They could have finished him but they hadn’t. The Girl Who Walks with Wolves had spared him, had turned her blades at the last second and hit him with the flats. The One Without Words had knocked him unconscious with the butt of a steel spear then kept his inky black panther from tearing his face off. Their leader, the Keeper of the Hammer, had turned his killing blow aside when he had been dazed and on his knees. He had spared him once more that day in the ratty old mobile home. The young warrior king told him he didn’t deserve mercy but he wouldn’t strike him down as he sat bound and helpless. They’d left him alive; they hadn’t ended his miserable life or turned their animals loose on him. He wasn’t worthy of their kindness but they had given it anyway. It was more than he deserved.

  They’d freed him from his addictions, he couldn’t stand the smell of booze anymore. He’d done bad things and would have continued doing bad things if it hadn’t been for the kids and their animals. They’d opened his eyes to the truth of his fake friends. They didn’t care. They left him to die. The Children showed him what true love was. They would kill for each other and would never leave one of their own behind.

  For days after he had lain in the mobile home that stank of vomit and death from the body just outside the door. He’d been delirious from the concussion, weak from hunger and had nowhere to go. Gordon, or his friends that weren’t really friends, never came back for him. He was completely alone. His head throbbed and pulsed with every heartbeat and he waited for death to finally claim him but then a miracle happened.

  He sat on the floor in a haze, he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness and knew the end was getting close. The next time he closed his eyes, it could be the last. He’d never open them again. A single beam of moonlight came through the tattered mini blinds and he watched it move across the floor until it was full in his eyes. He looked into it and saw the girl and her wolves’ right before she struck him down. In his vision she wasn’t a vengeful, angry banshee about to sink steel into his head, she was an angel of shimmering, ethereal beauty. Peaceful and kind. She wasn’t painted for war; the blood of her enemies wasn’t splashed across her battle scarred armor. She was bathed in the pale light, it seemed to come from within her. He knew she was dead, then. That Gordon had killed her and the other children would be next. He reached out a hand, tried to touch her as the tears ran freely down his cheeks.

  “Take me with you.” He whispered “Take me away from this.”

  She and her wolves glowed and a beatific smile parted her lips. He bowed his head, unworthy to look at her shining face and begged for her forgiveness. He begged her not to go, not to leave him alone, and to take him with her. He knelt in abject humility, bared his soul and listened to her voice that sounded like wind whispering through the leaves or the tinkling of the wind chime outside the door. He may have listened to her for hours or it may have been seconds but angelic encounters were like that, weren’t they? The moonbeam shifted, the room darkened again and he drifted off into blackness, a whispered prayer on his lips.

  When the morning sun woke him, he understood what he must do. She hadn’t come to lead him out of this world and into a better one. It was his duty, his calling, to make this one a little better. The girl who walks with wolves had washed him clean of his crimes with her glow. After a lifetime of bad decisions and poor judgment, the angel in the dust filled beam of light had shown him the way.

  She was offering him a life worth living. It didn’t have to end curled in a ball on a filthy carpet. He discovered a hidden inner strength, a new purpose as he struggled to his knees.

  Truly, the tribe of wild kids were the chosen ones. How else had they survived on their own? What other reason could explain their power over the beasts that stood by their sides? They were merciless, yet they were not cruel. They were strong, but helped the weak. They lived in harmony with their environment and asked nothing of any man. They were pure and clean. They were the new way, they were the ones chosen to rebuild a better world and he knew he had to save them. To get them out of Gordon’s clutches.

  With a renewed heart and spirit, the Prophet had emerged from the run-down trailer and breathed in the fresh air. It had never tasted sweeter. He’d never appreciated the flowers and the trees. He’d never stopped to listen to a cricket chirp or a bird sing from a branch. He soaked up those experiences as he stood with his head tilted towards the sky and his arms outstretched. The hammering in his head stopped, a gift from the Mother of Wolves. He felt alive for the first time in as long as he could remember. It felt good, it felt right. It was their way and he couldn’t let people like Gordon stop them.

  Poor Blind Mike never had the chance to see the true path and he didn’t waste time putting him in the ground. The creatures of the earth needed to eat, he wouldn’t deprive them of a meal. The Prophet shouldered the dead man’s rifle and hummed Amazing Grace as he made his way northeast. Yes, he thought, he would follow their path to Smiths Landing. He would free them from Gordon and maybe, just maybe, they would let him walk with them. Follow in their footsteps. Learn to be like them.

  It took him all day to make the five mile journey to Smith’s Landing. His spirit was willing but his body was weak. Something was wrong in his head; his movements were slow and sometimes jerky. His coordination wasn’t what it used to be, sometimes he tripped over his own feet because one of his legs didn’t work as well as the other. It dragged a little and he had to concentrate to make it move right. He didn’t run into any of the undead on the county highway. The children had killed the ones they encountered and any that survived had followed their trail and joined the horde at the front gates of Smiths Landing. He was lucky, he wouldn’t have been able to defend himself very well. His thoughts tended to wander and he’d shuffle along for hours in a fugue state, not knowing where his mind had been or what he’d been thinking. A waking blackout.

  He made his way to the rear gates and saw them standing wide open, the chain broken and the bars bent. He stumbled in the tall grass of the overgrown golf course but kept pushing forward to the houses where the gang lived. He didn’t know what he would say to convince Gordon to set the children free but he knew he would think of something. The Mother of Wolves would show up and tell him. Her spirit was with him, he believed it with all his heart.

  The houses were quiet when he approached and the carnage started in the driveway. Bodies were strewn on the lawn, butchered and dismembered. It wasn’t the kids, it was the gang. The Prophet carefully picked his way through the shattered glass, broken furniture and splintered doors. More bodies littered the kitchen and living room and he smiled at the carnage. The children had done this. He should have known. A lowly human like Gordon couldn’t stop the
m, they were the chosen ones. A scraping sound caught his attention and he limped out towards the patio area, passing a member of the gang who was still pinned to the wall, his lifeless body held in place by a spear. He stood at the edge of the pool and stared down at the gore encrusted thing reaching for him and keening hungrily. It was the only one still moving, the rest had been put to rest. Two spears stuck through its chest and it had been scalped, days old blood covered its bald head and shoulders. At first he didn’t know who it was but the leather holster hanging on its side told him it was Gordon. The only one who carried a gun and he knew it was she who had left him like this. A warning to others and sign for him. She lived. She and her tribe were truly the chosen ones, protected by power greater than themselves.

  He swayed at the edge of the pool, his mind going dark for a time, and listened as the thing spoke to him with its keens and rasps. When he came back to himself it was still there, still reaching for him, but he no longer understood its words. He turned and gazed on the destruction wrought on Gordon’s home, at the bloated and mangled bodies rotting in the afternoon sun and knew what he must do. She had shown him this so he would know their power, an affirmation of his vision. They were on the true path, not him or the gang he’d run with. Not Gordon who had tried to turn him from the way. He would be their voice. He would sing their praises and spread the Gospel of the Tribe far and wide to all who would hear it.

  He walked through the mansion with a torch, set each room ablaze then moved on to the next house. He would level them all, erase the stain from the planet. As the fire raged through the million-dollar homes and the scent of burning flesh filled the air, it finally resembled what it had really been. Hell on Earth. He left through the back gate in search of people to tell them of the Tribe. To tell them of the chosen ones.