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

by Simpson, David A.

  As of this writing the sizzler reel for Zombie Road has been filmed. I got to play Bastille, my wife was Sheriff Collins and one of my sons was Stabby. Keep your fingers crossed this works out for David and we all get to see Gunny and Jessie on the screen someday. Who knows, maybe the Feral Children will be next!

  If you are wondering who this mysterious Rye character is then it’s your lucky day. Keep reading, there’s a short story in the back of this book that follows him on a retrieval. I’m excited to announce there’s a brand-new chapter in the Zombie Road saga centered on the retrievers and Rye is the main character. Look for the first book Deadline sometime in early 2021.

  Thanks to the incredible David A. Simpson for his faith and trust in me and allowing me to journey down the Zombie Road with him. He’s truly a one of a kind guy and if you happen to see him tearing up the roads in the ZR Mustang or at a convention, stop in and say hi, buy a book and chat with him. They say you should never meet your heroes, well; he’s the exception to the rule in every way. Thanks buddy.

  We met a young lady at Walker Stalker 2019 in Atlanta named Kassie. I’ve never seen anyone as excited as her to hold a book in her hands and her infectious attitude is something I’ll always carry with me. She was so excited when I told her that there would be a character named after her in this book that played a pivotal role. I hope we did you justice young lady.

  Thank you, Tony Bowman and family, for the insight on autism and the inspiration for the Spivey Clan. Tony is one of my favorite writers of all kinds of twisted tales and if you haven’t read his work, then you are missing out on a real treat.

  Thank you Runa Iren Nummedal for the help with the Norwegian translations and the folklore.

  Thank you to all the people working behind the scenes to make a good book into a great one. Alina G, for your tireless efforts, thank you. The always excellent Eric A. Shelman for the awesome narration that gives these characters a voice, thank you. Thanks to all of the fans that drive this series and threw their names in the hat for characters. Many of you will see your own names mentioned in here. Thanks for playing along. We can’t kill all of you, but we killed as many as we could! You guys and girls are amazing.

  I’d be remiss not to mention my own band of Feral Children. Wynema, Ryan, Garrett, DJ, Landon and granddaughter Harper as well as all of their friends who helped shape the personalities of the Tribe. I love you all!

  Most importantly, thank you to the beautiful lady that I call my wife, Shannon. I wouldn’t be doing this without her love and support. She’s been there the whole way with a pat on the back or a kick in the backside, depending on which I needed most at the time.

  Wesley R. Norris

  August 1, 2020

  Authors Note

  David A. Simpson

  What a tale! This book wraps up their story and Wesley knocked it out of the park. They were too long in the wild and going back to a mundane and boring life just wasn’t in the cards for them. Who knows what they’ll find down in Texas? They are older and wiser now. They are no longer children, no longer think like children and no longer act like children. I think tales of their exploits will be told and retold around fires for generations. They’ll probably wind up being tall tales that no one believes as true, like Paul Bunyon or Pecos Bill. I think they might head up to the plains States and start a new hunter/gatherer society that follows the great herds of buffalo and deer. If you are a reader of the Zombie Road series, I think you may see them again as Jessie tries to find the right time and place to be in.

  Thanks for sticking with us through their perilous journey, I hope you found it as fun to read as it was for us to write.

  All the latest info can be found in the David Simpson Fan Club on Facebook, come on over and join the rest of the folks.

  Thanks again and as always, live life, have fun and don’t get hit by a bus.

  David A. Simpson

  09/16/2020

  44

  Burrito Bushido

  A Zombie Road Short Story

  WESLEY R. NORRIS

  Middle Of Nowhere, Texas

  July, 10 Months After The Outbreak

  I dropped a gear and pushed the gas pedal to the floor, straddling the center line of the highway. I knew I wasn’t going to outrun them, but I wasn’t going to make it any easier for these assholes either. The road was too long, too straight and too flat for me to pull far enough ahead that they’d give up and let me be on my way with the priceless treasure nestled in the back. There was nothing but low scrub and cactus on either side of the narrow blacktop, so I wasn’t going to be able to hide from them either.

  Bo barked at the driver of the Ford Raptor as he pulled alongside the passenger’s side and aimed a shotgun at the Armadillo, my armored up silver Jeep Wrangler. I wasn’t worried about him shooting at us with that scattergun, the windows were bulletproof and the flat bodied design of the Jeep was ideally suited to armoring. The body panels were reinforced with military grade plate armor and a layer of ballistic ceramic on the backside. The open top was covered in a titanium alloy mesh, a prototype material found in one of the abandoned military bases across the country. A fifty-caliber round would put a dent in it, but it wasn’t coming through. What I lost in speed from the additional weight of the upgrades was kind of a moot point anyway as the Jeep wasn’t a real fast vehicle to begin with.

  Another car, a convertible SS Camaro approached on the driver’s side. The passenger aimed what looked like a MP-5 submachine gun at me. I gave him the finger and tried to swerve into him, hoping to push him off into the desert scrub. As the Armadillo’s tires squealed in protest from my maneuver, I was rewarded with sixty pounds of pissed off Australian Shepherd landing in my lap. Bo growled at my driving. I shoved him back to the passenger seat and growled right back at him. The Camaro veered wide onto the shoulder to avoid me and the driver fought the high performance sports car for control on the loose gravel. In my rearview I saw a Cadillac come flying out of the dust behind me, a belt fed machine gun mounted on the hood. Terrific, I thought.

  Another Ford Raptor roared down the shoulder to my left narrowly missing the Camaro as the driver fought to get asphalt back under the tires of the muscle car. Tumbleweeds and cactus were tossed in the air like confetti by the passing truck and the Raptor veered in front of me. The grinning jackass manning the bed mounted machinegun actually waved at me, before tilting the gun to aim at my face. The Camaro slid back into position on the driver’s side. I glanced at the ugly mug staring at me from the sports cars passenger seat. I was boxed in. The Armadillo was pretty heavily armored but a few armor piercing rounds from that thirty cal through the run flat tires or radiator at point blank range would leave me stranded a long way from home.

  I brake checked the Cadillac riding my bumper, just because I’m a dick sometimes. The Caddy driver slammed on his brakes to keep from eating my rear bumper and I swear I heard him yell something ugly about my mother over the roar of the engines and the hum of off road tires on the weather beaten asphalt.

  I wanted to go north, but they forced me back south. I’d play their game for now. I wasn’t out of the fight yet though. I had the M&P .45 on my hip and its big brother, the Smith & Wesson Governor in a holster attached to the console. Not to mention the armory in the vault that stretched from the tailgate to the back of the front seats along with a few other nasty surprises. Oh, and Bo, never forget Bo, he wasn’t a large dog, but he was hell in a fight and quicker than a pissed off rattlesnake with the temperament to match.

  We passed back through Alpine, Texas and continued our trek towards the Mexican border towns. We passed through empty ghost towns and blew right by the few shriveled undead we passed. My new friends kept their guns on me the whole trip, just waiting for an excuse to rain fire down on me and Bo. I bided my time, slowed down every chance I got, just to piss them off, and waited for the opportunity to turn the table on these clowns.

  I’m a retriever. You can call me Rye. I’ve been called a lot wo
rse. I’m one of those people you hire to go after the things you can’t live without but don’t want to risk your own neck for. Priceless paintings, museum pieces, grandmas fine China, the family Bible, it doesn’t matter, I’ll get it for you if you are willing to pay the price. I’m the CEO of World’s End Acquisitions and Bo is my partner and Vice CEO. We operate out of a log cabin a short drive through some of the most inhospitable terrain imaginable near Carrizozo, New Mexico.

  The undead still roam this isolated country, but they aren’t the threat they once were, especially in the southwest where the weather and the scavenger animals are relentless. Although, there’s still a lot of fresh and fast ones who’ve been trapped indoors in the bigger cities where most of my retrieves end up being. Those are the best paying jobs but also the most dangerous. One bite and it’s game over. No cure, no antidote just a slow painful turn into a mindless zombie. But if it was easy, anyone could do it. As a rule though, it’s never safe to underestimate any of them. A bite on the ankle from a desiccated dried out husk of a zombie buried in the sand is just as lethal as a bite from a freshly turned one.

  Bo and I were on a job to retrieve an extremely valuable set of arrowheads, known as the Livermore Collection, from the Museum of the Big Bend in Alpine, Texas. The obnoxious douche Colonel that hired me was based out of a fortified compound in Idaho, he called Valhalla. Nice place, but he didn’t strike me as a real military man and most of what came out of his mouth sounded like bullshit. Still, it was paying work and it had been a long time since I’d ventured this far south so I took the contract. It should have been a simple in and out job, but my luck never runs that way.

  Everything was going to plan until these asshats ambushed me from out of nowhere. I had a sneaky suspicion that we were after the same prize. Retrievers tended to live short lives due to the nature of our work. It wasn’t uncommon for a client to hire more than one retriever for a job since most of us operated on a cash on delivery system. No retrieve, no pay. Most of the retrievers I know are good people. A bunch of loosely wired adrenaline junkies and thrill seekers, but there were quite a few shady ones out there too running the wastelands. If the zombies didn’t get you, or the bandits, or the cannibals, can’t forget those guys, then a shootout with an unscrupulous rival retriever usually ensued.

  I was gonna have a word with the Colonel when I got back. I made it very plain that I only took jobs where I was the primary. I didn’t need a bunch of second stringers trying to poach my job. Of course, I didn’t mind occasionally poaching one of theirs. Don’t judge me, I told you I could be a dick sometimes.

  We rolled through the gates of a fortified, ramshackle border town. It wasn’t much of a gate, probably wouldn’t stand up to an assault from a few hundred determined zombies, just an old chain link slider on a weathered rubber tire. No one manned the guns mounted on top of the crate container walls. The guards were probably getting sloshed in the cantina. I wished I was with them.

  The population was sparse here, even before the outbreak. The machine guns sat solitary under their canvas tarps. Old men sat under the stoops of ragged porches, seeking respite from the blazing sun sipping warm beer, long past its expiration date. Skinny kids and skinnier dogs played in the street. Bo let out a low growl as we passed them. He didn’t like other dogs, or most people for that matter. Half the time he barely tolerated me.

  The lead Raptor pulled to a stop in front of a beautiful Spanish style villa. It looked out of place considering the poverty evident in the rest of the town. The bandits kept the guns on me as they ordered me to disarm and exit the vehicle. I did, mostly. There was still the Benchmade folding knife clipped in my belt at the small of my back and a .22 derringer tucked inside my boot.

  “Bo, guard.” I pointed at the back-cargo area where the felt lined case with the arrowheads rested. Bo slipped into the back and disappeared from sight.

  I stepped from the Armadillo and raised my hands and got a good look at my new amigos. They were an ugly bunch. Dirty, unshaven and they stunk like three day old road kill. Not at all the dashing, roguish type like yours truly. I quickly gave them nicknames. Happy was the gunner who waved at me. Bumper Humper for the Cadillac driver. The Camaro SS guys were Hans and Franz the Nazi twins. Raptor drivers I called them Buzzard and Vulture. The ugly bastard carrying the short-barreled shotgun, Shotgun Guy. Gimme a break, its stressful having a bunch of guns pointed at your favorite person and it’s the best I could come up with at the moment.

  “Guys, I think there’s a mis-.” Happy slammed his rifle butt into my stomach. I doubled over and almost barfed. I stood back up to stare down the pie plate sized barrel of a shotgun stuck in my face.

  “Walk.” Shotgun Guy said gesturing towards the villa with the shotgun.

  They fanned out behind me in a semicircle, guns pointed in my direction. I am never in favor of guns pointed in my direction, for the record. I prefer to do the gun pointing. Shotgun Guy jabbed me between the shoulder blades and nudged me towards the door of the villa.

  “Take off your boots.” Shotgun Guy ordered.

  “What?” I asked, a little confused.

  “Take off your damned boots. They ain’t allowed in the house.” He jabbed me again with the shotgun.

  I leaned against the door and pushed off my Tony Llama’s, saw my big toe peeking through the hole in my sock. I hoped they weren’t gonna steal them. They were my favorite pair. Ostrich skin and broke in just right. I watched as the one I nicknamed Buzzard pocketed my derringer and placed one of my boots next to his to see if they would fit. Shit, looked like a perfect fit. I heard the shuffling as they all took their shoes off too. Then I was rudely shoved through the door.

  I entered the Spanish style house and I can honestly say, for once I was speechless. The interior was decorated like the inside of a Japanese samurai fan boys wet dream. A full suit of Japanese samurai armor graced the foyer. A young Hispanic girl dressed as a geisha, lowered her eyes as she walked by carrying a tray with ornate Japanese cups and a tea pitcher.

  The first floor was an open floor plan, divided off with sliding doors complete with rice paper windows. More girls, in geisha dress, faces painted, and hair pinned up with ornamental pins, scurried around the room. Potted bamboo and bonsai trees stood arrayed around a small bubbling fountain in the center of the room. Japanese art adorned the walls and Oriental rugs covered the hardwood floors. All that was missing was a tiger wearing a solid gold collar. Scratch that, the big cat paced restlessly back and forth in a gilded gold cage. Soft music was piped through the speakers, reminiscent of what I’d heard in Oriental massage parlors. You know, the kind usually found near truck stops and seedier areas of big cities, back before the apocalypse. Again, don’t judge me.

  My sock footed entourage directed me towards a sliding door. They hadn’t bothered to frisk me. I’m not a guy you should trust when you tell me to disarm.

  A geisha darted in front of me and slid the door open smoothly on its wooden track. The sock footed thugs took up position around the door and ushered me through. I stepped into the room and took a moment to admire the nice rug I was standing on as the door slid shut behind me. I had a customer that would pay top dollar for something like it.

  “Don’t try nothing stupid.” Shotgun Guy warned me from the other side of the thin partition.

  Again, I was struck speechless. Sitting on a pillow behind a low table sat the ugliest damn Mexican I’ve ever seen. He was trimming a bonsai tree with a small pair of scissors. He was decked out in a red kimono, his long greasy hair tied in a top knot. He had a pair of taped up reading glasses perched on his nose. On the table before him sat a daisho stand that held a Japanese katana and a shorter wakizashi. I took note of the chrome 1911 with the ivory grips, scrimshawed with a rising sun, lying on the pillow near his right side. A tanto was tucked into the sash of his kimono. Flickering candles gave the room a soft glow. A low shelf to his left held four human skulls. They were polished bright, and a small brass tag underneath wi
th their names engraved identified them as retrievers. One of them I knew personally, the rest by reputation. This was not a good sign.

  “Sit.” He ordered as he set the scissors to the side and eyed his work on the bonsai with a practiced eye.

  I didn’t. I stared at him defiantly.

  “Sit or I’ll have my men drag you out and break your kneecaps.” He didn’t look up from his bonsai.

  I like my aching knees just like they are so I sat cross legged on the floor opposite the table, my eyes stealing glances at the forty-five.

  “I am Pascal. You may call me...,” he paused for dramatic effect, like a bad James Bond villain. “Pascal.”

  He erupted in the batshit craziest laugh I’ve ever heard, then just as quickly calmed himself. He snapped his fingers. The door slid open behind me and a geisha darted in and removed the tree.

  “You are Mr. Rye,” he said. “I have heard of you.”

  I’d heard of him too. He was a retriever in name only. Mostly, he was a bandit, slaver, drug dealer and smuggler. Rumor was he used retriever work to scope out his client’s towns and sold the information to other bandits. I’d heard he was eccentric, but I think that was a generous description. This guy was a few eggs short of an omelet.

  “I assume the Colonel also hired you to retrieve the Livermore Collection. I always welcome a little competition, it keeps me on my toes, but you, senor, have trespassed into my territory. You should have shown proper respect and saw me before you scavenged right in my backyard.” He said as he poured us each a small cup of sake’ from a bamboo wrapped jug.