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

by Simpson, David A.

  The twins exchanged a look and an almost imperceptible nod. “Don’t leave without us.” Tobias said and they both hugged the dark girl then went inside to grab armor, weapons and saddlebags.

  “Are you going?” Vanessa asked the two hunkered by the fire.

  “Yes, I think so.” Cody said and turned to Harper. “This isn’t the place I dreamed it would be. I think I expected too much.”

  “I think we all did.” She said. “It isn’t a bad town, most of the people are wonderful and I think it’s good for Landon and Caleb and Clara but not for us. They might be right, we were out there too long.”

  “Let me say goodbye to them.” She said. “I’ll be there.”

  She hugged Vanessa long and hard then she too disappeared.

  “We’ll miss you.” Cody said when he and Vanessa were alone with the fire. “But I would never ask you to come.”

  “I know.” She said.

  He stood, placed a hand on her shoulder for a moment then went to grab his own fresh new armor and weapons.

  43

  Lakota Left

  Kodiak stood tall and straight as Gunny approached him, Swan next to him. The rest of the tribe made final adjustments to their gear and checked straps on saddles as they waited for Harper, the last to arrive.

  “How did you know we were leaving?” Cody asked. “We didn’t want to cause any trouble.”

  “I’d gotten used to having Zero and the wolves underfoot.” Gunny said with a smile. “It’s easy to notice when they’re not there.”

  Zero padded forward at his name, insisted on an ear scratch from the man that smelled of tobacco and gunpowder.

  They wore their armor and had braided and adorned their hair again. Swan had painted her face and was eager to go. Kodiak slid his war hammer through a strap on Otis’ saddle. The big bear sniffed the ground where someone had left an intriguing scent. He chuffed and raked a paw over the spot.

  “We can figure something out.” Gunny said. “You don’t have to leave.”

  “I think we do.” Cody said. “Mrs. Meadows was right. We’ve been out in the wild too long. We like it out there. It seems right and natural. Being inside the walls has felt wrong ever since we got here.”

  Gunny knew he wasn’t going to change their minds and it didn’t even occur to him to try to stop them by force. These kids weren’t kids anymore. They were fifteen and sixteen years old. Kids that age were getting married and starting families in the Hutterite community. They’d done more and seen more than most of the people in the compound.

  Harper came out of the darkness leading Bert and the triplets followed. They were in their armor, had their weapons and the foxes trotted by their sides.

  Gunny opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off before he could protest.

  “They’re not coming.” She said. “They wanted to send us off properly. As warriors.”

  The goodbyes took a few minutes and they waved as the band of children and their companion animals ambled out of the walled city. The foxes whined, they wanted to join the caravan.

  “Come on, I’ll walk you home.” Gunny told the little ones and turned back towards the town.

  They were almost run over by Vanessa as she slid gracefully off Ziggy and wrapped them in an embrace.

  “Love you guys.” She yelled over her shoulder as she ran alongside her ostrich for a few steps then swung into the saddle.

  “Wait up!” she yelled and zipped through the gate as it closed. “I’m coming!”

  Epilogue

  The Prophet

  His body was covered in sores and bug bites. The stink coming off of him would turn a buzzard’s stomach. His filthy hair was long and wispy like his beard. His teeth were yellowed and his gums were infected. The undead didn’t know what to make of him in his rotting animal skins and the living shunned him as a lunatic.

  He was only seeking to spread his gospel of the Feral Children when he’d stumbled into the guard on watch. He was shoved roughly to his knees at the edge of the fire.

  “Caught this thing prowling around the perimeter. Thought it was one of the undead until I heard it humming a tune.” Rocky told his assembled crew. “Course, I don’t think even the zombies smell as bad as this one. Gimme another beer, David Lee.”

  They let out a round of laughter as Meeker shoved the Prophet flat on his face. He groaned and ran his tongue over the tooth he’d felt loosen and spit a glob of bloody saliva. This band of outlaws definitely needed to hear the good news. He’d been following the glow of their campfire for miles, eager to share the tale of the Feral Children and have them join his crusade.

  His preaching to the undead had not been well received. They would swarm towards him when he approached, like they were eager to hear his words but always stopped short. They stood there swaying listlessly or milling about but soon lost interest in what he had to tell them. He prayed for them anyway then continued his journey. He’d covered hundreds of miles since he’d taken up the cause. When he tired, he rested, often waking up with the undead within spitting distance. He no longer feared them; he only wished they were more receptive to his words.

  He pushed himself to his knees and spoke. “Brothers, if I may, I have a wonderful tale to tell you of fearsome warriors with gentle souls. It will lighten your burden and free your…”

  He doubled over from the kick in the guts delivered by the one called Meeker.

  “Shut up, filth.”

  The men laughed as he vomited from the blow.

  The Prophet pushed back up from the ground and drug a filthy hand across his mouth to wipe the drool from his wispy mustache.

  “As I was saying.”

  Another kick to the midsection and he groaned and curled himself up into a ball.

  “Let the whack job talk, he came from somewhere and it might lead us to easy pickings.” David Lee said. “It’s boring as hell out here, might as well have a few laughs before we kill the poor bastard.”

  One of them grabbed his hair and drug him to his feet. “Speak your peace, freak.”

  The Prophet swayed unsteadily. He looked around for something to use as a pulpit. He settled for the stump of a tree at the edge of the campfire.

  He raised his hands towards the heavens. Someone flung a half empty beer can in his direction that barely missed his head.

  Distracted by the ranting of the Prophet the men hooted and hollered. They hurled insults at him as he tried to preach over their voices. The men never heard or saw the horde of undead as they swept through the camp, drawn by the shouting of the Prophet.

  The dead swarmed through the camp and fell on the group of outlaws. They flowed around the Prophet like water and he wondered briefly if that’s how Noah felt when he parted the seven seas. No, wait that was that dude Jonah that did that, he corrected himself.

  They fell on the drunken raiders before most of them could pull a gun or blade from its sheath. Jagged teeth tore into tender flesh as a few ineffective shots rang out and the Prophet continued his sermon.

  He lowered his arms and said “Amen.”

  He stared at the carnage before him. They had been bad men and mocked his story of redemption. God had smitten them for it.

  Oh, well, I tried. He shrugged and began pilfering through their belongings.

  He whistled a tune as he shouldered a weeks’ worth of supplies and left the carnage behind him. Maybe the next group he encountered would be more receptive he thought optimistically when he told them the incredible story of angels disguised as children and their fearsome beasts.

  Author’s Note

  Wesley Norris

  Hi guys and girls! I hope you’ve enjoyed the tale of The Feral Children as much as we enjoyed telling it to you. This is the story I’ve been waiting to tell since Book 1. It’s been an incredible journey for the tribe, and I feel fortunate to have been a part of it. What comes next for the tribe? I like to think that they are out there free and happy. Maybe they find that other zoo and Bert gets a girl
friend. All I know is that our tribe of unlikely heroes accomplished amazing things with their will and fortitude. We can all take something away from that.

  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 o
ff, 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 worse. 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.